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.

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.

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.

Feline furore 

It was art imitating life not the other way around. Love/Hate returned to our screens this week and one scene sparked more controversy than the previous three series combined. At the time of watching I thought nothing of it, if it had been a dog then yeah I probably would have been a bit upset, but cats? They're ten a penny these days. I jest of course, I'm no lover of cats but along with most sane folk I detest any kind of cruelty to animals. But this was a TV show and the producers went on to state that no cats were harmed during the making of the episode. That didn't stop the outrage though, not to mention the complaints.

In a way I can understand the outcry, torturing defenceless creatures seems to be very much in vogue among Ireland's teens at the moment, and seeing 'Cleo' gunned down so violently could arguably vindicate their actions. But isn't it time we stopped blaming the media for society's ails? A few weeks ago I spoke of the impact of Grand Theft Auto and how it allegedly turns our children into homicidal lunatics. I ended that piece by saying that it is not up to Rockstar to guide the world's youth through those difficult teenage years, it's up to their parents. And the same applies here.

Airing when it did – at a time when every community in the country could tell you stories about domesticated animals being tortured – was unfortunate, but shows like Love/Hate are supposed to reflect society as accurately as they possibly can. Did it glamourise the slaying of this moggy? I didn't think so, instead it showed how blasé and feckless certain segments of our society have become. This shit goes on in our country whether you like it or not and if you're offended by its on-screen depiction then maybe Love/Hate isn't the programme for you.

Pride and glory

“If you drink a pint of Guinness you qualify to play for Ireland.” Ho ho ho, ha ha ha, good one lads, ye're only gas. How many times have we heard that one from our friends across the pond? It was all in good humour of course, and wasn't far from the truth in all honesty. But who's laughing now? A few hours after Manchester United's two one win over Sunderland last weekend I turned on Match of the Day eager to relive Adnan Januzaj's masterclass all over again. The England manager, Roy Hodgson, was in the studio to discuss how his players had performed in the various games throughout the country. And it was slim pickings for Woy, the English national team is not loaded with talent at this moment in time it's fair to say. But what's this? A promising young player in with a chance of going to Brazil next summer? Who could it be?

Why Januzaj of course. That's right, this Belgian born eighteen-year old with Albanian heritage was apparently a potential saviour for the Three Lions. What? Forget the fact that he would need to be living in the UK for a least another two years before he could even qualify to play for one of the Home Nations; that ruling has always been a nonsense and should be scrapped completely. The issue here is the sheer arrogance (or stupidity I'm not sure which) of the English. You'd swear they had a record comparable to the Spaniards or Brazilians in recent years, it's as if Adnan can barely wait to get the Queen's mug tattooed on his arm and belt out the national anthem alongside ole' Lionheart himself.

Why would he want to play for England? An international career comprising of 'spirited' runs to the quarter-finals and bittersweet eliminations on penalties is hardly that alluring is it? Belgium have one of the best sides in world football at this moment in time, but hey they're only Belgium right? I have no idea who Januzaj will represent at international level, I'm far more concerned with his club career to be honest. But I'm sure he'll pick whatever country he feels most passionate about. The cynics among you may dispute that, you'll say that he'll weigh up his options, decide which route benefits him the most and base his decision on that. And maybe you'd be right, maybe I'm being naive about the whole thing – just ask that Italian sounding, cockney accented, Irish man Tony Cascarino.

One true religion

The First Holy Communion is a momentous day in any child's life. You're finally one of God's children and as a reward you get to eat him, not literally of course; he died years ago so instead it's a bit of stale bread that gets plopped on your tongue by the priest. But what a day it is, you get all dressed up in clothes which were carefully selected to make you feel as uncomfortable as possible before taking your place among all the other holy little whelps. Then when the boring church bit is over you get taken for a slap-up meal at the fanciest restaurant in town – Eddie Rocket's it is then. But all this shit is secondary, we all know what the day is really about and it doesn't involve God or anything to do with that Mass nonsense.

It's about money, and how much of it you can get. Yes, yes we're delighted to be welcomed into God's arms and all that malarkey but: SHOW US THE MONEY. Aunties, uncles, cousins, ould wans you don't even know, strangers who glance in your direction, they're all possible outlets for cash: and you won't stop counting until it's time for bed and a few half-hearted prayers to that Jesus fella. What child in their right mind would pass up such an opportunity? This is a chance to swell your bank balance to previously unheard of levels. But some of the children in the Gaelscoil An Raithín don't seem to understand just how important this day is - they wanted to go to a One Direction concert instead.

Okay so their plan was to rearrange the Communion for another day, it clashed with the teen popster's performance and the concerned parents didn't want their kids to miss out on seeing Harry Styles and co in the flesh. Fuck that. Not only is this an affront to the Catholic church and all it stands for, but much more importantly it threatened to mess with the gathering of several crumpled up ten, twenty and even fifty Euro notes. What kind of parents are these? Thankfully democracy won the day. After the votes were counted and verified it was decreed that the Communion would go ahead and those wishing to see One Direction would have to wait until the reunion in three years time. Maybe the kids can use some of the money earned on their Holy day to purchase a ticket. 

How do you clean yours?

 “How do you eat yours?” That's what Cadbury's ask us every Easter as they flood our stores with their delicious Creme Eggs, and we all have different methods of tackling those ever-shrinking capsules of joy. But now there's a new question gripping the nation, and it's all thanks to an Internet forum called mumsnet. If you haven't read about this story I'll give you a brief synopsis right now. On this forum – which is a place where women gather to talk about the important things in life – a member started a thread entitled 'Do you dunk your penis'. Let's try and ignore the fact that the poster refers to her partner's penis as her own, that's not the weirdest part of this by a long stretch. The woman in question went on to ask her fellow forumistas whether they had a special 'penis beaker' at the side of the bed; essentially a container filled with water used as by her fella for clean-up area after they'd engaged in a bit of coitus.

Obviously none of them did, they used the bathroom like most normal people. But although some of the replies went into horrendous detail we, the menfolk of this world, weren't consulted at any point. So I'm asking you, my fellow gentlemen; how do you clean yours? Are you one of those neanderthals who grunts “Thanks love,” rolls over and falls asleep? Or do you take to the bathroom and give yourself a proper scrub (raising the question; just how dirty was she?)? Most of you I'd imagine, will fall somewhere in the middle. You'll spot a discarded tissue lying on the floor and use it to give yourself a rudimentary cleansing before chucking it from whence it came. Me? I like to wipe mine on the curtains before hopping back into bed and holding her in my arms, a proper romantic that's what I am.

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 justice for all..

We all hope he burns in hell for eternity and maybe he will, but for the time being his fate is in the hands of the authorities. Need you ask whom I'm talking about? The most reviled man in the country right now, the evil bastard who did unspeakable things to those poor little mites. For most of us his identity is currently unknown, and like it or not that's how it should be. There's a reason why the judicial system works as it does and despite the callous nature of his crimes this man is entitled to his anonymity – at least for now. But someone should try explaining this to the social media guerrillas who, in their infinite wisdom, chose to 'out' him during the week.

I didn't happen to see his name, but if I had what would I have done? Not a whole lot obviously, after all this is twenty-first century and vigilante mobs rarely gather together to mete out justice. But clearly whomever leaked his identity to the world at large had a reason for doing so. Did this person believe that what they were doing would benefit the young victims? Did they believe that by unmasking this monster they were doing us all a favour? There was already scores of people waiting outside the police station where the accused was being questioned, would the revealing of his identity swelled those numbers into the hundreds? And then what? The baying mob screams for justice and maybe if we're lucky, we get to watch a mini-riot or at the very least some fisticuffs.

Aside from the risk in compromising the case against the accused there are many other factors to take into consideration when you decide to provide such a public service. For a start there's the accused's family. It's bad enough discovering your kin is the spawn of Satan without fending off abuse from outraged protesters. And what about the family of those children he abused? They are coming to terms with a living nightmare and the last thing they need to see is his face spread all over the Sunday papers. Ideally the first time they'll see him is in the court where they will look him in the eye while he answers for his crimes. And ultimately they want to see him rot in a jail cell until he breathes his last. There's a reason we have a justice system, it might not always produce the kind of results we want but it's far more effective than taking matters into our own hands.

You're not singing anymore

You may find it hard to believe but attending football matches was, at one time, something only done by working-class males. Groups of lads in their teens and twenties would set off from their local estates and walk to football grounds that were a part of the community's fabric. Once there they would queue at the gate, pay their way in and choose their spot on the terracing. And for the next few hours they immersed themselves in a cultural experience now obsolete in all bar a few countries. Their behaviour may have often crossed the line but some of their antics seem harmless in comparison to the exploits of today's youth. These lads weren't mindless thugs preying on the weak, they were simply young pups finding their way in the world.

Those lads are middle-aged men nowadays old enough to bring their own children to the game. But most don't bother. And why would they? Oh yes it's far safer now and Junior can sip on a Coke and munch on a pie while he watches; but once inside the ground and at his seat, what then? If he's lucky you may have got tickets in one of the more vociferous areas of the ground, with some careful encouragement he might even join in on some of the chants. Oh but what's that? A swear word? Don't tell Mum alright lad? And he won't, 'cos he knows the score. He'll wait until Monday morning, until he's in school, and then he'll repeat what he heard while his mates look on in awe.

Soon those middle-aged men won't have to worry about their offspring reporting back to Mummy dearest. They won't have to explain why when your old man told you to be a city fan you replied “bollocks you're a cunt.” They'll return from the game and it will be like they've just come back from the fairground; popcorn, goodie bags and Coca-cola aplenty. Hell next time Mum might even come with you! This is how football is going: a sanitised form of entertainment akin to a night at the movies. The once seething amphitheatres of European football are gradually turning into amusement parks. And if you were in any doubt then just look at the directive handed down to Tottenham and West Ham fans this weekend.

They can't say the word 'Yid'. And if they do they will be arrested. I'm half-expecting the old bill to bust down my door simply because I've typed it. So what is a Yid? It is “offensive slang, used as a disparaging term for a Jew.” And Tottenham have always had a large number of Jewish supporters, so much so that during away games the visiting supporters were often treated to hissing sounds from a home crowd mimicking World War II's gas chambers. But that's football rivalry at it's very worst, almost as bad as those mocking the Munich Air Disaster or the Hillsborough tragedy. And with true terrace wit the Spurs fans chose not to get offended by these slurs but to adopt them as their own. Rather than be outraged and complain to the stewards they figured that self-deprecation was the best weapon. And so began the chants of “Yid Army” and “Yiddos.” As an opposing fan how do you react to that? With dumbfounded silence I'd imagine.

Tottenham's support should be commended for their actions; how nice it is to see that sardonic humour is alive and well in the football ground's of today. Alas the opposite is happening. Any supporter at Sunday's game, whether they Spur or Hammer, who utters the word Yid will be escorted off the premises; Sky News even got a policeman on to confirm it. This is football in 2013 ladies and gentlemen. A game where you pay your money, buy your refreshments, sit in your seat and do as you're told. If you wish to get behind your team, express an opinion or, perish the thought, have a bit of back-and-forth with the opposition fans then you're in the wrong place. Watch it at home or at the pub because you're not welcome here.

Strong in the force

Finally it's happened, finally they have figured out how to make real-life lightsabers. Well done lads, but where were ye twenty-odd years ago when I was still young enough to become a Jedi?! Everyone knows that you have to be trained as a child or it's pointless! But credit where it's due, physicists at Harvard and MIT say “they have discovered a way to bind photons together in order to form a new molecule which behaves almost exactly like George Lucas's deadly devices.” I don't think I've ever envied those blokes who spend their entire lives in laboratories looking through magnifying glasses but right now I wish I'd listened a bit harder during that ill-fated term in Physics.

One of the boffins goes on to say “It's not an in-apt analogy to compare this to lightsabers. The physics of what's happening in these molecules is similar to what we see in the movies." Physics? Molecules? Who cares man, you just made a lightsaber! All that's left now is to put them on sale to the general public, preferably before Christmas. The price-tag is not an issue I will get the money, somehow. Or better still if you're reading this and wondering what to get me for Santa's birthday (a green one please) well here is your answer. And you may be glad you got on my good side before I learned how to use the fucker properly - that's all I'm saying. 

The secret to ageing gracefully

Another week, another survey, another Scandinavian nation coming out on top. What is it about those blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauties and their freezing cold countries? This time around it's the best place to grow old. So what's the criteria for making the elderly happy? Well according to this study, compiled by the UN population fund, it is income, employment, health provision, education, and environment among others. Residents over the age of sixty were canvassed in 92 countries with the Swedes coming out on top, closely followed by their Nordic neighbours Norway. Ireland? Twelfth, not bad. And last of the 92? Why Afghanistan of course.

The awesomeness of Scandinavia and it's fantastic quality of life has almost become a cliché at this point. Sadly my own knowledge of the area is restricted to surveys like this and watching some of the brilliant drama series created by the Danes et al in recent years. But in those drama series – Forbrydelsen and Borgen if you must know – there is one common theme, no in fact there is two: it's always dark and everyone looks perished. So answer me this; if you presided over a country where it got dark at half-eleven in the morning and the yearly temperature never got above zero do you think you'd do your best to make the people happy? Damn right you would. Everyone is already miserable beyond belief and if you don't provide them with jobs, a thriving economy, brilliant schools and great TV......well it doesn't bear thinking about really. 

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.

To Arthur

Thanks to the ubiquity of the Arthur's Day adverts it feels like the yearly celebration has been around for ever; but it only began in 2009. And if certain parties are to have their way it might not be around for much longer. As a semi-retired boozer this newly created excuse for a piss up has little impact on my life, it actually took me a while to figure out why town was so busy on what I presumed was just another mundane Thursday afternoon. But then it clicked, “ah yes, people are heading out to get hammered in the name of a person whom they know little about. I thought that was what Paddy's day was for?” You can't blame the drinks companies though, if they had their way there'd be festivals for every fucker who'd ever worked a day in the Guinness factory.

But Arthur's Day has it's fair share of detractors, with negativity stemming from several cunning marketing ploys designed to drum up interest in the event. The Arthur Guinness Project – essentially a talent show made cool by it's association with the black stuff – is a case in point. The belief among many is that this is merely a cynical way of getting the Arthur Guinness name out there, yes it rewards the nation's undiscovered talent but only a select few actually receive any funding from the organisers. This is modern-day Ireland though, everyone is just out get to a buck in any way they can.

Look at The Gathering, a complete shakedown of the Irish diaspora. But it worked, the fuckers were here in their droves this year, and they're still coming. Who benefits from this? Not you or I, at least not yet, but perhaps it will help drive the Irish economy forward indirectly and that's something we all want. As far as I'm concerned we can have Gatherings, monthly tributes to the Guinness family and four Paddy's Days a year, because no one is forcing us to get involved. Let them market the shit out of it and exploit as many poor fools as they want, and then maybe some day our beleaguered little country can get back on it's own two feet.

Flattering to deceive

I'm not really sure where I stand when it comes to Roy Keane these days. Time was when I'd spill blood for the Corkonian, but not any more. Granted, my loyalty towards him stemmed from his imperious performances in the name of MUFC but invariably when Roy spoke, I agreed. But that changed in the wake of United's Champion's League exit to Real Madrid this year. I'm not so precious that I can't handle an ex-player railing against the club he represented with such distinction; but there was something in the way Keane spoke that night, he seemed to revel in his role of naysayer and dare I say it, in Alex Ferguson's misfortune.

And given his own managerial failures Roy has been doing a lot of speaking lately; mostly in his role as pundit with ITV. But that hasn't stopped his name being mentioned in relation to the Irish job recently vacated by Giovanni Trappatoni. Despite not managing a club for over two years he's still found himself on the list of candidates to replace the departed Italian. Perhaps his time away from management has made us forget just how bad he was at it? Yes he had a great start with Sunderland, getting them promoted in his first season at the helm. But since then? Mediocre at best.

You'd think these humbling experiences would have softened Roy's cough, but it appears not. When asked if he was flattered to be linked with the Irish job his response was “No, not really. I shouldn't be flatted by that, should I?” Yes you bloody well should Mr 'I only buy players I used to play with', yes you should. In a way I admire his brazenness, his refusal to tow the company line has always made him one of the game's most fascinating characters. But a bit of humility wouldn't go astray either. Keane once famously told the FAI to “get over it”,in reference to the Hand of Henry. But maybe now it's time for Roy to heed his own advice, because you can't stay bitter for ever and eventually we all have to get over it.

Gift horses

It's great when you find money isn't it? You're walking along the street and there it is on the ground waiting to be picked up. Marvellous, free fucking money. But no sooner have you pocketed it then the guilt starts, “Oh I bet some poor old woman dropped that after getting her pension,” or words to that effect. You get so guilty that you wish more than anything you could give it back to the poor forgetful fool who dropped it. So if you find a wallet do you hand that back? Course ya do 'cos you're lovely. You ignore the wad of fifties bulging out from the seams and head straight to the nearest Garda station. In short: you are a credit to humanity.

That's what most people would do anyway, at least I think they would. Really we have no way of knowing how honest we are as a nation. But thanks to a recent experiment by Reader's Digest we can discover just how honest the sixteen other nations. They placed twelve wallets in each of the cities under the microscope - cities which included New York, London, Rio and Madrid – and then waited to see how many would be returned. A simple but genius way of finding out where the most generous folk in the world reside. And it will come as no surprise to learn that the Finns of Helsinki were the most virtuous of those investigated with eleven of the twelve wallets being returned to the authorities. Damn those Scandinavians and their beautiful hearts.

The worst, most dishonest cities? Madrid and Lisbon. But I don't think we should jump to conclusions about Iberians just yet. Is it any coincidence that Portugal and Spain are two of the most hard-up countries in the world right now? They were probably fighting each other in the streets for those wallets. And given our own economic state perhaps we should be grateful that we weren't considered when it came to this study of honesty.

The acid test

I can't let a week go by without covering a more 'risqué' story, for a while it looked like there was nothing of note for me to talk about this week. But then I heard about the pH of a vagina. Uh oh things are about to get embarrassing - and yet I'm not embarrassed at all. Anyway the pH of a vagina (I really like saying that), what is it? Well if you must know it's 4.5; but unless you're a science boffin that number will mean nothing to you. The best way of judging this figure is by comparing to other items with a similar pH, or items with a comparable level of acidity. And they are? Beer and tomatoes. Brilliant. That's right girls your precious lady-garden is as acidic as a pint of Bud or a plump, ripe tomato.

At first I wondered if this high pH was evolution's way of warding off potential suitors, kind of like a burning furnace designed to injure all who entered. But it appears that it's perfectly natural and that this level of acidity is required in order to ward off harmful infections. The old bearded clam works in much the same way as our stomachs and mouths and therefore resembles a boiling hotpot of microorgnanisms and such like. It should make us blokes think twice about taking a trip South of the border but let's face it we've eaten worse. And because women are armed with the knowledge that their furry cups share a pH level with beer I get the feeling that no excuse will ever be good enough from now 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.

The cutest, little baby-face

The sight of drunken teens puking their collective rings up on the night of their Junior Cert results has become a common sight on the streets of Ireland. But what we often choose to overlook is the fact that many of these revellers could quite easily have been mistaken for street-walkers were they not so flaming drunk. I'm certainly no prude but the get-up of some of the girls - yes girls not women - defies belief. Young lads today don't know how good they have it, back in our day they weren't left leave the house without at least five protective layers for us to work through. But sadly in today's society children are encouraged to ape their elders from the earliest possible opportunity.

At least these girls are almost 'of age', what excuse do the organisers of children's beauty pageants have? I had presumed this was a phenomenon consigned to the States and that the good people of Ireland would never allow their offspring to take part in such tawdry, sleazy activities. It seems I was wrong. Universal Royalty oversee beauty pageants all over the world and the next stop on their tour was Dublin, Ireland. However their attempts to stage what I presume would have been the first pageant of its kind in this country were thwarted by the good people of the Bracken Hotel in Ballybriggan. Once the true nature of the event was revealed: “a beauty pageant for babies, toddlers and teens”, the management at the venue were quick to cancel the booking.

And that was that, or so you'd think. Undeterred a spokeswoman for Universal Royalty said “You better believe there's going to be a pageant.” And so it was that yesterday, somewhere in County Monaghan, the pageant took place. All the to-ing and fro-ing took it's toll on the participants however, just over twenty children strutted their stuff instead instead of the fifty plus that had been expected to enter. But still, that's at least twenty parents who deemed it perfectly normal for their beloved to parade around a stage in a highly sexualised manner more in keeping with Miss World than a bonny baby comp. What are the odds on those kids being prone in the gutter as they celebrate their Junior Cert results in about ten years time?

Don't speak ill of the dead

The death of Elaine O'Hara still remains shrouded in mystery, one can only imagine the torment her family are enduring. And having the whole thing played out in the media only makes things worse. In circumstances such as this it is inevitable that countless theories and assumptions will be aired by those close to the case. Whether they be investigators, journalists or 'experts in the field', everyone will have their say, but can any good come from this? During a report on Ms O'Hara's passing one reporter alluded to her 'alternative lifestyle' on at least five occasions, and this was despite the interview lasting little more than a couple of minutes. Alternative lifestyle? Immediately that gets you thinking, and in my case it got me googling.

But what did I find? Nothing really. Apparently Elaine was registered with a couple of internet dating sites, wow how very alternative. How simple it is to besmirch someone's name, to tarnish it with a few misplaced words. At the mention of her apparently wild and crazy lifestyle I envisaged cults, sex dungeons, all sorts, you name it and chances are I thought of it. And then I looked her up further, a pleasant looking woman, a childcare assistant and a popular employee at her local newsagent's. Certainly not what I'd expected. But imagine if I hadn't bothered to dig deeper. Imagine if I'd listened to the news report and left it at that. “Oh yeah that Elaine O'Hara wan, she was a bit mad wasn't she? Alternative lifestyles and all sorts I heard.”

One lazy journalist, that's all it takes. 

Parental guidance advised

“Video games linked to higher IQs in the nation's children.” “How Lara Croft helped me to learn about the history of the Mayan people.” “Chubby teen sheds four stone thanks to Nike Plus Kinect Training.”

Notice anything about those imaginary headlines? They all have something in common, something that ensures they will never see the light of day: they portray gaming in a positive manner. Because you see as far as the media is concerned gaming is bad, and it always will be. And if we're lucky enough to hear our hobby discussed on any of the conventional news channels we can guarantee they're not singing it's praises - the week just gone was a prime example.

Grand Theft Auto 5 is out, have you played it? Tremendous fun isn't it? Did it make you carjack a stranger, shoot them in the tits and run over their kids? No, me neither. Luckily we're well-adjusted adults and can distinguish between fantasy and reality, but not everyone is as fortunate; children for example, they're an impressionable bunch. As usual there were two predominant debates doing the rounds, first up was; does playing these games pollute the mind's of our innocent children? And secondly; if this is an over-eighteens game why are so many kids playing it? Now correct me if I'm wrong but don't these two arguments contradict one another? How can you have one and then the other? Put simply if you're not eighteen years old then you shouldn't be playing GTA. And if you are then it's not Rockstar's fault, it's your parent's, or at a push the retailer's.

But surprisingly there was a slight sea-change in the way the nation's talking heads broached this topic. Yes of course there was still those uneducated buffoons eager to denounce gaming as the work of Satan, but amid all the condemnation was the common belief that there is a need for change, a need to educate. Time and time again broadcasters spoke of purchasing games for their children, grandchildren or godchildren without being fully aware of it's content. Then Junior disappears to his room to get lapdances, ride hookers and pop caps in the asses of several African-Americans. But he's quiet so it's okay.

Then should Junior ever get himself into real-life mischief it's because of those blasted video games. But it's just too simple to blame games like Grand Theft Auto for society's ails; parents raise children, not Sony, and not Microsoft. And if you're going to allow your progeny to have a gaming console then the least you can do is inform yourself about the kind of things he or she is likely to be playing on it. It's not that difficult, honest.

Aim high and shoot for the stars

“When asked if it was now acceptable to masturbate in public if you don't direct it towards a specific individual the prosecutor said it was 'okay'.”

That may very well be the greatest line ever written. Read it again, it's fuckin ace. I don't particularly like the idea of being a court reporter but I'm currently having a rethink. Sadly I would have to move to Sweden in order to be privy to such comments. The case in question surrounded a 65 year old man charged with sexual assault. His crime? Masturbating on a public beach in Stockholm. Off to jail with ya you dirty old bugger. Nope 'fraid not. His defence argued that because the perpetrator wasn't directing his activity towards a specific individual he wasn't committing a crime. What the actual fuck? Don't mind me lads I'm just gonna have a wank over here in the sea, you go about your day and don't take any notice of me.

The Swedes, and the Scandinavians in general, are renowned for their forward-thinking policies, how many times do you hear George Hook laud their respective governments on Newstalk? But this is surely a step too far. Where will it end? A bloke knocking one out as he's walking down the street? Some dirty oul' trollop tearing the box off herself in Tesco? A gang of lads all furiously bashing away in your local pub? Whatever you do don't look at 'em that'll only encourage 'em. Best to just turn a blind eye, because if nothing is aimed in your direction then it doesn't concern you. Now if you don't mind I'm off to me local Supermacs for a public display of self-affection; just gotta be careful where I point it....want mayo with them chips love?

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.

A Le Vell playing field

I honestly think I would rather be accused of murdering someone than of raping someone. I realise the sentence for murder is far higher than for that of rape, but still I would prefer to be in the dock on the former charge. Why? Because to rape someone, to take someone's liberty and humanity for your own pleasure is an unforgivable sin. People murder one another for all kinds of reasons but rape is committed for one reason and one reason alone; self-gratification. And the only thing I can think of that would be worse than being accused of raping someone, would to be accused of raping a child. Imagine if it happened to you? If you were innocent and the very thought of doing something like that to a child made you sick to your stomach? I honestly can't think of anything worse.

That's how Michael Le Vell must have felt; sick to his stomach. And even worse, his case was played out in the public eye, merely compounding his shame. I didn't know whether he was guilty or not. He didn't seem the type, but then who does? As it turns out he wasn't the type. He was just another hapless victim in a long line of them, all high profile cases which have amounted to nothing. I can only hope the Coronation Street actor can rebuild his life and put the whole thing behind him. But what of the alleged victim? What happens to her? For a start she can't be named, which is understandable given her age. But why was Michael Le Vell named? He hadn't done anything wrong and yet was in the dock both literally and figuratively.

The bottom line is that it's too easy to 'cry wolf' nowadays. It's too easy to drag someone's name through the mud, at great cost to their reputation, while the accuser goes unpunished. Why not jail sentences for those who falsely accuse others of rape? It's only fair. A term identical to the one the accused was facing would fit the bill perfectly, and you never know it might even act as a deterrent for those who decide they'd like to ruin someone's life in the future.

You've got some balls

The testicles are a funny pair of lads aren't they? Easily the most unsightly part of the human body they are nevertheless of utmost importance, the penis may hog all the glory but without his two lieutenants backing him up he's nothing. In recent times we've become accustomed to grappling with our bad boys for reasons other than it feels nice, we're all well aware of the dangers of testicular cancer and we dutifully check for lumps whilst lying on the couch watching football. But no sooner have we become “balls-aware” then our scrotums find themselves under scrutiny once more.

It now appears that having a heaving sack hanging from your midriff is a bad thing, at least when it comes to being a Daddy. James Rilling, an anthropologist from Atlanta, claims that the smaller your two veg the better a father you're likely to be. In a study of 70 willing males he discovered that those with petite potatoes were more likely to be involved in care giving activities such as nappy-changing, bottle-feeding and singing lullabies in a high-pitched falsetto (guess which one of those I made up). I bet you're all checking your bollocks now aren't you? I know I did.

But these findings got me thinking; maybe these fellas had massive balls before they became fathers, perhaps their testes were literally spilling out of their trousers until Junior came along. And then everything changed. The sex dried up, they no longer spent their evenings down the pub with their mates. Now it was all days out at Mothercare, shit-filled nappies and lukewarm breastmilk. Their testicles simply gave up, we're not needed here anymore they said; and with that they simply shrivelled up and died. So lads, be a good father but do it in the traditional sense - a kickabout in the backgarden, fishing-trips, that kind of thing – and if you're lucky your gonads may just survive the experience.

Unfinished monkey business

You know that thing where you're asked to name the four famous people you'd like to have a dinner party with? The one where you forget that no celebrity in their right mind would want to spend an evening fending off drunken advances from you? Yeah that's the one. Whenever I'm asked to select the lucky few who get to dine with me one name invariably pops up time and time again: Sir David Attenborough. I love that man. In truth we don't have a lot of common other than a shared interest in the animal kingdom, but still I'd give anything to spend an evening listening to old Dave recounting tales of his adventures in all four corners of the globe.

However as he's got older (he's 87 now) Sir David has become prone to the odd controversial statement or two, but he gets away with it 'cos he's a national treasure and all that. In January of this year he declared that humans are “a plague on the Earth” - hard to argue with that really. And now, not content with calling us a plague, he has declared that we as a species have ceased to evolve; his reasoning being that birth control has put a halt to the Darwinian theory of natural selection. Now I'll be the first to admit that all things science blow my fucking mind, I really haven't a clue how any of it works. I have a vague understanding of molecules and bacterias but it only takes five minutes of Brian Cox for me  to be sitting there scratching my head in bewilderment.

But we've stopped evolving because of contraception? How does that work? Surely we're evolving just by existing. For example we use our thumbs far more than any generations that went before; so it stands to reason that in a thousand years time humans will have oversized thumbs borne out of necessity. Is that not how evolution works? If only Dave would accept my dinner invite and explain it to me properly. As it is I can feel a headache coming on so I think I'll have a little lie down.

Any minute now

Since the beginning of this double/triple/quadruple dip recession it's been one bad news story after another. It's hard to turn on your television or radio without being exposed to it. Occasionally though they throw us a tidbit, these usually come at the end of a tough few months or just before them. And what these comforting morsels provide us with is hope; enough hope to ensure we don't lose heart, but not so much that we'll get carried away with ourselves. This week we were given a little hope, but like I said not too much. Because apparently the worst of it is behind us, that's right the last five years were awful bastards but the only way is up from here on in. And not only that, our economy is growing too! Well it couldn't get any fuckin' smaller now could it?

I'm sure this information is true – it's not like the Government to lie to us now is it? - but excuse me if I don't start doing cartwheels. It's not that I'm a pessimist, far from it, but it feels like we've been fed stories like this at regular intervals since the beginning of the economic downturn. If I was to be cynical I'd say that these nuggets of news are timed for release with almost military precision. The mood of the nation is assessed, a day is chosen for maximum impact and then BAM they hit us with the good stuff. There ye go now lads, just when you thought life was shit, it's not; it's still not great but any day now it will be, now stop your complaining and get back to work – oh feck we forgot ye don't have any jobs, never mind the recession will be over soon. When? Ah sure any time in the next fifty years ya know yerself. 

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.

Just go

“When there's nothing left to say you must simply walk away”

And is there anything left to say? Judging by his incoherent post-match ramblings I would say no. Giovanni Trappatoni's time is up. And he has to go now, not in three games time when yet more damage has been done to the fragile confidence of promising young players like James McCarthy and Seamus Coleman. But will he? Of course not, he'll see things out to the bitter end and most likely with the full backing of the FAI too. We've been here before though. A stirring second-leg display in the Stade de France quietened many of his critics and allowed him to begin the Euro 2012 qualifiers in good heart. But after the debacle of the European finals the country was magnanimous: get him out and let us start afresh.

The decent thing would have been to walk away, you got us to a finals you're a great fella now fuck off. But when you've got a juicy contract dangling in front of your nose you're hardly gonna turn it down; who cares what the punters think? Sure they'll come support the team no matter what. And once the World Cup campaign began things just got worse, an undeserved last-minute victory over the powerhouses of Kazakhstan was followed by our darkest hour: a 6-1 mauling at home against Germany. Surely this was the time, there could be no coming back from this. Wrong. On he went, mumbling about how our fate was still in our own hands, if our fate was in our own hands you would've been gone a long time ago boy.

Mathematically we can still qualify, victories in Austria and Germany could very well see us on the plane to Brazil, I can't see it happening though can you? Instead we'll endure yet more of this caveman football we've become accustomed to, horrible, prehistoric stuff, the tactics of a footballing dinosaur. All throughout his reign he has pointed to the lack of quality at his disposal, we have to play this way he says, we haven't got the players to y'know, play real football. Well pretty soon we'll find out if he was telling the truth. Because in a matter of months he will leave our shores for the last time - fat with our cash - and a new man will be at the helm. Then we'll see if we're good enough Trap, then we'll see.

Where's me dinner ya prick

Last week I spoke of the male populous of Ireland and how unsatisfied ye women are were with us. And now this week we hear that the number of men suffering domestic abuse is on the rise, hmm you do the Math – you're not happy with how we look so ye beat the shit out of us. We can joke about this and make light of it but over 5,000 calls were made to AMEN (support centre for male victims of domestic abuse) in 2012. The majority of these calls concerned cases of emotional or psychological abuse but over 1,500 of them came from men who had suffered physical harm at the hands of their significant other. Again the temptation is to laugh and tell these fellas to grow a pair - but therein lies the problem.

If you were suffering at the hands of your partner what would you do? Report the abuse? For most women the answer would be yes, it may take some time, but eventually you would say enough is enough and contact the authorities. But it wouldn't easy. Now think of a man in that situation. He has all the same problems as his female counterpart, but added to that is untold shame and self-loathing. Because who wants to be the man not strong enough to protect his woman? And not only can you not protect her; you can't even protect yourself from her! You may think that's an antiquated view and I am a misogynistic caveman but for all the advances society has made we men are still judged by our masculinity and this in turn reflects upon our worth as males.

You see certain things haven't changed at all: men wear the trousers and women control the purse strings. There are many different variants on this theme but for the most part that simple statement defines our attitude to relationships. Of course many men secretly fear their better half and, for the sake of a quiet life, reside firmly under their partner's thumb. But how do you get from that to becoming an abused spouse? I hope I never have to find out. These figures, and the sheer volume of incidents, are shocking in themselves, but when you consider that most men probably suffer in silence you can't help but wonder what really goes on behind closed doors in the average Irish household.

The times they are a' changing

I'll be honest, the first time I heard about smart watches was just this week. But apparently they're set to become all the rage, replacing the smart phone (ahh there's the connection) as the must-have accessory. So what is a smart watch? It appears to be a a fancy digitalised time-keeping device fastened around your arm, but one that also allows you to access your Facebook account, download apps and send emails. And despite all the new technology contained within the onus is still on making it look, and feel, like a watch. So essentially it's a smart phone that you can wear on your wrist, but with one exception: you can't make calls. Ah fuck, just when I was coming round to the idea. I had visions of talking to my arm like something out of a 1980s sci-fi movie, but I guess I'm gonna have to forget about that for now. It's a real shame though because the common wristwatch has almost become obsolete thanks to the wonders of mobile phones, and these new-fangled devices could have changed that forever.

Because one of the big problems with mobile phones is losing the little buggers. We've all been there, you wake up with your face glued to the pillow and one of your eyebrows missing and think things can't get any worse. Then you check your pockets, wallet: check, keys: check, phone: uh-oh. You've only gone and lost it. If only it had been attached to your arm. Apparently you can make calls via a smart watch, but only by syncing it with your smart phone. Um, what's the fucking point of that? I'm sure there's reasons why smart watches have been designed in this way, the multi-billion phone industry for starters. But just think how much easier your life would be if your phone was there, stuck to your person, on the morning after the night before.

Good riddance

He died as he lived; like a coward. His victims endured years in captivity, he barely lasted a month. For Amanda Berry, Gina DeJesus and Michelle Knight the death of Ariel Castro brought an end to more than ten years of trauma and suffering. They will likely rest easier in the knowledge that he will never harm anyone again, but is this how they wanted it to conclude? Did they, like the rest of us, wish to see Castro suffer? To see him die miserable, old and alone in a cold, dark prison cell. Most probably. But they don't get to make that choice. More's the pity.

At his sentencing Castro avoided the death penalty and instead received life imprisonment without any possibility of parole. And as usual in cases as extreme as this one he was placed in solitary confinement with maximum security - no doubt his fellow inmates were queuing up to test said security. The cost of housing criminals like Ariel Castro is exorbitant, thousands of dollars spent on protecting someone who is universally loathed both inside and outside of the prison in which he resides. Money that could be used towards providing better facilities for those who wish to spend their jail time rehabilitating themselves so that they may one day contribute to society. I doubt very much that Castro had that on his mind as he tied the noose around his neck, but his final act of cowardice will hopefully benefit others in a way he never managed during his time on this earth.