Poverty - Day 67

Things are getting tight. I haven’t moved from this bed in days, I feel the walls closing in on me. I have to do something to lift myself from this grim torpor. I know, I’ll make a few calls.

First up is Irish Life & Permanent. I spoke to a lovely girl called Mairead in their customer service department. I explained to Mairead that henceforth I had absolutely no intention of furnishing them with a red cent of the vast amount of money I owe them for my six bedroomed aberration on the edge of Edgeworthstown. Mairead said that was grand, don’t give it a second thought, sure there’s thousands like you. She also told me I was exceedingly charming and had a lovely phone voice. She wondered would I be interested in going for a coffee sometime. I told her I was married and besides the last thing I need right now is a bizarre fiduciary love triangle. Furthermore I have nothing to offer now apart from butter vouchers, pipe dreams and a rapidly dwindling collection of expensive toiletries.

Next up is Jim Bolger. I explained to Jim that henceforth I had absolutely no intention of furnishing him with a red cent of the fees for the very promising two year old colt by Sadler’s Wells out of an Oaks winning mare that he has in training down there in Carlow for me. Jim said that was grand, don’t give it a second thought, sure there’s thousands like you. He said he’d see me at Tipp v Cork in Semple on Sunday and we’d have a chat about the situation, maybe we could come to some “arrangement”. I felt uncomfortable with the implication and besides the last thing I need right now is a bizarre equine love triangle. I wished him luck and hung up.

I gave Nedzad over in Croatia a buzz. I told him to down tools immediately and cease work on my four thousand square foot Adriatic beach house. Boy did he sound upset. Jeeeesus. I think he told me to eff off in about eight different dialects. They all sound so aggressive though those people, don’t they? It turns out the poor hoor was actually telling me that’s grand sure there’s thousands like you and that I had a lovely ass and would I like to go out on a day trip to Sarajevo with him sometime. I had to email him later to explain that I was married and besides the last thing I need right now is a bizarre Balkan love triangle. He replied to say that was cool but he would still be needing the two hundred grand I owe him. (Note to self: prepare budget spreadsheet to get a handle on some of this stuff)

I decided to give Sean Fitzpatrick a ring to vent my anger at him for having deliberately put a bunch of numbers in the wrong column on a report thereby bringing about Armageddon. I asked him could he talk, was this a bad time. He said there’s no such thing as a bad time when you’ve just drawn a sweet three wood to within twenty yards on the tricky par five twelfth. You can sing that I said, I used to get the same feeling when I got a skimcoat mix just right. Ah, those were the days, we thought the sweet music of the mixer would last forever.

I came right out and asked him why he felt the need to ruin my life. He asked me how much I had invested in Anglo. Nothing I told him, in fact I never heard of you or your bank until a couple of months ago. Well how do you make out I ruined your life then, he asked me. Because Gene Kerrigan told me you did, I replied. He proceeded to tell me to eff off in about eight different dialects. I apologised for the confusion, wished him luck with the par three thirteenth and hung up. He rang me back to tell me he liked my style and that I was the type who could go places in his organisation. What organisation is that I asked, Opus Dei he replied. Jaysus wept I told him and besides the last thing I need right now is a bizarre ecclesiastical love triangle. I wished him luck and hung up.

I thought how funny it is how golf and our approach to it has crystallised our attitudes and framed the debate on the boom and sudden bust. Five years ago images of Fitzy and his buddies playing golf would have garnered nothing but approval from all quarters. We would have lauded these corporate giants networking and making the decisions that were facilitating the continuation of our grand lifestyles. Now a similar image provokes such derision and contempt that to be photographed on the fairway nowadays is the equivalent of being photographed clubbing baby seals.

I wonder was Fitzy always a golfer or did he just take to it when the shit hit the fan in order to rub it in? Having spoken to him it certainly seems like the kind of flourish of which he would be capable.

Anyway much done, more to do. I will have to shop in Lidl tomorrow. You’re already shopping in a landfill. Seamus, formerly of number 46 across the way, is living in a landfill and has changed his name to Paddy Neary to avoid the shame and embarrassment. It’s still you Seamus, as Dara O’ Briain would say.

P.S. Fidelma from New Tone spa and fitness centre just called looking for this month’s dues. She can sing for it. Anyway according to Fidelma herself I’m fit enough already. Never knew my luck with the ladies was inversely proportionate to Gross National Product.

Let the bad times roll.

The TV Told Me To Do It

There is a huge amount of frustration associated with not being a techie. You are always going to feel that you’re behind the curve, impotent. Increasingly the world is being slanted in favour of people who are technically proficient and who consider it important to spend vast amounts of money arming themselves with the equipment necessary to preserve their techie status.

DVDs have features that your perfectly fine but slightly old television is not good enough to avail of. You consistently feel that you are being railroaded into buying stuff that you could have done without because you can’t just watch a film in a normal way on a normal television, one that can’t take advantage of blue ray and superwide screen features on the disc.

This represents progress for who exactly? Sony, Phillips, Bosch and Toshiba that’s who. Relinquishing a perfectly good television because DVD manufactures insist on inventing nonsense features that only televisions built ten minutes ago can run certainly does not represent progress from my perspective.

Put on a DVD on an old television and it’s like trying to watch a film on your phone. The DVD gleefully reduces the picture to the size of a match box in a cynical and malicious attempt to belittle you and your antiquated equipment. When a DVD is taking the piss out of you it could be time to stage some form of revolt. The DVD has been programmed by the manufacturers to shrink the picture once it detects an old fashioned television. You are being ridiculed and made to feel inadequate by a shiny circular disc.

I had to go out and buy what I was led to believe was the latest and greatest flatscreen television to watch rented movies. The picture was great but I couldn’t hear the dialogue no matter how high I adjusted the volume. And this is the real genius of their grand satanic design; I had to return to the shop to buy speakers which would augment the pitiful volume coming from the television itself and provide me with a “complete viewing experience”. I don’t consider being able to hear what the actors are saying as being so pampered that I would classify it as a “complete viewing experience”. I would just call it “watching a film”. But “watching a film” is just not good enough anymore apparently.

Anyway I’m off to have a glass of water or should that be a “complete hydration experience”

It's All Over Now Baby Blue

I was rolling in it but it’s all been reclaimed
The mighty Celtic Tiger lies battered and defamed
Black tae and dry bread from now on I’m afraid
We’ve hit the arse end of our affluent escapade
It would be back down the mines for me, if we had any
And looking for a sub from the incapacitated Granny
Watch Peig Sayers climb back up the bestseller list
As you sneak down the local at lunch to get pissed
The youngsters will ring to reclaim their old room
Beached and abandoned by fast receding boom
Hand back the Range Rover with a lump in the throat
And the forty foot Olympic, “it’s a feckin’ yacht, not a boat”
Nothing for me now but the old bedsit in Marino
But please, one for the road, one last iced frappuccino
Strike another match, go start anew
‘Cos it’s all over now, baby blue

Green Blues

Green Fatigue, we all have a mild dose at this stage. I’ll do my bit, and I do know what my bit is, just lay off the Gestapo approach. We are all well aware of the principles of the thing by now. There are certain things that can be reused and recycled; it makes sense to use renewable resources wherever possible, the massive carbon output of certain processes is a very bad thing indeed. But leave it up to us to fill in the blanks.

I would be more worried about what happens the stuff after I religiously segregate it into its appropriately coloured bin. One week just after Christmas I was confused as to the rotation and left out both bins thinking they would just take the appropriate one. I came home to find both emptied, into the back of the same truck presumably. General rubbish and recyclables in one repulsive cocktail. Doesn’t inspire confidence now does it?

It’s just another case of unreasonable and unwarranted demands being lumped onto the little guy. Attacking medical card holders, special needs teachers and middle class families is seen by some as the solution to a mess created by corporate corruption and cronyism. Similarly I’m responsible for correcting the wrongs of short cutting chemical manufacturers and their complicit political buddies since the dawn of the industrial age. It has seemingly come down to whether I can be relied upon to put an empty orange juice carton into the correct receptacle to reverse a trend put in motion and expedited by every unscrupulous industrialist and his elected lapdogs the world over.

Now I’m not too petty to reject the task or to disagree with the science but don’t talk to me in that oh so patronising way as though the whole thing begins and ends with me. All the green bins in the universe won’t make the slightest difference if the boys in China or India can’t meet Kyoto targets. Talk tough with them. I’m doing my bit, I get the message. Consider me enlightened and leave me alone.

It's Gone? So Where Do Shamrock Rovers Play Now Then?

It’s not that long ago in this country when you were mad if you did anything. I remember when I bought a house in Beggars Bush, a five bedroom Georgian townhouse on four levels, in 1984 for two hundred and forty three quid. Everyone said I was mad, "are you off your head, you’ll never get that back". Look at me now. I remember around the same time I bought a bronze bust of Paddy Kavanagh for fifty two pence in Blackberry Market, everyone looked at me like I had just stepped out of a flying saucer. "Are you off your head, you’ll never get that back". Look at me now. I remember a year or so later I paid seven quid for the original copy of the Bible in The Winding Stair bookshop on the quays. "Are you off your head, you’ll never get that back". Look at me now. Just look at me. I met a few friends in town the other night and paid the equivalent of sixty eight quid for three pints and a plate of chips. "Are you off your head" I said to myself "you’ll never get that back".

Name That Buffoon

It has emerged this lunchtime that Daniel Kitchen is set to succeed the controversial Michael Fingleton as Chairman of the embattled lender Irish Life & Permanent. The well known building society have a large market share in the provision of mortgages and loans for home purchases and house construction. Kitchen is an example of the recent trend within corporate Ireland which has seen Boards only appointing people whose name is appropriate to the business in which they are involved. Other well known examples of this phenomenon are Horse Racing Ireland Chief Executive, Dessie Orchid and Newbridge Cutlery Finance Director, Stirling Silver.

Wait Till I Tell Ya

Police in Dundalk are confirming the arrest of Lorraine Keane in the town on Saturday night on suspicion of masterminding an ongoing cross border diesel smuggling operation. Keane, who is best known for hosting celebrity gossip programme Xpose on TV3, was denied bail with the judge characterising her as “a significant flight risk”.

Sunday Independent columnist Barry Egan will issue a statement later this morning after footage which appears to show the journalist taking part in a gruesome bare knuckle boxing match appeared on You Tube.

Rachel Allen has denied reports that she is in the final stage of negotiations with Gastroporn Productions, a company run by Ron Jeremy, to appear alongside Nigella Lawson in a big budget production provisionally titled “I Like Big Buns and I Cannot Lie”

A spokesman for Jackie Healy Rae would not comment on reports in some of today’s tabloid papers which suggest he has agreed personal terms and will in the next twenty four hours be confirmed as the new face of Ralph Lauren.

In the wake of Peter Stringer’s sudden disappearance from the international rugby scene, Paul O’Connell was this morning forced to deny accusations that he had mistakenly blended the former no. 9 into one of his high protein milk shakes and drank him.

Miriam O’Callaghan incurred the wrath of anti blood sports protestors on Saturday when she arrived in Clonmel with her eight children to attend the finals of the Irish Coursing Derby. When questioned by reporters Ms. O’ Callaghan replied "Sure Jaysus we’re all mad into the coursing, it’s a mighty day’s sport like"

Have Beard Will Unravel

At the time the propagandists were obviously going to toe the party line and translate it as "Death to America, Death to Bush" but it has come to light that a more accurate translation of what Saddam was roaring defiantly from the gallows that fateful day would be "I want my Mammy, can someone get me my Mammy please?" A former Baath party official described the revelations as "complete and utter horseshite"

Shame On Our Shaman Eamon

Eamon, Eamon, Eamon. I would like to point out that amongst the audience for televised international football there are the odd few souls who possess some degree of mental competence. This is a fact that you have either forgotten or were never aware of in the first place. Not all football fans think, for example, that entering Dustin the Turkey in the Eurovision Song Contest was a hilarious thing to do.

Let me assure you that there are people out there who have well calibrated Bullshit Radars and that you have been a permanent blip on them for a good number of years now. We had come to terms with you though, accepted you as an unpleasant but unavoidable fact of life because out there somewhere, somehow you had a constituency, a captive audience and we were not so churlish as to seek to deny them their kicks. Our very own Bruce Forsyth.

Only now it has come to a head, the most patient of us can no longer withstand the relentless onslaught of slurry you unleash every time you are given a platform. It’s over Eamon and it’s not me it’s you.

When Giovanni Trapattoni was appointed Ireland manager Eamon hailed it as one the greatest days in Irish sporting history. Now someone such as myself who has a keen interest in sport but would by no means be considered an expert welcomed the appointment of such a successful and high profile manager. My enthusiasm was qualified, however, by the knowledge that Trap’s half dozen or so Italian League titles amongst other successes had come via fairly dour, formulaic football. I was aware of this. I am not an expert.

I would have thought it reasonable to expect a man who has held down a job as the nation’s premier pundit for the last generation to also know this. Apparently I was mistaken. Because the tactics that Trapattoni subsequently employed in his first few games as Ireland manager came like a bolt from the blue to Eamon. He was appalled.

Now a there are a couple of possibilities as to what happened here. (1) Eamon was not adequately familiar with Trap’s track record to know that this is what we were going to get or (2) He was familiar with Trap’s track record but was convinced that once he arrived and got a few pints of stout into him he would chill out and change the habits of fifty five years in football. In either case it is apparent that Dinny from Glenroe is more qualified to be on the RTE panel with Giles and Whelan.

On Wednesday night Ireland produced their best performance in years, a performance that was born out of a precise tactical approach and bold substitutions at the appropriate times. In other words astute management. Such shrewdness was dismissed by Eamon as nothing more than gambling, he poured scorn on the changes made and generally called every aspect of the manager’s competence into question. He seemed particularly irked that Trapattoni could replace an ineffective Kevin Doyle with Noel Hunt having never seen the Waterford man play competitively live. Eamon has never seen Noel Hunt play live either. If Trapattoni is not qualified to know whether Noel Hunt should come into the game on the basis that he has never seen him play in the flesh then surely Eamon is similarly unqualified to claim that he should not.

Maybe it’s me, perhaps to subject his nonsense assertions, errant predictions and all round pitiful insights to any kind of analysis is to miss the point completely. The absence of consistency or logic could actually be what it is all about.

Have I gotten the wrong end of this Dunphy shtick? Could it be that it has nothing to do with football and is more about fusing pantomime and soap opera for bizarre comic effect? That would certainly explain a lot.

In future I will bear this possibility in mind when I tune in. I will try to enjoy the setting, designed to provoke maximum fake outrage and phoney indignation from the man himself. I will try to embrace the concoction of a set up where protagonists are encouraged to showcase their most box office traits and goad other participants into doing likewise. Cast your mind back to incidents where Dunphy tries to tease fireworks from Graeme Souness.

Where you have the construction of a set up designed to deliver a pre determined result; controversy, whilst removing the scope for any genuine insight or intelligence that could skew the desired outcome, you can only call it like you see it: Reality TV.

There is also a beautiful symbiosis at work here. Dunphy gets to keep up his profile by preaching to his choir; people who think Podge and Rodge is comedy and RTE gets three hours of cheaply produced, high rating, high ad revenue programming masquerading as sports coverage. Everybody’s happy.

Do you think John Giles knows he is a Reality TV star?