Blue Monday.

Ever feel like selling everything you own, packing a single suitcase and flying out of the country- hopefully to a warm climate where you can rent a cheap ass place near water?

Yes? No?

Catholic Church refuses to let me leave.

I tried to get out, but they kept pulling me back in…

The Holy See confirmed at the end of August that it was introducing changes to Canon Law and as a result it will no longer be possible to formally defect from the Catholic Church. This will not alter the fact that many people can defect from the Church, and continue to do so, albeit not through a formal process. This is a change that will affect the Church throughout the world. The Archdiocese of Dublin plans to maintain a register to note the expressed desire of those who wish to defect. Details will be communicated to those involved in the process when they are finalised. Last year 229 people formally defected from the Church through the Archdiocese of Dublin. 312 have done so, so far this year.

 

 

The sneaky fuckers!

I hope ‘entitled’ politicians really get a ginger day kick in the hole.

( Jim Higgins–>)

 

 

When that muppet from FAS blustered about how ‘entitled’ he was to travel with his wife to far-flung locations the death march sounded over his head. Ceann Comhairle John O’Donoghue felt he was ‘entitled’ to use jets and limos to ferry his fat arse about the place as he lived the high life. Bertie was ‘entitled’ to a ‘dig out’ from his pals, no brown envelope to stuffed, no questions asked.  The other week Cowen, leader of the country, caused uproar and made a show of us all when he gave an interview ‘congested to the hilt’ after a night when he was ‘entitled’ to let his hair down. And now this morning,  we have Fine Gael’s Jim Higgins  bleating on about  being ‘entitled’ to stay in a 5 star hotel while he takes a 3 day ‘study-break’ in Madeira.

“That’s all shite … that’s all shite if you don’t mind me saying so. That’s typical media bluster, you know. I don’t share that at all,” he told the Irish Independent.

And he claimed the three-day stay in a five-star hotel on the island represented value for money because of the “important work” taking place. “I haven’t a clue what star it is. All I know is that it’s a very good hotel, the accommodation is wonderful, the food is lovely. For people who work so hard, we’re entitled to that. You don’t expect us to stay in B&Bs, do you?”

We get the leaders we deserve, we really do. It’s maddening isn’t it? ‘Entitled’ it keeps popping up like a floater whenever a politician is caught living it up on our dwindling funds. What POSSIBLE need is there for a shower of MEPs to go to Madeira on a study break? What the hell are they studying? How to apply brass to their necks?

As more and more of us are feeling the very real economic squeeze, reading this kind of shite, is almost intolerable. I think Twenty Major may be correct. The time might be at hand to quit this bitch, because as galling as it is paying for the mistakes of a bunch of really rich yet bankrupt property developers, being pissed on from on high by a set of ‘entitled’ wankers while we do so is too fucking much.
Ginger Day is brought to you today from a pre-dentist Fatcat. 11:30 is the moment of my discontent.

The very definition of self absorbed.

Take a bow Bret Easton Ellis, you are the winner of the ‘butwhataboutme’ award for 2010. Upon watching the Chilean miners being rescued from the hell of their living graves deep underground, the selfless author tweeted ‘

“Italy. Hotel in Turin. Watching the Chilean miners being saved and just realized: I’ve been on this tour longer than they’ve been trapped…”

Yeah buddy, must be torture.

‘Is Ireland Ready for a Gay President?’

Newstalk asks. Ivan Yates just said people might not vote for Senator David Norris because he talks too ‘posh’ and in a ‘West Brit’ accent. Oh Christ, and Joyce is just ‘for intellectual snobs’ thus spake Yates. Muppet.

Listening to Norris can be tiresome actually. He’s a wee bit too hyperactive for me. But if the option for President is that other fucking shyster Bertie Ahern then ‘ra ra he’s a gent Norris can be president’.

 

Cars! ( If money was no object)

( I so would)

As I am currently poorer than a really farking poor church mouse, my thoughts naturally turn to luxury cars. (Thinking about luxury is the default position I find myself in whenever I haven’t two shillings to scrape together so save it dawg.)

Having spent some time recently in a rather nice BMW, hurtling along vast stretches of open road in relative comfort, cars are to the forefront of my tired and weary mind.  Well fancy cars and money.  Since I have neither, I can play the ‘what if money was no object’ game guilt free and working from my pied a terre  in la la land, where I frequently reside in times of stress.

Avast!

If money was no object I would want one of the three following vehicles parked in my drive.

1- Mustang! muscle car par excellence. I loff them. I loff the lines, the sound, the all round rarghness of them. One passed me on the road the other week and I found myself splayed against the window like an irish Marcel Marceau, staring at it in awe.  I would love to import one and spend Sundays cruising about the place in it, going ‘tee-hee’ at every growl. I wonder could I get a right hand drive? I would want it in black too, with black trim with photon torpedos built-in.

2- Audi R8 Spyder. Saw one of these in Dundrum the other week. It was just sitting there in the car park looking all vorsprung durch technik. The paramour had to haul me away as I drooled and dribbled needy spit bubbles of desire all over it. It was beautiful! I would have this in racing green.

3- Jaguar XF Coupe. _ Classy, powerful, sleek, understated gorgeous.  I want I want I want, in silver.

I mean just look at them! They’re so utterly wantable.  And I do so want! Oh feckless poorness, why must you bestride me so!?

If money was nary an object, what might you like to drive about in?

A final curtain call for the glorious Joan Sutherland.

Oh the sadness. Dame Joan Sutherland passed away on Sunday night at the age of 83 in her home in Switzerland.  Classy lady, and the owner of one utterly amazing voice. I have spent many a pleasant afternoon listening to this remarkable woman sing.

The tooth and nothing but the tooth.

I have broken a tooth, a tooth that had a cavity in it no less. I am now forced to face up to one of my biggest horrors and call a dentist.

Problem is,

1, I hate dentists.

2, I hate dentists.

3, I really hate dentists.

4, I loathe dentists and needles.

I must see is that man Canavan still knocking people out.

God this is the worst possible start to a Monday.

True Grit

Well slap my thigh and call my lady patch Ann-Margaret. The Coen brothers have only gone and remade True Grit, the classic John Wayne and Glen Campbell movie, for which role by the by won Wayne an oscar. I don’t know how I feel about this. I truly don’t. This was one of Gramps’ favourite films. But the Coens… well they won’t mess it up now will they?

Children in Restuarants, on Ginger day? Why how very dare they.

I was fluttering about the place this morning, drinking coffee, making lists of shit I have to do, answering emails I ought to have answered yesterday, sticking tablets into the reluctant maws of pets when the irritating smughole tones  of Ivan Yates penetrated my inner brain.

‘Flaps’ I said, for once your hear him you cannot unhear him. He’s a wee bit like catching a virus.

Anyhoo, he was waxing lyrical over the airwaves about his deep horror to discover that children are people and go places. Oh no, that wasn’t it. It was that…lemmie see, that parents don’t hate their children…No that wasn’t it, that children eat?

Something about food and children and the eating habits of humans. It appears that Ivan Zanzibar the 1st, supreme smug ruler of the world and Ireland, feels that children ought to be left with ‘childminders’* when their parents deign to eat out in places other that their hidey-holes below the stairs. His great pendulous lips were all aquiver at the gall of these proletarian peons bringing mini people* being out in public places where real people* like him might have to suffer their presence. Like a cue ball John Waters faced with a barrage of bloggers, he would like to insist they leave his aura-zone immediately.

I am alarmed to find that I agree with the Lilac Couch*, I like children but couldn’t eat a whole one. True, they can be testing, and loud, and irritating in the extreme, but FFS, they are people. They are also not like unruly border collies. And like collies they’re better off with shit to do and some training behind them.  If we expect the little pups to behave we’ve got to introduce them to circumstances and situations where they learn to adapt to the social quagmire of rules and regulations. Eating out is one of those things Irish folk do these days. And while Ivanovich the Supreme might wish he still had his smiting stick, the tough chewy shit of it all is that he doesn’t.

Of course with great eating power come responsible parenting. Collies, I mean children, do better when they’re not worn out and tired and grouchy. Lunch and breakfast > late night dinner. Child friendly places that provide colouring and toys > stuffy whispery places where amuse bouche is not amused at all by tearabouts who are under two feet high. If your child is sick, has an ear infection and a hale and hearty set of pipes, it might be best to bribe granny for a while.

But- and this is what Ivan Zanzibar needs also to get into his shiny whiny dome- children are small people. they exist, they can be noisy, they can be short-tempered, they can be bald, why good golly miss mini-me, they’re just like him, but pint-sized. Children learn how to behave by from being involved in social settings. They can develop manners, they can have graces, they can be perfectly tolerable, assuming their parents are not total numpites. They can be and are part of the social fabric. We ought to stop tensing and pressing imaginary release the hound buttons just because one rocks up next to you in a cafe.  They have no say where they go anyway, shit they have bugger all say in anything. So maybe a little more tolerance and little less weary laird of the land, sea and wind might not go astray.

Children, I am oft against them, but softening as I age. Happy ginger day to you all.

* servants no doubt.

*Victorian recoil in full effect. Non gamblers.

* Y’know, * Important*

*Her one and only joke.

Take it away Ginger love stud muffin. ‘Yo, bring your toppers out, man, peace, pointy pointy peace X0X0″