Posted by Jason O on Mar 7, 2012 in
Irish Politics,
Not quite serious.
Watching Inspector Barnaby let his witnesses get murdered becomes far more interesting.
Sometimes it’s a single issue, or at least, that’s what she tells herself. More often than not it’s a gradual build-up of disappointment and tiredness that triggers it. She decides not to go to the next cumann meeting, and stays in and gets a pizza and watches Midsomer Murders instead. And guess what: She doesn’t miss the cumann meeting. She doesn’t go to the next one either, or the one after. When she gets a phonecall to help with a leaflet drop she’s busy.
Then she stops zooming in on headlines with the party’s name in it. Soon it happens: An opinion poll comes out, and she doesn’t care how the party is doing. She surprises even herself with her lack of interest.
Sitting out the election feels weird, as she’ll have received phone calls from party officers who have finally noticed that she’s not turning up, and she’ll feel embarrassed, and will almost promise to turn up at the next meeting, but resists, and says “she’ll see what she can do”. They both know that means she’s gone. The party official will wonder why the sane people always leave whilst the mouth-breathers and the one-issue obsessives “how will the banking crisis affect the ramps on the bottom of Lea Road, which is a major issue in the area?” never do.
She misses the energy of the election, but not hugely, seeing it for the first time the way non-political people see it, as important, but not the most important thing in her life. On the door, she is polite to the canvassers, having been that soldier, and resists the urge to demonstrate that she actually knows more about their policies than they do.
She still watches the election count all day on the telly, and enjoys it, but other things fill her life. Family, work, and whilst she still maintains an interest in politics it tends to be at a higher level, with more interest in other countries or history. She finds herself shutting out day-to-day politics, developing an interest in running or cycling or painting or learning the piano. And here’s the scary thing: She doesn’t regret her time spent in politics, because she met some great people. But as she finishes her first painting, or finishes her first novel, or passes her first piano exam, she can’t help thinking that she could’ve put her time to much more rewarding use.
Posted by Jason O on Mar 6, 2012 in
Irish Politics,
Not quite serious. 
Ask the Irish to believe in an omnipotent being watching over them, and you’ll have no problem. Ask them to believe that a fella sitting in Rome has a direct line to God and they’ll say sure, that’s grand. But ask them to believe that their TDs actually work hard, and they’ll demand physical proof. There is a fallacy about Irish politicians, normally held by people who don’t know them, and it is that they are lazy. The actual truth, on the other hand, is that they are quite possibly the most hard working politicians in the western world. What’s more striking, however, is how completely pointless most of the work is.
Every now and then, a lazy tabloid journalist, when he’s fnished trying to get a young “intern” drunk so that he can grope her, and has used up that month’s quota of sex predator stories, will reach for the stock item: The photo of an empty Dail, and then vent his sexual frustrations by pontificating on how lazy Irish elected officials are.
Yet anyone who has known a TD of any party will recognise a different picture: Answering phone calls at two in the morning from parents whose hoodlum kids have been arrested for drug dealing, and are demanding “what are you going to do about it?”, or the woman who comes to your clinic demanding you get her children a Playstation 3 (Actually happened), or the absolutely mad race around the constituency in the evening, trying to get to as many residents association meetings as possible where, after practically giving yourself a hernia to get there, some smart alec at the meeting declares that you are never seen “in the area”. Or the distribution of thousands of leaflets telling people stuff they could happily find out for themselves on the web, just so that you can put your mug on the front in a desperate plea to prove that you actually physically exist.
Here’s the sad part: Actually do your job, scrutinise legislation to make it better, hold the government to account, and you will almost certainly lose your seat. The late Jim Mitchell chaired the DIRT inquiry which recovered hundreds of millions for the taxpayer. He then got turfed out by his voters for spending too much time in the Dail.
As a woman once shouted at Mary Harney at a public meeting in Tallaght, when Harney announced that she had to get to Leinster House for a vote: “Here! We didn’t elect you to be off votin’ in Dail Eireann!”
Posted by Jason O on Mar 3, 2012 in
Fiction,
Not quite serious.,
US Politics
The President's Hotline to Heaven.
The first time had been during a decade of the Rosary, as he had knelt in front of the desk, on the giant seal of the United States. It was a regular item on his daily agenda, the small card his personal aide presented him each morning with the day’s itinerary, slivers of time on his schedule to allow him to pray and find the strength from the Lord to continue his work. This was the first time God had ever spoken back.
President Santorum had jerked up when he had heard it, angry that someone had walked into the Oval Office during this private moment of prayer. He’d been very clear from day one that he was not to be disturbed unless it was absolutely vital.
But there had been no one there, and he had dismissed it as a rogue sound fragment, very unusual in the soundproofed office, but not impossible. Two days later, as he prayed, it had happened again. This time, he had heard it clearly.
“You are the one.”
Posted by Jason O on Feb 29, 2012 in
Not quite serious.
We all pretend to be horrified, but have a good goo anyway.
They’re a treat, aren’t they? They tend to come in two varieties. First, there’s the “F**k you and your whore!” couple, normally fuelled with plenty of drink, where she doesn’t care who knows it, roaring at him about his infidelities and, occasionally, sexual inadequacies. All around the pub, conversations pause not in embarrassment but in an attempt to earwig on this juicy slice of life. He doesn’t put up much of a defence, normally deciding to build a defensive position around a single statement (“But I rang you! I rang you!”) which he believes absolves him of responsibility, or alternatively, he goes on the attack with a minor point that he attempts to magnify (“I saw the way you were lookin’ at him! I saw yez!”). It normally ends with him storming out because “his head is melted” and her realisation that the whole pub has been watching Eastenders: The Live Show. She then attempts to restore a few grammes of dignity by improved posture, walking back to the bar holding her alcopop like she’s a debutante at the Savoy. Kate Midleteon in leopardskin.
Then there’s the middle class couple, who manage the marvellous two-hander of being vicious to each other whilst on no account causing a scene. You’ll see them in professional workplaces, hospitals or law firms, standing in a corner. He’ll be looking coldly at her, wishing death, she’ll be hissing through gritted teeth. A colleague will pass, and both smile and nod, perhaps a playful remark, and then back to it. He’ll have an affair with one of the office juniors, her with his best friend.
They’ll stay together, however, for the good of the mortgage, or at least until David McWilliams says that property prices are rebounding.
Posted by Jason O on Feb 15, 2012 in
Not quite serious.
The ballcock must yield, through me, to the will of the French People!
President of the French Republic Nicolas Sarkozy has stunned the French political establishment by stepping out from his hectic schedule of media appearences and making grand vague speeches full of intangible undeliverable promises to fix a broken toilet in a school he was visiting in Nantes yesterday.
The talented son of a Hungarian immigrant who had a meteoric rise to the Elysee Palace had just finished delivering a speech promising that France would have a man on Mars by Christmas when the headmistress of the school casually made a remark about her toilet being broken.
” This will not do! Let us examine the situation!” The president declared, where he then proceeded to lead a delgation into the bathroom, and removed the cover of the cistern. After a quick examination, he removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and proceeded to readjust the ballcock which had become loose. A quick test flush revealed that the toilet was now fixed, and after a round of applause during which the president washed his hands, he departed, announcing his hope to bring peace to the Middle East before dinner.
Posted by Jason O on Feb 14, 2012 in
Not quite serious.
- She can buy her own Manolos, thank you very much.
And in honour of the day that is in it:
It’s the sympathethic grimace and the tilt of the head to one side she can’t stand. The look from her (married) friends and older relatives, in response to her “No” to their “So, is there anyone special at the moment?”. That pained “Don’t worry, it’ll happen” look in their eyes. Followed by the “You’re sure you’re not being too fussy? After all, you’re not getting any younger” look.
What they can’t, indeed refuse to understand, is that she could possibly be happy on her own. At her age! Sure, she’s got her own place, a good job, and a career, and goes on holidays to places that they just can’t get to what with the kids and everything, but still, she can’t possibly be happy!
What they can’t understand is that she has actually crossed over the tipping point, from being one of those women who thought that maybe a man could give her what she wanted to being a woman who balks at the sacrifices she’d now have to make. She’d have to change, and maybe not go to the hotel she wants to go to in Manhattan and maybe not see what she wants to see, and for what? Well, there’s the obvious, but she can get that anyway.
But she also gets the Saturday morning in bed reading and sauntering around the house in her Bananarama tee-shirt and doing her thing. If only someone would invent an escort service that does interior decorating, DIY and a bit of plumbing on the side. Put up them shelves, a bit of a giggle in the afternoon, and you can go now, “Nurse Jackie” is starting. Is that so much to ask?
Posted by Jason O on Feb 13, 2012 in
Not quite serious.
Over the breakfast bar, love?
He kind of fell into the job. He’d been with some mates in the Hampton Hotel on Grab-A-Granny night, caught the eye of an aul wan showing more skin than Katie Price, more orange than Peter Robinson, and with her 2012 5 series outside, courtesy of her ex-husband, he’s back to the townhouse off Morehampton Road for a scoop-fuelled knee trembler. He wakes up in the morning, shudders at her ReadyBrek glow on the sheets, and is then shoved out the front door by her as she settles down for “Midday” on the telly and two Neurofen, but not before she pats two €50s into his shirt pocket “for a taxi”.
He’d been out of work for a while, and suddenly, there it was. The hotels and nightclubs with a more “mature” clientele were identified, a new suit and a bottle of Paco Rabane was purchased, and he was away. Sure, some of the old dears, God bless them, had thought that their wily charms had done the trick, but a quick request “to borrow a hundred quid” had clarified the matter. He even left a card with them, just in case. 12 months later, he had a list of regulars and was pulling in about €800 a week, notes in the hand, never you mind Mr. Revenue Man.
Of course, there were overheads. He’s in the gym everyday, and is visiting six different doctors to get the magic blue pill, which even he needs after a busy schedule. He could swear after one mad day he’d seen smoke emit from his member. Some of his clients liked a bit of spice, a visit from the scruffy plumber with his tool belt and “don’t forget to bring some pipe!”
Then there’s the husbands, whether they’re arriving home from Aintree early or sitting in a wardrobe in nothing but rubber gloves watching (that’s an extra €25). He’s never had a problem, at least, not yet. One husband, who opened a broom cupboard to find him bollock naked save for a cowboy hat, looked him up and down, said “rather you than me, mate”, and fecked off for a round of golf and one freshly minted “Get Out of Jail Free” card.
Are there side effects? Funnily enough, he hasn’t suffered any STIs, as the aul wans tend to be careful. Having said that, he has the fight the feeling, when he’s with his own girlfriend, that he’s giving away free stock.
He touts himself as a straight talker, man of the people and enemy of the establishment. Except when he’s working for RTE or the biggest media groups in the country. On the radio, he’s scathing of public figures until they appear on the show, where the sound of him performing fellatio upon them can be quite stomach churning. And don’t let him talk to anyone vaguely famous from across the water: He’ll pull that “You and I have been long enough in this game…” lark in a nauseous attempt to put himself on an equal standing with people who have no idea who he is.
In short, his slogan should be quite simply: I say the establishment disgusts me, but I have my price. Which is probably a good thing, given the amount of Columbian marching powder he vacuums up on a weekly basis. His anti-establishment credentials are best summed up by the theme of an ad that once appeared in a newspaper for a phone sex line: “I’m not gay, but I think the guy sucking my cock might be.”
Posted by Jason O on Jan 30, 2012 in
Not quite serious.
The key to illicit excitement.
It wasn’t like they had planned it. He was single, out of a messy relationship. She was married with two young kids and a husband who was not by any accounts a bad guy. It just happened. They met at a work related social event, and their eyes, yeah, that corny moment actually happened. When two people look at each other without a word, without even having met each other, and they knew that they wanted each other.
Her boss had introduced them, and they had been careful not to show too much interest in each other, but both knew. When the event had broken up, both had slipped away to another bar in the hotel, and talked, both pretending to be more drunk than they actually were to allow for the excuse of the first kiss.
Her hand had shook in giddy excitement as she had phoned her husband to say that she’d be late, trying to find a little glimmer of anger over his casual acceptance that his wife was giving such a feeble excuse for being late, but she knew the answer. He trusted her, the bastard. In the room, it was like being a teenager again, hungrily wanting and being wanted. When she got home, her husband was snoring his head off and the kids were tucked in.
She had resolved that it had been a one off, a moment of weakness, but it wouldn’t go away. They had met again, her determined to end this before it escalated. He understood, and respected her decision, which made it all the harder, and the reason they ended up in another room again.
How will it end? Will it peter out, the danger finally outweighing the pleasure and the excitement? Possibly, but please, a tiny voice says in the back of her head, don’t let anyone fall in love.
Posted by Jason O on Jan 28, 2012 in
Irish Politics,
Not quite serious.
- Might as well have been left empty.
He surprised everybody, including himself, by getting elected first time out. His supporters were ecstatic, and his quirky personality and bolshy beliefs convinced them that they had elected someone who could, if not make a difference, (Who can, in our do-nothing parliament?) at least stand up and say a few things that needed to be said.
Once inside, however, he changed. The money, more than he had ever made before, overwhelmed him, as did the lifestyle. When asked to speak on issues that he had always been sound on before, he started saying things like “It’s complicated”. What was worse was that whilst that was true, he’d actually lost his bottle. He was now a “member of the parliamentary party” and had to “look at the big picture”. The last straw was when he actually voted against an opposition bill in favour of something he’d always supported, saying vaguely that the government would be introducing its own legislation “at some point in the future”. He doesn’t know when. When a member of the same parliamentary party rebels on the same issue, votes in favour of the opposition bill, and gets away with it, and gets plaudits in the media for not being afraid to stand up, it makes Him look like a tool.
As the general election approaches, he’s in full panic mode, trying to scrape his supporters together (whom he has hardly seen since the last election) and talking about the old stuff, but they’re all so busy and the kids are sick and “you know.” He feels bitter and betrayed and let down. Funnily enough, so do they.
He doesn’t get within an ass’s roar of a quota.
Bizarrely, he gets a Taoiseach’s nomination to the Seanad, where he spends his days watching the clock run out whilst he tries to squeeze every penny from expenses that he can, knowing full well that the game’s up and he’ll never darken this place’s door again.
