Man Vs Fly

- Don't let his smile fool you, Henry is a fly-killing machine -

The most devilish, cunning, pestering and persistent of all creatures has finally met its match. Locked away in my tower of study and then in my tower of summer ( the same tower - I say tower, I mean bedroom - though the summer tower has a pile of smouldering ashes where my books once dwelt ), I have come face to face with what has commonly become known as THE FLY. Some say that its true name is so terrifying that to utter a single syllable causes the average sized man to lose an arm.

You must know that THE FLY and I have a history of conflict. I was the victim of a kamikaze attack by an armed fly as a child. Although I posed no serious threat to it or its winged friends, it targeted one of my more vulnerable areas. Clearly my eye had been identified as a weak point and this plucky, some would call brave   fly, proceeded to charge directly in to the corner of my eye. Now I do not know if this fly acted alone and the damaged sustained by my attacker (he didn't make it out alive) far out weighed the slight inconvenience that I suffered, but historians acknowledge this as the catalyst for what would become known as The War of the Flies.

While many smaller insurrections took place in between, on 21 July 2008 the war escalated. Having purchased a swatter, I was again the target. This time of a stealth attack. They struck at night when my defences were down. As I lay in bed, asleep, a small band of insurgent flies unveiled their new weapon and ally - THE WASP. It set up camp on my pillow and succeeded in stinging me right on the top of my unguarded head.

The revelation of the new alliance between THE FLY and THE WASP forced me into forming allegiances of my own. In August of that year a deal was struck with the spiders to from the first line of defence against attack.

The next major attack was the result of sheer opportunism on the part of my enemy. My weakness - an open window and a light left on. At night, they swarmed around the dangling lightbulb and brought in the heavy artillery - moths. The moths' main aim is to prevent me from having warm feet - just like the Nazis hated everyone else - moths hate socks. Here I deployed my newest and most effective weapon. I swatted multiple platoons at a time with a large towel and eradicated the buzzing menace. Alas I did not learn from my mistakes. By the second lightbulb attack, I was way ahead in the arms/wings race. The tiny foes were no match for the nozzle and sucking power of Henry the hoover.

Recently they have reared their ugly heads once more. Intent on causing me to fail my exams, they distracted me from my study, buzzing like stripe-less bees. Their most inhuman act would come at night. Dissident flies whizz past and land on my iPod screen. Their determination unwavering, irritation their goal.

I'll admit I have not been able to entirely quell the uprising. As I write, a lone bluebottle has infiltrated my lampshade, its sole purpose - make as much noise as possible. I think I got it, but they're resilient. It may just be playing dead.

OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!

- The Catholic Church is getting down with the kids -

Great News! Another excuse not to go to mass. Imagine the situation, it is Sunday evening and in my case the interrogator will take the form of my Granny.

Granny: Did you go to mass today?


Me: No. No, I did not.


Granny: (shocked) Why ever not grandson?


Me: (smugly) Oh I wasn't feeling too great so I watched the live webcam stream.


Yes, this is not a joke. We have taken the first step towards virtual priests and downloadable communion. Mass in all its glory is now available for everyone to see on the St. Michael's Parish website, look here's a link http://www.saintmichaels-parish.com/webcam.asp.

As if I needed another excuse not to go,  with all the scandals and whatnot (whatnot is an old, old Irish word for kiddy-fiddling).

Top-Tip: To have a truly watertight excuse, make sure to brush up on the Gospel of the day. And as for the sermon just say "he spoke very well".

Sole destroying

- one half of a half of a pair of shoes -

Simmer down for Summer

This is basically what rearranging my bedroom furniture is like.

Time for a creativity tube refill, exams are now officially over. I have survived this period largely thanks to the first series of Monty Python's Flying circus on DVD and quite a lot of food. Whatever fitness I had pre-study leave. It has now disappeared. In its place I have found a desire to be fit again but barely any motivation.

Nevertheless it is the end of an era, an era more commonly referred to as a school year. To mark the occasion I have tried to encourage a new beginning. By a number of methods.

Firstly, I have allowed myself to read again. For the last three months I was forbidden from reading anything that wasn't exam related, a self-imposed guilt trip. In reality and in hindsight, a different book probably would have been a welcome relief and a better way all round to not study. Thus, the day after my exams, on account of it being Bloomsday today, I began to re-trudge my way through Joyce's Ulysses. There are few feelings more rewarding than the relief, exhaustion and sense of achievement experienced at the end of the near 700 page novel. I have set out a reading list, that basically includes the backlog that stares at me from the shelf in my room. All must be read by September or I, no matter what anyone says, will be a sorry excuse for a living organism.

Number two, to get my mind and body out of exam mode, I binned a large proportion of school work; notes, essays, pointless handouts and ridiculous piles of mark schemes. This is all part of a semi regular process. I am fortunate in that my bedroom has ample space for what we in the industry call 'The Big Shift Around'. My room has approximately four and a half different combinations. Each one is only slightly altered, the main component being the bed. Unfortunately I am limited by a static, immovable wardrobe but then I remember that other people have real problems. The change reflects my change in mind, my change in mood and the change in weather. In preparation for this Irish summer, I have stationed my bed beside the radiator. The desk has taken up a less pivotal role and the emphasis is very much on relaxation. This is a subject very close to my heart. I plan to spend much of my free months in the new environment in a largely unconscious state (asleep, nothing serious). There have been a few logistical issues, as one would expect when embarking on such a task but I hope that any flaws will be ironed out in the coming days.

As Spiderman's uncle once said, with a new room layout comes a new mentality, and I couldn't agree more. However, the danger is that this new lease of life will be short-lived and within a fortnight I will be back to my squalid ways. In order to prevent any relapse I have introduced a strict (not strict) regime. The runners have been dusted off and the weights put in a place so that should anyone be in my room they will get the impression that I have been sweating embryos trying to get in shape. Of course this may be nothing more than a symbolic gesture but the hope is that their presence will be enough to implement point number three: the aforementioned lack of fitness. Here is a battlefield where I have fallen before. Last Summer my routine was disrupted by a three week spell in the Donegal Gaeltacht, this year, I have no such worries.

If my three point plan achieves a new mentality for even one month, it will be lauded as a success by all (me) and there will be much celebration and eating of food.

I would describe myself as an idealist. I hold precious the image of what times like Summer and Christmas will be like that are never fully fulfilled. The same will probably be true for this year's expectations. In my mind, this Summer will be one of drinking and thinking, sleeping, hurling, days where I can wear shorts because it is over 15 degrees outside, some good books and of course, to kick it all off, there's still two weeks left of the Euros, and quite possibly, the Euro.

Identity crisis

- facing stiff competition from Barra Best as Mr. Northern Ireland -

Something struck me today. After watching the Spanish teach the Irish a footballing lesson by way of a four-nil thrashing I took a gander at the post-match reaction on Facebook and Twitter as well as a few news websites. An exchange on Facebook caught my attention and has since left me decidedly confused.

A girl, evidently not a Catholic or a fenian, decided to publicly declare her support for Spain based on the idea that she had always liked them as a team, wanted them to win, and because her team, Northern Ireland, were not playing.

Of course this status did not escape fenian eyes and a spat of to-ing and fro-ing underneath the status satisfied the need for attention. Admittedly, I struggle to understand how anyone living on Ireland in Northern Ireland cannot but feel a tinge of Irishness. Instead the clichéd arguments of the colour of your passport, where does your address say you live and where do yous'uns get your benefits from are banded about. A real identity crisis seems to have taken hold. I am Irish, though my neighbours may call themselves British, Northern Irish, or even European.

But when I think of Northern Ireland there are no national images of pride. Probably from my own point of view, a sense of ingrained accepted resentment. My mind's eye depicts Northern Ireland as a negative entity, maybe even a non-entity. What is it? A place worthy of escape come early July, a place where the colour of my school uniform, my sports gear or my language brand me as one side of the community, a place lacking in identity besides the titanic, Tayto and Frank Mitchell. Can a country truly exist if none of its citizens wish it to be independent. My resentment is unavoidable, just the other day I had to suffer a stroll through continuous masses of triumphalist union flags, some were absurdly huge and, quite honestly, encouraged an atmosphere of intimidation.

Imagine the situation should Scotland choose to go it alone. What will Britishness be then? Is it anything more  than clinging to the English. A little section of my mind wonders if my view is all due to my unsuccessful catholic indoctrination since I was a child but then I remember that as a hurly-playing, Tottenham supporting, vegetarian who once wore an Armagh jersey to a Fermanagh-Armagh Ulster final having lived and grown up in Fermanagh for ten of the eleven years of his life who writes in his own Blog from time to time; I am not that impressionable and I actually considered all the benefits of Unionism for a brief time, as an eight year old.

I appear to have re-opened a significantly weather beaten can of worms. To return to the theme of football that is struggling to hold this post together: then comes the argument that the Republic of Ireland national team are stealing players from the North. Considering the image that Northern Ireland holds in the eyes of most Catholic/Nationalist/Republican/fenians (I know they're not all the same thing) as well as the thoroughly British support at their games including a rousing rendition of God Save the Queen, some would consider it too as a threatening environment, bordering on sectarian. James McClean who made an appearance in tonight's game publicly admitted that he never felt at home in a Northern Ireland jersey to the bemusement of some IFA chiefs.

To me, Northern Ireland means nothing; I can't quite grasp the idea of it as being anything more than an inconvenience. Though that's just me and I will gladly enter into an unclichéd debate with those of the opposite opinion. I suppose my state of confusion is typical of the complex situation. I'm not having an identity crisis but I can't comprehend a sense of nationalism or patriotism when it comes to the six counties.
Phew.
Every time I try to come to a conclusion about anything related to Norn Iron my brain starts to hurt and the result is an article that adds very little to the debate.



For some reason, this photo encapsulates Irishness.

Me one, complainers nil (AET)

The Man on the Street

It seems the easiest way to get publicity if you like to complain about everything is to attack the BBC. This is the most effective method of trolling. Just three thousand complaints over a four day period from an organisation that reaches the entire population of the UK and beyond is enough to grab Top News status on a nationwide scale.

During the BBC'S unabashedly Royalist TV and radio output over the queen's jubilee weekend, full of false/forced patriotism and black and white pictures, there were 3,000 complaints to the BBC with only 300 calls of congratulations (though I'd hate to meet the kind of person who was so overjoyed by what they saw on their telly box that they simply had to phone up and give a jolly good pat on the back to the beeb).  I personally would have complained more about the one-sided nature of the discussion and the panicked expressions on the faces of the presenters when they felt a waft of Republicanism or controversy. Something that was sorely missed and would have made for more interesting viewing. However people's main gripe were trivial details such as how more time was spent discussing the pretty pictures in a studio than was spent actually looking at them. Due of these three thousand complaints, people's lasting impression from the coverage will be a negative one.

Whether it was good or not isn't important and these people have the right to complain about a public service broadcaster, funded by the man on the street. The problem is that a tiny proportion of the population's opinions are being allowed to dictate public opinion, being afforded far too much clout.

The same can be said for what became known as 'Sachsgate'. The incident where Russell Brand left answer phone messages on the phone of Andrew Sachs after he had agreed to do an interview about his brief time on 'The Bill', in which Jonathan Ross blurted out "Russell f**ked your granddaughter!" The main issue with this was the fact that the elderly comedy actor had to listen to it because the messages could not be deleted. I listened to the radio show as it went out, but the unpleasant moments were overshadowed by Russell's subsequent on air apology which took the form of an ad-libbed song, "I'd like to apologise for these terrible attacks, Andrew Sachs." One of the show's funniest moments.

As I remember, the radio show which went out on a Saturday night attracted no great criticism until the complaints of three thousand people (probably the same offenders) were given the national stage on the ITV news and the complaints went up to 40,000. Of course, most of these people hadn't listened to the show, they were complaining about something they saw on the news. Something which could have been taken wholly out of context. The worst factor in this example was the fact the show was pre-recorded and checked before it was aired and sadly, Russell Brand was forced to quit in the ensuing media storm and Jonathan Ross's career has never fully recovered.

There were serious implications because of the blinkered view of the few, wrongly accepted as public opinion and then, with more publicity, it became public opinion. If the show's listeners who did not complain had joined force and complained about Russell's resignation, would the result be the same? Bluntly, there is far too much focus on the negative. Of course, the Big British Castle is not beyond criticism, though as 'the Savage Eye' on RTE2 has pointed out, many living in the North would rather stick with British Rule than lose it.

"there's far too much sex on the television. I mean, I keep falling off."

Accidentally Vegetarian

- The Tomato, controversially not a vegetable -

If for some reason the powers that be actually did dish out money every time someone asked me why I'm a vegetarian I would be approximately seven hundred and eighty three pounds better off. Oftentimes those who pose the question already know the answer, they just enjoy seeing me squirm. This is because there is no outright reason for my vegetarianism. I don't adore animals, in fact I really don't like chickens; they're noisy, incredibly thick and enjoy excreting goo all over my back street. Its not a political protest nor a cry for attention.

I generally apportion most of the blame to my mother, who, faced with a fussy child, decided to give him what he wanted. Thus my childhood diet consisted primarily of potato waffles, fish fingers, cream crackers, bread and butter and potatoes. The subsequent huge carbohydrate intake meant I didn't have the stereotypically skinny look of a veggie.

FISH?!? I hear you cry. Yes. I'm not even a proper vegetarian. Technically, after twelve years of being one, I discovered I was a pescetarian. So right up there with the question about me being a vegetarian is quickly followed by the sentence "You eat fish! Fish is a meat! Do you eat chicken?" As if chicken is some kind of fake meat.

In my culchie environment where the 'big juicy steak' is hailed as God and gravy is king, being a veggie has often led to me being the outcast of the group. '"WHAT! YOU DON'T EAT GRAVY!!!". I don't feel welcome in establishments such as KFC and face relentless ridicule when I have to pluck up my courage and ask for the dreaded 'vegetarian option'.

As I say, I am something of a reluctant vegetarian yet I also see the past seventeen years as something of an achievement. There has been temptation aplenty and I live in fear of the day that I am offered a burger while 'under the influence'.

"I'm a vegetarian not because I love animals, it's because I hate vegetables!"

- Woody Allen

Goodbye cruel world

- my creativity tube -

By the end of these approaching examinations, I will be a zombie. A shell of my former self, speaking in bullet points with my right, essay-writing arm three times the size of my illiterate left arm. I will be speaking and thinking in three different languages, normal day-to-day English, Irish, and exam English.

Exam English utilises words like 'aforementioned', 'ultimately' and 'Indeed' more than should be necessary and I hate myself for it. When writing an essay during the rest of the year, I am slightly more relaxed and the overall result is a more pleasant one for the reader. Come May/June I write like a machine, all humour and creativity has officially left the building, away on a two month holiday.

This is why my blog will suffer. I am surviving on the creativity at the bottom of the tube, desperately squeezing at it to no avail. My output since Easter time has been more sporadic, less interesting, quite boring and silently desperate as exam season looms. Where once ideas were swimming around my head, now lies a formulaic approach to writing with the sole intention of impressing the mysterious examiner.

So expect posts to be few and far between until I restock my creativity tubes and hopefully the sacrifice will be worthwhile. Also, as my better work is behind me, take a gander at my back catalogue including the underrated list of why people like lists.

Just to reiterate, do not judge me or my blog on the next seven(ish) weeks, It's not really me, it's someone pretending to be me and not doing a very good job.

And breathe...

- An artist's impression of some disembodied socks -

I am literally (not literally) snowed under. Work and panic levels have reached an all time high. Come the 16th of May, I will be sitting for a cumulative three and a half hours because those who dish out grades don't believe I've literally worked my socks off (again not literally, I don't think socks abandon the body when the going gets tough) throughout the year.

Teachers are panicking, I'm pretending not to be panicking and everyone is the 'proverbial donkey on the edge.' On top of this, in the busiest two months of my life, I decided to commit to my own blog, well done me. At the risk of getting zero hits in the one day, I am writing this.

Also, I have discovered the secret to appearing like I am on top of things. It's all in the walk. I stride down the corridor a pace quicker than anyone else, a piece of paper in hand(evidence of work as well as giving the impression that I'm so busy I don't have time to put it in my pocket), my head is held high, I make eye contact with everyone but only for a split second, this coupled with the slight nod of the head or the mouthing of an indistinct syllable lets everyone know I mean business.

To them I am urgently dashing off to find a printer, check wikipedia, cross-reference my work, write a four page essay on the importance of long-term factors on the outcome of a general election or the significance of voice in James Joyce's 'Dubliners' when actually I'm off to find the quietest/cleanest toilet. Where I can sit (not a typo) and breathe...



NB. to anyone who believes I mean business, I do, and this post was for purely entertainment purposes.

Procrastination for the nation...

The 4-in-1

The clock strikes eight o'clock and suddenly, after a day of doing nothing, I still do nothing.

Nine o'clock, I become anxious, I decide to do something. I lay out my books, get the lighting just right, arrange my pens in order of colour and make with the 4-in-1 at the right end my red bic medium at the other. I adjust the height of my chair, synchronise my watch, make sure my desk is facing east and fill a glass of water in case I become dehydrated. Then, just as I am about to work I am somehow drawn back to my laptop and the comfy chair in the corner of my room to check how the world has fared in my twenty minute absence. It's always fine.

Then I remember that obscure curio I wanted to put to Wikipedia, one thing leads to another and as I glance at the bottom right-hand corner of my screen I notice that it is now TEN o'clock. Never mind, I had planned to be in bed at eleven, I can work to twelve.

Then it kicks in. I work, I actually work. Really well too, much more efficient than usual. Half an hour in and I'm really proud. I deserve a break, I'll just pop down and refill my glass of water, oh what's that on the TV, the News? I love the News, it's my favourite. I'd better watch it.

With the shuffling of papers and muted conversation the news comes to a close, it is eleven o'clock. There is only an hour remaining of this day. Oh well, I'll crack me open a can of coke for that caffeine boost and go on 'til one o'clock. I like working at night, I tell myself, it's peaceful.

I sit back down, forty-five minutes of work done, God I'm good. But, what's this that has come over me? why are my eyes not obeying me? why do I have an undeniable longing for the soft rectangle in the corner of the room. Such a horrible fate has befallen me, I'm tired. Well, I've worked hard all night, ask anyone. I'll do the rest of the work in the morning or on the bus. I never do.

I write this at 9:49 on a Sunday evening, I have two hours worth of homework to do, and bedtime is getting further away. That reminds me, someone told me that Angela Lansbury's grandfather was Prime Minister of the UK.
WIKIPEDIA.

Stupid like a fox!

It's funny what little nuggets find permanent residence in your mind. One of the classic games of my childhood was The Simpsons: Hit & Run. In that game, one of Homer's oft repeated phrases was 'Stupid like a fox'. He probably said it on some episode or other too, but these word of wisdom have stayed with me.

Indeed, 'like a fox' has become my go-to simile, no matter the adjective. I can often be heard muttering, 'hungry like a fox', 'accurate like a fox' or 'lovely like a fox'.

At no point did I decide to do this. I can't remember if I thought it was funny at the time. And I can't remember when it seeped back into my personal lexicon. But it's there and it ranks among my most used word or phrases, including 'fenian' and, again for an unknown reason, 'je suis allé á la plage', I don't even know if that's spelt correctly. I never really liked French and dropped it in favour of Irish. I am told it translates roughly as 'I went to the beach'.

For reasons unknown to man, these phrases stay at the forefront of my mind. Although perfect for an awkward silence, they pose little real use.

Why couldn't it be an extract from a Shakespearean soliloquy or inspirational words from a great leader that decided to implant themselves in my brain. Admittedly, one Shakespearean line did make the cut and it forms the basis of title of this blog, "Oftentimes to win us to our harm the instruments of darkness tell us truths," a sound piece of advice from Banquo, that I think we could all benefit from.

Too mature for LOLZ!!! ?

If you've ever wished that you didn't take yourself too seriously to type the word LOL but struggle to express yourself appropriately without it, I have found the solution. I can't take all of the credit. In fact, I can take none of the credit, which should duly be apportioned to Mr. Bill Bailey. Here is the suitably ironic, sarcastic, witty acronym that you have been searching for. I hope the reveal, which I am postponing for as long as possible, will not be a disappointment - an anti-climax - a big let down.

- Bill Bailey -

R
O
F
L
Y
S
S
T

That is, 'rolling on the floor laughing yet somehow still typing'.

And the best part is, It's adaptable. It can be 'rolling on the floor laughing yet somehow still texting', 'rolling on the floor laughing yet somehow still talking', 'rolling on the floor laughing yet somehow still tiling' and even 'rolling on the floor laughing yet somehow still tattooing'.

No need to thank me. I am here to serve.

Emergency brontosaurus video

Tá easpa fuinnimh agam inniú (I have a lack of energy today). To avoid not posting at all, I give you Miss Anne Elk. I dare you not to find this funny.

 Go on.

When did 'randomness' become cool or funny?

- a 'random' picture of Richard Wagner, god! I am sooo random  -

A perception of 'randomness' seems to have seeped into our collective comedy consciousness. Putting words together like 'sheep tea pot' or 'jacuzzi nostril' could (by some, not me) be considered funny because they are 'random'. Being considered random is the aim of many a desperate, personality-less young person.

Comedians like Russell Brand were misinterpreted by others as being funny because they were random when actually their success was due to their wit and occasional silly voice, and others tried to get in on the act. Not really the blind leading the blind, more a troupe of talented entertainers being followed by a mob of wannabees (ahem...Russel Kane...ahem).

No where is this more noticeable than on children's TV. It would appear that a randomness indoctrination programme has begun to try and trick the next generation into thinking that the formula for comedy is (colour) + (animal) + (verb) + (kitchen appliance) = (first word other than 'penis' that pops into your head).

Not even our food has escaped the randomness plague. Rowntrees Randoms are not random, they are a collection of animals and objects in admittedly delicious gummy form. I would be impressed if, as I opened my overpriced green bag of fun, I were to find a scale replica of Wembley football stadium, a set of deeds to a house in Scotland, two tiny men fighting over a traffic cone, the entire Philarmonic Orchestra, a map of Lithuania, or a white-water rafting infant. These are random as they are the results of five minutes pressing 'random article' on Wikipedia and brief spell on stumbleupon.


the classic tennis-playing blancmange

As I say this, randomness, if done right can be funny. Its called surrealism. Monty Python wrote the (big red) book on the subject, just ask any intergalactic tennis-playing blancmange who's trying to buy a decent kilt. The tradition is being maintained by the likes of Vic Reeves and Noel Fielding of the Mighty Boosh.

Don't ever mistake randomness for originality or creativity. Being creative is not the same as being able to think of the most outlandish phrase in a split second.
Category B trump donkey.

Bringing Fenian back!

I have realised that this blog, at first, is going to be a blog about having a blog. But that's the nature of the beast. It would also appear that I got a bit carried away as most of my pageviews were by ME. I've sorted that now but it has somewhat burst my bubble.

Anyhoo, most posts are going to be a bit of a mish-mash, a collection of musings and tit-bits.

tit-bits anyone?

How is Abu Hamza going to get through airport security???? (that was my semi-topical obvious un-funny reference of the day) Mr. Rusbridger are you paying attention yet?

On another note, I have decided to reclaim the word 'fenian'. The fenians were a band of warriors in old Ireland that could be called upon in times of war. In the 19th and 20th centuries the fenians was a term for organisations committed to the creation of an Irish Republic, free from British Rule. However, the term is mostly used nowadays as an insult to Catholics, Irish Nationalists, and Irish Republicans.

I am as fenian as they come, tá gaeilge agam( I know 'fenian speak', pronounced 'shpake'), I play hurling( fenian-stickin') and I love potatoes (fenian food). Our fenian-ness is not something to be ashamed of. Irish culture is celebrated all over the world yet has become politicised on our own confused little island. We throw about the word fenian casually and sometimes ironically, but beneath the craic, there is a genuine sense of pride.

Nationalism in the truest sense of the word. This is not the sense of Irish identity that is proud to be anything but British. Neither is it the bland, non-identity that we are told to accept in the North. St. Patrick's day for example, in my local town, there were no shamrocks and very little green so as to be all-inclusive. A beige St. Patrick's Day appeals to no one.

-fenian stickin'-

This is why I am on a mission to bring fenian back. Its an Irish word for Irish people, north and south.

 

I need praise!

Now that I have successfully passed the landmark 15 views there is no time for celebrations or congratulations. Just to indulge my currently fragile ego, I need comments.

do you tweet?

If you read one of my posts, could you comment 'read' or something like that, maybe even 'read and enjoyed'... wishful thinking on my part.

I'm sure I would be desperate enough to repay you in some way, possibly in the afterlife.

Confused little island

Now that I have set the tone for my blog, I am going to display to all those journalistic head-hunters (Mr. Rusbridger I know you're there) that apart from being incredibly witty, I have hard-hitting social and political views that I should share because I take myself and everything else incredibly seriously.

- the confused little island, as seen from space -

In an interview with radio 4’s Today programme, Peter Robinson, the First minister (of Northern Ireland) once described a state of ‘religious apartheid’ in schools in Northern Ireland. He went on to say that, “we bring children up in different schools and then we scratch our heads when there’s division in society.” This division is so glaringly obvious and serves as another example of why Ireland is the most confused little island on the planet.

From the ages of four and five, catholic children go to catholic schools and have catholic friends, protestant children go to protestant schools and have protestant friends, then after seven years of catholic children being in catholic schools and having catholic friends and protestant children being in protestant schools and having protestant friends the catholic children go to catholic secondary schools and meet more catholic friends and the protestant children go to non-catholic secondary schools and meet more protestant friends. Generally speaking.

I was no different, the only time I met someone from ‘the other side’ would be during strange EMU trips or when we saw the other side’s take on the nativity. It was the nativity plays more than the tropical bird related days out that confused me. Not  understanding the significance of the Act of Union or them pesky 800 years as a five year old meant that the explanation boiled down to - they’re a different religion - but in their Christmas play the baby Jesus was still the baby Jesus, he didn’t do anything strange, most of the time he was just a plastic doll.

The result of this early segregation, on my part anyway, was that I didn’t have a full conversation with anyone from the other side in twelve years of living. Children are impressionable and this segregation from an early age can have a lasting impact. Realistically though, parents cannot be expected to stop sending their children to their preferred schools. Unfortunately, a lack of understanding is the result. Catholic children do not understand what it means to be protestant when the only obvious difference is the school or place of worship they attend and protestant children have misconceptions as to what Catholic schools are like. It would be completely possible and is actually relatively common for a young person from either side to have reached the age of 18 without ‘crossing the sectarian divide’.

The ‘peace process’ will seem an undoubted success for the next twenty years at least, only because my generation are being treated like naughty children. ‘Right, that’s it! You go play on that side of the room and you on the other!’ It isn’t a shared society, now our parents have bought us each the exact same toy to stop us fighting.

Top 9 reasons why people like lists!

As a new kid on the blog, I have noticed a popular trend among other blogs. Not being the one to stand out from the crowd, i have decided to do exactly the same thing as everyone else. So, here is my list of reasons why people like lists.

1. People are Stupid. Stupid like a fox. Controversial, I know. People, and yes this is a horrendous generalisation, like tough, complicated things to be condensed into a numbered format, or at to be least bullet-pointed. A paragraph of over ten lines constitutes 'serious reading' and has been known to kill.
2. People are systematic in their approach to absorbing particular information and processing it in their respective crania. Therefore, bullshitty sentences like the previous one will be forgotten completely but this sentence will survive the memory cull for slightly longer because it included the word 'bullshitty'. A list cuts out the bullshit, leaving nice bite-sized absorbable memory chunks.

3. Lists are easier to write.

4. It takes so much less time to read a list, for instance compare point 3 with my previous post (which I now urge you to read). The list format allows It to make a clear point in no time at all.

5. The writer can repeat themselves without anyone noticing, not to mention the general ease at which a list can be written.

6. Lists can include the title 'Top Ten' or similar, people like count downs in all their forms. Whether it be admiring Rachel Riley's R's or pretending to be an astronaut.

7. Non-relevant information can be included and still seem to be important. Did you know that the Irish word for list is 'liosta', pronounced 'lista'.

8. A non-article can be really really really really really effectively drawn out.

9. People like things in sets of tens.

allons'y agus léan ar aghaidh

This counts as my first step into the media(ish), where there is more to be seen than can ever be seen, more to do than can ever be done, it's the circle of life!! oh, apologies. More, the circle of lies! BOOM! I don't pull any punches (i'm not really sure what that actually means, is it the opposite  to 'throwing' a punch) Anyway, though I doubt anybody is reading this (if you are, hello), I'm Joe, a male person, from Ireland - County Fermanagh, Inishmore, Lough Erne, between the green bridge and the boring one, opposite a barn, behind a wall, above the ground, below the sky, and beside a chicken, to be exact - and I have decided to inflict my opinions on the world if you'll be kind enough to have me.

- a nice garden in Dublin for your enjoyment (don't actually go there, I don't Know who owns it, just look at the nice picture) - 

I want to write, in any medium and hopefully in many (ink, blood etc.), reading's not too bad either but I become jealous very quickly. Usually internally spewing out the words "why didn't I think of that?" or on the rarest of occasions "I did think of that!" When that happens, I am blessed with both pride and an emerald envy that wrenches my competitive nature. Somehow I am both completely competitive and utterly lazy. A combination destined for disaster.

I prefer to see my laziness as an appreciation for relaxation. This, coupled with an unrivalled aptitude for procrastination, is me. I am the best at putting things on the long finger (and my digits are appropriately stretched). But enough about me, what about you? Look at me engaging with my audience. Look at me and my early venture into self-parody. If this doesn't convince Alan Rusbridger to give me a job, nothing will.

This blog is basically going to be my mind spew but in a Times New Roman font, on the internet, and with my actual name and accurate directions to my house included. It can only end well. (slán)