Thursday 28 June 2012

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.


Sunday 24 June 2012

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".


Saturday 16 June 2012

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.

Thursday 14 June 2012

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.

Thursday 7 June 2012

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."