Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

Recent happenings surrounding the Gardai and the Rossport protests no doubt have piqued the interests of many sections of society. Scrutiny of the lack of government leadership or intervention, the abandonment of natural reserves to private interests all deserve further commentary and government action. Not to mention the use of the Gardai as instruments of the state with seemingly no consultation, comment or discussion with the citizens of the state as to how they would like this power exercised.

The latest black mark on the boys in blue has come through an unintended recording of conversation between a number of 'boys in blue' in a squad car discussing the methods for extraction of information from detainees. While the press has danced around trying to describe the use of rape as an 'interview technique', it has been spun as innuendo, jovial comments or just a bit of craic, I'm afraid it belies a much deeper problem.

While the individualist explanation may point to a few bad apples, a Stanford Prison explanation which pins the actions of a group on the exemplars. I prefer to look at this as an example of a group who has become so detached from the reality of their role they no longer consider themselves in terms of their commonality with others. In Rossport the gardai now see themselves as separate from the community and protesters are a threat that must be dealt with through the use of force. It the only upshot of this polarization of groups is a jokes about using rape as a weapon against them then I for one would be amazed, as previous examples of this manner or inter-group conflict does not lead to happy endings without serious intervention. This kind of rhetoric is not part of the banter surrounding arresting women in most circumstances, but these women are not like other women, they are not sisters or daughters or girlfriends, they are not the girls who might be picked out of gutters on Saturday night and taxied home for their own good.These are protesters and that group are not to be tolerated. Let me be clear that this is not 'normal' Garda behaviour, this is specific to the situation these gardai are involved in, and as such must be dealt with there. This talk of rape is not specific to all gardai, it is the product of hostilities and division that has been allowed to fester in this little community, in the Taoiseach’s back yard. The gardai are no longer a part of that community but a force, which on this evidence seems to be separate from and opposed to those who they police with. With those divisions of power come struggles for control and what could be more controlling than using rape as a weapon, joking or not, it belies a deeper need for power.

While there is considerable footage of aggression and force being exercised on both sides of the ongoing Rossport protests the reparation of these two communities must begin in earnest. There must be immediate action not to punish a few bad apples but to encourage a different identity for the gardai in Rosport. I grew up naively believing that the gardai were there to protect people, but the purpose of the Gardai is to exercise the will of the state, the state is involved in this debacle and it is up to the state to renegotiate what it means to be a Garda in the face of opposition from the populus. Are they simply a private security force for multinationals beholden only onto themselves or are we going to tackle these divisions before they become endemic. Let this piece not lessen the valuable and selfless work done by many members of the Gardai in Ireland everyday. We cannot allow the positive aspects of the identity associated with being a Gardai to be eroded by unguided actions of a few and norms allowed to merge in the face of situations that gardai have not traditionally dealt with must be tackled.

Return your seats to their upright position and stand by for cabin depressurisation

After a late night meeting with a tea and chocolate support group on Sunday one more woman said she would run with me. I will admit that I was afraid to go forward as a candidate alone, I’m not the worlds biggest extrovert, more an introvert who can when the situation demands turn on some sort of inner Amazon button. Having others to run with me lessened the pressure on me, it made it harder to track and target me. Or so I felt the weekend I decided to run for the General Election 2011.

I had collected 50 signatures Sunday evening, ignorant to the fact that I needed special forms on which to collect them, it was, after all my first time and I had no inside knowledge as to what the mechanism for putting oneself forward for election was. I took Monday off work, drove to the courthouse and picked up the 30 correct assenters forms necessary at the registrars office. I asked if I could pick up a number of other forms for the other ladies, (we were still hoping for 10 more) the lady in the office said she’d have to photocopy them as she did not have enough, ‘call back at 4, I’ll have them ready for you’

The office filled with men in suits, no smiles from these ‘boys’, clothes that cost more than my car, and me without even a hairbrush pulled through my barnet. Then suddenly I was faced with one of the ‘poster faces’ a candidate from the main party. He looked at the forms in my now shaking hands, suddenly this had moved from a plan into the real world, it was concrete, there was a flash of realization in his eye.

‘Are you collecting them for somebody?’

‘No, Im putting myself forward’ I replied rising my feet to meet his handshake.

‘Very good, I look forward to having a woman at the debates’ Knees knocking now, I laughed and said ‘Shur’ Ill add a bit of glamour to the occasion’. Not a Duchene smile to be had from the ‘boys’ but a series of polite but intolerant looks.

The room started to empty almost as soon as it had filled, the men were ushered to the registrars office to hand in their nomination papers, the second party candidiate was the last to leave the room, he shook my hand. I mumbled something about having a few women going forward the next time and suddenly they were gone. My legs were still shaking when the office worker returned to inform me I had to go to the Council offices to collect a copy of the draft register.

The council employee who I was sent to was quick to inform me I was ‘Too late, closing dates finished’ I replied that I had just come from the registrars office. ‘Oh, yes, sure, we keep it down here, come on I’ll get you a copy’

Leaving with a box full of documents the arduous task of collecting people, bringing them to the police stations in ones and twos and getting their details right began. I was taken aback by the proliferation of names of townships and boroughs which many assentors had never used to address themselves or knew about. The option of having a solicitor sign the papers instead of the gardai was explored. I rang 3 solicitors who could have notarized the documents. None of them required me to bring the people in person to their office. One offered to do it for as little as ten euro a form. That’s 300 euros, without actually witnessing one signature. I’m sure that these are mere trifling things when you’re in ‘the party’ but as a fresh horse I was learning fast that there are rules, then there are RULES. As I wanted to run in as honest and transparent a way as possible I would not be spending money I didn’t have, so the rounds of friends and family looking for 30 registered voters began, with it the constant trips to and from the garda station.

I returned to the courthouse at 2 to collect the papers for my running mates, the woman who dealt with me earlier was different. ‘I’m sorry but I cannot give you the papers, they have to come in and collect them themselves, I was told this’. Her body language and demeanor told me it was not her decision. It was strange that a task that was ‘no trouble’ less than 4 hours ago had suddenly become trouble. The machinery works fast, rumors abounded that I was not alone, that there were possibly 12 women going forward. It had been 56 hours since my decision, and despite the fear, the lack of sleep, the realization that this was getting very real, I relished every wall or problem that appeared, these were things I could deal with, they made me stronger.

FETAC madness

Having sat through Primetime investigates the care of older people withing Ireland by private service providers I needed to get a few things off my chest.

I have lectured for over 5 years delivering FETAC approved modules for various service providers within Ireland. Nothing makes me cringe more so than the insinuation that anyone is qualified for anything after a level 5 course.

Last week I was handed a Level 5 portfolio to second mark, there was no evidence of any learning, understanding or analysis in the piece. I confirmed that the first marker was correct in not passing the student. I was then informed that the student had contested the grade, staying that she had 11 FETAC awards all of which were at ‘distinction’ level over the last 3 years. All of these were earned through CE schemes. It brought home to me once again the truth that FETAC marking, course teaching, lecturing and provision differ wildly between ‘colleges

FETAC modules also have wildly differing timescales to implement them, a course which runs part time over 6 or 8 months in one institution will be miraciously completed in 4 Saturday sessions in another service provider. With sketchy and often vague learning outcomes interpreted by service providers in the interest of balance sheets and budget this is an ongoing problem with FETAC awards. I once put together a tutor and student pack for a mental health module, I warned the service provider that only a suitably qualified person should deliver the course, less than 12 months later they offered the course to a woman who had no third level qualifications whatsoever.

I started out developing modules for working with clients with learning difficulties and special needs. The ethical considerations of this vulnerable group were not addressed sufficiently by FETAC, I pointed that ‘using’ vulnerable adults and children as work experience for a week or two was unethical, outside of garda vetting, people deserve the right to privacy, this was ignored by the course providers. Neither FETAC nor the service provider wanted to change, it was ‘in the interest of THEIR students that work experience remained so unable to stand over what I was doing I left.

I now work with an organisation who actually has ethics enshrined in their daily business, who cares about students but not to the point of passing those who make no effort. They are the exception rather than the rule in the business.

Tiger chicken

I love chickens, they are just about the coolest thing to watch so having one in my living room would be better than watching them in the back garden arguing over slices of bread. After reinforcing some of the chicken play zone with chicken wire I wanted to see what else I could do with this fantastic material. Its so malleable and fun to mess with, gives great shape and easily kept the kids entertained for a day making shapes

To start with I made an approximation of a chickens shape. Getting it to balance out was tricky but I weighted the feet with more wire and hoped for the best.

A pair of wire cutters or kitchen scissors that you no longer love will cut through the chicken wire easily, be prepared for scrapes and nicks off it.

I made my paper maiche with just flour and water, I added some salt to prevent it from becoming a home for bugs and use a good breadsheet newspaper for paper, Ive found that the aper tends to be a little heavier in big newspapers so that it survives being dipped more. (Use the tabloids to cover the working area!)

Start layering from the top down, being careful to cover all the wire. Allow to dry somewhere airy for at least 3 days, it can take longer depending on how thick it is in places. When that's done back you go to your pot of boiling water and flour and repeat the process.

As you can see the chicken wasn't really bang on, it was somewhere between a Pekin shape and a Brahma, but it worked!

I spray painted the hen yellow as I had a can of yellow paint lying around, I also speckled bits of orange across the body, the tiger stripes were a late decision and for the life of me I cant imagine a more suitable finishing touch

Make and Re-do

Re-urposing items as gifts is the only way that I can afford to keep up with the ever increasing lists of people who I feel the need to reach out a hug, here are a few thingys I kooked up from assorted 'shite' Ive gotten in second hand shops or had scrap around the place.

First up a Zombie survival emergency box.

Raw materials were a tea tray and a Spanish french dictionary from a thrift store. The gun was an airsoft pistol that my son begged and pleaded for only to promptly break within days. I could tell you to go get a cheap kids gun, but in this case you want something that looks as realistic as possible

Next up I took the 'handles' off the tray and resprayed the inside so it was bright white again. I printed a cover for the zombie survival guide from its amazon gif, and used that to cover my dictionary.

The bullet box was constructed from a tampax box with the design done on stupid MS Publisher because I didn't have Adobe handy...it took ages but finally managed to make an approximation of a browning 22's box

I arranged the items in the tray and glued them down with a hot glue gun, the gun needs to be well covered in glue to stay put as the replicas are heavy. Its up to yourself which way you arrange the objects I found this one worked for me.

Final piece of the puzzle is a piece of perspex to cover the tray, measure twice, fit once, the stickers were done up for very little by a local signwriter and give an air of authenticity to the project. Glue the perspex in place, affix mirror plates to the back to hang it.

NAMA

The brainchild of the government who single handedly sold an entire 3 generations of a country into debt overnight, NAMA is the current Irish governments answer to questions that they don't yet know how to answer. Many would say that the Government strategy at NAMA's inception was to bore a hole straight through to the centre of the earth, where legend has it the King of all Crooks, a Mr. C.J. Haughey lives in palatial grandeur attended by his army of Coir handmaidens.

This strategy suffered from an array of problems synonymous with Irish government plans, lack of planning, accountability, actual figures, direction or timescales lead to the interesting development whereby the optimum strategy was to line the route to Chez Haughey in Tax payers kidneys. This long and protracted effort lead to the reinstignation of 'family values' at the heart f Irish politics, whereby those unable to breed successful future kidney donators were ostracized from public life. The old, the sick, the very young and other marginal groups were written out of Irish history as the government turned Ireland from a sovereign country into an 'Economy'. All things in the new Ireland revolved around the twin gods of 'tax payer' and 'competitiveness' in a race to the bottom.

Future plans for Ireland involve an auctioning off of lesser substates, such as Longford and Cavan, occupants of these boroughs will be available as serfs for the new landlords bidding, although work rates and comely-ness of maidens associated with these burroughs is debatable. The main hub of the 'Country formerly known as Ireland' and soon to be known as 'Diageopromotions.inc' looks less sure, as the NAMA black hole continues to demand fresh organs. The current monkeys who dance for these organ grinders, Messieurs Cowen et Lenihan make an affable double act shrieking and dancing in a desperate but yet unconvincing attempt to show the international community the logic behind the pursuit of the black hole prince.

Future plans for Ireland.inc involve creating an international talent show hub, where the best of light entertainment and mild animal abuse can be broadcasted worldwide hosted by a plethora of stars whose pay packets single them out as the best broadcasters in the world.

This article is also available at Unencyclopedia.com also

Why I'm deleting my Facebook account

I’ve always been an enthusiastic proponent of social media, I had a MySpace page before anyone I know. I looked with disdain on Bebo as positively amateur but was an early Facebook user. Now Ive had to watch as the post Bebo generation have infected a perfectly adequate platform with horoscopes and hangover updates. I’ve face palmed when ‘I love the cock’ gets 300 ‘likes’ but ‘I’m feeling pretty low today’ gets no reaction in friends, acquaintances and randomers updates.
I have defected to twitter, which seems to encompass all the people I want to be my friends without the creepiness of trawling through their unprotected photographs on Facebook. I meet minds, I ignore, I have no fear of recrimination or insult, I will not be tagged with a double chin….. perhaps if I want to find out what friends are doing I will hence forth call them.

There are a number of key annoyances in the land of Facebook, firstly,
Apps.
Apple did something right when it chose to filter apps for iphone, and while my open source heart breaks to admit it, its time to put a clamp down on half the garbage that ends up in my timeline. I block and block, but for each one I chop down 2 spring up in its place. I sometimes wish there was an 'idiocyfree' button I could click to remove all horoscope/celebrity/I dont know how he survived THIS-click like to see' pages from my life permanantly.

Secondly Adverts

No matter how many times I inform Facebook that an advert is offensive (they all are, I didn’t come here to buy anything) they continue to replace them, it would appear as though feedback is not listened to, and god damn it, I want to be listened to. Every other page is populated with adverts and frankly Facebook, I don’t need a fucking bra for a backless dress today, thanks (I just checked my profile to give you an honest answer and that’s what they ‘targeted’ me as needing)

Gatekeepers
Perhaps I’m not as much of a leftie liberal as Id like to believe, but allowing pages to go up unfiltered such as in the ‘Raoul Moate is a legend’ case but censoring pictures of women breastfeeding is a tad skewed in my thinking. Filtering any mention of sex but allowing hate groups to put pages together to bash gays, muslims and minorities seems to me to be a bizarre criteria for inclusion in the Facebook universe.

Kids
If another U13 year old child of a friend sends me a request I am highly likely to loose my mind. Not only am I bothered that parents will allow unsupervised access to the social media for primary school children, Im peeved that they think Im a suitable ‘friend’ candidate (I must be going soft) I don’t want to filter my status or worry about the suitability of my posts, I do not want people to access my friends list and find the kiddies on there. I do want Facebook to engage in more rigorous age verification techniques. When it started out it was most definitely a grown ups forum, now its Bebo on steroids.

Etiquette
The final straw came this week, I turned 35 (I’m admitting it, I will revert to 32 in about a week) a pretty big occasion in my humble estimation. The 'divisible by 5’s' are the unit to go by past 21. I got the obligatory Happy Birthday wishes from many people, very nice, very nice, but there are limits to this.
1: If you are a close friend/family and have somebody’s phone number a call or text is polite on a birthday
2: For people who wouldn’t talk regularly or have a close relationship, through distance or other reasons a message through Facebook is fine.
3: If you are MY ONLY BROTHER AND CLOSEST SIBLING a fucking wall post on my birthday doesn’t cut it… even my 2 sisters managed the monumental task of sending a text message.

And this is the proverbial straw, I have become so distanced from others, even my family that they consider a wall post an effective means to communicate with me on an important occasion, there is simply no choice left but to abandon it.

Hausfrau of the Year

I felt the well of creativity bubbling over last night when a twitter storm erupted over the annual Rose of Tralee frocks and personality vacuums. Not content to sit on the sidelines,being TV-less and unable to join in the collective slagging and begrudgery that such a spectacular evokes, I thought back to my childhood and the wonder that was the Calor Kosangas Housewife of the Year.

I cannot remember the Rose of Tralee being part of yearly life but I certainly recall my mothers hushing for the Calor Spectacular. I have vague recollections of nice frocks and ample buxom, the result of too many queen cakes, children and an ill fitted bra. The chortles and bingo wings, all vying for the golden toilet brush or whatever nonsense passed for a prize in those days. This was after all the era of blankety blank, where contestants sold their souls for a sprayed gold checkbook that connected to no checking account. Tweeter Orlaith Finnegan reminded me that there were speed cake icing and bed dressing rounds. This is perhaps where my mothers obsession with hospital corners on bed sheets originated. None the less the thought of frenzied housewifery had me in tears last night. But what would todays CKHY contestants have to demonstrate?

Its all about the host, you have to put the ladies at ease, a sort of horsewhisperer for housewives. Suggestions so far have included Eddie Hobbs, Gaybo, Tubridy all of which amount to just another Autumn schedule in RTE. Kudos to the tweeter that suggested Ivor Callely, but that level of permatan is likely to spook the hors..housewives. His fellow Senator and all round lovely bottom Ronan Mullens would make a fine host. He could have them eating out of his bag of oats with a gentle coo of residual catholic guilt, and fire them up for the ‘dirty look at the non catholics round’

Yes, indeed, what would we test these new age housewives on?

Complaint call to customer support in India round, where housewives battle through thick regional accents to solve their home broadband problems in as short a time as possible.

Baking at the office, where thoroughly modern housewives use their feet to blend and knead delicious cakes under desks ready for the oven upon arrival home.

The nipple stretch, where housewives see how far a breastpump can stretch their nipples in preparation for returning to work immediately after the birth of children.

The one hundred meter dash, restoring a minimalist home to its uncluttered finish with a child attached to each limb.

Full make up application and hair styling while making sandwiches and driving kids to school, this round also has the added challenge of avoiding the Gardai.

Feel free to add your own to the #CKHY stream on twitter or comment below

No teddy bears for me...

I won’t be attending the Electric Picnic this year, words that I thought Id never utter without heart wrenching disappointment and yearning. Ive gone every year, scraping together ticket money and packing wigs, sausages and clothes for all occasions to live in the sublime little world that Stradbally becomes for one weekend of the year. I look forward to meandering through groups safe in the knowledge that this is the cream of the country, the accepting, the fun loving and the cool. I relish making sure my hair is redder than Ronald McDonald and not using my phone for three days, meeting new people, seing improbably cool and interesting acts and people. I even wed my boyfriend two years ago in the blow up chapel, an emotional affair culminating in the exchange of lager cans. I have savoured the delights of hot showers in family camping and cleaning up doughnuts vomited by ten year olds at 4 am. But not this year. I have received a long summer of promotional emails and adverts, telling me all that has been added, but what has been taken away, Picnic gods?

When all is said and done price is the biggest obstacle. We used to save up and take the picnic as our yearly holiday, this year, when everything else is hurting, a €480 price tag for entry just isn’t in the coffers..each year we dutifully spent out first night at the festival collecting discarded glasses from the camp sites all night, this usually netted us spending money to enjoy the rest of the festival albeit tired from working our way through till 8 am.

The lineup: when the pill munching fiends of the nineties get bored in their late 30’s and 40’s it must be time to regroup....money to be made, festivals to be played, t-shirts to be bought. This years headliners have a long way to go before they reach the dizzying heights of cool that were Kraftwerk, Röyksopp, Nick Cave, Sonic Youth, New Order, Björk, Beastie Boys, The Stooges, The Chemical Brothers, The Flaming Lips, Sigur Rós of yesteryears. Given that this years’ line up is not as big as before and unlikely to have cost promoters as much , and the Dear Leader keeps telling us that costs have dropped throughout Ireland inc. it seems excessive that the picnic has not come down.

I’ve gone every year since 2004 without fail, I’ve partied with the best of them, I’ve laughed and cried and enjoyed the picnic, and it was something that I hoped I would never have to pack into a box and tuck away in the attic with the rest of the heady excesses of my late twenties and early thirties. I shall miss buying cans off a hippie in the woods late at night, or meeting strangers who share their smoke in return for company and giggles. The picnic has the unique ability to create groups where there was never groups before, to bring people together and make them feel like they are part of something bigger. But not this year, by keeping ticket prices the same they have sought a pound of flesh from thirty something’s who will find it easier to justify toasting that pound by their hearth and not a single use barbeque. It is a shame that for many people that enjoyed its beauty, its freedom of expression and its ethos it won’t be a ray of sunshine in an otherwise dreary Ireland.

Doing a PhD.

Imagine a circle that contains all of human knowledge:

By the time you finish primary school, you know a little:

By the time you do the leaving cert, you know a bit more:

With a bachelor's degree, you gain a specialty:

A master's degree deepens that specialty:

Reading research papers takes you to the edge of human knowledge:

Once you're at the boundary, you focus:

You push at the boundary for a few years:

Until one day, the boundary gives way:

And, that dent you've made is called a Ph.D.:

Of course, the world looks different to you now:

So, don't forget the bigger picture:

Keep pushing.

Falcon Crest all over again?

A drive through rural Ireland will unearth many an architectural gem. We have columns where columns were never meant to be, balconies that have only ever hosted a rotten iron patio chair and giant cast concrete eagles to overlook potholed driveways. What is the reason for these monstrosities? Can we blame the government? Well...frankly...yes.
The machinations of Biddy and Miley on Sunday night may have given you a few extra minutes before bed,but the highlight of the week was getting a look at Dallas. Hoping you would be let watch the whole lot, until somebody popped a collar button and put down a decanter and your mam would say ‘bed!’. In our house sex was something nobody did, ever, and certainly not on TV. None the less we grew up in love with the Americans, and anything they had to offer. Like many shows syndicated across the world Dallas and its ilk have found a place in our collective psyche, and also in our environment. Nobody asks how certain houses, built in the style of South Fork came to be, you might avert your gaze as you whizz past but nobody doubts how they came into existance. These 'one off' buildings were invariably built atop the habitat of the last mating pair of Unicorns, in a pristine and unspoilt area. These follies were OK’ed with more than a nod, they were lauded, held up as examples to the rest of us. THIS is how we roll, we have arrived, a few pints and a pat on the back to the local TD,' ah shur, good man, ill remember you on polling day...will you come round for the mass we’re having said to mark the first night in the new house?'. For everything is political at the end of the day, even ugly houses.

Looking through the synopsis for Dallas, Falcon Crest and Dynasty and correlating it with the average age of politicians in this country I’ve come up with a rather novel theory. We are being run by people who believe in drama ever after. The ebb and flow of the Irish political tide has indeed washed us closer the shores of the US; spiritually, economically & ideologically. In typical Irish fashion I shall judge a family by its boldest child and call Ivor Callelly out to defend this position.
Ivor grew up with J.R. a man that didn’t want money, he wanted more, more power, more perks, more spray tan. As Ivor relaxes in Sheeps head (not quiet the same ring to it as South Fork) he must be seeking comfort in the box set of Dallas. J.R. had these trials, these judgements, but he never backed down, thats just not Texan! Ivor is our Texan, one man standing brave, and tanned, in the face of uncertainty.Never back down, never say sorry, never admit you were wrong, its the Irish political way. Ivor has no doubt has taken comfort in his wives identification with Angela Channing, the matriarch of Falcon Crest who helped scheme and connive to stay on top. For Ivor does not need money, he does not need anything, he just wants power, and that is the key to 80’s soaps. All those Politicians who worked their way up through the constituencies watched this play out in the 80s. When manly men did JR impressions at Christmas parties and then went back to running Anglo after a liquid lunch, where a nod in the planning office secured that second set of Roman Columns to spice up the front, or made sure that Traveller halting site is nowhere near YOUR property.

When we have nothing of value to hold up as our own, then we are destined to continue to blindly follow that which has been prescribed by another society. The Arts has never abandoned Ireland but it will feel the brunt of cuts in the coming years, when all we are left with is FairCity as a reflection of Irish life then we really are in the proverbial. Id like a change please, a fresh start, enough looking to the past and over the water. It would seem as if a grand Falcon Crest type gesture is in order, like burning it down and starting afresh....

Research

Research is a lot like driving to a destination in the middle of the night, you have an idea of where you are supposed to go but at every cross roads you meet you are presented with a bewildering choice of roads. Some roads look easier and you take them until you find they lead to the same winding hairpin turns getting infinitely harder to negotiate or find a place to pull a 3 point turn in. You’ve been on these roads, boreens where the next gate seems to be an eternity away and your exhaust scrapes noisily over the raised ridge in the middle of the road, avoiding the craters that are statistical analysis and potential confounds.

Another cross roads leads you in a seemingly straight direction but quickly descends into Silverstone; in the wet. I am not only in search of answers I am in search of a question. I feel the pull of discovery but am overwhelmed by the lifetimes of work already out there. When my supervisor asked me what I want in life I said I wanted to make things better, I wanted to help people. I said that the clinical was the route to that. She said I would fix small things and then throw them back into an unfair system. I couldn’t argue with that. She suggested that proof will cause change. Shaking an angry fist is not as useful as a fist full of proof. Ill get that fist full of proof, just as soon as I find the right road.

So here I go its its dark, I got a full tank, a pack of cigarettes and Im wearing shades.

To hell or to Carrickstown

I’m turning into a twitter addict, its like all the witty people I ever wanted to hang out with when sober distilled into my pocket. The only thing I despair of is the nightly discussions of shows on TV, for the most part I can slag along, because I know exactly who these people are, despite the fact that I have not seen any of these shows. It doesn’t take much talent, just a matter of recalling whoever was on RTE five, ten, fifteen years ago and making some witty comment. When I hear of the massive figures paid to Pat Kenny in RTE I don’t despair of missing whatever they have to offer me by way of entertainment. They cling to nostalgia like a favourite childhood toy, where is the hope of anything innovative, fresh or new coming to a TV screen near you, when the same old thing gets trotted out again and again?

I disconnected the Sky about 2 years ago, not bothered to revert to RTE. I do have a TV in the house, but watch no TV, I have alternatives that fulfil our entertainment needs, we don’t need 60 channels to watch what we want to watch, we don’t even need to tune the set. The Xbox and a USB is all I need to watch high definition, advert free programmes whenever I want. I’ve been online since 1993, I had my first webpage up within 3 months of starting Computer Applications in DCU that year. While I never had much grá for architecture or code, I did love the web; it was a playground. Things were different back then, everything was shared, the internet was a mess, but a wondrous mess, where you had to know or guess the location of stuff and sponsorship, smiley faces and cookies were a gleam in a programmers eye. I’ve played games since getting hooked on Doom in college and still feel a tingle when I hear the noises from Super Mario Bros. With 40% of US gamers now women, Im hapy to welcome the rest of the girls to the fun.

The early days of the internet were the birthplace of ideas, open source and these values continue today, albeit with increasing pressure from large multinationals to create a monetised internet where you get, but only if you pay for it. Anyone that has used Google images for the past number of years will note the decreasing ammount of images available. There are ways around this problem, like all other obstacles put in the way of users, hackers and geeks have refused to be bowed by barriers. As quickly as code to protect material can be written, somebody is working for FREE to break it. Where and how do these freedom fighters fit in with the Capitalist ethos that now threatens the internet? We, hackers, pirates and open source geeks are the new rebel scum for the interweb overlords to shake angry gloved fists at.

We share the shows we want to watch, with no ad breaks and sponsors messages. We are tuned in, but we have chosen another way of experiencing cultural artefacts. The TV goes on, the show is watched and the TV goes off, we are no longer slaves to the remote, because we have escaped, we have taken the blue pill. On the high seas of P2P, we share with others freely, we support the networked users, we are never leeches. The powers that be want this to be termed stealing but I don’t and wont see it that way, am I stealing if I go to a friends house to watch it on ‘the channels’ without making some sort of monetary donation to the host? The same tired rhetoric of ‘sharing is stealing’ gets trotted out time and time again. If I steal something then I have taken the original, if I copy it the original remains. There is a difference...

For those of you still struggling to get past Eircoms laughably weak attempt at censorship I say get thee to hidemyass.com or take my route to the stars straight through the Bays' own proxy server, because what you do on the internet is your business not IRMA's. https://www.ipredator.se/

Image above courtesy of http://morrigan-reborn.blogspot.com/2009/11/jack-o-connor-hurts-pat-kennys-feefees.html check her out!

What does A Stand for?

I've driven vans in the past, big powerful diesel monsters that taught me to value wing mirrors and curse small parking spaces.Nothing could have prepared me for the power trip that was buying and driving a Dodge GMC.Wanda III is pictured here, in all her 80's glory. Feeling 5.5 litres powering a V6 at the tap of a pedal, gears were for fools, this was not so much a van as a time machine, decorated with mirror ball and strip lights I was a king and this was my very, very fast castle. Me and Wanda III parted company last year, but the promise of an A Team movie featuring Wandas cousin had me come over all girly. The Dodge van was always the fifth member of the A Team for me.

The A Team holds a very special place in our hearts, it was a taste of the US that we Irish kids longed for, 4 guys against the world, and nobody got hurt. I always liked the improvisational nature of the teams exploits, seeing them transform a forklift into a battering ram struck a chord with a kid who never had the materials for Mary Kingstons Saturday morning art projects and always had to improvise.

The A Team movie should be a film I'm happy to bring my child to see, but this holds nothing new and nothing of interest.It only reminds us thirtysomethings of lost innocence. There are many elements that one could leave in the 80's and not loose the core of the story. Sexism would be one of the 80's leftovers that you hoped the film would abandon, I dare say that the team could even have been updated to include a female member, but that's just wishful thinking.

The film flounders through set pieces, the set up, the fall from grace and the struggle to regain their name, nothing that the TV show didint do week on week. If you have sat through the TV show of late then you know that uncomfortable feeling you get when you realise all the flaws, plot holes and silliness that you blissfully ignored as a child. You cannot however, in your 30's gleefully abandon reason. The plot treats the viewer like like they are still a prepubescent child and even includes explanations along the way in case you have forgotten the start of the film, twenty minutes ago. The team itself is right, they work well and are likable but the story is an insult to the viewer. When freight containers rain down on the team I found myself wishing they would squish them.

Another major problem is the distict lack of women, something hollywood continues to support with women as set dressing rather than characters in 'blockbuster' titles. Jessica Biel, who plays Capt. Charisa Sosa is the only female character in the movie, she is referred to as Babe, Hot or Sweetheart at every available opportunity. Her sole purpose seems to be to turn up looking 'hot' to explain the simple plot to the simple viewer, all this in 5 inch heels, army issue. I suppose she could never have driven the van in those heels.

They only hung me the right way up yesterday

I committed to the dread act of doing up a balancing statement for Annie Inc. And the prognosis is not good ,even if it was on the books at Anglo it couldn’t look good. Many people have the opinion that we have a generous social welfare system, I only availed of it when I returned to university, I have single mothers allowance for the first time since my son was 1 (he is now almost 14). When I returned to college I had part time work but that has dissolved into the ether that is Ireland post apocalypse last year and all efforts to find work since have been futile.

Incoming I have €225 per week, adding the children’s allowance I have a net of €1050 per month. Out of that comes my mortgage (€500)and loan(€200) ESB(€45) and phone (€50)which total €795, leaving me with a weekly disposable income of €65 euros. To feed and maintain me and my son.

I’ve just cancelled my phone contract so that will be nullified in the coming month, I really don’t know where else to cut a corner. I’ve sold everything I have that was worth anything, I really am seriously in need of ideas here. I cannot keep leaving the Turin shroud on my pillow at night.

Should I leave university, I have a 1:1 so far and really can see no hope in returning to growth this year unless I do. Doing a psychology degree means I have to go for a doctorate if I want to use my skills. I’ve been offered a research doctorate but that means 3 more years of borderline poverty and despite my hopes that I was tough and resourceful and clever, I cannot cut this cloth to fit the task. My grant will come in around the end of October or November, like the last two it will be swallowed whole by my overdraft and my mortgage arrears which have been stacking up for the last year month on month.

I have no more answers...perhaps you do?