Getting a blow job from Barney

I have a big problem with wind.

Wind of the outside variety that is, and not the result of a feed of onions and beans.  I have no problems with the latter.

Of all the various things that the weather throws at me, I hate wind the most.  I can tolerate rain and ignore the cold.  I can take frost or leave it and snow is always welcome provided I don't have to go out in it and so long as it fucks off quickly when I get tired of it.

Now they have this tacky thing of giving wind a name.

I haven't quite worked out the logic of naming storms.  Is it supposed to make them more friendly?  When a chimney stack comes crashing through my roof into the sitting room, am I supposed to think that sure, it's only Abigail up to her tricks and not a storm force gust?  Am I supposed to feel better about that?

I have a nasty suspicion that it's all part of this Interwebby thing where we are all supposed to be Twittering and Farcebooking and sharing every minute boring trite detail of our lives with the whole wide world.  Giving a storm a name is like giving it a "hashtag" [another word I hate] so we can all Tweet about it like it's some kind of fucking friend.

Actually, the storm we had yesterday was a very strange one.  They called it Barney; I called it a fucking annoying wind.  I was sitting here minding my own business dreaming and looking out the window.  It was nice and sunny and an absolute flat calm.  The leaves that still remain on the trees were just hanging there without a single stir.  Then there was a sudden breeze out of nowhere and within ten minutes the trees were bending over at forty five degrees and I was back to worrying that one of my magnificent birches would coming crashing down on a passing car.

During the evening the roof was giving distinct impressions that it was about to lift off and the storm was still roaring through the trees outside and suddenly, without warning, it stopped.  No more wind.  It was the most dramatic on/off storm I have ever witnessed.  One minute it's there; the next it isn't.

I see from their naming list that we only have nineteen storms left to go this winter.  They list 'em alphabetically and they stop at Wendy.  For some reason they skipped over Q and U which is a bit of an insult to all the Queenies and Unas ot there?

I suppose I had better go out and count my birches before Clodagh dumps on me.

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Spice is the variety of life

Now you're just taking the piss.

First you come after my smoking – bullying, nagging and trying to force me to quit. Well you can fuck off on that score as you have just made me more determined than ever to keep going.

Then you start nagging me about my sugar and salt both of which I now use more of in sheer defiance.

Then you moan and whinge about my drink intake, and set your own pathetic levels of what you think constitutes "safe levels".  Let me tell you, your levels constitute an aperitif to a nights drinking.  I would drink that much before I had even reached the bar.

Then you take a dig at my fry-ups.  They are carcinogenic you mewl in that pathetic wheedly tone.  I mustn't have more than a rasher a week, you "advise".  You can stuff that little bit of "advice" right into a pan full of smoking grease. Since that little nugget came out I have doubled my intake of fries and processed meats.

But now you are treading on really dangerous ground.

Now you are moaning about my curry.

You lot must lead a particularly dull monotonous lives.  No colour, joy or even a modicum of pleasure in case it somehow may prove at some point in the future not to be "safe".  Your lives are dictated by laboratory tests and recommended levels.  You daren't enjoy anything just in case it gives you cancer or may lead to an untimely death.  The only pleasure you get in life is nagging others about their pleasures.  I bet you pulled wings off flies when you were a kid?  Either that or you were mercilessly bullied in the playground?

I love my curry.  I love it hot and frequent.  I first discovered the delights of spice back in the sixties and have been upping my game ever since.  I have gone from mild, through spicy to Vindaloo levels that border on radioactive.  If I finish and am not sweating like a stuck pick with snots running out my nose then I switch suppliers for my next order.

So fucking what if "there is more than the recommended calories" in an Indian takeaway?  It really is none of your fucking business.  If I want to have three Vindaloos a day than that is my affair and you can stuff your recommendations right up your collective arse.  Anyway, how do you know how many calories I require?  You don't know me or anything about me.  You don't know my age, weight, height, level of exercise or metabolic rate so how in the blind fuck do you presume to know how much I can eat?

Out of all the substances that you claim are doing me great damage there is only one thing that makes me sick and that is yourselves and your fucking reports that try to suck every vestige of enjoyment out of life.  You try to justify your sad little lives by wrapping us all in bubblewrap and keeping us all "safe".  Even the name "Safefood" is nauseating and another little moneywaster from the EU.

So fuck off and leave my curry alone.  Go and have a pint and a cigarette.  Go and eat something that actually tastes nice.  Forget your "daily allowances" and "recommended levels" as they really are a steaming load of shite.

That's called "enjoying life".

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Feeling safe

It was with a sense of great relief I read an item over the weekend.

Taoiseach says no evidence of anything ‘untoward’ being planned in or for Ireland

Now for obvious security reasons I haven't mentioned this before but I have a mole planted deep within the corridors of power.  Naturally I quizzed him [or it could be a her – I’m not saying] about the security measures that are in force and he [or she?] told me that Dame Enda has set up a special hotline [actually the public phone in the Dáil Bar] where terrorists can phone him in advance of an attack thereby striking terror into our hearts.

So far there have been no calls [apart from one to Michael Noonan telling him to get the fuck home as his dinner is on the table] so for the time being at least, there is no cause for alarm.

I am also delighted to hear that we have a representative at the top level meetings in France – namely Garda JohnJo Reilly – who has a special seat at these meetings, beside the coffee machine at the back of the room.  If he hears the word "Ireland" mentioned he is under instructions to ring his sergeant immediately who can pass on the message to the appropriate authority, assuming the sergeant isn't out beating up water meter protesters at the time.

In the event of an attack, there is a special car on standby [cleverly disguised as the courtesy car from Mick’s Garage] which will bring our emergency response team to the scene, including one Garda specially trained in the use of a Tazer.

Of course the mere fact that Dame Enda has said we are safe is enough.  He has this amazing ability to talk down any problem [“the recession is over”, “Ireland is in full recovery”, “there is no need to panic”] thereby resolving any problem with his silvery tongue.  He's an amazing man.

Of course there could be another reason we are safe from foreign terrorists.

Why the fuck would they want to waste their time trying to destroy this country when the gubmint is doing an excellent job for them?

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The death of a blog

I have decided to kill this here "blog".

I hate the terms "blog" and "blogging" though I'm not quite sure why.  They grate on the nerves along with "awesome" and "OMG" and the mere mention is like someone sticking a needle in my head and scraping my skull.

But if I can't use the hated word, then how do I describe this site? 

Over the best part of a couple of decades I used to keep a diary.  I never thought of it as a diary though [I'll leave that to Samuel Pepys] and preferred the word "journal".  Seeing as this site is fulfilling much the same purpose I suppose it is only fair to call it a journal too?  Or in line with the mangling of language so popular these days, maybe I should call it a "webjou" or a "webnal"?  "journet"?  "netnal"?  Nah!  I'll stick with journal.

I discovered the other day that there is in fact an Irish Blog Association.  I came on it by chance and apparently it has been around for over a year.  I looked for their "blog" but of course [this being Ireland] they don't have one.  They have a single page up which tells me nothing.  I found them on Farcebook and that confirmed my worstest fears – all pink and fluffy like the Awards thing.  All the members seem to talk about is fashion, beauty and rearing babies.  There were a few blokes in there but they seemed to be just writing about their little hobbies, or else they were writing about fashion too.  Will I be joining?  No fucking way.  I don't see the point except to slag them off.

That confirmed my worst suspicions that "blogging" has, in the main, become a girly thing, and I really can't see myself fitting in anywhere there.  The Awards thing confirmed it.  So this strengthens my resolve to distance myself as far as possible from anything pink and fluffy.

But if I'm writing a journal, what does that make me?  A journaller? Don't like the sound of that.  Maybe I should invent a new word?  How about "journal-ist"?  Or "journalist" to make typing easier?  That sounds about right?  If anyone asks me what I do, I'll just say I'm a freelance journalist [“freelance” so I don’t have to explain why I don’t make any money out of it].

So Head Rambles [the blog] is dead.

Long live Head Rambles [the journal].


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