In search of sanity

Head Rambles Posted on by 4

I had a brief glance around the papers this morning.

I have said before that we live in surreal times, but I am beginning to wonder if we have in fact transported into some alternative universe. In this new universe insanity is apparently the norm and I really shouldn’t be surprised at anything any more.

Take some of today’s headlines –

Modern Ireland is unimaginable without Jack Charlton

[Irish Times]

What the fuck does this mean? I can’t even begin to understand this weird statement. I didn’t read the article as I think I would probably lose any marbles I had left.

Data shows Oxford/AstraZeneca vaccine 70% effective against Covid-19

[RTE]

Actually this is a fairly normal headline in these crazy times. What amused me was the corresponding headline in the Irish Times –

Oxford Covid-19 vaccine can be 90% effective, results show

[Irish Times]

Do I get a choice when Doc calls? Can I demand the Irish Times vaccine or will he pawn me off with the cheap RTE version?

Then there is a non-story that has been filling the news for the last few days –

RTÉ bosses may be brought before Dáil committee over social distancing controversy

[The Journal]

A staff member in RTE was leaving and had a few photographs taken. Shock! Horror! As far as I am aware, no kittens were drowned or puppies beaten to death, or indeed a single case of the sniffles but this fucking story rolls on. And on. And on.

Tipperary and Cavan deliver two earthquakes in one day

[Irish Times]

Good grief! And I never felt a thing. Not a single quiver in the ground. I hope there wasn’t much damage or many injuries? But then I noticed it was something to do with sport. Heigh-ho. What a massive disappointment

Face masks don’t impede exercise … except for one type

[Irish Times]

One type of exercise? I assume they mean sweaty sex. Are we supposed to wear masks then?

And then I found a piece of real news –

A Belgian city’s unintentionally phallic Christmas lights

At last. Something sane.

A little prick

Head Rambles Posted on by 14

The world awaits the Second Coming.

I refer of course to the frantic haste to inject us all with some dubious concoction which is apparently going to save the planet from imminent destruction.

The first notice of the Coming was when a pharma announced a success rate of 90%. Wow! But then another pharma comes along and announces a success rate of 94.5%. Even bigger WOW! So the first pharma comes back and says they have looked at their figures again and their success rate is in fact 95%. And so the bidding continues. First past the post with the best bid stands to increase their coffers by many billions.

I’m not a doctor. Nor am I a biochemist or indeed any kind of an expert on vaccinations but I have a simple question.

I can understand how ploughing millions into rushed research with tens of thousands of tests can produce impressive results in a relatively short time. The numbers are collated and the success rate is calculated and so they announce that the vaccine is ready for public consumption. But my simple question is this – how can they possibly guarantee no long term side effects? It doesn’t matter how much they spend, or how intensive the research, long term side effects can only be discovered long term. You can’t rush time no matter how hard you try.

Naturally the Great Unwashed are going to queue in their millions for their little injections. The world will rejoice. Alleluia! Maybe a few will drop dead from some allergic reaction, but that’s a small price to pay to save the human race [unless of course you’re one of the few].

I’m in one of the chosen few on account of my age which places me near the top of the queue. Doubtless Doc will drop by some evening and insist that we both have The Jab. Being the gentleman that I am I shall insist he does Herself first.

If she shows no reaction after a while then maybe I’ll think about having a jab myself.

All dressed up and nowhere to go

Head Rambles Posted on by  

Herself had another hospital appointment today.

I should explain that we have a two-tier hospital system here consisting of public and private hospitals. The peasantry are entitled to the public ones and those of us who pay an arm and a leg can use the private ones. It can get quite confusing as, for example, when I had my little heart “event” I was carted off to the public system and wasn’t given the choice. The same applied to Herself’s eye job which was also in a public hospital. However when it comes to specialists and clinics and the like we have discretion. The difference is better attention and about two years in waiting time.

The appointment this time around was with a private clinic and this involves extra preparation. What’s good enough for the public system is definitely not good enough for the private. We are after all mingling with the horsey set and the elite, and one never knows who one might meet? Standards have to be met apparently.

So yesterday I had to get out her wheelchair and reattach some bits I had removed for ease of access. The chair was easier to get into but it didn’t “look right”. Luckily I managed to find all the bits and bolts and after a struggle involving spanners and bad language the chair was fine. It passed muster. I was then told in no uncertain tones that I was to “tidy myself up”.

This morning Herself announced that she had cancelled the appointment. She “didn’t feel up to it” which was fine by me [I didn’t either, to be honest]. It meant I didn’t have to drive up to Dublin at dusk [a time I dislike driving] and back in the rush hour. Secretly I was delighted. I had to assert my authority though.

“Do you mean to say I spent all that time fixing your wheelchair for nothing?” I growled.

“It’ll be fine for the next time” she replied.

“And are you telling me I washed my hair for nothing?”

“But you look lovely with a grand head of clean hair. You look quite sexy….”

“… You’d be fine if you just cleaned the shite off your shoes.”

Women are so fucking picky.

Dodging the Mafia

Head Rambles Posted on by 2

Herself phoned her sister yesterday.

They come from a large family of the Galway Mafia, but with the passing of the years Herself has just about outlived them all except one. That sister lives in a foreign war-torn land called North Dublin, so we don’t see much of her. Most communication is via the telephone.

So anyhows, the conversation naturally started with Herself bursting to tell Sister about her eye operation. What is it about women that they insist on broadcasting their operations and ailments to all and sundry? An eye operation is a biggie in the bragging stakes and is far better than, say, an operation on varicose veins or a bunion, so Herself felt she was on to a winner. She had all the gory details mentally lined up and here was her chance to score some really major points.

So the call was made.

“Howya! It’s only me” says Herself.

“Is it yourself?” says Sister [or words to that effect]. “How is the eye after the operation?”

What the fuck? Herself was devastated and utterly deflated. All those dreams of impressing Sister with minute details of scalpels and surgeons vanished in a puff of smoke.

“How do you know?” asked Herself after gathering her scattered thoughts.

“Daughter told me” says Sister.

It transpires that Daughter occasionally reads this here site for some strange reason and had passed on my mention the other day of the trip to the hospital.

Damn!

Now I have to track back to check all my scribbles for mentions of The Family.