Friday, October 28, 2011

An open letter to a pain in the ass.

Dear Pain-In-The-Ass,

Thank you for the clarification on how often I am allowed to be unwell during a given year.

You would think that after having lived in this body for the better part of forty-six years, I would be equipped to decide whether I am unwell or not, or whether the excruciating level of pain I am feeling, as a vertebral disc rubs against a nerve in my spine, is of such magnitude that I really shouldn’t try and get out of bed. Seemingly not. I believe certain well-adjusted people are capable of making such diagnoses, but I, it would appear, have to visit a doctor to be told I am too infirm to work - and pay handsomely for said diagnosis.

As regards the difference between certified and uncertified sick-leave, you might also expect that being a professional man in his middle-years from a respectable background, I might be taken at my word when I say I am too unwell to attend the office. That would be a dreadful mistake. It’s obvious that I am a dishonest and utterly untrustworthy rogue, who should be compelled to present documentary evidence of his illness, since, without it, I was plainly swanning around the countryside with my ne’er-do-well cohorts, or lounging at home watching the television set, and laughing up my sleeve at the poor saps who were stupid enough to attend the office and do a day’s work.

To conclude, I have no doubt that such ‘by-the-book’ adherence to company policy has a phenomenally beneficial effect on the morale of the staff. Personally speaking, your email has inspired me to new heights of loyalty and fanaticism to the company cause. For example, I shall henceforth arrive at my desk at exactly 9am, take a lunch break at exactly 1pm, returning at exactly 2pm, and shall log out and leave for the day at exactly 5.30pm. The unprofessional and shoddy approach I used to have of arriving at 7.45am, eating at my desk, and hanging around like a bad smell until 6.00 or 6.30pm was doing me no favours, and I have to thank you for putting me on the straight-and-narrow.

Your humble servant,

Michael Synnott.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

'Free' schools


I just flicked on Sky News to get my daily dose of western-centric, heavily-censored propaganda, and saw this:

"Some of England's first free schools are set to open ...
"The 24 schools ... will allow parents, teachers and charities to teach their own curriculum. Schools must teach English, maths and science. RELIGIOUS EDUCATION IS ALSO REQUIRED."

WHAT?

In what way could these schools be deemed 'free' with that last mandate?


Wednesday, August 31, 2011

*Cough* Hack *Cough*

I tried two new jobs recently; one to cut back some undergrowth with a machete, and the other to break into a bank's computer, but, to be honest, I couldn't hack either.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Geek Thought for the Day

Software development needs to become less of an art and more of an engineering discipline.

Friday, July 22, 2011

If this offends you, you're exactly the fucking idiot I'm going after with this ...

I used to say that, although I'm not religious, I would be the first person to pick up a gun to go to war to fight for anyone's right to practise their religion. But I've changed my mind. Although I would happily fight and die for anyone's freedom, I wouldn't fight for anyone's right to practise religion. It'd be like fighting for someone's right to believe in a flat Earth. It's a superstitious anachronism that needs to go away.

If this offends you, you're exactly the fucking idiot I'm going after with this.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Vicious Imagery: More knob, vicar? When church renovations go awry

Vicious Imagery: More knob, vicar? When church renovations go awry: "I've seen some lovely renovations of former churches. However, you never know when the addition of a new feature - like, say, a mezzanine fl..."

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Another example of utterly useless Irish customer service

I get paid on the last working day of the month. In these economic climes, that's very good news.

The bad news is, in my previous job, I used to get paid on the 24th of every month (or the nearest business day prior to the 24th), and it was during my time with that firm that I set up most of the direct debits that go out of my bank account every month.

You can probably see where this is going already.

Last month was one of those months where the last business day was the 31st, and that's when I got paid. Unfortunately, O2 tried to prise payment for my mobile phone bill out of a depleted account on the 30th, and the direct debit was returned by my bank.

Did I get upset? No, not at all. I said "Mea culpa" and took the extortionate €13 fee O2 levied against me for this hideous transgression on the chin. It was, after all, my fault and no-one else's, that there was no money in my account to cover the bill.

Furthermore, the day I got paid, I added O2 to my online banking facility as a beneficiary and immediately discharged the outstanding debt. That's how I roll, these days.

A few days later I got a text from O2 saying that my next bill had been prepared, and it would amount to such-and-such. It was clear from the amount they were promising to beat out of me that they had not received - or had not factored in - the online payment I had made to cover the previous unpaid bill.

At that stage I was concerned I had set up the beneficiary account incorrectly and had sent the payment to the wrong O2 account, so I decided to contact their customer service department. I also decided it would be wise - and responsible - of me to change the day on which the O2 direct debit goes out of my account to prevent this happening again.

The following email conversation ensued.



Dear O2,


Your last attempt to debit my bank account to pay my monthly bill was returned, due to there not being sufficient funds in my bank account. I have since set O2 up as a beneficiary on my Bank Of Ireland internet banking and paid the outstanding amount. The money has been debited from my account, but it has not registered with yourselves. 


You have just sent me a text saying that my next bill will be €133.96, which does not take into account the €60 I have just paid. Could you chase this up with your accounts department, please? 


Many thanks, 


Mike.




Dear Michael,

Thank you for your email.


I have looked into this for you and I can advise we have received your payment on the account. It can take up to 5 working days for us to receive payments, so this was not through to us when this was sent to you. I can advise there is a balance of €73.96 owing on your account and this is due on the 28/06/2011.

I hope this information is of help to you and please accept my apologies for any confusion that has been caused.

Kind Regards
Faceless CS Monkey (Name changed to protect the innocent : MS)
O2 Customer Care





Dear Faceless CS Monkey / Customer Care,

Thank you for responding. That's a load off my mind.

Now, how do I go about changing the date on which O2 attempts to take the DD from my bank account to put it after my pay-day to thereby guarantee there are always sufficient funds available?

Kind regards,

Mike.





Dear Mike,

Thank you for your reply.

Unfortunately, it is not possible to change the date that your direct debit is due. This date was set when your account was opened and it cannot be altered.

Please accept my apologies for any inconvenience caused.


Kind regards,
Faceless Unhelpful Jobsworth (Name changed to protect me from potential litigation : MS)
O2 Customer Care



Dear O2 Customer Care,

Your "apologies for any inconvenience caused" are hollow and patronising, since you have not made any substantial effort to address my problem.

This situation would be a serious thorn in my side at the end of every month were it not for the fact that I have already been released from my contract with O2, due to your inability to address your appalling coverage in my area.

I believe I shall take advantage of this and move my service to three.ie. They are quite willing to transfer me to their network and bill me on a day-of-the-month of my choosing.

Yours,


Mike Synnott.




They have not responded.


Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Fewer shibboleths = less elegance.

I have to get something off my chest:

Why do people find it so hard to use the comparative adjectives 'less' and 'fewer' correctly? Whilst I am trying very hard to be progressive about the evolution of English, certain things are just wrong, and grate on my nerves, and this case is one of them.

Look, it's really easy to use these adjectives properly, and here's how:

When it comes to comparing quantity, nouns in English come in two forms:

  • Mass nouns
  • Count nouns


Mass Nouns.
A mass noun is something that cannot be counted in individual units. Examples are 'air', 'sand' and 'snow.' The simplest test of whether something is a mass noun or not is, 'Can I pluralise it?' If you can, it is not a mass noun. For example, you cannot say, "There are five airs in the bell jar"; nor can you say, "I brought three sands home from the beach." Mass nouns must be used with a unit in these cases: "There are five litres of air in the bell jar," and "I brought three buckets of sand home from the beach."

When comparing mass nouns, you use the word 'less', as in, "There is less air in this jar than there is in the room." "There is less sand in this bucket than there is on the beach."

For the purposes of counting and comparison, abstract nouns behave as mass nouns, as in, "There is less truancy in District A than there is in District B."

Mass nouns and abstract nouns are always singular. If you find yourself using 'are less', you have gone wrong somewhere.

Count Nouns.
A count noun is something that can be counted in individual units. Examples are 'idiot', 'jelly bean' and 'car.' If you can pluralise a noun, it is a count noun. "There are two idiots making noise outside." "There are three jelly beans down the back of the settee."

When comparing count nouns, you use the word 'fewer', as in, "There are fewer idiots outside tonight than there were last night." "There are fewer jelly beans down the back of the settee than there are in the jar."

Note that the count nouns themselves are ALWAYS pluralised, when comparing them with 'fewer.'


It's this simple:
  • Mass Nouns = ' is less'
  • Count Nouns = ' are fewer'


Saturday, May 28, 2011

Phasebook #2

Another Phasebook. (Where two adjacent posts on your Facebook wall - from different Facebook friends who don't know each other - are coincidentally linked.)


My friends Orsi and Máté are from Budapest, and my friend Niz is visiting Budapest at the moment.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Synchronicity in Social Media (Phasebook #1)

Below is a screenshot I took today of my Facebook wall on my iPhone. Check out the consecutive posts from Kyle and Jennifer - who do not know each other, and are not on each others' friend lists.


Spooky, huh?

I shall henceforth call this phenomenon 'Phasebook.'

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Nut Jobs

Does anyone else find it amusing, by the way, that the word 'fundamentalist' is two-thirds 'mentalist'?

It's the end of the world as we know it. Or is it?

I woke up this morning nursing the sort of hangover that only starting to drink at 4pm and finishing at midnight can deliver, and was almost disappointed to find the world still here. I can only assume, somewhere in the back of my twisted mind, I wanted the Christian fundamentalist nutjobs to be right about May 21 2011.

To quote Peter Cook in his end of the world sketch, "Well, not quite the conflagration we were expecting."

Mind you, I haven't been outside yet. Perhaps everyone else has been raptured and it's just me and the cat left.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

God, shave the queen!

It occurred to me that if David Norris makes it to Áras an Uachtaráin - which I sincerely hope he does - becoming the first openly-gay leader of a country in the world, should we address him as 'Mr Precedent?'

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Thought for the day.

We are, each of us, the centre of our own universe. Therefore, we can never be, by definition, the centre of anyone else's.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

CAAEPAP

You know, I've been kinda a British English fan my whole life, but, hey, now I've decided to do a one-eighty and inaugurate a group called The Campaign for the Adoption of American English for the Purposes of Annoying People. It's just the humor I'm in.

If you wanna join this group, all you gotta do is use American spelling, grammar and vocabulary in at least one post or email a week, and put  "This [post / mail] is proudly sponsored by CAAEPAP" in a small font, color blue, at the bottom. It's kinda tough to get into the swing of it at first, but all it takes is a little practise folks.

You may hate the idea but, know what, I could care less. Let's see if this dog will hunt, and how many people we can piss off.


This post is proudly sponsored by CAAEPAP.

Monday, April 18, 2011

What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?

A couple of years ago, one Saturday afternoon, I was bored and decided to create a quiz on Facebook.

For years, I'd had the phrase "What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?" rattling around in my head. I heard it from a Cavan girl I shared a house with in London half a lifetime ago. It was something her dad, or uncle used to say - and he pronounced 'eejit' as 'ee-get'. Very Cavan. I love the Cavan accent, having spent several years in boarding school, and much of my childhood on my grandparents' farm up there, so the phrase stayed with me.

In any case, I thought that if it were taken as an actual question, rather than a rhetorical insult, it could make for a funny quiz. After a few hours of effort, during which I managed to make myself laugh out loud many times - always a good sign when you're writing comedy - I had the thing done.

I put it up onto Facebook, obsessed over it for a few days, then forgot all about it. A few weeks later I remembered it and when I checked, it had over three thousand 'Likes.' Checking now, the figure is at 3,984. So it must have a made a few other people laugh too.

I decided, before it goes missing on Facebook, I'd preserve it here.

The questions and possible answers are first, followed by the possible results, and the picture associated with each:


What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?

Find out what sort of a gobshite you'd be if you grew up in Ireland - or what class of a shitehawk you should be if you actually did!


1. How do you pronounce 'idiot'?
  • Eeejish
  • Ee-jut
  • Eeee-jitt
  • Langer!
  • Eejit
  • Eee-get

2. Do you support a British soccer team?
  • Soccer? G'way to feck! If it doesnt involve swinging a big lump of a tree around like a homicidal corn-reaper, I'm not interested.
  • I'm too busy organising marches and pogroms to bother with that sorta shite!
  • I do in me arse!
  • Feckin' girl's game! GAA all the way! Yahoo!
  • I'm more into Rugby, actually, like.
  • Yeah, and I regularly have heated arguments in the pub with supporters of other teams.

3. Where would you spend Christmas?
  • In traffic trying to get home from shopping in Dublin.
  • I dunno. The Seychelles this year, maybe.
  • Behind the curtains, in fear for me life!
  • How much would I have to spend?
  • At home, like.
  • In the local, if it were open.

4. What's a 'Wheel?'
  • Something my Skyline has four of and my Evo X also has four of.
  • Something my Ford has four of.
  • Something my Honda Civic has four of.
  • Something my Massey Ferguson has four of.
  • A stupid gobshite.
  • Something my SUV has four of.

5. What's a dump valve?
  • I'm not sure; but I bet it was invented by someone from my home county.
  • An utterly pointless addition to my Nissan Micra's engine.
  • A yoke on the back of the jacks.
  • A very useful addition to the twin-turbos on my Jap import.
  • Jaysus, I dunno. Something they put on a beer tap?
  • I'm not sure, but I think my 4x4 has one.

6. Do you like the English?
  • It depends on whether there's an English person within earshot or not.
  • I do in me hole! Hate the feckers - although that's only because I've been told I should hate them.
  • They're not to be trusted.
  • I couldn't care less. They're inferior to us in every way, anyway.
  • Sure, I mean like, yeah - why not?
  • Fluffy Saxon bastards! It pains my breast to think of Eire's fertile sloping mantle being trodden underfoot for 800 years.

7. What's the definition of 'class'?
  • An important social distinction by which you measure yourself against your peers.
  • Jonathan Rhys-Meyers
  • Something you forego to go into town and hang around Grafton Street.
  • I wouldn't have a clue.
  • Cristiano Ronaldo.
  • Anything that's feckin' brilliant!

8. What does "Quar'n" mean?
  • It's a vegetarian meat-substitute.
  • Jaysus, I haven't a clue. Is it something you spread on the land?
  • No idea. Some bog-trotter code word for something?
  • 'Very' - as in "You're quar'n tick!' (You are a person of low intelligence.)
  • Something we say when we're copying the Wicklow accent.
  • It's a feckin' stupid expression, the likes of which we'd never use around here.

9. What's a 'turn?'
  • A bend in the road.
  • Something you serve soup in.
  • A stroll around your property.
  • A bend in the beautiful river that flows through my county town.
  • A nasty shock.
  • A song by the band 'Travis.'

10. Cad is ainm duit?

  • Wha? Feck off with yer Irish, ya spa!
  • Leath-uair tar éis a deich.
  • No - only red diesel.
  • Sorry - I don't speak bog.
  • What's that there, now?
  • ... Ó Murchu is ainm dom!

And that was it. Ten questions scientifically designed to tell you which part of the country you were from - or should be from. These were the answers:


You're A Feckin' Wicklow Goatsucker
You're not entirely sure whether you're happy to be from the Pale or not, and you're as likely to be seen in Fitz's lounge givin' out yards about the feckin' Brits as you are to be found in Phil's, lookin' at one-ohs and engaging a couple of hapless English tourists in a rambling beer-fuelled diatribe about the sorry state of Liverpool's performance in the Premier League. In quieter moments, you have a strong feeling that you should be up in the hills wandering about in the fog in a pair of wellies, but, you know what - you just can't be arsed!





You're A Feckin' 'Cute' Cork Hoo'er
Let's get one thing straight now, ye feckin' Swamp Donkey: There's nothin' cute about Cork or the naturalised extra-terrestrials that inhabit it. You're not even useful enough to be called langers. Tommy Tiernan once said that hearing Corkonians talking is like listening to tinkers trying to speak French, and he was right - if the tinkers in question had been lobotomised and were gargling Murphy's at the same time. Why the hell yiz find yerselves so superior to the rest of the country, is beyond us. You seem to make an awful lot of noise about yerselves, so there must be something of value down there, but we'll never know what it is because we can't understand a feckin' word you're sayin'! And your women! For feck's sake, even a sniper wouldn't take one of them out. The best thing that could ever have happened to Cork would have been if the pilot of the Enola Gay had gotten lost over Hiroshima and dropped the jaysus A-bomb on Ballincollig Gunpowder Mills.



Yer From Wee Northern Ireland
They mooted another solution for Norn Iron long before Sunningdale and the Good Friday agreement, did you know that? The Irish and British governments were going to plant a series of tactical nukes along the border and separate your sorry asses from the rest of the island. You were to be towed by the entire British Navy up near to Rockall and left there to fight it out amongst yourselves. The only reason it didn't go ahead was that the Icelandic government threatened to send Bjork down to live in Killarney if we moved you any closer to Reykjavik than you already were. And feck that! But lookat; you're a shite province, let's face it - utterly useless. If there were a competition to find the shitest most useless province on the planet, you'd only manage to come second 'cause you're so useless and shite.



You're A Fockin' D4 Head
Oh by Jaysus, but you are some feckin' tool! Where did you get that unholy accent? Holy Mother o' Jaysus, is this what our ancestors fought and died for; so you could ponce about Donnybrook in yer BMW X5 - the tyres of which will never see a feckin' stitch of mud - stopping off in Kiely's to drink Heino whilst watching in horror as Munster dismantle Leinster AGAIN, then slipping in your own vomit on the floor of the disabled jacks in Eddie Rocket's? Is it? Yer a feckin' disgrace to your genetics and anaemic complexion. Why don't you feck off to London where you belong and leave the rest of us in peace, you planter wannabe knobjockey.





You're A Mean Feckin' Cavan Basthard.
C'mere you, hi, ye feckin' hoo'er. The next time your rusted cunt of a Jetta breaks down outside Ballinagh, just pay to get the whore fixed. Don't spend the next five days commuting back and forward between your odious hovel in Mullahoran and the site of the breakdown on your Massey Ferguson 35X at 25 mile-an-hour, with a clatty toolbox that dates from the Emergency rollin' around in the feckin' transport box, just to save money, you miserable eegit! You're that tight, if you ran out of sausages, you'd eat your own mickey before buying more. There's a strong smell of cowshite about you, Bucko - and saying 'Taxi' won't stop you gettin' a good Sixer the next time you let one of your clatty bog-farts in the Owen Roe, ye dirty whore. Saying 'class' all the time doesn't mean you feckin' have any!



You're A Feckin' Wexford Yellowbelly!
You're stuck in the middle of the three 'W' counties, and you think you're the best of them. Well, you're feckin' not. In hurling, maybe, but that's about it. You're normally stood at the end of the bar in the Wren or Tipsy McStaggers with a big bockety head on ye, whingin' like a bowsie about horse-racing or blow-ins from Poland or other local tripe like the 1798 rebellion. Well, do you know something; nobody from outside County Wexford knows where Vinegar Hill is and no-one gives a SHITE! Shut up to be fecked, ye borin' wheel, ye!

Sunday, April 17, 2011

A is for ...

I'm becoming increasingly annoyed at bad parents who use convenient psychological labels to excuse away the fact they've instilled no discipline or boundaries in their children.

So why don't you come clean, and rather than saying that your children have ADHD or Autism or Asperger's, just admit that your remiss parenting skills have turned your children into Assholes.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

ISH Magazine Article

This is an article I wrote for ISH (Irish Scene and Heard) Magazine, back in 2003.

A Volatile Mix

Michael Synnott maintains that music and politics don’t always go together like hand and glove.


Let’s try a little thought experiment. Picture yourself sitting in your living room, flicking through the satellite TV music channels. Got the image? OK, now imagine you stumble across a live gig by your favourite band. Result! You settle back in your chair, crank up the volume and rock out.

Now picture yourself listlessly surfing through the other channels. Through some horrid twist of fate you happen across Prime Minister’s Question Time or the televised coverage of the Dáil sessions. What do you do? Well, if you’re anything like me, you switch channels as quickly as your tired surfing-thumb will allow and thank your lucky stars you didn’t see anything that might have polluted your delicate artistic mind.

Now, how did these two scenarios make you feel? Again, if you’re anything like me the answers are ‘elated’ and ‘detached’, respectively. Music and politics: subjects at opposite ends of the social spectrum, diametrically opposed belief systems, freedom versus control, lifestyles never to be mixed. Or are they?

As long as there has been political intrigue, there has been music supporting, condemning or ridiculing it. But how do we feel about musicians crossing the boundary from entertainer to politician, or at least to political commentator? After all, the politicians rarely cross the line in the opposite direction, with the exception of Bill Clinton, who was an aficionado of ‘oral sax’ and numerous Irish politicians who, judging by their characters, have never been averse to twanging out the occasional solo tune on the ol’ one-string banjo.

Here’s another thought experiment: think of as many outspoken musical artists as you can. Off you go. Done? OK, even without knowing your age and political views, I bet I can name at least two of those you came up with:

Bob Dylan, Eminem, Joan Baez, Zach de la Rocha, Frank Zappa, Madonna, Bono, The Wolfe Tones, Stiff Little Fingers, Ice-T, The Dixie Chicks, John Lennon, errmm …. Well, there are shitloads more, but you get the idea. Now, let’s take two of these people, Bono and Eminem, and do a little compare and contrast.

Ask twenty U2 fans how they feel about Bono’s outspoken political views and lyrics and you’ll probably get half of them saying he’s a champion of the people and the other half saying they wish he wouldn’t bother and that he should get on with the business of making rock music. Ask twenty Eminem fans the same question and, notwithstanding the obvious demographic differences, most, if not all, of them will say ‘Yeah, he’s bang on.’

So what’s the difference here? Those of us who saw ‘Self Aid’ in 1986 remember the shock, embarrassment and disdain we felt as U2 played ‘Maggie’s Farm’ and Bono fell around the stage, using his microphone lead as a tourniquet as he mimed the act of shooting a syringe full of smack into his arm. ‘He’s lost the plot’, we said, and we prematurely predicted his demise as an Irish rock icon. Yet, we now watch Marshall Mathers lurching around the stage like a demented Quasimodo, spitting vitriol at a world he hates yet has to live in, and we nod our heads in approval—at the message if not the music. What’s going on here?

It’s an honesty thing. We understand someone like Marshall Mathers, for whom politics and the message are his entire raison d’être. He burst onto the scene with an in-your-face delivery and a lyric sheet that reads like the court transcript of a pub argument, and he was political from the get-go. We scoff at the likes of U2, who came from privileged backgrounds and seemed to jump on the political bandwagon to sell a few records. I know it’s a harsh judgement, and anyone who has listened to ‘Boy’ will know that Bono’s political sensibilities were present in his art from the outset, but nonetheless, it is the prevailing attitude. We seem to be mentally categorising politically-outspoken musical artists depending on their backgrounds and adjusting our tolerance levels accordingly. To reinforce this point, go back to your mental list of outspoken musical artists and divide them into ‘always political’ and ‘occasionally political’ camps. You’ll be surprised how your attitude to the members of each differs.

Not since Vietnam have people been more divided politically than they were over the Second Gulf War, or the recent illegal invasion of Iraq, depending on your viewpoint. The fair-weather politicos in the music industry came out of the woodwork like cockroaches, and it became, quite frankly, boring.

“Just so you know, we’re ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas.” So said Natalie Maines, proud Texan and member of The Dixie Chicks, at a concert in London during the invasion. She recanted after stations boycotted their records and 76% of listeners to Atlanta station KICKS 101.5 said they would return their Dixie Chicks CDs if they could. Hmm… ten-out-of-ten for effort, Love, but you certainly won’t make a successful politician with this propensity towards career-destroying public comments.

On the other hand, System of a Down got out in the streets, joined an anti-war protest and released the song “Boom!”—a sensible approach to protest, I have to say. Zach del la Rocha of Rage against the Machine and his ilk, totally vindicated, looked on quietly, shaking their heads and saying ‘I told you so.’

But what happens when politics encroaches on music? The most memorable example of recent times is the infamous PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center), founded by Tipper Gore in reaction to hearing the lyrics to Prince’s “Darling Nikki”, from the album Purple Rain which she had bought for her 12-year-old daughter Karenna. The PMRC claimed that ‘virgin minds’ were being poisoned by “hidden messages and backward masking” but quite how the notion of a sexually self-assured woman ‘masturbating with a magazine’ would poison the mind of any 12-year-old remains a mystery. The PMRC, or ‘The Washington Wives’—so called because their husbands were prominent politicians—appeared before the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science and Transportation on September 19, 1985 with a list of outrageous demands designed to censor the music industry. Every time you see that ‘Parental Advisory’ sticker on an album or wonder why Kerrang TV has specific late-night slots for certain videos, you can thank Tipper Gore and the PMRC. Protecting children or the most blatant contravention of the First Amendment ever seen? The jury’s still out.

But the PMRC didn’t get it all its own way. Frank Zappa and Dee Snider vigorously defended free speech and Zappa famously declared, “Censorship here would be like using decapitation to deal with dandruff.” He went on to warn that censorship “opens the door to an endless parade of moral quality-control programs based on Things Certain Christians Don’t Like. What if the next bunch of Washington Wives demands a large yellow ‘J’ on material written or performed by Jews?”

Now, these are the kinds of musicians we need in politics. Unfortunately, the good guys like Frank and Sonny Bono seem to die off prematurely.

Where does that leave us? Well, in exactly the same place we came in: there will always be politics in music and there will always be musicians in politics. It’s our duty to support those who deserve to be there and to ridicule those who don’t.

2003-12-16

The opening chapter of Part II of my forthcoming older children's book 'Tír'

GPS Ground Control Station, Diego Garcia, Indian Ocean.

        “Master Sergeant, there goes another one!” shouted Airman Taylor.
        In the dim control room, the glow of the computer screen threw deep shadows across his face.
        The Master Sergeant’s head snapped up from his console.
        “Report.”
        Taylor looked frightened.
        “Another satellite has disappeared, Sir.”
        The Master Sergeant crossed to Taylor’s station and peered over his shoulder. Taking in the information on the display, he picked up the phone handset beside Taylor’s keyboard and punched in a number.
        “This is Steinmetz at Diego Garcia. We’ve lost signal from three GPS birds in the past fifteen minutes. We’re running … hold on.”
        Taylor was gesturing to the screen and holding up four fingers. Steinmetz raised his eyebrows and Taylor nodded.
        “Make that four; all four satellites in orbit-plane C have gone dark. We’re running diagnostics now, but the degradation of accuracy and intel from other ground stations is consistent with shutdown of four birds.”
        The voice on the other end spoke briefly.
        “No sir, we have no idea. Terrorist action is not presumed at this time.”
        Again, Steinmetz listened.
        “No sir, they could not be shut down by a foreign power. We encrypt all the tasking commands. It would have to be done from within our own control systems.”
        The voice barked down the phone again then rang off.
        Over the next two hours, ground-control stations around the world monitored the failure of every satellite in the GPS system.
        The world felt the effect immediately. Airline pilots and ships’ steersmen reported failures in navigation systems. Cellular networks that relied on timing signals from the GPS system collapsed. NATO countries went on high alert and the United States went to DEFCON Three.
        The assumption was that the satellites had shut down. It did not occur to anyone they were physically gone. They presumed such a thing was impossible.
        They presumed wrong.

Goddard Space Flight Centre, Greenbelt, Maryland, USA.
        The ground controllers of the Hubble Space Telescope were the first to see the strange craft. When the first GPS satellites had gone offline, the US Air Force had requested the telescope be re-tasked to look in the direction of the failed birds.
        Dr James King and a few colleagues were huddled around a cluster of computer monitors, examining the area of space where they expected the GPS satellites to be. A US Air Force Major stood behind them.
        “Wait a minute,” said someone. “What’s that?”
        There was an object near one of the GPS satellites. It might have been an optical glitch until it shifted slightly and glinted in reflected earthlight. King zoomed the telescope in for a closer look.
        It was a spacecraft.
        From a distance, it looked like a dark metal disc with gold strips traversing it. They zoomed closer until the craft filled the screen. At first, the image was blurred, then the computers finished their sharpening algorithms and revealed the craft in exquisite detail.
        “No freaking way!” said one of the observers.
        The Major pushed between two civilian scientists and leaned into the screen. As finer images of the craft arrived, the particulars of its construction became clear. None of them could believe what they were seeing.
        “Is that … wood?” asked the Major.
        The craft was constructed of huge planks of timber, treated until pitch black, and overlapping like a clinker-built rowboat. The planks must have come from trees that were in excess of five-hundred metres tall, and the designers had curved and shaped the planks to make a perfect wheel-shaped craft. Along the fascia of every third plank was a strip of bronze embossed with geometric patterns.
        “This is incredible! Look at those symbols,” said Dr King. “They’re all Celtic. That’s a triskelion, and that’s a triquetra.
        “I don’t know what we’re seeing here,” said one of King’s associates, “but I doubt the Irish are sending up flying saucers made of wood – or any other spacecraft for that matter.”
        A snicker went round the group. The Major cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Dr King. King’s eyes flicked back and forth, his mind racing.
        “Well, this is a trick,” said King. “It has to be. Someone’s playing an elaborate practical joke on us.”
        The Major bristled.
        “Our GPS systems are offline, and we have a bogey parked in the same orbit as our satellites – I don’t see any joke here, Doctor.”
        “With respect Major, that’s not what I’m saying. This can’t be real. A wooden spacecraft is not viable, so it’s more likely someone is interlacing these images into the video feed from Hubble.”
        “Yeah? And how do you explain the GPS failures?”
        They were arguing amongst themselves when the Major got his answer.
        “What the hell is that?” said King, pointing at the screen.
        A bubble of energy appeared at the edge of the craft, at first indistinct and almost hidden by King’s finger on the screen. The Major slapped his hand out of the way. In seconds, the bubble elongated and flattened out into a shimmering vertical disc. It looked like a thin film of soapy water in a child’s bubble-blowing loop. The disc moved away from the craft towards the nearest GPS satellite, growing all the time. It intercepted the satellite and scrubbed across it like a cosmic eraser. The satellite and the shimmering disc winked out of existence.
        The Major strode away and reached for a telephone.
        “Did anyone else just see that?” asked King.
        Everyone had, but no one could believe it.
        And then things got stranger.
        As they watched, many portals opened in the edge of the craft, and from each opening protruded a long pole with a flattened blade on the end. Energy fields arced and danced around the blades. In perfect synchronisation, the poles started an elliptical rowing motion. After a brief pause, the craft rowed away smoothly away toward the next satellite.

A poem that forms part of a puzzle, from my forthcoming older children's book 'Tír'

Against the sable backdrop of the night,
The starry actors glide across the stage.
In jewelled costumes sewn with threads of light,
They read their parts, then turn tomorrow’s page.

The earthly audience watches from the dust,
As cosmic players tread Forever’s boards.
Our bearing on our travels we entrust,
To these bejewelled heroes of the Gods.

The Hunter leads the lambent stellar ranks;
His faithful Dogs attending his foray.
His hunting grounds are Danu’s fertile banks;
The Unicorn and Hare his timeless prey.

The Hunter tempers Man’s conceited traits,
And teaches him the limit of his worth.
And Man in turn has sought to emulate,
The august Hunter’s works on artless Earth.

And thus on Earth the Hunter can be found,
In structures placed to emulate his form.
Where Vikings and St Patrick came aground,
The Hunter’s shape conceals a secret door.

Prone, he spans the village like a plan,
From which the ancient builders drew their schemes.
They plotted out his measure on the land,
And placed their covert lodges at his limbs.

Three hallowed houses sit along his belt.
His sword affords a haven from the seas.
His shoulders rest up high along the hills.
His head is where they hid the secret keys.

Above a lofty crag, a Regal keep
surmounts a grotto hid by time and tide,
wherein the keys are placed to then reveal
the secret door that’s hidden Saiph inside.

Geek Humour

Putative designs for geek T-Shirts.

"If there's no chance of a fsck, I'd settle for a cron job ..."


"fsck you and the host you route in on."

Chris Eubank

Chris Eubank was wandering around Brighton one day repeating "Fee Fi Fo, Fee Fo Fi Fo" over and over. A bloke walked up to him and said: "What's up Chris? You practising your lines for Jack and the Beanstalk?" "No," said Chris, "I'm memorising my mobile number."

Spoonerism

Uproar in the office this lunchtime as one of the girls spoonerises 'Barefoot Contessa' as 'Barecunt Fontessa.' Hilarity ensues.

Lie about how you met me.

One of my good friends, Gavan, recently put up an interesting and amusing post on Facebook. It went like this:

I would like my FB friends to comment on this status, sharing how you met me. But I want you to LIE. That's right, just make it up. After you comment, copy this to your status, so I can do the same. I bet half won't read the instructions right.

This was my response:


It was the Agency's second black ops mission in the border areas. When it all went south we had to be extracted by chopper. I was in a pretty bad way and don't remember much about the flight back to base, but I do remember the cool, steady voice of the chopper pilot telling me to hang in there. I passed out again, but as I faded, I somehow knew, with this guy at the controls, everything was gonna be OK.

I got out of the Agency medical centre six weeks later and found myself out of contract and walking with a cane. The mission had been a success, but I didn't feel much like the hero they said I was.

As I stepped through the tinted doors of the centre into blinding sunshine, I heard his unmistakable voice:

"Hey, Machete - wanna get a beer?"

Limping down the street to the nearest bar, with this guy to whom I owed my life, I felt like I'd made a true friend; not an easy thing when you work for the Agency.

We stepped into the cool interior of the bar. The early-afternoon musk of sour beer and wood polish smelt like coming home.

We sat at a table bathed in sunlight filtered through the stained glass of the bar window and shared our first beers.

Gavan, you served us those beers.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Sportman's Double

One of the Facebook pages I'm a member of; The Redback Tavern in Acton, London, invited me to a spit roast this weekend. Thing is, I don't know that many people in London any more, so I reckon I'd be fairly shy - not to mention it being embarrassing for the girl and the other bloke involved.

Aslan

I just saw Aslan on 'The Podge and Rodge Show' performing 'This Is.' But it was mimed. Initially, I was disappointed, but then I thought - "Hang on; a talking lion! That's fucking awesome!"

I'm glad I remembered to post this.

I have a photographic memory. I just don't have any film at the moment.

Cell Phones

Just saw two mobile phones in the Garda Station wired up to a portable music player. Turns out they're being charged in connection with a stolen iPod.

Definitely Articulate

A Russian ex-girlfriend used to bemoan the use of definite and indefinite articles in English. Russian doesn't have them and she argued they're redundant in English. I countered that they're important to make subtle distinctions, but she pooh-poohed my assertions. Which is just as well, as I was then able to look her straight in the eye and tell her that I quite often got clap in my younger days as a touring musician.

Don't Disturb the Status Quo

Given how uncertain things are at the moment, I think the most important thing is not to disturb the Status Quo. They might wake up and start playing one of their awful songs.

Huge Strides

The clothing industry shows little sign of economic recovery except the Oversize Trousers Factory where they are making huge strides.

Poppycock

Rumours abound that heroin addicts who can't locate a vein have taken to rubbing it under their foreskins, but I think it's poppycock.

Radio Feature Piece

This is a piece I wrote and narrated for the radio recently.

Peaceful Japanese Music

The heavy wood of the door booms as it closes behind me.
Crisp air draws me shivering into the courtyard and nips at my face. This time of morning, you feel you have the world to yourself.

* PAUSE *

Dawn-frosted gravel glitters and grumbles under my boots as I make the long walk to the iron gate. Over the meadow, a damp mist haunts the trees along the river. The rising sun, faint through the haze, gives no warmth, and my skin fancies it can feel the cold of my armour.

My gut feels twisted. The physician's infernal medicine sits in there like a stone.

* PAUSE *

My warhorse, Blade, waits for me outside the gates and I mount, checking my armour and tightening the strap on my helmet. As I lower the faceplate, I look back through the gates and the courtyard to the carved wooden door of my home.
A single question hangs in my mind:
Will I ever see it again?


* PAUSE *

We stop at the edge of my clan's property and I steel myself. I'm facing a lethal battle; a tradition; a rite of passage in our culture.
It is The Great Rush.

* PAUSE *

I direct Blade into the arena and with a flick of my wrist spur him into action. Other riders and chariots outstrip us until we come up to speed. I join the insane throng and we career along in a random, roiling mass; jostling for position.

The charioteers are the most dangerous participants, and they care little for Riders. Some Riders believe they can compete with the chariots on their own terms. My brother believed this, and he paid the ultimate price:
Two seasons ago, the Man in Black killed my brother, and for two seasons since, I have sought him.

* PAUSE *

Today is not a good day.
Twice I am almost knocked from Blade's saddle, and there is no sign of the Man in Black. I weave through the throng until I sense him ahead. I spur Blade on, and we gain on his chariot.

But my vision is blurring. That damned medicine is making my head spin. I can't continue. I almost make it to the edge of the arena, but a chariot clips Blade and I am thrown from his back. He lies on his side snorting, and as my vision narrows to a point, my last thought is “They've killed my horse.”

* PAUSE *

Then I come to, and everything (short pause – music stops) has changed.

* PAUSE *

(Music changes mood to modern sci-fi / techno.)


Lying on my back, I open my eyes to an expanse of blue dotted with clouds. My vision slides into focus and the largest cloud sharpens into metre-high white letters that say 'M11.'
I get to my feet and take off my helmet. My Honda Fireblade is lying on its side at my feet, engine running but undamaged. The rush-hour traffic pelts by, and despite the chill, I am sweating. I reach into my jacket for a handkerchief and a brown plastic bottle falls from my pocket, spilling its contents. The pill-bottle comes to rest against my boot, the label upwards. “Clozapine,” it says. “Anti-Psychotic Medication. Do not operate machinery or drive a vehicle.”

My knees give out.

* PAUSE *



Hundreds of vehicles go by before I have the courage to lift the bike. My eyes flick over the traffic, picking out the black BMWs. Perhaps one of them contains the hit-and-run driver that killed my brother.

Perhaps I'll never know.

I get back on his bike to continue my journey but, for the life of me, I have no idea where I was going.

An extract from my forthcoming book 'Acts of God'

Chapter 4

For the great Gaels of Ireland
Are the men that God made mad,
For all their wars are merry,
And all their songs are sad.
    G.K. Chesterton, Ballad of the White Horse.


    P.J Rourke was walking home from the pub and making a right bollix of it. Home was only a five-minute stroll from Kavanagh’s bar but he’d already been at it for half an hour. The main street of Annacarran is far too wide to bounce off both sides of it as you stagger along, but P.J was having a damn good crack at it. He sang as he stumbled around in the moonlight, syncopating the erratic metre of his singing with ill-timed hiccoughs. He had already serenaded a post-box with eighteen verses of ‘The Fields of Athenry.’ It only has three verses but that was no hindrance to P.J.

    Encouraged that the post-box hadn’t walked away or hit him, he had put his arm around it and progressed on to ‘The Green Fields of France.’

    “… I see by yar gravestone ya war awnly nineteen …” he bawled tunelessly.

    A bedroom window slid open somewhere above him.

    “Shut up and go home you drunken bollocks; the children are petrified!”

    “… when ya joined da … ah fuck off! (hic!) … great fallen in nineteen-sixteen.”

    He gave the post-box a parting kiss and attempted to continue his meanderings. With some concern, he realised he was leaning against it at such an angle that he had neither the strength nor the coordination to stand up straight and walk away. Summoning a superhuman will, he planted his free hand on the side of the post-box and pushed himself off.

    As with most pursuits attempted under the influence, the results were mixed. As his body came up though the vertical, one half of his brain told the other half it was time to stop the manoeuvre. Predictably, by the time the message had sunk in, gravity had taken hold and he started to topple like a felled tree the other way. At that moment, the primal fear of falling kicked his arms and legs into action and he fell sideways, still on his feet, like a demented disco-dancer, two hundred metres down the pavement. By the time he got himself under control he had made it as far as Byrnes’. All this time ‘The Green Fields of France’ had been playing away in his brain and, as he got his breath, his mouth picked up where his brain left off:

    “… Did dey beat da drum slowly?…” he inquired.

    At this stage an insistent pressure in his bladder started to register on his inebriated brain.

    “… Did dey play da fife lowly?…” he wondered.

    Just as he was about to ask the ghost of Willy McBride if they had played the death march as they’d lowered him down, P.J tripped over Byrnes’ Geranium plant and went arse-over-tit onto the pavement.

    “Bastard!” he spat, as he struggled to his feet. He proceeded to curse the hapless plant, which was now lying on its side for the third time that day. He profaned the Byrnes, their poxy Geranium, all members of the Geraniaceae family and potted plants in general. He attempted to kick the poor thing, missed and fell over backwards again. As he lay there, his bladder gave his brain its second public warning.

    A wicked thought came into P.J’s mind and he picked himself up. Cackling like a moorhen with emphysema, he fumbled his flies open and proceeded to piss like a stallion on the unfortunate Geranium. This doubly-cathartic activity accomplished, he decided he’d better get home before Sharon locked the door.
Eventually he made it to his porch and was attempting to insert the key into a knot in the wood when the door flew open.

    “Where the hell have you been? The pubs have been closed for hours! Was that you roaring out there?”

    “Ah, get outta me way and let me in, woman.”

    Sharon moved aside and P.J fell into the house, landing face-first on the carpet. His muffled voice emanated from the floor:

    “Either I’ve fallen over again or the wind has picked up something fierce!”

    “You’re drunk again. What on earth kept you?”

    He shambled to his feet and unleashed a grin at her that Jack Nicholson would have been proud of.

    “I think I had one too many. Every time I took one step forward, I staggered two steps back. I’d never have made it home only for I turned around to go back to the pub.”

    “Don’t try and sweet talk me, P.J. You know I’ve no sense of humour as far as your drinking’s concerned.”

    The smile drained from his face.

    “You’ve no bleedin’ sense of humour as far as anything’s concerned, you lime-faced oul’ wagon. It’s a good job one of us has or we’d never have gotten married.”

    Sharon slammed the door in reply and started up the stairs. P.J, considerably sobered by the implications of his own last statement, stomped down the hallway and into the kitchen.

    “D’you want a cup of tea?” he called.

    “No, I do not! I’m brushing my teeth for bed.”

    “I’ll be up in a minute.”

    “You will in your eye! You can sleep on the sofa. I’m not having you snoring and breathing alcohol fumes all over me all night.”

    “But the fuckin’ dog sleeps in there.”

    “That’s very thoughtful of you, but he doesn’t mind you snoring.”

    “Jaysus; thanks a lot. Sleepin’ with the fuckin’ dog! Jaysus!”

    “Well you shouldn’t come home so scuttered, should you? Who were you drinking with? That eejit Joe O’Brien, I suppose.”

    “Yeah, him and a few others. Do you know what he told me?”

    “Should I be interested?”

    “Mary O’Toole’s had another vision.”

    Sharon hurtled into the kitchen like a vulture. Her shadow had a hard time keeping up with her.

    “Really? What sort of vision?” she asked, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline.

    “She knows where Fidelma Byrne’s St Anthony is.”

    Sharon deflated. Her eyebrows trudged dejectedly back down her forehead. Old news, she thought.

    “She said it was dropped in the street and handed in at the Garda barracks.”

    This caught Sharon well and truly on the hop.

    “Are you sure that’s what she said?”

    “That’s what Joe told me.”

    “But …” she said.

    “But what?”

    “Nothing.”

    Sharon wandered out of the kitchen and upstairs in a state of utter bewilderment.

    What’s the old biddy up to? She knows damn well it was in the flowerpot or she wouldn’t have sent that other eejit looking for it. So why’s he saying it was handed in to the Guards? Think Sharon, think. She knows everyone will find out it’s not there so why would she say it? Aha! She wants everyone to think she’s a fake, that’s why. She wants to keep her abilities to herself. Well that’s fine by me. Tomorrow I’ll lead the charge to the Garda station and make sure everyone knows the medal’s not there. She’ll think her little scheme has worked. She’ll think even I’ve been thrown off the scent. Oh, this gets better by the minute. I’ll be the only person that knows she is psychic and her guard will be down. Oh Mary, you’re going to make me a fortune and you don’t even know it.

    Sharon got changed and went to bed with intrigue and plots coursing around her brain like endorphins. Downstairs in the living room, P.J was snoring like a foghorn. After a while, Tiny the “Fuckin’ Dog” abandoned the living room in disgust. He scampered upstairs, clattered across the wooden floor on small terrier claws and jumped up onto P.J’s side of the bed.
Presently he too was asleep. As he dreamt his little legs kicked. He’s chasing rabbits again, thought a drowsy Sharon. But Tiny wasn’t chasing rabbits. He was having nightmares about his previous life as a Black-and-Tan.

New Tattoo

Laugh of the week came from my mate in London who rang and said, "I'm getting a new tattoo, and I just wanted to check; it's two Ts in 'Synnott' and one in 'cunt', right?