Up she flew & the cat flattened 'er.

Like a human ferret. A green blur of gnashing teeth and ginger hair. Arms flailing, hat trailing in the wind. Woe betide the divil who would upset the pot o' gold, there's only so much rain the spirits can put up with in the wait for the right rainbow. 'If ya wanna see the rainbow ya gotta' put up with the rain.' Sure what would Dolly Parton know about putting up with the rain, a grand sound byte from the hills of California, or Nashville, or wherever in the blue feck she lays her jabs of an evening. The real danger lies in the leper's corn, 'tis far from the cob they were reared.

A native to the grassier parts of Ireland, (anywhere beyond the pale really), these midgetesque creatures are thought to be reasonably placid, (easily placated by the swig from the uisce bheatha) and fiercely loyal. Often confused with the travelling people, but the two are easy to tell apart, given how the leprechauns eyes don't meet in the middle. Another key difference, if somewhat circumstantial, is that the leprechauns don't exist. Well at least not in the traditional sense. What does exist is a more dangerous breed of ferret like human form, with the same penchant for wealth and a less egalitarian way of acquiring it. These creatures can be found roaming freely up and down the island, wearing suits and sitting behind brass desks in offices that claim to have the best interests of the people at heart. Another of the ilk is masquerading as Taoiseach, though seemingly under the guise of a cow.

Moo-cow

 Following a previous post lamenting the mother-ship, I felt it about time to lambast it for the sake of it. Not that there'll be an over-indulgence in the welts, but feck it: there's little to no point in pretending that it's all hunky-dory. I'm as eager as the next man to believe that it was Ireland Plato spoke of when he referred to the lost island of Atlantis, and the idea of the sunken island was actually a reference to the island Dogger Bank, that sank many's the moon ago. Besides, I read about it in the National Geographic so it must be true. I'm also a realist though, much to my continuing dismay, and though the far away hills are always greener, it's a good idea every now & again to remind the self of the reasoning behind the choices that were taken to up sticks and skip away from Róisín.

Biffo

'Romantic Ireland's with O'Leary in the grave,' to give W.B. his dues, except perhaps in pockets yet untamed by the free-market open-economy in scattered nooks along the west coast. The artists lament and sing about a land that no longer exists. Instead what is left is a proto-type of the globalist's dream, the carcuss of a Tiger that the likes of yon spanner Eddie Hobbes surmised would always roar. It's only struck me now the link between the tiger and Hobbes, perhaps the genius of Bill Watterson's Calvin & Hobbes cartoon mocked Ireland prophetically. Moving swiftly on.

We were given a vote as to whether we wanted to transfer our sovereignty to a European superstate and decided against it. When the people spoke, they were told to speak again, yiz ticked the wrong box last time lads, but sure not to worry, we'll run it again. This time don't fuck it up. So they rolled out the media machine, the taxpayers paid for the vote yes pamphlets and the no brigade were stigmatised as a degenerate band of socialists, shinners and the ill-informed. 'Yes to Lisbon, Yes to Jobs', came the rhetoric, as they coaxed the trinity rich kids out on to the streets in gaudy t-shirts and a sense of do-goodery that'd make Mother Theresa spew chunks into her hanky.

A quick synopsis of the situation post-Lisbon 2 makes for interesting reading. An estimated 70,000 people have emigrated since October '09, as a recent Irish times article that debates the accuracy of the figures points out. If anything I'd say it's a conservative figure. Anyone with half an ear open can't help but notice that the conversation in small towns up and down the country speaks of another plane load of natives heading for Australia or whichever way the wind is blowing at the time. In my own case I fancied something entirely different and it suited my wish to see the world that I wasn't held down by some trivial job, but in reality, there was nothing there to stay for, which is a scary thought. Coupling the guesstimation of the 70,000 emigrated with the increase in live register figures clearly points to a lie in the government's line of electioneering. A deliberate campaign of misinformation that is somehow considered as acceptable and above board. I'd go into the NAMA fiasco but I'd be here all night. What I will say is that the estimated 70+ billion that the taxpayers are contributing to the privately owned corporations, (something along the lines of 18,750euro per man woman and child of Ireland's approximate 4 million inhabitants), is at best an outrageous misappropriation of public funds, and at worst outright theft bordering on large scale fraud.

The crux of this is that there's an over-riding emphasis on the capitalist dream in the upper echelons of Irish society. Those who surfed the wave of credit and refuse to let go of their boards now that it's collapsed. The reality is that the rest of the island is up shit creek without a paddle, and generations to come will be left to foot the bill for the crimes they committed, yet nobody is being held to account. They couldn't have seen it coming. Despite the knowledge that 40% of the Tiger economy's workforce were employed in the construction sector, they couldn't see a day when the market saturated and came a-tumbling. I find that incredibly difficult to believe.

In truth, if everybody on the island were to default on loans, mortgages, credit cards and a.n. other bank repayment, the whole system would come crashing quickly down to a new starting point. If the 70 billion that the government are currently throwing off the Cliffs of Moher was used to install a renewable energy system that had the potential to keep Ireland self-sustainable for the foreseeable future, communities could regroup in a shorter time than will be possible when the inevitable eventually catches up. 'm all for a monetary structure, you give me a goat and I'll give you two sheep but I don't have two sheep so I'll give you this which is the equivalent of the same thing, but a system of credit is based on thin air and stripped bare is no more than a constructed illusion to maintain social division. I miss the Punt, at least with our own currency there remained the potential for Ireland to exist as a separate standing socialist nation independent from the European Union, with community gardening schemes and a return to a system based on reality. Perhaps utopian or what not, and with all manner of difficulties to be overcome, but surely a preferable notion than ploughing headlong into the cataclysm of governence by the IMF.

dongA.com

It was one of two things. Either the young fella in the shop was extremely polite, courteous and well intentioned in saying 'Excuse me, but are you aware that the new edition of this fine & upstanding Korean broadsheet will be in stock in a matter of hours?' or he was being honest, and asked me the Korean equivalent of 'What the f*ck you up to lad? You can just about manage to wing it with the formalities when you're in here buyin' water so where you off to tryina read the rags, EH?' I was about to tell him that I'd been down to the local bookstore to find the latest in popular Korean literature but to my dismay found it was shut. Then I realised my conversational skills stopped at the greeting stage and said 'Learning,' bowing graciously as I whacked the umbrella up in the shop to add to the surrealism of what must have struck him as some piece of performance art.

They don't get surrealism here, he notices, careful to tar them all with the one brush lest any escape gross stereotyping. I haven't checked the records for the Monty Python films box-office receipts in Korea, but I wouldn't estimate them to have broken records. Slight language issues (dub dee dub dub) but otherwise the sight of a supposed witch on a scales with a duck would leave most Koreans breaking out in a cold sweat, if sweating was something they do, which even in humidity of somewhere off the 100% scale, none of them appear capable of. This tarring thing is mighty craic, or not.

The surrealism thing is sure to find flaw in the stereotype, different folks and all that. The sweating thing I stand by. It's really bizarre. There's mise, in all my glory, strolling down the road in the blistering heat & 100%+ humidity factor. You'll know it's me by the river, sourcing from my pits and diving into any nook along the path, tidal at the height of the afternoon sun, lapsing to a steady stream in the dead heat of the night. I'd say I make for a seriously attractive sight next to the Koreans, casually sauntering along, pits drier than a devout nun in the Gobi desert.

Speaking of the surrealist thing, there's something I can't help but notice every time I stick me head out the window of the apartment. On top of a 40 odd storey apartment block in the distance there seems to be a deckchair the size of the average Korean house. Probably bigger, (these cows are small, those cows are far away etc...) I'm not sure if it is a deckchair, but its shape is certainly in keeping with the theory. Why or how one would fashion a deckchair of such magnitude and then proceed to stick it there is anybody's guess. My guess is that some smart-arse heard about my arrival and thought it amusing to play tricks with my head. I'll find out at some stage, might have to do a bit of rooting into the matter, but barring that once I get a camera next week I'll come back to this post and stick a picture up to illustrate it better than my words are fit to do.

Anyway, enough already. I'm off to read the paper.

Typhoon Kompasu & the Curse of the Stringed Tea Bag.

Those who know me reasonably well will be aware that my natural habitat is shared with a kettle. I've always been a good man with a spoon, a drop of cow juice and a tea bag. None of this sugar in tea nonsense. I don't understand the mentality behind that, though it wouldn't be the first time I'd failed to understand the workings of another's mind. It isn't that I dislike people who take sugar in their tea, merely that I believe they would benefit from psychological assessment and a short stint somewhere with extra padding on the walls. But enough of this preferential lark, it's not about that. There's been two things that have concerned me over the course of the last few days; the imminence of a hefty lump of a hurricane sweeping its way across the country, and Twining's English Breakfast Tea.

There's something very English about the tea in question, besides the title. Every bag is deliberately awkward. I'd hasten to guess that the Queen herself is awoken to the brew, though with no knowledge of the poncing that's gone on from leaf to bag to box. It's a lovely sup, don't get me wrong. As fine a beverage here as I'm yet to drink, and there was a part of me that was delighted to find it on sale in the locale. It's just the packaging that riles me. I'm all about the how many tea bags can ya' wedge in a box mentality. The bags in question are individually wrapped, with packaging enough to provide the average slum dweller with sufficient material to roof their shack. Were it water-proof of course. It's a wonder they haven't made the leap to cast iron tea bag casings, push the frivolity boat right out there. It's probably in the marketing stage. Images of the Bronte sisters knitting the packaging for the tea bags refuse to leave my mind, while the gentlemen of the estate prepare the hounds for the hunt and the umpire's call for 'new balls please' skims across the lake from the tennis courts. Spiffing.

 Exhibit A: Potentially stoned chav models packaged tea bag

After the two (unnecessary) seconds it takes to unwrap the bag, the real crux of the issue unfurls: the string. I've always held a fondness for the idea of the tea bag flick. A process that involves placing the used tea bag on the spoon, holding the base of the spoon between thumb and index finger of the left hand while using the index finger of the right hand for power and direction. This works best in a big room with an optimum distance between the self and the target area, and preferably with a definite goal by which to create a scoring system;

Exhibit B: A rational means of disposing with conventional tea bags

The trouble with the Twining's tea bag is that it appears to encourage a disposal method similar to the traditional hammer throwing in the Olympics. Now I'm not sure how many of you have tuned into the hammer event over the years, but those who have will be aware of the potential for disaster. Multiply that by being indoors, (possibly in your mam's kitchen), the drip factor and the inadequacy of the string to withstand a high revolution and the result should be a fair reflection of why the suggestiveness of Twining's branding should come with its own health warning. Given that the string's meagreness doesn't even lend itself to rope-status enough to be able to generate a decent swing-stir motion in the average mug, there follows the need for a spoon, which invariably gets tangled with the string and can lead to upset.

The hurricane was a tepid enough affair by all accounts. I'd braced myself for the perfect storm, surf-board in tow 40 miles inland just in case the right wave would come along to carry me to India. It was meant to arrive at around midday, but didn't. It took me on the hop and landed around 6am. Twice getting me out of bed to answer the door to the wind knocking on it (I'm on the second floor as far away from the street as is possible in the building) and following a brief stint of looking out the window admiring the power of nature to fling a table straight across my line of vision, I decided against going outside to see where it landed and went back to bed. I found the table when I got up, lodged in the doorway of a neighbour's apartment block down the street but other than that it was as if nothing happened. The council were busy re-erecting the trees that were knocked and the local pizza house scratched its head as to how they'd go about piecing their sign back together. I went back to the working world and my on-going battle with the tea bags.