Tuesday, December 21, 2010

An Irish Christmas Tale

It was Christmas Eve. A soft light entered the room like a tip-toeing sex beast as a winter symphony of snow, throwing itself against the window, distant sleigh bells and the tortured screams of somebody being bottled, played out. The air was filled with festive scents. Mince Pies fresh from the oven sent their delicious aroma around the house like a fast-spreading gas leak, teasing as they did, every sleeping and twitching nose. It wouldn’t be long until Santa arrived thought nobody in particular as they snuggled even closer to their various warm bedfellows. Mum held Dad. Little Jenny held her teddy. Fr Murphy held Bobby. It was night of magic, a night of love and a stern warning to Bobby not to wear a mini-skirt to mass ever again.

The snow was getting heavier as Christmas Eve gave way to Christmas Day. Children slept with smiles on their faces (except maybe Bobby) as they dreamt, imagining they could hear Rudolph trotting about proudly on the roof. Some probably weren’t dreaming, it could indeed have been Rudolph up there, but most likely it was a someone from the bank coming to repossess the house or at the very least, one of their debt stricken parents looking for a good height from which to hang a noose. It was a time of peace, of hope and a stern warning to little Bobby to go a little easy on the eye make-up at the Parish Fair next time.

But of course, for every happy Christmas and every smiling child there are some unhappy Christmases and not very smiley children doing frowns. For every Mince Pie there’s a ‘Bin Pie’, which is just stuff from a bin like old paper and potato peel and there’s usually no pastry, just like soup, but there’s no soup either. For every Rudolph there’s the family dog crudely made up to look like a reindeer and parading around in a dignity crushing attempt to brighten up your sorry little holiday period. And for every Santa there’s no Santa. Children around the country waking up to nothing. No presents, no food, and in Bobby's case, no underpants.

Don’t forget the true spirit of Christmas. Brought to you by Fianna Fail and the Irish Catholic Church.

Merry Christmas.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Snow Hope

Did you know that in Russia and China (and probably loads of other sinister places that we sometimes see popping up on the news between interviews with Brian Lenihan and pictures of empty and decaying housing estates) they do this funny thing with the weather whenever there’s a really special event on; they change it.

It’s true. I know it for a fact cause I read somewhere on the web that China regularly fire some sort of chemical into the sky that actually disperses the clouds and allows them to continue violating human rights in public, without risk of getting a bit wet. I’ll bet Guantanamo Bay has the least precipitation of anywhere in the world too. I mean, when you’re being really unsympathetically buggered by a frothy marine from Omaha, getting your hair wet would literally add too much insult to injury. It’s a well known fact, according to some sketchy internet information I found on some message board somewhere that the Russians developed the stuff in order to ensure military parades and the like went off without even a hint of drizzle. And I’m sure Boris Yeltzin's infamous BBQ’s were equally successful in warding off the inclemency’s of the weather too.

So, despite the resounding evidence that our leaders are barely capable of spelling ‘cloud’, I put it to you, yes you there reading this, that we’ve been engaged in a bit of weather manipulation too. I mean it makes perfect sense, in an Irish way. And, although I haven’t yet thought this through, I reckon there’s precedent in our history as well, which I will come back too after I’ve written this next bit. But yeah, think about the last few months. You don’t need me to tell you, but if you’ve just got off the bus from Roscommon, let’s just say that the country went broke, needed to bailout the banks, took a big huge loan from the EU, IMF and some other nice countries and are now tied almost rigidly to a fixed 5 years of fiscal dictatorship, if you catch my ‘drift’. So, the heat in the kitchen is getting really hot, and the entire country are knocking at the window shouting ‘turn it down, it’s roasting’ and stuff and what’s the best way to deal with that? Yes, you’ve guessed it. Some advanced weather modification. Hence, we’ve all been turned from angry clenched-fisted peasants to grinning snow jockeys, flapping about with snowmen whilst the pricks that ruined the country are getting their passports stamped.

Now, I’m pretty sure that some outside help was required here. I doubt Batt O’Keefe is an expert in weather changing, although I have heard that he once conducted a rain dance in Ballincollig that locals say might have worked 'where it not for the nudity and gross acts of animal bothering’, so I’m pretty sure some top cloud making guru was flown in at great expense and told to produce the snowy goods.

Some people will say the usual ‘isn’t it great to have something to cheer us up’ and ‘with all this negativity, maybe this will help us forget our problems’ and in a way, they’d be total fuckwits for doing so. Forgetting about these problems is the worst thing we can do, we need to remember, because if you forget that you’re broke and finished and the contents of your fridge are worth more than your house you could find yourself in some very embarrassing situations. Like at an auction after bidding and winning on a Picasso or at the till in Tesco with a hundred thousand euro worth of groceries.

It’s snow joke people, it’s snow joke.