Primal Sneeze

Of all the bars in all the world I go to one in particular. The reason is simple – the world is too far away – this bar is nearby. A local local we call Grandad’s. See bar staff are like grandparents – they get lonely and it’s your duty visit them now and again.

There is one other close by but the drink in it should carry a boil notice. Warm, putrid swill. Yet, it has a loyal clientèle. I guess warm, putrid swill is an acquired taste.

So you can imagine my horror when I heard Grandad’s was to close for renovations. I was gutted it was to be gutted.

What were they going to do? Would it become one of those super pubs devoid of character? Would all the memories be erased? Would all the lack of memories be erased?

Complain as we would we regulars had become attached to the little quirks. The door that couldn’t be closed properly. The double light fitting that only ever had one bulb. The radio that crackled. The TV that turned itself on from standby. The ringboard with the 10 hook missing. The floral print bedside lamp that was brought out when someone complained the lighting was poor.

It turns out our fears were unfounded. The new look Grandad’s is impressive. Best of all it has a whole new set of quirks. A door on, not in, a wall that leads nowhere. Lights cluttered in one spot so readers huddle in a tight group. A maze of hallways and doors – a trail of breadcrumbs is advisable.

And of course the same grumpy owner. Passers by dropping in to use the facilities are always curious when asked for their address. And shocked at the response – So the next time I’m passing your house I’ll drop in for a shite too.

They would have been even more shocked on Saturday gone. Luckily Saturday’s band of passers by were rough and tumble (mostly grey haired) AC/DC fans who whipped out camera phones on seeing the facilities.

Click to biggilize

Bryan Mukandi wrote an excellent post about how nascent African states tend to adopt the governmental practices of the former colonial power.

I am not going to expand on what he wrote or on the points made in the lively discussion it spawned – I have said my piece about how Ireland continues to follow Britain’s lead to this day – however it does remind me of the story of the new African country who, while implementing their version of the British statute book, invited a retired Old Bailey judge to inspect their progress.

The first case he observed was of a man accused of adultery with no less than 14 women. The man denied meeting all of these women of the dates mentioned although his alibis were weak to say the least.

The Minister for Justice met with the judge later to hear his report. Excellent overall, said the judge. Just one thing is baffling me – why did your judge and ushers allow that small gentleman to fondle the breasts to the ladies in the gallery? And repeatedly! Such behaviour would not be permitted in a British court of law.

Oh but it is a requirement, said the minister producing a large tome of Old Bailey adultery case reports. See here. It says “each time the accused offered an alibi a little titter ran around the courtroom”.

One of these was acquired recently. It’s the best purchase ever for this lad. No more lifting, hauling or dragging – just wheel him in, clip on the belts and off you go.

Not only that but it’s a dream to drive. It has huge mirrors and the windows are extra large so the visibility is amazing. Surround sound for the eyes.

A bit wobbly in the wind because of the raised roof but you get used to that very quickly.

So, yeah, I concoct excuses to borrow it whenever I can. Wouldn’t you?

The last time I took it out the excuse was a bit ropey – I have to mind Seán and Oisín for a couple of hours and they are insisting on seeing it. Really? That’s funny – one can’t talk and the other can’t tell a car from a van. Well, see, I have this sense they’re insisting. ESP or something. Right, go on so ya big child.

And I went on so.

Two small children and one big child had a whale of a time. I dropped the ramp and let them loose in a wonderland of belts and pulleys. Being able to walk into a car rather than climb was a big thrill.

Even Oisín, who can betimes have legs like a rubber monkey, could dash in and out.

What does this button do?

To demonstrate I attached straps to a tricycle and with a flick of the switch it was pulled gently up the ramp and in.

Again!

This time with Seán on board. Again! Then Oisín.

Two hours passed without a single plea to watch TV. That was a first.

I dropped the van back.

Days later a phone call. Fekin van’s dead. Flat as a pancake. Even the alarm’s dead.

Jump leads did the trick.

Two days later. That fekin van’s dead again!

Jump leads again. And again some days later.

I had left the pulley switch on. The motor had been running constantly for over a week.

Minding kids can drain your battery.

Shortly after mid-day on Saturday the below Tweets showed up on my screen.

So what, you say. Some dude’s sitting in a plane, says thanks and links to a picture. Big deal!

Well it was a big deal.

Here’s the picture Darragh took.

Yep. The picture was taken and the message sent from his phone while making his first parachute jump in aid of the Carelocal charity. (Eh, sponsorship still being accepted)

I can’t say if it was the first ever mid-air Tweet. Pretty sure it was Ireland’s first.

So called Social Media experts take note: It was definitely the ultimate in audience communication.

I am an atheist.

Moreover I class myself as a devout and fundamentalist atheist with a deep hatred of all religion.

That Ireland’s social mores and laws are based on Catholicism has made me so.

I hated having to attend a Catholic run school. But that’s all there was.

When a judge once tried to insist I swear an oath on a copy of the bible I had to fight to be allowed make an affirmation instead and was then to be told by him my evidence would therefore carry less weight.

It angers me that Good Friday is not a public holiday yet schools and State run bodies close. It angers me even more that the State deny this saying some schools and businesses close on that day.

I find it ludicrous that a bookmaker cannot open on Easter Sunday – one of the busiest days of sport in the year; that a public house is compelled to open later and close earlier on St. Patrick’s day; that Met Éireann deemed it fitting last year to forecast that Holy Saturday will remain very cold, with sunny spells and occasional showers; that the State granted €3.5 to a Catholic organisation that aims to promote a deeper understanding of Christian marriage; that the State gave €2.27m to Catholic parents to clothe their children for a religious ceremony.

The above may not bother you as it does me. However you cannot but be appalled – no, sick to the pit of your stomach – that the State would strike a deal whereby the Catholic Church in Ireland would be liable only to the tune of €128m for committing the most heinous crimes against the children of this country while you and I are left to cover the full cost of an estimated €1,300,000,000m. I am not arguing about the money per se, but that such a deal was done at all.

More sickening is that the State claims it cannot legally amend this agreement. Likewise the State claims it legally must enact a blasphemy law as blasphemy is prohibited by the Constitution. A Constitution that begins as follows:

In the Name of the Most Holy Trinity, from Whom is all authority and to Whom, as our final end, all actions both of men and States must be referred,

We, the people of Éire,

Humbly acknowledging all our obligations to our Divine Lord, Jesus Christ, Who sustained our fathers through centuries of trial …

The Irish State hides behind the law to protect and serve the interests of the Catholic Church. And the State ignores the law for the same reason. If a Bill must be passed because the act of blasphemy is against our Constitution then why has the State not yet legislated on the 12th, 13th and 14th amendments that were inserted following on from the X-Case in 1992? Why? Because it would conflict with the Catholic Church’s views.

Since last Wednesday’s publication of the report of the Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse two things have been on my mind.

Firstly, why does the State pander so to the Catholic Church? What hold has the Church got and how? Is the Church privy to some dirty little secret that they are holding over the State – one far more damaging than that revealed about them?

Secondly, is the time right to rip up our Constitution and begin anew? Rid ourselves of the Catholic-biased document drawn up by DeValera, with Archbishop John Charles McQuaid watching over his shoulder, and write a wholly secular one?

There’s to be a wedding in July. A posh affair – she’s not even pregnant.

They’ll make a lovely couple. Good humoured, witty, hard-working and almost mentally stable.

The stag was last weekend. There’s not much to tell. A vow of omertà was taken I’m told.

There was a pre-hen party too. The chicken as the ladies called it.

Planned as a dry run for the real thing, with dry being the keyword. A nice meal, maybe one or two drinks, just maybe mind, a stay overnight at the bride-to-be’s sister’s and a good long old chat.

All went well until the waiter deposited free passes to a newly opened nightclub on the table. Well what were the girls to do? They couldn’t exactly turn down such a generous offer. It would have been plain rude.

They politely accepted the free cocktail too. And shur it was only right to buy a second as a thank you to the club owner. And a third as a thank you very much. And …

… they left at 3am, the main-miss doing so by sliding head first down the stairs, ending between the legs of a doorman and whacking him hard in the groin with her head as she stood up.

Back at the house, well there had to be a wee nightcap, didn’t there? And the nightcap became a night-nightcap. And a night-night-nightcap.

Charades. Charades are always a great idea when you have a half-gallon of assorted spirits swirling around in your belly.

“A movie – one word – the whole thing” and the main-miss stripped down to her thong stretching the elasticated ties over her shoulders.

If that was just the chicken I can’t imagine what the hen will be like. If any reader sees a female Borat impersonator on the streets of Liverpool next weekend let me know.