Resolutions are stoopid...

You know I was going to say that my resolution this year was that I wouldn’t make any resolutions, but then I reckoned that just didn’t sound right.

Instead I’ll just say that New Year’s resolutions are dumb.

Yep, I said it. I know there are people out there wondering about their resolutions for the year ahead and all that – but it really is dumb.

For a start, what is there that you can resolve to do at this time of the year, that you can’t do say in March?

Unless you are talking about taking down the Christmas decorations, not much I reckon.

And still people do it.

Every damn year after year, the start of the New Year has people resolving this, that and the other.

The intentions always appear well meaning enough when you're drunk on New Year's Eve and vowing to quit smoking or whatever, but for many these resolutions don't even last past the first week in January.

There are, for instance, the diets - the stupid diets.

The people who were selling advertising space to companies a few weeks ago trying to get you to buy food and drink you didn’t need, are selling it now to people who claim they have ways of helping you get rid of the holiday excesses.

And they are aided in their mission by the resolutions of people desperate to squeeze into the outfits they've been bought for Christmas and then vowing that they are going to lose weight in the year ahead.

Yep, get to the end of December and we’ll get people insisting that they are either going to stop smoking or go on a diet.

And if you don't believe me just take a look at the ad breaks on telly over the next few weeks and all you will see are diets, diets and more diets – oh yeah and stop smoking ads.

There will be fat free diets, all fat diets, a wee bit of fat diets, a no exercise diet, a three meals a day diet, in fact any kind of diet you want you are sure to be able to find it.

I'm lucky enough not to need a diet (turn me sideways and put my tongue out I could pass for a zip) so I guess I think it’s stupid that people will sit down in the bleak dark days of January and decide that this would be a most opportune time to try to lose weight.

Seriously folks, who thought it would be a good idea to sit down and decide that when the nights are still long and the days miserably short and the weather is miserable and it’s blowing a gale and there is sleet and hail and frost and hailstones and lashing rain – it would be a good time to start walking.

It’s no wonder most of these people give up after a couple of weeks and every night you turn on the weather forecaster they are telling us there is depression blowing in from the west.

And what about people who want to stop smoking. Now that really takes willpower but luckily, if the adverts are to be believed, there are things out there to help people who want to stop.

Nicotine patches for example are one such product, but according to a pal of mine who wanted to stop smoking, they don't really work.

"No matter how tight I rolled them up I couldn't get them to light," he said.

Finally I came up with a plan, which, if you're thinking of giving up the weed, you might want to consider.

Instead of sticking patches to his chest I got him to tape his bank statement to his chest.

How did that work I hear you ask?

Well quite simply....it reminded him that he couldn't afford to smoke!

It's oh so quiet...

Santa doesn't come early to our house any more, so it took an alarm to wake us around 8.30 on Christmas Day.

An alarm, you know that ringy thing.

So we got up and got dressed and went downstairs and put on the kettle and the tv and the girls looked at some of their presents and I think maybe squealed with delight, they certainly didn't stay silent.

They were waiting for their grandad and granny to come before all the gifts were opened, so I lit the fire. The logs lighting fizzed and hissed before they gave out a couple of mighty cracks.

And then, when everybody was finally there, the gift sharing started and paper was being ripped and there was laughing and wowing and omigoding and yehawing and crumpling and tearing and crushing.

All the while the tv was blaring in the background, unnoticed. (Except by me obviously)

Soon it was time for bacon to be sizzling and toast to be popping and there was more talking and laughter.

The girls had got cameras so there was a constant clicking then the phone began buzzing and ringing.

Outside, the ice under the snow crackled and crunched as I walked to start the car and get the engine, first spluttering and then purring.

We drove to my sister's and heard tyres spinning as a car was being pushed from its icy resting place.

There was more ripping and shredding as yet more gifts were unfurled then, as we left heard calling from my nephews who promised to visit later.

We returned home and soon the kitchen was a frenzy of chopping and blending and pots and pans bubbling and boiling.

New CDs meanwhile thundered out tunes before finally it was time to eat.

Yep, time for the chomping and crunching, glasses clinking and crackers cracking and knives and forks clicking and clacking.

Then came the moans and groans of 'stuffed' and 'full up' before the snorts and snores that resonated around the room as, on the Christmas Day movie, Buzz Lightyear yelled at the top of his voice - 'to infinity and beyond.'

As promised, the nephews did come to visit and soon the monopoly board was produced and there was more shouting and laughing as dice was rolled and money slapped on the table.

There was more snoring, sniggering and beer bottles clinking as we sat down to watch 'The Commitments' and soon the kettle was back boiling and cups and plates clattering and turkey sandwiches were being chomped and chewed.

And we went to bed knowing that, if anybody asked about Christmas, our reply would be...

"It was lovely - VERY QUIET."

Happy Christmas

It's Christmas Eve. And, guess what...I have lots to do.

So no big long rambling rant about something or other today.

Instead I'll just take the chance to wish everybody a very Happy Christmas.

I'm sure I'll have plenty to write about over the next few days.

Man shopping day

Tomorrow is the annual man shopping day. Otherwise known as Christmas Eve.

I know there are some people who love the shopping bit of Christmas and who think that it is all part of the build up and fun of it all. They are mostly female.

I did say mostly. I do know a few guys, who actually love shopping, but I’d say for most men it can be a real chore.

That said, I must admit I don’t mind the shopping bit too much (don’t mind is not love) but I do usually have a problem when it comes to that one special gift and that’s where I always get stuck.

I know I’m not the only one either.

I mean why else would there be so many men wandering around helplessly in the shops on Christmas Eve every year?

Over the past few years I’ve kidded myself into thinking that this was a pretty smart thing to do. I mean most people are in so much of a panic in the days before Christmas Eve that the shops are pretty quiet on Christmas Eve.

Except for men that is. Wandering around because all of a sudden at around 3pm some kind of annual survival instinct tells them they need to get themselves into gear and go out and buy something.

Anything.

Sometimes I wish I’d the neck to just find somebody else just to do the shopping I need, but the problem really is that - well you can’t send somebody to get something if you don’t know what you want.

And that is not something I guess that applies only to me if the number of men wandering around on Christmas Eve is anything to go by.

The real problem is that, to be honest, men don’t really know what women want.

In fact…and here’s a hint for all the ladies out there….the best thing you can do is tell us exactly what you want. I mean, exactly.

Men like a woman who'll say, "I'm out of this perfume. ‘(Insert name of perfume here)’ and add - the eight-ounce size (or whatever size).

And then add - you can find it at such and such a shop (name of shop is always a help)…. they're open until 9."

We can handle this.

And we'll gladly even get a decorative gift bag to put the perfume in.

Come to mention it…aren’t those fancy bags are a godsend.

For years I have tried to wrap presents by myself. I’d tear off a huge piece of wrapping paper, fold it and then watch it unfurl as I try to find the start on the sellotape.

In the end it looked as if the present had been wrapped by a blindfolded guest on the generation game. I’d love to just use tin foil – no sellotape needed even, but I don’t think it would go down that well.

At this stage I’ve also come to the conclusion that it is just plain difficult to buy a present for a woman.

I mean – apart from the sense of unease and awkwardness it can sometimes lead to – men generally don’t have a problem buying presents for other men.

All you have to do is find something you'd want for yourself. And buy two of them.

But the same just doesn’t apply when it comes to buying for women.

Which is why I kinda expect another last minute male shopping spree come tomorrow.

If you are a man reading this tonight, chances are I’ll see you in one of the shops.

But hey don’t forget that at least the fancy bags will cut out on the wrapping time and if you forget to get one, well there’s always tin foil…

This is snow good...

I’ve begun to wonder recently how our country might react if there was ever a major emergency. I don’t even know what kind of an emergency I’m talking about here folks, but let’s just go along with the fact that it would be major.

Okay, okay, let’s pretend that President Obama rolled over and instead of hitting the snooze button on the alarm clock he accidently hit that dreaded red button.

Yeah, I know, it’s unlikely that he’d have it on his bedside locker, but hey what if there was a surprise attack in the middle of the night?

Umm, ok so I admit he probably would get up, but let’s pretend and anyway where the button is is not all that important anyway.

The thing is, if there is an emergency, a really difficult and urgent situation and we have to deal with it, you know I’m not really sure how we’d cope.

I say this partly as a result of the widespread panic and mayhem caused by this week’s snowfall across Donegal.

In some places where there were drifts I think it might have even got to three inches deep!

Seriously folks, did you ever see anything quite as ridiculous in all your life as our response to a few wee flakes of snow.

Total gridlock, panic, schools closed, people sent home from work and even people abandoning their cars and walking.

I mean, come on now folks, you know it’s bad when people would actually rather walk than take the car.

And before anybody says – nobody did that this time, well ahem, I know I did.

But how bad was the snow folks?

I know it came down thick and fast for a wee while on Saturday night and it was snowing pretty heavily for a while tonight (Tuesday), but seriously, how bad was it?

Did we get like six or seven inches, or a foot of snow?

No, we didn’t. We got a few inches at most and it would have been great if we’d gone into meltdown because that would have got rid of the problem.

Instead we went into whatever the cold version of meltdown is, freezedown or something like that.

Our response to snow, has got me worried about our potential response to any impending emergencies we might face, but then I looked at our history and realised we have managed big problems before.

Looking back I discovered that while many countries across Europe and indeed the world were engaged in World War II, all we had here was ‘The Emergency.’

A teeny wee country on the edge of Europe, we had decided on a policy of neutrality, a kinda sure we’ll wait and see what way the oul ball bounces before we’d make any commitments one way or another.

Some might say it wasn’t much of a response to a world crisis, but you know at least it looks like it might have been a laid back way of responding.

Compare that to lthe recent absolute panic and come on now folks it was hardly a case of a sneak attack.

I mean it had snowed on Saturday night, it was cold all day on Sunday, the weather forecasters had told us there could and probably would be snow again and there would be frost and fog and, well more snow.

This was not something that should have come as a surprise.

But it seems like it did.

People were jamming the lines on Highland radio complaining that their road wasn’t gritted and that they pay road tax too as yer man in the King and I said etc etc etc...

All in all our response to snow is pretty dismal, I mean if you cast your mind back to the start of the year we had the hilarious situation where dammit even the snowploughs got stuck.

Oh yeah, but not in the snow folks…they got stuck in the traffic stuck in the snow!

All in all you know I think it’s pretty okay for me to be worried.

Than again I guess if Mr. Obama accidentally did hit that button we’d just declare another ‘emergency.’

One of the great mysteries

I’m delighted that we have a dryer. I mean in weather like this what use is it having a clothes line unless you are one of those people who like to use starch on the collar of your shirt.

Hang it out on the line any of these nights and you are sure to have a nice crisp shirt. Freezin' of course and useless for wearing, but crisp nonetheless.

All this brings me in a kinda roundabout way back to the dryer. It’s been making a rare noise this last while and I’m afraid it might pack in at the most inopportune moment, which, by the way is any time now.

You see I have experienced a dryer deciding it would not work once before and I have to admit it did not go down too well in our house. After all, well it dries stuff doesn’t it and it’s not nice putting on wet clothes.

I mean even those Olympic swimmers put on dry clothes before they jump into the water, but I suppose in their case it wouldn’t matter.

That said the last time our dryer packed in, I realised that by having a quick poke around its insides I might be able to solve one of the big questions of all times - where do all those missing socks go after they are washed?

I was about to embark on this great quest until I saw the wee sticker saying that you shouldn’t look inside unless you were a suitably qualified person and that was that.

The flashback of the old black and white remote television came back to haunt me and I thought I’d best leave it alone.

But I was curious now and even though I couldn’t get the answer by taking the machine apart I was certain there had to be an answer out there for this great puzzle.

And so I began my hours of painstaking research in the hope that I might actually stumble upon the answer.

I knew that the mystery has existed for ages but was convinced there still must be a logical reason for it and, I have to admit it, I came up with a conspiracy theory.

Yes folks I decided that the whole missing sock thing was a huge conspiracy thought up by the big companies who make washing machines and dryers.

My reasoning was this.

It’s not that often that people will go out and buy a washing machine or a dryer. In fact once that initial purchase has been made, most people won’t buy a new one until their machine packs up for good.

So, while it might be expensive enough at the start, people get lots of years from their machines, and all that means the companies don’t have as many sales as they might hope.

Of course that means they have don’t have to make all that many machines, so they have to find other stuff to keep their workers busy.

And that’s where the socks come in.

A global trade secret agreement between the different manufacturers means all the machines are programmed to suck socks out into a huge vacuum where they are passed on to the factory floor and then paired with a matching sock sucked from somewhere else.

And, since they are clean, they can then be sold.

And the companies who don’t sell many machines will be happy because people will be buying lots of socks, because well, there always seems to be ones going missing in the wash!

I thought I’d cracked it at that until I started thinking back to pre-washing machine times.

I mean look at all those old western films with Indians in them and you’ll see they weren’t wearing any socks.

And I reckon it’s probably not because there were no socks invented – just more likely they could never find a pair that matched.

For the cowboys it didn’t matter if they matched or not, after all who was gonna see ‘em through those big boots?

But that put a big hole in my conspiracy theory and I had to back to the drawing board. (Before drawing boards were invented what did people go back to…mmm)

Anyway, I decided if it wasn’t the fault of the machine then it quite simply had to be the socks themselves and that is when it hit me.

Of course it had to be the socks, I mean all the other bits of clothing are just that, bits of clothing.

But socks are different I mean they’ve got soles haven’t they?

And I reckon that it just gets to a stage where they get fed up with being trampled on all day and decide to make a break for it to the great big sock heaven that must be out there somewhere.

So why, if it is such a great place, doesn’t its mate go at the same time then, I hear you ask?

Quite simple really…

Some socks are just odd, aren’t they…

Things I learned today

It’s easier to wake up for snow than for work.

My memory still works fine.

I still remember what it feels like to wake up for work.

You can never find your hat and gloves when you need them.

That’s even if you are sure you had them just yesterday.

Photography is more than just point and shoot.

If you have an expensive camera, read the manual and find out about compensating for whiteness – like snow.

Do that even if it's not an expensive camera!

Oh yeah, and charge the damn batteries every once in a while too.

Even if they say on the label they are waterproof, if your boots only cost €15 they are probably not waterproof.

Water will still get to your toes even if you wear two pairs of socks.

Walking somewhere in the snow only seems fun until somebody drives past and covers you in slush.

Somebody will always drive by and cover you in slush.

If you are walking with your family – you will be the only one covered.

They will pretend not to laugh – but if you turn around really quickly you will catch them.

Two cups of tea and one bun costs over €6.

That’s way too much – even if your nephew pays!

Tea tastes better when you haven’t paid for it.

Even if you’ve heard them loads of times before, St. Eunan’s Youth Choir are great.

Even if the sun does come out for a while during the day, it doesn’t melt all the snow.

It’s hard to clear snow away using an ordinary shovel.

It’s easier going to bed when its snowy outside knowing you don’t have to get up at 6am for work! 

Oh Deer!

Hot on the heels of the an interview with Chris Mystery, this blog has at no expense whatsoever, dreamt up a reason for coming up with an interview with one of the most famous Christmas characters of them all – Rudolph the red nosed reindeer.

Yes folks, in an exclusive interview for ‘A Drop of Porter,’ Rudolph has confirmed that he not only is from Donegal, but that also many of Santa’s reindeer have in fact, strong connections with the county and the Inishowen peninsula in particular.

“Well duh, it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that a peninsula with places called ‘Isle of Doe’ and ‘Fawn’ would have strong reindeer connections now would it,” he said.

Oh yes, I can also reveal that unfortunately despite all the songs and the nice wee cards and things, Rudolph is a little bit of a pompous assh**e and it would appear as if the fame has gone to his head.

If you don’t believe me about the fame thing, try reciting the names of all of Santa’s other reindeer in your head right now.

It should take you no longer than six seconds unless like me you had to use Google because you could remember four of them but not all eight.

And don’t forget these are the reindeer who pull Santa’s sleigh every Christmas eve that isn’t foggy – and that by the way is most of them.

You know, I don’t normally think of myself as spiteful, but if I was left to do all the work most of the time, yet somebody else continued to be getting all the plaudits and the rewards for it, I might have a few names I’d like to call him too.

And that’s doubly true when you consider these other deer had to undergo years of meticulous training and hundreds of flying lessons, but as soon as there is a little fog, Santa turns to this guy, who it now turns out is ‘elf-taught’ to lead his team.

“Yep, I’m the leader of the pack now,” says Rudolph, adding that as leader he gets to choose the music for the journey any Christmas Eve he goes, and usually kicks it off with that one just to rub it in.

However it would seem as if most of the brightness he has is in his nose and not in his head, because we all know that a pack is not the collective noun for a group of reindeer.

The answer to that of course is (less than six seconds again folks unless you need google!) a herd (at least that’s what I think…although there are possible a few others).

Asked what he does for the rest of the year and indeed on the many Christmas eves when he isn’t needed to guide Santa’s sleigh, Rudolph explains that he keeps busy with celebrity appearances.

Speaking through an interpreter (I don’t speak deer), he says: “I’m a celebrity now, the most famous reindeer of all so I’m always in demand for things like stag parties and what not.”

Before we get through the interview however, we are interrupted by a big female deer who apparently is Comet’s girlfriend and who is not afraid to hold back on what she thinks about Rudolph being interviewed and getting even more of the limelight.

The deer’s name is Olive and right then the famous song became much clearer and took on an entirely different meaning for me… “Olive the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names.”

She told me a few home truths about the lazy shiny-nosed boy and politely asked if I would stop the interview with ‘Olph.’

After what I heard, I decided that would be a good idea, then I remembered what she’d called him.

“Olph,” I said, “Why did you just call him Olph?”

“Oh,” she answered, “Around here, everybody knows that he’s rude!”

Oh the weather outside is frightful...

Apparently we might have a white Christmas. Although it seems like we won't have one until 2012 if the predictions of a long range forecaster is anything to go by even if it has been freezin' for the past few nights and we have had a few flakes of snow

That would be a pity I love snow. 

It’s so white and clean and crisp and when the first snow falls every year I can stand fascinated for ages watching the snowflakes drift lazily to the ground. I guess some people are easily amused.

Of course when I say when the first snow falls I mean when snow falls at all. I mean it’s not like it happens a lot over the course of the year.

I remember when it happened last way back in January (I think) and when my girls called to say it had started snowing I stood at the window watching the snowflakes fall to the ground with a contented look on my face.

Umm did I say contented, I actually meant smug (more on that later). 

And did I say I love snow? I think maybe that should have been I hate the stuff.

Well okay, maybe not hate the stuff, but let’s just say I have been able to see through all that dazzling whiteness and am no longer taken in by it all.

For a start, and I’m not sure how many people out there have noticed this – when it snows it is usually damn cold.

Now if  I have to state a preference, I’d say I’m a temperature somewhere in the middle kinda guy, but if the choices were simply cold or warm, I think I’ll go for the warm every time.

I like my shower water to be warm, my coffee to be warm, the car to be warm, I really don’t do the whole cold thing that well at all.

Indeed I have been known to trek away to foreign climes in search of increased heat, but have never gone deliberately seeking out the cold.

But don’t get me wrong, snow is lovely if you have a great roaring fire on and you can sit in and look out at it falling to the ground and know that you don’t have to try and go anywhere until it has all melted away again.

Yes it’s lovely to look at for a while but most people know that when it snows we’re going to have to venture out into the big bad world through this crisp cold covering.

And there’s the thing you see. If it was just cold you could probably wrap up and try to ignore it, but it’s slippery too and maybe you didn’t know this, but that can be dangerous.

Which is why when the weather forecast tonight was suggesting temperatures as low as minus six and possible snow showers, I slapped the tv twice to make sure it wasn’t broken (come on now how many times do we get minus six?) and then promptly set about to put salt on my driveway.

That was not something that met with universal approval in my household and my girls looked at me as if I were some kind of monster as I scattered salt all over the driveway, but hey they don't have to try to drive on it.

I think they also probably recall that time last January when, salting done, I stood at the window as soon as I heard of the first fall with the look of an evil genius on my face watching for the first flakes landing on the driveway and wondering when they'd realise it was all a trap.

I stood there watching and ringing out my evil genius laugh ‘waaaah haaah haaah haaah...’

Well I would have, had I not been dragged out the back to throw snowballs and help make a snowman.

We must have been out for a couple of hours and it was great craic altogether...

I do hope we have a white Christmas. Man I love snow...

Dish one’s for you...

When I was growing up, washing the dishes was a chore that I’d try to avoid if at all possible. After all in a large family like mine there were often enough plates and cups and glasses and stuff to keep a small team of people in work for half a day, which is why I think I love my dishwasher so much.

I was tempted to throw in the line here ‘and I’ve been married to her for sixteen years now,’ but figured that if I did there might be no blog tomorrow due to maybe broken fingers and/or my eating my dinner through a straw.

So I didn’t add that line in, you didn’t read it above up there and we’ll just move on now...okay!

Dishwashers are class. I mean they take all that hassle out of having plates and cups and stuff stacked up in the sink or beside the sink, or wherever you put the stuff you need to wash if you don’t have a dishwasher.

Personally, I am a stack them beside the sink man. If you’re not going to wash them right away, put them there until you are ready to wash them, put them in the sink when you wash them and take them out. Then, dry them and put them away.

It seems pretty logical to me, because while the dirty dishes are stacked beside the sink until such time as they are going to be washed, the sink itself is free and available for use.

But I know there are many people who like to put their dirty dishes in the sink and just leave them there, probably in the hope that some other fool will come along and wash the darn things.

But they don’t. Usually people just use the sink over and over again, until it is half filled with water and dirty dishes and bits of floating food going mouldy.

Which is why dishwashers are class. Because you can just open the door, throw the dirty dishes in and that whole unsightly mess is outta sight.

Well that’s what I’d like to think, but apparently the ‘what to do with the dishes before they are washed thing,’ exists for the dishwasher too.

For one thing there are people who rinse their dishes before they put them in the dishwasher. In fact there are some people who darn near wash them completely that it defeats the purpose of actually having a dishwasher at all. According to the manual for my dishwasher it is not necessary to rinse stuff before you put it in. The dishwasher has a setting for this called pre-wash which adequately takes care of this little chore. But nope, some people insist that the stuff still needs to see the sink before it can get into the dishwasher.

Which kinda makes me wonder if the dishwasher had feelings...would they be hurt?

I mean come on now, by doing that are you not kinda suggesting that ole dishwasher, you know the guy you paid hundreds of euro for, is not really up to the job.

I can just imagine the late night conversations with the other appliances, umm like the toaster.

“Well, do they put the bread under the grill for a few minutes before they use you do they? Nope, but all I do is heat the dishes up to, like a really high temperature, and drive the price of their electricity bill up. It’s so depressing.”

Rinsed or not apparently there are right and wrong ways to put the stuff into the dishwasher as well.

In fact it would seem that those little wire rack thingys inside the dishwasher all have specific purposes and that’s the only way the dishwasher should be loaded.

What I’m saying I guess is - that my way – which is if there is a space at all for one more thing like even a mug squeezed in between the plates on their rack, is apparently just wrong.

It’s wrong because that’s not way that the manual says things are to be loaded.

Still I dunno. Surely as long as the dishes come back out clean surely it doesn’t matter what way they go in?

And then of course there are the pots and pans.

When I was younger I used to wash and dry the dishes as quickly as I could, put them away and try to conveniently forget about the pots and pans.

Then, when they were spotted afterwards I’d say I did all the rest and somebody else would have to do them.

But there are people who think that pots and pans shouldn’t go in the dishwasher.

Why the hell not?

I mean if I’m going to have a machine help me wash the dishes I want it to wash all of the horrible greasy slimy things that I hate washing.

Even if it does mean I have to wedge them on to the plate rack at the bottom... 

It’s a rip-off I tell ya…

You know to be honest I could never quite figure out the whole idea behind gift-wrapping. I mean let’s face it folks it is kind of a rip off, if you pardon the pun which by the way was most deliberately intended (aren’t they always in this blog)

I kinda got to thinking about this whole gift-wrapping thing this week as I struggled with the first of the presents.

Now I must admit that if I was any good at wrapping presents then maybe these kind of thoughts would never even cross my mind, but since I’m woeful at it (and that’s about the best I can say) then I reckon it’s fair game to question this practice

I mean, come on folks isn’t there something just plain wasteful about buying a sheet of paper (or several sheets if you have somebody like me wrapping) costing, well I dunno what they cost, but let’s suffice to say that it’s a lot.

And that’s especially when you consider that it’s just a piece of paper…and then after spending so much time seeing it just ripped off and thrown in the bin.

It doesn’t matter how pretty the paper is, it just gets discarded and tossed away in the haste to see the goodies inside.

Which, by the way is one of the arguments I have used as to why there shouldn’t be a lot of thought put into the whole wrapping process.

After all why go to such lengths to wrap up something all neat and tidy when the paper is going to be ripped off in half a nanosecond anyway.

Apparently it’s all to do with appearances and stuff – presents apparently look more appealing when they are well wrapped.

I’m not sure I agree with that either though, although I have long since given up that argument in my house.

My thinking on this is well… presents might look more appealing if they are all wrapped up fancy-dancy with bows n stuff, but what use is that?

I mean its what’s under the wrapper that counts, isn’t it?

I know I’d far rather get something I really like wrapped up in say an old newspaper, than a fancy-dancy wrapped up box with something inside it that I hate.

However none of that helped me today as I tried to get on with the job in hand.

In the end I even had to enlist some assistants and so with one of my girls to hold her finger on the paper (I don’t know why she had to do that, but she said she did when she helped her mammy wrap presents) and another girl to hold the cut pieces of sellotape (that soon became one big ball of sellotape) we proceeded with just a few minor difficulties.

One difficulty for instance was that the piece of paper that I cut from the roll, no longer wrapped itself all the way around the box I was trying to cover. I was pretty sure it should have after I’d decided on how much I’d cut using skill and wisdom accumulated over the years.

Which obviously didn’t amount to very much. But hey at least I knew to save that piece in case it would be of use for a smaller present – or for me to patch up some botched piece or other.

In the end it all got so frustrating that I decided to phone a friend who I believed would be good at this kinda stuff.

When she told me that I needed to talk in really bad rhyme, wear trousers that were too big and falling off my ass, lots of gold chains and a baseball cap and keep pushing my hands out in front of me a lot saying Aha, aha every now and then, I figured she had got mixed up in the type of wrapping I was talking about.

In the end I decided to just wing it and cut another piece of paper, then used the first piece to patch a piece that I accidentally tore while folding a corner and decided that it would be grand anyway since the paper would just be ripped off by the recipient in anticipation of what was inside.

But this evening I think I did notice a wee grimace of disapproval from my better half (who is the recipient and just didn’t know it yet) and who is a dab hand at the fancy-dancy wrapping.

In fact she was going to insist on taking the paper off and wrapping it all nice and neat, so in the end I had to tell her that it was hers and she wasn’t allowed to rip the paper off before Christmas Day.

As a compromise she agreed that she could at least push it way back behind the tree so as not to interfere with the look of the lovely fancy-dancy wrapped presents that she has ready for delivery.

Next year I think I’ll buy one of those gift boxes…

Seasons Eatings…

(To the tune of O Holy Night)

 

Christmas delights – the sweety papers shining

This is the night when we eat for all we’re worth.

 

On biscuits and cakes and chocolate we are dining

Until we burst or our waists are twice its girth.

 

We cannot cope, there are so many choices

Turkey and ham and carrots, spuds and corn.

 

Ball made of cheese! Ignore those inner voices.

Alright be a swine, and eat and eat until the morn.

 

Green light to bite, green light, green light to bite.

 

Some think its right to have their veg in steaming

But Brussels Sprouts they really should be banned!

Eat all the after eights and people will be screaming

Though not as much if you bought the Asda brand.

 

The turkey wings don’t seem to pose much danger

And maybe not if that’s where eating ends

We can’t help the greed, when we’re sweet tin exchangers

 

Behold eat everything, and watch your ass extend

Behold eat everything, and watch your ass extend! 

What the **** ???

Over the past week I’ve been wondering what the F*** parliamentary language is.

You see, thanks to that outburst in the Dail by Green Party TD Paul Gogarty, I think that I now have a pretty good idea of what unparliamentary language is. But what the F*** is parliamentary language?

For those of you who don’t know what I am talking about, basically what happened was that last week Ireland was handed its toughest ever budget by the Minister for Finance, Brian Cowen.

And then the next day all of the country’s TDs (members of the Irish parliament or Dail as we call it) came in to debate the issues in full before the legislation was put through.

Well, ok, not all of the TDs, I think some of them were busy. In fact, from what I could see on the clip, five of them managed to make it in.

In fairness it’s not the only time the Dail chamber would be as empty as it was last week and that always gives me a warm fuzzy feeling about the kind of democracy we live in and about our wonderful politicians.

I mean it was obviously fiercely important to them all, just not important enough to come in to debate.

Well there is some consolation I suppose that from among the five, two of them managed to drum up perhaps the most exciting thing ever to have happened there in years when Green Party TD Paul Gogarty decided he would take issue with Labour Party TD Emmett Stagg using these words –

“With all due respect, in the most unparliamentary language, F*** you, Deputy Stagg, F*** you." 

But hey, before anybody might get offended by such an outburst, let’s just say here and now that he immediately apologised.

And apparently that makes it alright. Mere mortals – you know the people who got hammered in last week’s budget with tax cuts and social welfare cuts and proposed taxes on our houses and on the water – couldn’t get away with such an escape clause, but apparently its ok in the Dail.

I think it’s because they had a choice a few years ago between e-voting machines and one of those wee silver yokes that Men in Black used in their movies to make people forget what just happened.

And of course smart boys and all as they were, they went for the E-Voting machines straight from the back of Del Boy’s three-wheeler.

In the meantime they had to come up with a plan for situations like last week when one of their members threw a wobbly and lost the plot.

And they came up with – “I immediately withdraw that remark and I apologise.”

It seems it works to. It’s like their do-over or gimme or whatever you want to call it but seems like not everybody is happy and some are suggesting that Deputy Gogarty should have been expelled.

And what’s even better is that apparently there are now moves afoot to change the rules regarding parliamentary language because under the current rules, use of the f word is not banned.

What I’m wondering though is how many of them would even bother to turn up when they’d be debating the introduction of the new rules and would they mean that the Minister for the Gaeltacht would from then on not be allowed to use ‘No focail at all?”

Yep, these are the people who run our country.

It’s no wonder it’s F***ed!!! 

(Watch the clip - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CosVhlxpFao)

It's official - I'm stoopid!

It’s official. I’m stoopider than my kids, which came as no real surprise to them, but I have to say came as a bit of a shock to me.

I mean even if I’m no rocket scientist, I always kinda thought of myself as a pretty smart guy, but it seems as if that’s not the case at all.

How do I know all this? Well, it’s simple. My kids have got those brain games for their Nintendo DS which, after you answer a series of questions, works out the weight of your brain and gives you a rating.

You know the ones that have been advertised over and over by all kinds of tv celebrities.

In fairness it did kinda sound cool and they seemed to be always having great craic playing it, so I thought I’d give it a go.

But first I wanted to check what kinda scores my girls were getting because I knew that I’d have to get better.

To be honest I was pretty confident. I mean the girls are only 12 and 14, and well I have a college degree. This was - as the game might say - a no brainer.

I was wrong. Way wrong. For a start I hadn’t realised that the series of questions being asked during the game were like those questions you get in aptitude tests.

Now I can only remember ever sitting one of those tests many years ago and my brain still hurts from the experience.

You know the kind of thing where you’re given a picture with six or seven cog wheels in it and an arrow without the points and you have to draw which way cog a will turn when the lever is pulled.

I could never understand why people working in banks and places like that should have to answer such questions.

Why could they not ask them something more useful like why do all the pens have to be chained to the counter – and how come none of them ever have any ink in them? Oh yeah and where the **** did they put all the country’s money.

Anyway the questions on the game were, maybe not exactly like those aptitude ones, but vaguely similar. Basically they were all questions which (perhaps not surprisingly) you needed to use your brain quite a lot to solve. And, it seems, that my brain is not quite what it used to be – or what I thought it used to be.

At the end of a gruelling set of questions the game told me I had a brain like a calculator – which I thought must be a good thing – but again I was wrong.

You see getting a high percentage of correct answers was no good if it took you forever to work out what those answers actually were.

This game was looking not just for accuracy – it wanted speed as well. Speed, well that was never really my thing.

My first test score was embarrassingly terrible. It was woefully lower that the scores of both my girls but I was certain that this was down to beginner’s bad luck.

I mean the only other interaction I had ever had with this DS Lite game was when I was handing over the cash for it at the counter. I was sure that if I could have another go, I’d do better the next time. But I also wanted to make sure I tried away from prying eyes.

So, when my kids went out for the evening during the week, I tried again – less pressure this time and I was definite that I had cracked it and had managed a magnificent score.

I was wrong – despite my confidence I got exactly the same score and the same rating from the game, which, I’ve begun to think may well be faulty.

Well it’s either that or really I am stoopider than my kids.

Which means that, if I can find the receipt it’s definitely going back…

Shopping rules!

(No seriously, we need them…)

In recent times I’ve begun to wonder if perhaps there should be a whole set of rules drawn up regarding the whole purchase of the weekly groceries in the supermarket.

But the thing is I’m not exactly sure what rules I think need to be brought in.

It’s not like I’m suggesting that all the trolleys should be driven down the left hand side of the aisles or anything.

Or I’m not even saying that a trolley driving licence should be brought in and that nobody under, say fifteen, should be allowed to push one, even if I think that would greatly ease some of the worst supermarket congestion.

Nor indeed do I even dare suggest that store detectives spend at least some of their time operating trolley ‘lack of speed’ traps and pull over and eject from the store those who move along at a painfully slow pace. I’m not suggesting any of that, or hey, come to think of it, maybe I am.

You see this week I found myself behind the wheel of the trolley doing the grocery shopping and while this is not a new phenomenon, I did notice quite a few differences between shopping when I’m there on my own and shopping when my wife and kids are along too.

For a start I got to push the trolley. This is not really that big a thing I suppose and don’t get me wrong, I have pushed the trolley many times when my family have been shopping with me. It’s just, well, on those occasions my trolley pushing speed usually wound up to be much quicker than the browsing speed of the main shopper, who, when the whole family is there, is definitely not me.

In fact I realised that when I was in charge of the shopping and the trolley on my own that I didn’t have to quickly turn into the next aisle and hide a packet of chocolate biscuits under two bags of apples and cause a surprise at the checkout.

Instead I found that shopping was more of a mission of intent, a kind of challenge and I had set myself a target of an absolute maximum of twenty minutes, including checkout time, to get in and out with the groceries done.

Hey, why should it take any more? I mean I kinda knew in my head what was needed, all I had to do was go along, find those items, put them in the trolley, pay and go.

Okay, so it is never really that simple, but this I guess is where the whole rule thing could kick in. Like for instance making stores stop changing around where everything is since the last time you were there.

This clever tactic just keeps people in the store longer and the longer they stay the more items they are likely to put in their trolley, but it just drives me nuts.

With the stop watch ticking and having safely negotiated my way past two snail-speed trolley pushers, I got to the destination for bread and there it was all stacked up in front of me…cat food.

Well, okay there was dog food and rabbit food and bird food. But the bird food wasn’t bread and this is where the bread had been last week. I had lost precious time.

It was probably about then that I noticed some of the other men on their own in the store were moving along with a kinda blank expression as if somebody had just slapped them in the face for no reason. They too, I’m pretty sure, were looking for stuff they knew they had to buy and couldn’t find, but I did notice they kept moving anyway.

That was a difference. I found myself moving until I got all of the items I knew I needed to buy and stopping only because of some infuriating trolley driver or to pick up something I didn’t need, but liked. I didn’t however find the need to stop and look at stuff I knew I wouldn’t need or like, pick them up, read the labels, and then put them back on the shelf. And so with minutes to spare, I got to the checkout and even found a queue with just two people in front of me.

One however was a female shopper with a large handbag. That was bad news. After fishing in the handbag for what seemed like five minutes, she eventually found her purse, but by that stage I knew what was coming. Another five minutes of digging around though that wee coin compartment in the purse to find €45.83 in exact change.

I could see she had a €50 in the purse. “What’s wrong with just giving the €50 and getting the change, come on, come on,” I thought to myself as I looked to see that the queue behind me was now back as far as what was once the bread section.

But she didn’t and she was pernickity about what went in what bag when the stuff was being packed.

I’m not exactly sure, but I think maybe all the other tills had closed by the time I eventually got through and trudged off to the car thinking, best rule of all – get out of having to do this if you can…

Talented Turkeys...

It wasn’t exactly a Friday night like any other, for in a bar in Donegal there was something strange going on.

The poster simply said ‘Darts for Turkeys,’ and right away I knew I’d have to go and see this for myself. I mean how did they hold the darts? Was this some kind of death row blow-out for them in the run-up to Christmas?

As I approached the bar I had a sudden feeling that maybe it wouldn’t be just turkeys though. What if this was the kind of bar you’d see in one of Gary Larsson’s Far Side cartoons and there were all sorts of animals there?

I needed a disguise. But what?

I rooted around in the car and found a brown envelope.

“Perfect,” I said to myself. “I’ll hold it between my lips and if anyone asks, I’ll say I’m a duck and this is a bill.”

When I opened the door I was glad of the disguise. There was all sorts of farm-yard animals in the place, and only one human I could see and he was standing behind the bar.

I waddled up to order a drink taking one of the few last vacant bar stools and hoping I could get a good vantage point to see the dart board.

To the left of me sat a couple of gossiping bovines who prattled on and on. Every now and then they shot a sneering look across towards me.

Those looks weren’t only for me though and when a sheep rambled past a few seconds later they began to snigger until milk came down their noses.

“Did you see her…  mutton dressed as lamb…”

I turned away from the snotty cows, ordered a drink and asked the bar man about the darts.

“Ah they’re great craic altogether, the turkeys are good at golf (well you've heard of the Turkey Club haven't you!) but useless at darts. They can’t get a grip on them at all and anyway the turkeys are too wee and the dart board is too high. They cheat like anything, try to get closer to the board and cross the throwing line all the time so every throw they take is a fowl throw!”

He added that one of them did manage to hit the bull once, but he added that the bull who was sitting three tables away, wasn’t best pleased and wrecked the place.

Before he could say any more a pig, wearing a white hat and covered in flour, sat down at the bar and ordered a drink.

“What’s the story with the flour,” the bar man asked.

“Ah,” said the pig, “I’ve been bacon all day.”

The cows headed across the room towards the fire after one declared she was ‘fresian,’ and the bar man turned around to talk to me again.

“If you want to see something better than the turkeys playing darts, you should come on the night we have the pool for turkeys. The place is always jam-packed, there’s always a cue!”

“You’d need a ticket for that night,” he added, and then pointed towards a goose heading out the door saying he was the one to get tickets from at good prices.

I wasn’t up for any wild goose chases, so sat for a while watching two dogs in the corner playing snap until the darts started.

The bar man was right. They were useless. The third dart went so far astray it flew towards me at the bar.

The whole room shouted together “Duck,” but it took me too long to realise it was me they were calling to.

The dart hit me on the head and I fell over banging my head.

Next thing I knew I awoke slumped over my keyboard and realised that once again I had dozed off while half writing my blog and half reading the local newspaper.

I looked down at the entertainment page and in one of the adverts read - ‘This Friday night, darts for turkeys.’

“Hmmm, I wonder,” I said to myself….

There's a Raphoe for everyone

(Please read in your best Mickey Dees advertisement voice)

Now the Friels diners

And dole signers

And we work in the Boviners

Were just passing by…

 

And the hockey types

And jockey types

And around the racecourse walky types

Were just passing by

 

Those at the mart

Who like to start

At 6am to unload their cart

Were just passing by

 

And tech wans in blues

In threes and twos

Walking down to Tom McHughs

Were just passing by

 

And the twin cam boys

make lots of noise

In souped-up cars that look like toys

Just passing by

 

Those collecting pension

Pay attention

In case we didn’t give them a mention

Now this verse gets one line extension

Just passing by

 

Big Peter Shank

And the boys from the bank

And we can’t forget councillor Frank

Were just passing by

 

Those at the session

At Shorty’s discretion

Who try to sneak out in quick succession

Were just passing by

 

There’s the priest who walks

And a Dean who shocks

By putting a big star up on the clock

Just passing by

 

And the boys in the scheme

Who’d love to scream

And drown every litter bug in a stream

Just passing by

 

There’s a Raphoe for everyone…

Tree cheers for Christmas!

With Christmas fast approaching it seemed like the obvious thing to do would be to write about something seasonal. It was either that or the budget so I decided that people would be depressed enough thinking about the budget.

And so, I trekked deep undercover into the heart of the dark Mongorrey forest where I met up with someone central to the celebrations at this time of year – Chris Mystery.

 

For hundreds of years he’s been one of the images associated with the festive season, but could I find out what he was really like?

 

So Chris what is your earliest childhood memory?

I don’t really like to talk about my childhood too much. To be honest I was a bit of a sap when I was wee and as a result I ended up getting cut off from my family and friends.

 

You mean you don’t see them at all now?

Well at this time of year there’s always the chance I’ll bump into one of them, but nope not really. I do pine for them sometimes and I’m determined that one day I’ll go back to my roots.

 

How did you end up in the festive season business?

It was a fluke really. I was cut off from my family and friends and was backed into a corner. I didn’t know what to do so I started trying to come up with ideas. Suddenly a wee light came on, then another and then another...people liked them and it all kinda branched out from there.

 

(Dramatic pause here....it might take a wee while for some people to twig...)

 

You are a symbol of the season now, but what other things about this time of year do you like?

I guess the fact that if you’re told to stand in the corner for the present, it inevitably comes. And I’m pretty proud of the bravery I’ve shown at this time of the year. I’ve been knocked over and buried into buckets and clamped into stands but just kept a brave face all the time. Yep, bravery...jeekers I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been decorated at this stage!

 

So are there things you are not that keen on at this time of the year?

Well I guess like anyone, I don’t like getting sick. I remember a few years back I had a terrible bout of tinsellitis.

Oh and there’s the way Christmas music has changed over the years as well. I mean at one stage it was all beautiful Christmas carols and for about 300 years we had a guaranteed number one from Cliff Richard. Now it’s all thump, thump, thump and fast talking rhyme. I can’t believe how popular that rappin paper has become!

 

If you won the lotto what would you do?

Well if I won the lotto I guess I’d take a well earned break and I’d most likely go on a boat trip. Hey it would be nice for me to get a chance to sit on the ferry for a change!

That's a load of rubbish...

It was bin day today so I guess I should warn you folks that today’s blog is rubbish. “Oh yeah,” I hear you say, “What makes that different from any day?”

Well, okay, I can’t actually hear you say that, but if I were beside you when you were reading this and you were one of those people who read things out loud instead of keeping them in your head…I might.

But seriously, folks…rubbish.

Did you ever think it would get so darn complicated?

There was a time when rubbish was, well, just rubbish. If you didn’t need something any more or it was used up, it was, well rubbish. And you put that rubbish in the bin and that was that.

Of course we never really thought about where all that rubbish was going, or the harm it might have been doing, but hey, so long as it was out of our kitchen and not stinking up our back yard, who cared?

But then came all the warnings about how all the landfills were filling up and the damage all this dumping was doing to the environment and the green revolution began.

I don’t mind recycling, I think it’s cool that stuff can be used again instead of just dumped into a big hole in the ground to rot, but it does make the whole rubbish thing more complicated than ever.

For a start there’s the sorting. No more is it just a case of throwing stuff in the bin, you have to decide if it can be recycled first and then choose what bin it has to go into.

And you have to wash out the bottles and cans and old milk cartons, there’s a lot of work in putting out the rubbish these days. That’s if you actually know what day to put the rubbish out that is.

(I’m getting ahead of myself here a bit folks, but work with me I’m on a roll.)

Yep, even putting the rubbish out for the bin man has become a complicated affair now, because with more than one bin for collection and more than one type of label to attach to the right bin on the right day, bin day has now become like a big game show in our household.

It’s like you’ve just reached the final and your grand prize is that all the rubbish, (even that one bag you’ve stuffed in at the top that means the lid won’t close properly any more), will be taken away…but only if you guess right.

Which bin is it today - green or blue and have I the right labels for the right bin?

To make matters more complicated, even though you are praised for being green when you recycle, in my part of the world the recycling stuff goes into the blue bin. Yep we have a green bin but the recycling stuff goes in the blue bin!

All that said it really shouldn’t be as big a guessing game as it has turned out to be, because I’m pretty sure that the collector gave us a calendar at the start of the year indicating which week which bin would be collected.

But, it was just a piece of paper and I’m pretty sure since it was cluttering up my fridge door I put it in the bin – yes…the blue one!

Putting stuff in the bin is one thing, I’m talking that wee kitchen one here now folks. Getting it out to take to the wheely bin though can sometimes be something entirely more difficult.

You see the people who make those black bin bags must have been having a competition for years to see whose bag can be the thinnest and will fall to pieces first when somebody tries to lift it.

Once upon a time black bin bags were sturdy things. They were used for all sorts of useful things like, well, umm, Halloween costumes. And they didn’t fall apart when you touched them with your finger.

Nowadays most of the bags are worse rubbish than the rubbish they are supposed to be holding. You don’t know that when they are rolled up together in the pack, but once you get them home and put one in the bin you know that, if you hadn’t forked out €3 for them, you could throw the rest in with them.

Until you’d realise…hey that would be the wrong bin. They’re plastic they can be recycled.

Told you it was darn complicated…

The Greet Escape...

I had way too much time on my hands this morning and got to thinking after hearing an advert on the radio, about the different types of Christmas greetings people from different professions might be thinking of sending out at this time of the year. Here’s what I came up with…

Hope you all have a Merry Crispmas – Potato snack makers

We wish you a hairy Christmas – Barbers and hairdressers

We really want you to have a Scary Christmas – Horror movie makers

Have a Dairy Christmas! – From your local Creamery.

Ferry Christmas everybody! – From the people who own big boats.

Hope you have Kerry Christmas – From a certain butter maker…

Wishing you a Starey Christmas – From your local opticians

Peary Christmas – From the makers of Bulmers Pear

And then there’s -

Wishing everyone in Ireland Seasons Cheatings – Thierry Henry

Seasons Bleatings – From the association of sheep farmers

Seasons Heatings – From your local fuel distributors

Seasons Meatings – From the butcher

Seasons Seatings – From the Sofa shop

Seasons Veetings – (By people who don’t want you to have a hairy Christmas)

And also -

Happy Kissmas – From Lipstick makers

Nappy Christmas – Well, you know from people who want all your Christmasses to be something that rhymes with white. Oh yeah they are also in favour of Pees on earth.

Bappy Christmas – From the burger bun makers

Mappy Christmas – From the Ordinance Survey office

Rappy Christmas Dawg – Word.

Tappy Christmas – From the plumber.

There’s -

Have a cool Yule – From Ice cube makers

Tidings of Comfort… enjoy – From the maker of a certain fabric softener

And finally…

Happy new ear – from your plastic surgeon.

(I really do need to get a job!)