Feline furore
It
was art imitating life not the other way around. Love/Hate returned
to our screens this week and one scene sparked more controversy than
the previous three series combined. At the time of watching I thought
nothing of it, if it had been a dog then yeah I probably would have
been a bit upset, but cats? They're ten a penny these days. I jest of
course, I'm no lover of cats but along with most sane folk I detest
any kind of cruelty to animals. But this was a TV show and the
producers went on to state that no cats were harmed during the making
of the episode. That didn't stop the outrage though, not to mention
the complaints.
In
a way I can understand the outcry, torturing defenceless creatures
seems to be very much in vogue among Ireland's teens at the moment,
and seeing 'Cleo' gunned down so violently could arguably vindicate
their actions. But isn't it time we stopped blaming the media for
society's ails? A few weeks ago I spoke of the impact of Grand Theft
Auto and how it allegedly turns our children into homicidal lunatics.
I ended that piece by saying that it is not up to Rockstar to guide
the world's youth through those difficult teenage years, it's up to
their parents. And the same applies here.
Airing
when it did – at a time when every community in the country could
tell you stories about domesticated animals being tortured – was
unfortunate, but shows like Love/Hate are supposed to reflect society
as accurately as they possibly can. Did it glamourise the slaying of
this moggy? I didn't think so, instead it showed how blasé and
feckless certain segments of our society have become. This shit goes
on in our country whether you like it or not and if you're offended
by its on-screen depiction then maybe Love/Hate isn't the programme
for you.
Pride and glory
“If you drink a pint of Guinness
you qualify to play for Ireland.” Ho ho ho, ha ha ha, good one
lads, ye're only gas. How many times have we heard that one from our
friends across the pond? It was all in good humour of course, and
wasn't far from the truth in all honesty. But who's laughing now? A
few hours after Manchester United's two one win over Sunderland last
weekend I turned on Match of the Day eager to relive Adnan Januzaj's
masterclass all over again. The England manager, Roy Hodgson, was in
the studio to discuss how his players had performed in the various
games throughout the country. And it was slim pickings for Woy, the
English national team is not loaded with talent at this moment in
time it's fair to say. But what's this? A promising young player in
with a chance of going to Brazil next summer? Who could it be?
Why Januzaj of course. That's right,
this Belgian born eighteen-year old with Albanian heritage was
apparently a potential saviour for the Three Lions. What? Forget the
fact that he would need to be living in the UK for a least another
two years before he could even qualify to play for one of the Home
Nations; that ruling has always been a nonsense and should be
scrapped completely. The issue here is the sheer arrogance (or
stupidity I'm not sure which) of the English. You'd swear they had a
record comparable to the Spaniards or Brazilians in recent years,
it's as if Adnan can barely wait to get the Queen's mug tattooed on
his arm and belt out the national anthem alongside ole' Lionheart
himself.
Why would he want to play for
England? An international career comprising of 'spirited' runs to the
quarter-finals and bittersweet eliminations on penalties is hardly
that alluring is it? Belgium have one of the best sides in world
football at this moment in time, but hey they're only Belgium right?
I have no idea who Januzaj will represent at international level, I'm
far more concerned with his club career to be honest. But I'm sure
he'll pick whatever country he feels most passionate about. The
cynics among you may dispute that, you'll say that he'll weigh up his
options, decide which route benefits him the most and base his
decision on that. And maybe you'd be right, maybe I'm being naive
about the whole thing – just ask that Italian sounding, cockney
accented, Irish man Tony Cascarino.
One true religion
The First Holy Communion is a
momentous day in any child's life. You're finally one of God's
children and as a reward you get to eat him, not literally of course;
he died years ago so instead it's a bit of stale bread that gets
plopped on your tongue by the priest. But what a day it is, you get
all dressed up in clothes which were carefully selected to make you
feel as uncomfortable as possible before taking your place among all
the other holy little whelps. Then when the boring church bit is over
you get taken for a slap-up meal at the fanciest restaurant in town –
Eddie Rocket's it is then. But all this shit is secondary, we all
know what the day is really about and it doesn't involve God or
anything to do with that Mass nonsense.
It's about money, and how much of it
you can get. Yes, yes we're delighted to be welcomed into God's arms
and all that malarkey but: SHOW US THE MONEY. Aunties, uncles,
cousins, ould wans you don't even know, strangers who glance in your
direction, they're all possible outlets for cash: and you won't stop
counting until it's time for bed and a few half-hearted prayers to
that Jesus fella. What child in their right mind would pass up such
an opportunity? This is a chance to swell your bank balance to
previously unheard of levels. But some of the children in the
Gaelscoil An Raithín don't seem to understand just how important
this day is - they wanted to go to a One Direction concert instead.
Okay so their plan was to rearrange
the Communion for another day, it clashed with the teen popster's
performance and the concerned parents didn't want their kids to miss
out on seeing Harry Styles and co in the flesh. Fuck that. Not only
is this an affront to the Catholic church and all it stands for, but
much more importantly it threatened to mess with the gathering of
several crumpled up ten, twenty and even fifty Euro notes. What kind
of parents are these? Thankfully democracy won the day. After the
votes were counted and verified it was decreed that the Communion
would go ahead and those wishing to see One Direction would have to
wait until the reunion in three years time. Maybe the kids can use
some of the money earned on their Holy day to purchase a ticket.
How do you clean yours?
“How do you eat yours?” That's
what Cadbury's ask us every Easter as they flood our stores with
their delicious Creme Eggs, and we all have different methods of
tackling those ever-shrinking capsules of joy. But now there's a new
question gripping the nation, and it's all thanks to an Internet
forum called mumsnet. If you haven't read about this story I'll give
you a brief synopsis right now. On this forum – which is a place
where women gather to talk about the important things in life – a
member started a thread entitled 'Do you dunk your penis'. Let's try
and ignore the fact that the poster refers to her partner's penis as
her own, that's not the weirdest part of this by a long stretch. The
woman in question went on to ask her fellow forumistas whether they
had a special 'penis beaker' at the side of the bed; essentially a
container filled with water used as by her fella for clean-up area after
they'd engaged in a bit of coitus.
Obviously none of them did, they
used the bathroom like most normal people. But although some of the
replies went into horrendous detail we, the menfolk of this world,
weren't consulted at any point. So I'm asking you, my fellow
gentlemen; how do you clean yours? Are you one of those neanderthals
who grunts “Thanks love,” rolls over and falls asleep? Or do you
take to the bathroom and give yourself a proper scrub (raising the
question; just how dirty was she?)? Most of you I'd imagine, will
fall somewhere in the middle. You'll spot a discarded tissue lying on
the floor and use it to give yourself a rudimentary cleansing before
chucking it from whence it came. Me? I like to wipe mine on the
curtains before hopping back into bed and holding her in my arms, a
proper romantic that's what I am.
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