Midweek in the town of my childhood.
I've been here for 10 days now and not one trip to the pub. I can understand how people calm down as they get older, but Jesus! My friends over in this neck of the woods are the polar opposite of the ones I have in Dublin these days. In the good old days where I worked, if you stood up on a Friday evening and said 'Pint, anyone?', you nearly had to get out of the way for the stampede. Down here, people don't even seem to go out for weekends anymore. It's a mortgage broker's dream, with half the people I know well and truly settled in houses of their own. Some arm-twisting is going to have to be done.
I'm about to book the flight from Dublin to London Gatwick for Monday the 20th. I have found, to my indescribable irritation, that I can only fly to Stansted or Heathrow from Cork, and I have too much luggage to go through the ordeal of dragging myself halfway across London before I get to Brighton, so I have to fly to Gatwick. This means a train journey to Dublin before I fly out. Fuck!
I'm still ruminating about the choice I've made, but my mother reckons I'm doing the right thing, which is something. I read something in the Irish Times the other day about an arts graduate who was at the mercy of a call-centre corporation before she finally quit and did a primary-teaching conversion course. It's a fate that I fear would befall me if I did Psychology, but I've been down this road before and I'm not going to moan about it again. Incidentally, that article in the Irish Times implied that while there were more jobs here now than there were years back, quite a lot of them are boring, monotonous, or just plain uninspiring, being provided by large multinationals. This rings a rather familiar-sounding bell.
A group of Mallow people I know are heading to Blessington this weeekend in honour of one of the girl's 30th birthday, which is halfway up the country. Which makes it out of my league, financially. As the junket was her idea, she'd better not moan about me not being able to make it. Anyway, Joanne is coming down on the Saturday for two nights so that should be a laugh. On the phone earlier, I said 'Now you can experience first hand what I had to grow up with'. She laughed. I was serious.
My preliminary reading is not going according to plan. The progress is slow and tortuous (I am currently studying trends in the periodic table and redox reactions, gripping stuff) but I keep getting up to make cups of coffee and eat things, which I really shouldn't be doing as I am not getting to a gym at all at the moment. Tommorrow I make a trip to Dublin with my dear Dad in the car as I have to pick up the last few things from my old flat (TV, stand, and some tapes). Not at all looking forward to it but it has to be done.
Lastly, I reckon I will still go ahead and buy that computer in Brighton. The question is, which one? Apple Powerbook G4 or Apple iMac G5. The G4 has the advantage of being portable, and a colour that is not white. The G5 has the better processor. Decisions, decisions. Probably the G4. Oh Barclays, I have a favour to ask of you!
My cousin Mark and his girlfriend e-mailed me earlier to re-iterate their invitation to their place whenever I had the time. which was nice, and very much appreciated. If only I had the time to spare.
Anyway, bed.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Friday, September 03, 2004
The 'beautiful' game
'Football attracts morons. You'd have to be a moron to deny it. Unlike any other sport or pastime, football is like a magnet for the small-minded. Vicious, hateful, selfish, lifeless vermin flock to football like wasps to a discarded coke can.'
(From this week's issue of The Friday Thing)
That just about sums it up for me. It always has. The 'integrity' of football is under the spotlight again this week, in the aftermath of Wayne Rooney signing for Man United. I had no idea this transfer had taken place until I read the full text of the article referenced above, and I am proud to admit that. I was dimly aware of Rooney featuring in the news more than usual this week, but I thought it was just the tired 'journalism' of The Sun, trying to keep his flame alive after the World Cup,in the same way it has been doing it for David Beckham since he moved to Real Madrid. It turns out he's defected from Everton. Well whoopee doo!
Unfortunately, some Everton supporters have not seen it this way. Some thoughtful people have sprayed grafitti all over Merseyside likening him to Judas Iscariot (I can't help but wonder how many of them have actually read the bible, or even the passage that relates to The Last Supper), and a 'picture' of Paul Stretford, Rooney's agent, has also been rendered, depicting him in a hangman's noose. On top of that, Stretford's contact details have been given out on an unofficial Everton fansite, and as a result, he has received some rather substantial abuse at the hands of these disgruntled Everton supporters. Really, how empty must a person's life be for them to allow an institution such as football, or more specifically a football club like Everton, to exert such an influence on their life? Please God these people don't reproduce, that's all I'm asking.
I can't remember exactly when the rot for this sport set in for me, but I was young. I don't know if my disinterest grew from my lack of aptitude for it, or whether my lack of success in it was down to my disinterest for it, but by the time I hit secondary school, there was very little I hated more than the weekly PE session, with the attendant ritual of team selection for soccer/football/rugby/whatever the hell it was. I was always the last to be picked, and this pissed me off. Not in a boo-hoo-nobody-loves-me kind of way, but because that was the one time I had to acquiesce to being judged by someone else's rules. And I held almost everyone in my year in contempt. This odd-man-out phenomenon probably owed something to the fact that, during the game, when I saw a ball headed for me I generally tended to avoid it rather than intercept it, but I was damned if I was going to make an effort for something I had been forced into in spite of my lack of enthusiasm for it. Someone should have pointed out to my Phys. Ed. teacher that constantly playing ball sports is not necessarily commensurate with physical fitness, and if the latter was the point of the whole class, then we should have been in a gym instead. But I digress.
I got into hurling for a while, but lost interest in that as well. There was a long line of staunch GAA* figurheads on my father's side, and that line ended very abruptly with me. My grandfather, God rest him, was head of Duhallow GAA, and while his son, my father, never quite scaled those dizzying heights, he was prominent in handball and also was a frequent attender of sunday afternoon football matches in BallyGoBackwards. He tried to get me into those. It failed. He tried to get me into handball. It worked for a while (I think I even won a medal once), but eventually that failed too.
When I was very young, under 10, I remember enjoying games of football, but somehow somewhere that stopped. Looking back, I think that this coincided with the latter stages of the establishment of my identity, and it makes sense. I could never have continued to follow sports such as soccer like this. Why? Because of the fact that they are a world-wide institution at this stage, they are the stuff of everymen, and to participate is the ultimate act of conformity.
My brother-in-law once said that football is an instant passport wherever you go. He meant it in a good way, but he was right. It allows instant acceptance into an established world-wide community, and it disguises the fact that, football aside, you could be the most socially inept misfit on the planet with absolutely nothing to say about anything. Some people think this is the beauty of it, and if you want to be assimilated into the general population without ever standing up to be counted, then there lies the appeal. Straight away, you belong. Another rather baffling feature of this sport are followers (I have met ones like these) who can recall tables of numbers relating to the premiership games in a given year with an ease and accuracy that would make an actuary envious.
Irish GAA is much the same but with a rural tinge. It lacks the sleaze of English-based soccer, but it almost makes up for it by having a substantial agricultural element to its following. Which is why I never got into that either. It's a different side to the same coin.
I don't think this dislike stems from a lack of a competitive streak, just a refusal to identify with the followers of these sports. Interestingly, the more specialised sports don't have to suffer these people as a following. To my knowledge, discus throwing isn't followed by loads of lager-swilling non-entities in a pub somewhere. Well, my little band of inconsequential vegetables, can you tell me why that is? I've said before that a movement is in part characterised by it's followers, and this is why football has come to be regarded in the way it is now.
Anyway, back to Rooney. Who cares? He's lucky to be doing what he loves at such a young age, at such a level where he can make a substantial living out of it. He's not so lucky that he was pulled from formal education at such a young age, before he had reached a level that would have given him a chance to make some other living, should the first one expire (If, in fact, Rooney got a string of A-levels before he started playing professional football, please feel free to correct me). He may turn out to be a well-balanced man in spite of everything, but we'll have to wait and see.
I've always noticed that someone's rapid ascent to superstardom is almost always followed by a plunge that is equally as abrupt. What goes up must come down, as they say. I noticed his star rose quickly during the world cup (You've got to believe me, I tried everything to get away from it) and I especially noticed the toe-curling manner in which all of a sudden, lots of sports commentators became an authority on him. Someone should tell these people that constantly talking about someone else, especially when you are part of a queue of many, makes you look like nothing more than a subject of that person.
So there you go. Conclusion: Some football supporters desperately need to grow up, but the sheep mentality that surrounds these things will almost guarantee that they don't. And don't even get me started on Baddiel and Skinner.
Oh, and David Beckham is a dad again. The journalists at The Sun must be wetting themselves with glee. That's them kept in jobs for at least another year.
God help us.
*Gaelic Athletic Association, for you readers who are unacquainted with the finer points of Irish culture.
(From this week's issue of The Friday Thing)
That just about sums it up for me. It always has. The 'integrity' of football is under the spotlight again this week, in the aftermath of Wayne Rooney signing for Man United. I had no idea this transfer had taken place until I read the full text of the article referenced above, and I am proud to admit that. I was dimly aware of Rooney featuring in the news more than usual this week, but I thought it was just the tired 'journalism' of The Sun, trying to keep his flame alive after the World Cup,in the same way it has been doing it for David Beckham since he moved to Real Madrid. It turns out he's defected from Everton. Well whoopee doo!
Unfortunately, some Everton supporters have not seen it this way. Some thoughtful people have sprayed grafitti all over Merseyside likening him to Judas Iscariot (I can't help but wonder how many of them have actually read the bible, or even the passage that relates to The Last Supper), and a 'picture' of Paul Stretford, Rooney's agent, has also been rendered, depicting him in a hangman's noose. On top of that, Stretford's contact details have been given out on an unofficial Everton fansite, and as a result, he has received some rather substantial abuse at the hands of these disgruntled Everton supporters. Really, how empty must a person's life be for them to allow an institution such as football, or more specifically a football club like Everton, to exert such an influence on their life? Please God these people don't reproduce, that's all I'm asking.
I can't remember exactly when the rot for this sport set in for me, but I was young. I don't know if my disinterest grew from my lack of aptitude for it, or whether my lack of success in it was down to my disinterest for it, but by the time I hit secondary school, there was very little I hated more than the weekly PE session, with the attendant ritual of team selection for soccer/football/rugby/whatever the hell it was. I was always the last to be picked, and this pissed me off. Not in a boo-hoo-nobody-loves-me kind of way, but because that was the one time I had to acquiesce to being judged by someone else's rules. And I held almost everyone in my year in contempt. This odd-man-out phenomenon probably owed something to the fact that, during the game, when I saw a ball headed for me I generally tended to avoid it rather than intercept it, but I was damned if I was going to make an effort for something I had been forced into in spite of my lack of enthusiasm for it. Someone should have pointed out to my Phys. Ed. teacher that constantly playing ball sports is not necessarily commensurate with physical fitness, and if the latter was the point of the whole class, then we should have been in a gym instead. But I digress.
I got into hurling for a while, but lost interest in that as well. There was a long line of staunch GAA* figurheads on my father's side, and that line ended very abruptly with me. My grandfather, God rest him, was head of Duhallow GAA, and while his son, my father, never quite scaled those dizzying heights, he was prominent in handball and also was a frequent attender of sunday afternoon football matches in BallyGoBackwards. He tried to get me into those. It failed. He tried to get me into handball. It worked for a while (I think I even won a medal once), but eventually that failed too.
When I was very young, under 10, I remember enjoying games of football, but somehow somewhere that stopped. Looking back, I think that this coincided with the latter stages of the establishment of my identity, and it makes sense. I could never have continued to follow sports such as soccer like this. Why? Because of the fact that they are a world-wide institution at this stage, they are the stuff of everymen, and to participate is the ultimate act of conformity.
My brother-in-law once said that football is an instant passport wherever you go. He meant it in a good way, but he was right. It allows instant acceptance into an established world-wide community, and it disguises the fact that, football aside, you could be the most socially inept misfit on the planet with absolutely nothing to say about anything. Some people think this is the beauty of it, and if you want to be assimilated into the general population without ever standing up to be counted, then there lies the appeal. Straight away, you belong. Another rather baffling feature of this sport are followers (I have met ones like these) who can recall tables of numbers relating to the premiership games in a given year with an ease and accuracy that would make an actuary envious.
Irish GAA is much the same but with a rural tinge. It lacks the sleaze of English-based soccer, but it almost makes up for it by having a substantial agricultural element to its following. Which is why I never got into that either. It's a different side to the same coin.
I don't think this dislike stems from a lack of a competitive streak, just a refusal to identify with the followers of these sports. Interestingly, the more specialised sports don't have to suffer these people as a following. To my knowledge, discus throwing isn't followed by loads of lager-swilling non-entities in a pub somewhere. Well, my little band of inconsequential vegetables, can you tell me why that is? I've said before that a movement is in part characterised by it's followers, and this is why football has come to be regarded in the way it is now.
Anyway, back to Rooney. Who cares? He's lucky to be doing what he loves at such a young age, at such a level where he can make a substantial living out of it. He's not so lucky that he was pulled from formal education at such a young age, before he had reached a level that would have given him a chance to make some other living, should the first one expire (If, in fact, Rooney got a string of A-levels before he started playing professional football, please feel free to correct me). He may turn out to be a well-balanced man in spite of everything, but we'll have to wait and see.
I've always noticed that someone's rapid ascent to superstardom is almost always followed by a plunge that is equally as abrupt. What goes up must come down, as they say. I noticed his star rose quickly during the world cup (You've got to believe me, I tried everything to get away from it) and I especially noticed the toe-curling manner in which all of a sudden, lots of sports commentators became an authority on him. Someone should tell these people that constantly talking about someone else, especially when you are part of a queue of many, makes you look like nothing more than a subject of that person.
So there you go. Conclusion: Some football supporters desperately need to grow up, but the sheep mentality that surrounds these things will almost guarantee that they don't. And don't even get me started on Baddiel and Skinner.
Oh, and David Beckham is a dad again. The journalists at The Sun must be wetting themselves with glee. That's them kept in jobs for at least another year.
God help us.
*Gaelic Athletic Association, for you readers who are unacquainted with the finer points of Irish culture.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Catch up
Whew! Well, it's been an eventful week, that's for sure. I'm back from Holland since monday, and have now moved all my stuff home from Dublin, so I'm gone from there as well. This is the first time I have been based at home for years.
It's been a good 7 days all in all, and to do them justice I'll have to deal with them separately. Be warned, this is a long one.
Wednesday 25th (picking up from the last post): The job finished well enough. At 5:30 I said my goodbyes with company-wide e-mails and left. I was joined in town at about 6:30 for drinks with people who wanted to give me a bit of a send-off. As it was a Wednesday, it understated enough, but it was a nice touch. Thanks to Denis, Pat D, Linus, and Mary for turning up. My plan was to leave at around 9, but the lads told me that when they had said this to the others in the office, a gale of laughter blew around the room. Given that I ended up leaving at 12, I can kind of see where they're coming from now....
Thursday 26th: Vile. I got up reasonably early and got ready for the trip to the airport. The plan was also to fill out the third-level grant application form before I left, but boy, did that idea go out the window. At 11:30 at the house, with everything packed and checkin in 1 hour, I discovered my wallet had gone AWOL. I had very cleverly packed it in the bottom of one of the bags, and it took me twenty minutes to find it. I was a ball of sweat at this stage, and there were hardly any taxis to be had in Rialto. One cabbie who was waiting outside the hospital for a client took pity on me and brought me to the airport. Once I was checked in, everything was cool.
The flight itself was fine, cheap and cheerful, with a company called Basiqair. As usual, my discomfort of flying was present. I can't work out when this came about, as I always had a problem with heights, but as a child we used to fly to Holland and it never really bothered me (apart from the bloody ear-popping), but somewhere along the line, flying became an uneasy experience for me. Now, I always try and get an aisle seat, and if I'm next to a window, that motherfucker shutter is going down! I think there was a long gap between my last flight as a teenager and my first one as an adult, and that was where the worry set in. By the way, I love the manner in which pilots deliver the final announcement, 'We are now preparing to land' which should actually read, 'Please prepare yourself while we simulate an extreme crash landing'. I swear, we must have bounced along the runaway about three times.
Having got into Rotterdam, I didn't have much of a problem finding anything, as almost all of the Dutch are pretty much bilingual, with English being almost second nature. They don't even need explanations. Consider the following conversation, where I was looking for directions at Rotterdam Centraal train station:
Me (at information desk): Excuse me. Platform twelve?
Woman (regarding me with curiousity): What?
Me (pathetically attempting Dutch): Spoor twelf?
Woman (quickly becoming irritated beyond belief): Yes, but what is your question?!
Once I had randomly pressed a few buttons on an electronic machine (it was all in Dutch), I had my ticket and headed off.
Got to Deventer and was then trying to ring my mother but none of the phone numbers she had given me were accessible from my phone while it was on a foreign network. Eventually I got through to my sister, and my lunatic drinker of an uncle-in-law (Joop) was dispatched to collect me. An hour and a half later, I was shaking hands and triple-kissing the aunties and uncles. A lot of them hadn't seen me since I was seventeen, nor I them, so it was nice to catch up.
I got settled at my cousin's apartment who was living there with his girlfriend (no brother yet), and was surprised to learn he was only paying 350 euros for what was a very nice place. It was subsidised, being a council house, but it was in a different league to the council houses here. I tried to make friends with their cats, but they seemed more interested in clawing the furniture and they flounced out of the room anytime I started talking to them. Well Shimmy and Epa, that's just fine by me!
Friday 27th: Slept until 1 (well, wouldn't you!), and then got up and visited my parents and brother-in-law and sister, who were stationed in self-contained apartments. Then we went shopping. I couldn't get over how cheap everything was. It really was a revelation. My parents bought fourteen bottles of decent wine for 118 euro. My sister did a big shop, some of which consisted of alcohol, and it came to 40 euro! She just laughed and said that there must have been some mistake. Then the cashier laughed and said no, there wasn't.
Later, my brother arrived with his girlfriend, and they got settled in the room down the hall. Most of the weekend we actually got on fine, mercifully enough, although there still arose the odd occasion where I wanted to stuff him in a blender and hit 'Purée'. But not all that often, relatively speaking. I still think I won't be visiting him that much in London while I'm in Brighton though. It would need to be kept to a minimum, I feel.
We went to the pub later. We said it would just be for one. We ended up staying out until past one. Maybe that was what was intended, by someone somewhere. Somehow the subject of my taste for men came up in conversation with Claire (brother's girlfriend) and Marion (Mark the cousin's girlfriend). Marion was cool with that, but Claire, being a bit of a drama queen, thought I was going to announce that preference tommorrow when I said I wasn't going to lie about not having a girlfriend. I said I wasn't going make any such announcement, as it was my aunt's day. It was cleared up.
Once again, Dutch prices were highlighted. 1.75 euros for a bottle of Grolsch at the bar on a Friday night. Note to readers: If you live in Ireland, leave. If you don't, don't bother your arse coming on holiday, or if you do, bring a huge suitcase of money and be prepared to kiss it goodbye before the end of your soujourn, no matter how short that is. This country is a black hole for money and we are being ridden bareback.
Saturday 28th: Dragged myself out of bed at 10 to get ready for 11. It wasn't pretty, with my hangover, but I managed it. It still went the usual way, I was in the shower and my brother was annoying me with cries to hurry up. Yeah, like that's going to help!
We got to our venue, and met the rest of the aunties and uncles. I wasn't feeling the best but the good-time uncle Joop solved that by practically pouring beer down my throat. It worked, sort of.
The day overall was great. We had a meal, and then met some people and then the party kicked off at about 8. The coffee and beer was served by a hot, corn-fed fresh-faced waiter called Marcel. I want to disrobe him, and run my hands all over his naked body, and grasp his firm buttocks and...... Oh, calm DOWN, Denis......The great thing about the beer was that as soon as your glass looked half empty, a waiter would bring you another one without even being asked. It goes without saying that we were all blotto at the end of the night. Sample dialogue between me and my sister:
Seána: You hide it well, but you're a bit of a cutie.
Denis: When the bloody hell have I ever hidden it?
I also got talking to the one Dutch uncle-by-blood that I have, Gerrit. I always thought him fairly dour and he is a fairly depressive person, but he's actually got an understated, dry, sense of humour and the fact that he is completely unable to schmooze makes him a genuine person. Now that I'm older, I can understand him better. His wife's a cutie too, and she doesn't hide it either.
Afterwards, we went across to the bar and were greeted by a group of people singing Karaoke. As soon as they heard we were Irish, they started singing Boyzone. Christ. We had a couple of drinks there, and met Marcel, who had retired for a few. I shook his hand and said goodbye. I exercised restraint as I felt he was straight, and I was right. Claire indignantly pointed out that I should chat him up in preparation for Brighton, and when I refused, she went out and did it on my behalf, in spite of my instructions to the contrary.
He turned out to be straight, and wanted to get his hands on her! HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA!
Sunday 29th: Slept until all hours. Bliss! Got up and went to have a meal in a restaurant. We had what I think is called a 'chef's menu' where you don't actually order anything. The chef decides and brings all the courses out to you instead. We also had champagne and lashings of wine. I would heartily recommend this place if I could remember the name of it, but all I recall is that it has two michelin stars.
One disconcerting thing that I noticed is that red wine can induce some really anti-social feelings in me, and that happened today. I'm blaming the red wine because it happened before that I felt really angry for no reason, and it was after red wine as well. I was on such a hair-trigger temper that I had to walk to one of my aunt's house while everyone else drove. Overall, sometimes it can be a combination of the wine and being around my immediate family (in particular my brother and sister and her husband) that can do it. It was the only flaw in an otherwise great evening, which I still enjoyed. We all congregated in a sitting room while I moaned about having to leave. The cutie aunt-in-law told me I should simply put everything off for a year and live in Ruurlo. I was tempted.
Before bed, back at Mark's house, I attempted to make friends with the rabbbit. He wasn't having it either, and when I picked him up, he struggled like his life depended on it. Maybe he thought I was looking at him with rabbit casserole eyes. I got a picture of him with the camera anyway. I'll stick them up here at a later date.
With drink and Claire in the equation, we got back to the topic of Denis digging men. Mark is a nice guy, and maybe I'm a bit jaded, but his protests of how it didn't change his opinion of me were very pronounced. Maybe he just felt he had to be emphatic. I just feel that it is something that doesn't need to be said by someone who knows me at this stage. Nevertheless, as it was pointed out, in time all my relatives over in that neck of the woods will find out, and when I come back there it should be a better experience for it.
Monday 30th: Had to get up at 5:45 in order to leave the house at 6:45. My uncle-in-law Wim drove a little less quickly than Joop and by the time we got to Deventer, the train I was supposed to get was pulling out of the station. I got the next one with Paul and Claire, which was an experience. We were probably still pissed from the night before from all the wine, and in the middle of all the commuters myself and Claire had a gigglefit at our inability to find decent seats. At 8:15 in the morning. With hangovers.
I had to change trains twice, at Amersfoort and at Utrecht, but I still managed to make the flight back to Dublin. On the plane, I was seated next to what one presumes were a married couple. Everything was cool until the little brat they had started screaming and wriggling. Then the little girl two rows up from us took her cue from him and did the same. Christ, I like children most of the time, but a chorus of caterwauling in a confined space is more than I can stand. The landing wasn't too bad this time, at least.
On the bus back into Dublin city, I noticed a hot bear guy sitting near me. I ogled him all the way into town, thinking about what I wanted to do to him. I wanted to feel the heat of his naked body next to mine. But I erred on the side of caution. It was only when we got off the bus at the last stop that I noticed the bear paw symbol tattooed on his hot, muscular (enough!) calf. I wanted to run after him but it would have been too obvious on O'Connell Street. Oh missed opportunity!
I went back to the house in Rialto and got some much-needed chill time. Then I went to Sarah's house for a bite to eat and some wine as I hadn't met her out on the Wednesday, but not before buying new runners in Schuh to go with the t-shirt I bought over the internet. My shopping habits have gone kinda gay lately, with all my worry of accessorising, but what the hell. The meal was nice anyway, and Sarah and me had hugs and kisses at the end.
The rest of the night was one of the worst, most stressful heart-attack inducing nights of my LIFE! I got back to the house at 8:15 with the intention of leaving that night for the 9pm train (my bed had been taken over by my replacement) so I brought all my stuff downstairs (8:30) and then got a taxi (8:40). Finally got to Heuston at 8:50 and had to buy my ticket AND get two trolleyloads of stuff onto the train. I also had forgotten my new shoes, but thank God Kieran had driven after us and brought them to me.
The journey home was quite shit as well, as all ten/twelve bags were piled against one door, and depending on whether or not that door faced onto a platform as it pulled into a station, I had to move them across the other door on the other side. At one point some woman moaned that she couldn't get out through the blocked door. I volunteered to wheel her suitcase down the length of the carriage to the next exit, just to shut her up. After, she thanked me. I think her gratitude should have been for the fact that she was still alive. Also, my parents had to go to bed because they were shattered from the holiday, but they booked a taxi for me before they headed off. I tried to ring the cabbie to explain that he would need to be on the platform to meet me and help me with my stuff, but the coup de grâce: my phone went dead. It also nearly flew out the window as a result, but I kept my head. Finally, I texted him.
At 12am Tuesday morning, I was home with all my stuff.
Tuesday 31st (Today): Didn't do much. Looked at some porn on my parents computer, which is what I am typing on now. Bed now.
Looking back, maybe I should have stayed on the couch in Rialto until Tuesday morning, but I had it in my head I was leaving and I wanted my own bed. A shame, as I never got to find out about Sinéad's weekend with the Scottish guy, and tell them about mine over in the Netherlands, but oh well. I might see them again, as I still have to go up and collect my television (no WAY was I attempting to bring that home as well!). Bloody hell, I'm almost sure I'd be beating myself up if I had decided to go the next day. I need to stop criticising myself needlessly.
So that's it. Dublin and flat over. Four years of testing finished. It feels strange looking back on it, now that I finally have time to breathe. I'll soldier on. It needs to be done. I still have to revise that A-level chemistry.
Thank the Lord for that holiday though. It was just what the doctor ordered.
Now I'm definitely going to bed.
It's been a good 7 days all in all, and to do them justice I'll have to deal with them separately. Be warned, this is a long one.
Wednesday 25th (picking up from the last post): The job finished well enough. At 5:30 I said my goodbyes with company-wide e-mails and left. I was joined in town at about 6:30 for drinks with people who wanted to give me a bit of a send-off. As it was a Wednesday, it understated enough, but it was a nice touch. Thanks to Denis, Pat D, Linus, and Mary for turning up. My plan was to leave at around 9, but the lads told me that when they had said this to the others in the office, a gale of laughter blew around the room. Given that I ended up leaving at 12, I can kind of see where they're coming from now....
Thursday 26th: Vile. I got up reasonably early and got ready for the trip to the airport. The plan was also to fill out the third-level grant application form before I left, but boy, did that idea go out the window. At 11:30 at the house, with everything packed and checkin in 1 hour, I discovered my wallet had gone AWOL. I had very cleverly packed it in the bottom of one of the bags, and it took me twenty minutes to find it. I was a ball of sweat at this stage, and there were hardly any taxis to be had in Rialto. One cabbie who was waiting outside the hospital for a client took pity on me and brought me to the airport. Once I was checked in, everything was cool.
The flight itself was fine, cheap and cheerful, with a company called Basiqair. As usual, my discomfort of flying was present. I can't work out when this came about, as I always had a problem with heights, but as a child we used to fly to Holland and it never really bothered me (apart from the bloody ear-popping), but somewhere along the line, flying became an uneasy experience for me. Now, I always try and get an aisle seat, and if I'm next to a window, that motherfucker shutter is going down! I think there was a long gap between my last flight as a teenager and my first one as an adult, and that was where the worry set in. By the way, I love the manner in which pilots deliver the final announcement, 'We are now preparing to land' which should actually read, 'Please prepare yourself while we simulate an extreme crash landing'. I swear, we must have bounced along the runaway about three times.
Having got into Rotterdam, I didn't have much of a problem finding anything, as almost all of the Dutch are pretty much bilingual, with English being almost second nature. They don't even need explanations. Consider the following conversation, where I was looking for directions at Rotterdam Centraal train station:
Me (at information desk): Excuse me. Platform twelve?
Woman (regarding me with curiousity): What?
Me (pathetically attempting Dutch): Spoor twelf?
Woman (quickly becoming irritated beyond belief): Yes, but what is your question?!
Once I had randomly pressed a few buttons on an electronic machine (it was all in Dutch), I had my ticket and headed off.
Got to Deventer and was then trying to ring my mother but none of the phone numbers she had given me were accessible from my phone while it was on a foreign network. Eventually I got through to my sister, and my lunatic drinker of an uncle-in-law (Joop) was dispatched to collect me. An hour and a half later, I was shaking hands and triple-kissing the aunties and uncles. A lot of them hadn't seen me since I was seventeen, nor I them, so it was nice to catch up.
I got settled at my cousin's apartment who was living there with his girlfriend (no brother yet), and was surprised to learn he was only paying 350 euros for what was a very nice place. It was subsidised, being a council house, but it was in a different league to the council houses here. I tried to make friends with their cats, but they seemed more interested in clawing the furniture and they flounced out of the room anytime I started talking to them. Well Shimmy and Epa, that's just fine by me!
Friday 27th: Slept until 1 (well, wouldn't you!), and then got up and visited my parents and brother-in-law and sister, who were stationed in self-contained apartments. Then we went shopping. I couldn't get over how cheap everything was. It really was a revelation. My parents bought fourteen bottles of decent wine for 118 euro. My sister did a big shop, some of which consisted of alcohol, and it came to 40 euro! She just laughed and said that there must have been some mistake. Then the cashier laughed and said no, there wasn't.
Later, my brother arrived with his girlfriend, and they got settled in the room down the hall. Most of the weekend we actually got on fine, mercifully enough, although there still arose the odd occasion where I wanted to stuff him in a blender and hit 'Purée'. But not all that often, relatively speaking. I still think I won't be visiting him that much in London while I'm in Brighton though. It would need to be kept to a minimum, I feel.
We went to the pub later. We said it would just be for one. We ended up staying out until past one. Maybe that was what was intended, by someone somewhere. Somehow the subject of my taste for men came up in conversation with Claire (brother's girlfriend) and Marion (Mark the cousin's girlfriend). Marion was cool with that, but Claire, being a bit of a drama queen, thought I was going to announce that preference tommorrow when I said I wasn't going to lie about not having a girlfriend. I said I wasn't going make any such announcement, as it was my aunt's day. It was cleared up.
Once again, Dutch prices were highlighted. 1.75 euros for a bottle of Grolsch at the bar on a Friday night. Note to readers: If you live in Ireland, leave. If you don't, don't bother your arse coming on holiday, or if you do, bring a huge suitcase of money and be prepared to kiss it goodbye before the end of your soujourn, no matter how short that is. This country is a black hole for money and we are being ridden bareback.
Saturday 28th: Dragged myself out of bed at 10 to get ready for 11. It wasn't pretty, with my hangover, but I managed it. It still went the usual way, I was in the shower and my brother was annoying me with cries to hurry up. Yeah, like that's going to help!
We got to our venue, and met the rest of the aunties and uncles. I wasn't feeling the best but the good-time uncle Joop solved that by practically pouring beer down my throat. It worked, sort of.
The day overall was great. We had a meal, and then met some people and then the party kicked off at about 8. The coffee and beer was served by a hot, corn-fed fresh-faced waiter called Marcel. I want to disrobe him, and run my hands all over his naked body, and grasp his firm buttocks and...... Oh, calm DOWN, Denis......The great thing about the beer was that as soon as your glass looked half empty, a waiter would bring you another one without even being asked. It goes without saying that we were all blotto at the end of the night. Sample dialogue between me and my sister:
Seána: You hide it well, but you're a bit of a cutie.
Denis: When the bloody hell have I ever hidden it?
I also got talking to the one Dutch uncle-by-blood that I have, Gerrit. I always thought him fairly dour and he is a fairly depressive person, but he's actually got an understated, dry, sense of humour and the fact that he is completely unable to schmooze makes him a genuine person. Now that I'm older, I can understand him better. His wife's a cutie too, and she doesn't hide it either.
Afterwards, we went across to the bar and were greeted by a group of people singing Karaoke. As soon as they heard we were Irish, they started singing Boyzone. Christ. We had a couple of drinks there, and met Marcel, who had retired for a few. I shook his hand and said goodbye. I exercised restraint as I felt he was straight, and I was right. Claire indignantly pointed out that I should chat him up in preparation for Brighton, and when I refused, she went out and did it on my behalf, in spite of my instructions to the contrary.
He turned out to be straight, and wanted to get his hands on her! HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA!
Sunday 29th: Slept until all hours. Bliss! Got up and went to have a meal in a restaurant. We had what I think is called a 'chef's menu' where you don't actually order anything. The chef decides and brings all the courses out to you instead. We also had champagne and lashings of wine. I would heartily recommend this place if I could remember the name of it, but all I recall is that it has two michelin stars.
One disconcerting thing that I noticed is that red wine can induce some really anti-social feelings in me, and that happened today. I'm blaming the red wine because it happened before that I felt really angry for no reason, and it was after red wine as well. I was on such a hair-trigger temper that I had to walk to one of my aunt's house while everyone else drove. Overall, sometimes it can be a combination of the wine and being around my immediate family (in particular my brother and sister and her husband) that can do it. It was the only flaw in an otherwise great evening, which I still enjoyed. We all congregated in a sitting room while I moaned about having to leave. The cutie aunt-in-law told me I should simply put everything off for a year and live in Ruurlo. I was tempted.
Before bed, back at Mark's house, I attempted to make friends with the rabbbit. He wasn't having it either, and when I picked him up, he struggled like his life depended on it. Maybe he thought I was looking at him with rabbit casserole eyes. I got a picture of him with the camera anyway. I'll stick them up here at a later date.
With drink and Claire in the equation, we got back to the topic of Denis digging men. Mark is a nice guy, and maybe I'm a bit jaded, but his protests of how it didn't change his opinion of me were very pronounced. Maybe he just felt he had to be emphatic. I just feel that it is something that doesn't need to be said by someone who knows me at this stage. Nevertheless, as it was pointed out, in time all my relatives over in that neck of the woods will find out, and when I come back there it should be a better experience for it.
Monday 30th: Had to get up at 5:45 in order to leave the house at 6:45. My uncle-in-law Wim drove a little less quickly than Joop and by the time we got to Deventer, the train I was supposed to get was pulling out of the station. I got the next one with Paul and Claire, which was an experience. We were probably still pissed from the night before from all the wine, and in the middle of all the commuters myself and Claire had a gigglefit at our inability to find decent seats. At 8:15 in the morning. With hangovers.
I had to change trains twice, at Amersfoort and at Utrecht, but I still managed to make the flight back to Dublin. On the plane, I was seated next to what one presumes were a married couple. Everything was cool until the little brat they had started screaming and wriggling. Then the little girl two rows up from us took her cue from him and did the same. Christ, I like children most of the time, but a chorus of caterwauling in a confined space is more than I can stand. The landing wasn't too bad this time, at least.
On the bus back into Dublin city, I noticed a hot bear guy sitting near me. I ogled him all the way into town, thinking about what I wanted to do to him. I wanted to feel the heat of his naked body next to mine. But I erred on the side of caution. It was only when we got off the bus at the last stop that I noticed the bear paw symbol tattooed on his hot, muscular (enough!) calf. I wanted to run after him but it would have been too obvious on O'Connell Street. Oh missed opportunity!
I went back to the house in Rialto and got some much-needed chill time. Then I went to Sarah's house for a bite to eat and some wine as I hadn't met her out on the Wednesday, but not before buying new runners in Schuh to go with the t-shirt I bought over the internet. My shopping habits have gone kinda gay lately, with all my worry of accessorising, but what the hell. The meal was nice anyway, and Sarah and me had hugs and kisses at the end.
The rest of the night was one of the worst, most stressful heart-attack inducing nights of my LIFE! I got back to the house at 8:15 with the intention of leaving that night for the 9pm train (my bed had been taken over by my replacement) so I brought all my stuff downstairs (8:30) and then got a taxi (8:40). Finally got to Heuston at 8:50 and had to buy my ticket AND get two trolleyloads of stuff onto the train. I also had forgotten my new shoes, but thank God Kieran had driven after us and brought them to me.
The journey home was quite shit as well, as all ten/twelve bags were piled against one door, and depending on whether or not that door faced onto a platform as it pulled into a station, I had to move them across the other door on the other side. At one point some woman moaned that she couldn't get out through the blocked door. I volunteered to wheel her suitcase down the length of the carriage to the next exit, just to shut her up. After, she thanked me. I think her gratitude should have been for the fact that she was still alive. Also, my parents had to go to bed because they were shattered from the holiday, but they booked a taxi for me before they headed off. I tried to ring the cabbie to explain that he would need to be on the platform to meet me and help me with my stuff, but the coup de grâce: my phone went dead. It also nearly flew out the window as a result, but I kept my head. Finally, I texted him.
At 12am Tuesday morning, I was home with all my stuff.
Tuesday 31st (Today): Didn't do much. Looked at some porn on my parents computer, which is what I am typing on now. Bed now.
Looking back, maybe I should have stayed on the couch in Rialto until Tuesday morning, but I had it in my head I was leaving and I wanted my own bed. A shame, as I never got to find out about Sinéad's weekend with the Scottish guy, and tell them about mine over in the Netherlands, but oh well. I might see them again, as I still have to go up and collect my television (no WAY was I attempting to bring that home as well!). Bloody hell, I'm almost sure I'd be beating myself up if I had decided to go the next day. I need to stop criticising myself needlessly.
So that's it. Dublin and flat over. Four years of testing finished. It feels strange looking back on it, now that I finally have time to breathe. I'll soldier on. It needs to be done. I still have to revise that A-level chemistry.
Thank the Lord for that holiday though. It was just what the doctor ordered.
Now I'm definitely going to bed.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Last day at work
Well, I'm almost ready to go. Not much to do at work at the moment. One of the servers was abruptly taken down a while ago, so that's our testing snookered. Snigger.
The dinner for Tuesday night didn't come off as hardly anyone could make it. Shame, but we'll do it at some stage in the future. There's a few of us having some drinks after work tonight anyway, which should be good.
I fly out to Rotterdam tomorrow for a few days holidays (back Monday) but until the wages come through on Friday, I barely have enough money to get there. Tonight will be very frugal. Grrr. I have the world's worst financial management skills.
The plan is to get to Rotterdam and then get a train to Deventer, which is where I'll meet my parents and get a lift to Ruurlo. They've been out there since last Friday. The whole thing is organised for my aunt's silver wedding anniversary on the saturday, so it should be good. The only fly in the ointment, I found out last night, is the fact that I have to share an apartment with my brother while I'm there. Which is not good. The two of us occupying the same living space for any length of time can be detrimental to the fixtures, given our history over the past year or so. At least his girlfriend will be with him, so he should behave himself.
Things remaining: I still have to send out the enrolment form and gym membership form to Brighton University, but those won't be a problem. What I am worried about is the maintenance grant. The closing date for that is next Monday, and while I'll be posting the form this evening, they're almost certain to delay the processing of it because my tax return for the year 2003 hasn't been cleared yet (oh, long story!). Hopefully that one will work out as it's worth 3000 euro a year to me.
All I do now is sit here and wait until 5:30 comes around.
The dinner for Tuesday night didn't come off as hardly anyone could make it. Shame, but we'll do it at some stage in the future. There's a few of us having some drinks after work tonight anyway, which should be good.
I fly out to Rotterdam tomorrow for a few days holidays (back Monday) but until the wages come through on Friday, I barely have enough money to get there. Tonight will be very frugal. Grrr. I have the world's worst financial management skills.
The plan is to get to Rotterdam and then get a train to Deventer, which is where I'll meet my parents and get a lift to Ruurlo. They've been out there since last Friday. The whole thing is organised for my aunt's silver wedding anniversary on the saturday, so it should be good. The only fly in the ointment, I found out last night, is the fact that I have to share an apartment with my brother while I'm there. Which is not good. The two of us occupying the same living space for any length of time can be detrimental to the fixtures, given our history over the past year or so. At least his girlfriend will be with him, so he should behave himself.
Things remaining: I still have to send out the enrolment form and gym membership form to Brighton University, but those won't be a problem. What I am worried about is the maintenance grant. The closing date for that is next Monday, and while I'll be posting the form this evening, they're almost certain to delay the processing of it because my tax return for the year 2003 hasn't been cleared yet (oh, long story!). Hopefully that one will work out as it's worth 3000 euro a year to me.
All I do now is sit here and wait until 5:30 comes around.
Monday, August 23, 2004
2004 points requirements for entry to degree courses.
Christ almighty. Is that a pressure cooker or what? Apparently there's going to be a move to change the admissions requirements for medicine, but what about all the other related courses? They're nearly as bad.
It would be nothing short of an insult to get 570 and then not get one offer of medicine, which is what will happen to quite a few students around the country today. I wonder what's causing this inflation in the medically-orientated courses. It never used to be this bad. My theory is that the high achievers who normally went into engineering or science are avoiding them because of the bad press those courses have been getting in the last while, and instead they're opting for traditionally safer courses like the above. Or it could just be that universities are delegating more places to overseas students (traditionally students of medicine and the like), leaving less to Irish ones, because they know that then they can charge the foreign students a small fortune to study here for even one year. Or it could be something else.
I just know that I would hate to be doing my leaving cert with a view to getting into a medical course now. You would need to be nothing short of a learning machine. To get over 90% in a list of subjects that range from English to Maths is a highly unrealistic expectation of any student. Human intelligence is generally concentrated in one area, not distributed across all disciplines.
Incidentally, when I went for the interview for Pharmacy in Brighton, the professor told me that I should get a revision book for A-level chemistry and go through it before the course starts. I've been doing this, and I've noticed something. An A-level subject is supposed to be twice as in-depth as its leaving cert equivalent. It isn't. It is, at most, 30% as much again. Yet an A-level grade has, for some time, been deemed to be worth almost twice the points of its leaving cert equivalent. It's undeserved. This trend has recently been bucked by the refusal of some Irish universities to continue with the points scoring system in that regard.
When you think about it, UK students have it quite easy. They get to do any three subjects they like at a level that is not as hard as it's supposed to be and get awarded an A if they get over 80%. Contrast that with ours, where we have seven subjects (four of which are compulsory), the courses for which are pretty broad, and to get the maximum score possible for them, we have to get over 90%. No wonder our failure rates are increasing, while it's their pass rates that are on the climb.
Note to up-and-coming leaving cert students out there. Just present A-levels for points instead. You'll sail into any course you set your sights on.
Lastly, having checked out the requirements for what I got offered over on this side of the pond, I have to say fair play to Trinity. They offered me a place on a course that requires 560 points from school-leavers, so they are at least making some effort to effect an egalitarian access policy for mature students. Not like UCD, who turn their nose up at you if they find out that you've been in college before, but dropped out. Heaven forbid someone would make the all-too-common mistake of initially choosing the wrong course...
Christ almighty. Is that a pressure cooker or what? Apparently there's going to be a move to change the admissions requirements for medicine, but what about all the other related courses? They're nearly as bad.
It would be nothing short of an insult to get 570 and then not get one offer of medicine, which is what will happen to quite a few students around the country today. I wonder what's causing this inflation in the medically-orientated courses. It never used to be this bad. My theory is that the high achievers who normally went into engineering or science are avoiding them because of the bad press those courses have been getting in the last while, and instead they're opting for traditionally safer courses like the above. Or it could just be that universities are delegating more places to overseas students (traditionally students of medicine and the like), leaving less to Irish ones, because they know that then they can charge the foreign students a small fortune to study here for even one year. Or it could be something else.
I just know that I would hate to be doing my leaving cert with a view to getting into a medical course now. You would need to be nothing short of a learning machine. To get over 90% in a list of subjects that range from English to Maths is a highly unrealistic expectation of any student. Human intelligence is generally concentrated in one area, not distributed across all disciplines.
Incidentally, when I went for the interview for Pharmacy in Brighton, the professor told me that I should get a revision book for A-level chemistry and go through it before the course starts. I've been doing this, and I've noticed something. An A-level subject is supposed to be twice as in-depth as its leaving cert equivalent. It isn't. It is, at most, 30% as much again. Yet an A-level grade has, for some time, been deemed to be worth almost twice the points of its leaving cert equivalent. It's undeserved. This trend has recently been bucked by the refusal of some Irish universities to continue with the points scoring system in that regard.
When you think about it, UK students have it quite easy. They get to do any three subjects they like at a level that is not as hard as it's supposed to be and get awarded an A if they get over 80%. Contrast that with ours, where we have seven subjects (four of which are compulsory), the courses for which are pretty broad, and to get the maximum score possible for them, we have to get over 90%. No wonder our failure rates are increasing, while it's their pass rates that are on the climb.
Note to up-and-coming leaving cert students out there. Just present A-levels for points instead. You'll sail into any course you set your sights on.
Lastly, having checked out the requirements for what I got offered over on this side of the pond, I have to say fair play to Trinity. They offered me a place on a course that requires 560 points from school-leavers, so they are at least making some effort to effect an egalitarian access policy for mature students. Not like UCD, who turn their nose up at you if they find out that you've been in college before, but dropped out. Heaven forbid someone would make the all-too-common mistake of initially choosing the wrong course...
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Another Saturday, another hangover...
Well, the drill-like sensation at each of my temples went away some time ago, thankfully, and I am now getting on with the business of recovery. Last night was a while getting going, but once it did, it was good. Around 10 people excluding myself were there (Sosume on South Great George's Street). A nice number, not too big, not too small. Didn't drink too much either, which is a good thing these days. All the cash machines within walking distance were out of order because the guys who handle the refilling of those were on strike. Still, it didn't prove to be too much of a problem. A nice night, and the Heinekens were good too. Thanks, J. The only fly in the ointment was that I lapsed and had a few smokes, but hell, I'll just go back off them again on Monday.
Ended up going back to Sarah's house for a glass of wine, which was a nice way to finish off the night. Thank God I managed to get a taxi. I really wouldn't have been able for the walk home at 5 in the morning. Sarah suggested having a meal in Temple Bar on Tuesday night as a goodbye gesture. I like the idea, and will get on it on Monday.
Today involved nothing more than collecting my gymbag from the house I used to live in, and then home to curl up on the couch. As per bloody usual when I'm hungover, I got into some rom-com on the TV ('Practical Magic') and it was shit. I really should have know better.
Bed shortly, I think.
Ended up going back to Sarah's house for a glass of wine, which was a nice way to finish off the night. Thank God I managed to get a taxi. I really wouldn't have been able for the walk home at 5 in the morning. Sarah suggested having a meal in Temple Bar on Tuesday night as a goodbye gesture. I like the idea, and will get on it on Monday.
Today involved nothing more than collecting my gymbag from the house I used to live in, and then home to curl up on the couch. As per bloody usual when I'm hungover, I got into some rom-com on the TV ('Practical Magic') and it was shit. I really should have know better.
Bed shortly, I think.
Friday, August 20, 2004
Going, going...
Well, my final weekend of boozing with my work crowd is almost upon me. Not sure what is going down, as a lot of them are preoccupied with a post-work project bash that involves a free bar (not my project, oh no, that would be have made it so much easier). As charming, witty, and dashing as I am, I can't compete with free booze, so the plan is now to meet Pat first and after that intersect with the other booze-hounds.
Actually, scratch that. The plan is to get as drunk as possible, on as many drinks as possible, in as many different ways as possible.
A sizeable portion of the group will be people I've been in the business with since I started four years ago, so it should be good. I'm nurturing plans of going to Mallow tommorrow on the train, with some of my luggage, before I move out of my flat for good. I might as well give up now. It's not going to happen. Especially with some of the plans I have for tonight. My mother thought it was quite hilarious that I even entertain the notion.
I can't believe how little I've done today. I'm going to ask a few questions in a minute to make it look like I'm doing something. No wait, I'd better not. The lead's first thought is bound to be that I should have asked them much earlier in the day. Oh...we'll see.
Part of my recreational activities today involved looking for an mp3 download of the Britney Spears song 'Everytime' (Yes, I KNOW it's Britney Spears, but the odd bit of fluff like that can be engaging). When I did a Google search, half the sites I found had pictures of her, not mp3s. And the pictures consisted of her in various naked clinches. I could rant from here until midnight about how crass the sexualization of girls like her by record companies has become, but I'd probably crash the blog site. And I have drinking to be getting on with. I'll come back to this at a future date.
Gone!
Actually, scratch that. The plan is to get as drunk as possible, on as many drinks as possible, in as many different ways as possible.
A sizeable portion of the group will be people I've been in the business with since I started four years ago, so it should be good. I'm nurturing plans of going to Mallow tommorrow on the train, with some of my luggage, before I move out of my flat for good. I might as well give up now. It's not going to happen. Especially with some of the plans I have for tonight. My mother thought it was quite hilarious that I even entertain the notion.
I can't believe how little I've done today. I'm going to ask a few questions in a minute to make it look like I'm doing something. No wait, I'd better not. The lead's first thought is bound to be that I should have asked them much earlier in the day. Oh...we'll see.
Part of my recreational activities today involved looking for an mp3 download of the Britney Spears song 'Everytime' (Yes, I KNOW it's Britney Spears, but the odd bit of fluff like that can be engaging). When I did a Google search, half the sites I found had pictures of her, not mp3s. And the pictures consisted of her in various naked clinches. I could rant from here until midnight about how crass the sexualization of girls like her by record companies has become, but I'd probably crash the blog site. And I have drinking to be getting on with. I'll come back to this at a future date.
Gone!
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
The plan so far...
Well, as it turns out, I did ring in sick today, though it wasn't entirely planned. I woke too late for the gym before work, so went back to sleep. Then I woke up again, late for...erm... work and just decided not to go in. I'm glad I didn't anyway. The training would have done my head in completely. I got a few things done in town that I wouldn't have managed otherwise, so the day wasn't a complete waste.
I got a letter from Brighton today confirming my offer of accommodation, which I have to return fairly pronto if I don't want to let it lapse. Pater has helped me out by stumping up the required deposit. Thanks Pops. I also still have to sort out the maintenance grant and tax returns, and the closing date for those is almost upon me. Oh well, I wouldn't be Denis if it wasn't like this, would I?
The whole thing is almost upon me and I am actually looking forward to the change. Looking back, I really had no business getting into software QA, or at least after I did, I should have left it after one year. It gave me some much needed experience in the area of actually using computers, this is true, but it was not a job that was ever really suited to me. The only consolation is that, outside of IT professionals themselves, at this stage I'm as knowledgeable as anyone when it comes to this stuff, and no matter what area I go into now, this can only help.
The offers I am currently juggling at the moment are Pharmacy in the University of Brighton, and a two-subject degree in Maths & Psychology in Trinity. I've deferred the latter for a year, the plan being that if I find Pharmacy isn't for me, then I can always chuck it in and come back to do the other course. I reckon this is the best option, because then I'll at least have tried one before opting for the other, and at this stage of my life, this is for keeps: I have to get it right this time.
I remember spending half a day at work recently weighing up the pros and cons of these options and coming up with this:
Maths and Psychology:
For: Could be very interesting. Might suit my temperament.
Against: Not a direct route into employment. More advanced aspects of these subjects could be beyond me. Can be difficult to score highly in latter subject and if I don't, the degree will lead me into nothing in particular. Also, It would mean spending another four years in Dublin (Ugh!).
Some of these points are important. I know some very intelligent people who did Psychology (both got 2.1s) but one is still jobbing around in the career she went back to college to escape from, and the other (who ranked 2nd in her class in UCC in her finals) is only now looking at a chance of getting onto a masters course, after 5 years of hopping from job to job. There is also the fact that while I always liked Maths, I'm no Max Cohen, so I could just well end up working as some analyst in some corporation, which I would hate. Also, I've always suffered from unpredictable performance in essay-based subjects: One minute a B+, the next a D-. Maybe that's the nature of those subjects, but there's nothing worse than seeing a mediocre mark on something you've slaved over for hours, and that is something that has happened to me before.
Pharmacy:
For: A direct route into well-paid employment. Factual course means it's easier to score highly in. Having got an A in leaving cert chemistry surely means I'll be upto the demands of the course. I get to go to Brighton ('nuff said, given my orientation). Ability to travel with the qualification. And one other serious perk which I am not going to mention right now for fear I get thrown in jail. We all know what that one is.
Against: Responsibility: When I cocked up before, it didn't have substantial repercussions (A warning message in the software has corrupted text? Oh boo hoo!), whereas now that margin for error will be gone. The course is not so much an education, as an apprenticeship. This is in stark contrast to the other option. It's also not likely to be as inspiring.
The whole thing smacks of the small-mindedness that I came across in school with regard to arts degrees. The idea that a university degree is a passport to a job defeats the purpose of going there in the first place, and what I would consider the greatest waste of four years of someone's life is a commerce degree, not an arts degree. I've come around to the degree-as-education viewpoint only recently, yet I acknowledge that this involves sacrifices that I'm not willing to make.
It sucks (well, it doesn't really, but it makes it harder for you) when you have a medium interest in everything across the board, instead of having pronounced ability in just one area. If you fall into the latter category, your choices are much simpler. I read a comment in someone's blog once recently, no idea whose, where someone said 'Don't get me wrong, I'm all for well-rounded people, but they must find it hard to fit into a particular corner'. It's true.
Lastly, I'm afraid that if I have an artistic side, it might end up remaining largely unexpressed regardless of what route I go down. But who's to say what might be at this point? We'll see.
Ho-hum.
I'll go to Brighton. Lots of artists, writers, filmmakers and such often reach the point of fission in this environment. It could be my making. Well, I'm allowed to dream, aren't I?
On another note, I saw the director's cut of The Exorcist last night. I liked. The one or two extra scenes were quite frightening, although I found Linda Blair's depiction of demonic possession camp as well as disturbing (The lines 'Your mother is down here, Karass. Would you like to speak to her?' and 'Look at what she did to me, your cunting daughter!' had the bizarre effect of sounding like a stoned and throaty Bette Midler). The part where she scuttled down the stairs with her back arched, the 'crab' I think, scared the shit out of me. The 'Jesus, fuck me' part was written almost purely for controversy I thought, but maybe I'm just being cynical. As far as I know, this was based on a true story. I must look into it more.
Perhaps at work tommorrow. :-)
P.S. Number of hot guys in gym showers today, 2. The boner I got, none. Thank God...
I got a letter from Brighton today confirming my offer of accommodation, which I have to return fairly pronto if I don't want to let it lapse. Pater has helped me out by stumping up the required deposit. Thanks Pops. I also still have to sort out the maintenance grant and tax returns, and the closing date for those is almost upon me. Oh well, I wouldn't be Denis if it wasn't like this, would I?
The whole thing is almost upon me and I am actually looking forward to the change. Looking back, I really had no business getting into software QA, or at least after I did, I should have left it after one year. It gave me some much needed experience in the area of actually using computers, this is true, but it was not a job that was ever really suited to me. The only consolation is that, outside of IT professionals themselves, at this stage I'm as knowledgeable as anyone when it comes to this stuff, and no matter what area I go into now, this can only help.
The offers I am currently juggling at the moment are Pharmacy in the University of Brighton, and a two-subject degree in Maths & Psychology in Trinity. I've deferred the latter for a year, the plan being that if I find Pharmacy isn't for me, then I can always chuck it in and come back to do the other course. I reckon this is the best option, because then I'll at least have tried one before opting for the other, and at this stage of my life, this is for keeps: I have to get it right this time.
I remember spending half a day at work recently weighing up the pros and cons of these options and coming up with this:
Maths and Psychology:
For: Could be very interesting. Might suit my temperament.
Against: Not a direct route into employment. More advanced aspects of these subjects could be beyond me. Can be difficult to score highly in latter subject and if I don't, the degree will lead me into nothing in particular. Also, It would mean spending another four years in Dublin (Ugh!).
Some of these points are important. I know some very intelligent people who did Psychology (both got 2.1s) but one is still jobbing around in the career she went back to college to escape from, and the other (who ranked 2nd in her class in UCC in her finals) is only now looking at a chance of getting onto a masters course, after 5 years of hopping from job to job. There is also the fact that while I always liked Maths, I'm no Max Cohen, so I could just well end up working as some analyst in some corporation, which I would hate. Also, I've always suffered from unpredictable performance in essay-based subjects: One minute a B+, the next a D-. Maybe that's the nature of those subjects, but there's nothing worse than seeing a mediocre mark on something you've slaved over for hours, and that is something that has happened to me before.
Pharmacy:
For: A direct route into well-paid employment. Factual course means it's easier to score highly in. Having got an A in leaving cert chemistry surely means I'll be upto the demands of the course. I get to go to Brighton ('nuff said, given my orientation). Ability to travel with the qualification. And one other serious perk which I am not going to mention right now for fear I get thrown in jail. We all know what that one is.
Against: Responsibility: When I cocked up before, it didn't have substantial repercussions (A warning message in the software has corrupted text? Oh boo hoo!), whereas now that margin for error will be gone. The course is not so much an education, as an apprenticeship. This is in stark contrast to the other option. It's also not likely to be as inspiring.
The whole thing smacks of the small-mindedness that I came across in school with regard to arts degrees. The idea that a university degree is a passport to a job defeats the purpose of going there in the first place, and what I would consider the greatest waste of four years of someone's life is a commerce degree, not an arts degree. I've come around to the degree-as-education viewpoint only recently, yet I acknowledge that this involves sacrifices that I'm not willing to make.
It sucks (well, it doesn't really, but it makes it harder for you) when you have a medium interest in everything across the board, instead of having pronounced ability in just one area. If you fall into the latter category, your choices are much simpler. I read a comment in someone's blog once recently, no idea whose, where someone said 'Don't get me wrong, I'm all for well-rounded people, but they must find it hard to fit into a particular corner'. It's true.
Lastly, I'm afraid that if I have an artistic side, it might end up remaining largely unexpressed regardless of what route I go down. But who's to say what might be at this point? We'll see.
Ho-hum.
I'll go to Brighton. Lots of artists, writers, filmmakers and such often reach the point of fission in this environment. It could be my making. Well, I'm allowed to dream, aren't I?
On another note, I saw the director's cut of The Exorcist last night. I liked. The one or two extra scenes were quite frightening, although I found Linda Blair's depiction of demonic possession camp as well as disturbing (The lines 'Your mother is down here, Karass. Would you like to speak to her?' and 'Look at what she did to me, your cunting daughter!' had the bizarre effect of sounding like a stoned and throaty Bette Midler). The part where she scuttled down the stairs with her back arched, the 'crab' I think, scared the shit out of me. The 'Jesus, fuck me' part was written almost purely for controversy I thought, but maybe I'm just being cynical. As far as I know, this was based on a true story. I must look into it more.
Perhaps at work tommorrow. :-)
P.S. Number of hot guys in gym showers today, 2. The boner I got, none. Thank God...
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Review 2:
The Cure: The Cure
I bought this album around the time it was released: a strategic two weeks before the Oxegen festival, where they were headlining on the Saturday. It always takes a while for me to fully digest an album of theirs, so I waited for a while before reaching a definitive conclusion.
I've been a fan of this band since I was fifteen, if I remember rightly. That makes fifteen years altogether, and in that time I've amassed almost every Cure release there is. I can only remember one time that I wasn't beating down the door of HMV the day of release of a Cure album, and that was when they released 'Bloodflowers'. For some reason my enthusiasm lapsed around that period, although I eventually got my hands on it via a network share. As Cure albums go, it wasn't the best by a long shot, but there were some good songs on it.
My first introduction was via the singles album 'Standing on a beach', and that was it. As far as I was concerned for a long time after that, they were the best band on the planet, without exception. I'm not so blinkered now, but I still think they have something that no other band had or will have. They made the most seamless transition from the underground to the mainstream of all the bands I've seen, Robert Smith is one of the most interesting frontmen out there, and they never sank to traditional rock'n roll posturing of any kind (Are you listening, Billy Corgan?!). Even now, after all their success, they're still seen as a leftfield, alternative group that aren't for everybody, and that's just the way I like 'em.
Back in the days of school, this lot were the perfect soundtrack to my somewhat eccentric adolescence. Grunge didn't really take off until '91, and even after that the Cureheads remained the 'elite' of Mallow's teens. That was what a lot of people aspired to, myself included (though I reckon mine was the most definitive knowledge of the band out of all of them, so there!). It was a constant source of irritation to me that I couldn't grow my hair like Smith (fucking curls, I loathed you then, and still do!) but that didn't stop me from growing it anyway, and trying out various hair relaxants in the process. I tell you, there are one or two classic pictures out there (those, and one rather horrible scalp burning incident with a hair straightening mix). I'll post them up here if I get my hands on them.
As an aside, no event slammed home the end of my youth as much as that of the time I caught sight of the back of my head in a changing room mirror in some Henry Street shop about two years ago and saw that I was going bald. Not at the front, but at the back, around the crown area. I abandoned my shopping trip and went home under a cloud of depression.
Anyway, the album. There are 13 songs on the UK version. 7 I really like (Lost, Labyrinth, Truth goodness and beauty, Anniversary, Never, The Promise, and Going Nowhere) and 6 I find only alright (Before Three, End of the World, Us or Them, Alt.end, I don't know what's going on, and Taking Off). End Of The World is their first single off it, and I suppose it's the most radio-friendly song on the album. I've always taken their albums as a whole and never paid much attention to their singles; They've always been an album band anyway, in my opinion.
So is it any good? Yes. It stands up there with everything they've ever done. Is it up there with Disintegration, Pornography, or other such milestones? That depends on the individual. Though it's not as extreme, it's a very worthy addition to the Cure canon. Are they passed it? Musically, not at all, though I watched the accompanying DVD and I have to admit that Smith's sartorial style, while once as cool as fuck, is getting harder to carry off as he gets older. But then that's one thing about them: They never really changed, which is part of the appeal. His fiftieth birthday is a mere five years away, though. I would suggest he ditch the Mary Quant crimson scorcher before then.
Would I recommend it as a purchase? Definitely.
Oh, and I almost forgot. They KICKED ASS at Oxegen. Every time I hear a song on this album, it reminds me of that night. And that's the best way of remembering a concert: while playing the album they were touring with at the time.
I bought this album around the time it was released: a strategic two weeks before the Oxegen festival, where they were headlining on the Saturday. It always takes a while for me to fully digest an album of theirs, so I waited for a while before reaching a definitive conclusion.
I've been a fan of this band since I was fifteen, if I remember rightly. That makes fifteen years altogether, and in that time I've amassed almost every Cure release there is. I can only remember one time that I wasn't beating down the door of HMV the day of release of a Cure album, and that was when they released 'Bloodflowers'. For some reason my enthusiasm lapsed around that period, although I eventually got my hands on it via a network share. As Cure albums go, it wasn't the best by a long shot, but there were some good songs on it.
My first introduction was via the singles album 'Standing on a beach', and that was it. As far as I was concerned for a long time after that, they were the best band on the planet, without exception. I'm not so blinkered now, but I still think they have something that no other band had or will have. They made the most seamless transition from the underground to the mainstream of all the bands I've seen, Robert Smith is one of the most interesting frontmen out there, and they never sank to traditional rock'n roll posturing of any kind (Are you listening, Billy Corgan?!). Even now, after all their success, they're still seen as a leftfield, alternative group that aren't for everybody, and that's just the way I like 'em.
Back in the days of school, this lot were the perfect soundtrack to my somewhat eccentric adolescence. Grunge didn't really take off until '91, and even after that the Cureheads remained the 'elite' of Mallow's teens. That was what a lot of people aspired to, myself included (though I reckon mine was the most definitive knowledge of the band out of all of them, so there!). It was a constant source of irritation to me that I couldn't grow my hair like Smith (fucking curls, I loathed you then, and still do!) but that didn't stop me from growing it anyway, and trying out various hair relaxants in the process. I tell you, there are one or two classic pictures out there (those, and one rather horrible scalp burning incident with a hair straightening mix). I'll post them up here if I get my hands on them.
As an aside, no event slammed home the end of my youth as much as that of the time I caught sight of the back of my head in a changing room mirror in some Henry Street shop about two years ago and saw that I was going bald. Not at the front, but at the back, around the crown area. I abandoned my shopping trip and went home under a cloud of depression.
Anyway, the album. There are 13 songs on the UK version. 7 I really like (Lost, Labyrinth, Truth goodness and beauty, Anniversary, Never, The Promise, and Going Nowhere) and 6 I find only alright (Before Three, End of the World, Us or Them, Alt.end, I don't know what's going on, and Taking Off). End Of The World is their first single off it, and I suppose it's the most radio-friendly song on the album. I've always taken their albums as a whole and never paid much attention to their singles; They've always been an album band anyway, in my opinion.
So is it any good? Yes. It stands up there with everything they've ever done. Is it up there with Disintegration, Pornography, or other such milestones? That depends on the individual. Though it's not as extreme, it's a very worthy addition to the Cure canon. Are they passed it? Musically, not at all, though I watched the accompanying DVD and I have to admit that Smith's sartorial style, while once as cool as fuck, is getting harder to carry off as he gets older. But then that's one thing about them: They never really changed, which is part of the appeal. His fiftieth birthday is a mere five years away, though. I would suggest he ditch the Mary Quant crimson scorcher before then.
Would I recommend it as a purchase? Definitely.
Oh, and I almost forgot. They KICKED ASS at Oxegen. Every time I hear a song on this album, it reminds me of that night. And that's the best way of remembering a concert: while playing the album they were touring with at the time.
Why am I here?
I'm at work, and going off my head. The training is in full swing, and as usual the time we are spending on learning about the product is far out of proportion to what we are actually learning about the product. Most technical people that I have met in software have no idea how to use the English language to marshal product information into easily understood, bite-size chunks, and this was proved this morning when some guy started off and droned his way through some file copy-over procedure. Now the team lead has taken over, and to be fair to her, she's doing OK, just giving demonstrations. If only one of the other project leads in there would shut up and stop asking so many questions, it might actually be bearable. We're only going to learn this by messing around with the product itself, yet we still have to sit in a room for upto 90 mins at a time watching a screen, when even the most half-baked authority on the human mind knows that people can only concentrate in 40 minute cycles. Speaking of which, as I have mentioned before, I am only going to be around for about 15% of this testing cycle, so it's a cruel and unusual punishment to be made to go through this training. One of the guys suggested ringing in sick tommorrow. I would, only I would get my wages docked (No sick pay for contractors. Whoo-hoo!) and I need the money.
I also have to fill in a tax return for last year, which as you can imagine, makes the above look like a day out at Disney. I HATE finance/business of any kind. Want to send me to sleep, or induce a near-suicidal depression? Say the words 'Net Profit' and I'm off. Thank God a friend of mine came around over the weekend while I was in Malllow and went through it with me. Her name is Jacqueline, a chartered accountant. I give her name because she deserves to be mentioned.
I have to go back in now.
Days left in work: 6.5
I also have to fill in a tax return for last year, which as you can imagine, makes the above look like a day out at Disney. I HATE finance/business of any kind. Want to send me to sleep, or induce a near-suicidal depression? Say the words 'Net Profit' and I'm off. Thank God a friend of mine came around over the weekend while I was in Malllow and went through it with me. Her name is Jacqueline, a chartered accountant. I give her name because she deserves to be mentioned.
I have to go back in now.
Days left in work: 6.5
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Review 1:
Fahrenheit 9/11:
I went to see this last week, but am only getting around to writing about it now. The style is the same as Bowling for Columbine. Simple, bite-size pieces that quite often come too quickly to be digested fully in the time provided. Or maybe I'm just thick.
I found the first half about the influence of the Saudis on the US economy something of an eye-opener. To some more jaded political commentators this is probably old hat, but it was news to me. The second half was very effective. To my mind, one feature of these documentaries is that they are an effective antidote to the glamour of war movies that have been doing the rounds since God-knows-when. Corpses in real-life are not a pretty sight, and there was very little, if any, heroism involved in the US army's intervention. The scene where the Iraqi woman lamented the bombing of her house invited nothing but sympathy, unless you were a fan of Toby Keith.
At this point I have to be cynical, and question Moore's utilisation of Lila Lipscombe's tragedy. I found that she came across very well, and her heartbreak was gut-wrenching, but when she broke down, towards the end of the film, Moore should have turned the camera OFF! That kind of grief, at least in my opinion, should not be shared on camera with someone who up until recently, never knew her. I have no problem with seeing it; It was a validation of human emotion in many ways, but Michael Moore's refusal to waste a good photo opportunity was evident. But God, my heart goes out to that woman.
The backlash against Moore is now in full swing, and to be sure there are elements of his style to take issue with, but these are outweighed by the fact that his voice, all in all, makes for effective dissent. There are some points that should be made:
1. He's biased against Bush.
Can anyone find any sane, balanced, politically aware person who isn't? He's on his way to trashing the environment (cf. Kyoto Protocol), posturing hypocritically against recreational drugs (His imprisonment of a single mother for twenty years for possession of marijuana, oh don't get me started!), and selling out the US presidency to a sizeable portion of Corporate America. Oh, and then there's his IQ: Hours upon HOURS of private tuition at an Iveagh League university just for him to barely pass his exams (after having often repeated an academic year) followed by one wasted business opportunity after another. Is it too much to ask that the President of the United States have a proper command of English?
I've never seen so many unite against one American president in all my life. Most presidents suffer criticism only from political scientists and commentators from the extreme left or right, but Bush is disrespected by EVERYONE! I remember seeing the anti-war protest marches in Dublin (I went), and for the first time I saw parents and children marching side by side in an event that wasn't organised against divorce or abortion. He's united several warring factions against him. No mean feat, eh?
2. His presentation of the facts is simplistic, and caters to the lowest-common-denominator.
This is the way to go. Most of us who work outside of the field of politics/journalism simply don't have the time to brush up on the finer points of the subject matter presented here, and even if we did, we'd most likely pass out with boredom before our quest for knowledge would be complete. Some aspects of politics can be interesting, but most of the finer points of it...well... let's just say only stock exchange economics has the greater power to induce a deep coma. Moore's success lies in the fact that he highlights the human interest behind it all, even if he has a tendency to manipulate it to some degree.
3. His conclusions are flawed.
Some historians have already pointed this out, and I can't really blame them. But at the same time, most of his facts are supported by evidence. His criticism of Bush is, in and of itself, a noble endeavour. He was guilty of such a conclusion in Bowling for Columbine (US paranoia cannot possibly be down to televison news stories on their own), but what's to stop us from drawing our own, given what he has presented?
4. If he's 'down with the people', why is he living in an exclusive Manhattan apartment?
Why shouldn't he enjoy the fruits of his labour?
5. His waistline is expanding along with his success.
Oh, grow the fuck up.
So that's it. All in all, I'd recommend it. Also, michaelmoore.com is very necessary reading after the film. I found the array of facts bewildering, and hard to keep up with, but they're all repeated here in the same sequence as the film.
So, Michael. Keep on keepin' on. Albeit with some more discretion and subtlety.
Lila, you have my deepest sympathies. I hope the rest of your life goes as well as can be expected for you and your family.
George, I really really really hope you lose the next election. And that's coming from an Irishman with no vested interests in American Politics.
Goodnight.
I went to see this last week, but am only getting around to writing about it now. The style is the same as Bowling for Columbine. Simple, bite-size pieces that quite often come too quickly to be digested fully in the time provided. Or maybe I'm just thick.
I found the first half about the influence of the Saudis on the US economy something of an eye-opener. To some more jaded political commentators this is probably old hat, but it was news to me. The second half was very effective. To my mind, one feature of these documentaries is that they are an effective antidote to the glamour of war movies that have been doing the rounds since God-knows-when. Corpses in real-life are not a pretty sight, and there was very little, if any, heroism involved in the US army's intervention. The scene where the Iraqi woman lamented the bombing of her house invited nothing but sympathy, unless you were a fan of Toby Keith.
At this point I have to be cynical, and question Moore's utilisation of Lila Lipscombe's tragedy. I found that she came across very well, and her heartbreak was gut-wrenching, but when she broke down, towards the end of the film, Moore should have turned the camera OFF! That kind of grief, at least in my opinion, should not be shared on camera with someone who up until recently, never knew her. I have no problem with seeing it; It was a validation of human emotion in many ways, but Michael Moore's refusal to waste a good photo opportunity was evident. But God, my heart goes out to that woman.
The backlash against Moore is now in full swing, and to be sure there are elements of his style to take issue with, but these are outweighed by the fact that his voice, all in all, makes for effective dissent. There are some points that should be made:
1. He's biased against Bush.
Can anyone find any sane, balanced, politically aware person who isn't? He's on his way to trashing the environment (cf. Kyoto Protocol), posturing hypocritically against recreational drugs (His imprisonment of a single mother for twenty years for possession of marijuana, oh don't get me started!), and selling out the US presidency to a sizeable portion of Corporate America. Oh, and then there's his IQ: Hours upon HOURS of private tuition at an Iveagh League university just for him to barely pass his exams (after having often repeated an academic year) followed by one wasted business opportunity after another. Is it too much to ask that the President of the United States have a proper command of English?
I've never seen so many unite against one American president in all my life. Most presidents suffer criticism only from political scientists and commentators from the extreme left or right, but Bush is disrespected by EVERYONE! I remember seeing the anti-war protest marches in Dublin (I went), and for the first time I saw parents and children marching side by side in an event that wasn't organised against divorce or abortion. He's united several warring factions against him. No mean feat, eh?
2. His presentation of the facts is simplistic, and caters to the lowest-common-denominator.
This is the way to go. Most of us who work outside of the field of politics/journalism simply don't have the time to brush up on the finer points of the subject matter presented here, and even if we did, we'd most likely pass out with boredom before our quest for knowledge would be complete. Some aspects of politics can be interesting, but most of the finer points of it...well... let's just say only stock exchange economics has the greater power to induce a deep coma. Moore's success lies in the fact that he highlights the human interest behind it all, even if he has a tendency to manipulate it to some degree.
3. His conclusions are flawed.
Some historians have already pointed this out, and I can't really blame them. But at the same time, most of his facts are supported by evidence. His criticism of Bush is, in and of itself, a noble endeavour. He was guilty of such a conclusion in Bowling for Columbine (US paranoia cannot possibly be down to televison news stories on their own), but what's to stop us from drawing our own, given what he has presented?
4. If he's 'down with the people', why is he living in an exclusive Manhattan apartment?
Why shouldn't he enjoy the fruits of his labour?
5. His waistline is expanding along with his success.
Oh, grow the fuck up.
So that's it. All in all, I'd recommend it. Also, michaelmoore.com is very necessary reading after the film. I found the array of facts bewildering, and hard to keep up with, but they're all repeated here in the same sequence as the film.
So, Michael. Keep on keepin' on. Albeit with some more discretion and subtlety.
Lila, you have my deepest sympathies. I hope the rest of your life goes as well as can be expected for you and your family.
George, I really really really hope you lose the next election. And that's coming from an Irishman with no vested interests in American Politics.
Goodnight.
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Friday 13th. Not unlucky, but shitty...
I'm fighting down some violent impulses today. As in, I feel like I would attack anyone who would cross me. It's not often I feel like this but today is one of those days. On days like today, gun control in Ireland can only be a good thing. Have you ever felt like looking up all the people who ever pissed you off and grinding them into the ground with a steam roller? Not sure what's causing it, though one of the project leads in here is certainly contributing. Thinking about people in general could be it. That, and the fact that I haven't had any lunch at all today. Perhaps I have anger issues. Maybe I should change the blog name to Michael McDermott's Soulmate.
This shouldn't be the case, as I'm listening to some extremely mellow stuff here. Aphex Twin Selected Ambient Works (Disc 2 at the moment). I only really got into this guy around the time he was winding down his career, which is a shame, as I missed his last Irish date in Dublin. My first contact with him was via 'Come to Daddy' and the drums just blew me away. Not long after that came 'Windowlicker', with it's video basically a satire on hip-hop (the mainstream representation of which was ripe for a piss-take), and that was it. From there, I got into Drukqs and Selected Ambient Works and some singles.
I remember when I first got into the electronic/dance side of things. It was around 1993 (I think I was still in school) and The Prodigy's Music for the Gilted Generation was doing the rounds. I think it was this album, more than any other, that turned it around for electronic music, which up until then had a fairly narrow appeal. I reckon its main problems were that it was made to be danced to, not listened to, and at least some of its core audience (at least in Cork) were more likely to set a car on fire than set the world alight. The word 'Narry' seems to be on its way out, but these people made sure it was well used while it was around.
Where The Prodigy's album succeeded was in the winning over of all the guitar heads (myself amongst them), people who would previously have turned their nose up at this stuff. The standouts for me were 'Full Throttle', 'Break and Enter' and...oh...most of the album really. Of course they blew it when they followed up with 'The Fat of the Land'. I lost them after that one. Maybe I'll get back into them with the new one that's supposed to be coming out, as long as Liam Howlett stops making noises about how they're 'Keeping it Real'.
After that I got into Orbital and the Chemical Brothers, among others, but when I heard Aphex Twin, he left them all for dead. I must make a point of checking out more of the stuff on the Rephlex and Warp labels.
One last thing about Ambient Works: At lot of the stuff here would work great as a film soundtrack. Very little movement, hardly any drums, just a mood really, if a song can be such a thing. Far too many filmmakers (Cameron Crowe, Martin Scorsese, pay attention!) put standard rock songs into a film, and it rarely works as it draws attention away from the film and onto the song. Songs with lead melodies command attention, and although there are exceptions, they shouldn't generally be used in film. Part of a five minute song does not work well in a three-minute scene, yet this is something that Cameron Crowe constantly does ('Singles', 'Vanilla Sky'), though he's not the only one. Martin Scorsese horsed this idea in quite a few of his films, including 'Bringing out the dead', where he used two Rolling Stones songs in that one film. Two songs by the same well-known band in one film. Not cool. He'd've stood some chance if he used two songs by an artist that no-one had heard of generally. One-off scores work best, and it's not as if either of these directors can't afford them.
'Lost in Translation' (one of my favourite films) has this problem too, though to a much lesser extent, as Kevin Sheils' music is generally suited to this kind of thing, and the other songs were used in the context of karaoke, so they were fine.
All in all, if it's in a film, keep the vocals and traditional use of rock instruments OUT!
Anyway, back to my crappy work day. We have training next week, for a product whose test cycle will run long beyond the time I'm gone. Even though I have only 8 more working days here I have to go to it, and I always have a problem staying awake during those kind of things.
Oh, and I haven't had a chance to have lunch today either, and people keep rebooting servers, which slows down our testing. And I haven't had a chance to read my friday newsletter.
Thank God I'm leaving. I can't wait.
P.S. On a completely different note, I almost got a boner in the gym showers this morning. I have no idea what caused it, as there were no hot men around (indeed, there were no men there at all at that time). But just as I headed for the shower that only throws out cold water (!), I noticed that a hot guy had appeared next to me (one of the gym instructors), and was totally naked. Damn if I wasn't too preoccupied getting the hell out of there to check him out.
Don't do that to me again, you hear me Dick?!
This shouldn't be the case, as I'm listening to some extremely mellow stuff here. Aphex Twin Selected Ambient Works (Disc 2 at the moment). I only really got into this guy around the time he was winding down his career, which is a shame, as I missed his last Irish date in Dublin. My first contact with him was via 'Come to Daddy' and the drums just blew me away. Not long after that came 'Windowlicker', with it's video basically a satire on hip-hop (the mainstream representation of which was ripe for a piss-take), and that was it. From there, I got into Drukqs and Selected Ambient Works and some singles.
I remember when I first got into the electronic/dance side of things. It was around 1993 (I think I was still in school) and The Prodigy's Music for the Gilted Generation was doing the rounds. I think it was this album, more than any other, that turned it around for electronic music, which up until then had a fairly narrow appeal. I reckon its main problems were that it was made to be danced to, not listened to, and at least some of its core audience (at least in Cork) were more likely to set a car on fire than set the world alight. The word 'Narry' seems to be on its way out, but these people made sure it was well used while it was around.
Where The Prodigy's album succeeded was in the winning over of all the guitar heads (myself amongst them), people who would previously have turned their nose up at this stuff. The standouts for me were 'Full Throttle', 'Break and Enter' and...oh...most of the album really. Of course they blew it when they followed up with 'The Fat of the Land'. I lost them after that one. Maybe I'll get back into them with the new one that's supposed to be coming out, as long as Liam Howlett stops making noises about how they're 'Keeping it Real'.
After that I got into Orbital and the Chemical Brothers, among others, but when I heard Aphex Twin, he left them all for dead. I must make a point of checking out more of the stuff on the Rephlex and Warp labels.
One last thing about Ambient Works: At lot of the stuff here would work great as a film soundtrack. Very little movement, hardly any drums, just a mood really, if a song can be such a thing. Far too many filmmakers (Cameron Crowe, Martin Scorsese, pay attention!) put standard rock songs into a film, and it rarely works as it draws attention away from the film and onto the song. Songs with lead melodies command attention, and although there are exceptions, they shouldn't generally be used in film. Part of a five minute song does not work well in a three-minute scene, yet this is something that Cameron Crowe constantly does ('Singles', 'Vanilla Sky'), though he's not the only one. Martin Scorsese horsed this idea in quite a few of his films, including 'Bringing out the dead', where he used two Rolling Stones songs in that one film. Two songs by the same well-known band in one film. Not cool. He'd've stood some chance if he used two songs by an artist that no-one had heard of generally. One-off scores work best, and it's not as if either of these directors can't afford them.
'Lost in Translation' (one of my favourite films) has this problem too, though to a much lesser extent, as Kevin Sheils' music is generally suited to this kind of thing, and the other songs were used in the context of karaoke, so they were fine.
All in all, if it's in a film, keep the vocals and traditional use of rock instruments OUT!
Anyway, back to my crappy work day. We have training next week, for a product whose test cycle will run long beyond the time I'm gone. Even though I have only 8 more working days here I have to go to it, and I always have a problem staying awake during those kind of things.
Oh, and I haven't had a chance to have lunch today either, and people keep rebooting servers, which slows down our testing. And I haven't had a chance to read my friday newsletter.
Thank God I'm leaving. I can't wait.
P.S. On a completely different note, I almost got a boner in the gym showers this morning. I have no idea what caused it, as there were no hot men around (indeed, there were no men there at all at that time). But just as I headed for the shower that only throws out cold water (!), I noticed that a hot guy had appeared next to me (one of the gym instructors), and was totally naked. Damn if I wasn't too preoccupied getting the hell out of there to check him out.
Don't do that to me again, you hear me Dick?!
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Repeat Offender
Getting up late = Not having time to floss
Taxi to work = 15 euros.
Forgetting swipe = A day of having to ask for everyone else's.
The hour's lie-in I had this morning which led to all of the above = Not really worth it at all.
Aaaaaarrrgggghhhh!
Taxi to work = 15 euros.
Forgetting swipe = A day of having to ask for everyone else's.
The hour's lie-in I had this morning which led to all of the above = Not really worth it at all.
Aaaaaarrrgggghhhh!
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Big Brother 5's one saving grace...
Nadia's victory.
Well, she won. I can't say I'm surprised, and she was the one I was rooting for all along anyway. This year was painful to watch at times, though. As my sister once argued, the personal substance of the group of characters diminishes with each successive BB, and this years' did nothing to buck the trend. I mentioned to someone I know that this would likely be the last time I would waste my time with it, but he replied that, as I was going back to studentdom for the next four years, I was most likely destined to follow it more than ever before. No way, Pat!
I could never offer a legitimate explanation as to why I followed this show any more than I could decisively choose to ignore it. I always seem to get sucked in at some point, and before I know it, I'm monitoring the housemates on a daily basis via articles on the website. This year was no different, although at some point I lost it for a while. Maybe it was because of the work I was assigned. Oh day-jobs! The inconvenience!
I remember the first time I got into it: the tail end of BB2. At the time of BB1, I was living in a house with no cable TV so I never got to see it. By the time I got into BB2, the number of contestants had been whittled down to about half of what it was when it had started. Brian Dowling had started to emerge as favourite, and The George (Dublin's legendary bastion of gay nightlife) eventually put up a big sign saying 'Good Luck Brian'. As we all know, he won, and to be fair, he was one of the more deserving contestants.
After that, my interest in the show started to follow a standard pattern: Indifference at the start, followed by eventual close study. Once I was reeled in, I stayed in, until the end, and this time didn't prove to be the exception.
In the beginning, BB had the potential to be an interesting experiment. It fell down over the people that they recruited. To give the characters their due, no-one could appear interesting to others 24 hours a day, and cooped up in a claustrophobic environment like that would bring out the venality in anyone's nature, but really! It does not augur well for humanity if those are the best candidates they can find. Also, to a lesser extent, BB suffered (like many a social concept) over the people who ended up following it. A few people like me excepted (!), the core demographic of BB is not a pretty sight. This show's real function is to act as an alternative to the topic of the premiership in conversation, and when it comes down to things like 'Becki did the washing up this morning, but she broke a plate!', it's about as interesting.
BB3 marked the start the start of the new era, where the presence of altruism in the overall group evaporated like a mousefart into thin air. The trend that emerged genuinely was towards housemates that didn't give a shit about anyone but themselves. BB3 is also noted for the fact that the contestant that came fourth (Jade) is still more famous than the one that finished first (kate), but for all the wrong reasons. In BB4, the footage of the housemates when they were awake was only marginally more interesting than that of when they were asleep, and it was hard to imagine anyone with a personality more bland than that of Cameron, the winner. Also, the show was tampered with to a ludicrious extent: Jon Tickle was evicted, but then allowed to come back in again, on the proviso that he couldn't actually win it, and Cameron was swapped with a South African BB contestant, 'hunky' Gaetano (A case for false advertising, if ever there was one), and then swapped back again. BB5, with the whole bedsit fiasco, went down a similar route. Then again, that fiasco resulted in Emma getting the boot, so I won't argue.
Anyway, now it's over, and here is what I think the characters really amounted to:
Victor and Jason: Quite possibly two of the most uninspiring people ever to be brought to popular attention. Victor talked constantly of playing 'the game' while in the Big Brother house, yet as soon as he was up for the public vote, he got the boot. I can see a brilliant career as a master strategist opening up for him. While he was in the house, he once spoke of the 'X factor' the housemates have of which others would be jealous. Oh, look up into the night sky Victor! It's our moon, Titan!
Jason, while looking good on the surface, quickly showed himself up as a sulky little teenager with arrested development, and higlighted the fact, more than a thousand articles on human behaviour ever could, that physical attractiveness will only ever gain you a finite amount of ground with people. His constant cries for respect quickly succeeded in having an effect that was very much the opposite of what was desired. His hissy-fit when he wasn't voted best looking housemate, what can one possibly say? His interview with Davina (He described his worst BB moment as 'losing to Nadia'. Oh grace in defeat!). How did he possibly get as far as second place? How? I'm genuinely mystified.
Also, he sanctimoniously advised one of the housemates against bitching at the start of BB5. So, Jason. What was it again that you spent so much time doing with Victor before he became the Flicked Man?
Michelle: Not so much a bunny boiler as someone who puts the Terminator's efforts to target Sarah Connor to shame. Will She and Stu end up together? Or will he enter a witness protection programme to get away from her? The nation holds its breath.
Stuart: Not much of a presence, for someone so supposedly intelligent.
Shell: Patronising weepy toff. She bawled enough to keep an amazon jungle in moisture for a year during that 'wedding'. For what?
Kitten: Attention-seeking Greenpeace-activist-gone-horribly-wrong.
Ahmed: Child in a man's body.
Marco: An irritation on a par with haemorrhoids.
Emma: NOT the brightest fairy light in the Christmas tree.
Vanessa: Tease. But then again it was Jason she was teasing...
Becki: If she'd been given a chance, she could have proved to be somewhat interesting. Now we'll never know.
Dan: Seems reasonably cool. Accusations of 'fence-sitting' leveled at him by Victor could be interpreted as 'Doesn't spout verbal diarrhoea 24/7', which is what Victor himself did. More than the rest of them put together.
Nadia: The coolest, relatively speaking. Anyone who goes through a sex-change operation deserves respect. And the way she went to pieces when deprived of cigarettes was funny, in a perverse kind of way.
Oh, and a special mention goes to the young, besuited goateed cunt (sorry, guest of Dermot O'Leary) on BBLB, who deserves to be bludgeoned to death.
I realise that this might come across as gratuitous moaning, but I am now firmly camped in the territory of those who feel that reality TV sucks a big dog's boner. Andy Warhol wasn't half right when he gave us that famous '15 minutes' quote, and his films predated some of the house footage, especially that film which consists solely of a man asleep for 6 hours. And most of the people in the house simply don't have the 'X-factor' (Victor!) to make their fame last beyond their exit from the house. They just sink without a trace, the best thing happening to them being that they get to present second-rate TV shows.
The most sobering thought of all is that the American ones (especially that one set in the hotel where all the guys and gals compete to pair off with one another) make BB look funny, subversive, and cutting edge by comparison. I am not one for trite Anti-Americanisms, but we are talking some of the most uninspired, insipid, self-obsessed whiners you will ever see in your LIFE! All you guys on the other side of this rock, you need to storm the TV stations that are broadcasting this and shut them down. They are almost as damaging to your national reputation as your invasion of Iraq.
I'm still glad Nadia won, though. The point was made by an Irish times journalist last week that she has done more for transsexuals than a load of earnest articles and campaigns have accomplished together. Maybe that's true and maybe it isn't, but she was the most deserving by a long shot. The way some people associated with the show made an issue out of her gender re-alignment shows that however much Endemol, the makers of the show, have tried to push as many boundaries as possible with the people they choose, some of the more high profile associates saw her a freak show, including the pre-teen twit who shouted over the fence.
Whether BB pushes social boundaries or not is a moot point. I honestly don't believe it accomplishes much in this regard, but it came close this year. Even the shadow cast over the whole proceedings by Jason getting to second sodding place (let it go, Denis, let it go) was more or less removed when she fluttered her way out of the house.
So all the best, Ms. Almada. Good on you for kicking Jason's arse. Hope it all goes well for you. Yours is the last Big Brother victory I'll ever see.
I swear.
Well, she won. I can't say I'm surprised, and she was the one I was rooting for all along anyway. This year was painful to watch at times, though. As my sister once argued, the personal substance of the group of characters diminishes with each successive BB, and this years' did nothing to buck the trend. I mentioned to someone I know that this would likely be the last time I would waste my time with it, but he replied that, as I was going back to studentdom for the next four years, I was most likely destined to follow it more than ever before. No way, Pat!
I could never offer a legitimate explanation as to why I followed this show any more than I could decisively choose to ignore it. I always seem to get sucked in at some point, and before I know it, I'm monitoring the housemates on a daily basis via articles on the website. This year was no different, although at some point I lost it for a while. Maybe it was because of the work I was assigned. Oh day-jobs! The inconvenience!
I remember the first time I got into it: the tail end of BB2. At the time of BB1, I was living in a house with no cable TV so I never got to see it. By the time I got into BB2, the number of contestants had been whittled down to about half of what it was when it had started. Brian Dowling had started to emerge as favourite, and The George (Dublin's legendary bastion of gay nightlife) eventually put up a big sign saying 'Good Luck Brian'. As we all know, he won, and to be fair, he was one of the more deserving contestants.
After that, my interest in the show started to follow a standard pattern: Indifference at the start, followed by eventual close study. Once I was reeled in, I stayed in, until the end, and this time didn't prove to be the exception.
In the beginning, BB had the potential to be an interesting experiment. It fell down over the people that they recruited. To give the characters their due, no-one could appear interesting to others 24 hours a day, and cooped up in a claustrophobic environment like that would bring out the venality in anyone's nature, but really! It does not augur well for humanity if those are the best candidates they can find. Also, to a lesser extent, BB suffered (like many a social concept) over the people who ended up following it. A few people like me excepted (!), the core demographic of BB is not a pretty sight. This show's real function is to act as an alternative to the topic of the premiership in conversation, and when it comes down to things like 'Becki did the washing up this morning, but she broke a plate!', it's about as interesting.
BB3 marked the start the start of the new era, where the presence of altruism in the overall group evaporated like a mousefart into thin air. The trend that emerged genuinely was towards housemates that didn't give a shit about anyone but themselves. BB3 is also noted for the fact that the contestant that came fourth (Jade) is still more famous than the one that finished first (kate), but for all the wrong reasons. In BB4, the footage of the housemates when they were awake was only marginally more interesting than that of when they were asleep, and it was hard to imagine anyone with a personality more bland than that of Cameron, the winner. Also, the show was tampered with to a ludicrious extent: Jon Tickle was evicted, but then allowed to come back in again, on the proviso that he couldn't actually win it, and Cameron was swapped with a South African BB contestant, 'hunky' Gaetano (A case for false advertising, if ever there was one), and then swapped back again. BB5, with the whole bedsit fiasco, went down a similar route. Then again, that fiasco resulted in Emma getting the boot, so I won't argue.
Anyway, now it's over, and here is what I think the characters really amounted to:
Victor and Jason: Quite possibly two of the most uninspiring people ever to be brought to popular attention. Victor talked constantly of playing 'the game' while in the Big Brother house, yet as soon as he was up for the public vote, he got the boot. I can see a brilliant career as a master strategist opening up for him. While he was in the house, he once spoke of the 'X factor' the housemates have of which others would be jealous. Oh, look up into the night sky Victor! It's our moon, Titan!
Jason, while looking good on the surface, quickly showed himself up as a sulky little teenager with arrested development, and higlighted the fact, more than a thousand articles on human behaviour ever could, that physical attractiveness will only ever gain you a finite amount of ground with people. His constant cries for respect quickly succeeded in having an effect that was very much the opposite of what was desired. His hissy-fit when he wasn't voted best looking housemate, what can one possibly say? His interview with Davina (He described his worst BB moment as 'losing to Nadia'. Oh grace in defeat!). How did he possibly get as far as second place? How? I'm genuinely mystified.
Also, he sanctimoniously advised one of the housemates against bitching at the start of BB5. So, Jason. What was it again that you spent so much time doing with Victor before he became the Flicked Man?
Michelle: Not so much a bunny boiler as someone who puts the Terminator's efforts to target Sarah Connor to shame. Will She and Stu end up together? Or will he enter a witness protection programme to get away from her? The nation holds its breath.
Stuart: Not much of a presence, for someone so supposedly intelligent.
Shell: Patronising weepy toff. She bawled enough to keep an amazon jungle in moisture for a year during that 'wedding'. For what?
Kitten: Attention-seeking Greenpeace-activist-gone-horribly-wrong.
Ahmed: Child in a man's body.
Marco: An irritation on a par with haemorrhoids.
Emma: NOT the brightest fairy light in the Christmas tree.
Vanessa: Tease. But then again it was Jason she was teasing...
Becki: If she'd been given a chance, she could have proved to be somewhat interesting. Now we'll never know.
Dan: Seems reasonably cool. Accusations of 'fence-sitting' leveled at him by Victor could be interpreted as 'Doesn't spout verbal diarrhoea 24/7', which is what Victor himself did. More than the rest of them put together.
Nadia: The coolest, relatively speaking. Anyone who goes through a sex-change operation deserves respect. And the way she went to pieces when deprived of cigarettes was funny, in a perverse kind of way.
Oh, and a special mention goes to the young, besuited goateed cunt (sorry, guest of Dermot O'Leary) on BBLB, who deserves to be bludgeoned to death.
I realise that this might come across as gratuitous moaning, but I am now firmly camped in the territory of those who feel that reality TV sucks a big dog's boner. Andy Warhol wasn't half right when he gave us that famous '15 minutes' quote, and his films predated some of the house footage, especially that film which consists solely of a man asleep for 6 hours. And most of the people in the house simply don't have the 'X-factor' (Victor!) to make their fame last beyond their exit from the house. They just sink without a trace, the best thing happening to them being that they get to present second-rate TV shows.
The most sobering thought of all is that the American ones (especially that one set in the hotel where all the guys and gals compete to pair off with one another) make BB look funny, subversive, and cutting edge by comparison. I am not one for trite Anti-Americanisms, but we are talking some of the most uninspired, insipid, self-obsessed whiners you will ever see in your LIFE! All you guys on the other side of this rock, you need to storm the TV stations that are broadcasting this and shut them down. They are almost as damaging to your national reputation as your invasion of Iraq.
I'm still glad Nadia won, though. The point was made by an Irish times journalist last week that she has done more for transsexuals than a load of earnest articles and campaigns have accomplished together. Maybe that's true and maybe it isn't, but she was the most deserving by a long shot. The way some people associated with the show made an issue out of her gender re-alignment shows that however much Endemol, the makers of the show, have tried to push as many boundaries as possible with the people they choose, some of the more high profile associates saw her a freak show, including the pre-teen twit who shouted over the fence.
Whether BB pushes social boundaries or not is a moot point. I honestly don't believe it accomplishes much in this regard, but it came close this year. Even the shadow cast over the whole proceedings by Jason getting to second sodding place (let it go, Denis, let it go) was more or less removed when she fluttered her way out of the house.
So all the best, Ms. Almada. Good on you for kicking Jason's arse. Hope it all goes well for you. Yours is the last Big Brother victory I'll ever see.
I swear.
Monday, August 09, 2004
Mondays. Urgh...
The weekend was good, and lots of drink was involved. I went out on Friday when I really shouldn't have, and missed the Big Brother finalé (more about this later), and left my bag behind in the pub. This was subsequently recovered, but I've noticed that this has been happening a lot lately. Age-related decline of alcohol tolerance, I hope it isn't.
Saturday, I went to a barbeque held by our hostess with the mostest, Mary. The night was good, and notable for the following:
I went to the gym this morning. Apart from being a little late, I didn't miss any trains, or forget anything, or waste money on taxis. I am also attempting to quit smoking. For the umpteenth time.
Interesting piece of trivia: Richard Nixon resigned as president of the US thirty years ago today, as a result of his impeachment. The opinion of the political commentator on the radio this morning was that around this time, while republicans had successful presidencies, democrats generally didn't, due to political weakness. Which is depressing. I'm coming back to this at a later date as well.
Irritating piece of trivia: MSNBC.com's articles (such as those on the above) always drown in the sanctimonious opinions of their writers. That's the last bloody time I'm consulting that site.
And now MS Word has crashed and lost the details of five people that I could have interviewed for my room, and they cannot be recovered. Gah!!
Saturday, I went to a barbeque held by our hostess with the mostest, Mary. The night was good, and notable for the following:
- When it comes to drinking Fat Frogs, Mary could wipe the floor with anyone.
- A move to a nightclub was proposed before midnight. Everyone agreed, but midnight came and went and none of us had moved from our seats.
- As is often the case with drinking, once inebriation had taken hold, the conversation was rapidly steered in the direction of sex. One of Mary's flatmates demonstrated an encyclopaediac knowledge of porn trivia. I also found out that Ewen McGregor, Will Smith, Kevin Costner, and Colin Farrell all have one generous attribute in common. No prizes for guessing what that was.
- They have a inflatable sheep in their possession, complete with orifice. I have not the words.
- I had possibly the best night's sleep in a long time on their couch. This could have been down to the several joints I had throughout the night.
- (Most Importantly) I woke up the next morning without any nausea.
I went to the gym this morning. Apart from being a little late, I didn't miss any trains, or forget anything, or waste money on taxis. I am also attempting to quit smoking. For the umpteenth time.
Interesting piece of trivia: Richard Nixon resigned as president of the US thirty years ago today, as a result of his impeachment. The opinion of the political commentator on the radio this morning was that around this time, while republicans had successful presidencies, democrats generally didn't, due to political weakness. Which is depressing. I'm coming back to this at a later date as well.
Irritating piece of trivia: MSNBC.com's articles (such as those on the above) always drown in the sanctimonious opinions of their writers. That's the last bloody time I'm consulting that site.
And now MS Word has crashed and lost the details of five people that I could have interviewed for my room, and they cannot be recovered. Gah!!
Thursday, August 05, 2004
The day augurs ill
I feel like killing someone. Myself, mainly. The day is off to a shit start.
1. Get up to go to gym, but miss bus, so get taxi. 8 euro wasted.
2. Head to Dart station after gym, only to find that my weekly ticket had been left at home. Miss 9:13 Dart as a result. Take note of next train at 9:22.
3. Realise I have no money with which to buy ticket. Go down to ATM, a five minute walk away, only to find it is out of service.
4. Head for one even further away, only to suddenly realise that there is one RIGHT NEXT TO THE DART STATION. Head for that one instead.
5. Get out 20 euro. Run into station and buy ticket, and then run to platform.
6. Look at TV screens and realise I have JUST MISSED THE 9:22. Next one at 9:47. That is too fucking late. I decide to get a taxi.
7. Hail a taxi on the wrong side of the river, which results in the driver going around in circles before getting onto the right route. Again, this could have been avoided if I had crossed the bridge at the green light that fate had provided for me at the appropriate time, and hailed a taxi from the other side.
8. Finally get to work at 9:35, 35 minutes late. As I'm usually only 20-25 minutes late every day, I'm even more disgusted with myself. Wasted another 8 euro paying taxi man.
This is not the first time I have forked out for taxis due to tardiness. I'm going to college in two months. I should be saving. I should NOT be doing this shit.
One of the above usually happens to me every day, but not all of them at once on the same day. Oh, and I forgot my swipe card as well. So I have to ask someone for theirs every time I need to leave the room. Excellent!
Note to self: Denis, you are a disaster area.
I can't decide whether I feel better or worse having got that off my chest. On the whole, I think I feel worse. Good workout though.
On another note, Stuart got evicted from the Big Brother house last night, unbeknownst to the rest of them. I was surprised. I thought it would be that blonde Glaswegian gobshite. And the rest of the housemates came up with the ridiculous idea that Stuart had won, and they had been left there to party until Friday. Duh!
I hope Nadia wins. A meditation on why I actually follow this shit will follow after the final result tommorrow night.
Work is being assigned now, and it looks like it's going to be a horrible day. Whoopee!
1. Get up to go to gym, but miss bus, so get taxi. 8 euro wasted.
2. Head to Dart station after gym, only to find that my weekly ticket had been left at home. Miss 9:13 Dart as a result. Take note of next train at 9:22.
3. Realise I have no money with which to buy ticket. Go down to ATM, a five minute walk away, only to find it is out of service.
4. Head for one even further away, only to suddenly realise that there is one RIGHT NEXT TO THE DART STATION. Head for that one instead.
5. Get out 20 euro. Run into station and buy ticket, and then run to platform.
6. Look at TV screens and realise I have JUST MISSED THE 9:22. Next one at 9:47. That is too fucking late. I decide to get a taxi.
7. Hail a taxi on the wrong side of the river, which results in the driver going around in circles before getting onto the right route. Again, this could have been avoided if I had crossed the bridge at the green light that fate had provided for me at the appropriate time, and hailed a taxi from the other side.
8. Finally get to work at 9:35, 35 minutes late. As I'm usually only 20-25 minutes late every day, I'm even more disgusted with myself. Wasted another 8 euro paying taxi man.
This is not the first time I have forked out for taxis due to tardiness. I'm going to college in two months. I should be saving. I should NOT be doing this shit.
One of the above usually happens to me every day, but not all of them at once on the same day. Oh, and I forgot my swipe card as well. So I have to ask someone for theirs every time I need to leave the room. Excellent!
Note to self: Denis, you are a disaster area.
I can't decide whether I feel better or worse having got that off my chest. On the whole, I think I feel worse. Good workout though.
On another note, Stuart got evicted from the Big Brother house last night, unbeknownst to the rest of them. I was surprised. I thought it would be that blonde Glaswegian gobshite. And the rest of the housemates came up with the ridiculous idea that Stuart had won, and they had been left there to party until Friday. Duh!
I hope Nadia wins. A meditation on why I actually follow this shit will follow after the final result tommorrow night.
Work is being assigned now, and it looks like it's going to be a horrible day. Whoopee!
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
A quick reprieve
Lunchtime at the seventh circle of hell (work). Weekend was good, all in all. Met up with an old friend that I hadn't seen in a while and we caught up. There's nothing like a good gossip over drinks, especially when it relates to juicy scandal about people that you never particularly liked :-)
It occurred to me just there that Gay Pride has come and gone in Ireland once more, and what have I done for it? Nada. Granted, there were some extenuating circumstances this year, but still...
Something is going to have to be done about this lack of action. Next year, I'll make up for it by being dragged unconscious from some bar somewhere, I swear.
Got to the DART station on Tara Street this morning, only to be told that the northbound line is bust. My day is off to a flying start. Knowing my luck, it'll be like that for the rest of the week.
My motivation for what I'm doing wanes by the day. It's just as well I finish up this job in three weeks (August 25th, if you're interested). All I have to do now is work out where to have the departure drinks. Which is the best part.
It occurred to me just there that Gay Pride has come and gone in Ireland once more, and what have I done for it? Nada. Granted, there were some extenuating circumstances this year, but still...
Something is going to have to be done about this lack of action. Next year, I'll make up for it by being dragged unconscious from some bar somewhere, I swear.
Got to the DART station on Tara Street this morning, only to be told that the northbound line is bust. My day is off to a flying start. Knowing my luck, it'll be like that for the rest of the week.
My motivation for what I'm doing wanes by the day. It's just as well I finish up this job in three weeks (August 25th, if you're interested). All I have to do now is work out where to have the departure drinks. Which is the best part.
Monday, August 02, 2004
And so it begins...
Having bounced around for a while reading the blogs of other people, such as this guy (who is hot, in spite of his taste in music), this guy (whose life in some ways parallels my own), and this guy (who I know in real life), I've finally got around to creating my own.
The timing is as right as it's ever going to be, I reckon. The spectre of my 30th birthday is looming (a mere 8 months away, shit!) and I am about to attempt a substantial career change: I'm going back to college in less than two months, with a view to putting as much distance between me and the area of IT as possible. Sandra Bullock made software testing look good in The Net, but the reality is much much more prosaic.
I'm still going to buy an Apple Powerbook before I go back to college though, just so that I can use the 'WHOIS' command in its UNIX shell, and feel all adventurous.
Anyway, what better place to document this attempt at finding direction than here, in front of the whole world, where everyone can see it go wrong :-)
So join me here, as I career, towards disaster, in fifth gear.
It's Sunday night here in Mallow. I don't have to work tommorrow as it's a bank holiday. Yet no-one I know is going out. Bah!
The timing is as right as it's ever going to be, I reckon. The spectre of my 30th birthday is looming (a mere 8 months away, shit!) and I am about to attempt a substantial career change: I'm going back to college in less than two months, with a view to putting as much distance between me and the area of IT as possible. Sandra Bullock made software testing look good in The Net, but the reality is much much more prosaic.
I'm still going to buy an Apple Powerbook before I go back to college though, just so that I can use the 'WHOIS' command in its UNIX shell, and feel all adventurous.
Anyway, what better place to document this attempt at finding direction than here, in front of the whole world, where everyone can see it go wrong :-)
So join me here, as I career, towards disaster, in fifth gear.
It's Sunday night here in Mallow. I don't have to work tommorrow as it's a bank holiday. Yet no-one I know is going out. Bah!
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