Glendalough

Long Dubai Weekend

Running Jokes
-The Safety Deposit
-Tom & Margaret (puke)

Misc. Stuff

-Vulgarity
-Guinness Glasses
-Clark's Bed
-Soon Fatt (Bray)
-Michelle's Favourite Graveyard
-Dublinese X-Men
-English Stain
-Harry Nilsson
-Cow Pissing
-Sheep
-Biscuits
-The Moment(s) of Magic
-Gar Drinking the Fly
-Clark Drinking the Dregs
-Senakot
-Photos
-Headless Joe
-Fat Bottomed Woman
-Throwing Stones At Flowers
-The Lads Falling Down the Mountain
-Nice Soup
-Clarkey Boy's Cooking
-Euh, Don't Rub My Back!
-Clark Falling in the River
-The Contract
-Stained Beds
-Gar switching beds
-Sleeping During the Day
-"Angel" the Waitress
-Kicking the Walls
-Powerwanking
-Gar & Clark walking 28km
-Cheese&Onion VS. Salt&Vinegar
-Hostel staff woman-scowl
-Going Graveyard Late
-The Bus
-Walking in the Dark
-The Bar

Decree of Goodliness

We, the undersigned, declare that Glendalough is legend. The craic was had by all.
L. Maloney D. O' Shea
Lorna Christie Garreth Quinn
Clark Griffin

The Contract

LEGAL CONTRACT
If one of the undersigned pukes, the other(s) must also puke.
L. Maloney Clark Griffin
D. O'Shea Garreth Quinn
Lorna Christie III

"...So fuck you!"

I've recently uncovered a remarkable artist. Unfortunately, I was a bit late, since he's been dead since 1995. But, he left a wealth of recording behind him for me to enjoy. He went by the name of Harry Nilsson. The first time a heard Nilsson was in an old friend's house. His Da had the "Resevoir Dogs" soundtrack. As you may know, his song "Coconut," a novelty calypso, is played during the end credits. It's a funny song and I liked it.

Years later, I purchased that same sountrack and had the song myself. I thought nothing of it for another few years. But a few weeks, Lorna and I were talking and she reminded me of the song and I played it. That night I had a look on YouTube to see if I could find a video for the song and possibly more Harry. I found what I was looking for, and more. There's a video for "Coconut" and when I first watched a solo acoustic BBC performance of "1941," I knew I had to look for more Harry.


~

"Well the years were passing quickly
But not fast enough for him
So he close his eyes through '55
And he opened them up again."

Unfortunately, HMV only had one Harry CD "The best of Harry Nilsson." But, it doesn't have "1941," so, when buying R. Wainwright CDs for a certain person, I got "Nilsson Greatest Hits" for myself.

Asked the name their favo(u)rite American musician at a Beatles press conference, John Lennon and Paul McCartney answered "Nilsson." It is easy to see why they were so impressed. Nilsson's three-and-a-half octave voice, catchy melodies, witty lyrics, and baroque arrangements, branded him as one of the most exciting new talents of the late 60s. Nilsson was equally well-versed as a songwriter and a sensitive interpreter of the other people's material.

That's the blurb on the back of "Nilsson Greatest Hits." Sounds great doesn't it? Surely promising anyway. To my delight, "1941" was the first track. It's the studio version with string arrangments and the like. It's also faster paced than the solo version I heard first, but it's still absolutely wonderful. Pianist/guitarist and talented singer, Harry's music spans over as many genres as you care to think of. As far as I know, most is put under general pop. But, "Jump Into the Fire" dived among rock anthems, for example. Another song, "Joy," sounds very country. The vocals are quite J. Cash, and the slide guitar finishes the yee-hah sort of tone.

The people that knew and loved him describe Harry as "reclusive," "gregarious," "shy and diffident," "wild," "endlessly fun," "innocent," "a complete lunatic," and "a pussycat."

At first, I could kinda divide the songs on the greatest hits album into two categories. One being depressing ("1941," "Without Her," "One," "Without You," "Don't Forget Me") and the other being not depressing sounding, but still depressing ("Cuddly Toy," "The Puppy Song," "Good Old Desk").

Two Nilsson songs played a big part in our recent trip to Glendalough, and also featured in another night down the Cock Tavern. These song are "The Puppy Song" and "You're Breakin' My Heart." The latter is the best example of Nilsson's tendancy to use scatological lyrics in the most genius places.

"You're breakin' my heart, you're tearing it apart, so fuck you!"

"The Puppy Song," which fits into the not depressing sounding, but still depressing category, displays the singers wish to have a puppy as a companion. Sounds harmless enough.

"Dreams are nothing more than wishes,
And a wish is just a dream, you wish to come true"

But the above line makes you realise that the desire is really for a friend and not just for a cuddly dog. "Good Old Desk" has the same connotations. His best friend, his favourite guest, his desk, seems to be his only riend. Harry once answered that the acronym GOD showed the true meaning of the song. But, he later declared that he was bullshitting. But just going on the words, it seems a recluse has lost sight of reality and has found comfort in seemingly happy words and cheerfully-toned music, and of course, the reliability of his "Good Old Desk."

The blurb talks about Nilsson's "catchy melodies." I must say that this is true. Examples of this: "Daybreak," "Spaceman," "1941," "The Puppy Song," (explains why we sang it so much) "You're Breakin' My Heart" etc. etc.

Harry was good friends with the Beatles, and as I've already said, they liked his music. It is possible that he was better friends with John Lennon because of their lost weekend of shananigans. Lennon also produced Nilsson's album "Pussy Cats." But Ringo Starr was also a mate, and together, they starred in a 1974 musical comedy, "Son of Dracula."



So, if you wish you could call this my review of Mr. H. Nilsson. I have surely enjoyed listening to all the songs that I have at present. I'm not sure if I have a favourite song yet. Could be "Good Old Desk." I love all his yadda-di-di yadda-da-da-dum stuff, especially in "Good Old Desk" and "1941." If you'd like to hear some good music, pick up a Nilsson CD. Smile now! CLICK. There y'are now. Enjoy.

The Cats Turn Out Trumps Again At Croke Park

The first Sunday of September, the day hurling fans and two panels of hurlers wait for, came today. The venue was Croke Park and the weather was dismal, misty, then sunny, and then rainy. All the excitement of All-Ireland day and all the weather of all the seasons.

So, I'm sure you know at this stage, the Liam McCarthy cup is going back to Killkenny for the thirtieth time and for the second year running. I was recently in Killkenny town and I am now imagining those narrow streets absolutley exploding with people wanting to catch a glimpse of Henry Shefflin or Eddie Brennan.

The Cats overcame the poor Shannonsiders. Awh! What can a Dub like me do? Well, we can wait and watch the football.

Time does tend to roll on doesn't it?

The so-called Summer is officially over and it's now Autumn. Next thing you'll see is red and yellow leaves. Maybe some rain too, but that's no suprise at this stage. Was it 50+ days of consistent rain at one stage? I think so. As the papers liked to point out, Noah and Co. had less precipitation than that.

And now the news. I have a nice new phone! The Nokia 5300. It's nifty and cool, if I may say so. Got the radio, mp3 and camera sorta stuff (as standard) and other things I'll never use, like, the internet.

I had a crazy outa-da-blue rash thing from Thursday through the weekend, bank holiday weekend may I add. It was either a late reaction to Italian mosquito bites, new insect bites from the area around polluted Jacko or Guinness. Now, you can imagine what I don't want to blame. But it was scary anyway. But, don't fret, I'm no longer infected. Phew sez you.

I'm still an employee of SDCU somehow. They're a nice bunch and haven't (yet) come to the conclusion that I'm too shit to work for them. I've been behind the counter dealing directly with the good members. It's been nightmarish at times and rarely nice. But I'm alive and still employed. I'm off for a few days now, thanks be to God.

Now, some truths that don't take people long to learn as we grow up.
1. Women are harder workers than men. (And are probably better, just in general)
2. Having cool gadgets isn't all that important.
3. There are seven days in a week for a good reason.
4.Things are too expensive.
5. If you drink too much, you'll puke.
That is all.

I'm now off to get the bus. I've also got a paper to read. So, now that you've poked around my brain, I must leave, immediately. You are the weakest link...goodbye.

The Hard Times of the Working Man

Jobs, important things? Employment, necessary? If you want to get anywhere in life, of course. Unless you're Paris Hilton or some fucker like that. If you didn't realise that having a job was even mildly compulsory for the average Joe, you've just failed life, and you should exit through the door with the "can't cope" sign stuck with on blue-tac.

I've a little job in Swords & District Credit Union. For now, I'm in the Swords Manor office. It's so desperately handy. All I have to do is walk for about eight minute through the Jacko and I'm at work. Usually I don't like crossing the bridge just behind the playground but, it's just so easy. I can get up at nine and can be in for half-nine no bother. If I'm ever put in the North Street office, it won't be quite as simple. The walk is longer but I'd go down Jacko also. It would remind me too much of going to school!

So, I'm now in employment. Unfortunately I don't know whether I call it full or part time. I'll be working nine to five for the next two weeks. in basic terms this means that I'll have a nice amount of dosh. After the next two weeks, I won't be in everyday. I'll have to look at the roster of who's in and seee when I get a day off.

I've only been in three days so far. I know very little about the workings of the place. I also know very little about the operating system on the computers. I have been doing the same task for the three days, and I will be doing the same thing for the next two weeks too. Woop-di-doo! I'll probably be dreaming of account numbers or addresses in Swords by Wednesday.

That's one thing that I have to do when I'm looking at the accounts to be reviewed; check if the addresses are right. It just showed me how big Swords actually is, and how much of it I don't know. There's housing estates I've never been in, and there are housing estates that I didn't know existed let alone knowing the name. But, now I know some of the names. Don't ask me where they are, I'll look at you funny.

At some stage, and I'll a little weary of it, I'll be put on the counter. Yes, dealing with people, and people's accounts and their saving etc. - gulp.

Me
"Hi, good morning."

Member (placing book and money on the counter)
"Howaya, I'd like €40 taken from my saving account and put into my son's account. Then can you put €25 off the loan and the rest there from the interest too there please."

Me (sweating now)
"Eh, sure, no problem. Em, what date is it?"

Members I would imagine can and will be a bit impatient with the new trainee. I suppose I wouldn't blame them if they do. "What's this little stupid fucker doin' on the cash for if he doesn't know wha' he's doin'?" Oh well, I'll give it a go. It's all about the money in the end. I'll have money to buy stuff and go places. I bought Pearl Jam's newest album, named Pearl Jam, there on Thursday. Ooops, I still owe Finn the €13.99. Ah, he'll get it. I'll probably buy few cds with wages. Maybe something mad someday, like a ant farm. Or some high-tech gizmo gadget that'd make me look cool. Ooooh, idea! Laptop? Hmmm, keep that in mind.

Anyway, if you want to my Credit Union, fair play to you. Look for me, I'll have one of those slightly bad (naff) purple shirts. I'll have my name tag on if you don't recognise me behind the computer! Talk to yez.

Lord, it's July!

I don't have much to say, good thing too, coz nobody's gonna bother reading this apart from me. Actually, just typing that ("gonna") reminds me of something. I think that it's acceptable to use that word, if I can call it that, here on a blog thing. But is it decent to use it in a daily publication? Take the Irish Independent for example. Occasionally it has tabloid-style headlines, with puns as shit as you might find in The Sun. But that's neither here nor there. Mr. Ian O'Doherty had it in one of his articles there last week. I've nothing better to do, and I've tracked it down.

http://www.independent.ie/opinion/analysis/ispy-wee-willie-and-the-boys-ready-to-rock-again-742881.html

I just didn't think it very suitable to have such "words" in a daily newspaper, that's all, I'm not giving out or anything.

July in Ireland usually brings sunshine with it. Oh no, not this time. All we've seen these last two weeks are clouds and rain showers. There was thunder & lightning one night too. I think it was the night before my economics test, the 20th. Most days, if not everyday, have seen rain. There is a permanent cloud shield sitting over all of Dublin, letting in little direct sunshine, keeping the morning and evenings darker than they should be, but at the same time, maintaining a bleedin' hot, clammy atmosphere. Well, that's how it goes.

The day after my exams finished, I made a great purchase. 11CDs and 1DVD for €49.99. Can you believe that? You better. Blue Guitars, Chris Rea's momentus collection of 137 songs is surely something else. So far I've only listened to four of the CDs, so seven left. Great value I have to say. Obviously it's not just because of the price, Chris' slide guitar, the use of so many different insruments, and Gerry O'Connor's banjo playing all aid to make the music deadly. You'd think you were buying an LP at first because of the presentation book that the CDs are held in. I'm terribly impressed with the colour and art in the book. All the paintings were done by Chris, and I think they're lovely. I like the one on the front cover and the one that goes with "Louisiana & New Orleans." The Wikipedia article has some of the paintings, so have a gawk.

Having been listening to Chris Rea and the bleedin' legend slide that he does be playing, I thought what the heck, I'll give it a shot. I never got how they do it, y'kno, use a bottleneck, (not cut themselves,) or bronze/nickel slide and make a sound that's so raw, so filthy and yet so damn powerful. Chris is a master of it. Rory Gallagher is another. Duane Allman had it too, Derek Trunks, Bonnie Raitt, they're all there too. But anyway, I gave it a go with a open-G tuning and it's great craic altogether. It even encouraged me to clean up the acoustic with a bit of a polish up and a new stringing. Sounds a dream now again. I tried slide banjo too. 'Twas fun, maybe I'll have it over-dubbed somewhere in a song that I don't have.




So, that's all the news at this time. Join us again for the nine o'clock news on RTÉ1 at nine o'clock obviously, to hear how we won the libel case and we take money someone doesn't have. Cheers. Enjoy the shit weather while we have it now folks! God bless.

The end of life as a leaving certificate student

Oh, surely today is a good day. Bit windy, bit it's unfair to judge the day on weather alone. Today, as you may have guessed by the title or have just known, was the day of my last leaving cert exam. As it turned out, it was economics, y'kno.

Two weeks of unmissable, insurmountable, un-get-out-of-able exams, or summer tests as one optimistic student called them, dominated the lives of sixth year students all over this fair isle (and that weird other country that does a form of the Leaving). In sooth, I pity the poor sods that aren't finished yet. For example, the music heads, but it's their own fault for being music heads, nobody forced them to be. But seriously folks, two years doing senior cycle for two weeks of show off knowledge time is all it boils down to. I know that's not aparticularly revolutionary notion, but, eh, the fact o' de matter is dat dere over now, well, for me anyway!

English I, English II, Maths I, Gaeilge I, Gaeilge II, Maths II, French, History, Chemistry and Economics. Seven subjects, ten papers. That's what's expected of us, young ones and young fellas. It's strange to think, most people older than us, present Leavin' students, have sat the same exams. Parents, teachers, shopkeepers, Jacko park warden (well?). But nobody seems to have any good advice on how to keep sane or not to drive yourself loopy. "You'll do fine" doesn't help. There's dozens of those silly little phrases that don't actually mean anything. Clarke's words of wisedom were ok. Now, I don't know the exact words used. But they came to the conclusion that the leaving isn't as big as it's made out to be. And, now that I can take a objective look at it, I'd agree. But, by far the best advice I was even given in the face of exams came from a Swords woman presently living in the state of Italy. Before sitting the Junior Cert she told me to just go in there and puke all over dem bleedin' exam papers!

I tried to stay clear of the media during the whole thing. Of course, with the 'lection and all the hype about the Greens and the crap proformance of the PDs, I couldn't really. Newspapers were ok because you can choose not to read an article. But a mistake I made was listening to Gerry Ryan, for about three minutes on the morning of the fifth. This young one called up and was saying that she was gonna study all day and get up at half six the following morning to look at final things for English. Bitch. What made it worse, was that Gerry, owner of the Ryan-Line, was like, "oh yeah, well that's about right, yeah".....slurp...shite. So, officially that day, I ruled out 2fm for morning radio (apart from the odd Colm&JimJim). Anyway, Ray Darcy is much better. There's no coin flippin' to be done between Ray, the cool former The Den presenter, slick, but small, deadly Darcy and Gerry, with the puke invoking voice, old-timer, low ratings, shite loving, (apparently) Ryan. Sorry Gerry.

I think this will be my concluding paragraph, not that I'm bothered with concluding paragraphs or have ever been bothered with them. The day that began on June sixth has ran its course and the sun has set over the horizon of Exam Centre 3981.

End of School...

At this stage it's 2nd June. Fuck. That is, the second day of the sixth month of the year. We usually call it June. "Y'kno Juno, you shudda been called Juno!" Thanks to Ms. Hartnet for that one. The school year was neatly tied up there during the week, later for some than others, y'kno how it is. Graduation was on the 21st of May, of a Thursday it was. Very terribly emotional as you can only imagine. The yearbook was ready. (I had my doubts.) It turned out very nice altogether.

One interesting part of the evening was just as people began to leave and we were having a signing session. The buzz about was cool. I hadn't a breeze what to write for individuals, so I wrote "Fair play to you," or "Nice one," on most of them, and my name. I thought it appropriate, that's what I've been saying these part 2 years. I could hardly write, "fuck da'," that'd just be rude. Although that didn't stop Jamie, say no more.

Unfortunately, all the signing (including our beloved cleaner from Mullingar, Co. Westmeath) held us up at the school. Poor Lorna and Grace were stranded, well stuck, outside my house for half an hour. God love them, hearts of gold and the patience of saints they have. But after a quick change out of that bloody uniform, we were ready for out. By "we" I mean meself and the Graham man. The four of us were heading down to Eddie's for a malt or something along those lines. So a malt was had by all (except Graham, you see, he's weird) and it was especially enjoyed by Ms. Kelly. She wouldn't give any to Graham, fair play to her. She had a wonderfully serene look on her face as she slowly consumed Eddie's speciality.

After the auld Eddie's experience, we went down to the place where everyone else was livin' it up. That was deadly actually. It was interesting to see everyone in a different light. We were finished school, no uniforms, (and in little more than a tea towel in some cases, say nothing) in our own time, and mostly with a drink in hand.

I've been in that place for five years, and I'm glad to be moving on, no doubt. But I'm sorry that I didn't make more lasting friendships, if you know what I mean. The lads are sound (Adam, Rob, Steven etc.) yeah, and the girlies are good craic (Lee-Anne, Erica again etc.) and all, but, it's quite unlikely that I'll ever see them much again. I think I've seen the lads down in HMV once, but apart from that, I don't see these people anywhere else apart from that school place. Leaving the exams aside, losing touch is inevitable. They're good craic that's the only thing.

This last term, I've had a good couple laughs, and I think that I've talked to more of the people a bit more and had a laugh in class. Funny how it goes. At Ciarán's party, in his house, (whenever that was) meself and Finn talked about something like that. Just saying something funny if you can in school, come out of your shell if you will. I suppose I did that a bit.

So, my secondary schooling is over at last. It's been a long time coming, but I got there. ("Little Help From My Friends" plays in the background) I'm not going to get sentimental or anything don't worry. But, let's just say goodnight. Sin thart anois, slán libh.

Odd sort of dream

Last night I had, as the title suggests, an odd sort of dream. Now, I don't remember it all, but I remember the main points. I decided that I wouldn't bother coming in for religion class this morning, so I got about an hour extra in bed, yippee! But I really didn't want to get up, I wanted to know where it was going with the strangness. Oh well. I got a listen to Colm&JimJim and then a bit of Gerry Ryan, and then Ray Darcy. Ray is cool.

Anyway, the dream. I was in hospital in Cork. I think it was University Hospital Cork in the dream. I can't remember if that actually exists or not, but it's all good. It's a dream, it doesn't matter. I was in there anyway, in a bed, no thanks to our past health minister, Ms. Harney! I was visited by woman, and I presume that she was a wife figure or something like that. But, her most striking feature was that she had six breasts. Two heads are better than one, but six tits, I'm not sure. They were in three rows of two. Only one of them were "real" so to speak. The others were made of various chemical compounds of sorts. I think one was water. I think there was a sulphate there too. So that I knew which one was which, I wrote the formulas' compounds on the corresponding breast with a pen. The middle one in the left column was the "real" one, made of flesh and booby material. I think I had difficulty finding a pen at one stage, and I might have used a pencil. Poor girl, I wouldn't fancy somebody writing out Sodium Dichromate on my breast with a pencil!


It was quite dark in this dream, if I remember correctly. But there was a large blue tower yolk, that kept appearing. It was a bit like that bleedin' French thing in Paris, y'kno the one, yeah? But it was blue, well, lit by blue lights anyway. I think the hospital was also being rebuilt or under construction or something. Ooh, maybe it was a crane!?

This woman at one stage was going off home. She said that she was going to check her breast, to see if she was preggers, I mean pregnant. So, ladies, you now no longer have to use a test yolk, you just have to look at your boobs to see if you're pregnant. I don't know what you're meant to look for, or whatever, but if you ever come across a woman with six breasts, ask her.

So, what does it all mean? Ask Bricky?! Probably an aspiration for a family life. But, with some weird mutations...six tits. Well, the baby wouldn't be thirsty anyway! Sure, I don't really care what it means, it's just funny. Well, slán libh!

What do I look like at all?

Maybe the title is ambiguous. What I mean is, what would someone think of me if they just took a quick gawk at this page? They'd probably think I'm a big 'RA head or something! I do like the tri-colour at the side (apparently it's the one on the Customs House) but is it a bit suggestive? I don't really care, I'm not taking it down, coz it's pretty!

The last post, Pearse's poem, might have people wondering what I'm about too. "Hmmm...I wonder does this guy think blood sacrifice is good too?" I dunno. The principes of the Rising were commendable. Even against rediculous odds, the Volunteers and Connolly's Citizen Army fought against the army of the mightiest empire of the time for the right of freedom. Right, I'm not doing myself any favours here if I go off on tangents like that. Even so, that last statement doesn't make me a Provo does it? Yeah, I think I'm safe. It's perfectly ok for us to embrace our history and not be sympathizers of modern hard liners. Even if you don't embrace, it aint going anywhere folks. It happened and so, up the Wolfies for singing about it, I say!

Graham seems to think that I'm a republican. I was gonna give that a capital letter first, then I thought, no, no, then that would be the Yankee Republican Party. So wee little letters will do. But of course, he's being a little silly there. Even more amusing was that he thought Mr. David O'Shea was also a staunch republican. But anyway, folks, I hope yez don't think that I've a stash of weaponry out my back garden or anything. I like Irish history, (correction, love) and of course, I'm of the thinking that the Irish are bleedin' deadly. So, I can do no harm, but again, of course I'm going to be a tad biased in favour of the Volunteers, IRA under Brugha, etc. etc. But, I'm no criminal, I'll buu-rst yeh, righ'?

State o' chasis!!

My Lord, this country's political standing is surely in shreds! The election is looming over the heads of candidates and present TDs alike. It's 19 days away or something. But, even without the election, things are sickly.

Possibly the greatest example is the happenings concerning the new M3 motorway. It's planned to cost €850million. Holy Fuck Batman!! This controversial motorway is planned to run through the Tara Skyrne Valley, only 2km from the Hill of Tara, the seat of the High King of Ireland in bygone days. There has been protests against this road, with hippies and the like, camping up there for weeks on end. They feared that the road was going through an area where the probability of finding something of historical value was great. This turned out to be true. The location of a ritualistic site has been found, right in the way of the northbound route of the proposed M3. How fucking convienent.

But what makes this a real cracker is the Government's response, or lack of, in regard to the find. Oh, it's good. Dick Roche, Minister for the Environment was told about the site. He then gave the National Museum a buzz to see what they thought. But, Mr. Roche didn't think of telling his fellow FF fella, and cabinet buddy, Martin Cullen, Minister for Transport. Maybe Dickie didn't think Mr. Cullen needed to know that the state's biggest road plan ever was to be stopped. Twelve days later, Mr Cullen went to Navan to turn the sod ignorant of the development. He started the building of a road that was to be halted about 3 metres down. Oh silly Dickie. Why did you not tell Martin that his class project was facing troubles? Do you have some other agenda? "Heh heh, I don't like you Martin, I'll make you look shit!"

http://www.unison.ie/irish_independent/stories.php3?ca=9&si=1824720&issue_id=15587

So, as this example shows, not even the fuckin cabinet can talk to each other, or bother their bollocks to do so. My, my. The poor cabinet sure have seen some tough days this term.

Bertie: Well, he's had his fair share of shit. Manchester...finances...businessmen...payments etc. It's come back into the public arena about 14 times now. Answer the questions Taoiseach!

Harney: Well, I'm sure half the country is sick of her face at this stage. It takes up half the page in the broadsheets! That funny video that was on the six one news sums it all up. Destroying a health service for the benefit of the wealthy. Just like the PDs should!

McDowell: Where to begin. He seems to be a right gimp. I was listening to him one day in the Dáil, and I thought to myself, what a gobshite! He wasn't handling Opposition comments too well. I think it was Richard Bruton. Or was it Pat (the Baker) Rabitte? Doesn't matter. Mick was replying with devious little comments that make you wanna say, gimp! Two words....Garda Reserve. What's the deal?! Nowadays, it's the mobiles in Portlaois...will it end?!

Dermot Ahern: Looks like a rat. He also officially owns my passport. Who does he think he is?

Willie O'Dea: This little fella seems to want more power than he has...hmmm. Pointing his guns...He wants to be the big gun.

Decentralisation. It's a big word for the government. They're sticking to their guns (especially Willie) on this one. But, nobody wants to move. Do you blame them? Nope. I don't think I'd want to move to Enda-Kenny-Land, or anywhere like that. If you're interested, here's the website, but I highly doubt you give two shits.

http://www.decentralisation.gov.ie/

So, the country is in a state o' chasis! I didn't think I'd ever be writing something of this nature, but that's the way it goes. It sucks not having a vote for the coming election. Bollock the register and it February-ness! C'est la vie! Slán leat.

Éamonn Ceannt essay

Due to poplar demand (one request, but whisht) I am giving you a link to my Éamo essay. It's the kinda half cut down one. It may be missing some of the nice details, but hopefully not loads of them. It includes the beautiful story of Cathal Brugha's courage, so it's all good. Enjoy. Long live the memory of "the brave sons of '16."

http://www.freewebs.com/swinginghippos/eamonnceannt.htm

For further info, pictures, Éamonn's Rising statement and one of his touching letters to Áine, his beloved wife, visit this nice place. It's a bleedin' Adobe yolk, but it's good apart from that. The second link tells of the goings on in the South Dublin Union, where Ceannt was stationed with his 4th Batallion.

http://www.nli.ie/1916/pdf/4.5.pdf

http://www.nli.ie/1916/pdf/7.6.pdf

And if you're interested, I've finished my Bricky post. I've updated it a few times since its birth. I've done my closing paragraph, bringing all my points together. Scano would be pleased. I think that's more than 17 points fully explained.

An Oddity

Ladles and jellyspoons, tá scéal a rá agam anocht. It's strange, and not for those with weak hearts that might seize after hearing this story. Today was a Monday, just like last Monday was also a Monday. I'll led to believe that all Mondays from now on, will be Mondays, due to the successful Peace Process following Sinn Féin's agreement to support the PSNI. So, today was Monday. The first day of a long week of tortourous school going and all the tasks that are associated with it. For example, getting up and actually bothering our arses to go to school. But that's all negative, which isn't to be the outlook of this post. Oh, no no no. Ooh-la-la, a Frenchie might say. For, today (a Monday, with thanks to Sinn Féin) I was in good humour for le plupart du temps in school. This is drop-jaw* sort of stuff my fine friends. Now is the time to restart your pace makers.

*I think a pulled a Kavanagh there, with the makey-uppy adjective. Maybe I'm just a little obsessed.

This morning I did get up, with difficulty, at exactly eight. Well, according to my clock anyway. I had me brekkie, obviously Coco Pops agus away liom. I walked down in the agreeable morning weather. 'Twas lovely, and stayed thus most of the day. Bhuail mé le Dáithí (spelling?) ag an ndroichead. If I left out the "le" there, Ms. Conway would surely laugh or something like that. Anyway, first class was Religion with, the one, the only, Holy Healy. She gave us photocopies out of her "How to Survive Marrying a Catholic" or something to that effect. It has funny pictures with silly captions. She thought that I could get the tone right for them, maybe because she thinks I have "dry wit!" I read them, or rather I laughed them. I don't know why, but I just thought they were funny. They weren't but they were in the particular moment. Y'kno the way. Everyone must have thought I had taken a turn down Loopy Lane in my old age. Especially Lee-Anne (Oh fuck, I can't remember if that's the right spelling of her name or not!!) as she mentioned it later.

The rest of the day was good. I wasn't pissed off or cranky as I usually can be. Usually I don't really want to say much during the day and this doesn't really help un-dig me out of an unfavourable mood. But, none of that mattered today! Hoo-rah. History was bleedin' funny too. A single word, "Piskov," sent us all, Ms. Atkins inc., into a short fit of the giggles. The list of attempted plots to kill Rasputin got me laughing out loud too. "The nobles didn't like Rasputin and his hockus-pockus and decided to kill him. But he used his magical powers to revive himself. They stabbed him, poisoned him, shot him, gassed him, used Mr. Power's ultra-radiation gun on him, gorged out his lungs with a spoon and then finally pulled off the deed by simply throwing the stupid bastard into a cold river." That's my slightly edited version, just to be clear. Again, we all had a good laugh (again, Atkins inc.). Brill.

Lunch was nice. Up to Bernie in Centra. Got a coffee and a Cadbury's Dairy Milk. Nothing too exciting. Back to lunch room and a chat with the locals. After lunch was boring, but hey, it's school. Nothing funny to report.

But once school ends, it's all to play for. We were down changing books from locker, and Erica pops her head in the door and shouts "Bitch!" to Lee-Anne (again, with the spelling?!). Funny, but I don't hear what else see says. But I hear what sounds like "I'll use my defibulator." But apparently that wasn't said. Oh well. It'd be cool if Erica had a defibulator. "Hey Erica, can I come over later and look at your defibulator?" Or maybe even: "Yo Eri-ceh, giz a go o' yer defib-u-yolker!" Moving on. Off we go down the corridors to extra EO'B maths. Little Dermo (IRA agent in Juno) appears behind us. We laugh and I raise my hands in the air, as I knew he had a pistol about twice the size of his head. Lee-Anne(?) asks what I'm doing. I tell her that the IRA had found out that I'd informed on them. At this stage I'm only on the brink of laughter. She says something like "Right...I'm worried about you." To which I reply that she should be because they were going to have me shot for informing. I don't think this sentence was finished before I started my fit of laughing. Then that defibulator came to mind, and I really couldn't stop. I was rightly in stitches!! Yes, that merited two factorials, ehh, I mean exclamation marks. (level 5 maybe) It all happened in about half a minute but it was the funniest moment for me in school for a good long time. Well, actually, the yearbook meeting on Friday was good too, with my "The Realm" game. That also involved me laughing my balls off.

So, that was my story of a nice school day. A true rarity. That rare descent or whatever Sylvia says of her bloody Rook. Of course, I've pondered, why was today such a cheerful day? Of all the days, surely Monday shouldn't be a good day. But, it was. Why? Only one logical reason comes to mind. What was I doing on Saturday/Sunday...? I was with me own, me darlin' (Juno) Lorna. And because she's so bleedin' deadly, my mirthful and cheery side is charged up and can actually be seen. In really long, completely ridiculous maths (big sums) questions, I do often drift off, and of her I think. Better than bleedin' integration! Integration by parts is ok, but only because you have to differentiate stuff too. Like, get dee b'dee x of x is a zed, in relation to y, flip it and get dee b'dee deeta over dee b'dee tee. That's equal to zero, coz it's a max. But anyway (or "moreover" as the culchies would say) she's the reason I guess.

Sin é. Tá tuirse orm anois. Bhuel, tá sé déanach. Ceathrú chun a haon. Táim chomh tuirseach leis an ...fear ....ehh...tuirseach. That's it really, can't be more simple. That was my day. I hope you enjoyed reading about it. It's very good. I hope you have a nice funny day every now and again too. We need them to keep us alive. I'd like to thanks Sinn Féin again for giving us back our Mondays. Respect. Slán libh.

Picture Mad!

As you can clearly see, I've gone picture mad, and put pictures to supplement my posties! Yay!

General update of recent happenings.

It's been kindly brought to my attention that I haven't posted up a post for a while. So, I suppose for the good of humanity in general I better put up a bit of type.

Since the last post, Holy Week has come and gone, and Easter Sunday has come and gone. So, I survived Lent without a dropín of coffee. Well, apart from the ONE on Ash Wednesday, but that was only because I had forgotten to start, so therefore it doesn't count. I have done nothing wrong here... Anyway, I'm reasonably proud of my meagre achievement. I kinda half cheated. I had hot chocolate as a direct substitute. Although, I didn't have even half as much hot chocolate as I would have had of coffee, so, I didn't really cheat all that much. But it was all in the name of Jay-sus anyway. But I'm back on the stuff at this stage. Bíonn cupán agam ag am lón. Not every day, but couple of days. Not today; I had Cidona. Cider is gack, but Cidona is nice.

I suppose the other BIG THING these days are the bleedin' oral exams, An Bhéaltriail agus the French shite. Tá an scrúdú cainte thart anois, buíochas le Dia! It was all very lán le bhrú for the few days. We knew they started on the Monday 16ú Aibreáin, but we weren't sure when or in what order we'd be tested. So, I went in on Monday, half expecting the exam to be that day. Ach, ní raibh sé. So, the day crawled by at snail's pace, with my stomach turning all day with the fear of being called out. Half three came and nothing. So, day one over. "It'll surely be tomorrow," I told myself. Ach, arís, ní raibh sé, in ainm Dé! Or, as we'd say it here, for fuck's sake! Another agonising day past as I sat in classes like a man awaiting execution. (I'm not trying to liken myself to Ceannt here or anyone else of the sort. Maybe the image was distasteful on second thought. Oh well.) What made the day worse was that I thought I was going to be examined during the last class, and I was preparing myself and all, so I was. "Just listen for the tenses," I thought. But then, that wasn't to be either. I had to wait until the morning. At the end of the day, I was sitting in the front hall, talking to Da on the phone, and Ms. Shovlin was talking to the examiner woman at the office door. I saw her pointing over at me and saying something. It was probably "yeah, he's one of the poor sods that are still waiting," or something to that effect, but obviously in Northern Gaeilge. I smiled and gave a little wave. So, another night had to pass before I finally went in. I was first to enter on Wednesday morning. I must say, she was very nice. She was saying "an bhfuil tú reidh?" She asked me about 38 times. I replied "táim." I went in and signed the register, as one does. She got me to read Sliocht a hAon. It went well. "Caithfear ithe. Sceallóga inniú. Is aoibhinn...." Nuair a chríochnaigh mé an píosa, I sighed a big sigh! Then, it really began. She asked me about Swords, my lovely town. I got to use a phrase I thought was nice. Deirtear go raibh Brian Ború i gcaisleáin riomh an gCogadh Cluain Tarbh. I'm not sure if that úrú is right there, but oh well, they probably put it in there in Con na Mara. God bless the Galway boys! So, it went well, I think. Níor theip mé, gan amhras. And I surely was relieved after it, like I just had a nice piss. Ahhhhhh!

The French is to come still. Teanga shit is ea é. Ceapaim go bhfuil sé an-dheacair dhá theanga a fhoglaim ag an am cheanna. But, that's ár gCoras Oideachais for ya! French is just so bloody European that it's sickening. But, we have an oral exam anyway. Apparently it's going to be a French fella doing them. So it'll all be ooh-la-la this and ooh-la-la that. There'll be plenty of queations that'll throw me right off. And he'll find all of them probably. I can speak French with a bit of a French tongue on me, like, an accent. But, we've made such fun of the French that it's now just about over exaggerating it and slagging French and the poor French race, tous les jours. Sin an-ghreannmhar uaireanta. Je suis de bonne humeur le plupart de temp. J'aime rire. It's all shite really. "The French Oral - a play in three acts." Oh oui Mr. Examiner I really think it's important that we learn a modern European language, and it's equally important that we're in the EU and follow Germany with undying loyalty. I know they really don't care what you say, but I feel like a right gimp, an dtuigeann tú? Oh well, they're only words. But I suppose dominion status are just words too. But I'm not going down that road right now.

I saw the movie "300" over the Easter holliers. I'm kinda using this as an excuse to experiment with putting up a picture, but it's all good. Scannán foreigeaneach ab ea é agus tá sé go maith.



I went with Finn and Clarke down in the new Pavo cinema. So, it was all good. And, do you see, do you see my picture?? It's not me, obviously, but I put it there!! Yer man, the Spartan King, is just about to die big time in the last stand of the remaining group of 300 Spartans. I think that's the part of the movie that this pic is from. Fuck it if it's not!

Well, that's it for another day. Slán go foill!

Desktop Analysis

How do we learn about somebody? We can listen to what they say or what is said about them. We can look at their appearance and attire. These obsevations will tell us something about the person. But I've thought of something else reasonably interesting. By noting the objects on one's workbench or desk, it seems possible to see what somebody is up to recently also can highlight preoccupations and aspects of that person's daily life.

I'll give you an example. Obviously I don't know what's on anybody else's desk (apart from schoolbooks) because I don't really take heed. So, the only example I can give is my own desk.

Although there are (too) many schholbooks on my desk, I'm going to leave them out, because they go without saying. So currently there are many items on my desk. They include:
"Collected Poems" Patrick Kavanagh (collected and edited by Antoinnette Quinn),
"The Literacy Works of Patrick Pearse" (Collected and edited by Séamus ÓBuachalla),
a box of sweets, a clock, "From the Cradle"-Eric Clapton, mp3 players, a C.D. player, my wallet, my keys, a dictionary, a Gidgeon's New Testament and a badge with "18" on it. There is also a Garfield teddy, a candy cane, some ribbon and a can of deodorant.

These are all normal (banal?) items to me. But to some big phycho-analysist, they could be be very interesting altogether. I doubt. But it was fun making the list. Try it yourself. After a normal day, have a look at the things that you've been using. If you have a desk, realise what you're spending your time doing at the desk. We study and work at a desk, but not just for school, but yourself too. Give it a go.

If you want to try this in someone else's house, try not to make it so obvious. I doubt they'd like you going through their stuff for no reason!

I'm an adult now.

As I've pointed out in the title, I'm now an adult. One would wonder who let me get such a title. I suppose God did. Well, I'm 18 now and I'm all growed up, so I am. (I'm aware I put "growed" in the last sentence, I did it on purpose. Just in case you didn't get that already. I'm trying to be funny.) Speaking of that, I'm of the belief that as one gets older, one's sense of humour simply disappears. I'm not saying that I'm not funny anymore. Then again, I'm not saying that I'm funny now either. But, as a person goes through the stages of life, the ability to be funny, or to think of a funny comment on the spot dimishes, and one relies on stupid, un-funny puns more and more. But that has nothing to with the original intent of this post. I'm losing my focus and going off the point on a nice tangent. What's the perpendicular distance formula again? Sorry, that's another tangent. Gotta stop having tangents. Chords are ok, but not tangents...

Anyway, they've made me an adult. But they also made Bono a Knight, so I wouldn't trust them. I'm not trying to imply that the Brits are the ones responsible for making me an adult. But, it happened anyway. So now, according to law, I've fallen into some responsibilities and privileges. I'm allowed to vote and drink, legally. Which is wonderful, isn't it? Well, if I'm on the bleedin' register. As for the gargle, this Leaving Cert is still to do done. Maybe it's not wise just yet. Yes, I'm very boring, but that's me I suppose. Sure we'll see how it goes.

Another handy thing I can do now is get a nice 10-year passport for all the travelling and gargling needs. I had a temporary one. I think it's out of date at this stage. It's deadly because it's green. Only thing is that it gets dodgey looks from passport control officers abroad. It's Dermot Ahern's fault, it's not mine! It's also his property apparently. He's not getting it back the prick. Who does he think he is? Knob. Anyway, I'll get a purple one even though it's a crapper colour. Sure I suppose it doesn't really matter what bleedin' colour it is, once it does its job.

Well, I'm pretty much finished now. The world surely hasn't benefited from my turn of age. But at least it's no worse either. Phew. It seems that I'll make a career for myself in politics according ot my classmates. So, I've lots to look forward to. I think I'll go and throw myself in the canal and save myself the bother. Nah, not my style. So, in conclusion...I don't have one. Bye.

Nothing to type...see how much I can drag out.

Well, it's Sunday morning. As the title says, I've nothing to say, and therefore even less to type. I'd like to thank AJ Edwards, from Illinois somewhere, for her kind words. I bet she'd like Capel Street. I didn't think that post was very "twirdy," but it got branded so. Although, at this stage, I'm not sure if the word "twirdy" is an adjective or a proper noun, my (nick?)name. I've never really had a nickname. Hmmm...Twirdy. Note the capital letter there. Whichever works best in a situation.

The most exciting thing I did today was probably changing guitar strings. The D'addario stings are pretty because they've got the different coloured ends. They're all new and clean and crisp with tone. Next on the exciting list might be going to Mass. I don't usually go to the Vigil Mass of a Saturday, but it was somebody's brother's month mind Mass, so we went to see the people. Next would be eating din-dins. Yum. Last is chemistry study coz it's shit. Free radical shite.

So, now I'm kicking it back up here, listening to The Frames. Their newest album is a bit shite, so I'm listening to "Burn The Maps" instead because it's all quite deadly. It's a tell your friends album if they're stupid enough not to know about it already. I saw them in the Olympia Theatre two years ago? I can't really remember. They were fuckin deadly. Glen told his stories, as he does, they played a good gig. Actually speaking of the Olympia, Incubus are coming to the Olympia, or maybe they've come and come and gone already. Oh well. Their new est album is rather interesting. Quite a change in direction for them as far as I can see. They've made lotsa those turns already. There's a big difference between "S.C.I.E.N.C.E." and "Make Yourself" for example. Well, there's a considerable difference between the work on each of the albums. They don't sit still. I suppsoe that's a good thing. Rolling stone gathers no moss, but let's not go down the Bob Dylan road tonight. I might need to make that reference elsewhere.

Today felt a bit like a Sunday. It now feels like a Sunday. The main reason for this might be that it now is a Sunday. But I mean taht it feels like it should be mid-Sunday now. Maybe it's because I stayed in bed until 12 this morning. It's more likely to be because I went to Mass earlier. The ticking clock in my head is out of order. Not my body clock. Only aging women care about that. Until that word happens. The meno....moving on.

Now, isn't that something? I had nothing to say, but I made stuff that I could say. Glorious waffle. I suppose that 's what this thing is for. Now it's time for me to say goodbye. Goodbye. Goodnight ladies. Goodnight.
Slán go foill.

Places in Dublin that I like Part Four (Capel Street)

Let me tell you now folks, despite what the others might say, Capel Street is a great part of town. They will tell you that it's horrible and that they don't like it. But that's only because they're posh Brits. The small, somewhat pokey, street gives the Dubliner (or visitors too I suppose) a nice quaint, old-fashioned sort of feeling and the atmosphere of the street compliments this.

I've always seen the street as a place you go when you want something practical, and no, I'm not talking about the filthy shops. It's got all the hardware shops. It's handy-man heaven, and again, I'm not talking about the dirty shops. It's got all the fitting shops, such as knobs and knockers, not the dirty ones, and similar outlets with similar stock. I f you need a particular type of handles for your door or wardrobe, well, you'll find it on Capel Street somewhere. That huge place is there too, Lenihans or something like that. It's a big hardware shop with everything. Finn's (ex-) friend from Rush says that they sell JCBs and the like from their yard at the back, but we've learned not to trust his every word. But it may be possible that they do.

When I was young, we always used to go into the Ilac centre. We used to go up Parnell Street to the old "Peat's" and go down to Arnott's occasionally. But we'd always end up on Capel Street for one reason or another. I have a few memories of being there and it being dark, so it was obviously the last place we went to on our day in town. With all our links with Scouting, we were frequently in and out of the Scout shop there. We'd be replacing lost waggles or buying new neckerchieves or my Mam would buy badges for her little beavers, awh. The campling shops were up on Capel Street too. So, if we wanted camping stuff of any description, we'd head up that direction. I remember getting me first pair of combats up on Capel Street. It was Hallowe'en 199_. Whatever year it was. I think I also got a toy set of tools that day in addition to my deadly trousers, so I mustn't have been very old. I thought I surely was the bee's knees. I could go to war against the Brits or just do some light DIY with my plastic hammer and monkey wrentch.

Goodwin's is a deadly little music shop there on Capel Street. Come on to Capel Street from Mary Street and it's just there on the left on the opposite side of the road. Wonderful little place. They've got some great guitars in there. They've got Martin's and some lovely Fenders. There's one particular Strat that they had, and have recently sold, and I was drooling as a result of seeing it. Finn will probably remember the one I mean. They had the Tele equivalent too. The Strat was gorgeous. It was one of those with the button on the tone knob, not the dirty one, so that you can get different pickup combinations. I think they call it the S-1 System, correct me if I'm wrong. Goodwin's also stocks loads of music books. They've got some nice little ones filled with Irish tunes. I think I'll pick one up some day, and I'll give them a lash on me auld banjo. On one the days I was in Goodwin's with Finn, I think 'twas the day Finn bought a kazoo, I was having a pick of a nice acoustic there, when some nice fella came over and said that he was happy to hear that I was playing "Hideaway" by Freddie King. He was really nice, and I was quite content with myself altogether.

The auld ones on Capel Street are an integral part of the street. They sell their raspberries and their strawberries from the prams for €2 a bag or whatever they charge. Although I've never bought from the auld ones, it's still good to hear them calling for custom. "Ras-be-rees, two fohr a YOUUU-row!!" You get the idea.

Ms. Brick and her annoying antics.

I first heard that I'd have Ms. Brick for English from Niamh, who told me near the end of third year. I hardly knew Bricky, thankfully, how happy I was then, and I didn't know it. We had her for Religion class maybe twice when Holy Healy was out, probably at a funeral. I knew she didn't like bold word and always shouted big words at the class. Mr. Halpin was out one day for woodwork, which happened regularly in third year now that I think about it. Anyway, Ms. Brick took the class in the TG room, room twenty something, down by Garro's room. I was curious about the potential leaving cert teacher sitting in front of me. I asked her was she going to be our new English teacher. I'm not sure if we knew that Scano was retiring at that stage. Bricky got very worked up about this. Not Scano retiring, her teaching my class! I was later to learn that she gets easily worked up over everything. But, she kept asking me where I had heard about it, which I didn't disclose to her. I keep my sources to myself. Bricky if you're reading this, Niamh is an alias. This seemed to point towards the truth in Niamh's prophecy. It came true and the gates of hell in English opened and the newly formed 5A1 were dragged through.

We had numerous problems in English almost right from the start. Some cannot be blamed on Bricky. The English course for Leaving is very long and tough, and that's not her fault. But it is her fault for telling us that fact 20,000 times every week! "I don't write the course." Or, the famous, "the bar is set, I didn't set the standard," or something to that effect. We started with the poetry of Yeats, I think. BuuhhhUuHHH! That fella is annoying. We started with "The Lake Isle of Inishfree." Nice poem I think many people will agree. Bricky covered Yeats in a decent manner. Patrick Kavanagh was done over a shorter time and possibly effort! At least back then we read through the notes in class. Those notes were good-ish. They were funny because they had so many mistakes, including spelling mistakes, punctuation and general sentence structure. All we did was have them read out, but it was better than what we did in sixth year. At least we didn't have to take notes and cover the pages with scribbles. "This is important," she'd say, "take this down," and then she'd call out about 10 lines of text, which we were to fit into 2cm X 2cm of space. After Kavanagh, poetry went downhill and a hell of a lot faster. Two poems in one class became the norm. "Ok, today we're going to do Prufrock and The Great Hunger all in 26 minutes." Exaggeration may have featured there just a little bit. But she certainly pushed the accelerator hard with both feet/ Maybe, that's what was needed, I don't know, but compared to other classed, we did almost twice as many poets. In Dominican's, they're studying five poets, while we did seven. Niamh's class, again the alias, did four. Why did we do seven? The milk is spilt now, no point in complaining.

Bricky has completely lost the head a few times. It's quite funny sometimes. There yesterday, she pulled a mickey-fit, big-time. Most people hadn't got the work done. It was the first bit of work after the mocks and nobody bothered to do it, apart from Zidalee, Louise and Yombo. As I like to put that, because the people she banks on didn't have the works done, she pulls a fit. As far as I can remember, it's happened before. If twenty people have no work, but either David or I have work in, it's ok. It's a strange way she works. Anyway, the fits are really all the same, they all include threats of dropping to the ordinary class and doing "ordinary level English"!! Nothing new ever comes out. Do ordinary level, I didn't write the course, I didn't set the standard. That sounds familiar? It should, it's stuck in all of our minds.

At some stage in fifth year, we had had enough. After tension building up, and THAT Macbeth test on "themes" that happened to be about something else, can't remember now. Adam kicked up a fuss over that, fair play dó. Anyway, eventually, we got sick of it really. So, we tried to sort it out a bit. Classes had a heavy, uncomfortable atmospere for about a week, and it was only worsened when things got nasty. An open floored debate, aka a riot, broke out one day which most people talking, but, unfortunately, no real points were being made and no solutions or alternatives were being suggested. At one stage, Dave and I decided we'd try to give the debate/riot some shape. But, she went ballistic at us, so I said, "Fuck da anyway."

We thought we were making a first step at fixing Bricky in life skills with Garrigan one day. Pointless class really, but it proved useful that day. He was asking us the usual, "how are things going?" sort of stuff. I can't remember who started it, but somebody said that English was particularly difficult. Then the ball started rollin', and it kept rollin'. Garrigan listened, as he does, and fair play to him, he had a meeting with Dave and meself after school one of the days. Apparently, life skills class wasn't the proper stage on which we should have aired our views, but, that was irrelevant now. He asked us what was going on in that we found annoying. As far as I remember, he then went and spoke to his superior, Derek McGarrigle, about the situation. Obviously, it wasn't going to go any further after that, we knew that. Bricky already had Derek in to the class and he waffled on about work and how Bricky was wonderful. So, it was end of the line really. Garrigan, the voice of the students, came back to us with no results. But we respect him for giving us the time. Derek talked ot us one of the days too. He waffled on again, saying how Bricky has seventy-four master degrees and is aiming to beat the record of phDs achieved in twenty minutes. (It's set at 5 by some Chinese fella.) End of the road for the revolutionary 5A1 class. Or so it seemed.

Bricky then took a turn. Now whether it was a good turn or a bad turn, I can't say. She seemed to think it was great altogether. But, our opinion didn't quite match that. I thought it wasn't any better but it could have worse. But I'd imagine the rest of the class thought that she'd got completely to hell, with no chance of return. She changed the class, so that she read notes aloud, and we wrote down what she was dictating. So, I suppose in a way, chance of discussion fell to zero and the Mussolini like dictatorship stood firm once again. The power of students was trampled. We showed disapproval, and nothing was done to improve our situation. If Derek was running for Leinster House, his student constituents would think twice about giving him their number one.

Teachers teach us, as it says in their job description. But they also give us work, collect it, correct it and give it back to us. Ms. Brick has done all of these (she's especially good at the first one) but, this process is very slow with the Leaving Certs. Let me give you an example. In mid January, Ms. Brick gave back a Macbeth test from...wait for it...mid October! Yes, three months later, I get a "corrected" test handed back to me. That's probably the worst example of material not returned that I have, but the others aren't far behind. On the side of correcting, we don't think her correcting is particularly precise or good either. Recently, she has found a great way to get out of correcting essays. For the last week, we've been writing two paragraphs of an essay a night. This part of the method I like, it's not all dumped on us in last class on Friday. But, about three people read out their paragraphs on Monday and Tuesday. She read sample essays yesterday (Wednesday) and today (Thursday), this is the best, we had our essays completed. We read each others essays. We read each others essays, what a way of dodging correcting them. Wow. One could almost congratulate her on that idea. We'll learn from one and other. That's a load of bollocks, well, in my own humble opinion. Our mock papers were sent out to be corrected, at a price of €7.50 for each of the two papers. Why? We want an outside viewer to correct our work? Not likely. Who suggested that they be corrected outside? Ehh, oh yeah, Bricky. Couldn't be arsed, don't know how? You choose.

I started this post back in March sometime. I added bits to it since then too. It's now 1 May. Although all this shit is very funny, ridiculous and even monstrous at times, recently I've came to the conclusion that I must let it go. At this late stage in the year, I really, nobody really has the time to complain very much. Especially about the state of teachers. Unless there's something very wrong. Bricky is re-reading her notes again for the last time. And instead of moaning, I think the attitude that should be adopted should be "right, I'm gonna listen and get the most out of this, even if it's not perfect." Many I've been enlightened by some divine force that decided that we should give her a break, that she's trying. But, in any case that's how it's worked out. I don't expect Bricky to do anything else mad or even slightly cuckoo after this time. I think I can finally call this the end paragraph. It's surely been a roller coaster ride of a two year course of English classes with Ms. Brick. Some classes descended into absurdity. But on the other hand, I wrote some interesting essays during some of the English classes. All of my essays somehow ended up to be Ireland-glorifying propaganda that dismissed any ideas that modern Ireland was good thing. Strange, but let's you see how I was thinking during the year. Well, that's it really. Goodbye now, take care, and in the words of herself, "BWWOOOOOOOHH!!!" (1,771 words in total)