South Afica here we don't come

I want to set the record straight that I have no desire to rival Anne Frank in my progression of what may now be a similar retelling of godforsaken misery, if one indeed were to in unaffected conscience consider being unemployed in a recession not too dissimilar to hiding a star clad arm in Nazi occupied Holland.

In any case my week started off with a little cash on the hip considering the FAI pay through the nose for the most basic of services, one of which my brother was more than happy to offer me as a handy earner and time filler. 80 squids to lay out some kit for the protagonists of the Munster Emerging Talent Programme I felt a proud hand involved in doing my best to support the Irish footballing men of tomorrow. Leaving extremely discouraged (don’t book any flights to South Africa just yet) I was all the same happier for having earned what in many circles could be accused as being misallocated funds, hey a man’s gotta drink.

After an 8 pack of Hollands finest offering (didn't Anne Frank drink Heineken?) and a few pages of Flan O Brien's “The third policeman” (thanks Disgrace) whose writing can only be described as perfection literised (neologism abounds in healthy measure), I regarded the clock unabashedly screaming a time of 4am suggesting a giant leap from slumber some time the following afternoon. How mistaken I was, 08:30 my hung-over late for work aforementioned sibling stood at my bedroom door with yet another outrageously overpriced little errand. As much disappointed with the interruption as I was appreciative of the extra cash, in a world in which some struggle for food it perplexes how alcohol is provided for in abundance in the absence of income and a hole in my bank account whose dimensions are a heart wrenching testament to the black one in Calcutta.

All in all raising from the depths of death at such a late hour leave little room for entertainment considering the Seoige sisters have about as much chemistry as a Junior cert geography class and the afternoon show proves as informative as a pound shop cook book fused with the fashion section of the RTE guide.

The days are becoming more and more suited to staying in bed, a dangerous occupation considering any job worth it’s salt enjoys the lighter hours.

Gun crime in Limerick…local shop keeper mistaken for French referee.

Anybody inclined or in any way interested will hopefully have come to an appreciative understanding of my most recent transition from suave, sophisticated, broke, man about Rathgar to Massey loving, sheep shagging, broke, cultural misfit.

My experiences having returned to the ‘sticks’ have set my mind racing in the analysis of comparative pros and cons between Clare and ‘The South Side’ and a very interesting thing hit me. That of my vigilance about preserving the good nature of the ‘culchies’ during my time in Dublin, and yearning after the ways that graced me with such a positive existence having left it. In my pitiful confusion one thing has in all remained constant. My love of Munster.

And not as Disgrace contends in true England 66 fashion but that of ‘The Munsters’ proudly being the only Irish element to have proved a positive success in the world of rugby or indeed the world of sport not including horses or doping scandals.
While the New Zealand number ten may have done just as well kicking with a pair of Jimmy Choo five inch pumps one could consider the referees peepers malfunctioning as being avid balance in refuting the accusation that Munster were a little flattered not to have lost by more.
That being said the fair residents of Limerick were just as disappointed having lost to New Zealand as Irish supporters as they were as Munster fans, the Leinster gang should be grateful not having suffered the double whammy that we bear so painfully…

Either way I'm sure Disgrace was as delighted at Munsters bravery in battle tonight as he was having seen them lift the Heineken cup...I wonder how I know about that...

We're not in Kansas anymore!!!

Since my last post the full effects of what may well have been the worst mistake of my life have hit me as hard and as painfully as a visit to a prison shower house.

I find it decidedly disturbing how quickly my rural ways and unusual attraction to sheep has come racing back to base in as little as 24 hours. Two years living in Dublin 6, though all be it on the breadline, still at the very least afforded me some measure of pretentious existence. Therein lies the difference. While the motto of life for most is be all you can be ‘the pale’ affords a limited yet sufficient variety of interpretation to said motto where living in the country side does not. In other words 'pretend to be more than you are'. Shallow consolation it may be but further to my previous post and the toothless massy driving misfits that abound, this is in no uncertain terms the world of relative degradation.
Having spent the evening supping an 8 pack of the prodigal feast with my own parents while ignoring texts of “I miss you” from my former object of fluid release and tasteless invitations for drinks in Slatt’s from National Disgrace, I fell into the pit of despair that fashions itself tragically on effects not too unlike losing your entire family to a car bomb at a check point in Fallujah. Figuratively speaking.
Looking at the amount of baggage (literal not emotional) my short time in the tri area of R’s, south Dublin, has saddled me with makes me realise that in 2 years I have accumulated a life that literally does not fit back home. Oxfam are about to have a field day.

There's life Jim but not as we know it...

Having moved back to the farm after seeing Paris (or it’s less chique Irish counterpart) I resolved with firm acceptance that I was in danger of labouring myself with what in city terms may well be considered a less cultured way of life. However, besides the obvious difference in size it occurred to me that the ‘living beyond the pale’ reputation that we ‘culchies’ love to loath was inexorably being sustained by a number of unfavourable elements that sully what could otherwise be considered decent civilisation.
No sooner had I graced the one trick attraction that is my home town in the west of Ireland with my presence then I noticed a rather tiresome delay in traffic flow. Considering the possibility that the completed bypass had not indeed resulted in reducing traffic congestion, after two years in the big smoke I was painfully reminded of life in the country side by Joe the farmer delivering a bail to Morris O shannanigans in his 1955 Massey Ferguson turbo boasting a top speed of 5 miles an hour and a driver whose attitude to every other atom around him was as oblivious as Bin Ladens whereabouts.
Like a woman whose man is so mistrusting that she might as well just ride the gardener anyway it has come crashing home with resounding effect that while certain members of our so called society continue to tarnish what could yet be an otherwise appealing metropolitan existence we may as well just continue to accept our fate and drag our knuckles with our more classically challenged rural neighbours. After all they own the shoutguns!!!
The Coin is however glad of the incentive to go travelling…

Things not to do in a recession...

While most would consider working hard an obvious and important feature of keeping one’s job in a recession, all would agree that actually turning up on a regular basis was a given. I have however in recent weeks insisted on dicing with the devil. I lost. Having handed in my notice, being fired, rehired, asked to extend my service before being shot down in flames I have in no uncertain terms ridden the roller coaster of emotion in coming to terms with the fact that Fred the subconscious gremlin is often far more hard at work than one would think.
Moving back to whence this raw unbridled Munster lad came after two years, bearing in mind the combined vote of confidence from friends and family was 6 months, finding himself proved to involve more complaining about the price of the pint Vs the can than actual self discovery. One still contends that Fred may have been more instrumental in making me choose bed over work at these latter stages than the obvious and redundant accusation of simple laziness.
That’s Coins story and he’s sticking to it…

A nice crisp bottle of whine…

People are so obsessed with being different these days that good old fashioned heartwarming holidays like Halloween have been tarnished with one upmanship.
In my day you couldn’t swing a mute paraplegic without hitting 20 draculas and 40 witches the true staple of a successful Halloween costume, these days anything goes, Super heroes, Train drivers, all in provocative attire, what’s next? Santa? The Easter Bunny? AT HALLOWEEN!!! Can someone please tell me at what stage the lines between decent common sense and old fashioned pagan celebration got blurred?

Human Decency Not Included

“Do not piss me off or the police will be waiting when we land” Having been erroneously associated with a couple of girls who, while displaying signs of intoxication and boisterousness (tell me if I invented a word) yet were in no large way causing any harm, I found myself the target of a bitter verbal tirade from a rather pretty yet clearly troubled Ryanair hostess who’s penchant for courtesy was as non existent as a virgin alter boy.

As I could only assume her vehemence ‘flowed’ in precise tangent with something else at that particular time of the month it made me all the same consider if goodness and decency were the new commodity to be sold to the highest bidder in an effort to use all manner and means to make good financially in the current climate. And not just human decency.

There was a time when batteries were included, necessary peripherals were included with your console and not displayed teasingly behind the game stop counter as essential extras, your PC was compatible with current software if only for a while and complementary this, that and the other was a frequent visitor to the restaurant table. Apologies for poor service were as forthcoming as amends and the customer was crowned with distinction.

It would seem these days that basic is the call of the day whether it be the attitude of a flight attendant, a waitress or Morris Pratt. Back in the day your basic console package meant one controller one game and you got exactly what it said on the tin, today it means one controller one game, a power supply literally the size of a brick, a console that sounds like a rocket launch and a cooling system that after a number of hours play leave’s Santa’s most recent deposit a glowing molten reactor giving off roughly as much radiation as Chernobyl and Sellafield combined. The cost of a flight was 100 euro before tax yet we were treated like gods in as much as one could do on one of Aer Lingus’ finest. Extra veg or a side order of chips was no hassle and your airbed came with a pump.
Remember times when service was so efficient girls were charmed into buying 50 identical models of the same Barbie just to get the disco dress or beach ball that came with the newest release, how many footballs could be found in a lad’s garden. Times when we didn’t mind being taken for a ride because the retailer was honest about it, you could see Joe the shopkeeper slap your back with one hand and squeeze your tit with the other.
Should we necessarily accept that in the provision of cheaper and basic, common courtesy should be an optional extra? The coin thinks not.