O Me! O Life!

Delany's Donkey!

2009-12-04T19:13:00.005Z

Sitting here watching the world cup draw I feel the combined rage of a so called ‘hard done by’ nation permeating the very ether of Irish society. While the entire country displays an amalgamation of hate and bitterness sufficient enough to power a small country for a decade it is my opinion that there is one pure and simple truth that we need to start accepting. The Irish team are not going to the world cup because of the Irish team.

For two years in true Irish fashion we sold ourselves short and approached qualification with the confidence of a cross eyed ginger at a beauty pageant. We played to draw and draws are what we got all along praying to the powers above that results elsewhere would smile in our favour. They didn’t, they smiled at someone else. Enter Thierry Henry. Like a two bit cheating politician he played the system, and more power to him, he got away with it. A quick spot of juggling that would put bonzo the clown to shame and France are packing their bags. Forget the half hearted lethargic attitude with which we plied our trade for two long years, forget the fact we lay down like door mats on the hallowed turf of Croker, forget the fact we didn’t have the character to finish off a weak French team in their own back yard, FORGET the criminal defensive blunder by McShane and Givens deer caught in the headlights expression! No if the headlines are to be believed Ireland are not going to the world cup because Thierry Henry committed an act which has on many an occaision relegated many teams to the depths of despair. However on this occasion for some bizarre reason the book must be rewritten.

If there’s one thing the man above got absolutely right it’s that you always reap what you sow, unless of course you’re Irish and nothing of the sort applies. Maybe this has more to do with us being robbed of the opportunity to lose gracefully, an activity we embrace more than life preserving oxygen, than of actually having our pride ravaged mercilessly by a guillotine. Is it possible the real truth is that the events as they unfolded negated the joviality of despicable drunken renditions of ole ole and outrageous comments of being the best supporters in the world yet having no team to support come next summer?

Hey at least now we have two teams to cheer against!

Why Munster cheer for Leinster!!!

2009-05-03T15:44:00.005+01:00

Forget twelve counties! Leinster has unequivocally been the untouchable property of a collective number of postcodes that have lent their denomination to the ‘even’ persuasion since Crowell first drew up the plans. What a dilemma of depressing proportions arose when it became apparent that Leinsters surplus of tickets was to requirement. Notwithstanding the supposition that Leinster is a province, when bodies were required to populate a venue larger than your average horse field the painful evidence pointed to the proof that the ya fab Fintans from D4 had pushed the true salt of Leinster from the fold resulting in the possibility that blue seats would be occupied by red jerseys whether they be from Kilkenny or Clare, Limerick or Louth, Cork or Carlow.

Rather than get the ovens blazing and humble pie produced en masse the country was warned of Leinster Rugby’s answer to the Taliban beard patrol that would be in effect on the day. Munster and Leinster rugby does not suffer rivalry as a sporting contest but invariably as the pale versus beyond, a mindset that Dubs will claim to be two way traffic.

To all intents and purposes Munster rugby has always been about Rugby, an opinion not shared by the boys in blue suggested by the cacophony of jeers that reverberate around Kiely's whenever Munster take to the field, whoever they might be playing. A visit to the Ballsbridge alehouses whose patrons embody ‘the soul’ of Leinster Rugby will disappointingly reflect that a Munster loss is as good as a Leinster win. That being said I’m proud to see Irish Rugby bearing the potential to sweep the board in Northern Hemisphere competition and wonder will a sea of red still be more evident in Edinburgh nevertheless shouting for Leinster.

A glass of dry red wine and hold the chocolate please...

2009-04-10T12:08:00.004+01:00

In the words of the Virgin Mary, where in the name of the eldest fella did that come from? This joke of a country has once again gotten its facts completely mixed up, and this time with the help of the even more inept religious order that holds tightly, even still, onto the balls of this country in a manner that would put a Stafford shire bull terrier to shame. Now it may come as a shock but I’m not what you’d call a Christian of papal proportions. But be that as it may I feel compelled to endorse a fact that undoubtedly Basques in the glory few enjoy of being beyond contestation. Namely that on the very first Good Friday the man himself drank alcohol and did NOT eat chocolate eggs.

Not that it matters since a twelve pack of Heineken's tinned fare and a box of Birdseye's finest quarter pounders are chilling with the defiance known only to a few in my fridge.

What everyone else is thinking, they just don't know it...

2009-01-21T16:23:00.004Z

So it's finally all over but can anyone please tell me why the hell Obama was required to deliver yet another speech. After two years and an unsurmountable pack of presidential promises AKA lies what the hell else does he have left to say...you got the job man with target, now get on with letting down the sorry pathetic American public that have been yet again duped into believing that the man dictates the Presidency and not vice versa...

Well I never.

2009-01-05T18:54:00.004Z

In a couple of days I expect to read Disgraces obituary further to a promise made returning to work 360 (and not one second more…get it) odd days ago. That of the lament concerning the failure of 2007 and assurance that if 2008 faired no better then that was it!!! Indeed as assured as I am that ND has indeed demonstrated the courage that we suicidal could only ever wish for I have had a funeral wreath in ready anticipation since round about last February.
The following is a list of things Coiny took from 2008 as negatives.

Jamaica needs a drugs screening process. Sorry disgrace it’s a fact.
It’s easy for Padraig Harrington to tell the nation to stop whinging about the recession and get on with it while competing for the highest paid golfer in Europe merit.
Whether it’s war or the Olympics, Britain will always bang on like they won it.
The age old question of Sexism Vs Racism in The US was finally answered, turns out they both play second fiddle to Ageism.
Katherine Lynch.

Wishing someone a happy new year in the current climate is a bit like telling someone with Cancer to get well soon.

A pint of Vodka and a bottle of pills please...

2008-12-07T19:54:00.005Z

It turns out being unemployed has led to extreme writers block and painfully served to force day and night to sneakily change places with regard to hours intended for slumber. The fact that I’m unable to afford ‘old rope’ is a disgusting cruel joke amongst the countless other reminders that suicide is only a financially viable option to those who don’t need it. At a loss of anything pointless to say here are some interesting facts about life in general.
Sky has far too many pointless stations.
Those that are of use show far too many pointless programs.
Those that are of use have far too many pointless repeats.
RTE is part of a national conspiracy whose programming exposes the license fee as an appalling extortionate racket and for Christ sake will Steve just grow a pair of balls and dump Michelle…oh and the world is far too ill divided to support the lie that there’s one for everybody in the audience…

South Afica here we don't come

2008-11-25T18:42:00.000Z

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.

2008-11-18T23:20:00.001Z

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!!!

2008-11-16T16:24:00.000Z

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...

2008-11-15T22:30:00.000Z

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...

2008-11-11T16:32:00.000Z

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…

2008-11-11T16:23:00.000Z

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

2008-11-11T14:55:00.001Z

“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.

What's in a title

2008-10-30T14:59:00.000Z

As ideas for my first blog were beginning to prove as fruitless as a successful flirt with my own mother I decided, in an action not too unlike having hired a two dollar hooker, to give free reign to my fingers and rant about something that of late has become a bigger nuisance than accidentally scratching a two inch boil off my own arse.

This morning during my daily journey to work on a Luas littered with more newspaper than a budgies cage and still nothing of interest to read, weighed down with the usual ongoing financial concerns I expect to juggle in my grave, I was giving careful consideration to the nocturnal goings on of the rabbits living above me. And then I began to wonder, is society becoming more oblivious or just plain ignorant. What with the advent of bobo and other such pointless social conventions designed primarily as a resource for 16 year old girls and forty year old Paedos and also taking into consideration X-box live breeding newer and better ways to interact people without the burden of actually having to breath the same air, one would be forgiven to conclude such pastimes could promote a society where individuals no longer have to be overly concerned with the actual physical existence of other people.

Besides the regular throes of unbridled passion, Mr and Mrs Jackhammer in number nine continue to demonstrate with copious amounts of mind numbing annoyance to have lost all sense of consciousness that they may not in fact be the only ones residing in a 20 apartment building, in a manner not too dissimilar to Joe soap deciding to wait until it’s his turn at the bank link to go routing in bags and wallets for his flexible friend, mindless of the angry ‘boil scratched off the arse’ faced folk behind him.

Coin is starting to get a little bit tired of becoming an unconsidered majority by an unconsidered majority.