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

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.

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...

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

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…