Recklessly Small

Words have power and a resonance not easily captured in a dictionary. How often do you see a definition explain that using a certain word over another will make you sound wankery? Words can be used to hide things too. Hidden in plain sight by words that paint you as a victim or martyr while ignoring your complicity in your downfall. If you're one of these people, that let words do your lying for you, then fuck you. This is all prompted by a young man who told me he was set upon and received a kicking from two other young men. That they chased, caught and threw the boots in. This young man described it as an assault. Others have used the word assault and have just been straight up lying cunts. They started a fight, lost and explain the little blue and purple badges of dishonour away as having been assaulted. This young man's lie is more pernicious, it ignores his complicity. It paints a picture of a man who through no fault of his own got beaten up. You see, this man is 10 stone in weight. For the metrically minded that's 63.5kg. His assailants were about the same. And no, I'm not talking about a dwarf. This young man is 5'8" or 1.72m That's 2 inches shorter than me and nigh on 5 stone lighter. His complicity is in being recklessly small. Take a theft as another example. If you are simple minded enough to leave your phone unattended on a table in a busy bar, if it gets taken then it's not so much a theft as a tax on the stupid. If you drink and drive and crash, while people passing on the bus on their way to work may think human tragedy that is not the full story. You are at fault, at least partially, for going out there unprepared knowingly putting yourself in the path of harm without the skills or abilities to deal with the the forseeable future. Fuck you and the work you've caused the emergency services. The small, the frail, the unprepared need to take some responsibility. While crimes shouldn't happen, they do and it is upon us to be prepared. Insurance companies set higher premiums in houses with poor locks and no alarms. They pay less if you weren't wearing a seat belt. If you left your keys in the car and it's gone come morning - you're screwed. If taking some responsibility means putting on some shoulders over a back and holding them up with some legs of note then do it. If it means being sober and keeping an eye on your phone do. I don't want to have to pretend to give a shit about you if you're to blame. Conan The Caring Sort

Work related ennui

We don't have any natural predators. Nothing wants to kill us. Disease doesn't stalk the land. The biggest worries that people have at the moment are the price of oil, mortgage repayments and the looming spectre of unemployment. Not that these aren't valid, I'm just pointing out that compared to the concerns of someone in a war torn African country they are less important to the health of the organism - Us.

I deal with people at their very worst. You don't meet me on your good days when nothing has gone wrong. I don't see you when you've managed something clever that you will regale your friends with. I see you at your worst. Hair messed up. Dried blood. Wallet or handbag missing and for some reason containing the documents you need to travel tomorrow. I regret that at times because it leads me to the possibly false belief that people are stupid. That our collective good might be served by thinning out the numbers and the introduction of a few natural predators.

The result of this is that I feel the person who took the bag that was left unattended in the bar for upwards of 45 minutes is not stealing, merely levying a tax on the foolish. The careless need to be taught a lesson. In the absence of real peril then we need these people, these tax collectors.

I feel differently about the person who knocks over an old lady or ties her up in her house as they ransack it. I don't know where the line is but I regard them differently. This line between criminal and somewhat irregular public servant.

I hate people who get "assaulted" even more. The number of people who just get assaulted is very low. In my experience it seems to be when a roving gang of youths encounter someone different and weak. If you're different you can't be weak, some of the blame has to fall on you if you are. For the most part then getting into fights and assaulted is a culmination of poor selection of location, your sobriety, your group of friends, the very real chance that you're an ass and deserve it and several other factors all of which you have the chance to change. What I'm getting at is don't come running to me, I have no sympathy for you.

An annual tradition

This year had the usual challenges, family, cabin fever etc mixed in with me being just a little sick and thus more irritable. New challenges made themselves known, fewer movies that I recognised were on tv. The last shreds of Christmas spirit are intrinsically tied to seeing the Back to the Future trilogy but it wasn't on. Indiana Jones was but the only thing that Indiana Jones can't save is my Christmas cheer. The kids are taking over with their pixar animated things. My nostalgia is being upgraded for theirs.

I got no presents this year. Not a bad thing, I dread getting stuck in one of those adult relationships where exchanging presents of approximately the same value is how you express your affection. The thing is that when selecting a gift I'm held to a budget and I don't know as much about this stuff as the person I'm buying for. How then could I be expected to pick up the right gift? I'll go for the cheaper one in the shinier box. I'll give you that and now that you have one of these that isn't good enough you're denied the pleasure of buying yourself the right one. I've ruined this gift and your chance of getting yourself something decent. It's supposed to be the thought that counts but in most cases that thought is "this'll do right? and it's cheaper than that other one". My brother got gifts from his girlfriend's parents and his little face sank. Poor bastard never saw it coming.

New Year's is just around the corner now. I've come to hate New Year's. I've touched on why I hate going out. The forced joviality, the way each night is a little like Groundhog Day. New Year's is the worst of these. It even has its own timetable built in. Everybody is expected to be out and celebrating. The pressure is really something. Then the night falls and worse than any other night out places are packed, people are drunker, taxis are harder to get, and someone gets glassed because the pressure has to escape somehow.

I'll be working. Cleaning up this fucking mess, invariably with people wanting me to smile in photos. "go on smile for the photo" translates as "pretend you're happy". Then when I gently try to slip away and not get into the hand shaking and pleasantry exchanging at midnight I'm the kill joy. I ruined the fantasy that this night was different and special and that this coming year will be better. I'll care about less of the Christmas films next year

I started this and thought it would be angrier

I sometimes think I'm striving for consistency. It'd be the nice thing that people would say about me when it eventually happens - If nothing else, he was consistent. When I get up in my head like that is when I decide not to get a Facebook account.

I appreciate that from an entertainment perspective it probably kills a few hours and my life is sufficiently empty to see that as an appealing point. I just don't like that it is the cowards' way of ignoring people. You don't have to give a fuck about someone on Facebook. You just see their status updates and commit the nugget of information to the back of your mind in the off chance that you meet them on public transport and can't get away. Suddenly you bust out whatever you last read and you have a ready made conversation. An empty uncomfortable conversation where you both ignore the fact that you're not friends anymore. You either regret it because this situation is of your own making, through your laziness or because you never really had anything in common and this is a cringing reminder. I've let people down and I don't need Facebook to try to convince me I haven't.

So, it's not commitment to a friendship or anything of the sort. It's commitment to social niceties that are not in line with my true feelings. Like an office Christmas party. All year long I haven't gone out with the people I work with because that group is comprised of two smaller but distinct groups - people I genuinely like and enjoy talking to and wankers. The regular work night out has both present and so too will the Christmas party. So since I haven't gone out all year long, it stands to reason that I dread this. Deep down, in the pit of my stomach. All I can rely on is that there will be some kind of argument and division that will at least amuse me in the coming weeks, because one of the less nice things people will say about me is that I am a gossipy bitch.

I'll be there for you in ways you can't imagine

I had my iPod on and was walking the lonely streets. The occasional drunk stumbled by, and I saw them glance sideways as they caught a few bars of a song I was gently singing. More precisely it wasn't singing so much as tonelessly repeating the words as the song went on heedless of my butchery.

As the drunks grew fewer, my nerve stronger and the songs louder. A bawdy shanty or a classic ballad. Between me and the darkness it was just entertainment. That was until the song choice and the nearby events coincided beautifully.



The couple walked down the street, leaning into each other as much for balance as affection. Moving close to light one cigarette off the other. It looked perfect, yet as I started singing along it all changed. The meander stopped. They faced each other. With arms open at waist level. Hips slightly back and heads forward. I couldn't hear what they were saying (earphones in and singing) but it looked like I was singing the right song.

They left as they had arrived, walking, but there was a difference. I don't know that I helped. It does nothing for the tale whether I did or not.

Sometimes I prefer to just be left alone

I can't find a suitable analogy to get this across. I see people protesting and I just don't believe in it. I do like the slogans and the occasionally catchy chants. Especially the ones where there are too many or too few syllables and the chant just races through it obliviously.

I suppose some people have reached the same conclusion and instead of going home and quietly masturbating or something, they decide to take it a step further. This is where hunger strikers come from. A realization that slogans and chants alone will not change the world and the belief, the false belief, that anyone gives a fuck if they live or die.

Protesters as a group are a boring lot. Probably not when they're at home and with friends but definitely when they're protesting. They're so on message, all the time. Just talk, talk, talk about the cause. The fact that they are protesting at all should inform them that up to this nobody cared.

The hunger strikers want to make them care. They want people to care about the boring cause because they, a white person who may well live nearby and almost certainly supports the same football team as some people are skipping a few meals. Fuck hunger strikers. It's petulant.

Like a child, they'll stop this very slow exercise in self harm if only you give in to their demands. A very adult tantrum. Before this goes any further I'll point out I don't care for nationalists at all, but that's not the point.

Assuming 100% commitment, which I never do, this should be seen as on a par with setting yourself on fire. It's not. Those guys get taken in for mental examination and kept in a secure facility. Just 'cos they've got more balls and commitment than a pussy hunger striker. It all goes to show that the authorities don't really believe in them either. We think they're full of shit. Figuratively, not literally because they haven't eaten in a while.

What are the rules for hunger striking? You're allowed water. Any essential salts? What about a coke? It's not eating... fuck that, there's no pissing about when you set yourself on fire, or stand in front of a tank. I've had stomach bugs that lasted longer than some hunger strikes.

Dublin Bikes

I'm not going to bore you with facts and figures or try to prove my point. In the fine tradition of tabloid journalism I'll just say stuff and maybe fire off an email to Joe Duffy or something.

A while ago, Dublin City Bikes started operating. I predicted that most of them would end up in the Liffey at the hands of Dublin's finest. To prove me wrong this has allegedly gone on to be the most successful scheme of its sort in Europe. Fuck you Dublin City Bikes.

What concerns me is that with a rise in cyclists using these bikes, using them by and large without helmets there must be at least some rise in road traffic accidents involving these cyclists. It would be practically impossible for there not to be. This hasn't been publicly discussed. Hasn't even been mentioned. We have no idea how may new hospital admissions are down to these bikes. How many families are fatherless? How many people will never make it to the office....

The why of this is because everybody loves the idea of it. Like recycling which isn't powered by the beauty of clouds, which uses bleaches and energy and requires massive volumes of water or Hybrid cars which are purpose built to destroy the environment, as long as an idea is palatable enough we'll ignore any facts that may exist. I'm not saying they do, this isn't that type of blog.

On the other side of the coin, Head Shops and the Psychoactive Substances Act and all that shit was rushed through the legislative process without concern for these pesky facts or peoples' rights to ingest whatever the fuck they like (with certain provisos that should be accepted). It's not facism or anything like it. People just accept the nice pretty things like more bikes and would prefer to get rid of the junkie exercising his rights by being out of his bin at 2 in the afternoon and swaying gently on O'Connell St.



Fuck you Dublin Bikes.

Sacrifices must be made

I had to use my emotions the other day. Or more correctly pretend I had some and pretend to empathise with someone. The alternative was probably an official complaint, it was on a knife edge. I hate feeling like a whore after I say something meaningless like "time heals all wounds" or "the important thing is that you do what's right for you and your health". Really? Fuck, I just hope they didn't see the disingenuous smirk.


I'm not trying to pretend to be Patrick Bateman or anyone requiring police supervision before he claims another victim, I just think most people are pussies. Suck it up. It's not that bad. If you look at it from my point of view anyway.

I acutely feel all the old dinosaur emotions. Anger, jealousy, lust and if any of the other seven sins are emotions, them too. Higher order, complicated emotions don't come easily to me. Even when I think I feel them, I'm quickly proved wrong by my own impatience.

It's this that holds me back. This that has convinced me that in the event of a crisis the least useful thing a person can do for you is to empathise. A cup of water would be more helpful, fist aid skills are helpful, great bloody vengeance is helpful but empathy is not. So having to choke on this and mouth platitudes to fucking idiots complaining about nothing at all is tiresome.


Nobody cares about your iPhone.

Vinny the Racist

Vinny is a racist. Not a nice racist like Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino or Ed Norton (eventually) in American History X, Vinny is a despicable old man who is a racist.

I first met Vinny the Racist one day in work. I was strolling around and being bored I said hi and thought to exchange pleasantries, the way one does. Vinny the Racist instantly seized on the opportunity to explain to me the problems with and caused by the Blacks. At length.

I was a little flustered. I went in prepared for mild introductory pleasantries and got this. Not that I have a weak constitution for such things. When someone is screaming this drunk on a street corner I'm prepared but by contrast it's brought up in our first polite conversation.... I worry. I worry that like two people who fall in love at first sight he has seen the totality of my existence in that one glance and thought to himself that here is a kindred spirit. Another man filled with hate. Race Hate, cos Vinny the Racist is a racist.

Vinny is a short old man, still working so I assume under 65. He's a little fat which is staving off the wrinkles somewhat. He has brilliant white hair (white as a newly flowing Klan robe) which only serves to highlight how red his face gets when he talks about foreigners and how they are like a cancerous blight on Ireland. I believe he suggested putting them on a boat with a small hole in it. So that it would sink slowly. Presumably to allow them to fully realise what absolute bastards they are for being foreign. Bright, bright red (red as the robe of the Red Hooded Klansman - Kleagle?). I worry sometimes that Vinny the Racist will have a stroke if he gets too worked up over all of those foreign bastards robbing from the state. Keeping you and me out of a job (despite talking to me while we were both in work).

Vinny the Racist works in a job (not the same as my job) that requires him to talk to tourists, Vinny the Racist hates tourists, because they are foreign and too stupid to speak English. So he ignores them or gives them false directions. Presumably in the hopes that they will become lost and get set upon and die slowly knowing that he, Vinny the Racist, was responsible.

I cheered up considerably when I heard that Vinny the Racist was just as horribly racist around everyone else. So far from seeing in me a fire that mirrored his own, he's just a delusional racist. He 's old and those of us who have been well brought up don't hassle the elderly. Vinny the Racist through this loophole of manners has arrived at the point where he thinks the world shares his racist beliefs. That we are on the crest of a wave, about to break across his sacred and racially pure island home and wash it clean. Vinny the Racist is deluded.

I got speaking to Vinny the Racist's colleagues today. I don't know if any of them agree with Vinny the Racist (I doubt it), but at the very least they had the social common sense to decry Vinny the Racist. They told me all the tales. Like the day Vinny the Racist couldn't have tea because the two coffee shops he could go to in work both had a foreign girl on the till. He hates foreigners enough to give up tea.

One of his colleagues (a man of advancing years) is married to a young Asian woman (I asked no questions and heard no lies), they have two young children. These children are the apple of this man's eye. Vinny the Racist to his face, in conversation, with witnesses, referred to the children as “halfbreeds”. I'm not sure of the exact hierarchy of racist slurs but I suppose it ranks above abomination and below half caste? Maybe Vinny the Racist can explain.

There were explanations put forth as to why Vinny the Racist is a racist. One was that he was banned from a pub he once frequented after he offered one of the Polish barmaids money in return for sexual favours, but this was countered with the argument that Vinny the Racist has always been a racist. This seemed to be an isolated incident where he attempted to connect with someone, a thing he fails to do because HE IS A HUGE FUCKING RACIST.

Then, while not connected directly to his racism, there was the story of him being spotted being forcefully ejected from a lapdancing club on Dublin's Capel st. Vinny the Racist is obviously a racist who can't keep his hands to himself.

The plan is for one of the new guys to approach Vinny the Racist. The new guy will pretend not to know that Vinny the Racist is a racist. He will explain the following:
- that he is seeing a woman of colour;
- that she has several children already and yet another of his on the way;
- that she is not working because the dole, the children's allowance and all the other benefits the taxpayer covers is keeping her in fine style;
- that he will not move in with her, because if he does she will lose her free flat provided by the taxpayer;
- that the free flat is just up the road from Vinny the Racist.

The hope is that Vinny the Racist's big red angry face will finally explode.

It should be noted that Vinny the Racist's name has not been changed to protect his identity.

An uncertain mood

When I die the thing I'll regret the most is that I didn't sleep more. This is at least in part down to the fact that chief among my pleasures is waking up and realising I have another 5 hours in bed, but mainly down to the fact that I'll probably die in a car crash because I drifted off to sleep.

This will piss me off. Mostly because I doubt anyone else will bother to appreciate the irony, the headlines won't read “slothful man actually killed by work”, and that's a tragedy. If it's The Sun or The Mirror I fear for how the headline may read, “rest in peace, sleepy man”? If I weren't so tired I'd pluck up the energy to spin in my grave.

I spent a month arsing about and it was glorious. My brain working in a way that only a truly rested mind can work realised what it was to enjoy my day. I fucking hate work. Not my job too much but that I have to go in and do things that I do not find immediately gratifying. Frequently the only gratifying part of these things is that when I'm finished it is the longest time before I'll have to do them again. Conditioned as we are, all through our lives this doesn't seem strange and unnatural until you've had a period to readjust.

This may be how cults get started, they get you to stay for a month and then when you go back and your days aren't filled with questionably legal sex and definitely illegal drug use you start to realise that the world we've built is not a Utopia, it's just kinda functional. Kinda functional, putting food on the table and paying the bills, I appreciate the nobility of it all but I'm so fucking tired all I can think is to stay in bed and hope that the world just joins in and the species comes to a dignified end.

Strangely Numb of Late

Not that the usual business of getting knocked around and pissed off by it hasn't been occurring, I've just been a bit numb to the effects of it all. I get to thinking that I could write a blog about it all and then I come to realise I just don't give enough of a damn to write it down. My fire is slowly burning out.

The plan here is to give a quick recap of the last while, see if anything takes my fancy and if I get to writing then all well and good. I think I'll start by topic and work from there.

Work:
I've become less idealistic. Truth be told, I've been becoming less idealistic since day two when the cold started to set in. I've stopped believing that a group of like minded people prepared to fight the good fight and be the best we can be is what I want. I want to be surrounded by fuck ups. Their litany of sins and precedents set insulate me from the high standards that should be set. I may be alone in feeling safe and comforted knowing that I'm in the company of quite a few terminal fuck ups (who I might point out, do not as far as I know know of this blog). Comedy could only ensue if they did.

Love Life:
It is not a train wreck. Train wrecks get media attention, they are of general interest. Mine is pretty much just an empty train track stretching off in either directions in the dying light of a long day. In an effort to resolve this I've attempted to be more social of late. I hate going out, I hate noise and I hate drunken idiots. I figure I feel about going out how most people feel about pull ups. They're not good at them, they hurt and if anyone is about they embarrass you as you hang limply from the bar trying to understand how your genetics have been thwarted by you. Conversely, while not being world class or anything I quite enjoy pull ups. I can do them with no warm up or real consideration. I do them for fun and if people are ever to be impressed by me this is the time. Also, Fuck Coppers!

Training:
The war on muscular atrophy continues. It's more of a guerrilla war, with no planning and sporadic attacks with wildly different strategies and success rates. It's madness but I can feel the enemy weakening. Why can't I deadlift worth shit though? I've built a new pulling platform. Surely that will help? That's weight lifted anyway, I'm starting to get fat and I need to pay a closer eye to that. Jitz has suffered. A victim of an unforgiving working week and if I can't crush people what's the point?

Thoughts and Conjecture:
As a child I used to pray, I think I did anyway. I'd lie in bed and think on the things that I wanted or was worried by and I'd drift off. I've a fairly narrative style of thinking. Nothing would change but it was reflective and sometimes cathartic. Now I just think what would make a good blog and work on the phrasing. It's more or less the same. More or less.

I've been involved in two car accidents the last three days. Neither were serious and I had at least a second or two to see each of them coming. Nothing occurred to me. I fear that in the moments before my untimely death I won't have the presence of mind to utter a laconic last sentiment. That said, laughed my ass off after each collision. Genuinely funny.

At a wedding recently. Started planning my own. The food choices will be either a fillet steak or a ribeye. Fillet for the ladies and the vegetarians. Music will be entirely made up of songs that people invited by my parents won't know and will find difficult to dance along to. It will be a viciously secular ceremony. Speeches will be uncharacteristically honest and as a result of the above the bride will most likely spend the day crying and lamenting agreeing to marry me. It will be the most memorable wedding of the year but that may not be a good thing.

I feel the dark clouds of Christmas gathering. Having to play nice with extended family galls me. It bothers me that outside of the issues of consanguinity and the propagation to the species people assume a blood tie means I have to listen to them prattle on and respond in kind. I'll just get some training in. More amusingly, we received our yearly letter from the "American relatives", they send it every year despite not once receiving a reply. It tries to cover their trials and successes with an upbeat and thankful tone. Stuff like John and Kerry's baby Jennifer starting Montessori and how even at this young age we can see she's destined for greatness. Fuck sake. My favourite is the negative shit, divorces and the loss of loved ones. Not that I take more than a normal amount of joy in the suffering of others but seeing the mental gymnastics required to phrase this dark material in a way that makes it seem like God's will for his idiot children is something very special indeed.

There's a line from Inglourious Basterds that's stuck in my head, as Col Landa tells Aldo Raine he'll be shot for killing his driver and maiming him - "Nah. I don't think so. More like chewed out. I've been chewed out before."

Brainstorming

I fucking hate teamwork. I hate sitting around and being forced to come up with buzz words and quick pithy answers by some over enthusiastic throwback from a widely discredited HR degree. You're meant to come up with new and exciting ideas on an old and redundant topic. To take this vigour and race back to the coalface and get some real changes happening. In truth it just gets you away from the coalface for a little while and gets you pissed off enough at brainstorming that your normal dotting of i's and crossing of t's doesn't seem quite so braindead. The unflinching gaze of the person conducting this little "informal" session and the untested courage of some of the participants results in some rabbits caught in some pretty powerful headlights. Suddenly we've got a poor unfortunate asked what he thinks. Poor bastard had probably never had to think about anything and suddenly he has to say something that gets written on the damnable flipchart. Panic. The eyes widen, adrenaline floods the system, the super accurate hearing picks up every little snigger - then suddenly Inspiration. A long forgotten buzzword jumps to the fore and the pressure is off. The only thing worse than this is when your "point" isn't good enough. You see the marker hover and the flicker of doubt pass over the face of the soulless human shell conducting the session. Maybe they're not getting it?, they think. Rest assured though, someone will pipe up and we're back on. In the grip of a mad fervour. Why can't people just shut the fuck up? On mature reflection this has nothing to do with the topic in question. Brainstorming isn't about mature reflection. It's about mob mentality. It's shouted answers, rapid fire questions and an orgiastic sense of accomplishment before you realise you're an ass. My favourite ever Brainstorming moment was when, without any irony, someone made the point that a mob is only as intelligent as its stupidest member. That little gem made the flipchart hall of fame. I'm accustomed to being a pariah of sorts. In primary school I was a little nerdy and in secondary school I was a lot nerdy. After that I got into music that isn't entirely mainstream, pursuits that aren't GAA or Soccer or rugby, fuck, my pursuits involve no balls whatsoever, no pun intended. I'm that weird. Despite my career choice I'm a big Bill Hicks fan and am kinda pro drugs, pro choice, pro guns, I'm against DNA and fingerprint databases, I'm against censorship and I'm unsure about democracy because as already pointed out by the luminary in the brainstorming session the mob is only as intelligent as its stupidest member. All this preparation aside I'm still not strong enough to stand up to the flipchart marker wielding psycho demanding a pearl of wisdom to put up. I can't just say "I think things are alright" or "isn't all of this a bit pointless", I don't know what the consequences are but I'm afraid. I try to still my beating heart and say something to bring us down, to get us out but to no avail. I just mumbled and shrugged and smiled to indicate I was done speaking. That gets the crazy eyes off me and onto the poor fool who made eye contact. By its fast paced nature these things can't continue for long. They're snappy and if left go for too long will sap the will of even the most stalwart zealots. Maybe in China, but not here. They have to let us have a break. They have to let us go back to the jobs we love so well.... Right after we fill in a quick feedback form. Original comments on this topic informed me that the current industry term is idea shower. Other than that they were uninformative. The particular session this was inspired by some sort of women's aid thing and only served to demonstrate I don't care.

I do not advocate speeding but....

I get the feeling that when the hammer eventually falls they will present this in evidence and fail to see the humour in it. Fuck it. I speed regularly and have a carefully crafted reputation of being punctual.

Road traffic is a real hot topic for some people. They love it, they like the detail they, they like the challenge and as much as people give out about headline crime road traffic legislation and its enforcement is a more pressing issue than gangland crime. We all drive whereas only the select few drive-by, so to speak. Road traffic laws matter to us all. I am, for the record, completely against drink driving. I believe in a zero tolerance policy. The accidents caused are horrific and wasteful, young lives snuffed out for no reason. I believe the legislation could be clearer and that some penalties are either wrongly enforced or not actually enforced. The preference for the breath sample over blood when someone is brought to the Garda Station leaves a certain margin for drug driving and the idea of enforcing any tiredness legislation is staggering. Anyway we rise to the challenges that present themselves and the process of contesting the laws and practices cement our laws, while any increase in fatalities from new cause will necessitate new laws and provisions. It's how the legislative body reacts and evolves into what we hope will be a more perfect fit for the society that we live in. An almost organic process. While my position on drink driving is clear, my position on speeding is rather less clear. Maybe it's not so bad. Now at this point you're wondering why. Well I reckon that speeding saves the economy money. In a trip from Lurgan to Dublin, we managed to shave an impressive 15 minutes off the journey time predicted by the sat nav thingy. You scoff at 15 mins, but even at minimum wage I could earn a couple of euro in 15 mins, take into account the multiplier and what that couple of euro tranlates into economy wide now multiply that by the number of people who speed and thus save up to 30 minutes a week (that's pretty conservative). Look at what is produced by people working that saved time add that to the multiplier effect and we get a picture of people getting there sooner and living happier lives. Speeding is not so bad. In terms of road deaths, ultimately does all the people getting there earlier making them minutely happier equal out some tragic losses. This goes beyond the realm of economics but to support an otherwise untenable position I'll claim without proof that it does. The economic impact of RTA's is probably easier to measure - if we look at taxes paid on the extra time worked versus the cost of cleaning up the mess. We can figure it out. If we look at the demographic that speed the most - young people with faster cars (ie. the most productive group in society) and see what their relative production capacities in the time saved is versus the lost production capacities of the victims we could arrive at some idea of profit or loss by speeding. Martin Luther King said "An individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for the law." I like that quote. I'm not advocating speeding, I'm advocating a rational look at the real costs of not speeding. Lets not get left behind in an increasingly competitive Europe. Think with your wallet and not with your heart. Your heart will leave your children jobless.

Written while in work about nobody in particular it could apply to any number of girls I have known and who for my own sanity I see less of now. I've felt like this before and I feel like this again. There's a dark part of me filled only with hate. It is fuelled by the part of me that can care. It is the only constant.

You’re poison. The sweetest poison I could ever taste. I’ll drink you down and know the damage you do but still I want more. You’re the interesting, funny girl next-door type who’ll share your troubles and mine. The type of person who makes friends easily, who draws them close, not as close as they think they are, but close. How could they not fall for your easy charm, and entirely unintimidating person? In your wake you’ll leave a string of broken hearts and poor saps that think that maybe there’s still a chance. An ever-growing group of men with one crippling addiction in common. Maybe they’ll form a support group. Tell their stories and cry on shoulders. Probably not, they’ll think of ways to let you know how special you are to them. They’ll always be there, every Friday and Saturday when you go out. Desperately casual, hoping that you notice them. Doomed to never be noticed. What is funny, and maybe just, is that eventually you’ll fall for someone, not one of them someone else. Someone who’ll treat you poorly, who’ll neglect you and you’ll love him for it. WE will look on and somewhere in the part of our hearts not filled with love for you, the darker part, feel that he has avenged us. We’ll secretly thank him and secretly hope that now you’ll notice. If you think this is about you, you're wrong

Modern Offices

A trip down memory lane. Back to when I didn't have to stand out in the rain.

There is a glass room in my office. A symptom of the newness of the place, all style no substance, no commitment.

Just four glass walls, it's a meeting room.

I just can't shake the idea that it'd be really funny to lock a mime artist in there.

Little black hands unironically banging on the glass. In un-mime like frustration trying to break the glass.

Eventually falling to the floor and sobbing - audibly.

I would laugh my ass off.

Conan
Smiling

A less entertaining conversation with 98FM

Still sitting in an office scrambling to look busy. This was a far less fulfilling experience than my conversation with Dublin Bus. Again the names have been changed. I supposed if anyone really cared I could furnish them with the names. The lies and fiction mentioned are those lies told to the customer service drone, not to you. To you I am unrelentingly truthful.

Much of this is lies and fiction (fiction is a lie that doesn't hurt anyone, and may even make you rich)

Again written in work.


Dear Sir/madam,

My name is Conan, Champion of the People, I am writing to you in connection with the "98fm
fugitive" promotion.

Before I address my complaint allow me to explain, briefly, my beliefs regarding censorship. Put simply I do not believe in censorship. I do believe that we should, as a society protect the innocence of children and encourage their growth at a healthy rate. It is in this sense that I agree with the watershed and possible curtailing of certain adverts in child focused media. I do not see myself as being overly strict on this, but some standards must apply.

Beyond the above proviso I believe that anyone should be free to represent any opinion on the public airwaves, assuming that the legal system is empowered to prosecute those who would broadcast falsehoods or unjustified attacks on character. With these checks and balances in place I believe a free media can exist alongside a government in control of its people.

I apologise for the digression above, I felt though that you should know my feelings on the media so that my complaint may be in context. I am writing in relation to the " fugitive" promotion. My issue with this is that I have been accosted while minding my own business on several occasions, ten in fact over three different days. On the first day I was unaware of what the enquiries were about. Having since listened to one of your evening shows, I believe I understand. I accept that you should be allowed run an adult treasure hunt. However your inane presenter with his trusty female sidekick urges members of the public to ask as many people as possible if they are
the "98fm fugitive". This I believe crosses a line, the broadcast I listened to was pointless, unfunny and of a base sense of humour but to each his own. This show and subsequent advertisements urge the pestering of bystanders.

It would seem that if you are alone in a bookshop, or even making a phone call that people feel justified in accosting me and demanding of me in clipped English "you-de-98fum-fugive" . This has happened on several occasions and not once has the individuals involved excused themselves
or indeed conducted themselves with any social grace.I am not alone in being pestered by these latter day treasure seekers and I am convinced that I am not alone in being irritated by it. I realise that one complaint about your listeners behaviour may not stop you encouraging them to brutalize every passerby, but the onus rests on you to respect the privacy of others who may not wish to play your game. As I said above I do not believe in censorship, the strongest I would exercise is to change station on the radio, but you will not allow me escape.

I realise that little will come of this, you will not stop the competition and probably the encouragements will become more frenzied as the promotion draws to an end (an end that I hope is soon). I may yet lodge this complaint with the BCI but initially I hope that you will exercise more care in devising future promotions, mindful of the ways they affect others.


Yours Sincerely,

Conan,
Champion of the People


A pretty grovelling response, I would have put me in my place. Zaldar wouldn't have taken that crap.

Hi Conan,

Thank you for contacting 98FM. I am sorry that you feel this way about this promotion. It has brought much entertainment to many Dubliners. You will be happy to know that the promotion finished on Friday gone therefore you should not hear much about it in the future.

Again I am sorry that you were put out by this promotion.

Kind Regards

Zillie
Marketing Manager
98FM

Conversations with Dublin Bus

This was written back in the heady days of having an office job where nobody knew what I was supposed to be doing or if whatever I was supposed to be getting done was getting done. Names have been removed or edited to make it read better and to some degree protect my anonymity.



Dear Sir,

I am a frequent traveller on Dublin bus and Iarnrod Eireann and after a considerable number of trips I have a few questions that I would greatly appreciate your help with.

These questions have come about after a conversation borne of noticing that the hammer for use in emergencies on the bottom deck of my bus this morning was in fact missing. This was shortly followed by the realisation that on many of your buses these hammers have gone missing, either by theft or misadventure.

My first question is then: Is the hammer required by law and if so why are they not replaced?

This line of conversation led to the breaking of glass. I am curious to know what type of glass is used in Dublin bus buses? In particular, is it shatter resistant? If so can such a small hammer (when present) actually break through in the event of an emergency? If the glass is not shatter
resistant, then surely this poses a greater threat to passenger safety, in the form of blinding and cutting than the statistically unlikely event of an overturned bus. I would of course appreciate as detailed an answer as possible so if you need to refer this email to someone more closely
connected with health&safety or construction I will understand.

As minds are frequently wont to do, this conversation continued along a morbid path of terrible scenarios. Chief among these was what would necessitate escape through the back window, we concluded (perhaps incorrectly, and if you have any more reasonable explanations please advise)
that it would occur in an overturn situation. In regards to this I am curious to know what is the maximum angle that a bus can achieve before overturn. For instance if a bus were to hit a pavement or a small embankment and be raised off the ground on one side, what is the maximum angle before it would topple? Is this angle the same on each side of a bus, or is the weight spread unevenly?

I notice of course that there are several types of bus on the road, from the older (seemingly more rickety) bus to modern versions with ramp access for wheelchairs, extra rack space for buses to and from Heuston station, several variations on the theme of central doors and many different types of safety railing. If you could apply the above questions to each bus type I would be very much obliged.

In the vein of accidents and so on, I must ask about the fuel tank. Firstly are buses run on diesel or petrol? Secondly how many litres does each bus type carry on average? Third, where in the bus is the fuel tank located?

I do hope this is not too much trouble and I realise I may have to wait some time for you to collate this information.

Yours sincerely,

Conan

Champion of the people


The response, took the wind out of my sails

Conan,

Hammers are a requirement on some buses and are there for assistance on others. Hammers are regularly taken from buses and are constantly being replaced. The hammer is very effective at breaking the glass in an emergency.

The type of glass used in the windows of our buses is toughened safety glass. As required by regulation this does not break into large pieces or shards which would be likely to cause serious injury.

The rear window escape would generally be used in the event of a bus overturning or where both sides of the bus were blocked off in an accident.

A double deck vehicle must tilt to a minimum angle of 28 degrees before toppling. Obviously the maximum is dependent on a number of items which affect the height of the centre of gravity e.g. loading etc. Therefore it is only possible to specify the minimum angle.

Our vehicles run on diesel and a typical double deck carries between 250 and 350 litres. Fuel tanks are generally located on the off-side (drivers side)


Zaldar

Administration Officer

Public Affairs Department

Ph 7033160


Feel free to call or contact this guy with any queries you may have about Dublin bus.