Beware a woman scorned!

Just have a wee listen to the lyrics; this is just crying out to be dragged up. I love the last line - "Now you can go to hell! I'm going to Braaaa-zil!"

Tainted Victory

I have just won by means of cheating; and I feel awful.

I was cycling home from Irene's this evening and as I came up Bridge St about to turn onto High Street, I saw a 123 come through the lights. "Right", I said, "I'll race it home".

The main factors affecting my decision were: a, it was full of passengers and therefore likely to stop frequently; b, I was feeling lucky; and so I took off through the lights after the 123.

My calculation regarding the amount of passengers aboard was somewhat over-estimated, as the bus did not stop as often as I had envisaged. Not only that, the driver was vigorous in his approach, accelerating quickly after each stop. It soon became clear that I would be chasing the bus's taillights if I was lucky, and no more.

I almost managed to catch it as it came into the hospital, but I was paying so much heed to catching it that I forgot that there were actually two sets of tram tracks to cross, not just one, so things nearly ended quite badly. Having regained my balance at the last moment, I managed to swing into the hospital entrancce just after it and only the barrier took a swipe at me as it came down in the wake of the bus. I thought I was going to lose the damned thing then as it didn't stop and headed out of the Rialto Gate. Then jackpot! Red light. Taking my advantage, I swung out on to the South Circular and peddled like bejaysus.

At this point I would just like to make clear that a cyclist "interpreting" a red light does not constitute cheating, it's simply the fastest way to get around town. Know your junctions, that's the trick. Furthermore, I'm touching wood as I type this, for fear of invoking the bad cycling karma. Anyway, tangent aside, back to the race...

Down the South Circular I went, urging Priscilla onward. Bizarrely I was slapping the side of the handlebars, like I would do a horse (just slightly mind, I wasn't going OCD or anything). Still, this is weird considering that the power actually comes from my legs, and patting the handlebars in order to encourage an inanimate object does seem a little pointless... The red light had given me a decent head start, so I managed to get up Suir Road and into Drimnagh, well ahead of the bus.

As I started up (and this is where the uphill kicks in) Galtymore Road, I could see the bus gaining on me from around the corner. Onward I urged the bike, unzipping my jacket to stop me from overheating. I could hear it coming up behind me; I considered playing dirty and cycling in the middle of the road, but I kept in. And then it took me, just by the shops at Galtymore Road. Shit. But wait, there was hope. There were still a couple of people on the bus and it was near the end of the route, so it was going to have to stop. I kept peddling.

It stopped at the bend on Galtymore Road, I don't think anyone got off. I gained on it. It was coming up the the next stop, at the end of the road. Now I knew that I could just about catch it. It was going to have to stop, and then stop again 20 yards further, and make a series of complicated turns on and off the roundabout. It reached the end of the road and turned left. I had just about got it; it approached the roundabout and headed on to it, I was right behind it - and then it happened, I cheated.

The bus had just turned left and started onto the roundabout. I looked right; there was nothing coming, so for the first time in my life, after all my years in Drimnagh, I headed the wrong way onto a roundabout. I could hear the bus circling behind me, but I had left it. I was in the clear, I turned left up Errigal Road and I was home. I pulled the bike up on the path and dismounted, to watch the bus come up the road and pass the gate.

I felt horrible; after all of the effort, I fell at the final hurdle. Had I had of followed the bus on to the roundabout, I probably would have beaten it. It's slow and cumbersome, and it's difficult for it to make the 270 degree turn followed by the immediate left. I could easily have tailed it around, and nipped past him as he made that final complicated turn. On the other hand, had I have tried this, there is a good chance that I could have been flattened by the bus, as pursuing it so closely around tight turns is probably a good way of getting oneself killed. By then, doesn't all sport have an element of risk? Racing especially.

Regardless, I won by cheating. Now I will never know if I would have beaten the bus. Maybe, I would have, maybe not; that's the real killer. I was left standing in my hall, feeling unclean and very sweaty.

Introducing Cat! The new selfish dog!

I love giraffes; dogs I like; cats, not so much. "And gerbil, the kiwi fruit that wakes up!"

Getting friendly with the natives

I was at a table quiz in Kilkenny last night. It was a fundraiser for the first ever Kilkenny Pride, or Not The Only Gay in the Village, or something to that effect.

Perhaps we were arrogant in our approach, but our team really did come acropper on some of the questions. They were much more difficult than what we had envisaged. For future reference, James the Tank Engine is red, ascorbic acid is better known as vitamin C, the chicken is the most common bird in the world and the stomach is the human organ that is capable of expanding to twenty times it's normal size.

The event was compared by that delightful tart, Joanna Ryde. At the end of the tenth round of questioning a guy got up from one of the tables and made for the door. Seeing him leave, Joanna said "Goodbye Stephen", urging everyone in the pub to respond "Goodbye Stephen!" At this point I said, perhaps a little too loudly given my proximity to Joanna's microphone, "Isn't Kilkenny lovely, all the gays know each other by their first names!"

Silence descended, followed by first uneasy, then hysterical laughter. From the corner of my mouth I muttered "Start the car, Frank."

It's in

Well it's gone through the Seanad. Civil Partnership is the new reality. We just need Mary to sign it in up at the Áras so that other Marys can sign up and take it up the...

I would like to quote a senior civil servant (who shall remain anonymous) who rather tongue-in-cheek announced that [he] "welcomes the passing of the Civil Partnership Bill and encourages married people everywhere to downgrade their marriages to Civil Partnerships in the name of equality!"

Also I'd like to thank Rachel for this rather succinct and disturbing summation of the differences between Civil Partnership in Ireland and Civil Partnership (effectively marriage in all but name in the UK):

"The civil partnership here is a lot different to the one in the UK. Here we only really have succession and kinship rights. We arent allowed be considered a family, or adopt, or even be considered a step-parent. Even if we marry abroad those marriages wont be recognised the minute we step off the plane. We will no longer be spouses; we will be considered to be civil partners."

Now if you've road frontage and you're interested in sharing, please send a CP and stamped addressed envelope to the Legion...

Dear John

I was tuned in to the Seanad listening to the Civil Partnership debate, when that particularly pernicious cyst (and brother of Mary Hanafin) John Hanafin, got to his feet. The tirade of hatred that followed was nauseating. So much so, that I decided to to write him a little letter:

Dear John

I'm currently listening to you speak in the Seanad. Part of me feels disgusted at your bigotry, and I'm appalled that a man like you could think that you represent the people of Ireland. However the bigger part, the more Christian part, of me feels pity for you. Why are you so afraid John? Why are gay people such a threat to you?

If you cannot find it in your heart to support this bill, I hope you enjoy the being outside the door of your beloved party. Should you fail to support the bill, I hope that leaves you standing somewhere that not even the crows can shit on you.

Regards,

Marcus

Crufts

Spot the difference.

This is Anne Doyle. I am the news.

(Thanks Tom.)

Acting on Conscience

On Thursday, our glorious legislators finally passed the Civil Partership Bill, something that they have been threatening to do since the Dead Sea was only sick. The rights (or lack of) and wrongs of the Bill have been discussed by others in other fora, prior to this, and I'm not going to launch into a few blown Pro or Anti Treaty debate right now; that's not for here, as Marjorie Dawes would say.

However, I find it interesting that the aul' bigots (20 or so - which out of a country of 4 million people, is a good showing) spoke out to say that the new law would actually criminalize registrars who fail to conduct the ceremony. The particularly sad individual pictured is a man called Sean Burke, from Mayo. My nanna is from Mayo. She has always maintained that "the best people are from Mayo". In this case, I think she'd be ashamed of her fellow countyman.

Seán travelled from Mayo with his wife and five of his 10 children in protest. He is outraged at the Dáil for “they’re giving legal sanction to something God has forbidden,” Funnily enough I thought that the remit of Dáil Éireann was to represent and legislate in the interests of the citizens of the Irish Republic, not pander to the whims of a divine being that may or may not exist. However, I desist. Interestingly he picks up on the penalties that will be imposed for failure to comply with the legislation. “Also, it’s making people who disagree criminals . . . a registrar would be fined €2,000 or jailed for six months if they refuse, even on conscience, to do something that they believe is wrong.”

This is quite interesting. The way that I look at it, there are plenty of people who get married who probably shouldn't get married. I'm sure that every country registrar, from Borris to Ballina, has come across couples where he or she goes "Oh oh, that's not a good idea." However, the registrar is not there to advise, or to pass judgement, or to sanctify who is or is not worthy to marry whom. They are simply there to provide a civil service. They are public servants, serving in this case as an invigilator to make sure that the ceremony is carried out according to the law. You can be damned sure that they judge each and every couple that come before them; consider it a perk of the job! I'm sure plenty of them officiate over a marriage that they personally believe is wrong, for various reasons (rarely religious, one would think), however we do not pay them to for their opinions. Their opinions and their values are their own, but the service that they provide belongs to us.

Third Base

On Wednesday I milked a cow; well two cows actually*. Or more, I stuck vacuum pumps to their nipples and hoped for the best. Now Frank had warned me that cows aren’t great with strangers, for they are creatures of habit and all strangers may be the vet; and they don’t like the vet. This results in nervous cows.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a milking parlour but the set up is simple enough. There’s a pit in the centre of the floor and the operator stands in this, with all of the apparatus at about shoulder height for him, or udder height for our milky moos. The pit is encased with bars, so the cows can’t kick you; “but they can shit on you” as Frank so eloquently pointed out.

Now, Dan was going about the milking, for he normally goes about the milking, when myself and Frank arrived into the pit. Cue nervous cows. Also, it’s important to remember that the pit is sunken, so the cows, each weighing more than a tonne, are racked above us.

Frank showed me how the nipply thing worked; turn on the switch and and hold up upside down to get the vacuum going and then just stick it on to the tit. Fair enough. I was a wee bit nervous about sticking unwieldy piece of equipment onto this large female’s mammary glands, and cows can sense that you’re nervous. Cue even more nervous cows...

Cue shitworks! From across the pit, Daisy lifted her tail; right up in the air it went. And then she let rip. Mother Immaculate, I’ve never see anything like it. Imagine the flow of liquid of an average good, strong human piss, now multiply that, so that the flow is about in inch in diameter. Now replace piss with horrific cow shite. Suddenly a fountain of slurry was arcing out of this animal’s arse and splashing into the pit. I screamed. Frank rapidly silenced me, or they’d all be at it.

It was a close call. Had I have been standing a foot to the left, I would have had the most atrocious power shower known to man. So what can we learn from this - don’t milk nervous cows.

*These two animals were successfully milked with absolutely no shit explosions and this milk was collected by the creamery and is now hopefully sitting on a supermarket shelf somewhere in a nice Avonmore carton.