Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

Knights

It was bound to happen: those Somali pirates who captured a ship carrying over Russian tanks realised that they had struck gold, and as always happens they fell out over the divvying up of the spoils. It’s easy to surmise what happened: some of the pirates, sensing their good luck, suspected that their colleagues were trying to cut them out of any prospective deal. There may have been disagreenents about what to do with the haul. Some might have wanted to bring them back to shore and maybe set up a military theme park which would have attracted tourists; while others favoured flogging them to one (or maybe all) of the varying warring factions in Somalia. A third group may have wanted to open secret negotiations with the Kenyan government, the stated destintation for the tanks. “Hey guv, ya know those tanks ya ordered a while back? What are they worth to ya cos we’ve got ‘em. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement and you can get the money from the insurance. Win-win” Of course there was a minority voice urging that the tanks and the ship be given back. This individual might have found Jesus recently and urged his colleagues to be righteous and be motivated by their consciences. His argument may have fallen on deaf ears; he probably fell, whether on ears or not would be uncertain, but he was certainly dead. So the boys decided to settle the argument with a show of force. It was not that they had a lack of weapons. Anyway three of them were injured; no-one’s sure if any were fatalities. What’s also unclear is the fate of the boat and the tanks, and oh yes they’ve still got the crew.

Does anyone remember those awful days of the 1980s when Ireland tried to crawl free of obscurantism by way of referendums? I particularly remember the divorce one whenb the No-nay-never side was headed by the father of the current minister for Social Warfare and some of the greatest philanderers and cheats were trying to keep the family solid so that they could nip off for their bit of extra-marital pleasure free in the knowledge that they owed their mistresses nothing and that their long-suffering wives would recognise their subservient role. Now we have divorce and far from the “flood-gates” being opened nothing seems to have happened. But here’s a letter sent by an irate husband and the reply he got from his spouse.
Dear Wife:

I’m writing you this letter to tell you that I’m leaving you forever. I’ve been a good man to you for seven years and I have sweet FA to show for it.
These last two weeks have been hell. Your boss called to tell me that you quit your job today and that was the last straw.

Last week, you came home and didn’t even notice that I had a new haircut, had cooked your favourite meal and even wore a brand new pair of silk boxers. You ate in two minutes, and went straight to sleep after watching all of your soaps. You don’t tell me you love me anymore; you don’t want to screw or anything that connects us as husband and wife.

Either you’re cheating on me or you don’t love me anymore; whatever the case, I’m off.

Your EX-husband

P.S. Don’t try to find me. Your SISTER Carla and I are moving away to West Virginia together! Have a great life!

@@@@@@@@@

Dear Ex-Husband -

Nothing has made my day more than receiving your letter. It’s true that you and I have been married for seven years, although a good man is a far cry from what you’ve been!

I watch my soaps so much because they drown out your constant whining and griping,, sometimes even your belching and farting Too bad that doesn’t work.

I did notice when you got a hair cut last week, but the first thing that came to mind was ‘You look just like a girl!’ Since my mother raised me not to say anything if you can’t say something nice, I didn’t comment.

And when you cooked my favourite meal, you must have gotten me confused with MY SISTER, because I stopped eating pork seven years ago.

About those new silk boxers: I turned away from you because the £40 price tag was still on them, and I prayed that it was a coincidence that my sister had just borrowed forty quics from me that morning.

After all of this, I still loved you and felt that we could work it out. So when I hit the lotto I quit my job and bought us two tickets to the Seychelles . But when I got home you were gone. Everything happens for a reason, I suppose.

I hope you have the fulfilling life you always wanted. My solicitor said that the letter you wrote ensures you won’t get a red penny from me. So take care.

Signed,

Your Ex-Wife, Rich and as horny as hell and free!

P.S. I don’t know if I ever told you this, but my sister Carla was born Carl. I hope that’s not a problem – you’ve probably found that out anyhow by now.

A lady walks into a high class jewellery shop. She browses around, spots a beautiful diamond bracelet and walks over to inspect it. As she bends over  to look more closely she farted.. Very embarrassed, she looks around
nervously to see if anyone has noticed her little accident and prays that a sales person doesn’t pop up right now.

As she turns around, her worst nightmare materializes in the form of a salesman standing right behind her. Cool as a cucumber and displaying complete professionalism, the salesman greets the lady with, ‘Good day,  Madam. How may we help you today?’

Very uncomfortably, but hoping that the salesman may just not have been there at the time of her little ‘accident’, she asks, ‘Sir, what is the price of this lovely bracelet?’ He answers, ‘Madam, if you farted just looking at it, you’re going to shit when I tell you the price.

I’m sure there are some readers who’ll remember Jim Megaw, marketing manager of Northern Ireland-based supermarket chain Crazy Prices. In the early ’90s he would feature in the supermarket’s TV advertising, usually linking two items in the folowing manner. “When you buy a piece of Rump Steak at Crazy Prices we throw in the chips [french fries] for free.” Well the Somali pirates who nicked that ship laden with tanks are looking for $35 mn in ransom – quite a lot of shit in anyone’s language, but like Jim Megaw they’re going to throw in the crew for free – if they haven’t already done so.

The activities of pirates off Somalia appear to have gone up a gear, with news that pirates have seized a Ukrainian ship, the Faina. Its cargo was unusual: over thirty Russian-built T-72 tanks, supposedly on their way to Kenya. Now these may not be cutting-edge tanks but the pirates are unlikely to dump them back in the sea. What’s more the cargo also included lots of spare parts. They will certainly earn a pretty penny or two on the black market. Psst – hey tosh, wanna buy a tank? Maybe they’ll fall into the hands of one of the many private armies in Somalia. But we have to ask: did the pirates have prior warning of the shipment, or did they just get lucky? 

Meanwhile back on land a large shipment of food supplied by the World Food Programme for refugees in the south of Somaia has been attacked and comandeered by a large group of starving city residents. It’s a surprise they had the strength.

The departure  of Thabo Mbeki from the South African political stage has alrady produced some positive effects. His interim replacement, Kgalema Motlanthe, while stating a desire to pursue continuity, has got rid of some of Mbeki’s more controversial ministers. Chief among these is Health Minister Dr Manto Tshabalala-Msimang, the chief theoretician behind Mbeki’s AIDS danialist policies. Mbeki’s government refused to accept the role the HIV virus has in the spread of AIDS, and his health minister stated that anti-retroviral drugs, which have been shown to have some effect in fighting the disease, were too expensive. Anyway, she advocated more thrifty and traditional methods for fightuing AIDS: eating beetroot and chewing garlic. This earned her the nickname of Dr Beetroot. Medical professionals working in the South African health service who publlicly disagreed with the minister’s bizarre theories have been victimised.

South Africa is reckoned to have over five milion AIDS sufferers. Many lives could  be saved with greater availability of anti-retrovirals; tens of thousands at the very least have died as a result of the AIDS denialism of the South African government.  Dr Beetroot was as much an enemy of AIDS sufferrs as those religious fundamentalists in the West who claim that AIDS is a Divinely-inspired disease to rid the world of the evil of homosexuality and sodomy. 

I personally believe that Dr Tshabalala-Msimang should be tried for crimes against humanity and genocide against her own people.

Her successor at the health helm, Barbara Hogan, has a distinguished record of opposing the government’s AIDS policies. The man who will almost certainly become South African president, Jacob Zuma, has his own eccentric theories on combating IAIDS. He believes that the best way of avoiding contagion after sex with an AIDS carrier is to have a quick shower.

Next year marks an important milestone in business publishing: it will be the fortieth anniversary of the publication of Laurence Peter & Raymond Hull’s The Peter Principle. Sadly this will also demonstrate how little impact writing has on the world of organization.  

The most important part of the Peter Principle is that, in a hierarchical organization, an individual will rise to the level of his or her incompetence.

Apart from adding another phrase to the English lexicon, the book, though well written, has had very little impact on how people are organized, organize themselves and view the wider world. If anything things are even worse now than they were back in 1969; as we see there are no end of examples of people going far beyond the levels of their imcompetence, indeed often to the very top.

In spte of massive advances in technology and telecommunications we seem to have an unbreakable attachment to the model of the hierarchy. It’s comforting (especially to those at the top); it gives those lower down something to aim for, but it also keeps everyone in their place. Hierarchies are beloved of the public service in nearly every countrty (including Ireland). They dominate at the national level and are replicated clone-like at local government level.

Hierarchies usually give themselves away very easily, but one give-away clue is a proliferation of frankly silly titles, often ending in “officer”. It’s an open secret that most bureaucrats dream of becoming soldiers, but the discomfort of military life, plus the danger (real or imagines) of actually getting hurt, whether deliberately or accidentally), leaves most of them in a brown sweat.

The subtitle of Peter and Hull’s book is Why  things always go wrong. Surely the fact that things keep going wrong show how little their impact has been. Yet in the Irish public sector things don’t go wrong: instead there is a systems failure. If you turn the ignition key in your car and it doesn’t respond this, it is true, may be due to a systems failure – especially if you haven’t put any petrol in the tank. Actually that’s not really a proper systems failure. There is nothing wrong with the system; simply the absence of an important and vital input – petrol. If however you’ve put petrol in it and maybe just had it servicee and it still won’t work, well then you are entitled to say: “This car is a heap o’ shite – I need a new one”.  Imagine though how you’d feel if you were told that you could not get a new one, and that you’d have to make do with the old one which probably will creak back into action after a visit or two from some highly-paid consultants – most of whom are called Peter!

As a disabled person I often get frustrated, not least by the attitude of society which says (albeit not clearly): “You are imperfect. There is soimething wrong with you. You cannot have any important role in society but must rather sit back in the corner and let those who are able get on with it – and keep quiet as well.”" I hasten to assert that there may be some disabled people who would be incompetent, but would they not demonstrate possession of a quality they hold in common with so many people throughout the organization?

People will remember a film from a few years’ back called Black Hawk Down.  It’s about some American elite soldiers who get caught up in the hell that is Somalia. Directors looking for a location to shoot the most horrible sci-fi video nasty horror film should look no further than this disfunctional country. It is weird. There are businessmen in the capital, who are making lots of money, and, because there’s no central government, there are no taxes: a libertarian’s dream. Only problem is that if you want to go to work you have to stump up at every check-point along the way. You probably have to pay taxes i.e. protection fees, to a warlord, and when you get to work (if you get to work that is) is no longer there but has been shelled. And of course you face the same hassle on the way home. One consolation is that you can use your mobile ‘phone; tariffs are very competitive (no taxes again) and because there are a plethora of mobile phone companies, competition keeps prices down.

Life for other people isn’t so good though. If you are still in the capital chances are you face the same hassle of roadblocks when moving from A to B. What’s more the constant exchange of mortars between Islamic militants and government soldiers can make travel hazardous. Best to the stay at home maybe, but there’s no guarantee that your house won’t get hit by a mortar. Maybe you want to go to the central market, where buying and selling frequently break out between pitched battles. Only the other day the market was shelled by Islamic militants. Observers said there was blood everywhere and bits of human flesh stuck to the walls. The shelling was so intense that it was impossible for relatives to collect the bodies, and those who did often paid the ultimate price.

Now the guys doing the shelling belong to an Islamic youth-group called the Shabab. At the moment it is the holy month of Ramadan. Now the Shabab promised in a statement to step up shelling during Ramadan. Am I missing something here? I know comparisons between Ramadan and the Christian Lent are fallacious, but in the middle ages there was this thing called the Treuga Dei or truce of God, when warring nobles undertook to refrain from spilling blood, getting drunk and having sex during Lent. Once it was over well, it was back to normal. Now who are the victims in these rounds of shelling? Infidels? No, for the most part fellow Muslims. Are they engaged in blasphemous acts? No, they”re just trying to stock up on food and essentials, mainly for the feast of Eid which is celebrated at the end of Ramadan; they’re just innocent people, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Somalia has a very weak central government,; in fact it’s a central government in name only. It’s backed by the yanks, but after the Black Hawk Down experience their support is at arms length. Instead the military muscle is supplied by Ethiopian soldiers. Whenever they come under attack by the insurgents they respond by opening fire, indiscriminately, on anyone or anything nearby, during which friend and foe alike get it.

It is a wonder that there is anything for sale in the markets. The insurgents have threatened to shoot down any plane attempting to land at the airport. Shipments of food and medicine by sea are hampered by pirates off the coast who seize ships and do not cry “Well me ‘earties what’s Long John got today?” before they throw the boats’ crews to the sharks. But there is one thing which always gets through, kat. This is a mildly intoxicating privet-like leaf which you chew while undergoing some male bonding. Get some of this inside you and you no longer realise what a shit-hole you live in. Control of the kat trade is lucrative, and it somehow always manages to get through.

If you want to leave this dream location you can, as tens of thousands have done – but it’s Somalia, so once you’re on the road to anywhere you can’t get there unless you’re willing to pay, and if your money runs out the militias on the way are only too happy to be paid in kind. These welcoming committees try the best they can to accommodate refugees by giving them places without basic facilities such as shade, running water or sewers at exorbitant prices.

Most people have forgotten about Somalia. They’ve tried to do something about it in their ham-fisted way and failed, and there’s nothing quite as discouraging as failure.

News has reached us from South Africa of a rather bizarre accident on the rails. It seems that two people who were having sex were run over by a goods train. The couple refused to desist in spite of the frantic efforts of the driver for them to get out of the way.

Surveys have shown up some unusual locations; hospital beds, lifts, churches, confessionals, libraries, museums (though not the one in Ballyjamesduff!), even coffins, but railway lines? Sometimes these are prompted by domestic difficulties. During my days in the shadowy world surrounding the academic world there was a couple who were definitely stuck on each other (by the wayt they both hold lectureships in different locations now.) Theyy did everything but the business in front of their colleagues, who were usually glad for a bit of light relief, but a friend of mine (who frankly wasn’t getting much himself either on or off the pitch) commented somewhat puritcanically “Have they no homes to go to?” to which I replied that maybe their parents were very conservaitve and wouldn’t approve.

But often it is exhibitionism which pushes couples to get their rocks off in public as well as a desire for danger. This is what appears to have occurred in South Africa – an extreme form of unsafe sex. It is possible that one or both of them found the vibration of the rail-lines a real turn-on. Readers willl know how it often happens that when you’re just about to go over the top or hit the ball into the back of the net, you kind of loose touch with reality. So I suppose that the two victims of the crash had successfully attained simultaneous orgasms and were literally deaf to the passionate entreaties of the engine driver.

I hope this does not lead to copy-cat incidents around the world. It does show that there is much more to safe sex than using a rubber Johnny.