Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

A view of the world from an Irish hole

Category: Bureaucracy

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One, two, three O’Leary

The results of a recently released survey have found that something like forty per cent of Irish males experience difficulty with maths. I think my post about Bread and Circuses shows just how prevalent this is. Not alone do senior members of county council executives have serious issues with basic literacy and letter-writing skills (not to mention wiping their arses), but many of the hoors can’t count. Ah, but then they know that the true value in any balance sheet comes in the “Below-the-line” or maybe in the “Off-balance-sheet” items – sure fuck it! Isn’t it only monopoly money anyhow?

 This is the reality under which so many people in Ireland have to suffer, and to be honest it’s getting a bit tiresome being lectured to by that pampered cancerous poseur intellectual  Brian Lenihan Jr. I don’t carte at those who will be outraged by what I’m about to say, but Being Brian Lenihan Sr’s son may have helped you get “Schol” in Trinner, butt could it stop you getting pancreatic cancer?  Illness or disability is nothing to be ashamed of, I think most decent people will agree. It’s no joke for anyone, but why should Brian Lenihan Jr., the Minister for Finance, who is doing the country down with such arrogant aplomb, be any different from a man or  a woman in the street who’s been working hard all their lives and who never had the chance to attend Trinity College, far less become a “scholar” there be any different? So why should such unfortunates have to suffer as a result? Maybe not at Brian Lenihan or any other government minister’s directions, but at the hands of their employees in the Public Service?  You see when I was in Trinity., studying in the library on a Friday night, I thought I was a true scholar. But no! The only ones entitled to sup at the banquet of riches are the members of “The New Class”; not the New Red Class of Milovan Djilas, but the new Green Class, or here in Cavan the New Blue Class. whose fathers are politicians in either national or local government,. Clever and all that I thought I was I somehow missed that.)  You see I could have become a legal practitioner, but I realised, perhaps in time, that I loved justice too much (and myself not enough) to become a lawyer.

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The children of the nation

 John Waters in an article in a recent article in the Irish times has highlighted the case of a child born in Ireland which has been seized by the Irish social services and handed over to their British counterparts for adoption. The British social services are hungry for Irish children to meet their adoption targets,  as within the UK there are simply not enough nice white children being put up for adoption, and these are the types of kids being sought  by well-healed, childless middle-class couples.

 There are no guarantees that the child will ever know of its Irish citizenship. It could be sold to parents anywhere in the world, or far worse, could be sold into one of the international paedophile rings.

 I thought that Irish citizenship was the birthright of every child born in Ireland. What did our forefather fight and die for? What was James Connolly shot in an armchair for? The whole thing reminds me of a story in the Old Testament about how Joseph’s brother Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. The difference wit this case is that it wasn’t Esau who was doing the selling.

 There are some very very dark forces circulating in Ireland today. Are we going forwards or backwards? I thought the dreadful policies of Forced Adoption had been ended in Australia, withi its deep-seated impact on the lives of aborigines who were torn from their native places and compelled to adopt a persona in line with the then current “White Australia” policy.  What policy is the Irish government pursuing here, because it is one with which I don’t want to be associated.

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Dr Brendan Scott’s forthcoming stand-up comedy routine at the Cavan fleadh, or Ciaran’s joke of the day

A family of prostitutes were discussing life over breakfast. The daughter had just come in and was asked how she’d done the previous night.
“Not so good. I only got 25 euro for a blow job. It’s the credit crunch I suppose.”
“Twenty five euro for a blow job,” screamed her mother. “In my day I’d consider a fiver for a blow job to be a good night’s work.”
“It was different in my day,” said granny prostitute. “We”d have been glad just to get something warm inside us.”

I’m sure there are many local government employees who know only too well the type of people I’m talking about. After all, when they”re on one of those five-star junkets paid for by the tax payer, away from their wives, girlfriends and partners, it can get pretty lonely, can’t it … but don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me.

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Dr Brendan Scott’s talk or lecture (or whatever it’s called) to be given at the forthcoming Flea in Cavan

This gay guy called Jack decided to go for a tattoo. On the way in he sees a poster of Evander Hollyfield, and he exclaims to the tattoo artis. “He’s my idol. Can you tattoo his face onto my left buttock?”
“No problem”, replies the artist.
On leaving he sees another poster, this time featuring Mike Tyson and he runs back into the shop and pleads with the tattoo artist. “I just love Mike Tyson. Could you possibly tattoo his face onto my other buttock? It will really drive my partner wild.”
“it’s your money”, answers the tattoo artist.
When Jack gets home he can’t wai to show off his new tattoos to his partner Brendan, so he drops his pants and bends over so that Brendan can get a look, but instead of being pleased he is nearly in tears.
“I hope Jack you realise that this means the end of our relationship”  he sobs.
“Why?” pleads a dumbfounded Jack.
“Well you’ve got Evander Hollyfield on your left cheek, Mike Tyson on your right cheek. You can’t expect me to go into the ring between those two.”

The persona names used in these and other jokes are entirely fortuitous.

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Dr Brendan Scott’s lecturre in Cavan County Library, or Ciaran’s joke of the day 1/6/10

A man is standing at the urinal in a lavatory beside another male in an olive-green suit who seems no bigger than a dwarf, but his attention is drawn by the size, length and girth of this second man’s male member, which is, without doubt, a whopper. The first guy doesn’t want to appear to be getting his kicks by looking at another guy’s cock, but his interest is noticed.           

“Is everything ok?” asks the dwarf.

“No problems. I’m sorry but I just can’t help remarking on the size of your cock. As a man you’re on the small side but it’s enormous.”

“Ah let me explain. You see I’m a leprechaun and all leprechauns have massive cocks in spite of their size.”

“I wouldn’t mind having one that size”. comments the first man.

“That can be arranged. After all I’m a leprechaun so I can grant anything you wish for,  but you have to do something for me.”

“Name it!”

“You’ll have to let me give you one up the butt.”

“Well I don’t know about that…” stutters the first guy.

“Now it’s your decision and I’m putting absolutely no pressure on you” counsels the dwarf soothingly.

“I suppose no one need know”, answers the first guy and quickly looking around to ascertain there’s no one else in the can he gestures to the dwarf to join him in one of the cubicles.

After several moments of excruciating pain for the man the dwarf asks him:

“How old are you?”

The man turns his head and answers, though writhing with agony: “I’m … ugh … I’m thirty-six… arghhh!…why?”

“You’re thirty-six are you? And you still believe in leprechauns?”

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Dodgy planning at local government level

Some of the senior staff in the six local authorities whose planning decisions are being investigated by the minister for the environment must be feeling pretty pissed. N doubt they are seething with resentment at being apparently singled out for public opprobrium, when the planning practices of other local authorities (no names mentioned) are equally questionable. But no one need worry. The whole thing will be a whitewash and the final report of the inspectors has already been written (oops, shouldn’t have said that: sorry).

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Arson around again

According to RTE news Gardai are investigating a suspected arson attack at an industrial estate in Dublin.

 The arsonist(s) are probably on the run now, fearing apprehension, but I want to give them some words of consolation for the future. You should really get out of the grime of the big city and move to a border county. There your involvement with arson will be initially forgotten, especially if you join Fianna Fail and the Knights of St Columbanus. You will then be able to look back upon your past with pride and speak candidly and unashamedly about it. And what’s more you will even get a job with the local authority.

 Instead of having to keep a low profile to escape the Bill, you will be able to have your mugs emblazoned on a weekly basis in the local paper. When you attend social events camera bulbs will flash as if you were Brittney Spears. If you still have criminal tendencies you will be able to steal with impunity, and because of your newfound friends you will be able to slander decent people, and what’s more be believed.

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Lea’s Cross report gagging order

It is very hard to listen to news reports on RTE without a feeling of deep disgust. I have just heard about the understandable anger of the brother and sister of a man with Alzheimer’s Disease and Down’s Syndrome who died less than a fortnight after being transferred to the Leas Cross Nursing Home. It has taken until now for the Health Service Executive to finalise a report, but before it is handed over to the man’s family the HSE want them to sign a confidentiality clause – a gagging order – that would prevent them publicising its contents.

 This is 2010. What though is the difference between this outrageous demand and the similar gagging order that the former bishop of Kilmore wished to impose on the victims of clerical sexual abuse in 1975 – thirty five years’ ago? The calls on Cardinal Sean Brady to resign because he was associated with that shameful episode have been loud. Surely the demands for the resignation of the Minister for Health Matry Harney, who presides at the pinnacle of the HSE, must be louder. m (It is an open secret though that the HSE has long been out of the minister’s control. In fact it has never been under any effective control but operates as a state within a state.

 The substandard care at Leas Cross came to light not through the health service’s own investigations, which were at most perfunctory. The clamour of the relatives of those who had suffered in that dreadful institution were brushed aside. They were only acted upon when the scandal of Leas Cross was exposed by RTE’s Prime Time program.

 As my mother died suffering from Alzheimer’s I am affected by this. Honestly it makes me feel sick that in this great country of ours someone can die due and those responsible seek to hide their culpability. That doesn’t happen in free countries; it’s the stuff of dictatorship worthy of Argentina after the Dirty War.

 We may very well live in a post-Christian society in Ireland, but let’s remember one thing. The vast majority of senior management in government institutions were educated in Catholic secondary schools, which so jealously guarded their Catholic ethos. It didn’t seem to produce more Christian or caring citizens – maybe that was because so many of the clerical teachers were busy abusing their pupils.

 To be honest, I think that the senior management of the HSE, or anyone who supports this gagging order, should be taken out and shot. In fact, I think a bullet would be too good for such miserable scum.

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A country fit for wankers

The government has published its Finance Bill today, which will  give effect to many of the measures announced in last December’s budget. Of course many of the cuts in welfare payments, which cause real hardship for people, came into effect last month with what could only be called indecent haste.

 The finance bill sets out a nice, softly-softly approach to the wealthy who must never feel threatened in the enjoyment of their loot, no matter how illegally it may have been acquired

 This is but one more part of the present government’s efforts to turn Ireland into a land fit for bankers, stock brokers and property developers to live in.

 Smaller fry pay taxes, both direct and indirect. Often the amount is cripplingly high. However the members of the groups I mentioned in the previous paragraph are able to pay bribes – always more welcome to politicians and bureaucrats.

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Christmas Crackers

The decision to withhold the Christmas bonus, combined with Cowen’s arrogant defence of this shameful act, is not just a slap in the face to Ireland’s pensioners; it is a veritable spit in the face from a group of criminal reprobates.

 This bonus was not much, but for hundreds and thousands of people who had worked hard all their lives it was “a little something” at Christmas, allowing them to enjoy some small luxury. Maybe they were able to spoil a grandchild etc. Whatever it was, it was in many ways more valuable than the cash mount. It was truly the thought that counts.

 So it is hardly surprising that its suspension should have found favour with economists who know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

 Most pensioners Christmases will be a little bleaker and blacker without the bonus, in contrast to Ireland’s government, its ministers and employees. The Christmas Party has long been the highlight of the year from every branch of the public service at both local and national level, from the local Health Service Executive branch right up to the minister’s office. No member of the public may have the cheek to look for any public servant while they are preening themselves, and it goes without saying that members of the public will look for many of those attending in vain in the days following. This is a time of conspicuous consumption and equally conspicuous bad taste, when no expense is spared on the booze. At local government level the local Gardai know that it is more than their jobs are worth to haul anyone returning from such parties for drink driving offences.

 Most of these bacchanalian excesses are picked up by that smelly, amorphous group whom public servants hate – The Public. The Christmas Party is therefore a cracker!

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