The Best Little Country to Write In

I have no idea why I’m putting it up, but I am regardless. This is (a lazy, ineffective, unoffensive, fangless, tried, tested and tired form of) a poem about Ireland that blurted out one day. It might give someone a laugh.

The Best Little Country to Write In

I am Digging

I am the healing scar of what went before

I am the dawning of the day

I am a terrible beauty born

I am the voice of the wind and the pouring rain

I am the Emergency

I am the National Lottery

I am the music of Glenroe

I am BRIAN O’DRISCOLL

I am A Rainy Night in Soho

I am the mala before school

I am the sneaky pint

I am the closing time pint

I am the inherent problem with alcohol

I am behind the magic door

I am the Hill of Tara

I am Brehon Law

I am Bunreacht na hÉireann

I am grotesque, unbelievable, bizarre and unprecedented

I am the Beauty Queen of Leenane

I am the Lady in Red

I am Sally O’Brien and the way she might look at you

I am Munster’s European fairytale heartbreak

I am the power and the glory

I am Munster’s European fairytale joy

I am yours, now and forever

I am Reeling in the Years

I am Waiting for Godot

I am a lot done, more to do

I am the washing on the line of an evening in July

I am the Christmas RTÉ Guide

I am the constant council roadworks

I am Where The Streets Have No Name

I am Nothing But The Same Old Story

I am the rain

I am the rain

I am the rain

I am sure I’ll be alright on my own

I am the country wake

I am the silence at the stations

I am the lack of conversation

I am Only a Woman’s Heart

I am faith, begorrah, where to start

I am where the priests hide

I am the children playing outside

I am The Field

I am the pain

I am the past, a distant country

I am one day in May

I am the father and the son

I am Mary Robinson

I am road frontage

I am Sam Maguire

I am the curse

I am Mayo

I am, to whom it concerns, The Late Late Show

I am the flood

I am the better failed try

I am the Famine Road

I am the horseman passing by

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The Not-So-Curious Case of Stephen Donnelly in a Fianna Fáil Dress

That was the big news today. Not Trump acting like a bollix praying away to Arnie and the Apprentice (he’s really the president, is he?), not the Bus Éireann strike to come later this month potentially affecting thousands of passengers, no, it was that an Independent TD had applied to join a political party. Surely that’s nothing note worthy, that’s balderdash and a side-show from actual news?

But this was not just any TD, you see…

This was Stephen Donnelly, the man with a plan. He was an anomaly in the Irish political landscape. Being unattached to a political party or dynasty, he was truly independent of the system. He didn’t have a background of community work or parish pump politics to his CV to make himself presentable to his prospective and subsequent constituents, which was something stalwart independents had in spades in the past. Instead, in 2011, he presented himself and his no nonsense attitude with direct, sharp views on the financial mess the country was in, how it was being managed and how it should actually directed for any improvements to occur.

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“Don’t have anywhere to rest your elbow? Use ANY natural OR man-made surroundings”

And he SOUNDED like he knew what he was talking about. In the mess of NAMA and Anglo, in the IMF and the Trioka, the ECB and ECW (I made that up), you found yourself half confident in half knowing what was going on half the time after an interview with the Wicklow TD. He blazed a trail in being a new age politician; a person who, after seeing the faults in the public and political realm, came from the private sector to put these wrongs to right, or at least highlight them in his capacity with no ulterior motive or personal profit to be gained.

After some time of building up his brownie points in Dáil Éireann, he went into business with Catherine Murphy, a complete legend of a politician with a hard working red background and a very public present of bringing to light the consummate failure that was, is and forever will be Irish Water. Another shareholder in the new venture was Roisin Shortall, one of the few Labour ministers who had the courage to call bullshit on the then government, walking out on James Reilly when he was doing his best gerrymandering impressions regarding Primary Care Centre locations. While they were baptised the Social Democrats and placed themselves left of centre, Donnelly was certainly the one to keep it “centred”. But even at that, they had found a common ground to create a new political dialogue away from the predictable civil war stuff that he himself decried.

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It’s such a shame. Purple suited his background.

The likeable Murphy, the honourable Shortall and the believable Donnelly, how could the Social Democrats lose to an electorate who were sick of everything to do with anything? They didn’t win, nor did they lose, strictly speaking. They drew. They must have been disappointed to gain no seats, coming very close with Gary Gannon, but to hold their seats identifying then as a new party was still an achievement.

Fast forward some months after #GE16 as the kids called it, and Donnelly left. Irreconcilable differences. The parting was a moot point for both sides, and while far from amicable, it seemed they both said their pieces are were happy with that. Fast forward again and we get to him joining no ordinary party. Fianna Fáil, the party that “more or less” got us into the mess, the party that repeatedly lied and said all was fine, the party that he blamed – among others – on the stagnation of the Irish political scene, the party that will beautify CJ Haughey for all the time to come, ever and after, forever and ever, Eamonn.

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Get it?

Admittedly, I was very quick to scoff and laugh from my very high horse, Morality, and I made the bare minimum requirements of a joke regarding Fianna Fáil on Twitter no less. But then I stopped.

What if this is genuine?

And really, given his private sector background, can anyone be surprised? Not overly. To a certain extent, some SD followers got behind them due to Donnelly’s “charisma”, not necessarily a friendly kind, but it was a confidence and accuracy he held, no doubt from his days as a consultant. They now feel slightly betrayed, as do those who supported them due to their campaigning for marriage equality. Donnelly now goes to the party who supposedly fobbed the referendum as no big deal and laughed at it in party meetings.

So, the man who held views we all agreed with has gone bad in our eyes. It must also be said that his elevation to Spokesperson on Brexit would have certainly ruffled feathers in the party’s backbenches. But just because he is now on the frontbench for Fianna Fáil, that doesn’t change them. Sadly though, it just kind of changes him. By joinging Fianna Fáil, he’s chosen his own destiny, and whether he wins reelection is another matter, he has to win back the minds of the cynics who finally had a little bit of hope.

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I’ve seen more stomachable diarrhea.

Alas poor Donnelly, I believed you well.

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Muhammad Ali, I Barely Knew Ye

My first traipse into sports and the world surrounding it was USA ’94, I was up for all the teams and enjoyed the noise and colour on the television. I was only about four years of age at the time so those concepts were coming into play in a big, big way.

I remember when Ireland were knocked out because after the match finished I asked my brother who are you supporting now that Ireland have been eliminated. He told me that

“You can’t support anyone else when your country is gone. That’s not how it works.”

Or at least words to that effect. Nowadays, he is by no means a blind supporter of nationalism to the extent he would support against all odds, but back then in the heady mid ’90s, being Irish was as much of a thing as it is today. I know, it existed before Joe.ie folks.

So when the Olympics rocked up in ’96 I was becoming aware of the ideas and concepts of competitive sports and competition and being the best at any given thing you could be. TEAM IRELAND COME ON.

There were two hopes, one  was Michelle Smith. I wasn’t a big backer of her. NO, I DIDN’T know about the scandal that would develop thereafter. It was because I was shit scared of water and swimming. Well done, Michelle. Not my cup of tea, but fair play t’ya.

Those Pantene ads were shocking.

The other was Sonia O’Sullivan, the other Great White Hope for Ireland; I could run just like her and I’d run everywhere and be wrecked. I remember watching the opening ceremony, a sedate affair compared to the eye-slicing spectacle it is now. I was waiting to see could I see her wave just so I could wave back.

I wasn’t the brightest.

I don’t remember if she appeared. All I remember is Muhammad Ali carrying the Olympic flame and lighting the One Torch To Rule Them All. Who was he? My father explained he was Muhammad Ali, the World’s Greatest. I held no concept of what that meant. I continued on looking at the shapes and colours.

Three years later, as I tinkered on a boxing game I came across a fighter, needless to say who it was. My father from the end of the room, following the television out of the annoyance of the noise, called out the name Cassius Clay.

I asked him what was that all about and I was let in for a world of explanation. Not only was the world map gotten out – we had one forever on our kitchen wall – but the Vietnam war was half explained to me, as too was the Civil Rights Movement, as was the concept of there being another religion than Christianity in Islam – it would take another three years before I knew what a Protestant was – and of utmost importance was the story of Cassius Clay, converting to Islam, changing his name, and his rise and fall and rise to be the greatest of all time. A door was opened, nay a wall was smashed and a new world of thought and thinking and processing came into realistation and I could not get enough of it. I would rent videos that simply had the champ’s face on the cover of just to learn more; I would learn little as these were documentaries and 10-year-old Paul had no time for that. But I watched his fights when they would come up, how large a man he was and how quick he moved and as I got older I watched more and read more and got into the detail that he held and discovered how he was – just about – human. He was not invincible forever, the latter days of his career a blot on his copybook  but more so just a sad period in the life of an excellent professional boxer.

Seeing him in Ireland in the last few recent years was upsetting as his battle with Parkinson’s was a very hard one to witness, especially in that of an athlete, let alone his former reputation. Still, he served as an inspiration for nearly everyone, he was near universally loved. Be you a cocky son of a gun or someone trying to make a name for yourself, whether you fought for equality or peace or for a competitive belt, hey, he was there.

I apologise. I am honestly sad and can only get so much sense before I ramble into rameis. So I’ll leave it here, so.

Sonia O’Sullivan failed to qualify for 1500m race in Atlanta ’96 and failed to place in the final of the 5000m, failing to finish due to stomach pains. Her father greeted the media, who were looking for words to pacify the despairing public at home beside the Aga and all the rest of it. Why? How? Now? The nation was shocked and disappointed and everything under the sun. How could this have happened, to one of the favourites? To our favourite?

He said quietly, nearly explained that

“Lads, nobody died tonight.”

Unfortunately, Muhammad Ali died. Last night be it, but still. The sense of loss I feel is more present than I thought it would be. He left a legacy behind that people can only stand in the shadow of. What a shadow it is.

What a shadow it is.

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White Man Feels Important, Discusses Radiohead Album On Blog No One Reads

Like the vast majority of Radiohead fans, I went spare with excitement hearing the news of new material being released. Excellent, Radiohead will fix everything I thought. Was everything broken? Didn’t fucking matter, Radiohead were releasing music. But that’s ages ago I hear you say. You’re right. I heard you, but I heard nothing about any reviews save people’s acclamation of Burn The Witch.

Up to the point of writing this “review” I had not come across any reviews nor had I heard anything good or bad from my friends, the majority of which would be devout disciples to St Thom et al. Indeed, I had no idea what it was called. Only when I went cheap-arsing my way through Spotify to give a listen to the rest of the album did I find out its name, A Moon-Shaped Pool, and I worried at how much they were planning to get away with on this release.

Radiohead have in the past gotten away with all sorts, be it some of the questionable choices on Hail To The Thief (The use of laser guns in some of the songs) or the absolute prick-acting that Thom Yorke can get away with and still be beloved by the well-kept masses that are the Radiohead fandom. Even the experimenting he does with his voice can be seen at times to be disrespectful, with moments where his voice is more akin to a drunken-baby instead of focusing on melodic construction. Would he and they be feck-acting with this album?

They feck-acted with the last one, King of Limbs being one of the most irritating blip-bloppy start-stoppy scuts of an album that was only half-redeemed by its second half. There I go again, being a Radiohead fan, looking to forgive their faults. And King of Limbs was a fault. I will have that discussion with anyone. But, alas, alack and indeed as well, what would this album hold?

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He looks delighted with himself anyways. For a change.

Before I bought the album all I had were Burn The Witch and Daydreaming to go by. The former was a great piece, strings being used to great effect and Thom Yorke deciding to sing like he used to rather than the arse-boxing he has done of late. A true return to form of creating good solid sons with a bit of an edge. But the latter…

Well, Daydreaming gave us a large problem. Gone was the crisp efficiency of Burn The Witch and what had replaced it was a sloshing six minutes of mawkish nostalgia-driven sad tear sounds as Yorke cried a bit like a little haunted ghost lost inside a school boy’s throat. Nothing wrong with crying, or being a ghost, it was just that this isn’t very good crying.

Track three, Decks Dark, is a harmless and at times gorgeously basic with great key work guiding the song along until a little choral ghost – get used to them – brings it to another level, a better one but with more of a sinister tone behind “It was just a laugh, just a laugh, just a laugh.” My love of the laugh might cloud my judgement when I say it is a good song, but it certainly is one of the album’s best, given it’s well arranged, produced and recorded.  

An acoustic guitar greets us as Desert Island Disk plays, maybe the first time one has been heard for a while. The song does the best impression of Within You Without You of the 21st Century so far. It being the oddest of the bunch of tracks together, but still it holds its place. The album does make sense, everything is in its right place – hey, hey! – but it can suffer from over-stuffing the turkey, per say. And even having said that, it did seem over-written or over-wrought.

“You really messed up everything.”

No, not Thom Yorke’s own review of the album, this is the refrain in Ful Stop, a song that sounds like an automatic bin opening and closing repeatedly as someone learns how to play Stand Up (Sit Down) nearby and gets angrier and angrier as time passes as they realise their friend has learned Climbing Up The Walls. A quite acceptable jam happens in the middle eight – like I know what that means – but instead of capping off the song with an ending to make it redeemable, it just reverts back to little choral ghosts falling slowly back and forth in front of microphones with no deadliness.

A great song for a sad bit in an indie film? Glass Eyes. That is it. It’s a bad version of Give Up The Ghost. Fuck. FUCK.

Anything following Glass Eyes was sure to be better? Surely? A dirty bit of bass opens Identikit before downstairs Thom Yorke is busy in the bathroom, mumbling about all the cans he drank as upstairs Thom Yorke sings “I don’t want to know” him being a teetotaller and all. I think at least. Then some guitar and synth along with little singing ghosties being it to another place again, giving it a bit of grit and drawing the focus away from a sobering-up downstairs Thom Yorke. A fine ending, “Broken hearts make it rain” – a metaphor for something, I’d guess. Fucked if I know. There’s a cracking bit of guitar though to make Johnny Marr feel like a fool.

The Numbers is unfortunately not about the Lotto, but it is in fact a relaxed affair, with a steady and familiar chord progression – Talk Show Host for grown-ups, anyone? – and a vocal that is “normal” and relaxes you, as the overall sound and arrangement tends towards a Rick Wright affair you sleep to. That is of course before the strings light up the track and give the song an ending worthy of the sleeping giant quality the song itself holds. One to see live, surely. One of the best numbers on the album. Pun not intended. My apologies.

Just when things are going well, there he goes again at the start of Present Tense, dressed up in Ed O’Brien’s mother’s bedsheets like a little choral ghost, running around the studio, going “OOhoooooohhhhhooohhhh”.  The song’s intro, at least, written directly after they were lied to by someone who said King of Limbs was a good idea. And throughout the song he keeps repeating on himself in off-kilter moments that nearly overshadow the great music that actually is happening behind his pessimistic mutterings. It seemed to be forever filling a glass hat was already full.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Sailor Rich Man Poor Man Beggar Man Thief

My review?

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True Love Waits is a song that would be nothing new to Radiohead fans, having appeared on the great I Might Be Wrong: Live Recordings. Here though, it does sound a bit… different. Instead of the powerful, bare bones and soul and acoustic guitar heart-blast of a song, it now is more a binary code reading of emotion. The Guardian said that the “piano, vocals and percussion that sounds like a beetle using a typewriter” and I have to ask, is that a good thing?

The overall point I think I took from it was that there seemed to be a never-ending need for there something always to happening in each recording. Instead of letting something breathe, or elaborating on a great section of instrumentation, they delayed or distorted lyrics, or had ghosts wail without end but with plenty of echo which, all in all, created a definite atmosphere that you cannot go around or get away from.

Yes, of course, bands can evolve even without my white permission to do so, and they can change their sound and style and set up and anything else beginning with “s” but if I were not to judge this album by their past achievements I don’t think I could or would give it a second or third listen. They have created some of the best sounds of the past 20 years without doubt, but these songs are hardly of that quality. To put it another way, Dwight Yorke of the late 90s would’ve walked on to many teams. By the mid-00s, he could barely walk. But boy could he smile.

And with this scathing opinion, I have to ask myself a more important question; do I even actually like Radiohead?

Pray for me.

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That Was A Very Good Eurovision

Ah, the Eurovision.

If there is one thing that can not only preserve the Union but hold the Euro currency steady it surely is the Eurovision. The latest installment took place over three days, Tuesday 10th, Thursday 12th, and Saturday 14th of February. You can’t get it on Netflix, can ya, ha? Pure cocaine-laced sugar dust for anyone who half-likes music but not too seriously was placed before us in three-minute bursts and there was not a child in any house washed.

I sat down to watch Thursday’s semi-final and was pleasantly surprised at the relatively fine quality of the songs on display. There was a Bulgarian Power Ranger Rihanna, an Australian on a futuristic box singing a finely bland song, and a Georgian band who were what would happen if Star Sailor had a hape of cans, listened to Franz Ferdinand and then played Killers covers.

There was the Irish entry that not only did not qualify but had the continent collectively scratch their heads and ask “Is that Ronan Keating?”

It wasn’t, it was Nicky Byrne, bless his cotton socks and wet sock of a haircut.

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Sing? Ah, SING! If only we thought of that…

Listening to the radio the following day, there were the obvious, knee-jerk and pig-ignorant reactions that ranged from song-writers insisting that they would write a better song to people insisting that we “should withdraw from the competition because we’ll never win it again and sure it’s all full of foreign countries now and that’s how 9/11 changed everything.” (I believe this to be an exact quote from a disgruntled Liveline caller. gotta love dat irish folk yo)

At this point, I am glad that the country hasn’t experienced anything massively bad because if the reaction to this Eurovision is anything to go by, well… I’ll just say I don’t think we’d handle it too well.

But, Nicky Byrne’s song, even with him giving the best he could give, and really enjoying it, and everything else RTÉ employees said about his performance, as well as not taking any fee for it as it coincidentally was happening parallel to his solo career launch, was not fine enough to rise above the other fine songs there. It was quite bland.

It was a like a bad version of Beautiful Day. A really, REALLY bad version.

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No plane in sight.

Ukraine won with their not-too-subtle song about Russia slaughtering people in Crimea entitled 1944 and you know what, fair play to them. I didn’t strike me as anything mad, but I might have been experiencing Eurovision fatigue by the time Jamala took the stage. Even though I annually cod myself into thinking I can do otherwise, one can only take so much Euro-pop and still hold their full attention on the broadcast.

That is, of course, until some Cypriots wake you up with distortion.

The real winner I felt was us, the viewers – oh, how quaint, Paul.

Not only was the average standard absolutely fine, stretching at times to be grand and even good, the broadcast was a real achievement on the side of the Swedes. The presenters, Petra Mede and Måns Zelmerlöw, had me at “Hello Europe!” on Tuesday at which point on stage right a curtain dropped and revealed Europe, the pop band, playing The Final Countdown. “No, no, not Europe the band, we mean Europe the continent!” They stopped playing. “That was embarrassing, we apologise.”

The humour never dropped from that point on, being showcased in the hilarious Nerd Nation Documentary, showing how something already ridiculous can be made funny. A particular highlight was the third part and the Loreen street kids who “just wanna hang out and listen to Euphoria. And other well known Loreen songs.”

The skill of their comedic execution was fully realised in the great song of Peace Peace Love Love that if nothing else, was certainly funnier than Riverdance. And Justin Timberlake is an adequate substitute for Michael Flatley, absolutely.

The opening act to the second semi-final was the gateway into the show’s comedy but the fact that it was funny, the entire show, independent of liking Eurovision or not and also that it worked so well shows the effort love and care that was put into it from all angles. I was rooting for Sweden and their fine song just so they could present it again, but then again it would only, as they sing, “bankrupt the hosting TV station.”

So, Ukraine next year. Not for me. Can it top this one? They have a year to prep. As does everyone else to see how they would combat the new scoring system which was introduced this year to heighten tensions. It worked alright.

It also worked on keeping the win confined to the continent at least, as under the previous year’s rules Australia would have romped home with the win, and Poland wouldn’t have gotten such a good score for such a pap song. Now that’s a talking point too. All’s changed, changed utterly.

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“God, it’d do your head in, wouldn’t it?”

Vincent Browne, the acrid archangel or smiling serpent of Irish political discourse with three decades of discoursing behind him, did not say the above in a manner full of energy and disgust. It was said in a sigh, an exasperation of will during another period of pathetic political performance, circa the Cowen phase. Given TV3’s audience numbers it may have been missed by the majority of the nation, but Vincent’s sad state of mind undoubtedly represented their feelings on the establishment. The country’s collective head was so done in at that stage the pain in our collective consciousness could not have been subdued by any level of collective Solbadene capsules or forgotten about with collective stociousness. Still, Fianna Fáil’s loss of power and the manner in which it occurred provided the country with some respite in many a witty headline, “Fianna Fáilures”, “Fi-NAH Fáil”, “Fianna Fáil-Out of Office”, “Fianna Fall From Grace” but these proved not to be near to the cure. Our head was not done out, so to speak, but this leaving of office presented us with an opportunity for change, something we hadn’t bothered with during the previous decade of apathy borne of grandness, and maybe this possible shift in governance would cure our head’s poor concave ailment.

However, and as funny as it may seem now, with the election that followed quickly after, there was still hope. The Labour Party was claiming to have the only road map to financial independence and dignity and appeared as an honest to God legitimate option as a main party, while Enda Kenny seemed to nearly come true on his threat to electrify the Fine Gaelers into power. Even parties whose legitimacy had been constantly questioned, and by that open remark I exclusively mean Sinn Féin, were looking like real choices, actual alternatives. After more than a decade of Fianna Fáil + Friends governance, after the need to get someone to blame for financial collapses were being laid very comfortably at their door, the actuality of a government full of actual alternatives was serious and was real.

Ah. Life. Oh Life. Oh lifffffee. Oh life. Do-do-doo-doo. Ah.

The Labour party has, as all Labour parties have done, shown its main core party value to be that of compromising itself beyond soft socialism and into the dead centre, evident in coalition with Fine Gael. Water charges, homelessness, and welfare cuts have showed the complete lack of will that Labour has and shows the disconnect between parties and the people they supposedly represent.

This new thinking iss visible in the seismic loss of Fianna Fáil seats, the rise of independents that no one is ever really sure about and the advent of Renua Ireland and the Social Democrats. With Labour at anywhere between 7-10%, in some polls even 4%, and Fianna Fáil at 21%, Fine Gael around 28%, Sinn Féin balancing around 20% and independents on 25% the polling unsurety is surely unsettling for an electorate that has been comforted throughout history by the fact that there would always be, at the very least, a government of some sort. What in the name of Ivor Callely silk pajamas will happen?

Who will go out with who? Will the Social Democrats lose the good will they have gained and go into government with Enda or Martin and be eaten alive like the Greens and PDs before them? Or will civil war politics finally come to an end, not by virtue of a new government forming free of Fine Gael and Fianna Fáil but by a government of solely themselves?

Romeo and Juliet

Or will we all be blind sided and in fact be shocked by a Troika of the AAA/PBP groups along with the Social Democrats and Sinn Féin taking the reins? Or will something magical happen? Will we overcome and actually turn away from the establishment parties which have been corrupt in basic and plain public sight? Can we become hopeful again and lose our jadedness?

Well, Vincent won’t be holding his breath. Not with the illness, nor with hope. And really he has seen it all before, God love him. At least he can relax and sit it out. His mercies are small, but they still are merciful. He might be distracted. He might smile. As with most things, we think about a problem less once we don’t see it.

Don’t like what’s going on? Don’t look. It might help.

Otherwise, it might – proverbially speaking – do your head in.

VinB

Oh How I Love Thee Dear Vincent Browne

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Everything is Shit & We’re All Going To Die

I will just cut to the chase. Recent events have made me mental with anger.  When I heard the UCD 200 story break I was angry but not surprised. It was just one of those horrible things that’s always there, you know, like the homeless crisis or the drug issues or systematic racism – you know that they’re there, they exist but because you don’t agree with it and think it has no place in modern society that in some way the issue must be spiraling downward given how equal and liberal you believe society is with the same-sex marriage referendum or the massive push behind the movement that wants to repeal the eighth amendment in the constitution.

But no, everything is shit. The story about the scumrot of a facebook chat group broke and we were reminded of rampant sexism in one of its most harrowing forms. Harrowing in that the invasion of privacy and intimacy was smashed and harrowing that is was widely accepted as real and many people came out with stories of their own experience with likewise groups.

This behaviour is not exclusive to Agricultural Science students. It is very much part and parcel of lad culture. It was not nor is not beyond the realms of logical thought that such a group would exist. There was a natural disgust.

Then the news came from UCD that after their own internal investigation that there was no foundation for the claim of this chat being in existence.

Some of those who were disgusted by the story were thankful it was not real but still made a point that the fact a story like this was not seen as far-fetched showed an endemic problem in sexism and lad culture today.

Others were less convinced by UCD’s report, citing the track record of such a group existing before and the little nuggets that without any student coming forward with evidence they could not further their work. Also, the fact that without these the social media providers help in the form of a court order, they could not help them in their investigation into things that are not publicly available.

And then there were some people who were not just happy the chat hadn’t existed, they were delighted. Their happiness did not grow out of the opening of a frank discourse about revenge porn or men’s attitude towards the other sex with the dismissal of the groups existence. They were not happy that another fucked-up issue brought about the thought of how feminism is necessary for equality to be attained.

No.

With their delight was an added bonus of the feminazis being wrong. They were wrong about this HA! In your face you said they were sexist and weirdos so fuck you you were wrong

There was a victory, not in that something disgusting didn’t exist but that lads were not to blame and it was the overreaction of feminists who were to bare that brunt.  No conversation on progress. Just finger-pointing. A blame game. Men were touting this ‘lad culture’ unashamedly. Bitta banter. Few lads. Having a laugh. No harm. Didn’t happen. Get over it. No moral arbitration swayed an argument away from the absolute crux of they were wrong about us, so therefore anything YOU say is invalid.

In spreading the word of UCD’s internal report through utter condescension showed what they were at. They were purposefully exacerbating the inequality of relationship and understanding between the sexes.  And all because it only helps them and their standing they are prickly belittling prats.

I felt ill reading reactions. That people, that mainly men were ok in thought process. That they were actually thinking these things and writing these things down and probably saying these things out loud. And that they were proud of it. And then I turned off the computer. There was a little part of me that was sure there was officially no hope left.

But then I thought, Don’t worry! There’s no need for progress or equality or even basic human understanding; we’re all going to die! And that was nearly a nice thought.

 

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