The Great Abortion Lie

Science never ceases to amaze me. Mankind progresses at an astounding rate.
All over the world, experts of all sorts work daily trying to find ways of keeping us all alive longer.
Indeed, some of the treatments I now receive for my own condition, didn’t exists a few years ago.
It's what makes me think.
It baffles me that there are still scientists and others in the medical profession who believe their mission in life is to aid the death of others.
In the United States, and no doubt elsewhere, doctors and scientists work relentlessly to think up new ways of executing prisoners. They say they want to execute them ‘humanely’. Which is impossible because you cannot execute humanely any being that can think and knows what is to happen to it.


In England recently they announced that they are going to experiment with what you might call ‘quickie’ abortions in doctors’ surgeries.
So you might have one worker in an office nipping out for a coffee at lunchtime and another nipping out to kill their unborn child.
There is a great myth perpetuated by self-styled feminists around this issue and it surrounds their glib advertising slogan about ‘a woman’s right to choose.’
In this country, they try to stir the emotions by going on about incest and rape but they rarely if ever reveal the fact that, what they want is abortion on demand up to and including 24 weeks, past the time when a baby is viable outside the womb.
And you may notice that when women are pregnant, even a couple of months, people ask them how the baby is. They never enquire about the health of the foetus or the embryo, words those who favour abortion use to to avoid using the word ‘baby.’
You may or may not know, that the 'liberal' New York Times never uses the phrase 'partial birth abortion' in its headlines. Because although it supports the barbarous practice - which is too nauseating to describe here - it knows that the name of the procedure itself is so disgusting that it would turn the stomachs of its readers.
What those who favour abortion mean by a woman’s right to choose is this.
Whilst they berate men who fail to act responsibly and take precautions when engaging in intercourse, they believe no such onus should apply to women.
Instead, women, they believe, can engage in unprotected sex and then nip off to kill the resulting life at their convenience.
And that’s what it is. If a foetus is alive it is life. If it is alive before an abortion and dead after it, it has been killed.
Kidnapping of people for torture by the United States is called 'extraordinary rendition.'
Hitler called the holocaust “The Final Solution.’
It's what people do when they know what they're doing, what they're promoting is unpleasant or just plain wrong.
Feminists describing abortion as “The Right to Choose’ is the same kind of lie.

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Goodbye Bertie. Off To Live in Darndale, then?

And so it's farewell Bertie Ahern, Prime Minister of Ireland who liked to pocket dosh from whoever game it to him, whenever and in whatever currency.
Soon we expect to see you begging on O'Connell Bridge for funds to help you through this difficult time in your life.
Well, not really.
We reckon the bold Bertie will be busy for some time counting all the spondulecks he has managed to bum off people over the year as he sails off into the sunset or, rather, is driven there in the government car he retains by the government driver he also retains.
He will also have to count all the money he gets from the pensions he has earned - earner? what am I saying - the pensions he and other TDs and Ministers have awarded themselves so they can continue to live in luxury while, it is claimed 750,000 Irish children live in poverty or are on the borderline, while pensioners live on less than €300 a week, while the homeless sleep rough because there is no money to staff the hostels built for them, while geriatric patients are being used as human shields in our hospitals to occupy beds so those who need them are kept on waiting lists and don't add to costs, while criminals are let out of prison early, while prices are going through the roof and while we watch the economy crumbling because, in the heel of the hunt, he was pretty damned useless at his job.


Some people seem to be devastated that Bertie is gone. Then again, even by the worst estimates, more than 40 per cent of Zimbabweans voted for Robert Mugabe. Not that I'm making a comparison. Really.
One of the most extraordinary things about the recent events in Irish politics, is the revelation that Fianna Fail politicians all appear to love Fianna Fail more than they love Ireland.
Bertie was at it again yesterday. "The Party that I love..."
They're all at it.
Like Mugabe, they think the party is more important than anything else.
They welcomed back Beverley Cooper Flynn who a court decided, urged people to dodge their taxes.
Why would any party do that?
Because it's good for the party in Mayo, that's why.
Ministers are appointed, not because they're able (that's pretty apparent) but because of the geographical location of their constituencies. It's good for the party.
Bertie was, is, a party man.
He carefully constructed is 'ordinary bloke' image while, at the same time, sucking up cash from anyone and everyone who offered it to him.
He nurtured the image as an ordinary Dub and gave the impression to those he met, that he was their friend.
Which was bullshit.
It's unlikely, now that's he's no longer Taoiseach, he will move in with 'ordinary people' in somewhere like, say, Darndale.
It was all just a grand act from the man who invented his past and is now faced with inventing a future for himself.
President of Ireland?
He mentioned the job yesterday.
All I can say, is please God no.

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The Extraorindary Effect of John Gormley

Gormley = gormless

If you're reading this from outside Ireland, you may not be aware of the misfortune that happened to us last year.
We got three 'Green' ministers.
If they are green in any sense, it is in the sense of being unprepared, unready, naive and plain old stupid.
The first thing they did when negotiating their place in Government with Fianna Fail, was to sell their souls.
This was utterly predictable.
It was like putting Shirley Temple in the ring with Mike Tyson. And yes, I know that Shirley was in her '70s when Mike was champion.
They gave in on the scrutiny of US planes passing through Shannon on their rendition flights.


They gave in on incinerators to dispose of our waste.
They gave in on tax allowances to help people deal with the radon gas problem.
They gave in on the wanton destruction of our - and the world's - legacy at Tara.
They gave in on just about everything except what they call 'the big picture.'
And that's global warming.
True, they have helped alleviate global warming.
Because, just as manure can be used to generate heat, the words they are speaking can do exactly the same thing.
This is not bulls**t.
It's green s**t.
One of their number from the backbenches was talking the other day about how we can all help contribute to ending the threat of climate change.
I didn't hear everything he said.
Because I was rolling around the floor after his suggestion that we wear wooly jumpers instead of turning on our heating and that we become more or less vegetarian.
The only thing he failed to suggest, was growing beards and wearing open-toed sandals.
But what the Greens have done to me this week, is to have me defending China - and that's not a pleasant place to be.
I fully support those who believe Irish athletes - ALL athletes - should boycott the opening ceremony. Politicians who attend will, I believe, bring shame on their countries.
Would they attend an opening ceremony in Zimbabwe or Burma?
Why, yes, of course they would!
But I am defending China because of what the Greens did to them in Ireland at the weekend.
They invited the Chinese ambassador to Ireland to attend their annual conference.
And then they insulted him.
John Gormley, one of the 'green' dopes in our government, deliberately used language he knew would offend the his Chinese guest.
Now, you might say that insulting Chinese ambassadors is fine and dandy and the more they are insulted, the better.
And you might be right.
But Government ministers shouldn't do it.
It's shooting ducks in a barrel.
It's like inviting someone into your home and insulting them.
It's not mannerly.
Gormley was like the cat who got the cream when the ambassador walked out which only goes to show how vain and stupid he is. No wonder spellcheck throws up the word 'gormless' when it comes across the name Gormley.
A notice box is the phrase my father used, I have to confess, about me occasionally.
John Gormley, and indeed his Green colleagues, are pretend politicians. They are in Government because the experienced boys in Fianna Fail think it makes them - Fianna Fail - look good. They think it gives them 'green' credentials.
And it probably does.
But if they don't want to end up at the back of the class, they'd want to put manners on the Green boys soon.
Because if they don't, this will end in tears.

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Grumpyitis

HARD TO BE GRUMPY WITH CHARLOTTE ABOUT, BUT I MANAGE IT

God, I've been busy!
Doing what?
Well, that's what I've been trying to figure out. I'm not entirely sure.
I know that I've been busy with Charlotte. She was two a week or so ago. And I've been very busy picking up all the toys she got for her birthday.
There are some toys she likes less than others. Likes them less, that is, until you try to pick them up to stash them in the attic or somewhere else that isn't the kitchen floor. Then she loves them.
She's growing up really fast. She's even losing interest in Iggle Piggle and the others in the Night Garden. Moved on to Tom and Jerry if you don't mind.


How long before it's Girls Aloud?
So Charlotte has had me busy at least some of the time.
I've been busy working too. Have to earn a crust. And so I'm doing whatever is asked, and what with work and Charlotte, my day seems too short.
That is to say that it's too short for what I really want to do, what I am, apparently, very good at and what, I am often told, is my full time job.
Grumbling. Giving out. Moaning. Whinging. Complaining.
Victor Meldrew, he of One Foot in the Grave is, compared to me, something of a comedian.
I have noticed myself that I am now complaining about just about everything.
I complain about people with no manners.
I complain about litterbugs.
I complain about the people who rip us off.
I complain about politicians.
I complain about reality television.
I complain about football players.
I complain about shop assistants who chat to each other while you're waiting to be served.
I complain about rude waiters.
I complain about lousy food in restaurants.
But then, so do most people.
The problem with me, is that I complain incessantly about other drivers. How dare they park where I wished to. How dare they pass me out even if I am driving slowly. How dare they have bigger, newer cars. In fact, how dare they use to road.
I complain about shop assistants. How dare they serve other people.
I complain, not just about reality television. I essentially complain about all television.
I complain about young people.
But I also complain about old people, middle aged people - all people.
I complain so much that I think it's become a complaint, a medical complaint.
Grumpyitis.
Most men my age seem to have it.
But mine, I fear, is probably incurable.

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Emigration Again This Time Sparked By Grubbiness

There have been many reasons, over the centuries, why people emigrated from Ireland in their droves.
A thousand year ago, or more, they left our shores to bring Christianity and, indeed, education to parts of Europe where their legacy is still celebrated.
In the 19th century, they left, of course, because of the potato famine which decimated the population.
In the middle of the 20th century, it was unemployment and poverty which forced, particularly young men, to leave Ireland.
Now, though, I fear a new wave of emigration.
This time, it will be spurred on not by poverty or famine or indeed a desire to spread God's gospel.
No. It will be as a result of Ireland becoming a nasty, grubby, greedy place where the only God worshipped is money.


We have long since passed the time when we expected moral leadership from our politicians. Having granted themselves more than 30 pay rises in the past ten years, they have demonstrated their greed for all to see.
It's hard not to blame them.
Our most senior politician, the Taoiseach Bertie Ahern, who received all of those pay rises and saw his salary almost treble in ten years, also pocketed large sums of money given to him by businessmen.
He says there were no favours asked or given.
Well, we might believe that if he had managed, once, to tell the truth to the Tribunal investigating his affairs.
Sure, it has not found evidence that he took money from the businessman Owen O'Callaghan. And that was the allegation which led to the Tribunal being set up.
But what it has found is vast sums of money in numerous accounts, in various currencies, amounts Bertie Ahern has failed to explain.
Bertie Ahern. What a legacy he will leave.
He has overseen the creation of vast wealth in Ireland during his term as Taoiseach. Sadly, most of it is concentrated in a very few hands.
We are still short of schools and have many, many schools in appalling condition.
The health service is a farce, a dangerous farce top heavy with administrators and short of front line staff not to mention equipment and facilities.
Crime is rampant, despite what Bertie Ahern says. We are short of prison spaces and of policemen.
And our heritage is being bulldozed, not to build a road to ease the lot of commuters, but to open up land for development.
In most countries, a site such as Tara would be treasured.
But then, Bertie Ahern has often talked about his admiration for the Chinese way of doing things. "Up and over, without all the public consultation," was more or less how he put it on one occasion.
There is no value placed on culture in Ireland any more.
There is little or no value placed on religion of any kind.
There is no value placed on honesty, decency or generosity.
If I was younger, I think I'd be off.
As it is, many of our young find the place distasteful.
And we're going to lose them.

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The Peasants Will Soon Be Revolting

Bertie opens Dublin Airport's 'too little too late' Pier D. He'll never have to use it.

Did you ever notice, that when a factory or big new company opens up, there's always a politician on hand to do the official ribbon cutting and to, essentially, take the credit?
Did you ever notice, that when a new piece of infrastructure is opened, there's always a politician right at the front of the photograph to, essentially, take the credit?
Did you ever notice, that when a new school or hospital is opened, there's always a politician there, grinning at everyone and shaking hands and, essentially, taking the credit?
But if you noticed all that, did you also noticed, that when a factory or big employer closes down, the politicians aren't to be seen?


Did you notice that, when a new road ends up being a disaster, jammed with traffic morning, noon and night, the politicians have disappeared?
And did you notice that, when the new school becomes overcrowded and when the A&E in the new hospital becomes full of patients on trolleys, the politician is elsewhere?
Right now, things are pretty much going down the toilet in Ireland.
While I never, ever, liked those who talked the economy down when things were a bit better than they are now, the huge rise in unemployment cannot be denied.
The virtual collapse of the housing market is there for all to see.
The lack of money is apparent everywhere.
And there is an undeniable sense of foreboding.
So. What are the politicians doing?
Essentially, shag all. Not a thing. Diddly squat. Nada. Rien. Faic.
Well, that's not quite right.
What they're doing is telling the rest of us that everything's fine and dandy. It's not as bad as it looks. Our 'essentials' (sounds like underwear to me) are strong. We're still outperforming Burkina Faso and Chad, or something. And that makes it all grand.
And, in fairness to them, from where they're sitting, on the fat backsides earning vast sums of money, claiming enormous unjustifiable expenses, getting chauffeured around the place at our expense and going home in the evening in the full knowledge that, unlike everyone else in the country, they qualify for a pension after not too many weeks in the job, things are fine and dandy.
You know, we studied history in school and often wondered what it was that prompted people to start revolutions.
I hope, that in a hundred years time, someone reads this, so they'll know why ours began.

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The Parents Who Won't Parent

I enjoy a drink. In fact, I enjoy several.
I have done so since I was... well, since I was a lot younger than I am now.
I have had some mighty fun with drink on board.
There was a time, it would have been unthinkable to go to a rugby international without a having a few pints first.
And as for club games, well, there was the joy of having a pint and watching the action out the window.
Drink has always featured at weekends. It features at christenings, funerals, weddings, birthdays, wedding anniversaries, divorces, house moves, new jobs, old jobs, new cars. Anything.
If you didn't already know, you know now that I am Irish.
And that's the way of it.

I'm not going to say there's no harm in it. There is of course harm in it. There is harm to the wallet and the liver. And very often to the job and to the family life.
But what this is about, is the fact that it has all gotten so much worse in recent years.
Of course, alcohol always fuelled violence to some extend.
The Irish have a reputation, at least partially deserved, for drinking and fighting.
It's a reputation that stems from the behaviour of the Irish who moved to America in the middle of the 19th century.
But though they fought hard and fought tough and it was a time when the shillelagh was anything but a tourist trinket, I can't imagine that screwdrivers or hammers or sawn off shotguns or hand guns were the weapons of thte day.
Somehow, it seems to me that fists were the number one choice.
I remember once, fifteen or twenty years ago, seeing two people who should have known better, going for each other. In a pub, of course.
One of them, a big lump of Scot both kicked and spat at his opponent. It was at that point, the onlookers called a halt to proceedings.
Kicking and spitting were not considered fair or gentlemanly.
Now, people are knocked to the ground and then kicked. One is attacked by ten. Those armed with knives and guns attack the unarmed. The young attack the old. Men attack women.
And it's fuelled by drink, drugs and greed. It's fuelled by the lack of an upbringing. It's fuelled by too much money to buy too much cheap booze. It's fuelled by too many places to buy booze. It's fuelled by an apparent lack of serious sanction if you're caught. It's fuelled by a justice system that's perceived to be worse than useless.
It has become the case, that many, many people stay away from the centre of our towns and cities for fear they will become victims of random violence.
There are calls for some kind of prohibition, or at least, a prohibition on the sale of below cost booze, a ban on the sale of booze in petrol stations, some kind of curtailment of the sale of spirits in convenience stores.
Too late.
If kids can get their hands on Class A drugs, a tray of beer or a bottle of vodka isn't going to present a problem.
Punishing the supplies of booze may have some effect.
Punishing the violent - not rehabilitating them, punishing them, may have some effect.
But until parents start parenting, until the mothers and fathers of the problem teens take responsibility or have it forced on them, nothing will change.
And more will be attacked and killed.
Ireland, 2008.

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I'm Not Built For Being Alone

There are people I know who love being alone.
In fact, I think I used to be one of them.
But far from wanting more solitude as I grow older, I find that I cannot abide being alone.
And, right now, that's how I am.
Charlotte and her mother have gone off to the Canaries for the week.
Seven women of whom Charlotte is the youngest and Connie the second youngest!
The child wasn't well last week. "Creche-itis" the doctor said.
She picked up a bug and developed a cough and the result was that everything that went down came back up for a few days.
To top it all, the flight to the Canaries was at 8 am so the check in was at 6 am and the wake-up call was at 4.30 am. Try explaining that to a 23 month old.

We, the grown-ups, were hoping for four-and-a-half hours sleep.
Charlotte didn't agree.
And so she roared from midnight until after two.
Then she had the nerve not to be pleased when we woke her at 5 am and brought her, in her jim-jams to a crowded airport.
Anyway, off they went.
I went to the match.
And now, I'm at home, fed up.
Yes, I can lie on in the morning, not having a pretty little alarm clock that goes off any time between 6 am and 8 am and demands to get into the bed beside us.
No, I don't have to listen to Iggle Piggle all day.
No, I don't have to read the same bit of the same book 47 times in a row.
No, I don't have to change dirty nappies.
No, I don't have to dream up ways of entertaining an almost two-year-old.
But I wish I had to.
The house is completely empty without them.
Going out isn't the answer. Because it involves coming back in when there's nobody there.
How hard is life for people who have nobody? How cruel are we all for not doing anything for the lonely.
Because lonliness is as bad as any disease and worse than most.
And the thing is, it can be cured easily in just a few minutes with just a few words and, mainly, a bit of listening.
At least I have mutty, Eric the dog.
He misses them too. He's a bit mopey. But he still enjoys going for a walk and making me use the Pooper Scooper.
For me, though, going to bed is the worst.
No little angel to look in on before going to sleep.
No little cries in the middle of the night.
No pure joy in the morning when she wakes up.
Can't wait for them to come home.
I'm counting the days.
Tell the truth.
OK. I'm counting the minutes.

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I'm Not Actually Moving House but...

I’ve been busy.
We’re moving house.
Strange phrase that. Because we’re not, obviously, moving the house. It’s staying where it’s been for the past 100 years or so. We’re actually moving to a new house. But you knew that.
We’re moving house if we can sell the one we’re in.
And that’s the problem.
Because to sell the one we’re in, we have to a) hire an estate agent and b) let complete strangers wander about our home.
Of course, the place has to be clean and tidy. Clean’s not a problem. It’s always clean.

Tidy, well, you see there are two children in the house, Charlotte aged 1 5/6th and me aged 54 1/2.
And there’s the dog, Eric.
Estate agents have favourite words, they would probably call them ‘key’ words, but they use them all the time, so they’re ‘favourite’ words as far as I’m concerned.
Top of the list is ‘de-clutter.’
De-cluttering means putting in inaccessible places things you normally like to have at hand.
This includes things you never use, haven’t seen in an age and/or thought you had put in that skip last year.
De-cluttering has resulted in the beams of our attic being put under enormous strain.
Because in addition to several hundred (it felt like that) pairs of shoes, mostly mine I’m ashamed to say, Christmas and Hallowe’en decorations, parts of a wardrobe, clothes, DIY stuff (not mine), gardening stuff and the like, we had to accommodate the baby’s toys.
Easier said than done.
Because every day, Charlotte has a new favourite.
I lie.
Every ten minutes, Charlotte has a new favourite.
And so putting in the attic, as we did, the green dinosaur rocking, er, dinosaur, the big purply thing, the noisy organ yoke (there are upsides) and lots more, is risky.
Eric is a bit put out. That’s not true either. He’s completely put out. Because put out is exactly what happens to him when we’re cleaning.
And he likes being inside.
Dogs, as you are aware, aren’t toilet trained.
And they grey slabs which make up the bulk of our tiny garden, are stained with Eric’s efforts over the years.
So, for the first time in my life, I had to wash the garden.
Yes indeed, it is possible to wash a garden.
When all is done and dusted (and polished) we then wait for the estate agent to arrive, unable to sit on a couch for fear of disturbing the cushions, unable to make a cup of tea for fear of leaving a ring-stain on the counter, unable to use the toilet for fear of… Well. Just for fear.
And then in traipse people who will undoubtedly criticise our home, say it’s over priced, say they don’t like it and move on to do the same to someone else’s.
I mean, how many of the people who view ‘for sale’ houses, are actually in the market, do you think?
Personally, I believe the vast bulk to be nosey parkers.
It’s tiring. And I’m tired.
I would really love to just pack a case and go off to the sun for a holiday.
Strange phrase that.
Because I don’t actually want to go the the sun… But you knew that.
Isn’t that more or less where you came in?

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Blacks, Irish But No Dogs

I heard a woman on the radio the other day.
She said - half in jest, wholly in earnest - that dogs should be banned.
She didn't like dogs.
And it wasn't just dogs that fouled the footpath or the grass in the park.
She didn't like dogs full stop.
Well, I don't like her.
There is an enormous anti-dog lobby abroad - and, for those who don't get the 'abroad' thing, there's one at home as well.

Most parks are closed to dogs most of the time.
And by 'closed' I mean you are not permitted to let them off their leads.
Oh, if you get up early in the morning, you can let them off their leads for a few moments.
And that's not something you're permitted to do on many Irish beaches.
Except in winter.
Now, Irish beaches are bad enough in summer. You know. Empty, cold, rainy, windy, unpleasant.
And they're worse in winter.
Only a fool would walk a dog on an Irish beach on most winter days.
Or someone like the woman I heard on the radio. Someone who hates dogs.
Dogs need exercise. That's a simple fact.
The bigger the dog, the most exercise they need.
But in today's Ireland, it's becoming increasingly difficult to find somewhere to exercise a dog without breaking the law.
Don't get me wrong.
Every time I have to use my pooper scooper (only the Yanks could come up with a name like that for, well, for a thing that does what a pooper scooper does. Then, it was the Yanks who decided to call the toilet the "rest room," the result of which is that Americans are reluctant to tell anyone they're 'going for a rest,")...
...where was I?
Oh yes. Every time I use the pooper scooper I almost throw up. They're revolting machines. Hideous.
But the law is the law.
And I don't have a problem cleaning up after Eric.
Eric is our dog. That's him up there.
He's a big, white Samoyed.
And like big, white Samoyeds, and virtually every breed of dog on the planet, least the ones I've heard of, he has to do what he has to do.
And I has to clean it up.
And I do.
And still people look at you. Still people thing you've done something wrong or, worse still, the unfortunate mutt has.
I don't get it.
They're only animals.
I mean, do these people want to ban birds too?
And what about sheep and cows and ducks and geese and, come to think of it, bees and butterflies and fish and all other creatures who involuntarily do what dogs get into so much trouble for doing.
(I wouldn't necessarily ban cats for doing what it is all animals do. It would be for an utterly different reason altogether.)
I know a place in Dublin where you can bring dogs and there are no rules, no laws, no regulations to stop you.
It's a big place. It's a large, green area near water.
And you can bring your dog whenever you like.
Where is it?
Not telling.

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