Paddy Murray Is (not that) Unwell (he hopes)

❍Two of the loves of my life, Charlotte and her 'brother' Eric

Back to hospital.
Though I visit St James’s Hospital in Dublin regularly to see my doctors - I think I have five or six at the last count - it’s almost three years since I have spent a night here.
Last time, at least, I was sick.
Hospital’s a grand place to be when you’re sick. In fact, I can’t think of anywhere better. And, when you get right down to it, hospitals were built to look after sick people. So it all makes a perfect kind of sense.
Right now, I am not what you might call sick in the conventional sense.
I feel tremendously well. Any feeling of nausea or being unwell that I feel is a result, still, of Ireland’s lacklustre performance in Rugby World Cup.

Lacklustre? Lack-everything.
Anyway, I’m here in hospital feeling perfectly well from the ankles up.
And therein lies the nub of my problem.
Since I was diagnosed with this damned cutaneous lymphoma about 12 years ago, I have been well from the ankles up bar one period where I was well only from the ankles and wrists up. You will gather that it was my hands and feet that were causing me problems.
And since the last time I was confined to hospital - they don’t actually confine you, they just strongly suggest you stay - my partner has given birth to our wonderful daughter Charlotte. And, up to four months ago, the greatest pleasure in my life was going for a walk around our neighbourhood with Charlotte and the hairy Samoyed we like to described as her ‘brother’ Eric.
Yes, I walked around with a deal of pride. I probably looked smug and maybe, even, arrogant. But certainly proud.
But the feet started acting up. Bastards. If I didn’t need them, they’d be gone long ago. But, like most bodily organs, they have a role to play.
Whether it is to do with being on a clinical trial for a new drug and having stopped my old drug, I can’t say. Even with the old drug which was, generally, excellent for my health bar the fact that it raised my cholesterol so high it almost killed me, my feet were bad.
But they just got worse and worse.
And then the infection set in.
Now, it’s four months since I wore a pair of shoes. Not that I measure happiness by the number of pairs of shoes I get to wear in a given month. Was Imelda Marcos happy, I ask?
Now, I’m in hospital. And I feel well from the ankles up.
Here, the sound that wakes me in the morning is not the baby pressing the buttons on her musical frog, but the nurse telling me I’m about to be fed more antibiotics through a vein in my arm. Funny that, you’d think it would be a vein in my leg, legs normally being nearer to feet than arms.
Confined, so to speak, to a hospital bed and big things happenning elsewhere.
Tomorrow and Sunday, there are two Rugby World Cup Finals.
First up, it’s England and France. I’m cheering for France.
I’d love t o cheer for England. I love the place. I like the English. I admire many of their players.
But, even though I cheer them on at cricket, there’s something....
Maybe it’s “Swing Low...” I don’t know.
And then, on Sunday, I’ll be cheering on Argentina, largely because I think world rugby has given them a raw deal over the years and they have beaten the big boys politically and I’d love to see them winning on the field.
(I know, though, that some would take an Argentina/France final as some kind of vindication of Ireland’s lousy performance. But it would be no such thing.)
For the first time ever, I will be watching Rugby World Cup semi-finals stone-cold sober.
No pints. No wine. Nothing.
I cannot imagine what the experience may be like.
A friend has suggested I will interrupt the game with cries of ‘handball” and “that was a push.”
He said I might even express surprise that the goalkeeper is so far off his line or that someone or other missed a perfect opportunity for a clean header at goal.
Unlikely.
I will, however, miss the expertise that comes with the fourth or fifth pint. I will miss the knowledge of the game and the tactical nous that comes half way through the sixth pint.
But I am, despite what some say, in the care of what I can personally attest, to be one of the finest healthcare systems in the world.
It is a system which would be all the finer if the enormous layer of bureaucracy at its top could be removed or halved.
But on the basis that a decision to halve bureaucracy would be taken by bureaucrats, such a thing is as unlikely as politicians voting to reduce their number or to pay themselves an honest salary.
But let nobody say that once in the door of an Irish hospital, the care is not as good or better than anywhere in the world.
Let nobody say that, despite the problems, the health service is not generous in the way it deals with patients, in that I, and several I have met since my latest incarceration, as being fed drugs unavailable to patients in Britain’s much lauded healthcare system on the grounds of price alone.
So while I will complain - of course I will, I’m a grumpy old man - about being in hospital in the first place.
While I worry that seeing my much loved game of rugby through sober eyes might alter my view of it entirely.
And while I miss my partner Connie, my daughter Charlotte and my dog Eric, madly, I am in a place designed and built for sick people.
Even if they’re only sick from the ankles up.
(At leat, I hope it’s only from the ankels up.)

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Give me doctors any day

Irish politicians have given themselves 22 pay rises in the past ten years.
An average (and boy, do we mean average) TD (member of parliament) pulls down around 200,000 euro when expenses and allowances are considered.
On top of that, he or she can employ members of their families to do whatever, at state expense.
They get paid extra for turning up to work.
They get paid extra for sitting on committees.
Our Taoiseach Bertie Ahern is on a basic salary of 266,492 euro. On top of that, he draws down expenses and is, already on the promises of a publicly funded pension about ten times higher that that his government believes is adequate for ‘ordinary’ pensioners.

Ahern has surrounded himself with advisors, some of whom are paid almost as much as he.
In other words, he pays himself a massive salary, and then, presumably because he can’t do the job, uses our tax money to pay people who can, or at least, people who he believes can.
His ministers are the same.
Right now, he’s bitching about our hospital consultants.
In what is now a fairly normal display of class and sophistication, he whinges that they’re paid more than him.
He expresses himself fed up with the doctors and their protracted negotiations for new contracts. (There was no negotiation whatever involved in the 22 pay rises he and his fellow public representatives gave themselves.)
What is on offer to consultants, is 216,000 euro a year.
Now, I don’t know about you, but personally, I would be wholly in favour of reducing the number of TDs we have by half. Constitutionally, we are required to have one per 30,000 people, which means there are only going to be more of these utterly useless human beings who are a drain on our resources and who are, for the large part, put up for election for reasons not unconnected with nepotism.
If Britain followed our example, there would be 1,600 or so MPs in the Commons.
But, bad and all as they are, they’re not as wantonly wasteful as we are.
So here’s a solution.
Cut the number of TDs by half, or even two thirds.
Abolish the senate.
Get rid of all the special advisors, PR hangers on, gurus, spinners and what not.
And pay the doctors.
Pay them 250,000 a year. Pay them 300,000 a year.
One doctor is worth a dozen TDs.
What am I saying.
One doctor is worth the whole damned lot of them.
I know, by the way. Doctors are keeping me alive and they have done so for 12 years and done so in a way that has given me a reasonable quality of life.
Why should doctors have to beg for decent salaries from people who award themselves how ever much it is they want?
Why should they listen to a bitter, begrudging and dishonest oaf like Ahern, who despite having one of the highest salaries in the land, took money from his ‘friends’ and hid it in a safe while he was going through a marital separation?
Pay the doctors.
Believe me, we can survive without Bertie and his cronies.
We cannot survive with excellent doctors - and nurses - who staff our health service.

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Humbly Doing Flan O'Brien's Work

Flan O’Brien, Myles na gCopaleen, Brian Ó Nualain.
He was the magnificent Irish writer, responsible for such literary gems ad At Swim Two Birds and The Third Policeman.
He was also famous for his column in the Irish Times.
And in that column, the regularly wrote about clichés.
He provided us with a dictionary of clichés.
But, of course, since his untimely demise, clichés have changed.
And so I humbly now, offer some instruction in some more modern clichés.


What race of people, anxious to make our trading situation difficult, is believed to be outside our gate? The Barbarians.
And which particular meal of ours is it, that they wish to consume? Our lunch.
What edible animal, often domesticated, is it that we must have all in a row? Our ducks.
From what sheet of paper, usually found amongst members of a choir, is it that we should all be singing? Hymn sheet.
In which direction should we be going? Forward.
What deadly piece of metal is it that we must dodge? The bullet.
In which land, which is extremely prone to cloudy weather, do some people live? Cuckoo.
What gainful employment is it that it is often suggested we should not give up? The day job.
What useful financial reward is it that we should take and run? The money.
What form of illumination is it that are often on though there is nobody home? The lights.
Of what metal, alcohol filled item, is he one short of a six-pack? A can.
With one of which extremity does he walk on the footpath? Foot.
On which side of life is it recommended that we always look? The bright.
What faecal matter is it that, unfortunately, happens? Shit.
Which female domesticated animal is it that life is before you die? A bitch.
If there is no pain, what else is there none of? Gain.
Through what fissure do we not want something to fall? The cracks.
On what kind of wonderful highway does information travel? Super.
With what awkward bodily growth and all does an honest portrait come? Warts.
To whom is something that’s easy to operate, friendly? User.
What kid of unpleasant head do you not wish to see reared when things are going well? An ugly one.
Staying where is the new going out? In.
Where does the balloon invariably go when things go wrong? Up.
In what kind of sports field is the figure normally found? Ballpark.
What kid of search will the police undertake when someone is missing? All out.
What kind of honcho is the boss? Head.
With what are they viewing the dodgy looking situation? Alarm.
Under what unpleasant item is the released man no longer? Suspicion.
And so what is he now off? The hook.
Like what does the good idea sound? A plan.
What item of haberdashery should you push to annoy someone? His buttons.
What can you not put back in the tube? The toothpaste.
What kind of bovine animal is the profitable business? Cash cow.
What part of your anatomy should someone read if they wish to understand you? Your lips.
What should people not do with your chain if they don’t wish to annoy you? Yank it?
Any more?

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Someone Has To Say It. Boycott Beijing 2008

Boycott. It’s a world coined in Ireland in 1880, when impoverished tenants in County Mayo took passive action against land agent Captain Charles Boycott who, not only, refused to reduce rents, had the unfortunate people evicted for failing to pay on time.
The local people decided they would have nothing to do with Boycott or those working for him. It hurt the people. But, in the end, it hurt Boycott more.
It was the Times of London which first used the word as a verb.
There are those who think a boycott is a crude tactic. And it may well be.
But it not half as crude as the tactics employed by, say, the Burmese generals. It is nowhere near as crude as, for example, the brutal regime of Robert Mugabe. It is in the same league when it comes to the crudity and unpleasant tactics used by China to suppress the people of Tibet.

What have they all got in common?
China. China which supports the Burmese generals. China which props up Robert Mugabe’s regime.
And that is why it is utterly wrong for the people of the world to travel to China next year for the Olympic Games, as if everything was fine.
Indeed, you don’t even have to look to Tibet or Burma or Zimbabwe to begin to ask yourself if it right for the nations of the world to give legitimacy to the Chinese government with its appalling human rights record.
China has mistreated millions of its own people, forced them out of their homes to nowhere in particular in the name of progress.
Its use of the death penalty is not only frequent, but in many cases, for purely political reasons.
It oppresses religious practice. It will not permit freedom of speech (Google this in Shanghai and you won’t find it). The Tiananmen Square massacre still lives in the memory.
China too, is fast becoming the world’s greatest polluter, not caring a whit about the future of the planet.
But even if you could leave aside China’s dreadful record on human rights and pollution and the death penalty within its own borders, it is its opportunistic support for corrupt regimes which should result in those from civilised countries refusing to travel to Beijing next year.
Sure, winning medals can bring joy,especially to those in poor countries. And certainly, the financial rewards for the winners of gold medals are, potentially, enormous.
But is any of it worth the repression of the people of Burma? Is any of it worth the suffering of the people of Zimbabwe? It is worth what the Chinese do to their own people?
Of course not.
Has any world leader the courage to suggest a boycott?
Unlikely.
And we won’t be looking to our own ‘leader’ Bertie Ahern, he being a great admirer of all things Chinese.
But someone, somewhere, should make sure that China’s odious regime is not legitimised by something, once, as fine as the Olympic Games.

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English Grammar Are Important

English are my first language.
I are speaking English since I were two years of age.
I are also able to spoke Irish and a little bit of French.
Language are important. It are important for communication. It are important to distinguish us from other species.
And so, it is important for we to preserve language.
It are important for the media to do so also.
Which is why it baffled me when I see newspapers such as the Irish Times and the London Times and broadcasters such as RTE in Ireland and the once venerable BBC, abandoned all pretence at the correct use of English.
Grammar are a thing of the past.
Oh, I can’t keep this up.
I find it a great deal easier to be correct than to be incorrect.

Why do the four institutions named above, seem to believe that the world government is plural?
Why do they think the word couple is plural?
And the words team, family, company, club, organisation, committee and syndicate?
Why is it always: “The government are...” and “the team are...” and “the couple are...”?
The BBC occasionally refers to itself in the plural: “The BBC are....”
And it’s not just grammar.
Listening to radio and television news, we are often informed that, for example, “a man was sentenced to a year’s imprisonment for assaulting a man in the district court today.” To which I say that the district court is a pretty daft place in which to assault somebody.
What we should have been told, is that “a man was sentenced to six months imprisonment in the district court today, for assaulting another man.
Another example: “The Minister said he would tackle the difficulties in the economy when he arrived in Paris today.” To which I say, I wish he would tackle the difficulties in the economy before he goes to Paris at all.
What we should have been told was that “the Minister said, on his arrival in Paris, that he would tackle the difficulties in the economy.
And here’s another: “Gardai today named the man who died in a road accident yesterday.”
To which I say: That’s nice of them. What did they call him?
What we should have been told is that “gardai have released the name of the man...” and so on.
We are told that “over a million pounds has been stolen” when what is meant is “more than a million pounds has been stolen.”
The English language is constantly being eroded by laziness, bad teaching and bad example.
There is barely a politician in the English speaking world who has any grasp of grammar or syntax.
Indeed, George W Bush is marginally ahead of our own Bertie Ahern when it comes to the garbled use of English.
You may think none of this matters once we can understand each other.
Oh, but it does.
Man started off communicating by making basic sounds. “Ugh” “Oogh” “Aagh.”
The way we’re going, that’s the way we will be communicating in the not too distant future.
If you don’t believe me, ask a question of a moody teenager.
(PS You don’t need to tell me that I too make mistakes. I don’t claim to be perfect!)

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Referees: Why They Are Utterly Useless

YOU will know, from my description of myself above, that I love rugby.
I don’t just love Irish rugby – it’s a struggle to do so right now anyway. I love rugby – period.
And although my own country has been, so far, an enormous disappointment at the World Cup in France, there have been some wonderful games.
And despite a few lopsided scores, it seems, to me at least, that the gap between the strong and weak countries is narrowing, however slightly.
But one thing is spoiling the tournament for me.
It is the same thing that spoiled last year’s Six Nations tournament.
It is the same thing that, week after week, spoils the Premiership.
It spoils international games at whatever sport wherever they take place.
It spoils our domestic games of hurling and football.
It is referees.

I first encountered referees at a very young age, playing rugby in Willow Park School in Dublin.
I came to the conclusion then, that they were, without exception, eejits. I formed the opinion that they were, to a man, incompetent. I reckoned way back then, that they were ego maniacs who believed the games centred around them, inadequate folk who got their jollies ordering people around on a football pitch, nasty, authoritarian figures who craved attention.
Nothing that has happened in the intervening 47 years has changed my opinion.
In this Rugby World Cup, the refereeing has ranged from incompetent to farcical to downright suspicious.
The worst thing the rugby authorities ever did, was give these attention-seeking dimwits microphones, at least, microphones that permit television viewers and radio listeners to pick up what the referees are saying.
They now, God help us, feel obliged to talk every micro second of every damned game.
“Hands away blue, stay on your feet red, bind green.”
It is incessant.
And the rugby authorities then invited them to talk even more with their nonsensical "crouch, touch, pause, engage” nonsense. In fairness, most front rows – I was a prop – ignore the poor eejits completely. Listen, and you will hear referees trying to get as far as ‘pause’ before the front rows have actually engaged.
(I presume, on this score, that the rugby authorities, chuffed with themselves will now bring this idiotic idea one, or even two further. Why not “crouch, say hello, have a wee chat, kissy kissy, touch, hug, have a little rest, engage.)
I have seen more forward passes in this World Cup than I had in my life heretofore.
I have seen more balls but crookedly into scrums, more blatant offside, more crossing, more obstruction, more crooked throw-ins and more refereeing incompetence than I thought it possible to witness in a lifetime, never mind a few weeks.
The other night (I had better not say which match, I’d reckon the little Hitlers are litigious too) I saw a referee standing three feet from a player who knocked on and then proceeded to pass the ball for a try. Do these boneheads not realise we can see and hear them (unfortunately)?
And it’s actually worse in soccer.
A blind man would see some of the dives. Indeed, commentators do the sport no favours, generally either ignoring dives or saying something like ‘there was minimal contact’ when, clearly, there was none.
In Gaelic football, players are, variously, penalised for taking five steps with the ball or not penalised at all for taking ten.
And did you know, for example that it is illegal, in Gaelic football, to trip, punch, hold, drag, pull or rugby tackle another player.
God help us, there’s nothing but dragging and pulling and holding going on for the entire 70 minutes!
There is debate, in most sports, about the use of electronics.
I cannot see a single argument against employing technology.
In the first instance, computers don’t have egos.
In the second, they don’t have faces, which they wish to be seen on television.
In third, while they are fallible, they are, generally speaking, unbiased.
Get rid of referees, I say.
Chuck ‘em out.
Let them all go off to become traffic wardens or school attendance officers or something else with a uniform and which involves ordering people about.
But sport can do without them.
There has to be a better way.

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The British Royal Family: Can Anybody See The Point?

I WAS lying awake in bed the other night.
I had something on my mind.
It wasn’t really something that concerns me an awful lot. It wasn’t something that impacts on my life one way or the other.
It was just a question that popped into my head.
And it was this.
What is the point of the Queen?
Seriously, what purpose does she serve? What use is Prince Charles? Why do people bow in front of Princess Anne? What do they all actually do, apart from wave at people?
And why do they dress up in daft outfits?
Why is Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg the Queen of England in the first place (The family name was changed to Windsor in 1917 because Saxe-Coburg didn’t seem to be an appropriate name for a family ruling a country which was at war with Germany.)

What is the point of any royal family come to that?
Liz Saxe-Coburg-Windsor is not only queen of England, people in Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Jamaica, Barbados, the Bahamas, Grenada, Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Tuvalu, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Antigua and Barbuda, Belize, and Saint Kitts and Nevis, are also expected to revere her as their monarch.
God knows how many castles and estates she has.
Balmoral, where the British royal family goes occasionally to shoot small and large animals, is an astonishing 250 square kilometres of private estate.
Of course, she can afford it. Some say she’s worth £10 billion. Others put it as low as £500 million.
Which begs the question as to why the British taxpayer stumps up more than £30 million a year in Civil List payments and other handouts.
She’s a big tourist attraction, people say.
So is the guy in the Mickey Mouse outfit at Disneyworld. And I think you’ll find that he doesn’t get £30 million a year, doesn’t own a 250 square kilometre estates, doesn’t get involved in seedy scandals and doesn’t expect people to bow when he enters a room.
It’s a desperate pity that people don’t research the history of their royal families.
With the possible exception of Monaco, they would find such histories dripping in the blood of ordinary people.
Royal families killed their peasants for pleasure over the centuries. (Nowadays, they limit their killing for pleasure to small animals like foxes and pheasant and large animals like deer.)
Royal families were, universally, cruel.
Generally speaking, royal families weren’t given their thrones by a grateful populace, they simply took them. Stole them. Killed people to get them.
What use are royal families today?
Well, you couldn’t for a minute suggest the British version sets anything like a good example. Affairs, divorces, drunken escapades, inappropriate comments (largely from the big Greek chap who is also paid vast sums to be a Big Greek chap) and all around bad behaviour.
Male British royals seem never to have been able to keep it in their trousers. Edward VII wasn’t the first to have a bevy of hookers - they probably called them something posh like ‘concubines’ back then - at his beck and call.
The females all seem just a little on the weird side of normal. What mother - other than Liz Saxe-Coburg-Windsor - would greet her children with a handshake, not having seen them for months, having been away looking at her peasants in other countries?
This is, of course, why Diana never fit it. She was so normal, she not only unsettled the Saxe-Coburg-Windsors and their Greek pal, her presence made it patently obvious that they were all, largely, off their collective trolleys.
All this was going through my mind as I lay there staring at the ceiling.
Their spongers, I thought to myself.
They’re al barmy, I said to myself.
They’re a complete waste of space, I told myself.
They are clowns. Expensive clowns.
Think what else could be done with the money they get? Think how many homeless people could be housed in Windsor Castle (from where they stole their name) or Clarence House or any of their other vast mansions.
So why doesn’t Britain just turf them out, give them one estate and a couple of mill, turn Buck House into Disneyland Britain and hire a guy to dress up in a Mickey Mouse outfit to entertain the tourists?
Why doesn’t Britain become fully democratic?
Sadly, I think I know the answer to that.
Democracy gives you the likes of Blair and Bush and Sarkozy and, in our case, Bertie Ahern who has a rare form of Alzheimer's which only makes him forget anything to do with large sums of money.
Still, it’s better than having Phil the Greek gobbling up all your tax bucks.

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The Less There Is The More The Better

A friend of mine used to say, apropos absolutely nothing: The less there is the more the better. Or was it: The more there is the less the better? Not that it makes any difference.
He came from Northern Ireland which may or may not be an explanation.
And even though I haven't the foggiest notion what he was on about, I think he was right.
It is universally, agreed, I think, that the quality of television programmes is in inverse proportion to the number of television stations which exists.
It stands to reason, I suppose, that when available resources are thinly spread, the result is poor quality everywhere.
So these days, with hundreds and hundreds of television stations available on satellite and cable, we are more likely to hear people complaining that ‘there’s nothing on television.’
It is true too, that the more cars people buy in an effort to get from A to B more quickly, the slower it’s going to be. Our roads are becoming more and more clogged as more and more people can afford to buy cars and do so.

It’s the same with aeroplanes. There are now more of them flying than at any time in history. And the result is, that while actual flights don’t take much time, travelling by air does because of the endless hours we all seem to spend in airports due to security, delay and the sheer volume of people travelling.
We have more policemen on our streets than ever before. And, guess what? We have more crime than ever before.
We have more news outlets than ever before what with newspapers, magazines, radio and television stations. And the result is, we’re told more lies and subjected to more spin, than every before.
Science and research have ensured that we now have more medicines and drugs to fight disease and illness than ever before. We also have more people dying of disease than ever before.
The world produces more food than ever before. And more people are dying of hunger than ever before.
We produce more energy than ever before. And there are, world wide, more shortages of energy than ever before.
There are more countries in the United Nations than ever before. And there are more countries in conflict than ever before.
There is more recycling than ever before. And there is more waste dumped than ever before.
There are more species of animal being discovered than ever before and more being made extinct than ever before.
There is more knowledge about what food is good for us than ever before. And there is more bad and dangerous food than ever before.
There is more education than ever before. And there is more stupidity than ever before.
There is more reason to share than ever before. And there is more greed than ever before.
And here’s are a few corollaries.
There is less religion and more sin.
There is not as much faith in God and more evil.
There is less good and more bad.
There is less love and more hate.
There is less hope and more despair.

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They Would Treat Christ The Way They Treat Madeleine

SOMETIMES, the media embarrasses me.
Sometimes, it appears as a creature without morals, without feelings, without purpose.
Indeed, sometimes it seems that the only reason for the media to exist, is to fill the pockets of the decreasing number of people who own its outlets.
While there are many out there now claiming to be bored by the whole Madeleine McCann saga, while some allegedly satirical magazines seem to think Madeleine Mc Cann jokes are de rigeur, while the hysterical sign online petitions calling for the McCann twins to be taken into care and while amateur sleuths claim to have solved a crime that professionals cannot solve, I believe the McCanns are due as much sympathy now as they ever were.
I have no idea who did what to whom on that balmy May night in Praia de Luz.
But i do know these inevitable truths.

Whether she is alive or dead, Madeleine McCann suffered and may well still be suffering.
Whether or not they are involved - and I hope and believe they are not - Madeleine’s parents are going through hell.
The ability of the media to turn on those they first put on a pedestal has never been better illustrated than by the Madeleine McCann story.
Parents admired for their courage, their faith, their tenacity, their strength and their fortitude, are now derided as drunks, ego maniacs, child abusers and murderers.
There is no doubt, none whatsoever, that some Portuguese police have lined their pockets selling tidbits to a hungry media, tidbits that may or not have any basis in fact.
Others in the Portuguese justice system have systematically fed information to the media which attempts to show that system in a better light.
And then there are those in the media who simply overhear gossip in pubs or cafes and present what they hear as credible theories or fact.
Others still, believe me, just make it up.
The result is that the focus turns from the search for Madeleine, to a search for someone to hang.
It has become, with all the classic elements, a witch hunt.
Do those who own media outlets feel happy or proud when they see a pack of reporters and snappers camped outside the McCann house?
Do they not see the irony when, for example, Sky News flashed along the bottom of the screen Gerry McCann’s plea for privacy while the picture being shown was that of a helicopter hovering over the plane that brought the family back from Portugal?
Do they care?
The media didn’t snatch Madeleine McCann.
The media didn't kill her.
But they could help.
They could help, for starters, by doing something novel and innovative.
Like only printing what they know to be true.
Wouldn’t that make a nice change.
They could be ethical and not accuse people in a bit, simply, to up circulation or viewing figures.
They could be moral, and show sympathy for the McCanns, regardless of what happened that night.
They could be decent, and move away from their home.
But then, the media, and the British media in particular, is a soulless creature.
If Christ returned to earth today, He would first be praised before the media then turned on Him.
They would call Him a fraud. They would call for Him to be arrested.
They would call for Him to be crucified or put to death by lethal injection.
They would shove cameras into the faces of Joseph and Mary.
They would hound the apostles.
They would try to photograph Christ’s body (if it was there!)
And if people then blamed the meda for what happened, the would, Pilate-style, wash their hands of it.
Then, in an effort to keep the story going and to exonerate themselves, they would find someone else to blame.
The media feeds on people, decent people.
It gobbles up heroes and spits them out.
It tells us how wonderful people are only so that it can later revel in their falling from an even greater height.
Sometimes, the media embarrasses me.
This is one of those times.
And, unfortunately, they are becoming more and more frequent.

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If They Can't Drink, Don't Let Them

THERE is a phenomenon which is almost unique to Britain and Ireland.
It is a thing you see mainly at weekends, though you may step in the results on a Monday morning.
It could put you in hospital.
It could end your life.
It will certainly make you feel uncomfortable.
It is binge drinking.
Binge drinking fills the gutters of our streets with puke. It leaves urine stains down the walls of pubs inside which, are perfectly good toilets.
It results in young men and women who will go to work or college or, sadly, school all week, turning into caricatures, the stumbling drunk, the silly drunk, the singing drunk and, worst of all, the aggressive drunk.
Too much beer, mixed with too many spirits and, probably, a chemical or two, fill the Accident and Emergency departments of our hospitals.
Too much wine, too many cocktails and, maybe, something to sniff, fill the cells of our police stations.
Too many cans, too many gulped pints and, maybe, a smoke of something, fill our cemeteries.
There are three kinds of people in the world.
1. Those who drink.
2. Those who don’t drink.
3. Those who shouldn’t drink.

The problem is, that those who drink generally do so in a reasonably civilised manner. The worst they will do is tell the same joke a few times in succession or, maybe, sing when they’re not very good at it or, occasionally, make a remark that’s out of place.
Those who don’t drink just don’t. And whether it’s for religious reasons or just because they don’t want to, that’s their choice, even if it is boring for them hearing the same jokes over and over again.
The problem with those who shouldn’t drink is that they usually drink more than anybody else.
They are usually louder than anyone else.
They usually think themselves funnier than anyone else.
And they are certainly more aggressive than anyone else.
It is they who think it’s funny to, say, wreck a bush shelter.
It is they who think it’s a bit of a wheeze to snap a sapling tree.
It is they who get a laugh from frightening an elderly person.
It is they who have sex more often than others, who gets sexually transmitted diseases more often than others, who get pregnant or who get someone pregnant more often than others.
It is they who get the hump when they are refused by a barman, turned away by a bouncer or rejected by a girl, or indeed, by a bloke.
It is they who cause the damage to property, public and private. They who start rows. They who put others in hospital or end up there themselves. They who get arrested and bring shame on their families. They who wonder why it is that others get ahead in life.
As one who enjoys having a pint of Guinness and who…
No. Let’s be honest here.
As one who enjoys having lots of pints of Guinness. As one who enjoys several glasses of wine, I wonder why it is that those who shouldn’t drink persist in doing so.
I suppose that, if it were proposed to bring in a law banning such people from drinking, we would be told that their civil liberties were being infringed.
But we ban bad drivers, don’t we?
So why not ban bad drinkers?
Three month bans. Twelve month bans.
Life bans, maybe.
Teach them how to drink.
Make them do a test to prove they can drink.
And if they can’t do it, don’t let them.
Makes a lot of sense.
It would keep our streets cleaner, more pleasant and – above all – safer.
And would leave bars for people who can drink.
Even if they will burst into song every now and then.

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