Tuesday, November 28, 2006


What does your loo say about you? Frankly, I'd rather not know, as I doubt it'd be too complimentary for understandable reasons.
Anyway, up until recently, I never so much as considered the prospect of my porcelain friend disloyally revealing all to an elderly visiting aunt about the treatment it gets from me and my innards - processing all that sweetcorn and cashew nuts for one. And stoically enduring those times when I reacquaint myself with a night's beer or miss the bowl in my drunken ablutions. In the latter case, perhaps whispering slyly to a thoroughly horrified bathroom sink - "Now you know what it feels like, you bastard, har har."

Also of late I've been contemplating other new stuff. Such as, say you're in a lift and someone with a cold gets in, says "Hi Derence I'b gob uh really bab cold" and shakes your hand or brushes against you in some innocent way. Only a few short weeks ago, I'd have passed this off easily but now because of the TV ad I think I'm supposed to anxiously wait for the disease-filled pusbag to leave, reach for my antibacterial foam, and commence scrubbing off the dangerous contamination from my hands.
Yup, killer diseases are all around us folks. There's airborne poo in your bathroom parachuting about merrily before nestling on your toothbrush. There's poo particles in bottled water. There may even be poo in Big Macs and holy communion. Poo - it's everywhere. Also, a human bite is more dangerous than a dog's. Public doorknobs house enough bacteria to cause an outbreak of superflu. If you don't wash the water bottle you bring to the gym it can breed e coli. Ear wax, if ingested, can give you flesh-eating disease*. And on...

One of many reasons why Michael Jackson was always classed as a nutter was because of his puritanical hygiene regime. Sleeping in an oxygen tent. Wearing masks. Afraid to have sex** in case he caught aids. Never wearing the same thing twice, all that. We used to laugh at that sort of shite. We'd pooh-pooh that kind of shite in fact. But now we're as bad!

I mean for God's sake. Come in contact with someone with a common cold, the advertisers reckon we should screech to the heavens like Ned Flanders and scour our skin off with a bristle brush. Every fucking ad on TV shows some baby playing mammies and daddies in a mound of toxic chemical refuse and then sitting at its high chair putting a rusk in its mouth, before we're gravely reminded that Flash anti-bac wipes leave surfaces so clean you could eat your dinner off them.

Everything is anti-bacterial. There's dirt police everywhere telling us what's healthy and what's clean, or what's filthy or bad for your kids i.e. buy this or you're a bad Mammy, and junior there will catch plague and what's more, give it to the other little 'uns at school. We're totally over sanitised and guess what, it might even be bad for us. We might be a hardier class of person if we allowed ourselves to encounter a bit more dirt and grime - within reason like, we should all keep away from Man Yoo fans for example - as it might make us more resistant. That and of course, guzzling lots of expensive 'good' (it's a modern day morality tale, honest) bacteria like Bifidus Essensis, Bifidus Digestivum and, the Daddy of them all, L Casei Immunitas. Drink all three together in a potent invincibility cocktail and you could wrestle an elephant in a New York sewer, win the fight and suffer no after effects. True story.

Pah! We're turning into wimps. Nice clean disinfected wimps mind you but soon, if there's a sneeze in Cork, it'll cause a panic riot in Dublin.

I'm just waiting for the health-conscious clampdown on farting. Lord only knows the poison we emit when we let one go, it could be dangerous. Passive farting...hang on...ban on farting in the workplace...shriek! Think of the children!

Don't laugh, it might happen.

*I made this up
**Depends on who you believe
Monday, November 20, 2006

Schoolboy giggle

Yeah yeah I know I know I'm a big kid but I saw this while snaking my way home through traffic to my ostentatious pad on the northside and just had to snap it...got some funny looks from the driver in front when the flash went off though, I think he thought I was a speed trap or something. Oh well.

"Snigger. Your number plater says Cum. Snigger."

I am 12.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Bejasus. I'm a woman

Your Brain is 60% Female, 40% Male

Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female
You are both sensitive and savvy
Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed
But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve

Sigh! Liverpool - again...

Ah fur fox ache.

Barely had the green shoots of a Liverpool revival appeared than Arsenal had them trampled into the dirt. I'm not going to bore you with my musings all over again, it's all down there in that earlier piece of blog that I took so seriously it almost touched on journalism at some points.

Suffice to say I'm not revising my opinion that:

a) the new signings bear uncanny resemblance to the motley crew of new arrivals that did for Houllier in the end
b) my disturbing premonition that this year would turn out like the last one that was supposed to be a new dawn - also under Houllier - looks like being proved correct
c) it's another eerie echo from the past that has us now talking about 'finishing fourth'
d) Benitez is Houllier only with a different accent

I am much disturbed about matters Liverpudlian. Once again we go 1-0 down away from home and my immediate thought is - "Well that's that then." For posterity, I texted Radge and told him so, and he agreed, so he can vouch for my wonderful insight in these matters.

The rest of the game featured the usual shapeless shuffling about and huff and puff from our boys without so much as a period of pressure or decent effort on goal. Unreal. We're playing in a negative bind, a tactical strait jacket, and simply don't know how to take a game to opponents if we concede. Like, how many times when we were 2-0 down did we pass the ball back to the defence from attacking positions on the flank, or pop the ball about without actually going forward until we resorted to the inevitable hoof which came right back at us? All the while the Gunners just sat deep, looking at us trying not to laugh.
Contrast that with an Arsenal who actually tried to attack when in possession instead of turning backwards and going nowhere all the time. Arghhhh!!! MEMO TO RAFA: WE'RE SUPPOSED TO BE CHASING THE BLOODY GAME!

Alas, this is all because of the rank inability of our wingers to go by their man, or more to the point perhaps, the coaching that dictates we retain possession as priority over having a real go and maybe losing the ball. Where's the verve, the panache, the fizz, the intangible unexpected stuff we all supported Liverpool for in the first place?

It's football, not science Rafa, sort it out for fucks sake or piss off.
Monday, November 06, 2006

Sexual euphemisms. Funny.

The lengths (ooo-err) we go to just to avoid using the words 'having sex.' It's really quite ridiculous. But the rich history behind some of these expressions is genuinely quite staggering. I've been researching like mad. And you know what else? Some of these are actually accurate.

1. Slap and tickle
The origins of this are somewhat unclear. However it is thought to have come into common usage in 18th century brothels where fetishist gentlemen would go to get roughed around by gin-sozzled, gap-toothed street walkers brandishing a cat o'nine tails and a smile. Well, most of a smile. You know the type of wench, the ones Jack the Ripper used fillet of an evening when there was nothing on telly.
Anyway, the phrase slap and tickle describes the typically repressed Victorian practice of the gentleman getting a stinging slap or two across the face or buttocks from the harlot and then, to mollify him after the blows, strapped to the bed to have his feet ticked by a circus dwarf with a feather duster. Then the whole thing began again. Hence: slap and tickle although by now it just means plain old sex, i.e without the thrashings by stinking wenches of the night.

2. How's your father
Believed to have originated as a sexual euphemism because of puritanical Daddies who sought to protect their daughters' purity of body at all costs. Instead of sidling up to a young maiden and using a bawdy corner-boy approach like "how's yer belly fer a lodger luv?" it was considered much more discreet to use an opening gambit like "How's your father?"
Inquiring about the father was code speak for "does your father hide under your skirt with a shotgun and an air of unmistakable menace, or is it likely we can get it on behind this convenient bus shelter?" This both covertly signalled the intentions of the male and preserved the modesty of the young lady, although she would often giggle and even colour slightly about the cheeks. Her reply might then have been: "He is well but if you come near me with that thing he'll chop it off and feed it to the dogs," or, more satisfactorily, "He's very well but we can still have a tumble because the Archers is on the radio to keep him busy and besides, the old fucker's deaf as a beetle."

3. Bit of Tiffin
I'm going to write a hyperbole-riddled epic poem some day the first line of which shall exclaim mightily: "Oh Carry On films, thou wert the genteel porn of my feckless youth..."
I haven't got beyond there yet but it might turn out to be fun you'd never know.
Anyhoo, back in 80s Ireland a pair of tits on the telly that weren't Cannon and Ball was a rare and many splendoured thing. Carry On movies were only too willing to provide and with double-entendres being a staple joke for about 30 years along with Oooooh Matron-type scenarios, its sexual dictionary, in the final reckoning, was a fair corpus of work.
It was Sid James that first coined the 'bit of tiffin' line in Carry On Up the Khyber. This was somewhat appropriate as the expression originated in India it is believed. Afternoon tiffin over there was apparently a word for one's daily cup of tea and a snack but it somehow made the linguistic leap from being an innocent beverage and carmelised biscuit to a jolly good seeing to by a grinning and cackling James. Actually, Cadbury's have a chocolate bar called Tiffin as well but it has never evolved to becoming a pick-up bar. Geddit? Geddit? Pick-up bar??? Haha hahahaha. Sorry.

4. Making Whoopie
Bit of a Yankee one is this, not often used on these fair isles but the interesting story behind its inception means it's a must have for this list.
Those familiar with Roman habits will know that a number of behaviours that are major social no-nos today, were once the norm in those times. For instance, farting, belching, and, bless my sainted aunt! taking a whizz or a dump at the feasting table were all considered quite normal, as were fondling the serving girls and ravishing them upon the table in between courses. Then of course, there were the vomitoriums where the sated Romans would go to have a good puke to make more room, and then return to the feast to continue stuffing themselves greedily.
Sexually, of course, the Romans were famed for similarly unusual practices. Old scrolls discovered by Greco-Roman scholars show how it was customary for Roman men, as a sign of sexual satisfaction, to release a tremendous trumpeting fart shortly after climax with his wife - totally in keeping with their non-aversion to all bodily functions no matter the time or place. In time however, the male, unable to summon up a PARRRP of required quality at the required time, took to furtively using an improvised wind cushion that he would secret under the mattress. The deed done, he would simply roll over and apply some pressure to the mattress, whereupon a stupendous raspberry would issue forth from under the bedclothes, satisfying the lady that all was well.
This practice would evolve into the modern schoolboy prank we know well now, appropriately known as the whoopie cushion.

5. Getting your leg over
The pervading notion that this one comes from the physical act of the male throwing his leg over the female as he positions himself for missionary coitus is a convenient but inaccurate one.
The real story originates from the Crusades when the returning Knights made it back home to their wives with body and soul intact, and not to put to fine a point on it after years off fighting battles, a bad dose of the blueball.
Sadly, these battle-scarred heroes were often without one or two of the limbs they were born with, having suffered incidental or medical amputations in the course of the day job fighting infidels or whatever. Upon their return to the missus, the makeshift prosthetic - commonly known as a wooden leg - would have to be unstrapped before doing the deed and in time all the husband had to do, to signal to his wife that he wished to have sex, was unstrap the old falsey and fling it over her and on to the floor at the other side of the bed. And off they'd go.
But you'd never know it from watching Excalibur.