Reviews, thoughts, ramblings and so on…


So we have finally reached the end of the blog post assignment and I’d like to think we’ve all learned a few things along the way.
I, for one, have learned that blogging wouldn’t be all that bad if I just got to write things whenever I felt like it instead of immediately jumping to a state of “crap, crap, crap, crap, crap!” every time I see one of my class mates has posted a new blog entry. (Honestly, some of you post FAR too often and it scares me).

Now, I know it’s going to be emotional saying goodbye and all of your lives will have to return to the pitiful state of mediocrity they wallowed in before my shining beacon of bloggy light gleefully bounced straight in to your, blinding you with its brightness and bull. But fear not readers!…………..I’m not sure why, it just seems like the right thing to say. In reality ye’re all screwed. But so am I so it’s cool :).

As a final blog entry I’ve decided to compile a wee list of things I haven’t said yet just to get it all out there in a final bust of insanity before my mindless word-vomit is graded by our WONDERFUL LECTURER :)…Who, if I haven’t said already, is WONDERFUL!

So here goes…and the very besht ‘a luck t’ya!

A selection of things that really erk me

One Direction:
LOOK at them! Honestly!
Now I’m aware that there are now hordes [haha, like this blog reaches hordes!]  of teenage girls and a handful of creepy mid-twenties and even creepier Moms thinking…”Ya, LOOK at them!” right now but I’m not talking about their dashing handsomeness here (I am also aware that the creepy mid-twenties and even creepier Moms are also thinking “Most of them are legal like!” but seriously, that’s not even a valid argument, it’s just the height of creepery and that sentence only makes it worse).

One Direction

LOOK!....tools (and the one on the right has a model pose...In a onesie!)

My hatred may be fueled by my younger sisters irrational love of everything they do (and her desire to tell me about said everything) but I honestly just dislike these people, their style and their music. Now, sure if you want to give me THAT much money to jump around on stage singing songs about hot girls who think they’re ugly  and dress like I love myself then point me to the make up room and tighten my pants!. But I’m not getting paid loads of money, my pants remain comfortable and my disdain for them remains at large.

The youth of today:
(Hitches up pants, puts hard sweet in mouth and puts walking stick in wielding arm)
They’re just a bit crap aren’t they? They like One Direction, for example. They have filled the charts with auto-tune over-kill versions of what appears to be the same song by the same guy over and over again.
Also, there’s a show on MTV called ‘So Random’. And they watch it. And like it. What the….!?
It’s literally like MTV sat down and went “Em, what are all the kids saying these days?….Random!…They’re forever saying everything is random…we’ll call the show that!” and it worked. Despite nothing, at all, being random about anything!

smug man

We'll call it 'Random'. They'll love it.
Lololololol...stupid kids

The word Random:
If one more person says something like ‘Oh My God, I was in town yesterday and I saw John shopping. It was so random!’…

Oh really? You just happened to see someone you know wandering about the main commercial centre of your small city and he was SHOPPING!? The thing that people typically go to town to do!? Seriously!?…Excuse me while I vomit at just how random that was.

That’s just not random.
Random would be something like: “I was in town yesterday and fifteen 6 foot, yellow nickers were having a scrap on Patrick’s street…but anyway now I’m married.”….
Not “John was there”.


I can't believe I actually found an image for giant yellow knickers...

Things that will wreck your head

The game:
Here are the rules of the game:
1) EVERYONE is playing the game.
2) If you think about the game, remember the game, remember that you’re playing the game or the game enters your head in ANY way…you lose the game.
3) All losses must be announced.
4)After a loss there is a ten minute grace period in which loss is impossible in order to allow you to forget about the game

Welcome to the game!…You’ve just lost the game.
Visit to learn…..I think: http://www.losethegame.com/


Starting to understand a bit more about lost?



Things we believed when we were young:

If you stretched your mouth open at the sides, it would get stuck that way:
Seriously, when you think about it, having been told this did ANY of us ever wonder why we never saw one reported case of an adult walking around with a floppy stretched mouth?
There was flaws in the logic there somewhere.


His mother tried to tell him...and now he can't get a job

And the same holds true of the ‘sitting too near the TV gives you square eyes’ think. I’ve never in my life seen someone with square eyes and, honestly, I think it would be kind of cool. Does it still work with flat screens?

Every new female recording artist used to be a man:
There are long lists of examples. Two that spring to mind immediately are Ciara and Shakira. We were convinced they used to be men! Searching for Adam’s apples in music videos.
The lyrics of Shakira’s songs were even changed to an apparently autobiographical:

“Whenever, wherever, I changed my name from Trevor.
Even though it seems quite queer, I was a man last year”.

Just another example of big money music producers stifling the creative genius of the artist, just because the truth was too raw for the public. Typical. Probably the same thing that’s holding One Direction back from releasing their version of “Smack my b**ch up”.


Seriously look!...Adam's Apple!!!

Really!? We thought Ciara and Shakira used to be men….if they were men then plastic surgeons can channel the power of Jesus.

If your testicles touched each other…you would die:
Now, I’ve checked with a few people and no one but me seems to remember this being a rumour.
Maybe it was just in my particular group of now questionable friends but it was definitely circulating for a while there.
As we grew up though we began to become a bit more skeptical and the rumour was downgraded from death to instantaneous paralysis. Simple, it’s Science.

That would be a serious design flaw there wouldn’t it!? Are we really saying that the almighty wouldn’t spot a little fault like that when he was making man?
“Em, yep, I’ve created them exactly in my likeness….except their testicles can kill them. We’ll fix that for the next batch”.

Even if that are we saying that evolution wouldn’t have weened that little ticking time bomb out?
Survival of the fittest…but only once your bits don’t touch. Good luck with the survival there mankind!


Tom's junk just touched...

The End!

Well there it is. I’m done!
Sorry for all the crap I’ve made you read and please, tell your friends! 😛
In the meantime I will continue to try to saunter through life with the kind of graceful retardedness that’s gotten me so far.
Bye 🙂


I know, I know what you’re thinking. There’s no way primary school is better than college. I can drag my hungover arse in and out of college willy-nilly because nobody actually expects me to go, I’ve no morning classes this year and if I chose correctly I could also have no classes at all on a Friday. These are all true. However, primary school wasn’t all early mornings and uniforms. There were some pretty sweet parts of primary school that I think could easily be adapted to third level education to make college a better place for us all to be.

Primary school was a simpler time. A list of my biggest worries when I was in primary school included the following:

  • How long before I can change out of my uniform?
  • How much of my sandwich do I actually have to eat before I could get away with moving on to the crisps without getting in trouble?
  • Why can’t I get a cool wrestling pencil case like Random Friend X has?
  • What If I DON’T remember all 150 pokemon and what each one evolves in to!?
  • Must…get…more…pogz!
  • Who’s gonna be on in chasing this yard-time?

And a list of my biggest worries in college:

  • When’s that assignment due!?
  • We have WHAT mid-term this week?
  • It’s worth HOW much percent!?
  • Did they just say something about this being on the exam? Is this gonna be on the exam? Crap I should be listening…
  • What in God’s name am I going to do with my future after I finish in College!?
  • I have to have a career now!?
  • …Eugh, peer evaluation forms have to be filled out
  • Naggins are HOW MUCH!?

Naggins are HOW MUCH!?

But this isn’t even the point I’m making here. The point is where primary school is better than college, and where we, at the end of our educational careers, can learn from those at the very start (Outside, of course, of bringing back Pogz. My God they were epic).


You all know the situation. A lecturer has asked a question, no one has answered. It’s been more than ten seconds and now it’s beginning to get awkward. The lecturer stands there staring out in to the sea of faces. Some disinterested, some whispering to the person next to them “what did they ask!?”, others whispering “I don’t have a clue!”, some showing visible signs of the strain of the ever increasing awkwardness and most staring at the floor or their phone or anywhere that isn’t the lecturer’s face (The latter here is a defense mechanism in case the lecturer is one of those rare breeds who will actually ask people individually if no one answers soon). As the silence grows more deafening and the awks become major everyone secretly hopes someone, ANYONE, will answer. Everyone looks to the foreign kids (as they are are usually quite reliable in this kind of situation to transfer the awkwardness back on to the lecturer using a combination of incomprehensible accents, broken English and un-pronounceable names) but nothing from them this time.  Finally, after what seems like aeons of time, the lecturer cracks and just answers themselves and moves on having lost the game of awkward moment chicken with the class. A collective sigh of relief is breathed.

Awkward lecturer

Memes...They just make image hunting SO much easier! 🙂

But this could all be avoided? Remember Primary school?
A question wouldn’t be out of the teacher’s mouth before hands would shoot up all around the room, stretched as high as possible in the air, with the other arm either placed over the lips to show you were being silent or  used as a support arm for the long-haul stretches where the teacher was being indecisive about who to pick to answer. People would literally be shouting “Sir, Sir, Sir, I know!” trying to get the teachers attention.

Now I’m not saying we should be doing this in lectures (even if it would look hilarious). But think back to why your hand was in the air, why you wanted to answer the question. It wasn’t due simply to an overwhelming desire to show off what you knew (unless you were one of THOSE kids…*evil eyes*). It wasn’t because your teacher was some kind of tyrant who would bate ya with a stick if you didn’t show enthusiasm in class (unless you had one of THOSE teachers). It wasn’t even because you had just eaten a load of sugar at lunch and were now struggling just to keep yourself in your chair (though this sometimes was the case). It was because of stars.

If you did well, you got a little reward. A sticker of a little golden star, or perhaps a smiley face, to show that you were feckin’ brilliant! And being honest, it was the fact that you now had a sticker to play with that kept you entertained not the brilliance you supposedly had. You didn’t give a flying sh*te at that age how brilliant you were….you just cared about the rewards you would get for at least appearing brilliant. And the rewards didn’t stop at stars. If you got consistent gold stars or smileys or whatever you had, then at the end of every week or month or something there was a possibility of an even greater reward…and this could be amazing. Prizes I encountered in my time were: choice of toys at play time, jellies, chocolate, biscuits, taking care of the class goldfish, no homework, getting the class giant teddy bear for a weekend and many more. I don’t care how old I’m supposed to be, if you give me jellies for answering questions I will answer those questions and sit in class with a big smug “I’ve got the jellies” head up on me. Delighted with life.


Answering questions...the safer alternative to getting in the van

So what I propose is this: In every lecture there is a chart with all our names on it (perhaps it could be done online….I mean this IS college like!). When you answer a question correctly or provide something constructive to the class you get a star, which is added to your online total of stars. Then, at the end of every week, the person on top of the class gets something they’d enjoy…like a naggin…or the shift. Be grand!
No more awkward silences and we all get a better educational experience for just the price of a naggin a week. Who says we need to bring back in fees!?


Remember Milk in Primary school?
You sign up for it at the start of the year and then once a day for the rest of the year someone would arrive to your classroom with a carton of refrigerated milk for you to enjoy while you were in school. Brilliant!
Now, albeit at the time I probably would have preferred it to be a red lemonade or Tanora or something (image below for those who have the misfortune of not being from Cork) but  it’s the idea of being handed a drink every day that I like here.


Look at it....Om nom nom Tanora!

Imagine. You’re in a two hour lecture. It’s warm in there (like it is in ALL Ucc lecture rooms except the Geography building) and you’re starting to get thirsty. You’ve got one of those lecturers who refuses to take a break and wants to fill every minute of those hours with their voice. You’re on your last legs, not sure if you’ll survive the next twenty minutes. Note taking has reached an all time low, as has energy and sanity. Not only are you not learning but you’re staring to forget things you already knew….like your name.
Suddenly, the lecture room door swings open and in steps a man with a small basin filled with hope. He’s got your drinks. Refreshment sweeps through the room as the man with the basin doles out the ice cold bottles of whatever-ya-like (not unlike the guy who doles out the peanuts at American sports events, but you’ve already paid for the service). Everyone is now back on track. Ready to face the next hour of this class and take notes like a boss!

It could even be pints! Imagine a pint midway through one of your most boring lectures. Wouldn’t that just fix all your problems? You’d be more than delighted to be at your lecture then!



I may be single-handedly saving the Irish educational system here…

Games at yard time

Think of the amount of time you spend hanging around college. I know you’ve got things to do a lot of the time like assignments, readings and creeping but be honest…most of this time is spent on Facebook anyway.

Remember lunch time in Primary school? It was nothing but whatever game was popular at the time, like Pogz, chasing, Pokemon or whatever. Again, I’m not saying I expect to see college students playing chasing up and down campus (at least not while they’re sober) but at least something entertaining when we leave class instead of just sitting around people watching until our next lecture. I’d be up for a game of Pogz in college. Pogz society? Just putting it out there…


Beer Pogz!

Oh my God, BEER POGZ! (I reeallly liked Pogz!)

There’s loads of things you could actually do with your free time. There’s only so many times I can pretend to do work in the library. Free time from our education used to be fun. Now it’s just sitting around campus or in student housing watching home and away or sitting in the bar with a pint. We had shag all to keep us entertained during breaks in Primary school but we were creative enough to keep ourselves going the whole time even though we were stuck inside the walls of the school grounds. Now we can go wherever and do whatever we like, we don’t even have to be creative, and we can’t even think of one thing to do half the time. 8-year-old me was so much cooler.


Doing nothing can be the nicest thing in the world. I love nothing. And nothing loves me (…sadface). Nothing is that thing you want to do when SOMETHING is that thing you HAVE to do.
Unfortunately though, the reverse is also true. Here you are with all the nothing to do in the world and here comes something to d*ck with your joy (Not unlike the notion of Monday to your Sunday evening in my earlier post). Something makes you think that’s where you want to be. It makes you want the something. What that something is, you don’t have a clue,but by f**k you want it!

And worse than this? Is that you literally have nothing to do. Even if you wanted to do something (and now you do) you couldn’t. Therein lies the dickishness of something.
Something:  Hey dude, you want this thing?
You: Ya! sure! what’s the thing!?
Something: Nothin’…
You: Give me the f**ing thing!
Something: Nah…XD

(Note: Something is not a pedophile and it is not trying to lure you somewhere…I just couldn’t think of a non-creepy, non- ‘get in my van’ way to word that dialogue)

Creepy Van

This is NOT the something...and don't get in the van...

The point is though, that there’s nothing worse than doing nothing when you think you should be doing something…ESPECIALLY when there’s not even a something you should do.
A point made worse when other people appear to have to save the world, cure world hunger, make dinner, eat dinner, rescue 16 kittens from a burning building (one at a time), get a fox, a hen, and seeds across a river only taking one at a time (and not leaving the fox with the hen or the hen with the seeds) and then write an essay…if they want to go clubbing tonight like.

ALL the things!

This is other people....look at 'em...state!

Other people doing stuff is the curse of nothing. Other people ALWAYS have stuff do do at the exact opposite time you have noting at all to do.
And when there is a something you should do, what do you want to do?…Nothing…Or ANY other things. Procrastination can be key here. So you may as well learn how to do it well. Sandra knows how to do this.

Nothing and My Future

So we’ve turned on to the home-straight as far as the college year goes. What’s even scarier though, is that we’ve also turned on to the home straight as far as our years in education goes!
Some time in the next few months I’m supposed to automatically become a functioning member of society!? How the f*ck do ya do that!?
I’m still hoping that the second I set foot outside of college for the last time something will just snap and all of a sudden I’ll be overcome with maturity, responsibility and the kind of drive and decision making that I’m definitely supposed to have by now.
Maybe I’ll just be able to pull it out of my a*s, but that would insinuate that it’s currently stored somewhere in my a*s and I’m just not sure that I’m comfortable with that insinuation.
Anyways, I’ll have to get something from somewhere. Short of re-launching my brief (but glorious) gangster rap career I’m thinking I may have to actually get a non-ghetto-related career.   And as much as I’ve spent my life so far qualifying myself for exactly that it also brings with it a whole new kind of pressure…the pressure to be a normal person…Oh god.

normal person dog

Hey, I'm here to work for your company?....What?

As for right now though, I don’t have a career. I’ve applied for companies that I want to work for and thankfully I have a few interviews to go for. Wonderful!
But not going for one of the accounting firms (who take the largest proportion of graduates from my course by far) meant that for a large portion of the year I had to sit idly by and watch a load of my friends get interviews, placements and jobs while I was waiting to hear back from companies or waiting for their job application process to open.
While that did afford me a lot more time to do whatever I liked while friends panicked, fretted and generally ran about the place in suits, it also allowed me a lot more time to think about what in God’s name I was doing with myself….the answer: nothing. Nothing at all.
Sure, they had lot’s more on their plate than me so doing relatively nothing in comparison was perfectly acceptable really but did it feel that way?…It did in it’s arse!

All of a sudden I wanted to do things. I was all ready to go to apply for jobs and do interviews and wear suits and be productive and have a future and all sorts of crap.
And yet, I couldn’t. I just had to sit there in my nothingness. The nothingness that would soon be over. The nothingness I should take advantage of because once the nothingness was over I would have SOOOOO much sh*t to do. The nothingness now ruined by everyone else’s somethingness. The pricks.

Apply for ALL the jobs?

Look how sad...

Now I know that’s two to three memes in one post but memes are what cool kids do now. So in order to keep up my status as a cool kid I must now do everything they’re doing #UnnecessarilyHashTaggingEverythingIsAlsoCool.

Nothing and me, right now

So I have a confession to make. This blog post has been written entirely on the basis that right now, I have nothing to do.

I have applied for all the jobs I could find that I was interested in and, as of a few hours ago, I finished my final big marketing project of the year (which has been pretty close to finished since January). Yes, it took less than an hour or so for me to crack and do something. This was the only thing I could think to do.

Again, other people have EVERYTHING to do. As usual.
Being that I chose marketing as my major I had the majority of my projects before Christmas. Every other major subject, it seems, has all of their deadlines AFTER Christmas. Meaning that, once again, I only have nothing to do when everyone else has trojan amounts of typing to do (although I’m sure the trojans probably wouldn’t appreciate the notion that they would type).


Ya, sure, I'll be out in a sec guys...just gotta reference this sh*t

And what’s worse than this? I actually DO have stuff to do. I have loads of stuff to do. But for one reason or another, right now, I can do none of them. This, above all the other things I have said, is the single most annoying thing in the world bar one or two things like Jedward, stubbing your toe and the entire youth of today.
Yes, I am old and grumpy ahead of my time.


So it’s Valentines day (or at least it was when I wrote this) and because I’m about as inventive as a spoon guess what this blog is about? That’s right, Love.
But it’s not really what it’s about.  It’s about me having to fill some space for a class, filling all of yer lovely heads with nonsense and having a choice few love-related things that I feel like word-vomiting about for a while.

I’m by no means a love guru, expert or know-it-all. My view point isn’t relevant or interesting. Christ, it’s not even right!
But it’s here, so read it, enjoy it, disagree with it and by all means comment on it (That last one particularly helps 😉 ). Here’s a few lovey-ish topics for ye all on Valentines. Feel the love ❤

(DISCLAIMER: I’m not as angry and alone as this blog makes me seem…Also I may not ACTUALLY believe half the crap I write but shur screw it it’s written now, and it’s much funnier if I’m a sensationalist :)…enjoy! 🙂 )

B3b0 Luv

Remember Bebo Luv?, Remember how it was spelled L-U-V to make it extra daycent? Remember BEBO!?

So what is Luv?

Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Anyway…

For those of you who were never cool enough to experience the wonder of the “Add Luv” button, Luv was a little picture of a heart you could add to the top corner of comments you left on people’s Bebo accounts (the coolest social networking site ever…RIP)

Bebo Luv

This was it. The little heart in the corner of your comment that meant so much...Kinda sh*te in big isn't it?

Bebo luv was a phenomenon. When it started out as 1 luv a day people went mad for it! There was spam posts on people’s walls about it! Not in order to steal your information or even bank account details, no, it was all for Bebo Luv.

“Want to know how to see who has visited your page!? It’s simple! Just give me your Luv and I’ll send you the link!!!!!xXxX!!!!xX”

Now, I never did that so I have no idea if you were sent the link or not. Maybe the link robbed your money, who knows!? But the point is that guy wanted your Bebo Luv and he would rob ALL your info and spam ALL of your friends just to get it. Isn’t that kinda sweet?

When it was one luv a day though it wasn’t that simple. You really had to think about who got your luv for the day. That person had to mean something! They had to have done something Luv-worthy for you recently! They would want to be someone you fancied! They’d at least want to be someone you wanted the shift off! You weren’t just going to leave that little heart on anyone’s page. Future marriages were built on this sh*t! You gonna waste that on the friend that loaned you a euro for a bottle of coke!?

If you got Luv off that girl you liked (her only luv of the day), it was, in essence, a shift. You were in and you feckin’ knew it! (Unless you asked her for it, in which case she only gave it to you ’cause she’s not a b*itch…Yay! that girl you like isn’t a b*tch! :)…but she probably doesn’t like you…)

And then, of course, they went and dicked with it. The pressure of who to give your Luv to, the decisions to be made, the broken hearts of those who didn’t get today’s Luv, all those people whose hopes were built up Luv after Luv only to find she already had an other half on Bebo! (Crushing). It all got too much. So they eased up a little on the rules. You could have 3 Luvs a day. That gave you a lot more wiggle-room. Now euro-loaning bottle-of-Coke friend AND the person you fancied could get a Luv. Everyone’s happy.
It took away from the love significance too. Sure that girl just gave you a Luv but she also gave one to your best friend and the fake Bebo account set up for her dog. Not quite the same is it?

If you got all three of a person’s Luvs in one day though….wahow boyo!…Sorted.
It was only a matter of time before ye were other halves.

Once it went to three Luvs though Luv lost it’s touch. It didn’t quite mean the same anymore. For the first time you could piss around with Luv a little. Who cares who got the first one, you had two more.
It was all a numbers game then. Who had the most Luvs on their page is all that mattered. It didn’t matter where they came from or how you got them, as long as you got more Luv. It’s the start of a slippery slope in to slutdom.


Who wants my B3b0 LuV!? XxxXx (You wouldn't believe what I had to google to find this)

And look at it now-a-days…You can send little hearts whenever you want! I sent one in this post already. All I have to do is type <3.
Now we have unlimited Luv. I can send six to someone I don’t even know if I want to. Plaster them all over the page of the person I met last night if I want to be sure that I’ll never see them again. I can put them in Facebook chat, in posts and comments, in texts, in anything! And they all mean sweet-F-all. (Except the ones on the girl I met last night’s page. They could have an impact….why won’t she comment me back!?)

Ye’re all just a big bunch of Luv-hookers. Am I the only one longing for the days of 3 more meaningful Luvs a day?
Maybe I’m just old fashioned but I want to KNOW that if a girl sends me a little love heart in a message that I could get the shift.
It just makes things much simpler.

The Friend Zone

To continue with the love related theme, the place where many guys are spending this Valentines: The Friend Zone.
Personally, I think I can speak about this because I’m the freakin’ mayor of the friend zone. Well, I’m not that bad, but I’m at least an elected official on the friend-zone county council.

Now, first things first, this is a female concept. Guys don’t have one and if they tell you they do they learned it from girls.
That isn’t to say that guys don’t have female friends, they do, but being someones friend and being in the friend zone are not the same thing. You want to be friends with some one. NO ONE wants to be in the friend zone.

Friend Zone

If he WANTS to be there then he's some creepy bollix...

Telling a guy you “just want to be friends” is not the easy let-down you think it is. It’s some kick in the emotional mebs.
It’s actually probably the worst let-down you could hand a guy short of a shotgun to the ribs and sneering “get out” through gritted teeth…or a bear clamp to the ACTUAL mebs.
Actually, it’s not even worse than the shotgun one. At least THEN the b*tch is crazy and you wouldn’t want anything further to do with her shotgun wielding ass in any case. Just stick with the bear trap nads image. That should do it.


"I just want to be frieeeennnndssssss! :)"

Now before anyone gets crazy I do understand that there are situations where people DO  just want to be friends. Just as I also understand that there are sometimes it’s NOT you and it IS me. But the legitimacy of these cases are seriously diluted by the number of people who use the “we should just be friends” line in place of “I find absolutely nothing at all remotely sexual about you. As far as I’m concerned you are completely asexual…like a brick…or a kettle”.
It’s even used by people you barely know. How could you possibly know that we would be better just staying friends? You’ve never been my friend. I only met you last night and left love hearts all over your Facebook page. Those mean nothing! I could be a knob as a friend you don’t know! LOOOVVEEEE MEEEEE!!!

(For the record…Not a good approach^ )

And while we’re on the topic here. Recently me and Kevin from Cork’s Hidden Wonders had a discussion-come-argument with Jennifer from Girl About Town regarding guys and girls and eventually we got to the point of why there are just no good men out there. Frankly we were all baffled. Why is it that all the guys around are just absolute mickeys of young-fellas?
Eventually we reached a conclusion…they’re not. There are guys out there who are genuinely nice. You can find one if you really want to. Just stop getting the shift off d*ckheads. Simples *Meerkat Noise*.

You know where most of the nice guys you’ve met so far are?

Valentine’s Advertising

Piss off. I’m alone.


Not all couples. Just the really annoying ones. They are some pricks. Coming round here on valentines with their togetherness and joy. Screw ’em!

You know the ones who are constantly just on each other’s faces in front of you? Those ones. No one wants to see that happen and if they did you’d be really worried wouldn’t ya? So f*ck off!
Next time you do that I’m going to take out my binoculars and sit down with my box of popcorn just to prove a point. That’ll learn ya! (And I’ll get popcorn 🙂 )
I know you’re happy and well done to you, honestly. But I don’t need to know ALL the time.

Happy Couple

We were just talking about happiness, joy and puppies....Emm...where's YOUR happiness, joy and puppies?

And then there’s the other ones. The ones who try to join in the Valentines misery of the rest of us. You’re not alone. You’re happy. Stop pretending you’re not just because now it’s cool to be sad. Let us have our moment without you pissing it up with your couple-y-ness!
Just take your happiness and enjoy it elsewhere.


And for all of you who think your Valentines is failing…it’s 9 O’Clock on Valentines night and I’m writing a blog post for a class. Earlier, I was writing an essay. This is the saddest anyone’s Valentines could possibly be. Take solace in that fact.



So RAG week is nearly upon us again. It’s that time of the year where all inhibitions, studious intentions, lecture attendance, money and some pants go out the window. Lecturers will tell you “We will be having class on RAG week” and you will quietly think “YOU will be having class on RAG week. I will be drunk.”

You can make all the excuses you like but you know full well you will be doing sweet shag all on RAG week except filling yourself full of things your Doctor doesn’t approve of.

It is at this time of the year though, that the age old Pub Vs Club debate  has even more weight attached to it. With the added RAG-week-y-ness attached to going to a Club over the Pub for the night there is no better time to drag this one out in to the open than now.

Now, personally I have found that in my old age I have begun to drift more and more towards the Pub over the Club night. There are many reasons for this, not least of which is I am a lazy b*ll*cks and I appreciate a good sit. But the Club has its benefits too, like being able to act the knob on the dance floor without drawing the attention of the WHOLE place at least and the generally increased acceptance of doing dump-truck amounts of jager shot by shot.

The pub

The pub is fantastic! Everyone knows that. It’s the default place to go whenever you think of “out” in any description. It usually has a part to play even in club nights. So, why spend the whole night there?

Well the primary argument revolves around comfort and relaxation. Pubs still have music and some even have mini dance floors if you have the sudden irrepressible urge to bust a move, but they also have chairs, booths, stools, places to park your arse. Your arse is DELIGHTED! Your friends are there, drink is there, your arse is happy, could you ask for much more?

This point is also crucial for girls because, considering how much you complain and suffer just walking to town in high heels, I can’t imagine they’re any nicer to try to dance in. The fact that you can even dance in them at all without needing some kind of ankle supports is beyond me. Honestly, I can’t even imagine walking in them without needing one of those poles tightrope-walkers use so they don’t fall off and die. So I think the occasional seat would be appreciated, right?

Tight-rope walker

To the Pub!

But even if you don’t  sit the pub still has some major benefits over the club. All around it’s just a more relaxed atmosphere. It’s not exactly a picturesque beach in the Caribbean with monkeys handing you cocktails mixed in coconuts (with the tiny umbrellas) but if it was we wouldn’t have an argument here! It’s a pub. It’s in Ireland. It’s there to get you drunk and merry in a happy-face-like atmosphere and it does a damn good job of doing it!

All around you have more choice of activities in a pub. (Depending on the pub itself really but if you go to a sh*te pub it’s your own shaggin’ fault for not knowing your pubs. Dumbass)
There’s a dance floor and music if you want to dance, there’s drink should you want to drink, there’s seats if you want to sit, the music isn’t too loud if you want to have the chats/the bants/an argument/ a yodel…or whatever you prefer to do with your voice and there’s a smoking room if you want to smoke (or just break your lungs with some lovely second-hand smoke). Wonderful!
Many of them even have food right there for you if you want to eat!

And this is before we EVER get in to all the additional activities:

  • Darts: what better way to spend your night than being encouraged to loosen your grasp on reality with alcohol and throw sharp, pointy things at the wall!
  • Snooker or Pool: Here drunk person, take this rather large stick and swing it about there…try really hard to poke those balls as accurately as you can and feel free to draw all the innuendo you can out of it!
  • Fusball: Take this small ball, put it on this table and flail wildly at the twirly bars while you try to essentially batter the ball in to the goals at either end of the little fake pitch with no poise or grace what-so-ever. Also, shout. Shout really really loud at tiny plastic men.
  • Beer Pong: Because just drinking a beer isn’t enough fun for you.
  • Table Tennis: A game of speed, agility and skill. Nothing could possibly go wrong when you do this drunk.
  • Shuffleboard: Yes, I’ve seen this in bars. I’ve never played it (sober or drunk) but by god some night I will!

The Club

The club argument won’t be as long, mainly because there is no additional activities like darts and stuff (but also because I really couldn’t be arsed). This is usually because a packed, dark room with disorientating loud music, strobe lighting and a gaggle of drunk people stumbling about makes throwing pointy objects a hilarious, but very bad idea.

So what are the plus points of the club?
Well there are few points but they can be big.

Firstly there’s the buzz. It’s a completely different kind of atmosphere in the club. Being very drunk is a lot more acceptable. Doing stupid things is a lot more acceptable. Dancing like a bandy-legged weirdo is a lot more acceptable. Shots are a lot more acceptable (which leads to all the other things being a lot more acceptable).

Going to a club with a big group of friends is great craic. Although your activities may be shortened to just drinking, dancing or smoking there’s also the potential to just go wander between all three. And everyone enjoys a good wander. It’s where all the best stories come from!

Then there’s that point you meet a friend you didn’t expect to see out. No words may be spoken (or at least no words may be heard). What you usually get is a look, a point and a shout of “Waaaaayyyyyy!”. Followed by shoving your way to each other…and then the mandatory shots.

Gary Neville

OMFG! Is that Rio!?...SHOOOOTTTS!

The biggest draw of the club tho is simple….The shift.
The club is where the shift lives. For all those who seek it, this is where it is to be found most freely, and occasionally by accident (Shifts may lead to other things but those don’t usually happen in the club and if they do, well, you’re just classy as f**k aren’t ya?)

The reason the shift lives in the club is because this is where EVERYONE goes for the one of the last portions of their night when they are the most drunk. Particularly on RAG week. Everyone + RAG week x Alcohol = Shifts. It’s science.

This is the Club’s trump card for many people, and these many people usually constitute “Everyone”, the answer you’re given when you ask “who’s going clubbing?”
This leads those not looking for the shift to follow their shift-hunting amigos to the club which leads to EVERYONE actually being there.
And so the club tricks you in to believing that it IS where everyone goes. Because, well…it is.

So, Pub or Club?

Well I’m always partial to a Pub where-as I only sometimes really want to go clubbing. The club has it’s plus points, and there are nights when I’m just in a mood for a club, but for me, if I had to pick one of the two to only ever go to for the rest of my days (or at least the days when I’m still young enough to go clubbing and not be referred to as “The Pervert”) then I would have to pick  the pub. Maybe first year me might have answered that question “Gorbyyyyyssssss!!!” (a night club in Cork for those of you who don’t know) but slightly older and apparently more tired me says pub.

And here’s why:
I have friends now. I want to go out with them on a night out, not get lost somewhere (although that is fun occasionally).  I want to be able to talk to them, not shout at them or be forced to try to communicate through some kind of interpretive dance.
When I meet new people out I can have a laugh with them, have a drink with them and have the chats. Much better than, having asked six times, eventually settling that their name must actually be “Arrflarrr” and simply nodding and smiling before shouting something incoherent and leaving (while they too nod and smile).
If you meet someone you like you can actually talk to them and give an actual impression of yourself instead of shouting directly at their eardrum. No one looks attractive while shouting, no one. And if you do, you’re probably some shovel of a person when you’re not shouting. So that doesn’t really work either.
Your other choice? Walk up behind the target of your affection and grind them in to submission. Not ideal. Not even a good idea. And a sure fire way to get some smack in the nuts.
Fact: For every guy who gets a girl through sheer grinding, 16 get smacked in the nuts.
Plus, no one has ever answered the question “Daddy, how did you and Mommy meet?” with “Well son,  I spotted your Mother in a club and she was langerated. So I just went over to her and ground all up on her junk. It was love.”
And when it comes to RAG week clubs are just jointed. So multiply all these things by ten and add in taking YEARS to get a drink”.


This is me and your Mommy. Look at ma' b*tch go!

So, where are you going this RAG week, pub or club?


Apologies but today needs a rant. Specifically, the last four hours need a rant. So sit back, relax, and revel in the suppressed swearing that riddles this blog post as I struggle to keep this rant constructive and printable. What’s going on in my head, is much worse.

Case Studies

Now, usually I’m not a hater of case studies, they give you real life situations where the stuff you’ve been learning can be put in to action and, if the right case study comes along, can be used to break up boring monotonous classes with story time :). It may be a business-related story (in my course anyway) but there’s nothing quite like a nice sceal (story in Irish for those of you not from our fair isle) to send you blissfully in to that sleep you were already heading for anyway.
Case studies, though, have a time and place. Namely this time is after you’ve learned some concept the case study deals with and the place is the class in which you’re learning some concept. Ideally, the case is read out in class for us all to enjoy but sometimes it’s a take home and read it yourself situation. This isn’t bad either because some case studies are actually interesting and 90% of the time you’re not ACTUALLY expected to read the yolk. Plus, when you come back in, you all discuss your ideas and everyone learns from each other (or at least that’s the idea).

But then the lecturer utters those three class-ruining words “This is examinable”.
Why!? Why is it examinable! Why can’t the concept just be examinable!? Why did you d*ck with story time!!!!???!!?!?
I don’t mind when we might be expected to remember the basic story as an example of the concept. I don’t even mind when we have to remember the lessons learned from the case (that makes sense!). But when we can be asked a case-specific exam question based on one of 5 case studies we may have done throughout the year without a copy handed out to us or time to read it before we answer little annoyance bells start ringing in my ears, and they’re annoying.

I shouldn’t be expected to remember how to solve highly specific problems under exam-type settings without the actual case details provided, it’s unrealistic. It’s like being called to your bosses office and told “Yo dawg, solve this complicated problem for us, we want to know if we should fire long-term employee John. Remember him? We discussed him once 5 months ago” but when you say “Sure, I can help, can I have some information on John’s history please? I don’t remember everything about John” your boss replies “Nope” and smiles like a moron. Then throws in “You have an hour to come up with a compelling argument regarding John’s position or you’re fired. Bye!”.
Even if I did study this case previously, make out my little notes and revise them, why am I not allowed to use them when I actually make the case decision? I’ve put the work in, I have my research done and I’m ready to stand up in front of the CEO and tell him why John should be fired…and the CEO has stolen my flashcards.

Happy Cat

I has your flash cards....(also, your CEO is a cat)

Worse than not providing a case in an exam though, is providing a case in an exam. These are usually cases you’ve never done before and they are probably long.
“Here students, welcome to your exam, you have a short, pressurised amount of time to write some very long, intelligent answers and oh, here, read this f-ing book first! Also, because you have the book, we expect your answers to be wonderfully constructed and backed up. You have an hour. Bye!” How can you come up with a properly founded answer when the whole way through your reading of the case all you can think is “f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, time, time, time, time, time!”.
If you made decisions in your job based on information taken in like this not only would it would be downright irresponsible of you, your sanity would be questioned.

And when the case study does come out in the exam you can be guaranteed it is the hitler of case studies. It makes no sense, has words you don’t ever recall hearing in your life and contains a problem so complicated you either don’t know where to start, could write nothing or could write far too much that is potentially relevant (but might not actually be relevent) and throw down a completely incoherent answer made up of tangents and points that just came to you as you were scribbling.
And then there’s the cases that have absolutely NOTHING to do with what you’re studying. These ones get ya by making you think they have loads to do with your subject, why else would they be in the exam!? They make you question what you thought you knew because they’re spouting on about something entirely abstract and generally talking b*ll*cks. Meanwhile you’re sitting there reading the same three unnecessarily long words over and over trying to work out what in God’s name they have to do with organisational development (for example) and then freaking out when you don’t know.

When you’re given a case in class the point is to spark discussion, see contrasting viewpoints and learn from others. In an exam situation though it’s just “Let us know if we should fire John within the next hour, and you’re not allowed to ask anybody what they think of him, and you’re also not allowed see his file (OR) here’s his file….it’s long and complicated and doesn’t really detail anything about his actual behaviour really…enjoy!”.

Sorry, I know none of you care but I just came from an exam with a case study in it.

The Rain

I know what you’re thinking. Man up, you live in Ireland. This happens.
My specific issue here though isn’t with the rain. It’s with college in the rain.

It is not a surprise that college attendance drops significantly if it’s raining. Obviously. From a lads’ perspective it’s just another excuse (FIFA time!) and for girls it’s either a) just another excuse or b) It will ruin my hair! And I CAN’T go to college with hair like that! (which, let’s face it, is just another excuse) (yaaaay mild sexist stereotyping :D).
The other option is “My penny’s umbrella turned inside out Yesterday so I’ve none now, I’ll be soaked!” Of course it did! It cost two euro! It probably came inside out!
And then there’s the “Ah i’d catch a cold in that! Better stay home”…Say what you like about students but we’re clearly responsible…caring so much about our health and all.

But I’ve never been one to use these excuses. I don’t mind the rain. Rain can be epic (especially from your own warm bed) and do you remember being out in the rain when you were young? Some laugh before you got absolutely killed by your Mother when you got in…”Get UP them stairs, you’ll catch your death!” (Mother voice).

Angry Mum

"C'mere an' I bate ya a while..."

 Even having to go out in it though never bothered me. What bothers me is coming in from it.
While you’re still being rained on it’s just kind of mank and you have to live with it but when you come in to the otherwise dry room and your just a ball of sodden, damp mank you start to realise just how soaked you got….and now you have to sit in it…for two hours…in a lecture. Balls.

Right now, for example, I’m typing this blog in the knowledge that my body is soaking up all that manky rain water from my clothes. I also know that for the rest of the day the ends of my pants will not be dry no matter how long I stay indoors….because for some reason the ends of all pants are not made of the same material as the rest of your pants. They are made of water-retaining sponge designed to piss with your ankles and lower shins as you move.

And then there’s this…

The driver in the Opel Corsa who drove through ALL the shaggin’ puddles the whole way down college road!…Fast…The prick!

For some reason one splash from a puddle can cause 10 times the dampness of the whole walk in the rain from lecture to far-away lecture. While you don’t notice the rain making you thoroughly moisture-laden you certainly notice the soaking you got as the knob in the car drove past firing muddy piss-water all over your leg. And there’s nothing you can do. That rat-b*st*rd is in a car. The car is faster than you….and it’s dry! 

All of this builds up a picture in your mind, not of someone who just splashed you with their car (either on purpose or by accident), but that of a smug little bollix, laughing away at your misfortune before he drives off to punch little girls and drown puppies in acid.

And then along comes the langer in the 4×4. He can’t help but soak you because his car is six times the size of several horses. That’s o.k. though obviously he has loads of important hill-climbing and off-roading to do. Or perhaps it’s just incase a sporadic shift in the earths crust should cause a mountain range to spring up at a moment’s notice in the middle of college road. Oh we wouldn’t be laughing then in our little regular-sized cars.
At least if this did happen though that b*tch in the Corsa would get what’s coming to her. A mountain range right up the arse of her car!

Car on mountain

There ya are love...get out of that one!

That wasn’t too ranty right?
T’was grand…


So it’s Sunday. The day where we have absolutely no idea what to do with ourselves. There’s never really much going on and no one ever really has proper plans for Sunday.

Sunday plans at the most entail something like “Get home” and “Recover”. Sunday dinner may feature somewhere in there and for those of you who live away from home for college it may feature some sort of packing and migration. But even that probably happens somewhere late in the day after a large amount of f**k all else ’cause, let’s face it, this is Ireland. The most you’re going to have to commute today is like 3 hours. People commute 3 hours to work every day in other countries without even uttering a curse. As for me, I live in Cork and go to college in Cork so my Sunday’s are pretty lazy days. Couch features heavily in my day, as do fat man pants and amounts of food like I’d just been broken up with (with occasional blog writing, clearly).

Even God rested on a Sunday and he’s all powerful. What’s little old me supposed to do then? If the almighty had to stop and put his feet up then surely I can – nay must – rest on a Sunday. If I don’t then what am I saying? That I’m better than God? That’s a bit far! Sundays were invented for resting! If you don’t you’ll just incur some wrath.
Now, I’m not saying that I created the world this week or anything but I also wouldn’t want to risk things getting a bit Old Testament up in here.
It seems pretty logical to me then that if you do anything but laze about on a Sunday then you ARE going to hell. Better sit yourself down there fairly lively then! Don’t want to get smote now do ya?

smite button

Seriously, you move...he will press it.

Sunday for me usually goes as follows. Wake up at an hour considered reasonable only on Sundays, fat man pants, comfortable hoodie, big warm socks, couch, 1 O’Clock kick-off, 4 O’Clock kick off, Spanish football and/or American football until it’s time for bed, then bed (And dinner fits in somewhere in the middle of the 4 O’Clock kick-off). Clearly even TV is conspiring to keep me on the couch on Sunday with the invention of Sunday sport. Watching other people run around all day so I don’t have to.


"Yaaaay, United just scored..."

But then there’s the bad part of Sunday…Monday.

Everyone knows when they wake up on Sunday the weekend has practically been and gone. The week is about to start again and stuff will have to be done. That hangs over your head like a piano waiting to fall when God decides to press the smite button.


Yeah...like that. (I'm so happy with my image hunting this week)

It wasn’t enough for Monday just to mess with our Mondays. It had to go ahead and start pissing with your Sundays too because Monday is a bit of a sh*t and doesn’t like you.  So Monday just taints your Sunday with images of waking up early and cold commutes to school/college/work in a car with the heater blasting, putting you further into your state of mindless stupor. The sleep where even your eyelids are too tired to come down.

Recently though, Sunday’s have started to fight back for me. They’re fighting off the encroaching Monday blues and reinstating a sense of peaceful ignorance regarding all the crap I still have to do. It’s lovely.
It has done this through a combination of things over a period of time. The biggest blow came in 2008 when Mondays became the start of my college week, not my school week. This proved almost crushing for Mondays as I quite liked college and it made it much easier to get up for. No more struggling to get my right leg high enough over the dull grey pants of my school uniform so I don’t catch it on the waistband and fall over trying to put them on. Further blows came when class times chose to leave Monday mornings entirely free so I could ease myself back in to the week.

But Monday isn’t dead yet. It fights back every now and again. This week, for example, an ill-timed Econometrics tutorial has ensured Monday has crept back in to my Sunday thoughts again and corrupted them with notions of early morning mathematical analysis. It’s seeping slowly into my consciousness, spreading to all the happy thoughts I have and placing a little asterisk next to them. An asterisk that says “Ya sure you can enjoy that, but you’ll still have to get up tomorrow…enjoy!…lol”. Monday seeps through your mind like Ribena added to your glass after you’ve poured the water, turning all the crystal clear water a kind of purpley-black-red (for the record, I like Ribena :). It is merely the Monday in my simile due to the cool dispersion effect it makes when you add it to your water. The image really drives the point in there I think…Poisoned Ribena! Make it poisoned Ribena and you’ll totally get my point).


Kind of like that....but a lot less like blood

So we have two sides to Sunday. The Sunday where you can drift off in to peaceful nothingness and completely relax at the end of the week, where you do nothing and it’s completely acceptable. Or the Sunday where you just think about Monday all the time. The evil Ribena Sunday. The end of your weekend and the start of your week.

So which Sunday do you have?
Does your week start on a Monday? Or are you one of those wierdos who starts listing the days of the week with “Sunday, Monday, Tuesday….” ?


Welcome back after Christmas! Hope ye all had a good one. I know you were all dying for a new blog post over the festive season but I took some time off to be generally festive and drink too much.

I could review my Christmas outings quite easily but I fear that if I did there would be a comment from my liver saying “Go f*** yourself Mike!”. A sentiment that would be readily mirrored by my wallet.

Clearly as a result of outings like this I also got very acquainted with an old friend of mine over Christmas…bed.

Bed is epic. Bed is one of the nicest places to be in the world. Its unrelenting comfort, warmth and support is exactly what so many characters in romantic comedies spend their lives searching the world for. But bed needs no searching. Bed stays in the same place (unless you have a crazy mobile bed or something but even then it’s there for you).

Bed would never be the first guy our friend in the romantic comedy falls for. The guy who turns out to be a racist rapist who cheats on everyone with his receptionist. You know, the guy with that “I know I’m a prick” smirk on his face while he generally mills around the place acting the knob before returning to the poor, innocent, trusting girl who deserves better and says something like “Aw, I’m just so beat from work, it’s been a long day, but here look I bought you this lovely shiny something to make it all better” and gets away with it.

Bed wouldn’t even be the second guy the girl in the film falls far. Bed isn’t even the nice, clumsy, Hugh Grant character who all the girls in the audience hope the girl in the film ends up with. Because at some point in the film, right before the end, this character will be caught in a seemingly prickish act (though there is usually a perfectly innocent explanation for this and it “isn’t what it looks like”) by the girl character who will then run off in tears because all the guys she’s met in the last hour and a half have apparently been undercover sh*ts. Bed doesn’t get in to these situations. It doesn’t stop to help the injured hooker get to hospital (thus placing it in a car with a hooker so you can see it and assume the worst before it makes an undying plea of love to you in front of a crowd to win you back right at the end of the movie). It just loves you.


Feel the love...

But this isn’t about bed. As the title suggests, this is about the world outside bed. Where the undercover sh*ts live.
The world outside bed has two sides to it. There’s the side you see through your in-bed eyes, and the side you see when you finally muster up the courage to put your feet on the floor of your bedroom.
These are VERY different places.

The outside bed perspective

Sure, the world generally comes with its good bits and its bad bits but to avoid getting in to some seriously deep stuff here we’re just gonna say it’s not all that bad really is it?

There’s lovely stuff about outside bed. There’s trees, and puppies, and music, and ice cream, and sweets, and chocolate, and friends and family and loads of other pretty cool crap to keep you entertained.

Carlton Dance

Like this 🙂

Look at how happy he is…Fantastic!
We should probably mention all those wonderful sights to see like the Grand Canyon or The Pyramids or something but I’m pretty sure Carlton covers it.

From outside bed you really can appreciate all the dancing Carltons you want and when all the surrounding loveliness gets too much for you bed is there to welcome you back, re-energise you and send you back out to go look at the puppies and eat chocolate.


Sure, there's all that murder and war stuff too....but look at the puppy!

The in-bed perspective

But then, there’s the in-bed perspective.

Bed has the power to distort everything. Without sticking so much as a finger out from under the covers you can tell that the outside world is cold…far too cold to risk getting out from under the lovely warm blanket you’ve wrapped yourself in.

From bed, everything outside seems unimportant. Even the most important things you had to do today can and will be re-assessed in those few moments lying in bed after you wake up. Does it really matter if you don’t go to that class? Do you really ever learn anything in that class anyway? Someone will give you notes, right? And even if I don’t hand that assignment in on time today it’s only a 10% penalty…10% is nothing…be grand!

It’s at this point that you start to think about how your life would be if you just spent it in bed. People would come to see you, bring you food and presents and news of the outside world you don’t have to care about. You could become that wise beacon of philosophical knowledge for all your friends as they visit you with their outside world problems and lament the fact that they have to deal with them while you sit their enjoying day-time TV and enlightened obesity….and chocolate. Lots of chocolate.

Yeah the outside world has puppies and trees and the Grand Canyon but puppies can be played with from your bed, you can see trees from your window and are you telling me that if it were an option you wouldn’t prefer to go visit the Grand Canyon in your bed?

Eventually though, you accept that you will have to leave bed. It is then that I, personally, try to envision ways of fashioning my duvet in to an outfit that wouldn’t look out of place in college. So far I have been unsuccessful (any ideas would be appreciated in the comments section).


Though these people may be on to something...


In essence the outside-bed world may seem like a cold, pointless, bedless place filled with problems, idiots in snuggies and Jedward. But it isn’t all that bad when you muster the courage to actually get up (and stay up long enough so that you can’t go back to bed only to wake up later unsure if you actually got up or had a dream about getting up…which has happened to me).

And on top of this there is that one saving grace of the out-of-bed world. The compromise that may be just enough to give you the courage to stick that second leg out from under the covers. One of the key parts of the outside-bed world. I speak of course…of couch.

The bed of downstairs.

Comfy Couch

Or, if you live in a bungalow, the bed of the other part of your house


Having said all that though I wrote this from bed….God I love bed!



FINALLY, I get to do a post about something in Cork….and it has to be in Fermoy :(.
But, to be fair to it Fermoy has a bad ass Christmas village and the Christmas Park in the centre of Cork City was closed when I went to go see it. Fail.
Although, I was cheered up after that fail by some pancakes in Captain Americas (thank you Ciara for introducing those in to my life) and a class Christmas party. So all was not lost.
But being that it is currently something like 10 sleeps ’til Christmas (I’m sure there’s an app somewhere than can give us a more accurate measurement ’til Christmas?) I had to do something Christmas-y…so naturally, I went to Fermoy, the Lapland of Cork.

Now, my first impression of Fermoy as I arrived in was “Holy Sh** this is busy!”. The second thought, I believe, was “but ’tis lookin’ well…”, which was rudely interrupted by my third thought “PARKING SPACE!…BRILLIANT!”.

Myself and my two Sisters (Lisa and Claire) left the car and began to follow the hordes of festive folk (being followed by a man festively blowing on a whistle every two feckin’ steps!) towards something….eh….festive. As it turns out it was a public park.
Passing through the park gates the first thing that caught my eye was a car which had printed on the side: “Win” this car.
How do you “Win” a car!? Do you really win the car? Or do you just kindof win the car, but really you don’t win…but, technically, you did win…but you don’t get the car. Or something like that.
Yes, that’s right, walking through the gates to the closest thing we could get to a winter wonderland within the boundaries of Cork, and I’m giving out about grammar. But it was really weird grammar!

When I actually turned my attention to the park though I noticed that it looked quite nice. The people of Fermoy had clearly bought the worlds supply of Snow in a can and used it to cover their park with. It was lovely, and I appreciated the effort.

Snow in a can!

"It's snow in a can!"

Forging on through the crowds we eventually came to the real start of the park (I.e. where the people selling food are standing). Standing back to admire the park I began to feel the Christmas spirit just a little…until I  was hit in the side by the arse of a giant robin wearing a Santa hat. Also, I’m pretty sure the reason the robin chose to “back up on me” like that was because he was taking a photo with some children and needed to get into shot. That family’s wonderful Christmas memory of their kids hugging a giant cuddly robin will forever be tainted by the image of me in the background of the photo being roughly knocked to one side by a giant cuddly arse. Lovely.
Before I could think about this too much I saw a sign. A sign that made 5 year old me jump up and down like he had just eaten a bag of sugar and been handed a pogo stick.  It simply said “To the toboggan run!”.
With the destination established in my head we headed off in to the crowds again, searching for the toboggan run. What we found, however, made the toboggan run look like a mere slide. Mainly because the toboggan run was a slide.
What was next to it though…was an even BIGGER slide! But not JUST a slide, Europe’s tallest inflatable slide! It was truly the Mount Everest of inflatable slides. Which made it’s name all the more fitting: Mt.Everest.  Everest was unreal looking. Every part of me wanted to throw the stupid kids out of the way and barrel down the side of Everest like a ski-jumper down the side of that ramp-y yoke (but without the uncomfortable spandex and sticks). Alas, throwing children down slides (even if they are inflatable) is frowned upon. As is a 22 year-old on a slide. I did manage to get some pictures of it though! Even if that did make me look like a a bit of a creep taking pictures of children on slides with a look of resentment on my face.

I hope you appreciate the creeping I had to do to take this photograph! It is a monster of a slide though!

 After the amazement of Europe’s tallest inflatable slide I turned back to the regular world of normal-sized Christmas festivities. Oh yeah, except for the 80 foot inflatable snowman that was behind me!
Now, 80 foot is an approximate measure based on my assumption that 80 foot is feckin huge and my lack of awareness as to what 80 foot actually looks like in snowman form.
Apparently though, not content with Europe’s tallest inflatable slide Fermoy went all out and brought in the WORLD’s tallest inflatable snowman. He was enourmous, wore a huge inflatable hat, and had children in his belly. Rumour has it that his belly is actually a bouncy castle but these are unconfirmed. He might just eat children. We’re not sure.

Doesn't he just look like he eats children though?

 We carried on deeper and deeper in to Christmas where it began to snow. No, it wasn’t just an unusual weather formation hovering just above a very specific part of Fermoy, it was fake snow, coming from the snow store.
Yep, the snow store. Snow can be sold now. It comes in a variety of brands and forms (none of which are yellow, I checked) and is sold to customers from the snow store, which is called “Secret Snow”. 
Sidetrack here but what makes it “secret” snow? Maybe we’re just supposed to pretend that it’s not falling? Clearly it’s a secret. Sure it’s snowing branded snow from a bag but shhhhhhh! It’s secret snow dumbass!
I do have to wonder though if it’s safe to eat secret snow? Surely they have to predict that kids are gonna try and eat this fake snow? And they don’t even have to try. There was one child eating candyfloss standing directly under the snow. At least 50% of every bite was snow-like substance. Maybe that’s the secret. It snows, but it also poisons you. Merry Christmas!

Then we came to the Ice bar, which was where the parents went when they just couldn’t take any more cheerful joy. This too ws inflatable but it sold mulled wine. Like a bouncy castle for parents, but the floors were still hard so if you fell after one too many you still knew about it. (Note to self: Alcohlic bouncy castle….idea!)

We left the people in the bar to their Christmas spirits and followed the legions of parents and children with fake snow in their hair to the main attraction: Santa, of course!
In a stroke of genius Santa’s kingdom was only accesable by Santa’s magical train, despite being within walking distance. If I was still 5 (which in my head I was) I would have gotten far too over-excited at the thought of a train to Santa’s kingdom. Until, of course, I saw the train. Which wasn’t actually a train more than it was a train-shaped car. Kind-of like a baggage carrier at the airport with a wreath on the side. The “train’s” car-like properties were proven again later in the week when it was spotted driving towards Cork at around 9 O’Clock in the evening very, VERY slowly. But at least we know the train is road legal! I didn’t see a tax disc though?

Working our way back through the Christmas village on the way out lead to a number of things, the most important of which was curried chips :). Other things that happened on our way out though included my sister stepping on a dog dressed like santa clause and getting a look and a half from the owner. This drew my thoughts to something: Now, at Christmas and at a Christmas village, dressing up your dog looks kind of funny, a bit fitting and is a right laugh for childern. Every other time of year and in every other situation it makes your dog look like a spadge and you look like a bigger spadge, who is cruel to animals. Your dog doesn’t want to wear a furry pink jumper. Leave it style itself. It has hair to keep it warm!
Once I was finished composing my thoughts on dogs in jumpers my attention was drawn to two things. The first, was the worlds loudest woman. Ever. The second, was a smell. A good smell. A warming, christmassy, delicious kind of smell. Every time I smell this particular smell I want what ever it is that’s making it happen. Every time, without fail, it’s someone selling roasted nuts and every time, without fail, I curse that person because I really don’t like nuts and they should not smell that good if I don’t like them (All finished with laughing at uses of the word nuts? Good…let’s carry on)

Looking around we then realised we had wandered too far. We had inadvertently strayed from the beaten path and left the Christmas zone. The world outside of Christmas is an awful place filled with dark, damp, cold depression; regular old Fermoy and teenagers shiftin’ in the corner. It was, in essence, the anti-Christmas.

On our speedy return to the lights and warmth of regular Christmas we noticed that the snowman who eats kids had been slain. The children were free! And not very happy about it now that their parents (all warmed up on mulled wine) had come to take them home.

There he is, melting in defeat.

Eating my curry chips I was, overall, delighted with my trip to the Christmas village. Although I didn’t get to go on the slide I did get the chips so all was good. On the way out I noticed a few things which are worthy of a mention. The first is a small ball-pit type thing fashioned into a towable trailor in which some kids appeared to be stuck. The second is the little kids with balloons shaped like tanks. Festive really when you think about it. Hey, merry Christmas, think about war.
The third is that apparently there’s a place called Tossbryan!? Which I found hilarious. And my final thought of note at the time was the other child we saw running passed us with an A-Ha t-shirt on with all the tour dates on the back. Thus, making him possibly the most original child of all time. Fair play to you! You little weirdo!

I would like to end it here but sadly no, I wasn’t allowed to end my Christmasy evening on an 80s pop-related high. Because in waltzed Mariah Carey and took that all away from me. All I want for Christmas has to be my least favourite Christmas song of all time and it’s played a good 20 times a day, every day over the days of advent. There are other Christmas songs people! Mariah Carey needs to take a break for a while. Please, make her shut up! Do you think that’s really what Jesus had in mind for his birthday?  That woman must make an absolute killing over the holidays every year just from getting played in Dunnes and Tescos alone! All I want for christmas is you…to shut the **** up!

Happy Christmas everyone! 🙂 Hope you have a good one. Here’s one of the many alternatives to Mariah Carey to add a bit of variety to your Christmas.



Now, I know so far my blog has pretty much exclusively been concerts at venues in Dublin but I promise an array of crap will follow in the coming weeks. Apparently though, for now, concerts in Dublin is all I have been doing with my life (I certainly haven’t been doing anything productive anyway) so that’s all I can really write about at the moment.

In any case this week is about the Wiz Khalifa concert I attended with friends Kevin and Tomás in the Olympia Theatre in Dublin. For those of you that don’t know Wiz Khalifa is an American rapper whose most famous song is probably Black and Yellow (black and yellow, black and yellow, black and yellow, you know what it is!…sorry, had to be done…See the video below for this song if you don’t know what it is) He’s pretty big in America but not quite in Ireland.
I first came across Mr.Khalifa during my year abroad in Boston in 2010. He entered in to my life in the form of Meng. Meng is a student at the college I attended in America, Boston College, and is a one of a kind character to say the least. He was all about his hip hop though so I trusted his judgement when he suggested Wiz Khalifa.  Wiz was pretty huge over there and his songs were played at nearly every party we went to. Most of the students who went abroad to America came back with some Wiz Khalifa on their iPod I would say. He wasn’t very well-known over here in Ireland yet but when me and Kevin (who had been in Boston too) heard he was playing in our humble little country we decided we may as well reminisce a bit and go see him. Tomás just came along ’cause he’s well up for the banter (on a side note he also paid for the hotel because he’s clearly rolling in it these days…Cheers Tomás!).

The journey to Dublin wasn’t too eventful. We did spend some time avoiding being killed by a mentalist driving a Nissan who was clearly on some drugs (I say clearly because he was smoking these very drugs as he drove) and encountering a family having a discussion outside our hotel about how their daughter, who was apparently about to be married, no longer wanted to actually get married. On second thought, it may have been a little eventful.
Arrival to the Hotel was followed quickly by arrival to the residents bar which in turn was followed by a few pints and a taxi straight in to the Olympia. At the Olympia we queued up in at least three queues before we located the correct one and were quite pleased when the three of us were the only people not searched on the way in. Skipping passed the sick on the stairs on the way up (apparently sick is an ever-present at gigs I go to) we eventually reached our seats high in the rafters of the theatre. From our perch we had an eagle-eye view of the stage and the DJs currently entertaining the crowd. It was at this point that we realised something: The reason we hadn’t been searched at the door. Everyone else….was about 12!!! We hadn’t been searched because we looked like these little kids responsible older brothers! We collected ourselves for a moment, scared some young fella in to minding the seats for the big lads, and resigned ourselves to the theatre bar until at least the support act came on.

We settled in to some ridiculously expensive pints at the bar, safe in the knowledge that we could simply enjoy our drinks while everyone else in the bar was rigorously questioned and checked for ID before they were allowed anywhere near the alcohol. From the bar the jokes started to roll.  Tomás was the butt of many of these jokes as he had the unfortunate job of being a teacher. Having young kids in the room made mocking his profession impossible to ignore. From our bar stools we made the observation that the DJs had now begun playing songs from albums that came out before 90% of the crowd had been born. We could only imagine that outside the bar there was a small collection of youngsters  jumping up and down (because it was cool to know the older rap songs and they remember their older siblings playing them from their room) and a sea of semi-confused faces concentrating instead on their Nintendo DS that Santa had brought them.
On the note of Nintendo, the stamp we got coming in to the venue was a stamp of old-fashioned, first gameboy-style, pixellated, black and white Mario. I doubt he was even recognisable to the masses in the Olympia that night. They would surely be more used to a big friendly 3D Italian plumber?

When we returned to our seats (which the young fella had done an excellent job of minding) the venue was now much fuller than it had been when we left. There was no sign of the age-related jokes drying up but now the jokes turned a little on Kevin who, it turned out, had a girlfriend who was a good 10 years older than the rest of the crowd at the concert. When Kev stopped and began to stroke his stubble we asked was he trying to think of a comeback. Kev’s response was simply: “No, I’m stroking my stubble, because I can grow stubble!”.

Barney Kids

This was actually the crowd at the concert...Barney is a Wiz Khalifa fan

After a while we started to feel more and more conspicuous. Not only were we a lot taller than most of the crowd but we also had remarkably deeper voices which seemed to cut through the shrill squeaks around us with an awkward, attention drawing ease. The dawning realisation was that our younger brothers and sisters would fit in better here than we did. To distract ourselves from this we started to look around for things to grab our attention. The first thing that caught my eye was the venue itself. It has the look about it that it once used to be seriously fancy, but now it’s slowly proving its age with botched-looking repairs not really fitting in with the decor (at least up on the top-tier balcony anyway). The next thing that caught my eye way the big chandelier hanging within touching distance of the balcony. Sure, it looked like it couldn’t support the weight of a fly if it happened to land on it, but god it made you want to swing from it. Alright, doing that comes with a severe risk of falling to your death but at that time many things seemed better than being in a room of young teenagers awkwardly listening to Jump Around by House of Pain, which only we knew the lyrics to. For actually watching the gig though the venue wasn’t bad. This may have been helped by the fact that there were no tall people to see over but I still think the Olympia isn’t a bad spot to watch a concert. Now, I don’t have any experience of the Olympia from anywhere other than the upper balcony so if anyone knows if its good, bad or indifferent from any of the other levels then please do let me know in comments.

Eventually the attention could not be distracted any further from the jumping, shouting, glitter-covered, drink-sneaking teenagers that had occupied the seats in front of us. Having aged them at around the same as my younger sister I drew a few conclusions. The first was that if my sister ever befriended someone like that I’d have her disowned. The second was that if my sister ever behaved like that herself I’d have her shot. The final conclusion was that if my sister ever dressed like that then I would have her suspended from that rickety chandelier. Now I know I sound old here once again but screw that they were ridiculous.

In any case the warm up act came on. I’m afraid the rant doesn’t stop just yet, it gets worse. Personally, I could have done without a warm up act at this point. I just wanted the main act on so I could enjoy it and go be part of a crowd my own age. For this reason I suppose the poor man never really stood a chance of being judged favourably by me but I’d like to think that this only made me exaggerate his already present mediocrity.

When he was eventually introduced to the crowd I think me, Kevin and Tomás all had the exact same thought: “What the f*** is a yellow wolf?”. What a yellow wolf is, it turns out, is a man put on the stage to annoy me personally. A yellow wolf is also not even a yellow wolf. It’s a “yelawolf”. Yep, that’s right, he’s gone ahead and spelled yellow as if he was pronouncing it in a thick, north side Cork accent. But he doesn’t have a Cork accent, he has an American one. This, I think, coupled with the fact that he was shouting swears and American slang in to a microphone over a heavy beat made his appeal to the teenagers in the room increase tenfold over his appeal to me. They seemed to be eating up every ghetto-slang-filled verse he was spitting.

I, in the meantime, was focusing more on his negatives. When I was a slightly younger boy myself I would most certainly have been jumping along with all of those around me. I’d have been perfectly content to be an American rapper in my head just for the few minutes I was mimicking the lyrics with one hand covering the crotch of my pants. Tonight, though, I was making my first return to the rap scene since I was about 17 and in watching it all as an outsider I found it impossible not to mock it relentlessly. Everything I had been so happy to be a part of watching 50 cent at the marquee  only a few years ago seemed so stupid to me now. I felt like grabbing the person next to me and shouting “stop jumping and waving your arms, and leave go of the crotch of your pants you’re only encouraging Yelawolf! Also, you’re white… I’m sorry… but you’re white and you look ridiculous!” (but then again Yelawolf is also white and he seems to be pulling off the rapper look even if he didn’t pull off the actual being a rapper part)


Here he is look....the yela-fella...lookin rapper-y...kind of

But getting back to Yellawolf’s negatives. Honestly, I think if he shouted “Dubliiiiiiiinnn!” one more time I was going to throw one of the smaller children at him. He also needs to stop saying “motherfu***er”. He seemed to use it in place of any given word in any given sentence and all the rest of us just had to fill in the gaps. This, of course, was no trouble to the 12 year olds in the audience who spend a lot of time filling in the gaps like this for homework every week. The same word also seemed to be included at least once per sentence in his raps. At one point he turned to the audience and said “How are all you motherf***rs doin up in this motherfu**er!?”. It’s not a motherfu**er, Mr.Wolf, It’s a concert hall. Now cop on.

He certainly played up to his audience though. He was talking about drinking like it was the wildest thing anyone has ever done in their life and he kept talking about doing loads of drugs (maybe he was the mentalist in the Nissan who nearly killed us on the road to Dublin earlier?). No one cares if you’re drinking and no one cares if you’re doing drugs. Also while we’re on about Yellawolf’s stories no one cares if your Mother is still growing weed illegally in Alabama except a bunch of easily excited young teenagers. I hope you feel validated by making the pre-pubescent cheer, you sound like a tool!
On top of this one of his songs was just him repeatedly shouting “Stand Up!”. The only time i stood up was to let the people sitting next to me out of the aisle.


Now, I may sound a bit harsh there and, to be honest, I’m most definitely being very harsh on the poor guy. My opinion of him may have been slightly shaded by the annoyance I was feeling towards the young teenagers around me at the time. To be fair he did have a very, VERY good DJ backing him up which made his part of the gig much more bearable for me. Yellawolf has also been recently signed by Eminem’s Shady Records. This, I take it, means that he must have some bit of talent about him. A lot more, at least, than I was willing to give him credit for after seeing him in the Olympia. I really did need to get all that out in a rant though. The thoughts running through my head watching Yelawolf needed to come out and, after all, this is a review of the night from my perspective and a rant was pretty much being constructed in my head for a large part of that night. It’s be an incomplete review without it. Also, for the record, the people weren’t exactly 12, that’s exaggeration. They were much younger than us though.

When Wiz Khalifa finally came on all of that was briefly put to one side. For a rapper I was really only going to see for the sake of reliving a few Boston-related memories he really did entertain me. Now I can’t claim to have known all of his songs (I actually only knew maybe two or three songs in the entire first half of the show) but the second half of the show was like he was taking song after song directly from the restricted selection of Wiz Khalifa tracks on my iPod. This really did send us out of the Olympia in a much better mood than we had been in for the majority of the night.

Considering I didn’t even know this man existed until about 12 months previously I still felt the decision to go see him was a good one overall. He played the tracks I wanted to hear; made me forget that I was attending a rap concert in a crèche; unearthed the desired memories in my head and sent me out in to the Dublin night with a smile on my face (which was definitely an achievement considering the middle part of my night). Wiz Khalifa definitely knows how to play a crowd and keep them entertained. He put in an energetic performance that got us all to our feet. From high in the rafters of the Olympia I found I finally had the distraction from the kind of crowd we were a part of and it was in the very thing the crowd was there to see. Needless to say, once the concert was over we were out the door as quick as we could manage and off to a night club to join our own crowd of jumping, shouting, glitter-covered, drink-sneakers. But at least they knew it was Mario stamped on our hands!

(Now, I know this isn’t really a Wiz Khalifa review more than it’s a rant about my night, young people and Yelawolf but to be fair these are the things I’m going to remember when I review this night in my own head. I never said my reviews would be orthodox!…Also, for the record while it did get hot and stuffy inside in the Olympia it was like a cool breeze compared to the Chili Peppers)