By Aine                  

I read a report in the Sunday Times which told a tale that would be hilarious and deliciously ironic if it wasn’t also such a bloody disgrace.

Politicians as we know, are fond of lashing around other people’s money but even so the whopping €47,211 spent refurbishing new ministerial and constituency offices by none other than the Minister charged with finding and implementing savings in these penurious times, Brendan Howlin, takes some beating.

Deputy Howlin’s new office is located within the Department of Finance on Merrion Street so perhaps the cash flowed a little easier his way when he went calling for funds to plush-up his new surroundings.

The refurb bill, which was released under the Freedom of Information Act to the newspaper, gives a breakdown of what the money was spent on.

Some of the expenditure is quite comical in a throw-your-hands up in desperation kind of way.

Apparently ‘the elevation of a desk’ cost €95.34. Would an obvious thought for the diminutive deputy not have been to lower his chair instead?

Elevating himself within his new position continued with his new office also kitted out with a ‘tea station’ which cost €7,638 euro to install. If he’d have been advising the rest of us on how to spend money he’d probably have suggested a kettle and a few cups.

Minister Howlin treated himself to a new Iphone, while his two special advisers and secretary got Samsung Galaxy phones. Now one of Deputy Howlin’s special advisers is Ronan O’ Brien, who is on a salary of €114,000 euro year, so you would expect that he could afford to buy his own phone and not have the beleaguered taxpayer’s fork out for it.

The bould Brendan also bought four flat-screen TV’s for his office. Why four?

I can visualise him now sitting up straight at his newly elevated desk, with a telly on the north, south, east and west wall with the latest updates from Wall Street, the Nasdeq, FTSE and the ISEQ index, etc. being beamed into his office so he has the finger on the pulse of what’s happening, as it happens in the world markets! Or maybe he just likes to watch Oprah in 4D as he works or perhaps he wanted a four-way view of himself while being interviewed on the television news on the need for spending cuts and where they could be made.

If he’d have been heeding his own advice he might have felt there really was no need for a sign for his lavatory that said ‘Minister’s Toilet’ and which cost €47.67 and a new lock and key for it that cost about the same. Minister Howlin would surely have been able to locate his toilet and once inside safeguard his privacy with a standard bolt-device.      

It would seem that when Deputy Howlin’s colleague, Minister for Finance,

Michael Noonan urged us all recently to get out and start spending, Brendan enthusiastically embraced his request. Just a pity he wasn’t spending his own money.

The mission statement of Minister Howlin’s new department reads “To achieve the government’s social and economic goals by ensuring the effective management of taxpayers’ money and the delivery of quality public services that meet the needs of citizens”

It’s a pity that the Minister appointed does not have a better understanding of the basic ethos of that statement.

How to take seriously a Minister charged with reforming public expenditure who splurges on such vanities for his own comfort?  Well we don’t of course.

 By Grainne

Modern technology has brought a new take on the old chain mail letters that used to do the rounds.   It’s a trend that annoys the hell out of me as I consider them serious boundary-crossers.  

The old letters used to urge us to pass them on when read to 10 or so friends to have something good happen to us or risk having something bad come our way if we didn’t.  The new ones do much the same and have the advantage of greater volume and speed of distribution via e-mail and text message.  It also makes it a lot easier to bump them on to the requisite ten or so, as not much effort is involved if the recipient is so inclined.   Or too afraid to risk the consequences not to.  Especially as, with some of the ones I’ve received most recently, there’s an unpleasant emotional inducement to put added pressure on recipients to pass them on.  Like the one I received via text recently which contained the rider “send this to ten friends including me.  If I don’t get it back I get the hint.”  Emotional blackmail or what?  A family member, would you believe, sent that to me. 

 As it happened I’d been sent the same message previously, by others, but it didn’t have the added warning that I’d risk insulting my friend/colleague/family member if I didn’t keep it in circulation.

Another was even more sinister as well as manipulative.  It promised me a windfall if I passed it or being rendered penniless if I didn’t. I’m awaiting my fate as a pauper.

For the record, I’ve never ever sent on any such messages received, by whatever means, nor felt compelled to.  I think they’re a load of unpleasant, superstitious claptrap.  And, to date, while I’m not exactly living in untrammeled bliss, I haven’t suffered any dire consequences as a result of ignoring these missives.    

I’ve been surprised too at the people who’ve sent this stuff on to me, male and female.  People I’d have otherwise considered sane, rational individuals.  Apart from the fact that the content is often unbearably mawkish and sentimental, the implied threat of bad things to come if I break the chain isn’t pleasant.

If people want to perpetuate this ridiculous custom then continue, by all means.  Just leave me out of it.

By Aine

Some time ago on I wrote about my dearly departed little puppy, Buddy. I also have another pet.  A cat.  A big huge ginger tomcat. His name is Monty.    

My daughter brought him home as a straggly stray some 19 years ago and he has resided happily in our home since. I have a love-hate relationship with him, a relationship that was tested even further last week.

I was entrusted with the care of baby Sam, a 14-month little bundle of joy, and, as I knew I would be in for a very busy day I decided to organise myself early and cook the dinner. I had boiled a lovely joint of ham with cabbage, and had taken it out from the cabbage and left it to cool on a plate on top of the saucepan. I was busily tending to my little charge and then I had to pop out to the garden briefly. When I returned Sam had thrown all his toys around the room and couldn’t reach some of them. I bent down to pick them up when I spotted Monty under the coffee table with the joint of meat.    

Now this was no mean feat on his behalf. He had to jump up on the countertop, grab the meat, sizeable piece that it was, then jump back down; drag it across the kitchen, around the hall and into the small back sitting room.

I was furious.  I opened the back door and threw him out on his ear, firing the lump of meat after him.  I must admit here I did examine it first to see if I could salvage any of it but it was too badly chewed. He sat in the garden all evening gnawing on the lump of meat, looking extraordinary pleased with himself, while we had to content ourselves with a vegetarian meal.

Monty is guilty of at least five of the deadly sins. He’s lazy, has no morals whatsoever and is gluttonous. He will doze all day long on the back of the armchair in the bay window in the sun, eat and drink when he chooses, then at a certain time each night he will preen and clean himself and go to the front door to be let out to trawl the neighbourhood for some girl action. He’s not very fussy in his choices either, any colour; tabby, ginger, or black will do; likewise age is not an issue. I have seen him cavort with a beautiful pure-bred white cat from number 22 and a wild cat from nearby fields. I’ve seen him sidle up to cats half his age and indeed old age has not slowed him down.

A couple of nights ago when I couldn’t sleep I got up around 3am to open a window and spotted him slinking across the neighbour’s garden where a particularly nice Persian cat resides. Punching above his weight  most definitely.

Another day I came out of the house and he was sprawled across the garden with two other cats, one on either side of him, it was funny the way he was lying with them as if he had an arm around each.  As if to say “hey there meet my lovers.  Meow!”

Monty has moved house with us now on three separate occasions. Supposedly you have to keep cats in for three weeks when moving house because they get disoriented and try to go back to the old residence. Not a bit of it with our feline fox.  Undeterred, he was out trawling the new neighbourhood every night for  new talent and it didn’t take him too long to get acquainted with the local mistresses.

He has no regard for me whatsoever and views me merely as a meal ticket, meowing for food every time he sees me.  I suppose he has to keep up his stamina. I reckon if I fed him twenty times a day, he’d still beg for more. Indeed I’d just fed him before the ham-robbing incident.

When he was younger he used to catch little birds that came into the garden until I bought a bell for his collar to alert the poor little creatures. Now he’s too old and too well fed to be bothered with them, he just lies in the garden watching out of the corner of his eye,  and probably thinking “I could have you if I wanted.”

He follows me to the shops and when I’m out walking, much to the amusement of neighbours and small children. My son made him a little house. Fully detached and with an A-roof complete with furry interior, it doesn’t get much use, he prefers to roam free doing his thing.  He is neutered by the way though it hasn’t in any way curtailed his prodigious libido.  And he’s always back sitting on the doorstep each morning, even if he is looking a little haggard after his night on the tiles.

If there is reincarnation, I want to come back as a tomcat.

By Grainne

Dry your tears Mammies and Daddies of Ireland.  Your sons and daughters in Australia, from the evidence I saw on a recent trip, are having the time of their lives.  I saw and met nary a one lamenting the auld sod.  They were far too busy having a good time.

Of course there were tears at the airport when you bid them goodbye.  Then you went home, as my sister did after seeing her youngest daughter off two years ago, to cry some more, rail against the recession that doomed our children to the ‘scourge’ of emigration and curse the Government that brought it about.  I myself have been heard to decry the circumstances and those in power responsible for our young people (more usually described, Utopian-like, as our ‘Brightest and Best’) having to leave the country.  But that was before I saw proof of what I’d suspected for a while; they’re having a great time!  

They probably stopped sniffling five minutes after going through the security gates at the airport as they looked forward to their first big adventure without parents looking over their shoulders.

Forced emigration has been a richly mined vein for balladeers and poets for decades.   Disregarding the reality that many make the conscious choice to go there, offspring departing for foreign shores invoke much lamentation.  Mention of Australia in particular, brings the added and somber invocation “it’s so far away!”  It ‘tis of course, a long ways away.  A whole day away.  With flight changes and stopovers it can take as much as two days.    A little perspective anyone?

Rosie O’ Grady’s in Perth was heaving on a Friday night while we were there.  We spotted not a single patron weeping into their drinks over missing home.   The rainbow of football jersies showed that most counties were represented among the young men gathered.   The crowd was raucous and good humoured.

In another pub on a Thursday night a gaggle of Irish gals were pooling their money to see if they could stump up enough for a final round.  There was much cheering when they discovered they could and one of the two young lads in their company was dispatched to fill the order.  A young barman at that place told us he’d come over three months ago to join his girlfriend who’s a nurse in Perth; was earning 20 dollars an hour and, while they found the city expensive, were enjoying their experience.  “Sure what would ya be at at home?” he said; a sentiment that we heard echoed a few times while there. 

In a park another day we met a mixed group of young Irish sitting on the grass in the sun, shooting the breeze.  All seemed happy and untroubled by the distance from home.  They were making plans for the coming weekend.   Outside an Italian restaurant we were dining in, sitting on a seat on the street, we overheard two young Irish lads laughing about an incident in work.  There was much merriment.

In the backpackers hostel where I went every few days to use the Internet I heard many Irish voices come and go.  From what I gleaned, their travels were for the most part enjoyable, even hardships encountered were related with relish, the badge of honour of the budget-conscious traveler.

Mournful Mammies and disconsolate Daddies can take comfort in the fact that their darlings are getting on so well.  Of course there are those for whom the experience may be less than enjoyable, especially if homesickness hits.  But it seems to me that by virtue of the distance they choose to go, those who opt for Australia are, by nature, able and willing to try new things and capable of adapting.

My eldest lad, doing the rite-of-passage year out in Oz a few years back, made friends that have lasted and he counts the experience among his most positive and educational.    As for my niece, she flew from Queensland to meet us during our trip and while she was happy to see the Mammy and d’Auntie and hang out with us for the week, at the end of it she seemed eager to be off back to her job, her friends and her new life.  Despondent she wasn’t.  Having regaled us with stories of multiple high jinks and adventures with friends during her time there, I wasn’t surprised.   “Sure what would she be at at home?”  I comforted her Mammy after she took her leave.  What indeed?

by Aine

I am normally very cowardly when it comes to watching documentaries on television, and tend to steer clear of anything involving the suffering of  children, famine, or war crimes.  I change channel immediately, I have no stomach for such suffering of people who have experienced horrendous ordeals through no fault of their own.   

Neither can I bear to sit through advertisements for the children’s charity Bernardos, with the little sad faces of children in crisis, or unbearable images of starving children on advertisements for Trocaire or Concern.

I remember watching a documentary on Channel 4 a few years ago about child soldiers in Sierra Leone and I could not shake the images for a long time afterwards.  So I find it easier to switch off and try to deny the atrocities that occur on a daily basis on this planet.

Last night for some reason I didn’t switch off when a programme came on that made for uncomfortable and upsetting viewing.  It was TG4’s documentary ‘The Forgotten Maggies’ – the story of some of the women who suffered at the hands of religious orders in the Magdalene laundries in Ireland.

Of course I’ve read articles about the Magdalene laundries before, but found it hard to think about what these women suffered at the hands of the very people that were entrusted with their care. But last week’s documentary captured my interest. The women who courageously told their stories were from all over Ireland, Longford, Cork, Carlow, Tipperary, Dublin and Waterford.

They described, in harrowing detail how they were stripped of their identities, barely fed, not allowed speak (other than to recite the Rosary or to pray at Benediction) and made to work long hours in the laundries from an early age for no pay.

They described how they were regularly beaten for no crime other than maybe wetting the bed or snoring.

These unfortunate children were regularly reminded that they were nothing, had come from nothing and would amount to nothing.

How these children ended up in the laundries in the first place was the first part of their shameful treatment. Some were the result of being born out of wedlock, others unfortunate enough to have a mother die and for the local priest to then remove the child from the home and commit them to a life of servitude and physical and mental abuse in these institutions.

The documentary showed how the Church and State colluded in covering up the shocking treatment these girls endured in the laundries at the hands of various religious orders.

Each woman told their story and it was heartbreaking to listen to them. There is no question that each woman has been profoundly affected by their time spent in the laundries.  How could anyone not be?

I was educated by the Sisters of Mercy in primary school. I can vividly remember the cruelty these nuns perpetrated on a daily basis. God help you if you came from a poor family, as you were ridiculed, beaten, held up to be scorned.

I remember at least three nuns who were out of control when it came to physical punishment. I recall one nun who used to foam from the mouth such was her fury as she was beating some poor unfortunate girl for something as innocuous as forgetting her copy.

I sat beside a girl who had a bad stutter and was beaten for it, which, even to our six-year-old minds we could see only made her stutter worse.  I shared a classroom with girls who were beaten for being left-handed.  My sister was one of them.

The nuns ruled the classroom with terror and we were afraid to look sideways lest we be on the receiving end of their cruelty. All of this left me with a dislike for nuns, but at least at the end of the school day we could leave and go home.

We had parents who cared about us and even though times were tough in the late 50’s and early 60’s we had a good life outside of school.

The unfortunate girls who were incarcerated in the Magdalene laundries didn’t have the luxury of caring parents, or a voice, or anybody to speak up for them, thus the brutal regime continued unabated and unquestioned for these most vulnerable children.

The compensation paid to the victims by the Redress board will never make up for lost childhoods, the physical abuse, their loneliness and hunger and the stripping of their dignity.

Most of the women interviewed were clearly still carrying the scars of their experiences at the hands of the religious orders in the laundries.

Watching this documentary just after the publication of the Cloyne report was published, painted a grim picture of an Ireland still at the mercy of the Catholic Church.  Three previous reports into sexual abuse and paedophile priests made for shocking and sickening revelations and the Cloyne report was more of the same, it all sounded sickeningly familiar.

The Bishop of Cloyne John Magee failed to safeguard the children of his Dioceses just like Brendan Comiskey of Wexford and many other Church leaders before them had.  There was the added horror of what happened in Cloyne having occurred at a time after clerical sex abuse elsewhere had been uncovered reported on, and supposed regulations and safeguards put in place to prevent it from happening again.

The modus operandi seemed to be that if a report of aberrant behaviour by a priest was brought to the attention of the hierarchy, instead of investigating those reports the priests in question were moved on to different dioceses free to inflict more harm, damaging more and more children.

The Catholic Church and the various Religious Orders have become synonymous with child abuse and cover-ups.  They’ve shown none of the qualities of mercy, compassion and forgiveness which they’ve preached for so long.  They’ve diminished themselves greatly as a result.

By Grainne

Something strange has happened to me of late.  A self-confessed news junkie for many years, more, someone who worked in the news business, I’ve disengaged completely.

Before I couldn’t do without my daily fix of Morning Ireland, followed by Pat Kenny, lunch was shared in the company of Sean O’ Rourke and his News at One crew, the drive home from work each evening saw me switch between Matt Cooper and Mary Wilson.  Post dinner it was the RTE news, most times I dipped in again to the nine o’ clock just in case anything momentous had happened in the meantime and Prime Time and The Week in Politics were de rigueur.  In between there’d be regular dips into Sam Smyth’s Sunday show on Today FM, Rachel English’s midweek political show and the Saturday lunchtime political show too.

No single event caused me to suddenly withdraw cold turkey from the news milieu.  Rather it was a cumulative feeling of déjà vu.  I became jaded by the litany of bad news that washed out over the airwaves daily.  Reports on clerical sex abuse?  Heard them all before and nothing’s changed.  Hospital closures, hospitals in crisis, decline in medical services?  All depressingly familiar.  Stories of politicians with self interest their overriding priority?  Nothing new there.  Gangland crime?  An everyday occurrence.

The rest of what passes for news these days is anything but.  Celebrity (and I use that term loosely) gossip isn’t news.  Giving it credence by presenting it as news erodes our moral fibre, something that seems perilously close to depletion anyway.

And you know what?  I don’t miss it all one bit!  Amazingly, my life hasn’t been hampered in any way by not being up to date on a daily basis with what’s happening in the world.

I heard in passing today that some international rating agency has demoted us to ‘junk’ status.  Normally that’d have me eagerly tuning into every subsequent news show for the dissemination, analysis and general chin-wagging that’d follow.  Not to mention the outraged protestations and bellicose umbrage.   Spare me the verbiage. I see for myself the empty stores, the people trying to save petrol, buy less groceries, take less outings, skimp where they can.    We’re broke and we’re hurting and all the talking in the world isn’t going to help.  The leadership we need, and which for a brief period after the general election put in an appearance has fizzled out as vested interests and parish pump politics, as usual, win out.

I’ve restocked my car with CDs, some old favourites, some new and who knows?  Maybe I’ll arrive at my destination in the days and weeks to come a whole lot more mellow.  And I’ll renew my library card to better fill my evening hours.

Anything other than listening to the news.

By Aine

Much has been made of the remarks passed in the Dail by Mick Wallace and Ming Flanagan about Mary Mitchell O’ Connor.

Ming, him of unkempt goatee beard, earring and trademark pony tail and the bould Mick of shaggy dirty blonde hair, stubbly chin and pink polo shirts, saw fit to pass remarks on the stylish Ms O’ Connor calling her “Miss Piggy” and declaring” that she had toned it down a bit for that day’s Dail session.

Do either of these two boys look in the mirror of a morning? The comments were unkind, sexist and totally uncalled for. These two Independent TDs haven’t contributed too much to Dail proceedings to date and I would urge them to concentrate on what the public elected them to do.

The sniggering duo made their derogatory remarks during Order of Business which shows what little interest they have in proceedings. Well done lads for garnering media attention for all the wrong reasons.

I was on the receiving end of some nasty remarks myself today as I drove into a car park minding my own sweet business. I was in Maynooth to meet a friend for lunch and was trying to get a car parking space in a particularly busy and confined car park. I saw a spot, indicated and drove into it.   

A man in a black Megane reversed back and through his open window berated me loudly for taking his spot. Except that I hadn’t – I’d indicated and started to drive into the spot well before he was anywhere near it. He proceed to call me a “stupid woman” and claim that I had driven into the car park at 15 miles an hour which was true  because it was a car park and was busy and space was tight!

After him roaring abuse at me for some time I went and told him that I hoped his young daughter who was a passenger in the back seat knew her Daddy was a bully and hoped that he was proud of himself and what a wonderful example he was setting to her.

Good manners seem to be on the decline in Ireland at present along with just about everything else. Mick and Ming would do well as elected representatives to remember to switch off their microphones next time they decide to slag off their colleagues.

By Grainne

It’s the topic of conversation among women everywhere.  Film critics who’d normally treat  ‘chick flicks’ with sniffy distain have been heaping praise on it.  It was time to see what all the fuss was about.

Normally I give wide berth to films which are hyped as much as Bridesmaids and that’s been because the reality usually disappoints.  So it was with little expectation of it being as good as was being claimed that I went along on a recent Monday night to see what all the fuss was about. 

It was great fun and sharply observed, chronicling the implosion of Annie’s life as she tries to get into the swing of her best friend Lillian’s wedding.  Picked as maid of honour, she must, despite being broke, dejected from the failure of her business and luckless in love, throw herself into the myriad girly celebrations that mark an American’s girl’s nuptials.  She must also contend with Helen, the wife of the boss of Lillian’s husband-to- be, a competitive bitch who has the money and desire to throw the type of showy parties Annie wouldn’t, even if she could afford to.  With the two on a collision course, its little wonder bride-to-be Lillian has more than the usual wedding nerves. 

                                 Much has been made of the wedding dress shop scene and yes it’s funny.  Just not that funny unless you like humour of the scatological kind.  Funnier is the opening scene in which Annie has to straddle the electric gate of her shit of a boyfriend’s place after staying the night.  Swinging open as she’s halfway across to mortify her in front of the neighbours – now that’s funny.

The plane scene is funny in that cringe-making, watch-through-your-fingers way and because it’s just so damn good to see the imperious little cabin steward get his comeuppance.  And it’s not hard to see why women howled at the scene in which Annie loses the plot at the bachelorette party and goes ape-shit.

Much has also been made of Annie’s use of the c-word.  I’m not a big fan of the swear word but this has to be the most judicious use of it, ever.  It’s funny.

There are caricatures aplenty in Bridesmaids, the sex-mad woman, the uptight girl and the fat girl.  Except that this fat girl, Megan, is one of the funniest characters that’s populated a Hollywood film in a long time. 

Chris O’ Dowd has been receiving much acclaim for his role as the decent gentlemanly cop who takes a shine to Annie.  He plays to type I think, he has a natural hangdog look that’s worked to good effect here.  The Hollywood got-his-girl ending was a bit clichéd and predictable for a film that managed to work against type for much of it.

Bridesmaids works because it features a subject that women love – weddings and combines pathos with humour in a way that women get.  The audience was 90% female the night I was there.  The reviews that I read were written by men but that’s not to say men would go of their own volition to see it.  More likely they’ll be inveigled to see it by girlfriends and will consider it a penance to be endured.