by Grainne

“Being happy doesn’t mean that everything is perfect. It means that you’ve decided to look beyond the imperfections.”  I’ve no idea who wrote that quote that I read somewhere recently but it struck a chord with me.

Being the type of person that’s blessed with a usually happy disposition, I’d found myself less so of late.  Not that I’d descended into the depths of melancholy or anything but I was definitely less ebullient.  My joie de vivre had, if not abandoned me, then gone into hiding.  Blame it on the vagaries of life, changed circumstances or the general misery and sense of hopelessness that abounds, but whatever the cause, some friends, more used to my irritatingly upbeat self, noticed and commented on it.

Then yesterday, three random occurrences lifted my spirits completely.  One was the sight of a young girl, aged about seven or so who was rollerblading happily alongside her mother who was out walking.  The little one was quite proficient and I was drawn to her skills and grace as she effortlessly wheeled in arcs and circles as they went.  Then looking across, she recognised my sister, who was driving, (she’s a neighbour’s child) and she sent the happiest of smiles our way along with a big cheery wave.   Her simple, untrammelled happiness was like a tonic. 

Another was when I returned to my car in a car park to find a man in one of those people carriers had parked so closely to me that the only way in was to scramble, legs akimbo, across the passenger seat.  He’d come back at that stage, saw my difficulty, apologised profusely and offered to move at once to allow me to get in through the driver’s door.  By that stage I was perched somewhat precariously midways over the gear stick so I felt it safer to continue my manoeuvre. I was however greatly assuaged by his genuine apology.  Where would you hear such these days?

The last event that cheered me up no end was when I went for a walk on the Curragh in the evening.  As myself and my walking companions left our car we saw a young man placing out and assembling his wheelchair beside his car.  On our way back from our walk we met him again, walking his dog, an adorable little Husky puppy.  We stopped to admire the dog that was as friendly as his owner.  After exchanging pleasantries we went on our way and he went on his.  I was so struck by the effort he’d made to go exercising with his dog and how much he seemed to be enjoying that simple pleasure.

I remember, growing up, always being puzzled by grown-ups who were grumpy or miserable.  There seemed to be a lot of them about.  My childish sensibilities were unable to discern the reasons for such people’s ill temper; was their misery the product of some tragedy, calamity or ill fortune having been visited upon them or were they simply bad-humoured by nature?  I tended to give such people a wide berth, I didn’t like being in their company.  I still don’t like grumpy people.  So I certainly don’t want to turn into one.  Apart from the three random events that cheered me up yesterday though, I found myself smiling with pleasure at the weekend to find that new flowers I’d sown were in bloom.  I sat early on Sunday morning enjoying warm sun on my face in the garden while drinking a cup of tea and revelled in it.  And I delighted in finding a lovely dress, at a knock-down price, at the weekend too.  So perhaps my joie de vivre had taken only a short sojourn and is now back to restore me to my more usual sunny self.

 by Grainne

Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it.  That’s my response to Gay Byrne’s peevish outburst at some negative publicity he got while he was ruminating on whether or not to contest the presidency.  He’s used some pretty strong terms to describe the media scrutiny he naturally came in for when he was mulling over whether or not to run for the most prestigious gig in the country.   Not to mention one of the best as it’s largely ceremonial, there isn’t the hassle of trying to lead and manage a country that’s on its uppers like the head of the political parties in power are having to.

Using his Sunday Independent column to vent his spleen, his umbrage knew no bounds.  Using words like “malevolent and malice-filled” to describe those in the media who sought to “destroy, undermine and denigrate” him, he lashed out at their “News of the World” mentality.   This from a man that spent generations in the business of probing and questioning other people.

He admits to being shocked at the media interest, or ‘intrusion’ as he brands it, over his past, including his financial woes.   What’s shocking is that he seems to have thought he could waltz into a presidential race with little or no effort and be treated with the same fawning deference he’s used to.   One thing’s for sure, if pomposity was a requirement, he’d have gone to the head of the list.

I think that, if he had run, he’d have won it, hands down.  He has the high profile thanks to the national broadcaster’s willingness to keep a steady supply of television and radio programmes going his way.  He’s still extremely popular with a lot of people.    Less so with rather more people than I thought though, judging from the letters pages in the national papers; people who, like me, find him patronising and insufferable.

 Perhaps some of the coverage Gay Byrne received was overly critical – I admit to not having read it all.  But rather than a concerted, malicious campaign to malign him, maybe what was actually to blame for his decision not to press ahead was his own hubris.  It seemed almost as if he would have being willing to consider it had he not had to go through the usual process of having to get the nomination and then go out among the public and actually ask for votes. Indeed he said as much in an interview with Claire Byrne on RTE.   When asked how he would react if  a political party approached him and said they would support him, (we know that Fianna Fail was interested in doing so, seeing him as a sure thing)  his reply was “do I need to get in a bus and travel the roads of Ireland asking people to vote for me?”  “I would rather be sitting where you are with my little mic open talking to the people of Ireland” he added.    Pontificating is what he does best and while he’d have had ample opportunity to do that as President, it seems he’d prefer it to be a one-way affair.

by Aine

I needed to take the train recently to Dublin but forgot to bring my book for the journey, so I picked up a copy of VIP magazine. I’ve flicked through this glossy mag before, usually when I’m in the hairdressers.

It got me thinking……… who exactly are Ireland’s Very Important People?  Do you have any?

Well Michael Flately was gracing the cover of the copy I bought, so he’s obviously considered important by the people responsible for this publication.   He’s an entertainer, a dancer to be precise. He’s made a fortune from his shows “Lord of the Dance” and others and now lives comfortably in his palatial residence, Castlehyde, the doors of which he threw open for the VIP team to photograph him in various poses in some of the many rooms. Michael Flatley is indeed well-known and has made himself a small fortune and fair play to him, but VIP?  Well I guess that’s a very subjective title.

On page three we were treated to photographs of families who attended the Peter Pan Premiere. Joe Duffy with daughter; Bernard Dunne the boxer with wife and kids in tow and Nicky Byrne of Westlife with wife, kids and mother-in law Miriam Ahern.

I’m reliably informed by friends who are regular readers that Miriam Ahern often graces the pages of said magazine. Why? She is the ex-wife of disgraced former Taoiseach Bertie Ahern. What makes her important, never mind very important?

In whose opinion is she deemed so? Joe Duffy has a radio programme, so have many others, so what makes Joe stand out and be included as a VIP?

The next page includes more ‘celebrity families’ and I use the term loosely.

The ubiquitous Pat Kenny, missus and offspring, Keith Barry the magician with wife and child, and Kathleen Watkins and grandkids. Now Kathleen came close to being a VIP, as hubby Gaybo was considering throwing his hat in the ring for the Aras, so Kathleen could well have become our very own First Lady, but alas it was not to be. Nevertheless for the purposes of this magazine she is considered a VIP.

  The following page gave a helping hand to recognise some of the VIP’s in case we failed to recognise them.  Titled ‘Who’s Who’ it kindly names the ‘celebs’ lest we have difficulty recognising them. They include Mary Byrne (singer, X-factor contestant) Claire Byrne (radio presenter) Karen Koster (another regular of VIP and  telly programme presenter) and someone called Diana Bunici of whom I’ve never heard. So if she’s a VIP how come I haven’t heard of her before?

Next comes some photos from the Galway races of ladies dolled up to the nines, I recognised one face only – Glenda Gilson, former model, now Expose presenter – so who decided all the other ladies photographed on the day were VIP’s? On what basis were they selected for inclusion for the mag over the other mere mortals who attended the races?

I’m not going to go through the magazine page by page but you get my drift.

There were the Bollinger Summer Party attendees. Out of the fourteen photos I recognised two people. So who are all these others and what is the criterion that determines them VIP’s? Not entirely sure.

Brian Ormond (television presenter) and his fiancée, the model Pippa O’ Connor are regularly featured in the magazine; indeed they are included TWICE in this edition so they truly must be incredibly important people! Brendan Courtney is also featured twice, once for attending Blossom Hill Ladies Day at the RDS (he was a judge apparently) and again at the Killarney races where he was also a judge. For those of you who might ask Brendan who? – he co-presents a fashion programme on RTE.

Are you, like me, beginning to see a common thread running through the inclusion musts for VIP? If you are on RTE, or TV 3 it would seem you are considered VIP’d enough to warrant admittance to the hallowed pages of this glossy publication.

Mary Mitchell O’ Connor – the newly elected TD for Dun-Laoghaire/Rathdown is given five pages complete with glossy pics. Mary is more famous for driving down the steps of Dail Eireann in her car on her first day in the Dail, and for having TD Mick Wallace bestow her with the title ‘Miss Piggy’. She has been appointed to the chair of the Education and Social Protection Committee- but so far I haven’t heard of any outstanding work or change coming from that direction, so in my book she hasn’t earned her VIP stripes just yet.

Crystal Swing – Jesus shoot me now – the family band from Cork – also get five pages dedicated where Mrs Crystal Swing herself informs us of her devotion to Our Lady and the Sacred Heart.

Sharon Corr of the Corrs- brother and sisters band shares with us her secrets of eternal youth and how her new album was influenced by her children. Yawn, yawn.

Strangest inclusion of all is on the back page. Maitre d’ on the RTE (what else!) programme The Restaurant  John Healy, who gives us an insight into his friendship with a lady friend. Very weird indeed.

The Irish rugby team also featured in this edition of VIP and I have no problem with them being included. They are our national rugby team and will be representing us at the World Cup later in the year. They do something that we can be proud of. They bring hope and optimism to our country. They are super-fit, wonderful sportsmen, and represent us well on the world stage, as they have proved time and time again.

But ex-models, radio and television presenters, singers, dancers, people who attend race meetings? They surely cannot be considered VIP’s.

To me a VIP is a person who brokers world peace, finds a cure for cancer, surgeons who operate daily and save lives, governors of countries who govern honestly and with integrity, people who volunteer to help others regularly, and so on.

Not wannabe celebrities who attend the opening of a show or film.

VIP magazine should be re-named “LAM” – LOOK AT ME!

Should I become a millionaire any time soon, I realise that I probably have jinxed myself for inclusion in the glossy pages of said magazine. But then it wouldn’t bother me necessarily, – I’ve never considered myself more important than anyone else.

by Grainne

With third level fees on the way back and grown children returning to live with their parents because they can’t afford the rent, the squeeze is on middle-aged middle income earners who once looked forward to this time when financial burdens were supposed to ease.

Instead we find ourselves subsidizing adult offspring that have lost their jobs or just can’t get one, from paypackets that have shrunk to below what we were earning two or three years ago. 

Helping struggling sons and daughters who’ve lost their jobs or are on reduced incomes and are grappling with sky high mortgages and other debt and the cost of childcare and everyday necessities means that a sector which traditionally had a few bob spare to spread around no longer has or can.

Any college student will tell you how hard it was to find a job this year, many unable to do so can only turn to their parents to pay student fees and accommodation this year.

Anyone who lost their job in the past two years and was lucky enough to secure a new one will tell you that they took their new position with a hefty reduction in pay from what they’d been previously earning.

It all adds up to a lot of pressure on a group of people who had an expectation that, if they worked assiduously and didn’t spent recklessly, could enjoy a relatively comfortable lifestyle now.  The reality is far more stark.  On top of more cuts on the way our pensions have been plundered.

It doesn’t help that we’re the most passive sector of society.  Witness how the OAPS reacted when the Government had the temerity to cut their pensions.  They were reinstated within a day.  On the other end of the spectrum our young people are quick to publicly demonstrate their ire when something happens to annoy them.  We, on the other hand, now seem beyond even the usual resort of the well behaved middle class – a campaign of civil disobedience.

Little has been heard of late about the “green shoots of regrowth” in the Irish economy.  Perhaps they were drowned in the deluge of summer rain.  Or more likely it was just that the perpetrators of such laughably asinine portents – Fianna Fail and their spin doctors, are too busy away spending their golden handshakes to give a damn.

The only ones ‘talking up’ the country now are the motley crew of Presidential hopefuls and no-ones giving them a hearing.  Tired old platitudes aren’t going to cut the mustard with people who, instead of some sort of financial security, are facing the prospect of further hard times ahead.

At least Finance Minister Michael Noonan won’t be foolish enough to urge us anytime soon again to get out into the shops and spend our way out of the recession .  We’d love to Michael, if only we had it to spare.

by Grainne

Sinead O’ Connor has never been the conventional type.  So I suppose it’s no surprise that she used a column in a prominent Sunday newspaper to declare that she wants a man.  She thought about joining a dating agency, she said, but felt that if she did it’d end up in the newspapers.  She doesn’t seem to find this the least bit contradictory. 

I was surprised to hear the news that Sinead is seeking a man because it doesn’t seem that long ago her wedding photograph featured in the same paper as she was bemoaning her lack of a man at the weekend.

Now that he’s no longer on the horizon Sinead is not only lovelorn but sounding dangerously sexually deprived as well.  That said she’s armed with a shopping list this time for suitable suitors that may make her search that bit harder. (No pun intended!)  No-one under 44 need apply.  Those who are over that age and do must also be sex starved.  And hairy.  Just not named Nigel or Brian.  She wants an employed man and has a weakness for leather-trouser wearing Gardai (that’ll be the motorcycle boys then) firemen and rugby players.  Farmers also make the list of preferred professions so perhaps she should have tried an ad in Ireland’s Own?  Oh and Robert Downey Jnr.  But sure what red-blooded woman wouldn’t want Robert Downey Jnr?

Sinead also says ‘stubble’ is a must.  She’d be ok there with Robert Downey Jnr. though I must say I’d be partial to him even with a chin as smooth as a baby’s bum. 

It seems the singer isn’t a fan of men who are big into personal grooming.  She specifies that those who use hair gel, aftershave, hair dye and hairdryers need not apply.  I’m with her on the hair dye but it seems to me any middle-aged, hairy, stubbly man has got to benefit from any extra ablutions he’s prepared to devote time too.

I had intended to write a piece at some stage on the realities faced by increasing numbers of  middle-aged separated men and women in Ireland.  The lack of opportunities to meet people.  The perils and pitfalls of dating sites. How fraught it all is, with people coming out of long relationships with low self esteem and often a lot of baggage.  What a strange place it is to find oneself in middle age.  The effect it has on children, even if they’re of the grown up variety, and on family generally.  The reaction of friends.

That article can wait for another time.  For now I’m just too fascinated with seeing if Sinead’s high profile manhunt, complete with characteristic idiosyncratic shopping list will yield results for her.    Meanwhile the clean shaven, aftershave-wearing Nigels and Brians of this world, and any others not stampeding in Sinead’s direction, are asked to form an orderly queue in mine.

By Aine

I have to own up here to my complete phobia about worms. I’ve had this phobia as long as I can remember.

      The mere glimpse of a pink, squirmy worm will send me shrieking into the house. Caterpillars, slugs, centipedes, earwigs and beetles also make my blood run cold and make me break out in a sweat. It’s a particularly tough phobia as I love gardening. I’ll be happily weeding away in the garden and next thing one of the horrible critters will appear and I’ll have to drop my trowel and scarper.  As you can imagine this makes weeding or sowing or digging extremely laborious as the task is interrupted so many times by the appearance of these slimy feckers.

I gave up buying cabbage a long time ago due to the odd slug lying in wait for me among the leaves. One day when the kids were young I startled them when, having spotted a slug lurking in the cabbage, I dropped it and ran screaming into the garden. They thought I had sliced my finger off!

I know many women have a fear of spiders, mice, bats etc. Such creatures hold no fear for me. I’ll happily pick up a spider and remove him carefully to the great outdoors, I bear no ill will towards mice, but worms make me go hot and cold.

I remember when I was in secondary school some friends played a trick on me.

After lunch break one day they left a tin cigar box on my desk and when I opened it I got the shock of my life… it was full of worms.

I fled shrieking from the school with the teacher in hot pursuit, but it had a profound effect on me and it took me hours to calm down. It’s not just a dislike of worms. It a full blown phobia.

A couple of nights ago I was out in the garden after a heavy shower of rain. As I walked through the grass minding my own sweet business I looked down and saw hundreds and I mean hundreds of slugs. Horrible big black slimy disgusting slugs, climbing all over my flower beds, up the walls, and squirming all over the grass. I was stuck trying to negotiate a way back through the grass without walking on one of them.         

I was tempted to go back into the house to get the salt and kill every last one of the offending buggers but I am reliably informed that this is a cruel method of disposing of them and if I want to rid my garden of them slug pellets are a better and more humane way of going about it.

I recently told my husband that when I die I do not want to be buried in the ground – I do not intend to be worm food, and as I am also afraid of fire I don’t think cremation is an option so I think throwing me overboard from a fast moving boat will have to be considered.

Recently we acquired a compost bin. Yikes! Now I do try to be as eco-friendly as the next person but its difficult to dispose of waste food into the receptacle without peeking inside, never mind the odour emitting from the critters at the bottom of the bin churning up the waste food! Horror of horrors. I now leave all left over food in a container in the kitchen for hubby to deposit into brown bin, thus saving me encountering my enemies.

I know that my phobia…. like most can be cured and I am considering it taking action as it’s taking the pleasure out of gardening for me.  It’s either aversion therapy or I buy an apartment.

by Grainne

We don’t actually need a President.  There, I’ve said it.  We don’t have to have a Presidential election.  We are a small island nation.  A little country in crisis.  In the jaws of a recession, dogged by depression, up to our necks in hock.

Truth be told no-one has any appetite for a Presidential election.  Even the motley crew of candidates seem to have a couldn’t-care-less attitude about it.   Anything I’ve heard so far from them has been stupefyingly turgid, boring, platitudinous and patronising.

Quite apart from the cost, and the better things the money the Presidential campaign could be spent on, the contenders read like a who’s who of the unremarkable, the unimaginative and the unimpressive.  Hard-necked chancers who fancy a stint in the big house and a generous salary for doing little.  And don’t let’s have any of that ‘Ambassador role’ guff.  With most countries thinking we’re right eejits to have partied like there was no tomorrow on borrowed money while passing ourselves out as models of fiscal management, it’d fit us better to hide our shame at home.

The Taoiseach could do a spot of double-jobbing by taking on the role, it’s hardly that onerous, turning up at Croker for the big games and taking the odd trip out to inspect the troops or welcome whatever dignitaries still want to fetch up in this forlorn rain-lashed island.

I’m serious here, by the way.  Let’s not have a Presidential campaign.  Let’s not have a President.  They are not democratically elected.  They are supposed to be above politics but are only afforded the opportunity to run by virtue of political patronage and support, fuelled either by brinkmanship or cronyism.

                             Who’d miss him or her if there wasn’t one?  Would it be a talking point down on the dole queues?  A topic of conversation, an ice-breaker perhaps, between bank manager and unemployed home owner before they settle down to discuss the possibility of the person’s home being repossessed?  Would the bar stool philosophers (the few that’s left) even be bothered debating the subject?

In short, who’d give a shit?

By Aine

With the withdrawal of Senator David Norris from the Presidential race the campaign has become a very lacklustre affair. I think we could use a candidate to liven things up a bit. So I’ve been thinking of some suitable contenders who would also not have any skeletons skulking in the closet. 

As I write this Gay Byrne is waiting to be asked to throw his hat in the ring and the weekend papers were full of speculation about his interest in the post.

Sure wouldn’t Gay be just dandy in the Aras? He wouldn’t offend anybody, he’s Mr Congeniality, he’d be a great host should Bessie from Buck palace return or Barack and Michelle. Indeed I can just picture his missus, the fair Kathleen, being pressed into service to pluck gently on her harp in the hallowed halls of the great house to welcome all overseas visitors. The salary would come in handy too because it has come to light recently that he’s lost his pension in the downturn and must continue to work ‘till he pops his clogs (luckily for him RTE is awfully accommodating on this score and whenever he announces he’s a few bob short seem to find a vanity project for him.)

My only concern about Gaybo’s bid for the big job is that, at 77, I fear he might be a bit long in the tooth, and if anything should happen (God forbid) we would have to go through the motions again when our country can’t even afford one Presidential election

What about Jedward? The Irish public seem to love this hapless duo, felt confident enough in their ability (I use the term loosely) to represent us in the Eurovision, felt sufficiently assured for them to meet the American President, so surely we could put them forward for the Aras. They could take turns, John could be President on Monday, Wednesday and Friday while Edward could be President, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and they could share the post jointly on a Sunday. 

They could host parties on the Aras lawn with bouncy castles, spin the wheel, impromptu concerts, and custard pie throwing competitions and generally cause mayhem to liven us all up and distract us from our present woes.

I’m surprised Paidi O Shea hasn’t declared his intention to run for office.

Sure the best buddy of the late Charlie Haughey would easily secure a nomination from Fianna Fail and, as one of the Kingdom’s favourite brethren wouldn’t it be a simple transition from Ventry to the Phoenix Park.

Speaking of the Kingdom we might also consider the erstwhile Jackie Healy-Rae for President. We would have to employ an interpreter so our esteemed overseas visitors could make sense of what he would be saying. Again he’s a tad over the age limit so we could consider appointing his flat-capped, equally verbose son.

Daniel O’ Donnell would also be worth considering.  The affable crooner could move down from Donegal with the wife and Mammy in tow, cups of tea would also be on offer should anybody want to drop in and Daniel could break into a couple of bars of Danny Boy, or Ava Maria should the occasion warrant it.

What about Twink? She was in a spot of bother with the banks over the mortgage on her home so moving into the Aras would be a great boon for her. She has proved herself on the stage, she can cook and bake and decorate cakes. As long as Linda Martin wasn’t invited for tea there shouldn’t be any problems, oh that and keeping her vocabulary tempered while speaking about her ex-husband. Though the talk is that they are amicable again.  She’d bring some glamour to the position in a blowsy sort of way, heretofore unseen in the uber-conservative dress choices of the two previous Presidential matrons.

Take a look at the current Aras hopefuls and maybes: Mary Davis, Gay Mitchell, Michael D. Higgins, Sean Gallagher, Dana and possibly Mary Hanafin. My God it’s enough to make you want to spoil your vote on Election Day. What a bunch of safe old bores. We want charisma, panache, something different. Is there someone, anyone out there who can provide this?