www.toastonline.net

When I first heard that Kevin Myers had written an article, claiming that it would be better if starving Africans were left to die, I must admit, I smiled. Naively, I thought that he was merely using his tried and tested tactic of conveying his point via the most provocative language possible. I presumed that  he was utilising some kind of Swiftian method of telling us that urgent action is needed in Africa. And then I read the article…

Like any non-sociopathic person, I was fairly disgusted at the sheer unpleasantness of his article. With every sentence so carefully constructed to convey, in the most racist, bile-filled way possible, his point that ‘Africans are bad’, it is completely obvious that Myers’ was on a mission to upset as many people as possible. Unfortunately, he succeeded.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but the best way to deal with Myers is to accept that, at times, he lapses into some journalistic form of Tourette Syndrome, whereby he is compelled to write the most offensive, objectionable drivel that comes into his mind. 99 per cent of the time, it’s so easy to avoid his work, because much of it is nothing more than unnecessarily verbose whimsy. It’s just that, every now and then, like a twelve-year-old boy with a dead-baby-joke, he feels the urge to be oh-so-shocking. Deprive him of the attention he so desperately craves, and Myers will simply crawl back under his thesaurus.

You can be guaranteed that he spent much of that Thursday continually clicking ‘F5′ whilst sniggering and sneering his face off at the messages of disgust pouring into his inbox. Imagine how thrilled he must have been when he found out how many people had been accessing his article on the Independent’s website. The next time Myers does something like this – and there will inevitably be a next time – it really would be great if his words, however repulsive or bigoted, were dismissed as nothing more than the hopeless meanderings of a middle-aged attention-seeking cretin, writing for a paper which has long since shed its claim to be anything other than a cheap tabloid shit-rag.

Trust me – I’m not an economist.

1. Quit your job.

Let’s face it – there’s a good chance that, within the next few months, you’re going to be a victim of ‘outsourcing’, ‘downsizing’ or ‘restructuring’, so why not take control, get in there first and tell them where they can stick their lousy job? You see, signing on the dole is about to become a whole lot more socially acceptable. For the first time in over a decade, you won’t be seen as some parasitic social leper, sponging off the state. You’ll be a victim of the economy, forced to queue once a month alongside such bastions of middle-class society as former estate agents, property developers, cocaine dealers and party planners. At  around €197 per week, the pay is mediocre, but the hours are absolutely perfect.

2. Write a novel.

If you’ve taken leave of your senses and sauntered out of a perfectly decent job, on the basis of shoddy advice dished out by some preposterously ignorant gobshite off the internet, you’ll have plenty of time on your hands. Put that time to good use, and get cracking on that beautiful piece of literary fiction that we all apparently have embedded within us. If you tell people you’re writing a novel, they’ll be fascinated. You could be a tedious bore, but the second you tell someone you’re writing a novel, you automatically become vaguely interesting. Even if you have no inclination to write, just lie through your teeth. As Peter Cook once said, when somebody informed him they were writing a novel, “Really? Neither am I”.

3. Emigrate.

We’ve all seen that mid-1980s episode of Reeling in the Years which ended with the depressing scene of countless young Irish people queuing at the US Embassy or Dublin airport or somewhere, in a bid to get the hell out of here to start new lives in the land of opportunity. Well, guess what folks! Those days are comin’ back! The only issue is that America is somewhat less attractive now that its own economy is on the skids. Britain is in the same boat – as is much of Europe and Australia. Although I hear there’s an insurance company looking for staff in Bangalore. That might be worth a look.

4. Get educated.

Let’s imagine you’ve spent the last year on the dole (or whatever optimistic name they’re giving it nowadays), and you’re getting a bit restless. Put your clothes on, sober up, head down to your local unfriendly Social Welfare Office and tell them you want to return to education. They’ll be so thrilled to see the back of you that they’ll put you on some scheme where they actually pay you to go to college. In addition to that, there’s a good chance that you’ll also be eligible for a grant, so while everybody else struggles, you’ll be relatively comfortable. Proceed to spend the next few years doing pretty much the same as you did when you were unemployed, except for the occasional appearance at college to hand in overdue assignments. At the end of it all, the recession will be over and you’ll be qualified to get a decent job.

5. Talk to people.

Yeah, remember when people did that? Those were the days when they weren’t clogging up the M50 every evening, with their kids festering away in filthy creches until 8pm. Sit your children around the fire and tell them how unlucky they are. Tell them how you remember the days when children were driven a quarter of a kilometre to their fee-paying school in Range Rovers and BMWs, equipped with Playstations and heated seats. Teach them about the days when ’spam’ was something you got in your inbox, and not a vital source of daily nourishment. They won’t believe you, of course. But your tall tales will be the only source of entertainment in their miserable little lives.

It’s official. Ireland is in the grip of a recession. The government has spent months studiously avoiding the ‘R Word’, instead using such beautiful euphemisms as ‘we’re experiencing a tightening of circumstances in the economy’. But now it’s official. The elephant in the room can no longer be ignored. We’re dooooomed!

But it’s not all bad. As a child of the ’80s, I must admit to feeling a slight twinge of nostalgia when I hear Ireland’s economic prospects being described as ‘bleak’. Looking at this whole recession business through rose-tinted glasses, I reckon It’ll be just like living in an edition of ‘Reeling in the Years’, except without the Feargal Sharkey soundtrack. Maybe Westlife, Boyzone, The Thrills and Damien Dempsey will all have to join together and stage another ‘Self Aid’. I’m excited already.

Now that we can’t afford Topshop, Next and that fancy place with the Italian name, we’ll all have to start buying our clothes in Dunnes again. I’m thinking of a nice duffle coat. Things might not seem so bad right now, but you need a good warm coat when the queue down at the dole office becomes so long that it starts two streets away.

In these challenging times, the two-car-family will become a thing of the past. When I was growing up, if any family on our street had more than one car, we just presumed that they were selling drugs. In keeping with the bleak ’80s theme, I’m afraid we’re all going to have to start buying Ford Cortinas and Datsuns again. Or at the very least, we’ll have to stop buying a new SUV every six months.

And it’ll be even bleaker for the majority of us who won’t afford the luxury of our own car. We’ll have to endure public transport. Unfortunately, Dublin Bus will have to sell its shiny new stock and recommission those noisy old green buses, and maybe even the orange/beige ones too. You remember… the ones with the leather seats that scorched your arse on hot days.

It’s not all doom and gloom though. Property developers, estate agents and the owners of such pretentious and frivolous businesses as ‘juice bars’ and ‘pet hotels’ are all staring at financial ruin (don’t laugh), but the rest of us will all get along just fine. Times may be slightly tougher, belts will be tightened and we might have to go back to drinking Smithwicks, Harp and Guinness, instead of Jägerbombs and WKD, but we’ll survive.

For more on the Recession, Click Here.

Is that you find yourself effectively ‘on the same side’ as these wankers.

The above owners of incredibly punchable faces are all members of the United Kingdom Independence Party. Because of them, I very nearly voted ‘Yes’. They don’t just have a few legitimate issues with some aspects of the Lisbon Treaty. In fact, they probably know even less about it than our EU Commissioner, Charlie McCreevy does. As far as the likes of UKIP are concerned, EU membership simply means that bananas will be straightened, yoghurt will be banned, and we’ll all have to speak le Deutsch, like they do in Holland and the Netherlands.

They want Britain to be free from the shackles of the unelected Brussels beaurocrats, and have full control of its own destiny. At the same time, they want Northern Ireland to be freed from the shackles of its own elected Assembly, and not have any control over its own destiny. They are, in the words of David Cameron, closet racists, who want to ban immigration. They aren’t too fond of Muslims. Their failed London Mayor candidate wants to bring back the death penalty.

The one undeniably bad thing about our rejection of the Lisbon Treaty is that it makes these people happy. If the government really wanted us to vote ‘Yes’, their posters should have simply consisted of the face of the UKIP leader, Nigel Farage, and a short caption…

Vote ‘Yes’ or this twunt will be happy

“No”

“I’m sorry… what did you say?”

“I said no!”

“Hang on a minute, while I kick you several times in the testicles…”

“Actually, when I said ‘no’, what I actually meant was ‘yes’”

As Ireland travels into this supposed period of political uncertainty, with question-marks allegedly dangling precariously over our EU future, it’s reassuring that, even in this period of ‘uncharted waters’, we’ve still got John Waters. And in Friday’s Irish Times, he seemed quite unhappy that the frankly abominable concept of democracy has discredited his claim that, “from Lisadell to Latvia, we’re singing as one clan”. In fact, he’s absolutely furious at what he (somewhat less lyrically) calls, “the most disgraceful episode in the history of Irish democratic procedures.”

To be fair, Waters is only saying what most of our politicians are thinking. Only they have to pretend that they respect the wishes of the electorate. They have to bite their tongues and blurt out the usual “the people have spoken” rhetoric… at least until they declare the inevitable second Lisbon referendum. Whatever happens, our ‘No’ vote will ultimately prove to be nothing more than a tiny blip and a meaningless minor delay in the execution of the European project.

Contrary to the pre-referendum scaremongering from the main political parties, our failure to ratify the treaty will not result in Ireland being left behind. It will not result in catastrophic job losses. And as shown by the clear lack of mirth from the EU’s most powerful, Ireland has not become ‘the laughing stock of Europe’. While our government are being somewhat coy about the idea of giving two fingers to the plebs, all of the noises from Europe’s most prominent politicians suggest that Ireland’s naughty voters will simply be sent back to the ballot box - this time, to make the ‘right’ decision. Thanks to its economic success, Ireland has become something of an EU poster-boy, and a perfect advertisement of the benefits of membership. ‘Leaving Ireland behind’ in a ‘two-speed Europe’ is definitely not part of the Final Solution.

There are suggestions that, in a bid to ‘encourage’ us to vote in the correct manner, the next referendum will give us a choice between “Yes to Lisbon” and “No to the EU”, thus treating with complete contempt the majority of people who may be unhappy with aspects of the Lisbon Treaty, but are generally pro-European nonetheless. What a great idea. Perhaps, in any future referendum on the issue of Abortion, the government could take a similar line. I’m sure the ‘pro-life’ brigade would be quite happy if we were asked whether we want to “Maintain the current ban on abortion forever” or “Make it compulsory to murder all innocent, cute little babies”. As shown by Robert Mugabe, there are loads of ways of getting around the inconvenient democratic process. A bit of threatening here, a loaded question there… the public just need to be ’steered in the right direction’ sometimes.

John Waters need not fret. Give it a year, and this “pampered, narcissistic and vacuous generation” will have re-entered the polling booths and ticked the right box. He’ll be happy, the government will be happy and, once again, the continental choir will be singing hand in hand. The only casualty will be democracy itself.

Perhaps not quite, but not a million miles away… Right next door, in fact.

In these enlightened times, there really isn’t quite enough stigma associated with mental illness, so the government is finally going to do something about it. In what can best be described as a return to good old-fashioned Victorian values, our great leaders have decided that, rather than rebuilding a somewhat habitable, non-dickensian Central Mental Hospital in Dundrum, it would be a great idea to arbitrarily lump the mentally ill in with criminals.

In ‘co-locating’ the replacement for the Central Mental Hospital with the replacement for Mountjoy Prison, the government is implying that mental illness and criminality are inextricably linked. As it stands, many people who commit offences as a direct result of psychiatric problems are simply sent to jail, regardless of the fact that punishment is not what they need. Just think how convenient it’ll be in the future. They can just fling the mad folk over the wall, between the two institutions whenever they need to. Really handy.

You might argue that the government should be trusted on this one, as they’ve obviously gone through the whole ‘consultation process’ business, and come to an informed, considered decision. Not so, it would seem… Families of patients, mental health campaigners and mental health professionals all appear to be unanimously against the decision. Worse still, for Fianna Fail, economists are baffled by it too. Jim Power, Chief Economist with financial institution, Friends First, described the decision as having “all the hallmarks of having been scribbled on the back of an envelope”. He reckons it would make more economic sense to sell some of the land at Dundrum, and use the profits to rebuild the hospital. Even if it didn’t make economic sense, it still sounds far more sensible than locating it in the middle of nowhere, miles from any kind of public transport or amenities.

With the resignation of Bertie Ahern and the dumping of their infamous marquee of corruption at the Galway Races, Fianna Fail have given their image a bit of a spring clean. Beneath the shiny new surface though, little has changed - as proven by their determination to give priority to a bit of ‘prime real estate’ over the welfare of Ireland’s most vulnerable.

I cannot fucking believe the fucking fuckstorm of fuckery that has emanated from Brian ‘Big Ignorant Fucker’ Cowen’s use of an expletive in the Dáil on Wednesday. In what was intended to be a private conversation with the Tánaiste, Mary Coughlan, the Taoiseach was (slightly) clearly heard to have described somebody as ‘f***ers’.

Yes, that’s right. The Taoiseach swears. Even the eff-word. The bad eff-word. Not ‘feck’ – you know the one I mean. I’m as shocked as you are. Apparently (although I’m not sure how true this is), he goes to the toilet sometimes too. I mean, who would have thought it?

After being subjected to repeated (pre-watershed) airings of his disgraceful misdemeanour, and a great deal of sanctimonious hand wringing from Enda Kenny (a man who once told a ‘joke’ which included the word ‘nigger’, which is considerably more offensive than ‘f***er’), a somewhat humbled Taoiseach issued an apology through the media. He said: “I’m really fucking sorry. Regardless of the fucking context or regardless of whether it was being heard publicly or privately it should not have fucking been said and I withdraw it and I acknowledge it. Now, fuck the fuck off and leave me alone, you fucking f***ers. Go on, get ta fuck.”

The hugely important story of Cowen’s ‘four letter outburst’ (seven, surely) somehow made its way onto the front pages of almost every newspaper on Thursday, from the Times to the Indo, right down to the S*n. It’s completely understandable, as there is clearly fuck-all else worth reporting at the moment. The economy is a bit fucked; the health service is utterly fucked; the Lisbon Treaty is fucking incomprehensible to most of the fucking electorate. But who gives a fuck about any of that? The Taoiseach whispered the word ‘f***ers’ in the Dáil, and that’s all that fucking matters.

Tomorrow: Mary Harney apologises for telling cancer patients to ‘get f***ed’

Like visiting war-torn Afghanistan, Iraq or Kosovo, watching an episode of the Late Late Show is an unpleasant experience. But somebody’s got to do it. And following in the footsteps of such great war correspondents as John Simpson, Seymour Hersh and Robert Fisk, this reviewer is bravely putting himself out there, exposing himself to the horrors of RTÉ’s flagship weekly televisual atrocity.

Any time I watch the Late Late Show, the first thing I notice is that it never starts at its advertised time. Tonight is no exception, and at 21:36, the (Late) Late Late Show finally begins. Perhaps by doing this, RTÉ’s schedulers are just having an ironic joke at the viewers expense. Which is where the light relief ends.

As the dismal excuse for a theme-tune fades away - the rousing drums of the old Chris Andrews classic, To Whom it Concerns now just a distant memory of happier times - our host, Pat Kenny makes his inauspicious entrance, looking uncharacteristically smug; a bit like a man who earns almost a million Euro per year. Like a man who robbed a load of land from his neighbour. Like a sixty-year-old who looks twenty years younger, and knows it. We’ve got an exciting show ahead, apparently. Although I bet he says that every week.

First up, we’ve got Nell McCafferty, Ivan Yates, Gerald Kean and some generic model who isn’t Katy French - but appears so entirely vacuous, that she might as well be dead too - in what looks very much like a promo for RTÉ’s latest foray into the world of ‘Celebreality TV’. Which is exactly what it is. Celebrity Bainisteoir does what it says on the tin. A bunch of celebrities (or what passes for celebrities on these shores) managing GAA football teams. For those who like that kind of thing, it’s probably a very interesting show, but an interesting interview this is absolutely not. The most exciting part came when a birthday cake is inexplicably wheeled out to celebrate Nell McCafferty’s 64th birthday.

Moving swiftly onwards, we’re treated to a musical act - Nizlopi - briefly famous, in 2005, for their insufferable JCB Song. To put it mildly, they aren’t great. It’s sad to see such a forgettable, mediocre British band being shipped over to appear on the Late Late, when there are so many decent Irish bands out there struggling for deserved airtime and recognition.

Brace yourself now, because it’s competition time. Call me misanthropic, but I find it very difficult to get excited about some total stranger in the audience winning a trip to the Bahamas and a bucket of cash to spend when he gets there. I can’t help but feel that maybe they should spare us the tedium, and do these competitions during the commercial breaks.

Have you ever heard of an artist called ‘Rasher’? If you’re a regular viewer of the Late Late Show, you undoubtedly will have, since he’s made around thirty-five appearances, each of them identical. He’s a fairly run of the mill guy, and this is an incredibly run of the mill interview, with the usual pointless questions about married life, and about how being a father has changed the way he paints. The most bizarre part of the interview, and perhaps the most bizarre part of the show comes as ‘Rasher’ discusses his time in France, and Pat interjects by asking him if he pondered cutting his ear off at the time. Because, you know, that’s what Van Gogh did. Poor old Vincent ultimately shot himself in the chest, but suicide unfortunately lacks the comic value of chopping off your ear and sending it to a hooker, while plagued with clinical depression.

The undeniably great thing about the Late Late Show is its diversity, and ability to follow a light-hearted piece with something horrifically tragic. The next guest is the mother of a woman who died in a road accident. There is a twist, however, and this is no ordinary story of sadness and tragedy. It turns out that the victim in question was a lesbian, and as a result of Ireland’s lack of legalised recognition of civil partnerships, her partner has been left facing financial ruin, and her mother is campaigning for legal recognition of same-sex relationships. This is the kind of stuff that Pat Kenny deals with seamlessly, without any awkward fumbling or inappropriate comments. Unlike his predecessor, Gay Byrne, he fades into the background, and hands the limelight over to the story itself. It’s only when he’s kept away from the celebrity stuff, that Pat reminds us why he got this job in the first place.

The next guests are two teenagers who’ve just become Ireland’s youngest millionaires through creating and selling a successful internet business. They’re from Limerick and they’re neither criminals nor victims of crime, so this is a first for the Late Late Show. It also transpires that they both did incredibly well in their Junior Certs, which is an impressive feat when your parents are out stabbing people, your ‘feuding’ neighbours are trying to burn each other’s houses down, and you’ve got seven horses running around the back yard.

With the real life stories out of the way, it’s time to promote another RTÉ show, as wildlife presenter Colin Stafford-Johnson pops in for a chat with Pat. As you would expect, there are plenty of anecdotes about being chased by wild animals through the jungle, the highlight being when Pat makes a very strange comment about the possibility of being forced to have sexual relations with a male bear. With the Van Gogh self-harm joke, and this inappropriate bestiality comment, I believe Pat Kenny may be just one AIDS-joke away from being decidedly edgy.

And finally, the part of the show we’ve all been waiting for. Or at least I have anyway. Eamon Dunphy, Eoghan Harris and John Waters are back to discuss Bertie Ahern’s finances. Dunphy is on top form, and looks pretty much as you would expect him to look on a Friday night: Slightly less than sober. And anyone who watches RTÉ’s soccer coverage will know that a drunk Eamo is always worth watching. Nothing like that strange man who writes those bitter, misogynistic tracts in the Times every Friday, John Waters is extremely quiet, and surprisingly talks a bit of common sense, accurately predicting that Bertie will soon be an ex-Taoiseach. Eoghan Harris is… well, he’s Eoghan Harris.

Again, another astute performance from Pat, who knows that the best thing to do is to simply sit in the background and let Dunphy and Harris get on with it. That’s what the viewers want. The clear winner in the debate, if you can call it that, was Dunphy. Harris didn’t walk out, so it was a success for him too. Waters just seemed happy to be there in the middle of it all. After watching that, I might even buy myself a television licence some day.

All in all, this was a decent episode of the Late Late. It started off badly, but redeemed itself with a decent selection of interviews and a good old-fashioned argument. Apart from Pat’s occasional faux pas, the only gripe I have with it is RTÉ’s insistence on being all ‘interactive’, and allowing members of the public to text or email their comments. It is a well known scientific fact that, not unlike bloggers, the type of people who want their opinions to scroll across your television screen rarely have anything of any worth to say. About anything. It adds nothing to the show, only serving to remind us that there are a lot of thick, ignorant people out there who, despite knowing nothing about anything, somehow have the ability to use mobile phones. Very depressing.

(28th March 2008 )