cNutgroist

I think it's safe to say i've found a new obsession

Prediction Registries
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In the last week I've been having a very vivid premonition of a plane - looks like a commercial, passenger aircraft - crashing into a skyscraper and exploding into flames. I think it's in the US - possibly Chigago?
I also foresee two deaths taking place in the Royal family, one soon after the other.
Finally, I have an impression of an assassination attempt on the Palestininan leader Yasser Arafat. I'm not sure about this, but I think an explosion is involved.


Posted 5 September 2001 by Zak Martin zak@isis.ie

and then i found this...

Zak Martin

Medium, clairvoyant, musician, entertainer, detective and seemingly the world's least modest man
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ah that romany bliss of a gypsy's kiss
the merest whiff is the nomad's bliss
on caravan & horse from the barren south sands
cross tundra and tidal to the snowy-bound lands
carried away on fast sledges and sledgedogs
feasting your faces on elk piss and hedgehogs
antarctic gypsys you're one of a kind
there's many a question to ask if you mind
here's one that has puzzled me almost since birth
'what in fuck's name are you doing on the most inhospitable landmass on earth?'

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tempting to have shouted 'I love you PJ' but the painful kicking that would have resulted kept me quiet
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Last night we experienced the very meeting point, the actual bridging factor, where Rock meets Roll. The 'n', if you will. And if you go see Patti fucking Smith you will. No ifs nor buts.
How can anyone be that Rock? in this day and age, 30-odd years after Horses, a handful of personal tragedy, 1 hit and a still unsettling mixture of rude punk pricklyness and mellowed sweet-old-ladyness, how can anyone be that Rock?

She was fucking amazing.

Highlights were hearing virtually the whole of the Horses album, including a whopping Gloria as the final encore; her gobbing almost constantly all over the stage; Lenny Kaye; her threatening to have the shit beat out of anyone that chucked stuff on stage; someone chucking stuff on stage; the bouncers violently removing that person at her behest; her singing 'people say beware, but i don't care' from Gloria while fondling her moustache; Gandhi.

Totally fucking amazing
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"You're so slim, it must be because you make love to your boyfriend everyday, right?"

"Are you Indian? No? I once made love to an Indian girl - she was amazing. I bet you are too"

"I have an MBA. You know what an MBA is? It stands for Married But Available"

"Together for 7 years? You're still so young! You want to experiment, don't you"

"Come back to my hotel room. The night is young. We can have a drink and get to know eachother better."

These phrases and many others came directly from the mouth of probably the 3rd most important man in the major multinational my girlfriend works for and were aimed soberly, seriously and directly at her two nights ago at a fancy french restaurant in town.

Yes, he is French.

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like you give a damn, but please consider seeing any of these fine artists should they make it to your local town hall or arts centre...

ba cissoko
daby toure
dj dolores
enzo avitabile and bottari
rokia traore
soukous koumboule
tinariwen
sidestepper
amparanoia

all of whom magnificently blew us to fucking bits, quite frankly. We heard electrified koras, saharan desert blues, funked colombian latin-techno, funked-up brazilian samba-techno, mauritanian live acoustic guitar sampling, belgian-congolese accapella, malian funk and most oddly of all 700 year-old italian wine-barrel beating.

I'd also like to say a big hello to Jimmy Page, he of the leadened zeppelin, who stood next to us at Tinariwen and spent 15 mintues talking to us about the blues, Jeff Buckley, what we'd all seen earlier that day, Zap Mama, brasil and more besides. He has the ability to remind you he's a normal guy, not just the world's most revered guitarist, rock god, genius composer, shark fiddler, owner of Loch Ness and worth at least 100 million quids. Although he did take a keen interest in the missus for some reason.
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"The time is now 8:45 and we'll be landing in fifteen minutes or so. The temperature outside is 14 degrees, cloudy but should clear up later. There's rumours of a heatwave later this week going round but it's an Irish heatwave so don't get too excited...thank you for flying Aer Lingus"

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"He's so homophobic he won't even touch his own cock"

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24 hours from now i'll be trudging through a field of cowshit and women with beards trying to find a space to pitch my tent in the foetid dark wasteland that is central Reading. If it weren't for the world's greatest music festival, WOMAD, taking place in the imminent vicinty of said bivouacced apparel I would not be doing this. Fuck it, I wouldn't be in England at all. I'm looking forward to not missing it one little bit, hopefully.
This will be our seventh WOMAD in a row and while they continue to not book anybody i've ever heard of (which quite incidentally keeps every known chav in Britain away from the site) I shall continue to regard it as the one annual festival that requires compulsory attendance.
And for the first time, we're doing it in style. Taking no food, very few clothes and some fancy new camping equipment. Hiring a car at the skyport and going straight there. Pitching, probably some bitching, then straight in for a fat free-range aubergine and organic water fajitaburger paid for with an exorbitant sum of fair-trade money and served by a smiling, emancipated African chicken-killer (I generalise here to highlight my enormous shame and disgust at the fact that this very type of gentleman was once 'employed' by my grandparents). Wake up friday morning, shake my chakras, tai my chi, salute the sun and do her downward doggystyle and then its 72 hours of the best music from a place most people in England snootily think of as 'the rest of the world'. Still, for the few Americans that are aware of the Earth, this music is known as 'Worldbeat'  which is even worse. So it's fine, be pricks if you have to. It's just more space for me to enjoy the festival with only Mr and Mrs Well-Meaning from Croydon and their 8,000 clones occasionally annoying me with their sheer earnestness. I swear half of them are here because they feel guilty about England's past colonial history. And half of them bring their kids so they can inculcate some guilt in them nice and early too. Me, I'm here for the music.



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i think i've figured out why teenagers act up so much. when you see a group of them out in public and they're bouncing around like a bunch on escaped lab monkeys, turning this way and that and making gestures to no-one in particular, talking in funny accents and generally spasming around  -  it's because they think they're on tv.
Watch them - they're like a whole saturday morning channel of kids' shows, completely out of control and fully conscious of their expectation to 'entertain'. And who can blame them? I turned on the tv last night and there they were, acting up on one of those 'aren't British teenagers terrible?' shows (Yes, they are). So in a very real sense, tv IS to blame.

There's an odd man in every small town, who walks around zig-zaggedly and shifts along with feet in one direction and eyes in another. He's normally cuts his own hair, if at all, and avoids whole food groups for superstitious reasons. You might know him. You might be him. You might eve read his blog. Well he's the guy who thinks he's on a hidden camera show, at least potentially, so he's hyper-vigilant and has even been known to pull at the beards of supposed Beadle and Funt-like figures. Teenagers (or more properly, developmentally arrested kids) share his viewpoint but are more comfortable with it. In fact they love it.

And so do I

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i'm older
 
i'm greedier
 
and it's not against my religion to eat cooked food
 
so for all these reasons, i think it's fair to say i've had more hot dinners than you

have

had

hot dinners


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my mood has shifted to...
 
tempted by foolery, compelled to fiddlery
 
 

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Oh im frustrated in ways you can only dream of, you poor swine


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My mood today is best described as...
 
Five startled kittens used as live finger puppets by slender-digited dirty, dirty boy


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from the Telegraph website:
 
Greeks to poison up to 15,000 stray dogs before the Olympics By David Harrison(Filed: 11/07/2004)
Thousands of stray dogs will be poisoned ahead of next month's Olympic Games in Athens despite a campaign by the RSPCA to prevent their slaughter.
The animal welfare charity says that the strays will be killed because the Greek authorities fear that the sight of packs of dogs roaming the streets will damage their efforts to use the Games to show the world that their country is modern and civilised.
There are an estimated 15,000 stray dogs in Athens and although the government has taken some action to remove them from the streets without killing them, the RSPCA says that local authorities will not have the resources or the commitment to round up the animals and keep them in shelters during the Games.
 
Which gives me a great idea for an Olympic mascot...

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http://en.chinabroadcast.cn/1375/2004-7-17/103@133009.htm
 
And Uganda's president Yoweri Museveni says he believes the ultimate solution to fighting AIDS is not condoms but abstinence and loving relationships in marriage. "Therefore condoms may be all right in some varieties, but in other varieties quite a hindrance and I am sure these Africans know what I'm talking about."
 
- I must congratulate Museveni for reinforcing the least-protested stereotype in history.

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Instead of complaining about pollution and other dangers involved with the modern automobile, why doesn't everyone just drive molluscs? It'd be so much simpler, cleaner, cheaper and safer.

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Happy Canada day everybody

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As a captain of british industry it is often assumed that I have no time for outside interests. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, my wife and I like nothing better than really top quality Flamenco. You see, Flamenco is truly the heart and soul of Spain. Spain, the dusty orange land of hot reds and fiery yellows, at turns sunny and bright and humid and dusky. Espana, el tierra del sol, la costa del naranja, la plata del flamenenco. Truly great flamenco is where it's at. We don't just like any old flamenco. No. Only the most high quality, premier flamenco will do, as befits those of us who see beyond the spectaclo del flamo to the fire within - the Iberian soul itself. The wild, tangled gypsy expressions of this noble race, forged through centuries of ham-eating, moor-baiting and humiliation at the hands of our own brave imperial Navy. The wandering, fluid spirit of royal Spain runs deep through the lonely, sorrowful Flamenco which is the mark of the very best 'toppo coolo' Flamenco. Hear it calling. Flamenco, flamenco, flamenco. It is the cart, it is the horse, it is the nomad itself. At heart, I am that nomad

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"Justin Hawkins is such an ugly man. He's got a lazy eye hasn't he?"
 
-"He's got a lazy face"

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oh, and i didn't think their cover of Deicide's "Carnage in the Temple of the Damned" was such a good idea


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So we've just come back from seeing Paul, Simon AND Garfunkel with a song in our steps and a spring in our hearts. 2 hours, 20-odd songs plus 4 more with the Everly Brothers and 2 encores. No need for me to prattle on except to say what a delight it was to hear 'America' sung live and if you're going to a concert where the crowd sing along to every tune, make sure it's in Ireland because we all sang beautifully. They had a 10,000 strong choir tonight who knew just when to come in and when to shut up.

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I've just seen the most brilliant piece of body language since George Bush made the wanking hand-signal when someone asked him about prohibited pictures of killed US Soldiers' coffins:-
Martha Stewart's attorney just stood outside a courthouse and in the course of a long, breathless speech about how she's done nothing wrong at all said 'there was never any insider trading' then paused, licked his lips, and then continued as if nobody had noticed his blatant 'tell'. That's a guy i'd like to play poker against.


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Mr Brian Auger, how I love your sweet, fruity Hammond sound. It packs a fat chordal punch which you volley to us with a grin whilst we lap it up,  heads bobbing as one. The chaps standing at your feet stare transfixed at your fingers, like balding jockey sluts. The guys in the middle of the floor throw a few shapes and stare at your not unappealing daughter, singing the blues, the soul and the funk with a huge set of lungs. We all drool at how tight the rhythm section is, especially your young son battering the drums into funked submission. And through it all your Hammond squirts out juicy shots of funk, delivering a punchy vocalised Freedom Jazz Dance, a taut Brain Damage, a jazzy Compared to What, a lazy Light my Fire and a totally glorious, majestic Season of the Witch. And then you take Bumpin' on Sunset for a 15 minute trip where everyone gets a couple of solos and we all draw breath as your right-hand runs build and build and build. Nobody would play a piano like this - only the B3 can bring that out of a keyboard player. I can hear early Santana jams, Jimmy Smith, Groove Holmes et al but more importantly, I remember back when I was a young 'un and the jazz-funk craze briefly revived. I thought Corduroy, Mother Earth, Jamiroquai,  even Appleseed and all the also-rans were great at the time but of course their music was pure contrivance since it was never really about anything. Just a general 'hey, have a good time'. Your stuff just cuts right through the noodling and the posing in a floppy hat. Every note is vital, like it should be. All 3 of Dublin's souljazz boys turned up tonight, a selection of middle-aged guys stroking goatees down to fluff and a couple of wannabe mods (which is all mods now, I suppose) fleshed out the crowd. But come back soon and play Wheels on Fire next time, alright?



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I've just got back from the hairdresser and in the cold light of day i realise i've been given a gay haircut. Not 'gay haircut', a pejorative term for any silly looking hair/head arrangement. No, i've got a haircut that genuinely gay men sport. The style simply says 'i like mens' cocks'. I wouldn't mind so much but I don't have a gay face, i have a fat face, so it looks very silly. How did I not notice? The guy was snipping away, we chatted about this and that, 10 minutes later i've paid him, tipped him and i'm walking out thinking I got a grade 2 all over which a neat sideburn trim. But when I get home and look in the mirror, I see i've been given a grade 3 with a silly little quiffy ski wedge at the front and somehow a gay-grade of non-functional bugger-grip on the sides. All it needs is blonde highlights and i'll be worshipping at the temple of Gayos with no aspersions cast. His wedding ring suggests he wasn't even gay although he really resembled Eddie Izzard so it wasn't like he just naturally thought i'd like it. Perhaps, like Eddie, he's just a bit confused. Confused about his customers' sexuality.

Not like me. Oh no.
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from someone well-known to me travelling through Tibet

I've eaten yak in all it's guises , i.e. fried , stewed, in noodles and the group now expect me to order it at every meal. Yesterday while waiting with a few of the gals for the rest of the group to pitch up, a Tibetan woman came up to me grabbed some of my arm and chest hair and pronounced me "Yakman", then proceeded to make horns with her hands to her head and paw the ground
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Failed once again to have 'floppy sex'
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I had a psychedelic headache last night which manifested itself in only one unnerving feature: I could hear my voice in triplicate. There was no actual pain, a little blurring of vision maybe but not exactly a classic headache. In fact, more of a pleasant throbbing in the spongy gap between my eyes and the wall behind me. But the point is this: I heard my voice spoken by three of me and surely that's not normal? I heard it in here, over there, and somewhere all around. All distinct, simultaneous and tonally in sync. I haven't had the chance to speak yet today so i'll have to wait til tonight when i make human contact and i'll have another listen. I presume it's gone away by now.
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Beautiful quote from this lady five minutes ago...

"If the terrorists hate freedom so much why haven't they attacked the frikkin' Netherlands? They're gay and they ride bicycles, surely that'd be the main target?"
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If I had my time again, i'd call it "My Blog Is A Twat"
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and quote of the week goes to one of the non-bloggers I chatted to at my failed Market Bar sortie -

"Living in Dublin's a bit like fucking your sister. It's kind of pleasurable but you know at the end of the day it's going to send you crazy"

unbeknownst to him, a good 200 men around the world were simultaneously nodding, all remembering her.
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i'm not going to do it since I profess to be far too cool to care and i've never been interested in finding out 'which sort of X i am' but it occurs to me that someone might want to do a 'which sort of Blogger are you?' quiz, with famous bloggers and their characteristics as the answers. It'll be a right self-fisting of what some may call the 'blogosphere'. Or, like all my ideas, has it already been done?
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alright i didn't say i was going for definite and i wasnt going until the ladyhole module made me but still, it wasn't a pleasurable hour walking around a bar asking people

'are you Gavin?'

thank fuck it's a nice Dublin pub and not, well, any pub anywhere in the UK. I made loads of friends last night - before shooting off to the theatre to see a play i'd love to write about if only my meagre mind was up to it - but none of them were the bunch i was meant to be meeting
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In fact, in clinical trials it turns out I've got a memory much more like a ZX81 than anything else. Fuck it, I won't let it hold me back - I could fly to the moon on less.
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Oh, and did I mention I've got a memory like a...um...thing...so I have to write it down or it goes immediately? Gags and gigs alike, they zip through on their way to oblivion so I gots to catch them while I can. What better means on god's good earth than the mighty humble blog? Did I mention it?
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Brian Auger on Thursday, Simon and Garfunkel on Saturday, the mighty WOMAD next weekend, Patti Smith the week after - I am in questionable music taste heaven. And I shall defend them all to the death if anyone wants to die trying to argue - be my guest.

Did i mention these vaguely descriptive reviews of gigs only I've been to are being published in a major music journal? No?

they aren't of course, nor should they be-

MISSION STATEMENT WARNING....

They're for me, like everything on this crusty piece of blog. The funny, the unfunny, the punfunny and the deeply unfunny. It's got to go somewhere, at least as a holding pen before the (s)laughterhouse turns it into dogshit, via dogs. You like it? great. You don't? you can suck my bum you funky bastard. So if somebody wants to read what I write, and im not saying that anyone i know is a literary agent or top light entertainer or ad exec or filmmaker or journalist or any one of a number of professions where, you know, some 'shit' is needed in order to drive the engine, and im not saying ive ever been asked to submit stuff to anyone of those patient, forgiving people, but if they had, then i haven't, because i've not been getting myself around to it. Quite frankly, i've not had the Will to do it before; nor the proper forum; nor the appropriate medium; nor the lack of excusi's; nor the lack of downtime from my demanding willy
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Wel, Blackalicious were certainly black. I wouldn't say delicious but their freestyling was pretty tasty, as were their saturated beats. I never saw a so-called 'underground' rap group so showbiz before - so much 'we love you, can i do some new material, hello Dublin Ireland, I say X you say Y' banter with us it only lacked the glittery outfit and the praise-be's to Tha Lawd. Still, they can rap for shit, that's for sure. The beats were a little raw for my tastes - I prefer their recorded output because, whilst rapping itself is most definitely a vital, sometimes thrilling in-the-moment pulsing vein of, um, performance poetry, I'm still convinced the music shines best in the studio, where guys like Rick Rubin can turn a few sonic tricks and break a fuckload of rules to create something new.


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i sit and stare at this blank page
the gap within is like my rage
wide and still as if to say
"I will not let you get away"

unfocused on the time ahead
a cancered stomach must be fed
no matter that it hurts so much
mind not this nobbled, hobbling crutch

"you havent got a leg to lean on
now roll your eyes toward the floor
begin the end of what you've begun
get out! now! go find the door!"


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'Why look darling, our favourite 9-piece latino-hiphop-funk-rock group of popular west-coast entertainers Ozomatli are going to perform a musical fantasia at a nearby Dublingham venue. Pray let us attend, uneasy in the knowledge that we are highly likely to be less hip, less cool and less young than everyone else in the venue'

That's the gist of what went through my mind, anyway, as I discovered one of the best live bands I've ever seen before were coming to the city to play their first ever shows. Despite neither of us being not even close to middle-aged there is still a certain feeling of any concert which has youth-appeal, by which I mean to say it's not for purely musical reasons that some punters turn up, then we don't belong. We see live music more than most, perhaps more than anyone who isn't paid to attend, and every time I enter a concert hall I feel too young and too scruffy. Yet when I enter a sweaty cavern somewhere on the hipper side of town, i feel too old and too scruffy. We try not to give a shit, though, since we're only here for the music. She succeeds more than I, but then she's younger, smarter and prettier. Thank god. You know everyone refers to the cognoscenti but never point out who they are? It is I. I've seen it all and I know it all. I would travel halfway round the world to see the right performer but I wouldn't leave the bathroom if someone shit is playing a gig in my lounge.

Anyway, we turn up to see Ozomatli and every damn fucker in the house is dressed in regulation 'yes i'm cool' clothes. Many of them are acting up in the bar like it's the end of the world tomorrow so they'd better get every last anxiety off their chest in a rampant display of peacockishness. Uncomfortability reigns until a guy walks right in front of me looking as lost as we are. He might, charitably, pass for 50 with his baldness and straight-talking dad-clothes. He's not cool at all and I love him for it. He makes me feel at ease and not just because he's there to be stared at, deflecting 'you dont belong here' looks which were surely thrown in my direction. What options are there? Is he a reviewer? He doesn't look the part, not jaded or faded and besides anything else, he's early. Does he love the music? It's possible but fuck knows how. They're completely unknown here and later it turns out, when the band ask - the only people in the room to have heard them before turns out to be me and the missus. If anyone else is here because they've heard of them, it's down to their association with the awesome but hijacked-by-the-hip Jurassic 5
Oh hang on, there's a bunch of blokes in their 30's sitting at that table playing dominoes and shouting. Yes, they're hip but they're old and more relaxed than many others in the room. They don't care to look around to see who's watching them which I suppose puts them at a different stage of self-absorbtion than 'the kids' or I. Actually, they look familiar. I've definitely seen them before but the obvious penny doesn't drop until one of them gets out his trombone and goes outside for practice. It's only the bloody band, innit.

The gig itself is quite phenomenal. The stage at the Crawdaddy is the size of 2 kitchen tables, the space in front where we stand no bigger than my tiny flat. Just the get a 3 piece horn section, bass, guitar, 3 percussionists, a rapper and dj onto it and moving around it is worthy of some respect. I last saw them on a stage the size of a stage, shall we say, in a field as big as a field. A venue far more appropriate for a band who were built for festival appearances. Yet they manage to run through 15 tunes with all the energy, committment and dangerous choreography as if they were playing to 2000 not 200 (maybe less, in fact). The crowd go ballistic almost immediately - I think the penny drops for most of them during the first song when it veers from hip-hop to salsa to a rock-out and stays hummable throughout. Nobody knows the tunes and nobody cares - it's all catchy and immediate stuff but never throwaway nor trite. True, we can't hear the raps clearly and even the singalong chants are in muffled spanish that nobody seems to catch but it doesn't matter a hoot. They have so much fun that at the end of the gig they all leave the stage and take the brass and percussion into the crowd where they play for another 15 mintues cycling through some heavy batucada-like patterns while sticking in snatches of popular melodies like 'Sesame Street' and that dumb 'Ole' chant you hear at football matches. Everyone is, quite frankly, shocked to shit. A part of me wishes it was as unexpected for us, all surprises and delight at the unfamiliar musical proposition offered to us by these guys. But then I remember back to that july night 3 years ago at WOMAD where they absolutely destroyed us, along with our 2000 or so companions. These young Dublin pups knew nothing when they came here tonight.

And to cap it all, because we obviously look so damn cool, a nice lady standing outside the venue gave us free tickets for Blackalicious at the same place. Tonight!
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Neither I nor Blogger have been working very effectively. It's taken me 4 days to remove one post that went in ten too many times. I've also had the life sucked out of me by the maternal insanity unit whom i spent 48 times longer than normal with.
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I am entertaining. My Mother. Fuck! er....
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St John's Wood is the only London tube station that doesn't contain one of the letters of the word 'mackerel'.

..and some other glorious oddities of the englo lingo can be found here
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She wrote "I wanna be Kate Bush" in Google
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Yes these are (my italics)
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Task for the weekend is to masturbate like you're on tv
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I read somewhere that the Sellotape company won't let anyone link to their site without express permission. Bypassing the initial question of Why The Fuck I'd Want To, i think it's everybody's duty to link to it now. This could be a clever piece of viral marketing from them, except they're not that clever. Looking forward to the double-sided lawsuit
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From my other site:

Last 20 Searchengine Queries Unique Visitors

06 May, Thu, 18:17:35 Google: waitrose perfectly balanced chicken balti
09 May, Sun, 04:39:30 Google: "prize cunt"
11 May, Tue, 16:59:23 Google: "chinese leaf" portugal
12 May, Wed, 16:18:07 Google: what is the piece of skin called between the arse and the snatch
15 May, Sat, 21:49:07 Google: Burmese chicken curry cow swear
15 May, Sat, 22:10:15 Google: Burmese chicken curry cow swear
16 May, Sun, 07:47:23 Google: maharani fuck
23 May, Sun, 04:51:27 Yahoo: "ginger OR figging OR Vicks OR Vicks OR menthal OR menthanal" AND "anus OR anal OR rosebud OR rossete OR rosette OR bumhole" AND story
24 May, Mon, 18:45:35 Google: cockbook
26 May, Wed, 09:08:43 Google: cockbook
27 May, Thu, 10:52:16 Google: nutkins diet
02 Jun, Wed, 02:17:09 Google: 12-point curry and indian food
12 Jun, Sat, 06:03:51 Google: cockbook
12 Jun, Sat, 23:17:10 Google: fishy smelling fanny
19 Jun, Sat, 00:12:58 Google: "jamie oliver" + "butter chicken"
20 Jun, Sun, 15:23:43 Google: poulet pirir piri
25 Jun, Fri, 16:45:10 Google: "sea bream" +recipe
27 Jun, Sun, 01:24:49 Google: stuff porked chops recipes
28 Jun, Mon, 00:11:14 Google: cockbook
01 Jul, Thu, 10:20:06 Google: "dirty schlong"

must get round to doing something else for it. I must confess I never even read it.
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Why they haven't made 'Straight Eye for a Queer Guy' yet:

Scene: A spotless modern apartment with tasteful, matching furnishings. Clearly the work of someone houseproud and conscientious about their appearance. Five scruffy blokes in t-shirts and jeans stand around tutting, then turn to one immaculately dressed man with a terrified face

SG1: Where are the pictures of birds, mate?

SG2: Stop mincing!

SG3: What's all this tapas shit for? If you want to impress someone, order Pizza!

SG4: Don't be so Gay!

SG5: Don't be Gay at all!
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In honour of Lesbian Sex week I'm going to propose that someone do this to verify if it's true. Our school science boffin told me it was and i've been intermittently intrigued ever since:

If you take a strong jar down to the very bottom of the sea where the pressure is enormous and catch a fish in it, then take it back up to the surface, sealed of course, the fish will be perfectly all right in the jar because the atmospheric pressure within remains what it was down below. However, if you remove the lid the pressure will normalise to what it is on the surface so quickly that the fish will instantaneously implode creating instant fishpaste.
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Saying that, I saw a grown chavette piking away in a busy Grafton St today, wearing an immaculate bright red shellsuit, a good fiver's worth of make-up and a sun-visor reigning in her bleached curly perm, holding out an empty cup and literally chasing people down as they walked past her.
If you're going to pretend you need the money love make the effort to look like you need it for food and clothing at least. Not Bacardi Breezers, Superkings and a week in Faliraki or wherever you filthy unterschwein go and fuck eachother these days.
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Something strange about Dublin - although I should be careful and stress this only apllies to south of the Liffey since I only seem to get as far as O'Connell Street, the IFSC or the Airport when it comes to north Dublin - is the seemingly unrandom distribution of homeless people and beggars (and there does seem to be a difference). I don't know whether they're just very polite to eachother, very scared of eachother or possibly unionised but it appears to me that each has their own patch and nobody impinges upon it. You don't see, unlike in London, a couple begging together. You don't see dogs either. You don't get too many in rags and beards like elsewhere, nor men in dresses nor people so homeless and mad they don't know they're homeless and mad. What's going on? Are they well cared for in shelters every evening? Are they career beggars who take the DART to their apartments in Blackrock when nobody's looking? Or do they just have enough wiles to look after themselves and look presentable when it matters?
I give money if it's jangling around in my pocket and i'm feeling like it - I rarely stop, open my wallet and make a cold value-choice before handing over what I think they're worth. If prefer to give cigarettes, or an apple if i'm walking back from the shops or the market with a few. But when I see a beggar with better shoes on than me, and this happens, I can't help but judge them as unworthy. We all judge people by footwear don't we? It shows more that I clearly don't have a shred of self-respect.
Yet the thing that makes all of this noteworthy to my mind is simply this: people are generally well-disposed towards the homeless here. I'm not talking about the Big Issue sellers or the eastern-european gypsy ladies with the matrushka babies (someone tell me their story - are they for real?) - simply the young lads with the vacant looks and the baseball caps who sit outside shops and cashpoints with an empty coffee cup held out. Some are silent and stare firmly at the ground, some repeat their chosen catchphrase and some, quite brazenly, sit reading books and the paper. Well why not? I'd get bored shitless too. So I must pass 6 or 7 each time I walk into the centre of town and I cannot get over the amount of people who stop and have a chat with them. Most look quite visibly concerned at their plight but all who stop to chat take their time and do just that. Are people just nicer here than elsewhere? Or is it only evangelists who stop? I'd be inclined the to second option except none have ludicrous hairstyles and facial unluckyness (a prerequisite for god-hassling street-style). Then there's my own experience with the locals which just confirms they're a really pleasant bunch of people to meet. No-one I've come across is more interested in you, as a total stranger, than a Dubliner. Even if you sold the pot you normally piss in.

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Were your Dad's poos legendary in your family when you were growing up?
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JJJJY01 (17:00:30): just 2 more games left, and you can pretend to hate football all over again
faraa3 (17:00:51): dont they play 3/4 place playoff?
JJJJY01 (17:00:56): no
faraa3 (17:00:57): good
JJJJY01 (17:02:00): apparently the Greece team is threatening to strike over bonuses for getting to the semis - wwydi they were offered golden fleeces as rewards ?
faraa3 (17:03:13): wwydi they were 2-0 down at half-time so they brought on Ganymede with a plate of oranges and a nice sip of ambrosia
JJJJY01 (17:03:29): wwydi they got to the final, but the Gods struck the whole team down for hubris ?
faraa3 (17:04:48): wwydi they won but the greek captain took the wrong boat and didnt get home for another 10 years?
JJJJY01 (17:07:47): and he turned up at Euro 2014 with a massive beard with a load of men trying to woo his manager away....er........
faraa3 (17:09:18): wwydi the greek striker had an achilles heel problem and...er....that's it
JJJJY01 (17:09:49): i think John Motson copyrighted that joke at the start of Euro 2004
faraa3 (17:11:39): wwydi the greeks won and the czechs lodgted a formal complaint that one of the greek players was acting strangely and on closer examination of video footage (dont ask me how nobody noticed before) you could clearly see one of their strikers turning into a swan at key moments
JJJJY01 (17:12:54): wwydi the Czechs were so scared by the Greeks in the Final, they employed Ray Harryhausen to 'animate' them while playing the game (and also to take on the appearance of rubbish skeletons with swords)
faraa3 (17:15:41): wwydi you found out the Greek team got banned from the local Athena poster shop for burning incense and trying to sacrifice a goat?
JJJJY01 (17:19:58): wwydi the Greeks won the tournament, and when asked if they knew they would do well, the captain said 'yes, it was foretold that we would do well, because Eastenders was on before Holby City'. Then you realised the team had consulted Oracle, the teletext service...... I win £5
JJJJY01 (17:20:36): i have to go
JJJJY01 (17:20:45): continue this madness tomorrow
faraa3 (17:20:49): damn you
JJJJY01 (17:21:01): go on, if you;ve got one
faraa3 (17:21:09): !not a full one
faraa3 (17:21:15): btu when has that ever stopped me
JJJJY01 (17:21:19): true
JJJJY01 (17:22:14): go on then
faraa3 (17:22:22): wwydi....er....
faraa3 (17:22:36): who marks baros?
faraa3 (17:22:40): for the greeks?
JJJJY01 (17:22:47): oh, Dellas
JJJJY01 (17:23:07): Baros' teacher marks him i think
faraa3 (17:23:59): wwydi the struggle between Baros and Dellas was so epic that it ended up with Dellas ripping Baros' nuts off and chucking them into the penlaty area where a massive tidal wave is created and the whole of the world is, um, flooded
faraa3 (17:24:05): oh for fuckas sake
faraa3 (17:24:10): i dont know when to stop do i
JJJJY01 (17:24:28): nor did the Greek playwrights obviously
JJJJY01 (17:24:38): right, see yous later
faraa3 (17:24:41): wwydi the czechs put Gordon Banks in goal and the greeks had to dress up as sheep to get past him
JJJJY01 (17:25:05): oh nice !!!!!!!!
faraa3 (17:25:10): thankeweee
JJJJY01 (17:25:17): you stole in with a beauty right at the death
JJJJY01 (17:26:09): wwydi the Greeks lost the final, and one day when you were buying a kebab, you noticed your doner tasted a bit 'socky'
faraa3 (17:26:17): what????
faraa3 (17:26:25): oh god
faraa3 (17:26:27): i get it
JJJJY01 (17:26:39): can you explain it to me then
JJJJY01 (17:26:43): right, laters
faraa3 (17:26:54): yes goodbyes

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'I should see a doctor? What good would that do? Far better that a doctor should see me? What help can I possibly give him? I'm not a medic.'
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What is Joke? Joke is the adherence to the rule of three followed by unexpected, often connected turnaround in expectation. Done repetitively it can produce its intended effect. Or it can not. Like here.
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'You act like a little child who screams and shouts and stomps it's feet when it thinks something isn't fair'

'well, you talk like a parent who thinks his own children are too stupid to take any notice of'
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For more of exactly the same go here here here here
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What is Woman? Is it the soft, febrile caress of the fingers curling through the hair, shaken free of masculine strictures and a defiantly feminine body of gentle curves and hillocks? Is it allowing the empathetic mind to overule the selfish, brutal pre-gendered side thus creating an alternative to the coldly male logical hegemony of most cultures? Is it the miraculous creation of life, from egg to full-grown child, within the stomach, nurtured, nourished and loved above all else forming the essential bond from which springs family, society, culture itself.
Or is it merely the facility of having three or more sweaty holes for me to stick my cock in and jiggle it around?

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