Author Archives: Frilly Keane

LorcanFinnegan

Two women in Dublin by Photographer Lorcan Finnegan from his street series Granny Fashions

Frilly Keane is back.

With some hand me down wisdom.

Frilly writes:

In case ye haven’t noticed, I’m not a bit afraid of where I’m from, and I don’t cringe when I hear Olé Olé Olé, in fact I join in. I’m a divil for the sing song, and a divil for the dance floor, and I never care who’s looking. And I’m proud to announce that only one generation separates me from The Marsh.

I don’t ever feel the need for Window Dressing since I’m not a bit impressed by addresses or schools, or trappings or who Daddy’s Daddy was. Or Watches …. However I’ve a bitta’ve thing when it comes to accents tho’, I love genuine rootie ones, and break out in a rash at the Mt Anville.

If you ever give yourself a chance, listen to John Evans talk about football, now there’s a lad who has substance, passion, integrity, depth and respect.

Plenty of ye here have accused me of having a terrible dose of the inferiority complexes, and would even insist they could drop a hopper of turf into my chipped shoulder; meh. I’m all Substance over Style. But I’ll do that one another week.

Since there’s been very little middle of the roadie-easy-listening stuff here lately, which is not a complaint since there are some very serious matters before us as a democracy; I’m still going to give ye a 3 minute doss this week.

Recently my teenager (only just mind) was off to Mary’s for a thing called Core – fúcking queuing for tickets weeks in advance n’all. “it’s a social Mother, they’re not called Discos.” Lemme tell ye, if there was a ditch anywhere close, even a daycent pothole,I’d have dived into it and dragged her wi’me.

I don’t blame my baby since most of that “it’s a social” comes from all that High School telly shit. I’d have called it Dancing meself, like “did ye go dancing?”

My Nana Lulu would have said the same, “did ye go to the Dance?” Or sum’ting like “was it that Disco Dancing ye were at up there in the club?” Or she could easily have said “dance hall”

Dance Hall; just saying it puts a smile across ya. So it got me tinking about stuff our Nanas never said, or did.

Chicken Pesto in a Panini please; I think this all started around the late nineties in an’round Mount Street, and that’s not that long ago, so keep yere keyboards steady. I doubt either of my Nanas went beyond Tomato Sangwiches or a Chester Slice in Roches Stores Coffee Bar, where, incidentally coffee was white or with cream, proper cream – out’ve a bowl and not a squirty tin.

As I write this the smell of Roches Stores Coffee Bar has wrapped around me like a steaming bubble bath. And the range of cakes …. that all came in proper bakers trays.

Tis the crowds coming back from Italia ’90 wanting Cappuccinos instead of milky coffee are a much to blame.

What’s the wiffy code? or pin number; our Nanas kept cash in their purses; big brown plasticiky yokes, where they knew exactly how much was in them. And they kept address books. I can recant my own phone number, but nobody else’s, not even the landline at home.

They kept hall tables with a seat that they sat down on when making or taking a call. It was an event, a time out with a cup of real tea. Now we do the ironing or the supermarket shop talking into a phone. We used to talk to people on the bus and train; now we talk into the phone. I prefer their way.

What d’ya mean I can’t smoke here?
Ok we’re the better for that one. Back in the day, I had a beauty of a mullet, permed n’all, but the smell off it in the mornings when I put my head under the shower hose; actually, does anyone do that anymore, kneel down beside the bath and wash their hair under a rubber hose?

Anyway, I don’t like to think about how Nana Lulu would react to not being able to have a fag on a plane. I’d say she’d have preferred to walk from Dagenham to Cork rather that put her arse onto the LHR to ORK if there wasn’t a smoking section.

My other Nana, who I never really knew, probably never even entered an airport. I remember distinctly when My mother had to have an emergency appendectomy and her Mam, my Nana, used to bring me into the Mercy to visit, and the first thing she did at the side of the bed was light up a fag. By the way that girl lived to 88.

Unleaded please; or daysel, to be fair, neither of my Nanas ever drove. Then again, neither did my Grandfathers, and one worked in Fords for enough years that got him a Gold watch. I never knew my paternal Grandfather, although I know he left my father and uncles well set up, which didn’t last long. Nothing new there. But if they did drive, they’d tell the lad how much to put in; none of that now, and I miss that, and not just the three pounds’ worth of petrol.

I need to get the man in to look at the dishwasher. Not only was it an uber-luxury item bordering on the ridiculous, like having a private jet in today’s money, Kitchens were smaller and the freezer was a little shelf with a flap in the fridge, and it only held an ice cube tray and a half a block of Neapolitan, and maybe a few fish-fingers.

That’s another thing, Neapolitan ice cream was the fancy stuff; with Jelly and Ice Cream on a Sunday. Maybe I have evolved a bit, since I hate both Jelly and Ice Cream. And Ice Cubes, I hate them too, but why our Nanas needed them I’ll never know as nobody drank at home unless it was a funeral.

I need to floss. They all took their teeth out at night. Did you ever notice old photos taken in larger towns and cities? All the smiles are the same. That’s ‘cause they all had the same factory teeth.

Years ago, when Big Tracey was minding her own Nanny, she brought a lad back from the Felons one night, and when he was in the loo afterwards, he thought the cup at the sink was liquid soap. It’s still funny to think of yer man plucking through his walk of shame in the dark. Although the dentures that nearly bit yer’man weren’t Nana’s there were “mau’Graunnies pur wee teeth.”

I need to get waxed before the holidays. Ha! Imagine that. My Nana Lulu wouldn’t even take off her tights to go paddling in Youghal. No flip-flops, bikinis or tramp stamps. Going to the Sea-side was a day out in the Sunday best. If it wasn’t for Section 23 holiday apartment blocks and Spars, our sea-side towns would be a thing of the past too; how many long for the days when Crowds arrived with flasks and bottles of tay, and knitted togs, and bought sticks of rock home for the neighbour’s kids. Imagine your Nana bringing your Mammy to school in a Pyjama Pants; Christ she’d a’bin taken off her.

A 12” with Pepperoni and Sweet-Corn; delivered please; take-away was the chipper on the way home from Bingo. D’ya know, I’m no one to talk about take-outs, home deliveries and drive-thrus; but wouldn’t we all be better off with if it was just the Chicken Supper on-the-way-home from a night out?

I can already hear yere cribbing about the writing and the maudling reminiscing; but it really is incredible to think how our trappings in life change so fast, from the Hall Phone to Tap n’Pay, from the Dance Hall Slow Set and Ladies Choice to Tindr, and our Integrated Dishwashers that just get replaced rather than repaired, to how we eat and exercise; just ‘cause Discos, Mulletts, Flasks of Tay, Girdles, and The Parish Dance slash Bingo Hall are all things Millennials snort at – just like we did at pals in hand-me-downs, doesn’t mean we should be ashamed of them and pretend we’re any better off.

Hon Cork, and see ye on the 24th

Frilly keane’s column usually appears here on the first Friday of every month. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane

garda

Frilly Keane is back with her calculator: crunching the numbers behind the Garda’s dodgy statistics.

Frilly Keane writes:

Before ye go any further, in the service of transparency and disclosure, I’m one of the 14,700 driving offenders that haven’t been processed, or caught up with, or witnessed by Paddy O’Gorman.

The offence, since there was no denying the figure displayed on the hairdryer, happened last June, on the Waherfurd end of the M9, with full NeeNaws n’Blue Lights.

And it wasn’t the first time I’ve been done in that vicinity. NeeNaws then too. But the Guard himself was daycent enough, and promised it would be just Speeding and not Dangerous Driving, so I sucked it up and waited.

A reader (and I’ve no doubt) might say that since I’ve my fixed fine still in the póca, and my insurance renewed by the way of a “Not yet” to the “any penalty points or driving convictions?” that I’ve little ta shyte talk about; but believe me I am going all out anyway.

“The Mission of An Garda Síochána is Working with Communities to Protect and Serve.”

That’s what is says on their website; followed by their core “functions”- one of which is:

“reducing the incidence of fatal and serious injuries on our roads and improving road safety”

Well mannered hashtagging millennials might twerk ‘Epic Fail guys.’ But I’m more of a traditionalist, so tis a my hole ye are.

But it’s too easy and too widespread to call them names or pick on Noirin, although she’s no innocent. So I’m returning to my home ground and using numbers to tell ye we are not safe while An Garda Síochána remain the owners of the upholding-of-the-law gig.

Fairs fair, a good slice of the 14,700 cases of points not pressed onto licenses is for 60 in the 50 zone type’a carry-on; so the world won’t end. And the presence of the squad car and the camera van does put manners on ya when you’re belting down to Thurles.

But I want to go back to the numbers, and present them as Management Information, the kinda stuff Execs, Decision Makers and Business Owners get monthly from their finance departments, cost accountants aka bean counters, and maybe just from their own internal operation systems.

€1,176,000.00 (80 yoyos x 14,700) of Potential Income to the State, was not collected in a timely manner, and the admin chore of allocating the required Penalty Points remains outstanding.

Now that we’re talking about manpower hours; and I’ll use my own case to line it out.

Single Garda manned patrol car trapped me, followed me, stopped me; say 5 minutes, took details and had a bitta chat say 10 more minutes, updated his book and recorded the offence etc., say another 5 minutes, and returned back to his hiding place under the flyover, say another 5 minutes. Plus Diesel and Wear and Tear. Maybe he stopped for a fag. I dunno, but I’m allocating 30 minutes direct labour to my case.

That’s 7,350 Direct Labour Hours.

Imagine an additional 7 thousand teaching hours or Nursing Hours …. Or even the impact a tenth of those available hours would have on our Elective Surgery Waiting Lists

Now I can’t provide the hourly rate at the full Employer cost, so I can’t reliably put a €value to it; but for the purposes of this gig I’m going to post a value of €300k, and 50% of that again to getting the Penalty Points allocated.

450 thousand grand; and in my experience – I’ve seriously undervalued this.

Did anyone notice they weren’t getting value for money for these high cost hours? In industry you would have to do timesheets, and even in the HSE there are CaseMix returns.

Were the People Managers from Sergeant up to Commissioner not getting their monthly/ quarterly reports from Finance. If not, why not?

But if they were and they didn’t act on this wastage; by fúck I’d have them out the door; if t’was Bus Drivers or Train Drivers they’d be long gone.

So, so far, with this quick tot up, the Gardai owe the taxpayer circa 7 thousand labour hours and €1,176,000.00; if I owed the ESB or my LPT they’d garnish my wages; wouldn’t it be great to garnish that 1.176 million and stitch those 7 thousand hours into days taken in lieu.

And I’m only half way.

Even allowing for data entry errors, and we’ve all done it, 5 instead of 2, or 98 instead of 89 or even 301 for 103; that doesn’t come to a million in a two-year period, and definitely not in a country where at the end of 2014 there were 1.9 million cars.

Did the readers of these management reports not cop that circa 48% of the driving population in the State had possibly been breathalyzed?

And you don’t even have ta have Micheal O’Leary skill levels be able to interpret that data handily enough; like if 301 was entered by mistake for 103, the data back would say to the reader that there was an additional 198 breathaliser tests in a shift.

‘That’s some funeral they were waiting outside’ – a well fed Senior might’a thought.

That Senior might also have thought ‘Jay’s we’re getting fierce value those breathaliser hoses’ since the purchases didn’t match the usage data, in fact they were so far apart you could march a Water Protest thru’ them.

But even if they didn’t extract that from their own management accounts for themselves; the vendors of the devices actually told them the Stats they were reporting didn’t tally.

The impact on the likes of you and me is that the 539 Inspector rank and up Gardai had information that suggested that 48% of the cars on the road were stopped on suspicion of Drink being taken.

Beyond the ould’ reliable Christmas Clampdown, what did 539 Senior Gardai do about it? Fúcking nathin’.

They had data that said our roads were not safe and they ignored it. They turned their arses to one of their core missions “reducing the incidence of fatal and serious injuries on our roads and improving road safety.” That’s a non-financial cost btw.

So back to the manpower numbers; 1 million breathalyzers: let’s say 20 minutes for each case, from observing to testing and filling out the book etc. That’s 333,333 Direct Labour hours that is now unaccounted for. But paid for, and pension contributed for, and some of it over-time levied and bonused for.

Since I valued 7,350 hours at €300k, by applying the same spec to this failure you’re now looking at an additional €13,666,653.00

Thirteen and a half million worth of labour and nothing produced.

Plus the 450k from the Fixed Penalty cuntology.

1 in 3 road deaths is caused by Speeding, 1 in 3 by Drink Driving; that’s two thirds of the road fatalities in the State right there, and the Garda Managers don’t even give it their attention or even wonder what value for money they’re getting from the 10,355 Gardai and their 1956 Garda Sergeants.

I don’t blame the lads on the road and at infantry level. They know no better, this is how they were groomed.

Noreen is just biding her time and the Fianna Gael Entente are cooperating with her by lay’veing her be; sur’ isn’t she’s doing them a favour staying on ‘till they Head Hunt the Lad they wanted in the first place.

Then it’s off with the Lumpsum that could buy ya a 4 bed detached in Wicklow and a 6 figure pension for Life.

If a Traveller owned even a 100th of that 14 million, CAB would be up his hole till they got it out’ve him. If someone in Dunnes or a Contract Cleaner in a Hospital gets overpaid today, their wages next week will get stopped.

Noirin and her 54 co-horts there will not be asked to find that 14+ million from their annual allocation. They won’t even be made tell us what really happened

Protect & Serve themselves. That’s their Mission.

And don’t let them convince you of anything else.

Frilly keane’s column usually appears here on the first Friday of every month. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane

Rollingnews

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The Ireland women’s Rugby squad 2017

Frilly Keane is back!

Mind your balls.

Frilly Keane writes:

This place has gone all snowflakie in the Trumpanzie era. Have ye noticed a’tall? Or maybe tis the Telly Show getting ye all mannerly and presentable. But you can’t open your trap without some cribbin’ or PG moderating.

A while back when I referred to my tits in a post, it got covered up under “Jumper Puppies” and unusually for me, I took issue with it and kicked back.

Not that I’m anyway precious about what I post on Broadsheet, or how it gets treated, but it was my own set of tits I was referring to, so wtf like. They’re mine, and I can call them what I like.
You don’t see the lads getting their “cockfest” painted over or their “bollix” pruned. Do ya? Your Dah you do.

Sum’ting else you don’t see very clearly; that inherent blind spot Men all have when it comes to how Women are treated in the everyday when under the same circumstances.

I’ve used this one before as an example of what has become commonplace oversight and indifference: If a Woman Candidate for Election – any election any jurisdiction, accepted a Party nomination with 5 children from 3 different fellas, the commentary and direction of the campaign coverage would be very different to yer Man.

And ye know it.

I’ve said this here before too, when it came to her professions, career and livelihood, Hillary Clinton used the very same rule books as many of the lads before her did, and many after her will, and she took a hiding for it. And some of ye are still sniggering about it.

So why can’t I, her, or she use the same rule books as him? Who da’fcuk do ye all think ye are? I go into the same exam hall and face the same exam paper as any lad, I’m assessed for taxes by the criteria as any lad, I can be summoned before a Court Official under the same conditions as any lad,

I pay the same price for diesel as the lad at the other pump, I’m charged the same unit rate for the electricity I consume, yet, when it comes to making a few bob I’m criticised and mocked for being  money grabbing, outspoken and ambitious.

This is not a pitch for Gender Quotas, which I firmly disagree with. I believe in walking the talk, and if I’m not good enough, then I just have to improve my game, or accept the runners up medal.

If I put a new car under my hole its assumed I got a dig out with it, got finance for it and the tis grand for some is its greeting. Whereas the lad will get a how does she drive, what’s her mileage like.

And ye all know it.

In 2008 feedback from a very senior Health Care Exec (now comfortably pensioned) to me in a failed final interview was “The Board was split 50:50 so they went with the man.

Now, I left it go, because I’m not litigious, but mainly because it was easier not to bother me arse drawing the fight on meself – I’d better things t’be getting on with kinda thing. But here’s why I’m bringing it up here, what if the answer was ‘The Board was split 50:50 so they went with the woman.”

I’ll leave that with ye….

Now, here I am, (while still pissed off about my Christmas message not getting aired because, IN MY OPINION, it would have imposed on one of yere lovies), deliberately putting the boot inta the collective misogyny that has become so common place, nobody notices it anymore.

Recently a post appeared from the Ladies Rugby Supporters Group; and to say I was disappointed at the scanty response – is me being nice.

I’m not going to defend the Women’s Game. Of any code.

Nor am I going to deny that I’m more likely to be seen at a Senior Mens game than the Ladies. The Girls, past and present in the Hurling & Football fields throughout the Country have accepted that from the likes of me on the ditch.

But when their County Boards attempted to try it on by limiting their Ladies sides’ resources and opportunity and potential, I’m not behind the door with the ‘hang on there now lads’ and I was never the last in with the cheque for the holiday fund. Even for the Tipp crowd.

And I’m not going to take the soup either, so yere not going to see me hould back with the Rugby crowd or change me tune.

But when they’re our own, no matter what the code or gender, we are all on the one road.

So why isn’t there pull-out Women’s World Cup shyte n’ Player profiles stuffing the weekend papers and spilling off RTE Radio roundabouts?

FFS; There’s more talk about the Ireland Lads girlfriends/wives/ kids than the Ireland Women’s XV. Even more FFSs… an ex-player and his missus would be given more times on the Montrose Couches before the Ireland Ladies, and that’s even if they do bring home the Grand Slam.

I’d love it if the Irish Open was as dissed and ignored as the Women’s World Cup and the Ireland Team Set up, because then the Indo would be appointing a Receiver.

Given what they’ve had to put up with, this Panel of International Players should be the Paddy’s Day Grand Marshals, and if there’s any depth to Mrs Brown’s premise, they should be on her set getting togged out and fed tay.

Mrs Brown, not that I think your brilliantness is anywhere near this gaff, but Ailish, Ailsa, Aine, Alison, Anna, Ciara, Ciara eile, Claire, Claire eile, Cliodhna, Eimear, Elaine, Heather, Ilse, Jemma, Jenny, Katie, Leah, Lindsey, Mairead, Marie- Lou, Mary, Niamh, Niamh eile, Nicola, Nora, Orla, Paula, Ruth, Sene, Sophie … hope I got it right; ARE YOUR BOYS.

As for the IRFU … it really is a big wanky FU. I would love to see a comparison of the money they provided to a former Argentinian International to get a RCSI education and what was stumped up for the current Ladies Training & Prep camps.

In the words of a former Great Irish International, and one of yere very own:

Where’s yere fucking Pride.”

Girls, ye’ll see me at every home game from now on …. not sure about the Shoulder t’ Shoulder carry on but;

Tiocfidh

Frilly keane’s column usually appears here on the first Friday of every month. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane

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Gay Byrne presenting the Late Late Toy Show

back in the day when we gathered to watch the Toy Show we understood that it was about stuff that American kids got. .

Frilly Keane writes:

I have never praised TV3. Or even found anything on it worth bringing to anyone’s attention unless it was mean. But it must be said; I love the Irish GoggleBox.

Admittedly I hate it when a format from over there is localised and saved-as with Ireland after it. Come Dine With Me …. First Dates …. The Voice…. UTV. Besides, ‘the box’ instead of telly is a very English thing, so for the rest of this week’s Frill-Bit, Selfie-Telly-dot-ie is what it is.

I love it, I love them all, well, maybe when the two pets in Portobello with their blankies and blingy crystal for the Chardonnay cuts in, it’s time for me to run upstairs or let the dog out. But really I love them all, and funnily feel if Anita or one of the Twins or any one ov’em to be fair, got hurt I’d feel their anguish, like sympathy pains.

What an absolute gentleman Mr Adenuga is and what about the “you’re very jaysus bold” puss cat in Dolphins Barn?

Don’t I always say there is no such thing as an ordinary Paddy? Proof there now lads, and on your own telly too. So, fair play to TV3, the casting and cutting is top notch, you are frilly forgiven from all your Xposé sins.

I’m bringing this up now because tonight we are all on that same couch watching the same telly. Tonight Selfie-Telly-dot-ie has its annual congress.

The Toy Show.

A few years ago, John Blake Creedon recalled for sum’ting that back in day when we gathered to watch the Toy Show we already understood that it was about stuff that American kids got; in a way he’s not wrong, we absolutely understood that nothing daycent on that Toy Show was going to be at the end of the bed Christmas morning; we’d get the annuals. Big ticket stuff like Simon Says and Atari came our way about 3 years after Gay did his ‘merciful’hour moment.

In Cork, some of us had  an advantage ‘cause there was the potential for someone coming home from England to bring one over for us the following summer. That’s how I got my Sony Walkman, and my digital watch.

By doing a Reeling in the Years look back now, there is always a laugh to be had at the lad in his Christmas clothes and his showband hair-do playing showband keyboards. But to all of us, that lad in the massive velvet dickie bow and the Billy Barry kids were superstars. The teen idols of their day. I bet ya they were famous for years.

I don’t know exactly when the Toy Show changed from a looking glass into everything we weren’t good enough for to a real preview of if you want it you could have it. I suspect it was a combination of two things; Internet and Money slash Credit, so I’m going t’say late 90s; and followed by the Christmas Jumper which was definitely 03 04’ish and we bringing them back from New York.

There is no denying that the Late Late show couch has gone from bland to shit, and it started on Kenny’s shift. Gay got Mother Teresa, Ali, Billy Connolly, that Pee Flynn one, Annie Murphy and Peter Ustinov and whatever yere having yourselves; on the other hand, Tubs gets too much money but has the chore of trying to make the likes of Daithi O’Se and Nick Munier appear like global jet packers sweating to try and squeeze in the Late Late and do a favour for their old friend.

Also, Tubs is much better engaging with kids, his spoofing and messing with them have make it a much more engaging and unique show, for me anyway.

Incidentally the best segments in this current genre, for me anyway, is the one when Ted Sheeran arrived in, and that wee ninja killer ‘waun thur’ with the wee accent.

And it’s not just Tubs, the Toy Show production quality has improved, that could be tech too, but the numbers are bigger, brasher, better costumes, and they’ll have accents arriving in from all over Ireland tonight.

There is even a guarantee there’ll be a lad on a tractor; and all feeling completely at home. Gay and Kenny never managed that.

One thing that has never changed in the 40 odd’ish years is its place in the season, in our houses, in our working week and in our weekend planning.It’s an institution; like the All Ireland final. Like red sauce on chips. Like the Family Circle tin.

Tonight, is the Toy Show. Tonight, we are all cast members of Selfie-Telly, like the Pauls in Youghal, Dessie and the girls, the Adenugas in Navan, the Liberty girls and the Cabra girls, and fuck’it everyone else. It doesn’t matter what your front room is like, what age you are, what you sound like. Only that you’re in for the Toy Show.

Don’t forget jumpers and hats @frillykeane. Mine’s still the best tho’

There’ll be an Urbi et Orbi for ye; if yere wondering like.

In the meantime

Let is snow let it snow let it snow

Frilly keane’s column usually appears here on the first Friday of every month. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane

hillary

Hillary Clinton makes her concession speech at the New Yorker Hotel watched by daughter Chelsea and husband Bill Clinton

After a short absence Frilly returns with a song for Hillary and bum note for Irish rugby.

Frilly Keane fumes:

I’m going to start with Rugbee crowd bating the All Blacks, well done. I don’t exactly know when the cribbing over Montrose not showing it started or when the deserved whinging over Irelands Ball Shoulder to Folder triggered, but either way, I’m digging them up again.

First, Rugby is not the National Game and it is not a Gaelic Game. So FRO. Go foreign to watch it. (see what I did there)

They’re dead right about Irelands Crawl Drawl Fall Hall Maul Gaul Shawl …see that … no amount of fecking around with it makes it even half arsed. It’s not an anthem. That’s its problem. It’s not even a daycent twist in a sing song, which doesn’t help it either, therefore no one likes it, and it’s just plain AWFUL.

Dustin’s Euro Turkey is a better rabble rouser. An Anthem is a call to arms. An Anthem is a Hymn in a local dialect that is belted out by many and yet all-for-one. It doesn’t have to be classical historic or even a masterpiece.

We are the Champions is none of those. De Banks is a diddly diddle oul’ meandering ballad, but it’s ours, no one else gets to own it only me and mine, and when its belted out by the many to prime the all-for-one, you could chew on the charge it generates.

Clearly Amhrán na bhFiann isn’t grand enough or Windsor enough for the Goys, so go get sum’ting else would ye. Try Joe’s Make me an Island

And now t’ Trump. At least there’ll be fodder and material sustainable enough for Broadsheet for annuder few years. I won’t fight it, I’ll join up most likely, and egg it on even more likely.

It was clear to me since mid-September that Hillary Clinton hadn’t an iota of interest in Broadsheet HQ. The extent to which they would go to undermine the Democratic Candidate’s Presidential Campaign I could never have imagined, and I have a fairly rampant imagination.

But then as I’ve said before; their gaff their rules. I would like to think they will regret the direction they allowed the forum descend into in the last 20 Days. But one only has to see the wall of authors to note the preference they favour.

I’m disgusted with the result meself. But I have a bias for the Clintons. I actually wrote to Bill when he was Governor of Arkansas, and I have a Clinton Beanie Baby, and cups from the Clinton Library.

But that never influenced any illusion I might have allowed myself that America also liked Her.

The Voter hates Her because she is white, smart, liberal, self-made, and more than just a former First Lady. Everyone else that doesn’t like her, and there are plenty amongt us here, don’t like her because she plays like a man.

Yet that’s what I admire about Hillary Clinton the most.

She plays with the same rules as the lads. She exploits the same opportunities as the lads. She gets dirty the same way the lads do. And she talks and walks the same games as the lads. Is Hillary Clinton the first Secretary of State to ask if a threat could be taken out / droned? Was she fuck. And ye all know it.

Hillary Clinton’s biggest failure was waiting in line behind two different men, Bill and Barack. Her day is done. Yet still fair dues to her, she’s put together a handsome pension for herself, despite the fact the American Taxpayer will not be burdened with the weight of an Irish Mary type Pension, they’ll be a lot worse off without her.

Trump voters and cheerleaders have elected a narcissist who has NEVER served a minute of public service, or done a charitable deed that was without benefits, you and they will regret this decision, of that I have no doubt.

Trump, if he is not assassinated, will leave the White House an even wealthier man; and I’ll look forward to all this supporters pointing that out when the time comes.

Frilly keane’s column usually appears here on the first Friday of every month. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane