Tag Archives: frilly on friday

inpho_01013656_rdax_648x365_80

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

000b6f62-1500

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

tvguide

Mary Tyler Moore, TV Guide, Summer, 1977

Time to think outside the box set.

Frilly Keane writes:

There was a bitta argy bargy here earlier this week on one of Bertie’s TV Trailer Park threads. Lads throwing shapes; ‘let’s see if you can do better’ kinda stuff, and it wasn’t even one of the better ding dongs.

But the thing that stayed on with me was that we all love the telly, and we all fight over it, and I didn’t even notice my role in it until yesterday morning when I went on (an probably on) about Mary Tyler Moore and all its connections. That show ended in the Silver Jubilee year. 1977. FFS that’s 39 years ago.

But it can’t be helped. I love the telly with such affection and commitment that I didn’t even really notice how much respect until yesterday.

Oddly enough for almost 3 years I didn’t watch any telly, none. Instead I wrote a book with my screen time. It came to a sudden stop when I was introduced to the entire Sopranos catalogue on a Media Player, the black box. And I haven’t strayed since.

These days the only non-scripted telly I set time aside for besides Sport, News etc, is Bake Off and I’m a Celebrity.

Back in the Mary Tyler Moore days a show was done when the writers and actors said so, not the broadcasters and exec producers. Kojak, Taxi, Starsky n’ Hutch didn’t go beyond 5 runs.

I’ll concede an exception; M*A*S*H which seemed to on for decades, but it pretty much wrote itself and a balanced ensemble cast helped it continue (IMO btw) which is probably why Friends never seems to have ended at all. But then Chandler and Monica probably earned more per episode than Radar and Hotlips got for 10 years of graft.

Those early days of colour telly and aerial transmission introduced incredible television creations and characters.

Kid Curry and Hannibal Hayes, Jill Monroe (Charlies Angles is credited as been the first “Jiggle TV” production btw), Buck Rodgers, McCloud, Mannix (remember the cars) and speaking of cars, Jim Rockford (who was a great Big Screen to Small Screen and back again example) and likewise the A-Team! Columbo, Mrs Bridges and Captain Peacock.

And the theme tunes, feck it, every so often one come out over wireless; Hill Street Blues, Greatest American Hero, and this’ll will have some of ye going all day – ‘Baby, if you ever wondered, wondered whatever became of me, I’m living on the air’ …. That’s all ye’re getting; now name that show.

This is probably why I loved Vinyl,. It was authentic to the era when the television became a utility in every house, and not a luxury. It was over the top, slick, styled and accurate and I loved it. But then I enjoyed Revolution & Myles Matheson so maybe I’m the last one to go on about it.

Ara’ I could on for a fortnight here. But a few last things I’ll leave ye with;

My earliest tv memory was wetting myself the day Oscar the Grouch turned dirty carpet green and learning that Cookie Monster was blue. (Yep the day the colour telly arrived.)

If ye’re of a mind see if ye can pull down the original Upstairs Downstairs, (4 years about 60 episodes) it’s not for everyone I know, but hard facts and themes were introduced by LWT that nobody else would touch till the late 80s and 90s, and some wouldn’t pass the PC standards team today.

And Treme, a two season’er, and worth every minute you have to click back to get the dialogue and the jist correct for yourself, and have the search engine running if ye do.

Finally, I alone in thinking Sorkin’s Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip should have got anudder season?

So till next First Friday; the month of the Holy Souls.

Nanu Nanuuuuuuuuuuuuu.

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

vintage-luckies-ads

It’s toasty.

Frilly Keane writes:

Conflict of Interest assertions seem to be at the end of a lot of finger pointing recently, myself included.

That’s not t’say it doesn’t exist but many events, and in particular the one where I was challenged myself, have me wondering does everyone really understand it enough to identify the actual conflict that might give rise to the risk.

The just shout it out and hope it sticks people, like the 13 year old that still believes in Santy or the “Peaceful Protest Peaceful Protest” shouters.

So just to make sure we all know how to identify a conflict of interest for real, I thought we could all go back to the classroom, kinda.

When I was teaching back whenever, I used “If there’s a risk of influence a conflict exists.”
In everyday life you will see this risk of influence.

And most in my experience don’t recognise it clearly enough that they can point exactly to what the specific conflict is. Even if it’s a probable risk, which most Conflict of Interest threats are.

The most common I see is Fee Influence. And this Country is riddled with it. Fees or Income or extra wedge or even the potential of that extra handy few bob, is not just the most common but it’s the most likely.

Larger big game Professional Firms quote caps on the % of Income they can accept any one Client source; yet this is managed by having another division or subsidiary bill the Client.

For example; Top Tier firm has a 6% cap on Fees from Semi State Client, but a juicy Tribunal of Inquiry comes along so the invoice comes from Top Tier Firm Consulting LTD.

The Notion here is that they are showing us that future Income generating work is not influencing them and their services, and they remain totally Independent and Transparent to any onlooker.

But in actual fact, they are not Independent and cannot promise unbiased professional opinion and services.

I don’t care how sophisticated their Chinese Wall is, if they were Independent and Transparent they would refuse the appointment.

Independence is the only weapon capable of denying all and any Conflict of Interests. This does not just apply to Big Ticket Firms. It applies to all of us.

In my game I suppose I see more of it than say a Carpenter or a Dentist. But if anyone, so that’s everyone really, is capable of being influenced, then a conflict of interest exists because Independence is denied.

If you don’t believe me, then someone answer this; have any of ye been given a heads up by your GP that they were on an all-expenses paid laa-dee-da with herself to Lanzarote? What were you prescribed again? Was it sum’ting from Pfizer’s …

What about the crowd who brokered your mortgage?

What extras besides industry standard commission did they collect from the Mortgage Bank? Golf Trips? Bonus Triggers? Cars? Are you really sure the % commission is the same as the other Mortgage providers willing to quote?

Are you sure you got the best Mortgage deal for you or for your Broker? So are you still satisfied you got the best free from bias Independent advice? Take this from me. When it comes to Commission based income, its Dog eat Dog.
Anyone remember when Ruth Dudley Edwards wrote that thing that upset the Health Services and others? And they pulled all their advertising from the Indo group? What happened next?

That’s influence. By the way; this is the Fee Influence behaviour that instantly proves Bias and Lack of Independence over there in Talbot Street, not its ownership structure.

I could go on. But one other danger area I want to flag before Golden Discs steal the day is the Professional (paid or non-paid) Board circuits.

How can anyone sitting on say, just say, The Financial Ombudsman Board, who is an employee or former employee of an institution selling financial products for profit, be seen to be Independent and Free from Influence?

While the commentary around Board gigs, the paid ones, generally poke around at the Political pals gifting gigs to the useless and their children, it’s time to lift the lid and go deeper and start connecting the dots between their day jobs and their other sources of income, that’s when you’ll see who really is the voice and direction on that particular Board seat.

Hint. Look at all the Union heads, what other boards do they sit on? Are they really independent and free from influence, and Conflict of Interest is absent (when their day 6 figure job is representing 1000’s Public Sector workers)

You tell me.

Hon’Mayhoo.

Frilly keane’s column appears here every Friday morning. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane

Pic: Ebay

90430085

The National Ploughing Championships 2016 in Screggan, Tullamore, Co Offaly

 

Frilly Keane writes:

Ya see, it was all going grand ‘till last Sunday morning, when I was walking the doggie, and lapping up all the colours and buntings and flags along the route.

Now, where I live, there has always been a single Mayhoo flag, a proper one, with a wall mounted fitting en’all. It always came out for the Connaught Final (if), likewise for the AI. It’s the same in my house; the flags come out for the weekend of. Whatever one it is.

But this year we wondered where our Mayhoo neighbour was, then on Saturday the Mayhoo supporter walked past the house, so. That was that. He wasn’t dead or anything. Anyone in the Crumlin Village area will know of this lone Mayhoo flag flyer.

So anyway back to Sunday morning, with the dog; met some of the regulars in the park, lads getting the dogs out early before the match stuff. All dolled up themselves.  All set. It went like this; The Hooch’s daddy btw:

“a few scoops in the club first … so wha d’ya think “x”

“Great day for football, no winds, soft and boggy, Mayhoo ‘ll like that”

“Ah yeah, bleedin’ muckers, ahh it’ll be bad t’watch…. D’dubs ‘ll will win by 15 points …handy…”

“have ye seen Mayhoo play this year” “nah”

“Well I tink it’ll be a lot tighter than handy now”

“D’ya ting…. Ah’nah… D’Dubs ‘ll cream ‘em, Mayo’ll be in a jock in de’ final 10 minutes”
… Come on you bhoys in Blue… Ye know the rest

Now, if it was Cork playing, I’d be in a jock meself with the funny tummy, and too nervous and jumpy for walking the dog, so I thought, fair play t’them and kinda wished t’was me heading off to Jones Road; sur’ there’s always next year.

Anyway, where am I going with all this? Well.

Ye; Dubs/ Big City types are very reluctant to look beyond the M50 other than to sneer. That’s no secret I suppose. But all this needs t’be said again. So here it goes.

When it comes to Football the only side Dubs mention or care to get to know are the Kerry crowd. When it comes to hurling, ye re well able t’look beyond the M50 for players, mentors and managers, funny that.

What happened by half three on Sunday shut ye up, kinda, but t’was more like a wtf happened daze. It didn’t last since ye broke out’ve it by Tuesday, and the opening day of the Ploughing Championships.

Ye couldn’t help yereselves. And a quick “ploughing” search here will show ye what I mean, and it goes back, as far as 2010 and the very start of the gaff. But what ye didn’t do was wonder ‘how the fuck do they do it?’

I’m told that this year Anna May filled 1580 exhibition stands indoor and outdoor. Anyone care to guess what Anna May charges for a sqm of field?

Whatever it was this year I betcha t’would make your gob smack, and I betcha’ tis healthier, far healthier, than what Dublin Event Planners and their Skinny Pants get for the RDS.

But of course there’s going to be difference, loike it’s Dublin 4, with the Starbucks and Noodles and Penthouse Suites, and Transport and Roads with Tarmac. NotZoned for Agri use fields in rural Ireland.

So 283,000 wellie wearers stumped up and stumped through the muck in Screggan this year, that’s 283,000 that travelled by car, van, trailer and shuttle buses to the fields of midland Ireland.

Not Ballsbridge or Spencer Dock. Rural Ireland. With its funny accents, grubby clothes, pot holes, flooding, silly hats, muckie boots, and their Hang Sangwichs.

So here I’m thinking of the other Paddy, the one who likes to tell us about his life on the farm whenever he gets a chance, the one who throws a tantrum about Wiffy and Hotels and Transport. Yet; all he was prepared to learn from Anna May and the NPA was that Hay bales make good seating.

You’d be hard pressed to find Wiffy in Screggan lemme tell ye; but it didn’t stop the biggest Ag gig in Europe.

“Ireland doesn’t stop at d’Rid Cow Roudybout” those Healy Raes provide comedy fodder for this gaff like no other pair of TDs.

So, ya know, keep laughing.

Cause its stopping ye looking too close.

Hon’Cork

Hon’Mayhoo

Frilly keane’s column appears here every Friday morning. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane

hillary-clinton-frailty-640

With some choice language the author defends Hillary’s health and skewers ‘unfit Trump’.

Frilly Keane writes:

Shocking.

Shocking I tell ya. I’m shocked; shocked that common sense and everyday cop-on has departed and gone the way of a Cork All-star.

Shocked that a 68 year old full-time beyond overtime politician, lawyer and granny gets a dose of pneumonia, and is treated and paraded globally onto any screen that’ll have her like a big ticket criminal being perp walked for the news cameras.

FFS lads; Hillary Clinton was fucking knackered. That’s it, that’s all. Christ you’d swear she said build a wall and keep the Mexicans out. Now, to be fair like, she should’a rang in sick anyway; and that’s shocking.

Shocking that this brilliant self-made woman gave more thought to looking over her shoulder at that misogynist blowhard ; yet Agent Orange himself cried off from Vietnam cause he wasn’t fit enough … at 22!

Arra’ would we all just cop on here and find the nearest Yank and kick them up the hole.

And here’s annuder thing with this fucking circus we’re expected to play along with and pay attention to; Trump – not Donald, or Donald Trump; tis Trump.

Everywhere from print to broadcast, from your phones to yere tabets; his title is Trump. Yet for the opposite candidate its Hillary, you don’t hear them say Clinton.

Short memories everywhere on this one, especially since Bill himself had higher poll numbers in the last 6 months of his Presidency that either of the two candidates looking for his job.

With the debates coming up; betcha it’ll be Trump this, will Trump that and how will Trump… alongside Hillary this, will Hillary that and how will Hillary.

She said it herself; “If I want to knock a story off the front page, I just change my hairstyle.”

Here’s anudder Shocker. Imagine if Hillary Clinton accepted the Democratic Nomination with 5 kids from 3 different lads around her on the podium…. America would have shat itself.

I don’t think I’ve seen a more ridiculous, abstract and cowardly election. And that’s saying something.

I think the Agent Orange side have copied what went on here in February; don’t let honesty, truth, accomplishment, substance and credentials near the voting population, and if there’s a media outlet that aren’t under control then buy them out or sue the fucking arses out’ve them.

Shocking.

Land of the free my hole

Wait till the debates and watch Hillary Clinton leave her opponent in tears. Yet still loose. Because they told us she did.

And he said himself “You know, it really doesn’t matter what the media write as long as you’ve got a young, and beautiful, piece of ass.”

Yau see the big problem here with the US Presidential 2016 is that they, those that get to vote, are not afraid of Trump being buddy buddy with Putin, or that ISIS and the like will come up behind them in their Malls and Subways, or that they may actually get a wall between them and Cabo, or the War in Iraq and the War in Afghanistan will have companions in Yemen, Syria whatever yere having yerself. What they the Septics are more afraid of is admitting to how thick and ignorant the majority of Americans are.
And that fact there, is Shocking.

Along with Shocking Literacy levels, Shocking Health Issues, Shocking Poverty, Shocking Greed, Shocking Welfare Failures, Shocking Intolerance, Shocking Obesity, Shocking Gun Laws …. Let there be a pox on all the voters for the Lad (who inherited somewhere between 100mill and 300 mill from his Daddy btw) “The beauty of me is that I am very rich.”

The American dream is about MONEY. Not Freedom.

America, now more than ever, even after Reagan and Bush 1, needs a Liberal Giant. They need someone that has the balls to represent the freedoms and rights and wellbeing of those that cannot afford them, and the too many that are now too afraid to try and seek them.

That name is once again is Clinton.

Do not listen to or tolerate any other argument or case or candidate. America Needs the Clintons back in the White House.

Hillary Clinton.

You don’t have to like her, but she’s the only one that can actually walk the fucking talk.

Home of the Brave? “When there are no ceilings, the sky’s the limit.”

We’ll have to wait and see.

Frilly keane’s column appears here every Friday morning. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane

Alternatively

Pic: Getty

frilly

Almost half a century of “eating like a teenager and drinking like five of them” ends here

Frilly Keane writes:

Yep tis the season.

I’m back.

Tis the season alright; externally anyway. Hay saved, leaves browning and curling, colourful skies to hang over us as we come home from work, bodies multiplying like gremlins at bus stops (not today tho’) boilers being serviced, Strictly and X Factor, then its Countdown to Christmas and I’m a Celebrity.

This year, and I kinda knew since early summer that if I was coming back to ye after the Shut Down that I would be writing about what ye are about to claw into; Frilly’s Fiftieth Fit out; FFFo.
I have entered my 50th year.

I suppose the hardest thing about it is that it is now over 30 years since I did my leaving cert, and in 1985 I never looked beyond the next weekend, naw’ mind to when I might be 30 years old; yet here I am, looking back 30 years. It’s gasping how shocking it is really.

I had no idea it even passed since I never really felt it happening or watched it enough to actually see it. To be fair I worked and grafted through it and even breastfed for a bit of it. But it wasn’t hard work like laying tarmacadam, and it was far from a disciplined strict life work balance.

However I know all about it now. And that reality bite really hurts.

I’m tired. I have aches and pains from me shoulders to me toes and I’m over weight, and not just a bit’ve a girth, I have a mezzanine level that is now quite vulgar it’s that gaudy and unsightly.

But it’s all homemade, since I eat like teenager and drink like five of them. My lifestyle is so sh1t I actually get awarded Drive-Thru miles. Mayo and salt on everything and I’ve yet to see a salad that doesn’t look better with coleslaw and a glass of wine.

I have congenital spinal conditions that have in the last 5 years developed a by-product in a degenerative condition; all of which I can kinda actually manage without meds and surgical intervention; if I was arsed.

So that’s all where I am now. Those thirty years I mentioned? Well it’s all their fault, and it was all me, I wholly own the wreck of me.

But this one, my fiftieth year, is going to be different; I have drawn up the FFFo plan, and its sum’ting like this:

Alcohol is now rationed to 1 unit a day – or 7 in a week. (I’m saving up already) Dos’ are going to be cut off at 5 units, then its water, or bed.

I will, by Christmas, have stopped all sugar into the coffee tay etc; with coffee being limited to one pint a day. Lattes are already gone, and pretty soon so will a good 50% of my dairy consumption. In fact also gone are takeaways and eating on the road. My car is already showing the signs of it.

I will develop a thirst for still water that will need at least 3 litres a day, ideally 4. Up to now I didn’t drink water in any reportable quantity, other than what’s contained in other liquids.

I will do one type of physical exercise that is not walking the dog a week and when Easter comes, I will sea swim again, if not daily at least 3 times a week. Work permitting.

This is the part of my evolution that I am most ashamed of. In 1985 I was a just-about-to-retire International Competitor. FFS. Now I only go into a Gym facility to get a facial.

That bike in the garage is going to see daylight too … I might get meself a GoPro while I’m at it.

Anyway back to the FFFo.

I intend eliminating spuds completely, including crisps by Ash Wednesday. All that other white starchy carb stuff like pasta, rice, bread, all that lovely stuff, even when it’s not soaked in butter or creamy sauces will go thru a ‘how good was I today’ indexation calculation and assessment.
And any cake, and I love me cake, will only be consumed if it’s homemade.

So ok, so I know this is all a wtf is she shyting on about now; but hould’yer whists, I do have a reason.

You see, these next twelve months is the centre of a seesaw, to me anyway. My first 30 years of adulthood are gone, binged and scarred all over me and my organs. But next year, when I am actually 50, one way or another I will fully expect to live another 30 years, statistically anyway.

So will I spend them like the last 30? Or the next 12 months?

That’s what FFFo is all about. At the end of this 50th year I might be so full of the joys of a clean fit life that I might grow up into one of those marathon running grannies, be able to drink my own wee wee like Rosanna, and feel like a 20 sum’ting Yoga teacher.

I might not be. Who knows? If I am, I might decide it wasn’t worth the effort and continue to grow old disgracefully.

Maybe this year will be so miserable and boring that even if I look like Miriam O’Callaghan at next year’s All Ireland it still wouldn’t have been worth it; and it might even end the way it started – unfit (ish), fat and creaking like an Arthritis clinic.

FFFo is like taking my own test drive in myself, and I intend to make a daycent effort at it. I’ve even gone and sorted out my hair so it’s all grown up now.

So it won’t all be nettle tea and dried pineapple chunks, there’ll a blow out here and there, absolutely, and I do love my Christmas. But I just want to know if it’s worth the attention, control and abstinence.

I’ll keep ye updated, but one way or another, I’m losing 3 stones and getting back inta a 14.

Frilly keane’s column appears here every Friday morning. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane

Rollingnews

00147126

Paul Kelly, former CEO of Console, at The National Mental Health Conference in Newbridge, Co Kildare in 2013

Irish charities.

Stay away from them, all of them and don’t give them cash.

Frilly Keane writes

The biggest issue with Charities registered for Tax purposes (CHY) and or with the Regulator, is not that there are too many of them, or that there are too many of them competing for your attention, or for the next Ladies Who Lunch photo op with the big cheque, or for the cute hoor tax benefits, or that there are too many of them filling in for basic Health services.

It’s the cash.

The cash that goes into the bucket at the traffic lights, the cash that gets collected in exchange for a raffle ticket, or the cash from the cake sale, the cardboard money boxes, the bingo nights, the sponsorship cards, the cash the cash the cash.

There is no possible way of accurately recording a single cent of it that can be capable of providing assurance; to the giver, the receiver, or the public-at-large.

I’ve already told ye ta’ stay away from them, all of them. Volunteer your time instead, provide direct assistance yourself, just don’t give them cash.

So this week, I’m going to lob sum’ting else out there.

Get rid of this Charitable Status lark altogether – be a licensed Not-For-Profit (NFP) organisation instead.We already have the set-up to vet, license, regulate and monitor these type of Not-For-Profit enterprises; let me introduce you to the Central Bank of Ireland.

Incorporate or don’t incorporate, be a partnership or a co-op or a single person entity; just don’t call it a charity.

Once an applicant, any applicant, passes through a Central Bank process, then let them apply for zero rated VAT, Income Tax/ Corporation Tax etc.

Anyone reading this that has any experience of Central Bank registration and regulation will know that these are the people to manage this NFP Licensing.

These newly licensed NFPs must be required to treat all receipts as Sales Income, and provide the ‘customer’ a Sales Receipt. That customer now has an allowable expense for tax purposes from a Licensed NFP vendor.

If the Not-For-Profit is a payee of a State Agency, like the HSE, then, (I’m sure there already is but…) there must be an Engagement Letter or a Service Agreement, or a Grant Application suite of criteras and conditions; so it must naturally apply that as per the terms of the Engagement/ Agreement, bill them as an Invoice/ Payment becomes due.

Raise a numbered itemised Invoice, and there’s your documented claim for services rendered. If the services are billed for fraudulently, those Central Bank officials will have that NFP shut down before another credit card gets charged.

Something else I’d like to see more attention paid to and that is how they report their income.

Reporting Gross Income in the Financial Statements is not enough, even if there are line entries presenting the other sources of Income, i.e. Bequests, Fundraising Activities, Healthcare Insurers,

Research Grants and on ‘n on. Financial Statements already come with notes, so why shouldn’t every Income transaction be available in a .pdf for a full drill-down by any member of the public?

Likewise with a particularly High Profile event, especially those that go into schools, like the lollipops and the Lenten campaigns.

Most if not all of the management accounting packages export into excel anyway so making it a requirement for NFPs is hardly a burden on their resources.

NPFs should only be allowed carry Ring-fenced Reserves on their Balance Sheets, ring-fenced meaning for a specific project or activity that is long term or strategic like say a Training Centre or a new Club House.

The same goes for Assets, these must be tested and site inspected by Auditors to ensure they are still in use by the NPF, and their ownership is in the best interests of the NPF. Disposals of any Assets must be referred to third parties and approved by the Central Bank.

Charities and other voluntary and community organisations, large, small, National, Parochial or Multi National have been getting away with eff’all oversight and accountability when it comes to the receiving and distribution of its cash for too long.

STOP indulging them with your disposable cash and STOP giving them the comfort of your apathy.

If the NFP is not up to it, the Central Bank of Ireland are the crew to suss them out. If they evolve into ‘insert any one of the CHY blackguards here’ then CAB, again we already have them at our disposal, are the protective services the Irish Citizen must defer to.

And we must. Acquiring monies under false pretenses it fraud. And so is everything else after that.

I appreciate this is all a bit too high-end and corporate for the smaller and more local community based organisations, but this is how ye’ll get to know yere local Garda Superintendent and Peace Commissioner.

Fundraising for Summer Schemes, Parents Associations, Politicians, and Clubs for all shapes, colours, and postcodes must apply for permission for their non-membership income seeking events.

On their permission application they must nominate an independent non-connected individual to verify the cash collected, and that must only be counted in groups of 3 or more, and that it is only spent for the purpose for which it was earned.

Non-Connected is very important. Canvassing anyone to support a fundraising event that provides cash to pay for your own kids’ summer jobs or to subsidize their tennis lessons can easily be qualified as filling your own pockets, so avoid that risk.

Because guess what? That’s where it all started.

Night night folks; hay ta’be saved n’all that.

BTW, there are some interesting Frill Fillers for ye in the next few weeks, so behave.

Frilly keane’s column appears here every Friday. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane

Rollingnews

shoes

Two things that can’t be faked.

Male orgasm The driving test and decent manners.

Grab a tay.

Frilly Keane writes:

You know, to reach my stage of life, like where and who I am as I write this, and who and what is around me, there was a journey to get here. Not the shortest or the easiest, and to be fair, not the toughest compared to many. But the one I’ve taken is filled with all sorts of people.

Who I’ve met, who I’ve played with and against, those who I’ve worked with, taught, represented and resented, those I went to school with, got into trouble with, those I’ve remembered, those I’ve buried and those I wish I had, those that I could do without and those that I couldn’t.

So I think at this stage I’m qualified to say I’ve have come across most sorts.

Those that’ve had it handy with the best of schools, the best of childhoods and opportunities, the best of educations, the best of jobs, the best of inheritances, the best of everything that most of us haven’t; and those who’ve had nothing, not even a chance.

I’ve met those who are self-made, from nothing to millions; and those that had it all and lost it all. I’ve known lads to whom a bank was where they footed turf and too many others to whom a bank was their best friend, or so they thought.

There have been those that were born into family fortunes, those that walk into family businesses or who were handily set up.

I’ve come across those that’ve had tragic home lives, including abuse, illness, addiction and poverty, to those that had the happiest and healthiest.

There have been those with the high expectations, never fed enough ambition, will-power, determination and talent; and those that have none of those things nor sought to develop them.

The Inferiority Complex to the Superiority Complex, from the chip on the shoulder to the walk over.

From all of us – well what I’ve learnt anyway, is that there are only two things that’ll never actually separate us, that’s two things in this life for which there are no explanations or reasons for bias, discrepancy or argument; two things that are totally in our own hands.

One of these is the Driving Test.

We all fill out the form. We all get processed. We all pay the same fee. Fair’nuff we don’t all get the same Test Centre or Tester. But when you sit behind the wheel with the Clip Board in the Passenger seat, it matters not a Charity Founder’s fart where you went to school or who Daddy is or where you’ll be in ten years.

The driving test is permanently calibrated to not recognise genetics, fortune, potential, means or background.

You don’t get your test first time because you went to Trinity. You don’t fail you test because you didn’t get beyond the Group Cert. I failed my test first time ‘cause I was shit, shit from years of provisionals and bad habits, and reckless feckless blaggarding behind the wheel.

You pass or fail based on whether you are fit to drive; so pass or fail – it’s all yours.

The second is Manners.

Simple, plain, easily learnt and maintained, and free of charge. And they should never be taken for granted just ‘cause you know when to say please and thank you, and not to leave someone else’s bathroom in’ a hape, you still have to stay on top of them and keep yourself in check.

Blaming your personality, it’s who I am, when bluntness wasn’t needed, or the work’s mad busy when barking a rude response to a simple pleasantry is neither an excuse or a reason for bad manners. It’s all on you, and me.

I remember a thread here about a lad who took his shoes off on the bus and the “Update” told us he was tired, happily married with kids and had sore feet. Bollox. It was bad manners. There was no beginning or end to it. It was bad manners.

Table manners? How many reading this have said or heard a we never ate at the table growing up for eating their dinner like a puppy or scraping the plate directly into their gob?

I’ll give ye a great one, and this one is really true; I was once in company with a lad that had his plate cleared before most of us in the dining party had even got served or reached for the red sauce, and when challenged (not by me btw) “I went to three boarding schools” as if it was therefore acceptable for holding his fork like a Fine Gaeler would a pitchfork at a sod turner.

Mind you that particular lad is a prize gimp. But he’s married, has a mortgage, has a dependent, has a job, so until he’s declared a ward of the State, he has no excuse for treating a dining table like a trough because his Mammy didn’t put manners on him.

Yanks are the same, and it drives me crazy; so stop arsing about with it pretending yere dissecting a lung and learn to use a fork correctly ffs.

So there ye have it, the word according to Frilly.

Mind yer manners and you’ve only yourself ta’ blame for failing the driving test.

Frilly keane’s column appears here every Friday. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane