Tag Archives: frilly on friday

The year flew didn’t it

I bet some of the young wans here didn’t realise how fast time is capable of actually travelling when they see this is exactly 51 weeks on from this column

So here’s the annual return.

In terms of the promises I put out there; here’s some achievements.

Coffee is pretty much gone save for the odd stop off at the Costa or Topaz when I’m on the road. And on that the Sweet Treats for a yoyo deal are gone too. They don’t even get a look in and its Americanos only. The hot beverages consist of Puerh Tay mostly with Rooibus in the evenings.

My water intake is still not at the 3 – 4 litres a day but I am getting there and am working on it. In fairness the drinking was top loaded over the latter part of August, as ye well know it was my 50th so things went on a bit. But overall I’d say alcohol since probably

April is a quarter of what I would have supped this time last year. And I hope to drop that even further. Incidentally nights out are now only bottles of Coors Light. No top shelf or cocktails or pints.

And interestingly, I don’t need to pay attention to it anymore, I just stop automatically. Which is a standard I never would have envisioned this time last year.

No more Drive -Thrus either since say January; the only Maccy D’s since then was treating Fluffy to a Happy Meal a few weeks ago and of course I kept him company. Takeaways are so rare now that they are recognised as a treat and not the normal recourse for Dinner.

That Mezzanine level I talked about last year, well it is down a bit, but not enough. I am in the process of getting tested as my GP thinks I might have an intolerance. Which doesn’t surprise, as unlike what I set out to do this time last year, I haven’t managed to let go of the Spud.

In any form. Same with the bread and pasta n’ stuff. So there is still plenty to do there. And the Salt, I’m still a divil for the salt.

Now the bad stuff;

That bike I mentioned is still hanging on its hook in the garage, it never even got touched
And that 3 stone I wanted to shift. Well at Christmas I was asked about it, and I had to answer “only 4 more to go.”

That October and November was murder, and it was all my own doing. For days and sometimes whole weeks all my food intake was drive thru, take-aways, garage meal deals – you name it.

I got away with it largely because I’m tall and my work clothes were always a size up. And still are. So to be 3 stone lighter than I was this time last year, I have about 11lbs to go. And I am in a size 14 but as I said, I prefer looser fitting especially when I’m on the road, etc.

Over the last 5 months I did get back into the sea, but mainly kayaking. Which actually suits me better now. So hopefully I’ll keep it up over the winter and get canoeing again over in Strawberry Beds.

But I do aim to get back into deepwater swimming; so like the starchy carbs that too is a work-in-progress, and better again – its because I actually want to.

But these are some the physical outcomes of my 50th year. I also came upon some new outcomes for myself.

I made some new friends that I can’t bear to think about being without. Hopefully they know who they are when they read this.

I have also decided that I only want people in my life that I want to hang out with or work with. People that enhance my life or contribute to it. It wasn’t a decision I made, it was an organic conclusion about the rest of my life that came upon me naturally.

I am not wasting what time is left on matters and people I have no interest in or don’t add something. Simply put, if they aren’t going to feature when I’m 70 or 80 I’ve no room for them now.

I have also found my grá for writing again. So that book I started 10 years ago is finally going to resurface. I also think some possible writing partnerships have opened up; whether they materialise into an’ting daycent or not – it doesn’t matter. I’m there for it.

Also, I’ve discovered I am not afraid of being me. Since my early 20s I never allowed photos of myself save for the odd work one, and I was never pro-active in promoting myself professionally or talking myself up. I have been known to turn down opportunities and staying where I am.

In fact feedback from an Interview one time recorded that the panel could tell I was holding myself back. But that’ll never happen again. I am going to say yes to everything that fits me and go through every door that opens up in front of me.

Which is why I kinda gave my 50th a full go, a proper blow out that started on the 17th and came to end in the early hours of the 27th – and with one of our own too.

On a personal level, I am delighted with myself that I gave in to it and didn’t brush it off like any other day, which is what I would have done this time last year. So when it comes your way, and it will, I would absolutely recommend you do the same.

Going forward I want to live and work with who I want, and the way I want, there is no more making do, or putting up with things because its handier and easier, or towing the line, conceding for the easy way out, or staying in the rut because I know were the grooves and rough edges are.

I will live and work in a manner that I want, am proud of and hopefully love. And I will be exactly where I want to be.

So was it worth it? This 50th year Test Drive with myself? Absolutely. I’m not looking like a yoga instructor or an’ting. But that was never the point. But this paying attention to myself was worth it. And I know I will it keep it up.

One other thing that I have decided on, in fact there was no real decision to be made or thought put into it; I am retiring my Stars and Bars bikini. I could be glib about it and say it doesn’t fit me anymore, or the beany doesn’t go with the jersey, or the flags got mangled in a storm. I won’t.

It breaks my heart. I was always very proud of my reasons for the flag and I will always defend them and stand up for them.

But the Confederate Flag now flies to a very different and disgusting pride to mine, and I couldn’t possibly do that to my Grandparents and theirs before that, or to Cork.

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

You know what pisses me off the most about Paul Murphy TD? Is how some people are continuously reminding us about where he went to school.

As if it was a fault or even a halfway decent loophole in a defence; but all it manages to secure is a flimsy attempt at man-marking. Handbags stuff. It’s no one’s business where his parents sent him to school; and ye all know that.

Likewise; it’s no one’s business where his Mam and late Dad lived, and as long as it was legal nor is what they did to earn a living. But ye know all that too.

What the real motivation for this constant durty elbowing about his personal and family background is this notion that those that face the Left, by and to whatever degree; be they elected Politicians, Candidates, Activists, former Presidents, Party Members or Supporters, must somehow at some point in their lives have struggled with poverty and going-without, experienced neglected communities, addiction, attended overcrowded and failing schools, were denied third level educations and know their way to the nearest Labour Exchange.

There is this premise being heavily sold by the main Parties and their associated luvvies, to counter the mainstreaming (albeit slowly) of Sinn Féin, and in the wake of the Water Protests and Occupy Apollo etc, that you can’t be an authentic Left Winger if you never saw a Vincent De Paul Christmas box or attended a fee paying school.

Daniel McConnell in the Indo a few years back referred to Paul Murphy’s “posh accent” and that he went to Gonzaga. So? In the words of Terry Prone herself … So? Was he really saying that Paul Murphy isn’t qualified to fight against Austerity alongside people who rely on medical cards, FIS, schools with breakfast clubs and sound like Dustin the Turkey?

So, because Paul Murphy has what the Indo described a “posh accent” and that he went to the same school as Peter Sutherland and Michael McDowell he must be a fake playboy Socialist, and the donkey jacket is just for show over the old’s chool uniform colours as shared by McDowell and Sutherland. Is that it so?

The Indo is notoriously responsible for all sorts of shyte – from the ridiculous to the contrived, but Jaysus even that bates Barry’anagher.

Admittedly, I’m the last one to agree or even be seen on the same side as Peter Sutherland and Michael McDowell (politically anyway.) Yet here I am wishing that a few other ‘Zaga alumni should be so willing to represent or even acknowledge the existence of those who rely on Money lenders and Community Welfare Officers to get to the end of the week.

Imagine the society we could have if Peter Sutherland represented the people living from one day to the next, from one hotel room to the next, from one waiting list to the next.
What really infuriates me about this ‘he’s a posh boy’ sneering behaviour is the nerve of those, some claiming the Left themselves by the way, but mostly Centre and Right Facing, and not forgetting the Main Stream Media that inflates it all, is that compassion and empathy with those that your current Taoiseach would call a Cheater is being questioned at all.

This isn’t by any means a shout out for Paul Murphy and the treble As. No chance.
But you see, I include myself in the Left direction. In fairness, I’d be a fair bit more short-sighted than Paul & his crew. But it’s no secret I have advocated for (some) Sinn Féin reps.

However I’ll make no apology for earning similar to Paul Murphy (‘ish – and I have longer hours and no pensions and freebies like an office set up and printer cartridges.)And make no mistake, I’m not giving up part of my income after tax to make a point.

I’ll do what I like with my self-made hard earned and tax paid few bob. If I can afford to drive something that is not a 12 year old Toyota, and manage the School-of-their-choice fees, I will. And while I can afford my brands, bling and holiday home; I’m having it. But all that doesn’t mean I’m disqualified from having a Social Conscience and wanting a fairer and more equal society.

I want all our schools to be better, I want everyone, EVERYONE, to have access to the same healthcare I do, I want everyone to have daycent pensions and the supported care and assistance if they have the need, and if that means paying tax according to my means, railing and rising against overpaid public servants of every rank, creed, quango and charity, then that’s what it takes.

And I fully expect to stay like this by not apologising for earning as much as I can and doing what I like with it. I won’t be taking any vow of poverty if I can help it.

So why is it that by virture of my own self-made lifestyle, would I be questioned for even considering looking left, endorsing (some) Shinners, and expecting our democracy to be decent and human to those that need it?

To add further salt to my indignation; I know a lad that got a very nice favour via NAMA and the blind eye of a few UK Bankruptcy Trustees, who subsequently sold up and is now on extended stay in the States; aka he didn’t stay on and stump up his bitta CGT.  I bet my self-earned lot that Leo wouldn’t dream of calling him a cheat. He has a posh accent, and went to a posh school too by the way.

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

 

Frilly Keane writes:

I suppose tis no secret that I’m no fan of Gender Quotas. In any walk of life. I’m one’ve those who believe that Equality as a statutory right should be enough. Mad right? But why should it. Be mad like?

Why should a governing policy or funding condition be implemented just to insist on my place on a Board or on a Party Ticket, or to even up the numbers on a Management team if I’m already qualified and suitable for the post anyway.

Aren’t I already entitled to equal consideration if I’ve declared my interest?

At this stage of our evolution here in Ireland, why should anyone still have to sue for a right they already have. I not going to deny it never occurred to me, but on the most recent occasion, I neither had the stomach nor the patience, but mainly because I was mortified that I would have to.

Now I’ll be honest, I really thought that part of what I’m about to introduce to ye would’ve bin done already, by those professional Opinion’ators and Journalists; those we’re expected to take seriously because the Main Stream Media news and views endorses them.

Maire Whelan: She had a job she was qualified for; Yes. She had a responsibility to do it right, honestly and beyond reproach; Yes, and not just to her employer, us, but also to her Professional Body – An Honourable Society apparently. Could she, or did she achieve any of those obligations? No.

She was a shyte Attorney General throughout both her terms. And that’s not an opinion, it’s a confirmed fact; how her responses to the Fennelly Tribunal alone didn’t even earn her a performance appraisal suggests some jobs cannot be questioned.

Even with the blanket of pals in high places she has very obviously depended upon throughout a pretty insipid career at the Bar, could she not muster up some semblance of professional obligation to a profession that’s served her too well as it is.

Nope. Not a bit of it; as AG Maire Whelan was obliged to present to the Government the three applications for a significant appointment in our Judiciary, but she wanted it for herself so she kept the applications to herself. Self-Serving – that’s not fair play and it is a denial of Equality. Something she is required to observe.

It’s not the appointment itself I have an issue with, it’s the conniving snakey way Maire Whelan secured the job for herself that I’m most offended by. And in truth, well my truth anyway, she and the then Government turned their arses to Transparency, Equal Opportunity and simple bog-standard Fair-Play.

Yet when they require it from dependents on the State, and those seeking Social Welfare assistance or Carers grants; Christ they’re all about it.

Anyone caught trying a bitta crafty non-disclosure there might end up with a Blue Shurt Manifesto named after them. Named and Shamed – and with the exchequer funding the advertising campaign.

So why didn’t Maire throw her hat into the ring with the other three candidates; like if she was that sure of herself she would have competed equally with the other candidates.

It’s a disgusting final play from someone who had the responsibility of being the first Woman Attorney General. Would Mary Robinson have conducted herself so grubbily? That’s up to ye. But one thing is certain, I have no confidence in how our Judiciary gets appointed.
I’m disgusted at myself for having had to say the first woman in the job. What the fúck should it matter. The best person for the job is what I want to be endorsing. And that’s where these Gender Quota lobbyists deny us all true and fair treatment.

Another snakey Lady in High Placement is our Garda Commissioner, Noirin O’Sullivan; now I don’t know if she actually earned that Job, or even the High ranks she captured on the way up to it.

That whole organisation has been rotten for decades, and is a closed shop and only serves those secured into it. It’s clear now that we cannot rely on any internal or external oversight other than hoping our Judiciary can. See above.

Here’s annuder one; Mary Mitchell O’Conner – talk about a sense of entitlement. She was elected a TD, that’s the job she has actually earned. That’s it as far as I can see. So what are her credentials to be granted a Ministerial Super Junior job ON FÚCKING DEMAND?

What we do know is that she was a terrible Minister and can’t retain senior staff; that latter part right there is a big enough signal that she’s just not fit for any enhanced role.

Gender Quota advocates should put that into their defence prep notes.

The whole Gender Quota thing is a cod anyway; its pander and lip service the Girls:Boys ratio; The optics – to be seen to be doing sum’ting. But in truth it’s all just what we’ve always called jobs for the boys. Get used to it lads, it’s not really about boys.

It’s about favouritism, payback, and patronage, and what can cope with the spin cycle. Not about Skill, Achievement, Expertise, Qualification, Contribution, Potential or Equality; which is what we deserve.

To be fair I don’t necessarily blame Leoseach for his Cabinet; he had fúck all talent to choose from anyway. But I hate the Gay Mixed-Race Taoiseach header that accompanies every event, photo op, and announcement.

What the fúck has that got to do with him being a Doctor, an elected TD, Minister, Leader of his Party, and now Taoiseach. If there was true Equality in this country, like inherently bred into us, the fact that he’s gay and half this n’ that wouldn’t even occur to anyone; and even less a matter required to enhance positive messaging.

Stick to the fact that #CampaignForLeo is the only thing of substance he has accomplished in years.

I’ve a pal and work colleague that is going to run in the next GE. She’s already a very active Councillor, but deliberately refused at Gender Quota place in the last one.

Her manifesto is very simple; People remember results. If she does get elected; and it’ll be tight if I’m honest, it’ll be because she has worked for it and the constituency she is hoping to represent will recognise her work and contribution already on their behalf, and her capacity to replicate it Nationally.

Not the Mná, and not that she was their only choice. Unlike Leo’s effin’ cabinet.

The Girls mentioned earlier really had a far bigger responsibility; to prove they could do the job under the same rules has the Men that sought to deny women for decades. They’ve done us all harm.

I’ve gone way over again, but for the weekend that’s in it; Hon’Cork

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

Frilly Keane is back!

Has she had some work done?

Frilly writes:

So, a few weeks ago I was on a ‘work’ weekender thing. You know, bar on check-in, chicken supper cabaret dance, residents bar, followed by a whole day of motions n’ shyte n’ freebies n’ stuff, then the free bar, the gropey dinner dance, and then more residents bar networking; the you’sh.

And of course I’m suited and booted through it all; hair and nails done, bits done; well you never know. Anyway, on these long-day late-nighters, I use a thing call Beauty Flash Balm to keep the paint work together and in some way manageable without constant touching up.

It’s like a primer in a way – it smooths out all the rough spots and holds the next layer of paint perfectly.

But when you do your nightly scrub off; your face literally falls away into a limp flaccid useless organ; until the following day when you do it all again and this stuff pulls it all together and firms it up as much as it can; and after a few days detox and rest everything goes back to normal.

But not this time; and a few nights after when I took my face off I found a crack.

The crack is traveling from the edge of my lips, between upper and lower, and sloping down. And is now followed by a mirror image on the other side. And it was all so sudden.
And I’m not coping with it. I have it in my head now that I’m dribbling.

I would insist I’m not vain and I know I’m not afraid of getting old; I just can’t not notice them.

So what happened next just started off with a quick search about fillers; and within 3 hours I was having conversations with three different clinics; and have actually being diagnosed, Marionette Lines. Incidentally all three clinics are on a direct bus route from my gaff.

Anyway, it all got very real and then as if I wasn’t already being ridiculous, it got even more ridiculous.

Like an eejit I filled out an online form, gave them what ye just got about the cracks, and now mentioned the vertical crevice kindly hidden by the bridge of my glasses; which I now know is a Glabellar Line.

Within 24 hours, clinics in Barcelona, Prague, Wroclaw and Szczecin – they’re both in Poland btw, and another one in Holland were in touch with their fancy and well-presented websites.

Suddenly I was now considering Lipo as they all have a 2- for-1 and other discounts on bundles, and was now learning about the package deals they all offer.

Then I was being introduced to my Personal Assistant for my stay and surgery. Then the surgeons themselves were contacting me for photographs of the mentioned worksites. Even through WhatsApp, and, no word of a lie as I type this, Arthur in Szczecin for Dr Osadowska is sending me pictures of “real Patients” and links to LipoLife3G demos.

Interestingly, three of the clinics advised that my Health Insurance was a possible payment option, along with interest free payment plans. And I have now been offered a 10% additional discount from Anna if I book beforeh June 30

It’s all being made so doable and why not-able; and d’ya know what, why shouldn’t it?

Why shouldn’t I invest further in personal appearance? I already get my roots done every 5-6 weeks, I get mani – pedis, facials, waxed, massages, and like to shop, whether I need another pair of shoes or another work shirt or not.

I invest in my profession, skills and my practice. I NCT the car and replace it with a newer one every 5’ish years and I maintain a totally avoidable yet expensive Personal Grooming regime.

Like, if there’s a cream, serum or scrub for it, I have it. It’s not Vanity. Not a bit’ve it. Its maintenance. I’m not enhancing an’ting I’m just fixing stuff.

If a crack appeared over the front door of the house you’d get it sorted.

So what’s stopped me, or at least delayed me picking a surgeon and booking the flights.

Me. The sheer indulgence of spending €2.5 – 3k on meself, when there’s school fees, ‘van fees, new tyres needed, renovations, ara’ the list goes on, brings on a guilt that I can only describe as a pure Me Fein that I’m very uncomfortable with.

And something someone said to me lately “its not about you” probably secures the guilt.

Secondly; the imposition of being out of action for some time, for what is simply an electable set of procedures is just not fair on work and home.

And finally, I don’t want to do it on my own; despite the availability of a Personal Assistant. I don’t want to be sore and drugged and on my own, and I definitely don’t want to be in a departure lounge swollen, bruised, and weary, on my own; more selfish self-interest I suppose.

So surgery is ruled out; for now. Unless I win the lotto then all bets are off.

But I’m definitely getting fillers. Don’t ask what ones, or what clinic etc.

So if ye’re all wondering, like, what to get me for the biggie; all these local clinics sell gift vouchers.

Frilly-new-face on the way; an’ with a bitta luck by the first Sunday in September, it’ll be like I only left Cork yesterday.

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

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

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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