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

The Woodlands Caravan Park, Tralee, Co Kerry

Have ye opened up da’van?

How did it get on over the winter?

So are ye down now?

This is Caravan Park Talk.

Frilly Keane writes:

You’re either are a caravan person or yer not. I am, with over 40 years ov’it in fact, from my mother’s ‘van in Ardmore, to my own-ie-oh one now; which it must be said, is a bit closer to sunny South Central.

Things have changed since those days in Ardmore, ‘vans now have indoor toilets, so no more bucket or key to the toilet block. Indoor plumbing also means that there’s no more running out to the tap to fill the kettle, the pot, the bucket, to wash your teeth or rinse the dishes.

The whinging about being asked to go out to the tap is another one of those things that are no more, yet somehow is still there to be missed; like the smell of the match lighting the gas under the kettle or toast done under a gas grill.

And the all up and beds put away before an egg gets boiled or fried is gone too.

Go into a ‘van today and you’ll see microwaves, tellys, fancy coffee machines, fridge freezers, and I’ll even admit to having a dish washer in mine. FFS.

So let me help out the non-caravan’er reading this and clue them in a bit.

Originally all caravans were the ones you see on the M11 trying to pull in front of ya. But then around the early ta’ mid 80’s there was a conversion that sounded like this;
“Is it a mobile home or a caravan you have?”

So now on the caravan parks plotted around our coast line you’ll pretty much see them filled with mobile homes, but to caravan people, they are still ‘vans.

The others, the ones spreading all over the lane in front of ya are, for the want of a more ideal explanation, touring ‘vans.

A few weekends ago I called down to my old site, as in me Mam’s, to make sure all “the jobs” were done. These are the opening up jobs; airing the mattresses, cleaning off mould, washing the outside of the ‘van, getting steps repaired, making up the beds, that kinda stuff.

On her site the pals I knocked around with every summer from when I was 4 ish ‘till my late teens, now all have their own vans on that same site. They’ve all turned into their Mams and Dads.

The striking thing about the dolling up of ‘vans over the years, and the staying power of caravan people through falling outs, bad spells & immigration, increased rents and fees, the rain and the rain and the muck and the wind and the rain, is not that one great heatwave in every ten years, nor is it the home from home comforts now assumed; it’s caravan people.

And every site is the same.

Whether it’s the Hot Tub Set in the pricey posh ones with decks the size and function of the Parade Ring in Leopardstown, or the scattery sprawling of wagons of every shape and size with gas bottles like bollards looking to take your toenail off, and droopy washing lines from window to window.

Caravan people are the same.

Who got new cars,Who got away to Spain/ Portugal etc over the Easter Who lost their job t’ who’s changed job, who’s done well etc. Who’s aged, who’s lost weight (don’t look at me btw.), Who’s got new stuff, like kayaks, ribs, boards etc to shove under the ‘van or leave on a trailer blocking someone’s way.

The almighty one; the one weeping across every site over the last few wee… who got a new ‘van.

Tis gas. Once the vans are opened up, the residents do their annual sizing up of each other, including the kids by the way; but by the end of the first week of the season ‘tis like they were never apart for the last 10 months.

That is until the Leaving results come out, then there is a similar staying in-close-quarters with Mammies answering every enquiry with a “got what they wanted.”

Another thing in caravan parks is the big entrance. This is the crowd that arrive and open up mid-season. The crowd that were away; Italy, Florida, France, a Cruise, etc in June/ early July.

That’s their new ‘van moment. These are the same that might also be seen to lock up mid-August because they’re off ta’ Italy, Florida, France, a Cruise etc.

Again every site has them. From Bettystown to Ballybunion.

The falling outs: these usually have to do with your particular site and your on-site behaviour: parking your car too close to next door, loud music, parties, dogs, teenagers, crying babies, gazebos and umbrellas, hedges – that kinda stuff. The other one is your location: is your spot better than theirs.

In pretty much every coastal site there is a Front. It’s so important to ‘van people it’s getting a capital F. Back then, in Ardmore, the Front was also known as Flamingo Road, and everyone else was Coronation Street.

Now if you are on family owned site and go season to season only with the permission of the ‘insert name of the owners’ then who gets on that Front is the stuff that elects Party Leaders,

(BTW every year these sites have a family, or for ‘van people ‘a crowd’ who are put off the site.)

If you are on a Resident Owned site, you simply pay for your spot on the Front, when one comes up that is, and the buyer is usually someone already on the site, and there usually tends to be a bitta non-transparency about the transaction.

Interestingly or to be expected I suppose, the selling price of these sites and ‘vans are a prominent feature of these caravan parks, or resorts as they like to be known as.

Either way, both set-ups manage new arrivals the same. What yer man does, what schools the kids go to, and are there babies and young kids. That can make or break someone’s entry into the ‘van crowd on that particular site. Are your kids nice, are they crying squalling kids, and are ye well off.

I hope there are more ‘van people about here, because I’d love to hear yere stories. Like when ye got the fridge that worked off the car battery, or the portable telly and half the site in ta’ watch the Royal Wedding, or using the local pub’s hot water tap and hand dryer for your wash and blow before the disco.

Or the free ‘van day when the Mammies went up to Cork to get the shopping and washing sorted, or the school books and uniforms.

Or the gas bulb catching fire after you’d had a feed of cider and were too afraid to get help from the adults; all that kinda stuff.

Anyway, I wanted to do this piece for the last while, because it’s part of my thing and it’s already been established that I’m not about July and August. Also, this weekend is when 90% of the ‘vans of Ireland commence their next tour of duty.

It is also that time for year for the Sindo to get a hard on about the Dublin Hamptons set and for a certain Solicitor of the same name, no relation, to come into his wankiest element.

Meh, lay’ve them at it, my ‘van is just my other home really, this year the Broad Band Man has set me up so I can still work without complications, and commute handily enough. The ‘van survived annuder Winter without leaving me with too many jobs to get done, it’s already open so I’m off.

I’ll sign off with the promise of an Irish caravan’er.

The rain’s warmer this time of year.

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

The cabinet gather at Aras an Uachtarain on May 6, following the General Election.

Well…

With some choice, salty and, frankly, work-unfriendly language the author casts her eyes over the performance of certain members of the cabinet to date.

Grab a tay.

Frilly Keane fumes writes:

This Government is S H one T

This Government is SH 1 T

This Government is just plain shit

Whatever way you want to spell it; it still means shit.

And by Christ is this current Irish Government all of them.

I don’t know of any other Government that has been more shit.

Did ye ever see the like?

A Minister for Health that was a Journalism School wannabe only a few years ago. Seriously. One of the biggest monsters in our annual spend, and one that is vital to the health and wellbeing of all us and our families is being led by a a 29-year-old DIT Journalism graduate .

Fair enough if Simon Harris decided journalism wasn’t challenging enough and he was capable of bigger and better things.

But you and I know he didn’t go off to McKinsey’s or Harvard MBA lands or even, you know, the real world of work. What Simon Harris did next was arse around and slobber up for a handy gig. And it worked. Like this is la-la land and we’re all doing so well that there is no need to consider someone of substance, qualification, experience and meaning. But it’s not yet we still get Simon Harris. Those Nurses better not strike is all I have left ta’ say about this one.

We have over in Iveagh House a Minister for Foreign Affairs that makes Elmo look like the smart one. Charlie Flanagan is useless. USELESS. He’s as much an International Diplomat & Statesman as I’m a Prima Ballerina. If I was ever held hostage over in some place where the even the kids carry guns I’d have a better chance of a safe return to ye if t’was a Healy Rae or a Mattie McGrath on my case.

Look at Leo, Minister for Social Welfare, now spending his days sitting on his arse waiting to pick a fight with the next Johnny Come Independent; that’s all he’s at these days – falling out with the Independents. For all the busy-at-work they’re-my-taxes heads pissed off at Social Welfare receivers… remember this, that’s also your pension (and Paternity Leave) in there.

Coveney? If yere wondering like … is Clongowes thru and thru, from his toenails to his receding hair line. That snobby langer is no more going to get houses built for our housing lists and hotel room families in the name of the common good of our local communities than Denis O’Brien will offer to pay for them. Watch the developers and land bank hoarders sort out his job for him while he pulling on his mainsheet.

And WTF was Mary Mitchell O’Connor ever good for? Now she’s Minister for Jobs, Enterprise and Innovation … now there’s an Edinburgh festival winning routine all on its own. Jobs, Enterprise and Innovation a vital Government Department in my opinion, it’s as important as Foreign Affairs, yet Fine Gael treat these appointments like they’re dishing out fun size packs of Haribos.

Paul Kehoe: Defence!!!! I feel’d more assured with just a Garfield sticker in his place.
Is it any wonder they’re having to back track on Water Charges and Bin Charges.

What’s next? I tell ya wha’

The 2017 Budget. What Noonan is going to have to do to get the votes could well exceed any previous pork barrel buffet benchmark by a toll-free 100km motorway with free NCTs at the Service Forecourts along it. At least.

And there’s another sham of an appointment btw, Minister for Finance Michael Noonan. Enda might as well have renamed the gaff the Department for Old Misers and Misogynists. It’ll be like a scene from a Willie Wonka revival in there come Budget Negotiations: I want I want I want or I’ll cry and cry and fuck off.

So what is that despicable cruel old man Noonan going to have to give to Ross? A South Dublin Stock Exchange perhaps? Ha I can see it now on RTÉ News: “and on the N11.sEX – down 4 points”

And what d’ye think he’s going to have to give to that interloper Zappone?

It won’t surprise me to see him tell Pascal Donohoe to increase their mileage allowance. Because all Droopy Donohue is going to do there in Expenditure and Reform is figure out a way of taking from one group of public servants and dish it out around the Cabinet table to keep them all happy.

I’d say Zappone is going to need a bigger promise meself, a Presidential Candidacy wouldn’t surprise me.

Maybe I’ve actually short-changed this Government. Not alone is it Shit – It’s a Gimme Gimme Gimme free for all.

Hon’ Ireland.

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

Rollingnews

Having a baby?

The author traces the iniquities of a system that fails everyone.

Frilly Keane writes:

That’s nice.

Isn’t it?

The Lads getting paid paternity leave. Like the Girls; Two hundred and thurty yoyos a week, just like the Girls.

Not for the 26 weeks mind, so they might have sum’ting to say about that. But I suppose when they can breast feed on demand after they have their whole’s ripped open they’ll be getting all the weeks they want; maybe even post-natal Pensions. I’m all for it, look after the Daddies. Happy Daddies makes life much easier for new Mammies.

But here I am wondering if the Lads will be getting their employers to top up their Social Welfare €230.00 per week?

Like the Girls, if they‘re Guards, Teachers, Public Sector etc, Semi- State etc and Bank employees before a certain date etc, Big Charity NGO etc; they too, like the Girls will automatically get Employer top ups to full or near full pay for the duration of their Paternity Hols.

The closest number I can get back-up for is 18%. That is 18% of the current work force is in this employer bracket.

That’s nice.

But if the Lads are in Industry, Private Sector SME IBEC country, it’s anyone’s guess. IBEC say that most small businesses don’t pay the Girls top up. IBEC also say that 59% “Usually” top up. (My whole is it 59% by the way) but if they say so. I wonder will it be the same for the Lads and their Paternity leave?

Yep, here I am again, giving out about the them-n-us in our Maternity Hospitals & Labour Wards.

So let’s go back to the numbers. Of all the Girls that have babies on the day you read this, 18% will certainly be getting their full pay.

To demonstrate my view on Maternity Leave Inequality I’m going to use the current average industrial wage for the first quarter of 2016 as the measuring jug; the CSO currently quote that figure as €707.99.

That’s nice. The difference between €707.99 per week and €230.00 per week is very nice.

To save ye doing a few sums that’s € 477.90; per week; for 26 weeks. That’s €12,427.74 of a difference in just six months.

That’s right – what Social Welfare stump up is over twelve grand less than the Average Industrial Wage.

How do you feel about PRSI now?

Look back over your last 2 P60s and tot up your PRSI contribution and your Employers Contribution. EE + ER. How far apart is it from €5,980.00? (€230*26) Then Maternity Benefit is only what you’ve paid for yourself. FFS; now it’s a Rebate.

Is it news to learn that many Girls not in that 18% will work right up to their due date because they can’t afford not to? Is it news to learn that many of these girls will fake their due date?

They did in my day because there had to be a 4 week run in ahead of the due date, now its 2 weeks so I’d say it’s not as widespread as it was back when I was doing out the MB10.

But the unfairness hasn’t changed. My experience is my own, fair enough, because every Girl has a different story to tell. But I still hear stories of Girls needing one more week at work to pay off the Mothercare/ Mama’s n’ Papa’s order.

I still hear stories of Girls needing to get back to work just to put credit in their phones. I still hear stories of Girls with new-borns taking other kids out’ve of child-care because the €230 per week won’t stretch to it. Nor will it stretch to the Mortgage. Or even her half of it.

This is inequality because it’s unfair. And it’s our fault for letting it off.

It is not the fault of the 18%, it is not the fault of the so called remaining “usually” 59% from IBEC (again my whole, it’s more like 29%.) It is the fault of the F U Jacks. And that’s pretty much every single one of us at some stage.

I’d love to know the real number of the Girls that go back to work in debt. Girls with loaded credit cards, scaldy over-drafts, loans from the Credit Union, Provident, Baby Daddies and other Family members (who’d be the first to whinge about it btw.) Anyone?

I seriously doubt the Paternity Daddies will be going back to work that much out’ve pocket that they have to go the Provie man.

Here’s my thing, either put everyone on full pay or nobody, and then you’ll see the Public Sector get it back up to full pay for everyone. Or at least (where it is applicable and makes sense) let the value of the Maternity (and Daddies too) Benefit reflect the total PRSI Contributions for say the previous two years. Mind you with Leo in the gig, ‘M’uck knows who’s going to get looked after.

it’s just me, but there is something very heart-breaking about the Girl with a cranky colicky teethy five month old that’s down to her last fiver before she gets back to work and still needs to find sum’ting that fits, the Girl that can’t join the other new Mammies for coffee and cake, the Girl that has to hear “tis your turn to pay the rent”, the Girl that loses her place in the Baby Room because she doesn’t have the month in advance for the Crèche, the Girl that has to hand over her first few weeks/ months wages to someone else. Maybe it’s just me.

I hope it’s not.

Happy Father’s Day.

FYI, for anyone who’s arsed: . Also note, I’m not unaware of the carry-on Girls, and now Lads, who are self-employed have to get through just for that €230.00 per week.
It may look like I’ve ignored ye, but I promise it is not intended to be a slight or to be blasé in another example of the F U Jack, I’m one of ye now, and it’s the bed we’ve (well most’ve us) made ourselves.
The unfairness of our taxes and levies versus our Welfare benefits is a far different and wider battle; and one for anudder Friday. Or better again, maybe tis one for Taft and his charts. I also didn’t include Child Benefit in the above as its Statutory and therefore right across the board…

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

Illustration: Political Moose

From top Colin Firth as Mr Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, (BBC, 1995); Sam Riley as Col Darcy in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (2016); Poster for same

It was the plunge heard around the world.

Can any man or zombie equal the impact of the ‘original’ Mr Darcy?

Frilly Keane writes:

JR was the original baddie, wasn’t he? Like JR was the first TV icon that sucked us all in’ta cheering and cursing at the same time; JR had us singing and wearing T-shirts and taking sides.
Before JR, book’im Danno Steve McGarrett, Alias Smith AND Jones, The Hulk, John Shaft, and even the who luv’s ya baby Kojak only had loyal viewers.

But when JR cowboy-booted in in that giant Merc, he took over every household, workplace, pub, playground, and headline.

Over the years since, more leading men started to join the starry fantasy circles of the morning tea break; Francis Urquhart (FU), The Diet Coke Man, Dr Doug Ross, The Milk Tray Man every now and again, and recently the Lord Commander Jonny Snow. But they were and are only mere interruptions. Well maybe not Jonny Snow. We’ll see.

For me, there is only one other telly leading man that captivated, controlled and transformed our idling bant’ish exchanges since JR: Mr Darcy.

From that very first episode on BBC1 that September night in ’95 he was already carved in stone, and a monument that will outlive all of us was created. Mr Darcy changed television programming.

Mr Darcy even launched a 500million plus fillum franchise. That scene with the shirt and the spontaneous plunge has been done and done and done again. But none have been as gobsmacking and powerful as the original. It wasn’t just sheer beauty, it was a game changer.

The budget for that original series was apparently a mill (sterling) per episode, leaving it at circa 6 mill. The big screen follow-up had a budget of (according to wiki so you know yerself) of 22m. And Macfadyen, while he looked the part, could barely hold Mr Darcy’s riding crop, even with Kiera Knightly licking it.

Mr Darcy left a legacy. A legacy that has generated millions if not billions of spondoulies for the entertainment industry, and a legacy that has ensured the devotion of millions of devotees, cheerleaders (admit it, ye all give an oul’ shout out when he dives into that pond when ye see it again) and horny oul’wans from every Continent.

So now comes the turn of Pride and Prejudice Zombies.

How could I not? I love me Zombies and I’m naturally obliged to suss out this latest Mr Darcy, who is now Colonel Darcy btw.

I won’t ruin it for ye but it made me laugh. Obviously it’s a take on the Zombie genre, this one applies, in as much as made sense, the original scripts, and it’s one where the Zombies too observe the Austen ‘them and us’ manners and snobbery, a Zombie Aristocracy and class system exists alongside the Bennetts and the Bingleys. Sur’ that has ta’ be seen.

The Bennett girls are now trained Shaolin warriors, and Mr and Mrs Bennett add just the right amount of camp, and are charmingly played by Charles Dance and the fabulous, yet for some reason, underused Sally Phillips.

Charles Dance isn’t the only GOT mention btw, Cersei is Lady Catherine de Bourg, and ye just have to see her gig in the Zombie version.

Mr Wickham? Well ye’ll just find out for yereselves.

How this fillum bombed is a mystery to me. I had great fun, the opening titles which appear under a narrative by Mr Bennett even had me skitting.

And. Well the lads will get a bitta leg and garter with this one along with the corsets and heaving boobies that they only stuck around with the original one for.

But.

Ah he’s no Mr Darcy, and his dive is, well, limp. Although, “it must be said” I did enjoy the new’ish role and approach, especially the leathers.

And Bingley is definitely better than the last twerp. Ah here, I’ve said enough, but I will add that the girl from Black Swan who won the Oscar, Natalie Portman, produced it and, imo, it got her good value for the $28mill budget.

To be fair tho’ condensing P & P down to a movie length will always hinder its chances against the telly one, but seriously, give it a go on DVD night … well maybe after the bag’a cans.

So back around to where we started.

JR would have sorted out those Zombies without even taking off his hat, and would’ve had them working for him around Southfork if Miss Ellie would let him. He’d more likely have them making him money by burning them down into oil; or sum’ting like that. Sur’ JR would be immune to any Zombie bite anyway.

Hey there’s an idea. Oil Field Zombies: Zombies that only want to guzzle oil and not brains……… Christ t’night that’d be a savage one. Imagine the special interests getting together to fight off oil-ate’in Zombies.

Yer man Gerard Butler would be the lad to lead the Allied Forces. Or maybe even Kit. That’d be nice. The Lord Commander not covered over with hapes of durty sheepskins. JR (played by Clooney) could be the Halliburton man. You heard it all here first!

Whereas Mr Darcy would’ve had all the Zombies hating him and swearing revenge, and then in the end, they’d all be worshipping him and ate’in themselves just from the shadow of his cowering glare.

Nothing’s really changed, so bring on the next Pride and Prejudice remix. I’d love a Wild West/ Cowboy n’Indian one, or one with the Dinosaurs still around. Sur’ there’s room for them all. How’about a new Odd Couple? While we’re at it like, Oscar Madison and Felix Unger and the dooooooo do to dooo do theme.

Anyway. The question I’m leaving ye with.

Will JR and Mr Darcy ever really be replaced?

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

Do you remember the Summer of 1985?

When Frilly was on fire?

Frilly Keane writes:

We had joy we had fun we had seasons in the sun….

I know ye all have hedges to cut, Barbie-queues to scrub, scratch, scour and scorch, windows to shine and mould to scrape off the flip-flops, so I’ll keep it tidy.

Summer’s here.

Posh kids, and second level rest-of-us not doing exams are eyeing up dinner time today with the itchy drool of a toddler that hears the Ice-Cream van. It’s been a long week made even longer with weather reports and a Donegal Postman’s promise of a long summer.

Needless to say I won’t be planning an’ting much since we’re already out’ve the Munster Championship.

But this was always the weekend when dates were coloured in and away locations agreed. In and around the run up to this weekend was when the funny tummy came in as we overthought the League displays, last year’s u-21s, and lined out our “one’s ta’watch out for” in the June July, ideally August at least, and please please Mother Mary and all your moving statues, September ahead.

This was also the week of the annual staging of the “don’t rule out Galway” singers.

Usually.

But for once I’ll be keeping my Season’s Sunday’s untenanted. It’s the nature of the game, I know, and there’s always next year; I know that too, too well. I’ve already accepted the evolution of age blended with responsibility, and that my gallivanting and blaggarding weekends are behind me.

But my Sunday in Thurles is very hard to replace.

The sangwiches, the bottles of Lucozade, the beeping at fellow travellers’ flags that would start at the Red Cow, the winding drive in from Templemore. The parking. The Nordie lads arriving in flash cars for a bitta’ Munster Hurling Master Class…My heart is broken.
‘Thur’s ur’ V now!

Whatty’bout ye?

How’s the big’mon?

It’s over.

Skinned our hearts and skinned our knees….,

I’m fierce maudlin lately, it must be the menopause. Ha. It awaits us all. But the fussing about Bruce reminded me of an experience everyone should have. June Bank Holiday 1985 I got on a double decker at the Grand Parade and went to Slane.

If pushed, I’d have to admit I’d probably never even heard of him before then, I was given a ticket, and sur’ everyone one else was going. Besides, the Mam and Dad were down the ‘van opening it up while I was under study orders. Sur who’d know? There were no phones to tell on me.

“I’m on Fire” was played again and again and again; and when the batteries ran out of the cassette players, we sang it. The Langers on that double decker must’ve been just like me, along for ride since we only had the one Springsteen song between us.

And that the only sangwiches to be had were either banana or egg. The smell, the tingfoil, the ten Major that lasted ‘till the Curragh, the comrades; the unforgettable beauty of our very own convoy that was smeared until it reeked of “We’re On the One Road, Singing the One Song.”

So whether tis Championship matches, Euros, Festivals, Fleadhs or Come-All-Ya’s that will feature in your Summer and the Summers ahead of ye; one day that road trip will slow down, shorten, get bumpy with complications, thin out of friends and recognisable faces, and eventually stop; and you won’t even notice.

So burn it up while you can. Leave your marks and make memories that will live with you like tattoos, because I wouldn’t change a bit’ve mine.

This is a very hard thing for me to put my name ta’ since I’ve a young’wan who has already decided that this new thing, the gap year (wtf), is when she’ll hit the road with a Bucket List (annunder new thing btw); from February to November, from Mardi Gras to Glastonbury to Pamplona to Macy’s Thanksgiving. Just like I did; albeit a bit grander and a big bit more comfortable.

Me nerves (and my poor mother…) but at least hitchhiking went the way of those old cassette recorders.

Have a good one lads, and in the words (kinda) of that lad to the class of ’97, sun cream and plenty of it.

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

Pic: RTÉ

Brown mince, a banged up Mini and a dodgy mullet.

The author makes a gratitude list.

Frilly Keane writes:

I’ve noticed lately, that content beyond the ould’reliables like the Papers, Moynes, Crying Chairs and Leather Jacket Lad, that some themes or topics if you like, relight themselves again and again; The Housing Crisis, JobBridge, Alan Shatter, even a Republican Government got another spin. That’s not a whinge btw, there’s still plenty to be said.

Likewise “My Generation” which I’ve even gotten stuck inta meself on a go-around instalment, yet I’m still not done with it so I’ve gone and given it a new coat of paint for this week\s outing.

So where would My Generation be

Only for

Seat belts, NCT’s and Sat Nav?

Christ only knows since my first car had no seat belts at all and a choke pull that came off a Coke tin. It had vice grips on the steering column and lino samples to cover the holes on the floor.

It didn’t seem to matter then since that industrial rusty grey Mini started every time, it’s 4 gears would bring us to Killarney for under a fiver, and it didn’t get as much as a bob’s worth of insurance.

Eight years later, my next car came with a heavy on the sales pitch about it having seatbelts in the back seat, seriously, you’d swear I was getting all leather interiors and self-parking the way the lad selling it made such a big deal about the Optional Extra.

I’m still more comfortable with directions that require me to watch out for the school yard, the church, the grave yard, the pub, a local character’s house, so robotic instructions that give roads numbers and letters and can’t pronounce Mullingar just gives me ire.

But I couldn’t do without Google Maps and I wouldn’t dream of putting my arse into a car to Cork now that had no seatbelts or insurance. And it’s not just me. Nobody would.

Anyone remember Brown Mince? It was the only meat I ate for years until my late teens. It was on the shopping list one day and I was looking for some good book entries so I went to the butchers.

Brown Mince was the outcome of the butchers bucket, when I saw the lad put a shovel into the bin and empty it into the mincer … I’m getting queasy now thinking of what might have been in that bucket or what state it was in. Thank you Food regulators for Steak Mince, Turkey Mince, and Pork Mince.

An acquaintance of mine worked in a local Bakery back when who still tells the story of oven burns being treated with greaseproof paper and sellotape, if you needed plasters you had ta’ get your own, and then there’s the split head getting seen to with a wipe of the magic sponge/ wiping down cloth/ tea towel or the whatever was damp and came to hand.

I could mention a few work place accidental deaths while I’m at it, but you’ll know some anyway. So thank you for Workplace Safety training, and Compliance, and thank you for proper First Aid Standards and Infection Control Education.

The Chip pan? I suspect most of ye here never heard of them let alone seen one. Its only looking back now I realise how reckless and devious a hazard it is.

But one time we goofed and laughed at the tales of them catching fire in sweaty cramped bedsits with the two rings, and lads tossing them out onto the street, or when we shrugged off our Mammies for warning us not to touch them.

So yes, thank you for the Air Fryer. Thank you too for the Microwave, whether it was to sterilise bottles, reheat my coffee or bake a spud, my days are definitely for the better with this convenience my parents didn’t have and one I couldn’t be without.

Back in the day I had a beauty of a mullet, permed at the back and lacquer stiff, gel quaffed and rolled to the front. Since showers were unreliable in the miserable sense it got dipped under the kitchen tap every morning, now lemme tell ye, the smell of fags and the durt off that head of hair that would make ya gawk. I could actually see thick grey water flood down the sink on that first dousing before the shampoo.

Fair enough, that’s not an experience most of ye will recognise but I don’t think I was the only one that put on smelly clothes on their day 2 outing. So thank you for the smoking ban, and enforcing Fire Regulations.

Competition. Aer Lingus, ESB, Bord Gas, RTE, Pillar Banks and Building Societies, P & T. Supermarkets and Retailers from Furniture to Jeans:

They all had tits made out’ve us and our parents, and theirs etc, before us. Thank you for opening it all up. Transparency in commercial and public life, thank you too for that.

So what if it didn’t stop the related party nudge nudge transactions, the jobs for the boys, wives etc. At least now it can be disclosed and discussed without getting a warning off.

Thank you for giving me the peace of sending a child to school knowing their teacher wouldn’t be sending them home black n’blue.

Thank you for making ambition about accomplishment and achievement and not about putting someone’s nose out or keeping someone in their place.

Ambition is now as everyday as going on to 3rd level, and available to everyone, and not a personal diary entry that no one will ever know of so as to deny a too big for our boots snigger. It’s a while since I heard a “I remember ‘em when they didn’t have an arse in their pants bumming fags” kinda thing.

Thank you too for the Internet, the Wiffy, the Forums, the Online this that and t’other from banking, to shoe shopping. Thank you for the technology that allows me say I’m working even if I’m still in me jimmyjammers.

So where would we be? Lemme me tell ye.

Dangerous driving, eating and cooking hazardous waste, bitching amongst ourselves about that other crowd with all their “pull.” We’d be paying double digit interest rates, but still going cap in hand to the banks (imagine that!) We’d still have to make do with the news we were given and keep our traps shut about it.

That’s where. So thank you.

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

Pic: Bonhams

Matthew Reese (left) and Matthew Goode of ITV’s The Wine Show

For your benefit.

The beshtest column in the whole wide world.

Frilly Keane writes:

I’m no expert, but sur’ when did that ever stop me talking about stuff here, so let me bring ye back a few weeks when I gave a bitta’ve shout out to The Wine Show.

For anyone who didn’t follow up; this is a new bloke’ish style Wine show in the ITV Saturday tea-time slot (ITV4 on Sundays.) I say blokes, since the two pretty faces are the Matthews’ Rhys and Goode.

It starts like this, Matthew (had a good flirty part in The Good Wife btw) Goode’s voice-over purrs like a Bond: “Wine is made all over the world and enjoyed by millions but still a mystery to many” first part yeah, tis. But a mystery?

Ara’ I dunno, like maybe in so far as its pricing is eff’all use as a guide to the buyer. Sussing out a bottle of wine hardly compares to sussing out a 5 year old Ford Focus Automatic with 50K on the clock and leather interior.

Other than that, wine is anything but mysterious, and it is also probably the most democratic of beverages, everyone can enjoy it and affordability is not an indicator of standard or quality. Personal taste maybe.

The Matties’ Goode and Rhys sup wine and sway lines in a swagger style that is so polished, and yes, endearing, that their years of supper parties and picnics have stood by them, and at the top of the class is who they gently refer to as Obi Wine Kenobi, Mr Joe Fattorini, who is like a favourite geography teacher setting homework and mentoring his two pets while he teaches them how to map the vineyards of Italy.

But to give them all their fair due like, of the show’s presenters and guests (so far), there hasn’t been any slurping, sloshing, or spitting. My kinda wine tasting..

The show is based from a Villa in Tuscany, from which “our team of wine experts have travelled to 11 countries on 5 continents to bring the best and more interesting wines” back to.

Here’s where I step in now lads. The show is sponsored by Aldi.

So while the two bhoys are snottily supping big backstory wines from Muldova to Napa, and far too busy and what-notty for the type of bottles that the likes of me reach for, I will be reviewing, and totally for your benefit btw, three Aldi wines all the way from the Long Mile Road.

I need to clarify a few things first. I’m no expert, but I do like a drink. 95% of the time I only buy Spanish wine, but would be tempted if the Sancerre is on special offer and has the special one week only 25% off for 6.

My consumption in Rosé:Red: White terms would be reasonably accurate with a 60:30:10 statement.

Yes, I drink Rosé and the pinker and plumpier the better, Seve Ballesteros pink. I’ve even gone and hosted a Rosé Wine Tasting night. (But that’s for another Friday.)

Red: It has to bloody and bold. A Carménère should strut down your gullet like a prize Bull, and fill you up. It should stain the glass. French and Italians just don’t make it, and I don’t care how Classico your Chianti is Mr Fattorini the experience compares well to a Rioja mixed with water in accordance with Miwadi’s recommended measures.

White: Meh; salad food. Crispie, clear, and ideally with a bittve’ a ting to the afterwards. Something that tastes like it’s good for you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not that much of a stickler that I would refuse a glass. Well. I tell a lie. I wouldn’t touch Chardonnay, even if Mattie Rhys asked me to lick it off his beard. And let me tell ye he has the sweetest of Welsh twinkles in his accent; the kind that you’d have to stay well clear of; a real proper taffy daffie Celtish charmer.

Something else, I don’t like wine to be too chilled that the bottle starts to form a puddle. Cool to the touch. That’s enough. My red needs to be room temperature or maybe a tick or so above.

The Test Section Process: All three were off the same shelf and all three have the same price tag; €8.99, and the same year, 2015.

1. Rosé: Kiwi Pinot Noir Rosé, “Marlborough” 13%

If I was blind it would have passed for a white, but at €8.99 it’s harmless, it doesn’t even swallow like a 13%. It would be one for the back garden, or balcony, with some strawberries and rasas or a B&H. The fact that it’s not Spanish definitely hurts it in the colour and sniff outcome, but I’ve tasted worse Spanish ones. Mattie Marks 4.5/10. Tescos Revero for €3.99 bates it into the Christy Ring Cup Division.

2. Red: A Kiwi Pinot Noir, “Wairarapa” 13% (which is a good number for red)

It had a watery texture and look, way more than I like but it wasn’t annoying oddly enough. I poured straight from the bottle that didn’t help the first glass.
There was a rocket salad scratch and sniff about it which makes me suggest it might be a good lunch time partner to a grilled Mackerel. It’s definitely not main meal stuff, unless of course you have yours in the middle of the day.
I started this bottle deciding that it could have done with warming up but the second glass was worth the wait. There was a soft soap aroma inside the second glass that I just couldn’t put my finger on, but I did picture Avon’s Lily of the Valley Talc and Bluebells. I suggest if this was to be tried out again a good 6 hour long pour decant would enhance its potential.

Mattie Marks 5/10. I’d take it or leave it. Tesco did 6 x Sangre de Toro Garnancha 2014 (imported by Findlaters) for forty yoyos recently. So to be fair, it didn’t really stand a chance.

3. White: Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc with “Private Bin” particularly bannered, another Kiwi but this is an All Black. 13.5%

Again and Again and Again. The best white wine I’ve tasted since an organic Verdejo, in Spain a few years back, the cork is still around the house it was that special. I can’t recommend this Aldi wine highly enough. It is competent enough to stand on its own in front of the telly, or simply with some smoked salmon or fruit salad, but it also has the cop on to step down and work alongside a steamy gooey bowl of Frilly’s Creamy Chicken Pesto. Don’t be afraid to offer it to guests or to get a half a dozen.

Mattie Marks 9/10 (I docked one because Aldi don’t do a standard 5% off for six)

So there lads. Mr Frattorini, and the Matties; I’ve done yere job for ye. Feel free to sashay me out to Tuscany to change my mind about Italian wine.

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

Basset hound: author’s own

In place of the usual advertised programme [Frilly Keane’s normaL column].

A Night At The Áras

‘Transcribed’ by Frily Keane and illustrated (above) by PoliticalMoose

(Practice yere accents)

FF: “Excuse me, no, that’s where I sit Leo.”

LV: (Tries to snort but ends up sneezing) “Ok Mother.”

RB: “Watch It! Will you … you’re supposed to be a doctor” ( slyly slides FFitz’s scarf across the snot on his shoulder)

FF: “No need for that, you just need to act like a grown up now Dr Leo, so go down there by that other Northsider …what’s his name again?”

PD “Finbarr, Tanaithsta.”

RD-CW: “‘scuse me now can I have yere attention before the Prayers, it’s clear some of the new Ministers need to learn to conduct themselves and act classy – knock off this photobombing and shoving colleagues out of the way. It’s making ye look pushy and…”

KZ: “What are you …. I take offence at been accused of been pushy in any way … I’m quite camera shy actually.” (A chorus of sniggers, giggles and ha!’s rings around the Phoenix Park)

MMOC: “Jesus Christ, she’s still giving out … I told you I thought t’was just senior ministers.”

MC: “Ah sur t’was all a bitta nathin’ … plenty more goes’ for ye all ahead.”

MMOC: “What about that Heather’wan there…bloody well blocking everyone out’ve the way ….What else could I do but bend out.”

MN: “Over … more like … now that Oliva Mitchell taught you right … oh she did, so she did ooover there in that Mmmaunt Aaaan’val ya call it .. isn’t that right?”Continue reading →

Siptu members and Luas drivers at the Luas Red Cow Depot in February

In a week of outrage over a Gerry Adams tweet and lack of solidarity with Luas drivers, the author asks:

What are ye like?

Frilly Keane writes:

So tell us…

When did we turn into uptight intolerant moanie and whatever the collective noun for pain in the hole is? I’ll just put Proctalgia Fugaxies out there to try on. If it fits keep it.

I know it’s the ‘ism-age, and the risk of an allegation of sexism, racism, ageism, flatulism, whatever BadAtMeme is ‘ism coming from all our encounters and exchanges is high.

But I wonder if we’ve allowed ourselves get too fenced in by these imposed standards, and not just in the work place but in everyday life.

Day’cent manners worked for years for anyone that bothered to learn them, keep them on after they left their Mammy, and even shared them and then went to the trouble to hand them down.

I was at a conference last week, in the bar, having the craic, and one of the ould’lads (and a known shit-stirrer) said “it can’t be much of a hotel if they serve pints to ladies.” Well the spell of silence that descended could have been measured for humidity.

I didn’t even get the opportunity to laugh it off with a let’s go somewhere where he can get a pint of rockshandy in comfort before his prayers.

You know the type; the youngest in the group, passed a few exams and thinks they’re a hero, knows everything, and expects to be your boss before you retire. The kind that wears skinny pants to work. Let’s call her Anne.

Well Anne just exploded with an amped up indignation that was so contrived and fake that if you could visualise it, it would look like a Quentin Tarantino trailer. And for no reason other than just to gain attention. Is this the best use of outrage? To actually make yourself the lasting impression?

I’d hang out with Anne, just for the craic like and see who she falls out with next, but would I engage her, recommend her, or even work with? Never. That temperament is too risky and high maintenance.

If there was one thing the Paddies would have been renowned for it was our ability to see the funny side of anything. Even funerals. But lately, and I’m beginning to look at the WebSummit Population for spreading this btw, instead of someone, usually the usual oddball, taking offence or issue, there’s a parade of ye.

Ur’Jurry cracked a joke over the weekend, and entirely in context, and it was funny. Be honest, it was. But got a bigger kick out’ve the outrage. It was a basic well-worn gag that was presented with context; a Sunday night tweet from his own front room and not the White House briefing room.

What are ye like…

I’m actually disappointed Jurry backtracked and apologised; I’d’ve stood over it meself, it was a weekend quip FFS, not a policy decision or a manifesto entry. And to be fair, I’ve said worse about the Kerry lads and they don’t start crying and mobilising the HashTag Protesters.

And ye all were, Sunday night, Monday morning, Tuesday morning and still all posting yere insult (like I said, I blame the WebSummitteers.) Calm the cheezuz down FFS. It must have hit serious knobs if Mick Flavin gets his nib out.

Ye nearly wet yereselves when Tuesday brings another Luas stoppage, and yere all at it again, it’s like ye just can’t help it. Ye were all over it like it was another Bank Holiday.

It’s an official dispute, and the stoppages are day long and not Months. Would ye just get over yerselves and go back to revalue yere maintenance specs. Seriously, they’re unmanageable.

Anyone remember the 5 month Postal Strike back in the day? (I do ‘cause I was hard done by with the lack of Confirmation cards, the sealed ones) the Dunnes Strike over the South African oranges, ESB on off on off, even the Banks.

When the buses were out one time, the army came in, and there was murder. People would actually continue walking rather than get on the free truck into town.

I come from a house where you NEVER cross a picket, whether you agree with the grievance or not.

My late aunt was very prominent in the Fordss ’68 strike and did not budge despite severe and criminal harassment from the Irish in Dagenham/ Romford at the time, and my Nanna wouldn’t have given a tinker’s curse (her words) where her oranges came from.

But by Christ anyone she saw crossing that picket on Patrick Street would’ve known all about it, even from the No.8 stop at the Savoy. And as for the time the Army lads came around to collect the bins …. Let’s just they were lucky she was too house-proud to let anyone see the potty she kept under the bed, and if my mother didn’t step in the oul’divil would have had a taxi taking her rubbish up to the dump.

I bring this up now, not for a reminiscent voyage, but because the overwhelming lack of regard for the Picket and the Luas workers is uncalled for, and in my opinion obscene.

If you are not directly involved in this dispute, then why discuss the pay-rates or the education or the qualifications of a worker. It’s an official dispute. Mocking these workers in the manner that Broadsheet has hosted here is nothing short of providing Scab labour for Transdev.

Lemme tell ye sum’ting lads, unless it’s your job to know or your livelihood/ business, other peoples pay and conditions of employment shouldn’t be any of your business. If you think they are, then post up your own payslips.

I’m not a trade unionist by the way, and the only Labour candidates I’ve ever voted for were the Uptons. I have been caught up in a few strikes and work-to-rules that caused mayhem for me personally and professionally, but sur’ that’s the way it goes. Or that’s the way it should go.

The poor me Mummy whinging around the time of the Teachers’ one day strikes was worse than a 6 year old’s birthday party.

The right to strike is sacred, it goes back centuries, and crossing a picket line was one time seen as an act of disloyalty to your colleagues, comrades and community. When did that change?

Solidarity with colleagues, comrades and your community cannot be an occasional or seasonal concept. In fact showing Solidarity only when you feel like or when it suits you sounds like a very Thatcherite ethos to me.

Have we got so precious about out lifestyles and our own self-interest that we’ve forgotten the PAYE protests, the Tractors, the laundry workers strikes, the Vita Cortex workers or the Suffragette movement?

Or have we turned into spoilt uninterested brats who’ll only get exercised if the wiffy gets cut?

So tell me. When did ye turn into the uptight frigid fragile high maintenance former WebSummitteers?

Frilly Out.

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