Have a read of the article. I’m too modest to suggest a link between good taste and my photography!! But I’m glad to be in such good company. Although there’s a certain irony that I’m a vegetarian.

Edit: I don’t know why but Flickr says the photo is not available. But if you click it, you will be taken to it’s page on flickr.

My Calendar Says

I was sitting at my desk one day, bored, when my eyes settled on the calendar on my desk. Usually, the advice or saying seems to mean something but mostly it’s rubbish.

Then I wondered about all the other calendars out there today? Calendars in other countries, other cultures? And that’s why this blog exists. Hopefully it’ll also be a bit of fun.

So please take a moment - your calendar is right there beside you on your desk - and enter what advice you got today.

http://twotitsandavote.com/ (from http://sabrinadent.com/)

Two Tits and a Vote is a political action campaign, designed to get women to use their muscle as voters to take action around a single issue at a time. Men are very welcome to take part; the platform is merely aimed at mobilising women.

It’s built around the concept of “armchair activism.” Armchair activism enjoys reasonable take-up online, but is often decried as ultimately being rather useless because it rarely translates into the real world. I started to think a lot about how to merge all of the good stuff about armchair activism – it’s fast, it’s accessible, it’s not a big ask, and it delivers a feel-good factor to the participant – with actions that could actually take form in the real world.

I bet the committee that came up this name thought it was really catchy.

Seriously though, the letter that came with this envelope was to do with an opt-in marketing campaign, rather than opt-out. Which is still not good.

Edit: May have got my knickers in a twist & now having trouble remembering what opt-in & opt-out means. In this case, Eircom say that, even when I stop using their service, they will sell my personal data to other companies, unless I specifically tell them not to.

A friend needed a passport renewal form and called into Drogheda Garda Station for one.  She couldn’t get one because the Superintendent (or Sergeant) had the key to the stationary room and wouldn’t be back until Monday.

Onto Dundalk Garda Station for the form. She spent an age queueing behind a Northern Ireland women who also wanted an (Irish) passport renewal form.  The Garda was convinced that she couldn’t get one because she wasn’t ‘Irish’ and she’d need a visa anyway.  The Newry woman made a convincing argument about the ‘Free State’ and the Constitution.  After consulting with a colleague, he gave the Newry woman her application form without a hint of embarrassment.

A few years ago, he (+ 1 wife, +1 child) got a ‘great’ (cancellation) deal on a 4 bed detached family house with 1 parking space and no front garden. There’s no visitor parking apparently. Both him and his missus have cars so he’d normally just park on the grass verge opposite his house.

All seemed to be going well until his management company painted double yellow lines on the street outside his home. Well, you can guess what happened next. He got clamped outside his own house one night! So that was it, they were moving. He wasn’t going to put up with this shite no more. Anyway, all their friends had houses on 1/2 an acre in the ‘countryside’ (Rathoath) anyway.

Yesterday it was announced that the new Metro line to the Airport and Swords would effectively run past the front of his estate. Now his house is going to be worth megabucks. The metro line doesn’t mean anything to him personally since he’s got a 4×4. Turns out he won’t be moving afterall.

However, he’s just had a second baby. Once the ‘shock’ of that wears off, I suspect they’ll move upwardly mobile to rural Rathoath and rent out the original house. He works in a cash business (not drugs!) so it’ll all work out in the end.

It’s a funny old world, innit.

And yes, that is a floral bouquet bouncing off your nasal passage.

For those who are non-religious/non-Catholics, it meant that he’d been shagging anything that moved and had fathered several children by several different women in a very short timespan.

Sometimes I’m ashamed to be Irish. Well, actually, sometimes I’m ashamed of the Irish…

…Once the deal is posted out to them. Then all they have to do is post the yea/nay forms back to HQ.

It’s no wonder the British are masters at satire.

Imagine if he committed suicide. That would be unfortunate enough but imagine his obituary, ‘Partridge shot by gun‘. I mean, nobody would read it and nobody would remember him.

Or maybe it’s a cunning plan? A normal person might not be able to read the sign but a drunk staggering up the road might be able to read it as he weaved from side to side?

I have to admit there’s a better class of wino on the Southside. As I cycled from town out to Dun Laoghaire, I was surprised to see them on the beaches ‘happy out’ with their cans of beer. They really seemed to be enjoying themselves and they weren’t threatening to anyone. It was a different story when I returned to the Northside.

On Dorset St, three police officers in two cars were watching over an unconscious junkie until the ambulance arrived. He was wearing all his clothes, and he wore the hood of his parka jacket up over his head. Maybe he needed to sleep and the hood was to keep out the sunshine? Still, it seemed to be a pleasant interlude in the afternoon sun for the three Guards and the sleeping junkie.

It reminds me of the time when, as a child, our GP (family physician) made a housecall because I was ill. Doctors did housecalls in those days but he also lived three doors down from us so it wasn’t really a stretch for him! I must have been going through the boys hate girls phase because when he rolled up my sleeve for an injection, what profound statement did he find written in biro on my arm? Yes, you’ve guessed it – ‘I hate grils‘!

Turns out I did like girls afterall but I did turn vegetarian a few years later. Nowadays, I hate grilled rashers and sausages. Either there’s a hint of dyslexia in me or I was able to predict the future even when I was a little boy!!