Firefox Cheek and Nonsense

Lets be clear about this Firefox. These are not my updates. I didn't ask for any updates so don't put the blame on me, chum. I'm only browsing.

And when you say 'a few moments' ... do you mean minutes? A few minutes?        

Whether you do or not, mush, that's how long you are fucking taking for your updates. At least five minutes.

Blasphemy Law

On the radio this morning there was a discussion about a proposed new blasphemy law which I could barely follow.

Where to begin? In the beginning?

Well, it looks like there is currently no crime of blasphemy in Irish common law but it is, however, prohibited by the constitution. So here exists an anomaly. Taking the Lord's name in vain is illegal but also un-prosecutable.

This apparently needs fixing, presumably, due to the massive problem with blasphemy in this country. So how to fix it? There are two ways:

1/ Change the constitution

Are you having a laugh?

2/ Create a new law

That sounds easier. Shall we say, what ... €100,000 fine? Should boost the coffers in this time of crisis...

So option 2/ it is. Just to repeat this. The 'crime' of blasphemy will be punishable to the tune of €100,000. Nice round number. 

But what is blasphemy? 

This is kind of where I got really lost. It's actually part of the defamation laws. So, unless G*d or M*hammed (peace be 'pon him!) Themselves take offence to your blasphemy and sue your ass, I'm not quite sure who, in the name of Sweet Baby Jebus, will be suing who.

What a gargantuan waste of time!

I Don't Need A Hotel!!!

I don't mind Ryan Air like most people do. I kind of respect the fact that they're utter bastards and don't pretend not to be.

Unlike others I might name.

But, Guys, please believe me when I tell you that I do not want to find the best available hotel deals in any category. Ì don't even want to find the worst available in only some categories. I truly appreciate the offer but I think the fact that I've already clicked the thoughtfully provided "Cancel" button three times would give you a clue.

RE : Roast Chicken Recipe

RE : Roast Chicken recipe

From: Rick Stein

Sent:  28 April 2009 10:13:06

To:    Musters

Musters,

Thanks for your e-mail. 

I'm so glad you enjoyed my recipe with "Gusto Damn You Bet!". What a great expression!

Ginger can add a wonderful zing to all types of dishes, not only in Asian cuisine. I've experimented with ginger in a variety of Italian and traditional English dishes and, so long as one is careful not to overpower (one might say use gingerly!), it can add a delightful zest to the flavour and acts as a catalyst for other flavours to conjugate beautifully.

It sounds like it had a similar effect on you and your good wife. I'm so very pleased about that! 

With Thanks,

Rick

PS, I laughed when you said your wife was a "tickler for detail". I assume you meant stickler?

Roast Chicken Recipe

Roast Chicken recipe‏

From:	musters
Sent:	27 April 2009 17:00:20
To:	rick@rickstein.com

Hi Rick,

I email with regard to the roast chicken, penne and tomato recipe in your delicious Coast to Coast book. I cooked it yesterday for my wife and it was very excellent indeed. Even though I do say so myself! Credit, of course, to you.

Frankly, I've recently become disaffected with the roast chicken genre. I find it somewhat dull. Your idea of serving it with penne and tomato sauce, of course mixed in with the lovely chicken juices, is inspired.

I must tell you, though, I almost ignored the ginger. I didn't see the point. Frankly, and with respect, I thought you'd lost the run of yourself entirely. But, my wife, a tickler for detail, insisted that I follow your recipe to the letter. And so I did.

As I said earlier, the meal was a tremendous success. We had seconds and wolfed them down with Gusto Damn You Bet!

Then, even though the rain was falling in a thick mist, we decided to go for a walk. It seemed the right sort of rain. The ginger had not been mentioned. We'd both forgotten about it entirely. But, at the top most corner of our estate, by the cow field, we looked at each other, the rain heavier now and starting to feel like the wrong sort of rain, and uttered, as one, one word. "Ginger".

I had an acute and very pleasant sensation of gingerness at the back of my tongue and my wife professed to exactly the same feeling. It was an incredible moment and, sodden as we were, we hugged. 

Sir, where in the name of All Heaven Above Us did you get the idea for ginger? Genius!

Thank you,

Musters

Happy Birthday, Topsy and Tim

"Happy Birthday Topsy and Tim" shout their friends, Rai, Kerry, Andy Anderson, Davie Bond and, friend of this parish, Stevie Dunton. 

They look very excited don't they. Frenzied in fact. Luckily there's a barrier separating them from the twins. Otherwise, who knows what might happen!

Felicity Wishes

Normally I wouldn't be massively in favour of magazines and dolls clothes strewn around the living room. But when done with such loving care as this, with each set of Felicity Wishes clothes matched to it's original magazine, how could I be annoyed? 

It's a work of art. We're thinking of retaining as the centre piece to the living room.

Drunk Snails

I provided the beer cooler for a bbq today. Sadly, I came home with the above haul. I don't quite know how it happened.

I know you want to talk about the "Birds Eye" beefburgers but, really, these are not central to the story. Such as it is.

In the past I've been forced to put out decent beer for the snails and slugs. I don't keep bad beer in the house you see. The snails seem to be out in force this year. Yesterday, I saw a white one the size of a tit-mouse. Or a very small tit, if you prefer.

So then ... it's an absolute pleasure tonight to be able to fill small trays with beer and place then about the garden. Let's hope the slimy little fuckers aren't too fussy.

Guinness Quality Team

Thank God they arrived.

Jesus blood

Morning. Just got back from walking the eldest dd to school. 

She told me something interesting. When you're dead, and someone pokes you with something sharp, water comes out. Not blood. That's how they know you're dead. If blood comes out it means you're still alive and they have to keep poking you until water comes out.

Her teacher taught her that. This is what they did to Jesus on the cross apparently. They poked him til he was dead. 

(He was only pretending to be dead, it turned out, but that's another story).

Anyway, I'd like to say this. I'm absolutely delighted that the school are teaching some proper biology as a respite to the relentless religion. Credit where it's due. 

Susan and Alan's Kitchen Pantry

Susan and, to a lesser extent, Alan have recently opened a Kitchen Pantry full of expensive, fancy stuff. 

Artisan breads, unpasteurised cheeses and quince jellies. Fair trade coffees, pig snuffled truffles and dolmades, rolled on the breasts of Lesbotic maidens. Price 'pon enquiry.

Oh, and now, Mr Whippy ice cream with chocolate flakes. Just in case anyone gets peckish.

  

Musters Word Verification

Arguably, but not very, the best boss I ever had was Bob Taylor. Or Robert Taylor, as absolutely everyone calls him.

He sent me this picture. He was signing into Twitpic when he got the word verification which, as it often does to me, gave him the fright of his life. He thinks I now have full control over his intanet.

Drinking with the kids

The last word on Jo'burg. In the lounge, waiting on the flight. Drinking, annoying Muslim smokers.

Snickered at snippets of conversation from IT types over from me. "We need to take this further up the value chain", one actually uttered. Then another, "If I have penetration I can do anything". At which alcoholic orange juice came out my nose. I was happy.

A family sat down beside me. They were South African but lived on the Isle of Man. I ignored the adults, who looked a bit iffy, and chatted to their kids. I asked them if they still had lager and lime flavoured ice lollies in Douglas. They looked at me funny and shook their heads. I told them that was very disappointing and that, in my youth, they not only had lager and lime flavoured but, also, cider ones. This is quite true or at least that's how I remember it from 1980. Much had obviously changed in the last (nearly) 30 years. And not for the better.

The Mum then asked me what I was doing in Jo'burg. I told her that I was in the platinum business. Then the Dad, Mr Sports Casual with a foppish fringe, asked me where I was from. I told him I was Welsh.

Then they got up to have a fag. The parents that is. Leaving the kids with me. "Am I in charge?", I asked them. "Yes", they told the kids, "Davie is in charge now so be good". They really liked me. I'd told them my name was Davie Bond, a platinum miner from Wales. I hated them.

As soon as they went into the multi-denominational smoking room I asked the kids if they wanted a beer.

"No thanks", said the poor saps as one.

"You sure?", I replied. "I'm in charge now".

"No thanks", they repeated.

That was the end if it.

British Lions

Folks here in Ireland are very proud to have 14 Irish representing Britain on the Lions tour of South Africa this summer.

As an exiled Scot, living over here, I'm equally proud, more so, to have a mere 2 Scots in the squad.

That's it. My opinion.

Handy Box

Wrigley's Extra Gum comes in this "Handy Box".

It's the same chewing gum but now, that it's in a handy box, it's much handier. So handy, in fact, that you can now even enjoy it in a car, a train or even a house. Doesn't even have to be your house.

Sadly though, you can still only chew it for about 5 minutes before it becomes disgusting and you have to spit it out.

One Religion

I took this picture, of a Muslim man smoking a cigarette, whilst I was drinking large John Martyns in the Serviceair lounge at Jozi airport. He was smoking in the smoking section alongside all the other smokers.

I was a bit drunk. I liked the look of him. He looked cool. I thought the picture would say something. Perhaps it would paint a thousand words. What those words might be, at this remove, elude me. As I said, I was a bit drunk.

Thing is, a bad thing happened. He caught me taking the picture. He definitely did, and he stared at me threateningly until I quit that place. I feel bad about it. Don't Muslim travellers have enough to contend with without bloggers with half baked ideas of painting pictures with words (and pictures) taking pictures of them?

I think what I was getting at is this. Smoking is a great leveller. There he was, smoking in the smoking lounge, with other smokers from who knows how many different religions. Brought together, in that smokey room, by a shared addiction. To religion.

Quite touching really.

A non-existant Feast

In Paris airport, early Saturday morning. I'd slept badly on the flight and dreamed that Rachel Getting Married was just a bad dream. I awoke to a stark realisation of the truth. It made me feel sick. Possibly that was the wine though.

I was tired and hungry and Paris airport on Saturday morning appeared to contain no food in it. It had some exorbitantly priced fancy boxes containing designer comestibles laid out on space age shelving. But no food.

Then I saw the sign for the restaurants. Asian, French, Italian the sign said. All I had to do was simply follow it. Past the Prada and Boss shops, soulless and uninviting, round by the toilets, up the stairs and voila! The restaurants. Ils sont la. But they didn't look very open. On the contrary.

"La restaurant. C'est ferme?", I asked an airporty woman.

This is how I always speak in French. I just make a statement and then, cleverly, add a question mark on the end. This is easy in writing, but in speech it's harder. You have to add a question mark via the medium of the questioning tone. It's a rare skill which is virtually unteachable.

"Non, non, non", she assured me. "C'est ouvert", pointing at what you see in the picture.

Are you with me here, dear reader? It doesn't look very fucking ouvert does it!

Rachel Getting Married

The guy next to me on the plane was listening to the latest Coldplay album. He went straight to it and listened all the way through with no obvious side effects. There was plenty of good movies on offer. But all he wanted was Coldplay and, I suppose, each to his very own.

There were indeed plenty of good movies on offer. But I'd watched them already. I had no desire to watch Revolutionary Road, Slumdog Millionaire or The Wrestler again. I'd enjoyed them all, to varying degrees, on the way out. I did, however, want to watch Burn After Reading again. I thought it quite excellent and I decided to save it for the wee, small hours when contemplation is best.

So I watched Rachel Getting Married. I watched it from the very start right to the very end. In growing disbelief. I seriously considered switching it off several times. I should have done so the first time. Subsequently, I just felt I'd already invested too much to give up. I was in too deep.

Surely something meaningful would happen soon. Perhaps I might empathise, just slightly, with one of the characters. Possibly, with time, the writers would put some words into an actors mouth that resonated. Felt a bit like real life. Something an actual person would say. Eventually, maybe, the film would develop and swim away, Nemo-like, from the ever increasing, steaming, brown shit-bucket of pretentiousness heretofore on absolute unfaltering display.

I looked over at my Coldplay buddy. He seemed very happy with his choice. 

Going to the Dentist

This picture is from the "Going to the Dentist" book from the acclaimed "Going to the..." Usborne series. I freely admit I'm a massive fan of the genre but this one, Dentist, is my absolute favourite. It's fine work.

Mum is taking the kids to the dentist. Dad is waving goodbye. You'd think though, that he'd wave them goodbye from the front door. Or, at a push, the living room window. 

But no. He can't wait. He's waving them off from the bedroom. Before embarking on what kind of sordid, depraved activity one can only guess! 

Dave Fanning

Monday morning blues. Back to same old same old.

Crap car. Bashed a deck chair into the wing mirror yesterday to add to general shoddiness. The cars behind me now take on a fairground hall of mirrors effect which is good but not right. A bit dangerous to say the least. I dropped my youngest off at nursery and she cried which made me feel more sad.

But then, on the radio. "Dave Fanning is standing in for Ryan Turbidy".

My mood immediately brightened. Dave Fanning is a broadcasting legend. And as such, takes his rightful place, as last minute stand-in for the risible Turbidy. Go Figger, eh.

Adding Value

I'm heading to the airport soon. Someone just invited me to a meeting in Egypt but that's not where I'm bound. Ah, hold on now, I've just realised something. I don't think she meant Egypt the country. There must be a place called Egypt where they hold meetings. A meeting room perhaps. Now I feel like an idiot. I'd looked at her like she was crazy. 

"Egypt", I said. "Egypt", I repeated. I seriously considered saying it one more time but, instead, plumped for "I wouldn't have thought so". Then I did say it again. "Egypt!!!".

It's a shame because, you never know, perhaps I could have added value. To the meeting. Not the country. I did add value to a meeting this morning though. The best kind of value. Betting without monetary value, arguably. Comedic value. Sadly, I fear that no-one recognised it. 

Not all meeting rooms here are named after Egypt, the country. Some, I suppose, are named after other countries. But there is one room that isn't named after any country at all. It's the most important room in the building and it's called, menacingly, the "War Room". Happily the meeting there earlier was well placed. It was very turbulent and the "players" argued violently back and forward. I didn't say much but simply enjoyed the tension. 

Suddenly, I realised that everyone was staring at me. I was being asked for of my views on the matter. I wasn't absolutely sure what the matter was but, capturing the spirit of the late, great Peter Sellers, I replied simply:

"No fighting in the War Room".

Everyone continued to stare. I looked around the room. The room looked back at me. I was hoping perhaps for a small chuckle. Part of me even hoped for a small cuddle. That peace would break out. What happened was this. Everyone stopped staring at me. They started arguing again. 

What a relief! My value had done no harm.

Blumenthal and Tampons

I was watching Heston Blumenthal this morning. Yes, this morning. There's only so much Sky News one can take. He was making a trifle. The perfect trifle of course.

One of the problems with custard, which is part of a trifle he explained, is that, apparently, it leaves a layer of mucous on ones tongue which makes subsequent mouthfuls taste a bit, well, mucousy, I'm guessing. Ever the perfectionist, Heston was trying to find a recipe 

which alleviated this internationally accepted custard problem. 

And to illustrate the issue, he took a taste of custard then applied the most absorbent artifact on earth  - a tampon of course - to his tongue. At which point the soi-disant experimental chef had a tampon in his mouth complete with string dangling down. Quite a sight.

At first, I thought this was the solution. Rather than devising a method to, say, boil the custard at 75 degrees for four minutes, remove the fat and add some freeze dried mouse droppings, I believed he was proposing we insert a tampon in our mouth between mouthfuls. This would, of course, look stupid and be very expensive but it's all about the flavour isn't it?

But I was wrong. The solution, which I'll spare you (since I can't remember it), was actually even more stupid and expensive. And, of course, hopelessly complicated and impractical.

Has been ..is somewhere. Else.

Today, at work, I was listening to Spotify when it suddenly stopped and displayed the following message.

Somewhere else? My account? Is used? Has been paused?

Believe it or not, I have more questions than this. Many more.

John Martyn's my friend?

As I walked into the marvellous Café de la Salute last night I was immediately welcomed with:

"Ah, my friend. John Martyns. I make you John Martyns, my friend?".

To be honest I couldn't face a "John Martyn". As much as I love them I'd overdone it a bit on the orange juice front the night before. He showed me the menu. They'd actually gone to the trouble of sticking my little hand-written "John Martyn" recipe into the cocktail list. I was very touched.

I apologised though and told him that I couldn't face any more orange juice for a while. I asked for a pint of Peroni. 

I assure you, it looks better than it tastes. Especially on the burp.

  

Springbok and Protea

The other thing that's changing over here is the Springbok as the national emblem. It's viewed (by some) as being symbolic of apartheid and the black man's struggle. So the national flower, the Protea, is to replace it. Thus we will have rugby players running around with flowers on their chest. It's possible that they might find this emasculating.

I've spoken to several people about this and all, black and white, think it is ludicrous and to use the tabloid term "political correctness gone mad".

It was thus-then-that, last night, I had no hesitation in ordering Springbok. My waiter was extremely surly. He treated me with absolute disdain throughout the meal. Perhaps it was because I ordered the Springbok but I don't think so. If it is indeed symbolic of apartheid and the black man's struggle then surely eating it (and literally and metaphorically shitting it out) is a good thing.

No, I just think that, like many of the waiters in the superb Butcher's Grill on Mandela Square, he's a grumpy old bastard. Doesn't bother me. I care little for the black man's mood swings. Not when the food is that good.

Coffee with MickPuck

For me, one of the surprising joys of the Twittersphere is that it allows me to discuss coffee with Mike Scott out of the Waterboys. It's very egalitarian that way.

I know, you don't need to tell me. It's pathetic. But it's the little things that get me through the day.

Mixed race marriage

By the pool yesterday were a couple with their two children. The woman black, the man white. 

The eldest kid was black, slightly less so than the mother. The younger white, slightly less than the father. Just struck me as funny how nature works out. 

I didn't take any pictures. Of the children by the pool. You'll just need to take my word for it.

Avocado Stoner

I just finished reading the ever excellent Stuart Maconie's new book "Life on the High Teas". A surprisingly affectionate meditation (sorry) on "Middle England". 

Strange thing is this. In the book, he purchases a bottle of Dalwhinie. I read that on the plane having just purchased a bottle of that gentle giant of a malt from the highest distillery in Scotland.

Later, he buys an avocado stoner. I'd no idea what one of those was but I do struggle somewhat removing the stone from that buttery-pear tasting fruit which, as any fule kno, is technically a berry.

Today, whilst mooching in a shop, I was astonished to find the very implement right in front of me. After the Dalwhinie, it seemed churlish not to buy it. So I picked it up, put it right back down again and walked out the shop. 

Sometimes it pays to be churlish.

Magical sparkles

I was out the other night drinking John Martyns. 

White rum (2 parts)

Triple sec (1 part)

OJ (2 parts) 

Top off with ginger ale

Serve on ice

Amazingly, they'd never heard of them in the bar. So I told them how and they made it perfectly. 

Except for the glass obviously. And the magical sparkly things that appeared around it.

  

Rhino on T-Shirt

At dinner last night, I was telling Damian about the previous post. The rhino tusk one. 

I told him that I'd had a rethink on the matter. It seemed a shame to kill the rhino just for the tusks. I mean, no way is anyone going to eat the big ugly brute. But, obviously, we do definately need the tusks. To shave over food as an aphrodesiac. We wondered if there was any way the rhino could do without the tusks or perhaps they would even grow back. Nobody at the table really knew but it was an interesting conversation anyway.

"You're fucking obsessed with rhinos mate", he told me.

"No I'm not", I said.

"You fucking are", he said, pointing at my t-shirt.

"What you talking about?", I asked.

"Your fucking t-shirt", he said. "Even that's got a fucking rhino on it".

"No it hasn't".

"It fucking has, numbnuts", he said, laughing cruely.

I looked down. He was right. It did have a rhino. Right in the middle. I'd never noticed.

Caution! Rhinos

During an abortive drive into work this morning we were discussing the game drives which are available in the national parks around 'Jozi'. Frankly, I myself have very little interest in getting up at 4am and  spending 16 hours driving, on the off chance of seeing some zebras fornicating. I can get that kind of thing on my intanet. 

My friend, Damian, on the other hand, is a big fan of the activity. Not the sexual habits of stripey horses per se (although I doubt he'd turn his nose up at it) but the pursuit of seeing big animals in their natural  habitat. Or, rather, he was. I get the impression that, after tens and tens of visits, his interest is waning somewhat.

I suggested to him that he takes the next logical step. 

"What would that be?" he asked. 

"Well, y'now...", I replied, "...kill an animal...shoot it. Like Hemingway. A rhino, say".

"Why would I want to do that?", he asked, aghast at the very idea".

"Well for the tusks of course", I replied.

Wasn't it bleedin' obvious?

Place Names

Perhaps, on ideological grounds, you could make a convincing case for changing the name of Pretoria to Tshwane but, frankly, I suspect you might be hard pushed. Black folks don't say Pretoria anyway. They have their own adaptation. Epitole or something. And only a arriviste fool would say Jo'burg. It's Jozi, apparently. Interestingly, there is no clamour to change the name of Soweto to anything. It's an abbreviation of South Western Township but, crucially, it sounds African. So it stays.

If there was a place called "Whitesonlyhere" then it should definitely be changed to something different.

Dizzy and Lightheaded

One of my collegues just had to go home sick. I offered to give him a lift but he said he'd be fine.

"I'm only a little dizzy and lightheaded", he told me. "And stomach cramps", he added.

"Good", I said. "I won't shake your hand, eh ... germs. Drive safe".

Fucking Hell

Here's a picture, heavily featuring my lunch today. The dinner lady managed to get some on the plate. 

Looks disgusting doesn't it? Simply. Disgusting. 

But, believe it or not, it tasted really nice. It was curryish. I might even have been tempted to lick the tray but, unfortunately, there were some humans at the table with me.

The Nerve Centre

When I left, to go to the Nerve Centre, there were 429 days, 10 hours, 48 minutes and 02 seconds left until the World Cup started.

I followed the instructions and finally found it in the bowels of the control room. I'd left the Prague Desk in something of a flap so I was keen to get my business done quickly. Predictably, it didn't work out that way. Everything was slow and they made me fill in all the forms again. Then they told me that the ribbon was broken and that the new one was on order. I was to come back next Thursday (the day before I left) to get my picture taken. In the meantime I was to go to -1 and ask for (what sounded like) More Tea. He/She was to put a red and a yellow sticker against my security clearance. Then I was to go into the kitchen and ask for a food subsidy.

It was all very stressful. Finally, though, after I'd been quite literally put through the administrative wringer (they wouldn't let me take a photo of it) I retired into a broom cupboard for a power nap.

When I came back through the reception and into Elliptical Resonations Phase 2 there was only 429 days, 9 hours, 21 minutes and 40 seconds left until the World Cup started. 

Time was, quite literally, passing. 

660 Of Your English Mililitres

Was drinking these large bottles of Greene King IPA last night. They're big all right, 660ml big. The beer I'd been drinking heretofore tended to come in 500ml bottles which, I think, is a, mere, pint. 

Green King IPA is the official beer of the England Rugby team. That's clearly not ideal but, by way of mitigation, I listened to music that I only slightly liked when I was drinking it. McCoy Tyner it was.

When I was a poor software developer I used to drink these teency little bottles of Bier D'Alsace which were about 150ml and could be finished in one gulp. I had to stop drinking them though as, not only did they taste shit, I actually ended up moving into the fridge.

Work Your Magic

Quidditch?

Jazz and Celtic

My uncle, a Celtic man like me, emailed:

"SPOTIFY IS GREAT"

He types in uppercase

On Spotify, he listens to jazz

Benny Goodman, Louis Armstrong 

And the best of all Sir Duke

But, wait for this!

He saw those greats play live

For the troops in Berlin

Later, Charlie Tully, Willie Fernie

Bobby Murdoch, Jinky Johnston

And Hampton Hawes, in '63.

Stupidly Happy

I just heard on RTE Radio, immediately after it's lunchtime call to prayer, that, according to a recent study, religion makes its adherents happier and healthier on average than those who do not practise religion. 

This study, supported by groups as diverse as the Catholic and Protestant churches, surely cannot be ignored. Apparently, smoking has detrimental effects on health and that's one of the reasons I don't do it. So, now, I think it's time to kick atheism into touch for the good of my health. Why wouldn't I?

Brilliant! So now I believe. Ahhhh. That's better.

All Comments Welcome

I don't get many comments but those from prostitutes are especially welcome.

This is nice, isn't it? She's beautiful, oriental and very discerning.

Paris. Bastille Day. 1970

I bow to no man in my admiration for Rufus Wainwright. Frankly, and pompously, I think he's the most important recording artist to emerge over the last ten years or so. Further, I bow to no man in my willful ignorance of Opera. You never know I might grow out of this but the signs are not looking good. 

But, when the great Rufus Wainwright composes an opera, inspired by Maria Callas, it seems churlish to ignore it. The plot, if that's the right term, for the opera is described as follows: 

Paris. Bastille Day. 1970. Régine Saint Laurent, once the world’s most revered operatic soprano, is preparing for her return to the stage after six years of silence. But in doing so, Régine is forced to confront the ghosts of her past. Can she defeat the demons that destroyed her career, and emerge triumphantly once more into the spotlight?

Yes. I'd imagine.

I've Never Been To Me

I got the shock of my life at lunchtime.

As usual, I was tuned into RTE radio 1 listening to the amazing Ronan Collins. This presenters' show contains, I think above any other, inexorably awful patter and, if anything, worse music. Collins laughs in the face of mediocrity and heads due South of that place at all times. That's why I love listening to his show. Not for long, you understand, but in, say, 10 minute chunks the experience can be very rewarding indeed.

When I flicked on today all seemed normal. Better than normal. He was playing one of my favourite, bad songs "I've Never Been To Me" by Charlene. You know it?

Sometimes I've been to crying for unborn children that might have made me complete

But I took the sweet life, I never knew I'd be bitter from the sweet

I've spent my life exploring the subtle whoring that costs too much to be free

Hey lady......

I've been to paradise, (I've been to paradise)

But I've never been to me

"Subtle whoring". Brilliant! Extraordinary stuff. I couldn't have hoped for better. 

"Charlene there and I've never been to me ... I haven't been to you either Charlene .. but anyway, beautiful song...", babbled our hero. 

I relaxed into my drive wondering how he could possibly top that song. Then, as mentioned, I got the shock of my life. Predictably, Collins does requests. Of course he does. I may be giving him too much credit for his music choice because he may well do nothing but requests. The credit should really go to his listeners. But one listener, for his birthday, requested a song so hauntingly beautiful that it patently had no place on this show. Here Collins must squarely take the blame. For he was the one who played it. 

"...he'd like me to play, er, White Winter, er, Hymnal by a band from, er, Seattle called the, er, Fleet ...  Foxes", mumbled Collins, clearly on foreign ground.

I was stunned and disappointed. I've never been given to writing into radio shows but, let me tell you, I came very close today. The overwhelmingly melancholic DEEP JOY this song radiates was way out of place here. LUNCHTIME RADIO IS NOT FOR THIS PURPOSE. 

After this he got back on track with a farcical tune by the "English Crooner" Steve Conway but, by then, my mood was utterly ruined.  

Avoid Being Where You Are

The Irish Tourist Assistance Service (ITAS) is a free nationwide service offering support and assistance to tourists who are victimised while visiting Ireland. This victimisation can take many forms from passport theft to exposure to substandard beer (virtually unavoidable) all the way up to physical violence. They are a very worthy organisation indeed and deserve our support.

A woman from ITAS was on RTE Radio this morning talking about the kinds of service they offer. She was asked by the presenter if there were any particular "hotspots" that tourists should be aware of. She answered that there was no particular high risk areas but the crimes, reported to them, tended to occur in the general vicinity of where the tourist was at the time.

Virtually unavoidable, indeed.