While visiting the brother in law and his family this weekend in Ballymore, I was witness to an unusual scene. Now, before I describe this scene, let me first tell you what it is like in Ballymore. Ballymore, is just outside of Mullingar. While I am generally unimpressed with the terrain of the midlands, turf bogs, boreens, fields as far as the eye can see... Mullingar is a fair sized, thriving town. There are plenty of shops, pubs, and restaurants in Mullingar. About 20 minutes outside of Mullingar, lies Ballymore. Ballymore, a place where the local shop is appropriately called 'The Store' simply because there is no other shop to contest that. A place where the boreens and turf bogs are plentiful. A place where a whole new meaning is given to the comical 'Traffic Jam in Ireland' postcards with loads of sheep in the road; Because this actually happens in a place like Ballymore.
Regardless of the surrounds of Ballymore, we always have a lovely visit with the brother in law and the family. As was custom this weekend. Good food, good company, play with the nieces and nephew, have a drink, a chat and a laugh in the evenings. The one comment I always seem to make half way through the two and a half hour journey is, 'Oh, we should have brought the camera.' Was I ever sorry I forgot the camera on this journey. Alas, I can only try to describe the ethereal vision that I beheld.
Being banished to the colder climes to enjoy my morning fag, I was taking in the scenery while I sat on the stoop out back. A low lying fog covered the cow filled fields. While imbibing my first nicotine of day, I enjoyed the relative stillness and quiet of the morning. With the occasional, 'moooo' from my dim witted companions. Suddenly, I thought I could hear someone talking in the distance, yet it seemed to be coming closer. I still couldn't see anyone, but laughed to myself thinking if my dim witted companions could really talk, would they have Irish accents? A figure started to emerge from the fog and came to stand on a hill in the middle of the cow filled field. I laughed again to myself, thinking of technology in a sense, and what farmers of days of old what have thought of mobile phones. Especially this particular farmer, in the middle of his field of cows, moving to higher ground so he could talk on his mobile. I even pondered what the person the farmer was talking to, thought of the occasional, yet loud, mooing in the background. All of these things, kept me amused, but did not prepare me for what happened next.
Now I know cows are nosy. When I used to hang the laundry out at the mother and father in law's house, I would moo to the cows across the ditch at the bottom of the garden. I would get about 5-10 cows that would come up to that clearing in the trees where they could see me and they would all just stand and stare at me. I would antagonise them further by continually saying, 'Hi moo cows.' I suppose I needed to feel like I had a pet. Cows don't make good pets, but they were better than my other option... rats. I digress....
So, here we are, a low lying fog on a cow filled field, with a lone figure, standing on a hill, talking on his mobile. The cows made a clearing around the hill the farmer was standing on and all gathered round in a circle to stare at the farmer. I kid you not! They stood like perfect statues, all staring at the man on top of the hill. He paced around a bit while he talked, but their eyes never left him and they never shifted their poses. With it being a Sunday and all, the thought occurred to me that I was witnessing an ethereal vision of cows in church. As I couldn't actually see the man's mobile, it looked like he was talking to the cows. They were listening intently too, every once in a while, a cow would let out a big moo, as if agreeing with what was being said. I think I was as captivated as the cows were at what I was witnessing. I was so sorry that I didn't have a camera to capture this strange moment forever.
I knew I needed a witness. I quietly went into the house to get my husband so he could see this strange apparition as well to confirm I wasn't dreaming. When my husband came out with me, the farmer was gone. But the cows were still in the exact same position, all standing motionless, in a circle, staring at the now empty hill.
I've never liked going to church. I've always found it to be very early on a Sunday, which is supposed to be a day of rest. That's what I tend to do when I go to church, rest. It's like someone reading me a story to lull me to sleep. Yet I find myself having a newfound reverance. I think I'm going to buy me some wellies. Come next Sunday, I'm going to find me a perfect cow filled field, complete with low lying fog and a nice little hill. Watch out moo cows, here I come, I think you'll be interested in what I have to say!
Monday, October 24, 2005
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Mensa
Let us all ponder Mensa. Mensa, means 'table' in Latin, therefore, it's members consider themselves a kind of 'knights of the round table' I suppose. They consider themselves a society where race, colour, creed, national origin, age, politics, educational or social background are irrelevent (this, all taken straight from the Mensa website)... BUT, you have to take IQ tests to join, and your IQ has to fall within the top 2% of the population. So, riddle me this, how is that not a stigma on the utopian like society of so called intellectuals?
You are free to discuss what you like in forums, go to lectures, blah, blah, blah...
Although, you have to have an IQ that falls within the top 2% of the population to enjoy such discussions, forums, lectures, etc. Apparently stupid people aren't allowed to enjoy such things because they are all politically mad, racist, social deviants! Mind you, I do feel it takes a special level of ignorance to be a racist in any sense of the word. Although, I don't feel I'm being racist against Mensa, I am just bothered that they would put themselves at so lofty a height above others. Forget the whole, 'Mensa means 'table' in Latin,' I think Mensa means, Many Egoists Needing Superlative Affirmation. What makes them so much better than everyone else?
Maybe I'm just bitter because I can't join Mensa. Seriously, I have an IQ of like 70, the free online IQ tests told me as much! The average IQ is 100. That makes me below average. Sure, I can read and write, but that's about it!
I'm going to start my own sub par intellectual group. Who's with me? We can have discussions, forums, and lectures about things like: Kitty cats, purple leopard printed pajama bottoms, the extensive collection of dust bunnies under our beds... whatever our little brains desire!
I'll let it be an open forum as to what we will call ourselves. I have a cold beer in the fridge with my name on it, many cigarettes to smoke yet, and Jerry Springer to watch on the telly!
You are free to discuss what you like in forums, go to lectures, blah, blah, blah...
Although, you have to have an IQ that falls within the top 2% of the population to enjoy such discussions, forums, lectures, etc. Apparently stupid people aren't allowed to enjoy such things because they are all politically mad, racist, social deviants! Mind you, I do feel it takes a special level of ignorance to be a racist in any sense of the word. Although, I don't feel I'm being racist against Mensa, I am just bothered that they would put themselves at so lofty a height above others. Forget the whole, 'Mensa means 'table' in Latin,' I think Mensa means, Many Egoists Needing Superlative Affirmation. What makes them so much better than everyone else?
Maybe I'm just bitter because I can't join Mensa. Seriously, I have an IQ of like 70, the free online IQ tests told me as much! The average IQ is 100. That makes me below average. Sure, I can read and write, but that's about it!
I'm going to start my own sub par intellectual group. Who's with me? We can have discussions, forums, and lectures about things like: Kitty cats, purple leopard printed pajama bottoms, the extensive collection of dust bunnies under our beds... whatever our little brains desire!
I'll let it be an open forum as to what we will call ourselves. I have a cold beer in the fridge with my name on it, many cigarettes to smoke yet, and Jerry Springer to watch on the telly!
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Ta Se's
While watching An American Werewolf in London for the umpteenth time the other night, I was reminded of a pub here in Ireland. Not so dissimilar to The Slaughtered Lamb in the film. Of course, there were no underlying secrets of werewolves to speak of (at least not that I know of). I think the only underlying secret you'll find in Ta Se's, which really isn't much of a secret, is that the patrons are all regulars and all most likely chronic drunks.
When you walk into Ta Se's, there is a sort of antechamber before you actually enter the pub. It's almost like you walk into a closet before you can actually enter the bar area. Shrouded in mystery you say? Like a Shriner's convention? Well, this was my first (and only) encounter with Ta Se's, it was a bit of a mystery to me anyway. I asked my husband what the little room was for. Trev, usually being the eternal tour guide and explaining such mysteries to me. But even Trev didn't know. Normally, I'm not shy about asking questions about all things mysterious or baffling. Although, upon entering the bar from the closet (reminding me of something straight out of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe), all the questions in my head made a great cacophony then were silenced. It was quite like the scene of the two foreign travellers entering The Slaughtered Lamb in An American Werewolf in London. All conversation ceased and they all just stared at us. I would have half expected to see a pentagram on the wall with two candles lit on either side of it. There was music playing on a jukebox. I waited for the music to scratch to a halt as well. Although, if it had, I might have turned around and walked right back out into the closet I came from right then and there.
It is no unnatural occurrence for everyone to take a moment to look up and stare at you upon entering any pub here. It's unsettling at first, but you tend to get used to it. The difference in Ta Se's, they never stopped looking at us. Daggers, that's how I would tend to explain it, they were all giving us daggers. That is to say, they could have killed us with their stares.
Now I must stop to explain the company I was in at the time. Trev, my husband, a true Irishman, medium height, slight build, gorgeous, with freckles. Trev's brother in law, Will, English, a Londoner, very tall, medium build. Then myself, an American, short and pudgy. I won't deny that we were probably and odd looking trio, with the obvious distinction in differing accents. In fact, every time the three of us went out, I always felt like we were the epitome of some bad joke in ourselves: So, there's an Irishman, an Englishman, and an American girl.... Right, back to the story.
So, this is the kind of pub where you just stick to the usual, nothing fancy. Guinness, Cider, grand... You don't start asking them if they have things like white wine spritzers, cosmopolitans, women's toilets, water, etc. You know the answer is going to be, ' We don't have no fancy lark like that.' Followed by a dirty, judgemental look that resembles someone examining a piece of poo on their shoe. Trev and Will ascertain the bartender to be of sound standing before they even order. This is based on the fact that he is donning a Liverpool jersey. Any fellow Liverpool supporter is a friend of theirs, or so they think. They also know him for whatever particular trade he does aside from pulling pints at mysterious Ta Se's. So, Trev, with his Irish accent, orders a pint of Guinness. Me, with my American accent, orders a pint of cider. Will, with his London accent, tests the boundaries and orders a pint of Heineken (he got the dirty, 'poo on my shoe' look). No Heineken. So, he gets a pint of Foster's instead. Meanwhile, the daggers haven't abated in the slightest.
We sat very near to the door of the closet/entrance. It was subconscious I suppose. But I think it had a bit to do with the intimidation of walking any further into the daggers. We all quickly gulped our pints in a rather uncharacteristic silence. I had burning questions on my tongue that I was highly tempted to ask the bartender: What's with the cloakroom and daggers? Is there actually a women's toilet in here? Is there really poo on the bottom of your shoe? I tried not to look around at all the people still staring at us, but I couldn't help it. I humbly looked back at my pint, then at Trev, with a glint in my eye, like a dog waiting for you to throw the ball. I knew he knew that I was dying to start asking anyone questions about these enigmas we beheld. He halted my silent struggle when he said, 'I've never felt like a tourist in my own town before... until now.' He then made it a point to remind Will and myself that it was our idea to come Ta Se's, that we'd never been here before and we just HAD to come and see what it was like, are we satisfied now.. Blah, blah, blah.
We downed the rest of our pints. I had to pee really bad and there was no women's toilet in sight. I wasn't about to ask the bartender if one existed, and if it did, where it was located. I was full sure that everyone would start laughing at me or that he'd point me in the direction of a patch of nettles outside or something. Instead, I looked at Trev and Will and said, 'Let's go, NOW, before the daggers kill us and before I pee my pants.'
I later found out the answers to the mysteries of Ta Se's, by our coal man. Our coal man is a very nice man. He always has a chat with me when he delivers the coal. Apparently, his brothers own Ta Se's. The closet, when you walk in, is still there from the days when that's the only further women could go into a pub. It was the only section women could be served in. He also informed me that the former owner (Ta Se's namesake) knew English, but would only speak to people in Irish. He refused to serve women as well, whether they were in the closet or not. His nickname was Ta, his surname was Shea, hence the name, Ta Se's (the Se is pronounced, Shea). Our coal man also told me that they are a 'good' bunch in Ta Se's. He reckons the only reason they all stared at us was to see if they knew us. All I know is this: If a real pub too closely resembles a fictional pub in a film, called The Slaughtered Lamb, it's best to stay out of it. Most importantly, I don't have to worry about it anymore, because I'm never going to Ta Se's again!
When you walk into Ta Se's, there is a sort of antechamber before you actually enter the pub. It's almost like you walk into a closet before you can actually enter the bar area. Shrouded in mystery you say? Like a Shriner's convention? Well, this was my first (and only) encounter with Ta Se's, it was a bit of a mystery to me anyway. I asked my husband what the little room was for. Trev, usually being the eternal tour guide and explaining such mysteries to me. But even Trev didn't know. Normally, I'm not shy about asking questions about all things mysterious or baffling. Although, upon entering the bar from the closet (reminding me of something straight out of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe), all the questions in my head made a great cacophony then were silenced. It was quite like the scene of the two foreign travellers entering The Slaughtered Lamb in An American Werewolf in London. All conversation ceased and they all just stared at us. I would have half expected to see a pentagram on the wall with two candles lit on either side of it. There was music playing on a jukebox. I waited for the music to scratch to a halt as well. Although, if it had, I might have turned around and walked right back out into the closet I came from right then and there.
It is no unnatural occurrence for everyone to take a moment to look up and stare at you upon entering any pub here. It's unsettling at first, but you tend to get used to it. The difference in Ta Se's, they never stopped looking at us. Daggers, that's how I would tend to explain it, they were all giving us daggers. That is to say, they could have killed us with their stares.
Now I must stop to explain the company I was in at the time. Trev, my husband, a true Irishman, medium height, slight build, gorgeous, with freckles. Trev's brother in law, Will, English, a Londoner, very tall, medium build. Then myself, an American, short and pudgy. I won't deny that we were probably and odd looking trio, with the obvious distinction in differing accents. In fact, every time the three of us went out, I always felt like we were the epitome of some bad joke in ourselves: So, there's an Irishman, an Englishman, and an American girl.... Right, back to the story.
So, this is the kind of pub where you just stick to the usual, nothing fancy. Guinness, Cider, grand... You don't start asking them if they have things like white wine spritzers, cosmopolitans, women's toilets, water, etc. You know the answer is going to be, ' We don't have no fancy lark like that.' Followed by a dirty, judgemental look that resembles someone examining a piece of poo on their shoe. Trev and Will ascertain the bartender to be of sound standing before they even order. This is based on the fact that he is donning a Liverpool jersey. Any fellow Liverpool supporter is a friend of theirs, or so they think. They also know him for whatever particular trade he does aside from pulling pints at mysterious Ta Se's. So, Trev, with his Irish accent, orders a pint of Guinness. Me, with my American accent, orders a pint of cider. Will, with his London accent, tests the boundaries and orders a pint of Heineken (he got the dirty, 'poo on my shoe' look). No Heineken. So, he gets a pint of Foster's instead. Meanwhile, the daggers haven't abated in the slightest.
We sat very near to the door of the closet/entrance. It was subconscious I suppose. But I think it had a bit to do with the intimidation of walking any further into the daggers. We all quickly gulped our pints in a rather uncharacteristic silence. I had burning questions on my tongue that I was highly tempted to ask the bartender: What's with the cloakroom and daggers? Is there actually a women's toilet in here? Is there really poo on the bottom of your shoe? I tried not to look around at all the people still staring at us, but I couldn't help it. I humbly looked back at my pint, then at Trev, with a glint in my eye, like a dog waiting for you to throw the ball. I knew he knew that I was dying to start asking anyone questions about these enigmas we beheld. He halted my silent struggle when he said, 'I've never felt like a tourist in my own town before... until now.' He then made it a point to remind Will and myself that it was our idea to come Ta Se's, that we'd never been here before and we just HAD to come and see what it was like, are we satisfied now.. Blah, blah, blah.
We downed the rest of our pints. I had to pee really bad and there was no women's toilet in sight. I wasn't about to ask the bartender if one existed, and if it did, where it was located. I was full sure that everyone would start laughing at me or that he'd point me in the direction of a patch of nettles outside or something. Instead, I looked at Trev and Will and said, 'Let's go, NOW, before the daggers kill us and before I pee my pants.'
I later found out the answers to the mysteries of Ta Se's, by our coal man. Our coal man is a very nice man. He always has a chat with me when he delivers the coal. Apparently, his brothers own Ta Se's. The closet, when you walk in, is still there from the days when that's the only further women could go into a pub. It was the only section women could be served in. He also informed me that the former owner (Ta Se's namesake) knew English, but would only speak to people in Irish. He refused to serve women as well, whether they were in the closet or not. His nickname was Ta, his surname was Shea, hence the name, Ta Se's (the Se is pronounced, Shea). Our coal man also told me that they are a 'good' bunch in Ta Se's. He reckons the only reason they all stared at us was to see if they knew us. All I know is this: If a real pub too closely resembles a fictional pub in a film, called The Slaughtered Lamb, it's best to stay out of it. Most importantly, I don't have to worry about it anymore, because I'm never going to Ta Se's again!
Monday, October 17, 2005
Misspelled Jornies
I once heard a story about a woman who loved the band Journey. In fact, she loved Journey so much, she went to a lad that did home tattoos and asked him to tattoo Journey down her leg in big black letters. He actually did the tattoo for her!
She was all excited to get the tattoo because she was going out on the raz this night. She couldn't wait to show off her new Journey tattoo. So, she goes out this evening, wearing a skirt, so she can show off her new tattoo. I bet it was a cold night too. I'm sure she suffered the cold just so she could wear a skirt and show everyone her tattoo, declaring her love and devotion to Journey.
I'm sure she thought she was the dog's bullocks with her new tattoo. That was, until someone points it out to her that Journey, is spelled JOURNEY, not JORNEY.
There are so many things wrong with this story on so many levels.... where does one start? 1. There has to be serious questions asked about anyone who loves Journey. 2. There are some serious issues going on if someone not only loves Journey, but loves them so much that they want to get their name tattooed in big black letters down their leg. Then, actually WANT other people to see it. 3. Make sure the person giving you a home tattoo knows how to spell!!! You can't go around for the rest of your life with a misspelled word in big black letters down your leg. How cool would you really look with JORNEY ( or JOURNEY, if the man actually knew how to spell) tattooed down your leg. Let alone, JO little arrow pointing down,U, RNEY.
Maybe he realised the error of her ways and just didn't want to refuse the money... Maybe he did it on purpose. Just to show her how much of an ass she was for not only loving Journey, but for wanting it tattooed in big black letters down her leg, with the intentions of showing it off to everyone she could. Maybe he had the last laugh there?
The moral of the story: Journey sucks!
She was all excited to get the tattoo because she was going out on the raz this night. She couldn't wait to show off her new Journey tattoo. So, she goes out this evening, wearing a skirt, so she can show off her new tattoo. I bet it was a cold night too. I'm sure she suffered the cold just so she could wear a skirt and show everyone her tattoo, declaring her love and devotion to Journey.
I'm sure she thought she was the dog's bullocks with her new tattoo. That was, until someone points it out to her that Journey, is spelled JOURNEY, not JORNEY.
There are so many things wrong with this story on so many levels.... where does one start? 1. There has to be serious questions asked about anyone who loves Journey. 2. There are some serious issues going on if someone not only loves Journey, but loves them so much that they want to get their name tattooed in big black letters down their leg. Then, actually WANT other people to see it. 3. Make sure the person giving you a home tattoo knows how to spell!!! You can't go around for the rest of your life with a misspelled word in big black letters down your leg. How cool would you really look with JORNEY ( or JOURNEY, if the man actually knew how to spell) tattooed down your leg. Let alone, JO little arrow pointing down,U, RNEY.
Maybe he realised the error of her ways and just didn't want to refuse the money... Maybe he did it on purpose. Just to show her how much of an ass she was for not only loving Journey, but for wanting it tattooed in big black letters down her leg, with the intentions of showing it off to everyone she could. Maybe he had the last laugh there?
The moral of the story: Journey sucks!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)