July 26, 2010
On Friday evening, I pulled the car into the hard shoulder of the motorway because I thought I witnessed a small plane lose control and crash into a field nearby. It took a number of seconds to come to a safe halt well off the road. Not really knowing what I should do first, I got and ran to the fence to see if there was any sign of smoke or wreckage. Cars zoomed past me. It seemed that nobody else witnessed this or else they were too intent on last pints in Galway to bother stopping. Well pity them. Because for the next 20 minutes I stood and watched this lone stunt pilot in the evening sun above oblivious cattle doing twirls, loop-the-loops, diving freefalls, curls and flips. All that was missing was the attacking Tiger Moth. The most hair-raising movement was a vertical climb slowing to a dead stop before he would fall backwards and drop silently while rolling over, before starting the engine again and heading into a nose dive compete with the smoke-trail which fooled me into stopping. I stood there like a child in awe. He displayed everything a man wants to be, fearless, skillful, masterful, commanding, daring, brave and fun. This man, waltzing his true love around with abandon as I gaze out of my ordinary life at him. Then off into the setting sun he settles and levels out. A long slow curve to the south, a dot, gone.
I get back into my car and proceed along the motorway, both designed to save your life in case you nod off at the wheel at 120km/h.
July 16, 2010
Lashings of warm fat summer rain bounce off the footpath as I hop up the steps to my cosy abode. An umbrella wide and firm directs the luscious drops to group and pool. A vigorous shake before stepping inside. Bedroom window opened to the music to follow.
White flash. An approaching rumble.
Under my duvet, eyes wide open. A child again.
July 6, 2010
Morgan inspected the plump green bogey he had just plucked from his right nostril.
It was a warm summer day. He was lying by the pool in his five acre estate on the southern Sardinian coast. Morgan then glanced over his fat tanned belly, past his fat toes to his boat which sat in the glimmering sea below. Tonight he was hosting a party for 100 guests on it. The idea gave him a slight boner. It was his turn to throw the annual bank party, all paid for out of his Emerald Isle Hedge Fund bonus. Friends and high class hookers were flying in from London, Geneva and New York for three days of whatever the fuck they wanted, no questions asked.
A chef from Paris was busy in the kitchen. A lower British royal was arriving tomorrow for the day for a reasonable fee. A special Brandy blend, named after his father was to be served after dinner – a Remy Martin, because Hennessy refused his request. A minor let down but still, Morgan felt invincible right now. Master of his destiny (and the destiny of others).
He focused again on the green bogey on the tip of his finger. It had dried and shriveled a bit during his moment of contemplation. It reminded him of Ireland which owed his fund so many billions. The Ireland had shriveled and dried but there’s still a little juice left and it was his, all his.
He farted, then licked the snot off his finger and sucked it down his gullet. At the same time in Athlone, Co. Westmeath, a desperate father in floods of tears and wailing in sadness, murders his severely autistic son, then his baby daughter, then his wife, then himself.
Filed under Uncategorized
Tags: Fianna Fail, Nama, Bank bailouts, Irish banking, Bond dealers, Bank traders, effects of NAMA, Cost of NAMA, Respite Care in Ireland, Banking Greed, International Bond Dealing
July 5, 2010
By Sunday morning, the streets were littered with fallen leaves. But green leaves, an annex of autumn in the middle of Summer. No rustling or crunching, just springy leaves too weak to hold on. Early death in the peak of their lives. A storm blew in hard overnight and gave everything a workout, toupees and trees, unladen bins and celebratory marquees. Spiders sought shelter inside, flies went with it, swifts too. Small craft were warned.
As we sped along the motorway, dense gusts jostled buses and high sided trucks. I hoped one wall fall over and slide along the grass verge. Everyone would emerge laughing while brushing themselves down. The sky was blue with virtually no clouds.
An unusual storm.
July 2, 2010
1. Greedy Developers inflate property market bubble until it pops.
2. Massive debts transferred to NAMA.
3. Tax money from workers pay packets paid into banks to prevent them collapsing.
4. Banks stop lending to the very people who bailed them out.
5. Banks go back to the 1980s mentality and lend to friends and respectable classes who don’t spend their own money by borrowing on the back of their existing assets.
6. Ordinary working people denied access to loans and therefore cannot invest in their futures or improve their standard of living.
Summary: Wealth from large number of lower income families is transferred and added to wealth of small number of higher income families.
June 24, 2010
There is to be a European wide protest at greedy financiers and their political servants this coming Saturday 25th June. The Dublin protest will be at Central Bank plaza at 1pm in case you fancy coming along and showing your support for ordinary Irish and our fellow Europeans.
Details on the PBPA wesbite.
June 21, 2010
1) The small scruffy dog across the road who’s let out for his evening sniff and/or bark at the dog three doors down.
2) The girl who walks along most evenings while reading a novel.
3) The very old lady who flies along on her Triumph 20 bicycle with a healthy disregard for motorised traffic.
4) The tall large old man with the booming voice who says hello to everybody. I will stop and talk next time.
5) The midget who walks a tiny dog.
6) The maroon Citroen DS.
7) The dapper gent and his elegant lady wife who go for evening strolls.
8 ) The huge ash trees across the road.
9) The next door neighbour trying to park.
10) My large living room window.
June 3, 2010
when an ex-girlfriend tells you her current boyfriend hits her?
An educated, intelligent, attractive and independent woman somehow ends up living with her abusive boyfriend. How does it happen and why is she already forgiving him?
“It was only once and I hit him back” (The first excuse)
June 1, 2010
Anyone ever seen her? Runs along the canal in a skirt and rain jacket. Wears a small ill-fitting backpack. Very skinny. Looks a bit touched. Have also see her out in Blackrock and in Crumlin. Seems to run a very long distance every day. I’m intrigued.
