Call to David McRedmond of TV3: I can punch the Dáil onto your TV screens.

April 15, 2010

So, the Dáil is irrelevant. So says TV3 chief executive David McRedmond. Needs to be more “punchy”.

Well, fancy that. He does have a point, I suppose. If the Dáil is to get the extra TV coverage that it wants, then it might have to sex itself up a bit. The times I’ve masturbated to The Oireachtas Report’s mostly tedious, wobbly-jowled visuals is far lower then Play TV, TV3 Flagship Cancelled Show.

Strange that.

But, relevant to what? Television? Other below average masturbation aids? He says that that it doesn’t appeal to his channel’s audience. So, taking TV3’s audience as the kind of people who watch Xposé, Ireland AM, Man with Debilitating Head Problem, then I take that to mean, calling up all my TV and Entertainment experience, is that what the Dáil needs is a green-screen, some Sybil MulCahy, and a large dose of irrelevant shite that’s of no real benefit or entertainment value to anyone.

Which is ironic.

However, obvious gaps in logic aside, if TV3 were to deliver some kind of Dáil coverage that needs to be fresh, compelling and dare I say, “Punchy,” then I have a few ball dropping suggestions; laying the groundwork for a show that could run and run, as the plebs gape on in a strange mix of fear, awe and pity.

You’d have to bring in some new talent, some new faces, young, hip, sexy, y’know the kind. Maybe you hold this talent search over the course of a few weeks or a month, some kind of national star search, and then televise it weekly or even daily? Some contestants could form, like, alliances or groups, or something like that and help each other win the approval of the nation.

And then, at the end of say, a 5 or 6 show run, you could have some kind of national phone in, or a kind of census, where we can all decide who has the most star quality. Well, I say all, but it’d have to be over 18 of course, it’s gonna be a pretty sexy, “punchy” show.

Michael Bay could direct, he’s just gotten into reality TV, and I got a couple of tins of green paint and a Multimedia degree, so I can definitely do some Xposé style green screen techniques. Anyone up for some floating 3-dimensional talking heads?

Get on to me, David, I’m full of ideas. The Steven Seagal Sequence and Van Damme’s Vapidy Veto are still up for grabs.

Legal Highs: Just another nothing to talk about while we look for more nothing dressed as something

April 12, 2010

Legal highs. What a stupid, banal topic that’s been blown completely out of proportion by a media that’s striving to not be stupid and banal, which only makes them more stupid and banal.

Firstly, the boring, boring, boring establishment of my stance on the whole thing: There’s hardly any proper (if any at all), actual evidence of after effects that are as a direct result of these drugs. That’s not to say that evidence doesn’t exist, or that they are completely harmless, but until we have some actual studies then anything written about it has the same veracity as Aunt Faye’s charming anecdote about how she was the one who stole Hitler’s missing testicle or how one user ripped off his scrotum while under the influence of this Mephedrone.

One of those stories was actually reported. Both are equally bullshit.

So, the fact is that little to nothing has been proven. Those self interested parties that are always tottered out don’t count by the way, nor any of that ‘research’ that’s been done by self interested parties. (Listen to BBC April 10th Media Talk Podcast for some actual talk on the subject)

The enemy here, if one exists, is boredom, and the disease is the self perpetuating cycle that boredom induces. The art of ‘doing nothing’ is something that is regularly thought about, regularly given out about, yet still strived for. ‘Hobbies’ used to be what we did in our spare time, now it’s nothing. And since no-one is dying because of this (until proven), why should the government be telling us there’s a difference?

The Internet has merely helped this, with everyone having an opinion (irony noted) and then wanting to be ‘friends’ we just have more and more of nothing to do, all beautifully designed as ‘something’.

So, we’re doing nothing. that’s our hobby, and that’s our problem.  Bollocking about on the internet, all just useless web surfing. Mindless trivia and endless funny cats. And why should a government be telling you that that’s any better then traditional hobbies, like collecting stamps or playing an instrument?

We’re filling our time with Nothing. Meaningless drivel about nothing that makes you think about nothing for a little while, until you find that next little bit of nothing to nibble on, but not too much! The more you nibble, the more a stray thought or opinion you might form on it, so quickly now, move on to another nothing and glance over that for a few minutes.

And we’re striving for this. Aren’t we? We do it anyway, do it regularly. And these legal drugs are just another nothing to fool ourselves into that we are doing something. Without proper evidence to show how dangerous they are, then we might as well ban everything else that might not be seen as ‘constructive,’ be it drinking, Facebook or poorly designed hand driers.

Why must we always be constructive? Isn’t that what work is for? Whose to tell me how meaningless my hobby is? That’s for me to decide.

So fuck it, why not pop down to a Head shop and grab a Tibetan Shitflop? At least it’ll get you out of the house.

Bushfest 2010: A St. Patrick’s Day for the Irish

March 13, 2010

It’s been fucking hijacked. St. Patrick’s Day.

And not just destructively hijacked and ploughed into something, but worse. Constructively hijacked by the Patty’s Day Brigade and made bigger; an inflated leprechaun that’s been force fed stereotypes and then ignited. And as we totter backwards on our bar stools, luminous green leprechaun entrails raining down upon is, all we can ask is why the shit did they dye their river green?

Ireland is green, fucking awesome, but not to the point of grabbing Mother Nature and pissing on her face, “MAKE SHIT MORE GREEN, LIKE IRELAND!” they presumably say from their brown suburbs and when she inevitably chokes from shock, they resort to human measures and start spraying E-numbered colouring around like children with not nearly enough good examples.
Green in the pints, green in the rivers, THIS ENEMA NEEDS MORE GREEN.

No, no it doesn’t. All our shit that’s green, it’s supposed to be green. We don’t paint it, we don’t round up the leprechauns at night and send them out with wheelbarrows full of green dye and an insatiable hunger for screwing with nature.

Patrick’s Day is about celebrating Irishness, supposedly, and the only way people seem to be able to do this by drinking what they can’t handle and tinting everything green. Well, I’m sick of this oh-hum, diddle-le-i version of things; this Disney-inspired stereotyped rape of our already sodomized isle.

So, the solution I propose: Bushfest. We bring things back to the start again, and celebrate like they did when St. Patrick was still pissing off snakes.
Drinking, in bushes, watching the endless sheep, endless sheep shit and endless stony soil. We bring it back to when it was a horribly miserable, disgusting life where the average person lived to about 7 and there were no kebabs.
And then see how the world copies us poorly.

For one day.
And see how they hijack it then. Let them realise how this quaint version of Irish life really would’ve been like. Let them see our bloated parades of sheep and famine, the mostly straw-based diet and the constant feeling of death crawling up your evolutalised hairy legs. The hair that is the only thing saving you from frost bite; the only thing preventing the badgers from biting clean through your leg at the first chomp. Let them watch us relive those days of invasion and boar attacks.

For one day we’ll live how St. Patrick lived himself, only with easier access to stout and the awareness of a failed political system spurning us on.

For one day, cities will close, the ESB will turn off the generators, transport will halt as we make our way to the country, rolling the beer kegs with us. Beer kegs that will be opened with nothing but hard stone and ailing thirst.
Other nations will watch on as we pour our only sustenance into drinking troughs and we’ll drink out of horns. Parades around the world will halt as they look towards Sky News in bewilderment. Reporters will flock towards Dublin Airport looking for answers. Brendan Gleeson will axe every one of them, stony gaze upon their feeble frames as he growls, “This is OUR day.”

The entire country, for one day, one 24 hour stretch, will turn feral. We’ll piss in the fields, drink in the bushes and get scurvy. Any shamrock shapes in our pints will be SHAMROCKS. Rotting, green shamrocks that we’ll pick out with our dirty hands or maybe just eat as our livers plot self implosion and our brains plot feasting on raw cow flesh.

And for that one day, the 17th of March every year, the world will see Ireland as it was; when freedom wasn’t just a Mel Gibson quaintism and the fear of the banshee wasn’t something to be laughed at.

And maybe, just maybe, we might be able to ask for the day after Paddy’s Day off work too.

Youth Media Over, Report Done, Fullstopped by Ranting

March 11, 2010

So, that Youth Media lark has ended and now there’s this report about it, that can be downloaded here.

Go on, give it a download. It’s actually quite an easy read, not the crappy kinda report you’re picturing in your head, with Times New Roman slowly burrowing into your brain and the inevitable tumour that arises as a result of it.

Anyway, for the sake of completion, here’s the final piece I did for it when asked. As far as I remember I was asked for a 1000 word piece of so on how I got into the thing, some experiences on campaign trail and thoughts and things on the articles I did.

Instead I did this:


In general (and let’s speak in broad generalities here to avoid appendices) we don’t care. Us ‘yoofs’, we don’t care about the nitty-gritty of ‘politics’. We don’t care about how Europe is functioning or malfunctioning. We see things happening, we understand stuff is going on, and stuff, but we don’t care.

Why don’t we care? Why don’t we care that it’s gotten to the stage that even though the proverbial waste hit the fan, such a issue is moot when you have 56 billion kilos of waste; whether a desk fan was involved won’t make much difference to the overall state of the room.

So, we have this metaphorical room that is absolutely caked with waste. And why don’t we care? Why should we? All anyone is harping on about is how are we gonna dig the bloody fan out. Giant sluices are, as we speak (in my brain), bringing in cascades of more filth, debris and newspaper political columns into the room but that’s not what anyone is really talking about. We have to dig this fan out, a “hard decision”, yes, but “one that had to be made.” Meanwhile, another group is saying no, we shouldn’t waste time on the fan; it’s the lamp that will prove vital to our economic future. Not only should we not be wasting time on the fan, there’s strong talk that, perhaps, it was the desk fan that got us into this mess.

Politicians saying little to nothing about not a whole lot and then we are informed by radio, TV, Internet and bumper stickers that we should care. Constant news coverage on the inconsequential sandwiched between another person’s opinion on it.

What does it all mean you ask? Nothing. It means nothing. It’s all talk. It’s all, “you say left so I’ll say right”. It’s all an over complicated metaphor violently rammed into this article to explain a ridiculous topic that people don’t even care about. Filler. That’s all this is, more filler. Filler for the paper, filler for the 24-hour news reports, filler for the next hack to sell the next book. We ask for something, we get nothing, and we gleefully write about it, salivating over the next morsel of nothing to write about. And every few weeks we complain that we have nothing to write about. And then we write about that.

We have all this space to fill, so let’s fill it by repeating ourselves. Let’s make it glossy and shiny. You, over there, make that graph more 7 dimensional and spruce up that colour pullout supplement while you’re at it. I want that 3000 word piece on NAMA to jump out from the page and strangle anyone who only skims over it. Which 3000 word piece? The 14th of course, that one in the middle pages! The one that’s after the 13th and before the 15th.

Rolling news coverage? YES, PLEASE. I think I missed the bit where Willie O’ Dea said some words that meant nothing the last time and I definitely want to see the bit that everyone is talking about everywhere. You know, the bit where Brian Lenihan said something about something else, and then someone else said something about that. AND DEAR GOD! Do it so I can read in on my iPad while watching it on my iTelevision and listening to the iRadio. And can I have eight other versions of it blended and poured directly into my ear canal good sir?

And while we sit there, staring listlessly at something that we should care about but for some reason aren’t, the sheer volume of crap helps us forget that maybe there’s something I should be doing about this.

Just space to fill. Stuff to sell, painted up as news and shoved pointlessly in our face. Repeated over and over because as a human race, that’s the only way we’ve learned how to get a message across. And it’s become meaningless. Like advertising and Only Fools and Horses. Regurgitated for our viewing pleasure, repeated ad nauseam before someone starts to actually care about what’s happening. Yes, advertising works and helps sell products, whether we admit it or not. Yes, Only Fools and Horses does have some funny moments. Do I actually care about either? Not a chance.

Why don’t we care? Do we care about insurance comparison websites?

I could sum all this up simply with the universally applied ‘less is more’ argument. Disclose my belief that us ‘youth’ are so swamped with news that mostly just repeats that the rubbish that was happening is still happening and that there will be an inquiry about it; where rubbish is sure to continue. I could point out my understanding that even people, young and old, who say they care, really don’t care it that much at all in the grand scheme of things. Conclude that, perhaps, the best way to get us to care would be to take the backspace key to a large volume of all media.

I could of done so from the off. Succinctly sum up what I learned over the year in about 100 words.

But then I’d have all this empty space that would need to be filled, wouldn’t I?

Paul Kennedy, South Constituency.

February 1st, 2010


Don’t worry, the hypocrisy of it all was noted.

Some reasoned, unabrasive debate on Tiger Woods:

December 17, 2009

Done for college, hence: No links, no images, no swearing. Insert words like ‘fuck’ where and when appropriate.


Uh-oh, it looks like famous people are having sex again. Who would’ve thought that the more glamorous side of human society also took part in this act? Yes, famous people who do sport are all having sex. Just like your granny did. Horrible, isn’t it? Just absolutely horrible. Dirty, pre-, post-, and mid-martial sex; glorified rabbits banging away like carpenters at wood and nails, and no amount of innuendo-filled sentences will hide that fact from us.

Well, so long as we keep reading about it. After all, we continue to read, so details continue to raise their heads up at us, blinking innocently from behind the Tellytubbie hill as if to say, “Should I come out now? I may also of had sex with Tiger Woods.” This ‘expanding’ sex scandal, as the online news site the Huffington Post so eloquently put it, is just the latest one to capture our lust-filled, craven imaginations.

So, what are we to do with this ever-expanding scandal? At this rate, it could reach a good 3-metre girth by this Thursday, and after that, who knows? We’ll need at least a weekly pullout supplement to contain all the sordid details. We could place it neatly between the Health pages on a Monday, complete with Victoria’s Secret leaflets and sexual health coupons.

So, allegedly, it appears Tiger Woods has been having sex with women other then his wife. If even half of the plethora of working class heroines is to be believed, then this has been going on for a while. Thankfully, one of the waitresses, Mindy Lawton, has assured us that he is “very well endowed” and “knows his way around the bedroom.” Promptly after that piece of expansion, the nation heaved a collective sigh of relief as the pun about his 9-wood was avoided.

In other news, ‘allegedly’ is fast becoming the most popular word of Collins A-section and this story might just help it pip ‘anecdotal’ at the post.

It all started to come out a week or so back, when Tiger crashed his 2009 Cadillac Escalade into various upright objects, ending with a hospital trip for some minor facial cuts.

If it had ended there, we all would have slept happier. Columnists wouldn’t have to keep their lights on for fear of a newly sexualised Tiger Woods coming in and invading their home, maybe humping your bedpost like a dog in heat. Roadside-Diner waitresses wouldn’t have to fret over whether to go public with the fact that Mr. Woods may of winked at them. The commentary that followed seemed to bring a whole new meaning to the idea of the tiger as a predator.

After some obligatory National Enquirer (an American tabloid that is notoriously liberal with the truth) allegations, a few apologies, broken up with some shrugging on all our parts, San Diego cocktail waitress Jaimee Grubbs revealed that she had a two and a half year affair with the golfing icon. Then each gate of hell successively opened, and at time of writing the affair count is up to seven (Or nine. Or seventy-four. Depends on how loose your definition of fact is). It’s getting to the stage were everyone who hasn’t had sex with Tiger Woods are starting to feel a little low on confidence.

And of course then come the cries of anguish; the people who tell us “He should of known better”, the women who see this as just another man chasing skirts, the men who see this as another stick we can be beaten with. The parents, oh! The poor parents! Those frontline soldiers who are gathering up their sons’ and daughters’ golf clubs for a public burning, the fathers of teenage boys pushing them towards Wilkinson’s latest 27-blade razor for their first shave. The laminate clean role model has been stained and how dare he do such a thing to us!

But, bluntly, Tiger Woods is just a guy who plays golf. White ball goes on plastic thing. White ball hit with metal thing. White ball goes in hole. Repeat. Admittedly, it’s a bit more complicated, but if you asked a software engineer what they did for a living, most people would require a similarly layman-like description. This is his job, this is what he does, and because he does this on TV shouldn’t make him any more or less of a human to look up to. If he’s to be a role model for our kids, let’s confine it to his golfing abilities. Yes, we can ask (and ideally expect) everyone to act in a moral and respectable manner, but if your next door neighbour starts to sleep with his orthodontist, do we splash it all over the papers, hang it over their heads publicly like underwear off a doorknob? Disgraceful behaviour indeed, but on the whole: none of our bloody business.

Why should sport stars be expected to be any better of an example then rock stars? Most parents wouldn’t like to have a son basing his moral and ethical codes on someone like an Axl Rose or Rapping-rappy McRappington, or whoever, so why do we think differently of sport stars? Both lifestyles are radically different from our own; both often incorporate a seedy side (as we look in from our puritanically-phallic ivory towers), and both usually consist of young people being thrown into the limelight, with little more then talent in their hands and the giddy expectation of a lifestyle that most youngsters dream of: Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ golf clubs. To argue that because they train daily and diet makes them better belittles the extensive work done by musicians behind the scenes, in the recording studio or song writing with the band.

Tiger Woods is not the Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi: Even if it turns out that he is a lothario of equal measure, he was not elected to represent the public and he does not receive a wage out of our taxes. Sport stars are just people who entertain us. We pay them for this through television deals and sponsorships. To expect any more of them is naive. To deny them the privacy we would expect ourselves is just an example of the sadder side of human nature.

The People’s Party for the Segregation of Bulls and People in Well Populated Areas

July 13, 2009

Pamplona? You know what they do there, right? Bulls. Many many bulls, are released onto the streets, in a state of some agitation, where no attempt is made to placate them.
And you’re in front of them of course: running. For the hell of it.
Intelligent stuff.

The paper yesterday called them ‘revellers’, which mean someone who ‘is engaged in lively and noisy festivities.’



Make no bones about it: I and a few of my friends have been known to revel from time to time, festivities of fun and noise are enjoyed, occasionally we may partake in a beverage or two, and it has been rumoured that a run down a street is not something that we are totally opposed to. In principle at least.
Bulls are rarely involved.

I can count on one hand the number of times I have been gored to death while revelling. So can Daniel Jimeno Romero from Madrid. Except he needs fingers to do so.
Well possibly not. I’m not sure there’s even any fingers left on the guy’s hand. As we speak, a Darwin Award is well on its way to his local graveyard.

“In 11 years as Mayoress, nothing like this has ever happened before.” Woman, I think you need to think about your sentences somewhat. Nothing like this? Nothing at all? Are you sure? No bulls have been let loose on your streets at all? And, well, of course, no one would even think to place themselves in front of these bulls that have never been on your streets before. For God’s sake, you just had those streets paved the other day!
And where did all this damn alcohol come from? You’d swear it was some kind of annual festival.

Fine, grand. I’m just a crazy Bulls and People apartheid supporter with regards to this matter, but meh, let them run through your streets if you want. And why not run along side, whooping and howling like you just been given your daily slice of crazy pie by the nurse. The buxom lady who also has intimate knowledge of how your incontinence affects your daily psychiatric care schedule.

I’ll continue to just eat the bastards.

How to fry up the perfect fry. Any other way is wrong.

May 6, 2009

Fuck it, if Christopher Walken can tell me how to cook, then I can show the 5 people who read this how to too.

You will need:

2 pans, one large, one small. Small should be non-stick

Enough oil.

2 Rashers

4 Sausages

Fried Spud

An Egg

Toast, tea, etc.

Ok, a few things  first off. For any fry you need at least two Rashers, and three sausages, you must have fried spud and only one egg is ever needed. Otherwise it’s not a proper fry. To explain:

  • Fried spud turns a snack into a meal. Waffles will do if totally stuck.
  • Any more then one egg is unnecessary. If you find yourself needing two, you’ve eaten it wrong.
  • One rasher is not enough. The first one is only there to prepare you for the second.
  • Sausages are the reason you’re having a fry. Everything else is there to justify the fact that you want sausages, but don’t want to look weird by eating them on their own.

[Quick Paul Tip no#1 – If you’re having a meal of only one item, putting it in a bowl will make it look less pathetic]
I like to go for 2 rashers, 4 sausages, about 1 and a half sliced, medium sized spud, and 1 egg. Also, a large mug of tea and a minimum of 2 slices of white toast. I may add a slice of brown bread too. Proper brown bread, not pan.
Pudding is optional, but I only cook it if I have it, and I rarely have it.

1. Put a small bit of oil in both pans and warm the large one, heat mid way.

2. Cut the long streaks of fat along the edge of the rashers off. Leave the bit towards the end.

Fried fat doesn’t taste nice. Hard crispy does. This is were some people say to grill the rashers.
Those people are stupid. Grilling dries out them out too much.
FRY EVERYTHING. The grill is for pussies.

[Quick Paul Tip no#2 – I recommend the Irish Independent inbetween steps. Always hgave something to read when cooking. You won’t rush things if you have something to do between steps]

3. Throw the spud and sausages in first, together into the large pan.

Give em about the length of a medium sized sports article and then shake the pan. If the sausages are starting to brown turn them over a bit and flip the spud. If they aren’t, you’re reading too fast. Go back and take it all in, don’t skim it.
Repeat twice with the sausages but don’t flip the spud again till I tell you.
Put the lid on. Shake. Stick the pudding in now if you have it and treat as spud.

4. Warm the small pan at a very low heat.

5. Shake the large pan vigorously and wait.

I recommend Kevin Myers at this stage, or failing that, read a large politics article, but start to skim once you get half way. Drop a few lines from it into conversation the next day to sound well read.

6. Take the lid off and roll everything in the large pan to the side, lackadaisically flipping spud and pudding as you go. Place your rashers in gently.

Skim through the listings for any good shows that might supplement your meal.

7. Turn the rashers. Turn the heat down a notch. Cover and shake.
[Quick Paul Tip no#3 – I can’t emphasize shaking the pan enough. Its key. Trust me on this one.]

8. Crack your egg, put it into the small pan.

If your rashers are starting to leak like a third trimester-er, you have cheap rashers. Use the lid and spatula to help you pour the water out. Don’t leave it there, you’ll just end up with soggy, boiled food.

9. Throw a plate into the microwave for 30 to 60 seconds.

Pick a plate that fits the amount of food you have as best as possible. This is very important. If stuck, too little plate is better then too much plate. Trust me on this one.

10. Plus a little more oil into the small pan and tilt it so the entire egg is covered. Put back and cover.

11. Take the lid off the large pan the whole way, pause, then put it back on.

12. Shake the large pan like a motherfucker.

Skim the back-page and letters page for anything interesting

13. Gently twirl the small pan, like how you’d drown an ant in a small dish. Leave the lid on.
Turn on the kettle, put on some toast. Put your plate as close to the frying as possible.

14. Flip the egg and turn both rings off. Shake the large pan.

[Quick Paul Tip no#4 – Always flip the egg. even if you like em runny, a few seconds of flip is always needed]

15. Tea: Jesus Christ, scald the cup before hand. Put a bit of boiled water in the cup, swish it around, pour it out. You gotta have a warm cup.
Unless its cake, the only use for sugar is Lemsip. Keep that shit out of the tea. You’ll thank me three months from now when your thinking how did i ever put that shit in there.

16. Pour the tea and leave to brew.

17. Plate it all up.

Spud and sausages get their own section, everything else can be piled if you want. I’d recommend flipping the egg back so the plate looks alright.

18. Butter toast (Real butter, not spreadable), put on another load and start to eat. You shouldn’t need salt or pepper and if your gonna use ketchup, just throw it all to the dog now and cook some food that doesn’t have its own natural badass taste.

Right, checklist:

  • The spud should have crispy edges but soft centers, with a slightly yellowy tint.
  • Sausages should be brown all round, not just two sides, and which just a little bit of crisp when you bite in. Dunnes and Clonakilty ones fry the best I think. Denny and Galtee just seem to bloat up and then the sides get burnt and the ends get flakey.
  • Don’t ever get Tesco Sausages unless you like looking at small, withered penises, with the odd exploded one here and there.
  • The rashers should have a nice bite to them, but not crunchy.
  • The egg should have a bit of run to it, but not too much that it floods the plate. You want the option of dip, not a gravy substitute.


[Quick Paul Tip no#5 –If you want a fry, but only have eggs, Tabasco sauce in when frying will turn those fried eggs into a meal.
Fuck it, just put Tabasco sauce on everything