This is for, all intents and proposes, a momentous week for Ireland. The Ryder Cup is here. The biannual golfing slugfest between the US and Europe rolls into town, 24 of the world's finest strokemakers doing battle in the plush surroundings of the K Club. What an occasion. Memo to all the people involved in the Ryder Cup: No one cares.
Oh, all right, some people care, some rich people who like golf, but for the hoi polloi, it's a case of 'Will this mean an end to those woefully OTT AIB ads? If so, then yes I am looking for ward to it. Otherwise I do not give a rats ass." I'm not trying to belittle golf; it's a fantastic sport and it saves a lot of marriages, but the fact that two sprawling continents are squabbling over a bit of tin, demeans everyone involved. Even I feel cheapened by having to write about it in my column.
And all this palaver over ripping off those coming. Rip Off Ireland back in action read the headlines. Who cares? It's a load of rich people coming over for a weekend of golf. If you can't rip off rich people, well who can you rip off? They won't even care or notice. Now if it was the Homeless World Cup of Golf I would be up in arms, but seeing as these people have enough money to flit away on flying over here for the Ryder Cup, then they should be charged 14 euros for a pint.
I really can't get too excited cheering for Europe. It's Europe, loads of different people and places I have no affection or association with at all. These people are our arch nemeses from the Eurovision. How can I be expected to join in the camaraderie with my Luxembourger brethren when I know that their voting panel gave us nul points earlier this year. They are landlocked scum. Period.
And how about across the rest of Europe. Will there be dancing on the streets in Bratislava if Europe win? Bonfires in Bergen? Celebratory Ak47 gunfire in Ankara? No, because all these golfers will just piss off back to their houses felling smug about themselves. If the team was forced on a infinite tour of every village in Europe, give a speech in every town centre on the back of an articulated truck then perform a hearty rendition of 'Rock and Roll Kids' by Charlie McGettigan and Paul Harrington, maybe, maybe I'd have a little more respect.
It could be worse I guess: they could be playing pitch and putt. I find it hard to fathom the logic behind becoming a pitch and putt whizz. It's not a proper sport, it's a third of a sport. Like being good at penalties in soccer, but not being able to run. Surely if you get good at it you should grow up, stop shouting at the eleven year olds up ahead to play quicker, invest in more than two clubs. It's depressing watching fully grown adults preening about the truncated course acting like Tiger Woods competing in the Community games. No parent or guardian should be allowed on the pitch and putt course without the accompaniment of a minor. Simple.
The Ryder Cup leaves us all with a dilemma about what to do to successfully avoid it for the coming weekend. There will be bleatings in the press and on telly about it all the time because it's a rich people's sport and rich people run the show and us regular plebs have to put it with rich people's crap like we always do. I say we should use this opportunity to make golf a bit more egalitarian; play some street golf over the weekend, ie. whacking a ball of wound elastics with an umbrella around the town, occupy the local golf courses and plant love heart shaped flower beds on the greens, and distribute Pringle sweaters and plus-four trousers kids to from the wrong side of the tracks. Fingers crossed, if these schemes have the desired effect, and we make lots of money from them, by the time the Ryder Cup comes again we might be rich enough to care.
The Zeitghost
Friday, September 22, 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
News: 40th Anniversary Re-Issue of Pet Sounds In Celebratory Liquid LSD Form
Capitol Records announced today that the commemorative 40th Anniversary re-issue of the Beach Boys seminal record Pet Sounds would come in special liquid LSD form. Spokesman for the company, Rod Shileinburg, made the announcement as millions of music fans around the world waited to sample this re-release.
"We are delighted to present the Beach Boys masterwork Pet Sounds in this revolutionary liquid LSD form", he gleefully shared with a room of eager music journalists. "This never-before-seen experiment will give the listener an altogether different listening experience to previous versions of Pet Sounds. We are all incredibly excited about this release", he added.
The decision was agreed on after months of speculation. Shileinburg stresses that it was the truest way to celebrate this stone cold classic. "We already had the stereo, mono, lazerdisc, picture disc, remasters, original edits, digipak, box set, and Dolby Digital 5.1 versions of Pet Sounds released, so we wanted to try something new. Hopefully this new liquid LSD version will be every bit as ground-breaking as the record was on it's release."
And he promises something special for the Beach Boy fans. "This version will give the best ever insight into the creative genius of Brian Wilson, and how out of his gourd he was at the time."
Beach Boy fanatics have greeted the decision with unanimous approval. Franky Gillup, a long standing fan, was ecstatic at the news. "I've got all the Beach Boys records but this release is going to be a bit special. This LSD version might prompt me have a breakdown just like Brian Wilson. It's all very exciting."
Capitol also announced that the box set release of R.Kelly's award-winning musical 'Trapped in the Closet" would come with a limited edition sachet of Kelly's own sperm.
"School's Blown To Pieces" - Alice Cooper circa 1972
I had that dream again this week. You know that dream. The one where you're back at school, repeating the leaving and you've no study done. Then Big Bird arrives in asking you for a game of Charlie Brown Top Trumps, but you're too busy making out with Twink to even care, while all the time you're sitting on an armchair made of Liga, debating the merits and de-merits of American foreign policy with a Polish member of staff from O'Brien's Sandwich shop. That dream. We've all had it.
What is it about remembering school that fills us with a sense of impending dread? Is it the memories of those incessant beatings? Is it being frozen out of all the cosy cliques because you were too much of a nerd? Is it having your lunch money stolen every day and then making a vow to yourself that some day all those who made your life misery will reap a terrible and painful vengeance involving boiled tar and pubic hair removal? For me, I suppose it's a random combination of all three.
This week, being September and all, I'm going to address my younger school going audience. I've being informed by the ABC figures that I have a significant number of younger readers who were attracted to my earlier, more puerile writings and have stuck around in the hope of a return to that grand era of knob gags. While these younger members (ooo-er!) are present I shall impart on them some handy advice: school is rubbish, get out now while you can; start working as a chimney sweep or matchstick seller now and who knows where you'll be in ten years.
And don't ever believe anyone who says school days are the best days of your life. This is a fallacy, routinely perpetuated by people who are clearly not in school and not showing any outwards signs of wanting to return to school in the near future. I never once heard a fellow student turn to me and say, 'You know while I was doing this unpaid, tedious and ditchwater dull history assignment on the former Minister for Agriculture James Dillon and his threat to drown Britain in a "sea of eggs", I realised this is one of the best days of my life." He would never have said it because a) he knew it was hogwash and b) he would have received a swift slice on the arse with a steel ruler when the next opportunity should present itself.
It's not just the act of being in school that's a drag, it's the lasting legacy it leaves. I hope you students realise that for all the fist-shaking machismo, and unsuitable nickname antics that go on behind your teachers' backs, you will always, always, always act all deferential to them when you meet them in the street, for the rest of your days. It's the truth. I still live in constant fear of being given a write out or lines by any of my former tutors, should they spot me involved in high-jinks that would almost take someone's eye out. Neither can I enjoy a cigarette without having someone to be wide, keep sketch or a derivation of both. These are the mental scars of school-going.
So what have we learned from today's lesson? School is a terrible waste of time. Lads you're better off going of down to nearest mine looking for work, while the girls should be putting those nimble little digits to use in the local linen factory. Reading, 'riting, 'rithmatic are all rubbish.
I suppose I should really put a disclaimer with this piece lest the impressionable young ones think school is all bad. There are some positives. It's a fantastic place to experiment with small amounts of alcohol, recreational drugs, and casual sex, but please kids, for God's sake, try to remember this important adage: everything in moderation. Even homework.
The Zeitghost
What is it about remembering school that fills us with a sense of impending dread? Is it the memories of those incessant beatings? Is it being frozen out of all the cosy cliques because you were too much of a nerd? Is it having your lunch money stolen every day and then making a vow to yourself that some day all those who made your life misery will reap a terrible and painful vengeance involving boiled tar and pubic hair removal? For me, I suppose it's a random combination of all three.
This week, being September and all, I'm going to address my younger school going audience. I've being informed by the ABC figures that I have a significant number of younger readers who were attracted to my earlier, more puerile writings and have stuck around in the hope of a return to that grand era of knob gags. While these younger members (ooo-er!) are present I shall impart on them some handy advice: school is rubbish, get out now while you can; start working as a chimney sweep or matchstick seller now and who knows where you'll be in ten years.
And don't ever believe anyone who says school days are the best days of your life. This is a fallacy, routinely perpetuated by people who are clearly not in school and not showing any outwards signs of wanting to return to school in the near future. I never once heard a fellow student turn to me and say, 'You know while I was doing this unpaid, tedious and ditchwater dull history assignment on the former Minister for Agriculture James Dillon and his threat to drown Britain in a "sea of eggs", I realised this is one of the best days of my life." He would never have said it because a) he knew it was hogwash and b) he would have received a swift slice on the arse with a steel ruler when the next opportunity should present itself.
It's not just the act of being in school that's a drag, it's the lasting legacy it leaves. I hope you students realise that for all the fist-shaking machismo, and unsuitable nickname antics that go on behind your teachers' backs, you will always, always, always act all deferential to them when you meet them in the street, for the rest of your days. It's the truth. I still live in constant fear of being given a write out or lines by any of my former tutors, should they spot me involved in high-jinks that would almost take someone's eye out. Neither can I enjoy a cigarette without having someone to be wide, keep sketch or a derivation of both. These are the mental scars of school-going.
So what have we learned from today's lesson? School is a terrible waste of time. Lads you're better off going of down to nearest mine looking for work, while the girls should be putting those nimble little digits to use in the local linen factory. Reading, 'riting, 'rithmatic are all rubbish.
I suppose I should really put a disclaimer with this piece lest the impressionable young ones think school is all bad. There are some positives. It's a fantastic place to experiment with small amounts of alcohol, recreational drugs, and casual sex, but please kids, for God's sake, try to remember this important adage: everything in moderation. Even homework.
The Zeitghost
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Gangsta (c)Rap
After the annual AGM of Zeitghost INC., it was decided that this column is going to have to diversify. We have to engage with new markets, launch some new product lines, streamline the business and get rid or some of the dead wood. It's been a tough time for us all here but together we can move forward and make a for a brighter future.
The swift conclusion was reached that drug dealing is really the only way out though isn't it? It's not a particularly bad rut I'm stuck in, but by my logic the sooner I start dealing drugs, the quicker I make money, ergo the sooner I'm out of the rut, and so the quicker I can give up drug dealing. It will be like I didn't even do it at all, your honor.
It's got such a stigma attached to it, but what if a couple more established business get involved and take some of the grubby shame from this apparently sordid practice.
What if Rowntrees secretly started putting cocaine on their Fruit Pastilles? What killjoy would complain? Or is the Lever Bros started increasing turnover by personally calling round and posting some free samples of heroin through your letterbox. It would be an ingenious, faultless way back into the red.
As I've said many times before in this space, no-one reads this anyway so it's the perfect cover to start a crime syndicate. I'll be right under the cops noses, but they won't even know it. Until I'm caught and during the epilogue they'll say how I was right under their noses the whole time. But that's not gonna happen. I already have an alias and an anonymous e-mail address. I could disappear in a second and not leave a single trace. I might have to call back and get some of my stuff though.
So what sort of shady drugs will Zeitghost INC. be offering? I'd only sell placebos, but these will be some of the cleanest placebos you could possibly find anywhere. There will be not a single intoxicating rush from these things that won't be entirely imagined. It will be a flagrant breach of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1998: you won't be able to misuse them no matter how hard you try. Snort them, chomp them, inject them, shove them up your bum, it's no use, they'll do nothing for you. They'll be the opposite of those trippy legal highs – illegal non-highs. It'll still be contraband so therefore it'll be 'cool' and the demand will be massive.
I always new a life of crime would suit me. I was a tough cookie as a child and I remain a hard case – I still drink my Ribena straight, and go through 60 candy fags a day. I was a such feral, unnameable youngster that they expelled me from the School of Hard Knocks. They called me the Marathon Man, because I was older and nuttier than a gone off Snickers. Now this is either me or Jimmy Cagney in 'White Heat', the memory is a bit hazy, but I'm pretty sure it's one of us.
Naturally I'm fully prepared to be caught at some stage and to go down in a blaze of glory: crime doesn't pay, but as volunteer work goes it's pretty exciting. Right now I'm cowering behind the fridge holding a Colt. 45 sweating at every cats meow thinking it's a siren, and that's just from walking past a car that was double parked earlier today. The thought of mixing it with with legendary, albeit fictional, gangsters like Scarface, Tony Soprano and The Hamburgler is giving me goose bumps. "I made it Ma, top of the world!………Ps. can you bring me a sleeping bag please because it's freezing up here."
The swift conclusion was reached that drug dealing is really the only way out though isn't it? It's not a particularly bad rut I'm stuck in, but by my logic the sooner I start dealing drugs, the quicker I make money, ergo the sooner I'm out of the rut, and so the quicker I can give up drug dealing. It will be like I didn't even do it at all, your honor.
It's got such a stigma attached to it, but what if a couple more established business get involved and take some of the grubby shame from this apparently sordid practice.
What if Rowntrees secretly started putting cocaine on their Fruit Pastilles? What killjoy would complain? Or is the Lever Bros started increasing turnover by personally calling round and posting some free samples of heroin through your letterbox. It would be an ingenious, faultless way back into the red.
As I've said many times before in this space, no-one reads this anyway so it's the perfect cover to start a crime syndicate. I'll be right under the cops noses, but they won't even know it. Until I'm caught and during the epilogue they'll say how I was right under their noses the whole time. But that's not gonna happen. I already have an alias and an anonymous e-mail address. I could disappear in a second and not leave a single trace. I might have to call back and get some of my stuff though.
So what sort of shady drugs will Zeitghost INC. be offering? I'd only sell placebos, but these will be some of the cleanest placebos you could possibly find anywhere. There will be not a single intoxicating rush from these things that won't be entirely imagined. It will be a flagrant breach of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1998: you won't be able to misuse them no matter how hard you try. Snort them, chomp them, inject them, shove them up your bum, it's no use, they'll do nothing for you. They'll be the opposite of those trippy legal highs – illegal non-highs. It'll still be contraband so therefore it'll be 'cool' and the demand will be massive.
I always new a life of crime would suit me. I was a tough cookie as a child and I remain a hard case – I still drink my Ribena straight, and go through 60 candy fags a day. I was a such feral, unnameable youngster that they expelled me from the School of Hard Knocks. They called me the Marathon Man, because I was older and nuttier than a gone off Snickers. Now this is either me or Jimmy Cagney in 'White Heat', the memory is a bit hazy, but I'm pretty sure it's one of us.
Naturally I'm fully prepared to be caught at some stage and to go down in a blaze of glory: crime doesn't pay, but as volunteer work goes it's pretty exciting. Right now I'm cowering behind the fridge holding a Colt. 45 sweating at every cats meow thinking it's a siren, and that's just from walking past a car that was double parked earlier today. The thought of mixing it with with legendary, albeit fictional, gangsters like Scarface, Tony Soprano and The Hamburgler is giving me goose bumps. "I made it Ma, top of the world!………Ps. can you bring me a sleeping bag please because it's freezing up here."
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