Of Kisses Missed And Potato Sacks.

Susan Boyle set the world on fire when she stepped onto Simon Cowell’s stage and wobbled off it to thunderous applause, and with over one million hits on Utube she could become the next singing sensation to come out of Britain. The forty something woman claimed, with a twinkle in her eye, that she had never been kissed and to prove the point she dressed appropriately by wearing a dress the colour of a potato sack - and with as many lumps as she warbled “I Dreamed A Dream” in front of a stunned panel of judges. In a lifestyle of self-denial, she claims to have never been kissed nor had a makeover and has given the fashion world a wide berth all her life. But all that is changing. She has been spotted leaving the hairdressers sporting a new look complete with a shiny coat, slacks and a new dye job. Her forehead may have been given a once over with a grass strimmer and she already looks as though she has lost weight and is indeed looking younger than she did a week ago.
Susan, here’s to you and may you flourish as a singer and performer and may God bless you with a business astuteness as you set off in a new direction and know that millions of us wish you well and will buy your records and line up for your concerts.

When he stops taking bets, stupid. And this is what Irish Bookie Paddy Power has done after he closed the book on the outcome of this year's Irish League title. Even so close to the season's end, he is taking no chances with a loose cannon dribbling home at super hyper odds as he drives his luxury yacht from Howth to Timbuktu and back. Looks like a supergrass in Gambler's Anonymous has dropped a raspberry on the highroller grapevine by spreading the ugly rumour that things are not all it seems at Fort Windsor, Belfast and as a result of information received, there has been a flurry of bets on teams that if any one of them win would make a come-back by Shergar seem a more than a realistic possibilty. Shovels aside, he is sticking to his guns and is refusing bets on all Irish League teams except the favoured pair, Linfield @ 5/4 and Glentoran @ 5/7. Say wha'? Is he scared of a monumental operation by ne'er-do-wells as in the spirit of the Sting?. And, anyway, what is wrong with bellowing out in a Ballymena accent "'At's my money in 'ere"?

Say What You Mean.

A few days ago I overheard a heated discussion between two men in a food hall at the Abbey Centre, Belfast. They were arguing about the pros and cons of computers and the internet and one guy was coming of the worse in the friendly banter, so in frustration he blurted out “Away ‘n’ Google yerself ”. Instantly it brought to mind a wealth of put downs and downright insults I have overheard down the years. I was walking down a street one day when a door opened and swung on its hinge against a wall and a man stormed out the doorway yelling over his shoulder “You’re nathin’ but a hoor.” and he slammed the door behind him. The knocker had scarcely stopped shuddering when the door opened again and once more bounced off the wall, “aye, ‘n’ you’re nathin’ but a hoor master” was screeched after him. The door was firmly put back in its place. But on second thoughts it was swung open again “And you’re only a monkey's miscarriage” echoed down the Sunday street after him, but he held his head up high as he crossed the road and into the pub.

When I was a schoolboy I had a little puppy and I thought it was the best thing I had ever owned and needless to say, it was my pride and joy. I loved taking it for walks and I was gradually acquiring a big head as I listened to all the compliments people were liberally sprinkling me with.

One day “Banana” O’Reilly, an old docker/longshoreman was staggering home from the pub when he spotted me from across the road. As he walked over to me he was eyeing up the dog as a country man eyes up a lazy donkey, “Is that your dog?“ he inquired with his hands in his pockets and his cap askew, “Yes.” I replied beaming with pride, “Aye, I thought so” said Banana, “it looks like ye”.

Not One For Change, My Granny.

My maternal granny was definitely from another era. She was born in 1898 in Belfast. She was a McFadden who married an Armstrong and he worked in Belfast Shipyard from his early teens until his retirement. Her sight was taken from her by late- life diabetes and she died with an unwavering faith in God and an unbelievable distrust of man and the generation then growing up around her. She was constantly bemoaning the state of affairs in the country and was outspoken about changes taking shape all around her. The invention of TV made her delirious with ridicule and thought it a waste of electricity and she never owned one, though when visiting a neighbour who did own one she, her attention would increasingly be drawn to the screen, leaving her friend to interject to keep any conversation alive. When it came to the kitchen she was unadventurous in her cooking and stuck to the same weekly menu for decades. Tea leaves where bought by the pound weight and shovelled into a boiling metal kettle to make a brown/black witches’ brew that would keep an army of millions awake and alert through the longest night. Then one day she was introduced to the humble tea bag. She was at once indignant, mortified and curious but relented and admitted the farfetched concept into her kitchen. Eyebrows were raised by doubting family and friends but she wasn’t going to let teabags get the better of her. Then one day a neighbour paid her a visit and caught granny cutting the corners of the guilty teabags and emptying the contents into her old tea box on the counter. “Friggin’ nuisance these things”, she was reported as saying.

Why Do We Hate The Rich So Much?

The current worldwide money crisis has thrown the spotlight on the wheelers and dealers of Wall Street and stock exhanges around the world. Captains of industry and other finance sectors are being vilified by the people and the press of nation earth, some of them apparently have received death threats and none of these folk have been murdered yet. Meanwhile there has been a dramatic rise of nationwide mass murders in the USA after someone loses his job or home or his marriage.
Why do we become so irrational when it comes to paper money? Stress becomes a burden and minds turn black.
And guys who receive big buck bonuses have been forced to hand their hard earned dough back - well some of them. Personally, the responsibilites of selling high risk capital products would leave me sleepless and tight lipped with my tounge firmly pressed to the roof of my mouth, a sure sign I am petrified. Personally, I hate the bastards...but I do have a grudging admiration for them...if not a little jealously.
If any of their actions impacted upon my personal circumstances I am not sure how I would handle it.