I’m losing my mind
There are a lot of things you can miss when you’re not in Ireland. The craic, the banter, the Guinness, the stereotypes. And even things I despised before before I left don’t seem all that bad. I mean, maybe the racist taxi drivers are OK after all, maybe you can’t trust the wogs or the nips, who am I to say they’re not all a bit shifty.
But there are some things that just can’t be forgiven, and I’m still convinced that The Irish Times Saturday magazine is a blot on all society; a decadent obsequious wankrag that would make even Caligula vomit with rage (as opposed to vomiting to make more room for delicious elephant pie).
My current situation (unemployed,alone) has led my disdain for ‘The Magazine’ to be transformed from a tiny, furious fetus who would kick my belly as I let my friends touch, and my relatives would tell me what a cute little metaphor he’d be, into a 116 foot rage giant who would tear my urethra apart before ripping off my head and pissing down my neck just because he could.
It’s most abhorrent quality is the blatant hypocrisy; a magazine that 2 years ago couldn’t get a sentence out without a mention of the Celtic Tiger, and how fluffy and wonderful everything was, and once had ‘Rasberries and Mascarpone’ on their ‘What’s Hot’ list (because ‘Strawberries and Cream is so passé’) now harp on about how the Celtic cubs can’t survive in the Celtic wilderness, and are being picked off by Recessionary Game-hunters ploughing through the plains of disenfranchisement.
Firstly, a Celtic Tiger would be as shit an animal as it is a metaphor, and would almost definitely be destroyed by a Gallic Bear in an international economy metaphor duel. Secondly, the people who write for and read the Irish Times Magazine aren’t generally as badly hit by the recession as many others, though admittedly they may have to switch back to strawberries and cream.
In my mind there are no editorial meetings for the magazine, but rather a series of macabre dinner parties with the word ‘Recession’ projected on the wall while all the guests fart through their mouths and snort crumbled up meringue off of Superquinn Club cards, while Rosin Ingle sits in a bowl chair in the corner contemplating her error.
That said, knowing my luck, they probably did a special supplement today on how to make the world a better place by wiping orphan’s tears and giving stray dogs bellyrubs. ‘Cause that’s the kind of pricks they are.
TV listings are pretty handy though.
