The Last Word, March 7, 2009

I think it was Bill Bryson, back when he used to be a funny travel writer, who remarked that one of the joys of foreign countries was the childlike confusion that comes from not understanding the language.  Everything you read is weird, ridiculous, or, if you've got the right kind of mind, snigger-worthily suggestive. 

The observation rang true when I first read it because I'd just returned from Germany, where I'd noticed that they call the town hall the Rathaus, and if there's a more hilariously appropriate name for the building where local authorities carry out their squeaking and gnawing then I'm still waiting to hear it. 

So I was just back from either Munich or Frankfurt, and – actually, come to think of it, maybe it was Worms.  Or Gut Fahrt.  Or was it Bad Linda?  Perhaps Kissing?  Possibly even Petting?  These are all real German towns, except Gut Fahrt, which is in Austria, as is a certain accidentally obscene municipality which has a serious problem with English-speaking tourists stealing its four-letter-word-flaunting roadsigns. 

I was reminded of these infantile pleasures recently when I accidentally knocked over one of those spindly stands that people stick in their showers and overload with almost-empty bottles of liquid soap and used razors and sponges and unmatched lids.  It wasn't my house, so sadly I had to tidy up, wondering as I did so at that great mystery of female hair maintenance, the disproportionate ratio of hair conditioner to shampoo bottles (typically four-to-one; surely I'm not the only guy who has inadvertently conditioned his armpits?)  Anyway, the exotic multiple translations on a can of shaving foam caught my eye, simply because one of them is "Barberskum".  At the risk of sounding like a teenage moron in an online chatroom: heh heh heh.  I know a fair few hippies and beardies who'd agree with that. 

But I don't want to make fun of the Germans here.  That's Jeremy Clarkson's job, he does it very well, and in fact I think he has the copyright.  Silly placenames are universal, and you can find something to laugh at pretty much everywhere you go.  There's a village called Anus in Burgundy, France, for example.  There's a city called Batman in Turkey – and in fact its mayor, Hueseyin Kalkan, has threatened to sue Christopher Nolan, director of the Hollywood film The Dark Knight, for royalties arising from the unauthorised use of the name.  Which just goes to show that some people are even dumber than the adolescent in New Two Pothouse who snorts milk out of his nose every time he hears the word "Ballsbridge".

Wait till he hears about Bastardstown, Co. Wexford, though…

The Last Word, February 14, 2009

Here's a cautionary, and true, Valentine's Day story.

Sean and Jenny had a wild romance: fiery, adventurous, hungry… especially hungry.  They both loved fine food and tried to visit a nice restaurant at least once a week.

Giddy on passion and reckless zest, they developed an eating-out routine which combined their shared taste for theatrics with a soupçon of adrenalin.  This involved Sean rising from his seat mid-dessert and sinking to one knee before Jenny, producing with a flourish the unmistakable, iconic cube of a ring box, as every eye in the place turned to watch this age-old human fairytale.

They were good actors, and invariably Jenny's happy Oh-darling-I-do! would elicit a round of applause.  More importantly, it also brought material benefits: free drinks, at least, and sometimes – you'd be surprised how often – a torn-up bill.  Cakes were produced, waitresses sang songs.  There are at least three upmarket bistros in Dublin where you can still see, pinned up behind the bar, a yellowing Polaroid of the allegedly betrothed, toasting their fictitious future with champagne donated by the beaming manager who's embracing them both.

Even if their romantic hamming hadn't moved the boss, some well-to-do fellow patron might pull out his credit card, spurred to generosity by this sentimental reminder of the beauty and optimism of l’amour even in our uncaring, dog-eat-dog age.  The world will always welcome lovers, after all.

On holidays the pair fished for every conceivable freebie by claiming to be on honeymoon.  They even brought props to support their Bonnie-and-Clyde sham: wedding cards, a bridal veil, leftover confetti.  Happy, daring, aphrodisiac times ensued.

But of course they were playing with fire.  Not just the fire of potential discovery, but the fire that smoulders, usually undetected, in the hearts of the young and infatuated.  The lie oft-repeated became an internalised truth.  Jenny made certain assumptions, subconscious perhaps but no less important for that.  Sean meanwhile remained blissfully non-committal as the years whizzed by and the pretend engagements mounted.

It could only end one way.  After five years they parted.  Badly. 

Five more years passed, years of hard graft, hard knocks.  Lessons were learned on both sides.  And finally there was a reunion.  In a new restaurant, surrounded by another crowd of strangers, peace was made.  Dessert was ordered.  And Sean produced another little jewellery box – this time for real.

Tears in her eyes, Jenny rose to her feet.  "Too late, my darling, too late," was all she whispered as she walked away.  There was no applause.  Sean quickly settled the bill, dozens of sympathetic watchers pretending not to see, and left.

The Last Word, January 24, 2009

As Dell and a gaggle of their fellow fairweather multinationals retract their landing gear and blast off into orbit, it behoves us to consider why we are losing these vital economic supports. 

There are many obvious answers which we can add to the officially stated reason (of sluttier, cheaper workforces in funkier, sexier countries): these include our feeble transport and broadband infrastructure, our Russian roulette institutions of government, and the psychic discomfort which comes from sharing an island with members of both Westlife and Boyzone.

But look, there's an 800lb gorilla in the corner.  A huge, hairy, chest-beating gorilla, riding on the back of an elephant, which is also in the room.  And if we're truly to be honest with ourselves about why Dell and co. are leaving, we must look deep into this gorilla's soft, simian eyes and see the sad truth staring back at us.  They're leaving because we Irish, despite our legendary cute hoorness and chameleonic facility for absorbing new business skills, remain incapable of mastering that most basic of corporate requirements: showing up on time to meetings.

It's true.  Our feelings towards punctuality are much the same as Fungi the dolphin's towards the Heineken Cup, or a TD's to dinner receipts: sorry, don't care, not relevant to me.  The clock striking 10am on Monday morning isn't our cue to gasp "Omigod, late for the weekly kick-off!" and dash away in a panic; instead, it's a gentle reminder to shamble to the coffee machine before wandering around asking workmates "Where's the Hasselhoff meeting room again?"

We can't even show up on time to be sacked.  Even when our corporate paymasters zip over the Atlantic in their silver spaceships, don their ill-fitting human suits, and summon us together in the plant's biggest conference room for an "information session", we're late.  There they stand, wishing they hadn't gorged on all those puppies at breakfast, watching us shuffle warily in the back door, our eyes scanning the room for refreshments.  But there are no refreshments here today.  Just strategic imperatives.

“Flurgle flurgle floop floop,” they begin, before remembering to activate their earthling translator chips.  “Uh, hello everyone.  As you know, it’s been a tough year for Evilcorp–”  But we're still coming in, hiding behind one another, leaning against the back wall like cornerboys, sniggering and sending text messages.

You know what though?  We're right, dammit.  After all, meetings are second only to philosophy degrees for wasting valuable years.  Yes, we could have shown our Foreign Direct Investor overlords more respect in our timekeeping.  But still we can stand proud and say, yeah, of course I'll be late for my own funeral.  What's the hurry?

The Last Word, January 3, 2009

New year, new you!  Tired of having sand kicked in your face at the beach?  And in the office?  And by that girl you like?  Then turn your life around, loser!  Here's how.

1. Be Psycho.  It's estimated that up to 3.5% of top executives and managers are in fact "high-functioning" psychopaths.  Just to be clear, this doesn't mean that they kill for pleasure (though semi-state bosses sometimes kill for food, which is why they need so many Clerical Officers).  The term "psychopath" here refers to people who lack empathy and remorse, possess great cunning and intelligence and are entirely focused on self-gratification.  Model yourself on these people.  Cultivate narcissism and temper tantrums.  Erode your conscience by downloading the same mp3s over and over (this costs the music companies even more!), stealing lodgement slips from banks (they can't chain THOSE down!), and reading the business news (where the pros show how it's really done!).  The corner office will be yours by Q3, guaranteed.

2. Communicate.  As the squeeze gets tighter, it's all about "soft skills", which is corporate mumbo-jumbo for "made-up abilities that we can't measure".  And skills don't come any softer or more meaningless than communication.  To boost your communication skills, copy those kerr-azy Mediterraneans who, famously, talk with their hands.  Studies show that they eat better, live longer, and copulate more than you.  So wave, gesticulate, punch the air, grind your fists together, wallop the table.  Try it in restaurants, in the executive washroom, at your disciplinary review.  You'll immediately become at least 25% more awesome.

3. Visualise.  It's well-known that by picturing your desired outcome (you at the wedding altar, perhaps, clasping a petrified-looking Cecelia Ahern by the wrist), you ACTUALLY MAKE IT COME TRUE.  Far-fetched?  Not really – Noel Edmonds thinks it was his scribbled notes to "the cosmos" which got him back on TV, and c'mon, how stupid is that?  But anyway, if you're too dull or lazy to actually picture anything in, y'know, your imagination, simply send us a brief description and €199 per image and we'll knock something up in Microsoft Paint.  Sorry, on our high-end graphics supercomputer. 

4. Wallow.  Science insists (and David Beckham proves) that physical exercise is good for the brain.  But not many people know that the reverse is also true: mental exertion is good for your body.  So get fit already with an intensive weekend-long sofa sprawl with crosswords, a box set of Lost, and some really intellectual reading material, Michael Moore or something.  You won't want to waste time cooking, so stock up on snacks.  Maybe fetch a bucket too.  Now think yourself thin!

So remember: Psycho-Communicate-Visualise-Wallow, or PCVW for short.  In Roman numerals, that says 2009!  Make it your year!

The Last Word, December 20, 2008

There's an advert running on the radio these days that says "Christmas starts when you send your first card," or words to that effect.  I don't remember what the ad is for – hare coursing or something, I don't really care.  But I disagree with its message.  Because we all have our own unique Christmas kick-off signals, our personal seasonal starter's pistol.  And for me, Christmas really begins when I catch my first annual viewing of a particular long-running television ad. 

No, I'm not talking about the primal evil of that sub-Spielbergian effort to turn Santa into a computer-generated soda pop shill selling his magic soul for the Coca-Cola dollar.  No, for true seasonal spirit, you gotta look to those Mom'n'Pop firms who remember what Christmas is about, who really care about their customers, who truly love each and every consumer.  In other words, the major international alcohol conglomerates.  Those guys are there for you, man.

You've surely guessed where this is leading: yes, to the winter postcard scene broadcast every December by Anheuser-Busch Inc. (though they’d prefer to be called "the people who bring you Budweiser").  DododododododoDOdododooo, hum the carol singers.  And the horns go fa-fa-FA-fa-fa-FAA.  Then again, a couple of tones higher.  And so it goes, building to that nut-roasting finale: Ah-ah-ah-ahh-ahh, AH-AH-AH-AHH, as the bells jingle softly and those massive horses snort and stomp like Bono murdering “White Christmas” in some hellish stadium somewhere.

You can just picture the happy, ruddy faces, can't you, breath steaming in the frosty Christmas air?  Now there's an ad for the ages, one you can join in with, singing along, arms around your drunken office workmates, staring in the window of a TV shop at two in the morning, all of you bellowing lustily at the top of your lungs.  That is, I imagine such a thing could happen.  I've never actually seen it, or anything.

But anyway.  This ad has been around so long now, who can say for sure that this lovely, lilting melody isn’t a genuine traditional piece of Christmas music?   Possibly it was discharged directly from the Clydesdales themselves, like the beer they advertise.  But I prefer to think a benevolent Elf hummed it into the ear of Bud's head of marketing while he slept.  Yes, I know this is not the case, but let’s pretend.  What is Christmas about, after all, if not alcohol, TV and fairytales?

And so I say to the Budweiser people: you’re sitting on a gold mine.  You could have next year’s Christmas No. 1, easy.  All you need is someone to sing it.  And as it happens, I know a bunch of guys who already know all the “Dodododoos”.  Call me in the New Year, we’ll talk business.

The Last Word, November 1, 2008

Dogs or cats?  Beatles or Stones?  Connery or Brosnan? 

Here’s an easy one: spiders or flies?

It's spiders, right?  Everyone hates flies.  Spiders kill flies.  Therefore spiders are our friends.  Or so the syllogism goes.

But hold on a minute.  Consider a housefly.  A big inkspot bluebottle, dumb as Microsoft Vista, loudly advertising its presence with that unmistakable buzz, interrupted only by the comical thuds of its little body crashing into the window.  That's right, it’s trying to get out.  It doesn't want to be inside.  It’s just as unhappy with the situation as you are.  But while indoors, it’s easy to spot, easy to evict and easy to kill.

Now consider a spider.  Silently, commando-like, it violates your home with malice and demonic intelligence, penetrating via vents or cracks or maybe sneaking a ride in your hair, no doubt excreting thousands of eggs while there ensconced.  Once inside, it spins endless strands of slimy, adhesive and near-invisible webbing, ideally located for maximum inconvenience and face-enveloping potential.  In very short order that gossamer grossness will fill with the disgusting, dessicated corpses of its vampirised victims, melding with your curtains as they slowly decompose.

And we say SPIDERS are our friends?  Wow.  For all of our supposed human sympathy with the underdog, we've really thrown in our lot in with the creepy monsters on this one.  Yet remarking that you hate flies less than spiders is like streaking at a funeral; it’s guaranteed to cause upset.  There are people who deeply, passionately, genocidally detest flies.  And there are people who go batcrap crazy insane if they see you kill a spider.

This is why entire mythologies have sprung up to protect the excessively-legged little bastards.  Oooh, kill a spider, seven years bad luck.  Oooh, kill a spider, a fairy cries.  Kill a spider, your testicles will shrivel.  Remember Robert the Bruce and the spider who never give up?  Charlotte's feckin' web?  We brainwash our kids to worship the hateful things.  "Look, baby, a spider! See the beautiful patterns he makes! He's so clever!"  And like that, another slave to arachnophilia is branded.

But killing flies… Heck, we have entire industries devoted to killing flies.  There are more sprays, tapes, zappers and gizmos engineered to slaughter flies than there are liars in the Dail.  Society wants you to kill flies.  Government, big business, Michael O'Leary, the Pope, they're all behind you in your brave, fly-killing endeavours.  I'm surprised there isn't a grant of some kind. 

Look, of course I’d prefer if both species just stayed the hell away.  But since they won’t, the much-maligned fly has me in his doomed, diseased corner.

Next week, brown sauce vs. ketchup.

The Last Word, September 27, 2008

So... is everybody here?  That's great... is this thing on?  Testing, testing, one-two, one-two... can you hear me down the back?  Okay.  We're good to go.

First of all, my sincerest thanks to you all for attending this extraordinary general meeting, especially at such short notice, and apologies if the Bollinger isn't fully chilled.  I know there's been a lot of concern about the future of our great organisation, in these fiscally precarious times, so I'm hoping I can answer a lot of your questions here today.  Sorry, Kerry?  Can you just close that door there love, you never know when the paparazzi might sneak in.  Thanks.

Anyway, I'm going to cut straight to the chase.  Yes, we are looking at drastic cuts in overall vapidity and meaninglessness.  Now, hold on people - wait, let me finish here, please.  Colleen, please, sit down.  Please.  We have to face reality like everyone else, and the reality is, demand for our sensational and mediagenic antics is in sharp decline.

Now, this doesn't mean we have to stop falling drunkenly out of taxis or hurling telephones at ordinary people.  These are fine, important things, things which will always be a special part of our noble profession.  But the intelligence coming from our demographic monitoring partners in Pricewaterhousecoopers is that public interest in the international celebrity milieu has fallen by an annualised 17.6% over the past quarter.  I won't lie to you: this is bad news.  The time for action is now.  Pardon?  Why, yes, thanks Kate, some cocaine would be lovely.  Cheers.

Now, snifffff, where was I... Yes, of course.  Given this decline in our metaphorical stock, we on the Steering Legation of Excessively Beautiful Socialites (SLEBS) have drawn up an action plan to minimise the bottom-line impact.  We need to celeb smarter, not harder.  That means, simply, think.  Think before you adopt another Vietnamese baby.  Think before you cheat on, or with, Jude Law.  Launching a fashion line remains strategically solid, but leaked sex videos are diluting our market presence. 

So think, that's all.  Run the simulations.  Talk to our in-house advisors.  The support is there.  We also need to celeb a little more sparingly.  Knicker flashes are to be reduced by 60%, for example, while all class-B wardrobe malfunctions will require committee approval in advance.

Now, as previously communicated we have a scheduled press conference starting immediately.  I'm going to start letting the journalists in now.  Everybody ready?  Good.  Remember your training, people, and remember also the words of our illustrious founder Victoria: "Like, problee, it's the meeja innit?"  Right, open the doors - here we go!

(Affecting asinine twitter) Hi, guys!  Welcome to our par-tay!  We are SO depressioned about the economy, don'tcha know…  Whoops, silly me!  (Falls off stage)