The Last Word, August 29 2009

Saturday night.  Jimmy taps the wrong PIN into the ATM three times and the SOB eats his card.  So he grabs a BLT from TGI Friday and takes the DART to a friend's party.  He had RSVPed in advance but forgot it was BYOB; there was a bit of Q&A at the door, it all got a bit OTT.  Once inside he met a lovely VIP who gave him some welcome TLC, but he badly needed a little R&R next AM – so pour him some OJ, ASAP please, and stick on a chill-out CD, OK?

It's easy to get confused by acronyms, and surely I'm not the only guy who ever accidentally sat through a meeting of the Automobile Association.  Take POS, for example.  If you work in retail, you probably read this instinctively, unthinkingly, as Point of Sale.  In logistics, it's Proof of Shipment.  If you know the Caribbean, you'll see the airport code for Port of Spain, capital of Trinidad and Tobago.  In other walks of life it means Part of Speech, Probability of Success, Porcelain on Steel, and many more.  Sadly though, the POS phrase most frequently applicable to our plastic society begins with the words "piece of".  Which neatly side-stepped obscenity brings us conveniently to our acronym du jour: NAMA, of course.

Supposedly standing for National Asset Management Agency, these four little letters are ripe with semiotic potential.  RTE Radio 1 recently held a competition inviting alternative titles for NAMA, eliciting a huge number of responses.  In fact, they practically write themselves.  Never Admit Mistakes or Apologise.  Needs of Affluent Minority Ascendant.  Numbskulls Awarded Millions (Again).  There's a few to be getting on with.

Yes, explanations for NAMA, the acronym, are easy.  Explanations for NAMA itself, however, are rarer than bus tickets in the O’Donoghue laundry basket.  Like GUBU, with which it shares that catchy consonant-vowel-consonant-vowel pattern, NAMA is poised to become another classic Irish bad-times buzzword.  But unlike GUBU, and in common with POS, the Irish NAMA faces competition from a host of global alternatives.  Turns out it’s a popular construct.  Heck, maybe those who describe NAMA as “the only game in town” are actually referring to the National Alliance of Methadone Advocates (NAMA).  Or the Native American Music Awards (NAMA).  Maybe even the National Anger Management Association (NAMA).

It’s possible.  But with our NAMA's supposed “Assets” devaluing by the second, perhaps the most accurate definition differs from the Government’s version by just one letter.  Try changing the first “a” in “National” to an “o” and see what you get…

The Last Word, July 19 2009

You've no doubt heard of the legendary American frontiersman, Davy Crockett, who, according to the popular ballad, “kilt him a b'ar when he was only three” (a b'ar, of course, being a bear with a Tennessee accent).  There are however many who believe that the unfortunate Mr Crockett was in fact “killed in a bar when he was only three”.

To be fair, a toddler meeting his doom in a tavern brawl is, sadly, rather more believable than said infant managing to despatch a 2,000-pound grizzly.  Let's be honest: most three-year-olds couldn't even wrestle a placid medium-sized goat to the ground.  God help us if there's a war.  Especially if it’s with the bears.

There are thousands of such misheard lyrics floating around: we all have a few, usually without even knowing it.  I always thought Don Henley was singing "I can see you, your bra strap shining in the sun" in his wearisome 1980s dirge "The Boys Of Summer", for example.  But why do we find humour in such errors?  Maybe because, as the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein put it, "Language is the harmony between thought and reality".  Hence our amusement when language accidentally subverts or distorts itself: it's like reality has changed in some absurd and unexpected way. 

Nowadays we have many new tools to help us mangle and pervert our words: spellcheckers on computers, for instance.  My boss recently sent an email to several company fat-cats which concluded by apologising "for the incontinence".  A minor typo while spelling "inconvenience" had been erroneously corrected by his PC's dictionary-robot; far be it from me to cast asparagus, but you really need to antipasto problems like that.  At least he didn’t sign off with “manly thanks”. 

I myself was once invited to a job interview with the tantalising enticement that "it could be the best love you'll ever make."  I did not, in the end, make that particular move.  Nor have I ever seen the band Assylum play - but I have seen their advertising.  Just last weekend, I noticed a poster for an imminent amateur dramatic production: top billing goes to someone called "Staring Tommy Magee".  Sounds a bit creepy.  Don't think I'll bring the kids to that.

The funniest of these carry the bracing shock of hidden truth, though.  There's a book lying around at home somewhere that, at a glance, seems to deal with "Your Child's Development: From Birth to Obsolescence."  Similarly, my attempt at upbeat cheer in a recent text message was transmuted to something rather more nihilist when "How's tricks?" became "How's trials?"  And what is life, indeed, if not a series of trials?

Well, that’s my massage for this week.  It’s back to bushiness as usual next time, with features on underfloor hating and onanic farming, a great recipe for friend chicken, a free Scared Heart of Jesus poster and a special “Animals of Farting Wood” comic for younger readers.

The Last Word, July 4 2009

I finally gave in and bought a barbeque recently. 

I say "gave in" because, though I'm an affable man of few dogmatic opinions, I realised long ago that I'd never be afflicted by that peculiar modern malady which can only be healed through the purchase of a outsized camping stove.

This is uncharacteristically strong-minded of me, but I have my reasons.  Barbeques are expensive, they take up a lot of room, and as a sedentary slob who needs no excuse to dodge exercise, I can't think of anything more profoundly wrong than a device which, when a sunny afternoon comes along, replaces the natural instinct to go swimming or kicking a football with the lunatic ambition to torch the crap out of slabs of animal fat and force them directly into your arteries.

So what changed my mind?  Well, they're cheap now, for a start.  Mine was reduced from €969 to just 57c, and in fact the man in the shop would probably have paid me to take it away if I'd haggled.  Times are tough for vendors of useless contraptions that look about as sensible in these post-Tiger days as alloys on a Massey.

I guess I was affected by a touch of heatstroke too.  With July 4^th coming up – arrived, now – the notion of a big family gathering over some sizzling steaks had a certain Yankee Doodle appeal to it.  I've always loved those bins full of ice and beer bottles that you see in American TV shows, and this seemed like a good excuse to put one together.

But having christened my barbeque last weekend my historic disinterest has come screaming back.  Revelation number one was that you have to assemble them yourself.  Sure, we assemble lots of stuff these days, but that IKEA bookshelf under the stairs isn't likely to explode and kill granddad if you leave a few clips out.  Revelation number two, which admittedly everyone except me probably already knew, was that you really have to pre-cook meat on a conventional grill before finishing it over the barbie's flame, unless you want to give everyone diphtheria.  Which has to raise the question, really, what the hell is the point of having one at all?  Revelation number three, and the final straw for me, is you have to clean about a ton of grease off them after each use – and sharpish too, or you'll have a garage full of rats. 

I dunno, maybe I just have no sense of fun.  What I do have though is one nearly new three-burner gas barbeque.  It'll be in the Articles For Sale next week, if you're interested.

The Last Word, June 6 2009

To mark yesterday's orgy of democracy, we present a special Last Word cut-out-and-flush Q&A guide to Irish electoral politics.

Question: Why do we need to vote?  I'm happy with the politicians we have.

Answer: Haha!  Very droll.  Seriously though... what we had yesterday was (1) local elections, which simply decide whose parishes get their potholes filled first; (2) European elections, where we choose people to holiday in Belgium and sign away our fishing quotas; and (3) a couple of by-elections, totalling just one eighty-third of a general election.  So if you didn't vote because the text number never flashed up on the bottom of your screen or whatever, don't worry about it now.

Q: Why are our politicians all so boring?  Can we get some sexier ones, like in France?

A: Even with their massive salaries, premature index-linked pensions, fictitious expenses and guaranteed gravy on the lecture circuit, TDs are relatively poorly paid i.e. they make less than their relatives, to whom they slyly direct juicy State contracts.  So it really only attracts the dregs and psychos.  However, if you're one of Ireland's dozen-odd sexy people, why not consider a career in politics?

Q: What qualifications do I need?

A: Most importantly, don't be too clever.  Nobody likes a smarty-pants.  Say things like "I'm a pillock of the local community" or "If I win I'll have some big feet to fill."  Say "refute" when you mean "deny", even though you damn well know, or should know, it actually means "disprove".  And remember, politics is all about fighting dirty.  You can always win by shouting loud enough and first enough.  If, on top of this, you can put your foot in your mouth while your head is already up your arse, you're destined for greatness.

Q: What does "A week is a long time in politics" mean?

A: TDs only work six days a year (although they do sit on committees for up to three additional hours).  This works out at an average 55 minutes per week.  So to them, five working days in the air-conditioned leather-cushioned Dáil is about the same as three lifetimes in a Siberian salt mine would be to us.  Hence the expression "a week is a long time in politics".  Also, MEPs sometimes don't get back to their tax-break seaside mansions until as late as 7pm on Friday, if the Learjet is delayed at Brussels Zaventem, and this makes the week seem even longer.

Q: Aren't you just being childishly cynical about the glory of democracy?

A: I utterly refute that statement.

The Last Word, May 23 2009

Today is May 23, commonly written as 23/5.  So naturally I'm thinking about the Law of Fives.

I first read about the Law in the Illuminatus! books when I was an impressionable teenage dweeb about 23 years ago.  Maybe you've heard of it too.  If not, then you're about to acquire an absurd mental tic which will compromise your rational thinking for the rest of your life.  Hope you don't mind.

Basically, the Law of Fives states that everything is related to the number 5, its fractions 2 and 3, or their concatenation, 23.  I don't have my Illuminatus! books anymore, but as I recall, they're peppered with illustrations of how there's something genuinely historic and indeed sinister about the number 23.  Here are some examples:

The earth is tilted at an angle of 23 degrees.  There are 23 letters in the Latin alphabet.  The first prime numbers are 2, 3 and 5.  Each human parent contributes 23 chromosomes to a new baby; human chromosomes are arranged in 23 pairs.  The philosopher Descartes chose the equation 2+3=5 as a sample objective truth in his seminal “Cogito Ergo Sum”.  The number of people required to exceed a 0.5 probability that some random pair share a birthday is 23 (try this experiment at work, it’s fun).

Wait, it gets better.  Divide 2 by 3 to get .666, the decimal of the Beast.  Time Magazine was founded in 1923.  Radioactive Uranium is U235.  The Lunar Cycle is 28 days, or 23+5.  The Mayan calendar ends on December 23, 2012 (and 2+0+1+2 = 5).  Shakespeare was born on April 23, 1564 and died on April 23, 1616 (the very same day as Miguel de Cervantes).  His famous First Folio, without which he’d probably have been forgotten, was published in 1623.

But there’s more!  Tupac Shakur was shot 5 times!  Psalm 23 in the Bible, “The Lord is my shepherd…”, is TOTALLY the best!  There are 22 books of Revelations, begging the question, what happens in the missing 23rd???  Caesar was stabbed 23 times!  The world's most evil band is U2 – note that U is the 21st letter in the alphabet, and 21+2 gives 23!  Similarly, the current Taoiseach's initials are 2nd and 3^rd, assuming the Government hasn't fallen yet!  Like, wow!

Cretinous?  Well, yes.  But you just try getting through the rest of your life without seeing 23 in every phone number, lottery result, address or anniversary.  And remember, today is May 23.  There are 222 days remaining in the year, and that's, well, the number 2 written 3 times.  C'mon... isn't that just a tiny bit weird?

The Last Word, May 16 2009

I was involved in a banana-related incident at work this week.

My plan was to get a Tracker bar from one of those vending machines with the transparent plastic carousels inside.  They’re subdivided into differently sized compartments for lessees to load with tasty, additive-laced crap of assorted shapes and prices.  This infernal device is called a Shopatron.  I swear to God.

So I'm standing there like a gonk, holding the rotate button and scanning for my target.  A chocolate chip Tracker spins by but I barely glance at it.  As a health-conscious modern guy I’m limiting myself to the nuts’n’oats variety.  My body is a temple.  Or at the very least a grotto. 

Lost in a trance, I fail to see the overripe banana in the Shopatron's lowest level.  It was clearly intent on escape, having somehow manoeuvred its way to the very edge of its Perspex prison.  All for naught, however, as it was now being dragged and mushed against the front pane of the machine, shredding swiftly into a bruise-coloured smear of gory potassium horror.  I watched, paralysed in ghoulish fascination, as the sickly gunk continued to spew and the evacuating peel writhed like a worm on a hook, torturously expiring at five revolutions per minute.

The fact is, I hate those damned machines, and this disembowelling of the friendliest of fruits was only the latest in a series of embarrassments.  I've lost track of the times I've absent-mindedly opened the door on an empty slot while the delicacy I desired gurns spitefully and inaccessibly at me from an adjoining corner of this Escheresque hall of mirrors.  Sometimes I let the spring-loaded hatch slip from my trembling hands before retrieving my bounty: it slams back immediately, and of course you only get to open it once. 

It's possible my issues with vending machines spring from a pathetic childhood episode in Islington Tube Station when a packet of crisps I was wrestling out of the vicelike flap-trap at the base finally exploded all over London City’s finest pinstripe suits.  Or it could be the sinister soulless menace I always get from those spooky Dutch shops consisting entirely of coin-operated automats selling weird dumplings and battered eggplant.  They kill people too, you know: dozens every year.  Apparently it was a big problem for the US Army in World War II, soldiers being crushed by heavyweight grub dispensers.  

We worry about robots, or CCTV, or government databases.  Fair enough.  But watch out for that humming machine-monster in the corner too, that’s what I say.

The Last Word, May 9, 2009

Surely the Lotto is nature's most humbling and amazing force: more powerful than an angry Social Partner, more miraculous than a nicotine patch, more life-changing than a full Steve Austin bionic reconstruction.

What else can yank us, in the twinkling of an eye, out of our dismal lives of education/exploitation/expiration and into a state of grace in a leisurely world of idleness and luxury?  Multiple mortgage-free homes, Ferraris for all the family, wristwatches made of pure plutonium… these are the plans that burble from the gleeful lips of Lotto winners, and rightly so. 

Of course there are always the tedious few who proudly declaim that the cash won't change them, that they'll report into Mr. Burkett in Hayes Haberdashery at 9am on Monday, same as they have for the past ninety years.  These people don't deserve to win and should be made to give the money back – or better still, to convert their lately acquired fortunes into fivers and throw the whole damn lot into the air, ideally right outside the Examiner offices on Lapp's Quay.

We've all heard the depressing statistics about the futility of even buying a ticket, how the odds are so low that you're more likely to be hit by lightning or squashed by Elvis landing a flying saucer on your head.  Well thanks a heap, mathematics!  Do you mind if we dream a little dream over here?  And what is the Lotto after all but the very stuff of dreams, a sort of magical divine selection, the hand of Zeus descending from the clouds to pick me up and deposit me gently into Jennifer Aniston's arms, somewhere in Malibu.  C'mon, Jen's still hot, you know she is…

But here's the thing.  There are people, believe it or not, to whom these delirious fantasies of Lotto wealth seem quite pathetic.  Take, say, Barry O'Callaghan.  A recent estimate values the 39-year-old publishing and software mogul at almost €350m – so the average Lotto jackpot, to him, is about as exciting as winning a Christmas turkey would be to me (note: I have never won a Christmas turkey).  Beside such colossi, we are mere monkeys in the zoo, munching innocently on the insects we pick from our mangy proletarian hides. 

We can take some consolation in the existence of people like Sean Quinn, who's apparently worth two and half billion.  I like to think that the O'Callaghans of this world look at the Quinns and think, enviously: "Flash gits, nobody needs that much."  For there's always someone better – and worse – off than you, in the end.  Exactly how much is enough?  And how long is a piece of string, anyway?