*sigh*

Cancer Society demands €1 hike in price of cigarettes.

What do they want that €1 used for?

Combat cigarette smuggling.

Here, ladies and gentlemen, we have an example of a complete ignorance of the most basic fundamentals of supply and demand.

I am currently smoking pipe tobacco that I bought in France.  It cost me €6.50 a pack. If I were to buy the equivalent quantity here, it would cost me €16 a pack. Now, if I can find someone on a street corner or in a pub who will sell me that tobacco at six or seven yoyos a pop, am I going to refuse?  There is a demand, so there will be a supply.

Trying to combat the sale of cheap imported cigarettes by increasing the price of the local ones is sheer madness.

But then I see that The Irish Cancer Society is one of the main sponsors of ASH.

NOW it makes sense.

There was some panel discussion or other on, and I just happened to overhear a line from one of the women there.

“If we had a greater representation of women in the Dail, then maybe we wouldn’t be in our current mess”.

It’s funny how when someone says something like that, you get a mental impression of the Dail being full of people like Mary Robinson or Mary McAleese.  Reality is somewhat different. 

Take for example our Minister for Health.  Here we have an obese teacher who apparently had a vision as to how our health service is to be run. In the space of a few short years, she has ploughed billions into the system, and has managed to utterly destroy a system that had been functioning reasonably well.  Most Irish people would now prefer to fly to Bosnia or Somalia for medical treatment rather than risk the Irish one.  Her other great claim to fame is a complete blind eye when it comes to expenses.  She seems to think that the government jet is her own private taxi.  So much for feminine compassion there.

Then there is our Tainiste, or Deputy Prime Minister.  She is Ireland’s answer to Sarah Palin.  Her qualification for the position is that she’s the daughter of a politician, and a social worker.  Her only real value lies in her persistent ability to amuse us all with her complete and utter ignorance of what is going on.

How about our Bev?  Daughter of another disgraced politician, she is famous for aiding and abetting tax evaders during her time as a bank employee.  In her time, she resigned once in disgrace from government, and has been sacked twice, always managing to inveigle her way back in somehow.  I suppose it’s a case of corruption loving corruption.  She is also famous for her love of expense accounts and allowances.

I nearly forgot Gruppenführer Hannafin!  Again, we have a daughter of a politician and a founder member of SPUC [an extreme right wing anti-abortion, anti-contraception and anti-divorce group].  Somehow she has ended up as Minister for Social and Family Affairs.  Fuck!  She has about as much feminine compassion as a rampant bull on steroids.

I suppose there is a sort of intellectual argument for having more women in the Dail.  But it remains just that – an intellectual argument for debate over a pint.

Women in the Dail are no better and no worse than their male counterparts.

A funny thing strikes me about all the above.  With the exception of our Bev [who is the only one not to get a top job], they are all called Mary.

Is this a conspiracy?

But why, I hear you ask, should someone with such a sunny disposition be in a foul mood?

Loads of reasons.

It started this morning when I went looking for a fresh pair of socks.  I wasn’t looking for a matching pair of socks – I haven’t seen one of them since 2003.  No.  I was looking for two socks that were at least roughly the same size and roughly the same material.  I feel strange wearing a knee length woollen sock on one foot a nylon stocking on the other.  It just isn’t right.  I eventually found a reasonably matched pair that are roughly the same size and both are wool.  Incidentally, I think lime green and red look quite well together?

Then the guinea pigs started to annoy me.

Minnie is still annoying the fuck out of me and Fizz.  She’s still demanding a good ride off Fizz and Fizz is getting rather pissed off with her.  The incessant whirring is getting on both our nerves.  I wrote to the vet about my little problem.  Normally he is an excellent vet, but by way of reply, he just sent me a recipe for Honey Roast Guinea Pig.  Lazy bastard.

Then there’s the Bug.

The fucking thing just will not go away, and it is irritating the hell out of me.  My head is still all fuzzed up so when I sit down to write something, my brain just says “bleagh!” and the words don’t come.  I have loads of things to write about but a very uncooperative head. On top of that, the medicinal whiskey is costing me a fortune.  A bottle a day soon eats into the old pension, and at this rate, I’m going to have to revert to the home brew stuff that Pullit keeps under the counter, but that is only really good for cleaning drains.

And I’m cold.

Fuckit!

I have just realised I have to go down to the village, even though I don’t feel like it.

I have to buy some honey.

Has someone discovered the secret to eternal life?

At least they didn’t say ‘only one careful owner’?

P.S. For those who don’t know, Mount Argus is a church!

The Nanny State here wants to reduce the alcohol limit to 50mg, for ordinary drivers and 20mg for learners and professionals.  It will save countless lives, they say.

A backbencher in the government had the temerity to suggest that some people drove better with a couple of pints on them.  There was, of course an uproar.  The chairman of the Road Safety Authority, Gay Byrne [qualifications? A chat show host.  Don’t ask!] declared that this was “sheer madness” and that “If you believe that, you’ll believe anything”.

Now I am an open minded person.  I won’t say I’ll believe anything, but I would never dismiss a claim like that out of hand.

Nor did the Sunday Times.

They took another backbencher and a reporter and they put them through a driving simulator to test reaction times and the like.  They then fed them with a couple of pints of Guinness and tested them again.

Guess what?

Yup.  Reaction times were better.

Of course the Road Safety Authority have dismissed this as “a gimmick” and “not a scientific study”.  They say that “overwhelming body of scientific evidence that shows even one drink impairs driving”.  In other words, they are dismissing what they don’t want to hear and are falling back on the “overwhelming body of evidence” shite that they love so much.

Of course this little experiment is going to be hushed up.  It doesn’t fit into the pattern that the Nanny State likes to present.  They like to throw statistics and “scientific research” at us to prove how their way is the right way and they don’t like these figures to be questioned.

So far they have told us that banning smoking in the workplace will improve health [false] and will reduce the number of smokers [false].  They have said that banning the display of cigarettes will stop young people smoking [false].  Now they are saying that eliminating alcohol from the roads will save “countless lives”, and I maintain that that is yet another falsehood.

I am not saying that any drunk is a good driver.  Far from it.

What I am saying is not to believe all the shite that the Nanny State throws at us.

The concept of having a book published and then forgetting about it may seem strange, but with my memory, anything is possible.

Back at the beginning of the year there was a lot of hype and a little publicity over it, what with radio and newspaper interviews and the like, but since then, it sort of slipped my mind.

An old friend called around a couple of weeks ago.  He hadn’t been here in a year, and he commented on a yoke Herself had hung on the wall.  It was a full page article about the book launch, and my friend commented on it.

“What’s this?” says he, reading the article.

“Oh!” says I, and to my own surprise I found myself telling him that I had had a book published.  I had forgotten about it.

After he had gone, I took a peek into the page in Amazon to see how I was ranking on the grand scheme of things.  Wow!  2,795,545th in the list of book sales.  I’m in the top three [million]!!

I also found that someone had stuck in a review.  It was rather flattering. 

Head rambles is a delightful read which makes you stop and laugh at the small things that make Irish life unique. The random order of stories and topics makes the book feel how it was meant to; like a witty, grumpy old man venting his frustrations about everyday life to the world.
You can almost see him sitting at the laptop with a cup of tea and his pipe. Highly recommended.

They obviously hadn’t read it…..

I must get in touch with Mercier.

I must find out if they managed to sell any or all of the fifty copies that were printed. 

I must find out if they have any spare copies.

I might buy a couple to give as presents.

I can give them to the Lads down in the pub, and really piss them off.

Where once there was one guinea pig, now there are two.

Fizz is an orphan, and was pining for her mammy who died last month.  So in a fit of utter foolishness I agreed to let her move in with Minnie.

Minnie is used to having friends who are ten times her size, and she is having some difficulty with a peer who is the same diminutive size as her.  She’s not quite sure what to make of Fizz.

When they were first introduced to each other, there was quite a racket as each thought the other was a predator or something.  There was a certain amount of territory establishment but they soon quietened down.  Minnie obviously had a long think about the situation, and unfortunately came to the conclusion that this new arrival was in fact a sex toy.

Minnie is a female, as is Fizz.  I have that on good authority.  Minnie apparently hasn’t been told that she is a female and promptly tried to shag Fizz’s brains out.  Fizz wasn’t impressed.

When that didn’t have the desired effect, Minnie rethought her position and decided she was the one who wanted a good rogering and started offering her services to Fizz.  Fizz isn’t interested.

Minnie is a randy little sod.  She gets The Urge roughly every hour and we get loud whirring noises as Minnie screams “fuck me” and shoves her arse in Fizz’s face.  Fizz, who obviously went to finishing school and kicks with the right foot, retreats to the bed and will have nothing to do with her.  Minnie eventually tires of this and goes and eats Fizz’s dinner.

Life never seems to be quite straightforward in Head Rambles Manor.

*sigh*

No sex today, please.

I explained yesterday that the head was a bit fuzzy, and while I wasn’t looking for any sympathy, I at the very least assumed you would understand if I didn’t write anything.

But no.  It’s coming up to four in the afternoon and I’m starting to get the snarky comments about the fact that I haven’t written today.

Are your lives so pathetic that you can’t last a full day without reading my stuff?  Are your lives that empty?  Are my musings that important in the scheme of things?

Have you tried doing something else instead?  Like living?

Just think about it from my perspective.  I’m sitting here with a blank mind, nicely relaxed, yet I am supposed to worry about what to write?  I mustn’t let my pathetic readers down must I? Am I supposed to worry about you sad people constantly pressing your refresh button in the hopes that I have published?

Well, today my response is “tough shit”.

I’m going to shut my eyes now and have a wee doze.

You lot can fuck off.

I’m not going to write anything today.

I have a bug.

I haven’t mentioned it before, because frankly it’s none of your business, and the only reason I am mentioning it now is that I AM PISSED OFF WITH IT.

It has been lurking around in my head and chest for the last three weeks or so, and if it doesn’t go away soon, I am really going to get annoyed.

I am sick of the stuffy head and the headaches and the cough and the aches.  I am tired of sweating when the central heating is off, and shivering when the heating is on.  Worst of all, I can’t think straight.

No.  On second thoughts, that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is the sympathy.

I fucking hate sympathy.

Herself is doing her best to ingratiate herself by trying to feed me Manuka Honey and shite like that.  She can grovel all she likes but she is not getting shoes for Christmas.  Barefoot was good enough for our forefathers, and it’s good enough for her.

The only time sympathy has an upside is when the lads down in the pub buy me a whiskey for the chest.  I make sure to cough loudly when I first enter, and that usually has the desired results.  With some judicious hacking I can get a full nights free whiskey out of the sympathy card.  The downside of that is that I have probably passed the bug on to everyone, so I will be drinking on my own in a couple of weeks time, or worse still – I’ll have to buy everyone else whiskeys out of sympathy.

I don’t know what the bug is.  It’s the first one I have had since I left work eight years ago, as I had no need for sick certs since then.

It’s probably the Pig Thing.

If it is, it’s no big deal.

Except that it won’t fucking GO AWAY.