Heaven Knocking

November 3, 2009

This Virgin Mary visiting Knock (In November? – I mean Fatima would still have a bit of the weather but hey ho what’s with the celestial beings) business continues and we now have not one but two – read ’em – two visionaries speaking with her at rather precise times, namely 3pm last Sunday.

 Her next scheduled appearance is on the 5th December – time to be agreed with her people – and in the meantime she is appearing on a gable wall in the Dominican Republic.

The Irish Times spoke with the “visionaries” (and they repeatedly use the inverted commas like kitchen tongs) and, for a lady who would have spoken Aramaic, she had a remarkably good grasp of English and passed on several messages.

Visionary one reported – “people were pulling out of me, tipping off me, throwing their children at me and all they wanted to do was touch me so I could heal them” (really, he is living my life) as she stated “I love all my children with my immaculate heart”. I can only imagine that baby Jesus was hoppin’ when she got home on the basis that he is the Immaculate Heart, she the Immaculate Conception. Still, its easy to get muddled in a crowd as she continued to say “I am the immaculate heart, Mother of all my children, Mother of all God’s children. I am the Immaculate Conception. I am Queen of the heavens. I am Queen of the Earth”

Disappointing that in an Irish crowd there was no-one to mention that Mrs Joseph Carpenter was getting a bit ahead of herself on the titles front.

 Finally all this endless visioning and interceding and being variously disappointed and smiling at “her people” has lead to her being a bit sketchy on current affairs – “I love all my children unconditionally with my immaculate heart, especially all my priests who are not listening to my call. I ask all my children to pray for my priests. Pray. Pray. Pray.”

I ask all my children to run away from Priests, run children run run run…..

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Starter for 10

October 13, 2009

Nina from Castlebar had a religious experience at the weekend:

“The sun was spinning in the sky. I experienced a feeling of total happiness. It is a feeling I would love to experience again. It was amazing. I felt marvellous.”

Was Nina

(a) at the Shrine to the Virgin Mary at Knock, County Mayo where the BVM was due to reappear at the weekend?

(b)staggering out of a club at Vauxhall at 8 in the morning having taken sweeties from a nice boy in a tanktop?

Dorian Gray – roadkill

September 25, 2009

Take one chillingly excellent book. Find a chillingly handsome young man who can combine naivety with decadent corruption in a hair flick. Engage a strong supporting actor.

So far so good.

This being a UK production, however, you have now spent all the money on the top tier actors.

What to do?

Well, lets work up the book – after all its is surely a truism that perfection can be improved on.

Hire some hopelessly wooden love interests and assume the charisma of the lead will hide the awfulness of the support. Round up a bunch of second rate British actresses so the audience can spend the duration wondering if Lady whosit is that whatsit bird from “Heartbeat”.

Create scenes of decadence and lust but suitable to maintain a “15” certificate.

Tone down the homoerotic element and have chillingly handsome young man make out with a bloke but in a strictly “I’m so decadent, let’s have a go” way. Maintain love interest in an underdeveloped subplot about how love nearly saves the day.

And finally introduce some pointless flashbacks to an abusive childhood to exculpate the wrong ‘un.

In thus fashion did the creators of the truly execrable film “Dorian Gray” manage to mangle the adaptation of Wilde’s “The Picture of Dorian Gray”.

One of the must chilling aspects of the book was the passivity of Dorian’s portrait. It did not communicate its corruption beyond the changes on the portrait itself nor was Dorian’s Faustian pact explicitly expanded upon. The inevitability of the corruption and the inability to resist or reverse it are at the heart of the novel. Suffice to say the movie makers could not leave this aspect alone. Short of doing the can-can round the garret room, the portrait could not have been more stripped of malevolence and made into a cheap horror flick pastiche.

And to think I brought a second date to this. The shame. Bad enough this movie took two hours of my life without condemning me to my dotage alone in the gin soaked wing backed armchair, the cats in the ever decreasing predatory circle.

Get aht of ma pahb

August 25, 2009

It seems that whenever Ireland’s Civil Partnership proposals are slipping off the news agenda, that some reactionary old contrarian or god botherer is wheeled out to annoy those who happen to believe human rights are universal and civil rather than a construct of moral law – which while each being a construct within a construct, the civil is at least not based on what god whispers in someone’s ear.

Thus we have Cardinal Brady exercised that someone’s objection to marrying gays – sorry civil partnering as everyone calls it here in the UK a few years on – represents an “alarming attack on the fundamental principle of freedom of religion and conscience”. Not as alarming perhaps as systemic abuse of children and cover up but nonetheless in the quite upsetting league – we almost spilt our tea.

Mother Church – that noble defender of human rights (not universal dear, that’s all a little socialist but rather those aligned to her interest and hers alone).

We had this in Islington ( I know – irony or what) when a registrar objected to performing such ceremonies and was reminded that in the first instance she would have nothing to do if she wasn’t marrying gays in Islington (ok – made up) but more pertinently that this was her fucking job (my emphasis) and to crack on with it. Be a prisoner of conscience on your own clock love.

As regards the rest well he may, or may not, be correct that a heterosexual marriage environment is the best one in which to raise a child, however, the point is moot because that is not happening. Independent corroboration could be provided by, oh, the four year olds getting beaten all shades of blue in Haringey by their mothers, mother’s lovers and mother’s lover’s brother or the surprising number of children doing perfectly fine in second families or alternative community structures. On balance though I suspect we should keep kiddie-Church dialogue muted for now. Suffice to say you can want the traditional family all you want these days – you just ain’t getting it or ain’t getting that, that show moved out of town long before the gays got in the act.

The good cardinal speaks also of the re-definition of family as if it were one incapable of alteration. The one possible fact he misses – or chooses to miss – is that the vast majority of gays have no interest in having children. I have no scientific proof of this except my own reasonably broad circle of gay friends, and the circles within, which ripples out to those who do have kids – well adjusted I add – though, its admitted, the majority of them are barely capable of nurturing an orange tree – and would have it no other way.

No, banging on about family like some old ham out of Eastenders is just a cheap way of getting the conservative brethren in bunker mode but honestly, good fadders, is wheeling out the noble cause to think only of the little kiddies the best defence?

Some of your crew think of the little kiddies just a little too much.

 

Those of you read this or are forced to read it through the kind intermediation of others – and you are at least 3 – will know one is not incontent (my blog, fuck you) to be seen as an aloof participant, wandering around one’s white cube, dressed a la Peggy Guggenheim and sipping the driest wine in such splendour.

In such moments preparing ones elegant supper (loving referred to by one of one’s closest as “pasta shite”) we came to the realisation that in our white cube we were not alone.

It was hard to know which of us was more traumatised by the realisation though admittedly only one of us was dead by the end of the engagement, so one yields the encounter gracefully.

Your writer has a thing about insects and suffice to say this was the biggest motherfucking spider you are likely to see.

Episode one of the skirmish took place on the kitchen workbench, when, in absently looking for some spices – not fennel be assured – the creature loomed in consciousness. There was a rapid retreat – an unkind and impartial commentator may have commented on a certain amount of not-quite-stiff-upper-lip squealing while the situation was assessed.

The initial phase of the battle (and really one considers it a war on terror) was complicated by the creatures presence proximate – I yield it good taste too – to a rather nice pair of Prada sunglasses.

Suddenly I understood the concept of collateral damage.

Operation freedom utiised a roll of kitchen paper (quilted naturally, this is Islington) – the roll providing the distance from the nasty part of the operations that allows us think surgical strikes are unpleasant things that happen to other things unconnected from ourselves.

Following the initial strike for freedom there was a withdrawal to appraise the situation (think Michael Flatley riverdancing across a London kitchen at speed without the I’m-a-bollocks-blouse).

Phase two revealed the flaw in the quilting technolocgy and a vaguely stunned creature exiting at reduced speed towards the Robert Roberts radio – like I’ll fall for that old canard. Strike two alas re-involved the Prada sunglasses in the equation (we like to think that somewere in NY Miu Miu screamed and clutched her head a la Harry Potter/Voldemort).

There then followed a number of indeterminate strikes of increasing violence but diminshing impact as in truth one of us had left the building.

Death, if we are to list advantages, is so final, and one was able to serenely add the pasta to the boiling water and attend then the disposal of the lost.

Being entirely assured of the enemy makes it easier to sleep.

Tanya Gold, writing in the Guardian Saturday, says of directing explicit sexist abuse at Harriet Harman:

 “It is the equivalent of calling Peter Mandelson a screaming faggot or denouncing Trevor Phillips with the “n” word.

She is of course correct but it is interesting to see this unconscious hierarchy of equality (an oxymoron yes, but explains it better than “discrimination”) in so labelling Peter Mandelson but making sure the denunciation (hmmm, there too Tanya) of Phillips is suitably, appropriately, qualified.

 I do not believe it is too sensitive to suggest that unconscious slippages such as this can lead to an unconscious acceptance that it is somehow ok to label someone gay as a “screaming faggot”. It is the Guardian, yes, so 95% of the readership are probably screaming faggots or those close enough to be allowed use the term. Others no doubt discuss more effectively the benefit, or not, of the empowering influence of communities using among themselves the words of insult hurled at them but in such shoddiness she needs to remind herself that such careless use of language is a short stop away from the Radio Fool Moyles and his ilk.

 The key takeaway for Tanya – who’s knickers are clearly in a twist (oh shoot me) – is she needs to realise that she is not, to my knowledge, of the community so should really be a little more, well, discriminating in her use of inverted commas, qualifications and denunciations.

John Waters in today’s Irish Times enters the Irish gay marriage debate.

 I am sure he will be taken to task, at length, for what he says. I have no desire to deconstruct his argument when no doubt others will do it far more effectively.

One paragraph did somewhat leave the page as I read it.

“Marriage, a contract between a man and a woman, is an institution maintained by society for reasons having little or nothing to do with “love”. All men and all women have a right to marry, provided they wish to marry members of the opposite sex to whom they are not closely related by blood. Heterosexuals, like homosexuals, are prohibited from marrying people of their own sex. It is no more valid to allege wrongful discrimination in this context against gays than to argue that cycle lanes “discriminate” wrongfully against wheelbarrows. In truth the Bill goes all but the full distance in capitulating to the gay lobby, and, as predicted, gays have banked their gains and come back still hollering about bigotry and discrimination.”

Leaving aside the fact that he defines marriage as if it were a definition incapable of being altered; leaving aside his cold disregard for the human emotion (“love” perhaps?) that might make a body want to marry a person of their own sex; the only question to be asked, John, is this – did you really think that when finally allowed on the bus we would be content to sit at the back?