Half A Giraffe

The comedy stylings of the pleasantly deranged

Monthly Archives: September 2010

Interview with Peter Jackson

Thursday, 30 September 2010 by Ciaran McNamee

 

 

Peter Jackson is a man I’ve wanted to interview for a long time. Jackson directed the 2005 remake of King Kong and recently “the lovely bones”, considered a surprise success, as well as other hits such as “Heavenly Creatures”. However his magnum opus to date is the Lord of the Rings trilogy, the final film of which scooped an incredible 11 oscars, a joint record for any movie in history and in preparation for this interview I had decided to focus much of my questions on them.

By Ciaran

I wait in my office for 20 mins nervously before Peter Jackson walks in. He is looking well kept, wearing a suit and tie, though slightly agitated.

Q: We’re delighted to have you with us Mr. Jackson

Peter Jackon doesn’t reply but just sits down with legs folded. He brings a dusty blue duffle bag into the room, placing it beside him on the floor.

Q:The Lord of the Rings books are undoubtedly iconic and many millions of fans had waited a long time for them to be made into movies… what was the best moment in the Lord of the Rings Trilogy for you?

He stands up and starts mumbling to himself and shuffling. He walks around a little before declaring:

PJ: The great Mr. Tolkien always said the Mines of Moria were his favourite scene and I agree, so it is with him, so it is with me.

Q: Right so… so when did you realise that it was your destiny to make these books into a movie?

PJ: Heh?….well heh, it was inevitable really, I used to play with little toys as a child. Action figures based on the Lord of the Rings trilogy, taking off their cloths and painting guns on their naked bodies. I had a collection of anatomically enhanced wooden dolls as such, including a -

He ambles to the window, gazing out at a preening crow on a nearby branch. He is laughing to himself, taking large swigs from an opaque plastic bottle in this pocket

Q: hehe, yeah well……..Mr. Jackson?

PJ: hehe…..

Q: The Lord of Rings is often—-

PJ: SHUT UP I’M NOT FINSHED……

He is uneasily strumming the air-guitar, shaking his head from side to side

PJ: Did you ever get the feeling you were born to do something?

Q: (nervously) um….please sir, if we could get back to the questions at hand…. the…. The lord of the Rings was a seriously risky venture for New Line who funded the film, how sure were you initially of its success?

PJ: Oh I was sure.

Q: What made you so confident?

PJ:Well J.R.R Tolkien promised me fulfilment and the justification of my harrowing existence. He then helped me cast and direct the movies and now tells me what to do with the money I’ve earned.

(brief pause)

Q: Right, well sometimes it seems like he’s looking over all of us, like he really would have wanted the films to turn out like they did

PJ: No, he actually calls to my house and writes down what I’ve got to do.

Q: Well I’m not sure I understand what you mean, he’s been dead since 1973

PJ: Last night as I stood there chopping raw steaks with “choppy” the joy of my knife collection, I reasoned you’d think Tolkien to be dead. I saw you denying his existence. The images became clearer to me the more I chopped, with each blood curdling smash reinforcing the painful reality. As I stabbed away I could actually feel your short sightedness tighten round my neck, like a child tucked into bed too tightly by a vindictive parent. I found myself chopping extra steaks for the next night too, getting a thrill from the certainty of our encounter today!

(long pause).

Q: (now covered in a cold sweat), Mr. Jackson ….sir.,would you like a glass of water perhaps? We don’t have to do this interview now you know and -

PJ: – Let me show you something.

He walks to my desk and takes out a diary from inside his shirt and opens it’s moist pages very slowly

Q: Is that…

PJ: You call this dead!! This was written by Tolkein, this morning, by great Tolkien!

He takes a few more drinks from his bottle then suddenly throws the diary so that it lands edgeways into my face

Q: Ooooooowww!!!! My eye, oh god

PJ: Hahahahahaha. ….ah….MUHAHAhahah

Q:What the hell is this? Sir this could have been written by anybody, Mr. Tolkien is dead over 35 years!

PJ: Mr. Tolkiens searing tentacles are entwined into my soul and his wrath breaths down my neck, with each beat of my heart he devours another piece of me and -

He grabs me by the lapel.

PJ: Understand son when I say shut up you shut up?

Q: But you didn’t….

He is starting to take off his shoes

PJ: You’ve done it now!…

Q: Please tell me you believe Mr Tolkien is dead?

PJ: You just don’t get it do you, death, life it’s not always as black and white as that, things aren’t always as clear as they are in life.

His shoes off, he throws them and I watch as they sail across to the other side of the room. He is now standing barefoot, having not worn socks. He makes sinister gestures with his hands

PJ: Recognise me yet?

Q: I’d just like to remind our readers that Mr. Jackson is under a lot of stress right now and…..

PJ: NO – you just don’t get it do you!?……….I AM J.R.R. Tolkien

At this point he unbuttons and takes off his shirt to reveal his entire chest tattooed to look like another mans head

Q:The…..
PJ: ROOOOOOAAAR!

Q: Oh my god….

He takes another swig from his bottle, which I now recognise to be petrol and spits into the air, igniting it with a lighter concealed in his sweaty palm.

PJ: You have exasperated my patience! Like a tiny Kangaroo rat chased by a hungry dingo over the boiling stretches of the Australian desert – you will know PAIN!

Q: Mr Jackson………..you’re…. you’re completely mad!!

He breathes flames all over my desk then laughs mightily as the fire alarm goes off

PJ: Well that’s my signal to go leave, wouldn’t want your friends in the fire dept finding out our little secret now would we?!!

He takes my filing cabinet and pushes it out the enormous glass window. He then dons his backpack and jumps. I look over the edge to see a silhouette in a parachute sailing beautifully over the city. He is wearing an inflatable dragons tail. I stand there in awe, a tear in my eye.

“Truly that man was Tolkien” I said.

 

Posted in Featured, Featured Writer |

Déjà Vu TV Screenwriting Course

Monday, 27 September 2010 by Gemma Creagh

If you’re a script writer then you no longer need to stress your unemployed, pyjama-wearing self trying to think up new TV show concepts. If you take our 2-day writing seminar, you’ll see that we’ve done all that ground work for you.

Our course will take you through some of the most popular show templates, which you can just use the “Find” and “Replace” tool in your word document and voila, you’ve a hit show of your own!

Here’s a taster of some of the subjects we’ll be touching on:

Gruff but secretly sensitive

1. Misunderstood disgruntled specialist, with skills that border on clairvoyant, thinks outside the box to get results much to the expense of their colleagues.

This works best if you insist on having an English actor in the role, surrounded by attractive headstrong youths to appeal to the general market and one shrivelled-up older woman as a love interest. This is a great one to push if you can get it, as once you’ve written one episode you never have to write another, just change a few nouns and the odd adjective and you’ve got yourself a brand “new” episode!

House goes against the wishes of the hospital and must diagnose Charlie, an unforthcoming drug-dealer.

Lightman goes against the wishes of the FBI and must prove innocent Emma, an unforthcoming housewife.

See? Easy. Now sit back and watch the cheques roll in.

Close proximity = good friends

2. Kooky mis-matched couples-in-love sitcoms are always a classic. Throw in some amoral single friends and immature parents and you’ve got yourself a winner.

The knack to writing shows like this is to sit down at your kitchen table, pick out an object, (any object will do), the more boring and everyday the better. Then take said object, assign either:

a. A two-dimensional character to it such as an oddball milkman or a rude department store sales assistant selling plates,

OR

b. Give your character some kind of unnatural attachment to the item/concept. Doug travels 20 miles to buy bread from a specific bakers/Marshall fixates on bringing the perfect cake to an old school buddy’s wedding. Easy and HILARIOUS!

Just remember to keep it simple; your script outline should be no more complicated than an Anne and Barry book.

Moody Teens

Moody Teens

3. A number of superbly attractive teens have wondrous powers and battle a series of evil characters of escalating strength.

Nice and easy to write, just make sure to set your story around a group of seemingly unimportant teens who would normally be overlooked by society. Get them to repeatedly  save the world and drop in one sexy Megan Fox type, who also happens to be a sensitive genius, and one plucky stunningly beautiful female “geek”.

An important factor to bear in mind is even though your characters are 17, they will most likely be played by 35-year-olds, so when scripting action scenes and sex scenes, make sure they’re not too taxing or easy enough to work a body-double/stunt-double in.

NB!! Always remember that your market is teenage nerds who will not have sex until their late twenties/early thirties. With this comes a responsibility to always be titillating but in a tasteful way. Your main characters must be very moral, restrained and MUST feature an unrequited/forbidden love.

In the lab and serious

4. An uninteresting team of similar-looking sleuths use sci-fi technology and pseudo-sciences to find a murderer.

One of the most common templates on the system, often people will try and be clever attach some kind of ‘hook’ or original ‘concept’ to it. However we strongly advise against these unnecessary complications. Follow the successful CSI model and just reproduce the same show over and over with different colour grading.

The important thing when writing for this genre is to remember to be as FORMULAIC as possible. People don’t like change, so the only time it’s okay to put in some character development with your recurring characters is at the end of a season, or if the producers fire a cast member. Sexual tension between main characters is only advised if it is never, ever acted upon. It’s also important to put in one “wise-cracker” to make morbid jokes at murder scenes for comic relief.

So rough, they keep their furniture outside

5. Loveable, morally-bankrupt skangers (or national equivalent) get into various degrees of trouble by flouting social etiquette.

Drugs, underage sex, murder, violence, and theft – well, it’s all forgivable when we know and love the attractive culprits. As long as the characters learn some kind of lesson by the end, pretty much anything goes.

In fact, the reason these shows are so popular is because they make the middle and working classes feel morally superior, so the lower the level of poverty depicted and the more grotesque the conflict/situation the better.

Kitchens and a bedroom. They know their place.

6. A host of unlikeable, promiscuous, botox-ridden, leather-skinned, comeback-actresses behave like teenagers, spend their mysterious expendable income and have lots and lots of affairs.

Where would we be today, without the neurotic female dramedy? Without cosmos, that’s for sure. Ironically enough, when writing this type of show you must purposely exclude any form of genuine romance. The main objective is to portray these older women as attractive sexual objects, so that the target audience, less-attractive, older women, have some kind of excuse for spending lots of money on shoes or perving on young men.

An important thing to remember is to have a balance in your scripts when it comes to characters screen-time/story-lines, as your cast is made up of egotistical, neurotic and hungry women who are going through “the change”.

Along with these easily edited templates we’ll also be mentioning numerous others including:

Over-serious sci-fi

Sexy medicine

Sweet old people solve murders


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Posted in Featured, Staff Writer |

The Evolution Of Arthur’s Day

Thursday, 23 September 2010 by Rory Cashin

We’ve gone to the future and come back. Whilst there we discovered what fuel we’ll all be using after the oil runs out, what the next i-Pod/i-Pad is gonna be, and got all the winning lottery numbers for the next few decades. But we’ve decided the most important thing to tell you about is how Arthur’s Day is going to change the shape of the world as we know it. So, here goes!

1759: Arthur Guinness begins brewing ales in St James Gate Brewery, Dublin.

2009: To celebrate its 250 year anniversary, Diaego PLC organise a series of music events in Dublin, Kuala Lumpur, Lagos, New York and Yaounde.

2010: Following on the success of the previous Arthurs Day, it is decided that it shall become a yearly event, but brought a day forward to September 23rd.

2012: The date of Arthurs Day is changed once again, this time to March 17th. Arthur recieves a sainthood from the Vatican, making Pope Benedict the most popular pope in religious history.

2013: Following the realisation that the Mayan’s calendar/end of the world thing was just “a load of old bollocks”, St Arthurs Day is now celebrated the world over, with Irish people no longer hiding behind the pretense of getting drunk in the name of religion.

2015: All Irish government buildings are relocated to St James’ Gate.

2016: The yearly St Arthurs Day concerts are now officially the only way a musician can make money anymore, due to the technology invented that allows internet users to illegally download songs the artists haven’t even written or recorded yet. St James’ Gate is renamed St Arthur’s Gate.

2019: Massive surge in popularity of the name Arthur (for boys) or Arthury (for girls).

2020: Ireland is first country to implement change of St Arthur’s Day to a weekly basis, replacing Sunday entirely. Mass now begins at 17.59, and Guinness is served in place of holy bread at communion. Massive surge in attendance of church-goers.

2025: Canada is last country to succumb to the change of Sunday to St Arthur’s Day. But following threats of not being invited to the “next cool gathering” at the UN, they finally cave in.

2026: World’s last non-alcoholic beverage makers go bankrupt. Guinness flavored ice-cream, cheesecake, M&M’s, soup, beer, peanut butter as well as edible body scrub, car paint and shoe polish is now available.

2027: World’s last sober person commits suicide.

2031: Britney Spears celebrates 50th birthday party, remains relevant by re-releasing an old song each year, but with the word “Guinness” in the title, e.g. Guinness Me Baby One More Time, I’m A Slave For Guinness, Gimme Guinness, I Love Rock ‘n’ Guinness, If U Seek Guinness and, of course, Guinness.

2034: Diaego change their “Drink Responsibly” campaign to “Drink Guinness”. Ireland renamed ArthurLand. A new Olympic sport called “Guinness Pouring” is introduced, with points given or taken away depending on the angle of the pour, the ratio of white stuff to black stuff, etc. Also, a new award is added to the Oscars, titled “Best Guinness Placement”. The first winner is Avatar 3, with the Na-Vi and Humans finally settling their differences over some olympic-winning poured pints.

2038: The average baby weighs 15 pounds when born, and chest hair is not uncommon, even on females. Europe renamed ArthurZone.

2041: ArthurZone officially becomes a “No Fly Zone” due to the heavy clouds formed by all the Guinness farts. Amidst claims that Guinness is monopolizing the world, Australia introduce a new Guinness-like product called Turvunakadaniwinniahchaka, which is universally agreed to taste better, cost less and cure the common cold.

2042: A series of unexplained massive nuclear explosions completely destroy Australia. The world turns to New Zealand to see if they will take the reigns of producing Turvunakadaniwinniahchaka. The Kiwi government declines the offer of producing the miracle beverage, citing reason as being “not in the mood”.

2045: The “waiting time” for  the pint of Guinness is abolished once the creation of new Insta-Guinness is unveiled. This new drink settles immediately, which in turn destroys the entire concept of “conversation” in pubs, bars and clubs the world over. All dating and everyone’s sex life is now completely done on the iPhone 389, which is two feet wide by four feet tall, but less than one millimetre in depth. Most of the English language has been replaced by the word “Guinness” used in different inflections. Sample conversation:

Man: Guinness.

Woman: Guinness!

Man: Guinness? Guin-ness??

Woman: GUINNESS!!!

Man: Gu-in-neesssss… Guinness?

Man & Woman: *have sex*

2050: St Arthurs Day is now every day. Earth is now called Arthur. Alien life tries to attempt contact, but finds it difficult to break through new O-Zone created entirely of Guinness flatulance, and once they do break through, cannot find a single coherent person to speak to. No planes, trains, cars or bikes have been used in over three years. The iPhone 447 now has an app that pours pints of Guinness.

Our time machine wouldn’t go any further into the future. When we typed in “2051″, it responded “Not found”. We’re sure its just a glitch or something.

Happy Arthur’s Day, everybody!

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Posted in Staff Writer |

Forgetting Facebook

Monday, 20 September 2010 by Ben Keenan

It was becoming a problem. As I made love to my wife, my phone, pager, fax, tv, computer and laptop all beeped and buzzed at me. YOU HAVE BEEN INVITED TO AN EVENT!

YOU HAVE A NEW FRIEND REQUEST!

WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN MY MOB?!

@XXXX Wanna get a pig penis?

TRY THE NEW iPAD FOR FREE!!!111!!!

I tried to laugh off the spam as she made that stupid cum face, but then as we lay there, covered in lustful perspiration, I sighed with malaise as my friends and family weighed in.

How’s she cuttin?

Did you do that thing I said?

Are you around for drinks tomorrow?

Does your wife like me?

How come you don’t come skydiving any more? Is it because of Dave?

“RIGHT!”, I said.

My wife just looked at me. I realised I hadn’t spoken to her in several weeks, but I didn’t really know what to do with that thought, so I hit it until it went away in my mind. “I’ve had enough of this social networking BOLLOCKS!” She kept looking at me. I was starting to remember why we didn’t talk. I couldn’t quite remember it yet, but I was definitely starting to. It tasted like dread, but kind of funny dread. Something to do with Dave probably.

I stood up, grabbed my phone and hurled it at the wall. My son was standing there as well, but he’s quick like his old man, and fell down out of the way. I laughed at him, wondered how long he’d been there, and grabbed my laptop. It went dark because my wife had put the duvet on my head as she left the room with our son, but I rectified the situation and hurled the laptop at the phone. It made a bang noise and was wholly asleep when I tried to wake him. I left that at that and decided to start solving the rest of the house of electricity to fix the social networking problem.

When it was dark I dressed up and looked all over the house, but my wife and son and his sister were gone out. Probably for pizza. I decided to wait for them and think about what I’d done.

When I was finished I smiled and thought about Dave asking me for that parachute and then I smiled again. Sometimes I smile lots of times a day.

Day 1

My experiment had begun. A day without social networking. I awoke at dawn, as I did every morning. I had an aversion to curtains. As I lay there practising breath, it dawned on me that I was no longer being bothered by emails, @mentions, DMs, FB Mail, Comments, Events, Requests, 4Sq notifications, Prowl alerts etc. etc. I enjoyed the silence for about eight minutes and rose for my daily ablutions.

I had work to do, but without electricity or my computer, I couldn’t do it at home. I thought they might let me off; I asked my boss in my mind and he kept kicking me in the teeth, so I took that as a no and decided to head into the office. I brung a knife with me in case he remembered our brain conversation and tried something, but I usually brung a knife with me anyway. The bus was very quiet around me, and yet very busy everywhere else. A little girl pointed at me and said something to its mother about my trousers. I don’t know what she could have meant. I wasn’t wearing any.

In the office it was warmer that outside – the receptionist asked me to stop, which was funny. I never liked her anyway. When I was done with her, I went to my boss to ask him for some time off. I suddenly had so much free time from my social networking hiatus I wanted to spend it hunting down my family and spending time with them. His receptionist said he wasn’t in. I asked him in my mind and he said he was masturbating under his desk. I didn’t want to disturb him, but I did anyway. He wasn’t masturbating thankfully, just hiding. He was really nice and said I could have loads of time off, so I shook his hand and gave him a present of a golf club. He said “thank you” in a funny voice and I left. He was all sweaty and breathing hard when I closed the door. Maybe he was masturbating but without his hands. I didn’t ask, though I did want to.

It was nearly noon now, and the lack of contact with the universe of the internet was starting to get to me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I felt odd. The sun hurt my eyes when I stared at him. I decided to go home.

At the garden of my home, there were lots of police men and police women in uniforms standing about. I thought about making sex at the police woman nearest me, but I remembered my wife before I could do anything about it. They saw me and came over to talk to me. One of them asked me if I could come with him, and I said “yes, but where?” and he said “the police station” and I said “For a tour?” and he didn’t say anything. I always wanted to go on a tour at a police station.

I strtd tlkn txt spk 2 dem bt dey dnt sy netin bck. Then I sw17ch3d 2 1337 5p33k, but they didn’t like either of them. After a while I got bored and started masturbating. They didn’t like that either. I tried to get out of the car, but the doors were broken and they didn’t seem to mind. I was having an awful weird day.

At the police station I felt all calm and normal until I saw one of the police men checking his facebook. Something inside me went all funny and when it went away I was logging into my facebook. My pants were all sticky. I thought it was the excitement, but it was blood. There were dead police men all around me.

I was on facebook for half an hour before they got me with the tazer. I woke up in a cell made from strong walls.

I quite liked the tazer. I miss my facebook.

Posted in Staff Writer |

The Origin of Specious Nonsense Launch party

Thursday, 16 September 2010 by Ciaran McNamee

 

Science thinks it has all the answers! But one man thinks he has all the answers more than science can.

Yesterday John May launched his book, “The Origin of Specious Nonsense” and being the Standard bearer of Irish media that we are, Half a Giraffe got an invite to the launch party.

I went in a physcist. Now I can’t even spell the word…..

I turned the key on my science-invented car of science, on my way to a convention telling me how one of its most basic ideas is wrong. The trip was pleasant, it had the feeling of a summers day, I could feel the God in the air. Upon arriving I drove down a winding pathway and found myself in a huge gardens and courtyard, the house just visible from behind some trees. This guy was a millionaire who had escaped the recession, he must be doing something right….or someone….

but probably something.

After a five min walk through the crowd I spotted John. He had a beard and a Cross around his neck…and a priests collar….and a cross on his back ….and sandals – but his motivation for writing the book was definitely scientific. He shakes my hand and moves on quickly to the other guests. He seemed amicable I thought as I wandered towards the drinks stand to get a beer.

By 6pm, the big names had started to arrive. Anybody who was anybody in the field of fringe-biology or  ufo-studies, graduates from the Jesus institute of rational detached logic, as well as a bunch of utter tards, started to accumulate around the base of the pyre.

The place was starting to fill up and John took to the stage. He tapped the microphone and the crowed immediately turned their attention to the stage and cheered.

“Hey everybody” said John, “I’d just like to welcome you to the launch of my new book. To celebrate our open mindedness to teaching the controversy, I’d like to kick off tonight with a book burning!”

The crowd cheered as he said burning. “First up – maths books”

A man from the audience couldn’t contain himself and shouted out

“fukin maths! Unthinking blinded-by-your-own-greed MATHS”

” I hear ya buddy!” said John” Nobody hates maths, logic or rationality more than the God that gave us those faculties”

At this he lit the pyre.

I grabbed another beer from the drinks table and headed off towards the barbeque. “Excuse me” I said to a Mexican-looking party goer “what are those crosses doing on the ground”

“oh they prevent the grass from blowing away”

“Em,” I said “do you know anything about the prize John offered for proving evolution -” I was cut off by the sound of a microphone booming on and everyones attention being drawn back to John. I decided to walk back over.

He was onstage again, this time with a giant novelty phone. “Alright, who knows his number” he said, laughing into the mic.

“naught naught four four” the crowd replied ” two six eighteen eighteen fourty fiiiiive”

A ringing sound.

“Hello, Oxford University, dept of biochemistry…..”

I watched in drunken awe as they kept Richard Dawkins on the line for 20 mins, first pretending to have discovered a guy with four penises, then pretending they were the guy and then that they were outside his office.

HURAAAY! The crowd shouted as he finally hung up.

“There’s plenty more to come folks, one hour from now it’s Christopher Hitchens!!”

HURRAY!! The crowd cheered again

He then took out a watering can and started pouring it on his shoes “sry bout this, too much blood in my feet, been standing here too long”

It was amazing, they were completely unfettered by rational thought. I went back to the Mexican guy. I had an idea.

“mate, wouldn’t the grass in the time of Jesus also have been more orangey like in a desert, instead of green like here. ” he looked at me – interested. ” I bet John has orange paint in his garage you know”.

“I’m Sebastian” he said “I see where you’re going with this”

He walked off and I began chuckling to myself. I could hear John back on stage in the background, the crowd were really loving whatever he was doing

“alright alright, anybody got Steven Hawkings number?”

Hehe. This was becoming a great night.

A girl approached me. She was hot but conservatively dressed. “You look like one of them scientists” she said, smiling coyly.

“Well I am” I replied “but I gotta say, I’m getting won over by all the convincing circular arguments I’m hearing tonight”.

She looked at me funny “you mean circular like a pick-up truck?”

“yeah” I replied “….circular like a pick-up truck”

I froze as I suddenly noticed that behind her, several people had started painting the lawn. Sebastian was there, instructing them. I began to get a boner. Not sexual, not yet. This was a power boner. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, an off-chance one in a million prank had worked so well. There they were just painting grass, all because of me, all because I had used logic…

I looked at the girl. “Oh my God – I just realised something” I said to her.

“What is it honey, what do you mean?” …..”well in Leviticus, it states thou shalt not lie with a man as with a woman. And for you that would  be thou shalt not lie with a woman as with a man right?”

“yeah of course. Jesus doesn’t want no gays or no abortions”

“So then doesn’t it also imply that thou shalt not not-lie with a not-woman”.

20 mins later, we were having sex in Johns kitchen. I felt pretty awesome, just standing there boning her over the table, as she read from the bible.

Suddenly the door opened and a man came in. “Oh my God, Christine how could you!!” he shrieked

So Christine was her name, and that must’ve been her husband.

I looked at him and thinking quickly began to explain “Good sir, did not Jesus say that he was the only son of God? And is it not true that God is our father? So isn’t it true that you me and Jesus are really the same person …. so it’s really just you doing your wife you see”

He looked at me, confused but… he was buying it.

I continued “Furthermore, does the bible not say thou shalt not kill? And yet all around me I see wood panelling on the walls, made from the killed remains of a tree. But Jesus ate meat, so it’s probably OK so long as you eat it, so maybe you should remove the panelling from the walls with your mouth.  Also gimme your beer”

I stood there doing a girl on the table, drinking a beer and watching her husband attempt to eat a wall. I was starting to become a creationist myself….maybe I was God.

Twenty mins later, despite having just finished, my power-boner had only increased. I put my clothes back on and headed straight for the stage.

John was up there already, exhibiting some six thousand year old dinosaur fossils. My hands were trembling in anticipation as I grabbed a microphone. I was pretty drunk, but I knew I had them if I could just stay focused.

“Excuse me everyone!” I blurted out. They looked at me, a little hostile perhaps, with a “who’s this guy” attitude.

“I have something important to say. Did Jesus not say, do unto others as you would like to have done to yourself. And whilst the bible might forbid sex outside of marriage, you’d still like to be having sex right? So, your neighbour will too – so do unto them what they would like!”

Passionate kissing, pants dropping and screaming erupted from the crowd. I watched for a moment as a sort of rape-orgy broke loose.

“Sebastian” I announced “paint these people to look like desert rocks”. ….”you there, send the bacteria in the soil to heaven by eating them” …..”you there, isn’t the tallest of you also closest to God physically – start jumping”

I took a running dive myself, straight into the crowd. The atmosphere was electric, everybody was just getting fucked, eating soil, jumping to reach God – it was amazing. A pyramid to God was forming – and people were trying to paint it orange. I started to cry with happiness. Beer was being passed around everywhere, naked people with mouths full of clay were trying to have sex with me – this was the best day of my life.

An hour later and I was getting a kings chair home on Johns couch, covered in piles of money and surrounded by people singing the Star Wars theme. Another attractive woman looked at me from the mob. “sry honey you’ll have to wait your turn if you want “up” on the couch”. A tear rolled down my eye as I took swig from the Champagne bottle.

God? I think I actually could be him.

Phsysicst? I don’t care how to spell it. John Mays party proved to me that there IS A GODDDDDD!!!!

 

Posted in Featured, Staff Writer |

Harry’s Story

Monday, 13 September 2010 by Kevin Dowling

Harry was in no way enigmatic. ‘Dull’, ‘boring’, ‘unenergetic’ and ‘grey’ were all words used to describe him. London born, a 23 year old man living in Northern England who could easily be mistaken for a languages teacher who wears tweed was by no means exciting. Despite this, he had quite a few friends. By friends, of course, it was really a lot of acquaintances who put up with him, rather then actively enjoyed his ludicrous sense of anger and hate at everything. This persistent moaning was really just a way for him to let out his many frustrations in life. Complaining about the price of Lidl chocolate was just his psyche recalling how bitterly disappointed he should be in his college grades. Whinging about the discolouration of young peoples’ brand new jeans was just a way for his mind to get over the severe lack of female contact he’s had.

All they wanted to do was go on a stag weekend in Edinburgh. It was a friend-of-a-friend, but it was a blow-out weekend with booze, alcohol and beer for all meals. The kind of weekend when any woman procured from a nightclub would only be done so through the constant appliance of shame and lack of dignity in the general direction of any female with low enough self esteem to ‘give up’.

Harry expectantly packed his deluxe set of Tripp travel bags. £320 after a 50% sale was a great deal in January, despite the fact that Harry had no plans to travel. But good things come to those who wait. He was expecting a deluxe experience. 7-star hotel. Monkeys on roller skates would serve all who enter the golden archway of the hotel doorstep, speaking a cute version of English that would make you reminisce about Manuel from Faulty Towers. The bath would be lined with gold leaves, and Evian would pour out of it, piped directly from the French alps. Attendants would be on hand to do his every wish with meticulous effort and attention to detail. Linen would be warm as it came to his room. The kind of warm that a woman would ordinarily give off, but the seven star hotel guests are far too rich, important, prim & proper to possibly let their lives be lead astray by a mere woman. The window would have the most magnificent view. Of Saturn.

Instead, Harry, dressed in a new, internet-purchased (and thus improperly fitting, because everyone thinks they’re a medium, not a large) 2008 Hugo Boss suit that footballers wear to press events after laying a lady of the night – behind their wife’s back, but in front of the photographer from the Sun, was greeted with a hotel that looked like a Cambodian drug den. The guys didn’t mind, it had a bar after all.

He was looking for sophisticated evenings sipping fine Chardonay from the beautiful hills of South-Western France, not cartons of wine from Tesco called “Red Wine” followed by his friends swan-diving into mounds of cocaine like Scrooge McDuck from Duck Tales.

Nevertheless, he buckled up for a night of teeth-grindingly laborious drinking with people who are likely to end up in court the following day after an ‘incident’ in the hot tub – Michael Barrymore style. The night began quiet, as the boys were tired after their lengthy trip to the ether of civilisation. A few pints in the local pub and a bit of dinner to lubricate the party embryos. Of course, Harry reveled in the conversation whenever it moved away from football. He tried to fit in by randomly saying phrases like “Yeah, Liverpool are shit” and “What a nonce, alright”. His ill-timed interjections never raised a laugh, but also never raised suspicion as to his football watching habits. A minor success by Harry’s standards.

Another pint down his neck and Harry was feeling a little ill. He wasn’t sure what was happening. All he had for dinner was lasagna and chips. No one else seemed ill, and most of them had been eating all kinds of random stuff at the buffet, to try and get their moneys worth. Harry said nothing, in fear of appearing like a girls blouse. Soon the ill feeling turned to flutters of blushing in his cheeks and his heart beating irregularly. Some slight dizziness, but he got over it. Gasping for water was an emotion he only felt when he went on a school tour to Cairo. Now, in a damp pub, he felt the exact same physical disability. He needed water before his mouth got so dry it resembled Madonna’s nether-regions. Right then, as he thought of his favourite Madonna tracks, he focused on the music. It was good. He began to tap the table to it, as another pint came his way. The round hadn’t reached him yet, so so far, 3 pints in, he was feeling good and hadn’t spent a penny.

The guys at the table noticed Harry’s unusually jovial mood and commented on it and rather then cringe, tip his chin into his chest and fix his glasses furiously, Harry quipped back. They weren’t good quips. “Your mum” is nothing new – but the guys got a cheap laugh out of seeing someone who looked like an Urban Dictionary definition of “virgin” hit back at the “cool crowd” with jokes. He was coming out of his shell, just a bit. One of the guys put his arm, drunkenly, around Harry’s shoulders and squeezed. He was making a joke about Harry getting “brave” while on booze. Harry didn’t hear the words, he just felt how wonderful the cloth on his shoulder was. He could feel every last centimeter of thread rub gently off his shoulder like the ocean slowly caressing a beach. He was focused entirely on the moment. He felt like he had never felt before – happy. Happy in the moment. Nothing else mattered at that moment. Even when the guy removed his arm, Harry was lost in a moment, with the bopping music deep in the background, barely audible, all Harry felt was oceanic calm.

Then the words from the ‘friend’ sitting directly opposite him cut through him like a knife. “You enjoying that pill, mate”. Harry’s bliss was entirely based upon drugs. They spiked him. Suddenly he wanted to get out of that world – but at the same time, it was so good. So nice to feel free and wonderful. He decided to embrace the moment and go with the flow. He wasn’t dead, he didn’t feel sick… and he’d save a packet on not buying booze all night.

So off the crew went, more bonded then ever before, to a nightclub. Two taxis to carry the load and they went to a busy, loud nightclub the likes of which Harry had never dared venture. He undid the top buttons on his shirt with the sincere aim of dancing the night away, picking up a lady and finally becoming the Harry of dreams. He popped his collar, bought his round of drinks and hit the dancefloor with his new friends.

…the next day, Harry woke up tired, sore and with such a severe case of cotton mouth that he could barely talk. There was no woman beside him in the bed, but on the plus side there also wasn’t a man there, either. He got up, walked to the small ensuite in the room and noticed a foul stench. He had gotten sick everywhere. After managing to somewhat clean it, it was a good idea to report it to the hotel staff and apologise. Maybe he could blame one of the guys? He went to the wardrobe where he had maticulously unpacked his dull items of attire. He noticed another smell. And another. Both mixing to the foulest concoction he had ever managed to smell. Defecating in your shoe is one thing. Urinating in the pocket of your raincoat, is another altogether.

Defeated in his hungover misery, Harry sat down on the chair and opened his laptop. Straight to Facebook he went, where already his friends and their mobile phones had posted 62 pictures of Harry in varying stages of drunken mess. He had managed to ‘score’ two women. And one man, passionately. Turning on his phone, Harry had 15 missed calls and a pile of texts. All from his family and work mates, all enjoying the satire that was unfolding live on the internet. Later, in work of all places, from his manager of all people, he came to know that his friends were putting updates of everything he was doing on various social media outlets. Checking-in on foursquare, tweeting pictures, facebooking updates – you get the picture. 63,000 people were following his adventures that night. A live stream of absolute debauchery. His reputation as a dullard was gone. He was now a party animal on the cutting edge of humiliation.

Harry’s story is not unique. Millions suffer social media abuse every year. Please donate to the Half a Giraffe appeal to stop this heinous, and needless suffering. Every penny spent will ensure nightclubs, bars and drug dens are equipped to turn off mobile and wifi signals when it’s clear a group of iPhone owners are gathering around a drunken mess of a man, or woman, with the soul aim of uploading these images to the internet, right there & then. Make the suffering end.

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Posted in Featured, Staff Writer |

Lonely Hearts: Celebrity Edition

Thursday, 9 September 2010 by Rory Cashin

MEAN GIRL AVAILABLE!

Hi there. I’m 24, famous, just out of jail. I enjoy partying all the time, running out of money, getting arrested, then making money from my interviews with magazines about my time in prison. Was once considered hot (see above) but lately have forgotten how to swallow food.

I’m looking for a nice man or woman who enjoys nothing more than tearing up the place, whilst pretending that my attempts at being a singer is a valid career choice, and that all of my movies aren’t crap, just unappreciated in their time.

TRANSPORT YOU TO MY HEART!

Hey there, its me. I’m 28, and I like nahfink more than headin’ the gym for 7 harrs a day and then comin’ ‘ome to lay dahn on me girlfriend’s tittiesssssaaaaaaAAAAAGGGGHHHHH. I’m VGL, loadsa money in the bank, so I can take you to all the best pubs and stuffffffaaaaaaaAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH.

You should be a massive lookin’ burd, with some tig ol’ bitties, and don’t worry about ‘avin’ to do me washin’ up, I hardly ever wear clothes. And if I do, I just end up tearin’ them of in anywaysssssAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

V FOR VERY INTERESTED IN YOU!

Hi there. Despite the fact that I’m 29, I still get hit on by rather creepy older men asking me to call them Leon. I don’t know whether that is better or worse than a few years ago when every guy I met asked me to call them Obi-Wan. So I’m here to just meet a normal guy.

About me: I’m Half-American, Half-Isreali. I’m a member of Mensa, can speak six languages, and one of the few women in the world that can have a shaved head and still be considered attractive. I realize that can all seem a bit daunting, but I’m not looking for someone to compete with in a relationship. If you can only speak four or five languages, thats perfectly acceptable.

THINK MODERN DAY LOVE IS DYING? TAKE IT TO THE E.R.!

Me: 49, pig-owner, Batman, speaks Italian, could run over the pope in my car and still be loved the world over.

You: should be beautiful, prepared to have your heart broken (but will get generous “confidentiality” break up settlement), should be okay with me seducing your mother, sister, best friend and constantly listening to your brother saying “If I was gay, thats the guy I would do.”

DON’T LET THIS CHANCE SPEED BY YOU!

Hi there! Recently divorced 46 year old here! I’m totally okay with it, though! I just won an Oscar and I just adopted a baby and my laugh is back on track now and everything! Did you see how everyone fell back in love with me after the news of that rat-bastard cheating lying piece of MOTHERFUCKING SHIT COCKSUCKER ASSHOLE…. that I’m totally over, by the way, but after all that came out, everyone was all like “Oh, SB, we forgive you for Miss Congeniality 2! We forgive you for Premonintion!” They almost forgave me for Speed 2, too. But I think he would’ve had to have slept with Tiger Woods for that to be forgiven and forgotten hahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

So, I’m looking for a nice guy who will never, ever cheat on me. Unless my career is in the doldrums again, then I need him to go out there and cheat on me as much as possible. I don’t care really what you look like or what you do or anything like that, just as long as you make me happy in the photo’s they take of us, thats all I/the press really cares about.

FISH-STICKS! I JUST GOT IT!

HEY BABY! THIS IS ONE OF THE BEST LONELY HEART ADS OF ALL TIME! YOU KNOW MY NAME, BUT ALOT OF PEOPLE MIS-SPELL IT AS KAYNE, AND IT IS WRONG, BABY! I AM THIRTY-THREE YEARS OLD AND I HAVE SO MUCH MONEY BUT I AM NOT LOOKING FOR NO GOLD DIGGER (LOL). AS ANYONE WHO HAS LAID EYES ON MY MOST RECENT EX, I HAVE A VERY UNIQUE TASTE IN WOMEN. I DON’T GO FOR THOSE WOMEN THAT I HAVE IN MY VIDEOS, THEY HAVE TO LOOK LIKE THEY CAME FROM AN APHEX TWIN VIDEO. I DON’T CARE HOW OLD YOU ARE, AGE AIN’T NOTHING BUT A NUMBER, BUT YOU HAVE TO KNOW HOW TO USE TWITTER SO WE CAN TWEET EACH OTHER ALL OF THE TIME SO PEOPLE CAN SEE HOW IN LOVE AND STRAIGHT WE ARE FOR EACH OTHER.

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Posted in Staff Writer |

Mullets et. al; Nature’s Warning Systems

Monday, 6 September 2010 by Ben Keenan

The Half a Giraffe team have been working hard on a research paper about the evolutionary value of hairstyles – below is a brief summary before it is submitted for peer review. Also, we acknowledge the input of Dr. Sinead Larkin in starting us on this line of scientific enquiry.

The Mullet

The mullet is a bizarre creation – the symbol of ignorant masculinity. Why these classless oafs choose to wear girls’ hair is beyond us. One can only imagine they’re so out of it on huffed glue and moonshine that they see it as some misplaced sign of virility. “I”, the wearer screams, “Am a tosser, avoid me at all costs, or I’ll call you a fag and try to wrestle you”. The key angle here is that the mullet-wearer will always surround himself with other mullet-wearers, while at the same time making the group extremely unappealing, thus making the phenomenon self-limiting.

The Flock Of Seagulls

Say the words “Flock of Seagulls” to anyone, and they will immediately know what you mean – a stupid haircut. Does anybody out there actually know a song by that band? Here’s one: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUjIA3Rt7gk&feature=fvst, here’s another one: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iS9RPyznAPg&feature=fvst. Assuming you even clicked through (and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t), ever heard those songs before? No, I didn’t think so. That said, we also don’t know anyone whose worn a flock of seagulls hairdo, but we would avoid them if we did. And you should too. This person is a precursor to the modern hipster (more below), but lives entirely in the past. This hairdo is equivalent to walking around wearing a Starfleet uniform or dressed up like Michael Jackson. There’s definitely an unwholesome deficiency at work.

The Mohawk

The mohawk is worn to symbolise the crest atop a cock’s head. I really don’t think I need say more. But I will anyway. The mohawk dates back rather definitively to Ancient Rome, when the officers of the Roman Guard wore plumes that looked much like a mohawk. The idea was to create an intimidating presence, or to put it as Freud would, to make him feel like your penis was bigger. Mohawk-wearers are clearly compensating and as such should be avoided as desperately insecure tryhards.

The Skinhead (male)

I know what you’re thinking – this is all starting to sound a little mean. Well, you want mean? Look at the pic above – you’ve found it, buddy. The skinhead movement was started in the 80′s in the UK as a fascist movement. Why skinhead? We believe because it’s militant and a lack of hair implies a lack of personality and sympathy. Skinheads are cruel and macho, not to mention desperate for approval from their peers. They’re a bit like a cult. Avoid at all costs.

The Skinhead (female)

A woman with a shaved head is one of two things: Disgraced OR Lesbian. Neither of these things is especially bad if you are the sort of person who would not shave a woman’s head for having sex before marriage or something silly like that. They probably have pretty good taste in music, and maybe some hot and interesting friends. Probably worth knowing. HOWEVER, if you are the sort of person who likes Justin Beiber, and waiting for sex until you’re married, you should probably avoid these women, as they would most likely make you cry.

“Kooky” Look (female)


This is a subtle one. Someone wearing the above hairstyle, that is to say, strangely coloured and unruly, is either interesting, or DESPERATELY trying to be interesting. There are a lot of factors and signposts to watch out for, but the biggest one is this:

kooky kutter bracelets

The kooky bracelets COULD be there to be fun an unique OR they could be covering cutting scars. DO NOT WANT. Cutters are to be avoided. In summary, people with this hairdo want to be noticed, just make sure it’s for the right reasons before initiating any manner of social interaction with them.

“Bedhead”

People with bedhead are screaming one thing to the world “I DON’T CARE ABOUT MY APPEARANCE SO MUCH AND YOUR STUPID OPINION SO MUCH THAT I HAVE SPENT TWO HOURS THIS MORNING MAKING MY HAIR LOOK LIKE I JUST GOT OUT OF BED OH MY GOD PLEASE LOOK ME!” These ‘people’ would probably kill for your attention, but only as long as they could look the other way as you looked at them and sigh with frustration. They are the hairstyle equivalent of those pathetic b-list celebs who give out about constant paparazzi attention and tabloid stories, when if it weren’t for those annoyances, nobody would know who they were, and that wouldn’t do. These tryhard wannabe toolboxes are definitely to be avoided.

Dreadlocks

The majority of dreadlocked people are very nice and laid back. You can spot them because they will smell of marijuana and be talking about music, or possibly organic foods. However, there is a virulent strain of MILITANT dreadlocked people out there, that starts with recycling and environmentalism and goes all the way up to armed revolt. They can lie dormant in hippie drum circles. If you find yourself in a situation with a lot of bedreadlocked people and want to smoke out any militants, casually mention George Bush or BP. The laid back ones will just get sad, but if any of them start raising their voice, or speaking quickly, get your shit and get the fuck out of there before they start handing out grenades.

Lamb Chops Sideburns

We believe the reason for these sideburns is to increase the size of one’s head. Much like the mohawk above, this is to intimidate the opponent. Since these are worn in every day life, this makes the wearer a rather aggressive and contentious person. “The head of my penis”, they seem to say, “is bigger than the head of your penis – I’m a great big penis”. Enough said.

Hipster

Like the Flock of Seagulls above, this look is loosely associated with music, which, much like religion, has had many atrocities committed in its name.  The Large-Headphones-As-An-Accessory and OMG-Can-You-Believe-These-Glasses-Are-Authentic-Fifties aside, one’s appalled eye is drawn of course to the mop of ridiculous hair. Like all fashion, Hipster Chic is about making a statement about yourself by looking like everyone else who believes they are making a statement about themselves. Like early goths and emo’s, they say “I’m interesting and different, just like my entire peer group”. These people also tend to do things ironically, which is the epitome of nihilism, draining all meaning out of their actions. They are also trying hard to earn your attention and respect, just so they can nonchalantly brush it aside and act disappointed and embarrassed for you that you would care, as they jump for joy inside. This hairstyle is about existential nothingness and extreme neediness, unless you want to live in some sort of Hell on Earth, you should avoid.

This concludes our summary for now – as research continues we’ll release more hard information as we get it. We hope that this summary is of some assistance to your navigation of the wide world out there.


Posted in Staff Writer |

Compulsory Irish in Schools

Thursday, 2 September 2010 by Ciaran McNamee

The Irish Language

We all know the drill. Some 74 year old man who looks as though he’s carved from moss peat shouting bits of biscuit into your innocent chubby face. Teaching Irish through Irish to someone who doesn’t understand it. You look out the window, the kids who don’t have to learn Irish are lying in the wild meadows with kids of the opposite sex picking daisies and feeling a gentle breeze over their skin. CUPLA FUCKLA EILE A CHAIRDE ASS GAAAAGILE. …AUGH! He… wants me to recite a poem about how much I hate England and how their plantation policies contributed to our declining deer populations! Dear Jesus how did education, designed to prepare a fertile mind for the world, end up with me sitting in this seat-desk unit having the creativity spat out of me.

School’s purpose is to prepare an individual for life, to enable them to be a well rounded, adjusted and employable member of society. That’s why you wear grey uniforms for 14 years, sit in a desk all day, in a same sex environment and do little other than rote memorise. You know, to prepare you for the type of life they think you should have.

"I have two habits, and one of them involves beating you up for not speaking to me As Gaelige."

Now I’ll contend it’s a form of violence to force kids to learn Irish against their will, a violence not justified by necessities such as the ability to understand time or money (maths) or the development of the language of one’s own monologue so as to be reasonably intelligent (English). Irish is distinct amongst the compulsory subject in that it is definitely an art, whereas at least parts of English, maths or a foreign language are useful as opposed to artistic.

It’s not that useful subjects are better than artistic ones, the point is that forcing an art on somebody defeats its own purpose.

The problem with forcing Irish on students in school is that it creates people like me. For every seven A1’s, Irish loving “I study medicine because the points told me to” knob that patriotically flies the flag of Potato Famine, there’s a me produced. There’s a guy who ends up irrationally and paralysingly filled with anti-knob venom, unfairly blaming the fact that girls didn’t kiss him on being forced to learn the language of the bog.

The main reason kids are forced to learn Irish is fear.

A fear by those that love the language that if they don’t force it on everybody else it will die out. And this is the root of the violence. I know another group of people that force their ideas of culture on everybody, they’re called THE TALIBAN.

The language itself is apparently beautiful and can be enjoyed over a plate of turnips with any of the 3% of people that speak Irish because the government pays them my money to do so. But against this beauty we have hate filled folk, and a far larger group of people who waddle through life with a mixed view of it, but no ability or desire to speak it. As they sit there sieving plankton, they do so without knowledge of Irish. Roughly if there are 5% Irish lovers, there are 5% Irish haters and 90% Irish baleen filter feeders who can’t speak it either.

So let’s gets delve into this a little deeper, GET YOUR LEARNING PANTS ON – CAUSE THIS INVOLVES LESS IMPORTANT NON-COMPULSORY SUBJECTS, such as history or any of the sciences.

On a larger sort of a scale, humans have been around at least one hundred thousand years. Furthermore prehistoric humans, such as Neanderthals and H. Heidelbergensis had hyoid bones, which depress the tongue at the back of the mouth, suggesting speech and language go back far longer.

Of these at least 100,000 years, people have lived in Ireland for about 9,000 years. The Celts displaced the existing inhabitants and introduced their own languages about 3000 years ago. Just so this is clear, there were various groups of people living in Ireland for at least twice as long as the Celts who spoke language not connected with Irish. They would have built Newgrange, cut down trees wrecking the landscape for future generations, and practiced inefficient farming – like the West nowadays only they did it without massive subsidies. The earliest written records of “old Irish” appear on Ogham stones about 1500 years ago, with a language not resembling the one taught in schools.

Translation: Oisin woz 'ere!

“Modern Irish” is usually dated to about 1700 AD.

The 1841 census, taken in the early famine years, reported that even by that stage less than 50% of the country spoke Irish. English nobs forced the Irish to learn English more intensely after this and the percentage gradually dwindled. It is thus the case that modern Irish nobs who want to force us now to learn Irish, are making the case that out of the hundreds of thousands of years of human evolution, of the millions of languages our ancestors will have spoken over time, they are arguing for the teaching of a language that was dominant for less than 140 years, in a period ending about 170 years ago. All very Taliban.

Art is similar to religion in that it is subjective. If somebody wants to define a cultural norm to be the heavily modified version of a language spoken several centuries ago, then fine, but realise this is just a subjective view. It’s a subjective view based on history. I like to ride a burning donkey naked into college, I consider it a cultural norm, based on it’s obvious erotic appeal. Maybe people should be forced to learn my ideas about eroticism cism cism cism…

Now I’m not arguing against the teaching of Irish. For those who are desperately looking for unemployment after graduation, filling up on subjects like Art, music, daisy picking, latin etc can be advantageous. Furthermore maybe it is useful to you, you might use my tax money to broadcast English music on TG4 as a DJ or teach Irish to my kids someday. Irish can have its uses, much like the way an orange, in extreme circumstances, can be used as a hammer.

Now I know science is a bad word in Irish schools, given that it’s overwhelming cross cultural presence in the modern world and the world wide shortage of skilled scientists, but consider for a moment “evidence”. You know, even though that’s kinda science-y. Having made Irish compulsory for the entire history of the state, we find the language has only declined and dwindled, it is not a successful policy. Those of you who will argue that it’s merely the way it’s taught are missing the point.

The violence inherent in teaching kids something that is of no use to them will be subtly picked up on by the kids. To those that don’t want to learn it, it sets a bad precedent. It establishes for those students a relationship to education instilled with suspicion, that what they are learning is not really for their benefit. It casts the situation as them-against-me. It is the case that for 14 years an hour a day is spent teaching kids something that 97% of them will never use.

"Wacka wacka wacka....JEDI ho ho ho"

All this for keeping a language on life support.

By making the language optional, it might actually flourish. Haters like me would have nothing to complain about. Other students would pick it who would previously have had it forced on them, and this is a stronger statement than taking it without any choice. The crucial element of choice would convert them from a baleen filter feeder into a student who wants to learn.

The GAA and Irish dancing are both thriving. They are correctly understood to be arts, and they have developed as an art should, as a labour of love. There is none of the negative sentiment surrounding them the language seems to attract and they have even grown and evolved into new forms, like Riverdance. By forcing it, the art is no longer able to evolve freely away from the ideal being forced.

I’ll end by saying this;

Art forced on you is no longer art. The pursuit of art is above all a process of self discovery. This inspirational quality is lost the moment free will is removed. It is also the case that the forcer will have lost sight of the original beauty of what inspired them, having now reduced their art to a dead mental projection, it’s living quality extinguished in their attempt to cage it. The end is the current situation, where biscuit-blasting maniacs erupt as though possessed, in the faces of children who know no better.

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Posted in Staff Writer |

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