De Bert of Christ

Because on de turd day he rose again. So apparently Bertie Ahern isn’t dead, although some within his party might now be wishing he was, as he has dropped trou and taken a massive shit on Micheál Martin:

“It’s going have to be incrementally. It’s not going to be in one election but they will come back, the party will grow – I hope I live to see it,” he told UTV’s ‘Ireland Live’.

He added: “I don’t think they’ll be back in the next election. I presume Fianna Fáil will be in opposition – will be the main opposition after the next election. I think that’s the role they’ll be in and that’s that the role I’d like to see them in.”

But he is glad to be out of the game, as politics isn’t honourable like it was were he were a lad:

Mr Ahern said politics is “nastier now” because politicians do not strongly condemn personal attacks.

“I took the view all of these things should always be condemned and I always did back over the years but unfortunately not everybody did,” he said.

And a few lines up from that:

He infamously said people who speculate about house prices dramatically plunging should kill themselves after UCD Professor Morgan Kelly accurately predicted the property crash.

What a great guy. Ultimately, the problem with people like Bertie is not that they are utter shits, but rather that people vote for them again and again in record numbers. Democracy means we get the politicians we deserve, or, in the case of the decade leading up to the crash, ones that reflect our core values of ‘I don’t want to pay for anything, as long as I have me BMW society can go suck a dick’.

Back in 2009 or so, Bertie came to Cork to open a bookshop for an FF stalwart. We sent out a reporter to vox pop people who were there. Some didn’t want to talk, some rattled on about the Peace Process, but one little old lady was quite willing to chat to us, and she told us she was there because Bertie Ahern was ‘the sunshine of Ireland’. Her exact words.


Children of a lesser god

Oliver McKeown‘s beautiful photos of the Celtic god Manannán mac Lír on Binevenagh mountain, near Limavady. It was created by Dungannon’s Darren John Sutton, who also created pieces for Game Of Thrones. Obviously the Nordie Christian Militia felt it was time they got their own moving statue, as it has been nicked.

Those who made off with the statue left a wooden cross with the words, ‘You shall have no other gods before me’ in its place.

Lower case m? Somebody didn’t go to Sunday school.

Mouth wide shut

Ever wanted to try a full-bodied 30-year-old? On Valentine’s Night? Course you didn’t! Anyway:

There’s one idea that’s been percolating in Bompas & Parr’s collective consciousness for a little while now but has lain dormant while we considered the practical and ethical considerations of hosting an anatomical whisky tasting. This involves a fine, 25-year-old single malt paired with a 25-year-old performer, 30-year-old spirits with a 30-year-old and onwards, up to august, rare 50-year-old drams coupled with a half-century-old partner.

What makes it anatomical? The spirits will be drunk from the natural contours of the performers’ bodies, each born the same year the liquid was put in a cask.

There are gustatory and intellectual benefits to the practice, The heat of the body will raise the temperature of the whisky, helping to showcase the flavours as guests form a uniquely intimate bond with the performers.

Visit the Ace Hotel London Shoreditch on Valentine’s Day, Saturday, 14th February to use your tongue to explore the fancy body-shot and reflect on the implications of ageing of spirits and humanity alike.

Of course, older spirits are typically seen as more desirable. So there’s recompense for the fact that you are sipping your 50-year-old whisky from the naval of a half-century-old Hell’s Angel (well, that’s how we envisage it at least)!

Each performer will furthermore be asked to tell the compelling story of their life – the same length as that of the spirits to being sampled. This will both help elevate the practice of body-shots and grasp the full magnitude of the years the spirit has lain in cask, slowly gaining in complexity and maturity.

Because nothing says ‘exciting Valentine’s night out’ like sucking hooch out of the crevices of a 40-something in a hotel function room with 30 other demented weirdoes.

Just don’t order a 12-year-old single malt.