Enraged

I've been trying to make a post about why I lost my temper with a visitor to our home when he expressed unasked for views supporting the Orangeman in the White House. This, despite knowing that my political alignment leans strongly to the left. But what really pissed me off was when he asserted that RFK Jr was the best person to have charge of the health department. His reasoning? Because Kennedy is an old man, yet he has a six-pack and this must mean he 'looks after himself' therefore best man for the job in hand.

How does one argue with that? I didn't even try. It was too stupid.

Instead, I said something like this,

Have you any idea what if feels like for me to sit in my own home and listen to you and people like you spouting your stupid shit? Do you know that I so often wish that I could just say, there's the fucking door, why don't you just fuck off!

Then I stormed out, to sit it out until he had the decency to leave.

Which he did, almost immediately.

I heard Bert in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. He looked quite unperturbed.

I said,

Has he gone?

Yes. He said to me, tell Nelly I'm sorry I offended her.

And what did you say?

I said, you didn't offend her. You enraged her.

Is it any wonder I don't have much to say about politics in this blog. I'm just not cut out for it.

I thought of finding a picture of that oul fella with the six-pack to illustrate this post but any I saw were too horrid. Instead, a picture of Cleo running through a wood with a stick in her mouth. Her ears don't normally look like that. Nice capture.

Say Everything

I don’t live in a bubble. No sirree! For it seems now I am surrounded by people who do their own research on YouTube and are coming up with notions far removed from how I think about the world. Was it always like this? Y’know – I’m not sure. Back in the day, with one’s partying buddies, I’d never have dreamed of making enquiries into anyone’s voting intentions. For sure, I knew that certain folks in my friendship circle would be supporting parties that would not be for me. Back then, being a DUP supporter was not a deal-breaker.

I asked Bert this hypothetical question,

If you lived in an English constituency right now who would you vote for?

His answer,

Probably the Green Party.

My response,

This is no time to be voting for the Green Party! Not even hypothetically!

This, even though I believe all parties should be Green.

This afternoon a couple of friends from another (younger) generation called with us. One of them claims never to have voted. He told us that his mother is begging him to use his vote this time and to vote for the DUP.

My response? Don’t vote Davy, don’t go near a polling station. Have the courage of your convictions. Stay at home.

The other friend, comments,

Aah! Democracy in action.

I continue,

Tell me, Davy, right now, if you lived in an English constituency who would you vote for?

The Reform Party.

Aaargh!

<><><><>

Then earlier today, I ran into someone I used to know. Our former acquaintanceship was never one that would have allowed for the interchange of political views, yet within moments of the meeting I found that she was vaccine-sceptic, anti-Sinn Fein and concerned about immigration. Thinking back I find this so different from how things used to be. Years ago we all avoided political and cultural discourse, now we seem to want to set our cards on the table straight away. Is this a good thing? Maybe it is, even it makes for some degree of discomfort.

But I’m not going to let it lie. The days of Whatever You Say, Say Nothing are over. I am Irish, at home, and in search of views on everything.

Freedom and Independence

 

Here's me and who is like me?

Off to Cookstown today for what we hoped would be Pippin's final post-op visit. And it was! Bogdan pronounced her to be doing well and said that strict cage rest was no longer needed. In fact, what Pippin needs now is lots of indoor running around to build up the muscle in her injured leg. Bogdan assured us that her limp would disappear as the leg strengthens.

The first thing she did when she got home was playfight with Fred, and then they both went upstairs to nap on Bert's bed.

And that was our news. In other news, I was sorry to hear that Wilko Johnson died. But not sorry to hear that the Supreme Court has decided that Scotland cannot legally hold an independence referendum. Not sorry because I think it will harden Scotland's resolve. Hopefully, the next GE will show that. 

In Which Bert Despairs Of His Hair

Just a quick update Chez Nellybert. 

Pippin had a check-up on Tuesday and Bogdan (the veterinary surgeon) is delighted with her. She is a week in the crate now and gets fed up with it sometimes although she is mostly accepting of it. She has been introduced to Cat YouTube channels and every day she spends ten minutes or so watching the birdies. We'll probably regret this when she recovers and starts killing our goldfinches.

She goes to see Bogdan on Tuesday and will hopefully be getting her stitches removed.

There was something about another Prime Minister.  During the deliberations, Bert became aware of the phenomenon that is Michael Fabricant. He could not believe such a creature existed, and one that expected to be taken seriously. Later in the week, as Bert was despairing of his hair he was heard saying that he hated his locks. I consoled him with the thought that he too could invest in a Dougal wig.

Yesterday I took the latest Covid 19 booster and the flu shot. Later that day I became very fatigued and foggy-brained. I still feel like that. Early night tonight and hopefully will be feeling more myself tomorrow. It's lucky that I have four more episodes of Bad Sisters to keep me occupied.

Liz Saves The Day!

 It seems that sometime today Liz Truss will become Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland and, like many others, I have been dismayed at the prospect. 

However, I have changed my mind as it seems Liz has had, all along, a cunning plan. She has been busy. This energy crisis that threatens our way of life will disappear, or at least, be alleviated. The projected fuel bills, unpayable for most, were just meant to frighten us. We will all be so grateful that we are only paying twice what we paid last year that Ms Truss will seem like our saviour. 

I have no doubt that the new PM will have found the time to have a few late-night calls with Jeffrey Donaldson. The DUP will return to Stormont. I cannot imagine what this will entail but her handlers are a clever lot. They will have thought of something. Maybe a nice backhander and/or a peerage, something like that. Possibly a climbdown on the First Minister and Deputy First Minister thing. Jeffrey's party may well have thought better of that one.

With the energy crisis and Stormont solved the new PM will ride on a wave of approval. For a while, anyway.

For myself, I'm sad I came late to the white trainer/older woman thing for Liz has put me right off them.

I may throw mine in the Lagan.

Bert's Forecast

 

 

And there was me thinking he didn't have any sense of politics.

On the other hand, he did ask me the other morning,

What's Roe vs. Wade about anyway? Is it tennis?

Election Eve

 Bert and I do not always see eye-to-eye regarding local politics. His inclination is to vote for moderate candidates whilst I (in his opinion) vote 'tribally'. I see my position as voting for parties that are more left-leaning. Where we come together is that neither of us will give any preference to the DUP, TUV or Northern Ireland Conservatives. In addition, I will be giving no preference votes to Aontú.

During the run-up to the Brexit referendum, I was keen to encourage people in our friendship circle to vote sensibly. As regards this election I'd just ask that they vote because, I'm glad to say, most of them hold sensible views even if some of their views do not align completely with mine. Sadly, I know a fair few folks who won't vote at all. Some have never voted. I've never not voted except for that time that I was at a country auction for most of the afternoon and was far too tired after standing for hours as farmer's wives got into bidding wars over bundles of moth-eaten cushions, chipped delft and ancient Singer sewing machines. It was only a council election anyway.

One of our callers told me he has never voted. I was shocked. He is almost fifty years old! His reasoning for not voting is that as soon as the election results are called it is likely that one party will refuse to form a government and we will be cast into limbo again. I did not like to say that it is because of people like him that we are in the mess we're in. However, it turns out that his sibling always votes and he favours the centrist Alliance party and that barrister chap, Jim Something. I suggested that if the bro was going to vote for the TUV leader he'd be better staying at home and cracking open a bottle of Sainsbury's finest red instead.

Then this morning there was a moment of joy. Clint called round and after a brief conversation about why local farmers roll their fields (I'm still none the wiser) we moved on to politics. I didn't like to ask Clint what his intentions were. He's normally Unionist but if he'd moved in Jimbo's direction I'd have been depressed.  But no. Clint is disillusioned with politicians. Thinks they are a terrible shower. In fact, the only person he ever struck in temper his entire life was a local DUP councillor. They were both about eleven years old when yer man accosted Clint as he was carrying home a jamjar of tadpoles. The councillor to be thought it funny to grab Clint's tadpoles and empty them on the ground whereupon Clint lost it and knocked him through a hedge. Discretion prevents me from naming this councillor but I'll provide a clue. His initials are the same as the Big Man in the New Testament.

Voting day is always a Thursday and that is the day we have the two oldest grandchildren. Their school is used as a polling station so they'd always have the day off. Traditionally they have accompanied me to our polling station, which is Bert's old primary school and only a five-minute walk from here. Tomorrow it will just be Evie as Martha has moved on to secondary school. Martha will probably not enter a polling station again until she is old enough to vote. And that is only six years away. Who knows who she will vote for? It might be easier to guess who she won't be voting for. The future is coming.

Just Another Saturday

It was quite the day today as far as the Brexit negotiations went. Earlier this week I thought I might sit glued to the Westminster channel for most of the day but, in the end, I decided not to. Our elected representatives would do whatever they thought they ought whether I was paying attention or not.

Instead, I went out to the polytunnel, dismantled my bean poles, fed the remainder of the broads, runners and French to Clover the cow and her friends, chopped up the sunflowers, dug up nettles and creeping buttercups, hoed, mulched, watered and wheeled many barrow loads to the compost heap.

Then I came in to check Guardian Online to see what those rascally parliamentarians had been up to.

And read,

MPs have inflicted a humiliating defeat...

Another one! It's been one humiliating defeat after another since our present PM took over. He must be getting tired of humiliating defeats, just as that other blond across the pond gets tired of winning.

Then I checked out who voted for what and quelle surprise! My elected MP had voted for the first time ever just as I might have urged him to. What a turn up. I'm still not voting for him next time. He'll still get in.

Bernadette

It's fifty years today since Bernadette Devlin was elected to parliament as the member for Mid Ulster. She was 21 years old. I was a few years younger than that, too young to vote but still very keen on politics. I remember her as one of the few who could give Ian Paisley a bloody good argument in the TV political discussion programmes at that time. How we cheered her in our house. For Paisley was a verbal bully and our Bernadette was well able for him.

When she was elected to Westminster the Daily Mirror had her on the front page. I don't remember the headline but it was patronising, concentrating on her gender, youth and fashion sense. She was photographed on a playground swing as if she was a little girl. I was very cross about this. Hardly a mention of her fierce socialist politics, instead comments on the length of her skirt. But it was 1969! Everyone wore short skirts then, even Elizabeth Windsor.

I tried to find the photograph on the internet using the keywords  'Bernadette Devlin Daily Mirror Swing'. No luck. Except for the news item about her taking a 'swing' at the Home Secretary, Reginald Maudling on the day following Bloody Sunday. 

Conversations With Strangers: Part 1

On Saturday I went to Belfast with Zoe, Martha and Evie to take part in an International Women's Day rally. Three generations of one family ready to Reclaim the Agenda.

I was on the train first and while I was waiting a woman, close to my own age, struck up a conversation. I've got one of those approachable faces. As all inhabitants of the British Isles are wont to do she started with the weather. It has been rather changeable recently. Then things took a different turn.

What do you make of Brexit?

I was surprised. One doesn't expect such a blunt question from a stranger.  Still, I answered her.

Absolute shambles.

She agreed.

This Karren Bradley. What do you think of her?

She should resign. Possibly the worst Secretary of State we've ever had.

She agreed then said,

I liked the last woman. What was her name again?

Theresa Villiers. Awful woman. Hadn't a clue about Ireland. Supported Brexit. 

What about Geoffrey Whatshisname?

Who?

The Labour man.

Jeremy Corbyn?

Yes. Do you like him?

Perhaps not the best Labour leader for the present time. What do you think?

I prefer the Conservatives.

Really? Conservative with a small 'c'?

What do you mean? Oh! I hear the train coming. I'd better go out and find a place.

Three minutes later the train did come. I didn't see my interviewer again.

 Zoe and Martha on the train

 Gathering for the rally

Flying Tiger

My second conversation with a stranger in the next post. She spoke violently and rather than sloping off, she stormed. All I could do was laugh.

Stressful Day

I had a stressful day today and I expect tomorrow might be more of the same. I'm just not used to stress any more for which I am very thankful.

And no! It was nothing to do with Brexit. That's merely a distraction, although I follow all
developments keenly and hope for an interesting outcome that will eventually lead to an independent Scotland and our island united. That's my dream.

My nightmare? That we remain part of the UK and that someone like Rees-Mogg becomes Prime Minister. What horror!

Every Picture: Box Barrows and A Windmill

I have sat up in the other sitting room with Bert and Brendan and Howard and the craic, as they say, was mighty. It always is when Brendan's in the room for he could talk for Ireland, and often does.

Conversations ranged from politics to box barrows with the windmill at Knockloughrim somewhere in the middle.

I asked everyone who was the first politician you became aware of as a child. Howard said Shirley Williams, Bert admitted to Georges Pompidou (because he had a funny name), my picks were Nixon and Kennedy and Brendan claimed that his first memory of a politician was Bernadette Devlin. That struck me as odd as Brendan is around the same age as she was when she was elected to Westminster. I recalled that the day after the election the Daily Mirror had a front page picture of her sitting on a swing and I thought it was extremely patronising of the paper.

Anyway, Brendan admitted that he remembered the news coming through about the Kennedy assassination. He was at a dance listening to the Grafton Showband when the band was asked to stop playing and the announcement was made from the stage. The show was pronounced over and everyone went home.

Other politicians and advisors discussed and dissected were Obama, Clinton, Reagan, Ahern, Adams, O'Neill, Poots, Trump, Foster, McGuinness, McCausland, Bannon, Campbell, Givan, Nesbitt, May, Brokenshire, McGuinness and Kenny. Few were spoken of admiringly, perhaps three or four.

We moved on to dead comedians. Brendan confessed a liking for Tommy Cooper, Howard said he always enjoyed Dave Allen, I spoke up for Groucho Marx and Bert said he still liked Benny Hill. I lit on him for this and said he needn't think he was going to trick me into divorcing him as I intended to stay married to him until the day he died.

One thing led to another and someone mentioned Knockloughrim. Howard said the windmill there was falling to pieces. The structure has experienced a fair bit of wear and tear since it was first built in the latter part of the 19th century. It lost its sails and roof in a storm. The current roof is a replacement and although some say that the original was also onion shaped, there is no proof. The windmill has had many uses one of which was a meeting place for the local Orange Order.

When Brendan got on to the box barrows that his granda used to make in his blacksmith's shop I made my excuses and left. I had heard the tale before but I left happy in the knowledge that Howard hadn't. And I had a blog to write. And stewed fruit and plain yoghurt to eat.

If anyone knows what a box barrow actually is I'd be pleased to know. I really should have listened to Brendan. Maybe Bert will know.

Political Critters

My youngest daughter has tried, on more than one occasion, to ban me from talking about politics but I cannot help it for I am seriously interested and 2016 has been a particularly eventful year what with the referendum and the USA elections. I took a keen interest in both and was tremendously disheartened with the outcomes. During this time our own local politics seemed rather tedious – until now, until the RHI scandal, the arrogance and intransigence of the First Minister and the resignation of the Deputy First Minister. It appears, that once again, we are living through interesting times. Another election looms, no strange thing in this province for we are always having elections. Mrs Foster claims that it will be ‘brutal’ and I do hope that means her own party will be brutally ejected from the driving seat.

Yet I’ll not get my hopes up too high for Brexit devastated me and Trump’s win was a huge disappointment. The eventual outcome of this local crisis may be just as depressing. 

The black and white dog is strongly Conservative. She voted for Brexit. The other dog voted to Remain. Their disparate viewpoints have created a distance between them.

The tan and white dog is a Remainer. Generally, she takes a liberal view but tends to be rather anti-politics. Her friend in the foreground never votes and deplores the discussion of politics at dinner.

These two are Green Party voters who strongly support the legislation of marijuana. Grass is all they care about. 

This one has strong socialist principles and votes Sinn Fein. Would take a lump out of anyone from Fianna Fáil or Fine Gael.

Fully paid-up member of the Labour Party. Adores Jeremy.

The brown one with the pointy ears used to vote Unionist but now she's not telling. The one howling at the moon is an SDLP supporter but she's feeling disillusioned with the party.

They're far happier now that they've gone over to Sinn Fein.


So there you go, a vague post about politics… no wonder Hannah tries to change the subject and has banned all such discussion at meal times.

Autumnal

You know something? I'm completely scundered right now, which is usually the case when I spend the entire day in the house, cleaning and stuff. Thing is I listen to the radio when I'm in the house and today - that was truly a miserable experience.

Today I hate,

Arlene Foster. Truly, madly deeply.

The USA elections. Donald Trump in particular. People who support Trump.

Sorry about this one for some of you are great folk - people who identify as christian. You are NOT being persecuted, you are just being challenged. Yours is not the only way to be.

This fucking province. Petitions of concern. Politicians.

Tomorrow the house can go fuck itself. I'm going for a walk then sorting the garden. I may collect leaves and I may just stop and appreciate this beautiful autumn.

Wassup?

The self-hypnosis thing is going terribly well. I don't eat biscuits, I physically cannot overeat, Bert's clarinet playing does not faze me in the least and I can fearlessly call people and talk about their overdue accounts.

On the downside maybe it's not such a good thing that I have recently drenched a keyboard and a printer in Pinot Grigio. Didn't do them a lot of good I have to say. Shall I give up drinking? Not yet. I shall stop drinking out of champagne flutes. They are so unsteady.

The grandmotherly thing is good and getting better. I had a promising first experience of baby-sitting. Martha slept and I watched trash TV. All good. I hardly ever watch TV so it mesmerises me when I do.

I do watch stuff from Lovefilm. Bert and I finished watching Tess of the D'Urbervilles last night. It was the BBC version with Gemma Arterton and we enjoyed it immensely. Bert hadn't read Tess (nor any Hardy) and he reckoned it was going to have a happy ending. I didn't disabuse him of the notion. I think I spotted a sad little tear in his eye at the end. I asked him if he thought he could watch the Polanski version and he said he thought he could. I love listening to my books then getting the film or TV series. Listening to Oliver Twist at the moment but I'm not for watching that damn musical. Recently listened to Andrew Marr's History of Modern Britain. It was OK. How could anyone actually read it though? There were so many opposition party leaders that I'd completely forgotten about. I'm stuffed if the Geriatrician ever asks me who led the Labour party before Tony Blair. And for some crazy reason I cannot remember what Jim Callaghan looks like - I just cannot bring a mental picture of him to mind. Must remedy that.

Callaghan Schmallaghan

On Naming Children

Perhaps after this November we'll be able to forget who Sarah Palin is. Perhaps not.

I'm afraid, from what I've heard so far, that I don't care for her much.

What puts me off?

Many things - perhaps the least being what she called her bloody kids. Those aren't people names. Those are dog names, or cat names or pig names.

• Track - a good name for a bloodhound or a retriever.
• Bristol - I'd maybe give that name to a carthorse.
• Willow - a pedigree cat or a pretty white rat.
• Piper - a small spaniel or a Jack Russell Terrier.
• Trig - would suit a collie or a mongrel.

What was she thinking?

The Prime Minister(s) and I

Winston Churchill – Winston had almost completed two years of his third term in office when I made my appearance. He had suffered a stroke a few months before I was born and this was kept from the British public as was the custom in those days. While Winnie was recovering from ‘exhaustion’, and little wonder for he’d had a tough old time of it with wars, rebellions and uprisings, I was learning to walk and talk and relishing being an only child. It was not to last.

Sir Anthony Eden – While Eden was making a horlicks of the Egyptian situation and fending off amorous overtures from France I got me a little sister who, while initially unwelcome, grew on me over time. While Eden was getting wrong footed by Harold Macmillan the sister and I were being terrorised by a pet ram. Thankfully the parents had the savage beast served up with mint sauce.

Harold Macmillan – Harold oversaw my golden childhood and I remember him well. I was under the impression that he was from the County Antrim him being a Mac and all. The years from four to ten were wonderful for me. The sun shone all summer long, in winter the snow was deep and crisp and even and Christmas was magical. There was always something good on television even if it was black and white. I acquired a further three sisters and a brother but I didn’t mind. As far as I’m concerned Mac never said a truer word than, ‘You’ve never had it so good.’ The Profumo Affair went right over my head.

Sir Alec Douglas-Home – Another brother appeared and life started to get a bit grim. Not the brother’s fault of course – more the 11+ and ‘working hard at school’ and ‘getting to the convent’ and bloody puberty. Douglas-Home lasted a year. People were getting tired of the Conservatives.

Harold Wilson – While Harold was getting the permissive society underway I was watching from the sidelines. Hating school, hating growing up, and navel-gazing - it all passed me by.

Edward Heath – British prime ministers were starting to impact on us Norn Ironers more because by now the Troubles were well under way. When Heath took office I was sixteen – when he left it I was pregnant with my first child. Of course Ted, allegedly a friend of Dorothy’s, had nothing to do with the pregnancy.

Harold again - One Saturday night about twelve weeks after Harold Wilson took office for the second time he was on television talking directly to the people of Northern Ireland. This was during the UWC strike during which time Loyalists brought the province to a standstill. During his speech he called us ‘spongers’ and referred to the murder of my father’s brothers that had taken place the previous night. Three months later my first daughter was born.

James Callaghan – Callaghan oversaw the Winter of Discontent and I had my second daughter.

Margaret Thatcher – Oh dear. We didn’t like her one bit. Started of calling her Milk Snatcher then taught our children to chant ‘Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Out, Out, Out!’ but fuck the bit of her listened to us. During the Maggie years I got married, divorced, didn’t buy my council house and was a mad feminist. Then I met Bert, got my A levels, and began studying for my degree. Hannah was born in the middle of the Falklands War.

John Major - I completed my degree, passed my driving test and got all my kids to college. Went back to work myself. Meanwhile John, who I secretly fancied and admired, did sterling work in Northern Ireland.

Tony Blair – So delighted when he got in but my happiness didn’t last. During the Tony years I lived in the country, worked with homeless people and moved to this house. Tony went to war. I started this blog. Two of my sisters married a Glaswegian. Not the same one. Daddy died.

Gordon Brown – Since Gordon’s been Prime Minister I have gone to work, shopped at Lidl’s, made a plain dinner, watched people screaming at each other on TV and sipped Laphroaig.

What about you?

Industrial Injury

I was rinsing out a few cups in work today when I spotted our pet spider getting drowned in the soapy water. Hurriedly I gathered him up to safety and do you know what? The bastard bit me! In panic I hurled Spidey to the floor and inspected my savaged finger. It was sort of itchy and scratchy and sore. I wondered (briefly) if it was a poisonous spider but sensibly decided that it was not. After all have you ever heard of a poisonous spider in Ireland? I kept an eye on my wound but it did not swell up or turn black which I took to be a good sign.

And what of Spiro the Spider? I scooped him up in a plastic glass and laid him on a tea towel to dry out. When I checked later he had scuttled off.

To take my mind off the arachnoid assault I watched live coverage of the events at Stormont. Tony looked smug and happy. Bertie looked sleekit and happy. Ian looked stern and happy. Martin looked grim and happy. And Gerry looked shifty. But I don't think he can help that.

And in the parlance of Ulster-Scots I noticed there was a quare ween o' they wee dafties aboot the place.

Politics Is A Dirty Word

Nelly: What’s the worstest, horriblest, nastiest word you know?

Hannah: Thatch.

Jamie: All words are great. I have no words I dislike.

Hannah: What about ‘Paki’ – you hate that word.

Swisser: What if your name is Patrick? Then you could be called Packy. That’d be OK.

Hannah: Yeah! An Irish-Pakistani born on St Patrick’s Day. Called Packy. That’d be cool.

Nelly: What words do you hate most Bert? Work? Morning?

Bert: Shite. Nag.

Hannah: I hate the word chunder. It gives me shivers; it doesn’t even suggest that you’re just throwing up – it sounds that you’re throwing up great big lumps.

Jamie: Mot. Mot’s a pretty bad word. It means a woman’s private part.

Nelly: In my case that would mean purse, which come to think…

Jamie: Felch is a pretty bad word.

Nelly: Wow! Do you read Twenty Major? I only heard of that word for the first time in my life yesterday.

Jamie: No. Who’s Twenty Major?

Swisser: Do you know you’re down to your last two teabags?

Nelly: Never worry. I’ll go to a shop tomorrow be stuffed with teabags. Bert you should be kinder to Swisser. Coming up here and having to make her own tea and then we eat all her chocolate.

Bert: Ach. She’ll be alright.

Nelly: So what about the election then? Who’d you vote for?

Swisser: I didn’t vote for anyone. Didn’t get my form in time. Anyway what’s the point of voting where I live?

Nelly: That didn’t stop us. We voted. SDLP.

Swisser: Sure what’s the point of that? That’s a wasted vote.

Nelly: No. It’s not. My father said if you don’t use your vote you might as well be an animal in a field.

Swisser: I usually vote.

Nelly: You didn’t vote that time Brian used your polling card for roaches did you?

Swisser: I did so!

Jamie: Yeah! I vote and I toke.

Nelly: Still never mind parties and policies. If you had to shag one of them it’d have to be Gerry, wouldn’t it?

Jamie: Yeah! For sure!

Swisser: No. It’d have to be Martin for me.

Hannah: Anybody but Paisley. Who’d shag him?

Election Fever

The posters are up, the party political broadcasts have begun. Something is in the air. And with it the same old cynicism, same old story,

• Sure what's the point of voting?
• They're all the same, politicians. Only out for themselves.
• My vote's not going to make any difference.
• I can't be arsed.

Our late father Seamus taught me many things and one of the most important was,

Your vote matters. Use it!

And if you're not sure how to use that vote you could do worse than take a look at this interesting wiki.