I daresay I won’t be able to complete this post without shedding a few tears; I’m already welling up, in fact. I’ve been away from my desk, and Dublin, since the wee hours Monday, March 1st, when I was awoken by the doorbell. My dear grandmother, confidante and friend, Laura Mc Mahon (neé Gargan), had passed away. She was 88 years old – may the Lord have mercy on her soul.

My father had driven up from Meath, because I had turned my phone off, as I usually do, though I am unlikely to do so in the future.  It was a long journey. The short walk I cover every day seemed to take an eternity. And of course I always knew this day would come, I was still horribly unprepared. I still am, four days and much mourning later. She is a terrible loss to me, I miss her so much, and I cannot believe that I will never see her at the fireside again. She had a rare warmth of character that meant that each of her grandchildren felt they had an especially close bond with her, and I don’t think anyone who ever met her, forgot her. I hope I can somehow pass on the example she taught me, that somehow I can do her memory justice, because at the moment I still feel incredibly raw, and lonesome.

Of all the things I regret, and cannot change, the worst is both actually and ironically poetic. A few years ago I wrote a poem largely inspired by my relationship with her, and the chats we used to have. I had forgotten about it, until, at the wake, I was reminded of it by my cousins, who had read it on the internet.  Slightly embarrassed, to be honest (I know, it’s strange to put something on the internet and expect no-one to read it, but that’s the way these things go) because I scarcely expected it to see the light of day, as it hadn’t up til now: certainly not in her presence. And so it came to pass, that I read it at her graveside.

In memory of Lolo:-

A little fireside tonight, some conversation

Just the way we have always had it, as friends.

The company of two, it somehow starts, never ends:

Time parts all over, slyly hinting at foreover more.

My memory and heaven are through the same door.

O smile with me a while my stage-managing director!

Underline my style with soul-defying nectar!

And as the fire dies, undry my eyes and let’s not part tonight,

With such a prize, no soul cries, this moment’s becoming bright.

There is an art to conversation. We are characters, you and I

Crafted naturally, grown out of a hearth with a lover’s eye

For sentiment, respect and tradition. Some might say

That we get into it, circumspect and rendition, in this way.

And perhaps it’s too simple, what I’ve spoken and read

But I’m sure you’ve still heard, every word that I’ve said.

Smart Tax Breaks

A significant part of our current wealth has been based on foreign direct investment (FDI) which was attracted by our low corporate tax rate. I propose that this be intelligently modified so as to not only attract, but develop, smart and sustainable enterprise and employment. I envisage this occurring in three main areas:

1. Third-Level Special Economic Zones
Designate the campus of every university and institute of technology a low-tax (or tax-free) zone, much like the Shannon Free Zone and several others around the world, for start-ups and collaborations. Use these areas to hothouse new and innovative technologies and businesses.

2. Green Corporation Tax Rate
This is very simple: foreign direct investment in green, sustainable, carbon-low technologies pay a substantially reduced corporation tax rate for a fixed period (5 to 10 years), incrementally increasing thereafter to the normal rate.

3. Carbon-Free Commerce.
Index-link all businesses’ corporate tax payments to their carbon-footprint. As the Government is now producing a carbon budget, so too should every business. A baseline rate should be set: those who exceed it should pay more corporation tax, those who stay below it should pay less. (The idea is that this gives similar incentives to home and pre-existing business as are given to FDI above).

I doubt that the EU, and the French in particular, will like any of these ideas, but I daresay that there are very few people in Ireland amenable to are willing to take instruction from that quarter these days anyway.

Vote here!

It goes around, it comes around – always mentioned, poorly understood and seldom questioned. Now, for the first time in recorded history, Ireland’s greatest gift to the world is here set out in a simple, easy-to-read, tourist-proof formula.

Of course, primitive versions of this system exist in other parts of the world, but, suffice it to say that its purest and most sophisticated form is only evident in dear old Ireland. FACT. But what is it? how does it work? and for what purpose?

For those of you still in pitiable ignorance, the round system basically means that, when arriving at a bar, or some such location of public intoxication, it is incumbent upon drinkers to buy their drinks collectively, rather than individually. This is not a ‘clubbing together’ effort – we’re not fucking hippies. This is the first point to note – the round system is a lot to do with bragging rights. Once you get into the bar simply say ‘I’ll get these’. And then? Then everyone owes you a drink. There’s your nuts …

And why? Well, for one thing, it saves clogging up the bar with single drink simpletons, slowing down the barman. For another, it means you open your wallet less often, not to mention, have to get up from the table less often. Aye, there’s the rub. This is the whole point of the round system, to maintain conversation. Think about it: four people drinking – without the round system conversation broken four times more often than with the round system.

More crucially though, in terms of drinking – which is pretty bloody important too – the round system slows down the lush in every group, and speeds up the slowpoke: everyone drinks, and gets drunk, at the same speed. This is the beauty of the system.

But of course life does not always pan out in perfect symmetry, and drinking is surprisingly no exception. Sometimes, over a course of drinks, it may not be possible for an even number of rounds of drinks to be consumed and purchased. As in the previous example, unless the four people drinking each consume exactly four, eight or twelve drinks (one, two and three rounds respectively, maths fans), someone will luck out on the round.

So what do you do? There are a few scenarios. One, drinking stops (for whatever reason) after your round (i.e. someone owes you a drink). In this case, forget it. Yeah, that’s right, forget it. Don’t bitch and moan about it like a seventeen-year-old, just forget it.  Enemies have been turned by an unreturned round before. With a bit of luck, your magnanimity will be remembered.

Another, drinking stops (for whatever reason) before your round (i.e. you owe someone a drink). In this case, try to remember it. Don’t offer a cash substitute, for the love of God. Just because money gets you booze, doesn’t mean booze should get you money. No! Booze gets booze! End of story. Do remember who you owe a drink! You would be forgiven for thinking that, ‘hey, everyone was drunk! no-one will remember that I owe them a drink! who-hoo! fuck it!’. Bullshit. Everyone (i.e. at least one person) will remember. This is Ireland. Booze is thicker than blood. We all know the ‘drunk’ excuse. Which is precisely why, if you remember that you missed a round, while plastered, and remember to get it back the next time, you will be remembered as a hero. Or at least a decent human being.

Again, if you have to leave while everyone else is still drinking, obviously try to time it right. Do the bloody decent thing and but the round before you leave. Never offer a cash substitute!

And while I’m at it, never skip out a round – i.e. if someone says ‘are you ready for another?’, let your answer always be ‘yes’. Otherwise, you’re ruining it for everyone. Messes up the whole thing. You’re going to want another drink, aren’t you? Of course you are, of course you are … shur, what else would you be doing?

Never, ever, bitch about someone else’s drink being a bit more expensive (unless it’s more than twice the price of the other drinks – if it’s that much, the person should cop the fuck on, and you should get out of the round with them asap). At least have the decency to do it behind their back!

Always, always, always – always bitch about someone’s drink being fruity or skanky. WKD, Budweiser and Coca-cola drinkers beware. But the less said about those fellas, the better.

Anyway, you get the picture. Such is the round system. Of course other countries have admirable social inventions too, but if I had to choose between it and, oh I don’t know, universal healthcare, punctual public transport or haute cuisine, give me the pub that has four or five lads with the right idea any day of the week.

Such is the richness of information technology these days that I just ’stumbled upon’ something on my computer, not 3 months old, written in my own hand, yet still somehow new to me! Time flies! Some gibberish I wrote about SpaceFairy.

And I had vowed, more-or-less, not to write poems about women anymore, because they are rarely – no, never – worth that level of praise. O the folly of man… yet there is still something awfully alluring about romance, not to mention sentimentality, isn’t there?

Not for the first time, I have started a new blog – my Facebook Research Blog. The idea with it will be a lot more specific than any I’ve started previously: rather than my inane ramblings about nothing in particular, it’ll be focussed solely on psychological research concerned with Facebook, of which there isn’t much, but it is increasing. I find it all very interesting, both professionally and personally, though the less said about the latter, the better …

I am never entirely sure what I should write in this thing, so forgive me if this seems inappropriate. For I would like to mark the passing, on Wednesday last, of my uncle.  At the age of sixty-seven, in his sleep, rather unexpectedly, practically on his birthday, and only days from meeting his daughter-in-law-to-be’s parents, for the first time, a good, honest, gentle and hard-working man, my godmother’s husband, departed, from this world, for the side of truth.

At times like this, to the observer it can seem like clichés become used too wantonly, but in actuality, at this time my thoughts are with his family. My god mother and cousins are very close to me and I cannot but be mindful of, or at least attempt to be conscious of, what they are going through. They held themselves together remarkably well over the last few days, and I trust that their strength of spirit will remain with them.

However, I don’t think it would be callous of me to say that in each funeral occasion that a part of every sinner’s grief, whether they be chief mourners or casual observers, is the reminder of their own mortality. In every wake, in every removal, every choir service, every funeral mass and burial everyone sees their own passing. And there is little that can be done about that! Except each of us prepare in our own individual way, for whatever we expect to meet thereafter.

My own faith is as wearisome and fickle as the next man’s, and I can’t claim to explain anything, really, to any great degree. But one thing I do know for certain, is that should I find myself leaving this life in thirty-nine years’ time, and leaving behind a life as well-lived, and a family as beloved, and loving, and memories as fondly remembered, as he who I still scarcely believe has gone, then I will die a very happy man.

Which isn’t true. I believed. I had believed. I still do believe! Eamon O’Brien took a small, under-rated team of nobodies, to the All-Ireland Semi-final. Not the summer I had imagined! And, with grim statistical precision, we lost. Kerry 2-8 Meath 1-7

The thing is, not that we lost, as predictably we did, but that I had entertained the completely irrational hope – “it is a small chance, but it’s a good chance “- that we would win. It’s the naïveté, the gullibility of it all that’s so … shocking? embarrassing? stupid? … and yet somehow so quaintly beautiful. As Feist puts it

“The saddest part of a broken heart
Isn’t the ending so much as the start
The tragedy starts from the very first spark
Losing your mind for the sake of your heart“

Oh yes – soft baroque jazz as a sentimental healing metaphor for a broken hearted football fan – that’s how I, ahem, roll. Indeed, it could work the other way around too, All-Ireland campaigns and football matches as parallels to romance and relationships … but that’s another day’s post.

With the greatest respect and much thanks to the team for the memories, not to mention sincere hope for the future: Meath for Sam 2010!

I really shouldn’t post this up on my internet, but … ah shur fuck it. For your information, I present my Hangover Rating System:

Hangover Star rating system:
1 star hangover *
- feel a small bit groggy, but can get up at the usual weekday hour and do a normal day’s work
- when people ask, you say ‘oh yeah I was out last night, mental!’ and pretend to feel worse than you are, but you’re actually grand and thinking about your next session already.

2 star hangover **
- feel groggy and tired and consider sleeping in but don’t. Grumble but feel better after a shower and breakfast
- if no-one knows, they might not notice. In fact, you regret going home early and think you should’ve had a few more.

3 star hangover ***
- feel groggy, tired and dehydrated and skip breakfast in favour of a small lie-in. A Powerade or Lucozade may be necessary. This one won’t lift til after lunch.
- people will notice. You will say ‘ah yeah not too bad really’ and wish they would fuck off. You remember enjoying the last drink, and contemplate the cruelty of Ireland’s licensing laws.

4 star hangover ****
- groggy, tired, dehydrated and headachy. You sleep in by at least a half an hour. You can get up, but it’d be best if you didn’t.
- You get odd looks in the street but are too jaked to really notice. By venturing outside of the house you are putting lives and property at risk. Even after showering you still smell of drink. The bulk of your thoughts are fundamentally based on ’something wet’, be it a facecloth, ice-cream, a can of Coke or even the sea – just refreshment from the godawful reality of the hangover.

5 star hangover *****
- Sleeping til late afternoon, you roll around trying to push yourself back into the warm fuzzy buzz of drunkenness; however, you ultimtately fail, because of the brickwall migraine across your temples.
- Then you start getting paranoid and your tummy starts to rumble as you sober up. You vaguely recollect being ‘ill’ the night before. If you’re lucky you might be able to take advantage of that narrow window of opportunity between the evaporation of tipsiness and onset of the hangover to take some aspirin or food. Otherwise you will crash and burn on a park bench somewhere, from which you are unlikely to rise, unless disturbed by rapscallion magpies.

6 star hangover ******
- When you wake up you are confused and drunk, perhaps still half-dressed and in the wrong house. This is the faux-hangover: where you feel ‘great!’ because you drank enough for two days, but you do get double the hangover, which will only kick in at midday.
- Obviously you can’t contemplate eating and it’s just as well you can’t leave the house because you still smell of puke from the night before. You have lost something important, and I don’t mean self-respect, because if you have any of that left, you soon vomit it out, a few times. You would choose an hour of buggery over another minute of this.

7 star hangover *******
- Wherever you find yourself, you recognise little of your environment, and in the middle of an angry conversation, and wearing someone else’s shoe, unsurprisingly on the wrong foot. As soon as you wake, you wish you had left your head on the floor, but you can’t, because your immediate impulse is to puke.
- It is a vain hope though, because there’s nothing left to eject, and you spend the rest of the day hiccuping and trying to fix your phone and find your wallet. In such a state, you find that the one thing which cured you of all previous hangovers, be it solpadine, port, sausages or pron, fails miserably. Crawling into a suitcase somewhere under the stairs, you emerge after a minimum of twenty-four hours soliltude with the humility of a saint and a thirst that would kill a camel. And you will never drink again, right?

This all seems so strange now, but here’s a poem I wrote exactly a month ago. A lot of water under the bridge since then, but as Colum Mc Cann said, “If you stand in the same river for too long, even the banks will trickle past you”.

SpaceFairy and I broke up last night. A supersonic stratocaster of a relationship that lasted all of 3 weeks, 4 days, 12 hours and 47 minutes – but who’s counting? If you read the last post then I don’t think you will be surprised to hear that I am, for want of a more appropriate verb, gutted.

I mean, it was all terribly romantic, terribly romantic – meeting on a plane, becoming totally besotted with each other, moving extremely fast and all that jazz – and the fact that we were both so different to what the other was used to (you know, not each others’ type) did make things somewhat too good to be true, right from the start. But I wanted it to be true, and I know she did too …

I knew this would happen at some stage, you know – the reality of the situation would eventually impinge – but man alive, it fucking sucks. It’s only been a couple of hours and I miss her awfully. It really bugs me, at 9.31am on a Saturday morning – an hour which is totally unknown to me – that, having tried my damndest to drink enough to forget, I woke up early and without a smidgen of a hangover. All I felt at 7.57 was bitter, and rushing to Facebook to change my relationship status. Which is pretty pathetic, I know, but I needed to do something, because I certainly couldn’t sleep. Thanks be to jaysus the Kestrel is back, “… when a man truly needs his friends, they will surely appear …” (that’s not a quote from anything, but it should be).

Maybe she just needs time, to have a think about things. When she spoke last night, about how she was feeling, I realised that it was somewhat cruel of me to want to keep her tied down, so to speak. I mean, she is a complete hippy. Free-spirited, joyous, good-natured, turns every second into a party … and she’s starting college in a few weeks so I suppose, all-in-all, we were going to hit the rocks sooner or later. But, even though from the beginning I didn’t think it’d last, I hoped it would, and I was beginning to think it might. Really can’t believe that we didn’t survive the first hurdle, and feel awful that it was largely my fault … me, my ego and my stupid temper.

I don’t bear her any ill will, I just can’t believe it’s over. We had so much fun together, like Croke Park, sushi, jazz and cocktails in the one day – I challenge anyone to describe a better date than that! We were really good together, laughing, chatting, flirting … everything. She’s an amazing girl: thoughtful, good-natured, considerate, caring, smart as a fox, genuinely very funny, superb conversationalist, sharp dresser, foxy as fuck, smoking hot and sexy as hell. Oh dearie me, she’ll be hard to get over!

And now, here I am, swatting flies and drinking cold tea, and wondering what to do with the extra toothbrush and the condensed milk. And the irony of the situation is starting to grate on me too. See, I made a point, right from the start, of trying to keep things special, trying to maintain the, ho-hum, cinematic atmosphere, by giving her a flower of some kind, usually a rose from the bush outside my front door: but now I don’t think there are any left. I suppose I could get them elsewhere – she was always giving out to me for stealing them – but you get the picture, some kind of fatedness. Plus I had a strange feeling when I sent that letter to Ryanair.

Maybe it’s just turbulence, oh maybe …