rant on a saturday

It was probably, on reflection, an inappropriate time for a first date. Saturday night in Dublin - so far, so good - meet in a city pub and then go for dinner, somewhere intimate, cosy and serving quality food, reasonably priced.
So, eliminating all the overpriced and pretentious, you had to think cheap and cheerful; convivial.
My date had a wheat intolerance issue - not coeliac, just prone to bloating, she explained. Sympathising, I ticked my favourite pizzeria off the list.
And where to meet? Well, the first obstacle was the football. Ireland was playing the first leg of the World Cup qualifier against France in Croke Park. If you weren't at the game, you were almost certainly in a pub, nursing a pint and watching the game with your mates on a big screen.
The first pub I suggested was Neary's of Chatham St, the only pub I knew in the city without a tv. Of course, it's near Pizza Stop, my favourite pizzeria but that was no longer our dining destination.
My date fancied French food, oblivious to the implications of having the customary Gallic shrug replaced by a Gallic gloat, in the event of a score in favour of the visitors.
Although I knew Le Geuleton on Fade St did not entertain bookings, I thought I might have a punt at it anyway. The girl on the line confirmed my suspicions but then suggested I come in at 6.30, put my name on a list and then wait for the summons. Luckily I was sitting down or I would have staggered.
I booked Chez Max instead. It's a tiny place but cosy and reeking of garlic and Gallic charm. One very long table in the centre of the room was occupied by a rather noisy birthday party who, when they weren't whooping and hooting, were telling everyone else to 'shush.' They were Irish.
There was a big screen and yes, it was showing the match but the sound wasn't turned up; the staff were discreet about the solitary French goal and I sat with my back to it anyway which was no bad thing when I heard how boring it turned out to be. So all in all, a splendid night was had apart from the phone call to Le Geuleton, a drafty, overpriced monument with Gallic arrogance.

income cuts? look, no gun...no mask!

So all the hens have come home to roost and there's nowhere to set themselves. Not that all the income real estate has been taken over by foreign workers either. They're going home, slowly and for many, reluctantly. Ireland provided a good living and they worked hard for it. Indeed, as this country grew fatter, its workers grew lazy so all the marginal, workforce entry level, service and shit shoveling jobs were snapped up by immigrant workers. When you grow fat it's harder to lose it than it was to gain it. Young Irish workers need to learn to work hard.
They don't need to work for less money though. This really gets my goat. First, income levies and now the spectre of income cuts. First, they'll freeze public service pay for twelve months and extract levies to the bone while they're doing it. It's only a matter of time before the private sector gets it. In the current economic climate, we can't afford to pay people this much...that's what you'll hear.
My work hasn't changed. I'll work an hour or two more. I'll use every skill available to me to get business for my employer, improve our turnover, increase our profits and keep me in a job. I have no problem with that. I grew up working and I've seen recessions come and go. That this one has been different there is no doubt. We (they told us) rose higher than we ever imagined we could go before. But, to paraphrase the immortal words of Jimmy Cliff, the harder they come, the harder they fall. And 'we' apparently, had a long way to fall.
Never mind that I can't remember ever being up there, riding the 'Tiger's back, so to speak. No, you could leave that to the high fliers in Anglo-Irish, Bank of Ireland and AIB; the builders and developers, the speculators, the land grabbers and the out and out chancers who bought fancy suits, took flying lessons, bought flash motors with V8 engines and holiday homes in Marbella.
In the meantime, I've been doing what a lot of other people have been doing; living my life, muddling through, paying for what I need, using what I've got and borrowing nothing. More than ten years since I cleared my last debt, I'm paying other people's debts; the debts of those same speculators, bankers, chancers and Bengal Lancers. Those who purport to govern this situation took their eyes off the ball while their greedy mincers were stuck on how they got their share. Share of what? the air in a balloon? No, taxpayers' money when they could fiddle expenses; developers' money when there was an opportunity.
When will we wise up and see we are ruled, not governed. Find me a politician who can spell 'democracy' and I'll show you a naiive fool.