Regular readers would have noticed that I have been fairly quiet lately. Please don't worry, I haven't given up writing this blog; I plan to return in 2018 with lots more articles. In the meantime, please keep checking in. And a follow would be much appreciated, thank you.
I would like to thank you for reading my blog and wish you all a wonderful new year.
John
Moanaghan Man
Sunday 31 December 2017
Saturday 25 November 2017
Nearly Awards 2017
It’s the time of year when awards are handed out like flyers at a world championship for leaflet distributors. It does make sense that accolades are presented at the end of a year – I think the Psychic Association is the only organisation that held their 2017 awards in January. I’m going to give my own ‘honours’ for the year. My Nearly Awards are for those who thought they had achieved something big, when, in fact, they hadn’t. Read on and it will all become clear.
First up, I’d like to give a Nearly Award to everyone associated with the movie La La Land. These people thought they had won the 2017 Oscar for best picture after they were announced as the winners. However, a mistake had been made; Moonlight had won. It meant limelight for Moonlight and boohoo land for La La Land.
The second award goes to the people behind South Africa’s bid to host the 2023 Rugby Union World Cup. The South Africans were certain they would be staging the tournament when the Rugby World Cup Limited Board (yes, that’s what they’re called) recommended them over their rivals, France and Ireland. It turns out the Rugby World Cup Limited Board is indeed limited when it comes to recommendations. France won leaving South Africa and Ireland disappointed. At least Ireland had the consolation of a first appearance in a men’s Rugby World Cup ‘final three’.
We move north of South Africa to Zimbabwe for our final recipient. For a while, the country’s military appeared to be Nearly Award winners. They had staged a coup to oust President Mugabe, and at first, it looked like the best coup ever, as the majority of Zimbabweans supported their army and there was little trouble. In fact, the only trouble they had was the fact that President Mugabe remained in power. Mugabe eventually resigned, but for nearly staying on as president, he gets a Nearly Award.
That’s my Nearly Awards for 2017. You will not be surprised to learn that no ‘winner’ turned up in person to collect their prize. They didn’t even nearly make it – which is apt, I suppose.
Before you go, a share and follow would be appreciated. Thank you.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Thursday 9 November 2017
Please Keep Reading
Hello Everyone,
My apologies for not posting this week. I've suffered a family bereavement and feel it is inappropriate to post humour at this sad time. I intend to add more pieces very soon, so please keep checking.
Thank you.
John
My apologies for not posting this week. I've suffered a family bereavement and feel it is inappropriate to post humour at this sad time. I intend to add more pieces very soon, so please keep checking.
Thank you.
John
Thursday 2 November 2017
My Review of The Walking Dead
In this piece, I’m going to review the US television show The Walking Dead. I say review, this is probably unlike any other analysis of the programme you’ve ever read. That said, if this is a success, I might review more shows.
The Walking Dead takes place in a post-apocalyptic world. Everything’s in chaos; just imagine it’s the day after Saint Patrick’s Day – it’s that messy. The central government doesn’t appear to be in control – so nothing new there.
To make matters worse, the place is overrun by ‘walkers’. The walkers are living dead, so in a way, they’re like accountants (although accountants are much scarier). The walkers might look frightening, but they don’t move very fast. In fact, the show should be called Walking Dead Slow.
As you can imagine, it’s tough being a living person in this scenario. Not only are the walkers after you, some living people from other groups don’t like you much either. It’s difficult to relax, especially if the only DVD you have to watch is Night of the Living Dead.
Overall view: I’d like to say that The Walking Dead is an exercise in existentialism – mainly because it makes me look clever.
If you would like to review my review, I would welcome your comments. And a share and follow would be appreciated. Thank you.
© John E. McBride (2017)
The Walking Dead takes place in a post-apocalyptic world. Everything’s in chaos; just imagine it’s the day after Saint Patrick’s Day – it’s that messy. The central government doesn’t appear to be in control – so nothing new there.
To make matters worse, the place is overrun by ‘walkers’. The walkers are living dead, so in a way, they’re like accountants (although accountants are much scarier). The walkers might look frightening, but they don’t move very fast. In fact, the show should be called Walking Dead Slow.
As you can imagine, it’s tough being a living person in this scenario. Not only are the walkers after you, some living people from other groups don’t like you much either. It’s difficult to relax, especially if the only DVD you have to watch is Night of the Living Dead.
Overall view: I’d like to say that The Walking Dead is an exercise in existentialism – mainly because it makes me look clever.
If you would like to review my review, I would welcome your comments. And a share and follow would be appreciated. Thank you.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Monday 23 October 2017
2017 News Headlines (Well, Some of Them)
The following are some actual news items (from early 2017, and September/October 2017) that you may have missed. I’ve added a humorous spin.
The UK agrees on defence deal with Turkey; the turkey says fighter jets are an unnecessary deterrent against foxes.
As the Internet Movie Database announces it is to close down its message boards, one contributor asks: “Did anyone else see this twist coming?”
Adele fluffs her lines at music awards – she should’ve studied harder at Grammy school.
Prison is driving a thief nicknamed “Spiderman” up the wall but he hasn’t made it to the ceiling yet.
UK Insurance premiums set to increase – insurers are happy but there’s little compensation for consumers.
Disappointed IT nerds demand a refund after watching horror movie It.
Brexit news, and as the UK’s Trades Union Congress accuses the Prime Minister of having a ‘Santa wish list’, Britain says its top three demands from Europe are border control, free trade, and a scooter.
Police confirm euros flushed down a toilet in Geneva are not real; they are, in fact, a new kind of Swiss roll – a Swiss bog roll.
A supermarket’s profits fall despite record sales. A company spokesperson says a solution to this problem would be to sell more records.
US scientists win the Nobel Prize after solving how our bodies tell time. My body tells the time by looking at my watch with my eyes.
A follow and share would be appreciated, thanks. And now, the weather…
© John E. McBride (2017)
The UK agrees on defence deal with Turkey; the turkey says fighter jets are an unnecessary deterrent against foxes.
….
As the Internet Movie Database announces it is to close down its message boards, one contributor asks: “Did anyone else see this twist coming?”
….
Adele fluffs her lines at music awards – she should’ve studied harder at Grammy school.
….
Prison is driving a thief nicknamed “Spiderman” up the wall but he hasn’t made it to the ceiling yet.
….
UK Insurance premiums set to increase – insurers are happy but there’s little compensation for consumers.
….
Disappointed IT nerds demand a refund after watching horror movie It.
….
Brexit news, and as the UK’s Trades Union Congress accuses the Prime Minister of having a ‘Santa wish list’, Britain says its top three demands from Europe are border control, free trade, and a scooter.
….
Police confirm euros flushed down a toilet in Geneva are not real; they are, in fact, a new kind of Swiss roll – a Swiss bog roll.
….
A supermarket’s profits fall despite record sales. A company spokesperson says a solution to this problem would be to sell more records.
….
US scientists win the Nobel Prize after solving how our bodies tell time. My body tells the time by looking at my watch with my eyes.
....
Bags for life can make you ill – so please don’t eat them.
….
A follow and share would be appreciated, thanks. And now, the weather…
© John E. McBride (2017)
Tuesday 17 October 2017
I Found It
I think I’ve found the easiest job in the world (apart from being a voice coach to a mime artist). The job is... a scientist. To demonstrate, let me tell you about two scientists who achieved greatness with a minimum of effort.
The first person I’ll write about was a Greek from ancient times called Archimedes. Straight off, you can tell this guy is special – he’s so famous, he only needs one name. Just like Bono, Bjork, and Bambi. Archimedes is famous because he had a bath. I’ll elaborate; he had a bath and discovered two things. The first was water makes you wet. His second discovery was that the water level in a bath rises when you get into the bath. It gets a bit complicated after that; let’s just say he went on to have many more achievements. I’m sure he didn’t invent the rubber duck, however.
The second scientist I will write about is Alexander Graham Fleming. Don’t let the fact that he has three names put you off. Just think of him as the Sarah Jessica Parker of boffins. Besides, Archimedes may have had one name, but he didn’t win the Nobel Prize, did he? Mr Fleming did win it by making a mistake, waiting a while, and then letting others do the work. Told you scientists had it easy. He wasn’t even trying to discover penicillin when he discovered it. He discovered the antibiotic by accident. I would guess the original name for penicillin was ‘Oops!’ Other people including Ernst Boris Chain and Howard Florey continued Fleming’s work and in 1945 all three won the Nobel Prize.
There you have it, Archimedes and Alexander Fleming became famous by simply taking a bath in the former’s case and by making a mistake in the latter. I wash and make mistakes all the time and yet the nearest I’ve come to any kind of eminence is listening to Eminem. Maybe I should take up science. Or at least wash and make mistakes more often.
A follow and share would be appreciated. Thank you.
© John E. McBride (2017)
The first person I’ll write about was a Greek from ancient times called Archimedes. Straight off, you can tell this guy is special – he’s so famous, he only needs one name. Just like Bono, Bjork, and Bambi. Archimedes is famous because he had a bath. I’ll elaborate; he had a bath and discovered two things. The first was water makes you wet. His second discovery was that the water level in a bath rises when you get into the bath. It gets a bit complicated after that; let’s just say he went on to have many more achievements. I’m sure he didn’t invent the rubber duck, however.
The second scientist I will write about is Alexander Graham Fleming. Don’t let the fact that he has three names put you off. Just think of him as the Sarah Jessica Parker of boffins. Besides, Archimedes may have had one name, but he didn’t win the Nobel Prize, did he? Mr Fleming did win it by making a mistake, waiting a while, and then letting others do the work. Told you scientists had it easy. He wasn’t even trying to discover penicillin when he discovered it. He discovered the antibiotic by accident. I would guess the original name for penicillin was ‘Oops!’ Other people including Ernst Boris Chain and Howard Florey continued Fleming’s work and in 1945 all three won the Nobel Prize.
There you have it, Archimedes and Alexander Fleming became famous by simply taking a bath in the former’s case and by making a mistake in the latter. I wash and make mistakes all the time and yet the nearest I’ve come to any kind of eminence is listening to Eminem. Maybe I should take up science. Or at least wash and make mistakes more often.
A follow and share would be appreciated. Thank you.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Tuesday 10 October 2017
Carillon Magazine
The piece below won a Carillon Readers’ Bookmark Competition in for me a few years ago. Sadly, this brilliant writing magazine is due to cease publication shortly. If you would like to learn more about Carillon, please visit its website at http://www.carillonmag.co.uk/
For the competition, I had to write a letter of excuse for something. The following (which has been slightly edited) was my effort.
Dear Sir or Madam,
I realise Sheffield City Council is rather annoyed with me over my failure to pay a parking fine. However, I think you should hear my side of the story before you judge me. It all started when I fell in love with a woman. She was out of this world. Literally. You see, she was from another planet. I was smitten the moment I looked into her eyes. All three of them.
The romance grew and everything was going well until I decided to take her to a Sheffield United match. Big mistake. Not only did the experience put her off football, it turned her against me, the human race, the whole world (and Bramall Lane pork pies). She was so angry that she threatened to obliterate the planet with her spaceship’s laser.
I reminded her that the spaceship had been parked on a double yellow line for weeks. I offered to pay the ticket if she promised not to destroy Earth. She agreed, and then flew off to steal cattle hearts in Arizona, instead of human ones in Yorkshire.
I am left alone, and with a fine that doesn’t really belong to me. However, as my astuteness has saved the planet, I hope you’ll do the right thing and let me off. Indeed, is there any chance of a reward?
Sincerely,
Mr A. Lien
© John E. McBride (2017)
A share and follow would be appreciated. Thanks.
For the competition, I had to write a letter of excuse for something. The following (which has been slightly edited) was my effort.
Dear Sir or Madam,
I realise Sheffield City Council is rather annoyed with me over my failure to pay a parking fine. However, I think you should hear my side of the story before you judge me. It all started when I fell in love with a woman. She was out of this world. Literally. You see, she was from another planet. I was smitten the moment I looked into her eyes. All three of them.
The romance grew and everything was going well until I decided to take her to a Sheffield United match. Big mistake. Not only did the experience put her off football, it turned her against me, the human race, the whole world (and Bramall Lane pork pies). She was so angry that she threatened to obliterate the planet with her spaceship’s laser.
I reminded her that the spaceship had been parked on a double yellow line for weeks. I offered to pay the ticket if she promised not to destroy Earth. She agreed, and then flew off to steal cattle hearts in Arizona, instead of human ones in Yorkshire.
I am left alone, and with a fine that doesn’t really belong to me. However, as my astuteness has saved the planet, I hope you’ll do the right thing and let me off. Indeed, is there any chance of a reward?
Sincerely,
Mr A. Lien
© John E. McBride (2017)
A share and follow would be appreciated. Thanks.
Monday 2 October 2017
A Funny Phobia
It’s time someone stood up for clowns. I’m talking about the injustice of these funny people being feared for no good reason. In this piece, I will argue that this should not be the case. I promise that, in making my case, I will not squirt water at you with a pretend flower.
It is said that people are born with two innate fears, that of falling and loud noises. (Actually, there’s a good case for a third one – the fear of tax forms). As we go through life we may become afraid of other things which in turn may develop into full-blown phobias. Coulrophobia, or the fear of clowns, is one. In my opinion, there are three main reasons for this:
Clothes: Clowns have an eccentric way of dressing, particularly when it comes to footwear. However, a predilection for boots does not mean the wearer is menacing. I know groups such as skinheads like to wear boots too, but I can’t imagine skinheads walking around with oversized red and yellow ones. Unless they’re skinheads who happen to have a great sense of humour.
Make-up: Clowns wear so much make-up that the person underneath becomes unrecognisable. Someone with a vivid imagination could believe a former school bully, or some other nasty person could be behind that face paint. It could even be the President of the United States. I mean, presidents have been known to wear silly wigs. But the chances are the clown is an ordinary person who just happens to look like a baddie from a Stephen King Novel. This brings me to my final point…
Bad press: The media plays a part too, whether it’s portraying clowns as movie villains or people dressing up as scary clowns on the news. But you must realise not all clowns are evil – or funny, for that matter.
Remember, clowns dedicate their lives to making you laugh, not scared. In fact, next time you’re at the cinema and are frightened by a baddie on screen, imagine that character as a clown and I guarantee you’ll feel better. Please note: This won’t work if the character is called Pennywise.
Before you go, I'd appreciate a share and follow. Thanks.
© John E. McBride (2017)
It is said that people are born with two innate fears, that of falling and loud noises. (Actually, there’s a good case for a third one – the fear of tax forms). As we go through life we may become afraid of other things which in turn may develop into full-blown phobias. Coulrophobia, or the fear of clowns, is one. In my opinion, there are three main reasons for this:
Clothes: Clowns have an eccentric way of dressing, particularly when it comes to footwear. However, a predilection for boots does not mean the wearer is menacing. I know groups such as skinheads like to wear boots too, but I can’t imagine skinheads walking around with oversized red and yellow ones. Unless they’re skinheads who happen to have a great sense of humour.
Make-up: Clowns wear so much make-up that the person underneath becomes unrecognisable. Someone with a vivid imagination could believe a former school bully, or some other nasty person could be behind that face paint. It could even be the President of the United States. I mean, presidents have been known to wear silly wigs. But the chances are the clown is an ordinary person who just happens to look like a baddie from a Stephen King Novel. This brings me to my final point…
Bad press: The media plays a part too, whether it’s portraying clowns as movie villains or people dressing up as scary clowns on the news. But you must realise not all clowns are evil – or funny, for that matter.
Remember, clowns dedicate their lives to making you laugh, not scared. In fact, next time you’re at the cinema and are frightened by a baddie on screen, imagine that character as a clown and I guarantee you’ll feel better. Please note: This won’t work if the character is called Pennywise.
Before you go, I'd appreciate a share and follow. Thanks.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Sunday 24 September 2017
Infuriating Inferences
I find it annoying when people aren’t direct with me. They somehow expect me to ‘read between the lines’, a difficult job at the best of times and downright dangerous if the lines in question happen to be on a railway. Well, I’m never going to read between railway lines – and neither should you. There are safer places to read a book. Two professions, in particular, are magnets for ‘indirect’ people and I will talk about these in this piece.
The first group I will write about are estate agents/realtors. Estate agents have a language all of their own; it’s called ‘Balderdash Sells’ or BS for short. How many times have they described a property as needing ‘Tender Loving Care?’ What they might mean by this is that the house wouldn’t look out of place among the ruins of Rome. And if they ever tell you the property is in an area with quiet neighbours, make sure to check there isn’t a graveyard behind the back garden.
Most politicians also fall into the ‘Balderdash Sells’ category. In fact, they fall flat on their faces into this category. For example, they might say that the economy is doing well when what they really mean is the economy is going downhill faster than an Olympic skier with chronic flatulence.
The good news is there’s a way to tell what a politician really means and that is by looking at his/her body language. For example, say he is talking about the country’s economy being ‘stable’ and you notice that he can’t keep his feet still. In this situation his mind isn’t really on the economy – as it’s more likely he needs the toilet.
Before you leave, I’d like to be very direct and ask you to share this piece and to follow my blog. Thank you.
© John E. McBride (2017)
The first group I will write about are estate agents/realtors. Estate agents have a language all of their own; it’s called ‘Balderdash Sells’ or BS for short. How many times have they described a property as needing ‘Tender Loving Care?’ What they might mean by this is that the house wouldn’t look out of place among the ruins of Rome. And if they ever tell you the property is in an area with quiet neighbours, make sure to check there isn’t a graveyard behind the back garden.
Most politicians also fall into the ‘Balderdash Sells’ category. In fact, they fall flat on their faces into this category. For example, they might say that the economy is doing well when what they really mean is the economy is going downhill faster than an Olympic skier with chronic flatulence.
The good news is there’s a way to tell what a politician really means and that is by looking at his/her body language. For example, say he is talking about the country’s economy being ‘stable’ and you notice that he can’t keep his feet still. In this situation his mind isn’t really on the economy – as it’s more likely he needs the toilet.
Before you leave, I’d like to be very direct and ask you to share this piece and to follow my blog. Thank you.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Monday 18 September 2017
It's a Rap
To prove that some things never change, I’m posting a piece (which has been slightly edited) from 2013 concerning the Republic of Ireland football team and its tenuous connection to rap music. As you will see, most of it could have been written today. However, we live in hope.
I am reliably informed that there is a rap music artist called Plan B. I don’t know why he chose the moniker ‘Plan B’ – perhaps his preferred choice of career was accountancy – but I do like his name, or rather, the logic that label represents.
Before I go on, don’t reach for the earplugs; this piece isn’t about rap music. It’s something worse – a certain international football team who play in green. Lately, the Republic of Ireland has been playing a style of football that is monotonous, predictable and boring – the visual equivalent of rap.
Giovanni Trapattoni has done a lot of good work, and I sincerely wish him a happy retirement. However, I hope his successor will let the team play in a way that won’t endanger low-flying aircraft over Dublin 4. Let’s keep the high ball to good old Gaelic football.
Another criticism levelled at Ireland was that they didn’t have a Plan B (did they even have a Plan A?) in their recent World Cup qualifiers. This brings me back to my starting point: I think it’s important that every person, business, and team has an alternative plan ready in case the original one goes wrong.
So, Ireland, take my advice and employ Plan B next time things are going badly on the pitch. I sure that when he starts singing his rap music, the opposition will forget about the match and let us win.
Before I wrap this up, I’d like to ask you to please share and follow. Follow me, that is, not the Irish team. But you can do that too if you like.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Sunday 10 September 2017
Valentine Card-astrophes
The world needs love more than ever. So please read the following semi-biographical piece on the subject of Valentine's cards. (That’s the best link I can offer).
My first Valentine situation occurred when I was at primary school in the 1970s. A girl came up to me as I was about to leave for home and handed me an envelope with a valentine card inside. She made it clear the card was from her. This action broke the anonymity rule of valentines in a big way. More importantly, it was a gesture that had to be reciprocated. And I would not be able to use the ‘don't-know-who-I’m-supposed-to-reciprocate-to’ excuse. The girl lived near me so I could deliver the Valentine in person. However, my home was miles from town and we didn’t have a car, so there was no chance of buying a card on the day – and that meant trouble as this was Valentine’s Day.
My mother learned of my predicament as soon as I arrived home. She thought for a moment, then went to a drawer and pulled out a selection of ancient birthday and Christmas cards. One of them apparently served as both a birthday and Christmas card for it had roses and sprigs of holly on its cover. It was huge, too big to be placed in an ordinary envelope. Inside, a personal message had been written on the page opposite the card’s verse. My mother carefully removed the handwritten part, leaving a greeting that wished the recipient ‘…a joyous day and peace throughout the coming year’.
Maybe, just maybe, this would pass as a Valentine – if the girl didn’t notice that it was a twenty-year-old, second-hand Christmas card that came delivered in a tatty shopping bag. Later, I knocked on her door; she answered and I handed her the shopping bag. She pulled the card out and proceeded to gaze at it, her face full of delight. This left me with the (incorrect) impression that women are easily pleased.
A few years and a new girlfriend later, my shyness had made buying a Valentine card in person difficult, so I asked a friend if they would purchase one for me. I soon learned that asking this friend to buy a Valentine came with a major drawback: Their taste in cards didn’t match mine – or any other human. The chosen card featured a vintage car on the cover which made it look suspiciously like something a woman would send to a man. I posted the Valentine and hoped the girl was a fan of vintage cars.
My friend was called into action again the following year. My previous girlfriend – who had not turned out to be a fan of vintage cars – had left me and I needed one for my new sweetheart. Surely this time, the Valentine would be more relevant than one displaying an old banger. Surely not. This card had an elephant on its cover. An elephant. They are wonderful creatures, but in my opinion, elephants come just above Wookiees near the bottom of the romantic animal league. Although it was a humorous card, I wasn’t laughing – and neither was my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend.
In an effort to stop girls deserting me, I decided to buy my own cards from then on. And I made sure that I never, ever gave a Valentine that featured an elephant driving an old car with a sprig of holly on the bumper.
© John E. McBride (2017)
A share and follow would be appreciated. Thank you.
My first Valentine situation occurred when I was at primary school in the 1970s. A girl came up to me as I was about to leave for home and handed me an envelope with a valentine card inside. She made it clear the card was from her. This action broke the anonymity rule of valentines in a big way. More importantly, it was a gesture that had to be reciprocated. And I would not be able to use the ‘don't-know-who-I’m-supposed-to-reciprocate-to’ excuse. The girl lived near me so I could deliver the Valentine in person. However, my home was miles from town and we didn’t have a car, so there was no chance of buying a card on the day – and that meant trouble as this was Valentine’s Day.
My mother learned of my predicament as soon as I arrived home. She thought for a moment, then went to a drawer and pulled out a selection of ancient birthday and Christmas cards. One of them apparently served as both a birthday and Christmas card for it had roses and sprigs of holly on its cover. It was huge, too big to be placed in an ordinary envelope. Inside, a personal message had been written on the page opposite the card’s verse. My mother carefully removed the handwritten part, leaving a greeting that wished the recipient ‘…a joyous day and peace throughout the coming year’.
Maybe, just maybe, this would pass as a Valentine – if the girl didn’t notice that it was a twenty-year-old, second-hand Christmas card that came delivered in a tatty shopping bag. Later, I knocked on her door; she answered and I handed her the shopping bag. She pulled the card out and proceeded to gaze at it, her face full of delight. This left me with the (incorrect) impression that women are easily pleased.
A few years and a new girlfriend later, my shyness had made buying a Valentine card in person difficult, so I asked a friend if they would purchase one for me. I soon learned that asking this friend to buy a Valentine came with a major drawback: Their taste in cards didn’t match mine – or any other human. The chosen card featured a vintage car on the cover which made it look suspiciously like something a woman would send to a man. I posted the Valentine and hoped the girl was a fan of vintage cars.
My friend was called into action again the following year. My previous girlfriend – who had not turned out to be a fan of vintage cars – had left me and I needed one for my new sweetheart. Surely this time, the Valentine would be more relevant than one displaying an old banger. Surely not. This card had an elephant on its cover. An elephant. They are wonderful creatures, but in my opinion, elephants come just above Wookiees near the bottom of the romantic animal league. Although it was a humorous card, I wasn’t laughing – and neither was my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend.
In an effort to stop girls deserting me, I decided to buy my own cards from then on. And I made sure that I never, ever gave a Valentine that featured an elephant driving an old car with a sprig of holly on the bumper.
© John E. McBride (2017)
A share and follow would be appreciated. Thank you.
Sunday 3 September 2017
Supreme Fools
The following piece is about a serious subject – racism. Although it has a lighthearted tone, it is not my intention to disrespect or offend the victims of prejudice.
I don’t understand those who advocate white supremacy. Its followers can't claim to be the best when clearly they’re the worst when it comes to learning from history. If only they could see that their own worst enemies are, in fact, themselves.
Take the Ku Klux Klan. They may claim that people who are ‘not like them’ are taking all their jobs. However, they ignore the real reason they can’t get work: nobody is going to employ a person who shows up at an interview looking like they belong on the ghost train at a fairground.
You would think that all this feeling superior business would make racists smug – but, if anything, they are nearly always angry. I’ve found one possible explanation for this. The KKK have members called Grand Dragons and Imperial Wizards. They must be driven mad (in every sense of the word) because they can’t decide whether they’re racists or wannabe extras in a Harry Potter movie.
And staying on the Klan, I’d like to ask a final question: why all this fondness for K-words? In their twisted world, is the letter ‘C’ inferior to ‘K’? If so, then it’s time they became aware of the fact that all letters are created equally. And it’s surely time they realised the same rule of equality also applies to humans.
John E. McBride (2017)
Before you go, I would appreciate a share and follow. Thank you.
I don’t understand those who advocate white supremacy. Its followers can't claim to be the best when clearly they’re the worst when it comes to learning from history. If only they could see that their own worst enemies are, in fact, themselves.
Take the Ku Klux Klan. They may claim that people who are ‘not like them’ are taking all their jobs. However, they ignore the real reason they can’t get work: nobody is going to employ a person who shows up at an interview looking like they belong on the ghost train at a fairground.
You would think that all this feeling superior business would make racists smug – but, if anything, they are nearly always angry. I’ve found one possible explanation for this. The KKK have members called Grand Dragons and Imperial Wizards. They must be driven mad (in every sense of the word) because they can’t decide whether they’re racists or wannabe extras in a Harry Potter movie.
And staying on the Klan, I’d like to ask a final question: why all this fondness for K-words? In their twisted world, is the letter ‘C’ inferior to ‘K’? If so, then it’s time they became aware of the fact that all letters are created equally. And it’s surely time they realised the same rule of equality also applies to humans.
John E. McBride (2017)
Before you go, I would appreciate a share and follow. Thank you.
Sunday 27 August 2017
Anthem Mayhem
National anthems are meant to inspire patriotism, not generate confusion. In this piece, I will write about my experience of the latter because I need to unburden myself of the painful memories. Besides, there’s more comedic value in the confusion part.
I learned the words to Ireland’s National Anthem, ‘Amhran na bhFiann’, around the age of nine. Our teacher taught us English lyrics before we learned the Gaelic version. In English, the anthem is called ‘The Soldiers’ Song’. I didn’t have a huge grasp of apostrophe use at that age, so couldn’t tell if ‘The Soldiers’ Song’ was about a group of soldiers or an individual one. I just wish someone had told me the answer was waiting in the first three words of the chorus. (See below).
My school friends and I learned the lyrics to the song’s opening verse, and we were soon singing about singing a soldiers’ song and everything seemed fine. And then it came to the bit where we were ‘impatient for the coming fight.’ This made me uneasy; I was never impatient for a fight in my life. In fact, I only would only shadow box on overcast days.
As we moved on to the chorus – the anthem proper – my unease turned to shock when I discovered the first three words:
‘Soldiers are we…’
‘Soldiers are we’ might be appropriate lyrics for an anthem called ‘The Soldiers’ Song’ but, nonetheless, I now found myself not only singing about a fight I didn’t want but also lying about my occupation as well. I was not a soldier. I wasn’t even in the boy scouts. My classmates didn’t look like military types either. In fact, most of the country would be lying while singing those lyrics. After all, there were only about twenty thousand soldiers in Ireland at the time – and that statistic includes Irish members of the Salvation Army.
I had been told from a young age that I should always tell the truth (unless a woman asked if her dress looked good on her). Saying I was a soldier was a lie, a sin. So every time I sang ‘The Soldiers’ Song’, I would have to include it on my list of sins. Patriotism came at a cost: an extra one Our Father and three Hail Marys at confession. Maybe, in an effort to be truthful, I should have sung ‘Shoulders have we’ instead.
Before you go, I’d like you to stand to attention while you share this piece and press the Follow button. OK, you don’t have to stand, but please share and follow. Thank you.
John. E. McBride (2017)
I learned the words to Ireland’s National Anthem, ‘Amhran na bhFiann’, around the age of nine. Our teacher taught us English lyrics before we learned the Gaelic version. In English, the anthem is called ‘The Soldiers’ Song’. I didn’t have a huge grasp of apostrophe use at that age, so couldn’t tell if ‘The Soldiers’ Song’ was about a group of soldiers or an individual one. I just wish someone had told me the answer was waiting in the first three words of the chorus. (See below).
My school friends and I learned the lyrics to the song’s opening verse, and we were soon singing about singing a soldiers’ song and everything seemed fine. And then it came to the bit where we were ‘impatient for the coming fight.’ This made me uneasy; I was never impatient for a fight in my life. In fact, I only would only shadow box on overcast days.
As we moved on to the chorus – the anthem proper – my unease turned to shock when I discovered the first three words:
‘Soldiers are we…’
‘Soldiers are we’ might be appropriate lyrics for an anthem called ‘The Soldiers’ Song’ but, nonetheless, I now found myself not only singing about a fight I didn’t want but also lying about my occupation as well. I was not a soldier. I wasn’t even in the boy scouts. My classmates didn’t look like military types either. In fact, most of the country would be lying while singing those lyrics. After all, there were only about twenty thousand soldiers in Ireland at the time – and that statistic includes Irish members of the Salvation Army.
I had been told from a young age that I should always tell the truth (unless a woman asked if her dress looked good on her). Saying I was a soldier was a lie, a sin. So every time I sang ‘The Soldiers’ Song’, I would have to include it on my list of sins. Patriotism came at a cost: an extra one Our Father and three Hail Marys at confession. Maybe, in an effort to be truthful, I should have sung ‘Shoulders have we’ instead.
Before you go, I’d like you to stand to attention while you share this piece and press the Follow button. OK, you don’t have to stand, but please share and follow. Thank you.
John. E. McBride (2017)
Sunday 20 August 2017
Reality TV Check
I wonder if reality shows on television have reached their peak in popularity. Viewers must have realised by now that these shows are not giving them a glimpse into lives more exciting than their own. The fact is, reality shows are even duller than a stamp collecting, trainspotting accountant. And I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an actual reality show about stamp collecting, trainspotting accountants. If there is, it would have to be called Jersey Bore.
Reality television is the gift that keeps on giving (annoyance); the participants on real-life shows can go on to become ‘celebrities’ themselves. And get involved with celebrity programmes. As a result, celebrity versions of reality shows are often disappointing – mainly because no one has remembered to invite a proper celebrity. For instance, this year’s Dancing with the Stars in Ireland should have been called Dancing with the Asteroids.
In the interest of science, (and to make this piece a little longer) I am going to imagine that I’m a reality ‘star’ with my own show on television. It needs a title; John’s Not Keeping Up will do. In every episode, I’d get on a bus, do my work, and then come home on a bus. And that’s about as exciting as it would get. To prove the point, not one remarkable work-related event happened to me last week. To be fair, the fact that I was on holiday had something to do with that.
So I don’t think I’ll be asked to do reality TV anytime soon. But that doesn’t mean other Irish people could give it a go. Forget The Real Housewives of Beverley Hills; I want to see The Real Housewives of Ballybunion.
Perhaps these shows will become even more popular. But for me, they can be summed up like this: It’s not so much Big Brother is watching me – it’s I’m not watching Big Brother. Well, I might watch it sometimes. That’s the reality of reality television.
© John E. McBride (2017)
A follow and share would be much appreciated. Thank you.
Reality television is the gift that keeps on giving (annoyance); the participants on real-life shows can go on to become ‘celebrities’ themselves. And get involved with celebrity programmes. As a result, celebrity versions of reality shows are often disappointing – mainly because no one has remembered to invite a proper celebrity. For instance, this year’s Dancing with the Stars in Ireland should have been called Dancing with the Asteroids.
In the interest of science, (and to make this piece a little longer) I am going to imagine that I’m a reality ‘star’ with my own show on television. It needs a title; John’s Not Keeping Up will do. In every episode, I’d get on a bus, do my work, and then come home on a bus. And that’s about as exciting as it would get. To prove the point, not one remarkable work-related event happened to me last week. To be fair, the fact that I was on holiday had something to do with that.
So I don’t think I’ll be asked to do reality TV anytime soon. But that doesn’t mean other Irish people could give it a go. Forget The Real Housewives of Beverley Hills; I want to see The Real Housewives of Ballybunion.
Perhaps these shows will become even more popular. But for me, they can be summed up like this: It’s not so much Big Brother is watching me – it’s I’m not watching Big Brother. Well, I might watch it sometimes. That’s the reality of reality television.
© John E. McBride (2017)
A follow and share would be much appreciated. Thank you.
Sunday 13 August 2017
Above and Beyond
As a tribute to my first teacher, Mrs Anne Callan, who recently passed away, I would like to include the following post. In 2015, I had the huge honour of being asked to write a speech for my former primary school’s 50th-anniversary celebration. (The new school had replaced an older building which had stood since 1888). The following is an edited version of the speech. Sadly, the other teacher mentioned, Mrs Bridget McCole, is also no longer with us. May they rest in peace.
Preparing this has made me realise that I share much in common with the American astronaut, Neil Armstrong. For instance, his first spaceflight took place in the year of my birth. And, less than a year after his small step onto the surface of the Moon, I took a personal giant leap, when, with even smaller steps, I passed through the doors of our school for the first time.
The date was Monday, June 15th, 1970. I know this because I remember my brother talking incessantly about England’s defeat to Germany in the previous evening’s World Cup match. Incidentally, I would go on to marry a cousin of one of the England players who participated in that game in Mexico forty-five years ago. If you find the previous statement incredible, I hope it’s due to the coincidence, and not because someone actually married me.
I met two wonderful women and great teachers, Mrs Anne Callan and Mrs Bridget McCole for the first time that day, and received a warm and genuine welcome from both ladies. As for the building itself, I loved the newness of the place, the big windows, the different coloured chairs in the classroom, and the magical blackboard. A Saturn V space rocket could not have impressed me more.
I do, however, have one unhappy memory from that day, and that was being sick beside Mrs Callan as she was giving a music lesson. As this was the seventies, I was no doubt suffering from an early form of disco fever. For someone who could throw up in front of an entire schoolroom of kids, I was very shy during my initial days at school, but would eventually lose my bashfulness, and contribute my fair share of noise to the ‘Wee Ones’ Room’. To get a sense of what Mrs Callan had to put up with, imagine a youngster with all the decorum of a Sunday Game panellist – then multiply that by twenty. My time at primary school lasted throughout the seventies, and I’d like to give you an insight into Annalitten life during that period.
In the 1970s, the boys at our school followed the style of most young men and took to growing their hair long. I would theorise that our long locks were an act of rebellion against older folk. And barbers. We missed more cuts than Rory McIlroy at the Irish Open. It wasn’t just our hair that set us apart from our predecessors and successors. To say our clothes were distinct is an understatement. We were often seen in flared trousers and loud shirts with collars so large, they would embarrass Harry Hill.
Colours were different too. Yes, colours. I mean, we had blackboards instead of whiteboards, and our football team’s shirts were blue, not red. One year even the grass was a different hue, changing to yellow in 1976 because Ireland didn’t receive its usual above-average share from God’s watering can. This led to pupils in our school actually praying for some rain in Ireland.
That was a summary of the sights of Annalitten in the seventies. The sounds were something else, and the one defining sound was the ‘Annalitten Groan’. An excited groan is the best way I can describe this noise, which would be performed if we knew an answer to a question. Simply putting our hands up was not enough for us. We frequently made the school room sound like a cross between a Wimbledon final and a commercial for laxatives. Looking back, it’s funny how we never realised our chances of being chosen to answer would have increased had we kept our hands down and stayed quiet.
A short-lived craze for boys appeared in the middle of the decade. Bubble gum picture cards of English Football League players were swapped like telephone numbers on a speed dating night. The deals that took place here would impress a modern football agent. Imagine it. Johnny Giles exchanged for Mike Channon, Steve Highway for Colin Bell, or Don Givens for the entire Luton Town squad. Football card swapping would disappear as quickly as Bay City Rollers fans, going to prove that youngsters can be fickle in any era.
Personal memories of this place are too numerous to mention in totality. I will say this: The relatively small events come to the fore as much as the major ones. For instance, I remember reading the school’s set of encyclopaedias as often as I could in order to indulge my passion for the solar system. This interest in the planets led to me being known by the affectionate term ‘Spaceman’ for a few weeks. Told you I had a lot in common with Neil Armstrong.
One of my favourite memories of Mrs McCole is when she taught us the poem ‘Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth. She was always a most knowledgeable and enthusiastic teacher, but, in my opinion, she reached new heights that day. Her love of the subject had me entranced. I have happy memories of Mrs Callan too. Perhaps my favourite is when she gave me my first ‘VG’ mark for a piece of writing I did entitled ‘My Clock’. I regard the moment Mrs Callan awarded me that mark as the start of my writing career, so now you all know who is to blame. Seriously, I will be forever grateful to Mrs Callan.
All through my time here, the Old School stood beside the new one, sending out its own lesson to my subconscious, telling me how fortunate I was to go to a modern, centrally-heated school, to be able to see the local hills and the sky as I learned and to have more study space than the pupils who attended the Old School. To use the words made famous by Bernard of Chartres, Isaac Newton and Noel Gallagher, Neil Armstrong had “[stood] on the shoulders of giants” to reach the moon. We, on the other hand, followed in the footsteps of wee ones. But in their own way, they were giants too.
Many of those wee ones were our family and friends. I must add, I was surprised and delighted to learn that my own late mother and uncle had contributed well-written and interesting articles to the Folklore Commission in the 1930s when they were pupils at Annalitten.
My fellow pupils and I would use the Old School’s facilities for school concerts in 1978 and 1979 – a poignant coming together of the old and the new. I would return to the Old School as a secondary student in the 1980s, to take part in activities like basketball lessons run by the wonderful Pauline Devlin. I also attended a few discos which brought back memories of my primary school days, because my shyness had returned. This time around, asking girls to dance left me tongue-tied. Although I did get the opportunity to step on a few lassies’ toes, I was most usually found standing motionless in the corner, just like when I played Gaelic football on the school field.
While today’s celebration gives us the opportunity to remember and thank all those responsible for both the Old and New School and to remember our past pupils, we must also think of our school’s present and future. Today, in Frank and Fiona McDonnell, we have two fantastic and popular teachers, just like when I was here. Let us hope this standard is maintained in the years to come. To present pupils, I say this: If you’re honest and try your best, you will go far – perhaps to the Moon, like Neil Armstrong.
Which brings me to the last, and the most important link I have with Neil Armstrong. Both he and I were blessed with brilliant, wonderful teachers. Mr Armstrong went above and beyond once. Teachers like Mrs Callan, Mrs McCole, and Frank and Fiona McDonnell go above and beyond every day.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Preparing this has made me realise that I share much in common with the American astronaut, Neil Armstrong. For instance, his first spaceflight took place in the year of my birth. And, less than a year after his small step onto the surface of the Moon, I took a personal giant leap, when, with even smaller steps, I passed through the doors of our school for the first time.
The date was Monday, June 15th, 1970. I know this because I remember my brother talking incessantly about England’s defeat to Germany in the previous evening’s World Cup match. Incidentally, I would go on to marry a cousin of one of the England players who participated in that game in Mexico forty-five years ago. If you find the previous statement incredible, I hope it’s due to the coincidence, and not because someone actually married me.
I met two wonderful women and great teachers, Mrs Anne Callan and Mrs Bridget McCole for the first time that day, and received a warm and genuine welcome from both ladies. As for the building itself, I loved the newness of the place, the big windows, the different coloured chairs in the classroom, and the magical blackboard. A Saturn V space rocket could not have impressed me more.
I do, however, have one unhappy memory from that day, and that was being sick beside Mrs Callan as she was giving a music lesson. As this was the seventies, I was no doubt suffering from an early form of disco fever. For someone who could throw up in front of an entire schoolroom of kids, I was very shy during my initial days at school, but would eventually lose my bashfulness, and contribute my fair share of noise to the ‘Wee Ones’ Room’. To get a sense of what Mrs Callan had to put up with, imagine a youngster with all the decorum of a Sunday Game panellist – then multiply that by twenty. My time at primary school lasted throughout the seventies, and I’d like to give you an insight into Annalitten life during that period.
In the 1970s, the boys at our school followed the style of most young men and took to growing their hair long. I would theorise that our long locks were an act of rebellion against older folk. And barbers. We missed more cuts than Rory McIlroy at the Irish Open. It wasn’t just our hair that set us apart from our predecessors and successors. To say our clothes were distinct is an understatement. We were often seen in flared trousers and loud shirts with collars so large, they would embarrass Harry Hill.
Colours were different too. Yes, colours. I mean, we had blackboards instead of whiteboards, and our football team’s shirts were blue, not red. One year even the grass was a different hue, changing to yellow in 1976 because Ireland didn’t receive its usual above-average share from God’s watering can. This led to pupils in our school actually praying for some rain in Ireland.
That was a summary of the sights of Annalitten in the seventies. The sounds were something else, and the one defining sound was the ‘Annalitten Groan’. An excited groan is the best way I can describe this noise, which would be performed if we knew an answer to a question. Simply putting our hands up was not enough for us. We frequently made the school room sound like a cross between a Wimbledon final and a commercial for laxatives. Looking back, it’s funny how we never realised our chances of being chosen to answer would have increased had we kept our hands down and stayed quiet.
A short-lived craze for boys appeared in the middle of the decade. Bubble gum picture cards of English Football League players were swapped like telephone numbers on a speed dating night. The deals that took place here would impress a modern football agent. Imagine it. Johnny Giles exchanged for Mike Channon, Steve Highway for Colin Bell, or Don Givens for the entire Luton Town squad. Football card swapping would disappear as quickly as Bay City Rollers fans, going to prove that youngsters can be fickle in any era.
Personal memories of this place are too numerous to mention in totality. I will say this: The relatively small events come to the fore as much as the major ones. For instance, I remember reading the school’s set of encyclopaedias as often as I could in order to indulge my passion for the solar system. This interest in the planets led to me being known by the affectionate term ‘Spaceman’ for a few weeks. Told you I had a lot in common with Neil Armstrong.
One of my favourite memories of Mrs McCole is when she taught us the poem ‘Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth. She was always a most knowledgeable and enthusiastic teacher, but, in my opinion, she reached new heights that day. Her love of the subject had me entranced. I have happy memories of Mrs Callan too. Perhaps my favourite is when she gave me my first ‘VG’ mark for a piece of writing I did entitled ‘My Clock’. I regard the moment Mrs Callan awarded me that mark as the start of my writing career, so now you all know who is to blame. Seriously, I will be forever grateful to Mrs Callan.
All through my time here, the Old School stood beside the new one, sending out its own lesson to my subconscious, telling me how fortunate I was to go to a modern, centrally-heated school, to be able to see the local hills and the sky as I learned and to have more study space than the pupils who attended the Old School. To use the words made famous by Bernard of Chartres, Isaac Newton and Noel Gallagher, Neil Armstrong had “[stood] on the shoulders of giants” to reach the moon. We, on the other hand, followed in the footsteps of wee ones. But in their own way, they were giants too.
Many of those wee ones were our family and friends. I must add, I was surprised and delighted to learn that my own late mother and uncle had contributed well-written and interesting articles to the Folklore Commission in the 1930s when they were pupils at Annalitten.
My fellow pupils and I would use the Old School’s facilities for school concerts in 1978 and 1979 – a poignant coming together of the old and the new. I would return to the Old School as a secondary student in the 1980s, to take part in activities like basketball lessons run by the wonderful Pauline Devlin. I also attended a few discos which brought back memories of my primary school days, because my shyness had returned. This time around, asking girls to dance left me tongue-tied. Although I did get the opportunity to step on a few lassies’ toes, I was most usually found standing motionless in the corner, just like when I played Gaelic football on the school field.
While today’s celebration gives us the opportunity to remember and thank all those responsible for both the Old and New School and to remember our past pupils, we must also think of our school’s present and future. Today, in Frank and Fiona McDonnell, we have two fantastic and popular teachers, just like when I was here. Let us hope this standard is maintained in the years to come. To present pupils, I say this: If you’re honest and try your best, you will go far – perhaps to the Moon, like Neil Armstrong.
Which brings me to the last, and the most important link I have with Neil Armstrong. Both he and I were blessed with brilliant, wonderful teachers. Mr Armstrong went above and beyond once. Teachers like Mrs Callan, Mrs McCole, and Frank and Fiona McDonnell go above and beyond every day.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Sunday 6 August 2017
Moanday Motivation
Many people feel down when they go back to work after a weekend or holiday. In this piece, I stress the positives of returning to work. I won’t use any clichés like “At least it gets you out of the house” because a lot of things can get you out of the house – for example, walking the dog, or going out to the ice cream van, or walking the dog while you go out to the ice cream van. (Not recommended).
My strategy to make you feel better about your job will be this: Write about even worse jobs. I apologise if you actually do the work I’m about to mention. If you are, perhaps this blog post might make you want to consider changing career. Or changing the blog posts that you read. (As long as that doesn’t include ‘Moanaghan Man’).
The first horrible job on my list is acting in a laxative commercial. Think about it. The actor didn’t get the role due to his/her dramatic ability; it was because he/she looked constipated. Hardly a skill that’s going to win an Academy Award – unless it’s the award for ‘A career that’s literally going down the pan.’
Another thankless task is delivering mail to the US Secret Service. The problem here arises from the fact that the address of the US Secret Service is, well, secret. Imagine the poor postal worker(s) tasked with delivering a letter to that organisation. They have to knock on every door in the States and inquire if the secret service is located there. I imagine they go alphabetically, so would begin their quest in Alabama. Twenty years later, they’re in Delaware, reached retirement age, and still haven’t found the secret service. And they didn’t even get the consolation of a trip to Hawaii.
If you still want to be on holiday, think about my next terrible job: Pretending to be on holiday. You might think acting or modelling on a beach would be a dream and it is – up to a point. But think about what happens when the time comes to actually go on holiday. Where do you go? You have seen enough glamourous locations so the only thing to do is go home and spend the time looking at afternoon television – and at yourself in adverts in which you pretend to be on holiday. It would make you wish you’d done a laxative commercial instead.
Before you go, I’d like to ask you to please share this piece and follow my blog. Thank you.
© John E. McBride (2017)
My strategy to make you feel better about your job will be this: Write about even worse jobs. I apologise if you actually do the work I’m about to mention. If you are, perhaps this blog post might make you want to consider changing career. Or changing the blog posts that you read. (As long as that doesn’t include ‘Moanaghan Man’).
The first horrible job on my list is acting in a laxative commercial. Think about it. The actor didn’t get the role due to his/her dramatic ability; it was because he/she looked constipated. Hardly a skill that’s going to win an Academy Award – unless it’s the award for ‘A career that’s literally going down the pan.’
Another thankless task is delivering mail to the US Secret Service. The problem here arises from the fact that the address of the US Secret Service is, well, secret. Imagine the poor postal worker(s) tasked with delivering a letter to that organisation. They have to knock on every door in the States and inquire if the secret service is located there. I imagine they go alphabetically, so would begin their quest in Alabama. Twenty years later, they’re in Delaware, reached retirement age, and still haven’t found the secret service. And they didn’t even get the consolation of a trip to Hawaii.
If you still want to be on holiday, think about my next terrible job: Pretending to be on holiday. You might think acting or modelling on a beach would be a dream and it is – up to a point. But think about what happens when the time comes to actually go on holiday. Where do you go? You have seen enough glamourous locations so the only thing to do is go home and spend the time looking at afternoon television – and at yourself in adverts in which you pretend to be on holiday. It would make you wish you’d done a laxative commercial instead.
Before you go, I’d like to ask you to please share this piece and follow my blog. Thank you.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Sunday 30 July 2017
Maybe Next Time
In this post, I’m including a piece I wrote for my local Gaelic football team in Monaghan, Ireland – Toome GFC. It’s from 2013, has been slightly edited, and is on the theme of disappointment. I hope it doesn’t disappoint you. The article follows below.
I can still picture the football player as he made his way home from the Pearce Park dressing room over thirty years ago. Although I had just arrived at the sports ground, I knew his team had been defeated in the first match that afternoon – such was the unmistakable look of disappointment on his face. A consoling voice came from the crowd:
“Maybe next time.”
The player hardly took any notice and walked on with his head bowed. That man followed in the footsteps of many defeated players, and in turn, more would follow him. The journey from the losing dressing room to the car park will remain some of the most difficult steps a player can take in football – unless they start playing matches on ice rinks.
I’ll write about one of my own sporting let-downs; it’s quite a big one:
In 2012, I thought I had a chance of winning one of the categories on BBC Sports Personality of the Year. I’m serious; there was a rumour going around that the London Olympic volunteers (of which I was one) could win the team prize. Yes, I thought I was a contender, along with the likes of Andy Murray, noted for his skill with a racket and ball over the course of a tennis match, and Rory McIlroy who's noted for his skill with a driver and putter over a golf course. By the way, I’m noted for my skill with a knife and fork over a five-course meal. Speaking of courses…
Of course, I didn’t win. In case you’re interested, the team award went to the British Olympic squad. For my part, I’ve learned to be more realistic regarding awards. Or maybe not: Sometimes I dream these blogs will win something. I’m not fussy – the Nobel Prize in Literature will do. Mind you, I don’t think I’ll be the Nobel laureate this year. Maybe next time.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Before I finish, I would be grateful for a Share and Follow. Thank you.
I can still picture the football player as he made his way home from the Pearce Park dressing room over thirty years ago. Although I had just arrived at the sports ground, I knew his team had been defeated in the first match that afternoon – such was the unmistakable look of disappointment on his face. A consoling voice came from the crowd:
“Maybe next time.”
The player hardly took any notice and walked on with his head bowed. That man followed in the footsteps of many defeated players, and in turn, more would follow him. The journey from the losing dressing room to the car park will remain some of the most difficult steps a player can take in football – unless they start playing matches on ice rinks.
I’ll write about one of my own sporting let-downs; it’s quite a big one:
In 2012, I thought I had a chance of winning one of the categories on BBC Sports Personality of the Year. I’m serious; there was a rumour going around that the London Olympic volunteers (of which I was one) could win the team prize. Yes, I thought I was a contender, along with the likes of Andy Murray, noted for his skill with a racket and ball over the course of a tennis match, and Rory McIlroy who's noted for his skill with a driver and putter over a golf course. By the way, I’m noted for my skill with a knife and fork over a five-course meal. Speaking of courses…
Of course, I didn’t win. In case you’re interested, the team award went to the British Olympic squad. For my part, I’ve learned to be more realistic regarding awards. Or maybe not: Sometimes I dream these blogs will win something. I’m not fussy – the Nobel Prize in Literature will do. Mind you, I don’t think I’ll be the Nobel laureate this year. Maybe next time.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Before I finish, I would be grateful for a Share and Follow. Thank you.
Sunday 23 July 2017
Read Here
It annoys me when people and organisations insult my intelligence. Take life insurance companies who promise me a good deal if I take out a policy with them. They could do a better deal – by paying me now. Here’s my logic: 1) It’s called ‘life’ insurance. 2) I’m living. 3) So where’s my money?
I appreciate people who try to help me through life but sometimes they can be too kind. For instance, when I have to sign something and the other person places an ‘X’ on the line to show my signature goes there. This is not required; my cognitive ability is such that the words ‘Sign here’ is sufficient information. I have travelled all over the world – to places like the States, Australia and Monaghan town. I can find my way around a sheet of paper, thank you.
Then we have transport companies who come up with ridiculous excuses for delays or cancellations. My favourite is ‘ the wrong type of snow’ which was the media’s interpretation of what British Rail was saying after bad weather disrupted services in 1991. I always thought there was only one kind of snow but apparently, there’s a snow strain that can stop a train. Perhaps they should go all the way (unlike their trains) with their excuses and say that they are operating on the wrong planet.
Staying on the climate, it makes me smile when weather-forecasters predict a day that will be filled with ‘sunshine and showers. They’re not being very precise here, especially if they’re giving the weather in a four-seasons-in-a-day country. As predictions go, it’s like saying a sports team will win, lose or draw their next game. Besides, I can tell if there’ll be sunshine and showers the moment I step out my front door. Come on, weather-forecasters, give us more information, please. You can at least say what type of snow we’ll be getting.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Before I go, a share and follow would be much appreciated. Thank you.
I appreciate people who try to help me through life but sometimes they can be too kind. For instance, when I have to sign something and the other person places an ‘X’ on the line to show my signature goes there. This is not required; my cognitive ability is such that the words ‘Sign here’ is sufficient information. I have travelled all over the world – to places like the States, Australia and Monaghan town. I can find my way around a sheet of paper, thank you.
Then we have transport companies who come up with ridiculous excuses for delays or cancellations. My favourite is ‘ the wrong type of snow’ which was the media’s interpretation of what British Rail was saying after bad weather disrupted services in 1991. I always thought there was only one kind of snow but apparently, there’s a snow strain that can stop a train. Perhaps they should go all the way (unlike their trains) with their excuses and say that they are operating on the wrong planet.
Staying on the climate, it makes me smile when weather-forecasters predict a day that will be filled with ‘sunshine and showers. They’re not being very precise here, especially if they’re giving the weather in a four-seasons-in-a-day country. As predictions go, it’s like saying a sports team will win, lose or draw their next game. Besides, I can tell if there’ll be sunshine and showers the moment I step out my front door. Come on, weather-forecasters, give us more information, please. You can at least say what type of snow we’ll be getting.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Before I go, a share and follow would be much appreciated. Thank you.
Sunday 16 July 2017
Poll-axed
People who compile political opinion polls should be good at two things: Predictions and numbers. But after their recent failure to correctly forecast the results of Brexit, the 2016 US presidential election, and the 2017 UK general election, it’s unlikely pollsters will be asked to predict winning lottery numbers anytime soon.
It could be argued that incorrect opinion polls are good indicators of a country’s democratic credentials because they show its citizens can and do change their minds about their politicians. In fact, the only places where opinion polls would be right all the time are dictatorships – that’s because the only opinion that counts in the country belongs to the dictator.
Nevertheless, polls could be more accurate. I think the fault doesn’t lie with the pollsters but rather the participants. I mean, the ‘don’t know’ people probably don’t even vote as they don’t even know it’s election day. Even if they did, they wouldn’t go to the polling station as they’d be too busy deliberating on what clothes to wear.
Apart from the ‘don’t know’ folk, I think another group should be removed from opinion poll figures. I’ll call them ‘misleaders’ – people who say they will vote one way when they know they will vote the other. These devious people shouldn’t be taking part in election opinion polls. They should be standing for election.
That’s my opinion on polls. If you have an opinion on opinion polls or an opinion on my opinion on opinion polls, please feel free to leave a comment. I’d also appreciate it if you would ‘vote’ for me by giving me a Like, Share and Follow. And please follow me on
Facebook
https://www.facebook.com/moanaghanman/
and Twitter
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Thank you.
(c) John E. McBride
It could be argued that incorrect opinion polls are good indicators of a country’s democratic credentials because they show its citizens can and do change their minds about their politicians. In fact, the only places where opinion polls would be right all the time are dictatorships – that’s because the only opinion that counts in the country belongs to the dictator.
Nevertheless, polls could be more accurate. I think the fault doesn’t lie with the pollsters but rather the participants. I mean, the ‘don’t know’ people probably don’t even vote as they don’t even know it’s election day. Even if they did, they wouldn’t go to the polling station as they’d be too busy deliberating on what clothes to wear.
Apart from the ‘don’t know’ folk, I think another group should be removed from opinion poll figures. I’ll call them ‘misleaders’ – people who say they will vote one way when they know they will vote the other. These devious people shouldn’t be taking part in election opinion polls. They should be standing for election.
That’s my opinion on polls. If you have an opinion on opinion polls or an opinion on my opinion on opinion polls, please feel free to leave a comment. I’d also appreciate it if you would ‘vote’ for me by giving me a Like, Share and Follow. And please follow me on
https://www.facebook.com/moanaghanman/
and Twitter
https://twitter.com/JohnEMcBride1
Thank you.
(c) John E. McBride
Sunday 9 July 2017
No Game For Ireland Is Just Not Cricket
Ireland’s cricket team have joined its football and rugby counterparts at the highest level in the world. In order to honour all involved, this piece will be about cricket. Please don’t yawn or stop reading. You’ll find cricket has a lot going for it if you read on.
For those new to the sport, I’ll start with some cricket basics: Someone bats and another person tries to get him out. Howzat for basic? (Cricketers shout ‘Howzat’ a lot – couldn’t resist the pun). Every player on the bowler’s team (apart from the bowler) stands around and watches. There’s not much else for these players to do except catch the ball every now and then. Nobody has the heart to tell these fellows that when they’re not being glorified spectators, they’re being glorified ball boys. Meanwhile, the batsman’s teammates are also taking it easy.
With all the standing and sitting around, the exhausted players need breaks for lunch and tea. Yes, that’s lunch and tea – as if a game of cricket wasn’t long enough. The ‘proper’ spectators don’t seem to mind the long interruptions. They just wake up and have something to eat themselves. Rain can stop play but I doubt it stops the dining.
Cricket is so slow that if the New York Jets played the game, they would be called the New York Propeller-driven Aircraft. It can take up to five days to complete a Test Match – it would only take one day if the players didn't eat.
At the beginning of this piece, I stated cricket has a lot going for it so, to be fair, I will mention a few of the sport’s good points. It requires skill, can be exciting, the supporters are fantastic and what’s not to like about a game with terms like ‘silly mid-on’ (don’t ask), ‘follow through’ (definitely don’t ask) and ‘googly’ (a googly is a type of bowling delivery, not a new internet search engine).
In 2017, Ireland gained Test status, a huge honour and a recognition of the dedication of the country’s cricket community. There’s just one problem – Ireland may have to wait to get a Test game. In other words, the world won’t let them have the ball. It appears Irish cricketers have one more thing in common with the Republic of Ireland football team.
© John E. McBride
For those new to the sport, I’ll start with some cricket basics: Someone bats and another person tries to get him out. Howzat for basic? (Cricketers shout ‘Howzat’ a lot – couldn’t resist the pun). Every player on the bowler’s team (apart from the bowler) stands around and watches. There’s not much else for these players to do except catch the ball every now and then. Nobody has the heart to tell these fellows that when they’re not being glorified spectators, they’re being glorified ball boys. Meanwhile, the batsman’s teammates are also taking it easy.
With all the standing and sitting around, the exhausted players need breaks for lunch and tea. Yes, that’s lunch and tea – as if a game of cricket wasn’t long enough. The ‘proper’ spectators don’t seem to mind the long interruptions. They just wake up and have something to eat themselves. Rain can stop play but I doubt it stops the dining.
Cricket is so slow that if the New York Jets played the game, they would be called the New York Propeller-driven Aircraft. It can take up to five days to complete a Test Match – it would only take one day if the players didn't eat.
At the beginning of this piece, I stated cricket has a lot going for it so, to be fair, I will mention a few of the sport’s good points. It requires skill, can be exciting, the supporters are fantastic and what’s not to like about a game with terms like ‘silly mid-on’ (don’t ask), ‘follow through’ (definitely don’t ask) and ‘googly’ (a googly is a type of bowling delivery, not a new internet search engine).
In 2017, Ireland gained Test status, a huge honour and a recognition of the dedication of the country’s cricket community. There’s just one problem – Ireland may have to wait to get a Test game. In other words, the world won’t let them have the ball. It appears Irish cricketers have one more thing in common with the Republic of Ireland football team.
© John E. McBride
Sunday 2 July 2017
Some Theories on Theories
Scientists have too much time on their hands. Literally. For example, there’s something called the B-theory of time. I don’t know what this is exactly; I always thought ‘B time’ was said by cinema-goers in the 1940s just before a Ronald Reagan movie came on the screen. All I know is that there’s a good chance this theory is about time – as in it’s about time scientists stopped coming up with all this nonsense. It seems boffins are now having hourly competitions to see who can imagine the most unimaginable theory.
Even the great Albert Einstein got in on the act with his Theory of Relativity. Again, don’t ask me to explain this. I suppose it’s called the Theory of Relativity because it’s taken a relativity long time to prove that E = MC Hammer.
I’ve come up with something more useful than Professor Einstein’s effort. I’ve called it my Theory of Relatives. I’ll explain: Say you have a flatulent uncle called Ernie who pretends his dog is the one with the gas problem. The equation for this would go: E = BWBD which stands for (Uncle) Ernie Breaks Wind (and) Blames (his) Dog. You might think this theory is trivial but in fact, it is very important – if you’re Ernie’s dog. My supposition is also a lot easier to prove than Einstein’s effort. You can send my Nobel Prize in the post.
I’m not impressed by the Big Bang Theory either. It has little going for it apart from being called after a comedy show on television. Yes, I admit the universe could have started with a big bang but it could have begun with a lot less fuss – that’s why I’m a fan of the Little Whimper Theory.
Then there is the Flat Earth Theory. To be fair, there probably aren’t too many scientists who believe the Earth is flat, especially if they have taken the time to visit Nepal or Switzerland. Perhaps this theory’s proponents come from the Netherlands. This thesis is ridiculous in my opinion, as you can probably guess. So don’t give me the Flat Earth Theory – I’m still trying to get my head around the Flat Stomach Theory.
© John E. McBride
Thank you for reading. Please feel free to comment. I would also appreciate a Like and Share. Thank you.
Even the great Albert Einstein got in on the act with his Theory of Relativity. Again, don’t ask me to explain this. I suppose it’s called the Theory of Relativity because it’s taken a relativity long time to prove that E = MC Hammer.
I’ve come up with something more useful than Professor Einstein’s effort. I’ve called it my Theory of Relatives. I’ll explain: Say you have a flatulent uncle called Ernie who pretends his dog is the one with the gas problem. The equation for this would go: E = BWBD which stands for (Uncle) Ernie Breaks Wind (and) Blames (his) Dog. You might think this theory is trivial but in fact, it is very important – if you’re Ernie’s dog. My supposition is also a lot easier to prove than Einstein’s effort. You can send my Nobel Prize in the post.
I’m not impressed by the Big Bang Theory either. It has little going for it apart from being called after a comedy show on television. Yes, I admit the universe could have started with a big bang but it could have begun with a lot less fuss – that’s why I’m a fan of the Little Whimper Theory.
Then there is the Flat Earth Theory. To be fair, there probably aren’t too many scientists who believe the Earth is flat, especially if they have taken the time to visit Nepal or Switzerland. Perhaps this theory’s proponents come from the Netherlands. This thesis is ridiculous in my opinion, as you can probably guess. So don’t give me the Flat Earth Theory – I’m still trying to get my head around the Flat Stomach Theory.
© John E. McBride
Thank you for reading. Please feel free to comment. I would also appreciate a Like and Share. Thank you.
Sunday 25 June 2017
Enterprise Is Good For Your Heart
First of all, I will apologise for yet again mentioning Star Trek in a post. I make no apologies for the subject matter, however. If you read only one of my pieces, make sure it is this. Actually, if you only read one of my pieces, I'll be quite upset.
In my opinion, living like Mr Spock can benefit your heart. You might think that Vulcans and health go together like Romulans and hippies, but since my heart attack in 2014, I’ve concluded that our tickers would be in better shape if we were more like the character made famous by Leonard Nimoy on Star Trek. (Pointy ears optional).
Take my own case. In the lead-up to my heart attack, I was getting occasional pains in both arms. My body was warning me like a flashing red alert on the Starship Enterprise. Foolishly, I chose to believe my pains were caused by the cold weather. I have since discovered my hesitation in seeking proper medical opinion was not unique. In fact, I’ve been amazed at the number of fellow heart patients who also ignored their symptoms and/or self-diagnosed. We lacked Mr Spock’s logic. He would have visited Dr McCoy straight away. Although there are less concerning reasons for pain(s) in your upper body, it is always wise to seek proper medical advice at warp speed.
Vulcans have little or no blood pressure, yet Mr Spock could give humans a lesson on blood pressure management. He remained composed in stressful situations, calmly handling big events such as a Klingon attack to relatively small strains like choosing ear muffs. You may not be blessed with Spock’s mentality, but you can relax more. Make lists in order to prioritise your daily/weekly/monthly tasks. Learn to handle both ‘big’ and ‘small’ stresses. Have regular blood pressure checkups. Reduce your salt intake.
Like Star Trek episodes, cholesterol can be good or bad. We can assume Mr Spock maintained high levels of ‘good’ cholesterol in his blood because that was the logical thing to do. Monitor your cholesterol and eat healthily to reduce the ‘bad’ type (which can damage your blood vessels). And keep an eye on your blood sugar levels too.
A transporter room in your home that could beam you to and from work or the shops might seem convenient but your heart wouldn’t thank you. Parking your car slightly further away from your workplace or supermarket (or getting off the bus a stop early) makes it easier to incorporate extra exercise into your daily routine. Better still, if you can, walk/cycle all the way. (Allow extra time if your office is on Mars). Mr Spock stayed in shape and had a healthy body mass index (BMI). Follow his lead and watch your waistline.
One final, important point – the Prime Directive for a healthy heart is No Smoking.
The following mnemonic may help ensure your heart lives long and prospers:
M –Medical attention. Seek it urgently if you experience any unusual symptoms.
R – Relax. Practice deep breathing, for example.
S – Sugar levels in your blood should be monitored.
P – Pressure. As in blood pressure. Check it regularly. Cut down on salt.
O – Organise your life. Prioritising tasks puts less stress on you.
C – Cholesterol. Watch your diet.
K – Keep fit and hydrated. Maintain a healthy weight. No smoking.
© John E. McBride
Before I go, I'd appreciate a comment and would really appreciate a follow. Thanks.
In my opinion, living like Mr Spock can benefit your heart. You might think that Vulcans and health go together like Romulans and hippies, but since my heart attack in 2014, I’ve concluded that our tickers would be in better shape if we were more like the character made famous by Leonard Nimoy on Star Trek. (Pointy ears optional).
Take my own case. In the lead-up to my heart attack, I was getting occasional pains in both arms. My body was warning me like a flashing red alert on the Starship Enterprise. Foolishly, I chose to believe my pains were caused by the cold weather. I have since discovered my hesitation in seeking proper medical opinion was not unique. In fact, I’ve been amazed at the number of fellow heart patients who also ignored their symptoms and/or self-diagnosed. We lacked Mr Spock’s logic. He would have visited Dr McCoy straight away. Although there are less concerning reasons for pain(s) in your upper body, it is always wise to seek proper medical advice at warp speed.
Vulcans have little or no blood pressure, yet Mr Spock could give humans a lesson on blood pressure management. He remained composed in stressful situations, calmly handling big events such as a Klingon attack to relatively small strains like choosing ear muffs. You may not be blessed with Spock’s mentality, but you can relax more. Make lists in order to prioritise your daily/weekly/monthly tasks. Learn to handle both ‘big’ and ‘small’ stresses. Have regular blood pressure checkups. Reduce your salt intake.
Like Star Trek episodes, cholesterol can be good or bad. We can assume Mr Spock maintained high levels of ‘good’ cholesterol in his blood because that was the logical thing to do. Monitor your cholesterol and eat healthily to reduce the ‘bad’ type (which can damage your blood vessels). And keep an eye on your blood sugar levels too.
A transporter room in your home that could beam you to and from work or the shops might seem convenient but your heart wouldn’t thank you. Parking your car slightly further away from your workplace or supermarket (or getting off the bus a stop early) makes it easier to incorporate extra exercise into your daily routine. Better still, if you can, walk/cycle all the way. (Allow extra time if your office is on Mars). Mr Spock stayed in shape and had a healthy body mass index (BMI). Follow his lead and watch your waistline.
One final, important point – the Prime Directive for a healthy heart is No Smoking.
The following mnemonic may help ensure your heart lives long and prospers:
M –Medical attention. Seek it urgently if you experience any unusual symptoms.
R – Relax. Practice deep breathing, for example.
S – Sugar levels in your blood should be monitored.
P – Pressure. As in blood pressure. Check it regularly. Cut down on salt.
O – Organise your life. Prioritising tasks puts less stress on you.
C – Cholesterol. Watch your diet.
K – Keep fit and hydrated. Maintain a healthy weight. No smoking.
© John E. McBride
Before I go, I'd appreciate a comment and would really appreciate a follow. Thanks.
Wednesday 21 June 2017
I Won't Stand For This
The thought of being a stand-up comedian makes me want to sit down. Apart from not actually standing up, there are other things that would make me a poor stage comic.
The first reason why it’s hard for me to do stand-up is (promise you won’t laugh) the sound of laughter. I know this defeats the purpose of being a comedian, but hearing people giggle would make me anxious – I would spend the whole time checking to see if my trousers were falling down. I could face the other way but that would be worse; the audience would be laughing behind my back – and who likes people laughing at them behind their back?
Even if I got over the laughter, the actual audience would worry me. I keep imagining I’d have the worse crowd ever. I can take hecklers because in a way they’re giving feedback which is good (if you like people shouting ‘rubbish!’ at you). I’m talking about the potential make-up of the audience (and by that I mean its composition, not the lipstick it’s wearing).
I mean, imagine if the Federation of Mime Artists came to watch me. Definitely no verbal feedback from them. They might enjoy the show or they might not, I wouldn’t know; I don’t speak mime. They would be gesticulating away and I wouldn’t know if they were heckling me or if they were constipated.
Then we have the groups that would come to my comedy show by mistake. For example, a mix-up in dates could mean I’d have to entertain the Virginia Woolf Appreciation Society. Nothing wrong with that, except I don’t think they’d be on for an evening of laughter. In my opinion, Virginia Woolf admirers are fans of great writing but not great fans of comedy.
And let's not forget Trade Unionists; I wouldn’t want to see any of them in my audience. They’re dangerous because they organise strikes. And there’s no way I'm having a walkout at my stand-up.
© John E. McBride
Before I go, I’d really appreciate your feedback in the comments section as well as a ‘Follow’.
You can also ‘Like’ and ‘Follow’ my Facebook page:
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And follow me on Twitter:
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Thank you.
The first reason why it’s hard for me to do stand-up is (promise you won’t laugh) the sound of laughter. I know this defeats the purpose of being a comedian, but hearing people giggle would make me anxious – I would spend the whole time checking to see if my trousers were falling down. I could face the other way but that would be worse; the audience would be laughing behind my back – and who likes people laughing at them behind their back?
Even if I got over the laughter, the actual audience would worry me. I keep imagining I’d have the worse crowd ever. I can take hecklers because in a way they’re giving feedback which is good (if you like people shouting ‘rubbish!’ at you). I’m talking about the potential make-up of the audience (and by that I mean its composition, not the lipstick it’s wearing).
I mean, imagine if the Federation of Mime Artists came to watch me. Definitely no verbal feedback from them. They might enjoy the show or they might not, I wouldn’t know; I don’t speak mime. They would be gesticulating away and I wouldn’t know if they were heckling me or if they were constipated.
Then we have the groups that would come to my comedy show by mistake. For example, a mix-up in dates could mean I’d have to entertain the Virginia Woolf Appreciation Society. Nothing wrong with that, except I don’t think they’d be on for an evening of laughter. In my opinion, Virginia Woolf admirers are fans of great writing but not great fans of comedy.
And let's not forget Trade Unionists; I wouldn’t want to see any of them in my audience. They’re dangerous because they organise strikes. And there’s no way I'm having a walkout at my stand-up.
© John E. McBride
Before I go, I’d really appreciate your feedback in the comments section as well as a ‘Follow’.
You can also ‘Like’ and ‘Follow’ my Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/moanaghanman/
And follow me on Twitter:
https://twitter.com/JohnEMcBride1
Thank you.
Friday 16 June 2017
Moon Trek
Childhood is confusing enough without American television and NASA combining to make it worse. That’s what they did to me, when, in the 1960s, they launched Star Trek and the Moon landings in the wrong order. I was little more than a toddler at the time, and having already seen the Enterprise, couldn’t understand all the fuss surrounding Apollo 11.
Let’s face it, comparing the Lunar Command Module and the Starship Enterprise is like equating a dinghy with a luxury liner. For example, the Lunar Module took three days to reach Earth’s nearest neighbour; Captain Kirk’s ship went so fast, its crew could stop an interplanetary war at the far end of the galaxy in one hour – or in even less time if there weren’t any adverts.
There was another let-down when the Module reached lunar orbit. Instead of beaming to the surface like Captain Kirk, the crew descended in something that looked like a robotic dog – which was called the ‘Eagle.’ See what I mean about being confused?
Neil Armstrong’s first words on the Moon were another disgrace. Instead of “…one small step for man”, he should have said: “Set phasers to stun.”
I’m certainly not the only person to be confused by Star Trek. I’m sure there are some people who think Anton Chekhov was a navigator on the Starship Enterprise. And there must have been quite a few letters from all over the galaxy asking for paediatric advice from Mr Spock.
One final point: Both Star Trek and the Moon landings should have cost much less. Captain Kirk could have gone where no man had gone before by staying at home, taking his ceiling down and walking over it. And the Apollo astronauts could also have stayed on Earth for all they did on the Moon – which was to take a few photos, play some golf and stagger around. They could have done the same things at a stag party in Magaluf.
© John E. McBride
Let’s face it, comparing the Lunar Command Module and the Starship Enterprise is like equating a dinghy with a luxury liner. For example, the Lunar Module took three days to reach Earth’s nearest neighbour; Captain Kirk’s ship went so fast, its crew could stop an interplanetary war at the far end of the galaxy in one hour – or in even less time if there weren’t any adverts.
There was another let-down when the Module reached lunar orbit. Instead of beaming to the surface like Captain Kirk, the crew descended in something that looked like a robotic dog – which was called the ‘Eagle.’ See what I mean about being confused?
Neil Armstrong’s first words on the Moon were another disgrace. Instead of “…one small step for man”, he should have said: “Set phasers to stun.”
I’m certainly not the only person to be confused by Star Trek. I’m sure there are some people who think Anton Chekhov was a navigator on the Starship Enterprise. And there must have been quite a few letters from all over the galaxy asking for paediatric advice from Mr Spock.
One final point: Both Star Trek and the Moon landings should have cost much less. Captain Kirk could have gone where no man had gone before by staying at home, taking his ceiling down and walking over it. And the Apollo astronauts could also have stayed on Earth for all they did on the Moon – which was to take a few photos, play some golf and stagger around. They could have done the same things at a stag party in Magaluf.
© John E. McBride
Friday 9 June 2017
I Can't Figure Out Figurative Language
You could say clichéd expressions drive me up the wall. But please don’t. These phrases demonstrate a lack of creativity on behalf of those who use them, don’t make sense, and very often should mean another thing entirely.
For example, to have ‘a face like thunder’ is to appear angry. But think about it; a face can’t look like thunder because no one can see thunder. What the expression should really mean, therefore, is to have an invisible face. So how can you tell that that person is angry in the first place?
Some expressions, in addition to being stupid, require the user to make more effort. Take ‘keep your eyes peeled’, meaning ‘be alert’. The former has four words and syllables; the latter has two words and three syllables which are easier to say and write. And while I’m at it, why peel your eyes? Are your eyes bananas? By the way, I’m talking about bananas in the literal sense.
From sight to sound, and ‘music to my ears’, which means hearing something that is pleasing. But music is subjective. The saying should be ‘my favourite music genre to my ears.’ Or simply, ‘it sounds good.’ Staying on a melodic theme and more daftness with ‘fit as a fiddle’. There’s nothing fit about a fiddle; I’ve never seen a violin run a marathon.
Perhaps the most nonsensical of all is when you tell someone that they’ve 'got their head screwed on the right way' which ironically means that they’re sensible. This is a compliment that should only be given to a robot. The only non-mechanical being that that saying could apply to is Frankenstein’s monster. And it’s Dr Frankenstein who should really get the credit:
“You sure screwed that fella’s head on the right way, Doc.”
Finally, a penny for your thoughts on this (actually, I won’t pay you – although your opinion must be worth a lot more than a penny due to inflation): Why does time turn us into psychopaths? Think about the answer when you find yourself with time to kill.
© John E. McBride
For example, to have ‘a face like thunder’ is to appear angry. But think about it; a face can’t look like thunder because no one can see thunder. What the expression should really mean, therefore, is to have an invisible face. So how can you tell that that person is angry in the first place?
Some expressions, in addition to being stupid, require the user to make more effort. Take ‘keep your eyes peeled’, meaning ‘be alert’. The former has four words and syllables; the latter has two words and three syllables which are easier to say and write. And while I’m at it, why peel your eyes? Are your eyes bananas? By the way, I’m talking about bananas in the literal sense.
From sight to sound, and ‘music to my ears’, which means hearing something that is pleasing. But music is subjective. The saying should be ‘my favourite music genre to my ears.’ Or simply, ‘it sounds good.’ Staying on a melodic theme and more daftness with ‘fit as a fiddle’. There’s nothing fit about a fiddle; I’ve never seen a violin run a marathon.
Perhaps the most nonsensical of all is when you tell someone that they’ve 'got their head screwed on the right way' which ironically means that they’re sensible. This is a compliment that should only be given to a robot. The only non-mechanical being that that saying could apply to is Frankenstein’s monster. And it’s Dr Frankenstein who should really get the credit:
“You sure screwed that fella’s head on the right way, Doc.”
Finally, a penny for your thoughts on this (actually, I won’t pay you – although your opinion must be worth a lot more than a penny due to inflation): Why does time turn us into psychopaths? Think about the answer when you find yourself with time to kill.
© John E. McBride
Sunday 4 June 2017
Seven Great Songs that Annoy Me
A great song can be annoying even without Mr Blobby doing a cover version of it. To prove my point, I’ve come up with seven terrific songs that still manage to drive me round the twist. And before you ask, Chubby Checker’s song isn’t one of them.
Some songs leave me wanting more for all the wrong reasons. For instance, there’s an obvious question concerning ‘Reasons to be Cheerful, Part 3’: Where are Parts 1 and 2? Ian Dury, singing with his group The Blockheads, only mentioned one-third of the things that made him happy. As they’d probably also make me happy, this song leaves me feeling more tearful than cheerful. How ironic.
Speaking of ironic songs, next on my list, appropriately enough, is Alanis Morissette’s ‘Ironic’ – this irritates me because, despite the title, its lyrics contain no examples of irony. I suppose that makes the song ironic in a roundabout sort of way. Never mind, Alanis, as far as misleading song titles go, you’re in good company…
When I heard Gilbert O’Sullivan had a song out called ‘Nothing Rhymed’ I got a bit anxious, as the title sounded like a criticism of my limerick poems. It turned out Gilbert could teach irony to Alanis Morissette as ‘Nothing Rhymed’ is full of rhymes. Just a thought: Perhaps Gilbert and Alanis could get together and do a mashup song called ‘Nothing Ironic.’
Another misleading song title is 'I Write the Songs' by Barry Manilow. Barry did not actually write 'I Write the Songs' so the song should have been called 'I Write Songs but I didn't Write I Write the Songs.' And I write tongue twisters.
Sometimes it’s not the songs but the record-buying public that leave me perplexed. In 1975, ‘January’ by Pilot became a number-one single in Ireland and the UK during the month of February. (More irony). I’ve spent many sleepless nights (a few minutes, actually) thinking about the reason why anyone would feel so nostalgic about the cold and snow, and the type of people who would want to remember January so soon. I can only conclude that in 1975, a lot of record buyers were snowmen. By the way, a song called ‘March’ would do really well in military circles.
Some tunes bring back bad memories. I first heard ‘At Seventeen’ by Janis Ian at the age of sixteen (which is not the best age to hear ‘At Seventeen’ for the first time). In my opinion, ‘At Seventeen’ is similar to songs written by the great Leonard Cohen – except his material is much more upbeat. According to the lyrics, Janis had such a tough time finding sweethearts that she had to pretend she was talking to them on the phone. This filled me with trepidation because to share the singer’s misfortune would be doubly painful, as I’d have to pretend to have a girlfriend and phone. Sure enough, at seventeen, I did indeed find myself talking to pretend girls on a pretend telephone. (Not all bad news; the call charges were low). To be honest, I was still calling make-believe girls at the age of twenty-seven. But at least I had a telephone by then.
U2 let themselves down sometimes. Bono has been singing ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ since 1987. It would help if he told us exactly what he’s lost. My guess is that it’s probably something small, like a teaspoon. I feel your pain, Bono, but there’s no point spending decade after decade crooning about a lost kitchen utensil. Just go out and buy another teaspoon. However, if what you’ve lost is the confidence to go shopping, then I’m really sorry for this rant.
© John E. McBride
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Some songs leave me wanting more for all the wrong reasons. For instance, there’s an obvious question concerning ‘Reasons to be Cheerful, Part 3’: Where are Parts 1 and 2? Ian Dury, singing with his group The Blockheads, only mentioned one-third of the things that made him happy. As they’d probably also make me happy, this song leaves me feeling more tearful than cheerful. How ironic.
Speaking of ironic songs, next on my list, appropriately enough, is Alanis Morissette’s ‘Ironic’ – this irritates me because, despite the title, its lyrics contain no examples of irony. I suppose that makes the song ironic in a roundabout sort of way. Never mind, Alanis, as far as misleading song titles go, you’re in good company…
When I heard Gilbert O’Sullivan had a song out called ‘Nothing Rhymed’ I got a bit anxious, as the title sounded like a criticism of my limerick poems. It turned out Gilbert could teach irony to Alanis Morissette as ‘Nothing Rhymed’ is full of rhymes. Just a thought: Perhaps Gilbert and Alanis could get together and do a mashup song called ‘Nothing Ironic.’
Another misleading song title is 'I Write the Songs' by Barry Manilow. Barry did not actually write 'I Write the Songs' so the song should have been called 'I Write Songs but I didn't Write I Write the Songs.' And I write tongue twisters.
Sometimes it’s not the songs but the record-buying public that leave me perplexed. In 1975, ‘January’ by Pilot became a number-one single in Ireland and the UK during the month of February. (More irony). I’ve spent many sleepless nights (a few minutes, actually) thinking about the reason why anyone would feel so nostalgic about the cold and snow, and the type of people who would want to remember January so soon. I can only conclude that in 1975, a lot of record buyers were snowmen. By the way, a song called ‘March’ would do really well in military circles.
Some tunes bring back bad memories. I first heard ‘At Seventeen’ by Janis Ian at the age of sixteen (which is not the best age to hear ‘At Seventeen’ for the first time). In my opinion, ‘At Seventeen’ is similar to songs written by the great Leonard Cohen – except his material is much more upbeat. According to the lyrics, Janis had such a tough time finding sweethearts that she had to pretend she was talking to them on the phone. This filled me with trepidation because to share the singer’s misfortune would be doubly painful, as I’d have to pretend to have a girlfriend and phone. Sure enough, at seventeen, I did indeed find myself talking to pretend girls on a pretend telephone. (Not all bad news; the call charges were low). To be honest, I was still calling make-believe girls at the age of twenty-seven. But at least I had a telephone by then.
U2 let themselves down sometimes. Bono has been singing ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ since 1987. It would help if he told us exactly what he’s lost. My guess is that it’s probably something small, like a teaspoon. I feel your pain, Bono, but there’s no point spending decade after decade crooning about a lost kitchen utensil. Just go out and buy another teaspoon. However, if what you’ve lost is the confidence to go shopping, then I’m really sorry for this rant.
© John E. McBride
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Monday 29 May 2017
Metaphors for Monaghan
To help you get to know me a little more, I thought I’d write about my native county, Monaghan in Ireland, and use metaphors to make it a little more interesting – and hopefully make me look a little more intelligent in the process. You will discover that in metaphorical terms, Monaghan is a useless jigsaw puzzle, a useless compass, Cork (I won’t say a useless county), and Heaven. Let’s begin. Monaghan is…
County Cork
Monaghan’s name is derived from the Irish for ‘land of the little hills’ which is apt, because it has so much high ground, it should be the number one holiday destination for moral people. It makes me annoyed that Cork is officially the largest county by area in Ireland. That honour would surely go to Monaghan, if we could flatten its hills.
A jigsaw puzzle with one missing piece
Gaelic Football is so ingrained into the psyche of Monaghan people that many of them think the last line of the national anthem is “…and the match is on!” it’s true that most people in the county are mad about Gaelic football and they get even madder every time their team bows out of the All-Ireland tournament. And that’s a lot of times. In fact, despite being successful in other competitions, Monaghan has yet (up to 2016) to win the All-Ireland Gaelic football title. This leaves one large gap in its trophy room (which at this very moment is probably being used as a hideaway by a yeti).
A broken compass
Due to the county’s unique location – bordered on three sides by Northern Ireland – a person can stand in certain parts of Monaghan and face ‘The North’ by looking north, south, east or west. If you ever get lost in Monaghan, don’t depend on a compass.
Liechtenstein (almost)
Monaghan and Liechtenstein are both landlocked – double landlocked in the latter’s case which explains why Liechtenstein has such a poor national surfing team. Monaghan could become ‘double landlocked’ – if Fermanagh win the All-Ireland Gaelic football title, and along with it the Sam Maguire Cup. All of Monaghan’s neighbouring counties, bar Fermanagh, have won the All-Ireland, so if Fermanagh lift the trophy, it will leave Monaghan ‘Sam Maguire locked’ – and having to decide whether it feels more claustrophobic or depressed.
Heaven
In my opinion, Monaghan looks a bit like Heaven. It would look a lot like Heaven if the county could borrow a piece of Tahitian coastline.
© John E. McBride
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