Yes! It's the second in my series of You're A Cunt rants! I know you had to wait a while since the last one, but Ireland's so full of cunts I get overwhelmed sometimes. I bury my head in the Dutch-Gold-can-ridden sand. There's only so much online screaming I'm able for.
Here's Joe Duffy.
He's a cunt.
Now, I know it's Joe Duffy's job to be a cunt. He's the voice of a dying Ireland. Cantankerous, Fianna-Fail-voting, hand-wringing, confused, shrivelled-up Ireland. Don't get me wrong: the man's entitled to make a living. And that there, dearfucks folks, is the crux of the matter. Making a living.
The Swearing Gentleman pointed me towards yesterday's Liveline programme, like a man with a bow held tight on a poisoned arrow. "Fly," said he. "Fly, my little venomous crusader!" He wanted me to hear the story of the Irishus Mammius who sent her convict son's dealers money so that they could continue to sort him on the inside. And fair play to TSG, it sounded like the perfect fodder for Arse End. The typical Irish Mammy with a severe case of Sun-Shining-Out-Of-Son's-Arse syndrome. My own Mammy has it. Us girls she would have gladly sent up the chimney or knitting shilleleghs in a sweat shop, but the boys could do no wrong. And they, like overgrown Mammy-smothered pussycats, repaid her by dragging all sorts of putrid shenanigans home to rest on her doorstep. Anyway.
So I found the radio show archived here, got a glass of perfectly legal ethanol-based poison, and sat down to listen.
Sean, a Wheatfield prisoner, on hearing of an earlier show of Joe's, phoned in to tell him the Truth about drug use and abuse in prison (and yes, I think there's a difference). The prisoner, who had pushed his way through cold turkey and had used his time inside to come off heroin, told Joe that he'd been sentenced to six years for intent to supply.
"You were a nasty person!" orgasms Joe.
"Hold on..." says our prisoner. "You don't have to be a nasty person to sell drugs. That's just a myth..."
"What were you selling?"
"Cocaine, yeah?"
"You were supplying and selling cocaine... You're in for six years, which in Ireland is a long sentence... so what you were up to was quite nasty."
Yer man goes on to try to explain that he got six years for not co-operating with the guards, for not revealing where he got his stuff. Which, I'm obliged to point out, is how drug-related sentencing works in Ireland. The big doods don't get caught.
"You have to understand," says yer man, "that when you get into the game, that if you get caught you take the rap and you keep your mouth shut."
"I'm saying what the listeners are thinking," drones Joe. "If you're supplying cocaine, if you're selling cocaine, you're killing kids."
...
Holy
Sweet
FuckingrapethatbastardJoeDuffy.
How many fucking kids does he know who've died from cocaine misuse? How many? Let him fucking name them! Let him roll out their corpses one by one and weep salty tears of woe for a nation gone awry. Killing kids? KILLING FUCKING KIDS? JESUS CUNTING CHRIST! Whatever happened to researching a topic and trying to gain a level of reporter's detachment from its emotional implications, trying to get to the truth of the matter by examining all sides of the stories and weighing them against the facts? Cocaine is killing kids? YES, JOE. It's killing 20 year olds in gangland Ireland where you and your Beemer never dare to roll, you fucking prick.
But the voice of reason belonged to yer man in Wheatfield, who said,
"Killing kids? I wasn't selling to kids. Anybody I sold to was a grown man or a grown woman, and I'll be honest with you, Joe, a lot of my customers were from upper-class areas of Dublin."
Joe's response to this potential can of worms?
A sigh and a dismissive "Ok."
Then, "When you get out will you go back selling again?"
Yer man inside hesitates for a good... oh, three seconds.
"That's a yes," interrupts our fearless Joe, just as yer man was beginning to speak.
"No," says yer man.
"That's a yes!" trumpets Joe.
"I'm about to answer your question," attempts yer man.
"THAT'S A YES!" ejaculates the hairy one.
"No, it's not a yes," says our exasperated inside man.
"It IS a yes," nods Joe.
"I was ABOUT to say to you..." tries yer man.
"You hesitated," says Madame Joe of the mysical mystics. "You were thinking about it." He then goes on to holler over the guy trying to speak, until Mr. Inside Voice Of Reason 2006 shuts up and lets him get on with his hole-ier than thou analysis, which as far as I could work out was mostly to do with what they ate at lunchtime and how they charged their contrabrand mobile phones.
Anyone with a passing interest in what I've been blethering about recently (dhrugs in Oirland) should listen to that show. Joe Duffy tries using the confessions of a brave and very honest drug dealer (not an oxymoron, fuck off) as Isn't It Awful entertainment, yet even his hysterics can't smother the impression that Sean, the Wheatfield prisoner, is a very real person and one that can tell us more about the Irish drugs problem than any middle-aged, cotton-wooled nimrod with a microphone. Joe Duffy came across as the one out of touch. What's fucking awful is knowing he's out of touch because he caters to the sizeable out-of-touch portion of Irish society, those whose ill-informed politics and arseways votes are blocking the way forward.
One last point. Anyone who does listen to the show and the accents of those on the "front line" can't help but notice the strong working-class Northside flavour to the articulate and thought-provoking discussions. Try telling me, then, that this isn't a problem shackled to social divide in Ireland. Celtic Tiger, you and your disintegrating septum can fuck right off.
(I'm away tomorrow. I'm off to Limerick. Yup. Laugh amongst yourselves.)
Here's Joe Duffy.
He's a cunt.
Now, I know it's Joe Duffy's job to be a cunt. He's the voice of a dying Ireland. Cantankerous, Fianna-Fail-voting, hand-wringing, confused, shrivelled-up Ireland. Don't get me wrong: the man's entitled to make a living. And that there, dear
The Swearing Gentleman pointed me towards yesterday's Liveline programme, like a man with a bow held tight on a poisoned arrow. "Fly," said he. "Fly, my little venomous crusader!" He wanted me to hear the story of the Irishus Mammius who sent her convict son's dealers money so that they could continue to sort him on the inside. And fair play to TSG, it sounded like the perfect fodder for Arse End. The typical Irish Mammy with a severe case of Sun-Shining-Out-Of-Son's-Arse syndrome. My own Mammy has it. Us girls she would have gladly sent up the chimney or knitting shilleleghs in a sweat shop, but the boys could do no wrong. And they, like overgrown Mammy-smothered pussycats, repaid her by dragging all sorts of putrid shenanigans home to rest on her doorstep. Anyway.
So I found the radio show archived here, got a glass of perfectly legal ethanol-based poison, and sat down to listen.
Sean, a Wheatfield prisoner, on hearing of an earlier show of Joe's, phoned in to tell him the Truth about drug use and abuse in prison (and yes, I think there's a difference). The prisoner, who had pushed his way through cold turkey and had used his time inside to come off heroin, told Joe that he'd been sentenced to six years for intent to supply.
"You were a nasty person!" orgasms Joe.
"Hold on..." says our prisoner. "You don't have to be a nasty person to sell drugs. That's just a myth..."
"What were you selling?"
"Cocaine, yeah?"
"You were supplying and selling cocaine... You're in for six years, which in Ireland is a long sentence... so what you were up to was quite nasty."
Yer man goes on to try to explain that he got six years for not co-operating with the guards, for not revealing where he got his stuff. Which, I'm obliged to point out, is how drug-related sentencing works in Ireland. The big doods don't get caught.
"You have to understand," says yer man, "that when you get into the game, that if you get caught you take the rap and you keep your mouth shut."
"I'm saying what the listeners are thinking," drones Joe. "If you're supplying cocaine, if you're selling cocaine, you're killing kids."
...
Holy
Sweet
FuckingrapethatbastardJoeDuffy.
How many fucking kids does he know who've died from cocaine misuse? How many? Let him fucking name them! Let him roll out their corpses one by one and weep salty tears of woe for a nation gone awry. Killing kids? KILLING FUCKING KIDS? JESUS CUNTING CHRIST! Whatever happened to researching a topic and trying to gain a level of reporter's detachment from its emotional implications, trying to get to the truth of the matter by examining all sides of the stories and weighing them against the facts? Cocaine is killing kids? YES, JOE. It's killing 20 year olds in gangland Ireland where you and your Beemer never dare to roll, you fucking prick.
But the voice of reason belonged to yer man in Wheatfield, who said,
"Killing kids? I wasn't selling to kids. Anybody I sold to was a grown man or a grown woman, and I'll be honest with you, Joe, a lot of my customers were from upper-class areas of Dublin."
Joe's response to this potential can of worms?
A sigh and a dismissive "Ok."
Then, "When you get out will you go back selling again?"
Yer man inside hesitates for a good... oh, three seconds.
"That's a yes," interrupts our fearless Joe, just as yer man was beginning to speak.
"No," says yer man.
"That's a yes!" trumpets Joe.
"I'm about to answer your question," attempts yer man.
"THAT'S A YES!" ejaculates the hairy one.
"No, it's not a yes," says our exasperated inside man.
"It IS a yes," nods Joe.
"I was ABOUT to say to you..." tries yer man.
"You hesitated," says Madame Joe of the mysical mystics. "You were thinking about it." He then goes on to holler over the guy trying to speak, until Mr. Inside Voice Of Reason 2006 shuts up and lets him get on with his hole-ier than thou analysis, which as far as I could work out was mostly to do with what they ate at lunchtime and how they charged their contrabrand mobile phones.
Anyone with a passing interest in what I've been blethering about recently (dhrugs in Oirland) should listen to that show. Joe Duffy tries using the confessions of a brave and very honest drug dealer (not an oxymoron, fuck off) as Isn't It Awful entertainment, yet even his hysterics can't smother the impression that Sean, the Wheatfield prisoner, is a very real person and one that can tell us more about the Irish drugs problem than any middle-aged, cotton-wooled nimrod with a microphone. Joe Duffy came across as the one out of touch. What's fucking awful is knowing he's out of touch because he caters to the sizeable out-of-touch portion of Irish society, those whose ill-informed politics and arseways votes are blocking the way forward.
One last point. Anyone who does listen to the show and the accents of those on the "front line" can't help but notice the strong working-class Northside flavour to the articulate and thought-provoking discussions. Try telling me, then, that this isn't a problem shackled to social divide in Ireland. Celtic Tiger, you and your disintegrating septum can fuck right off.
(I'm away tomorrow. I'm off to Limerick. Yup. Laugh amongst yourselves.)
