The Ryans - Ireland's original 'celebridy cupple'

Ireland's original 'celebridy cupple'

THEY were Ireland's original 'celebridy cupple' before the 'wured' celebrity was known in Ireland.
Gerry and Morah Ryan bagged a fine house on Castle Avenue, Clontarf, in Dublin's three-and-three-quarters suburb ahead of the property boom.
Gerry was a self styled 'enfant terrible' at RTE's Montrose radio bunker munching his way through breakfast rolls and self medicating on whiskey or coke.
Morah kept busying raising their brood of five, Lottie being the eldest.
Mrs Ryan developed a reputation for wearing fashion black on the city's celebrity party circuit.
She once mistook me for a television company executive when she herself was most definitely the worst for wear at a private 'celeb' party.
One of her gay music pals at that bash fancied his chances so much that he proposed I go off home to ride him.
His lure being 'four lines of coke'. 'I only drink it with vodka or white rum' I had quipped - in his world, the difference between a straight and gay guy being four lines of coke.
I declined his offer telling him I only rode stars on the way up and not those falling around a dance floor, I left my retort gender neutral.
An RTE ascerbic insider, who is on a leave of absence (try that one in the real world), claimed Ryan was loved by all at Montrose in death only because he was a monster in life.

'mine's a tripple'

He believed Ryan got away with drinking whiskey and sleeping during programming only because management were afraid of him.
He also claimed Ryan's 'coke' snorting took precedence over and above his munching of breakfast rolls.
On the day before the radio star 'popped his clogs' at his Leeson Street rental flat, he had been drinking heavily. He had 'bollicked' a commercial lender at one of Ireland's banking institutions the day previously about his money woes.
The bank had exchanged legal papers on Ryan threatening to call in a series of loans secured against a period property in the city.
The larger than life character was seriously out of cash in the run up to his death as the property boom went bust.
Somewhat of a casualty of the celtic tiger's excess and personal financial stress, in death, Ryan's life insurance policies may pay off some of his debts and secure his reputation.

Ireland's Zelig' economics

Shadow of an IMF 'gunman'

IRELAND's economy seems to be sleep walking its way towards a nightmarish embrace with the IMF.
The elected chamber has attained a remarkable ability to resemble political representation in changing its colour as required but seems to lack strategy, direction or any pretence at governance.
Public sector unions have played it their way for so long that they appear to be a self serving cabale at the heart of government.
The partnership process is not working. There has been no review of public administration. It has become a predatory canabilistic web of intrique and broken promise for reform whereby pay parity, in benchmarking the private sector, has occurred without any reciprocal parity on productivity, changed working practices and more importantly, open competition for career advancement.
With more than 400,000 people actively seeking employment, many must sit on their hands whilst those within the public sector advance careers without open competition from PhD, MBA or other suitably qualified candidates on the outside.
With a pension timebomb creeping up on those unable to secure employment, the political change necessary to restore an equitable redistribution of jobs to those with the requiste skillset is obvious.
The docile nature of the Irish will give comfort to the peoples' representatives at Parliament, and the union bossess, secure in their 'family seats', buoyed up by an electorates' propensity to return the 'cute hoor' to Dail Eireann.
Taxation, public sector work practices and its bloated pension arrangements are three economic strands that have unravelled and tripped up the economy.
A failure by the public sector's Financial Services Regulatory Authority to police the 'Celtic Tiger's' bankers has compounded Ireland's woes.
The unfolding NAMA drama at the 'Four Goldmines' will test more than precedent but stand or fall on the confidence the Toxic Asset Management Agency' enjoys with Ireland's judiciary.
If we are all in this together, when will the peoples' representatives divorce themselves from the leechlike lefties and deliver something more tangible than political rhetoric.

Gately joins Boyzone 'down under'?

A solemn Ronan Keating carries Gately's coffin

IT's been seven hours and almost 365 days since Stephen Gately went away.
He died sleeping on his living room sofa while his not so ideal husband conversed with their Bulgarian 'home help' picked up in Majorca, 10 October, 2009.
Apparently his former Boyzone pals are getting it on 'down under' where former frontman Ronan Keating is judging the Australian version of X Factor.
One of the 'Boyz', who can't hold a tune, just bank notes, for some reason, can't make it to the boyband's reunion and so some 'has been' singer is filling the void on backing vocals.
Ian Dempsey's entertainment correspondent was able to say who was going down under to join Ronan but there was no mention of the gay Stephen.
I mused, 'sure he's six feet down under already' but then I remembered, no he isn't, the husband had his mortal remains cremated and shipped back to London town. And that made me think of the 'bauld' Johnny Logan singing 'What's another year?' and sure before I knew it, 30 had past.

Lips like Lisa Murphy's

Lisa and Gerald on RTE

'A HANDSOME beautiful man' is how the late Stephen Gately's celebrity solicitor described him in response to media interest into the entertainer's demise.
The avuncular Gerald Keane is a former party boy on what passes as Dublin's 'glitz'n'glamour' circuit with a certain Lisa 'lips' Murphy on his arm.
The celebrity trophy totty has come a long way from her days totting up the daily takings at a Temple Bar newsagent, a career 'game changer' when Lisa not only learnt the value of money but from where she could plan her media strategy.
Apparently, the suburban celebrity loved her Tallaght club nights in the days before fame and fortune mixing with boxers, tap dancers and fabulously well connected ex-husbands looking for love in all the right places.
Lisa's cultivated accent and perfectly maintained appearance has catipulted the newsagent's helper onto Ireland's red top papers and glamour puss tv shows.
An appearence on RTE television's Late Late show is highly prize amongst Dublin's 'glitz listers' and both she and he (keane) looked a 'pretty' picture.

Iceland's Kerry going to 'Ozzieland'

Kerry heard about the supply of 'snow' in Iceland

ONCE upon a time there were three beautiful girls who went to the fame academy.
They were no angels. They were Atomic Kitten.
Kerry Catona met one of Billy Barry's Dublin boys, Brian McFadden, and the rest is history.
They had an Irish Molly. They married, then divorced. He parted from Westlife and headed off into the sunrise for Manly beach, Sydney.
He's about to remarry 'down under' and his ex Iceland superstore 'tv mum' wife is going all the way to be there for his big day with their two daughters.
No doubt to wish her 'ex' all the best as she sits back and protects her kids share of his loot.

Squeaky squaky gold diggers

Gold diggers squeak, then squak

DUBLIN must surely have more squeaky squaky gold diggers than almost anywhere. I heard two more on Ian Dempsey's breakfast show yappin on about their mother and baby event funded by a well healed eejit off TV3's 'me too' Aprrentice show. I'd love to be able to say 'good on you girls', be enterprising, set up your 'sure bet' business and find that crock of gold at the end of your rainbow. They stopped short of using the 'absolutely' word but fair to say they ruined my day long before New Order's Regret went round Dempsey's musicbox before 8am.

African mud hutz or Irish security huts?

Out of West Africa to safeguard Dublin

OUR friends out of West Africa have landed on their feet, if not their butts, working away as static security guards across our green and pleasant land.
Courteous to a fault, they direct us into our parking spots with big broad smiles and a cheery hello.

But we rarely know their names, their life stories or why they've left their land for ours.

We are shielded from their reality by laminated windscreens, breakfast radio distractions and a desire to grab a coffee before the 'bell'.

We open up computer screen windows for emails but rarely lower car windows to say good morning to those in uniform who crank up our offices from their night-time slumber.

Maybe Amarach (tomorrow) I'll say 'hello, howya or god be with you'.

Txt msg'n and blogging

txt msg rcvd ;-]

I HAD just completed my first day's blogspot rant when this text message appeared - yippie, yahoo, technology. 
'Hey #@x. Dyin from #@x*v!'s fatty greesy cookin, sausage drenched in a fatty carbonarona bacon sauce and white garlic bread last night. riddled with heartburn ;(' - Time: 11.26.44. Date: 05-10-2010.
In reply I opined; 'Fat people are happiest eating food and fattening up the slim 'n' trim. Make your own. Stop eating the fat man's food. Coleraine's 'big @"#' did the same to me.'
He continued: 'lol #@x hes makin me sick...he hasnt a clue how to cook good food, everythings drenched in fatty sauces. im checking out places in islandbridge. hows u?' - Time: 11.31.14. Date: 05-10-2010.
I texted, after a discrete period and a full colon: 'Me good. Writing a web rant on blogspot. 1st day of it. I've munched my five-a-day fruit salad box for breakfast but I did munch 2 hash browns and half a grilled tomato to pick me up. Left knee sore. Difene overnighters helping me sleep. Less than 4 weeks until the dole queue for Christmas. So stop complaining about bad food. Make your own. Say to them 'thanks but no thanks, I need to watch my cholesterol.'

The once very fit n trim pal is so upset by the bad food regime that he is searching out alternative accomodation away from the friend with a heart of gold but dangerous 24ct cholesterol levels. 'We are what we eat' is a simple mantra but apparently beyond the grasp of the 'comfort food' fraternity.

Another txt from the 'busy' office administrator: 'im meeting a guy tomorrow about a hse share... hes sounds fit. great about the blog, i think i'll start one up about casual fucks".' - Time: 12.21.29. Date: 05-10-2010.

'Big' black clad girlz

Don't you want fresh cream with that?

THERE was a time when Ireland was populated with red-headed coleens in Kelly greens with their Irish eyes all smiling, alas, no more.
Either Moses or Mohahmed is said to have moved mountains but when I spied a 'big' black clad girl mooching towards work at 8am the other morning, both me and her were breathless.
It's a sad sight to see a pretty girl so morbidly obese hiding beneath layers of flowing black nylon.
Fashion stylists claim 'black is slimming' - yes it is - but only if you're into photography and spend your days, and nights, in a darkroom or you take Vincent Browne's advice and head for that dimly lit room with a bottle of Irish whiskey and a gun.

Road rage women agus Garda cyclists

"Do you think me finger smells of fish or what?"

NOTHING so amusing as 'lady' drivers giving 'the finger' when you won't 'run' an amber on the N11.
'Not cocked last night?' you muse as her arms wave and rave in the rearview mirror, multi-tasking, applying makeup to twentysomething skin as she dagger stares you out of it.
She's a furious red (rouge) when the lights go green.
Not to be left at the 'get go', she's on your ass like some multinational's mad manager.
A six-year-old powder blue Kildare reg'd Golf is not something worth getting upset about, in my opinion.


Garda cyclists
Reminds me of a Sunday midnight, mid July, when a biker cop peddled me down Dublin's Wood Quay. 
"You know why I stopped you, don't you?", he barked. "I don't guard", I replied, when really I wanted to suggest 'You acted on impulse and chased me down to invite me for a late night drink at The George'.
"You ran a red light at the pedestrian crossing", he claimed.
"Are you sure it wasn't orange?" I suggested.
"Listen to me" he continued. "There's too many people killed on our roads this weekend. You could have killed someone walking over the bridge".
"Oh really guard. Was I on the millenium foot bridge?. You're right. Donegal. Those poor unfortunates in that eight seater Passat. A shame really. Seven young lads killed in an instant. Not to mention the harmless 'auld critter' on his way home from Bingo" is what you wanted to say but thought better of as your main beams catch the swagger of a 'new one' dancing and prancing like some 'gayer' off X-factor.
"Where's your insurance certificate?". "At home guard but the disc is displayed in the windscreen" I replied.
"Where's your NCT certificate?" he inquired. "At home guard, the NCT disc is on the window".
"Where's your driving licence?" he demaned. "Here it is" as I whipped it out from my trousers.
Still 'smarting' from his 7-per-cent pension levy and 10-per-cent pay-cut he grumbled "You have ten days to present your documents at a designated Garda station. Which Garda station do you want to designate?".
"The Bridewell" I replied.
He pedelled off in his navy blue pants, butt cheeks perfectly parted, anonymously.
I headed home waiting for his plain white envelope to fall through my letterbox demanding 80 euro and two penalty points. Outrageous.

ps. AA Roadwatch seems to take issue with the Phoenix Park's Castleknock gates being shut from 10am until 7pm daily for 'park maintenance'. On Tuesday morning's Ian Dempsey breakfast show for Today Fm, a nanny-mouse, apologies, anonymous 'giggling girleen' was able to say that although the gates are closed between the aforementioned hours the Park reopened at 5.30pm Monday due to traffic congestion. Sounds like a 'four wheels good' agenda to me.

Bertie Ahern 'outed' by NOTW

And who did the news reporter find in the closet?

DRUMCONDRA's best separated father, Bertie Ahern, nails his nads to 'The Nueez off The Wureld's' masthead.
Dumped in disgrace by a 'Feckin Fiable' Irish government, the bachelor has been seen closeted in a TV commercial hawking the 'Best of British' sleazepaper's sports section.
The newspaper is embroiled in a series of scandalous out of court settlements with UK Policitans for illegally accessing their mobile phone voice-mails for publication.
'Bertie's out of the closet' is not something a Kennedy's pub bunch or Gaylic crew is heard-a-chanting of 'the most devious and cunning of them all', but as our economic sky has already fallen in around our pig's ears, anything is possible.

Thatcher's 'bogwog' man - Martin McGuinness MP

Who ain't goin' a work on Maggie's farm no more?

SEVEN days is a long time in politics but 26 years on from the Brighton bomb, Thatcher's 'bogwog' man McGuinness must seem like 'The spy who came in from the cold'.
The irony of the Derryman's killer one-liners is surely not lost on the northern counties 'conflict junkies' or the Tory faithful.
As Maggie's farmers go through another 'boom'n'bust' cycle, on the surface everything since Brighton has changed, yet everything has remained the same.
The Tory Toffs are back in charge, DC says 'everything is settled, the Union is safe' and McGuinness administrates British rule in Ireland - boom boom 'paddy Irishman'.

Ice cold in Coolock - Lukasz Rzeszutko

LUKASZ Rzeszutko lies dead on a mortuary slab, aged 27.
His death is yet another example of a migrant worker in receipt of the deadly 'cead mile fists n boots' treatment from Dublin's bravest.
Heading to work at a Coolock based fish processing factory, most likely earning something closer to the minimum wage than most are prepared to do, he seems to have been set upon by boozy boys at 5am.
He had travelled to Ireland to better his life chances but died three days after sustaining severe brain injuries.
At first inspection the killing seems indefensible.
No doubt senior counsel, at the taxpayers expense, will step into the breach and cite 'provocation' as one plank onto which to hang a defence argument.
As sure as 'dead men tell no tales' there will be a sorry sad tale to be told down the Four Goldmines sometime 2011.
May the young man who got out of bed early last Saturday for a deadly embrace with late night drinkers rest in peace.