miscellaneous extraneous aneous

Titanic Rip Offs. At the end of James Cameron's epic film Titanic, which is a genuine work of art, the old lady remembers her lost love with the classic line: "He lives now only in my memory." Director James Cameron lifted the line word for word from the closing scene of the 1980's action exploitation flick Mad Max 2. Not many people know that. 

Ones That Got Away. Great photos I missed. Driving through Inchicore this evening. At Lady's Lane came across an interesting conjunction of sceneries. Some traditional Dublin cottages. A few trees. Apartments. Weather beaten shuttered buildings. Fine contrasts all round. And a sign in large black letters that read: "No Dumping. Offenders Will Be Prosecuted." All around the base of the sign were rubbish bags overflowing with detritus. To left and right of the sign, rubbish bags. Along the street, rubbish bags. Stashed around the corner at Lady's Lane, more rubbish bags. The entire vista, sign included, was like something out of Ozymandias. I suppose it will all have been cleaned up by tomorrow. Eur Bein Pseud. Good catchy Norwegian entry won the Eurovision Song Contest. The chap singing it was actually a Russkie. Interesting, eh? Vladimir Putin's agents are everywhere. Now apparently even in Norway. Still, it's a good song, maybe even a great song. He will go far this young Norwegian/Russian secret agent, I mean star. As long as Amy Winehouse doesn't sue. For the Eurovision winning song is oddly reminiscent of her legendary I Go Back To Black. Oddly reminiscent in the sense of being the same song, except for the fiddle playing bit. 

Idea For A Novelty Charity Record. A version of "Alfie" with the lyrics changed to fit a Star Trek theme. The video would feature me driving along the open road to South Kildare and stopping to give a lift to some girl hitch hikers. The girls are mildly nonplussed because I am dressed like a well known Star Trek captain complete with bald pate. As we drive along, someone switches on the radio. We hear Michael Caine's voice saying: "Right have we all settled in? We can begin. My name is..." Before he can finish I burst in with: "... Captain Jean Luc Picard." Then we have the song itself: 

"Once there was a time, 

When a man in a chicken suit could be a top class special effect, 

Mmm yes, 

and once there was a time, 

When I could believe polystyrene space ships were the best. 

But not now, 

Now I'm resigned, 

To the kind of life I've always reserved, 

For other starship captains, 

Less smart than I, 

You know, 

The ones who always end up married to Green Orion Slave Girls. 

Oh come on. 

Everybody knows that no means yes, 

Just like the whole Klingon thing is rid-ic-u-lous. 

And the more I live through the more I find, 

I'm becoming more like William Shatner. 

Ner, ner, nerdle, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner. 

Ner, ner, ner, noo, ner, ner, ner, ner. 

Oh everybody knows that time travel isn't possible, 

And the idea of transporter beams is highly improbable, 

Yes the more I live through, the more I find, 

I'm becoming more like Willian Shatner. 

Except for the hair." 

At this point I stroke my bald patch and the song ends. I think this can work. We'll raise millions for homeless whales. We'll release it as a double A-side with Maria Parodi's Eyes. 

Is The Daily Mail Part Of An International Plot To Really Annoy Me? Afternoon at the Chateau De Healy. Spied The Daily Mail magazine on the kitchen table. Normally I wouldn't give it a second thought. A headline caught my eye. The headline ran: "From Dublin School Girl To Global Star, The Extraordinary Rise of Ireland's Alicia Keyes." This I could not resist. I never knew Alicia Keyes was Irish. I flicked the pages to find the article. And lo! Alicia Keyes is not Irish. The article is about a girl called Laura Izibor whom The Daily Mail considers to be "Ireland's Alicia Keyes." Feeling somewhat cheated, I dump the magazine back on the table. I check the cover again to see had I read it wrong. Yes, Laura Izibor's name is there. If you spotted it, you might have had a chance of understanding the truth behind The Daily Mail's creative phraseology. Before I can escape, my eyes are drawn to another headline on the cover. It proclaims: "Glamobama, How To Work Michelle's Fashion Fabulousness." My curiosity is tweaked. I'm thinking there's no way Michelle Obama posed for The Daily Mail. If they got Michelle Obama to do a fashion shoot, they're really good. I flick the pages. There she is. Sultry, sexual and sensual, reclining on a couch like nothing so much as a beautiful cougar waiting to spring. Another photo shows her giving a come hither look from behind a writing desk. Absolutely stunning and vaguely hilarious at the same time. "Now that is a coup for The Daily Mail," I murmur. Presently I read the small print. The small print says: "Hasn't our look alike model really caught the spirit of Michelle?" I hurl the magazine down on the table. "You miserable duplicitous hounds," I roar. As I try to walk away, yet another headline catches my eye: "President Ahmadinejad Of Iran Converts To Judaism, Renounces Violence, Pledges To Work For World Peace. Exclusive Photos Page 45." I back towards the door. "Get thee behind me satan," I cry. And I'm not referring to President Ahmadinejad. 

One Hundred Billion Dollars Worth Of Journalism. Browsing in a book shop. Came across a new biography of Richard Branson. Checked it quickly. I'm always wondering will he someday tell the truth, or will some biographer bother with the truth. The truth about where he made his millions. No. It's not there. But it's here. Here is the news. All that rubbish about Richard Branson making his fortune from record companies and airlines is untrue. In fact the young Richard Branson laid the foundation for his fortune in the late 1960's after Britain legalised abortion. The young Richard Branson set up a chain of referral shops to guide women towards doctors who would willingly kill their babies. The young Richard Branson got in on the ground floor of the abortion industry when no one else wanted to touch it. That was the killer application, if you'll forgive the pun. He made his fortune from procuring. But this interesting fact is not found in any of the biographies or supinely adoring television profiles with which the Branson myth is regularly topped up. You know, I've never quite understood why people who pretend there's nothing wrong with abortion still insist on concealing their promotion of it or more correctly, their profiting from it. But that's where the young Richard Branson made his first fortune. That is the sordid truth which underlies the very existence of the Virgin Group of companies of which he is so proud. Procuring the destruction of a generation. And you know what folks... I think this explains why Richard Branson has spent the intervening forty years trying to kill himself in silly balloons and space ships and round the world adventure odyssies. Because some part of him, the true inner part of him which God made to shine for all eternity, is even now still horrified at the mayhem he helped unleash. 

Belling The Quinn. Token Catholic at Independent Newspapers, David Quinn wrote recently about attempts by Islamic activist groups in Canada to silence the writer Mark Steyn. Mr Quinn is to be commended for touching a story most newspapers and journalists in Western Europe have shied clear of. But he has a slightly skewed view of what actually happened. He suggests that the Islamic groups in Canada who launched the case against Steyn have succeeded in firing a warning shot across Steyn's bows. This is a rather rum interpretation of the events of the past twelve months. The Islamic activists might indeed have tried to fire a warning shot across Steyn's bows. What has actually happened is that Steyn and his allies have kicked Islamist butt across the entire North American continent. There is now even a growing likelihood that Canada will abandon its ridiculous faux Human Rights legislation and the attendant kangaroo tribunal systems for hearing such cases. Steyn and several other writers were taken to the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal by three Muslim students fronting for an Islamic organisation or organisations. Steyn kicked up such a storm of publicity about the iniquitousness of the process, that the case has become a cause celebre on both sides of the Atlantic, though not, as I've said, among Europe's anodyne atheistic liberal media pseud class. Politicians from across the political spectrum in Canada have sought to associate themselves with Steyn's defiance of an obvious Islamically inspired attempt to hijack and suborn the right to free speech. Perhaps the most invidious element of the Muslims attempt to silence Steyn was their accusation of racism against him for publishing quotes made by a Muslim Imam (cleric) in Sweden, to wit: "We will take over Europe. Because we breed like Mosquitos." The Muslim activists' attempt to silence Steyn in Canada was based on the argument that by reporting what this Muslim Imam said, Steyn himself became guilty of racism. But they've lost their case. And the shots across the bows seem to have been flying thick and fast in the opposite direction. Towards Mecca you might say. 

Advice To The Johnston Press On How To Run Newspapers. Don't try to run them for a quick profit. Build relationships. Let the workforce know they can trust you not to fire them or downsize them under any circumstances. Trade your way out of adverse business conditions. Enjoy the challenge. Build relationships with the general public. Let the general public know you're not the sort of scruff who fire people in order to generate a quick buck for the Management Bonus. Build relationships with advertisers. Let advertisers know you're not just a collection of downsizing low life. Build a work culture where management understands they are part of a team, not the Gauleiters of old Berlin. Allow management to be moderately rewarded. No big bonuses. No free shares. Enough money only to buy a house and rear a family over a life time. Do not pay any member of management ten lifetimes wages in a single year. Make management understand that they're running a newspaper for life, not for a quick pay off or a sell out to some larger media company. Apologise to James Healy and every one else you've mistreated. Do this and ye shall live. Do it not, and ye shall be satirised unmercifully. 

 

Sexual Fantasies And Irish Parliamentarians. Driving home through late evening traffic. I catch Labour Party candidate Rebecca Moynihan making eyes at me from one of her election posters. I am loathe to get involved with another politician after my break up with Catherine Ardagh and Maria Parodi. But my willpower is too weak to reject these fresh advances. Ah, they all want me. From my car, I serenade the poster thusly: "And tones that are tender and tones that are gruff, Are calling from over the sea, Come home Rebecca Moynihan to Ballyjamesduff, Come home Rebecca Moynihan to me." I mean it too.