I (don’t) want to ride my bicycle, Eamon!





Green Party leader Eamon Ryan, right, says he ‘deeply regrets the hurt’ caused by his recent comments about carpooling in rural Ireland. I’ll bet he does, especially given the country’s more than likely going to the polls next May. Yep, frantically back-peddling, (pun intended, because this genius suggested rural village dwellers could ‘cycle down to a local collection point’ to pick up our proposed shared car), the deeply deluded one was quick to try and clarify his absurd suggestion. Feverishly issuing a statement (possibly drawn up by an over-wrought PR officer), it now appears that poor misunderstood Eamon didn’t want to take away our cars, nay, nay and thrice nay dear readers, he only wanted to ‘provide people in rural Ireland with extra options’. Ah, bless his tender heart.

  Now, idiotic as Deputy Ryan’s comments – and his pathetic attempt at clarification – may be, it has to be said his position on rural Ireland is probably no different to that of his fellow politicians sitting pretty up in the big shmoke – and it’s this…we simply don’t matter. I mean, if we did, why would they continue to constantly treat us as a minority? And now, given the silly suggestion made by the leader-of-the-pack of so-called environmental heroes, we run the risk of being further marginalised and stripped of our constitutional right to own our personal mode of transport in our own country!

  Look Eamon, I’m sure you and the rest of your colleagues in Dublin have heard time and time again about the struggle rural Ireland is facing in order to make ends meet. Our plight can’t have escaped you. However, instead of trying to endear yourself to us and help us make our lives better, it appears your attitude is to penalise us ‘hicks’ by limiting our resources and with it, our sense of self-respect. Indeed, if Eamon (and the rest of the heavy-hitters) ever visited a genuine sweat, toil and tears rural village, they’d see that for many, the business element is either dead or on the verge of breathing its last as the people struggle to keep local shops, pubs and petrol stations open. Now I hasten to add…Tulsk is a thriving little village, (thank God), open and ready for business, but sadly that can’t be said for a lot of our rural neighbours. 

  Indeed, if Eamon drives (or cycles) to some rural areas, (many are located outside of beautiful Roscommon), he’d soon see the majority are showcasing similar scars resulting from apathetic bureaucratic neglect! Service stations stand idle; their pumps, due to the rising cost of fuel, are no longer operating. Shop windows are boarded up and small schools are disappearing through lack of families. And why? Because Ireland’s economic growth is concentrated in Dublin, the city that houses the decision-makers, and what I like to sarcastically call, the ‘brunch-bunchers,’ i.e. the over-privileged prats who have it all!

  Look Eamon, while I pride myself in being an environmentally friendly citizen, nobody, not even my husband, is welcome to use my precious car. I mean, I’m okay with him using it, (and grudgingly hand over the keys), when he absolutely needs them, but when it comes to my private transportation, I’m just not a team player! Like the rest of my village neighbours, I work hard for an item which is, quite literally, costing me a fortune to run, but is essential to my very existence here in rural Ireland.

  Okay, I admit it, I chose to leave Dublin with its DART, its Luas, and its buses, etc., and relocate here to live in Roscommon. I chose to cut and run, leaving the bright lights, big city, high-paying jobs way of life, and nobody twisted my arm to do so, however, I never once thought I’d be penalised for it. Nor did I think my decision to enhance my life would mean I’d be living in a situation whereby the county I moved to would have its taxpayers’ and its voters’ money collected and dispersed for the betterment, not of themselves, but of some arrogant politicians and their favoured urban communities!

  For the record Eamon, I’ll never be giving up my car, nor will I be sharing it, and the day that I do is the day that my doctor needs to tag my toe and call the coroner, ‘cause I’m dead! Got it? Good!


Who were these impossible-to-place X Factor celebrities?


I have to say readers, despite the fact I wasn’t at all sold on the overall concept, and, through a lack of nothing better to do, last Saturday myself and himself tuned in to see episode one of the X Factor Celebrity series. I told you we don’t get out much!

  Mind you, the calibre of ‘celebrities’ was so questionable, and so deliciously absurd, I imagine, for the researchers, it  was really a case of scraping the bottom of the barrel to see who was available. Okay, I recognised Ricki Lake, Jenny Ryan, Martin Bashir and David Hasselhoff’s young one Hayley, and of course the man who seeks publicity like a black tar heroin drug addict seeks a fix…Ben Foden, but that was it! As for the other ‘performers’, I could only describe them as being a part of the wannabe celebrity underclass desperate to dominate our small screens.

  Yep, perhaps I’m getting old, but who the hell were those third-tier reality show stars, and that extremely impossible-to-place actor from Holby City who seemed to think winking and smirking were the perfect substitute for lack of stage presence? I mean, I actually watch Holby City and I still can’t place this man; that’s how characterless he is. Then there was former Glee actor Kevin McHale, a bloke I hadn’t heard of either; but wait, I suddenly got a nagging suspicion that  somehow, through the wine fog, I recognised him; but then I didn’t quite know why…so I googled him. Turns out talented Kev had played paraplegic guitarist and singer Artie in the musical drama. Aaah, there it is.

  Anyhow, as the winter nights are drawing in, and myself and himself love nothing better than sitting by the fire, takeaway on lap, glass of wine in hand (me), pint of non-alcoholic beer in meaty paw (himself), I can guarantee you I’ll be tuning in. And why? Well, these X Factor quasi-celebrities have now crept onto my Saturday night viewing radar; but not because I can listen to them ‘singing’, but because I can poke fun at their questionable plastic-surgery-nightmare-horror-stories, their spilling-their-guts-on-Instagram-dramas, and their unhinged-desperate-to-be-famous-and-clever-enough-to-act-stupid-to-achieve-notoriety claims to fame! Yep, I need to get a life!