Day 31

Clarification Day

When this is all over, where should we hold this World Party everyone is on about? Fair enough, no one else has actually mentioned it yet, but I feel it is incumbent on this blog to get the ball rolling. As far as I understand the arrangements so far, the G8 is picking up the bill, so location is not really an issue cost-wise. I would offer the use of one of my off-shore islands, but there is a lack of hotel accommodation in East Town on Tory, and, while the opening hours of the pub on Rathlin are eminently appropriate for a global blow-out, there is no MacDonald’s on the island, neither in the classier Upper End (from which half of my ancestors hail) nor in the more commercial Lower End.

But Query Boy has been in contact, again, about my use of personal adjectives this time, as in my off-shore islands. He needn’t have bothered his wee head with the matter as I have impeccable sources and authorisation for such use. Quite apart from the definitive explanation in this scene from Braveheart, the actual Irish Proclamation read out by Pádraig Pearse last Monday (not on the steps of the GPO, cliché-grabbers; the GPO had no steps in 1916) contains this line: “We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland and to the unfettered control of Irish destinies, to be sovereign and indefeasible.” Got that? The people of Ireland own Ireland, I am a person of Ireland and therefore I part-own it in a ‘sovereign and indefeasible’ manner and have, it follows grammatically and semantically, full rights to use the personal adjective ‘my’ when referring to Ireland and to all its bits and pieces.

You may have noticed if you have been paying attention (and if you haven’t, good luck in the test tomorrow) that Query Boy now has competition, particularly down there in the comments section on Day 29. Thanks a heap for that facility, Editor – as if I haven’t enough other jobs to be at now I have to deal with comments from the great unwashed below the line! (It is his day off so I can say whatever I like about him.) While I admire Question Girl’s use of ‘Sir’ when addressing me, some of her actual requests for clarification take me to the public entertainment provided by itinerant workers. (The fair, Question Girl: was that one too high for your cranium too?) In no particular order, she wishes to know the intricacies of the Andytown Shower, the whereabouts of the cat, the absence of my dog, the identity of SquareBracketsHead and what I am wearing. I will answer alphabetically by height.

A wet shower is your bog standard standing under flowing water full-body wash. An Andytown shower does not take place in the actual shower; it entails standing at the wash-hand basin, wetting a facecloth and quickly wiping your pits and bits with it, followed by a liberal dosing of antiperspirant to combat any potential body odour not dealt with by the perfunctory wipe with the facecloth. A full Andytown shower, counter-intuitively and illogically, consists of less than the aforesaid. In a full Andytown shower, the participant dispenses with the facecloth nonsense and heads straight for the antiperspirant. And stops there, that being the full procedure, hence the name.

I am currently in negotiations with the cat’s agent who has demanded payment, in chin scratches, for any future appearances in print. She can read four languages, the cat, and was sitting on my shoulder one morning when I was typing this off the top of my head, and the trouble started there. I’ll let you know how the negotiations go, but they are driving a hard bargain. I might need a Finance Director before putting my name to anything definitive.

As for my clothes, I have them hung in the walk-in wardrobe in alphabetical order by colour, and just put on the next one in line, if I am actually going to get dressed that day. It is a good system and ensures that all clothes are used in a rotation policy that Premier League managers used to copy when there used to be a Premier League (well done on not winning the League again, Liverpool). It can, admittedly, result in the odd colour clash; for instance, if the pink chinos are next in line in the trouser rack and the mustard shirt is heading the queue in the ‘tops’ section, but sure it provides entertainment for the residents and nobody else is seeing me these days anyway. Apart from the troop of Hitlers in Tesco, and they don’t count as people. Front-line my arse!

Unless she is being sarcastic, which wouldn’t be like her at all, Question Girl appears to be under the impression that I am treating the PhD students enclosed in the cellar well. (There is no well in the cellar for those of you confused by that sentence structure.) I think Darzán might have a few words to say about that (if he had speaking rights in the Drumraymond Dáil, which he doesn’t) and I can only recommend that Question Girl read (subjunctive OK, Bee?) between the lines more carefully. In general, that is where the best stuff is.

While I accept that emojis can be fun, until someone provides me with a comprehensive Emoji-English dictionary, they are generally a complete mystery to me and leave me utterly confused (scratching head emoji) as to the message the sender is trying to convey to me (shrugs shoulders emoji).

Question Girl also wishes to know who Ed. is. Well, he is this guy called Edward that I know since primary school and … ach no, that’s not fair; I will let him speak for himself when he is back in the boardroom on Monday.

The reason I do not have a dog is that dogs are stupid. Have you ever heard of Pavlov’s cats?

She also requested a sort of dumbing-down of the content. Dream on, sister! Unlike the BBC, my corporate aims are shrouded in mystery, but one of them is definitely ‘to educate the great unwashed’. So, in answer to that request, I advise you, and others, to dumb-up. Like, did you see Kilkenny lowering their standards so that some of the other teams could have a go at winning the All-Ireland? No, you didn’t, and it is the same deal here; this is senior hurling you have signed up for, and a certain amount of personal training (open a dictionary) and research (open a google) is compulsory.

If you’re really stuck, send a request to the Human Resources Department, which does not exist.


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