Visions of Sugarplums

Just three days after I mentioned 1985’s Moving Statues of Ballinspittle in my blog, the front page of yesterday’s Irish Times carries the tale of the village church in Rathkeale, Co Limerick, where 2,000 locals have signed a petition to prevent the removal of a tree stump, because it depicts an image of the Blessed Virgin, as illustrated below:

Well, I’m convinced.

Meanwhile, in Stockton, California, a tree knot has been spotted which looks like a young Michael Jackson….

Felix Garcia, the guy who spotted this, reckons it’s Jacko at about 20, though to me it looks like him at the age XBox’s baby is now.

Anyway, since I’m not one to miss a chance to ride a bandwagon for all it’s worth, here is a picture of the tree in my front garden:

Study the picture carefully and tick off one by one as you find each of the following:

• The Blessed Virgin
• Karl Malden
• The spaceship Battlestar Galactica
• Wally
• A wombat’s sphincter
• Susan Boyle
• The company logo of the Nakatomi Corporation
• One page from the Dead Sea Scrolls, translated into Irish
• A miniature, to-scale model of the Battle of Midway
• An ent from the Lord of the Rings (a bit of a cheat, this one)
• Ludwig von Beethoven
• The poster of the girl in the tennis dress, scratching her arse
• Moldova
• Harry Potter, while wearing his Invisibility Cloak, but as a toga
• Windows’ Mystify screensaver
• And finally, the ever-lovely Yelena Isinbayeva (actually, don’t bother looking for her, I haven’t posted a picture of her in ages, so here’s one now).
  

  She's back...

Of course, now that my tree of visions (sorry, my Tree of Visions, hype is everything in these situations) has appeared on the Internet, I’ll have many pilgrims flocking to my door, so I’m converting my garden shed into a small and tasteful souvenir shop. People will be able to buy blossoms from the tree, dog-poo from the garden (kindly donated by my neighbours’ dogs), and a range of buttons and T-shirts (”I saw JC in Tinman’s tree”).

I was also thinking of trying to get a drinks licence, but that would be gilding the lily. People who can see the Virgin Mary in the top picture here don’t need alcohol.

The Excitement is in Tents

Tinson1 if off to Oxygen this morning.

This is his “end of school” celebratory event. A load of the class are heading off to Majorca, and he was going to do that, but he came home one day and said “nah, it’s getting too messy” (and when a 17-year old bloke says that, you wonder WTF they were planning), so he opted for this instead.

This is his checklist, which I found on the kitchen table (sorry that’s it’s a bit hard to read, it’s not easy taking photos & uploading them at 5.30 am):

The list is apparently based on tips from the Oxygen website. The compilers, bless them, sound as innocent and naive as he does.

The second item, for example, says “something luminous to notice our tent”. Ignoring for a moment the construction of the sentence, which would lead you to believe that English is not Tinson1’s first language, a short reflection will quickly reveal the flaw in this plan. Attaching something luminous to your tent so that you can find it in the dark is a great idea, but only if you’re the only people doing it. I have a mental image of a load of half-asleep people wandering blearily around at 4 a.m. in a field eerily lit by a thousand luminous tents, the whole scene looking like a Sellafield housing estate being visited by zombies.

Item 6 – “Lock for tent” – is also touching in its innocence. It’s rumoured  that both the first and second of the three little pigs also invested in locks.

His proposed diet for the weekend is interesting. “16+ nutrigrain bars” and “canned fruit (must have opener tabs)” mean that at least he’ll be getting his five helpings a day, if in the least possible edible form. The second last item, though,  says “Jam sandwiches – keep for a few days!” (his exclamation mark). I fear he will discover that, while this may be true of the jam (there’s a reason why you find it in Tesco in an aisle marked “preserves”) it is unlikely to be true of the bread, and the only thing worse than eating mouldy bread is eating mouldy bread with strawberry jam on it.

I’m mentally blocking out the last line. It’s not just the word “vaseline” that worries me, it’s the “dot, dot, dot, question mark” that follows it.

(By the way, while I’m grateful that the list doesn’t include entries like “condoms” or “spliffs”, I have been a parent long enough to know that he might well have a second list).

I hope he has a great time, though, and I envy him. The line-up for the weekend is incredible (I’ve heard of more than half of the bands, which is saying something) and the whole thing will be a great experience, and hopefully great fun.

The weather forecast, for Saturday in particular, is absolutely shite.  It wouldn’t be a music festival if it wasn’t.

Getting Your Wish

This is a very sad tale which ends up kind of heartwarming.

The brother of a guy I know died last January. He was only in his 40s and left a widow and family. He was soccer mad, ran schoolboy football teams, and his funeral was absolutely huge.

As a life-long Barcelona fan, he expressed a wish to have his ashes scattered at Barcelona’s stadium, the Nou Camp, and the weekend before last his widow set off to Spain to fulfil this wish.

There are daily tours of the Nou Camp, which is one of the world’s most famous soccer grounds, so she had no problem getting in. Under no circumstances are you allowed near the pitch, however, so she had settled for scattering the ashes in the stands.

That weekend, however, the pitch was covered in boards, and the stage was being built upon it for the first gig of U2’s world tour, so they were allowed right down beside the pitch. She called over a workman and explained why she was there. She was crying as she told her story, and by the time she had finished so was he.

He took the urn, lifted a board, and gently poured the ashes onto the pitch.

I think it’s a lovely story. And as someone (and it may have been me) said, already he’s closer to Lionel Messi than any of the Man United defence got at any stage during last month’s Champions League Final.

Way Back Then

1985 was the year Knock Airport opened, the year moving statues were seen at Ballinspittle, and the year contraceptives were legalised in Ireland.

“A View to a Kill” was the current Bond film, “Back to the Future” was the hit of the summer, and the “Nightmare on Elm Street” series had reached film number…two.

I had a Ford Cortina, which I thought was really cool, and a digital watch, which I thought was even cooler. In neither case, I realise now, was I right.

So long ago, it seems like a different world. Though there was a recession, our economy was banjaxed, and the weather was shite, so perhaps not that different after all.

On July 6th that year, the weather was warmish, a bit showery, and quite breezy. Typical of what is laughingly referred to as an Irish Summer’s Day. The appalling “Sussudio”, by Phil Collins, was at Number One. Live Aid was still one week away,  and no-one had any idea how big it was going to be.

On the afternoon of July 6th, Martina Navratilova beat Chris Evert in the Ladies’ Final at Wimbledon. Mrs Tin and I didn’t see it.

We were busy getting married. Twenty-four years ago today. (I should point out that Mrs Tin was very young).

So long ago, and yet the time has flown.

Happy Anniversary, Mrs Tin.

Luck Be A Lady

I have discovered that I am not a saintly person.

I read today that a woman from Cork who won €250,000 in the National Lottery in 2001 won a further €502,020 in last Friday’s EuroMillions Draw.

The woman, who is remaining anonymous, says she would describe herself as “an extremely lucky person”, who “expects to win more prizes from the Lottery.” She says “My next aim is to win a big Lotto jackpot (my italics – at least I can still afford italics) – I’d really, really like that”.

A nice person, a christian, an all-round good egg would read that and think “well, good for her! Isn’t that a lovely story!”

I’ve tried saying that to myself. I’ve even tried saying it aloud. And even as my lips are saying it, my brain keeps saying “ah, for fuck’s sake”.

I’m sure none of you are thinking anything like that.

I’m sure you’re all better people than me.

Out On The Toon

I was passing through the kitchen on Sunday evening, while Mrs Tin was watching RTE’s travel programme “No Frontiers”, and I heard its main presenter Kathryn Thomas (and sure let’s have a picture of her, she’s gorgeous) say this:

“Tune in after the break when I’ll be investigating the shopping in Chicago, while Síle Seoige seeks out the sophisticated side of Newcastle.”

Clearly there is a pecking order among the presenters, and equally clearly Síle is not at the top of it. The words “shitty” and “end of the stick” come to mind.

The news that Newcastle has a sophisticated side will come as a surprise, not least to the Geordies themselves. It is true that Newcastle has been described as Paris-upon-Tyne. It is equally true, however, that it has been described thus only once, and that was by me in that last sentence.

Indeed, Geordies might be offended by suggestions that they are sophisticated. They see themselves as tough folk, eking out a tough bleak life in a tough bleak part of the world. They regard Yorkshiremen as softies with an over-optimistic view of life. It’s no co-incidence that their football team plays in black-and-white.

Soft day, thank God

Their love affair with Newcastle United is the only show of emotion that they allow themselves (how they marry and have children is a mystery) and has reduced Newcastle’s fashion industry to just one item, the Newcastle team shirt. It is worn by everybody, every day, whether there is a match on or not. The only ones who don’t are those who wear no shirts at all, the group of bald, boobed, beer-bellied bruisers who stand bare-chested at each game in St James’ Park, defying the howling, banshee-breathed gale that sweeps in from the North Sea, and a temperature which rarely rises above two degrees. Even they, though, are loyal to the team colours. They may not be a wearing a shirt, but the shirt that they’re not wearing is a Newcastle shirt.

Mother's milk - if your mother is a camel

Newcastle’s fashion world, though, is a sea of choice compared to their drinks industry. You have two options in any pub – you can drink Newcastle Brown Ale, or you can fook off. I spent a week once there in a hotel which literally sold no other beer. And sure why would they, since once your taste-buds have tasted their first Nukey Brown they lose the will to live, and indeed the ability.

Essentially, Newcastle Brown Ale is brewed by taking a bottle of standard beer and leaving it open somewhere warm, till all the head has evaporated. It is then strained through one of Alan Shearer’s old football socks. Then they decant it into a NBA bottle, the sock is stuffed in for good measure, and the bottle is rolled downhill  through coaldust. The resultant beer tastes like vole-spit, and does alarming things to the colour of your pee after a couple of days.

Anyway, I never got to see the end of the program, so I’ve no idea whether Síle found what she was looking for or not. My guess is that if she found a pub where they gave you a glass with your bottle of NBA she was doing well.

Put Away Childish Things

School’s Out… forever. Tingirl had her last day in the Bray School Project today (the picture above is from one of her first), and we now have no children left in primary school.

Tinson1 had his first day there on September 1st, 1996 when Tingirl was only six-ninths er, cooked, so the Tinfamily have had a connection with the BSP for her entire life. As indeed has she, as she was accompanying Mrs Tin on school runs and sitting quietly at school meetings long before she ever became a pupil there.

If leaving there is upsetting her, though, she’s hiding it very well (though not as well as Tinson1 did. In the car on the way home from his last day there, in a conversation with Tinson2 he referred to the BSP as “your school”). She is eager and excited about the prospect of secondary school, and keen to get on with what young people regard as the terribly urgent process of racing through their lives as quickly as possible.

Mrs Tin is similarly unfazed by the thoughts of leaving a school where she has been on so many boards and committees for so many years. She received many plaudits I think she will miss it more than she thinks she will, but only time will tell.

The school itself is wonderful, run by a bunch of really terrific teachers backed by ranks of dedicated and hard-working parents. It will still feature on the Blogiverse, as both Jo and Ciara still have kids there, and I’m looking forward to being able to keep up with events through them.

In earlier years I did a lot of the driving to school, so got to know the BSP quite well, but latterly have rarely been inside the door (today was only the third time in Tingirl’s final year) so I should miss it less than any of them, and I suppose I do. But I do feel that today is a significant one. Our youngest child has finished at primary school, and is growing up. She’ll be a teenager later this year, joining her brothers on the ever-shortening road to young adulthood. I’m happy for her, and proud of her, but I do feel a little bit sad.

We still have kids, but as of today we no longer have children.

He Ain’t Heavy

My one and only sibling is 50 today.

I’ve just rung him, and he’s fine about it, and thankfully this time so am I. When I hit 40 it didn’t bother me at all, but I was horrified when he got to 40 18 months later. I felt that if my baby brother was 40 then I must be really ancient. Now I suppose I already know that I’m really ancient, so how much older can I feel.

The Tinbro doesn’t feature too often in these annals, because we don’t see each other all that often. It’s not that we don’t get on, because we do, but his job takes him all over the country, and at the weekends he plays golf, with a lack of ability which takes him all over the countryside.

He’s a terrific bloke, so much better than me in every way. And yet because I’m the eldest he has always looked up to me, and I am both proud and humbled by this.

He has his own business which, thanks to the gobshites who ruined this country, is struggling at the moment, and he’s had to let some of his staff go. This hurt him deeply, as one of the most amazing things about him has always been the way he could manage staff and still have them as friends. Two of his three kids work with him, and I fear for all of them sometimes unless things improve.

But today’s not the day for all that. Today’s just the day to say Happy Birthday. As I said, I’ve only the one sibling, and I’ve been extremely lucky in the one that I got.

Worse Things Than Dying

When I was a teenager all the girls around my area were in love with either Donny Osmond or Michael Jackson, both of whom were the same age as me, so I’ve never liked either very much.

When I was a teenager Farrah Fawcett appeared in Charlie’s Angels, which we thought at the time was so cool (they had phones in their cars – imagine how great that would be). Farrah played Jill,  setting fire to my heart and several other parts of my anatomy. So it shouldn’t be hard to guess which of yesterday’s two deaths upset me more, and which I would regard as the most sad.

And yet.

I grieve for Farrah. She died far too young after a long illness. But I feel for Jackson too, and not just for his really early death.

Farrah was a beautiful, well-respected actress, had Ryan O’Neal as a partner for over 20 years and of course was the subject of the best-selling pin-up poster of all time (and you all know me well enough by now to know that I’m gonna show it).  Michael was a strange-looking, widely ridiculed singer who had a monkey as a best mate for a disturbingly long time and who was the subject of one of the most famous court cases of all time (and though he was acquitted, in the eyes of much of the world he’s still guilty).

Thanks partly to the poster, Farrah will be remembered for her beauty. Michael will be remembered as a freak.

Farrah was loved when she was alive and will be mourned now that she’s dead. Jackson, whether in or out of one of his strange marriages, always struck me as dreadfully, dreadfully alone.

You get one go at life on this earth. Looking at the pair of them, I know who’s life I’d rather have had.

So It’s Good News, Then

If Paul McCann of the accountancy firm Grant Thornton ever decides to take up politics I predict a long and successful career for him.

He has shown a talent for spin which would leave most of our current politicians gasping in admiration.

Mr McCann had just been appointed Examiner of a company called Laragan Development, which was building apartments in two different locations in the Dublin area. 95 homebuyers who had paid deposits of €15,000 or €20,000  are being released from their contracts, as the apartments will not now be built for the foreseeable future, but will receive just 1 per cent of their deposits back, i.e, €150 or €200.

Instead of acknowledging that this is a disaster for many of these people, Mr McCann “noted the 95 individuals or couples who had put deposits on the properties would “suffer an immediate impairment”, but they would also receive a “substantial benefit” as they would be released from their contracts and could acquire alternative properties at a “substantial discount” in the current market.”

What sort of Pollyanna, glass-half-full crap is that?

I’d suggest to Mr McCann that to most of these people the loss of €15 to €20,000 is not a “financial impairment”, it’s an absolute nightmare. I’d also like to ask him how he thinks they might qualify for the “substantial benefit” that he mentions, since they will only acquire the alternative discounted properties to which he refers if they get a mortgage, and in the current market the notion of 100% mortgages is long, long gone. In other words, they’ll need a deposit. Probably around oh, say €15 to €20,000.

There’s a hole in the bucket, Dear Paul, Dear Paul.

I think the substantial benefit of Mr McCann’s well-paid profession has caused an immediate impairment in his ability to see how things are in the real world.