Not only are we Irish regarded as feckless, drunken, fightin’ wasters who blew the world‘s economy, it seems that we are ugly as well.
You can, if you wish, submit your photo to an international dating website, beautifulpeople.com. While male members vote on the prospective women (I know I should change the term “male members” but feck it, it sums them up well), ladies already lucky enough to have been admitted can vote on whether you are worthy of joining their fair-featured fraternity by picking one of four options: “joybringer“, “humdinger“, “through-the-wringer” or “what-a-minger“.
They are not the real four choices (“Yes, definitely”, “Hmm yes, OK”, “Hmm, no, not really” and “No, definitely NOT” ) but they are no less vacuous.
Anyway, only 9% of Irish men get through, putting us joint worst in the world. It seems the Plain People of Ireland are just that.
A spokeslady for the website, Miki Haines-Sanger, offers some advice that might help us do better. We should ideally send in pictures just after a holiday, when we are sporting a light tan. We should stop sending in pictures of ourselves bare-chested, she reckons, unless we have magnificent six-packs. The suit-and-tie corporate shot doesn’t work either. So it seems we should wear neither nice tops, nor no tops. Perhaps we should wear our Spiderman pyjamas.
We should try to smile naturally, she adds, as the loon-like grin that most of our candidates use at present seemingly looks scary and weird. We should “at least” get a makeover (I’m proud to say that I’m not sure what she means, unless she’s suggesting a head transplant).
Most of all she suggests we should stop sending in pictures of ourselves in the pub.
I think this is where she misses the point. It is only when we are in the pub, usually having drunk a magnificent six-pack, that we would ever contemplate sending a picture of ourselves to what is basically a Mr World website, with looks-snobs as our judges.
And for this picture, egged on by our mates, we brylcreem down our hair to the colour and sheen of an oil-slick, wear one of those Rambo-like vest-things to show off how our light tan stops suddenly half-way up our arms, drape a báinín jumper over our shoulders and stare off into the distance like a man modelling Lacoste sweaters, and adopt a tight-lipped grimace that makes us look as if we’re desperately and only partially successfully trying to hold in a fart.
And then we send it off, and cheer wildly when it’s rejected by a load of shallow women who get their kicks by being unkind to people who they think are not as attractive as they are.
That’s why we’re not getting into your club, my dear. We don’t want to.