She Swiped right on Tinder: A Halloween Story

Thirty five year old Julie Hall, owner and CEO of AIS Ltd. a hugely successful company in the Artificial Intelligence industry, had been directed by her smart phone to turn off the R130 in North County Dublin. As she squinted through the windscreen of her car while driving along the ink black, dark, side road, with grass growing down the middle, a stab of concern ran through her when her smart phone flashes “No GPS Signal” and the map disappears from the screen, although she knew she was close to the house as it had said two minutes to go before it died.

While her car was effectively cutting a path through overgrown hedgerows, the charging light on the dash came on then flashed red and the headlights slowly dimmed. As they disappeared altogether she saw a gap in the hedge to her left. Pulling over, she stopped in front of an ancient wrought iron gate. Sitting in total darkness, except for the faint glow from her smart phone, a rising nervousness creates a tingling sensation in her arms and legs. The engine dies. Turning the ignition key produces the click, click, click, sound of a dead battery. Resting her head on the steering wheel she thinks, “Paul was right, what was I thinking”

It had started the previous Saturday when she had swiped right for Philippe De Silva on her Tinder App.  She had been using Tinder for some months as her busy life as a senior executive made it difficult to meet men in a casual social setting.  They agreed to meet and for once a profile didn’t lie. Tall, lightly tanned, jet black hair, piercing blue eyes. Immaculately dressed in a light grey Italian suit, with dark tan shoes and blindingly white shirt, open at the neck. His warm, firm handshake and double cheek kiss creating a tingle of excitement in the pit of her stomach.

Over a glass of wine and pleasant conversation, his voice low and smooth, she smiles to herself and thinks of the Dracula movie she had watched recently on Netflix. Dracula had mesmerised his victims before drinking their blood. In the movie the vampire drank his victim’s blood by sucking it from their neck with his incisor teeth but Julie knew from searching the internet that in fact real vampires drink the blood of their victims by cutting into an artery and allowing the blood to flow into a drinking cup. Twenty minutes into their conversation she is disappointed when his phone rings and he takes the call. He then apologised and said he had to go and attend to some urgent family business, but perhaps she would like to come to a Halloween party he was organising the following Wednesday, the hug, and kiss left and right creating another tingle of excitement in the pit of her stomach. “My house is difficult to find”, he said “it’s an old rectory in the countryside, I’ll txt you the Satnav co- ordinates” and bowing slightly he smiled and left.

The bubble of her excitement was punctured at brunch the following day when her brother Paul, a Special Tactics and Operations Command Police Officer, more commonly known as S.W.A.T.  shouted, “Are you fucking nuts” when she told him about it. Her angry reaction about minding his own fucking business got a curt “right, but a least give me the Satnav shit and I’ll check it out”

Now, sitting in her car and assuming the gate to her left is the entry to his house, she pulls the phone from its hands free cradle and presses two, Paul’s speed dial number. “Service not available” lights up the screen. Sitting in the ink black darkness except for the light from the phone her nervousness increases when the screen says, “only five percent battery left please charge or switch to battery saving mode” and her bladder screams to be emptied.

Opening the car door and risking some precious battery time shining the phone torchlight on the ground outside shows grass and weeds, no ditch, nettles or other stinging plants. Getting out of the car, she squats and relieves herself, feeling very vulnerable, heart thumping wildly. Risking more precious battery power to shine the light on the cast Iron gate set at the end of an overgrown gravel driveway, she commits the scene to memory, locks the car with the key and walks slowly to the gate. Feeling her way through, risking another five seconds of phone battery to find the direction of the driveway.

Walking slowly, feet sliding along to make sure she is still on the gravel, every minute feeling like an eternity, hearth thumping in her throat, using the phone light five more times the battery goes to three percent as an outline of a building appears directly ahead. She is about to use the phone light again when the clouds directly above open and a silver moon lights up the surroundings in an eerie light presenting a scene that’s almost as bad a walking through the dark. The old rectory house, in total darkness, is about one hundred metres away surrounded by tightly packed ancient headstones with the path to the door of the house winding through them in a zig zag fashion. Heart thumping madly, she walks through the headstones. In her imagination the headstones turn to look as she passes and she is certain she can hear a murmur of conversation but her rational mind tells her not to be so silly, the sound has to be coming from the party in the house.

Past the graves and up the three steps to the front door she reaches up to grab the large Brass knocker but before her raised hand reaches it the door opens and Philippe De Silva is standing there, dressed in a black evening dress suit his Halloween costume completed with a chalk white face and a broad smile on his crimson lips. “Come in, welcome”. His silky voiced greeting calms her nerves and she returns his smile as he takes her by the elbow and steers her along the hall saying “the party is this way”, throwing open the door at the end of the hall and stepping aside. Entering the room her normally analytical brain refuses to take in the scene she is presented with.

A girl of her own age is hanging from a trapeze swing by the back of her knees, hands tied behind her back, ankles tied together and her long hair pulled back and tied to her feet creating a bow effect except for one thing; her throat is cut from ear to ear, the cut so deep her spine is visible and her head is pulled back hard displaying a wide macabre grin at her throat while her upper body is hanging straight down with her blood flowing into a large silver cauldron, around which are standing six other women drinking the blood from the cauldron with silver soup ladles. As the scene sinks in, her scream dies in her throat and she faints to the floor

When she comes through Julie is lying on her side naked with a silver trapeze bar behind her knees, tied up in the same way the as the girl hanging from the ceiling, hands tied behind her back, ankles tied together, hair pulled back and tied to her ankles creating a bow shape and exposing her throat the skin tautly stretched, a dark grey silk handkerchief tied through her mouth turning her shouts of protest into a barely audible croak.

As she lies there, five men, dressed the same as Phillipe De Silva walk into the room, the women lick their ladles, place them on the table in front of them and shuffle out the door their dead eyes unseeing, skin waxy yellow, each of them with ear to ear train track scars around their necks.

Two of the men step up on the table and unhook the girl from the trapeze ropes. They carry her to the other end of the room gently place her on a bed, untie all the ropes and cover her with a white sheet

Two more pick Julie up from the floor by the silver trapeze bar, another supports her shoulders and they carry her to the table. Inserting the bar into the trapeze ropes they pull a third rope and Julie slowly rises, swinging slightly above the silver cauldron. She struggles and throws her body left and right but the three men hold her tight as Philippe De Silva walks over.

Standing in front of her he smiles and says “don’t worry Julie, you won’t feel any pain, your brain will feel a mild sense of surprise for about ten seconds and that’s it. “This will help” he says, as he inserts a hypodermic into the side of her neck.

The stainless steel surgical scalpel glints in the light as he places it behind her left ear.

The room erupts with noise, the door is smashed inwards off its hinges, the window is shattered, glass flying in all directions, two flash stun grenades explode in the room filling it with ear drum stunning noise, blinding white light and smoke as six S.W.A.T team members, two coming through the window and four through the door in full battle dress fan out across the room screaming “GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR, DON’T MOVE, LIE ON YOUR FACE, HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK, red focus lights from their assault rifles traversing the room in a dancing matrix. They didn’t notice the six small black winged creatures that flew out the door as they rushed in.

When the smoke cleared a total state of confusion erupts as the only things in the room are the S.W.A.T. team, a body shape covered in a sheet on the bed at the end of the room and Julie swinging gently to and fro on the trapeze bar, a small trickle of blood running down her left cheek into her hair.


Inklslingers: Where is this Truck Going

Inkslingers. Sat 29th September 2018
Prompt: Where is this Truck Going?
The picture Prompt:

The drifter had hitched a lift in a beat up old Transit van to the layby on the A68 about twenty miles east of Carlisle in the North East of England. As they had pulled into the layby an A board lit up in the headlights, advertising John David’s Bar. Underneath the lines, Dirty Glasses, Poor Food, Slow Service, Expensive, Rude Staff, English Humour. The English humour immediately obvious as they passed a small dirty trailer van, greasy spoon with the blue smoke of burning grease billowing from the blackened exhaust chimney at the back of the filthy trailer. The dash clock said twenty three fifteen.

The Transit driver parked and they walked back to the greasy spoon trailer, the drifter saying, “I’ll just carry on hitching, I can’t afford to buy food tonight”. The van driver looked at him sideways, knowing he was lying through his gap-toothed discoloured teeth and said he would buy him a sausage roll and a cup of tea.

Ten minutes later the drifter is walking along a line of trucks in the layby, asking each driver “where is this truck going”

The fourth response was a gruff “North” from a very large, long haired bearded driver with a huge beer belly trapped below the steering wheel, which he held loosely with the biggest hands the drifter had ever seen. Asking if he could have a lift got him an abrupt “get in laddie” in a gruff Northern Scottish accent.

They pull out onto the A68 heading east, the road ahead dark with no traffic at that time of night, the only lighting in the dark cab the reflection of the truck’s headlights from the cats eyes down the middle of the road.

With the regular flashing from each cat’s eye and the low monotonous rumble from the big diesel engine, the drifter fell asleep.

Waking up with no idea of how long he had been asleep he realises that the road in front is no longer wide enough to be the A68. There are no cat’s eyes, just a luminous white line down both side of a road with barely enough room for two cars to pass each other.

“How come we are not on the A68 or A1 North” he asks, “It’s a short cut laddie” comes the abrupt reply.

The drifter looks around to see if he can get any idea of where he is from the landscape but all he can see id the narrow road and some of the grass verge in the headlights of the truck. A pang of worry flows through him when he sees the moon on the right hand side of the truck meaning they are travelling south into the North Pennines wilderness.

“This is not North” he shouts. The driver looks at him, slams on the brakes pulling the truck over onto the grass verge. He reaches under his seat, pulls out a huge Bowie Knife and with a lascivious grin snarls, “It’s time to pay your fare Laddie”

Rural Broadband Access in Ireland: The Lunatics have taken over the Asylum

Back in May 2015 we listened with interest to a representative of Eircom,(Now Eir) discussing broadband access in Ireland, explaining to a radio interviewer how they were going to work with Government on the roll out of high speed broadband to all and sundry in rural Ireland. The programme to be supported by the exchequer. Apparently we have about 700,000 people who have built their houses so far from civilisation that it will take up to €10,000 of Taxpayers money to connect some of them to Broadband. This is the point to call Stop!

Broadband accessThere are a significant number of this 700,000 who, with the acquiescence of the planning system, decided to build their detached little “South Fork” pastiche home up on “The Hill” or down the winding “Boreen” as far away from their neighbours as possible. Of course they now expect to have all public services provided by the taxpayer, including a Hospital or a least an Ambulance at the end of their winding driveway.

We have a real case of the chickens coming home to roost here, these Baby Boomers and Tiger wannabes who wanted to live far away from their neighbours as possible, certainly refusing to think about the possibility of living next door to some smelly neighbours in a Town or Village, have now discovered that they made a bit of a mistake and they want the rest of us to pay for it. As far as I am concerned they can take a hike.

The policy of allowing individuals to build their homes anywhere that suited them and demand that the community follow their stupid decision with services should never have happened and needs to stop and in fact be reversed.

At the same time as having to deal with these self inflicted hermits, we have our Towns and Villages dying for lack of population, with services closing because of lack of support.

This is my solution. All housing must be built within a reasonable distance of either a Town or Village that provides what we regard as “public services” I suggest that the distance to the centre of the Town or Village should be that which a reasonably fit sixty year old can walk within 45 minutes.(about 5k)

We then use taxpayers money to subsidise public services to the same level as those available in larger conurbations within the designated catchment area of the Town or Village.

If you live outside the catchment area because that’s where you built your dream home, you pay the full economic cost of your own folly and our hard earned taxes can be used for more useful purposes.

€10,000 to connect someone to Broadband, The Lunatics have taken over the asylum…….

Halloween Jack O’Lantern

Halloween Jack O'LanternTwenty four year old David Harrison, educated at Blackrock College and recently graduated from UCD with a first class honours “Master of Law” degree had journeyed to the deep Northside of Dublin to meet some of his college friends in Kavanagh’s Pub, Prospect Square Phibsborough. Kavanagh’s is more famously known as “The Grave Diggers” because of its proximity to the eastern wall of Glasnevin Cemetery, so close in fact that legend has it that in times past pints of porter were passed through a hole in the pub wall to the gravediggers in the cemetery, hence the name.

The location was chosen to begin creating the evening’s atmosphere, which was to culminate in a Halloween party at another friend’s house on St Teresa’s Road, also in close proximity to the graveyard. The theme for the party was all things zombies and the animals that might feed on them.

David being a rather superior person was not dressed in anything that would resemble a zombie, his nod to the party being that he brought a doctor’s white coat and stethoscope with him to don later.

During the course of the evening with large quantities of Guinness being consumed, the proximity of the graveyard and the Halloween Jack O ’Lantern made from turnips, rather than the imported American pumpkins concept, the conversation turned to the subject of the afterlife and the connection between the living and the dead being celebrated on Halloween, or Samhain as it was known in ancient Celtic times. David being a complete non believer in anything to do with the afterlife, God, or any other type of spirit or ghost was loudly poo pooing the concept when he was interrupted by Anthony Kavanagh, the fourth generation owner of the pub, who assured him that there was definitely a connection between the living and the dead and that he and his staff were so convinced of this that the pub would be closing at 11:30pm sharp, as no one wanted to be on the premises after twelve O’clock.

This early closure had been the practice at the pub since his great grandfather’s time when, on a number of all hollow’s eves, alcohol, that was definitely not consumed by paying customers on the premises, disappeared from whisky bottles and beer kegs.  Bottles of whiskey that would normally produce forty “small ones” per bottle would be empty after serving thirty measures. A keg of Guinness containing one hundred pints of stout would run empty after the serving of sixty pints. The most unnerving thing was that anyone who was on the premises after twelve midnight would have the same songs rattling around in their head, as if they had heard them sung, songs that were never sung by any person in the pub. There was obviously a celebration going on in some parallel world that could not be seen but was breaking through the dimension that separates the living world from the world of those who have passed on. Possible proof of the ancient Celtic belief that it was on this night that the two worlds came closest to each other as they travelled through eternity and sometimes collided, with the actions of those who had passed on, but not yet reached their final resting place, being subliminally experienced but not seen.

On being questioned as to why the pub used turnips for their Jack O ‘Lanterns instead of the modern pumpkins? Anthony explained that it was because legend also had it that, because of their size, they represented the skulls of those who were sacrificed to please the Gods of Samhain in ancient times.

The more Guinness David consumed the more obnoxious he became, loudly denouncing what he called the primitive beliefs of the obviously uneducated underclasses that normally frequented the pub. The more sanguine of the elderly regular patrons just regarded him as a toffy nosed git from the south side but the rest of the pub had more sinister thoughts and eventually he was challenged to put his bottle where his very loud mouth was and go spend the night in the graveyard, silently hoping that he might die by falling into an already open grave.

With the confidence of a spoiled brat and six pints of Guinness inside him he took up the challenge and agreed to climb over the railings into the Graveyard when the pub closed.

There was a number of graveyard workers drinking in Kavanagh’s that night and, as people were leaving, they stopped David and advised him strongly about going into the graveyard after midnight. No gravedigger would ever go there during the hours of darkness as they regularly found evidence of sacrificial activity when they opened the graveyard in the mornings on certain days of the month, mostly coinciding with a full moon or some ancient witchcraft anniversary day. While they had never found a human body, there was enough remaining evidence to suggest that it happened and hiding the sacrificed remains would obviously not be too difficult in a graveyard with a million graves.

His friends also tried to dissuade him but to no avail, the more they pleaded with him to give up the escapade the more he shouted his derision about those who believed in ghosts and pishogues so they finally left him as he climbed over the railings and dropped onto the grass in the graveyard at one minute to midnight.

The street lights faintly illuminated an area of about thirty feet from the railings and he could see a copse of trees to his right. Walking toward the trees he saw a large oak tree with a low lying heavy branch that would possibly afford some shelter. When he reached it he discovered that the gentle curve of the branch as it left the tree was wide enough to be used as a reasonably comfortable reclining sitting place. He settled in and, with the super confidence of the non believer and eight pints of Guinness, fell asleep.

He was not long asleep when a very full bladder insisted that it be emptied. Waking, he rolled groggily from the branch to a standing position and relieved himself against the tree. The sound of his stream of liquid hitting the tree was strangely muted and the steam, instead of rising, sank slowly to the ground and lay there, floating slowly along the grass. Readjusting his clothing, he is now fully awake and realises that something has changed dramatically since he had gone asleep.

A perfunctory look at his watch to get some idea of how long he had been asleep changed to a stare of disquiet when the watch showed twelve midnight with no movement of the second hand. Taking his smartphone from his pocket his disquiet turned to a concern when the on/off switch had no effect on the dark, blank screen. Pulling his shoulders back and staring around with mock confidence he notices that the area is lit by a strange diffused greyish pink light, as if a distant rising moon was shining and reflecting off the underneath of low hanging clouds, bathing the place in a light that he felt as much as saw. His confidence rapidly dissipates when he looks left towards the graveyard railings to find instead the extremity of his vision, beyond which there was only blackness, the street lights, Kavanagh’s pub and the buildings around it, no longer visible.

With a nervous laugh he looks to his right and a shiver of freight runs through his body when he sees a big slightly stooped figure dressed in a loose fitting, hooded, full length, jet black cassock. He laughs out loud and shouts “ Get the fuck outa here ye bunch of messers, I don’t know how you’re doing this but fair play to ye, ye got me, let’s go to the party”. The figure in black turns his head slowly. His chalk white face, burning burgundy eyes and pure evil grin showing gnarled stained teeth freezes the blood in David’s veins and he passes out, falling backwards on the ground.

He wakes up for the second time that night and the scene in front of him fills him with such terror he tries unsuccessfully to will his mind to let him pass out again. The figure in black, now in full view, is standing over the naked body of a man face down on the slab of a concrete chest tomb, acting as a sacrificial altar. On the other side of the tomb there are three dog like creatures, not hyenas or wolves but a hybrid of both, huge heads and teeth with massive shoulders and chests and the low slinking stance of a hyena, staring expectantly at the figure in black, mouths slightly open, saliva dripping from their jaws. The figure in Black is at least one and a half times the size of a normal man, his huge hands and chalk white face the only things visible. The nail on his right index finger, two inches long, slightly curved with the edges sharpened like a razor blade, is shaped like a teaspoon, glowing silver white in the diffused light. Perched on a nearby headstone is a huge, black, bird, like a raven but twice the size with a long hooked beak, staring at the scene with unblinking eyes.

The figure in black looks at David and grins widely, showing his gnarled discoloured teeth. He raises his right hand to the sky so that David can see the finger nail that is now glowing on the end of his index finger, reaches around the body lying on the slab and with one swift circular movement cuts through the skin the whole way around the neck. The body has obviously been dead for a number of hours as there is no bleeding, just a brownish red line along the cut. He calls to the Raven with a harsh rasping “CAW” deep in his throat.  The raven flies from its perch and clamps its sharp talons on both sides of the head and with one mighty flap of his huge wings flies backwards, pulling the skin from the skull with a ripping sound like an opening Velcro fastener. The Raven drops the skin in front of the dog like creatures, who remain motionless until the figure in black gives a commanding bark and they devour it in seconds.

A swift twist and pull separates the head from the torso. He pushes the body from the slab, barks a command and the dog like creatures consume it with ferocious snarling, tearing and ripping, breaking and crunching the bones with a sound like heavy boots on gravel.

He sits down slowly on the slab. The raven flutters its feathers expectantly as he turns the severed head to look at where the face used to be. He looks at the raven with a knowing smile and flicks the right eye from the skull with his long index fingernail. The raven catches and swallows it before it hits the ground, hovers on open wings and repeats the catch and swallow as the left eye is flicked from the skull.

Standing watching this, David has become catatonic, his screaming mind refusing to believe what he is seeing he sinks to the ground and curls up in a foetal position, puts his thumb in his mouth and whimpers for his mother.

Meanwhile, the figure in black extends his index finger in front of him and stares at it until it glows bright red. He jambs it into the skull about an inch above the nose and with a circular motion burns through the bone and removes the top of the skull, throwing it to the dog like creatures.

Taking the skull in his huge left hand he calls to the raven with a gentle “caw”. The raven lands on his right forearm and dips its beak into the cavity.  It takes it about thirty minutes to clean every piece of brain and skin from the skull.

Taking a small candle from his cloak he places it in the now empty skull and pausing, he stares at his finger nail until it glows red again, lights the candle and places the Halloween Jack O’Lantern skull in the middle of the stone slab. Turning, with a bundle of clothes under his arm, including a doctors white coat and statoscope, the Black bird on his shoulder, the dog like creatures around him like presidential outriders, he walks to a nearby mausoleum and they disappear inside, walking through the door as if it wasn’t there.

David’s friends were both surprised and impressed when he hadn’t come back to the party house and decided to walk over to the graveyard when it opened at nine o’clock the following morning. Still drunk, the noise they made laughing and joking loudly as they came through the gate woke David, who jumped up and ran towards them in delight and relief that he had survived the night, even if his nightmare had scarred him half to death. To his surprise they walked straight passed him and stood looking at the Jack o ’Lantern that was still glowing faintly on one of the graveyard chest tombs. He shouted at them, “Hey guys, I’m right here, stop fucking messing, I won the bet, I stayed here all night”

They left the graveyard deciding that David had gone home rather than admit that he didn’t stay the night and lost the bet.

© Brendan Palmer October 2017

Time does not run out, it rises as water in a well. Sister Stan.

Inkslingers Writers Group: Saturday 24th June 2017
The prompt: Time does not run out, it rises as water in a well. Sister Stan. (Stanislaus)

I took a whimsical look at the possibility that yesterday is also tomorrow……

The latest News from the Astrophysicist Community is that Gravity, as we have known it, may not in fact exist. Until that is proven I will stick with Einstein’s theory that time is suspect and that gravity may bend time. In fact, for what follows, I will assume that gravity does bend time.

Now, to take a time trip back to the Math classes at school or, as we knew it then, arithmetic classes, it being before the advent of American television. We know from those arithmetic classes, more correctly geometry, that a straight line can travel to infinity but any small constant curve will change it to an eventual closed circle. Transferring this mathematical fact to physics; if gravity bends time, which I have already decided it does, time is therefore a circle and the Nano second that has just passed is in fact also somewhere in the future at the same time.

Of course, the amount that gravity bends time, if it does, is miniscule in the context of the time that has already passed since the big bang, which we know is about 13.5 billion years. Not knowing how much longer the continuum we measure as time will continue into the future, the fact that my immediate past is also sometime in the future is totally irrelevant because the amount of time I have been allocated as a self-aware, carbon-based life form is so small in comparison, I will never reach that future point.

Let us, for the purpose of argument, postulate that that the time circle is 5 billion years; how does that sit with the concept of history repeating itself and the fact that we are currently existing in some people’s past while at the same time also existing in some people’s future?

Perhaps this is an explanation as to why some people think they have lived before, they somehow have the ability to access the time continuum at a point in time that’s both the past and the future. Perhaps it even explains “Déjà vu” or, as we would say in English “already seen”.

It may be that Sister Stanislaus was referring to how people use their time but it could also be that she is one of those people who have unexplained insights into the workings of the cosmos.

One way or the other, time marches on, waits for no-one and will continue to march on long after I have discovered what happens when my personal clock stops ticking.

Fixing Nursing Homes and Delayed Hospital Discharge Issues

This is an extract from an email doing the rounds in 2011, the concept still has some validity today.

In order to fix the problem of mistreatment of the elderly in nursing homes and to immediately provide about 2700 extra places, freeing up those beds occupied by delayed discharge from hospitals…..
Move all the elderly into our jails and the criminals into nursing homes.

The pensioners would have access to showers, hobbies and walks.
They’d also receive unlimited free prescriptions, dental and medical treatment, wheel chairs etc.
They would have constant video monitoring so if assistance was needed they’d have immediate help.
Bedding would be washed twice a week, and all clothing would be washed and ironed as needed.
There would be a guard to check on them every 20 minutes and staff to bring their meals and snacks to their cell.
They would have family visits in a suite built for that purpose.
They would have access to a library, weight room, spiritual counselling, pool and education.
Simple clothing, shoes, slippers, PJ’s and legal aid would be free, on request.
There would be private, secure rooms for all, with an exercise outdoor yard, with gardens for anyone who felt the need to exercise.
Each senior could have a PC a TV radio and daily phone calls,
There would be a board of directors to hear complaints, and all guards would have a code of conduct that would have to be strictly adhered to.


Elderly man in nursing home


The criminals would get cold food, be left all alone and unsupervised day and night. Lights off at 8pm, and showers once a week; live in a tiny room and pay €800.00 per week without any hope of ever getting out.

Some good ideas there Leo…..

The Christian Brothers Leather

Irish Christian Brothers strap
The Christian Brothers ‘leather’ a mass produced circa 30cm (one foot) length of leather that had old pennies sewn into their several layers. ‘Six of the best’ on each outstretched hand would have you numb for ten or fifteen minutes before the excruciating pain kicked in.


Irish Water and Our Mind Numbingly Incompetent Politicians

Free Irish WaterThe Irish Water debacle shows just how mind numbingly incompetent our politicians are. Remember when they were in control of the telephone system? There was a two year waiting list for a telephone, if you could get one in the first place.  Can you imagine the state we would be in if these incompetents were in control of our Electricity, Gas, Internet or Phone systems.

We need a single water utility and people need to pay for the water they use and yes disconnection should be an option. If there are ability to pay issues, that can be dealt with through the Social Welfare system.

Like the ESB, Irish Water needs to be independent of the politicians we are unfortunately saddled with in this wonderful little Republic.

Of course we need the politicians to create this change, back to the headline in this post……

Basically our politicians have created their very own Cute Hoors Ground Hog Day

Leadership! What leadership?

Incompetant Politiciana and Iris Water

Trying to Govern the Ungovernable Who Want Free Water With Cute Hoors Muddying the Water

Free Tap WaterIt would appear that one of the biggest problems the powers that be have in getting a single water utility up and running and having people pay for what they use, is the fact that a serious amount of people in this country think that the water that comes out of their tap, and the water that’s used to flush away their human waste is directly connected to the amount of water that falls from the sky.

Dublin Water Resevoir
They then make the leap that gathering the water into reservoirs that will hold enough to guarantee a constant supply, cleaning it from contaminants to make it potable (for those with a challenged lexicon, it means making it drinkable) and then managing the vast majority of the water again as it flows through the waste system and must be cleaned before being released back into the environment, somehow costs nothing.


Who would envy an incoming Government who have to try Govern the Ungovernable? Especially when one of the informal supporters of the minority Government, having come back in from the cold have instantly reverted to their standard Cute Hoor way of doing things.


Dublin Water Treatment Plant

Dublin Water Treatment Plant