JUST JENNY

Jenny was glad to have finally found a reason for being. She'd had trouble finding any reason but was actively searching. Her lack of interest in just about everything had isolated her. She was always on the periphery of conversations at her school, simulating interest and nodding and pretending to laugh or gasp at the right times but never truly engaging. She was no one's best friend or worst enemy. She was just Jenny. 'Oh, it's just Jenny', people said. Even her mother said it. Just Jenny, someone adults kept alive and healthy to see what might become of her. Well, she had decided what she was going to become and, my oh my, what she became.

Despite her persistence, Jenny's online forum contributions and Facebook posts always went unacknowledged. That is until Aarzam from Luton (a place in England) started responding to her because she responded to him. He kept going on about God and justice and all this stuff and Jenny asked him what he was talking about. What followed was a correspondence that lasted for months. Jenny didn't really care what they were talking about, the important thing was that they were talking. Jenny never had a point of view on anything so she consciously decided to adopt Aarzam's point of view on everything. Not everyone agreed with Aarzam, in fact some people thought he was crazy or evil, but he got people's attention and attention was something Jenny craved.

Anyhoo, as the girl in question would put it herself, this all led to Jenny being stopped at the airport and asked to step into a back room to answer some questions. She told them, flatly (everything she said came out flatly) that her destination was Syria and that she was joining her boyfriend. The airport security were nonplussed by this strange girl in a homemade burka fashioned from a bed sheet dyed black. Things became even more confusing when they asked Jenny where she was from. South County Dublin was the answer but her accent was clearly United States. She told them her 'mom' spoke like that too. She was asked if her 'mom' was American. 'I don't think so', Jenny said. They asked Jenny if she had ever been to the United States. Jenny said she hadn't. They asked Jenny why she had an American accent. Jenny wasn't aware that she had an American accent and said it might be because she 'watched a lot of shows'.

So, like, anyways, things turned into a really big deal. Aarzam had been seen in a viral where a non-unionised freelance journalist got beheaded. Jenny became the opposite of famous, infamous, for a while but then she just became famous when she renounced her newfound beliefs and ran a mini-marathon in aid of something, she wasn't quite sure what. This was all on the advice of an agent Jenny's mother employed. 'We're going to need someone to handle this Goddamn fucking shit storm', was Jenny's mother's reasoning.

The newspapers and the TV went crazy and spoke to the other kids in Jenny's school and they said that she always seemed like she was keeping secrets. Jenny didn't know they thought that about her. It was kind of cool. Better than boring. Jenny went from being 'Just Jenny' to 'Jihad Jenny' in the space of a few days. Some professor guy called Schlemp wanted to talk to her for a book he was writing called 'Online Anomie International: Islamic Extremism and the Search for Likes'. They were going to make a movie too with Saoirse Ronan acting as Jenny. 'She's OK I guess, she's kind of old though', Jenny told Ryan Tubridy on The Late Late Show. Ryan asked Jenny if she'd lift her burka and give the audience a peek at her pretty face. Jenny did. There was a big round of applause and then Ryan gave everyone a hamper of beauty products.

Jenny's mother was really happy with how the whole thing panned out but she was 'really pissed' at first. There was silence in the car when she picked Jenny up from the airport but then she suddenly exploded. She screamed and slapped her open palm against the steering wheel.

'How the fucking motherfuck did you wind up facebooking with a bunch of Wahhabi crazies?'

'Jeez Mom, take it easy. I don't even know what Wahbabbi or whatever is. I just made friends with a Muslim boy is all. What's the big deal?'

'Just made friends with a Muslim boy?' Jenny's mother repeated, emphasising her incredulity.

'Yeah', said Jenny, 'he kind of like listened to me'.

'And what the heck were you saying that made him listen to you honey?'

'I dunno', replied Jenny, her voice trailing off. 'Just stuff I guess, ...just, y'know, ...stuff.'

TRAGRIDY

THE SUPPLEMENT

The weekend supplement, it's just copy really. You just type stuff for people to read over a coffee. It doesn't have to be that interesting. It can be a bit interesting if you like but that might take a while to get together and you've other stuff to be doing like going out to dinner or maybe staying in and having a bottle of wine. Maybe you could write an amusing piece about staying in and having a bottle of wine. Amusing, not funny. Staying in for dinner and having a bottle of wine is the new going out for dinner and having a bottle of wine. Yeah. Or maybe some pop cultural nostalgia. List the ten best Irish bands of the eighties or movie sequels that were better than the first film. Or you might review something everyone else is reviewing. I also hear there's a new organic food market on the open top of a double decker that travels South County Dublin. Email the guy that set it up and get a few quotes. Or maybe just rehash a few received urbane wisdoms, the consensus of the cognoscenti. What Richard Did is the best Irish film of all time. Hmm, top ten moments in What Richard Did. Or maybe something about somebody who happens to be a kind of 'somebody'. What next for Kathryn Thomas? Or you might fancy providing a chuckle, not a laugh - too boisterous, just a chuckle. How about a bit on funny ads from the eighties? Or how about just words, any words that come to mind. Any old words in any kind of order. Does it even matter what order? Does it even matter if the words are in order? Does it? Does even it order matter the if words in are? Just type and cut and paste words and reach the word count. Clogs are popular again. There's a French Film Festival on or maybe something about speed dating or something or something else or something. Hmmm. Have we done speed dating this quarter? Let's do speed dating then. Go to an event or pretend you did. Rosanna Davison attended an Osteoporosis fund raiser. Almost reaching requested word count now. Hmm, ...ideas - puff pieces and light pieces - Ryan Tubridy's quirky/ironic garden gnome collection. Weightier piece - 'What's Troubling Joe?' about Joseph O'Conner. Get a picture of Joseph O'Conner staring moodily into middle distance on Dunlaoghaire seafront. That might work. Or what's Mahdi al-Harati up to these days? What does a brave rebel do on a Sunday afternoon? Maybe a piece called 'At Home with Al-Harati'. Does he still live in Firhouse? Check it out. Lots of ideas there. Nothing too, y'know, engaging in that demanding way. Just stuff to set the brain in neutral and coast. The advocacy of complacency. We all deserve it. We work hard. Our brains get tired. We spend enough time thinking. Thinking is something you should only do to make money. There's no other reason to be bothered with thinking. That's what I think. But enough thinking. There's copy to be produced. The meat of culture must be mechanically separated and made digestible. It isn't that hard a task.

The main thing to remember is not to spill wine on your laptop.

THE RETURN OF THE LATE LATE

Great to see the Late Late back on our screens after the Montrose holidays. Tubbs got things off to a cracking start when he interviewed the essence of Amy Huberman. Amy couldn’t actually make it herself but in her place was an ethereal avatar that was released, genie like, from a bottle. It formed into a sort of solid shape, almost like the real Amy, and it spoke in this weird echoey voice. It seemed really lovely though and Tubbs reminded viewers that it is available from all good perfumeries now. He actually used the word ‘perfumeries’.

Next Tubbs covered the talk of Dublin 13. I am of course referring to the astonishing discovery that is Clongriffin Man – recently unearthed from pyrite and said to be at least several years old - or thereabouts. An expert Tubbs was talking to said the well-preserved corpse might have met its end as some sort of sacrifice or maybe after leaping in front of the DART. ‘Either way’, said the expert, ‘he’s had it’.

Then Tubbs had a child on and interviewed her. She said her schoolbag was very heavy and that she was very fond of sweets. Tubbs asked the child what she wanted to be when she grew up and the child replied that she was only eight and had no idea. She suggested that maybe Tubbs could give her a break.

After the child came the dogs. A fella from Meath was breeding invisible dogs. They couldn’t be seen and they didn’t make any sound either. The breeder said that this made them perfect pets – no hairs on the furniture or late night barking. Someone in the audience roared out that the invisible dogs were an abomination against God but Tubbs got the boom mic away from that nutter quick enough. Then Tubbs awarded an invisible puppy to everyone in the audience. Some people said that they couldn’t feel any weight or fur or anything and then the breeder said that the puppies were not just silent and unseeable but also intangible. ‘For a while there I was worried we’d been sold a pup’, quipped Tubbs and everyone pretended to hold and stroke the non-existent puppies for the rest of the show, such is the power of the telly – peace be upon it.

Finally, Tubbs had someone on who had undergone a terrible ordeal of some sort and come out the other side with a few observations about life and a publishing deal. As Tubbs spoke to this person his voice was gentle and deferent. Then, when that interview was over, Tubbs called someone on the phone and gave them a car. The person on the other end of the line said he was over the moon with his new car and that he was going to bundle the whole family into it and, I quote, ‘drive it straight off the nearest fucking pier’.

Then, to close the show, The Knights of Saint Columbanus House Band performed the following song and everyone started moshing about and absolutely wrecked the place as the credits rolled.

LOVELY LOVELY INDOCTRINATION

(pictured: Ryan Tubbs, great fella)

 

Jesus but the Late Late was great last week. Did you see it? It was super. Lovely indoctrination to be had. You can't beat a bit of indoctrination in these difficult times. Bill Cullen was on. He's had a shite time of it. He got the sack and loads of his family died and he was mauled by a bear. I think that's what he said. I'm not sure but I think that's what he said. Maybe he didn't. I wasn't really listening. That's the thing with the telly, you don't really have to listen, you just kind of let it seep in. So I'm not sure if Bill said he was mauled by a bear. Maybe I just made up that bit but it doesn't matter. It's all pretend on the telly anyway so you may as well join in. That's being interactive. Everything is interactive these days. It's great.

Anyway, Bill was saying he wasn't going to let the bear incident get him down and then the house band did a medley of songs from the album Stations of the Crass on their Casio keyboards and then this girl came out and she was in business like Bill. She was loaded but she liked giving to the poor. She was on The Secret Millionaire where nice rich people weigh poor people's tears and give them money depending on the heaviness. They should scrap taxes and fund everything that way, that's the message of the show I think. It's great. Bill loves it. Bill remembers when the nuns scrubbed out the hospital jax 24-7 and not a word of complaint but everyone wants wages these days. 'Ah well, so be it', says Bill. 'I'm off to fuckin outer space anyway so yous are welcome to it', he says. Bill is going to outer space in the rocket Richard Branson bought with all the money he's making off kids' hospitals in Britland. I wonder will Richard ever be on The Secret Millionaire. That'd make great telly. Everyone would probably recognise him though. He's very recognisable. Tony Blair with a beard basically. Maybe if they blinded everyone before he goes out and about. Then he could weigh their tears and give them money to get their eyes fixed. Everyone would be a winner. Especially the telly. The telly always wins in the end.

There was a lovely ad on during the break in the Late Late. It had this old lady making her grandson's football team a heap of sandwiches and it said 'AIB, we're all in it together' and then the show came back on and Tubbs was speaking Irish in a Dublin accent for the laugh. It was a pretty good Dublin accent considering he's never met anyone with a Dublin accent. He's probably heard the accent in documentaries or on Fair City or Youtube. It was funny anyway, like when the gang from The Republic of Telly mock skangers from certain areas in Dublin, Cork, and Limerick that they've seen from from the windows of their cars.

Tubbs did a great job with the presenting overall. He's really coming along. I think he's doing his leaving cert this year so fair play to him for being able to remain so focused on the cue cards. I wouldn't say it's easy for him. I'd say he has to study a fair bit. He's a lovely lad but he doesn't seem the brightest, not bright in that way anyway. He's a great fella for keeping the nation happy though. He has telly intelligence. He's in-telly-gent. (Ha! See that? That's funny.) He's great for providing inspirational chats with people like Bill and that rich girl. He had a golfer on too and he had a trophy and Tubbs says to him 'that's some trophy' and the golfer says 'yeah, thanks'. Then Tubbs asked him if anyone he knew died or if he'd been attacked by an animal or anything and the golfer said 'not recently' and Tubbs looked at him as if he was kind of a prick. That was my reading of the look anyway. I reckon Tubbs thought your man wasn't earning his keep. He had no story to tell. He wasn't overcoming anything. He was just practising his golf and winning trophies.

Anyway, Tubbs finished the show by saying 'let's hear it for the Pope' and then Dobbo from the Six One came out and led everyone in a decade of the Rosary. (Dobbo was just back from Rome where he was interviewing the lads about the Pope packing it in. 'Will God in Heaven be happy with the decision?' he asks a cardinal and the cardinal says that God won't mind too much as long as the next fella is as lovely as the last.) Then they had Holy Communion. One for everybody in the audience. And then they phoned a fella and gave him an Opel Corsa.

Oh yeah, it was great telly last week because the Late Late and RTE were getting the nation back on track. I was feeling it, I really was. Did you feel it yourself? It was like electricity. It was like gentle electricity. It was like having the Holy Ghost come into the room and blow, ever so gently, on your balls. It was a lovely feeling. A feeling of delightful expectation. A feeling of good things to come. We've taken our knocks but we still have the national broadcaster to serve out dollops of the old indoctrination to make us feel better.

David Begg is on the Late Late next week. He's going to be playing Peter Sutherland in a game of charity Swingball. The money raised is going to a little fella from Kinnegad who was born with an arse for a head. He's a great lad by all accounts. He was on the Today With Four O'Clock Show or whatever it's called and he farted Amhrán na bhFiann out his mouth/hole. Great stuff. He might be next in line to present the Late Late if they can get him fixed up. Super telly. Lovely indoctrination. Lovely lovely indoctrination altogether.

THE SOULS OF THE DEAD

Imagine if everywhere in the world was haunted. They'd have to make TV shows about houses that weren't haunted. The shows would be called things like Britain's Most Unhaunted. 'Ooh, nothing has moved by itself for ages, creepy.' They would have seances and get really freaked out when the planchette didn't move. There would be legends of a headed horseman. Children would be scared that there is nothing under the bed. Superstitious people wouldn't like taking shortcuts through graveyards in case they didn't see a ghost. I could go on but you get the gist of it.

In a world like this ghosts would be commonplace. It would be accepted that you die and you become a ghost and you hang around your old haunts. In some respects it wouldn't be too bad being a ghost. The pressure would be off. You wouldn't have to earn money to feed and shelter yourself and all that. However, there would be a bad side. Ghosts stop. They stop still. They can't learn anymore. They can't understand new technology or social advances. They can't comprehend that times and preoccupations change. They can't mature or become wiser as people. They can't move on. They are like stuck records, stuck at the moment of their deaths. If they have a grievance or an issue that is unresolved it will remain unresolved. They will continue to fret and worry about it until the end of time. That's why ghosts are always seen doing the same thing, looking for someone they were parted with or whatever. Ghosts are a bit OCD.

In a world where everywhere is haunted people would accept the existence of ghosts but they would find ghosts pretty boring. 'Oh Jaysus, is he still going on about how he was wronged by his brother and thrown down the well. What a repetitive dick .' Ghosts would be considered something to be humoured and tolerated. They'd be a bit like the friends or colleagues we all have who keep banging on and on about the same thing over and over. You know the type. They get on their hobby horse and you just nod. You don't want to be rude but privately you wish they were dead. Except maybe they are dead. Maybe they keep going over and over the same ground because they are ghosts. Did you ever consider that? They'll always be there, going on and on and on and on and they'll never stop going on and on and on and on. They may be irritating but maybe you should pity them. It's sad really. You might even be a ghost yourself. Does the same shit go around and around and around and around in your head? Has this been going on for years? Well maybe you're a ghost. Maybe you're dead. If you're not dead yet, you better address your obsessions. Otherwise, when you eventually do die, you'll be stuck with your obsessions until the end of time. Going on and on and on and on.

Come to think of it, I reckon I might be a ghost. I tend to just appear and corner people and moan and moan and moan about the same old crap. I'm usually moaning about the telly. Maybe in the future that's what ghosts will be seen doing – sitting in front of a spectral goggle box, continually pressing a remote control and muttering about what a useless tit Ryan Tubridy is.

I've a friend who's even worse than me. He got so repetitive it became a real problem. He became obsessed with how repetitive he was and he kept talking about it, which was very repetitive. The irony of that escaped him. He went to see a shrink about his problem. 'It's not a therapist you need, it's an exorcist', said the shrink as he walked my friend into a nearby graveyard and pointed at his tombstone. Then the shrink charged my friend €750. Being a ghost, my friend had no money so the shrink charged it to my friend's widow. She had to take the fee from the money my friend left her. She was outraged. She keeps going on about it. She'll take that grievance to her grave. And beyond.

I think I'll write about ghosts for the rest of the month because it's October and Halloween approaches. Halloween - a time when the souls of the dead return. The souls of the dead boring.

WORMHOLE

(pictured above: a pretentious wormhole speaking French)

I made a wormhole in time. If you jump through it you go back in time and arrive at the moment it was created, that's how wormholes work. For example, if you made one now and left it for a week and then went through it, you would arrive at the point of its creation the week before. You could go down the bookies and put some money on horses you've already seen winning. Of course, if that happened you'd already have the winnings before you jumped through because that would have already happened. It's all paradoxical this time travel. Things can get tricky. 'Fuck it', I said to myself, 'let's just see how it pans out' and I jumped straight through.

I jumped through the wormhole and arrived when it was made, which was just a second before so I only arrived to see myself jumping through. So, I left it a day. Then I went through the wormhole again and met myself watching myself jumping through. Then I turned to myself and asked myself what's going to happen tomorrow and I said 'not much' and another me was there too, having come through the wormhole at the same time as me. The third me was old and had a big grey beard and a walking stick. He looked at the other two mes (including me) and said 'the next few decades are going to be a bit shite though'. Then a heap of other mes of all different ages and stages of decrepitude popped up and they said 'he's not wrong lads'.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure which me is writing this blog post. We're all here now. All from the future, living in the present, and blogging about the past. The only chronological direction open to us is forward, unless we jump through the wormhole again and that wouldn't be a good idea because this room is full enough as it is and I'm getting sick of my own company. Is this what my friends and family have had to put with all this time? Jesus. I mean, I'm beginning to bug myself so much I'm thinking of requesting a restraining order against myself to get me off my own back. Although, there were times I was considering doing that before I even made the wormhole.

Could be worse though. Imagine it was Ryan Tubridy went jumping through the wormhole over and over and over. The room would be full of Tubridys babbling away, interviewing himself and getting nervous and fidgeting with the cue cards. Fidgeting, fidgeting, fidgeting. What pocket of Hell would that be to come across?

Antimatter Teilifís Éireann

I went into the RTE canteen the other day. All the celebs were there: Katherine Lynch, Tubbs, Daithi O’Shea, Derek Mooney and the gang from The Republic of Telly (the ones who eat up all the Rubberbandits time making their own jokes, which, y’know, is fine).

Anyway, there they all were, sat at their tables like you’d expect but the odd thing was that none of them moved. Not a muscle. They were completely still. Catatonic I suppose you’d call it. Their mouths were open and so were their eyes. Wide open. Their faces frozen in expressions of astonishment. Perpetual astonishment. Perpetual horrified astonishment. It was creepy. Creepy in a different way than you’d expect out in Montrose.

There was total silence as I walked around the celebs in their seats. I was the only thing making any noise, or so I thought until strange sounds became faintly audible. It was like the crying of little children but very quite and distant. It took me a while to realise where the noises were coming from. They were coming from the open gobs of the celebs.

No lips were moving. The sounds of the despairing youngsters seemed to be issuing from somewhere deep inside the celebs, as if they were the echoing cries of infants trapped down wells. Cautiously, I put an ear to Katherine Lynch’s mouth. I listened and heard a little voice issuing from below. ‘Please kill me’ it was saying, over and over. I had no time to be scared by this as I heard someone coming and so hid behind a counter.

Men donned in what looked like anti-radiation suits entered the canteen and made their way toward Tubbs. ‘Oh no, not Tubbs, leave him alone’ I almost said aloud as they picked him up out of his seat and flung him into a sound booth that had a microphone in it. One of the men clouted Tubbs hard across the head. Very hard. Harder than even Tubbs might deserve. This clout seemed to awaken Tubbs. Actually, ‘awaken’ might be the wrong word. ‘Activate’ might be more precise. Anyway, Tubbs sprang to life and started yakking into the mic like he does every morning on the radio. You know the type of thing, entertaining insights, witty observations, all that fucking shit.

The men watched Tubbs for a short time before one nodded to the others and they departed. I crept after them, to see where they were headed. I followed them across the car park and down a hatch. The hatch led to a tunnel that went underneath RTE’s massive transmitter. What I saw down there was so utterly awful I will never forget it.

There was a huge industrial control room with dials, steel pipes and plumes of smoke. In the centre of this room stood a massive glass tank and in that tank there was a monster. It was like a cross between a hideously deformed baby and a squid and it was about eighty feet or so in size. It was revolving in the tank, quickly and frantically whizzing around, and emitting blood curdling high pitched screams. It was hard to tell if it was screaming in anger or agony. Its revolutions were generating some kind of energy that manifested itself as beams of electrical light. The beams shot out from the creature’s enclosure and were channelled up into the transmitter. I could have sworn I heard someone mention antimatter and someone else salute and cry out the words ‘All Hail the Void!’.

‘So, this is where telly comes from’, I thought to myself before deciding to retrace my steps and get out of there in case I was detected. I put my pen and little book back into my satchel and snuck off up the tunnel and out the hatch. ‘I won’t be getting any autographs today’ I sadly muttered to myself as I made my escape.

There’s a sale on tomorrow. In Dundrum Shopping Centre.

(above: Antimatter Generator)

I was watching Tubbs on the Late Late. His mouth was opening and closing. There were noises coming out. They were words. I can’t remember which words. I’m sure they were grand words. It seemed alright. The audience seemed happy enough. That‘s the main thing. Then a guest came on. The guest sat next to Tubbs. I’m not sure who it was. It was probably a singer. Or an actor. Maybe a juggler. They opened and closed their mouths. They made words come out. It was a fine chat. I can’t recall the exact details. I think someone made a joke. It was funny. It wasn’t too funny. Maybe it wasn’t funny. Everyone laughed. It was a good laugh. No one mentioned death. No one mentioned love. Or anything that really matters. It wasn’t the time for any of that. It so rarely is these days. Where does it get you anyway? Then the band made a noise. It was music. A bit of an auld tune. Someone sang. Everyone clapped along. It wasn’t too avant-garde. Or angry. Or happy. Or excessive in anyway. Just appropriate. Comforting. Nice enough. What more would you want at this time of evening? Or any time really? And the show went on like this. For the rest of the night. Like shows do every night. And day. And afternoon. And then I felt a sensation. The ground gave away. My ceiling floated off. The walls fell down. I saw the same happening to other houses. No one seemed to mind. They just kept watching telly. Without smiling. Or frowning. Or laughing. Or crying. Just watching. As the Earth sank. And fell. And plummeted. Away from the sun. Away from the moon. Down past the stars. Through the bottom of the galaxy. Through the bottom of the next galaxy. Through the bottom of the galaxy after that. And all the other ones beneath that one. And into a pitch black abyss. Into Satan’s gaping mouth. And down Satan’s throat. And into his stomach. Where it landed with a plop. And was digested by acids. And shat out Satan’s arse. In fragments so small as to be nonexistent. But no one really minded. Nobody cared. Because Tubbs had a hamper. One for everybody in the audience. And his big empty eyes rolled back in his big empty head. And big empty words came out of his big empty mouth. ‘All Hail the Void’ said Tubbs. And the audience repeated after him. ‘All Hail the Void' they said. And something issued from the hampers. And spread throughout the nation. And ate up what was left of nothing at all. Antimatter Telefis Eireann.

Matter. Antimatter. What’s the matter? Does anything matter? And there’s a sale on tomorrow. In DUNDRUM SHOPPING CENTRE.

Tomorrow Belongs to Tubbs!

It's just chat and Tubbs knows that. It's just the expulsion of air, the tongue touching the roof of the mouth. It's frothy. Frothy chat. Oral goose feathers on a work day morning. But he can do the serious stuff. He doesn't like it. It's boring though isn't it? But he can do it.

Tubbs on the recession:

"We're down but we're not out. I've felt the blow myself. Tightened the belt. J'member ham sandwiches do ya? What happened to them at all? And the bus. Do people still get the bus? The bus was gas. It went all the way to the zoo I think. There was a monkey there. It ate Tayto and would throw its shite at you but you can't get Tayto anymore."