Skip to main content

Preaching to the Converted

When I first started writing the daily Arsekick I promised myself two things: that it wouldn’t be political and that I would post up a piece every weekday. I’m beginning to realise that everything is political, even t-shirts with slogans are political, as is suggesting that people ban the pyjama bottom or comparing one kind of corruption with another and all the other things I’ve blogged about. So I’ve started to realise that I’m less consistent and more political than I thought I was.

This week has been interesting. I came across a Facebook group called ‘support the re-opening of Mosney’ or something like that. Well, having worked with asylum seekers, I’d already felt my stomach balk at the thought of the people living there being uprooted overnight and sent to random parts of the country to re-establish their already turbulent lives. So I joined, thinking that this was a page calling for the place to remain open.

Not so.

The page is, in fact, a holiday camp for racist commentary, one’s like this:

To say asylum seeker is funi there money grabbing foreigners tat are responsible for mst of the problems in tis country. (Janice Smith) 

We won’t say anything about the spelling. After all, that would be prejudice and the goal is not to make assumptions about people, in any sense. I reported the page to Facebook, but nothing happened, and having pointed others to the page there was a spin off of comments and articles, but in a way, you can write about these things till the cows come home, but really, you’re only preaching to the converted. People read and hear what suits them, so is there any point really in telling them some of the stories I’ve heard about the plight of people not as lucky as I am?
Yes, there are those who screw the system, but freeloaders are cannot be sorted out by the colour of their skin, their nationality or their political status. Freeloaders are abusers; from the likes of Sean Fitzpatrick, to those who scam dole money whilst working on the black economy, those who are feigning asylum, and posh whores who live off lovers. But how do you educate people about justice when you live in a totally corrupt society?
Well anyways, it got me rightly pissed off I must say, and to add to that I have some ear infection yoke going on and I’m really not a good patient. Very precious about myself with a tiny weenie pain threshold. So for that reason, there was no proper arsekicks for two days, only the ones I was giving myself by reading the run up to the next holocaust on a Facebook page.
So there you go, after all my excitement about writing a funny blog every day to cheer folk up, it turns out I’m an inconsistent political animal. I wonder what asylum seekers would think if they read all those comments, but luckily they won’t. They can’t afford things like laptops when they live on €19 a week.

Check out this great article on this great blog, by this great writer:


Popular posts from this blog

A Packet of Solpadeine and a Lecture Please

Years ago I was a respectable lady married to a nice German doctor, and it was he who brought to my attention that in Germany you can only buy pain killers in a chemist and not in a petrol station, pub or supermarket and that there was not a chance in hell that you could ever buy a pain killer with codeine in it directly from a pharmacy, which in Ireland, you can - Solpadeine.
Then a friend of mine who is a pharmacist told me that Solpadeine was her best seller. So lucrative were the sales that she did not have enough room to store the stuff in her pharmacy. But that was also back in the time when I was respectable, and in the meantime the Solpadeine police seem to be out on patrol.
Now if you ask me, I think it's pure madness to sell substances with codeine in them over the counter at a pharmacy, and I'm also a bit iffy about buying paracetemol in the supermarket, given that any 13 year old can go in and stock up on a drug that is lethal in relatively small doses. But there a…

The MoMa, a Beggar and my Limp

There’s a woman who walks up and down the streets around West 82nd and Amsterdam Avenue asking people if they’ll give her a dollar. I’d put her around 80. Small, wiry, bent, wispy hair. Brittle bird legs in black tights, but still a follower of fashion in a knit skirt with a tartan pattern, more the kind of skirt you might see on a 20-year-old Asian student. Pale pink lipstick, and a crimson red blouse topped with a cream overcoat despite the muggy August New York heat. I wonder what she does with the money she collects. She doesn’t look like she eats anything, can’t tell if she drinks. She’s sober when she pushes her trolley bag up and down 82nd, asking ‘do you have a dollar for me?’ I don’t give her one. I keep my dollars for the MoMa. My feet are killing me after walking into the city, but I’m scared of the subway. I did make a weak attempt, but have no idea what they mean by uptown and downtown. Both of these expressions mean the same thing where I come from: Uptown – as in, I’m…

The Now or the Nervous Breakdown?

There’s a thin line between reaching a state of inner peace comparable to that of a Buddhist monk and being bang on in the middle of a nervous breakdown. Thing is, I’m never sure which state I currently find myself in. It’s true that one feeds the other at times. You need to have a proper meltdown to let the storm settle and find your peace. And peace wouldn’t be peace if you didn’t allow the true tempest of this life to enter your accepting and non-judgemental state of whatever you want to call not letting stuff get to you.
The buzz word nowadays is ‘Mindfulness’. If I understand it correctly, it means that you should mind your mind, like think of it as a place where you set yourself up for feeling good or bad, and as with all of these pop psychology hits, it’s about living in the now. Like Buddhism it involves meditation and sitting cross legged on a straight-backed chair, and then you have to focus, focus, focus…
So far, I’m pretty good at not sweating the small stuff. I don’t worry…