MY Dry January has turned into a Dry February and we’re now approaching Lent and it looks like I’ll have to think of something else to give up.
Yes, it’s that time of year when we’re all supposed to renounce something we love, or at least something that’s bad for us. And boy, do I have some toxic relationships to end in 2025.
First up – I’m breaking up with America. I know, I know, it’s not you America, it’s me. Actually, scratch that, it is definitely you. The constant drama, the mood swings, the trolling of the rest of the Western World ... I’m actually morto for them at this stage. I’ve been doom-scrolling
The New York Times website every morning like some sort of masochist, checking to see if democracy is still intact or if the whole place has finally imploded into the black hole where Elon Musk’s soul used to be.
And don’t get me started on the Superbowl. Yet again, I stayed up until stupid o’clock to watch what was essentially three hours of adverts interrupted occasionally by fellas in helmets banging into each other.
Trump was there too, now looking like an ad for Ozempic, he has so magically slimmed down in recent times.
And the game itself was a total damp squib in the end, being mostly over by the half-time show during which a big rapper beef took centre stage.
Kendrick Lamar had another go at his arch rival Drake in what is turning into the beef to end all beefs.
They have been trading ‘diss’ tracks for months now in a spat that has gotten increasingly nasty and personal and reached its peak this summer with the release of Lamar’s smash hit Not Like Us, which could be the title of the last election over there.
The track seems to embody all that is toxic in the culture at the moment.
I mean, what could sum up the public mood in America more succinctly than one spoiled millionaire accusing another of being a paedophile in front of 126 million viewers?
So yeah, Uncle Sam, 40 days and 40 nights in the desert as far away from you as possible is definitely on the cards.
Build it like Bannon
SECONDLY, I’m giving up any hope of our extension ever being finished. In fact, I’m just thinking of handing the keys to the builders and letting them move in fully. They look nice and settled in the place and it would be a shame to disturb them at this point.
The delays are mainly to do with a set of windows, doors and rooflights that are being presumably sourced from Mars.
Even though we had the measurements for these things before Christmas, the builder and the architect couldn’t agree on who would sign the contract for them so muggins here had to just go and sign it six weeks later, to finally get things moving.
As it stands, all we know is that they are being manufactured in a factory somewhere west of Kazakhstan and all work is more or less halted until they are delivered.
We had been told we’d be in by Christmas, which I never believed in the first place because, like most of you, I’ve spent over a thousand Sundays at the university of Dermot Bannon.
Now, I’m looking at next Christmas and beginning to wonder if I need to consider an AirBnb with a chimney.
I know, I know, I should be glad to be in the position to be doing up a house in the first place, when thousands are struggling to even buy one. But it’s a square box extension on a terraced council house, not the Taj Mahal.
I’m not surprised there’s a housing crisis if one small building project can be this dysfunctional.
Battle of the Bozos
ONE of the most difficult qualities for a young person to learn is the ability to accept defeat graciously.
And some people just never learn it.
This week, former pop princess Samantha Mumba took to Instagram to express her displeasure at losing out in Eurovision’s Irish selection process, describing the judging panel as a ‘trio of absolute bozos’.
The panel was typical Eurovision fodder at this point – a celebrity chef, a professional dancer, a radio DJ and a non-binary witch from Macroom. According to Mumba, some of them apparently lacked the credentials to judge a competition of this magnitude.
Norwegian singer Emmy won with Laika Party – a tribute to the first dog in space, which feels appropriate given how far into orbit Ireland’s Eurovision hopes have gone in recent years. Mumba’s ‘My Way’ came second, though she certainly had her way with the judges afterwards, gifting them a bag of aubergines to slowly choke on via Instagram.
Nothing says professional criticism quite like passive-aggressive emoji usage.
RTÉ defended their panel’s ‘professionalism, insight, integrity and good humour’ in a moment that brought me right back to those Dáil committees during the summer.
Meanwhile, Donal Skehan responded by embracing his newly bestowed ‘bozo’ status on Instagram, proving that when it comes to Eurovision drama, Ireland remains undefeated. It’s a far cry from Dana and Johnny Logan, lads.
