Friday 19 November 2010

Dear Michael O’Leary - I’ve invented a whole new extra charge I want to pay to Ryanair!

Dear Michael O’Leary

I know how much you love to come up with new ways of making money, so I’ve decided to help you make even more. My idea came to me when I was onboard one of your very fine all plastic yellow and blue flights, which arrived on time, giving us another chance to hear the taped applause preceding that manly Scottish accent telling us how Ryanair is the bestest ever thing since the Book of Genesis.

You get all upset when your customers give out about paying extra charges. I know, aren’t we just a huge old pain in the hole. But worry not, I’m not one of those idiots. In fact, I’ve come up with a brand new extra charge that I’d happily pay to you .

You see, I had expected to pay the tax on my flight. I knew I’d pay extra for my priority boarding, and I’d pay extra for checking in my suitcase. I was only too aware that I was going to pay for checking in online, which is weird, because you have to. Equally strange, but utterly inevitable at this stage of things, I knew I’d pay 4 separate credit card charges, despite only one sum appearing on my credit card bill. One whole charge for each time the Snapper's delicate behind and my voluminous arse hit one of your plane seats.

So no, I had no problem paying for all those items that don’t appear on the price of the advertised flight.
I knew the story.

I also knew that from the moment I sat on the plane I was going to be assaulted for the full 55 minutes of the flight, as your poor wretched wonderful staff desperately tried to make me give you more of my money. 

But no.
I was ready. 
I knew not to listen, each and every 30 seconds, as your rushed stressed staff shouted into the cabin tannoy or careered along the aisle attempting to sell us charity calendars, scratchcards, phone cards, whiskey in a bag, hot sandwiches and breakfast baps, imitation cigarettes that pump you full of nicotine, David Beckham Cologne and Jade Goodie perfume, a newspaper, tickets for the train - and then, it came to me.

It came to me, because even though I knew I was going to pay all that extra money for my flight over the ticket price, just as I knew I was then going to be aurally attacked by a never-ending barrage of sales pitches for overpriced poor quality products, my defences were inadequate. 

You broke my will, man. I didn’t buy anything, god no, but I wanted to stand up and scream “Shut the fuck up, pleeeeease!”, to exhibit strong emotions and possibly even violent actions that would have had me arrested and escorted from the plane in handcuffs.

so clear,

so lovely and clear.

Michael O’Leary, I  will gladly pay you ten more whole English Pounds or ten more European Euro, yes, over and above everything you already make me pay for to fly on your yellow and blue plastic planes. 

Just offer me a silent flight, and my money is yours. 

We have designated quiet carriages on trains, so why not have slightly more costly silent Ryanair flights, upon which nobody tries to flog anybody anything, unless a customer requests it?

In pure business terms, it makes great sense. I never have and never will buy anything on one of your planes, because it would only encourage the attack on my senses and wallet. 

But I will give you my money for silence. 


Wednesday 17 November 2010

Brian C. 4 Dave C. forever.


Dear Smiley-Smooth-Skin Davie C,

C’mere to me now and tell me you’re not loving winning dat election a while back, eh, eh, eh? Jaize isn’t it great now, to be be in power! And sure, haven’t you gone and got yourselves a cuddly coalition bunny, jus’ like myself. C’mere, amn’t they da sure, da da da sure da da da, just da sows nipples, dya know.

So here’s da ting, like. Bin tinking and you know how it goes. Can’t live with ye can’t live widout ye. 800 feckin years of oppression, and now there here we are, the whole world gone mad, and us thinking like, how, well, jaize, dunno but we kinda miss ya, dja know da way?. 

So what I was tinking was like, if we could have our own, dya know, Irish version of da notes, wass da chances of taking us back into de old Sterling again? 

Couldn’t be doing da Queen, to be fair, you understand. But but we could have say say, say Bono on da 50s and say Dana on the 20s. Sure, we could even have JFK on da 10s. Yanks’d like dat. Could be a nice little spinner, all on its own. So what dya say? To be fair, now, to be fair to be fair, ‘twas you we didn’t like. Yer money was fine. So whadya say?

Love to Bunny Clegg. Bunny Gormley said something too.

Missing you across da miles,
Big Bri Lovelips.

Wednesday 10 November 2010

What exactly is a perfect oil level?

There I was, driving down to the service station to check Shaaanny car’s tyre pressures and oil level, thinking simple manly thoughts about how this colyoom has recently risked disappearing up its own philosophical arsehole.

Despite the promise of a couple of posts ago, normal service has not been resumed. 

The tyre pressures were all spot on, perfect, and the oil level was midpoint between F and E on the dipstick.

But then, erm, I’m driving to Knock airport and back, so she’ll burn some oil, so shouldn’t I put a half litre in now to make up for what she’ll burn?

Yes, yes, that makes perfect sense.

Perfect, except that the reading I’m looking at on the dipstick is perfect too. If I top up when the reading says perfect, then what the hell’s the point of perfect?

If perfect has cropped up on just the other side of midway, then midway is not the middle of everything. If there's no absolute middle there can be no absolute perfect, and oh wah wah mumma, here we go again.

Clearly this colyoom has not finished staring up its rear view mirror. 
Normal service, might never be resumed, but no doubt something will happen.
Hopefully when it does, it arrives entwined in a sense of humour, gord helpus and save us.

Monday 8 November 2010

What's the shape of an unwritten word?

It’s not that I haven’t any material. 
This is not another tedious case of writer’s block or any other such deceit. 

Today I could write all manner of shite on a myriad of topics that might entertain, bemuse, annoy or even, possibly, inform or illuminate. 

Aaahze got tings to make yez laaarf and tings to make yez crahhhh.
Yet for some reason at present neither fully identified nor understood, I don’t want to. 

Save for the 4 years I lived in Amercia, I have published something every single week, from 1992 onwards. Sometimes I’ve written 3 in a week and sometimes barely one satisfactory word, but not right now.

Big whoops for the evidence that this is here. These words, stating that I’m not going to publish anything this week.

Words that by the intention of their own meaning do not exist.
Ooer missis. Getting a bit Zen.

There are no doubt souls out there who might believe that if a word is unread, it does not exist.

But what about a word that is unwritten?
Calling the Guru! Calling the Guru! Are you out there, my old friend? 

Thursday 4 November 2010

Normal service...

...will be resumed shortly... thanks to all colyoomistas for their patience...