Chores : is this life?

Why are household chores so excruciatingly horrible? Like most people I just hate chores. The sight of a wash basket makes me creep. When I'm putting out clothes I try to rush it in order to minimise the duration of the experience.

The thought of some chores hurts something deep within my being. It's as if I'm mopping the floor and asking: can this be life? And rather like a life sentence in prison there is the added tyranny of repetition. "I'm washing this floor now. I will need to wash it again. And again. In fact this cannot end until I get rich (the equivalent of escape from prison) or die".

Some tasks are bearable: the dishwasher isn't so terrible, it's more like bad sex - in, out, done. But most are devastating. There are few sounds in any home which distress the ear more than the scream of the hoover. It seems singularly designed to torment. For chores of any length, like mowing the lawn, I sometimes wear an ipod or portable radio. But the hoover kills that angle for soothing the mental pain. It allows no escape.

Ironing too is annoying, but my solution there is a combination of buying clothes which don't require much ironing and learning to live with the crease. My wife and I have an agreement that we never iron anything for one another. We detest it equally and think it unfair to ask another human being to do it on our behalf. The other chores at least have the merit of being for mutual benefit.

Dusting is a particular abhorrence of mine. The returns seem so pitifully small against the effort of lifting and shifting so many little fidgety items that you passionately feel aren't needed anyway. I eagerly await the invention of the dusting machine and I envy those with wives who are committed minimalists when it comes to ornamenting the living room. Photos should remain where they belong - in albums. You know, there really is no need to display all of those birthday cards. And what about the little shells and a million other little uninteresting things which I cannot even name.

Nothing though, but nothing is as bad as the bathroom. As you plumb the depths of un-enjoyable activities, cleaning the bathroom is, if you pardon the pun, at the bottom. It stinks. After donning the gloves and wielding the horrid brush, who would not be humbled. At a certain dark level it can be a positive experience, for somehow, the bathroom reminds us of the fragility and arbitrariness of what it means to be human.

Instead of an obscure tract called "Being and Time", I wish the German Philosopher, Heidegger had given us a tome on coping with the angst of household chores. He might have called it "Being and Toilet".

Poll Dubh sa Chíbear-spás!

Is fada na réaleolaithe ag caint ar dhúphoill (réalta marbha a bhfuil an domhantarraingt chomh láidir orthu is nach féidir leis an solas féin éalú amach uathu). Dá dtéadh duine isteach faoi thionchar na domhantarraingte seo, ní thiocfadh sí (nó sé) amach chuiche. Níos measa fós, fiú amháin dá mba rud é go raibh an té sin fós ina beatha ní bheadh sí in ann scéal a scaipeadh amach chugainn - ní éalódh aon chomhartha raidió ón dúpholl. Ar bhealach, tugann an dúpholl meafar réaltach dúinn don bhás féin.

Ar an chaoi chéanna, creidim féin go bhfuil dúphoill sa chíbearspás. Agus is éasca go deo titim isteach iontu. Titim féin isteach intu go minic. Ní bás an choirp a bhíonn i gceist ach bás an chroí. Bás na meanma más mian leat. Seo an chaoi ar tharla sé domsa.

Tá clár raidió ann gur breá liom go deo é. Gorm na hOíche atá air. Éistim leis go mion is go minic. Tosaíonn sé ag 10.30pm is leanann sé ar aghaidh go dtí 1.00am. Meascán de cheol clasaiceach, de shnagcheol, is de cheol traidisiúnta a bhíonn ann. Ach na rianta roghnaithe ag Paul Herriot agus iad roghnaithe go snasta. Éasca agus álainn ar an chluais. Bíonn an nua ann agus an sean. An rud coitianta is an rud iontach. Tugann Herriot leis thú ar thuras ceoil. Ar thuras anama. Ardítear do chroí in amana. Uaireanta eile bíonn brón uafásach an tsaoil ag cur imní ort. Ach tríd is tríd cuirtear go mór leis an eispéireas saolta in do chroí istigh.

Is iomaí uair a chuala mé Paul ag léamh amach teachtaireacht a seoladh chuig an chlár sa ríomhphost. Fáilte roimh cheist ar bith a bhaineann leis an cheol ar seisean, ní go hannamh. Sheol mé cúpla ceist. Bhí mé ag fiosrú píosa ceoil éigin a d'ardaigh mó chroí. Ach freagra ní bhfuair mé. Uair eile, sheol mé ceist eile. Tada.

Uair eile, bhain mé sult as clár iontach spóirt ar RnaG. Thug mé cuairt ar an tsuíómh idirlíon le tréan áthais le buíochas a ghábháil (agus ceist bheag a chur). Dhoirt mé amach an méid a bhí i mo chroí faoin chlár seo. Chuir mé mo mothúcháin ar fad i bhfoirm focal is sheol mé iad go sásúil. Ach freagra ní bhfuair mé.

An rud céanna le ceisteanna a sheol mé chuig fiche comhlacht eile, idir áisínteachtaí stáit is chomhlachtaí príomháideacha. Tada. Ní hé sin le rá nach bhfuair mé freagra ar bith riamh - ach go minic thit mo chuid iarrachtaí isteach na dúphoill dhamánta úd.

Céard a tharla? D'imigh na ríomhphoist ó mo ríomhaire féin i bhfoirm leictron. Amach ar na sreanganna i dtreo croí-lár an chíbear-spáis. Ach áit éigin ar a mbealach thit siad faoi thionchar dúphoill. Dúpholl cíbearspáis. Tarraingíodh isteach iad agus tá siad i sáin anois in adamh, áit a mbeidh siad go deo na ndeor.

Nach iontach is nach trua é go meallann an teicneolaíocht sinn is go ngéillimid go soineanta. Cuireann sí snaidhm ar ár gcroí, is tarraingíonn sí isteach muid. Spreagann sí ár n-aigne is meallann sí ár gcroí. Agus dóirteann muid amach ár mothucháin go léir, agus súil againn go mbeidh duine éigin ag éisteacht. Ach cur i gcéill atá ann - mar tá an dúpholl ag fanacht, amach sa chíbearspás.

An chéad uair eile a scríobhann tú litir leictronach ag scaoileadh imní nó lúcháir do chroí, cuimhnigh go bhfuil tú mar a bheadh spásaire ann, ag titim isteach i ndúpholl agus í ag scairteadh ina diaidh.

Taoiseach Abducted!

In a dramatic development in the Mahon Tribunal today, the Taoiseach, Mr. Bertie Ahern confessed that he had been abducted by Aliens. In the face of tough questioning from Tribunal Lawyer Des O'Neill, Mr. Ahern went motionless and his gaze floated to the middle distance. Mr O'Neill pressed Ahern asking "why did you as Finance Minister take bags of cash from businessmen in the 90s?". Mr Ahern became confused and stammered "the aliens". An incredulous O'Neill interjected "I'm sorry?". "The Aliens" Mr Ahern repeated, still dazed. "They made me do it" he continued. A stunned public gallery heard Mr Ahern tell the full story of his Alien abduction.

It was a Saturday, in early November 1993. Mr Ahern had won 200 quid at the races after backing a horse called CJ's Boy. That evening he popped over to Fagan's to buy a few rounds for the locals with his winnings. The craic was good so Bertie gulped a few more pints of bass than he should have. He left just before closing and staggered off up the Drumcondra Road.

He wanted to hail a cab but desperately needed to relieve himself. He stepped into a side alley and unzipped. As he finished he noticed a strange eddy whirled about him blowing the weeds in a magical dance. He felt funny. Not nauseous or drowsy, just a funny sensation in his chest and a tingling in his limbs. He thought it was a bad pint, but just then, after zipping, he turned towards the road and saw the Orb. A bright, shiny orb floated before him. He was stunned but somehow, not afraid. It was twirling. He was enveloped in silence. Then a surge of ecstasy rushed through his body as the orb neared and brightened, closer and closer, until it touched his mesmerized forehead.

Mr Ahern recalled how he awoke in a bright room. He thought he was in Beaumount hospital. He must have had an accident. Then he saw the Orb. He felt paralyzed, and faintly afraid. He tried to look around when a humanoid approached. Ahern was seized by a terror that he hadn't felt since the heaves against his former Boss in the 80s.

The humanoid quickly injected his captive with a yellow serum which banished his fear. Mr Ahern recalls that he now felt comfortable. He said he was confused and may have asked the humanoid if this was a Fine Gael set up. He couldn't recall an answer.

The alien then explained that his planet, Yehguah, was being destroyed by LICE - Ludicrously Implausible Currency Exchanges - and he had come to earth to find a cure. All over his planet political leaders were neglecting their duties in order to indulge their addiction to wads of cash. Most of them had become entirely consumed by their obsession with currency that they were prepared to rubber stamp any proposal, no matter how preposterous, if it came with an envelope of cash. Then they would rush off from one bank to another converting the sum into ever decreasing bundles of foreign exchange. They would change the money hundreds of times, sometimes frittering away the entire sum in commission.

Not even the greatest minds on their planet could cure this contagious and utterly destructive pathology. But they had identified a neuro-virus, FF77, which seemed to be the cause.

Mr Ahern's kidnapper told him that life for his people was now miserable because infrastructural projects were built at random, instead of linking up. Great Bridges spanned over perfectly flat, dry plains. Railway tracks criss-crossed the landmasses, but there were no trains. Magnificent highways were built that lead nowhere. Giant housing projects sprouted miles from shops or factories. Vast new hospitals lay overstaffed but under-equipped, while old ones were overcrowded and understaffed. Nothing it seemed worked right anymore.

Desperate for a solution they came to earth. And their high powered Gene Scanner found that certain members of Fianna Fáil might be immune to FF77. If only they could provde it and identify the gene. They would test Mr Ahern's resistance to LICE by injecting him with minute amounts of FF77. If he didn't develop the full blown pathology, he might be their saviour.

They would pre-progam a number of businessmen to inundate him with brown envelopes for apparently no reason. And friends would show up with cash for houses which hadn't been bought. The idea was to see if Mr Ahern would question the gifts. His kidnappers fervently hoped that he would, so that his genes might be a clue to save their civilisation.

And so he was returned to earth and the experiment began. He woke up at daybreak, in the alley near Fagan's. He brushed himself down, but felt exhausted (they told him later he had travelled a thousand light years) so he skipped over to St Luke's to nap.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two years later he was abducted again in similar circumstances. He had tried so hard to suppress his previous experience, by tucking it back with other hidden traumatic memories, that he had almost forgotten. But here again was the orb, the lights, and his alien abductors.

They told Bertie in downbeat tones that the experiment had failed. He wasn't resistant. He had accepted the cash. Left, right and centre. No offers were refused, no matter how the circumstances seemed to breach normal ethical codes. Worse was to come. They told him that he had developed an advanced strain of the disease, which they called Accute Monetary Amnesia. Not only had he ran around the banks changing currencies, but of this he had retained only the vaguest memory.

The aliens would now have to continue their search by visiting another planet. As for Bertie, he would be released unharmed in Drumcondra. But there remained a risk that he would spread the horrid contagion to others and that earth too would succumb to the misery which ravaged Yehguah.

A silence fell on the hearing room as Mr Ahern concluded his story. He bowed his head. A handful of supporters in the public gallery began to applaud.

Standards in Public Office Commission Ok With Ahern Cash

Apparently the SPOC has stated that it finds "no basis on which to initiate an investigation [of Aherns cash payments] under the Ethics in Public Office Acts 1995 and 2001." Their statement was short and came without explaining why.

As I wrote in a previous post, the wave of public interest in political integrity has long washed over. In its wake it leaves nothing but apathy and indifference towards the whole question of ethics in office. This is why the opposition parties covered their eyes during the election campaign when Bertie's cash story reached farcical levels of implausibility. And I suspect that the SPOC have noted the public pulse on the issue and have decided they too just don't want to go there.

For it is indeed extraordinary that SPOC have nothing to say about a finance minister who received bags of cash from a businessman a few days before he expected to become Taoiseach. The most common line you hear in the street about Ahern is that he is as dodgey as Haughey ever was. Personally, I don't think that is anywhere close to the mark, but it illustrates that his actions, and his lack of clarity surrounding them, have undermined public confidence in Irish government.

How can the SPOC remain silent when the code of ethics which they are established to police says this:

1. Members must, in good faith, strive to maintain the public trust placed in them, and exercise the influence gained from their membership of Dáil Éireann to advance the public interest. (my emphasis - clearly Ahern in breach)

2. Members must conduct themselves in accordance with the provisions and spirit of the Code of Conduct and ensure that their conduct does not bring the integrity of their office or the Dáil into serious disrepute. (my emphasis - clearly Ahern in breach)

11. Members must co-operate with all Tribunals of Inquiry and other bodies inquiring into matters of public importance established by the Houses of the Oireachtas. ( through selective amnesia, changing his story and holding off info, clearly Ahern in breach.)

The allegations against Ahern aren't that he did favours for money. But they do compromise his own integrity and that of the office he held. Yet he can joke about Man U tickets at the Tribunals, turning the whole thing into a charade,

But SPOC are holding their counsel. They know that after a brief spell in retreat after Beef and McCracken, the Irish weakness for the odd wink and nod has grown back like a noxious weed. . Something in the Irish pysche renders us immune to the argument that effective democracy requires transparency and integrity. Some little fault in our hearts leaves us with an incurable soft spot for cute hoors and brass necks - precisely the kind of vermin that are thriving again in Mayo, Tipperary, and, in all probability, the very core of our political system.

So SPOC, please. When you return to your offices tomorrow bring a stash of boxes, and pack up your files and your gear, for you are wasting your time and, worse still, our money.

Airline Economics at Dublin Airport

David McWilliams has observed, both in the Indo and in his new book, that Dublin airport is remarkable that it is a place where all classes mix. Rich and poor, both are there sharing the same endless queue. In fact, this phenomenon is typical of airports in all developed countries. The more interesting question is why is this the case? Why has the air transport market not adapted to customer preferences for varying quality levels at different prices?

Some might argue that in fact that this has already happened. There are business class seats and airport lounges for those who pay more. But for short routes many airlines, such as Aer Lingus, have dropped business class entirely. The success of low cost airlines has pushed the likes of Aer Lingus to streamline and mimic their rivals. Why then has the low cost, no frills option been so successful?

Is the air travel market mostly made up of individuals whose primary concern is price? Clearly this is not the case. Mr McWilliams talks of rich and poor at the airport. The wealthier travellers are what economists might call infra-marginal consumers, who would be prepared to pay a higher price than the current market price if they could be guaranteed a higher quality of service.

For short trips, however, the key component of higher quality of service is not a free meal but a service which avoids painful delays at the airport. The trouble is that the level of service would have to be guaranteed, not sporadic. Many of the factors which cause delay -- bad weather, air traffic control, busy runways, badly run airports -- are outside the control of the airline.

Worse still, the spillover effects from other less punctual airlines can hurt an airline which tries to do better. Another factor is that the higher load rates and higher aircraft utilisation, pushed to the limit by low cost operators, mean there is less availability in the system to 'borrow' a plane when one of your own fails. All of these mean that an airline would need to bloat its costs significantly to attempt to provide a better service.

An airline which differentiates itself on punctuality would have to market itself as such, but owing to factors outside its control, it couldn't really guarantee a better service. The market will not tolerate a high end product unless it is consistent. In the end, therefore, the Airlines revert to the no frills model and everyone is bunched together. Hence the extraordinary diversity on view at Dublin airport.

"Sonnano Kankeinei" arsa Bertie-san

Sonnano Kankeinei is a Japanese term I came across in a New York Times article about the Japanese prime minister who has resigned amid allegations of financial misdeeds. It means "so what? I don't care". It struck me as perfectly apt for the attitude of certain other premier who was asked about the money he admits taking from businessmen in the 90s. Far from acknowledging the damage done to his democracy by cash flowing from business to ministers, the PM in question, said if he'd known it would cause him so much grief he'd have preffered a few season tickets to his beloved Man U. No hint that he saw what was wrong in principle, he went on to ask, what was a few tens of thousands to a finance minister anyway? His way of saying Sonnano Kankeinei.

Pleaaaase Wrap up these 'kin Tribunals

For a long time I was a fan of the Tribunals. I was in the camp which claims that, though costly, these fora are purging our democracy of the vile blight of corruption. But as the Mahon Tribunal gears up to celebrate its 10th anniversary on 7th November, the twin burden of fatigue and disillusionment has gotten the better of me.

First it was beef. Goodman. Burke. O'Malley. Reynolds. Export Credit Insurance. Tax payers money effectively flowing into Goodman's Pockets. Then it was planning. Then it was communications. Later it was the Gardaí. Then it was planning again. McCracken, Mahon, Barr, Moriarty. Dunne, Haughey. Remember all that?

And it went on and on and on. Meanwhile the lawyers laughed their way in and out of Dublin Castle daily, heaping one fortune upon the next. Thousands per day, even when they aren't around to do anything. And one Tribunal spawned another like some horrid bacteria. And still the Lawyers came, and spoke in stern tones, and laughed their way to even more extraordinary wealth than before.

The cost of these inane circuses is clear enough, it is huge. But the benefits amount to little or nothing. The political class, wounded for a while, has recovered its utter contempt for accountability and transparency. The initially reasonable Freedom of Information Act was gutted once confidence returned. Party funding went on the agenda then quietly slipped away. And the likes of Flynn and Lowry powered home to massive majorities. Bertie and his FF cronies have neither an ounce of humility between them nor a shred of integrity. And sadly, Tribunalled out, the public have given up and want nothing more of government than their taxes cut. So low was the public appetite for discourse around integrity that opposition parties looked away when the Taoiseach's money bags crashed out of the wardrobe a fornight before the general election. And now he's back dithering and forgetting and hesitating.

Even if Bertie Ahern did nothing wrong, and even if he was merely going along with the culture of the time, he could at least be expected to stand up and say, well, I did nothing wrong but I affirm my belief that integrity is central to high office and transparency is the lifeblood of democracy. As we move forward we will see to it that safeguards are put in place to prevent the kind of rot that has dogged our body politic in the past.

But the effectiveness of the Tribunals can be guaged by this: can you imagine those words being spoken by the man we have just elected as Taoiseach for the Third time? (yes I know we don't select Taoiseach but he was party leader).

In the final analysis, the real beneficiaries of the Tribunal were the lawmen, the media, and, more tragically corruption itself. For it will blossom now among a politcal class who knows that the Tribunals have defeated our embryonic attempts at pouring domestos into the political system. From here on, the scum can thrive.