Bóthar are at it again.

The latest ads on the radio have Miley rabbiting (goating, in-calf-heifering, guinea fowling etc.) on about Bóthar’s Valentine’s Day appeal.

What next? Paddy’s Day appeal. Washing Day appeal. Bath Night appeal. All-Ireland Final day appeal. NCT due day appeal.

Now I’ve nothing against charities. I support the Brewers Droop Research Fund, Nuke the Whale Already.org, How to Dismember an Atomic Kitten Adult Education Programme, and many more. But these guys are pushing it.

They are in big danger of losing their bóthar-cred this time. Any man with the balls to present his beloved with a gift from Bóthar this Valentine’s Day will not be using said balls for a very, very long time.

Seeing as her Ladyship has gone over to the light-side for the week … well, hopefully it will be only a week … let’s all get in on the act. So here’s something to keep you all oh-ing, and ah-ing, and generally feeling fluffy:

MacKozer has volunteered a link to his real photoblog. Ireland (and Scotland) like you’ve never imagined.

Two days ago my ISP’s main mast was the victim of a lightning strike. The backhaul transceiver was fried at a cost of €34k. Repair or replacement will take days yet. After a lot of hard work and a lot of technical innovation a temporary link to the backbone was up and running last night. I’m online again. A bit slow, but it works.

The funny thing is, I didn’t really miss it. Ok, there were a few whimpers when my phone beeped with new-mail alerts. And a bit of whinging when I couldn’t get the morning prices for yesterday’s Thyestes Chase. And a bit of sweet talking to be done when a client called about why I hadn’t mailed the promised estimates. And a bit of wondering about what was happening in blogland.

But overall I didn’t fret. I am not addicted to the Internet!

That just leaves caffeine, documentaries, horse racing, The Green Wing, Today FM, the dog, my mobile, newspapers, Heidi Talbot’s new album, local gossip, PC World, Guinness, the weather, stew … Fek! 1 out of millions isn’t great.

I was hoovering hair out of the fridge yesterday and I got to thinking. Not just that the cat-flap was a bad idea but about other things too. Like how we are now having to import phrases and nicknames for things.

In the Indo today there’s an article about Chelsea Tractors. The closest any Indo reader is going to get to Chelsea is watching soccer on the telly. Show them a map and they wouldn’t be able to point it out. Why can’t we just call them jeeps like we used to? Or better still come up with our own term.

We used to be great at that. Especially the Dubs. Remember the Molly Malone statue became the Tart with the Cart within nanoseconds of being unveiled. The Fluzzie in the Jacuzzi. The Spike. The Daniel Day.

The new Kildare County Council offices in Naas are known as Windowlene. (See the pic and you’ll know why). There’s the Magic Roundabout in Cork.

Dubs who move to the country are called Dulchies. The two new, predominately Dublin inhabited, housing estates near me are called the Occupied Territories.

In the land of Pure Mule the favoured pint is Red Diesel.

We don’t have Chavs. We have Skangers. Skangers arriving back in Dublin airport from their annual pilgrimage to Lanzarote are known as JIFs.

I’m okay with jeep. I’ll tolerate SUV at a push because I can say things like ’shove yer Suv’. But lads, Chelsea Tractors? Chelsea fekin Tractors. No way José (Mourinho or any other José).

Com’on. We need our own name for these yokes. Ideas please.

The Environmental Protection Agency released the National Waste Report for 2005 on January 11. A percentage of this kind of stuff went to a percentage of these places … blah, blah, blah … until it all added up to 100. I hate percentages. Well, not all. Just 74% of them.

Apparently it was all good news and the message was driven home by colourful government sponsored newspaper ads the following week telling us that our glorious government had reached our glorious government’s 2013 recycling target a glorious 8 years ahead of schedule. Mao would have been proud.

35% of our waste was recycled boasted the ad. But hold on. The EPA report actually said 35% of municipal waste. Only 23% of household waste (the smelly stuff) was recycled. Look at it the other way - 77% of household rubbish went to landfill sites.

Keep holding on. Why was the target 35%? Why not 90, or 100%? Set low enough, any target is achievable.

Many countries, such as New Zealand, have a target of 0% waste being incinerated or going to landfill. While it may not be possible in the real world, it is a worthy goal.

Much of what Irish householders send for recycling is actually unable to be processed. Like any industrial process, recycling costs money. If the expense involved is greater than the return then it’s just not done. A plastic or TetraPak milk container that is not thoroughly washed and the cap removed will likely be diverted to landfill. Unwashed = organic waste. Still capped = two types of plastic or plastic plus cardboard. The machines cannot separate them and it simply does not pay to have an operator do it.

How many of us know this? The booklet from my local authority said caps and wrappers on containers were to be removed. But not why they had to be. Explain the reasons for doing something and people will comply more readily. Oh, and the booklet wasn’t recycling-friendly either bacuase of the staples.

Furthermore, that vast majority of what is recyclable goes abroad for processing thereby depriving our economy of the benefits.

Our glorious government has little to boast about. If I reached a ridiculously low target for something and failed miserably to tackle the real problem, I would not be placing ads in the papers drawing attention to my shortcomings. I’d keep my mouth shut and my head down … 100% and 100% of the time respectively.

The Irish Blog Awards came up in conversation over a few pints.

“They’re all meeting up in a big hotel in Dublin, it said in the paper”, offered Liam the taxi man (who knows things). “A bit like the Oscars, or a debs. Twenty Benson won a load of yokes last year”.

“Ah, would ya fek off”, says Pat the Hurler (so called for his lack of golfing prowess). “Shur they can’t meet up. They’re not real people. They don’t really exist”.

“Couldn’t exist”, agrees Fifty (who lives in number 49, but it’s an end house with a big garden). “I never heard of anyone being called Twenty. That’s thick”.

“Well the fares I carried last year were real people”.

“Then they were just stand-ins or something. Like actors. It’s all just made up like the rest of the stuff on the internet”, explains Fifty.

“Jayzez, you could be right now that I think of it. Shur didn’t some Rafter fella with a beard collect the prize on behalf of Twenty Benson the last time. On-beee-haaalf-of. He must’ve been an actor. Your man Benson probably doesn’t exist”.

Then the conversation moved on to the more important topic of whether a screwdriver or a pliers would be better for unlodging the two euro coin that’s been jammed under the skirting for weeks now.

Now I know for a fact that I don’t exist. I know because I made myself up. I don’t know about other bloggers though. Maybe they made themselves up too, or paid someone to make them up. But I did have to agree with the lads in the end – a screwdriver would be best.