Ha! I knew that’d get your attention. Is there a queue to read this? With Old Knudsen at the front.

Well it’s not what you think. Well not really.

Sam, being the problem child she is, asked a question in the comments of my previous post.

“Tits and arse is all yee think about.”
What percentage of your attraction to a woman would you say was down to tits and arse, and what percentage personality? I’m not having a go - I don’t happen to believe all men are yahoos completely in thrall to their willies. I’m just interested is all. I think all we women want to know that.

Whether this is a battle of the sexes or a battle of the body parts is up to yourself. I’m just dragging it out in the open - her question may never be seen buried in comments, along with a reply from Eolaí (I’ve manually added it to this post’s comments).

For me it’s eyes. The eyes say it all. I’m not talking about deep brown ones, sparkling green ones, bright blue ones - I admit they can be like spanners and make my nuts tighten. I’m talking about reading they eyes. The spark. The life. One look into the eyes and you know if there’s interest and attraction. If there’s joy, wit, intelligence, caring. You name it. You can meet the best tits and arse genetics ever put together, but if the eyes are dead you run for your life.* Okay, an extreme example, but check out Paris Hilton’s eyes - they are soulless, lifeless, dead.

What do you think? Maybe Sam’s question can’t be answered. Maybe it’s just down to taste. The only thing we knew for sure about Henry Porter is that his name wasn’t Henry Porter. Sorry, had to throw that in - today’s Bob Dylan’s birthday.

*Well, maybe a quick shag, then run for your life.

- Primally wimally woo.

- What? What now?

- Nothin’. Just looking at the back of your paper. What’s a Sarko?

- Eh, Nicolas Sarkozy is the new president of France. Now go away - I’m reading the front of my paper. If you’d stop talking just for the sake of making noise, I’d get to read the rest of it.

- Oh, grumpy woompy woo today aren’t we. You’d no problem putting down your paper to talk to her earlier on.

- Did it ever cross your mind she might have something to say that’s worth hearing?

- Yeah, right. What would she have to talk about? All she sees is this place day in day out. And anyway, her English is shite.

- Her English is improving rapidly. Her French is good. Her Russian excellent. Best of all, her German is fluent, so if we’re having difficulty we switch to that. She has a masters in economics and European trade and has been accepted for a Ph.D. The money she’ll make here will help a lot with that. She is a qualified showjumping instructor and competed at international level. She makes great pottery and takes brilliant photographs. She is a self-taught web designer. She has read books I struggled with. She has travelled more than I have. You, on the other hand, are a full-time shop assistant and part-time bar worker and have never done anything else. You look at the pictures in Hello magazine and go to the Canaries once a year. No contest!

- It’s just because she’s pretty.

- Oh, yee gods, give me patience! This is déjà moo.*

- It’s just because you fancy her. You’re trying to get into her knickers.

- Hardly. I’m nearly old enough to be her father.

- She’s not that hot anyway. I’ve got bigger boobs.

- True. And a bigger ego. Pity your IQ doesn’t pass the double-A mark.

- Men! Yee’re all the same. Yez treat women like meat. Tits and arse is all yee think about.

- Well what I’m thinking about right now, is that you should get your tits off the counter, your arse in gear, go do some work and let me finish my paper before it turns into yesterday’s.

* The feeling you’ve heard this bullshite before.

Half way through the thing, folks. So I’ve come up for air. Two down, two to go. Then finito - that means finished in Soprano. Well there’ll be something else to do, but it’ll be spread over 5 months - call it a t h i i i i i i i i i i i g.

Ah grand, thanks. It’s going grand.

Well except for today. Firstly there was a serious outbreak of construction over at the neighbours. Far enough away that the dog couldn’t see. The last thing I need is for the dog to get done for arseny or whatever biting builders’ bums is called. He’s normally well behaved. Only a few barking tickets to date. Harmless. But when people move about shouting (as builders and boy bands do) he just freaks.

So what was wrong? They had some bloody machine ticking over all morning. Just ticking over. A low slow hum that was driving me and the dog scatty. The postman couldn’t hear it nor could the woman next door. I must have the hearing of a dog. It would explain why I come when called. And the lamppost thing. And why I’m barred from the local shop for sneaking up behind women rummaging about at the bottom of the ice cream freezer.

It was stressing me out big time. So much so that when an ambulance sped past, lights flashing and siren blaring, into a house down the road, I clicked on BreakingNews.ie on the toolbar. When I realised what I’d done I still didn’t come to my senses. All I could think was fek it, I can’t spare the time for a funeral this week of all weeks. Oh, it’s alright, relax, no-one died - Pádraig just went a bit funny again - he’s been like that since the missis ran off with his cousin, Maura.

Sitting outside the Hall of Pain this afternoon waiting to do the thing, I got talking to a hippe type. I enquired, as is compulsory I’m told, what she was studying. Theology and classical music. Nice mix, I said, trying to get a Handel on the Messiah eh? I’ve never been reported to a supervisor by a nun before. No sense of humour some of these god-squad crowd.

Anyway, that’s it for now. I shouldn’t/won’t (probably will though) post again for a week or so. There’s too much happening elsewhere in blogland to keep everyone busy: Kav’s non-post; Sweary’s new style - sporadicism (my new word); Bock’s new site - which is the mutt’s marbles; Eolaí’s losing his cool - and rightly so; Annie’s posting regularly - though she probably doesn’t realise it; Stephen’s (of the god-squad too, but has a great sense of humour) posted for the first time since finding Barack O’Bama’s ancestor; ah, here, just check out my blog-picks thingy.

For regular readers: This is a temporary disruption to the temporary disruption to service … because something is really bugging me.

Last year I had a visit from a local County Council official as part of Minister Dick Roche’s clean up of the electoral register. I invited her in, made tea and laid out some nice biscuits. She was cute. But as well as that, I wanted to finally get my family’s records straight.

Okay, I said, see this woman here on your list. Well that’s my mum. She’s been dead nine years now. I’ve written to, and emailed the Council in the run up to every election and referendum to tell them this. I’ve filled out forms. I’ve phoned them. Yet she’s still on the list. Can you finally put this right?

Sure, she said, writing deceased beside the name with her biro and a custard cream.

While we’re on the subject, I added, this man here. My father. He died the summer gone, so you can mark him off too and save me wasting bits and bytes and bandwidth trying to tell the Council.

Deceased was marked on her list in blue ink and dark chocolate.

Now to me, I said sitting back. I could sense her thinking this could take a while and having a slight panic attack at the thoughts of the bikkies running out.

I want to be taken off the list that’s made available to marketing companies. This is something else I’ve been trying to get the Council to do since cosmetics were called make-up. Done, she said, all pleased with her efficiency.

Then the tone changed. I knew this would happen - were down to a broken custard cream and plain digestives.

I have a question for you: You are on my list as Mr. Sneeze, in the townland of Knockadollie, Ballybeag. But we are sitting here in the townland of Knockanudder, Ballymor. Can you explain that?

Ah, I explained, it’s really simple: This is the only house on the road in Knockanudder. The Ballymor postman would have to come all the way over here for just one house. But the Ballybeag lad passes the door. So years ago, the P&T (yes, it was that long ago), decided the sensible thing to do would be for us to use a postal address of Knockadollie. Clear?

Eh, yeah. I think. Soooo, which would you prefer on the register?

At this stage, she was down to licking the wrappers so I knew she wouldn’t stay any longer, and rather than saying it didn’t matter, which might prolong things, I just said, Knockadollie’s fine.

Grand so. I’ll look after all of this. You’ve been very helpful. Thanks for your time. Oh, and the bikkies were lovely.

To make a long story longer, this week, polling cards arrived for both my parents. I got junk mail for Readers Digest. And to cap it all, I got two polling cards for myself - one for the polling station in Ballymor and one for Ballybeag.

There are now three cards, surplus to requirements, and a prize-draw entry sitting on the hall table. Any takers?

So much for Dick Roche’s big clean up. And as for the Council official - well she really took the biscuit.

ps. Normal temporary disruption now resumed.

pps. New blogroll category added to the side bar: Useful Links. First one is an Irish language spell-checker for Mozilla (Firefox/Thunderbird). Cool! Bock, Eolaí, MacKozer - you guys will love this.

For the next two weeks there will be a cessation of postings by muggins here. I’ll be back with a vengeance after that, so don’t adjust your set. I have to go do the thing. It being the time of year for doing the thing and all. Thankfully, this will be the last time ever … unless I really screw it up.

I’ll still be checking in on your sites to see what’s happening and I might just do the odd post if something really stirs me. And Mo Rogha will be updated each Sunday morning as per usual.

In the meantime, so you don’t get bored, I’ve set up a Playground where you can hang out and lash comments at each other to your hearts’ content.

I just realised, my return will coincide with polling day! Don’t read too much into that - I’m not taking time out to run for election. Although, that mightn’t be a bad idea  - The hoors who are running are all about as useful as a snooze button on a smoke alarm.

Has anyone else noticed how many Irish people drop the four or five foreign words they remember from school into conversations with foreigners? And have you noticed they are always in the wrong language? A German will get bonjour and gracias. A Spaniard will get guten tag and merci. A Frenchman will get hola and danke. Latvian, Lithuanian, Polish - well, they get all of the above and maybe a go raibh maith agat thrown in.

In fairness, the Polish, being here in such numbers, do a little better. They get a cześć sometimes. If it weren’t pronounced chest, it would count as the sole occasion the correct language is used.

I think the Polish barman in my local has gotten used to it now. He’s stopped wetting himself every time a customer says danke. Although it may be due to the owner’s policy that the floor remain dry for safety reasons. I’ll get back to you on this.

Noel was in the pub on Saturday. Now Noel is not one for reading beyond the soccer headlines. His favourite joke is the one about the similarity between a battery and a woman’s butt. (It was funny the first time). He has his talents though - he can wire a plug in 6 seconds flat. Which is a useful skill given that he’s an electrician. He can also do the crossword in The Mirror in less than two hours. That is despite filling in stool for item used by an artist and heffer for young female cow, he manages to make everything fit.

Tadek held his water that afternoon although Noel insisted on paying for his pints with a cheery danke schön, das ist gut. Actually, it was more like tankie shoon, das ist good.

Pubs are like crèches - the conversation can switch from one subject to another in milliseconds for no apparent reason. Someone mentioned Cadbury’s Cream Eggs which led to Ireland’s entry in the Eurovision - They Can’t Stop The Spring, to be performed (in capital letters it would seem) by Dervish. Noel was in his element now. He knows all about Dervish and with beaming pride he explained to Tadek that he shouldn’t worry if he couldn’t understand the lyrics. They are in Irish and no-one, not even the Irish understand them.

Poor Noel not only has a problem with foreign languages, he also seems to have difficulty with the two spoken on this island.