At 11:00 I was having lunch. Tuna in mayonnaise with sweetcorn on brown bread. The bread was home-made by a company that pretends to be a little old lady. The rest was away-made by fish, fowl and farmers.

It was gorgeous. So much so it made me feel guilty. You know. All the starving children. In the crèche in the village. They don’t get lunch until 12:30 the poor little mites.

Ah yes. The kiddies. The Irish Times was fretting about them too. Its Education Today section was in Tuesday’s edition. The Noticeboard carried information about upcoming events of interest to those about to leave school - an open day at the Racing Academy and Centre of Education for anyone thinking of a career in horse racing. There was even a URL for the RACE website. Fair play to the IT - it is not so long ago the same piece would have read something like more details available on the RACE website, with no link. Find it if you can.

Such a pity though these kids can’t access the Education Today section without paying a subscription fee.

The IT seems caught in a Lanigan’s Ball loop of stepping out then stepping back in again when it comes to technology.

At times, it meets new challenges with foresight and vigour, as it did many years ago when they it became the first Irish newspaper to launch an online presence. Then it shoots itself in that same foot that it struck out so confidently, as it did when it began charging for its online content.

Recently the IT admitted its website is struggling to break even. Surprise, surprise.

Madam

If you provide content for free the advertisers will be lining up in droves to give you their money. Even if you only open the archives you’ll make a killing.

Yours etc.

The Sneeze

The IT never seems to realise the commercial value of the Internet. Perhaps they fear the Internet. Or they simply don’t understand it.

On the one hand, it has some of the best technology writers in Karlin Lillington, Danny O’Brien and Mike Butcher. On the other, it has Colin Murphy saying things that many bloggers like to share their thoughts on politics, the media, popular culture and their toilet habits.

The Irish Times’ editorial policy on, and understanding of, blogging is confusing to say the least. Wednesday’s edition carried an opinion piece on Taoiseach Brian Cowen’s Irish language policy, written by none other than the blogger An Spailpín Fánach. The Education Section on Tuesday had some Leaving Cert related snippets entitled Blog tales which had quotes from leaving-cert.net (a blog authored by three eloquent school-goers), walsho.net (an equally eloquent one-manstudent blog) and, get this, boards.ie. Yes! boards.ie! boards.ie! Since when are message boards blogs? Is an IM an email? Is a magazine a newspaper? No. They might share a certain traits but they are not the same.

To further confuse matters, the IT hosts very popular blogs by three of its own journalists: Jim Carroll’s On the Record, Shane Hegarty’s Present Tense and Conor Pope’s Price Watch. Yet Conor’s column in the print edition invites readers to offer feedback, with options like phone, post, email or blog it! * So leaving a comment on Conor’s blog makes one a blogger? Eh, no. If that were the case then writing a letter to the editor would make one a journalist.

I cannot help but suspect that The Irish Times is deliberately muddying the waters in order to distract the non-tech-savvy from blogs. Who do they think they are fooling? I don’t care if the little old lady who makes my bread is actually a company if it tastes good - though it would be nice if they admitted it. I don’t care if the IT source a quote from a message board if it’s worth reading - though it would be nice if they didn’t call the source a blog.

Why are they bothering anyway? The bread complements the tuna perfectly. Neither are as good on their own.

* That could be blog on.

That’s enough isn’t it? I can stop now?

Last week was one of those weeks where seven days weren’t enough to get through all that had to be done. One of those weeks when I’m make a plan of action for the day at 5, and by 7 it would be all changed. I hate that. I hate that as much as I hate leaving voice mail. Yeah, that much.

It’s not like me be disorganised like that. I’m not that kind of spanner. No sir, I’m the kind of spanner who plans everything meticulously and beats himself up if he doesn’t produce the goods before the deadline. So why did I allow things go awry?

Well, money mainly. See, most of what needed doing last week was for myself or free gratis for others. But to survive a week of doing stuff for nothing you need money. Money puts beer on the counter, milk in the hotpress and fresh towels in the fridge - the latter two are usually a result of too much of the former. So when billable jobs came in, I went at them like a pig at a spud.

One of those was on the Monday. I spent an hour with a client making a list of maintenance work she wanted done. I ended the meeting with my standard two questions: When do you need this done by? Any item(s) on the list you would like done before then? Her answers were this day week and none. Fine.

Tuesday morning, she mailed me asking can we get that done today? Now my normal reply would be something along the lines of as sure as there is hair on your balls, girl, we can. But this time I agreed. Fresh towels in the fridge remember. So Tuesday was lost, but I had a cheque in my hand on Wednesday. I bought milk for the hotpress.

The free gratis work was mainly for a family member. Recently home after a long stay in Scrubs and now with a permanent feeding tube, there was much to be done in that house. Collecting and making space for a month’s supply of 2l plastic containers of food. Learning how to use new electronic gadgets. Disposing of utensils that could no longer be used. Organising medication in liquid form. Swabs to stop an unused mouth drying out. Creams to prevent unused lips chapping. More trips to the chemist than a methadone patient.

Walls chipped by the guys delivering the new equipment to be repaired and repainted. Furniture to be moved to make room for a new, and much larger, wheelchair. TVs to be remounted to suit the new furniture layout.

Other, seemingly minor, worries to be sorted. The Council have changed the refuse collection from weekly to fortnightly and the recycle one from monthly to fortnightly too. (Saving themselves 12 trips per year while telling the public of the improved service). But the empty food containers are not accepted by them for recycling so they have to go in the regular bin which will be filled in a week. Work out a way to get rid of the rest of the empties for me, will ya. (I intend delivering them in person to the County Council office foyer - I’ll let you know what happens. If I’m not jailed).

The whole week was a mess. I didn’t get half of my own stuff done. So on Friday I popped by to see my little buddies, Sean and Oisín, for some chill out time. They always cheer me up. Mam and Dad wanted to pop out for a while - would I mind staying with the lads? No problem. Just back from a short holiday they needed to do some food shopping. Don’t forget milk for the hotpress, I warned.

After a big feed of sticky goo, a dribble of puke and a satisfying belch, Oisín nodded off on his mat, dreaming of boobs or whatever it is babies dream of. Seán, exhausted from protecting me from swipers (?) with a light-sabre, drifted off on the couch, probably dreaming of his new hobby, digging up worms.

I booted up Mam’s laptop to see what I’d been missing in blogland. I read Eolaí’s post about his son. I looked over at the two sleeping terrors. A shiver ran down my spine at the thoughts of being denied access to them. They aren’t my kids but it would break my heart not to be able to see them again. I can only imagine what it would be like if they were mine. I can only imagine what Eolaí’s going through.

Putting things in perspective, I had a great week in comparison. Last week’s to-do list is now this week’s to-do list, but so what. If things go well, I’ll get something done. There may even be beer on the counter come Friday. Whether there is or not, I can always drop by to get intoxicated by the antics of my two little buddies. Eolaí has had sobriety forced upon him.

My mobile rang. I knew it was the vet - they always speak in italics.

Good morning, Mr. Sneeze. I’m calling about Anonycat.

I had the feeling this would be a long call so I switched into mobile-mode and began pacing the room alternating the phone between ears.

This might take some time. Are you in mobile-mode?

I told her I was and she could continue.

Well, we got the tests back from the lab and I’m afraid Anonycat has feline immunodeficiency virus - FIV.

I did some quick alphabetical calculations. F·I·V + 2·0·0 = H·I·V. The fekin cat’s going to die of a big disease with a little name?

Well, yes and no, Mr. Sneeze. Yes, he has AIDS, but he won’t necessarily die. But he will have a big problem fighting off any infections he gets. And speaking of fighting, any cuts and wounds he gets will take ages to heal.

Plus he’ll infect every other cat for miles?

Well, some are already infected. That would have been how he got it.

That’s three wells in a row, I said, doing some more alphabetical calculations.

Well, four if you count this one. I would recommend he be euthanased.

Right so. Pop the kitten’s mittens then.

And it would be best alert all neighbouring cat owners.

What? You want me to walk around the neighbourhood telling everyone there’s an AIDS outbreak in my household? I will in my womb!

Well, they’ll find out anyway. See. It’s on your blog already.

I don’t like Fridays. I hate Fridays. Fridays are when people remember what they needed done during the week but forgot to ask about. They clear their desks of that niggly chore that’s been on their to-do list since Monday and swamp mine. Friday gone was no different and I was running around like a blue bottomed member of the family diptera. Running around and worrying that Friday beer-time was slipping away. Beer-time didn’t happen. Friday should be Funday not Fukday.

Saturday was no better. A call from the builder. A truck would be arriving to take away his portacabin. Could I dismantle the temporary gates to let it drive straight in so as not to rip up the newly laid yard surface? Of course, Bob, right away, I replied. (I call the builder Bob because that’s his name). As I hung up, I heard the truck. Already in the yard. Doing 27-point turns and churning the hardcore into a badly ploughed field.

Driver! I yelled. Stop! Stop! Don’t go into the … garden. Too late. Now I had a yard fit to grow spuds in and a 40t truck planted 30cm deep in muck. Christ did you not heard me shouting? Did you not see me waving at you to stop? I’ll get out no bother once the weight of the portacabin is on the back.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. The only thing to do was to flag down a passing truck and hope it could pull him out. The first two sped by, the drivers averting their eyes. No way were they getting involved. The third stopped. Howya? Howya gettin’ on? Grand mornin’. Mild one isn’t it. It is alright. A right one. Listen. Could ya give yer man a tug out? No English. No speak English. Peadar Murphy, now seeing the carnage, suddenly became Pavel Murkowski and drove off.

The fourth truck obliged and the 40t was harvested. I stood by with a spade and waterhose to help clean the wheels. I didn’t get a chance. Both drivers pulled out onto the road and sped away with more muck flying than you’d see at the Mahon Tribunal. I spent the next half hour scraping up sods and tossing them over the hedge, all the while being angrily honked at by the very speeding motorists I was trying to prevent crashing. Wankers!

That afternoon I realised no mail from my Topmail account had been arriving for weeks. (With about 12 email accounts, it is easy not notice one isn’t working. I’m right, amn’t I?) Tomail is an ultra secure system and the latest enhancement, it would seem, has made it too secure. Once fixed, 40 odd mails popped into my inbox. Some odder than others.

I’d missed a monster thread about drinks the night before some awards thing or other. I’d missed a mail from the Hallowed Halls of Bockschloβ about some awards thing or other. I’d missed an incredibly well researched mail from Towers gan Fhéile, listing all the transport options I would have to and from drinks the night before some awards thing or other, should I wish to partake. I’d missed a mail from Castillo del Niña Problemo reminding me about lunch the day after some awards thing or other. There was only time for some hasty replies and apologies, then I rushed off to an evening in the company of Oisín and his older brother, Seán. All going well, I would get time for more replies and maybe catch some coverage of some awards thing or other after I got them to sleep.

A slow waltz around the kitchen with Oisín in my arms usually does the trick. Not tonight. While I was doing my best Fred Astaire, Oisín had more of a Riverdance thing going on. But the high kicks, jigs and reels eventually tired him out and 15 minutes later he was sleeping like a teenager.

Seán was availing of his allotted 30 minutes of TV and I availed of the break to browse the paper. I scanned a review by Colin Murphy of Twenty’s book. A great many of these bloggers like to share their thoughts on politics, the media, popular culture and their toilet habits. Many, particularly those interested in the latter, do so under cover of a pseudonym. Do I? Do we? Did I ever mention my toilet habits? Did you? Maybe we should if that’s what’s required of us? I’d have to read more of this.

First, get Seán to bed. The very mention of bed to Seán is like a red rag to a bull. Or worse, a wet rag to an electrician.

[Begin special section for Colin Murphy →

The three-year-old reluctantly made his visit to the toilet; did his business; washed his hands; donned his jammies; brushed his teeth; had to be dissuaded from trying to open a pack of tampons so he could clean his ears; went to bed. He suffered a flash dump minutes later and the whole procedure had to be repeated, with the added thrill of a shower and changing bedclothes this time.

Sorry Mr. Murphy - this is the best I can do for the moment. The next time I have an interesting toilet habit of my own to share, you'll be the first to hear.

← End special section for Colin Murphy]

I had read on Íomhá an Lae that some awards thing or other would be streamed live and decided to check it out. It might be interesting - Íomhá an Lae was up for an award for use of the Irish language, as I was. Why my blog was in that category, I can’t fathom. There were other mysteries to solve too. But I couldn’t access the stream. Not to worry, I might still be meeting the best storyteller the Net has ever seen for lunch the following day and she’d fill me in on proceedings - despite having missed a million mails for same.

On Sunday morning I expectantly donned my glad rags (i.e. a clean shirt) and was about to call her hotel when I got word a family member wasn’t well. The doctor had been. For overseas readers, let me explain that getting a doctor out of hours in Ireland is like owning a mansion - very few are that lucky and those that are pay a fortune for the privilage. Would he have to go to hospital? No. The doctor was against that. From past experience they would poke and prod and try things that would make him worse. Then a week later they would send for his file, read it and announce ah, yes, now that’s what we should have been doing. But there was a prescription to be filled if I didn’t mind. Of course I didn’t.

Now, how to find a pharmacy open on a Sunday. In the nearest town some band together and take it in turns. But they don’t put a sign in the window saying whose turn it is so you just drive around in hope. One always opens. Between 11:00 and 14:00. That was for sure and even though the drugs were needed urgently, I waited until then and was standing outside at 11:00 on the button. They opened promptly at 11:25.

Can I have this in liquid form? He can’t swallow pills the way he is now. The chemist checked the computer and told me the liquid form was only licensed for use in hospitals. Buy why? It’s the same AI, I argued, tabs are no good - he can’t swallow them! What age is the child? Eh, 40. Sorry, tabs is all I can give you. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow when the HSE offices are open. We can apply for an exemption. How long will that take? An hour, a week, a month, never - depends on who answers the phone.

So I came out of there with medication that couldn’t be used, the taxpayer had paid for and damn all faith in the HSE.

I think I deserve an award for worst weekend and you deserve one for perseverance if you’ve managed to read all of this.

Let me ask you this: What do you, the regulars, read when you arrive at this blog? I could ask why, but let’s start with the easy one.

The answer is the latest post(s) and comments. That would make sense - you want to read the latest. Let’s call it the news.

There is a bunch of other junk accessible by the menu at the top of the page: About, FAQ, Mo Rogha etc. Do you / have you read these? The answer is you may have flicked through one or two at some point but seldom, if ever, opened them again. You may check Mo Rogha once a week for an update - for the news. But you don’t want the same stuff rehashed over and over again.

Now what about those of you who come upon this blog for the first time - what do you read? Well, you read the first page of posts, maybe the second. You click randomly on the other junk. Some of you click on a subject of interest in Sneeze Types. Based on this, you decide whether to return or not. Fair enough. You can’t be expected to read every damn thing. It’s not as if you are a judge for some awards thing and have to read everything in case you’d be accused of judging a book by its cover.

How can I say all this? From my stats of course. The trends are clearly visible. Regulars read the news while newcomers read a small sample. Actually, now that I notice it, almost all judges for awards things read exactly the same way as newcomers. But that’s okay, because judges have certain powers that allow them see content through a book’s covers.

My point is this: If you read a blog or newspaper regularly then all that interests you is what’s new - the news. The Irish Independent was slipping for a long time and finally lost my readership when it ran front page stories about the death of someone unknown outside the dinner party circle. To me, this simply was not news.

Following a brief and passionate affair with the Irish Examiner, I decided to settle down and spend the rest of my life with the Irish Times. No, I didn’t love her, but she was the best I could get. I would grow to love her.

Sadly, this relationship is failing too. On Saturday, Madam (as we must address her) announced “major developments”. I won’t bother inserting a link as you need pay an expensive subscription to view the article. Yes, even this article, an advertisement, intended to tell us how great her paper will be, is pay-per-view.

So what are these major development? Basically, magazines and supplements (which are magazines on poor quality paper). Maga-fukin-zines. Every fukin day. As if my recycle bin isn’t already under enough pressure, now Madam wants to burden it with more. Madam, I DO NOT WANT a health magazine. I DO NOT WANT a property magazine. I DO NOT WANT a motors magazine.

I WANT NEWS. I want news from a newspaper. Just like I want news from the blogs I read.

If Madam wants to dish out more fodder for my recycle bin, fine - I’ll work something out. But here’s the insult to the injury: It will cost 10¢ extra Monday through Friday and 30¢ extra on Saturday for all the extra junk I just don’t want. Why can’t I just have a newspaper? If I feel the urge to read a Guide to the 100 Best Wines why I can’t go buy it separately? Once I’ve read it I won’t have to read it again for a year - the interim issues will just be rehashing the same stories.