Life’s Dullest Fact: Its End

brown bread (rip)

In my hometown of Templeogue stands a pub called the Morgue, fifty meters to its left; Massey brothers funeral home. Separating the two is an off-license, a fast food takeaway and a pharmacy. Drink and eat your way to an early (local) grave. Just another musing about one of the plainest part of life; its end.

And that’s what we do, we project fantasies into life’s dullest facts. Mostly, I would say, because we fear it. What greater poetry can you add to the end of life, than claiming that it isn’t really the end? A fascination with an afterlife is a reasonable way of dealing with the inevitable. Valhalla, nirvana, heaven and hell, fantastic concepts of the beyond. Valhalla would be my personal choice, the hedonism associated with the Islamic faith just doesn’t sound like a good party. Virgins, yes, but virgins don’t really make me think ‘eternal bliss and carnal indulgence’, they make me think ‘sex education talks’ and fingering. An eternity of fingering. Not for me.

Death means differing things for me, as does it for everyone, but I share in the cynical acceptance of the finite. The ‘yolo’ that Christopher Hitchens advocated, not the one Twitter spammed into being. My god, the teen pregnancies and drug overdoes’ that must have been spawned from that in-articulation. ‘The greatest trick the devil ever played, was making people believe he didn’t exist’…and the misappropriation of ‘YOLO’. It seems that’s what happens when you squeeze ‘carpe diem’ into a catch phrase, just small enough to fit in giant letters to a hat…on a fat child’s head.

Death, I believe, should be treated with the same amount of time and energy as the concept of Heaven. A beautiful philosophical drink topic, but not one which should consume our daily lives. What’s out of our reach is merely that, and to throw ones arm to catch it, is to grasp at wisp’s of smoke. Intangible, and pointless, amusing and impossible.

The ritual that we have for death, is for the living. A macabre celebration of that same sadness and fear. I fucking hate funerals, I’ve been to too many. But I appreciate the dictum that’s adopted by the elderly. People who speak candidly about it, “sure isn’t it terrible, poor Johns dead”.  The weather is given more weight than death by the elderly because its passive and meaningless to them, its accepted and worried about least. In the short jolt of light between an infinite of darkness, of course the rain matters more. We can feel it, and so it matters most. Checking the freshness of the Brennans bread while making awkward eye contact with shoppers carrying ham in their basket. It must be a thrill, to simply wake up and be alive.


Gay Marriage and which way the Compass points

vote yes



An annotated version of Gay Byrne’s ‘Meaning of life’ television program went viral recently as Stephen Fry gave a speech about why he didn’t believe that God was that good a dude. “How dare [God] create a world where there is so much misery that is not our fault”, Fry’s retorts were succinct and devastating. Gaybo grimacing in the face of some harsh truths was lauded as a brilliant moment of television, but also a great stand against hypocrisy, by many who feel the same antipathy towards the ignorance of organized religion. Fry described the existence of creatures “who’s entire lifecycle is to burrow into the eyes of children and make them blind”; a demon fouler than most in the good book, then blankly asked, “why did [God] do that to us”?


The world felt lighter as the agnostics and atheists collectively jumped out of their couches in excitement, but I found it harder to make the leap. I wholly agreed with Fry, I think he very eloquently voiced what many of us think; but this was no revelation. Not for fry, and not for myself. Fry had appeared in several interviews with that same argument and that same level of wit. He was reaming off a rehearsed truth, which to many seemed like a revelation. Now, had our former president Mary McAleese, when she had appeared on the same show, approached religious hypocrisy with the same level of intellectual courage and show of force, I may have spilled some of tea jolting forward in my chair.


Our former president’s interview was frustrating to watch. A woman who has clearly accomplished so much in her life, an intellectual and a human of great moral command, floundered in obedient frustration when speaking about the church’s view on Women priests. She had sent letters to the Vatican, and had spoken with theologians in an effort to know why women, like herself could not stand as equals with men. It pained me to see a person I respected so much remain faithful to an institution which still, in modern society, practices discrimination while telling us its merely tradition. She held on to her church when she knew it was wrong, when she knew there was no justification for their decision.

Only recently McAleese came out publicly in favour of Gay marriage, opposition to which can be, and should be classed among numerous growing pains that we face, as we emerge from the ‘primordial ooze’ of Catholic Ireland. Why should the endorsement of a base level moral decision come as a surprise to so many? Because of the former president’s irrational affinity with the old gods of the Irish value system, I would imagine.


In a lot of ways, it displayed to me exactly the mental backflips being made by the reasoned and right-minded older generations of our country. Chained to a religious and conservative upbringing their moral compass comes built with a dysfunctional magnet, never allowing their decisions to point forward, but always sideways or backwards. Of course there are those who in their colloquial and Irish air’s say, ‘Well who I am I to say that these people can’t get married’; and that’s one position, one which is acceptable from those ingrained with the dysfunctional compass. We, the energetic, young, hungry and Irish, who fucked our compasses into a river and decided to navigate by the stars, we cannot take ourselves out of this equation as the older generation so politely do. We are, in every literal sense of the word, the men and women who will say if our friends, our brothers, our sisters and peers do have the right to marry. We are the ones who say gay people can be a husband or a wife. We are not impartial, we cannot be, and we cannot allow others to be either. This decision is bigger than ourselves, our local pub talks, GAA teams, our after sessions, our college coffee breaks, the small nucleus cells which swim past one another everyday occupying the same living creature, separated by post codes and TV shows, accents and inflections, we are all bound to the same roads to walk on and the same sea that surrounds us. Ireland is our country, we own its future morality, its politics and its laws. This referendum is the first brick we law down, in the foundation of a state that is truly ours. We can argue and disagree, even tear ourselves apart, but so long as we do it on an equal playing field, where every member of this state we have created has an equal opportunity to tear it down, then we can truly say this country is our own.


The No Campaign’s posters, which litter the poles and street corners of my suburb and Town are a glaring reminder of the morally repugnant elements which still hide in corners of our society. Acting the victim while playing the villain, they complain about being bullied and silenced as though its surprising that when they oppose the word word ‘equality’ we might shout ‘inequality’ back in response. I would have been, for while of the view that ‘we should allow them to hang themselves’, allow the public full view of their idiocy, let the people of this country see for themselves the claw marks they make in a cell of their own invention. Watching a deranged No campaign preacher list off Biblical quotes at the gates of Trinity College, it felt like I was passing a stall in ‘The Life of Brian’. For the brief moment I enjoyed snickering at his eccentricities, then suddenly remembered, even in Python’s satirical film, people still followed the ‘Holy Gourd of Jerusalem’.


We cannot afford to allow the hysterical and the bigoted to take stake in our country. We cannot afford to be pulled backwards into a time that isn’t our own. The past is a foreign place, the future is where we live, where you reading this will live, your vote on May 22nd decides which way the compass points; I hope you join me in finding something better to lead ourselves, than a fucking compass.


#Grá #Tá #VoteYes


Why I smoke (Can’t stop)



When you smoke, you’re slightly more aware of the fact you will be dead, before people who don’t. You know because it’s on the packets, you know because the adds tell you, and show you; and show you again, and again, and again. It makes you more aware of the word ‘mortality’. Sometimes you catch yourself working it into conversations; which makes you look nuts. “What time is it Eoghan, if ya have it?” “The final hour…” (drags deeply). How can you not when you’re being shown versions of yourself in the back garden, having a smoke after dinner while half your body is a skeleton, and little cancerous cartoon people, dressed like Hitler are A-bombing your lungs. You’re fucked. “Smoking Kills”, shit this must be dangerous, this might kill me? Fuck, I’ve smoked them. I must be dead by that logic. Why the fuck am I doing this? Fuck that, no way, it’s not my fault they’ve got me. It’s strange being a smoker.


There’s a comfort in smoking; you sort of have a grasp on what it is that will kill you. Sure it’ll destroy your teeth, lungs, skin and (so I’ve read) your sex drive, but it’s on your terms. Well, actually it’s on the cigarette terms, but smokers enter into an unspoken agreement with cigarettes. Kill me and I’ll grant you a better chance at social interaction at nightclubs, smoke me proudly and drunk girls at parties will ask you for a lighter, try to quit me and I’ll make you more irritable than a cat hooked to a car battery.


Currently, Leo Varadkar, current minister for health, and James Reilly, former minister for health; are battling the dreaded cigarette scourge in a High Court battle over branding. Reilly, a former doctor and a picture health himself, is trying to leave behind a legacy in Irish health reform. The final societal ill, after homophobic marriage laws, defunct abortion legislation and an Irish water catastrophe which looks like Tahir Square, but with the occasional 15 bus in the background. They are planning to remove the vibrant branding and alluring colours, which keep the ash-lunged masses sucking years sucking their life clock.


I suppose it can’t be condemned, to want to save lives, and end bad-breath. But they can get fucked if they believe I’ll be a better person for it. Healthier? Certainly. Better, Doubtable. It’s the indefensible and I’ve I have no intention of defending it. This is merely a little rant, it has no purpose, it barely makes sense, but at the very least it’s cathartic to describe my seedy relationship I have with cigarettes. My body in crumbing under the weight of my own delusion, but I would be straight up lying to you if I told  you I didn’t like it. I started smoking because I thought it was cool, and I guess I still think it is. There’s a grace, and fluidity to occupied hand movement’s, waving blue carcinogens in the air. “Watch out baby, I’m dangerous”. I’m dangerous to myself, and others, and children and cats and dogs. I’ll sit in the frozen rain just to bum ends of a filth-lipped hobo. If you want to quit, make sure your serious about it. Those sexy little sirens are masters of seduction.

Charlie Hedbo – A short note to those who wish to write

Dear Journalists,


Today is not the first, nor the last day that we will see blood and ink mix. Today is a day when those who choose not to write, who do not engage with a public discourse, who choose ideology over humanity, again attempt to destroy those who do. It is not a day for fear or for hatred, but for anger, an anger that must birth retaliation. Violent words and loaded keys, sharpened pencils and gruesome wit crafted into atomic blows against ignorance and fear mongering. The freedom of speech is written words not in blood and bullets, and the true martyrs die because they have spoken the truth, not because they clutch to an afterlife like children to toys.