There really will, you know. That's what I'm afraid of.
Some of you may recall I recently invited people to mail Ireland's laziest hackette with suggestions of what she could do with herself on Christmas Day.
After all, she'd gone public asking people to do her work for her.
For those waiting with bated breath to discover what all of our suggestions for La Ingle to do on Christmas Day led to, I can point you in the direction of the resulting 'article' here (if you have an Irish Times subscription.)
Permit me to summarise for those too lazy or poor to access the real thing. In Ingle-land, you don't have to watch telly and eat too much on Christmas. You could go out and swim in the sea, or hillwalk, or do some charity work. But it's probably more fun to sit at home watching telly and eating too much.
As promised, no one else was credited with helping La Ingle to her state of Xmas enlightenment.
While perusing the full horror of the Ingle Christmas, I also accidentally encountered this fresh diatribe against New Year.
It's all so awful and reminds her of being dumped in Brum by some cider guzzler back in the Eighties because she was fat, or something. But fear not, Inglettes, she's spending this New Year in the Big Apple glugging champers, so that's all right then.
Pace Richard Delevan, who recently opined here that the Sunday Times Rich List has become the apogee of Irish journalism. This blathering nonsense, these postcards from the edge of Ingle-land, are the nadir, the perigee, of Irish journalism today.
No comments:
Post a Comment