I KNOW IT'S ONLY ROCK N ROLL BUT I LIKE IT.......

THE MASTER MUSICIANS OF JOUJOUKA.
A jam by the world's only 4,000 yr old rock n roll band.

LET'S WRECK HENRY KISSINGER'S HEAD AND NOT LET HIM HAVE HIS BALL

We'll never see him in the dock but we can wreck his dream of being a FIFA 2018 'player'.
The pulling power of 'the beautiful game' is one aphrodisiac we intend to deny.
Henry had the "ultimate" one already: "power."
Or so said the genocidal dry drunk.
Leaving out Chile and Cambodia, Barricade wld imprison him for the following belief:
the "12 step" Alcoholics Anonymous programme is one of the "greatest inventions" of the 20th Century.
As if it needs reiteration, but that's a man of obvious moral flaw.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/BAN-HENRY-KISSINGER-FROM-FIFA-WORLD-CUP-2018/137705076241202?ref=mf

THE INDO"S JOHN SPAIN REMINDS US THAT GERRY RYAN WAS A SMUG SLOB.- STUPIDLY OVERPAID AND INTELLECTUALY UNDERENDOWED

How Gerry Ryan turned into Mr Smug

Books Editor John Spain searches through the veteran radio star's new book for something of value, but finds that this 'tell-all' tale comes up well short

Veteran radio star: Gerry Ryan

By John Spain

Thursday October 16 2008

So, is Gerry Ryan's new book worth the guaranteed €100,000 he has got from Penguin Ireland for writing it?

The book does have a few redeeming qualities but the straight answer to that question has to be: Definitely Not.

Most books by minor celebs have at least one Big Revelation within their pages.

Gerry's big revelation is that he suffers (mildly) from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. He's a tidiness freak who hoovers too much. It's an early indication of how mundane the rest of the book is going to be. And the main problem with it can be summed up in two words: Gerry Ryan.

Like most of the nice middle- class Dublin boys of his era who went on to find success, Gerry is self-satisfied to the point of being smug.

"My canteen is the restaurant of the Four Seasons Hotel," he writes in a chapter headed Fine Dining. "I have all my meetings in that restaurant. I know Louis Walsh does the same thing."

Shortly after that, he is talking about wine: "I think Irish people still need to wake up to the joys of sommeliers... My favourite sommelier was Pascal in Dromoland."

Or here's Gerry in a chapter called The Front of the Plane: "I go first class with Aer Lingus to JFK.

"There's a big seat, everyone's attentive and nice," he goes on. "I have a few drinks, and when I'm with my family, I see them enjoying the fruits of my labour .... Then we get to New York and there's a limousine waiting to take us to Manhattan.

"We check into Fitzpatrick's and go upstairs to one of the suites, or as we did last year, to the penthouse ... And the path is always greased. Maybe U2 are playing in Giants Stadium, and the backstage passes will be waiting for us in the Rockefeller ....

"I defy anyone to say that's not a good way to travel."

And there's more, much more, of this sort of tedious, self-admiring guff. "My favourite tipple is Jameson twelve-year-old. I like Gold Reserve ... I used to spend a lot of time collecting single malt whiskies .... At one stage I had a big collection of whiskies, fifty or sixty, and I would delight (in an obsessive compulsive way) in lining them up."

He also loves cigars: "My eldest son Rex, who was eight or nine at the time, was in charge of the two big humidors, and he had the business of keeping the cigars at the right temperature down to a fine art.

"He kept the whiskies' labels all turned out front too."

Yes, indeed, Gerry loves the finer things in life: "These days, Paris for me is staying at the Hotel Meurice up at the Jardins des Tuileries.

"You can't even get in there unless you've got a grand in your sock..." And he goes on to tell us a story about how he ordered a €2,000 Petrus thinking it was a €200 bottle.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with enjoying the finer things, it's just that Gerry's need to justify himself and his compulsion to tell us about it in such detail become boring after a while.

He finds himself fascinating and seems to think that everyone else should find the minutiae of his life fascinating as well. The truth is, however, that Gerry is not particularly interesting. The only difference between him and anyone else from a similar background is that he's got a few famous friends like Harry Crosbie and Bono and he is famous for waffling on the radio.

That is the other big weakness of Gerry's book. Interspersed between the details of his own life and career are numerous short chapters with headings like How to Run the Country and Is It Possible to be Friends with a Woman? in which Gerry riffs on various subjects much as he does on radio.

It's not his fault, but the kind of waffle that sounds funny or insightful on radio and fills up hours of airtime does not work in print. Once it is written down, it seems lame. The truth is that Gerry's views are often superficial and trite, the kind of stuff you hear from young fogies in college debating societies.

There is also Gerry's irritating assumption that his imprimatur on things actually matters. Here he is on Bertie, for example: "Bertie Ahern is, without doubt, more than any other politician in the history of the Republic, substantially responsible for the success of this country, and he has been pushed, shoved, prodded and p***ked around beyond all toleration... How much was it? Two grand? Five grand? ... We're a begrudging bunch of f***ers."

Or here he is on the difference between the sexes: "I do believe that men and women are very different ... Men and women want to be celebrated and cherished and loved and taken care of, but we're utterly different."

This is the kind of guff that can sound profound when heard on the radio but it does not stand up to much scrutiny on the page.

They are one person's non-expert views on complex topics. They don't carry any more weight than the average caller to Liveline.

There is a lot more that makes this book a questionable buy for €100,000. There is Gerry's name-dropping (he even works John Banville and the former attorney general John Rogers -- misspelled as Rodgers -- into the mix).

There is a lot of mind-numbing stuff about the internal machinations in RTE and why Gerry almost left to work for Denis O'Brien.

And there are lots of boring details about Gerry's health and about how he uses Udo's Oil for arthritis in his hands and Reductil to help him lose weight.

Do we really need to know this?

Gerry confuses being open about the small details of his life with being interesting. And he seems to have little awareness of how hilarious his self-importance is at times.

One example of this is when he is writing about presenting the Eurovision: "My talent is to imbue a project with much more significance and theatricality than it actually deserves. This gives a sort of incandescence to it that makes things that are not all that bright shine very brightly. I can bring that to the party.

"But like it says in Blade Runner, the light that burns twice as brightly burns twice as fast. How brightly I have shone."

Make of that what you will. But there are some redeeming sections in the book. Gerry writes with great insight and love about his father, a slightly eccentric dentist, and his mother a flamboyant woman who herself grew up in a famous theatrical family.

He is also very good on being a father himself and raising kids in today's world.

When he sticks to what he knows and what he really cares about, he writes well and there are sections of the book which are very honest and moving. The great pity is that being G. Ryan just keeps getting in the way.

________________________ Would the Real Gerry Ryan Please Stand Up is published this week by Penguin Ireland priced at €18.99

- John Spain

Gerry Ryan would spit in his grave at the necro-fellatio on David Cochrane's Politics.ie

http://www.independent.ie/entertainment/books/how-gerry-ryan-turned-into-mr-smug-1499629.html

Somebody has to highlight the truth before we choke to death on Diana-esque sentimentality on meth-amphetamine. Needless to say I was banned by the Klu Klux Klan gang of smug little men-cubs on www.politics.ie. (Think that's the fifth time i have been banned only to sneak back thinly disguised.)
Boy did the lynch mob come out this time. "Respect for his wife and famiily".
Those pompous pricks - who exit their Ma's vagina already wearing ties, crying in brandy tinged baritone voices: "Show me the way to the Fourcourts" - actually think that a grieving family has no other priority than reading than reading the smug musings of tossers with such sobriquets as "Future Taoiseach" "Tipp Tom" and "Bring Back the Birch"- 'what a tragic day for the county."

It is indeed a tragic day for the country. Even the Irish Times are at it. They quote Baudrillard and hey presto before you can say 'simulacrum'- it's tighten the zeitgeist time, we're diving deep into the tabloid void.

Once we were a nation of (genuine) newspaper readers- now we are Brits.

Where did all these cunts come from?

To alter an old wine whine: "God save Ireland from the media".

The one thing I will say respect to Gerry Ryan is that he would spit out the Thought Police and Bully Boys on Politics.ie.
And the only ire the postings under "That Gasoline Smell" - erased unless otherwise quoted by indignant others - would have arounsed on the Ryan line would have been directed at David Cochrane's men-cubs.
Their toothless necro-fellatio would make a man, even one predisposed to smugness like Gerry, spit.

We'll leave the last lines, albeit altered, to the late great e.e.cummings:
"And what I want to know is
Where is Pascal the sommelier now, Mr Death."

THE ASSASSINATION HAS BEEN TELEVISED

I'm sure the shadowy figures in Mossad are wondering 'why all the fuss this time round.'
We didn't hear much when the Hamas guy in Damascus was killed by a car bomb not so long ago.
Or the one before that in Amman. The guy that Mossad they failed to posion and got caught.
Then going back a while, wasn't there a waiter wasted in a mistaken identity mess in Scandinavia.
Maybe "forged passports" from other countries were not used in those missions. But it's a big maybe. Damascus does not welcome Israelis passports.
And if you are off to assassinate Palestinian officials, an Israelis passport is not an "asset".

So why now? Why are we all talking about it?
I think what happened here - why the story has blown up and why it has forced "outrage" from countries whose intelligence arms may have given tacit approval - is that this was the first CCTV assassination.

And that meant the 24hr news channels could lead with the story and then run heavily with it.
If we didn't have our tennis players getting out of the lift and the whole crew arriving and then splitting dodge, we would have had a stand up outside the hotel and then the story would have faded into an occasional feature piece.

So let's thank CCTV for our new found morality.

And let's remined Mossad that the assassinations as well as the revolution will be televised.

ESSENTIAL KNOWLEDGE TO STOP BLOGGERS GETTING THE BETTER OF YOU

JIM CORR -THE LIBERALS' LITMUS TEST or SHOULD THAT BE BLOTTER TEST

Jim Corr should shut the f**k up. Buy a house down the country. Live a nice quiet life. Maybe do something fulfilling on the side. See more of his family. Get closer to his sisters. Pick up an enjoyable hobby. Incest, perhaps.

We're an open-minded crew here at Barricade. But, call us sqaure, we believed a micro-dot should be followed by a period.

'Cad, calllous, heart-breaker' - go on throw them all at us. But sorry we are out that door while diamond clad Lucy was still in deep sleep.

You don't have to remind me that we would be back a month later clamouring, roaring for more until eventually she would put her finger to our mouths "Ssssssh."

AWOPBOPALUBOB-A-WOP-BAM-BAM. PHEW!

We'd see others in the corner, hard to pick out cos it was darker than the dark side of the moon. A Peter could get lost in the Fleetwood.
But you hear them.
They'd moved in.
Lucy had them spellbound.
And they sang magic.
She was Faust.
And the pact?
Well it was Faust with a Fender.

So picture yourself on a river surfing USA back in the USSR.

Boy you don't know how lucky you are.

Until

You're so broke up, you want to go home.

In return for your mind, you enthralled yourself, you spellbound us, made us embrace life with your sweet sounds.

17 yr old E Kidz danced in the ailses with big bellied midlands farmers.

A profoundly psychiatric tremor pulsed through Brian's aura.

But we didn't care, those West coast sounds really knocked us out.

And we had FUN FUN FUN 'til JIM came along and took our thesis away.

Lucy obviously saw that kid coming. And boy did she take him for a ride.
If you don't believe me. go ask Alice.

Lucy fucked him daft.

And the poor fool Jim was left there singing about the one thing he needed to do - but it was too much to hope.
"I Will Runaway."
Sadly no such luck.

In return for singing 'sour nothings' the mindless fool has the inside scoop on 9/11 - hell I bet you he even knows who the two Arab faux hacks were who blew Massoud away with their wedding camera bomb. Just before the towers go down, these two give the Taliban their 'public enemy number one.' And while they are it, they deprive the Yanks of a credible leader."

Come on Jim.

Shake, rattle and roll....you're on.

Now Jim Corr what have you got to say about Haiti.

Actually no.

Jim.

Shut Up.