stfu(S)indo

MissFlitworth

In the style of stfumarrieds - what are your favourite awful Sindo & Indo quotes? Mine is only freshly hatched, courtesy of our own Darling of the BNP Kevin Myers

In all truth, there is no bottom to the depravity done in the name of human rights...

Indo Article

I'm more embarrassed that the Indo & Sunday Indo exist and are out there on the net for any bugger to fall across and laugh at us than I would be if the whole country caught a dose of crabs you could only get from sheep-shagging and the Irish Sea had to be turned into the worlds largest sheep dip in order to delouse us and stop us infesting the rest of the world with the UN arriving over to forcibly march us, town by town, through the disinfectant

Adam

...what?

genericguy

MissFlitworth wrote: »

Darling of the BNP Kevin Myers

i think this is alison o riordan due to the lack of sense and the general shyte prose. Kevin myers must've spilt her triple-ipple-frapple-lattacino this afternoon, thus incurring her wrath. i'd say he's terrified at the thought of facing a badly-worded and grammatically inaccurate rant in tomorrow's jip-rag of a paper.

easyeason3

So don't read it.

ElaElaElano

Kevin Myers is a real-life troll. Yes he's an ignorant, big headed, behind the times wánker but every time someone goes on a rant about him he's laughing his head off. Feeds on it.

Agricola

Ha ha! That gave me a laugh, thanks OP.

I dont know any Sindo quotes off the top of my head, but if I had a favourite, it would probably be from a piece written by Ian O Doherty where he does one of his regular hatchet jobs on Islamists everywhere.

aDeener

ElaElaElano wrote: »

Kevin Myers is a real-life troll. Yes he's an ignorant, big headed, behind the times wánker but every time someone goes on a rant about him he's laughing his head off. Feeds on it.

i wonder does he even genuinely believe half the stuff he writes.

SoupyNorman

Adam wrote: »

...what?

I see your what and raise you what

epgc3fyqirnbsx

aDeener wrote: »

i wonder does he even genuinely believe half the stuff he writes.

I think he cries laughing writing that tripe, bemused at the fact that he's actually making a decent living from it. Kudos

Ulysses Gaze

One of my Favs from Mr Brendan 'Smarty McBallsy' O'Connor from the now seminal - The smart, ballsy guys are buying up property right now

When you think about it, it makes sense to buy property now. Though of course some people say it always makes sense to buy property. There is no such thing as a good or a bad time to buy. It's always a good time to buy.

http://www.independent.ie/opinion/analysis/the-smart-ballsy-guys-are-buying-up-property-right-now-1047118.html

Tbh the whole article is littered with quotable gems, but the one above is my fav from it.

Mike 1972

...theliberal media will invariably leap on wholly a typical examples...

The "liberal media" that employ Kevin Myres and Mary Ellen whatsername

FAIL!

Mr Benevolent

That Myers lad must be an AH regular.

The Express

MissFlitworth wrote: »

In the style of stfumarrieds - what are your favourite awful Sindo & Indo quotes? Mine is only freshly hatched, courtesy of our own Darling of the BNP Kevin Myers



Indo Article

I'm more embarrassed that the Indo & Sunday Indo exist and are out there on the net for any bugger to fall across and laugh at us than I would be if the whole country caught a dose of crabs you could only get from sheep-shagging and the Irish Sea had to be turned into the worlds largest sheep dip in order to delouse us and stop us infesting the rest of the world with the UN arriving over to forcibly march us, town by town, through the disinfectant

Myers hates the BNP actually.

I quite like some of the stuff he writes. He might go over the top sometimes, but he's not far wrong on the old 'human rights' plea being used at any given opportunity by some.

One of his better recent articles concerned the 20+ staff at the money-haemoraging Cliffs of Moher Interpretitive Centre -all were make nicely secure on civil service packages and would be deployed to county councils if the centre were to close.

What's there to interpret? It's a cliff; if you fall off you die.

By the way OP, I'm more embarrassed that your post exists and is out there on the net for any bugger to fall across and laugh at us....

yours, etc.
The Express.

Mike 1972

The Express wrote: »

Myers hates the BNP actually.

I quite like some of the stuff he writes. He might go over the top sometimes, but he's not far wrong on the old 'human rights' plea being used at any given opportunity by some. .

Nobody can be wrong about everything I guess

Still doesnt excuse the frequency at which he spouts absolute bile riddled shyte though

The Express

Mike 1972 wrote: »

Nobody can be wrong about everything I guess

Still doesnt excuse the frequency at which he spouts absolute bile riddled shyte though

Interesting, Mike. What sort of bile riddled shyte had you in mind?

K-9

Had no time for the rag since they roundly condemned the Humes Adams talks 20 years ago. Dib't even bother to write a pro column. 4 pages of bile.

Lost any sense of respect I had for it after that.

I've more respect for the Mail and Sun.

rainbow kirby

Pretty much anything that David Quinn writes (in general, not just for the Indo) is complete and utter bull****.

Corsendonk

I know this is about the Indo but seening that the Herald is a repeat of the Indo later that day with more colour photos, can I gripe about the failing standards of journalism in the Herald.

Now I hope we can all agree its a tabloid these days but I occassionally expect to find news in it but yesterday hit a new low with an article and photo of a "model". The subject was a bitch about how she went out ohh my gosh without painting all her fingernails! If they didn't have the Dublin criminal element shooting each other every week I would hate to see what there expert columnists would have to write about.

K-9

rainbow kirby wrote: »

Pretty much anything that David Quinn writes (in general, not just for the Indo) is complete and utter bull****.

Oh FFS. That guy is the most smug, condescending, annoying, preaching, holier than thou, uptight, ignorant, upright, snobbish, holier than thou, relic of a long gone past, that we should never see on this island, ever again.

K-9

St. Patrick missed a fecking snake!

The Agogo

My one from Kevin Myers is "We talked Búll**** all the time..."

from this:

http://www.universityobserver.ie/2009/11/24/challenging-times-2/

George Orwell 1982

My favourite SINDO article was Niamh Horan's about Brian Cowan:

It was one of those moments where you'd almost have to pinch yourself.
There I was sitting in a small caravan in the middle of a field in Connemara drinking coffee and dunking digestive biscuits with the Taoiseach of Ireland himself.
After a long trek I had tracked Brian Cowen down to a caravan where he was having a family holiday.
"Officially," he told me he was meant to be staying in a plush country hotel a couple of miles down the road -- but that wasn't really the full story.
In reality, the leader of our country had been staying in a caravan overlooking the sea as he tried to take time out from the collapsed pay talks, rising unemployment and an economy facing recession.
Already that morning the prime minister had been out with the sweeping brush, cleaning around his humble abode.
He had then taken a strimmer and tidied the grass between his quaint mobile home and his beachfront view of the Atlantic.
But little did he know that his quite relaxing day was about to become my lucky break after I was invited into his neighbour's caravan for a chat.
I was sitting on their couch, exchanging pleasantries with the friendly couple, when there was a light rap on the door and the man himself walked in.
"Ah Brian!" exclaimed the woman. "Come on in and sit yourself down."
The Taoiseach strolled in dressed in a white golf polo shirt and beige slacks and took a seat.
We chatted for a while and he spoke of how he was having a good week, despite catching a glimpse of that morning's paper, which chastised him for going on holiday when the pay talks had collapsed.
He raised his eyes to heaven, "sure you can't even take a holiday anymore without someone having a go at you".
Before he could continue, someone comes to tell him that "the water's gone cold in the shower again".
No rest for the wicked. The Taoiseach sighed as he got up to solve the plumbing crisis.
Two minutes later, he was back and sitting down as we shared a cup of coffee and biscuits.
"So what has you down these parts?" he inquired casually, while dunking his digestive into his hot coffee.
"Well to be honest, Mr Cowen, I'm with the Sunday Independent and I have come down to see how you're getting on on your holidays."
A deafening silence. The Taoiseach sat frozen to the spot. His partially dunked biscuit remained suspended in the air, held half way between his cup and his mouth as his ashen face tried to take in the awful realisation.
Before he could utter another word the soggy piece of digestive -- which had been left too long while Mr Cowen tried to process the fact that his worst nightmare had come to life -- dropped to the floor.
As I waited for him to take it all in, I walked over to him and began picking the mushy pieces from around his feet.
"Well to be honest I am terribly sorry for disturbing you. I know you probably would rather bump into Satan on your holidays than a journalist," I smiled, trying to lighten the mood.
I looked up at him as he stared down at me in disbelief, still holding the hard half of the digestive, suspended in the air.
"But I did get up at six o'clock this morning to come the whole way down to see you and sure I'll only take up a few minutes of your time."
It took a while for the colour to come back to his face, all the while his two neighbours were apologising profusely to their leader, "I'm so sorry Brian, we didn't know."
They were right, they didn't have a clue.
It was actually his neighbour, a pensioner named Bertie, who had told me where the Taoiseach had been staying and effectively started a chain of events that had ruined Cowen's day.
I had made the short trip from the Fianna Fail leader's 'official' residence of Mannin Bay Hotel that morning.
I had driven past the local golf club, which was bulging with flashy cars and wealthy golf enthusiasts -- and where the Fianna Fail leader was said to have had a golf lesson that morning -- to a caravan site that stood out in the idyllic landscape.
This is where I had heard the most powerful man in Ireland had his holiday home. Needless to say I didn't think for a minute that he would actually be staying here -- for security reasons let alone anything else.
Scores of caravans peppered the open field and the cluster could be seen from miles around the picturesque coastline.
Driving into the middle of the mass of mobile home units I wondered if I even had the right address, and when I spotted an old man strolling by, carrying cardboard boxes, I decided to inquire. He turned out to be Bertie.
"Is it true that Brian Cowen has a mobile home here?" I asked.
"Ah yes, he's a neighbour of mine. Lives in that caravan up there on the hill. Sure he's staying there with his family now."
At first I didn't believe him.
"I'm telling you," he insisted, "he's up there sweeping the step of the caravan now. Sure wasn't he was out trimming the grass earlier."
I looked at him with a raised eyebrow, thanked him for his time and hopped back into the car.
The idea that Brian Cowen was spending a week in a small caravan next to a neighbour called Bertie was too much to take.
Still you had to see it to believe it, so I decided to take a stroll to the top of the hill to see for myself. The man sweeping the step had gone back inside and apart from a wetsuit and a few children's bicycles; there was nothing noteworthy about the small unit to suggest that it was in fact the Irish leader's holiday home.
And so what else to do than to have a chat with the locals?
A welcoming couple brought me inside and offered me a cup of coffee as I made myself comfortable on the couch.
"Oh yes, he's definitely here," declared the man. "Sure he's been coming here for years and we've become very good friends with him. He was only in for a drink on Monday night," he said before the fateful knock came on the door.
And so here I was, one soggy biscuit incident later, standing outside the Taoiseach's caravan, chatting about his holidays.
And in fairness, when he had eventually gathered his thoughts again, he agreed to a quick interview.
As a fresh sea breeze blew around us he explained how he was disheartened that he had been slated for trying to take a short summer break away with his family.
"I don't understand it. First the media have a go at me because I'm taking a holiday with my family and then they come down to see if I'm having a good time!" he exclaimed. "I don't read the papers while I'm on holidays. I try to stay away from them as much as possible but I did see the headline [criticising me] on this morning's paper.
"Surely any reasonable person would understand that everyone is allowed to take a couple of days break away to switch off and that it's no big deal that I've done that," he sighed.
"I have been in contact with my office a couple of times this week but I'm not commenting on any of that [pay talks] right now."
I asked him why he had decided to go for such a low budget holiday, when he could have taken a trip to a sunny destination abroad.
"I've been coming down here with my family for the past couple of years and that's not going to change just because I'm Taoiseach. It's a beautiful place, I know the people here very well and you can just relax and mosey around and nobody troubles you."
I tell him that last year I visited Bertie -- the former Taoiseach, not his neighbour -- while he was holidaying in the significantly flashier residence of Parknasilla hotel, Co Kerry.
What's more, I said, he had invited the media along for a photo call.
"Well everyone has their own style of doing things and this is mine," asserted the mobile-home leader. "I like to get away somewhere quiet to relax and read outside while the kids use the local facilities.
He tells me he is reading the autobiography of John Hume and a collection of essays by the recently deceased poet and author John O'Donohue, and describes how he has been spending his time playing rounds of golf with the locals and heading out for the odd quite pint.
"I've been trying to switch off and relax since I got here but as you can understand, I haven't quite succeeded yet," he peered at me knowingly.
I inquire about how he has been coping with the media intrusion since he took on the most high-profile role in the country and it is easy to see he is still taking time to adjust.
"I've had to change a lot of things and try to adapt to a new set of circumstances overnight. I suppose its part and parcel of the job and I'll just have to live with it."
And it seems his staunchly protective family have been taking time to adjust too.
"My wife would kill me if she came back and saw me talking to you," he said, looking over his shoulder towards the entrance of the caravan park. "She'll be back any minute now and she wouldn't like it at all."
I ask for a quick picture outside his caravan before I depart, but he digs his heels in. "No way. I didn't meet you here. I met you in the general area, ok? I'm officially staying up in the Manin Bay hotel."
And so it was true. Although shy about letting on, the Taoiseach of Ireland had been spending his entire holiday living in a small caravan with his family next to a retired neighbour called Bertie.
And all in an area that bore an uncanny resemblance to Craggy Island. Now even the creators of Fr Ted couldn't concoct something as funny as that.

mp3kid

it was one of those moments where you'd almost have to pinch yourself.
There I was sitting in a small caravan in the middle of a field in Connemara drinking coffee and dunking digestive biscuits with the Taoiseach of Ireland himself.
After a long trek I had tracked Brian Cowen down to a caravan where he was having a family holiday.
"Officially," he told me he was meant to be staying in a plush country hotel a couple of miles down the road -- but that wasn't really the full story.
In reality, the leader of our country had been staying in a caravan overlooking the sea as he tried to take time out from the collapsed pay talks, rising unemployment and an economy facing recession.
Already that morning the prime minister had been out with the sweeping brush, cleaning around his humble abode.
He had then taken a strimmer and tidied the grass between his quaint mobile home and his beachfront view of the Atlantic.
But little did he know that his quite relaxing day was about to become my lucky break after I was invited into his neighbour's caravan for a chat.
I was sitting on their couch, exchanging pleasantries with the friendly couple, when there was a light rap on the door and the man himself walked in.
"Ah Brian!" exclaimed the woman. "Come on in and sit yourself down."
The Taoiseach strolled in dressed in a white golf polo shirt and beige slacks and took a seat.
We chatted for a while and he spoke of how he was having a good week, despite catching a glimpse of that morning's paper, which chastised him for going on holiday when the pay talks had collapsed.
He raised his eyes to heaven, "sure you can't even take a holiday anymore without someone having a go at you".
Before he could continue, someone comes to tell him that "the water's gone cold in the shower again".
No rest for the wicked. The Taoiseach sighed as he got up to solve the plumbing crisis.
Two minutes later, he was back and sitting down as we shared a cup of coffee and biscuits.
"So what has you down these parts?" he inquired casually, while dunking his digestive into his hot coffee.
"Well to be honest, Mr Cowen, I'm with the Sunday Independent and I have come down to see how you're getting on on your holidays."
A deafening silence. The Taoiseach sat frozen to the spot. His partially dunked biscuit remained suspended in the air, held half way between his cup and his mouth as his ashen face tried to take in the awful realisation.
Before he could utter another word the soggy piece of digestive -- which had been left too long while Mr Cowen tried to process the fact that his worst nightmare had come to life -- dropped to the floor.
As I waited for him to take it all in, I walked over to him and began picking the mushy pieces from around his feet.
"Well to be honest I am terribly sorry for disturbing you. I know you probably would rather bump into Satan on your holidays than a journalist," I smiled, trying to lighten the mood.
I looked up at him as he stared down at me in disbelief, still holding the hard half of the digestive, suspended in the air.
"But I did get up at six o'clock this morning to come the whole way down to see you and sure I'll only take up a few minutes of your time."
It took a while for the colour to come back to his face, all the while his two neighbours were apologising profusely to their leader, "I'm so sorry Brian, we didn't know."
They were right, they didn't have a clue.
It was actually his neighbour, a pensioner named Bertie, who had told me where the Taoiseach had been staying and effectively started a chain of events that had ruined Cowen's day.
I had made the short trip from the Fianna Fail leader's 'official' residence of Mannin Bay Hotel that morning.
I had driven past the local golf club, which was bulging with flashy cars and wealthy golf enthusiasts -- and where the Fianna Fail leader was said to have had a golf lesson that morning -- to a caravan site that stood out in the idyllic landscape.
This is where I had heard the most powerful man in Ireland had his holiday home. Needless to say I didn't think for a minute that he would actually be staying here -- for security reasons let alone anything else.
Scores of caravans peppered the open field and the cluster could be seen from miles around the picturesque coastline.
Driving into the middle of the mass of mobile home units I wondered if I even had the right address, and when I spotted an old man strolling by, carrying cardboard boxes, I decided to inquire. He turned out to be Bertie.
"Is it true that Brian Cowen has a mobile home here?" I asked.
"Ah yes, he's a neighbour of mine. Lives in that caravan up there on the hill. Sure he's staying there with his family now."
At first I didn't believe him.
"I'm telling you," he insisted, "he's up there sweeping the step of the caravan now. Sure wasn't he was out trimming the grass earlier."
I looked at him with a raised eyebrow, thanked him for his time and hopped back into the car.
The idea that Brian Cowen was spending a week in a small caravan next to a neighbour called Bertie was too much to take.
Still you had to see it to believe it, so I decided to take a stroll to the top of the hill to see for myself. The man sweeping the step had gone back inside and apart from a wetsuit and a few children's bicycles; there was nothing noteworthy about the small unit to suggest that it was in fact the Irish leader's holiday home.
And so what else to do than to have a chat with the locals?
A welcoming couple brought me inside and offered me a cup of coffee as I made myself comfortable on the couch.
"Oh yes, he's definitely here," declared the man. "Sure he's been coming here for years and we've become very good friends with him. He was only in for a drink on Monday night," he said before the fateful knock came on the door.
And so here I was, one soggy biscuit incident later, standing outside the Taoiseach's caravan, chatting about his holidays.
And in fairness, when he had eventually gathered his thoughts again, he agreed to a quick interview.
As a fresh sea breeze blew around us he explained how he was disheartened that he had been slated for trying to take a short summer break away with his family.
"I don't understand it. First the media have a go at me because I'm taking a holiday with my family and then they come down to see if I'm having a good time!" he exclaimed. "I don't read the papers while I'm on holidays. I try to stay away from them as much as possible but I did see the headline [criticising me] on this morning's paper.
"Surely any reasonable person would understand that everyone is allowed to take a couple of days break away to switch off and that it's no big deal that I've done that," he sighed.
"I have been in contact with my office a couple of times this week but I'm not commenting on any of that [pay talks] right now."
I asked him why he had decided to go for such a low budget holiday, when he could have taken a trip to a sunny destination abroad.
"I've been coming down here with my family for the past couple of years and that's not going to change just because I'm Taoiseach. It's a beautiful place, I know the people here very well and you can just relax and mosey around and nobody troubles you."
I tell him that last year I visited Bertie -- the former Taoiseach, not his neighbour -- while he was holidaying in the significantly flashier residence of Parknasilla hotel, Co Kerry.
What's more, I said, he had invited the media along for a photo call.
"Well everyone has their own style of doing things and this is mine," asserted the mobile-home leader. "I like to get away somewhere quiet to relax and read outside while the kids use the local facilities.
He tells me he is reading the autobiography of John Hume and a collection of essays by the recently deceased poet and author John O'Donohue, and describes how he has been spending his time playing rounds of golf with the locals and heading out for the odd quite pint.
"I've been trying to switch off and relax since I got here but as you can understand, I haven't quite succeeded yet," he peered at me knowingly.
I inquire about how he has been coping with the media intrusion since he took on the most high-profile role in the country and it is easy to see he is still taking time to adjust.
"I've had to change a lot of things and try to adapt to a new set of circumstances overnight. I suppose its part and parcel of the job and I'll just have to live with it."
And it seems his staunchly protective family have been taking time to adjust too.
"My wife would kill me if she came back and saw me talking to you," he said, looking over his shoulder towards the entrance of the caravan park. "She'll be back any minute now and she wouldn't like it at all."
I ask for a quick picture outside his caravan before I depart, but he digs his heels in. "No way. I didn't meet you here. I met you in the general area, ok? I'm officially staying up in the Manin Bay hotel."
And so it was true. Although shy about letting on, the Taoiseach of Ireland had been spending his entire holiday living in a small caravan with his family next to a retired neighbour called Bertie.
And all in an area that bore an uncanny resemblance to Craggy Island. Now even the creators of Fr Ted couldn't concoct something as funny as that.

Bull**** of the Highest Order.













No-one dunks Digestives into Coffee

fontanalis

The Express wrote: »

Myers hates the BNP actually.

I quite like some of the stuff he writes. He might go over the top sometimes, but he's not far wrong on the old 'human rights' plea being used at any given opportunity by some.

One of his better recent articles concerned the 20+ staff at the money-haemoraging Cliffs of Moher Interpretitive Centre -all were make nicely secure on civil service packages and would be deployed to county councils if the centre were to close.

What's there to interpret? It's a cliff; if you fall off you die.

By the way OP, I'm more embarrassed that your post exists and is out there on the net for any bugger to fall across and laugh at us....

yours, etc.
The Express.

They're not for everyone. Funny I always thought Myers claims to be a christian aswell.

Her evidence forms part of a dossier been put together by prosecutors investigating the alleged prostitution ring.

Are the indo editors all on strike?

George Orwell 1982

The SINDO is a disgrace to humanity.

Its not fit to be used as bog roll.

PeterIanStaker

Ruth Deadly Edwards had a piece entitled "A Vote for Ahern is a Vote for Adams" a few years ago. It was just ludicrous.

I am not a fan of either Ahern or Adams (I think their both gobsh!tes) but you'd swear Independent Newspapaers didnt want a peace process . . . oh wait!

George Orwell 1982

In case anyone missed this.

By Niamh Horan - "Don't hate me because I'm thin"

When she was fat, no one ever said a word to her about it. But when she got thin, the bitchy comments came thick and fast. As she recalls her own ups and downs, Niamh Horan wonders why we have to tread on eggshells around fat people, while it's open season on those who are thin.
But, she says, she will bear the slings and arrows because, as Kate Moss says, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. Photography by Sarah Doyle
On my fridge there proudly hang the photographs of 16 semi-naked women. Some are bending over cars in string bikinis, others are suggestively peeling down their hot pants, and still others gaze back at me every morning as I open the door for a carton of juice, while they prance around in revealing lingerie.
The only thing they have in common is that they all appear unapologetically smug about one thing. They are all vaingloriously, enviably thin.
Naturally, my unorthodox shrine to the skinny never fails to raise an eyebrow. Whenever we have new company over, guests will walk towards it, open-mouthed, as they read aloud the quotes at the centre of the display, which champion slimness.
"Thin has a taste all of its own", "Not eating right makes your clothes too tight" and, of course, the now infamous motto that landed supermodel Kate Moss in hot water several weeks ago: "Nothing tastes as good as being skinny feels."
And do you know what? She's damn right.
The reason her comments were met with such uproar is that, unfortunately, the scales of political correctness have slid unceremoniously into the hands of fat people.
But before you choke on your double-cream jam doughnut, let me explain.
We now live in a world where clothing giants label bigger clothes with smaller sizes so their expanding customers won't feel so bad about their weight; where entire associations have been set up to promote fat acceptance; and where ludicrously politically correct terms are bandied about while those who aren't fat tiptoe on eggshells for fear of upsetting the feelings of fat people.
These days, in some sections of society a slim woman isn't just slim; she is now labelled as having 'thin privilege'. For crying out loud!
As one pro-fat supporter argued, people blessed with thin privilege "do not have to worry about fitting into restaurant booths, airplane seats, or other small public spaces; they can go to any department store and know they will have clothes in their size.'' And -- wait for this -- "they can even eat in a fast-food establishment without being pegged as the typical 'Super Size Me' fatty."
But the rest of us earn our comfort in seats and our fashionable clothes.
We decline copious amounts of fatty food and we exercise regularly; therefore we can enjoy these so-called simple privileges in life.
To stop you clogging up my post box with cries of "fattist", let me explain how I've come to this harsh, but entirely honest, viewpoint.
I used to be fat.
At 17, when I should have been enjoying my teens, meeting boys and celebrating my newfound womanly shape, I was stuffing my face with greasy takeaways and king-size Snickers bars.
I'd wake up and eat four slices of toast smothered with butter and jam; at 11am I'd hit the button on the vending machine and chow down on a Double Decker or another personal favourite, Turkish Delight.
Lunch would consist of curry chips and a can of full-fat Coke. And once at home, tired and drained from a day of Leaving Certificate classes, I would park myself at the dinner table in front of a gigantic bowl of spaghetti Bolognese.
To this day I have a vivid memory of the culinary ceremony that would accompany that stodgy dish. I'd place a tub of grated cheddar cheese to the right of my plate and sprinkle a layer on top of the pasta. Then when the first inch of cheese and spaghetti had been stuffed into my face, I would sprinkle on another layer of cheese, repeating the process all over again until eventually, bloated and satisfied, I found myself at the bottom of a clean plate.
It sounds funny now, but my lowest moment came when I single-handedly ate an entire packet of Fig Rolls (there was 100 per cent extra free) before my mom arrived home to find me bent in two from the pain and bloating of over-indulgence.
I cried from the ache of my twisted gut as she took me upstairs and ran me a hot bath.
So there I was, sitting in Radox, looking like what can only be described as a Shar-Pei puppy. You know, that breed of dog with folds of deep wrinkles and extra skin?
Ashamed as I am to admit it, that was me.
That night, my mother didn't say a word. And in case you're thinking schoolyard taunts would have set alarm bells ringing, apart from one comment by two boys about the hefty size of my backside, no one uttered a syllable.
And so I began to live in denial, and every morning before school would throw on the same oversized hoodie belonging to an older brother, eating my way through packets of crisps and bowls of ice cream every time a flicker of unhappiness about my growing waistband caught me off-guard.
The bottom line is I wanted the junk more than I wanted to be thin.
In the end, as with everything in life, it took someone who truly cares.
And so my mom, who had kept her counsel while I sat my exams, did the decent thing. As I sat into the car on the last day of my Leaving Cert, she explained how she was rewarding me with a surprise. She drove me straight to the local gym, where I was told in no uncertain terms that it was time to lose the weight.
Deep down I knew it myself; I just needed someone to give me that extra little push.
Up I plonked on the scales as the excruciating figure sprang up.
"11 and a half stone," declared the sympathetic instructor.
"What? Are you sure?" I protested. There was no response: my mom just gave me a knowing smile.
I had climbed all the way to that hefty figure from a healthy eight stone.
I vowed to do everything within my power to shift the extra weight.
I kept a diary of everything I ate, logged my exercise sessions (five to seven times a week) and dropped that extra baggage quicker than you could hand me a pair of Spanx. Within a few short months, I had dropped to 7 stone 12lbs, just over three and a half stone lighter than the day I was given my wake-up call.
In hindsight, I was a bit too thin for my 5ft 6in frame, but better that than the alternative nonetheless.
And then a really funny thing happened. Suddenly, friends felt they could get away with saying ridiculously hurtful things to me, purely because I was once again slim.
I lost count of the times I was told I had the figure of a boy, or that people decided to point out how I had no breasts. Without prompt or question, I would regularly be told on nights out that my face didn't look pretty anymore, or that I was simply no longer attractive. A girl I barely knew even sent her boyfriend over in the middle of a buzzing nightclub to give me a hug and tell me to put on some weight.
Every comment seemed off the cuff, without a second thought for my feelings. Funny how society thinks it can pass on hurtful remarks and assume a person won't feel it if they have 'thin privilege'.
But when I would point this out to them, they would simply shrug and say: "I'm just telling you for your own good."
To this day, I am baffled as to why people have no problem voicing their aversion to the sight of a bit of ribcage, or recoil in disgust when a collarbone dares to protrude a little too much, yet those same weight watchers clam up for fear of hurting people's feelings when it comes to judging those among us who are carrying an extra few stone.
And yet, never has there been a time when honesty was more needed.
Ireland's streets are filled with fat people: with women with legs so large they waddle when they walk, with men with guts so vast it's hard to even picture the amount of morning fries and late-night takeaways it has taken to get them to that sad and lonely place.
Obesity is now endemic in Ireland, and is one of the major challenges facing our health services.
Latest figures from the Obesity Task Force show that 39 per cent of the population is now overweight; 18 per cent of the population is obese; 22 per cent of children aged between seven and 12 are overweight or obese, and up to 300,000 children could become obese soon, if present trends continue.
It's madness.
The cost of this disease to the nation's health, its health service and the economy as a whole is immeasurable. And yet, the frustrating thing is that it is entirely preventable.
Leaving aside people who have genuine health conditions such as an underactive thyroid gland, show me an obese person who claims to eat just three healthy square meals of fish, salad and vegetables a day and I'll show you a liar.
Show me an overweight person who pounds the pavements each morning and abstains from junk food, and we'll shadow them for a week so I can prove you wrong.
Show me a fat person who is happy in their own skin and I'll show you someone in serious denial.
I've been there; I should know.
Perhaps now you can see why I have a serious disdain for all things obese.
Don't get me wrong: I don't hate fat people. I just hate the extra weight they're carrying.
Whether it's the unsightly muffin top that pops out over the waist of their jeans, those surplus inches that spill from under an ill-fitting T-shirt, or the extra chin that appears the moment they burst out laughing at a funny joke.
It's all so unnecessary.
It's not the unsightliness of it that gets me. Nor is it the fact that they are such a heavy burden on our already overstretched health-care system. Heck, it's not even the thought that they are slowly killing themselves for the sake of all things sugar-coated.
It's the knowledge that the majority of them are lying to themselves and to society.
Despite what they tell you, they are not happy in their own skin. They're not bubbly, friendly, happy-go-lucky characters who have this extra-great personality to compensate for that extra three stone they don't need.
They're miserable, they're lonely, they pine for their skinny selves during rare or not so rare moments of solitary reflection, and they need a way out.
And sometimes they may need someone close to give them that extra nudge in the right direction.
We need to ask ourselves why we feel so morally obliged to confront someone about their weight when they're dropping on the scales because we see it as a serious health concern, and yet become too socially embarrassed to challenge others on their expanding waistline.
"Ah sure, God love them," is our sympathetic attitude, as we let them off the hook because there's simply too much stigma attached to telling someone they're fat.
Well, if you're reading this and you're fat with no genuine medical cause, I have no sympathy for you. You're lazy, you're making excuses and you're letting yourself down, all for the sake of the fleeting comfort only a bickie tin or a late-night kebab can provide.
When it boils down to it, each and every one of us has to take responsibility for our own weight.
We can blame a fat gene, oversized parents, the convenience of junk food, confectionary advertisers, stress or long work hours until the cows stroll home, but in the end it is we who have to face our reflections in the mirror.
If Barack Obama can find time to exercise for an hour each morning before he runs the most powerful country in the world, then so can you.
The best analogy I've heard for the battle many fat people face these days is the story of how the fisherman handles a box of crabs. When he goes fishing, he dumps all the crabs into a big box without bothering to secure it with a lid. This is because he knows if some of them try to escape by climbing up the side, they'll be pulled back down by the ones left behind. My advice to fat people is not to let family or friends keep you down, simply because they're afraid of hurting your feelings by suggesting you should escape from the fat trap.
And to those of you who know someone who is overweight, grow a pair of balls and decide on a way of confronting them about their problem. It may be a bit upsetting for them when you bring it up, but believe me, they'll thank you in the long run.

Luxie

Now I know I've been known to read them sort of articles in the past, but these constant 'let's talk about me' threads, well, who gives a feck?

Jeez, we could all be journalists if that's all it takes.

Morlar

MissFlitworth wrote: »

..... courtesy of our own Darling of the BNP Kevin Myers

Hysterical over-reaction on your part imo.

Mr. Presentable

George Orwell 1982 wrote: »

In case anyone missed this.

By Niamh Horan - [

Are you fat?

Nodin

Morlar wrote: »

Hysterical over-reaction on your part imo.

They were jumping up and down for him when he wrote his 'brown faces' article. Seeing as it was on about the same level of ignorance as the BNP its hardly suprising, but he wrote it, so he's to blame. Likewise one of his outpourings on Haiti, which contained such ill conceived ill-informed shite its hard to see how it could pass muster unless it was devised, planned and intended to provoke.

Morlar

I think people on the liberal-left end of the political spectrum need to get their heads around the fact that you can not expect that everything said by every single journalist /commentator is something that you should expect to be in agreement with.

Someone epressing a dissenting viewpoint to your own is not the end of the world.

People on the other end of the spectrum more towards the right - share the feelings you have on myers but for most other major journalists and commentators in Ireland.

Myers represents a valid and legitimate viewpoint - the only issue I would see in all of this is that it is so heavily under-represented to begin with. **


**And no - for the trolling cockfags out there this does not mean that I am 100% in agreement with every line of every sentence he has ever written in the history of the universe.

George Orwell 1982

nipplenuts wrote: »

Are you fat?

Me? Hell no. Super skinny in fact.

Nodin

Morlar wrote: »

I think people on the liberal-left end of the political spectrum need to get their heads around the fact that you can not expect that everything said by every single journalist /commentator is something that you should expect to be in agreement with.

Someone epressing a dissenting viewpoint to your own is not the end of the world.

People on the other end of the spectrum more towards the right - share the feelings you have on myers but for most other major journalists and commentators in Ireland.

Myers represents a valid and legitimate viewpoint - the only issue I would see in all of this is that it is so heavily under-represented to begin with. **


**And no - for the trolling cockfags out there this does not mean that I am 100% in agreement with every line of every sentence he has ever written in the history of the universe.

Don't be shy in naming "trolling cockfags". Don't be shy at all.

His opinion is his own problem. Its his distortion and omission of the facts thats the issue.