Feminax changed my life. It really did. The codeine-laced painkiller was the first drug that actually worked to calm my period cramps, meaning I no longer had to skip school, cinema trips or just walking to the store for a few days each month. I had already tried prescription painkillers to no avail, so was rather impressed with this over-the-counter miracle. It's a little embarrassing, but I once actually emailed Bayer, the big, ruthless drug manufacturer to THANK them. I also wrote a poem, entitled "Ode to Feminax", so yeah, it's afe to say, I am quite the fan.

The commercial I just saw on tv, however? Not so much. Ugh, way to go ahead and lose fifty cool points, Feminax. For one, it's just a shitty advert of the same calibre as a Glade air freshener commercial. But on top of this it throws lame gender stereotypes into the mix. Woman [presumably menstruating] sitting on couch next to her boyfriend who is doing nothing wrong except engaging in normal human behaviour like breathing, smiling and ..okay, maybe flicking a booger onto the carpet. Lady overreacts slightly by catapulting the dude out the window and into the distance, ejector-seat style. Whoa, lady!

"If only getting rid of all pains was as fast as with Feminax Express...".

A pain? Way harsh, Tai! If only you weren't being a crazy, violent asshole to your boyfriend just because you're on the rag. This is one of those ads where if they switched up the genders, it probably wouldn't even be aired because it would be considered as promoting domestic violence against women. Apart from that double standard, we also have the stereotypes that women are irrational, crazy bitches during their periods [and they're "allowed"] and that boyfriends are basically overgrown babies but worse because they sweat more. Check out Sarah Haskins' clip on the "doofy husband" archetype for a decent and hilarious overview. While you're at it, check out her other Target Women clips especially Number Two, Jewellery and Feeding Your Fucking Family, because Sarah Haskins is awesome and knows badvertising when she sees it.

I still love you though, Feminax, and I meant every word of that ode.

xoxo

nice girls

“She was a nice girl,” he said. “The sort of girl where I'd have to pay for her drinks all night, you know?”

No, I don't know. What the fuck does that mean? Seriously?

I wouldn't consider a guy who expected me to pay for his drinks all night to be “nice”, so I can assume it's a gendered thing.

Maybe nice girls wear dresses and heels on their all-expenses paid dates.

Maybe nice girls order a salad while he orders the steak.

Do nice girls put out on a first date? (He went on to imply they do.)

Do they spit or swallow? (He didn't specify. I'm always quite suspicious of implied but non-specified sex.)

Can nice girls afford their own beverages?

Do they let you pay because they think it's proper?

Do they let you pay because you think it's proper?

Do they let you pay because they know they're going to earn it later on, or do they earn it later on because they let you pay?

Do nice girls get to meet your mom?

Do they get to meet your friends?

Do nice girls get to spend the whole night and then get taken out for brunch (your treat, of course)?

Are nice girls good in bed?

And if they are, does that mean they're nasty and no longer nice?

Or, on the other hand, if they don't sleep with you, are they still nice girls, or are they just cock teases, bitches and dykes?
Yeah, I thought so.

guys and dolls

Saw this advertised on the back of a Dublin bus today. [Well okay it sped off before I got a snap with my phone, so I ripped this from the website, but same thing]. I know it's not the most modern advancement in advertising to use images of hot women to shill stuff to men. I can deal with the image, and I can deal with the text, but the two combined completely changes what's being said. Seriously, nobody looked at this and thought "Wait a second, it might look we're implying the woman is just a toy for men.."? C'MON!

The convention itself actually looks pretty f'n AWESOME if I'm honest.. daredevils, ROBOTS, games, gadgets,live bands, something called THE WALL OF DEATH, I mean it sounds like a good time all round. And then the site's slideshow shows pictures of men and dads with their kids -boys and girls -interspersed with pictures of promo models.. That kinda thing really pisses me off. Yeah, take your daughter to see awesome robots and boats and other cool shit and don't even think about the fact that 'sexy' women are being paid to drape themselves all over it and what that teaches your daughter. And your son. I mean really, just think about it for a minute. Paying women to dress sexy and just hang out around shit to get men to come? That's creepy to me.

To top it off they have a page on the site entitled "4Girls", with a tag line reading "GIRLS...just leave him to it!' Here they acknowledge that women usually make up about 30% of the attendees -hm, pretty large percentage for something called Toys4Boys right? And to show their appreciation for the ladies, we get our own special events! There's a 'Pamper Zone", a "Fashion Show", and a "Diva Next Door model" search! Aaaand that's it. Cos women only care about beauty and fashion. Um yeah, "just leave him to it"? Just leave him to go see all this cool shit, while you get a manicure? I don't think so.

NEWSFLASH: Maybe, just maybe, the women that go to the robot/helicoptors/WALL OF DEATH convention go to see the robots/helicoptors/WALL OF DEATH. It's a mind blowing concept, I know.

Bristol

I packed my bags and moved to bristol

A city of hills -you are always either on your way up

or on your way down.

Stroll down by the river

past the fancy restaurants

Glass and chrome brasseries

grill houses, pan-asian cuisine

their outdoor tables filled with dates

first dates, third dates, double dates.

Past the square-cum-skatepark

where young boys in overpriced tshirts

land kickflips and ollies and fall

and dust their knees and try again

Past the little fishing boats

that bob up and down

Their names painted proudly on their sides

Kelly Maria, Hailey Ann, Elizabeth

Christened after Bristol's adored wives, daughters

long lost loves.

The sky has darkened now

the hue of lilacs and pewter

And couples amble by, hand in hand

Stroll further, past the houseboats

and apartment blocks

Men and women, jogging side by side

The couple that work out together

work out just fine.

And stand and stare

at the painted ladies

Pastel lego blocks

perched on the hill

And ask yourself how many couples

have come together within those walls

What do they see when they look out those coveted windows

at the man living alone

aboard the Sylvia?

the piano teacher

Those hands know more than brains or hearts

They know things I suspect I never could

The way the fingers glide over ivory

The knuckles pop staccato, drop-

Those hands know more

Than a piano teacher’s should.

The trained eye sees more in the score

Than my eye ever could

It follows quickly

-crotchet to cleft

But sometimes wanders

-crotch to breast

The eye spies more

Than a piano teacher’s should.

The sounds composed

In that dead room

on that dead floor

Is sometimes more

Than notes and chords

As cotton falls to dark floorboards

And silent screams

Don’t pass the door

Those ears hear more

Than a piano teacher’s should.

No, I'm staring at your weak-ass word play.

High five to the Advertising Standards Authority for Ireland which has just ordered Largo Foods to withdraw its advertising campaign for Hunky Dorys crisps after complaints from the public that the images were sexist and degrading.

The advertisements which were shown nationwide on billboards and in newspapers featured cleavage bearing "hot chicks" in rugby poses with the caption "Are you staring at my crisps?".

But wait a second, these ladies aren't even eating any crisps! Where is the logic in this?! Ohhhhh I get it, crisps sounds a little bit like tits! "Are you staring at my tits?" That's better. Mystery solved.

The ads also have a footer indicating they are "sponsors of Irish Rugby" which the Irish Rugby Football Union were none too pleased about as it implied they were major donors when actually they only sponsor some small club like Navan who, let's face it, are not even a real team. I guess the IRFU were pissed that a big brand was trying to cash in, and also stated that Irish Rugby has a family focus and they do not wish to be associated with the images.

Personally, my biggest problem with the campaign is that is simply highlights how much women are isolated from sports in Ireland. Rugby has gotten huge here over the last few years, and we've been kicking ass at it. But I've yet to see a game with female teams on television. So it just seems like a joke to me that this campaign features gorgeous women wearing what don't look like legit rugby uniforms to me.. While I'm not sure I agree with the idea that the images "degrade women" [ images don't degrade women, people do], I do think they undermine female athletes by promoting the idea that women only belong in contact sports when they're beautiful and showing off their bodies, and even then they are still just a punchline.

On top of that, I dislike the billboards for other reasons. It's lazy. It's old. It's not even a good pun.

Pretty pleased about the simple fact that people complained, and were taken seriously. Hopefully one day, women's sports will be taken seriously here too.

There, I said it.

Let's start with the cliché, yes I was drunk. Stupid drunk. So what? -That's what Saturday nights are for. Okay, maybe it was a Thursday, but it was Summer, almost. We were at a party near the Annex, there was a band, and a basement and a garden. I was drinking spiced rum and had a flask full of that Cannonball whiskey shooter stuff. That stuff was tasty, you can't get it here. I quite liked the bottle too. Anyway, it was liquid blackout, and I shouldn't have drank so much. But that has absolutely nothing to do with what happened, and I am not going to apologise for being drunk at a party, okay?

Here's a non cliché. I was wearing my big stupid shirt with the pegasus on it and khaki shorts. I hadn't remembered what I was wearing, but I just looked back and found a photo on Facebook. I'm in the back garden, smiling with a friend and some dude I don't know. And once I saw I was wearing that shirt, I remembered I had decided to wear it because I was feeling gross and fat that day. That shirt couldn't hug a curve if it tried. And no, there was no sign of cleavage. Which is mostly due to me not really having any, but still, I'm just saying, my outfit wasn’t “asking for it”.

So yeah, Facebook. I just went back to see what I was wearing, and then the next picture was of you, standing against a mural, your back to me. I'm glad your back was to me in that picture.

The party was winding down, and someone had decided the after party was at your place.

“Ohhhh... so you went back to his place?”

Fuck that. Everyone partied at their place all the time. No big deal. Yeah, I went to his place, their place. Why wouldn't I? We were all friends.

Your place was on the other side of town. You came over to me in the garden and said I could ride doubles on your bike. That made me feel good and fuzzy. Okay, so I should mention we were friends who made out sometimes, and I sort of liked you. Nbd.

That's why I have that photo of you against the mural in the alley, we were out there getting your bike.

The bike ride was fun. I hadn't ridden doubles on a bike in a long, long time. A “seater” we'd call it here. I had to keep my legs out while you pedaled and my calves began to ache, but it was too much fun, speeding through the city, both of us hollering into the dark night, one of my hands gripping the underside of the saddle, the other holding onto you.

On the way into the house you said “Let's smoke a bowl” and I laughed because you always said this and always forgot that I wasn't into getting high, but this time I just said “Yeah, whatever”.

And then we were in your room with its amber glow and it was warm and good, and we lay together, fully clothed and you passed the bowl and then I kissed you and nestled my head on your chest and started talking about my grandad. I don't remember why, but I remember lying there, and telling you all about my grandad.

And after that I remember waking up. Actually, I don't want to talk about this part, or the morning. Or the next three weeks when I sat like a zombie in work and constantly felt nauseous and thought I was going to have to quit if the feeling didn't go away, or how I bumped into you in the market with a mutual friend and my throat dried up and you insisted on grinning and giving me a big tight hug, or how I had to see you at every party or show I went to over the next two months and absolutely, most definitely not how on my last night in town you hit on me and I actually went with it because I felt like if I hooked up with you again it would be on my own terms and maybe I could somehow rewrite the whole story just by writing my own ending, maybe even because part of me still liked you and wanted you to like me. Gross. It didn't work. I am ashamed of myself for that. but not as ashamed as I am of you

warts 'n' all

Interesting article in the Irish Times the other day on whether boys should be getting the Cervical Cancer vaccine as well as girls. It's apparently already happening in the UK and Oz.

I was rather delighted earlier this year when Health Minister Mary Harney finally announced that beginning this September, the Gardasil vaccine would be administered to girls in Irish secondary schools.

The vaccine protects against four strains of HPV, two of which are associated with about 70% of cervical cancer cases and two of which are associated with about 90% of genital warts cases.

HPV is one of the more mysterious STIs out there. There are between 30 and 40 strains that can be transmitted through sexual contact, and because condoms do not cover the areas around the genitals or inner thighs which can be exposed to the infected person's skin, they are not effective in preventing transmission. Testing usually won't detect HPV, unless visible symptoms occur. It is so common, that most people who have been sexually active already have HPV, and for most of us, our bodies will clear the infection on its own without us ever knowing we have it. Of course everyone's immune system is different, and not everyone will clear the infection. Two possible results in this case are genital warts, and genital lesions which can progress to cervical cancer. Of course anything that can help prevent these sounds like a good idea.

However, because the drug only prevents HPV strains which have not yet been contracted and does not treat a person's existing HPV-related problems, it had been particularly recommended for younger girls who were less likely to have had (m)any sexual partners. But it has also been found to be effective for women up to their late twenties, and now it's also being recommended for boys.

Ok, so your average boy may not be in possession of a cervix, but seeing as the vaccine is also awesome at lowering the risk of getting genital warts as well as reducing the transmission of certain cancer-causing strains of HPV between horny kids, it sounds like a damn good idea to me. Of course, the government don't really want to talk about the genital warts thing, because if our girls realise the vaccine could also help prevent them from catching a nasty STI, next thing they'll be humping every boy in sight sans-durex and going wild, and Joe Francis would be cleaning up.

No, far more respectable to just stick with the cancer part, nobody can argue with cancer -even the Catholic church can't argue with that, right? [Hmmm...]

Personally I think they should be playing up the warts thing - or at least the profit-lovin' drug companies should. For a start it doubles their market. Also.. and I'm not for a second saying cervical cancer is preferable to some pesky vag warts... but at the same time, at least I can try to keep cervical cancer in check with regular paps -warts are less likely to call and let you know they're coming. They just arrive on your doorstep and then you're fucked and need to revert to celibacy and numerous cryotherapy treatments which I hear are no picnic. Shudder.

I'm not altogether sold on this whole Gardasil vaccine in the first place. In theory I am, but I've also read some dodgy reports on the health risks, and really I'd need to investigate a little more before I decry everybody should go out and get shot up with the stuff. But, also in theory, I think if we're going to do this we need to do it right, and to effectively reduce the risk of cervical cancer [AND warts!], I think we need boys to get in on this too. Pretty much like most aspects of feminism, it just works better if men and women are all on the same page.

I decided not to use a picture for this post. You're welcome.

xxx

My body is not explicit material

It is merely a collection of cells

My thighs only as extraordinary as the bark of an oak

My nipples as obscene as mushrooms

Knees, elbows, cunt, mouth

Moss, owls, moon and moths.

Pap Rally

I've been on the pill for eight years, since I was seventeen and my mother finally took pity on me for spending two days of every month lying on the bathroom floor writhing in agony and vomiting when I had my period. She took me to our family doctor who prescribed me Yasmin, and I have been happily popping the pill since. When I moved to Toronto, I presented my prescription at the pharmacy and was told I would need to have it signed by a Canadian doctor, so off I went to find a one. I first tried a downtown walk-in clinic which had it all -ugly waiting room, rude secretary behind the counter, and a fifty dollar fee to see the MD. I left and turned to Google, which pointed me in the direction of the Bay Centre for Birth Control, part of the Women's College Hospital.

Here the waiting room is painted a pleasant shade of purple, the administrators are friendly and droll and the doctors and nurses are like the cool aunts and older sisters you always wanted. And it's all free, even to non citizens -I was impressed.

When asked how long it had been since my last pap test I sheepishly admitted 'never' and winced inside. I was told I would have to get one before I could be prescribed the pill, and was penciled in for an appointment. I hate doctors and hospitals and all that stuff. I didn't think I would like them any better with my pants off, and for the next week I asked friends about what to expect, and was told time and again that it was 'No big deal.'

And of course, they were right, and I'd like to describe it for those of you who haven't had one, and also don't know what to expect. In a room I undressed and slipped into medical gown, folding my clothes on the chair, but carefully hiding my underwear in my bag, as if forgetting that the doctor was about to be gazing into my vulva in five minutes time. She came in, listened to my heart beat, checked my blood pressure and gave me a breast exam, while explaining how to do it myself at home. Then feet up on the stirrups, I spread 'em and lay back. The doctor [a Tina Fey lookalike] tried to show me the speculum but I shut my eyes and told her to just work away. Yeah so maybe it's immature and unhip, but I was nervous and self conscious as only one can be when they are showing their vagina to the third person ever, and that person is wearing latex gloves.

Anyway, it was all over in a minute [that's what she said] -she inserted the speculum, took a swab, then lubed up her gloves and took a little feel-around and that was it. I was told to get another the following year, then I got dressed and bought myself an ice cream sundae for my troubles. No big deal is right.

Except the next year I was back in Ireland, and when I went to the doctor and asked for a breast exam and pap test, I was charged sixty euros for the breast exam and told that I couldn't get a pap because "the government will call you when you're due one". Yeah, really.

Confused, I again turned to the internet to find out what the deal was there, and sure enough, in Ireland, the National Cervical Screening Programme is in charge of scheduling your smear test. You are summoned by a letter for your pap, like jury duty, and on the bright side, it IS free. However, you're not added to this register until you turn twentyfive, and they then have three years to get around to issuing your invitation. In Canada, on the other hand, it is recommended you get tested every year for the first three years after you start engaging in sexual activity [an average of age 17 I would guess] and you HAVE to get one before you can be prescribed the pill. Now, I'm not slamming the NCSP, and I think it's great they are working to screen as many women as they can, and free of charge! It's a great programme but I dooo think the age limit needs to be lowered, or at least that younger women should be encouraged to get screened too even if not through this programme. I know far too many women my age who aren't even sure what a pap test consists of, or what it is for, and that's something that really does need to change, considering cervical cancer can be quite treatable if caught early enough. Even if you take into account that it could take a couple of years for a woman's cells to show up as abnormal after contracting the cancer-causing strains of HPV, by age 25 most women have been engaging in sexual activity for the best part of a decade, and many will have been on the pill for years at that stage too.

Currently the Cervical Check screening programme adds women to the register based on information from the Department of Social and Family Affairs, but you can now actively opt-in here, so do yourself a favour today and get on it!

Read into it

At the moment I am getting some work experience in the library [which is awesome!] but today while I was doing some data entry of authors and titles, I couldn't get over the amount of books named "Some guy's woman"



The Time Traveller's Wife
The Zookeeper's Wife
The Doctor's Wife
The Senator's Wife
The Pilot's Wife
The Centurion's Wife
The Kitchen God's Wife
Prophet's Wife
The Diplomat's Wife
The Dopeman's Wife
The Heretic's Daughter
The Memory Keeper's Daughter
The Murderer's Daughters
The Apothecary's Daughter
The Bonesetter's Daughter
The Calligrapher's Daughter
Frontiersman's Daughter
The Gravedigger's Daughter
The General's Daughter
The Florist's Daughter
Songs for the Butcher's Daughter

Needless to say, when searching for books titles "The _____'s Husband/Son", results were bleak. No "The Surgeon's Husband", no 'The Senior Account Executive's Son". 

Now I'm putting my hand up right now and admitting I haven't read any of these. I just don't get it. Is there one very famous book  similarly titled which they are all just paying homage to? Can anyone explain this to me? Because honestly, I'm not impressed.

white wash boy

he's different tonight
drunk and word-slurring
he moves a lot, talks with his hands, ducks his head around, leans in and out.
he's usually composed.
serious.
calm. 
it's funny.
he even smells different.
it's like he's a different person. hair just cut too.
could he have a younger, giddier brother i don't know about?
his voice is even different
at least, when we're talking.


it's kind of like
meeting a stranger.
does this mean i'll have to add one to my number?

we go down to the gallery's basement.

if they hear us
will they think
it is performance art?
is it performance art?

i spit. he swigs from a flask. 
i have to run, i have a magic pony to catch
and friends to meet, who are not impressed
but i know they are just annoyed that they are at the art show
to just see the art.

Work it

I broke one of my own rules today.

A couple years ago I decided I was never going to use the tried and tested "I have a boyfriend" line to get out of an awkward situation with a guy. Even if it happened to be the case. It just seemed like a cop out, and why should I rely on some real/imaginary man to stave off another? Besides, it sometimes gave the impression to the determined ones that the real reason I was declining their offer was because I was just a loyal girlfriend, that I wanted to but couldn't, when no, I didn't want to.

I figured that in the long run, it would be more beneficial for womankind if we were just honest.

"No thanks, I'm not interested".

"Excuse me, but you're interrupting my evening with my friend."

"I don't want to dance/drink/talk with you, and I'm not obliged to explain why."

But today i was caught off guard. Old guys always catch me off guard, I'm too naive, I assume they look at me and see that young lass who works in the hardware store/ clothes store/ library, who is, like all retail staff, paid to assist them and be courteous and smile. I forget that sometimes "Do you need some white spirits with that?" or "You can take computer number four!" can be code for "I want you. I've always wanted you. You were born, and then thirtyfive years later, I was born to want you."

It's a simple mistake, a mere translational faux pas.

Next thing you know, the guy who wanted your advice on choosing a paint colour for his kitchen is reaching over to admire the detail on your necklace. And the guy in the gardening section asks you for your number so you can "hang out sometime", while his wife and child are in the pharmacy next door.

In the library last week, I was told by an elderly man I was "nice to look at". Phew! Glad I'm doing my job right. Know what else in the library is nice to loo at? Books. Eyes on the page, Gramps.

But today during lunch, when a familiar face who frequents the library smiled on the street as we crossed paths, and it was sunny out so I smiled back with one of those "we don' really know each other but it's sunny!" smiles and he stopped me to ask if I was working today and I said yes, and then he asked if i had children, like it was the most natural question in the world. I was a bit taken aback.

"Do I have children?? I AM children!"

"Are you single?"

"Er... No."

*Hurries away*

I panicked, and relied on my make-believe boyfriend to rescue me. 

Okay, I know, he's an adult, I'm an adult, and it's a free country -there's nothing wrong with it as such... but it weirds me out. Mostly because I'm always left wondering do I really come across as the kind of girl who would want to get with them? Which is silly. There is no "kind of girl" -but do I give out a vibe of wanting to hook up with older, often married men? UGH. I don't think I do. In fact, I feel as though I dress particularly young compared to a lot of my peers. I wear dresses and colourful tights and plastic jewellery. I'm still hoping to one day fill out in the chest department. I was not one of those sixteen year olds who dated guys in their twenties and got into all the clubs, and even now I get carded all the time and mistaken for as young as seventeen. [sometimes by seventeen year old boys. another story].

So when these older guys take a shine to me, it's not that I'm horrified they would mack on a woman in her mid-twenties, but that they'd mack on someone who could pass for even younger. That's what's so eww to me.

To summarise... Dear sleazy men. Please do not hit on women who are being paid to be nice. Be polite and wait until we're off the clock -then we can tell you where to go.

Work Abroad Expo at the RDS

Admission is ten bucks, that's pretty cheap for a ticket out of here.
 I give my money to the Avon Lady at the door, and she hands me a plastic bag filled with leaflets on cheap travel insurance and fake magazines about how great life is on the other side of the world.
I came for the seminars, and I'm late.
The chairs are all filled, the boat is full, and people line the edges of the room.
A Canadian woman with a clip-on microphone is very quickly explaining the process.
She's a government official, she knows what's up and is here to help.
It's a points system, she explains.

You get points for age.
Under 35, you get full points. After that, it all goes downhill.
-No kidding.
You get points for education.
-You had damn better. It's all I got.
You get points for skills, but only if they're on the list.
If you're a plumber, carpenter or electrician, welcome to Canada, come on in and make yourself at home.
Plasterer? Sorry, you're SOL, son.
You get points for fluency in English, and bonus points for French.
-I took German. Fuck. So long, Quebec.
You can buy your way in if you have eighty big ones.You're not allowed in if you, or your husband, or your kid has diabetes, or cancer, or anything else that's going to make you a burden on the government.
Be careful who you love.

A hand goes up.“What if you're over 55?”
It's the saddest question I have ever heard.
“You still might get in, if you can make the points up elsewhere,” she says.
I can only see the guy from the back. His hair is greying. His sweater is grey too, and worn. I hope he's a glazier. Canada is crying out for glaziers.
Another hand.“What is the minimum acceptable score on the English fluency test?”
“A seven across the board”.
The guy has a thick Indian accent. But he'll be okay. He just used the word
minimum.

_________________________



There are thirty minutes to kill between each show. I walk around and collect free pens. I enter raffles for things I don't want. I listen to a girl's long rehearsed spiel about why I need to spend half a grand on a TEFL course this weekend and how if I mention her nameI'll get a discount. Some of the stalls don't apply to me. There are a lot for healthcare workers. I want one of their pens, and I don't want to look like a scab, so I pretend to read one of their leaflets for a minute. A Filipino man and woman visiting the same stall give me a big smile and the guy says “Hi, nurse!” They're being nice to me just because they think I'm one of them. That blows me away, and for a second, I wish I was a nurse so I could chat about our respective hospitals and specialties, but I hate needles, so I just smile and walk away like the fraud I am, clutching my pen

_________________________


I check out a seminar on New Zealand. I've never really thought about going down under.Going to Australia means hanging out with a bunch of sunburnt and dehydrated Irish people in crappy Irish bars and getting really excited about GAA matches and Tayto crisps. You have to wear string tops and cargo shorts and slave away picking fruit or collecting glasses for six months just to save enough money to blow on one week in Thailand with the same sunburnt and dehydrated Irish people.But New Zealand could be Australia's cooler older cousin, you know, a graphic designer with a great apartment and an even better record collection who only drinks craft beer and plays the ukulele. The guy is selling it. NZ sounds awesome. Great weather, great schools, great healthcare,great tax rates, great
Quality of Life.
This is the phrase of the day.


But then he shows us a video. It looks like it cost a lot of money. There is an awful soundtrack that combines indigenous Kiwi music with upbeat drums. People are skydiving, and parasailing, and horse-riding, and surfing, and they're all smiling, there's lots of smiling. It's like any tourism commercial on TV, I guess. Except we're two minues in... four minutes in and still going.
Now people are walking on beaches at sunset, eating fresh fruit in fields, drinking wine in flattering lighting with attractive people, dancing at a nightclub. It's never going to end.I'm waiting for the images to morph into some kind of vortex that sucks us all into the screen and traps us in a New Zealand tourist video forever which might not be so bad 'cos we'll get to get drunk and go bungee jumping with tanned hotties, but now I'm laughing at this ridiculously long video which promises that life in New Zealand is one long adventure weekend and nobody ever has to go to the dentist or get divorced or live on cups of instant noodles for weeks on end, but I'm still the only one laughing, what is wrong
with these people?

You can walk your dog in New Zealand. You can join a rugby team in New Zealand. Your kid can jump on a trampoline in New Zealand. Your boyfriend can draw a heart on a sandy beach with a big stick in New Zealand. In slow motion.The video finally ends and I'm out of there.

_____________________



The place has filled up now. It was quieter this morning, only the people who had been considering making the move for a long time, who are committed enough to make the10.30am seminar. Now everyone else is here, the ones who have panicked, who are desperate.You go to one of these Work Abroad Expos, and you expect it to be full of kids. Kids looking for a gap year after finishing their Leaving Certs and before starting college, or after finishing college and before starting a Real Job. I did. I expected wrong. At least half the attendants are over forty. Some pushing sixty. Some with worried wives looking around, holding tightly onto lots of leaflets they've been handed. Lots with their kids in tow. Babies, in strollers, or toddlers -one hand in dad's hand, the other in a bag of Starmix. A young family sits on the bench next to me. Dad stares at the wall ahead. Baby wriggles around in stroller reaching its hands out for attention. Mom's on her phone to her sister or best friend or someone talking about how they were just talking to someone about some little town in Nova Scotia that's letting people in, and how the lady at the table said they have really good childcare and low crime rates. She's excited about their new life, or trying to be excited, it sounds more like, and all I can think is that it sounds like a shitty town with nothing to do, and how lonely she will be and how much she'll miss whoever she is on the phone to.

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I've always wanted to go. Before the recession, before college, I've wanted to go since I was 7 years old, and then I did go and I loved it so much I want to go again, for good. For me, the prospect has only ever filled me with excitement. These people don't want to go. You can tell. And it's fucking depressing.

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The longest queue is for a stall called Skill Shortage Solutions. This company helps you with your application when you don't meet the standard requirements. No degree? No trade? No English? No problem!  As far as the Department of Immigration is concerned, the lepers but this crowd offers free consultations. You fill out a form, and they call you in a week, and arrange fee payment to secure their services. I'm guessing there is no money back guarantee.

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Last seminar of the day. An immigration lawyer, this guy is ridiculous. Shiny suit, hair that's way too maintained, a smile like a orthodontist's kid. He's just a car salesman with some letters after his name.The crowd pours out the door, people shoving to get nearer the front, women using their kids as strategic weapons.
“Excuuuuse me, can I get through?” -waving her sticky child in your face. I was never a fan of that 'women and children first' bullshit.

Everyone's staring at the guy on the pulpit, hanging on his every word.“Hands up who wants to go to Canada!! You, sir in the green shirt, why do you wanna go?”
Faceless man in the audience mumbles something.
“More opportunities, that's right! Lady in the third row, why do you want to go? Good place to raise your kids? Sure is! And you? Ah, better Quality of Life, that's what I'm talking about!”

Is this for real? Who IS this guy? And what's with this southern Baptist church pep rally bullshit? I feel like I'm at a Tony Robbins gig. More talk about points systems and provincial nominee options and free consultations and nominal fees. I look around, weigh up people's odds in my head. You, you, you, maybe you, definitely not you, you, maybe you. Eyeing competition. There's not much competition. Half these people are just lost.They lack the get up and go. They're not as desperate as their numbers would lead you to believe.

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I swore I wouldn't make any tired, melodramatic, or downright insulting analogies to thefamine or coffin ships, and I won't, I swear.

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I took the number seven bus from Nassau street to get there. A Chinese girl got on after me, asked to go to Shelbourne street, and dropped her coins in the slot.
“Where?” The busdriver barked.
“Shelbourne street?” she repeated. Okay, her pronunciation wasn't perfect, but I was halfway down the bus and I could fucking understand her.

“Shebon Street? Never heard of it. How am I supposed to take you somewhere you don't even know the name of?”
Prick. He knows right well.
A girl behind her, South American, says “She said Shelbourne Street.”
“Is that what you said?” he barks again. The Chinese girl, kind of confused now just nodded.
“Then why didn't you say Shelbourne Street?”
Fucking prick.
“I'm sorry my pronunciation is not great...” She's embarrassed.
He just grunts. I kind of hope his kids have to emigrate and he never sees his grandkids again.