Usually I try to avoid listening to the radio. Its not that I don’t like the format, I quite like podcasts and the like, the problem is generally to do with the music and the usual type of people who chatter inanely on Irish radio.

The music problem is obvious. In the past year or so I have gone from being a reasonably modern and hip person to a grumpy bastard who hates all new music. I always thought this would never happen to me, and when my older brothers and sisters would warn me that one day, I too would I become bitter and twisted and spit venom at any music made in the last decade, I would scoff at them. Never me! But, sadly, music didn’t feel like complying. Instead of being good, music has become shit. Its all, and I happily throw this generalization out there, ALL, stupid blips and blops and bad synths and robot-voiced cunts and stupid lyrics and Cheryl Cole. When I walk into the canteen at work and they are playing MTV constantly I feel like i’ve been transported 50 years into the future and I am a senile old man, struggling to comprehend the future. That’s when I piss myself and am taken away.

Then, of course in between the music, is the chat. Oh, that chat. The inane, banal chat that makes you want to pluck the aerial of the radio and jam it in your eye.

Anyway, because of all that I generally don’t go out of my way to listen to the radio. However, I got a text today from a friend telling me it was “font day” on Today FM. So, being a complete and utter nerd who is interested, yes, interested in fonts I tuned in. I was preparing myself to stomach 4, maybe 5 minutes of it before smashing my face into the stereo to end it all. How pleased was I then, that instead of being assualted by the “if the Nazi’s had won dystopian hellhole future” sounds of Dizzy Gaga, it was only bloody well They Might Be Giants and “BIrdhouse in your soul”. If ever there was a song to lift you above the gloom that is a rainy grey morning, this is it. So kudos to you Ian Dempsey.

He also then played the Dublin Gospel Choir, whose new album is out today and you should buy.

Hooray for everyone!

And, seeing as though its font day, I’m going to track down the person in my company who sent a memo using Comic Sans to everyone in the office and have “I AM A TWAT” tatoo’ed on their head in Helvetica Neue Medium.

SO, enjoy Font Day.

It has just occurred to me that Off The Meatrack has been on the go in some form or another since 2003. 6 years. What a rollarcoaster, from its humble beginnings as a bizarre flat-file writing PHP based CMS with a lively messageboard section (O.G. Off The Meatrack messageboard heads give yourself a round of applause) to this, the rarely updated, barely edited sham of a blog it is now.

Here’s to another 6. Although quite frankly i’d be surprised if I am still alive in 2015. Well, I won’t be surprised, because if given the unlikely event that I am cognate post-death my passing should cease to be a surprise once I have achieved ghost form. Unless I die exactly on this day in 6 years, then I will exhibit said surprisement.

In the greater scheme of things, I don’t think it matters much anyway, as we don’t have a say in the G20, who really run the show.

But i’m a fan of Europe and the European ideas, and I just don’t see the evils/wrongs involved here. I’ve read all sides, i’ve been ON both sides, but I’m going yes. I like the Lisbon Treaty.

Now, David Cameron, come to power and pull the rug out from the whole fucking thing anway and let us off the hook.

Do German’s use text speak? Because if not I would happily vote to be constricted into an Angela Merkel-headed Superstate if it meant that text speak would be banned and thus people wouldn’t be allowed write like they are mildly retarded chimpanzees with broken fingers.

If you can’t spell “your” then I’m not sure I want to listen to your opinion on international treaties on Facebook.

To Arthur!

Let’s face it, the adding of a cock and balls to a picture is always going to bring a grin to ones face, but this is a particularly good deployment. Tip of the hat to you, anonymous Christchurch artiste.

He makes himself out to be a bigger twat than Brian Cowen!

Amazing!

Seriously, when you ask a man a question, whether it be Brian Cowen or Adolf Q. Satan, you let them answer it before moving on….

Ireland is a-buzz today with talk of a snap election.

I don’t know about you, but if there is a snap election i’m voting for “Rhythm is a Dancer”

Yes To Jobs! Yes To Recovery! Yes To Rhythm is A Dancer!

In downtown Los Angeles, on the corner of an intersection, stands an old, run down building. The rotting, decayed sign over the door reads “Golden Dragon Karate Dojo”, but its doors haven’t been open since the kung-fu craze of the late 70s. Many other businesses in this area have come and gone, repainted their crumbling facades and so on, whilst this building has stood as a decaying monument to that era; windows boarded up, doors bolted shut and caked in rust. It has always perplexed locals why it was never sold during any of the waves of regeneration which offer false dawns from time to time. It was bought by a man, rumored to be in the movie business, as the karate-dojo folded but he never saw fit to use it for anything, content to let it slowly decay. No amount of money, it was said, could tempt this man away from it.

Were one fortunate enough to get inside, they would find a similarly run down interior. Just past the main door is a short corridor. To the left are some general offices, and to the right is a small equipment shop. Both have a vague Mary Celeste feel to them, desks with phones, pens, papers and other such paraphernalia lie abandoned, covered in a blanket of dust, as if the occupants had just vanished one day. The corridor leads down into the main hall. This is a large, spacious room. Where once it featured rows upon rows of training warriors, now it is empty and silent. Along the walls are a few torn and tatty posters advertising (then) upcoming karate tournaments and others with suitably encouraging slogans for the would-be karate master. This room is sparse and dead now, empty for all but one thing. The Machine.

In the centre of the room, on the floor, sits the Machine. It is a dark grey metal box, roughly similar in size to a fridge that is on its back. Its surface is pristine, brushed metal with clean edges, in start contrast to the decay around it. For the most part the surface of the machine is blank, with only a few items. One is a slit which runs around the entire perimeter of the Machine, half way up. When the Machine is activated this pulses with a red glow.

On one end of the Machine are two panels. One is a blank, rectangular inset panel about the size of an A4 sheet which features one solitary red button, set in the middle of the panel. Once this panel featured a range of buttons, switches, dials and keys for inputing various variables to the Machine. But there are no variables to change any more, just one single button which activates the Machine.

Below this panel is another, smaller panel, similarly inset into the side of the Machine. This panel features one, single slot just wide enough for a CD to emerge from.

The Machine and the room sit still for long periods of time. But occasionally, about once a year, there is a visitor. A man in a dark suit and a brief case enters the building through a locked fire escape at the back of the building. He walks over to the machine, dragging with him a fold-up chair which is rested against the wall. He sets up the chair, puts down his brief-case then walks over to the Machine. He presses the red button and then sits down. The Machine stirs into life. A low, throbbing hum begins to emanate from inside the grey, metal box. The red glow lights up, illuminating rhythmically in time with the whirring heart-beat of the Machine. Occasional blips and bleeps also ring out over the low-hum as the Machine processes its various calculations.

After 3 minutes it suddenly stops. The hum dies down, slowly returning to silence and the red glow fades. After a moment there is a final sound, a short burst of mechanical movements and then a DVD slides suddenly out of the slot. The Man in the Suit gets up, walks over and takes out the DVD. This is the new Jennifer Aniston film. He puts the DVD in his briefcase and leaves the building.

In a few days this DVD will be sent to Jennifer Aniston’s home where she will view it for the first time. Along with the movie will be a package of information, including humorous anecdotes about the filming of said movie, such as pranks her co-star played on her, for use on the interview circuit. Of course these events did not take place as there was no filming. Jennifer Aniston has not stepped foot in front of a movie camera in 5 years. A set has not been built, a roll of film has not been used and a script was never written. The Machine is pre-programmed with all the materials needed to create a Jennifer Aniston film. These are; the Story (this never changes), Aniston’s character’s occupation (an array of Waitress, Fashion Magazine Editor or Art Gallery Manager), level of kookiness (Not-so-Kooky, Kooky, or Very Kooky) and her romantic lead (one of 5 leading men). The Machine then processes all these variables and produces the finished film, along with all necessary promotional material (the poster, Aniston tying the tie of her leading man, set against a blue sky, and title in sans-serif font, one word bold, the other normal weighting can be produced in under one second). All Jennifer Aniston films are created by the Machine.

The Machine must be destroyed.