9 Songs I Adore But Daren't Listen To On Public Transport Incase Somehow My Earphones Come Out And Everyone Can Hear The Embarrassing Music I'm Playing

Keith Urban - You'll Think Of Me
Embarrassing because... it's Keith fucking Urban singing a love song, come on.



Stephen Bishop - It Might Be You
Embarrassing because...I first heard it on Radio 2 on a Sunday afternoon when it was chosen by a vicar for having "a beautiful melody". Kill me.



Jada - American Cowboy
Embarrassing because...It's a bunch of plastic bimbos who can't sing performing a cheesy pop/rnb song with shite lyrics and I JUST LOVE IT AND CAN'T HELP IT. First heard on House, epic.


Deborah Cox - Nobody's Supposed To Be Here
Embarrassing because...It's a powerful female vocal American RnB song. I know, I know.


Backstreet Boys - What Makes You Different
Embarrassing because...see above.


Rascal Flatts - Winner At A Losing Game
Embarrassing because...it's country and proud. I first heard the Rascal Flatt's whilst working for a Summer at a ranch in Pennsylvania when I was 16. I listened to country music all Summer long and I've never been able to shake the shame (and love) since.


R Kelly - The World's Greatest
Embarrassing because...It's SO cringy and American and..ugh. But it makes me think of Ali and gets me shadow boxing, and I'm yet to grow tired of it.


NSync - Something Like You
Embarrassing because...Ridiculously sickly sweet and lovey dovey with whipped cream and sprinkles on top. You've got to admit thought, Timberlake can hold a note.


Angels - My Boyfriend's Back
Embarrassing because...it's old and has lots of 'lalalalala's' in it and claps and other things to make your toes curl. But it's still wonderful.

I'm the youngest of 7, no, make that 6...

That awkward moment when someone says "so, have you any brothers or sisters?" It used to be simple "yes, 5 big brothers and a big bitch/sister" Oh WOW! They'd gasp. 7 children! Your poor Mam! Yes. Hilarious. My Mam has a fanny like a bucket, we get it.

But now, it's the old "Erm... well, I had 5 big brothers, now it's 4... although of course he'll always BE my brother, he's just dead, so, you know, I suppose I'm the youngest of 6 really... but no, that'd be like forgetting him wouldn't it!? No - definitely youngest of 7. 5 big brothers. One I keep in less contact with than the others. Because I'm not a medium." But by the time I've said all that the person asking the question has probably fucked off anyway.

OR, they're the nosy kind - and enquire "Oh dear, what happened?" When it first happened I found it easy to just say "He blew his brains out with a rifle." And it'd be like a social experiment to see how they'd react. But as the weeks have passed, I find myself choking on the explanation. Instead I simply shake my head, and a friend will lead me away whilst shooting a dirty look at afore mentioned nosy cow. And they say time is a healer?

It came to a head this morning. I'm supposed to be in lectures all day, but I bumped into someone I hadn't seen for nearly a year on my way there, an old family friend. She had been childhood friends with Ciaran (afore mentioned dead brother) but we hadn't kept in touch. "So, how's the family? I hear Ciaran's living in London now?" It must've looked like I was an Oscar nominated actress - I did the stare with the haunted eyes, then they welled up, then I stammered a bit at her, whilst her face dropped and she placed a concerned hand on my arm. "Oh.. Ciaran... well.. he's kind of, dead, you know?" Yes I said 'kind of' and 'you know'. As oppsed to "a lot" and "you know now." Then she welled up too and her lip trembled and she stammered and we were beginning to look like a couple of first years in drama school. "How did it happen?" she asked. I managed to tell her that he shot himself. And she paused, and looked at me for a moment, and then began to chuckle. "Typical Ciaran, ay? Die as you live and all that. He was always an interesting bastard, for sure." Well I hadn't had that reaction before.

But she's right. He was classic, a person who actually 'seized the day' unlike those cunts who get it tattooed on themselves but have never actually done anything remotely interesting in their lives. He travelled for two years across Europe and Asia, he worked on cattle ranches in America and on polo farms in Australia, volunteered in Sudan assisting famine and aids victims, got his pilots license, spent a Summer driving a horse and cart around Ireland, rode in point to points, hunted and shooted, went in one of those shark cages off the coast of Australia, swam with dolphins, went whale spotting, trekked and skiied his way across Northern Canada, completed the New York marathon... and those are just the things off the top of my head. He was also funny and kind and could make anyone feel welcome and comfortable.

Why'd he do it? Was another common question. Said thoughtfully, rhetorically (in most cases, some rude cunts simply asked outright). I went into it on twitter, how it bugged me and I had just one possible reason as to why he didn't want to live anymore - loneliness. His fiance had died 10 years previously, killed by a drunken-cunt-driver in Dublin. I suppose doing all of the above always had a sting in the tail for Ciaran, he'd then have to go home and sit there and imagine how much Kate would've enjoyed it, or how much better it could've been had she been there. Perhaps he got as much done because he was trying to run away from the sadness (the cynical explanation) or was it because he was determined to live life to the full since she couldn't (the optimists version). Who knows.

But, now everyone left behind has inherited the sting in the tail. Everytime I begin to enjoy myself I'll remember him and then I'll be sad. Or if I hear a great song I'll go to text him about him, then I'll be sad. Or I'll bump into an old friend of his on the street and I'll be sad for the rest of the day, skip all my lectures, and cry whilst eating a chocolate orange (today).

That was all really. I'm just bored because I'm skipping all my lectures, crying, eating a choc... yeah you know, so I decided to write this shitty boring blog and make you sad too x

On Racehorses

I’m keen to express some thoughts about the reaction to the two horse deaths in this year’s Grand National, and the subsequent cry for horse racing's blood. It’s driving me mad to try and hold it in. Bear with me – it might just be a complete load of drivel, and no doubt will be totally disagreeable to many of you. A bit of background first, to put all this in context. I was raised on a farm in County Wexford, of mixed pastoral and arable. We’ve always had horses, my Grandfather used to have some point-to-pointers back in the day (point-to-pointing is amateur jump racing) and now we have hunters, hacking horses and young horses who are starting their ridden careers.

This blog came about as I read someone say, on twitter, that the fact racehorses of grand national calibre live in relative luxury is irrelevant when discussing their untimely end. But, in my opinion, we all need to take a step back and take a few minutes to view racehorses as what they are officially classed as – livestock. That is, farm animals raised for profit, albeit not for meat in this country and without the ultimate 'goal' of slaughter. I adore horses – one day I hope to be an equine vet – and I follow racing. I fully support those in the racing industry who have been battling against the negative reaction to this year’s Grand National by expressing how much we all care for the racehorses. This is totally true, they are loved by their owners and grooms and the deaths of Dooneys Gate and Ornais are totally regrettable and sad. But I still wanted to look at the debate over national hunt racing in more of a practical view mind, by viewing racehorses as the law views them – as livestock.

They are, in fact, the most free range of livestock. They have shelter, time in the field to play with friends and roll and graze, the best quality feed as planned by a nutritionist, the least dusty hay in carefully planned amounts, fluffy straw beds which are mucked out twice a day, massages, physio, frequent vet checks, dentist treatment, grooming and petting... Quite an impressive list really. And not one you’d associate with any other livestock, free range or otherwise.

I’m assuming that the vast majority of you reading this are meat eaters. Cows, sheep, pigs – they’re all livestock that were bred and reared with the purpose of selling for a profit to be eaten. Believe me, every single one of these animals we’ve eaten has a personality, and was cared for as a new born by its Mammy, and was called for when it was weaned, and it had either satisfaction of its principal needs through its life or not. The ones that did have satisfaction – roomy shelter, correct feeding, space to roam – are known as free range.

Now, we appease ourselves by only associating ourselves with the satisfied, happy-at-death animals, i.e. we (rightly so) try to buy the free range meat whenever possible. We feel happier that we are consuming livestock that, although still ultimately fulfilled the task it was bred and reared for by ending up on the supermarket shelves, led a comfortable life up until it reached its end.

My point is this – racehorses are bred and reared to race. We would not have thoroughbreds if there wasn’t horse racing, just like we wouldn’t breed the lambs and cows at my family’s farm if everyone suddenly turned vegetarian. By including them with their livestock species, we see that racehorses lead a happy, charmed, and usually a long life in comparison to the rest - and they don't face getting eaten! The vast majority of racehorses will have cost thousands of pounds to breed in the first place. They would spend their early years gallivanting in the fields with the other young thoroughbreds. Then they could spend (I’ll generalise) 10 years working for 2 or 3 hours a day, getting fit, and racing say 7 or 8 times a year. They are prize assets, often selling for hundreds of thousands of pounds.

When these thoroughbreds are at the racecourse and are galloping, natural and enjoyable to any fit horse, and jumping, behaviour learned over hours and years of dedication, they are guided by experienced horsemen and women on their backs. The horses are watched by the professionals who train them and likewise dedicate 12 hours a day, 7 days a week to them, and they are followed by an on course vet and have many stewards and personal grooms waiting by to help in the unlikely event that things go wrong.

I believe it’s about 2 in 1000 racehorses who die on the racecourse. A low number, in my opinion. Many will die instantly, the rest have the afore mentioned on course vets, stewards and grooms close at hand to ensure their lives end as quickly as possible. The most likely event is the horse will return home to a bucket of feed and a big straw bed. Any horse whom the trainer feels “wasn’t themselves” will be extensively investigated by a vet, and they’ll be pampered by a groom. They’ll retire at, say, 12 and become a hacking horse and live for another 10 years before succumbing to old age or colic or arthritis and a vet or huntsman will be summoned and the horse will die. Yes, even the horses that don’t die on the racecourse still have to die one day I’m afraid.

The 2 in 1000 horse that died on the racetrack will have lived a lot longer and in much greater luxury than the free range animals we eat (once again, I promise you they all have a personality so let’s not pretend that horses are the only ones who do). Racing is a big business, with hundreds and thousands of people employed in it. Racing is not simply for “the entertainment of toffs” as I read in one tabloid, the races all carry prize money essential to stables and owners to keep the whole business afloat. 

The horses are bred in the first place to hopefully make a profit through racing, just like the way pastoral farmers breed cows and lambs to make a profit by selling. A cow or sheep’s chance of death is quite a lot more than 2 in 1000 – I’d say it’s about a 75% chance, since it’s mostly down to gender. If you’re born a bullock, you’ve got a couple of years of gamboling in the field and then you’re sold. If you’re born a girl, you’ve a chance of getting to stay and do just a couple of hours work a day (like a racehorse, I suppose) in producing milk. Similarly with the sheep, a lamb not chosen to remain and breed will have 6 months of free range life before it’s time to be slaughtered and fulfil the purpose they were bred for, as livestock, and to keep our farming business going.

I spend many weeks a year shadowing vets as part of my veterinary medicine degree. One of my favourite placements is with an equine vet based in Tipperary, who visits an assortment of horses ranging from racers to hacking ponies. Every single racehorse I’ve visited with him has been of excellent condition; the perfect weight, on a correct diet, fit as a fiddle, nicely hydrated, happy, healthy, sound. The sorry cases are the fat ponies left in a field to get laminitis. They are fed too much and their delusional owners think it’s cruel to in any way push the horse, or to make it exercise for more than an hour a day. These are the horses which deserve the welfare concerns, not the impeccable specimens that are racehorses in their prime.

There is so much veterinary research dedicated entirely to racehorses, honestly It blows my mind how many papers I still have to read on them. The investments in welfare are huge, with specialised rehabilitation centres set up for racehorses who leave racing and need to be re-trained as riding horses. And, importantly, many qualified, experienced equine vets feel that research has proved that horses galloping free experience pleasure – surely something that no other free range livestock get to feel during their lives? I know this much, if I could come back as any animal it would be a racehorse, as then even if I was the 2 in 1000 that died whilst racing, I would have been fulfilling the job I was born to do and feeling pleasure at the same time.

Thank you for reading,
Helen.