Ask J-Ro: When To Quit

Hi Jen! I was just wondering is there a limit to how many times one can ask the same boy out and get rejected each time? I have asked the same boy for caffeine or alcohol based beverages three times and each time he has essentially declined. From a fellow height challenged beour. XXX

pic by Ken Coleman

Hello Fellow Petite! This one hits fairly close to home, so this advice is as much for me as it is for you, so we’re in this together. I’m going to be brutally honest here – stop in the name of sanity. Once was enough. I speak as someone who has been there, done that, and ruined the friendship. You’re verging into self-harm territory if you go back there again.

If you think he’s giving you signals that he wants more, he’s more than likely just enjoying the flirty banter with someone safe; and who is safer to flirt with than somebody who has asked you out? Doesn’t mean it’s right though, but it does happen. Ego is a bit of a bastard really.

On the plus side, after three times getting flat-out rejected, you now know there is nothing you can possibly do to make him like you that way. So let that lighten the load. He’s just a guy. A nice guy, I’m sure…but just a guy. You got on in the world fabulously before you ever knew he existed, and you’ll live a fantastic life from now on after knowing him too.

Make some headspace for someone to try asking YOU out. You’ve done your bit for forward-thinking women and equality in the dating world by now. Let the fellas shit themselves for once. The ones who DO fancy you will get shit done!

Best of Luck! I’m off to get this entire message tattooed on my own forehead… 🙂

Love Me Tinder, Love Me True…

An Open Letter to all the Tinder Liars out there

Ah, Tinder. The app that’s helped more women see more unsolicited cocks than a free STI clinic after Fresher’s Week. The app that launched a thousand fake profiles, and a shedload of lying cheating gobshites who don’t know how the app actually works. They don’t seem to realise that when you sign up using your FB profile, it uses that FB profile pic as default. So, if I’m scrolling through this Gallery of Goons and some dude has a selfie where he’s leaning into some young wan’s earhole and sniffing lovingly, no amount of ‘Dat’s my sis in the pic I swear lol” in the tagline underneath is going to stop me giving your profile the Beyoncé treatment:


Look lads, if you’re going to lie, at least TRY and do it well. Put a bit of effort into it. Find the settings button, and get rid of the pics of you carrying your bride in your arms while still in your wedding rigout. I’m also not a fan of you gazing up bleary-eyed into a camera lens holding a freshly-squeezed newborn while you claim it’s your nephew. I’m not Jeremy Kyle love. I don’t have access to ready-made paternity tests, and I’m probably not going to take you at your word.

To all the Headless Torsos:

Unless you’ve just run screaming from the town of Sleepy Hollow, I’m going to have to assume that you actually HAVE a head, and that it’s so hideous even Peter Jackson’s Orcs want to vomit at the sight of it. Either that or you made a pact with Satan, that you could have your ‘rock-hard abs’ and TRX-addicted core conditioning blah-blah-blah but it would cost you everything above your neck. Don’t worry about it, it happens sometimes. OR, and this is more likely, you have a significant other and you’re staying faceless until you’re so close to getting your hole that both you and the lucky gal you landed will both be in equal amounts of trouble. So, there’s that.

To the ‘Straight In, No Messin’ Chancers:

Are you a hunted man? Have you 24 hours to live? Are you shipping out to fight the good fight in the morning and don’t want to die in the field of battle without having seen a naked woman one last time? Is your dick going to turn into a pumpkin after midnight?

If the answer to any of the above is ‘Yes’, then I can just about understand the urgency with which you want to do the No-Pants Dance. (Apart from Pumpkin Dick – get that shit checked out). More than likely, none of these situations are what you are currently dealing with, so surely you can spare a few precious extra sentences in between “Hey cutie lol” and “Pic of ur tits?” You know, just enough to stop making me feel like I’ve accidentally joined a Babestation XX chatroom. Simmer down, Smartphone Casanova.

Think I’m joking? That I’m making this shit up? I wish I was. THIS actually happened:

Well, at least he said 'Hi' first...

Well, at least he said ‘Hi’ first…

God. Help. Us. It took him a good twenty minutes of me ripping the ever-living piss out of him (as above) to realise that while I probably DID actually know what he was getting at, I wasn’t in any way into it. You could say he bottomed out. (Sorry). What an asshole. (I’ll stop now).

To The Guys Who Think I’m Psychic Fucking Sally:

Five pictures. All of them group photos. Most of them badly taken holiday snaps from your last fortnight-long piss-up in the Costa Del Ballsack or wherever the fuck. A minimum of eleven sunburnt glassy-eyed twatbadgers staring back at me, yet I’m expected to just KNOW which one you are. Or, I could employ a mind-bending mathematical process of elimination that would give Sherlock Holmes a brain-boner.

Fuck off.

Any ladies reading this and are faced with the same dilemma over and over again on Tinder, I have a simple rule, and it’s never let me down yet. It saves you the hassle of trying to work out which of the boyos you’re dealing with. Here it is:


Stick with that, and you’ll never be disappointed.

Side note: (I know women of Tinder are just as insane, but I’m straight, so I can only speak about the men. Let someone else talk about the crazy lying ladies, and I’ll read that. Anyway, I’ll carry on.)

And finally…

To The Shady Men of Tinder:

If you can’t be honest and happy enough to put up at least one pic of YOUR OWN FACE on a dating site – why in all of the Land of Fuck are you on it in the first place? If you can’t portray yourself as unattached, not surrounded by fourteen drunken eejits in football shirts and sombreros, with all of your features showing – you know, like a confident, single, grown-ass man – then all you’re destined for on Tinder is the dark, lonely, bottom left-hand corner of any smart girl’s Smartphone.


How To Make A Hit Pop Song, The Jason Derulo Way

After many minutes of deep intensive research (I listened to the song online) I’ve worked out the way to make my fortune. Jason Derulo knows a thing or two about making wads and wads of dirty sweaty cash-money. So, for anyone who’s looking for that get rich quick solution to solve your financial problems, worry no more. I’ve got it sorted for you. Courtesy of that class act, Jason Derulo, here are the fool-proof steps to get the money AND the girls. So many girls, apparently. Here we go:

Watch the master at work by clicking here.

1. Find a lovely girl you’ve never met before and focus on her looks and body, telling her you know what ‘De girl dem need’.

2. Imply that your lap is the best chair in the world and she should sit on it. If she’s not weak with longing by now, you’re doing it wrong.

3. Tell her that her arse is so awesome, she doesn’t need to use her words to explain anything.

4. Shout out various airport departure destinations intermittently, in case she gets notions to start ruining the mood by, you know, letting her personality get in the way.

5. Only allow her to talk if it’s pure durrty.

6. Be stupid enough to think that lipstick stamps all over your passport won’t raise any questions at Passport Control.

7. Record with Middle Eastern-type exotic music sample and thumping beat, release and fly up the charts.

8. Now forever sleep on a bed of money. It’s uncomfortable, but that’s the life you’ve chosen as an international ladies’ man.

9. Seriously, can’t stress enough how much you have to randomly shout out capital cities, otherwise the poor girl won’t know you’re well-travelled. Roaring “Athlone to Mullingar” just doesn’t have the same effect. Believe me, I’ve tried.


Jason Derulo: The Hodor of the song-writing world.

Trigger Warning: My Opinion on Why We Still Need Feminism In The West


Look, I’m a humour-based writer by trade and by choice (At least I hope people find humour in most of it) but there are some things that never fail to make my soul burn with rage, like people who think feminism is not really needed in the West as much any more. OH PLEASE. All you need to do is follow the likes of @EverydaySexism to see we still have a long way to go.

But here’s a bit of a story from me. I’ve many more, but this one sticks in my mind above all else.

In addition to writing, I’m also a singer/songwriter who’s travelled around Europe and gigged a lot. When I’m not threatened with rape because I reject some gobshite’s advances IN THE MIDDLE OF ME SINGING A SONG (i.e doing my fucking job) in a Greek bar while the bar manager looks over and shrugs his shoulders and leaves me to defend myself (I’m 4ft 9), THEN maybe I’ll start to believe more in the changing global attitudes towards women.

This was in Europe guys, and not a million years ago either (Summer of ’99). I was lucky enough to be playing with a friend (also female) to a lovely mannerly bunch of Marines, who stepped up when I started screaming like a premenstrual banshee at the man who threatened and intimidated me, and threw that fuckmuppet out of the pub.

I just wanted to sing and entertain with my friend who was my music partner and my best friend, and we always felt safer gigging together. All I got in return from a punter was a lot of inappropriate touching. For a finish, after repeatedly telling him to either stop or ‘fuck the fuck off’ (I AM from Limerick after all), I then received a whispered genuine threat of sexual assault in my ear as I was singing a song.

The bar manager’s response? Get him more drink, it’ll calm him down. (In an unusual move, it didn’t.) A bunch of Marines who didn’t like would-be rapists brought him outside, along with a few well-placed kicks, which eventually calmed him down and did the job instead. God bless the Marines.

Nowadays, I gig in Ireland all the time, where it’s safer and the majority of men are gents. I play alone and have never felt safer. There’s a community of musicians that mind each other like family, and the bars are some of the safest and most fun places to be. I love gigging in Limerick. But if anyone goes on about feminism in a sneery way; like we don’t need some sort of consciousness to be raised in this side of the world, it just makes me sad. They’ve no fucking idea.

You don’t need live in the Middle East or Darkest Africa to experience fear just because of your gender. As long as there is some sort of mistreatment of somebody simply based on the fact that they’re a woman, I’m going to call myself a feminist, because that stuff is something I’m not okay with.

I’m also very lucky to know a lot of men around me who consider themselves feminists too. You’re all fantastic men, and I wish more would join your ranks and stop subscribing the old adage that being a feminist means hating men. How is that helpful in the move towards wanting respect for all human beings regardless of ANY difference between us??

Let’s take back the word Feminism and equate it with the words Equality and Love, and there you have it. A movement every decent human being can get behind.

That’s my two cents anyway.

Thanks for reading, everybody.

#yestoallwomen #YesToEquality #YesToUnity #YesToLove #MenAreFeministsTooYouKnow #MarinesRule

When Great Trees Fall

In the six months that have passed since my mom left this world, I’ve experienced some of the most drastic changes in my own life that I’ve ever witnessed, not least because I lived with her for six years beforehand. Once the rug is pulled from under you in every way, you realise you’re on your own. Your one true anchor in this world has cast off, and your only options are to sink or swim and find ways to cope and survive. You pick yourself up and try to move forward with this great big gaping hole in your chest that threatens to suffocate you and make you feel like you’ll never know happiness in any form ever again. But you have no choice, you’re still here. Wherever she is, she’s okay now. I’m left here without her, trying to make sense of this whole new dimension where part of me is forever absent, and a blank page entitled ‘Jen’s Life’ that I’m expected to fill in without her helping me or nagging me to get going.

So onwards I go, head up, marching on, saying yes to new things and really starting to enjoy the future I appear to be carving out for myself. Most nights while I’m sleeping, she pops in for a visit. She’s standing there, exactly as I knew her; she’s smiling, giving out to me and nagging me the way she used to, demanding ice-cream because I had eaten some that day and thought ‘Mam would have LOVED some of this.’ She can hear me, her deafness is gone, and we have great chats about what in the name of God I’m up to THIS week. At one point I was getting married (only in the dream, I can assure you) and I was standing there on the morning of it dressed in my gown and all that jazz. She stood there in front of the mirror with me and said “It’s not you, though, is it?” and I said “No, you’re right. I don’t want this at all.” Her reply was vintage Mammy Ronan. “Well, you know what to do then. Go make the calls.” Which I did. Metaphorically and physically. Life kicked off in many weird and wonderful ways after that. I had made a promise to her the night before we buried her, (well, one of many promises, but they’re between me and her) and it was that I would do my best to live an awesome happy life, and embrace any chances that came along which would make me happy. The act of making that promise alone kicked off something in the cosmos which I can’t explain – all I know is I haven’t had a minute’s peace in the last six months because I’ve been doing so many things and seeing so many people. I’m truly grateful. I don’t know where Mam is in general, but I know where she is most of the time where I’m concerned. Looking over my shoulder, making sure I keep my promise.

I found this poem by Maya Angelou, hence the title of this blog post. It’s about the significant loss the death of a parent leaves behind, and it hits home more than any words that I use ever could.

I love you Mom.


Partners in crime until the very end.

When Great Trees Fall

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
gnaws on kind words
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
“They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.”

                                                               Maya Angelou