Dr Brendan Scott’s public talk in a Cavan urinal or Ciaran’s joke of the day
Brendan and Jack were having a quiet drink when Brendan asks him.
“If you heard Jack that the world was going to end in fifteen minutes, what would you do?”
“Well in the time left I’d shag everything that moved I suppose. How about you Brendan. What would you do?”
“I’d try to stand perfectly still,” Brendan replies.
One more? Why not. What do a Rubik’s Cube and a prick have in common? The more you play with it the harder it gets.
Now a bird never flew on one wing. Define egghead: What Mrs Dumpty givers Humpty.
What has four legs and flies?
A dead horse.
….. Sick or what?
More bounty from the garden
Today Rosie brought up a handful of the tomatoes we have been able to ripen here at my sister’s garden in Cavan town. They were of various shapes, sizes and varieties, but all tasted superb, especially when eaten with our breakfast.
We have also had our first cucumber. This was an unusual variety called Crystal Lemon, which isn’t elongated like a traditional cucumbers, but is sphercal. It also tastes far nicer than many other cucumbers, lacking that horrible bittnerness which meant that we were able to eat it raw.
We’ll certainly be growing this variety again as it is far easier to grow, cheaper and less temperamental than the all female varieties. These often cost nearly £4 for a packet of three, maybe four seeds, not all of which germinate and even if they do they’re often sickly.
Turning up your nose in the garden
Nasturtiums provide wonderful colour in the gaerden at this time of year. But it was their smell which led to their naming by the ancient Romans. They found its odour so unpleasant that they were compelled to turn their noses up at it – and hence the name.
Nasturtiums ar a very versatile and useful plant. Most people know that their seeds when pickled become what has been termed “the poor man’s capers”, and in fact they are as good as the real capers 9especially with pizza) and what’s more far cheaper. It’s not just the seeds that are edible. The leaves and flowers add a lovely peppery note to salads, as well as colour, and their taste is reminiscent of watercress, to which they are related. What’s more their stems are nice too. Alan Davidson, in the Oxford Companion to Food quotes a recipe supplied by Dwight D. Eisenhower to a celebrity cookbook for a soup containing nasturtium seeds.
But their utility goes beyond the culinary. Another wonderful book I have in my collection is Roses Love Garlic: Companion Planting and Other Secrets of Flowers by Louise Riotte. I have learned that nasturtiums are a wonderful foil to a whole host of baddies affecting cucumbers and that they are an excellent way of dealing with aphids attacking broccoli. In this they are among the garden’s martyrs, for it seems they attract such copious quantities of aphids to its own plants that they haven’t time for nearby brassicas.
News from the garden
Our gardens are a riot of produce at this time of the year. The peas we sowed are producing numerous pods. It is a dwarf variety from Italian seedsmen Franchi, called “Piccolo Provenzale”. The individual peas are both sweet and nutty.
Our French beans are also producing a bountiful crop. Amongst the varieties we sowed was a purple-podded variety from Unwins. They may not have a vast range of exotic vegetables, but their seeds are universally top class.
Rosie has attempted to emulate the growing practices of the Mexican Indians, by growing runner beans among sweet corn, whose tall shaft supplies support for the beans. She is having marvellous success with this so far. The variety of runner bean she is growing, from Thompson and Morgan, is called “Teeny beany”, while the sweet corn is a new variety from T&M called “Rising Sun”. It was bred with colder climates in mind, and our success with it has only been phenomenal.
In our Cavan garden Rosie has enjoyed great success with some cherry yellow tomato plants she was given. Already we are enjoying small, bright yellow globes of sweetness and flavour that are just right for salads and sandwiches.
Bringing on a plant from seed to harvest is a most satisfying experience. In fact I would go so far as to say that it is self-transcending.
Royal visit to Ballyjamesduff
Many people in Ireland have longed for an opportunity to express their long-suppressed loyalty to the British Crown. They have watched, almost with baited breaths, at such moments of joy as the silver and golden jubilee and various royal weddings, not to mention those episodes of incredible pathos and heartbreak as the funeral of Princess Diana. However, now with the advent of the visit by Her Majesty to Ireland, Irish people of all creeds will be able to cheer with gusto as they exclaim “God Bless you Queen Elizabeth!”
For too long our two countries have been divided by antagonisms which have often been mischievously amplified by people in Ireland. The forthcoming royal visit is an opportunity to turn the swords of the past into the ploughshares of the present and the scythes of the future, with which future generations can reap a bountiful harvest of goodwill and renewed dependency on our bigger neighbour.
Those in Cavan will be especially pleased to hear that their local authority, Cavan County Council, had been working flat out behind the4 scenes to see to it that The Queen visited “The Lakeland County” and that she is given, along with the Duke of Edinburgh, an opportunity to fulfil a long-held ambition.
It is not generally known but Queen Elizabeth had planned to make a visit to Cavan County Museum during her visit. Both she and Prince Philip were anxious to look at the museum’s unique collection of Gaelic football boots and assorted Cavan GAA memorabilia. A source close to the royal family has stated that each time anyone mentions the memorable victory of Cavan over Kerry in New York’s Polo Grounds her mind goes back to the year 1947 and the royal wedding of that year.
It has now emerged that her visit to the museum has had to be cancelled because of an old problem in the museum: the lavatories. In spite of having a plumber’s son on staff for a number of years the museum’s toilets have a nasty habit of exploding for no reason and shooting their contents over a wide area. It was thought this was caused by attempts to flush down diapers, tampons used condoms and certainly the problem seemed to have been resolved by a number of low-key redundancies disguised as budget cuts. Unfortunately the overflowing lavatories have returned with a vengeance, with fateful results.
A County Council engineer explained.
“It would be the very day her Majesty would be comin’ that the hoors would blow up again like yan Icelandic volcano, an’ ya can get the whiff of the shite for miles an’ miles. I wouldn’t be surprised if ya got it up in a ‘plane. An’ when that happens the last thing ya want is t’ have the quain of England cuntin’ around lookin’ to go to the jacks.”
Some in Cavan had hoped that The Queen, given her interest in Gaelic Games, would have an opportunity to present the Anglo-Celt cup to a successful Cavan team, but this can’t happen now after the Cavan team threw up their arses down in Cork last weekend – four shagging points; Jesus the North Koreans would have done better.
Anglo Celt and The Beano please copy
Cavan’s fleadh
The fleadh taking place in Cavan town will be a great showcase for traditional musicians to display their skills and also to learn from each other. It will also be a spectacular opportunity for the general public to enjoy one of the most important and irreplaceable aspects f our national character. It is such a pity that the disabled are being locked out of taking part.
Some historical talks have been organised to accompany the fleadh. They are to be given by Dr Jonathan Cherry (a good friend) and the multi-talented Dr Brendan Scott. Both these speakers are, thank God, able bodied. There has been no invitation to the wheelchair-bound and partially sighted Dr Ciaran Parker, who has written about all aspects of the history of Cavan town. But honestly, the sight of him in his wheelchair speaking without notes would not set the right tone at an even which obviously sets so much store by physical perfection.
The reason why I haven’t been asked to speak is puzzling. Last February I was asked to lead a walking tour of Cavan town by Catriona O’Reilly, the County f Arts Officer, and a member of the fleadh’s organising committee. This was in conjunction with a festival taking place in Cavan town at the time. I naturally agreed, but I was unable to lead the tour because of a freak snowstorm that led to the cancellation of most other events. I was assured that the event would be rescheduled for a later date. A fee had been mentioned, but I wasn’t doing it for the money. Had that been now I know full well Dr Scott would have been invited instead. A snowfall wouldn’t affect him as he can walk on water – he certainly shows no problem walking through the shit he causes. And as for payment, it is only natural that in a time of budgetary constraints the council should ensure that all monies stay within the broader County Council family of employees, members and theitr families.
Another puzzling aspect is why I was approached by a local writer associated with the fleadh. He sought historical advice and information for a number of short plays he had been commissioned to write for the aforementioned fleadh. It seems a bit unfair to pump someone for information whom they were going to snub And whose very name was not to be mentioned.. Why didn’t he go to Dr Scott for his intelligence? No doubt because he or his friends knew he’d be disappointed. I write this so that people attending the fleadh will no what a miserable crowd of back-stabbing, lying cheats have organised it.
Cavan farmers’ market
Being able to eat fresh produce is very important. Fruit and vegetables may look fresh, but how long is it since they were taken from the ground? How do we know what harmful chemicals have been used in their cultivation, or to aid their longevity? During the months of summer there is no excuse for us not buying the freshest available3, as these are available at farmers’ markets. This phenomenon has really taken off in Ireland, helped by the endorsement of food writers and celebrity chefs.
Cavan town is the latest venue for a farmers’ market, held under the auspices of the town council. It appears that spaces and marquees and other defences against our inclement weather are to be provided by the council, but at a cost. The figure4 has not been finalised, but are those who attend the market aware that any personal details, even as insignificant as a name, address, or vehicle registration that they give to the council (or that they council might otherwise acquire) may be handed over to the Revenue Commissioners?
Killer Queen
With reference to the forthcoming royal visit, I must say that I have nothing against Elizabeth Windsor. She has lived her life imprisoned in one great doll’s house, with an insensitive brute for a husband and a family who have gone from one emotional disaster to the next with reckless abandon. I certainly mean her no harm. She’s an old girl now, 84 I think, and I hope she brings her bus pass. I would certainly prefer if this were to be a private visit, but instead it will be surrounded by all the rubbish that the government can think of. There are those who are monarchists at heart anyway. The spiritual ancestor of the Fine Gael party, Arthur Griffith, never made any secrecy of the fact that he was, at heart, a “kings, lords and commons man”. But those who will be most fulsome in their celebrations will be the soi disants republicans of Fianna Fail. They hanker after a House of Lords and a knighthood system, but haven’t they got it already? There’s Brian Lenihan, second Earl of Castleknock and the Baron of Clara himself.
The queen’s visit would make a far greater contribution to the ending of mental hostility between our countries if she were to meet with and apologise to the victims of “loyalist” violence in the republic. Those who carried out these attacks claimed to be loyal to the British crown, and this would be an irrevocable opportunity for the sovereign to distance herself from these barbarities. But the Official Secrets Act might get in the way, as it is generally suspected that many of these, while claimed by “loyalists” were masterminded by sections of the British intelligence establishment.
A message for Dr Brendan Scott, Mr Jack Keys and to all others to whom it may concern
Here is a short message for Dr Brendan Scott and his adoring fans, his patron and protector Whacko Jacko Keys and the others who organised talks in association with the forthcoming fleadh in cCvan. It is taken from the lyrics of the inimitable Marshall Bruce Matheers III, aka Eminem:
YOUL’LL BURN IN HELL FOR THIS SHIT
Let’s stand up for broccoli!
I feel it my duty to stand up for broccoli. This vegetable has earned a really bad name, which is utterly undeserved. What most people call broccoli, and what’s sold in supermarkets under the name, is, strictly speaking, not proper broccoli but a variant. It is broccoli calabrese, or simply calabrese, the type of broccoli traditionally grown in Calabria, in southern Italy – the home of the dreaded Ndrangheta who make the Cosa Nostra look like pussycats. This form of broccoli with its uniform dark-green compacted heads is usually served up as an over-boiled, tasteless sludge that revolts everyone, especially children. When I am told in n a restaurant that the vegetables include “broccoli” I know what’s coming, and so it remains uneaten. (It is fine if it is broken into small florets and stir-fired.) The food industry love it because it is cheap and easy to grow, as well as easy to pack and distribute.
In addition to the calabrese variety there is another variety called romamesco whose heads are a lighter green in colour. And let’s not get into the area of Chinese broccoli.
For me the authentic type of broccoli is known as Purple Sprouting. Certainly it tastes far better than the anaemic calabrese. It also takes a bit longer to grow. Consequently it is far less likely to turn up in supermarkets, or for that matter, in restaurants. It is not some rare exotic that is difficult to grow. Most gardeners will agree with me about its taste, but unless you grow it yourself you are unlikely to know this. Rosie is a devotee like myself of the authentic purple sprouting. A few months ago bought some plants that were labelled as Purple Sprouting Broccoli. You can imagine her dismay and disgust when they grew into calabrese plants that are now producing nice green, firm yet tasteless heads.
The persistence of slavery
Slavery is as old as human history, and if like so many blinkered historians we consider human history as only being as old as written records, well then it’s much older. It stems from a really nasty need to own and possess another human being, to control not only their waking moments but when they are asleep too.
Many people’s visions of slavery centre around stereotypes of the Deep South of the USA, maybe coloured by Gone With the Wind or Roots. It is far too easy to see slavery in simple racial terms: the abduction of black children to work for white people. But this is simplistic: slavery has existed within Africa for centuries, maybe millennia. What’s more the Roots stereotype whereby the young Kunta Kinteh was kidnapped by greedy white monsters and torn from his black brothers to enter a world of degradation and exploitation was not that common. It was far more common for the young black boys (and girls) to be captured in internecine conflicts and then sold to white slavers by local African rulers in return for money, weapons or often mere trinkets.
Most people assume that slavery was ended in the US by the Civil War. They also know that it was replaced by a culture of repression and discrimination of black people every bit as horrible as slavery. Some people will also have heard of Hull’s most famous son, William Wilberforce who persuaded the English government to turn its back on slavery in the early nineteenth century. Few people will be aware that slavery still exists; one of the regions where it seems endemic is in a belt of territory in Africa embracing the nations of Mauritania, Mali, Niger and Burkina Faso.
These countries have outlawed slavery. Mauritania did so in the late ’70s, yet it is estimated that up to 18 per cent of its’ population live as slaves. Recently, a former slave has won compensation from her country’s government for its failure to resccue her from enslavement despite claimng to have outlawed the practice in its territory.
Hadijatou Mani was born in the impoverished nation of Niger twenty-four years’ ago. When she was twelve her family was compelled to sell her to a farmer for the equivalent of $500. She was raped and forced to bear her owner’s children. She was also beaten incessantly. All the while she had to work as an unpaid domestic and farm-worker performing tasks including carrying water and looking after animals. On numerous occasions she attempted to escape and flee back to her family, and each time they, no doubt reluctantly, brought her back to her “owner”. Two years’ ago he granted her a “certificate of liberation”, yet he insisted on viewing her as one of his wives and when she married another man she was charged with bigamy and jailed.
In 2003 the government of Niger formally outlawed slavery in its territory, though most observers (both inside and outisde the country) viewed this as mere window-dressing. Hadijatou learned of the decree and also learned, even more importantly, that the status of being a slave she had been compelled to accept was unnatural and illegal. This year she brought a case against her government for failing to protect her from being treated as a slave and its failure to enforce its own ban on the practice, and this week a regional court found in her favour, granting her compensation. Significantly the government of Niger has accepted the judgement and has promised not to appeal it. Hadijatou has vowed to spend the money on building a house, buying land and sending her children to school sp that they can gain the education she was denied during her youth.
The judgement was handed down by the court of the Economic Community of West African States (Ecowas). When this was set up there were many who felt it was no more than a joke, yet it has shown that it has the capacity to make real-life decisions that impact positively on the livest of the many million of mainly poor people who inhabit the ECOWAS territory.
Hadijatou Mani is a very brave young woman, yet there are many more young girls like her who are still in slavery. Some don’t even realise they are slaves and that their conditions are wrong. Hopefully Hadijatou’s victory will help them too.
Fuck off Lech!
Poland is wracked by controversy after president Lech Kaczynski announced that he was not inviting his predecessor Lech Walesa to an Independence Day ball at the president’s residence, the Belevedere Palace in Warsaw.
For many people Lech Walesa was one of the people who brought communism to its knees, all the more ironic that he was just an ordinary worker who stood up to and pulled to shreds a hypocricical monstrostiy which claimed to be a workers’ state.
The reasons for the snub are clear and nor-so-clear at the same time. They obviously stem from personal animosities between the two men. President Kaczynski is weird to put it mildly; he has an obsession with homosexuals, giving rise to the widespread belief that such an obsession stems from fears about his own heterosexuality. He reminds me a bit of the late Irish politician Jim Tunny, whose views on homosexuality were regularly lampooned on RTE radio’s Scrap Saturday, one of the station’s most popular shows until the knights pulled its plug. People may recall how Jim Tunny was presented as saying; “I love Char-less J. Haughey. It is because he is not a homo-sexual”, or on another occasion, when he was prevented by injury from attending a parliamentary party meeting, he was presented as saying: “I couldn’t get to de meetin’ because I discovered a homosexual at de bottom o’ me gardin’.
All I can say to Lech is: take it for the team and remember you’re bigger than kaczynski. Try and picture him sitting on the toilet with his trousers down. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been snubbed here, and it helps me. Maybe kaczynwski didn’t invite Lech because he had heard there had been trouble between him and the Belweder palace – but it was before his time. Then again maybe he didn’t invite him because he was afraid of embarrassing him! Yeah or maybe the president sent you an invitation by email that you were just too stupid to read and that you deleted by accident.
Another port falls to Islamic insurgents in Somalia
The BBC is reporting that the port of Marka or Merka has fallen to Islamic insurgents, specifically the criminal bandits known as Al-Shabab. Marka lies 90 kilometers south-west of Somalia’s capital Muqdishu, and is an important entry point for the food aid upon which so many Somalis depend for survival. The World Food Programme has promised to work with whoever is in charge in Marka, but so far overtures to Al-Shabab have gone unanswered. Al-Shabab is not known for its broad-mindedness. In those areas it has controlled it has routinely killed teachers and anyone it suspects of sympathy with the weak central government. These are also the people who stoned to death a mentally-retarded thirteen-year-old girl last week on a charge of adultery, after she had been brutally raped, possibly by Al-Shabab partisans. These were the people who drove around the port city of Kismaayo where the rape took place proclaiming their heinously unjust sentence from loud-speakers, although they did not allow members of the girl’s family to attend the “trial” or attend the barbarous execution. They have even refused requests to see the body.
Let no-one think that I’m on an anti-Islamic rant here. What happened in Kismaayo last week was a perversion of Islam. The girl who was executed had first gone to the police station with her aunt to report the rape, but had ended up being the criminal. As anyone who has any experience of law enforcement agencies in the UK or Ireland can testify, it is not just in Somalia that the innocent attending police staiions often find themselves transformed into the criminal.
Pyramids along the Nile
I often dream of launching an alternative to the Nobel Prize for Economics. It would be for the person who has had the most long-lasting effect on the economic lives of the world’s citizens. My own nomination might seem surprising. Would it be John Kenneth Galbraith? No. John Maynard Keynes, no; Milton Friedman – wrong again. No, the prize would go (posthumously) to Carlo Ponzi, the Italian American who gave his name to the notorious Ponzi scheme, better known perhaps in western Europe as the pyramid scheme, which still attracts gullible investors and then fleeces them throughout the world.
Put simply a Ponzi scheme offers you huge returns on a very small initial investment. It is usually based on a rather dubious financial base. As the initial sums are small it usually attracts the small investor, especially in the Third World, who often invests all their savings in the hope of emerging from a life of drudgery and penury. The Ponzi scheme inevitably collapses, leaving investors with nothing, but those who have set up the scam in the first place escape in the nick of time, usually with large sackfulls of cash. As these schemes usually occur in countries with dubious regulatory regimes it is often felt that the people behind them are in cahoors with powerful people in government.
Ponzi schemes have affected countries like Albania Yeltsin’s Russia and Tajikistan, though one operated for a while in the dear old Romish Republic, but it was kind of hushed up because those who were stung were too embarrassed to admit they’d fallen for such a scheme.
I’ve written a book about them, with my friend Gerry Griffin. It’s called Fools’ Gold: Cautionary tales in Greed, Speculation and Delusion. It is still available through Amazon.com. It ends with the pithy aphorism: “If a scheme seems too good to be true, it probably is.” You’d think that people would have copped on to these schemes by now. They are so familiar and follow the same pattern. The latest one has hit Colombia. One of the dubious companies behind the scheme is called DRFE. It like numerous other “investment companies” had been promising gargantuan returns on piddling initial investments. It is thought some of them have been laundering narco-money. AAnyway the bubble’s burst leaving thousands of angry investors with sweet FA. They have responded by storming the investment companies’ offices. In the city of Pereira in south-western Colombia some company employees were caught by the police leaving through a back entrance with suspiciously heavy suitcases. They were taken into custody for their own protection after having offered one of the suitcases to the police.
Some of those behind the scams seem positively gleeful about how they were able to get away with it. In the town of Santander de Quilichao about 50 km from Cali people looking for their money back found the following note pinned the the company’s door:
Now for being stupid and believing in witchcraft you will have to work much harder to recoup the money you gave us
while the door of another investment company office had an early Christimas card, wishing investors “a sad Christmas and a shameful New Year.”
The Colombian government has expressed horror at what has happened, but apart from sending in troops and riot police to stem the investibale crowd trouble have done nothing. The vice-president, Francisco Santos has said: “Nothing is free in this world and that is not going to change.” (unless of course you’re a member of the Colombian congress, when pretty much everything is free).
Kettoe’s and Castletara
In my piece for this week’s Cavan Echo, I write about Castletara, and in particular a spot mentioned by Bridie Smith Brady in probably the first of her articles in the Anglo Celt in 1922. My good friend and Bridie’s relative Charlie Boylan tells me that the location, known as Kettoe’s Bush, is still known in the locality and it is marked as the name suggests by a bush which is near to disappearing altogether under the ravages of time’s incessant waves. It is near the top of the hill from the road which leads past Castletara chapel, one of the oldest churches still in use in the diocese of Kilmore, having been first built in 1829, the year of Catholic Emancipation.
Anna Sexton on TV
It was great that Anna Sexton was featured on UTV’s Lesser Spotted Ulster on Friday night. Anna has done so much over the years to nurture an interest in the history, folklore and landscape of her area. She has been an inspiration to me, as has Heart of Breifne. She has always done this quietly and without fanfare, as she knows that those with real talent have no need to seek the shrill lights of publicity to which some of the clowns calling themselves historians seem to be sadly addicted. I know that T.P. had no doubt tuned in on a television up above – that’s if they’ve got a licence!
It was also great to see the efforts of the people in the group water-scheme getting recognition – the spirit of Horace Plunkett and Father Finlay is happily alive and well in Cavan.
Come to Eyl
Thinking of next year’s holidays but looking for a get-away with a difference that takes you off the beaten track? Why not come to Eyl on Somalia’s sun-kissed Puntland coast. There aren’t enough hours in the day to capture the whole Eyl experience. Your holiday starts before you arrive when you’re sailing along the Somali coast when some of our hospitality crews arrive to take you and your ship back under armed guard to Eyl. They look fierce and blood-thirsty, but behind the automatic weaponry and RPG launchers you will find people seriously dedicated to your comfort who want to insure that your stay at Eyl’s -5 star luxury resort and spa will be a time you’ll never forget.
When you’re brought ashore you’ll have plenty of time to relax by the swimming-pool. Sorry no martinis – no booze full stop, it’s a Muslim country Maybe take a dip in the mesmerising blue waters lined by miles of beaches – oh, sorry, don’t be put off by people saying the seas are shark-infested. Sure, there’s the odd shark but they’re friendly. Like resort staff they have only one thing on their mind – (lunch) – no, your satisfactilon. Why not dine in one of the many resort restaurants, where the menu changes according to what resort staff have been able to hijack on the high seas. Today’s menus have a wheat theme. As for entertainment you can chill out driving a tank. But the staff want you to relax and take it easy while your employers come to their senses and agree to pay the ransom we demand. And forget about all those other holidays which always seemed to be well spoiled by the realisation that they would come to an end. You can stay here for as long as we like.
Blanket on the ground
Felim brings his luscious blond bride back to the bridal suite on their wedding night where he strips her naked. She flops on to the bed and lies spread-eagled, leaving nothing to the imagination. She looks at Felim and says: ‘I think you know what I want big boy?”‘
‘Aye’ answers Felim ‘The whole shaggin’ bed by the looks of it!’
Pulling power off Somalia
We’re hearing all of these reports about Somali pirates hijacking ever more outrageous marine prizes, but I’d like to know do they have any idea of what they’re going to “bag” when they go out to sea in the morning. Is it a case of sitting off shore and looking at the ships as they glide by, maybe as they play BBC4′s Sailing By? Do they eye the ships through binoculars and then have to report back to a pirate in chief, where they recount what they’ve seen a bit iike contestants on the Generation Game and the old conveyor belt: “Thirty three tanks … cuddly toy … two million barrels of oil …cuddly toy …. Didn’t he do well?”
Or is there less planning, more of a sense of adventure? Is it maybe a bit like going clubbing where you arm yourself with your charm, plus a packet of johnnies or a wee jar of vaseline and hope that whatever else you pick up you don’t get a dose of the clap?
The good civil servant Molloy
I have been reminded of that great unfinished classic of 20th century literature, Jaroslav Hasek’s Good Soldier Svejk. I doubt the great sage who is our prime minister, mokey-man Cowen has ever read it.
His encomium of Roddy Molloy, who resigned as “director-general” of FAS was nothing if not nauseating. He was the very model of a good civil servant. So “good” civil servants, as well as being paid huge amounts of money, should also run up outrageous expense accounts, should bring their spouses with them on foreign assignments and should always travel first class? It’s good to know where the money’s going Brian.
A week’s pay for an hour’s work?
In Ireland it often seems that those performing tasks fall into three categories; first there are those who do work voluntarily, without pay or renumeration. Sometimes the nature of the work is voluntary; the people doing it feel that the rewards they personally receive, especially if they are helping others, are payment enough. Other tasks have traditionally been unpaid, especially in the home and associated with child-rearing. For other volunteers, their unpaid status is mandatory, because no money has been allocated to what they do, no matter how important and vital it is.
The second group includes people who are paid, but usually not enough. They have been hood-winked into believe that they should look upwards and try to emulate their betters by striving for marks of material respectability, such as a good house and a nice car. They have always been encouraged to look down on the first group. They are among the greatest victims of the current financial mess in the world.
And then there are the people at the top. They receive huge renumerations for whatever they claim they do. This is only just, they complain, because of the amount of knowledge and responsibility they shoulder, and what’s more they complain about having to pay tax. They adorn themselves with trashy and self-important titles and are generally not receptive to criticism or outside inspection. We are told they are “cleverer than the average bear booboo” and they are supremely gifted, but if they’re so bright why is it everywhere’s in such a mess? It’s these people, whether in the public or the private sector that our elected leaders listen to.
They look with contempt on the former groups, possibly because they realise that it is only through luck and favouritism that they have been snatchee from these lower levels, as it is only in their self-praise and that of their cowed sycophants that they are viewed as talented.
One of their few talents seems to be in wasting money. Those who are at the bottom layer of society are often treated to the indignity of being told that their poverty is due to their lack of budgeting skills. But when you have little, you tend to value what little you have and are wary of bad value. I remember, during my cider-drinking days, asking for a bottle of the substance in the bar of a 5-star hotel in Ireland. Being something of a connoisseur of cider I was disappointed to learn that the only brand they had was a very popular brand which I considered should not have been allowed to call itself cider. But then my disappointment turned to shock when I went to pay for it. The price sought was roughly ten times that which would have been asked in an average Irish pub. What is true of cider is true of so much else involving consumption: the price reflects the amount that the customer is viewed as being ready to pay.
Those who really are talented have to suffer in silence and grit their teeth, as they are spat upon and treated with derision. They are never allowed into the loop, and if they live in some out-of-the-way locality they are sidelined.
Presidential visit
I am disappointed that President McAleese, on one of her rare visits to the county, should come here to open an Orange Hall. The Orange Order means very little to the vast majority of inhabitants of this county. Its contribution to the history of Co. Cavan has always been divisive. Having said this I don’t see anything wrong with the Orange Order pursuing peaceful activities, in which it should be left unhindered and its halls and buildings should not be subjected to mindless vandalism. Remember that the Order closes its membership to the vast majority of the citizens of the island of Ireland. It has always espoused narrow sectarian views combined with socially reactionary policies. Maybe this is one of the reasons why the Irish government has suddenly become so generous to it. I don’t believe that it should receive marks of favour from the government of either of the jurisdictions on this island, nor should any other narrowly-based religious group.
Drumnamuckagh
Welcome to Drumnamuckagh, the des-res for ireland’s beautiful people, well not really beautiful (most of them are as ugly as shite), more lucky few. The name comes from the Irish Droim na Muice meaning, yes pasti? The pig’s back. In this time of unprecedented economic uncertainty, not seen perhaps since the 1980s or even worse since 1929, it is comforting to know that the inhabitants of Drumnamuck are immune to all this turbulence and can sit back and thumb their snotty noses at the little people who have the misfortune to live in the real world and who lack ties with the movers and shakers. The denizens of Drumnamuckagh are a mixed bag of people from different backgrounds, but they have a few things in common – a lack of any worthwhile abilities except wasting money. Of course they also have pull which means that they will get all the plum jobs before people who are better qualified. You’ll find here politicians from all shades of the political spectrum, many of whom pretend to worry about the nation’s welfare but really have only their own welfare at heart. There are also their family members – sons and daughters, both legitimate and illegitimate. And if anyone as much as raises a whisper about their charmed lives they suffer eternal damnation and victimisation. I am only writing this because, let’s face it, I’m as mad as the proverbial hatter. I’m also a born loser who can’t come to terms with my own incompetence and disability, but instead tries to tarnish the glowing halos of those whom God and nature have installed above me and who is moreover so burned up with anger at being a useless cripple.
Not deterred, I intend to write more about Drumnamuck when I feel like it. For now I’ll just leave you with a taste of what’s to come – 600,000 – that’s six hundred thousand – euro to be precise. Quite a lot of shit. In fact it would be something of a handful even for a FAS director general, but I’m not talking about FAS director generals, even though a former hold of that post is a very honoured denizen of Drumnamuckagh.
Cavan story-telling CD
A new CD devoted to story-telling in Cavan entitled Stories from Local People in Cavan, December 2008 issued. It was compiled by Kate Ennals and the Cavan Community Forum. Amongst those story-tellers featured is yours truly and I have to express my pride and gratitude to Kate for asking me to participate. It is a major contribution to Co. Cavan’s heritage and will be a major source in years to come. It is available directiy from kate at 0494378583
Isn’t it nice to see that one section of Cavan County Council can do something useful, worthwhile and non self-seeking for a change, without the input of that institution’s august officer corp.
Dr Marlish McDwyer
So many of my friends are shaking off their mortal coils. It’s depressing, and at this time of the year there seems to be enough depression.
Marlish was my GP and a friend. I remember when I received the news that I had Multiple Sclerosis Marlish visited me to tell me what she knew about the condition. It was in Marlish’s presence that I first injected myself with this beta Interferon concoction to which I seem now to be inexorably linked.
Marlish was always someone with whom you could share a laugh, often about life’s idiocies. I remember telling her the joke about the London sperm bank that had been forced to close when it lost its last three clients; the first of whom came on the bus, the second who couldn’t come at all and the third who had missed the Tube.
Marlish also had to put up with my childish but no less real phobia for injections. I once joked to her. “You’d think Marlish that after living in Cavan for so long I’d be used to pricks.” And then there was the time when I got so “keyed up” about having a blood test that my veins just collapsed, a sign of a “fight or flight” reaction. I responded by writing a really awful poem, to which Marlish responded in much more polished verse.
Her loss will be felt very far, both amongst her friends and her patients who usually belonged to the one group.
Nollaig shona
Another year is drawing inexorably to its close. I always count as happy and worthwhile any year in which I add to the number of my friends and I consolidate existing friendships. Many of these contacts have sprung from my work and my writing; I believe that such friendships are the most important result of my work. Many have flowed from my contributions to the Cavan Echo, and I am cheered to know that I have a loyal readership many of whom I’m able to reach though I haven’t yet met them.
And then there are the friends I’ve made through the book on Co. Cavan. One friendship stands out; that with artist Jim McPartlin, whom I had not met until we were brought together on such a rewarding journey. Then there are the wonderful people in Cottage Publications in Donaghadea, with whom it was a true joy to work. I will never forget the night the book was launched.
For all my friends, both those I have the pleasure of knowing, as well as the many I have not yet met, I hope you have a really wonderful and peaceful Christmas and New Year marked by enjoyment and contentment, which will be marked by the pleasantest of memories.
For me writing is a pleasure because it is a means of expressing how I feel about things. It is also a medium of communication, for I always see my words and phrases as not being pieces of waste paper thrown into a void but being meant for an audience. It is very frustrating when I try to communicate with people and they are too rude to reply. I use two of the most common forms of communication available today, e-mail and standard mail (often referred to snail-mail), yet nothing can apparently penetrate the indifference of some. Am I to use pigeon post or maybe talking drums? Of course I know it is outrageous to think that important people like county managers or TDs should have the time or inclination to even think of replying to a mere cripple whose father is not a member of even a town council.
I have a special message for them. I hope they have a really miserable Chrimbo, that they get the skitter for three days and that they’re not able to get off the jacks until the New Year.
But remember girls and boys, don’t drink and ride this Christmas; it’s dangerous and it’s far more fun when you’re sober.
News from nowhere
The publication of the report into clerical sexual abuse in the Roman Catholic diocese of Cloyne demonstrates once again how there are people in the hierarchy who have no intention of dealing with this horrendous activity in their midst but think they can rely on their friends in the higher civil service to hush the whole thing up.
It is disingenuous to say that an attempt was not made by the church, relying on their friends doing the work of God or riding to battle against secular humanism, to suppress the report. It was commissioned for the Minister for Children, Barry Andrews, who says he never read it. Now Barry is the son of David Andrews, a stateman of stature, and I very much doubt when he is faced with a pile of reports which he can’t be bothered to read he turns and says “fuck it” and goes home. No doubt he was told that the report was dynamite and that it should be “shelved”.
Now Bishop John Magee should do the decent thing and resign but obviously his departure would be too much of a blow for his friends. I come from a part of the world well used to having to listen to episcopal claptrap about clerical sexual abiuse and how much the hierarchy sympathises with the victims and then does nothing. And anyone who’s not prepared to wallow in these crocodile tears is ostracised and victimised. .These hollow words were mixed with a degree of help to the perpetrators of sexual abuse which might be considered conspiracy. But then the bishop at the centre of all this was such a saintly man. What’s more he was such a great historian – possibly the greatest – the world’s living authority on the O’Reillys – until he died.
No one can say that Bishop Magee has been guilty of any wrong-doing in the diocese of Cloyne. However, I knew of a priest who once served under him. This man was in many ways an archetypal Irish Catholic priest, middle-aged, and with somewhat prejudiced views about the modern world. However, when asked about Dr Magee, he said but one thing. “That man is evil.”
And then again there were rumours, only rumours, that the bishop of Cloyne liked to pay social visits to London, but not to visit the Victoria and Albert museum or take in a show.
I am angered. I see so many good, decent people in the Catholic church who are truly disgusted by the way in which important sections of the church have been kidnapped by people who are a disgrace to their calling. This goes for both laity and clergy. The Irish hierarchy contains some good men – I can mention Dr Diarmaid Martin, Bishop Willy Walsh of Killaloe and Leo O’Reilly of Kilmore, while a man whom I always had great respect for was compelled to resign for far less than has been shown to have taken place in Cloyne. The church’s head, Pope Benedict, has described these elements as filth. As a man who is able to discern the voice of God in a Mozart piano sonata I believe he too is truly appalled by these hideous betrayals of humanity, but is it a case that this filthy wolf has taken the church by the throat where it is keeping the lambs over which it should shine a guardian’s eyes as hostages?
Cavan Associations
I am really grateful to Mr Johnny O’Hanlon, editor of the Anglo-Celt, for sending me a list of the various Cavan Associations around the world. This will help no end with the marketing of the book Cavan: Land of Water, Earth and Air.
Happy Christmas everyone?
I’m not going to say “Happy Christmas everybody”, because not everyone deserves it. I am sick and tired of the way in which Christmas in Ireland is an excuse for large sectors of employees, especially in the public service to take a fortnight’s holidays. Two years ago they only deigned to come back to work on January 8th. This year I expected that they would drag it out till the fifth, the nearest Monday, but no! I’ve heard that some aren’t going back until January 7th.
And then there is Christmas Day. Why must this be an excuse for a national shut-down? There are no busses, no taxis though how people are supposed to visit loved ones in hospital I don’t know.
And what are they celebrating? The birth of their saviour in a stable. Well the hypocrites! There is isn’t one of them who wouldn’t queue up to hammer nails into His palm if offered a few free drinks.
I’m not a killjoy. I think Christmas should be a time of celebration, but let’s not overdo it. I think of how God was made flesh and came into this world naked, born in what might be described as a disadvantaged place, his parents denied lodgings in even the most basic accommodation. If He were coming into the world now He might find that His parents were denied a roof over their heads although they were on a waiting-list.
I would have no difficulty working on Christmas Day for a decent wage. But then I have been told that I’m not entitled to any decent job on the other three-hundred-and-sixty-four days on such specious grounds as not being a driver and able to get around. So I might have a doctorate in history and be able to speak a dozen languages, I might be the author of eight or nine books (not all about history) and the job might not be for a chauffeur. But then no doubt my doctorate wasn’t good enough – it had been gained by a cripple and had probably been granted on grounds of sympathy rather than merit. None of my books have been published by Four Courts Press, and in Co. Cavan (no less than in any other county in Ireland) the only language you need to know is the one of sycophancy.
Some guestions answered in Guinea – but not all
Some of the questions posed by the coup in Guinea are being answered, yet some of the biggest remain unresolved.
Captain Camara is not a stalking horse for the whole military establishment, but it is unlikely he was acting solely on his own initiative. He may still therefore be the front man for a faction of the armed forces. It is interesting that the headquarters of the coup appear to be at the Alpha Yayo camp. This is where members of the former regime have been requested to come for their own safety. It is also the headquarters of the elite paratroop BATA batallion, headed by Commandant Sekouba Konate. It is now clear that the Guinean military is far from being a homogenous monolith and is faction-ridden. The head of the armed forces, Diarra Camara (no relation of the coup leader) is a long-time Conteh loyalist, has distanced himself from the coup and had repeated a more-or-less identical mantra that the leaders represented a disgruntled minority.
Yet the situation is very fluid. The plotters did not act with the support of the whole of the army, but they don’t represent a small faction. They are in the process of negotiating with other sections of the military to throw in their lot with them.
Little is known about Captain Dadis Camara. He has told Radio France Internationale that he is a graduate of Conakry University and that he has spent time training in Germany.
But is he really in charge? It is interesting that he is hardly mentioned by name in any of today’s communiques. Is this a sign that the coup plotters are falling out amongst themselves?
The biggest unresolved question is what will happen next? The army is divided; both factions claiming to hold power. Unless one side gives in, which seems unlikely, or is able to persuade the other of the rightness of its position, the horrible spectre of armed conflict, maybe even civil war underlain by ethnic cleavages, appears on the horizon. The coup leaders have already spoken about certain “loyalist generals” who are planning to regain power with the help of mercenaries from neighbouring countries, some of whom they believe are already in the country. This is worrying for Guinea’s neighbours,, many of whom have only just stepped out from the shadow of bloody civil wars, often engendered by unresolved power grabs. It was a coup on Christmas Eve many years ago led by the late General Robert Guei which plunged Cote d’Ivoire into paroxysms of violence.
The next big turning point for Guinea will surely be on Friday when General Conteh’s funeral takes place. Who will turn up and what will they do?
An awful new year
This world is such a sad place; who’d want to go on for yet another awful year on it?
Over Christmas it is estimated that 400 innocent people have been massacred by Lord’s Resistance Army rebels in the north east of Congo. The LRA, incidentally, claim to be fighting to create a state based on The Ten Commandments.
There has also been heavy fighting in Somalia, but perhaps the most egregious example of evil this Christmas is in Gaza. Those poor innocents slaughtered in a Congolese church died at the hands of crazed madmen with weapons, no doubt pumped full of drugs, whereas those who have died in Gaza have perished at the hands of a state which is allowed to belong to the international community. I’m no anti Semite but the state of Israel is a terrorist state, which belongs on that hypocrite George W. Bush’s axis of evil as much as Iran or North Korea.
You hear Israeli spokespeople trying to defend what they’re doing and you ask yourself: Is this the blackest of comedies? Do they really believe their own crap? Yesterday the Israeli foreign minister blamed Hamas for civilian deaths, because Hamas had their offices and buildings in civilian areas. Hold on now Tzipi Livni, who’s dropping the bombs? Is it not Israeli artillery which is blowing people up? Such a statement might be used in a court of law by the defence as evidence of the defendant’s insanity and how far they were affected by a disease of the mind. Let’s take the argument out of Israel to, well, anywhere with a bank. It is held up by a group of robbers who, intent on getting their hands on the money decide to shoot their way in, killing customers who just happen to be there, or maybe they decide to use explosives. The results are the same: a high body-count. The robbers are caught charged with robbery, but no less so with the murder of the innocent people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The robbers deny murder, claiming that it wasn’t their fault that the people were killed but rather the bank’s for having civilians in the building.
Reasoning of a sort – the reasoning of terrorism.
Greed
We have all heard about how the wages of sin are death, and that he who is consumed by greed ends up being literally consumed by it? Very biblical, almost worth of the Martyrs’ Memorial Church in Belfast, but an event in Somalia shows just how true these adages are.
Two months’ ago the pirates operating with apparent impunity off the coast of Somalia hit the big time when they captured the Saudi oil tanker Sirius which was estimated to be carrying one quarter of the Saudi kingdom’s daily oil output. Well it seems a ransom was paid – in the region of $3m last week. Certainly a helicopter was seen hovering over the ship and dropping a bag. After this the ship and its crew were released.
Then greed got the better of the pirates. They decided to make a rough division of the spoils, pocketing something like $150.000 each, and jumped into a speed boat with the intention of disappearing with their loot. Sad to say the sea was, as they say in Cornwall, a bit lumpy, and their speed-boat capsized. Some of the pirates managed to swim to shore, but alas their money was gone. One pirate sadly didn’t make it; his body has been washed ashore but with the money in his pockets. Some of it is okay but the rest has to be separated and dried, something his family say could take weeks.
Where did the wave come from? Was it not a reminder that man may count himself materially rich but he is as nought when compared with the forces of nature or, dare I say it, the wrath of the Divine?
There is a lesson here for those greedy bastards who arrogantly claim to govern us and who are at this moment cooking up new schemes to steal the widows’ mites so that they and their relatives can live like princes.
School days
Funny isn’t it the type of stuff you remember from your school days. I have some great memories from my time in Cavan’s Royal School, but I have one over-arching regret,
There was a teacher (I won’t name her to save her blushes) who was, quite frankly, on another planet, and she was unashamed at demonstrating how out of touch she was by saying really stupid things. Now one of the girls in my class was a very good-looking female called Juliet (not her real name). Actually she didn’t really do anything for me but my good friend Keith really fancied her. Now on one occasion this teacher made one of her many verbal gaffes, prompting Juliet to titter uncontrollably, whereupon the teacher turned to her and prophesied: “There will be a time in the future when you take your Leaving Cert results out of the drawer or wherever you’ll keep them and you will say to yourself ‘I now wish I had worked harder when I was at the Royal School.’ “
The moral of this story is that I often think of MY leaving cert results and my not inconsiderable achievements since then, and I say to myself. “I wish I hadn’t worked nearly as hard.”
Sammy Wilson and Climate change
Championing a Protestant environment
The cockles of all true God-Fearing and worthy Christians were no doubt warmed by the strong stand taken by Northern Ireland environment minister Sammy Wilson in refusing to allow the airing of an admittedly twee advertisement recommending that humans stop contributing to climate change. Now Sammy knows that we are not responsible for the mess the world’s climate is in and has refused to be brow-beaten by New Labour political correctness.
Were I to meet Sammy I would have to say this to him: “How’s Rhonda these days?” Now just because yowere plugging the big man’s daughter and you ddidn’t get her into the club does not mean all men are incapable of changing the world for the worst, though with a face like hers you were probably nipping in the back.
Sammy is well known for standing up for his beliefs. When he was a teacher he would not let a globe into his classroom or any other symbol 0f the abomination that the earth was round. On many occasions he took globes from their stands and dashed them into the consistency of pancakes to make his point.
But even Sammy has gone soft. All true believers who are loyal to Her Majesty know that greenhouse gasses are caused by those Fenian bastards in
Sinn Fein IRA.. These are to be distinguisdhed from good honest-to-God Protestant Orange house gases which are used to ensure that Ulster’s pantries grown under the weight of good wholesome produce. These are particularly noteworthy from bonfres of used tyres illuminating July evenings which fill the air with fumes that may cause cancer to those not in God’s elect.
Sammy is forgetting who the real enemy is at the gate. It’s all very well giving it to homosexuals, Chinkies, Poles and blacks, but Ulster has retained its British identity by saying no to the whore of Bablylon and his special agents.
Australian arsonist’s identity revealed
Police in Victoria have given the name of the man whom they suspect of involvement in causing some of the fires which have led to the deaths of at least two hundred people. His name is Brendan Skotoluk. The police and courts have been anxious to prevent the man’s family being targeted. This is reasonable; he may be a nutter but his family are as devastated as anyone else no doubt. He will, if found guilty, probably face incarceration in some psychiatric facility, maybe for the rest of his natural life. Now had he been in Cavan he would, after a decade or so, have been feted as a great fellow. He could have joined “the party” and landed a nice high-sounding job. What’s more he could have joined a prominent Catholic lay group. While he would be able to turn his back on his pyrotechnical past, his present would have enabled him to steal material at will, while all the time being viewed as a really nice guy.
I have a pity for anyone whose first name is Brendan. I know some who are ok but others are, just well wankers.
Book review in the ‘Celt
I hope lots of people saw my book revieew of Pat Devaney’s lovely novel Una Bha in the Anglo Celt. The work of people like Pat has to be treasured and celebrated.
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Accessibility in Cavan town – still might as well be walking on the moon
For the third week running the footpaths near my home is blocked by road-works, ostensibly being carried out by Cavan County Council. My complaints may seem trite, but when you’re in a wheel-chair you like to be able to get around as freely as possibloe. These roadworks are something else, because, apart from digging up the path where they are taking place, they are announced way ahead by signs which are stuck right in the middle of the footpath, forcing me and anyone else who is not mobile, to go out on toi the road, into the teth of the on-coming traffic.
Of course, the council wouldn’t have the courtesy to even make an apology – an apology? To who? the general public? ! Everyone knows how solicitous Cavan County Council is for the well-being of the disabled – appointing access consultants from Scotland to produce reports on information supplied for free by local disabled people who were supposed to shadow them, or the inclusive way in which County Council institutions slight local experts who just happen to be disabled in favour of people who are brought in from outside at far greater expense.
I could make representations about these roadworks to Cavan County Council’s Access Officerr, as I have done in the past, and I am assured that they would be dealt with effectively and courteously. But why should I be the one that always complains? It affects more than me. What”s more I’m partially sighted, unlike the majority of people, who must see what’s going on and be aware of the problems being caused.
Ah but Ciaran. Don’t you remember- You’ll need Cavan County Council before they’ll ever need you – there is no emoticon which shows a human face with its tongue stuck out!
Announcing two more blogs
I have set up two more blogs.
The first is dedicated to events in Africa. It’s called
The second is concerned with discussions about business and strategic management topics. It’s called
Don’t forget to pay either or both of them a visit.
TP Ennis
T. P. Ennis
On a visit to Cavan’s library today my good friend Tom Sullivan gave me this photograph of T.P. Ennis. It was taken two years’ ago during Seachtain na Gaeilge. I still can’t believe he’s not around. How I miss him!
F. J. Gillen
Readers of my Echoes of the Past Column in the Cavan Echo will see my article on F.J. Gillen, the founding father of Australian ethnography. I have been anxious to try and find out some more about his Cavan ancestry. My good friend Jonathan Smyth told me about a wonderful website called Failte Romhat, which allows visitors to search various sources such as Griffiths’ Valuations of
F. J. Gillen (1856-1912
the 1850s for names and addresses. I looked for anyone called Gillen in the parish of Drumgoon, of whom Griffiths does not have any record. However, I did find a reference to a Philip Gillan of Mullaghard, Drumgoon, Co. Cavan. I think he may have been Thomas Gillen’s father, and therefore F.J.’s grandfather, as Thomas had a brother Philip who also emigrated to South Australia and who may, as an elder brother, have born the name of his father.
A return to the bad old days?
The murders of the two British soldiers at the week-end and of PSNI constable Andrew Carroll can only be described as the cowardly acts of people who have a maniacal dependence on violence and destruction. They are psychopaths who try to cover their deranged actions with appeals to bogus political causes.
Any armed conflict contains such elements. There are those who make the transition to “normal” democratic life and activity fairly easily. Then there are those who have enjoyed a level of power, influence and prestige, often accompanied by financial gain. They are often criminals who clothe their criminality behind the ideals of the organisations they join. Once the armed struggle is over they usually revert to criminality as one (often the only way) to hold on to the lifestyle.
But then there are the sickoes. Sometimes they suffer from apparently mild neuroses with obsessions towards criminal damage and vandalism. Sometimes they achieve a surprising degree of reintegration into society. But then there those who should be in very secure mental facilities. Perhaps they were sick even before the conflict broke out and used their involvement as a means of achieving recognition. Others may well have started out unscathed, but conflicts scar even the sanest. Even at the height of the armed struggle period they are often sidelined by the mainstream who recognise in their psychological volatility threatens the entire outfit. They no doubt have senses of their own importance out of all proportion to reality, and no doubt bear deep resentments towards those of their former colleagues whom they consider to have overlooked their “manifest” abilities. So there can often be a degree of internal score-settling going on.
But leaving aside the pop psychology, the fact is that three people are dead who should still be alive today.
I’m old enough to remember how horrible the North was during the Troubles. True I was on the periphery but those people who lived throughout in a border county were only too well aware of easily the whole thing could have spilled over. How awful it is to remember those days when seated before the TV, a BBC entertainment program would be interrupted with the news of the explosion of a devise in some Northern Irish town, accompanied by a plea to key-holders to check their premises, or how the Six O’Clock news would begin with a shot of a blanket-covered body surrounded by scene-of-crime tape.
The Real IRA, Continuity – whatever they’re called, for me they seem very like a group such as the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) in Uganda, who don’t give a damn about anyone, especially their victims. These dissidents, as racists, would be outraged at being compared to “niggers” and “black bastards”.
For let me reiterate they are racists. I pity the poor Polish delivery man who got shot on Saturday night. The Poles in the North are getting it from all ends. There are those in the “Unionist” camp who hate them, not only as foreigners but as Catholic foreigners. For a small handful on the other side they must be enemies, because they are serving the British. And all British people are enemies. One of the soldiers killed was of Indian origin – all the more reason in the eyes of some on this island for him to die.
I dare say that some of those behind these murders are probably staunch, not to say bigoted in their religious beliefs. They are probably dead set against abortion – and homosexuals. But then Joseph Kony, internationally-indicted war criminal, is fighting for the creation of a state based on The Ten Commandments.
I should have kept my mouth closed and not written the above, as sad to say there are probably quite a few resting terrs around here. Still, I have to speak out.
PS. Psychopaths they may be, but I’m not suggesting for one minute that when they are eventually brought to trial they should be able to make use of the M’Naghten test.
Paddy I hardly knew ya
St Patrick’s Day is a curious feast. It is celebrated by those “whom God has placed over us”, for whose health and happiness we must pray, by leaving the shores to celebrate the feast in foreign climes. I know that much of the traditional form of celebration indulged in here verges on the naff – those ghastly parades invariably headed by a lone piper in a kilt and the ubiquitous FCA colour party etc. But why indulge in acts of cringing humility and almost comic-book servility like handing over a bowl of shamrock to the US president? It is as if successive Taoisigh have jigged into the oval office, bowl in hand, and touching their forelocks have said: “Begorra an’ top o’ the mornin’ to your worship, now wouldn’t you be a cute lad, being elected President.”
And of course successive US presidents have gone along with the pantomime by wearing a green tie.
But compare this to how proudly other countries celebrate their national day. What would be the reaction if Nicolas and Carla decided to spend Bastille Day outside l’Hexagone?
In my piece for the Cavan Echo this week I try to explode some of the myths about St Patrick, chief among them being that shamrocks are a symbol for the soft drugs to which the saint was addicted. Also, with debate still raging about the saint’s sexual directions I try to answer the question as to whether he was gay and just how friendly he had ever got with the sheep on Slemish.
Now everyone knows I like a laugh. This comes through in my writing, but I’ve recently seen a piece which also appeared in the Echo over a year ago which quite simply had me in hysterics. It was just so …bad.
What particularly tickled me were comments attributed to Brendan Scott of Cavan’s County Museum in Ballyjamesduff. I doubted at first that this was the same Dr Brendan Scott as the piece referred to him throughout as “Mr Scott” – such unspeakable lèse-majesté!
The piece centres on the saint’s visit to Derryrath fort in west Cavan, an event of whose historical certitude Brendan is obviously sure. He says:
“There is a rath at the top of a hill near Ballyconnell in west Cavan called Derryrath, and I reckon that was the original site where Saint Patrick had the battle and destroyed the idol … It is said that St Patrick visited the spot that the stone sunk into the ground at the sound of his voice.”
Said by whom? St Patrick is depicted as acting in a most shameful manner, indeed not unlike a crowd of American pro-lifers outside an abortion clinic. But as far as I know (and who am I to question such an expert as Dr Scott) the visit to Derryrath is not mentioned in either of the two works accepted by scholars as having been written by the saint, namely the Epistola to the soldiers of Coroticux and the Confessio. What’s more it seems as if the account comes from a later life, such as the lives attributed to either bishop Tirechan or the monk Muirchu, written nearly two centuries after the saint was around. Now we all know how inaccurate medieval saints’ lives were, and bear In mind what I’ve said in my piece in the Echo, about an attempt to recast the saint as “Action-man Paddy”.
(Personally, I don’t think Patrick was ever at Derryrath, and if anyone engaged in vandalism there it was St Mogue, a century later.)
Then there seems to be some conflation between the pre-Christian God Crom and the idol that is alleged to have stood there.
“There is no doubt that the Crom Cruach was an important religious and cultural site in its time.”
Crom was one of the most important Gods in the pre-Christian pantheon. Crom cruaich is more likely to mean the deity or godhead of the mound than this fanciful stuff about a bloody crescent.
“I’ve always considered Magh Sleacht as meaning the plain of the slaughter, not “field of adoration.”
But every good joke needs a good punch-line and Brendan doesn’t disappoint.
“There is definitely room there for major research to be done,”
He’s so erudite isn’t he – so butch.
And who better to carry out such “major research” than the Research Officer of Cavan County Museum.
Maybe he could get his boss Mr Keyes to fund such a project, part of which would inevitably be a conference bringing together scholars from every corner of the world and at great expense.
… But given the fact, (and I would say that it is fairly incontrovertible) that the events described never happened, and are accepted by scholars as being the creations of later commentators, what historical research needs to be done? Where are the reliable sources to be examined or re-examined? There are none that would shed any further light on Patrick and his world.
But I’m not finished on this: please see the next
post entitled “A boy doing a man’s job”.
Ballymacarue / Ballymackinroe
Readers of my most recent Echo of the Past dealing with the tragic fate of poor Mary Prunty will have seen references to the townland of Ballymacarue. While this is the form used in the reports of the Cavan Weekly News I feel certain this must be the townland of Ballymackinroe.
Bring on the clowns in Stormont
Once more the loyalist corner-boy Sammy Wilson has made a show of himself in Stormont, performing not like a minister but like a Linfield Football supporter.
I’m afraid had I been any of the members of the assembly’s environment committee who were the recipients of his unpardonable guff, I would have walked over the floor and planted my fists deep into his pathetic jowls.
He intends to go ahead with his ban of the advertisement advocating changes in behaviour to combat climate change. I can imagine how this will play out amongst the G&T drinking denizens of the leafy golf clubs of Surrey. “I say, have you heard about this politician in Ireland who won’t show an advertisement against climate change. Well that’s the paddies for you what? What?”
Of course such people are unable to see through their anti-Irish prejudice that the politician in question would rather be beggared by a (Protestant) gorilla than be called Irish; that he is a minister in that part of Ireland which is still a de facto part of the United Kingdom; that he is a die-hard supporter of her Majesty the Queen, but into whose breast he would nevertheless plunge a bayonet were she to ever contemplate becoming a Roman Catholic.
The sacrifices of Irish politicians
Like many people I am heartily sickened of hearing the infernal claptrap from our leaders, like big-lips Cowan that we must all pull together for the country’s economic benefit and feel the burn, or the even greater twaddle from fatso Harney that we must be prepared to suffer cutbacks and make tough decisions.
A recent edition of the Cavan Echo has revealed how Cavan Senator Diarmaid Wilson is getting a pay increase, from 72,000 to 74,000 euro. (Unfortunately I don’t think he deserves a place on the L’Oreal ad and say he’s worth it.)
Now how many carers would his salary pay for? Carers are one group who for years have never received sufficient compensation for their work. Far from it, the present minister the Lady Bountiful Hanaffin has hinted that the disabled and infirm should be looked after by their families (for nothing of course) and that she would therefore like to cut carers’ benefits.
But there is one big difference between carers (and any other group who are undervalued) and our rulers. The former deserve more but they won’t get it, but when those who sit at the top want more, well, all they have to do is decide when and how much.
Thank goodness that the Cavan Echo had the courage to cover this outrageous occurrence. But I recall how Senator Wilson’s party colleague Deputy Smith responded to even mild criticism from the Echo during the last General Election campaign. In a fit of pique not worthy of any politician removed all his advertising from the paper and switched it to the far more compliant pages of another journal.
Many years have past since I gave Diarmaid Wilson some copies of the Breifne historical journal. Yet despite numerous entreaties I haven’t got them back. I suppose he’s lost them by now, but given that he is so flush with cash he can afford to buy me replacements. One of the volumes contained an article of mine, so I’m in the embarrassing situation of having to read my own work in the library when I have need. He’d have no problems getting them from the present gang in the Cumann Seannchais Bhreifne – aithnionn ciarog, ciarog eile – an dtuigeann sibh?
Just to introduce some balance it should be pointed out that this pay raise isn’t confined to Senator Wilson or to Fianna Fail senators. It does beg the question what do we need a senate for? There are good people there, such as David Norris and Shane Ross but as for many of thee rest … stop the lights Bunny! And then the way they’re elected to “professional panels” (Industry, Agriculture) – a sop by De Valera to the numerous admirers of Benito Mussolini and Fascist Italy in the Ireland of the time.
And maybe I shouldn’t be too harsh on Diarmaid. “Ah jaysus he’s not the wurst o’ them”. Indeed someone who knows him pretty well once said of him “sure yan fella’s a thunderin’ eedjit.”
John Fitzgerald Kennedy memorably if rhetorically asked: “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” This should be paraphrased for our ruling class: “Ask not what you can do for your country, but how you can do your country.”
I would like to respond to Cowan, Harney et al and the whole crowd of gangsters and bandits who sit in governance over us, in the words once used by a Fianna Fail councillor (now no longer with us) who said: “D’ yez know what yez can do with it? Yez can shit on it!”
Regrets
I wish I weren’t disabled. I think back to the days when I could walk for miles or strut my stuff on the dance-floors of smelly, over-heated nightclubs.. I wish I could recognise people’s faces.
But you know I don’t think I’ve done too badly.
Regrets? Sure! I’ve got a few – who hasn’t? I regret having stayed on at university to get a doctorate. I also regret coming back down to Cavan in 1995 and getting in with a bad crowd, though as they were my employers I could hardly help it. But as we haven’t mastered time travel and going back in time, regrets are stupid.
Some may think I’m angry – surely none but a person steeped deeply in anger could write such forceful denunciations of the bandits and thieves who think of themselves as our leaders.
But I’m sorry to disappoint. I’m not angry, certainly not with my disabilities. Who should I be angry with? God? I’ve never been a believer in a vengeful and wrathful deity delivering his displeasure by life-shattering thunderbolts. I see divine intervention in my life as far more benign. God could have made me less imperfect, but the reasons he didn’t have nothing to do with punishment. If anything they are challenges for me to overcome – on my terms, not on someone else’s.
Maybe it’s a cross to bear, but then this makes me feel immensely privileged. Maybe Jesus is giving me the opportunity to carry his cross and share in his sufferings for mankind. I think it was Edith Stein who wrote: “Sufferings endured with the Lord are his sufferings.” But listen – I’m no Jesus freak and I wouldn’t like the powerful holy joes to feel they had competition.
But I’m not the only one who’s privileged here. I have never believed that there is a hierarchy of illness – that I’m sicker than someone else, and therefore deserving more soup and sympathy.
I don’t feel angry or resentful of “able-bodied” people. We’re all members of the human race, Some people are just luckier, that’s all.
I do feel angry – very angry – at the responses of society and government to the disabled. They claim they want disabled people to feel included and to pursue the removal of discrimination. In fact they don’t give a damn – they never have done. What they give (or rather promise) with one hand they take back with blooded claw on the other. I am incandescent at being sidelined, looked down upon and discriminated against by shitty little people leading shitty little lives who think that their proximity to bodily perfection places them in positions of unassailable authority over me and countless others.
I am livid with being expected to blend into the wall-paper of society, and then being ostracised because I have never wanted to be imprisoned in the world of low (or no) expectations. Along with other disabled people I have so much to give to the world, but we have been told by many (including many of the voluntary organizations supposedly pursuing our welfare) that the highest occupations we can aspire to are telephone operators. I dare to say that not everything in the garden of disability (only partially accessible to people in wheelchairs) smells of roses, but that quite a lot stinks of human piss.
Amongst the most craven in our world are those who preen themselves as being friendly to the disabled, who initiate expensive schemes accompanied by lavish publicity, to investigate the needs of the disabled, but which never lead to anything except the short-term enrichment of their organisers.
God gave me a brain, which he expects, nay demands I use. He also gave me the means of expressing my thoughts and I am so thankful to be able still to use them.
I am really, really happy. I live with a beautiful woman, safe and secure in her love, in a beautiful spot. I have so many truly wonderful friends.
Sometimes I wonder what I’ve done to deserve such happiness. At other times I fear that my happiness consists of fibres of a rug which can all too easily be precipitously withdrawn. I know how fragile my happiness is and how it can so easily be destroyed by the bloody-minded actions of others. I have made many enemies among the “powerful” who are just itching to get back at me.
I have my dignity; this is very precious.
But you know life is for loving. I believe in the present and the future. The past can take care of itself.
But I don’t know why I’ve written this. There will be those who’ll understand. Others will just scoff, maybe seeing it as the belly-aching of an arse-hole, as I was once described by a fellow member of an online forum for the partially-sighted.
Fermanagh County Museum
I have just come back from a visit to Fermanagh County Museum in Enniskillen. This truly is a great place with wonderful staff and exhilarating exhibitions. I was particularly interested in the exhibitions of Japanese antiques. The incense burners, vases, netsuke were awe-inspiring. There were also19th-century watercolour prints from the century when the influence of artists like Hokusai was still strong but Japan sat on the brink of calamitous changes, as she was forcefully opened up to western influences in the 1850s and 81860s and the traditional nature of Japanese society was altered.
Among the items from this traditional society on display in Enniskillen are traditional samurai armour. Even more poignant are the samurai swords carried by the samurai, as a mark of their membership of the elite class, but also a constant reminder of the fate that they must embrace were they to encounter shame, such as defeat in battle or personal impropriety. The Japanese practice of seppuku, (known in the west as hara-kiri), literally meant stomach opening. These samurai swords look so beautiful and yet could be so deadly.
The various exhibits are accompanied by clearly-written and helpful text panels.
A recent edition of BBC’s Countryfile featured the Geopark centred on western Fermanagh and West Cavan. There was an interview with a researche3r from the museum who explained the horrors visited upon this region during the Great Famine. One aspect which she didn’t mention (or which was maybe edited out of the interview) which is fascinating and worthy of note was that not all of the West Fermanagh / West Cavan area was visited by the ravages of the potato blight and the attendant diseases like typhoid or cholera. Towns like Blacklion or Belcoo suffered horrendously, but an upland area like Glangevlin, only a few miles’ away, escaped virtually unscathed. Local folklore repeats that not ma people died here during the Famine, and records how “food refugees” from as far away as Galway came to Glangevlin in search of sustenance.
We stopped off for lunch in the Hungry Hound where we had a delicious meal. Rosie had cod in batter. The batter was crispy and the cod fresh, while I opted for my old favourite of Chicken curry, which was wonderfully hot.
My visit to Enniskillen restored my faith in museums. It is a place that the whole of Co. Fermanagh and its people can be truly proud of, unlike the bloated, conceited white elephant labouring under the title of Cavan County Museum, nestling in its little hide-away in Ballyjamesduff, and staffed by people with ludicrous semi-military titles ending in “officer”.
I saw a reference while at Fermanagh’s county museum to the work of a group called “The Friends of Fermanagh County Museum.” Does such as organisation exist for Co. Cavan? Maybe it does with complimentary membership for those belonging to the Knights of St Columbines, Opus Dei, the Real or Continuity IRA, Nonce’s International, the Irish chapter of the Ku Klux Klan or the Belturbet branch of Fine Gael.
Ministers in the sky
The Irish people have learned that our dear, grasping and incompetent government ministers have spent 1.6 million euro in travel by air force helicopters and planes since last October. Ireland is not a big country and distances are not great, so it seems rather ostentatious.
God be with the days when they were satisfied with being “lorried around” in state cars (usually Mercs or Peugeots) driven by a member of the gardai, or if they deputy ministers, a relative. The state car was a worthy political prize in itself, as a Dail Deputy returning to his constituency after gaining ministerial promotion could exhort his constituents to come out and “see the state car”. There was one junior minister who reportedly had his state car modified so that the calves couldn’t lick the back of his neck when he was bringing them to the mart – they wouldn’t fit in a helicopter.
I recall the story about the late Sean Lemass who, when taoiseach, got lost while driving in the Kerry Mountains. Seeing an old man standing beside a ditch he told his driver to ask him for directions. The guard rolled down his window and asked:
“Excuse me, do you mind telling us where we are?”
The man looked quizzically back at him and, after a few moments replied: “Sure aren’t u in a car.”
Lemass burst out laughing, adding “That is the perfect answer to a Dail question: It’s short; it’s entirely accurate; and it gives absolutely no new information.”
Our ministers no doubt quail at the idea of having to travel on the ground, alongside all those horrible, scruffy, shitty, poor people known as the general public. I know for a fact one person on the list always used two words for such people in the past. These were “whingers” and “fuckers”. Sadly, they are known by others as “the electorate” and they are, when all is said and done, these ministers’ employers. Travel by air allows them to stay out of touch and not to see the mess they, their friends and relatives, are making of the country.
But air travel suits the superstar image they have of themselves. Word may have got round that oral sex is so much better when you’re off the ground, not to mention sniffing white powder.
I remember a friend of mine from long ago called John Buckley who still owes me two pints – I never forget things like that. Well on one occasion a friend of ours called P.J. was annoying John. P.J. had just started to learn how to drive and John said to him: “Ya better mind yerself P.J. or it won’t be drivin’ lessons you’ll be takin’ but flyin’ lessons.”
Anyone know where I can lay my hands on an old Sam 7?
A true friend
My dear friend Stan
You’ve no doubt heard the joke. At last year’s north of England Sheepdog trials how many sheepdogs were found guilty?
Maybe you’ve heard about the hotelier in the West of Ireland who received a letter from a British visitor who had stayed in his hotel, appraising him of his intention of coming the following summer and asking whether he could bring his dog.
The hotelier responded:
“Many thanks for your letter. Now with respect to your enquiry about your dog let me state that I no dog has ever set the bed-clothes alight while smoking. Furthermore, no dog has ever tried to pass off a dud cheque on me. In addition no dog has ever tried to “get fresh” with any of my waitresses, and I have never had to call the gardai to eject a drunk and disorderly dog at four in the morning. In conclusion therefore your dog is most certainly welcome at my hotel – if he can vouch for you.”
I’d like to talk about my dog. My dog is called Stan. He is a very good dog. I like my dog very much … apologies for adopting the style of a seven-year old.
I’ve long had a preference for animals over humans. With animals like dogs you always know where you stand. They don’t have sides. They either like you or they don’t. There’s no bullshit.
Stan actually belonged to my partner Rosie before she came over to live with me in 2006. I had “spoken” with Stan on the telephone; he communicates in low growls. However, I had no idea how he would take to me. I was afraid that he might see me as a competitor for Rosie’s affections. I will never forget the evening of his arrival. It was heralded by a strong push of the open front door followed by a loud bark. He befriended me immediately and totally.
When I lived in a two-storey house in Belturbet, Stan would run on ahead of me when he saw me approaching the stairs to go down, so as to appraise Rosie of my plans and then he would stand at the bottom of the stairs until I got down. On numerous occasions he has been saddled to my wheel-chair and has delighted in pulling it, accompanied by husky-like whelps.
He knows when I am feeling depressed, and places his snout upon my knee. I trust him completely, for I know that were I to be in any danger he would defend me instinctively.
These musings about Stan have been inspired by President Obama’s acquisition of a dog for the White House. I also feel defensive of our dogs. The Gardai siochana have warned residents of rural areas to be on their guard against burglars. I know no better defence against the opportunistic thief than the barking of a dog who may very well be the most docile mutt in the world but who often will cause a thief to think twice about entering a property uninvited so as to avoid being mauled.
Early modern musings – Inti bold?
Readers of my little scribblings in The Echo will see the first part of my story about the life and death of Pilip dubh O Raghallaigh. There will be some “early modernists” – those claiming to be experts on sixteenth and seventeenth century history – who will bristle with indignation that their “patch” has been invaded by a mere late medieval ignoramus. “Isn’t he ashamed? His father isn’t even a town councillor.” But then Fortune favours the bold, if not the bald.
A new sports blog
I’m a great fan of both sports, especially golf. In spite of the fact that it spoils a good walk and is associated with a pack of wankers who never leave the 19th tee it is a great game requiring enormous amounts of skill.
Skill is something that Arthur Sullivan writes with. What’s more there is great humanity and genuine love for sport. His posts aren’t strewn with clichés and are a joy to read.
I don’t really want to “out” Arthur, but he is a Cavanman. His father is my good friend Tom Sullivan of Cavan’s County Library – sure he’s the spit of him!
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The local press
I never read local newspapers. In fact a local newspaper has to be at least seventy five years’ old before it’s of any interest to me.
Very occasionally, I flick through them, and then feel nauseous for about a week.
I just have to ask some people in Cavan: Do you never get tired of seeing your photographs in the local press?
Let’s face it, none of you are exactly goodlooking. Admittedly, there was a time when some of you might have been considered blossoms of pulchritude,
- but the passage of time accompanied by the inevitable bodily metal fatigue is showing its inevitable effects.
Stephen Hawking recovering
Thank Heavens Stephen Hawking is doing well and is expected to make a full recovery. He was rushed to hospital in Cambridge yesterday with a suspected respitory infection. However, a spokesperson for Cambridge University has said he is doing well and is to be kept in merely for observations, after whiich he is expected to make a full recovery.
Stephen Hawking is someone I really admire – a true genius. I
I often think how fortunate it was that he was not born or brought up in Ireland. Far from becoming Lucasian Profe3essor of Mathematics he would have been passed over as a relief teacher in some God-foresaken Technical School in favour of the son or nephew of a local councillor. He would never have been encouraged to write, but would have been left in a corner, wheeled out to help raise funds for some “voluntary organisation”. As for a voice synthesizer he wouldn’t have one, becauses the powers that be would not consider a crtipple had anything worthy to say – apart from the expected “thank you”.
Cavan town’s hall of shame
Cavan Town Council have established an exhibition to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the construction of the Town Hall, which didn’t open until January 1910. It goes without saying that I wasn’t invited, but then as the semi-literate jackass was going to be in attendance I wouldn’t have gone anyway. But I was in good company, for while the usual suspects (the councillors, the town clerk and the county manager) were invited, the plebs, the hoi poloi (that’s your actual Greek that is), the fuckers and whingers of the electorate were not.
The people of Cavan should reflect on this and bear it in mind when these people come fawning on them looking for their votes in the coming elections, like second-hand double-glazing salesmen or Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Who am I to expect an invitation? Well, I wrote a booklet about the council ten years’ ago. But then maybe the town council and councillors didn’t know about it. They should do – they asked me to write it. Then I wrote an article for the Cavan Echo about the building of the town hall. At least one man, who is in possession of a trowel used on the original construction, gate-crashed the event.
And then of course there was an item on RTE’s Nationwide program. I’ve been on that three times – and never got paid once. If they wanted somebody who knew what he was talking about, and could do it in an entertaining and light-hearted way, they could have asked me, but then a Tim O’Leary wannabe in a wheel-chair wouldn’t set the right tone would he? Were they afraid that I might be indiscrete? That I might make a pass at the gorgeous Mary Kennedy? I might have referred to the story long current round the town about the sumptuous “Town Hall Ball” held at its opening, when, according to some wags the food was so rich that some of the Cavan lads were still on the jacks at the outbreak of World War 1! Maybe they were afraid that I might mention the opposition on the council in the early years of the twentieth century to the building of the town hall on land donated by Lord Farnham, and how this could be interpreted as placing the council and its members fairly and squarely in the pockets of the landed aristocracy. But they didn’t stay there for long, for it was not rebelliousness against the injustice of the landlord system that prompted the council to use the then Lord Farnham’s land for the celebrations accompanying the return of the victorious 1947 team to Cavan without his permission. No, it was just plain bad manners.
If only I had known about the exhibition on Tuesday evening when my house in Cavan was visited by the first cock-suc…. council candidate, an out-going member. As it happened I hardly bade “it” the time of day, being somewhat appalled by its unctuous manner. Fool that I am I regretted my brusqueness. I might consider it a form of pond-life but I thought it had a grudging respect for me. Then I heard about the exhibition launch and the Nationwide feature, and I came to the conclusion that he doesn’t respect me, so all bets are off. I find “its” actions insulting and disreputable. It is seeking the electoral support of the people of Cavan, a lot of whom are facing financial difficulties and unemployment. What’s does “it” say? No doubt crocodile tears and sympathy, while arranging for one of “its” nephews to be taken on “temporarily” as a council employee – and like military juntas of old “temporary” can become permanent. The lad is very able ad well qualified, but when it comes to employment with organs of local government in Cavan (and no doubt throughout the rest of the country) the only qualification that matters is a familial relationship with a council member.
So here’s a message for all out-going members of Cavan Town Council who are seeking re-election, regardless of political affiliation. Don’t’ come near me or any member of my family. (I hope Councillor Conaty who has long been a good friend of ours respects what I’m saying), but as for the rest – they are worthless, self-aggrandising scum, a human form of algae.
A
Is Ballyjamesduff museum worth a mass?
Hey, want to know something? A little bird has told me, (all hush-hush and on the QT mind), of plans to close down Cavan County Museum. There wasn’t going to be any formal announcement until after the local elections.
The county councillors knew it’s a white elephant. It’s costing too much and it’s not exactly pulling in the punters, but the FFers were too yellow to pull the plug. What’s more they were looking for a scapegoat, someone to blame. The Blueshirts were friendlier to the museum for “family” reasons, and they may be its saviours if they do well in the elections. They will want to keep it open as it’s a good source of jobs for relatives. What’s more one member of the party wouldn’t want to see it closed down as he’d then have to find a job for his son who, unlike him, is fuck all use as a plumber.
Sources close to the museum have revealed that, all going well, a conference is to be held there later in the summer – and at public expense – looking at the history of the Blueshirts in Cavan, with special emphasis on their commitments to family values, as well as the contribution of Cavan Blueshirts to the fight against communism, free-masonry and miniskirts in Spain. This conference will be opened by a special mass, to be broadcast live on Northern Shite radio.
But the museum’s parlous financial situation may have been solved without recourse to local neo-fascists. It has always enjoyed the closest of links with the Knights and other shadowy Catholic lay associations and it seems that some fellow pilgrims in the Civil Service have come up with a few million euro from a Department of Finance reptile fund. In return the museum is to be made into a Knights’ / Opus Diaboli retreat centre, where senior civil servants, politicians and businessmen can relax around a decade or two of the Rosary, and take a break from running the country into the gutter, while reading the latest publications from Four Courts Press.
This religiosity may prove a challenge to the born-again agnostic curator, but he has apparently mused philosophically that Ballyduff is worth a mass.
Seriously, were the museum to close though, it would be a tragedy for the decent people who’ve worked there like Savina and Pat Reilly from Mountnugent. Pat’s had a tough time of it and I always classed him as a close friend.
The European elections
Paschal Moonpig
Dear Paschal, My name’s Gordon and, putting it in the mid Atlantic lingo so beloved of your fans I’m looking for a guy to keep an eye on my ass. In particular I’d like a big, strong, butch male to share my little cottage with who I can play Hide-and-seek with through the Glory-hole. I’ve no trouble getting some rough trade, mostly still in the closet, but I want somebody delicate and sensitive who’ll come with me to Knock.I’ve always been strictly “non scene”. I’ve never camped it up, as I’m anxious not to offend the locals. That’s why I’m big into religion. I’m a pioneer and I’ve designed a special Pioneer butt-plug for long serving members.
My second letter went:
Dear Paschal, Your listeners can call me Declan. I’m a fellow county man of yours, and God it gets horrid lonely up here on the side of the mountain surrounded by nothing but bog and forestry, and if it wasn’t for shaggin’ the odd sheep I’d go off me head. There was one sheep that meant more to me than all the others. She had a lovely cute black face. We were goin’ to get married in Rome. Father McGilafinnan had given his blessing, but the hoors wouldn’t let her on the plane. It was the saddest day in me life when I sent her off to the abattoir and I haven’t ate a lamb chop since. Now I’ve got some sort of oul’ infection, and I don’t know whether to go to the doctor or the vet. My perfect partner must have a bit of class, a merino maybe, who’d like GAA and going to the pub and who wouldn’t bleat unless spoken to. Ya couldn’t play us an ou’l request could ya? I love that Jim Reeves number “I love you ‘cos you’re ewe.”
Other candidates include that Declan Ganley. I just don’t trust him. He has had business dealings in Albania, and the only time most businessmen ever have business dealings in Albania is if they are rash enough to go there to try and get their BMWs back. And then there’s that blue whinger from Mayo Jim Higgins.
Actually I will vote, but I’m not going to tell anyone how. Suffice it to say that I owe the candidate in question a deep debt of gratitude for something he did a few years’ ago.
Aged roses
I see in Breffni O’Reilly’s column in the Cavan Echo that the Sligo Rose has been disqualified because she is too old. As a gentleman (if only by name) who is a connoisseur of the more mature woman I naturally concur with Breffni’s comments. I am also someone who finds the Rose of Tralee pageant a cringe-producing charivari of stage Irishness.
With regard to regulations on the contestants one thing I want to know is do the organisers still insist on the girls passing a virginity test?
of the canI see in Breffni O’Reilly’s column in the Cavan Echo that the Sligo Rose has been disqualified because she
Back in The Organisation
Lately, some Fine Gael local election candidates were unwilling to canvas my house in Cavan, not because of my warnings to them to desist, but because they said “There’s no point – sure that’s a Fianna Fail house”. (!) This is news to me even though I’ve much to thank the Party for (and much to curse it for too), but is it perhaps one of the reasons why yours truly was not invited to participate in last year’s conference in Cavan County Museum by the son of Cllr John Scott (FG. Belturbet?)
I’m off to make a ‘phone call to Seanie Fitzpatrick to ask him for a few bob.
Child abuse
The report of the commission on child abuse has publicised what the dogs on the street knew – that physical, sexual and mental abuse of “inmates” in certain institutions run by the Catholic church was widespread, systematic, institutionalised, and carried out with the tacit knowledge and approval of the hierarchy.
We should not tarnish all the religious with the same brush. There were many who took no part in this; there were others who were aware of these activities but who were powerless to act. They knew that to stand up to this would be rewarded by victimisation by the church authorities.
Commentators in leafy, liberal Dublin suburbs seem unaware that the climate of fear and silence which accompanied these crimes still persists in many areas of Ireland. Those who committed them and more importantly those who abetted them in their actions, are often still very influential and they, together with their friends in Catholic lay organisations, often have a stranglehold over local societies and communities.
Cavan County Museum in Ballyjamesduff
Residents of the town of Ballyjamesduff have recently complained of a sickening stench of putrefaction. This seems to be coming from the Cavan County Museum. A spokesperson for Cava has admitted that the problem happened when a staff member went for a crap, and he was that full of shit he blocked up the whole system.County Council
A victim of abuse
I have learned that a good friend of mine, now sadly deceased, was the victim of a serious assault from a priest during his youth. It happened when he was a boarder in a diocesan secondary school. On his fifteenth birthday he received a present of some money – quite a large sum by the standards of the time. So excited was he that he began to jump up and down on his bed. He was observed by one of the priests who decided to offer some physical chastisement. So badly did he beat my friend that he needed hospital treatment. This would constitute an assault, but did the priest suffer for his actions? No, for no policeman would arrest him, no lawyer would prosecute him, and no judge would sentence him because he was a priest. But what sort of person beats up a child? He was certainly bigger than my friend at the time. What was more this coward could act in the full knowledge that his actions wouldn’t be resisted, for no one would hit a priest. To do so was to earn eternal damnation, not only for one’s self but possibly for one’s descendants.
My friend’s choice of career therefore, appears somewhat bizarre, for he trained to be a priest himself. Once ordained he was appointed to the teaching staff of the institution where he had been assaulted and indeed brutalised. Although I always found him to be the most harmless and inoffensive of men he had the reputation among students of being a “villain” and a “demon”. I have heard that he was given to outbursts of hysteria accompanied by physical violence towards students.
In later life he was appointed to a parish where he earned a reputation as a kindly pastor. In fact he tried to do the work of three men, even though his health wasn’t up to doing the work of one.
He was a most talented historian who has not received the recognition of those who have seized control of local history. Some of these people know all about silencing even the mere whisper of clerical abuse.
I don’t seek to lessen the evil acts of my friend or to call for understanding. Hr was a victim, firstly a direct victim of physical abuse, and secondly of a system which viewed physical violence by adults against adolescents as somehow acceptable. Like so many victims of systematic abuse he became a perpetrator.
Sweetheart deals
In a recent post I wrote how the dogs in the street knew that the physical, sexual and mental abuse of children by some Catholic religious orders was systematic and widespread. Perhaps it will take another commission working for ten years to “reveal” another self-evident truth: that the “sweetheart” deal arranged between the state and the religious orders on compensation of victims was drafted and composed by civil servants who were either members of or sympathetic to right-wing Catholic lay groups such as Opus Dei and the Knights of St Columbanus. Those same urban hounds are also well aware that the minister who signed off on this deal and who now seeks to defend it, was probably a member of one of these organisations. Dr Michael Woods liked to appear as the innocent, almost simple north-side politician, singing “One Day at a Time Dear Jesus” on Irish television, but he was also the minister who unleashed a vicious campaign against welfare recipients under the guise of unearthing “social welfare fraud”. I believe the agreement between Woods and the religious orders is possibly the most flagrant and biggest piece of fraud in the history of the state.
The members of these lay Catholic groups, and the vile and depraved individuals they protect, are truly evil. They masquerade as so good, often wrapping themselves up in the raiment of religiosity. But in fact this is just a confidence trick, to conceal their inner baseness and wickedness. I am convinced that if Jesus Christ were to appear in Ireland today he would be “dealt with” by these people; there wouldn’t be a trial or anything so public as a crucifixion. That would create a scandal, and the last thing the Knights or their friends can tolerate is a scandal.
But I know that anyone who speaks out about these heinous fiends faces years, decades, probably a lifetime of victimisation at their hands from which there is no reprieve.
A glimmer of hope
In a recent post I wrote how the dogs in the street knew that the physical, sexual and mental abuse of children by some Catholic religious orders was systematic and widespread. Perhaps it will take another commission working for ten years to “reveal” another self-evident truth: that the “sweetheart” deal arranged between the state and the religious orders on compensation of victims was drafted and composed by civil servants who were either members of or sympathetic to right-wing Catholic lay groups such as Opus Dei and the Knights of St Columbanus. Those same urban hounds are also well aware that the minister who signed off on this deal and who now seeks to defend it, was probably a member of one of these organisations. Dr Michael Woods liked to appear as the innocent, almost simple north-side politician, singing “One Day at a Time Dear Jesus” on Irish television, but he was also the minister who unleashed a vicious campaign against welfare recipients under the guise of unearthing “social welfare fraud”. I believe the agreement between Woods and the religious orders is possibly the most flagrant and biggest piece of fraud in the history of the state.
The members of these lay Catholic groups, and the vile and depraved individuals they protect, are truly evil. They masquerade as so good, often wrapping themselves up in the raiment of religiosity. But in fact this is just a confidence trick, to conceal their inner baseness and wickedness. I am convinced that if Jesus Christ were to appear in Ireland today he would be “dealt with” by these people; there wouldn’t be a trial or anything so public as a crucifixion. That would create a scandal, and the last thing the Knights or their friends can tolerate is a scandal.
But I know that anyone who speaks out about these heinous fiends faces years, decades, probably a lifetime of victimisation at their hands from which there is no reprieve.
Crime and Punishment in Ireland
The sentence handed down to Frank Dunlop shows once again how blind and socially prejudiced the Irish courts are. He’d have got a heavier sentence for having multiple welfare claims. But this reiterates what every one knows: Irish jails are for poor people – knackers, people from the other side of the tracks who aren’t members of golf clubs.
There is another peculiarity of the Irish judicial system. Those who are prosecuted can get time taken off their sentence for the trauma of the prosecution itself. The fact that they have been outed as crooks and the resultant loss of social cachet is viewed as something deserving pity and the commiserations of the court. There is a glib saying in the ‘states; if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.
But then there are the personnel of the judicial system: judges, barristers, solicitors. They wouldn’t know justice if it jumped up and bit them on their penises, though from what I have heard some of them are willing to pay a lot of money for the experience in the North Inner City.
Electioneers
In spite of my warnings not to canvass my home in Cavan, some aspirant councillors nevertheless chose to ignore my warnings. I was genuinely sorry to have missed Brian McKeown and Des Cullen. Des is a good lad and his mother unfortunately has MS.
Other candidates put in “material” which should really be submitted to a comedy contest. For example, I quote from the Fianna Fail document. In the section headed “Disability Services” we read:
“Fianna Fail is committed to improving services to make them more accessible for people with a disability, including physical access to buildings, health services, public transport, training and employment” – how sweet!
There is a pub / restaurant in Cavan town, jointly owned by an outgoing Fianna Fail member of Cavan County Council and a Fianna Fail member of the senate. The restaurant is on the top floor, but as there is no lift, this is inaccessible to people like myself who are confined to a wheel-chair. Now some buildings are old, and those operating restaurants only rent a portion of them; so resources for installing lifts are limited. This particular building received extensive renovations before the opening of the restaurant, but the local planners obviously didn’t insist on a lift. No doubt they, along with the premises’ owners, consider that “cripples” are too poor to patronise the restaurant – and certainly the political party to which they belong is determined to make them even poorer. I recall a story about a shop-keeper in the American “Deep South” who was subjected to insults because he allowed “niggers” into his premises. He responded: “The colour of their skin may be black, but their dollar bills are as green as the next man’s”.
As for their commitment to improving employment possibilities for the disabled, it is the same as that of Fine Gael – it goes no further than making sure that any of their family who are disabled have nice jobs.
I know that once the election has passed the masks will slip. Instead of being nice and courteous as they seek my vote they will resort to being as hostile and indifferent as in the past. Perhaps they may be even more hostile, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m not threatened with vexatious legal action by some of these scoundrels.
Missing the boat
I wish these aspirant councillors would stop plaguing me for my vote. The fact is they are now wasting my time, as I’ve already voted. You see one of the few privileges of being a cripple in Ireland is that you have a postal vote, and are thereby freed from participating in the polling booth pantomime.
How did I vote? Does anyone really expect me to vote and tell? In the European elections I voted for Susan O’Keefe, a talented and brave campaigner. I also voted for Joe O’Reilly. This is a personal vote and must not be seen as displaying any support for Joe’s party, but I will never forget the fact that Joe attended my mother’s funeral. This was something I can never forget, nor can I ever thank Joe enough for.
And then there was the County Council election. I’m not going to tell who I voted for, except to say that I voted for the only out-going member of the council who had the courtesy to attend the launch of my book last October, an event he really enjoyed. I sent invitations to all the other councillors. Now Joe O’Reilly contacted me from Strasbourg to apologise for not being able to get to it, and Anthony Vesey was in Baku. As for the rest …
I only voted for one person, but that was all I was able to vote for. The ballot paper was printed on rather bright red paper which made it difficult for me to read the names of the candidates. I’m sure if I looked too long at the paper it would have given me a headache. Those who will have the task of counting the votes will have hellish difficulty, as the mark of a pen appears almost indistinct and you have to peer closely to see the choice(s) made.
The Town council ballot paper was printed on pink paper, and the colour photographs of the candidates made them look as if they had a temperature or had just emerged from a sauna. I’m not saying who I voted for, but I will definitely identify the party I did not vote for and the reasons. As a recipient of a blind pension I, along with all other pensioners, will not receive a Christmas bonus this year, a “hard” decision made with glee by the Lady Bountiful minister for Social Welfare (Mary daughter of Des Hanaffin). The amount was small, but Fianna Fail, along with their green tale, have shown themselves to be nothing more than a group of shameful scrooges.
Thank you Anglo-Celt
I am so grateful to the Anglo-Celt for giving publicity to my poor little blog. It is sincerely appreciated. I’m delighted that I was able to push the politicians from the front page – no easy task in the run-up to an election.
I am so glad that I have joined the hallowed hall of hoaxers where I can take my place beside such luminaries as my hero Jorge Luis Borges.
I am also reminded of the story told about President Lyndon B. Johnston. During the 1964 presidential campaign against arch-conservative Barry Goldwater, he told a group of campaign strategists. “Let’s put out a rumour that Goldwater is a homosexual.” His staff were shocked. “We can’t do that LBJ” protested one adviser. “Everyone knows Goldwater’s a family man, a good Christian who has no time for homosexuality.” Here LBJ sat back in his chair and said. “I know that, and you know that, but let’s just hear the son-of-a-bitch deny it!”
The stories on local radio had nothing to do with me; I’m barred from Northern Sound.
By the way putrefaction means rottenness
Piles of problems for election candidates
Piles of problems for electioneers
Yesterday I passed by a hoarding displaying an election poster – I couldn’t see who it was for. It featured portraits of five candidates – four men and a woman. This put me in mind of a TV ad from over thirty years ago which featured a sequence of photographs. The voice-over went (if I can remember it):
All these people have one thing in common – they all suffer from haemarrhoids. They have something else in common – they’ve all got relief with Preparation H.
Traffic calming and Cavan County Museum
I have read in a recent number of the Cavan Echo how that stalwart defender of the hard-working white people of Belturbet, Councillor John Scott, has called for “traffic calming” measures in the vicinity of the town’s Fair Green and St Bricin’s School. Might I suggest that a good way of effecting this would be for Cavan County Museum to move to the site. Not only would this mean that Councillor Scott’s insolent scut of a son wouldn’t have to go so far to work, but as the museum attracts so few visitors traffic calming would be guaranteed. Maybe the museum might move to the vicinity of the Ballyhugh Heritage Centre, so that the members of the Ballyconnell Heritage group wouldn’t have to travel so far either.
I need hardly add that the above ought to be taken au leger, while what follows must be taken very much au serieux – that’s your actual French that it.
I have never envied Scott’s son his job in Cavan County Museum. Councillor Scott is no doubt justifiably proud of him, but would he be proud if he had brought up his son to be a jealous coward, who sought to insult and slight me without reason? But then I suppose a disabled person like myself is an easy target.
I have never met Councillor Scott – a situation I have no desire to rectify. He may no doubt wonder at my hostility towards him. Well now he knows how it feels.
May I take the liberty to observe that if he is anything like his son he may not be worthy to be a public representative.
I know that my style is not to everyone’s taste. There are those who pretend to be offended, but I don’t think anyone can doubt my honesty. If I don’t like someone tit is clear from the contents of my posts. I don’t engage in the nasty habit of whispering about people behind their backs, or indulging in character assassinations.
This is the last time I will ever refer to that duo Scott junior and senior, on my blog, either seriously or in jest. I just can’t lower myself to deal with filth. They can anticipate fate by going to hell. The same goes for that sad institution Cavan County Museum. It can go on being a costly white elephant providing employment to the families of local politicians, while vital services are curtailed and those providing them are given. I don’t care. Its miserable walls can dissolve into talcum powder, or it can be vapourised by aliens and its collection of toilet seats brought off to plant Zag.
I wouldn’t be surprised if, following Councillor Scott’s election (which seems almost certain), I don’t receive notice of some vexatious legal action against me – all of which I would be more than willing to respond to. This would be proof of the evil that I see myself as having to counter.
Let me just add a note of genuine apology to Mr Frank Gibbons of Cavan County Council. He won’t be troubled by any more of my hoaxes. I’ hope the museum can remain open, though purged of the arrogant scum that has accrued in it. I must add that I don’t think it’s my fault if people in Cavan are so gullible.
Fianna Fail’s death-wish
Why has there not been a national outcry? Brian Lenihan has announced his plans for social welfare cuts. He believes the high levels of welfare payments are preventing the country from getting out of the recession, and like a good Thatcherite believes that current levels of welfare benefits are a disincentive to work.
(This isn’t a Ciaran Parker hoax: it can be read here.
While he is busy spending the country’s money on bailing out Anglo Irish Bank, it may have slipped his attention that there are very few jobs out there. So are people to starve? In many cases it is not the high level of welfare payments that are acting as a disincentive, but the fact that those seeking the few jobs available often find relatives of Fianna Fail (and Fine Gael) politicians always landing the jobs in front of them.
It seems that efforts have been made to keep this news story off the front pages and the television news. The Fianna Fail party obviously realise that were it to be generally known their opinion poll ratings would be in negative figures, so they wish to deceive the voting public.
I honestly think that Fianna Fail has been taken over by a Doomsday Cult. I don’t think they will care if they suffer electoral meltdown. After all they’re in government, and who are the electorate? A crowd of whingers. But while they may feel county councillors are an expendable group of yokels with no real power vis-à-vis local government executives, they should remember that they are the people who elect the bulk of An Seanad. I would not be surprised if, following the next general election – which may be sooner than later), there will be numerous Fianna Fail TDs looking for a back-way into the legislature through being elected as a senator.
These statements of Lenihan have nothing to do with economics. They stem from social prejudice. Also, let us remind ourselves that Lenihan is a lawyer and not an econom9ist. He is a hostage of the senior, well-paid officials of the Department of Finance, and he is demonstrating a bad dose of Stockholm syndrome.
Lenihan really has a cheek. A man who had his university fees paid from his third year in College (as well as free rooms in Trinity), and this as a result of a scholarship awarded on the results of an examination. This wasn’t a state examination like the Leaving Certificate, or an end-of-year examination where members of staff from other universities act as consultants or advisers, but an internal examination, marked solely by members of the College’s staff – in this case the staff of Trinity’s Law Department. There was no secrecy here. Brian Lenihan’s identity was clearly evident to the examination markers. They could plainly see the papers belonged to the son of one of the country’s leading politicians. The markers did not have to think whether he was good enough for the scholarship; rather they had to wrestle with what might happen if they didn’t give him the scholarship, and how this might affect funding to Trinity in the future were Fianna Fail in power.
My personal recollections of Brian Lenihan Jr in Trinity College in the mid ‘80s was of an obese oaf. I recall how at cumann meetings (yes, I attended them) he would sit Buddha-like, surrounded by is arse-lickers and groupies, hanging on every word of drivel as if it were an intellectual pearl of great price.
Feeding the chucks in Cavan County Museum
G’day chuck feeders! Been chokin’ a darkie in the dunny recently?
Fate can be a really weird thing, the way it can unite people in a
Guinea-Bissau's first president
cruel and absurd way when it comes to cashing in your chips in this world and collecting vouchers for the next. Take the political leadership of that sad country Guinea-Bissau, now viewed by many commentators as a basket case, a narco-state. Its first president was a guy called Luiz Almeida de Cabral. His brother had headed the independence movement until he was assassinated by fascist Portuguese hit-men in 1973. Luiz was an eternal optimist – he had to be when he became president of one of the poorest countries in the world. He tried to institute educational reform – the Portuguese hadn’t bothered their arses. Sadly, someone up there didn’t like him and in the late ‘70s his country was hit by natural disasters. His prime minister, Joao do Vieira, felt he could do a better job, so in November 1980 he seized power, throwing Luiz into jail for a while.
Now this is where it gets a bit wild. Vieira crawled back into the presidency through a democratic election, but not everyone liked him in the country. This March he was murdered in controversial circumstances by soldiers who believed he’d been behind the death of their commanding officer. And then last week Luiz passes away, in a far more peaceful setting – leafy Lisbon where he’d been in exile.
So you can imagine what might happen if they happen to meet in the great VIP lounge in the sky. What will they have to say to each other? Nice to see you to see you nice?
Anyone seeking enlightenment about the meaning of the first line of this post should seek help from the museum’s curator.
Local election results
To all the successful candidates at both county and town council level – congratulations.
To the many unsuccessful candidates – commiserations and better luck next time – if there is a next time.
I really want to send my warmest congratulations to Rotimi Adebari, former mayor of Portlaois who has been elected to Laois County Council.
Congratulations too to Kristina Jankaitiene in Carrickmacross, or
Kristina Jankaitiene
should that be Svėikas! ?
.
Ba mhaith liom comhghairdeas a dhėanamh le Bairbre de Brún faoi bua milis
FF RIP
Somebody sent me this obituary. I don’t expect Northern Sound to pick up on it, though I found it funny.
Obituary: Fianna Fail(ed)
The soldiers of disaster (formerly Soldiers of Destiny 1926-2009), savaged to death in local and European elections. Deeply regretted by builders, developers, bankers, and cowboys everywhere. Remains reposing in a large tent at Galway racecourse. Funeral mass in church of St Bertie the Chancer. Burial afterwards in the Golden Circle cemetery – no flowers please – donations in brown paper envelopes only. Houses private. RIP
Now most people know I’m no friend of the FFers, but I think people should beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing. Sadly the Sons of Destiny are not the only tricky boys in town.
Let’s not forget either there’ll be numerous FF corpses who will emerge Lazarus-like from their tombs in the coming months.
The prize for failure
I see on the newst section of the Northern Sound site that those Cavan County Councillors who were rejected by the electorate at the recent elections are entitled to a gratuity amounting to 110,000 euro. This is only payable to people given a complete thumbs down. Those councillors who lost their seats at county council level, but who were nevertheless considered eligible to serve at town council level won’t get a cent.
At a time of economic hardship these payment, and what’s more their receipt, is not only outrageous but immoral. The electorate must recognise that members of our political elite still control what little money there is, and they will make sure that they have first call on it. And don’t forget, this money is tax free and not subject to any means test.
Those luckier to get elected though have the opportunities not only to grab scarce financial resources but also to provide jobs for family members and relatives; as one of them would put it: “Ah sure ya might as well.”
As for the great majority of people in the country, many of whom have no jobs, they must grit their teeth and accept being treated like trash, and maybe having what little they are entitled to grabbed from them by the evil, semi-literate pen-pushers of the Department of Social, Community and Family Affairs. But they are doing it to please the rabid bitch who sits at the department’s helm.
Cavan dirty and dear
For a number of years Cavan town has prided itself on being relatively litter free. This was because it came high in an annual survey carried out by a shadowy organisation called IBAL. In their most recent survey Cavan has fallen back – to 22nd place I hear.
If Cavan is starting to revert to its dirtier nature some of the blame must be laid at the hands of the local County Council. For a start morale amongst council workers is at an all time low. This isn’t helped by the spectre of a three-day week hanging over them, and it certainly hasn’t been helped by being summoned to meetings with the lazy County Manager who, in the first meeting, exhorted them to work harder, and then at a subsequent meeting a week or so later exhorted them to work really harder.
A scheme whereby young people were paid to pick up litter has been scrapped by the council: they need the money to pay councillors who lost their seats. This was quite degrading but it did put money into young people’s pockets, but because working on it was viewed as well not exactly the done thing there were no sons or daughters of sitting councillors being paid to pick up trash – oh no, they had to get far nicer jobs than that – and so the scheme was axed. (Personally I can’t see why a certain councillor’s son who works in Ballyjamesduff couldn’t be given a bag, a shovel maybe, and a bag and told to clean the streets. It’s hard but honest work, but he’s such a delicate little flower.)
Email blues
I’m sure I’m not alone in believing that eircom’s webmail service is rubbish. When you log on (if you can that is) your box is inundated with spam. You send a message with no idea whether it will get there and when your correspondent replies there is absolutely no guarantee you’ll get it. I could paper the walls with the instances of people, mainly public representatives and other “important” people who claim they have responded to my messages, (and have quite testily rebutted my enquiries as to why they haven’t answered), but of whose responses I can find no trace in my inbox.
I’d love to hear from others who have experienced similar problems. They should write to me at ciaran1965@hotmail.com. But apart from sounding off on the web what can they do? They might send a message to their local TD – but not via eircom webmail!
Gardai seek missing snake
Gardai in Dublin are appealing for help in locating a missing snake which they fear may have left the country and travelled to Brussels.
It belongs to the very rare Biffo Cobra species. It’s green with white and orange banding, as well as some black spots forming the letter F on both its back and front.
The snake, though venomous, is not usually dangerous unless it’s cornered when it has a tendency to lash out, opening its mouth very wide and allowing its pendulous lower lip to flap menacingly.
A garda spokesman said that their main concern is that the snake may be getting hungry. Its preferred food is steak.
Guinea’s coup
(this post also appears on my African Violets blog)
The reaction of the international community and many commentators to last December’s coup in Guinea shows woeful lack of understanding for African developments. Looking at the event through a really narrow and legalistic framework it has been characterised as an example of a step backward from “democratic” development to a world dominated by men with guns. But where was democracy in Guinea? It was a country whose many resources were being freely pillaged by a corrupt coterie close to the increasingly incapacitated President Conteh. While there were voices raised in opposition to his regime they were too feeble and badly organised to mount any effective resistance, and you got the feeling that, given half the chance, these civilian voices would be just as adept at the grand larceny of the state’s resources.
Captain Dadis Camara’s coup has the potential of wrenching the country out of this quagmire and offering Guinea and its people an alternative.
Elections are to be held later this year; indeed Camara wanted to hold them next year when the basic infrastructure for holding a poll might have been put in place, but the solicitous international community insisted that they be held sooner rather than better – as if going through the motions of holding a ballot can introduce democracy in a country with high levels of illiteracy and with no experience of casting ballots or counting them.
Captain Camara is not standing in the elections. This is a pity, because he has shown himself to have vision beyond what passes for vision among many of Guinea’s politicians – getting rich quickly. He joined the army after his university education, so he must be set apart from semi-literate thugs of the past like Samuel Doe or Idi Amin who used the army as a means of gaining power quite literally through the barrel of a gun.
He has pledged to hand over power to civilian politicians. Because such people wear business suits the international community feels more comfortable with them than uniformed soldiers. That such besuited figures are often thieves doesn’t seem to worry them – indeed it may be a further common feature.
Walking the line
I see Bernie Madoff has been sentenced to 150 years in the jug. Poor man. had he been in Ireland he wouldn’t have got 150 points on his driving licence. I mean, for God’s sake, it wasn’t as if he were committing a REAL crime, like welfare fraud.
Auf wiedersehen Pets
Hardly have they put their fat arses back on their seats than Cavan County Councillors are planning to screw their electorate one more time. I read in the latest edition of the Cavan Echo that some of that brave band of trail-blazers are planning a trip to visit a land-fill facility in Germany. Now there is no need for any councillor to go; at the end of the day decisions will be taken by members of the unelected and unaccountable county council executive and the councillors can just sign off on them. Indeed the whole thing is a really cynical sop by the county council executive towards the elected members (who they view as merely troublesome but impotent irritants). “Want a foreign holiday – (minus the missus)? Jump aboard ladsw, but don’t give us any grief in the future.
Why can’t members of council staff go on their own? Are they afraid? It’s supposed to be a research trip, so why don’t they send one of their research officers? – one in particular is “solche suesse knabe” but how could he stay away from daddy? We all know that Cavan County Council’s employees include so many fluent German speakers. I’m not necessarily being facetious here, for if they were going to France they could bring with them the staff member who has a degree in French yet who for many years worked in the Motor Tax department – but who of course was partially sighted and didn’t have a parent serving on a council.
Tea and sympathi in the Aras
Last Sunday’s meeting between President McAleese and a group of abuse survivors was a very nice and pleasant photo opportunity – and that’s all it was.
I can imagine the folksy Mary McAleese accompanied by her husband doling out solicitude.
What about ya ya were abused were ya? Ah Gawd that’s awful so it is – Gawd luvv ya – wud ya fancy a Chinese?”
But victims of abuse deserve more than pious platitudes. They want action.
The president’s words that perpetrators of abuse should face criminal charges remind me of Macbeth’s reminiscences of the tale full of strength of fury but signifying nothing. Many of the abusers are dead, others in conditions of advanced senility. As a former professor Law Mary McAleese should know how difficult it would be to launch criminal actions against such people, with an onus probandi based on proof beyond all reasonable doubt. But the president is no fool. She knows this, but it sounded like the right thing to say.
Irish ombudsman speaks about Ryan report
In a personal response to the revelations of the Ryan report on abuse in Catholic institutions, Ireland’s ombudsman gave a very forthright response to the release of the Ryan report on institutionalised abuse. Extracts from her speech can be found at The Irish Times site.
She said that the report had shown Irish people as exposed “not as chatty, avuncular scholars but as a repressed, cold hearted, fearful, smugly pious, sexually ignorant and vengeful race of self styled Christians.” She added: “”If things were hidden, they were hidden in clear sight … Judges knew, lawyers knew, teachers knew, civil servants knew, childcare workers knew, Gardaí knew. Not to know was not an option.”
RTE news carried a fairly extensive report on Ms O’Reilly’s speech on its One O’Clock broadcast, but by the time of the evening news it had been nobbled. There was nothing about it on the Eirtel teletext service either, thanks to the rats and the members of Ireland’s home-brewed “Klan”.
Omerta – the code of silence
On the subject of Emily O’Reilly’s comments about the Ryan report, one of the reasons why nobody said anything about institutional abuse even though everyone knew it was going on was for self-preservation. If you were a member of the Knights of St Columbanus or some other ultra Catholic lay group your passage to the higher pastures of employment was guaranteed. If you weren’t a member your outlook was less assured, but were you to offend the Knights in any way you could kiss goodbye to any effective advancement in vast areas of the Civil Service and Judiciary, and the Knights were (indeed honesty compels me to switch tenses here) are very vindictive, unforgetting and unforgiving. Their members conceal their intrinstic reactionary views on everything behind a cloak of religious clap-trap. I remember being in the company of a knight – one of the best of them now dead alas – when the television reported the demonstrations in Belgrade which brought down the regime of Slobodan Milosevic. He stated: “They’re getting’ as bad as us.” As to their attitude to those complaining of abuse, I remember one of them denouncing a victim as a “whinger” who “deserved everything he should have got”.
A service economy
On the topic of vindictiveness you only have to look at the fate of the Combat Poverty Agency. It was trying to highlight the systematic penury which due to structural inequalities persisted in Ireland even at the height of the so-called Celtic Tiger period. However, it was gradually starved of funds and has now been swallowed up by the Department of Social and Family Affairs where it will have no other identity except that of a bauble in the midst of a ministry headed by the Lady Bountiful who doesn’t believe anyone is entitled to any welfare payments, a stance in which she is supported by her senior well-paid officials.
I may have mentioned that the story about the ombudsman was nobbled. It was pushed off the top of the news – in fact the news altogether – by reports about how some government agency has identified 5 billion euro worth of public spending cuts. These will include a savaging of welfare payments. It won’t effect the members of the oligarchy and elite, who can be comfortable that their taxes aren’t going to the “work shy”. It will of course lead to an increase in mendicancy and probably an increase of those women and girls who will be forced to sell their bodies in order to make ends meet. Such an increase in supply will be music to the ears of the many senior civil servants, judges and members of the judiciary who frequently use such services – I could name names here. They’ll be delighted to have prossies who speak English instead of all of the foreign women they’ve had to deal with. But then some of these gentlemen’s tastes extend beyond women and girls.
No Show in the Echo
I feel I owe an explanation to my many readers for the non appearance of a piece by me in the Cavan Echo. It’s not my fault.
Last Monday I got a message from the Belfast Media Group telling me that the Cavan Echo was switching to a 28 page format. As a result contributors including myself, Breifne O’Reilly and Stephen were being given “a holiday”, and that contributions weren’t being sought from us until “the end of summer” – whenver that is. As the frogs say On verra bien.
I’m not holding my breath that my “Ecfhoes of the Past” will resume anytime soon, and I’m highly doubtful it would be in the Cavan Echo.
This will cause many people disappointment. I think it was apparent that I really loved writing my pieces, andf this was enhanced by the feedback I got.
I pray that I may be given an opportunity to continue publishing my scribblings some time soon.
PS. I may be a rat but I stayed with the ship until the end.
No joke
A few weeks’ ago I made a humorous post to my blog entitled “Is Cavan County Museum worth a mass?” This spoof informed my readers that that supe-annuated white elephant in Ballyjamesduff was about to fall victim to the economic downturn. Anyone with a titter of wit could see that it was not to be taken seriously, but I obviously hit a nerve and there were not a few who believed it. So much so that the imminent closure of the museum featured on local radio and in the local press; the local authority was forced to issue a statement denying any intention to close it.
Pardon me for being a litte ego-centric but the Cavan Echo has recently dccided to discontinue my column “Echoes of the Past”. Many people both in Cavan and further afield enjoyed this, and I certainly enjoyed writing it, and I am really touched by the messages of regret and support I have received. This is not a joke. I am conscious however that this development, which I see as having a far more detrimental impact on historical studies in Cavan than the closure of the museum, has not produced anything like the outrage occasioned by my spoof. No! I am not expecting people to ‘phone up Northetrn Sound or write letters of protest. I do know that many of the museum’s biggest friends and defenders will be only too glad that I am no longer writing about history – that loud mouth badmouthing his betters and those whom God has placed abovce him could have no better luck - they are no doubt saying to themselves.
Like a duck
During the height of the McCarthy era in the United States labour leader Walter Reuther is supposed to have said. “If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it just maybe a duck.”
Here in Ireland we are living through our own McCarthy era, heralded by the appearance of Colm McCarthy’s cowardly, dishonest and unoriginal report on the Irish economy.
(I would just like to paraphrase Reuther’s remark. “If it looks like a drunkard, talks like a drunkard … then it just maybe …”)
I know that not all economists can measure up to the oratorical panache of Ralf Dahrendorff or the engaging presence of the late John Kenneth Galbraith. But I find Colm McCarthy’s delivery repulsive. Had John Maynard Keynees ever met him he would have recolied in horror, while Milton Friedmanwould probably hvw called security.
He speaks with a broad Dublin accent. Now after having lived for over twelve years in Dublin I came to like most Dublin accents, some of whic are very pleaswant, but he speaks las if he’s come up through a man-hole, in a slightly menacing monotone which is as unpleasant as one of John Gilligan’s enforcers. “”Ya can pay the fuckin’ money or say goodbye to your legs – it’s up to you.”
It goes without aying that I cannot listen to him. Podge and Rodge once described Sean Ban Breathnach’s singing as like a fellow tyring to cough up a piece of dog shit he’d swallowed for a bet. But with Colm McCarthy there’s no coughing up; the dog shit flows out in an endless, rank-smelling torrent.
His delivery also reminds me of a man who wakes up after spending the night on a park bench because his wife barred his entry to the house due to the drunken state in which he’d rerturned from the boozer. You just expect McCarthy to finish one of his nauseating rants about public spending cuts with the exclamation. “Oh Jaisus me fuckin’ head!”
The McCarthy report
I have the greatest of regard for some economists, people like Mohammed Yunus (founder of the Grameen Bank) and Oxford’s Professor Paul Collier.
Sadly the aficionados of the dismal science in Western Europe have been taken over by nasty ideological corner–boys, puppets of the likes of Hayek and Friedman. Many of these people have never read Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations – otherwise they would know what a contradictory book it was, albeit one penned by a genial Scotsman who did not wish harm on his fellow men.
The McCarthy report could be summed up in one word, but, because I’m anxious not to encourage bad language I’m reluctant to use any of them.
It is a rather tired and predictable recipe based on Reagano-Thatcherite principles. It is unoriginal and unimaginative.
It is also cowardly as its recommendations seem to rely for their effectiveness on the Public Spending Paradox. They attack unfairly the weakest in our society, the sick, the poor and the nation’s children – those who cannot be blamed for the economic morass in which the country stands and who never benefited during the years when the Celtic tiger was roaring. But of course attacking the poor and the vulnerable is music to the ears of some right-wing commentators.
More than anything it is dishonest. First McCarthy speaks about the almost imperative need to cut spending in areas like health, education and social welfare. One would assume that spending in all these areas stood on a high plateau of government generosity. The fact of anyone with exposure to areas like health and education is that they have been suffering for years from cutbacks and indeed cannot endure any more.
But the report’s greatest dishonesty is in its aims; to pull the country out of an economic quagmire and restore it to health. Nothing could be further from its goals, which are to entrench and consolidate the economic hierarchy of this country, while strengthening, deepening and widening the gaping inequalities in Irish society. Put in fewer words, it’s about making sure the rich stay rich and the poor get poorer. This is why the report has been taken up with such unashamed glee by the right. McCarthy has pressed all the right buttons, or more accurately he has pressed the right button – he wants to cut social welfare payments. Indeed, it is only because he is too afraid of antagonising the liberal lefties that he has not advocated the real solution: cutting social welfare payments altogether and forcing the work-shy to work while throwing the poor onto the good offices of groups like the St Vincent de Paul society.
Income disparity is a fact of life, and within reason it’s not necessarily a bad thing. This is not the form of inequality I’m talking about. The worst form is the way many jobs are held by people who try to shield their incompetence behind some self-important title. These people, more often than not, owe their positions to family and political connections. Others who would be far better in the jobs are confined to the bottom rungs of the economy and society, frequently have no jobs and are denied an opportunity to make a worthwhile contribution to society.
We all know about the “haves” and “have-nots”; contemporary Ireland is about the “always-haves” and the “never-haves”. Why is it that those lucky to be born near the apex of the economic pyramid can take hope for granted. They know that hard work will be rewarded and even mediocre effort is tolerated. For those who are disadvantaged, whether by economics or say by disability, labour as hard as they might, they will never break out of the bottom rungs, so the smarter ones just don’t bother.
I hate always reverting to personalities but I cannot but say there is something seriously wrong with a society that allows a person with a doctorate, who has written nine books plus over a hundred articles, speaks a dozen languages, to languor at the bottom, dependant solely on a miserable blind pension which he expects to be cut still further.
I want to finish by asking a question of a historic personality, Patrick Pearse. What the hell did you bother for?
Shut up Martin
Foreign Minister Micheal Martin has said that, because Ireland’s minim minimum wage is the second highest in Europe, it must be examined, with a view to reducing into doubt.
Now Martin is minister for foreign affairs, so why is he being allowed to comment on what is a domestic issue? Do we see Hillary Clinton commenting on President Obama’s health-care reforms?
Martin should have noted, in his statistical comparisons, that Irish ministerial and prime ministerial wages are amongst the highest in the western world.
The Irish hourly minimum wage would hardly extend to one of the hors d’oeuvres offered at banquets attended by minister Martin, and it wouldn’t go near to covering the price of the bottles of wine consumed there.
But the minimum wage has long been a bugbear of the right, for example amongst small-town shopkeepers who regularly telephone the police to move on “black Romanian bastards” selling The Big Issue near their shops.
Ministerial no-show
Last Saturday a group of farmrs staged a protest demonstration in Cavan town against the restrictions that have been put in place on the REPS scheme. They had hoped to meet minister for agriculture Brendan Smith, but the minister – he no show up senor.
Brendan probably feared that he would have got a rough reception, but he’s been in politics long enough to deal with harsh words. What’s more I’m sure that no matter how angry the farmers were he could have brought his personality (which has seen him constantly elected in this constituency) to bear on the situation.
But his non-appearance smacked of cowardice. Surely he wasn’t afraid of a crowd of farmers (probably from the arse=hole of God-knows-where)? What could they have done to him – shower him with pig shit?
Such no-shows are I fear a part of government policy. The people may be revolting but ministers are being told to ignore the whingers.. When they appear they do so with the “people who matter”, in whose interest the economy is being driven and who will pull the nation out of its economic difficulties, and who will get richer in the attempt anyway and may give us a few bob in recompense while they’re at it.
I believe the demonstrators then hung the minister in efegy, but it wouldn’t have been accurate unless they had castrated the dummy first.
Oh to be stupid!
Oh to be stupid in contemporary Ireland –but to be thick would be very heaven!
Were I stupid I wouldn’t realise how much I am being fucked up on a daily basis.
I would swallow unquestioningly all the crap I heard. I would believe that those with better jobs – or in my case any job – were inherently better than me, cleverer, more intelligent, more able all round.
I would believe that those governing me did so always with my best interests at heart, and that even when they were forced to take tough decisions they did so motivated by my well-being. They were far cleverer than little me, and most of them had degrees, which is something to do with universities.
I would also hold it as an article of faith (well because I’m stupid I wouldn’t know what an article of faith was) that those given the tasks of enforcing government policy carried out their tasks selflessly yet courteously in even the most trying conditions. In turn they were also much more intelligent (maybe a little cleverer than the politicians but they never let on), so that when they said that black was white I could not contradict them – which I wouldn’t do anyway because I probably wouldn’t know what contradict meant.
But because the good Lord above saw fit to give me average intelligence and understanding of the world around me I must wear a veritable crown of thorny unhappiness. For I can see too well that many of those with jobs are often much stupider, or they do stupid things, and are bound by equally stupid rules. What’s more they often owe their jobs to their relationships to local politicians or to their family’s membership of certain political parties.
I see so well that those who govern me (as well as many of those who would like to govern me) are a pack of dissembling, dishonest liars, motivated by a desire to enrich themselves, their families and cronies; who every so often indulge in a perverse pantomime of seeking my vote so that they can continue their larceny. They count amongst their raks a fair share of drunkards and drug addicts, and they participate in a a system which,m both at national and especially local level is veal and corrupt.
And I observe impotently that those who work for the government are a group of retards, with intellects the size of petits pois (and personalities to match), who are motivated by nothing except craven self-preservation and awesome disregard of their fellow men and women.
The first president of Equatorial Guinea, Francisco Macias Nguema (about whom I have written elsewhere), once outlawed unhappiness in his country and made it a mandatory duty to be happy.
If I were stupid I’d be happy and content. Come on swine ‘flu.
Bord Snip Nua
The name is as unoriginal and intellectually banal as those who write its reports. I don’t know what language it belongs to. It’s like something from some thir-wotrld pidgin, used as a means of very basic communication betweenn cultures. though knowing the types who use it I think that languages like Tok Pisin or Police Motu would appear as the finest Athenian Greek in comparison.
I’m sorry but I’m a heterosexual male and the word snip makes me uneasy. So I propose another name for the organisation. An Bord Vasectomy.
A lot of those associated with it have had that most effective of snip jobs, the gargle. Decades of imbing the old water of life have completely burned out their stomachs and livers while their bollocks are, to coin a phrase, bolloxed. They’d get heart attacks if they tried for erections now and if anything came out it would be a cocktail of piss and Milk of Magnesia.
Modern Ireland
What a great coun try we live in. The poor, the disabled, the vulnerable are expec ted to pay for the arrogance, the incompetencwe and the greed of a super-wealthy elite. The people who are overseeing this is not some foreign government but are own legislato9rs.
This is the equivalent of the semi-starving cottiers of the ninteenth century having to pay exorbitant rents so as to supply the absentee landlords with money that they could fritter away on the gaming tables of London.
Is this was Patrick Pearse died for? Where were the bankers in 1916?
National heritage week
I often despair that not enough people visit my blog. I know that there is one phrase I have to use and then the visitors swam like maggots. This phrase is, of course, Cavan Coubnty Museum.
Many of my visitors from Cavan are semi-litterate; they can read just about but they can’t write. When I am animated about somebody or something I express my views on my blog. They just love to spread nasty rumours behind people’s backs. “Have ya heard about yan fella?” etc. Sadly they are listened to by people in positions of authority who are no better, and no more gifted than themselves.
This morning I heard an advertisement on the radio for National Heritage Week. This is a worthy week-long event, but my mind slipped back a number of years to a previous National Heritage Week. I returned from holiday in Donegal on a Thursdfay and was casually chatting with an acquaintance here in Cavan who wished me well for my talk in Cavan County Museum the following Saturday. This “talk” was news to me, but my friend, who was by now slightly embarrassed, assured me that such a talk on local history given by Dr Ciaran Parker in Cavan County Museum was partr of the published programme of heritage-week events.
I felt I was being used. The name “Dr Ciaran Parker” apparently had some cachet – it was only when you met the person behind it that the sense of disappointment set in – and someone in the museum had thought they could use my name in an attempt to win greter credibility for their other activities.
The museum had dispensed with my services by this time, and I no longer worked there. I think that people might understand that my feelings toward the institution were not the most cordial. But having said that, if somone from the museum, such as curator Dominc Egan had told me beforehand that they were doing this – still less asked my permission – I would not have minded.
I could imagine what might have happened on the following Sarurday. Dr Parker wouldn’t show up for his talk. This would prove once more his unreliability and give the museum and their puppet-masters in the County Council renewed ammunition for why they had got rid of me. In the circumstances there was only one thing I could do – ring the organisers of the heritage week and explain what had happened. The person with whom I spoke did not seem surprised to learn that some events mentioned by local organisers were fictitious. Naturally I told them of my willingness to participate in heritage week events if told about them, and since then I have done this on numerous occasions.
And as a result I added to the feelings of deep-seated disdain held by the museum’s staff towards me, although I didn’t think I had done anything wrong.
The slogan of heritage week is something like “Heritage – be part of it; it’s part of you”. Our heritage belongs to every man, woman and child in this country. It is our birthright. It does not belong to any super-annuated local institution like a museum, still less to local government bodies.
The end of the Cavan Echo
It was with immense sadness that I learned of the closure of the Cavan Echo. This will be looked back upon by future generations as a brave and courageous venture in Cavan journalism. The Cavan Echo showed a new way in local journalism, one which demonstrated that “local” need not mean parochial or sub=standard when compared with journalism at a national level.
I am eternally grateful to Declan Young for asking me to get involved, and through my contributions I had the joy of working with great editors like P.J., Michael and Ian, as well as making the friendship of Mairtin and Deborah in Belfast.
Innumerable are the friends I have made through my column. It was as if I discovered a whole new reservoir of colleagues, of whose previous existence I could only dream. Many enjoyed my Echoes of the Past, and their joy was matched by mine in writing them. I felt that I was able to rescue history from the clutches of shortsighted and self-interested “historians” and give it back to its rightful owners, the ordinary people of Cavan whose ancestors had lived through it and made it in the first place.
I am planning to bring out a book containing a selection of my Echo pieces. However, I have no intention of writing any more Echoes. The concept and format must die with the paper I feel.
The Cavan Echo’s demise was due to the downturn in the economy. It is ironic in this country which pays such lip service to the principals of the free market that private-sector institutions have been allowed to go onto the rocks un-mourned, while certain others associated especially with local government continue to receive a seemingly inexhaustible supply of public funds which are in such short supply that even the widow’s mite is now under threat. I am thinking here especially of that bloated, superannuated white elephant in Ballyjamesduff, which remains open even though it has never made any money, and continues to resolutely haemorrhages it, while council staff members are let go because of a lack of funds to pay them.
After I departed from the Echo I mentioned my plight to a friend who has good contacts with a much longer established local newspaper here. He made enquiries on my behalf as to whether they might like to benefit from my availability by employing me. While senior members of staff promised to contact us they never did. They passed over the possibility of explaining to me that they too were in financial straits and were thus prevented from taking me on. But it seemed as if they could not lower themselves to do this. Were they afraid that a hand would emerge from the telephone? But even if they were cash rich, how could they employ me? What would their masters in Cavan County Council say? The knights would be appalled. It seemed as if my copy, freely given to them (if for a fee) was not as tasty as stealing my words and applying a staff member’s (though now thankfully retired) by-line to them. A short ‘phone call would have helped to establish contact and trust. Instead I had to make do with a visit from the sniggering, bad-minded racist who informed me that I might think I was bad, but longer-established i.e. better columnists had been let go by the local newspaper. Needless to say he bellyached about how little the paper was paying him for photographs –something he no doubt put down to foreigners.
The upshot of the above is: You had your chance Anglo-Celt, but the Echoes of the Past are dead like the Monty Python parrot.
Monaghan hospital
A recently publicised report by the Northeastern chapter of the HSE has “found” that there has been no significant increase in the number of admissions to Cavan hospital since the withdrawal of almost all services from Moonaghan.
Now there are a number of questions which need to be asked about this report.
1. Who decided to close down Monaghan hospital? The HSE.
2. Who conducted the “research” upon which the report was based? The HSE.
3. In whose interest is it to play down any increase in demand for Cavan hospital’s already stretched resources as a result of Monaghan’s closure? That’s right - The HSE
Smell anything rodent like?
When I was growing up I was taught that it was wrong to tell lies.
Blueshirts in Cavan
Cavan people must be tickled pink that the Blueshirts oops Fine Gael party decided to hold a meeting of its parliamentary coven in Co. Cavan, and in of all places the SAS Radisson hotel be God.
Their choice of venue is significant. The building was formerly Farnham House, the headquarters of the largest, most tyrannical and possibly most bigoted family amongst Cavan’s landed gentry.
The Farnhams were originally called Maxwell, and they were among the second wave of mongrel foxes to grab land in Ulster. It is hardly significant that the land surrounding Farnham House is still amongst the best in the county.
Their tenants were forced to pay exorbitant rents. During the Great Famine inability to pay was never accepted as a valid excuse and usually resulted in immediate eviction. The Lord Farnham of the time, it is true, showed no religious favouritism towards Protestant or Catholic in such soulless dealings.
But the money robbed from their tenants did not go on the gaming tables of London. Oh no, much of it went to build Farnham House, which, in spite of extensive renovations, is still a cold and forbidding place. The Farnhams were avid partisans of the “Second Reformation” in Co. Cavan – attempts by Protestant evangelical societies finances by people like the Farnhams and the gullible praying classes of England to bribe the Irish peasantry to forego the religion of Rome for that of Canterbury.
While one of the Lords Farnham died a horrible death in the Abergele rail disaster of August, 1868 the spirit of religious intolerance continued at Farnham. In 1896 Lord Farnham’s agent T.R. Blackley recommended to the lord that the vacant posts of under-steward and gardener be filled by “English Protestants”. This would have precluded amongst others the historian Lord Acton and Edward Elgar, composer of that anthem of tub-thumping and nauseating imperialism “Land of Hope and Glory” from employment at Farnham. Both were members of English society par excellence but both sadly were Roman Catholics.
It is in the bosom of such exclusivity that the latter-day Blueshirts have assembled. They could have staged a re-enactment of the frightful “human hunts” which took plaee at Farnham, and whose lurid details were told to me by Cavan-town publican Linus McDonal, as in many ways this epitomised the current traversty of a democratic system we have. Young girls were stripped naked and made to wander through Farnham’s grounds while packs of savage, baying dogs were set upon them so that they were forced to climb into one of the ground’s many trees from where they were rescued by “gentlemen” on horseback – n return for sexual favours. These gentlemen were often descendants and close relatives of members of te Anglican clergy. The hapless girls might have been saved, but at the price of being fucked.
Sadly bad weather prevented a march past by Fine Gael volunteers who are setting off on their battle to assure Ireland of a place in a Christian Europe. However there was a special trooping and blessing of the colours – a yellow banner urging a “YES” vote in the forthcoming and completely undemocratic re-run of the Lisbon Treaty referendum.
Now the Blueshirts / Fine Gael are very big on jobs, so Enda Kenny and senior Blueshirts then went on a tour of sites in the county employing relatives of Fine Gael councillors such as Cavan town’s courthouse, town hall and hospital. I have learned that Fine Gael leader Enda Kenny was forced, through pressure of time, to turn an invitation from Councillor John Scott of Belturbet to visit his son in Cavan County Museum.
Our rulers, our robbers
Recently a newspaper carried a list of the expenses of the members of our lower house. Some of the figures were eye opening, not least the 3000,000 plus euro sought by the speaker of the house John O’Donoghue, and the sum in excess of 200,000 received by Deputy Brendan Howlin, who lives in Wexford. Other figures were surprising. My local TD Caoimhghin O Caolain ran up a figure of 120,000 euro but he lives in Monaghan, a considerable distance from Dublin city, yet Dr Michael Woods clocked up expenses in excess of 130,000 euro, even though he lives in Raheny, only a few stops up the DART – not that he would ever use such a plebeian means of transport.
Now we know that the majority of our parliamentarians – of ALL political stripes – are venal, spineless, and cowardly hypocrites, yet we still live in a sort of democracy which means that WE THE PEOPLE can give them the elbow at the next election. Of course this seldom rids the country of their pestiferous presence, as they are able to crawl back into the legislature by means of the “scenic route” of election to Seanad Eireann.
But what of those senior decision makers in this country of whose expenses we know nothing? I refer here to the senior civil servants, first secretaries, secretary generals etc., as well as the county managers, county secretaries and other assorted nobodies at local government level. And let us not forget senior members of our judiciary. These people can and do run up gargantuan expenses, but the public seldom knows anything about them. Also hidden under a cloud of unknowing are their shareholdings and memberships of boards of various businesses, as well as the nature of their relationships with business figures, which often amount to serious conflicts of interests. The pubic is generally given the mushroom treatment about all this, and anyone who is so bold as to persist in asking can look forward to years of victimisation and, at local government level, being placed in a permanent position at the bottom of every waiting list around.
Our public service is certainly as hypocritical as our politicians; they are united in an unnatural marriage of convenience. Politicians are told not to ask and they will be told no lies, and if they should happen to join the ranks of the governmental senior hurling team better known as the Cabinet – even if they sit on the sub’s bench of the Ministers of State – they are assured that the officials in their department will be like dad and keep mum about any ministerial misdemeanours.
These mandarins speak of their professionalism and suggest sotto voce that it is only due to their skills that the country works at all. Senior civil servants love to amuse their friends with stories about the stupidity of their masters, about the way they have to write their speeches for them, which are then delivered so excruciatingly. Ministers come, ministers go, but they stay in place. Anyone who lives here is aware that the actions of our public service are dominated by the culture of botch. “It’s not working properly is it not? Ah sure fuck it. “ The public, in whose name they are supposed to act, is The Enemy. If you really want to annoy a public servant remind him or her of an unpleasant reality: they are public servants, you are a member of the public and they are your servants, not their masters; they are people who owe you a duty of service and courtesy.
But if they were just a pack of supercilious and bumbling layabouts it wouldn’t be so bad. When roused from their torpors to action they become vicious monsters, incapable of doing anything but harm, and getting a real buzz out of doing so.
They pretend they are motivated solely by the highest ethical standards; they don’t know what self interest is – mar dhea! However, they see fit to libel and slander members of the public who do not please them and attribute elements from their perverted fantasies to ordinary decent people. But if the public retaliates and tries to fight back they bristle with indignation.
And let us not forget the way the higher public service has long been infected by quasi-Masonic Catholic lay groups such as the Knights of St Columbanus. The evidence may be anecdotal but it is far from fantasy, that the progress (or lack of it) of university graduates in certain prestigious government departments such as Finance or Foreign Affairs is still dependant on their membership during their student days of groups like Pax Christi. Members of Sinn Fein’s youth wing, or those who flirted (however fleetingly) with Marxism, have found that it is better to keep this quiet if they seek a glittering public service career, yet those who have been active in quasi fascist formations like Youth Defence can wear their past involvement as badges of honour.
So isn’t it a grand little country we have after all: we are ruled by robbers. Patrick Pearse would be so proud of it, though St Patrick might be disappointed to find that the serpents he had driven from the island were back and very firmly in control.
Jimmy McDaid speaks out
One-time minister for Defence James McDaid has recently emerged from rehab to make some statements which will hopefully persuade taoiseach Brian Cowan to offer him a ministry. He has expressed his undying loyalty to the government, Fianna Fail and Mr Cowan. At the same time he has called for a general election to “clear the air”. Thus armed by the people’s mandate Fianna Fail would be empowered to undertake “tough” decisions to promote economic well-being. The people he hopes (he dreams) would be conned into accepting bitter economic medicine because “the other crowd” i.e. the blueshirts, will have to implement the same policies. In other words according to Jimmy, an election would not involve the people exercising their choice to benefit themselves. No. The choice would be between voting for Fianna Fail and getting fucked up the arse on the one hand, and voting Fine Gael and getting fucked up the arse on the other. The result would be the same: the people would get fucked up the arse. The only difference would be the colour of the prick. So the people are supposed to just say “Fuck me till I fart”.
These arguments are, to be kind, weak and banal, but are hardly surprising. Dr McDaid could well be described as the Amy Whitehouse of Irish politics. Here is a man who was caught speeding the wrong way up the road while under the influence of a sizable amount of drink, consumed at a nearby race meeting. Dr McDaid is a man who threw up his wife of many decades, the woman who had put up with his boozing and sequential womanising, in favour of a coterie of much younger bimbos..
Like many Ffers he talks about the need for “tough” decisions. Cutting the money paid to old age pensioners is not a tough decision. It is rather the height of cowardice. If the government really wanted to make tough decisions they could start by taking criminal action against the senior management of FAS for their waste of 48 million euro. But come on Ciaran, don’t be naïve. Take action against the likes of Mary Harney’s husband? I think not.
But I suppose Dr McDaid thinks he knows all about cowards. That’s what he called people who take their own life.
He is right, but only to a certain extent. I believe that a Fine Gael government, or one in which the Fine Gael party formed a part, would pursue such cowardly policies with even great vigour. Why wouldn’t they? They are their policies after all, ones of which Ernest Blythe, Eoin O’Duffy and John Kelly would have been proud. It is rather sickening then to see a member of the Fianna Fail party support such policies, as if they are the only economic show in town. Making the poor suffer for the squanderings of the rich should not play any role in the policies of a party that pays even lip-service to being republican, and we all know how much Jimmy McDaid likes to court the republican vote in Donegal North-East, even to the extent of “just happening” to be outside the court when IRA men were released.
But I suppose that was a tough decision on his part.
Darkness visible
There’s husbandry in heaven -
Their candles are all out..
I want to tell you a story; let me assure you that every word of it is true, no matter how fantastic it may appear.
Recently Rosie and myself have had a couple staying with us who have been attempting to liberate their son from care, into which he was delivered on the flimsiest of reasons. One of the couple established a website in which he attempted to publicise their plight and that of other families in similar situations.
Last Thursday, Ms Helen McGovern, solicitor for the Health Service Executive, succeeded in extracting a High Court injunction against the website. The manner in which this injunction was subsequently delivered beggars belief in a free society. At approximately 1.30 am on the following morning all of the residents of the house were awoken by the arrival of Ms McGovern, accompanied by no less than four gardai. Ms McGovern obviously does her best work after dark, but I cannot for the life of me see why they had to be served at such an ungodly hour. I also fail to see why she had to be accompanied by such a large force of police. Did they believe that the couple were going to “make a run for it”? or that they would be offered physical resistance? One of the garda squad cars had come all the way from Navan with Ms McGovern. Most people know that sadly, Co. Meath is awash with illegal drugs. The gardai respond as well as they can, though they are often hampered by insufficient resources. On the morning of Friday, September 18th, their ability to fight not only the drugs problem but crime in general was severely hampered by allocating one squad car with two gardai to accompany Ms McGovern’s nocturnal frolic. The forces assigned for this visit were equivalent to those for a raid, yet this group presented the unedifying spectacle of skulking through the blackened Cavan countryside asking for directions. Obviously the Gartda Siochana haven’t heard of GPS yet.
Luckily I wasn’t in residence at Putiaghan Upper that night. I would have been terrified to be disturbed by the headlights of police cars. The whole thing would have reminded me too much of a scene from Alan Parker’s film Mississippi Burning. Both Rosie and myself are law-abiding people, without so much as a parking ticket to our names, so to be treated in this shameful manner by the police is intolerable. My first reaction upon hearing the front door being knocked in the middle of the night would have been to seek the protection of the gardai by telephone. Imagine how I would have felt on learning that those who were disturbing my peace, those who were frightening me, were the very people towards whom I looked for protection, I feel that my customary civility towards the Civic Guards would have been stretched to breaking point.
On the following evening, at approximately 10.30 pm our peace was again disturbed by a Process Server delivering additional court documents. Why can documents only be delivered at night? The Process Server, who seemed genuinely embarrassed, explained that the late hour was caused by the delay in preparing the documents. This preparation had been so rushed that they hadn’t been filled in properly or signed.
The serving of the papers at such an unorthodox manner on the morning of the 18th, accompanied by such a large contingent of police, was a clear and deliberate attempt to intimidate the couple and my partner Rosie. Ms McGovern’s visit was no act of charity; she will indeed seek and no doubt receive handsome payment of expenses for her after hours’ exertions by the HSE. How can the HSE don the poor mouth, citing lack of money when cutting back vital and essential services, but yet they have money to burn on such non-vital expenses? Is it not true that at a time when we are told we must swallow “tough” decisions regarding public spending, which will cause genuine hardship, our public servants and those whom they employ can waste as much money as they can?
I wish to stress that everything I have said above is factually correct. When (or if) Ms McGovern reads it I am sure she will be enraged, and as a well-connected member of the judiciary she will possibly seek to gag me by undertaking legal action against me. She may labour under the mistaken belief that I can be frightened into silence, as was her intention in visiting our house at such an inappropriate hour. But if the truth hurts don’t blame me. Furthermore I believe all the comments made to be fair in the circumstances. The above statements are not motivated by malice, but by a desire to expose abusive behaviour by the executive, including an abuse of judicial process, I am also conscious that in writing the above I have not made myself many friends amongst those who seek to dominate our lives. Let me remind everyone that we still live in a free society – just. Amongst the freedoms we take for granted are not just freedom of speech, but the freedom to enjoy an undisturbed night’s sleep.
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A leaner, healthier Ireland
Minister for health and obesity Mary Hernia has warned that the coming year will see even greater cuts in health spending. These will of course, translate into even poorer services in the health sector but will help to usher in a new dawn not only for the health service but for Ireland generally.
While few if any hospitals will be closed they will be downsized radically in the interests of efficiency. As a consequence they may have to shed most if not all of their medical functions. They will thus be staffed entirely by HSE administrative staff. There won’t be visiting hours because, hopefully, there won’t be any patients to visit.
Minister Hernia has said that the Irish people now realise that the biggest problem facing the health services is sick people. “They get sick at awkward times, and expect to be cared for at the tax payer’s expense.” The minister added, “As a country we face some tough decisions and this government will not shite away from taking them.” Giving examples of the type of decisions she means the minister outlined the savings in not giving costly medical care to old people,cripples, the unemployed and the work shy, who should be left to die. ”Yes it’s tough, but it’s the type of decision we must take if we are ever to get back to economic good health.”
A study undertaken by some of Ireland’s best-paid economists had found more over than many people who think they’re sick aren’t really sick at all.
Welcoming the increase in emigration figures the minister said that emigration of Irish healthcare workers was good news as it showed Ireland’s generosity as a nation. These were men and women who had been trained at Ireland’s expense, but instead of selfishly expecting them to work here and treat our sick people we were donating them to the wider world.
A new scheme to replace expensive medical personnel takes a leaf out of the book of China. Hundreds of “barefoot” doctors are to be appointed throughout Ireland. These will be people on FAS community employment schemes who will receive a week-long crash course in medical essentials but who will not require any pay in addition to their weekly welfare benefits. The minister was particularly delighted with this scheme as it showed the power of “joined-up” government, though she quick not to take credit for the idea herself. “Actually it was Brian’s”. More advanced medical help, if needed, is to be provided by volunteers from Medecins Sans Frontieres.
These measures will lead not only to a leaner, healthier health service but also to a leaner, healthier Ireland, populated by a super-race of athletic Irish men and women paying little of their hard-earned cash in taxes. “It’s a win-win situation which definitely brings us much closer to Buchenwald than Berlin.”
Why I’m voting no
Why I’m voting no, part 1
I don’t think anyone can accuse me of being a Euro-sceptic. I have a knowledge of over a dozen European languages,; my father fought to liberate Europe from the curse of Nazism and my heart misses a beat whenever I hear the bass intone those magical words “Frunde!” at the beginning of Beethoven’s setting of Schiller’s Ode to Joy. I have always been committed to the true European ideal of openness, culture, decency, justice and openness. Sadly, this vision has long ago been sold out to a mean version of Europe based on greed and bureaucratic megalomania, a Europe of the always-haves versus the never-haves, a Europe of a few winners but many losers. For me Europe is a Mahler-like Symphony of a Thousand, not an exemplar of grey, unanimous plainsong.
As I I’ve stated my father fought to clear Europe of Nazism, suffering imprisonment as a POW Yet when I look around me it’s as if the Nazis are back in control, especially here in Ireland – not surprisingly since many of our academics and senior civil servants’ ancestors were keen partisans of General O’Duffy. There is a jaw-dropping lack of democracy which is more becoming a fascist dictatorship. At the same time there is cynical recourse to electoral vaudevilles such as referenda to give the acts of the elite some thin democratic veneer.
In last year’s referendum I didn’t vote at all. This was not an act of laziness because I “couldn’t be arsed” to vote. I was truly caught between two not very attractive stools. On the one hand there were many voices in the “no” camp whom I thought frankly unattractive, including the usual pot-pourri of cranks, racists and “pro-life” nuts, many of whom dreamed of a nice clerico-fascist Ireland lying somewhere in the Atlantic halfway between Franco’s Spain and Governor Wallace’s Alabama. But then there were the “yea sayers”. They wanted me and others to give our support to a bad treaty which no one understood, and which was deliberately drafted in an obtuse style to defy common comprehension.
One year on. Lisbon Mark 2 is still an incomprehensible document, making a camcorder-operating manual appear like child’s play. The only real different between the versions is that Ireland is guaranteed a commissioner. This is very important for those members of our political superstructure who are interested in jobs – jobs for themselves and their family members. The post of commissioner is a valuable political gift to the head of any government, especially one who wants to reward someone for their loyalty or rid himself of an uncomfortable rival. The commissioner also has a suite of hangers-… oops I mean officials, many drawn from the ranks of their own family or the families of prominent party members. Few have much knowledge of European culture or languages, and quite a few have come up through the ranks of the party branches in our universities.
I still fell grave misgivings about some on the No side of the debate, though my attitude towards some has mellowed, particularly vis-à-vis Mr Declan Ganley. He used to mystify me. Here was a man who had done business in Albania – and survived. Why should he have to account for every cent of his wealth just because he dares to speak out against the politico-bureaucratic consensus?
But I’m turning my back on the individual personalities and motivations of those on the “no” side. That’s their business, and there is nobody on the ‘no’ side who comes anywhere near the moral emptiness of the rotten, cowardly, deceitful conmen and women on the Yes side.
To be continued…
What a waste?
Hardly a day goes by without the exposure of breath-taking amounts of waste in the Public Service. Recently we learned how FAS spent 600,000 euro on a television advertisement that was never screened, as well as paying huge sums for services that were never delivered. But I think that this goes beyond simple waste. Waste is something children do, or those with lower levels of educational achievement. In other words waste is what poor, stupid people who don’t know any better. Although I may question the vaunted intellectual pretensions of senior civil servants and managers in the parastatal sector, they are far from stupid: they know what they’re doing.
I am saying that much of what goes under the rubric of waste is actually peculation, larceny and fraud on a grand scale by public officials. These people should be charged and imprisoned, not allowed to retire with expensive golden handshakes. But there is little hope of that. Were charges to be brought against them, the people who would sit in judgement i.e. senior judges would be cut from the same social cloth. They might very well be classmates from the same schools, maybe related by marriage even, and po0ssibly members of the same golf clubs. (The law is full of fictions, including the notion that justice is blind. For that to happen the judges have to be blind too.)
There is no true ethos of public service in Ireland. Those working there are taught to see the public as the enemy. One of the worst insults you can pay a public servant is to call him or her just that – a public servant. They bristle with anger “Me? A servant? And of that dark, smelly enemy the public? Nay, nay and thrice nay – or rather the equivalent in Irish.
We may pride ourselves in having a public service that is not manifestly corrupt, as say somewhere like Italy or Kenya. Bribers don’t feature at the lower levels at least. But who is to say what goes on further up? And are we to define bribery and corruption solely in terms of the handover of cash? Then there is the internal bribery, where certain departments and individuals are rewarded for “playing ball” or putting the telescope to their blind eye, by bonuses or greater access to resources.
So many of our public servants and representatives have cruelly perverted John F. Kennedy’s famous challenge “Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country?” into “How can I do my country – and get away with it?”
The know-nothing club
Green party ministers John Gormless and Aimin Low have stated that they weren’t informed of the huge hush fund proposed for jet-setter, first-class flyer and retiring FARCE boss Roddy Molloy before it was announced by their cabinet colleagues.
There is an old principle in the Common Law, much praised by the seventeenth-century jurist Selden, called ignoratio legis hauc excusat – ignorance of the law is no excuse. So what our green-by-politics green-by-nature ministers are trying to plead is ignorance of the crime, I don’t think that will carry much weight. Another defence that they might run is duress. “Had we objected we’d be annihilated. They’re bigger than us – we were a human shield – they made us do it, honest.” If they pull out of government and the Feel ‘n Fallers don’t throw in their miserable lot with their political soul-mates the blueshirts, the Greens face into a general election from which few of them might emerge. Even the most optimistic Green now accepts that opinion poll findings of Green party support are low enough to be categorised as a statistical margin of error. What’s more, most of those people who say they are going to vote Green next time are doing so for a bet.
What a bunch of petty, miserable people comprise our government. There’s another suitable adjective – dysfunctional.
So the Green ministers knew nothing, something that can’t be said about Roddy Molloy.
Further reasons to vote no
I am obviously such an ungrateful brat, considering how much the country has benefited from EU money. But let’s have a look at how this EU money has been spent, and who has benefited.
For a start, as with everything, some have benefited more than others. In terms of sectors, Ireland’s farmers have definitely gained handsomely, in spite of the farming sector declining as a proportion of the population. This has been because the farmers have been, from the dawn of Ireland’s EU membership, exceptionally well organised as a pressure group. But in spite of this EU largesse, I would be so bold as to say that rural society in Ireland is on its knees. Post offices, shops and other essential features of infrastructure have been removed. Many areas of our countryside are threatened by insensitive and ghastly housing developments or the construction of bypasses. Many farms are still uneconomical, heavily dependant on a range of handouts. This was recognised by the decision of Agriculture Minister Brendan Smith to allocate a mass of funds for farmers on the eve of the referendum, thereby attempting to buy their votes. And like the recipients of generosity farmers are such bitter critics of welfare benefits.
Our fishermen never benefited to the same extent, so that fishing has become almost a marginal activity. There are no votes in fishing, so politicians have ignored it.
So EU largesse in Ireland is a fine example of injustice, not always going to the sectors that need it or deserve it, but to the school-boy bullies who are best able to grab it.
The distribution of structural funds has often been deliberately channelled through social and political elites, who have used control to buttress their positions at the expense of the greater public,
In Co. Cavan, some EU money has gone to pig producers, who ploughed it into increased production. This resulted was an increase in porcine effluent, much of which was poured into waterways including the River Erne. The EU then gave money to Fermanagh County Council and others north of the border to clean up the resulting pollution, a lovely example of north-south co-operation in action.
The spending of structural funds, disbursed under various labels like Phare and Leader is an excellent example of how EU funds have stayed in the hands of the existing elites. Whenever a new “tranche” of funding is announced for disadvantaged areas, such as those along the border with Northern Ireland, proposals are sought and public meetings organised to work these out,. The meetings usually come up with some very good and sound ideas. A second meeting, to “firm up” the proposals is then arranged. This is attended by “the boys”, members of the local political and economic elite who have their fingers in every pie; the ones who never have any trouble getting planning permission or any type of grant. (Viewers of Killnascully will remember Willy Power.) They muscle their way onto the committee and push out anyone who is not a client or relative. Their dominance is explained because they are the ones who ”know how to get the money.” This is sadly too correct, ordinary members of the public might very well make very well structured and valid proposals for funding but they won’t get a cent, whereas “the boys!” know who owes them favours.
One of the ideas to be put forward for Leader funding in the Cavan Monaghan area was the production of an illustrated guide-book of heritage tours. One of the members of the committee, sadly deceased, thought that I was the best person to undertake its writing and to supervise its production, because of my experience as a historian and writer. This post would be accompanied by a handsome salary. When my name was proposed at a meeting I had to sit through one of the most unpleasant episodes in my life, as nearly everyone there, including those who didn’t know me from Adam, proceeded to state just how unsuitable I was. The lead was taken by a loud-mouth from Belfast who managed a refuge for battered artists. Amongst his claims was that he doubted I could produce a website – admittedly not something that would have been considered a necessary component in the skills’ set for the job, but he was really discomfited when I told him of my experience with HTML. But everyone else took the lead from him.. One man left the room rather than participate in the circus Many of those who remained were Leader clients, people who had received or who expected to receive Leader funding. They were expected to behave towards me in a certain way – if they knew what side their bread was buttered on. I looked beseechingly at those there, as if to say “Is there none here who will speak on my behalf?” Then finally the coup-de-grace was delivered by one of those charged with the disbursement of the funds. He announced that the job must go to a “driver – someone able to get around”. He knew full well that, though I could, in those days get round very well, I could never drive. At this I stood up, saying “I never knew you were looking for a chauffeur” and left the meeting. I do not wish to name the figure who said this. Suffice it to say that he had a not very star=studded career as a Gaelic Football player. When my late mother later challenged him about what he had said, he retreated to the tower of cowardice of all mushroom-men, threatening to bring a legal action against her. As for the book, well they gave the job to a “driver” with no experience of the area who was able to get around so well that he went up every boreen in the two counties and expected the Leader funds to pay his expenses, which they did. However,, this virtually emptied the funds set aside for the book which was nowhere near finished – in fact, it hadn’t been begun. So guess who was then approached to finish it once the Duchy was dry? Yep, muggings here. I wrote out the trails with accurate mileage and kilometre indications, and they were then followed on the ground before publication. Nobody could believe just how accurate they were; but that just went to show that you didn’t have to be a driver to write the trails. But where did all the money go? Leaving aside the production costs, there wasn’t much left for me, and while “the driver” got his wages and expenses, he was fully entitled to them, We can only say that it went up the cook’s arse.
To be continued
Final reasons to vote no
Last reasons to vote no
One of the greatest reasons for defeating Lisbon Mark 2 is that it might, just might, remind our political rulers that we still live in a democracy. That literary fable Bunnreacht na hEirinn – the constitution – makes the people sovereign in our state. So how is it that the wishes of the people of Ireland carry so little weight anymore? The present government seems to be the hostages of a small, unrepresentative clique of far right-wing economists and Department of Finance mandarins who want to use the excuse of the economic crisis to push through socially regressive policies. A yes vote would convince the politico-bureaucratic elite that it could successfully hoodwink the people and continue to feed voraciously at the public trough.
I can hear some of those on the yes side clamouring “What about Europe?” Well, exactly, “What about Europe?” This referendum, just like the one last year, had very little to do with Europe. The self-styled “pro European” politicians don’t giver a damn about Europe. They’ve only ever seen it as a source of wealth for themselves, their families and their friends, as well as a good location for official trips at which they can stuff themselves with Tournedos Rossini with spuds and drink themselves silly, while indulging in activities far from the prying eyes of their partners.
Lisbon Mk 2 is a fraud, a three-card confidence trick that has nothing to do with true European values. A vote against it is NOT a vote against Europe. Perhaps it is a vote against a false Europe based on greed and inequality. – a Europe with which I don’t want to have anything to do.
When I started writing I mentioned Beethoven. The Europe of Lisbon Mk 2, of Fianna Fail, their erstwhile blueshirt allies and the ”Comrade Cumfies” of the Irish Labour Party is a Europe which would still consign a genius like Beethoven to the social and economic sidelines, because he was deaf and because he wasn’t related to any politicians at European, national or local level. Such a Europe does not deserve to suborn his setting of Schiller as its anthem. Rather it should use an old song of Hank Williams – Your cheatin’ heart.
Desperation on the yes side?
The ‘yes’ campaign in Cavan town are obviously getting desperate, as Fianna Fail have decided at this eleventh-and- a-half hour to canvass for a yes vote. There is something quaint that the lady who called to my unanswered door was once a committed Fine Gael activist, so much so that my late mother would have described as “blue to her drawers”. I chose not to answer the door and engage the hapless woman in debate, as I felt it would have been so unfair. (She probably thinks that Van Gent en Loos is a dirty movie.) I can’t help feel the irony of the situation, though. Here is Fianna Fail stating that a vote for Lisbon mk 2 is a vote for Europe but relying on people who, God love them, have trouble enough with their first language, whereas here am I, the ungrateful Eurosceptic who has a working knowledge of over a dozen EU languages, one of which, Bulgarian, he had occasion to use today.
At least last year I was canvassed in person by Minister for Agriculture Brendan Smith. One of our dogs barked quite loudly at him, an action I interpreted as “She’s obviously voting no Brendan”. What a difference a year makes, as Brendan would be scared shitless to show his face around the doors today – unless accompanied by a phalanx of gardai.
Cavan local history gets new web presence
New CSB website
I’d like to tell all my readers about the new CSB – Cock-Suckers of Breifne – website. Naturally, it’s given over to narcissistic self-publicity on behalf of the soi-disants experts on local history, including that bad-assed cowardly scumbag The Honourable Dr B. Squirt, who appears in at least one photograph surrounded by druids. This was taken in association with a special novena held at the Ballyjamesduff pigsty in which they were praying for a miraculous increase in visitor numbers, so as to fend off the growing phalanx of calls for the pigsty’s closure as a costly white elephant.
It is so reassuring for people like The Honourable Dr Squirt that, even at a time of swingeing public spending cuts, he inhabits a nice little sinecure enabling to get paid from the public trough even in the midst of economic recession. And it’s all thanks to daddy.
Some in the pigsty have hit upon a new way of getting the punters in – a pilgrimage. The pigsty has recently been recognised by the Sacred Congregation of Wights and others doing the work of God as a site intimately associated with the life of Blessed Oliver J. Hannigan, patron of blue plumbers, haemorrhoid sufferers and general pains in the arse
Already miracles have been reported. One pilgrim from a Ballyconnell heritage group said: “For years I’ve been plagued with the piles, but since visiting Ballyjamesduff Pigsty I haven’t needed the Anusol once.“
Another prized exhibit is the original confessional in which the late Fr Brendan Smyth confessed his craven sexual obsession for young children to a former bishop. The hallowed prelate was a great idol of Dr Squirt’s, who considered him the greatest living expert on the O’Reillys, even though he was dead.
(Never having visited the site I don’t know whether I’m mentioned on it. I earnestly hope not.I’m more than happy to be thereby snubbed by that crowd of narrow-minded, bigoted, obscurantist budgie brains. Indeed I take it as a great compliment, as I thereby join other fine students of Cavan’s locl history who are now sadly deceased.
Dr Squirt doesn’t like me; as I am not and never have had aspirations of becoming, either a poodle or a prostitute his likes are of no concern to me. But given that he has never met me I wonder what’s the reason for his problem? Many people have said it’s down to his jealousy towards me. Anyone who is jealous of a partially sighted individual who spends much of his tine in a wheel chair deserves our prayers – not a job – but then he could be in no better place. Aithnionn ciarog ciarog eile.
People reading the above must be aware that it springs from my own opinions and does not aim to be in anyway factual. What’s more, there is no malice, which is more than I can say about the attitude of the pigsty’s “research officer” (!) towards me. I believe it constitutes fair comment, though there will be those who say it’s unfair comment. I reply that I consider that the only form of comment to which these people are entitled is no comment at all.
I hear he’s writing, not just one book but two. I wonder what the titles are? Maybe the semi-autobiographical All Hands on Dick, while the second might be a history of clerical child abuse in the diocese of Kilmore. Most ordinary writers have to struggle with the financial demands of daily life while they complete their work, as well as with hectoring editors, but the Honourable Dr Squirt has his nice County Council sinecure to cushion him. But after all he is such a great writer, greater than any other who has ever worked in the benighted hole of Cavan.
I know how much this will annoy Brendan and his friends, peoplke like the equally jealous yet ill-informed Barry Leddy.
Tragedy in Guinea
The tragic events in Conakry demonstrate how anarchic the country is, and how nearly eight months after seizing power Dadis Camara is not fully in control of the situation.
Guinea, like many similar African states, shows the truth of Mao Zedong’s belief that power comes from the barrel of a gun. When you give the power that a loaded automatic weapon confers, to illiterate or semi-literate soldiers who may have very short-term but pressing grievances over things like pay, the results can be disastrous.
No one can excuse what happened in Conakry. I am not going to seek to defend Camara, but the image that is painted of him by the western media, including the BBC, is slightly inaccurate. One recent biographical profile told how he was born in a very remote village but was lure by the bright lights (never that bright considering the omnipresent power-cuts), but far from finding riches, he encountered a different form of poverty, which he sought to allay by selling kola nuts on the street. This attempts to place him in the historical mould of pat leaders like Idi Amin and Samuel Doe, who found that they were able to grab and hold onto power, even though they were barely literate.
But there’s one big difference. Camara studied law at Conakry’s university, which may not be Oxford or Cambridge does impose certain standards – higher, it must be said, than some institutions calling themselves universities in Nigeria.
Then we hear about Camara’s quirks of personality and his short temper. This may be true, but such peculiarities are certainly better than the habits of many African leaders, such as lounging in air-conditioned luxury in antique chairs and doing no more than putting out their hands to grasp the most expensive vintage champagnes served in Baccarat goblets – all paid for by their desperately poor compatriots.
Η νίκη του ΠΑΣΟΚ
Είμαι ευχαριστημένος ότι το ΠΑΣΟΚ έχει κερδίσει τη γενική εκλογή. Ειλικρινά ελπίζω ότι ο κ. Παπανδρέου κάνει την καλύτερη χρήση της εξουσιοδότησής του από ο πατέρας του
Order Order!! Three hundred gran and a Redbreast chaser please
There is an old Malagasy proverb which says if you’re roof is rotten don’t be surprised if you get wet when it rains.
The people of Ireland are being shown marvellous recompense for approving that shoddy document called the Lisbon treaty. All the political parties which urged a ‘yes’ vote are gathering round to protect the rotten individual who holds the office of Ceann Chomairle. The post is such a caricatured copy of the office of Speaker of the House of Commons, but at least Michael Martin did the decent thing when he found that his efforts to shield the expenses culture were unpopular.
O’Donoghue’s buddies in Destiny’s Soldiers can’t be expected to do anything but support him, but then you have John Gormless who takes a stance not unlike St Augustine “Oh Lord, make me sinless – but not yet.” Fine Gael cannot distance themselves from the “Sure ya might as well” culture which swirls around public funds/ I name it after a Fine Gael public representative here in Cavan who, when faced with a lavish display of public-funded hospitality urged his wife to join him with the words: “Ah sure ya might as well.” And then we come to the Comrade Comfies of the Labour Party. One might call them the John West socialists. Our sister isle has endured twelve years of rule by such people who are even ashamed to call themselves socialists. And let’s not forget that the member of the Dail who had the highest expenses pay-out after O’Donoghue was none other than the Labour Party’s Brendan Howlin who clocked up such a figure on his long and arduous journey from Dublin to far-off Wexford.
But let us be fair. Perhaps we are being too tough on O’Donoghue, for he is being pilloried (and may yet have to fall upon his hurley – though its unlikely) for taking sums which are chicken-shit compared to the amount taken by senior bankers and civil servants.
B(w)ankers
The overfed managers of Ireland’s Central Bank have thrown their support behind massive public spending cuts, and in particular cuts in social welfare.
I have but one question to ask: Where were the bankers in 1916?
Roll of honour
RTE news yesterday (October 6th) carried the alarming story that kids attending a primary school in Carrigaline, County Cork, were being asked to bring their own lavatory paper, as the school could not guarantee an adequate supply due to budgetary constraints. I fear that this is a problem faced not only by the school in Cork but by many others throughout the country. I also fear that it will only grow worse once the government starts to implement the “tough” decisions dictates to it by the McCarthy report. I don’t think I am being alarmist when I prophesy that our children may well have to huddle together, wrapped tightly in layers of clothing, being school classrooms won’t have any heating. What’s more, over the coming winter classes may well have to be curtailed by the shorter days, as teachers will be dependant on natural light for teaching purposes.
Now Carrigaline lies just to the south of the constituency of Batt-an-eyelid O’Keefe, the current regime’s minister for Education. When Padraig Pearse wrote about “the murder machine” did he ever envisage that in the state which ha gave his life to establish, children would have to bring their own bog-roll to school?
Carrigaline itself is in the constituency of Cork south central, served by Minister for Foreign Affairs Miicheal Martin. I’m sure he could have rustled up a few rolls for the school while he so busily engaged in organising a “yes” vote, but then he is so busy attending EC summits and lusting after Madame Sarkozy that he just hasn’t the time to worry about such a humdrum issue as the lack of paper in a school’s jacks in his constituency.
Other government ministers should be called upon to do their bit and ensure that, at the very least the pupils of the Carrigaline school don’t have to hold it in until they get home. They could volunteer undistributed copies of the last Fianna Fail manifesto – let’s face it, wiping your arse is all it’s fit for, while the Greens could make a similar gesture with their electoral manifesto, printed no doubt on recycled paper.
This is but one more opportunity for ALL members of the Oireachtas to show solidaritty with those they’re shitting on from on high. The bathrooms of Leinster House are groaning with vast reams of toilet paper. Should Pretty-boy Cowen, instead of behaving like a chimp with haemarrhoids, donate these unusud rolls to schools around the country facing similar problems? This could be combined with a resolution enjoying all-party support, that whenever a member of the Dail or Seanad needed a crap he or she woul nip across the road to Buswells.
But this wouldn’t do much for Brian Cowen. Let’s face it, whenever he opens his mouth all that comes out is shite.
Through the chair
The race is now on to find the replacement to fill the stinking void left by John O’Donoghue as Ceann Comhairle. The choice will not be dictated by affability or competence, but by electoral strategy.
One of those being mentioned is Mary Hernia aka Michelinwoman. If she were moved away from health it would rid the 
government of one of its biggest electoral embarrassments. Since taking on the job the health service has become even more incompetent, inefficient and corrupt, and there were those who didn’t think it possible. What’s more Mary Hernia’s raison d’etre at cabinet is difficult to justify. Her party, the Venereal democrats (VDs) disintegrated under her. She was inherited by Pretty Boy Cowen from Bartie but he’d love to move her, in fact he’d love to be shot of her altogether. Her prospects in the next general election are far from rosy, as she represents a Dublin constituency whose voters are notorious fickle.
Were Mary Hernia to be moved from health, Pretty Boy would be faced with the problem of who to replace her with in health. This isn’t so much a poisoned chalice as a big mug of steaming shit, both human and animal. Really the problems of the health service are too big for any mere human, and I don’t McIvor’s around anymore,. The problems lie in the health service itself, and cannot be solved without some serious root-and-branch purges. The HSE should be abolished and its senior and middle managers sacked. They shouldn’t get big golden parachutes, and as far as a car was concerned I’d give them a second-hand Lada. But no politician of any stripe, has the balls to do this.
Other names being mentioned as Ceann Comhairle are Finian McGrath, the Dublin TD who can’t quite decided which side of the fence to lean against, while the possibility of re-appointing Father Dougal Maguire’s father is being considered. This is being increasingly seen as the only way for Fianna Fail to hold on to three seats in Cavan-Monaghan. What about Michael Lowry? I think that it is own manky political correctness which would see any obstacles to the top post in the Dail being given to an egregious liar and tax cheat.
But maybe it’s time to think outside the box on this one, or rather inside the box. Why should the government not appoint someone who’s dead, like the3 late Tom Fitzpatrick or Cormac Breslin. True, there might be a bit of a small, but it wouldn’t be any worse than appointing Mary Hernia.
Common decency
John O’Donoghue has received a nice fat severance payment, plus pension, PLUS his TD’s salary, after looting the state’s coffers. Given the economic straights we are in, would it not be decent of him to give some of it back, or preferably make a donation to a charity or charities? I think it would be, but then decency is a quality in short supply among ALL our rulers, of whatever political party. The vast majority have been educated in denominational schools, whether by religious orders or their dioceses. Any attempt to limit the sphere of the religious in education is met with howls of indignation by the Catholic hierarchy. Admittedly I attended a Church of Ireland secondary school, the Royal School in Cavan, which, for reasons best known to its headmaster, is now ashamed to consider me a past pupil. Nevertheless, I still pride myself on knowing right from wrong and I can say with my hand on my heart that I have never stolen anything.
I don’t think though, they have much to be proud of. These schools have not produced better or more ethical people. Instead its products are greedy, nasty, narrow-minded hypocrites who however, are by and large willing to afford the Church a far wider influence than its dwindling numbers deserve.
O’Donoghue always showed what a nice Catholic boy he was when he’d start each Dail session with a prayer and a Sign of the Cross. This show reminded me of how classes were begun in the Catholic secondary school I attended for three months. There would be the recitation of the Hail Mary, with the l line “Seat of Wisdom Pray for Us” tagged on at the end; if little Padedy or Micky wasn’t able to answer a question to the teacheer’s satisfaction he could look forward to receiving a coff on the ear – and that was from the lay teachers. But sure it made men of them - men who would think nothing of cheating on and beating their wives or abusing their children.
More than ever I believe that I am in a kleptocracy, rules by thieves and scoundrels who are busily devising schemes of how much more they can steal from the little I have.
Eat your Greens
When the Green Party entered government, the late Seamus Brennan is alleged to have told them. “Yez are playin’ senior hurling
Gormless John
now lads.” Since their entry into cabinet the Greens have shown themselves not worthy of inclusion on an Under-21 B selection. They have often shown the aptitude of a group of convent girls in a whorehouse.
It’s all very well making pronouncements from the sideline about issues such as Roddy Mollooy’s hush money , and the need to bring Seanie Fitzpatrick to justice, but the Greens are supposedly at the centre of power – why can they not stop this?.
But maybe Gormless John Gormley should look closer to home before he throws ethical brickbats. The Department of the Environment is possibly the most corrupt government department. Part of this is due to its involvement with local government. and Gormley has done nothing to clean out this Augean stable.
Let’s have an election!
Would an election solve this country’s problems? I doubt it because the really big problems are inherent and structural. The legislature is no more than window-dressing on a public service which, at national, regional and especially local level is fundamentally rotten. This putrefaction infects the whole system. When parliamentarians imbued with the highest ideals and committed to lofty standards are elected to anything, whether it’s a county council or the Oireachtas, they are confronted with this stone wall of corruption which has grown up over generations, referred to usually as “the system”. If they want anything, they have to play by the system’s rules, and rule number 1 is that the system is unquestioned. After all the system’s personnel are permanent, where their so-called political masters come and go like the weather. Acceptance of the system has its rewards, such as favours that can be used by politicians to buttress their electoral support, as well as jobs for politicians’ family members. They have been performing a clever confidence trick whereby they infect politicians with their grubbiness, while presenting themselves as motivated by the highest standards of probity. It doesn’t matter an earwig’s fart whether the politicians are Fianna Fail or Fine Gael.
However, an election would be a welcome wake-up call for a government which seems to have forgotten that it owes its ultimate mandate to the people, aka known by one serving cabinet minister as “the hoors”. Elections are won not in the cosy executive lounges of Ireland’s Five-star hotels where they rub shoulders with THE people, but on the doorsteps of working-class housing estates or at farmhouses where the aspirant TDs have to evade malicious-looking dogs. November is really a great time for an election: it’s cold and wet and the days are short – too short for effective door-to-door canvassing. It’s not like those balmy election campaigns of May or June.
An election at this juncture might be useful, as I cannot imagine the Fianna Failers campaign having a snowball’s chance in hell unless they formally and unequivocally reject the McCarthy report, which so many of them have taken to heart as a type of holy writ. If they don’t they might as well rename themselves the Kamikaze Party. Imagine going to someone’s door and saying: “If we are elected we will fuck you up the arse. Yes it’s tough and causes us as much pain as it does you, but it’s good for you, but you’re probably too stupid to realise that aren’t you. And what’s more, that’s what you’ll get from the other side, so don’t blame us for being honest. Now, get those pants down punk!”
It’s a sin to tell a lie
This weekend’s revelations about ministerial beauty treatments in five-star hotels, trips on elephants to India etc., show us one thing. Not only are our rulers robbers: they are also shameless LIARS! But then, I suppose what better type of person to have at the head of that crowd of liars the HSE.
And then there is Minister Parafin in India. I for one wouldn’t mind if she was participating in a suttee ceremony. Maybe she was on a fact-finding mission after which she would have told social welfare recipients about the joys of lying on nails.
But you know, if I were an employer trying to fill vacancies there are things which would automatically exclude certain candidates. If they had to deal with money I would certainly not employ anyone about whom there was even the whiff of dishonesty, while anyone with criminal associates would definitely not be taken on. But even though our government ministers are supposedly – theoretically – our servants, we can’t get rid of them. In fact we are being held hostage by a criminal clique And anyway those waiting so eagerly in the wings to grab power are as bad if not worse than those already here.
In the past I have referred to the Minister of Health as Mary Hernia. I think a far more apposite name would be Hairy Mary.
As for the Greens, I wonder whether John Gormley remembers what Michael Collins said after signing the Treaty in 1921? Clue: it was something about death warrants. Well gormless Gormley has not only signed his own death political death warrant, but that of the Green Party as a whole. As they say in Italy. Chi va con lo zoppo impara zoppicare.
Where in the world?
People may recall Theresa Lowe from Where in the World? She seems to have disappeared off the telly this long while, and I’m not going to repeat any of the dreadful rumours I’ve heard why. Last year my mate Gary was heading back to Meath on the late bus out of Busaras when he saw her. He was going to sidle up beside her and ask: “Is it yourself Theresa? an’ tell us why don’t we see ya on the box anymore? And what about that patsy Frank ya married? I always knew ya were too good for him. I for one never believed for one minute all that shite about ya hittin’ the jar…”
The maharishi
What was Minister Panafin doing in India anyway? Maybe it stemmed from her strict upbringing at the hands of the authoritarian Des, who, following Church teaching, frustrated her love of The Beatles. She may have long had a desire to visit some of the sites frdeque3nted by John Lennon during his visit to the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and spend some time at his grave. It is only now that she can finally realise her ambitions, and at the Irish taxpayers’ expense. Alternatively, she may have wished to visit some of the sites associated with Mother Theresa of Calcutta, that poor woman who strove3 so heroically on behalf of the poor and unloved of her adopted city, and who has been so shameless taken over by the rats of the Catholic right, such as Opus Dei and the Knights of St Columbanus, even though they would have been the first to spurn the poor of Calcutta from the doors of their mansions had they sought alms or help there.
There are discrepancies between Minister Panafin’s version of events and the evidence provided by official receipts. To my mind this amounts to fraud, yet this from a minister who never shirked from getting up on her hind legs to boast of how much her departmental squadristi had uncovered in welfare fraud. There seems to be some double standards here. Why is Barnie from Ballinacurra who does the odd nixer with the brew guilty of fraud while the minister for social and family affairs isn’t? Barnie would need to have multiple claims before the amount he gets would approach the minister’s expenses. Or maybe minister Hernia told about the great food to be got in India. Well actually the best Indian food is to be found in the British Isles.
Our government ministers seem to love foreign travel, yet it is not the game show of the late ‘80s I’m reminded of, but RTE’s more recent offering for travellers – No Frontiers. Certainly there are no frontiers to the greed and arrogance of our rulers for squandering other people’s money.
Knees up Mother Hernia
I’m still confused about Mary Hernia’s lavish expenses, especially the fee for the most luxurious suite in a five-star hotel which came with a private pianist. I’ve heard of Tina Turner’s “Private dancer” but a pianist? I love piano music, especially Debussy and Chopin, but even four-star hotels have CD players, so that if I hadn’t brought my discman with me, I can wallow in the tinkling of
A ministerial favourite?
the old ivories through popping a disc into the machine. But I somehow feel that Mary Hernia’s tastes in music don’t extend much beyond Phil Coulter and Richard Clayderman.
I’m trying to picture the scene though. There was fatso and her fat parasite of a husband Brian and some of the FAS boys having an old singsong ‘round the Joanna – and all at the public expense! Jaysus, wasn’t it only fuckin’ wonderful! I wonder what they were singing? Maybe “Roll Out the Barrel”, or maybe they each did their party piece, with Mary’s being a very physical rendition of Chris De Burgh’s “Patricia The Stripper” as well as the Olivia Newton-John number “Let’s get physical”– enough to bring tears to the eyes of even the most cynical FAS bloodsucker.
Not taking up for hairy Mary, I feel that she may not be wholly at the fault for the withholding of her expenses. In fact she is by now so blasé about living it up at the public expense that she doesn’t mind if the truth seeps out. She believes she lives a charmed live. She’s a minister, used to hobnobbing with the world’s important people, and the fact that it’s being paid for by Ireland’s little people should be seen as an opportunity for the dirty, scummy, stupid hoi poloi to share in her glory.
Her department were at first hostile to admit anything about the minister’s expenses and tried valiantly to shield her from any harmful criticism by mud-slinging journalists. This was the Department of health’s Freedom of Information unit, which showed itself dedicated to preventing access to as much information as possible. Throughout the Irish civil service there are similar Freedom of Information units whose role is to stand in the way of the free flow of information. This oxymoronic set-up reminds me a bit of the joke about the restaurants in the old Soviet Union which always closed for lunch. They initially said that the decision as to whether to release the expenses details had to be made by a Deciding Officer; only he was at an interminable meeting, and then, as fate would have it, he had to attend to an urgent personal matter – his male budgie had dropped an egg. Faced with such obvious obfuscation the Mail on Sunday then contacted the minister’s personal advisor, and like magic, the situation changed from interminable winter into brilliant spring. It was, as if once the minister had been made fully aware of the problem, the foot-dragging response of her officials, disappeared, and their natural nastiness gave way to a need to please, as well as an admission that they had indeed broken the law, but they were civil servants, so it didn’t really count. Maybe their ‘phone manner was also transmogrified, from a typically curt and Alsatian-like gruffness into a mild-mannered, indeed sugar-coated insouciance.
Belturbet
Belturbet is one of the nicest towns in Ireland. It sits at a spot where the fast0-=flowing Erne seems to be embraced by sylvan
The town bridge, Belturbet
wonder of the countryside. To stand either on the main bridge in the town, or on the old railway bridge further south, is to be overcome by the simultaneous coming together of so many paths, of either land or water. One looks north along the river as it winds its way towards Fermanagh, or south as the fluvial highway leads south towards Putiaghan and Lough Oughter.
The sense of location is never far away in Belturbet, for it was its strategic location which attracted the Anglo-Normans to build their motte, surmounted by a long-vanished bretesche, on Turbot Island.
The town’s subsequent history was marked by tragedy, as when its inhabitants were massacred during the Ulster rebellion of 1641, as well as by a degree of riotousness, exemplified by the brief bacchanalian excesses accompanying the reopening of Dickson’s distillery in 1848m an even covered by me in my7 very first Echo of the Past for the Cavan Echo in 2006.
For centuries Belturbet has been known for an indefinable buzz which has set it ahead of other towns in Cavan. There certainly seems to be a greater community spirit about the place. This is exemplified by projects such as the restoration of the old railway station and a length of the railway line between Straheglin and the railway bridge. When I have walked – or more accurately been pushed – along its length, no matter what the season, I am entranced by the proximity of nature. I also think of how much could have been done with lengths of surviving railway bed throughout the country.
Belturbet’s liveliness is still reflected in the vigour of the town’s many shops and businesses. I doubt that it is possible to find anywhere a better butcher than Raymond Johnston while those looking for a bed upon which to rest their weary limbs should go to Tommy and Tania McMahon’s furniture emporium on The Lawn. In the town’s off-licences one can buy items like authentic Lithuanian wheat beer, Wyborowka vodka and Belgian biere blonde. Although I am far fron being a pioneer I have not frequented many of Belturbet’s pubs,. though I can testify to the warmth and friendliness of The Yukon. For such a relatively small town there is a surfeit of fine places to eat, such as The Captain’s Table restaurant in The Harbour, my beloved Rendezvous, Mico’s on the Lawn, and the Seven Horseshoes where the welcome of Francis Cahill and his staff is as warm as the blazing log-fires which burn there throughout the autumn and winter. Some miles from the town sits one of Ireland’s finest Indian restaurants.
Among those illustrious sons of Belturbet who have carried the lamp of learning far and wide was William Hearn, one of the founders of Australian Political Economy and an early professor at the University of Belturbet. The town’s rich history is often described through the generous scholarship of George Morrissey, truly a gentle giant amongst geniuses.
The beauty of Belturbet’s surroundings have attracted many visitors over the years, some of whom have settled down there. Their integration has been aided by a genuine friendliness, openness and spirit of community.
But alas there is a small, unrepresentative clique who are the very antithesis of the qualities I’ve just mentioned. These people are far from welcoming and what’s more they make up their minds to dislike people without ever getting to know them, and then pursue their cowardly jealousies through the spreading of vile rumours without any basis in reality. Regretfully some of them are able to do this scott free. Happily their nets of shame are so manifestly nasty that they are easily avoided.
The final frontier
Beam me up Scotty!
As a result of the shenanigans in the Dail, andf the elevation of Captain Kirk to be Ceann Comhairle today the four-seater constituency of Louth has been transformed into a three-seater.
Now that’s magic, as Paul Daniels would say.
- Where’s Debby?
The Fianna Failers believe that Dermot Ahem will get in by virtue of his position on the ballot paper. During my time in TCD there was a professor of Geography from Norway called Freddy Aalen. Political parties would have loved to recruit him. They should be satisfied with two seats, given that there is a hard core blue vote cenered around Dundalk while Arthur Morgan would be able to get in, either on his own volition, or with the ubiquitous Bell-line transfers.
But does it really matter who is elected? They’re all such impotent fuckers.
Making a speaker
Yesterday RTE offered viewers the opportunity to watch the election of a Ceann Comhairle live on television. Why would I bother? If I wanted to see a group of pimps, prostitutes and serial masturbators attempting to persuade viewers that they weren’t impotent. It doesn’t matter how much viagra they take they still look and sound as if they’ve got no more cum left in their balls. Let’s be honest, there are less than a dozen men or women amongst them who have been tarnished by exposure to the gravy-train of politics. I could watch a porno DVD like Hard Mary Gets Fucked Up The Butt Again . What’s more the women would probably be far more alluring than any of the flabby, frumpy dogs in the Dail. What’s more the attempt to simulate cunnilingus might be more true-to-life than the flaccid verbal ejaculations to be heard from our legislators. You might be able to make a porno of what goes on there starring the Confederation of Irish Industry’s idea of crunpet Hairy Mary. This wouldn’t be like Rosey Dixon Nightnurse but would be real hard core featuring scenes where Hairy Mary gets fucked by a pianist on his piano or others with Hairy Mary doing it on athe government jet, and we all know that there are men who are prepared to pay a lot of money to see a hirsute bird getting rodgered. It could be called with justification Hairy Mary Fucks The Country.
But I have some pity for Jodie from Cahirciveen. He was given the bump for racking up ridiculous expenses. But why did he have to walk the plank while the cabinet slut was able to get away with as much? No one has yet found out that John O’Donoghue was entertained at taxpayers’ expense by a private bodhran player. The whole thing smacks of double standards. I doubt HJohn boy would disagree with the sentiment that we live in a hoorocracy.
Welcome to the Hoorocracy
Professor Brendan Drumm, the man who was the third choice to head up the HSE on its foundation, is being rewarded for his
Conscience - a word that cowards use?
stewardship with a bonus of 70,000 euro, on top of his already handsome salary. He has been instrumental in the running down of the health service, to the extent that parts of it are almost at third-world levels. Worse is the fact that the HSE under his watch may ve been guilty of allowing acts of child abuse to be perpetrated against children in HSE care.
This bonus (which by the way is not unique in today’s Irish civil service), comes at a time of economic difficulties when the health service is facing ever greater cuts, and the Irish people ever greater suffering. And the response of the brothel madame? It’s nothing to do with me. And admittedly 70 thousand euro would be small change for her – she’d blow it in a weekend.
Has this Drumm person no conscience? No, why do you think he has risen so high.
Make hay while the shite reeks
Hay-on-Wye! It summons up memories of groovy sorts who aren’t averse to a bit of gnage3, as well as hordes of flaky sorts who are,
Hay-on-Wye
to be honest, slightly past it. They may have been “with it” once but not any more; their clothes cry out not so much retro-chic as the layers of poverty with which some people become encrusted,who make their sad ways from one second-hand bookstore to another, looking for that first edition of How to be Rich and Happy for the Rest of Your Lives.
So this is hardly the setting for some slick Irish officials, each one sporting a designer suit and a name tag, bursting with arrogance and what our American cousins call attitude.
I was shocked to discover that our minister for the Environment, Gormless John, paid a visit to this town. I am hardly surprised to learn that his transport arrangements were paid for by the Irish taxpayer. Did anyone honestly believe that an Irish minister should travel by bus or by taxi, or that, God preserve us, that Irish civil servants should travel in anything but the height of comfort. You see Gormley gets the shit (as he deserves), but it wouldn’t matter who the minister was, or what his political allegiances were, Ireland’s civil servants have to be looked after. In return for their creature comforts being taken care of they make their “political masters” feel important, and give jobs to their relatives. This is an essential part of the Hoorocracy.
PS. The author of the article pointed out that the taxi fares between Hay-on-Wye and Holyhead would have been much cheaper than hiring a “People Carrier”. This fails to take account of the possibility that most Welsh taxi firms would have refused to pick up such scum as Minister Gormley’s officials.
Everyone we do …
The article by .Colum Kenny entitled “Green Boss on Planet All of His Own” in The Sunday Independent of October 18th in which he highlights yet one more example of official larceny mentions Joe Fennell who is confined to a motorised wheelchair and who has been reduced to living off food parcels distributed by the Capuchin Friars in Dublin. Colum Kenny compares the welfare benefit that Joe is expected to live on per week with the figure of Î200 he expects to pay a medical consultant for half an hour of the latter’s expertise. The benefit granted by the Department of Social and Family Affairs in its beneficent generosity is only Î15 higher.
Colum Kenny fails to mention that as a result of Minister Hanafin’s viciousness and desire to appear tough, the amount that Joe (and many others) gets will probably be reduced at the next budget by Î10 or more.
Let’s end this hypocritical shite once and for all; the cuts recommended by McCarthy and spoken of with such warmth by the types
No room for Robin at the cabinet table
of ministers Lenihan, Hanafin and Harney have nothing to do with restoring the public finances. They are simply a means of insuring that in a time of economic hardship there is enough loot to pass around government ministers, their extended families as well as senior civil servants and their cronies. Government policies are an inversion of the spirit of Robin Hood: they’re all about stealing from the poor to give to the rich.
Venereal democrats
The applause that greeted John O’Donoghue’s self-justificatory rant in the Dail last week shows up that the majority of our
Did ya hear the one about the Kerryman who ... ?
legislatures are suffering, in moral terms at least, from a bad dose of the clap.
True courage
The decision by Donal Og Cusack to admit to being gay is a tremendously courageous one. But his sexuality shouldn’t have
Doma; Og Cusack
anything to do with the fact that he is a great Gaelic games player. Hopefully it may provide an alternative role model for players at all levels of the game. They’ll now realise that it is possible to operate at the pinnacle of the sport while eschewing the long-accepted and too long tolerated stereotype of the GAA player i.e. a heavy-drinking, philandering, wife=beating thug who nevertheless sits beatifically through Mass, and who is willing to do anything his church tells him. Let’s hope more players are able to stand up to the hypocritical homophobes in the association, most of whom would shit themsel at the sight of a ball hurtling towards them.
Shoot the Seanad?
Yes please, bring it on baby, at least some of them.
Fine Gael leader Enda Kenny’s proposal to scrap the Seanad if in government is nothing short of a piece of hypocritical populist
They've killed Kenny - the bastards
posturing., not so much a red herring as a blue herritng.
Enda Kenny surely realises the importance of the Seanad in the Irish political system, where it acts as a rest and recuperation home for TDs of all the three political parties who have lost their seats in the lower house. It also operates as a testing ground where aspirant members of the lower house can gain exposure, not to mention an endless supply of postage-paid Oireachtas envelopes, which will hopefully translate into success at the next election. And then there is “The Taoiseach’s eleven”, an evergreen source of patronage. Many, many years’ ago, when I was involved with The Organisation, I had to write a letter to then taoiseach Charles Haughey extolling the virtues of a would-be Seanad appointee, the most important of which was that he was the father of eight children. There was no hint in the letter that the man’s off-springs were facing incarceration in the poorhouse unless their parent were elevated to the upper house. Indeed I know one of the man’s children; he has used his hands and feet to has attain great and well-deserved success.
Now let’s be honest; Enda has no more intention of getting rid of the Seanad than he has of joining the Hare Krishnas. This is all about deflection. It seems to have caught hold as a topic of media discussion, which helps take the limelight away from the fact that the Fine Gael party support the viciously incompetent, scorched earth economic policies of the present government – and why wouldn’t they? They are good, honest-to-God Blueshirt policies.
What’s more this Seanad red herring may take attention away from the alacrity with which Fine Gael councillors are grabbing jobs for their families at local government level – larceny as great as any Fianna Fail or Green party minister at national level.
But let us give credit where credit is due. The intellectual and professional pre-eminence of relatives of Fine Gael councillors is awe inspiring. They possess some unique piece of internal genetic engineering which may be revealed one day when the mapping of the genome is finally completed. The scope of their abilities is truly kaleidoscopic, spreading from ward assistants in hospitals, to social workers through to Research Officers in crummy local museums. Just what is it that puts them head and shoulders above the relatives of councillors from other parties, or those people not related to councillors at all?
Leavin’ on a jet plane …
The release of Irish aid worker Sharon Commins after her ordeal in Darfur has been turned into a tawdry PR stunt by the government,
Like the vast majority of Irish people I was overjoyed to learn on Sunday of her liberation, but it soon became apparent that there were those intent on using the story to add some kudos to their personas. The start was the news broadcast on RTE’s radio 2 at 11 a.m. The item on Ms Commins’ release was expanded into a “words of praise” piece, worthy of North Korea, about Minister for Foreign Affairs Micheal Martin, followed by an interview with the man himself,. Indeed the release was the only item on the news.
And then there was the provision of the government jet to bring her home. Fair play to whoever in the government copped on that this would be a great way of deflecting criticism about the abusive usage to which the ‘plane has been put recently by … a certain minister. I think the Irish people have a right to know just how much was spent on air fresheners to clean the aircraft of the lingering odour of body odour and flatulence left by Minister Harney. We can rest assured that Minister Gormless made sure they didn’t contain any CFCs.
It may be carping for me to comparer the manifest efforts by the Irish government to secure Ms Commins’ release with their utter ambivalence to find out anything about the children who have disappeared from care in Ireland.
After dark
Mad uncle Frank
Francisco Macias Nguema, was Equatorial Guinea’s first president. In the eleven years he held the post he was responsible for the deaths of 50,000 people, as well as sending thousands of others into exile. Before his overthrow and murder by his nephew, Teodoro Obiang Nguema (who is still in power) the country had earned the unwelcome epithet of “the Dachau of Africa”. Amnesty International’s annual report were full of the heinous acts of human rights violations carried out by Macias, not t mention the crimes against humanity to be laid at his successor’s door. He oversaw one of the most bizarre personality cults in history – so bizarre because it was so unmerited. He adored bestowing grandiose titles on himself, yet he was barely literate. It is said he failed the colonial exams to become an office clerk three times and was only successful on the fourth because of some positive discrimination. He was given to violent swings of personality and received treatment in Spain and the United States for unspecified psychiatric problems; towards the latter years of his life he had acquired some unidentifiable disease
Not really like his uncle?
which may have been AIDS-related.
His hold on power was maintained through fear, not only of his loyal thugs but of Macias personally. He deliberately cultivated the belief that his father had been a witch doctor and sorcerer, and that he had inherited many of these gifts. He was rumoured to have drunk the blood of some of his political opponents, and he kept a large stockpile of human skulls at his presidential compound, alongside all of the country’s foreign currency reserves and medical supplies. Macias loved the dark and detested light; a Spanish airline pilot was arrested and tortured when he accidentally shone his ‘plane’s headlights on Macias’ jet as it sat on the airport tarmac one night. In 1977 a visiting researcher was told that “… you may be against Macias while the sun shines, but after dark you have to be for him,” Even when overthrown and sentenced to death, no locals could be found to man the firing squad, and the task had to be performed by Moroccan soldiers.
Macias Nguema’s preference for the dark reminds me of the activities of a solicitor employed by the Irish health Service Executive, who is sadly well-known to her victims, and who seems to delight in working in the hours of night, well after “The Bard’’s witching hour. Does she feel that her victim are more cowed by the inky blackness, and less able to put up a defence to her machinations when they are awoken suddenly by the headlights of the garda cars ferrying her to the scene of her nocturnal sacrifices? or is there a yet more sinister reason for this, tied up perhaps with practice of the dark arts?
While the sun shines it is easy to be against Ms Helen (or is it Ellinor?) Stone, but after dark …
I wonder what she’s doing for Halloween?
Eggheads versus Cavan councillors
A recent edition of the BBC’s popular early evening quiz-show Eggheads saw the cranially surfeited quintet challenged by a group of
No match for Cavan's blue councillors
councillors, who, in spite of being able to overcome their political differences, were still unable to unseat the Eggheads from their triumphant perch and thus failed to come away with the money.
How very different, I thought, it might have been had they been challenged by a group of councillors from Cavan. No doubt the personnel would have to reflect political membership but winning would surely be dependant upon the Fine Gael members of the council, whose all-embracing knowledge is truly awesome and would knock the Eggheads for six, exposing them thereby to be the intellectual poseurs they are. Much would depend on luck, but they would be on a home run if the category of “Food and Drink” came up. If questions on “History” were proposed, victory would be in the bag, especially if the Museum’s Dr Snott was able to impersonate his father. We would see Judith slink back to her pied-a-terre in Cantal quicker than you can say Chris Tarrant, CJ would return to male modelling, while Chris would swear that he’d never leave the train driver’s seat again.
The only problem all councillors would have to overcome would be a tendency to seek answers on anything challenging from the county manager. I don’t think that’s in the Eggheads rules.
A recent edition of the BBC’s popular early evening quiz-show Eggheads saw the cranially surfeited quintet challenged by a group of councillors, who, in spite of being able to overcome their political differences, were still unable to unseat the Eggheads from their triumphant perch and thus failed to come away with the money.
How very different, I thought, it might have been had they been challenged by a group of councillors from Cavan. No doubt the personnel would have to reflect political membership but winning would surely be dependant upon the Fine Gael members of the council, whose all-embracing knowledge is truly awesome and would knock the Eggheads for six, exposing them thereby to be the intellectual poseurs they are. Much would depend on luck, but they would be on a home run if the category of “Food and Drink” came up. If questions on “History” were proposed, victory would be in the bag, especially if the Museum’s Dr Snott was able to impersonate his father. We would see Judith slink back to her pied-a-terre in Cantal quicker than you can say Chris Tarrant, CJ would return to male modelling, while Chris would swear that he’d never leave the train driver’s seat again.
The only problem all councillors would have to overcome would be a tendency to seek answers on anything challenging from the county manager. I don’t think that’s in the Eggheads rules.
The Botanical restaurant, Farnham House
Recently I was a dinner guest in the Botanical restaurant in the Radison – SAS hotel at Farnham, Co. Cavan, an experience I thoroughly enjoyed.
The chef obviously understands the importance of balancing ingredients with their unique tastes, textures and appearances. At first these may appear challenging, but the results never fail to impress.
Fr my hors d’oeuvres I chose a dish of broad beans and forest mushrooms served on potato cakes. This was a true tour-de-force in the art of the ensemble of ingredients. One might say that the broad beans could have been slightly sweeter, and that the promised truffle essence with the potato cakes was an essence in the theological sense, yet the effect was truly satisfying and reminiscent of Autumn, My partner opted for a dish of butternut squash served with pear, which she pronounced excellent.
For a main course I was truly tempted by so many of the proffered dishes. There was a dish of wild boar and apples, which certainly would have continued the autumnal gustatory atmosphere of the hors d’oeuvres, but I opted for my old friend sea bass, pan-fried in a herb crust and served with salsify, one of my favourite vegetables but alas almost impossible to get unless you grow it yourself. The tender sweetness of the salsify married so well with the almost creamy delicious of the sea bass. Rosie opted for a Venison Wellington, an inspired dish given venison’s similarity – I would say frequent superiority to beef. It was truly delicious. Its one fault, if fault it was, that it left no room for a dessert. This part of the menu showed that it was the equal of the others, and was not tagged on as an embarrassed after-thought, I was tempted by the pear and frangipani tart, but opted in a spirit of timidity for the medley of Italian ice creams served with a pistachio tuille.
The menu in its totality offered a rich variety of dishes. I was particularly touched by the number of main courses specifically for vegetarians. One element that the framers of the menu might like to include is to mention the location from which some of the items, especially amongst the main courses, comes from. It is always interesting to know that the beef or duck comes from a local producer, while I suspect that many of the vegetables and fruit must also have come from near at hand. Even if some of the items had to come from further away I am sure we are all comfortable enough with globalisation to be comfortable with this. The staff were a true epigone of helpfulness and courtesy. I recall the banter we had concerning what made the selection of ice creams truly Italian!
The Radisson – SAS Hotel, Farnham, Co. Cavan
Readers of the above restaurant review will see the high esteem in which I hold the restaurant and staff of the Radison – SAS hotel
A place where the ordinary people of Ireland are still unwelcome
at Farnham – but that’s as far as my admiration goes.
It seems to me absurd that motorists cannot drive their vehicles to within a comfortable distance of the hotel. Instead they must hand over the keys of their vehicle to valets who will park them out of sight and at some considerable distance away. When they wish to leave the hotel, their keys must then be handed to another valet who will fetch their car. The employment of a small army of valets must add considerably to the running costs of the hotel – costs which are then passed on to guests. But then I suppose such a luxury hotel caters for people who aren’t worried about such trivia as exorbitant prices.
The main foyer is huge; dominated by classical columns, a polished floor and a rather incongruous table that could do duty for a Séance or some attempt to get in touch with “the other side”. It is ringed by a number of seats and smaller tables, set back in little alcoves. Indeed were they concealed by curtains they would make excellent confessionals. But it does nothing to take away from the brooding and chilly atmosphere of this foyer. This is fine when filled with milling crowds, but when filled even with a few people the general atmosphere is of the ticket hall of a large continental railway station after the last train has left. The only people you expect to see are badly dressed, cigarette-touting scavengers and sweepers, yet even they are absent from the SAS Radisson hotel.
The hotel contains a number of truly ridiculous trinkets, one being a Steinway Grand Piano. As someone who loves Chopin I would never call a piano useless, except when it carries a sign forbidding anyone to play it or touch its keys. In Florencecourt House they have a beautiful original fortepiano, dating from the look of it to c. 1800. It would be outrageous for anyone to attempt to play such an instrument, but a Steinway Grand Piano, which looks quite modern and in generally good shape, to be thus left outside of the possibility of use, is bizarre. What would our Minister for Health, Mary Hernia, who is known for her gargantuan appetites for food, five-star hotels and piano players make of this?
I an assured by guests that they find the hotel comfortable, and I have no reason to doubt this. On my admittedly few visits there I have found the hotel to have a very cold and somewhat austere atmosphere. In the fine Botanical Restaurant one’s attention is grabbed by the excellence of the food, which is just as well as there is little to look at. In the evenings one sees through the windows a line of bright, regularly spaced bright lights which, for some reason, put me in mind of the illuminations around a high security prison.
As most people know I am confined to a wheelchair. In order to gain access to the second floor of the hotel I must use a lift – nothing strange about that. In the Radisson Hotel the lift is concealed by a length of full-length curtain down a rather dimly-lit, and dare I say creepy corridor. It’s a bit like one of those self-service ‘photo boots. The lift is quite small and you don’t operate it by merely pressing the number of your desired floor but by continuously holding some button or dead-man’s-handle device. Not surprisingly I have re-christened the lift as The TARDIS. And then when you eventually arrive at your floor there is no smooth egress from the lift, as you have to pass over a rather annoying lip. It seems obvious to me that the provision of access for the disabled in the hotel was an embarrassing after-thought, a strange situation considering that one of its operators is the Scandinavian Airline System, but then they’re operating in Ireland where is has long been accepted by the Powers-That-Be that the disabled could never afford to go near a five-star hotel.
My most recent visit there was as a guest of my dear and most generous friend, Joseph Donohoe of California. Joe is a really gifted man and an engaging conversationalist. He said, on one occasion, “I’m sure you could do something for the hotel”, knowing of course that my gifts extend far beyond that of the mere historian. I thus told him how, it must be ten years’ ago, I had received a telephone call from the then owner, Mr Roy McCabe, whom I found to be a most accessible individual. He invited me to go out to Farnham to see what they were doing there, and he undertook to be my guide. We finished are most amiable conversation with the undertaking that he would contact me shortly to firm up a date and a time for my visit… I have never heard from him since, and knowing him to be a busy man of business I did not contact him. I found the manner in which I was apparently dropped, and deemed unworthy of any further communication puzzling, though sadly far from unprecedented. Had someone, somewhere poured poison into Mr McCabe’s ears about me? I do hope not, but I would not be surprised if this had happened, though people should be given an opportunity to defend themselves against calumny and calumniators. You know, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not all out to get you.
Like most people in Co. Cavan I have nothing but hatred and contempt for the Maxwells, the previous owners of Farnham House, who were a group of grasping hypocritical tyrants. They were descendants of mongrel foxes from south of Glasgow who unceremoniously grabbed land from not only the native Irish but from their fellow settlers.
The Maxwells, upon their elevation to the Irish peerage inn 1756, adopted the title “Barons Farnham” supposedly after their place of residence in Co. Cavan. Farnham sounded ever so genteel – far better than the place-name Fernan or Farnan, shown on the original early Seventeenth century Plantation maps, signifying a pave where alders grew. (This was first pointed out by the late Oliver Davies in the 1940s, and he may not have been the first to know it.)
Their involvement with the Anglican Church certainly did the latter institution no favours. They took a leading role in the so-called Second Reformation of the 1820s, when many gullible people in England were fleeced into providing large sums of money to promote evangelical movements in Ireland to win the Irish peasantry from the “darkness of Popish obscurantism”. Apart from a few converts, this campaign was a fiasco. One of the means used to win converts was the provision of food to the starving and malnourished, most of whom gladly took the offered provisions in return for a very brief conversion to Protestantism, but once they had consumed enough food they returned to the religious practices of their birth. Their preference for Protestants, to fill jobs in the house and on their estate, attained almost farcical proportions. I have noted before how the Lord Farnham of the late nineteenth century was urged to fill posts on his estate with “English Protestants”. A policy of employing only Protestants might have been defensible to a certain extent; so too might have been the opinion that the best people to employ for certain tasks were Englishmen, as they had greater knowledge and experience in the performance of some tasks; but to seek only “English Protestants” was absurd. Not only would it have excluded the composer of “Land of Hope and Glory” – sir Edward Elgar, a close friend of King Edward VII, and an English Catholic – but it showed that the Farnhams’ anti-Catholic bigotry would have left them with no qualms whatsoever about employing the greatest English jailbirds, many of whom had been baptised and brought up in the Church of England.
But their religiosity did not extend to all areas of human activity. Folklore still current, though not recorded by the Irish Folklore Commission, tells the tale of the “Human Hunts” enacted at Farnham. Local girls were stripped and hounds set upon them. They were pursued through the Farnham House demesne grounds and some managed to gain sanctuary in the grounds’ many trees. They were only liberated from their sylvan refuges by some of the young “gentlemen” staying at the house who would carry them away from the fangs of the baying hounds on horseback – though in return for unspecified favours. Perhaps the management of the hotel might seek to stage a re-enactment of the Human Hunt one of these days, while the management of Cavan County Museum might care to dwell that the perpetrators and participants in such activities are probably among the portraits of the Farnhams they hold, so gladly donated to them by a former Lady Farnham. (It might be interesting for some of the ordinary inhabitants of the Farnham area to look at these portraits, and see how frequently the features reproduced could be discerned amongst their ordinary neighbours.)
The ghost of Christmas present
Monkeyman Cowen has once again shown himself to be the miserable pathetic Scrooge. His reply to Gilmore’s question was the
Better looking than An Taoisech = and more decent
long-winded and rambling equivalent of “Baah Humbug|”
What a pity there isn’t a general election in the offing. I remember the time when Charlie McCreevy paid the Christmas bonus early in a vain attempt to win votes. I was in Dublin at the time and I remember you couldn’t get into a pub.
We are being ruled by a pack of dishonest, lying criminals. Worse, they seem to be acting like hostages to a group of unseen eminences grises in the Department of Finance and the international finance community. In fact, they are showing advanced signs of suffering from the Stockholm Syndrome, where captives become partisans of the aims and objectives of their captors. The aims of those holding our government hostage are simply to excavate yet deeper the chasm between the haves and have-nots, and to consolidate the super-rich in possession of their wealth. It has nothing to do with economics and any attempt to say it has is purely mendacious. Cowen and his cronies continue to spin this lie about a drop in the price of consumer goods. This is based on data provided by the Central Statistics Office, a group in need of a long-overdue reality check. A basket of basic items deemed just satisfactory for nutrition and human health is aggregated. This may be going down, but the items in the basket do not correspond to many people’s ideal of a worthwhile and meaningful lifestyle. The choice of a more realistic basket would indicate that prices are going up. But what Cowen and his cronies are saying is that poorer people must be forced to choose the most basic items – they, as poor people, have no right to any other aspiration. This has been termed the “collard greens” syndrome, because traditionally it was believed that the aforementioned brassicas were a prominent part of Negro diet in the US. Consequently, as many poor people in the US are black, collard greens were part of the basket of items on which consumer prices were based, even though many poor people wouldn’t touch them, preferring other more flavoursome vegetables.
It is unjust that the fates of hundreds and thousands of people should be based on the ill-informed decisions of a group of statisticians.
Christmas Crackers
The decision to withhold the Christmas bonus, combined with Cowen’s arrogant defence of this shameful act, is not just a slap in the face to Ireland’s pensioners; it is a veritable spit in the face from a group of criminal reprobates.
This bonus was not much, but for hundreds and thousands of people who had worked hard all their lives it was “a little something” at Christmas, allowing them to enjoy some small luxury. Maybe they were able to spoil a grandchild etc. Whatever it was, it was in many ways more valuable than the cash mount. It was truly the thought that counts.
So it is hardly surprising that its suspension should have found favour with economists who know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
Most pensioners Christmases will be a little bleaker and blacker without the bonus, in contrast to Ireland’s government, its ministers and employees. The Christmas Party has long been the highlight of the year from every branch of the public service at both local and national level, from the local Health Service Executive branch right up to the minister’s office. No member of the public may have the cheek to look for any public servant while they are preening themselves, and it goes without saying that members of the public will look for many of those attending in vain in the days following. This is a time of conspicuous consumption and equally conspicuous bad taste, when no expense is spared on the booze. At local government level the local Gardai know that it is more than their jobs are worth to haul anyone returning from such parties for drink driving offences.
Most of these bacchanalian excesses are picked up by that smelly, amorphous group whom public servants hate – The Public. The Christmas Party is therefore a cracker!
Publlic sector pay – who pays?
On Monday November 8th, I was listening to RTE’s “Drive Time” show, where a list of the various benefits to which people in the public services were entitled was broadcast. During a break the presenter read out some text messages. One was from a social welfare employee called Kay. She expressed her displeasure at facing a pay cut, and felt that resources should be given to her department, especially in the area of countering that great evil Social Welfare Fraud. “Kay” was perturbed about the way in which many claims for the dole were being fast-tracked. To her mind, this was allowing no end of fraudulent claims to get through. (Listening between the lines “Kay” was probably irate at payments to “fuckingforeigners”, “black bastars”” and other children of a lesser god.) She ended by describing the injustice of having to take a pay cut while giving out money to people who don’t deserve it.
Does “Kay” not read the papers or listen to the news? We are living through an economic slump. Businesses and factories are closing on a daily basis, throwing thousands of people onto the dole. These people have worked in the private sector, and have had to face the ups and downs of the free enterprise system, unlike “Kay” and her colleagues in the public service, with their lifetime-guaranteed jobs. In short the days of the lad doing a nixer with the labour are gone. There are no jobs, not even part time. The same is true in Northern Ireland and the UK. I image that “Kay” is “no chicken”; she is obviously stuck in a 1980s time-warp dominated by Thatcherite-Tebbittite notions of the “work shy” who should “get on their bike” In fact, here ideas are motivated by prejudice; pity any poor bastard whose payments have to be processed by such a person. Most of those who find themselves unemployed need money in a hurry, to pay the bills. They may have families to support. It is bad enough that they lose their jobs without having to face needless penury because the department of Social Welfare can’t organise payments quickly. If it were left to them they mightn’t get any payments for at least a year, and even then they would lose the information,
The department of Social Welfare is one of the biggest spending parts of government, but perhaps uniquely is spends such a large proportion of its budget on trying to find excuses for clawing back the money it has already spent. It does this in pursuit of supposedly fraudulent recipients. No other department as far as I know, goes to such lengths to uncover fraud, even though the amounts are much larger. But then the main reason is that people who defraud say the department of the Environment are not poor people. Indeed they are usually very much a part of the establishment, at both local and national level. That’s how they’re able to get away with it.
“Kay” is a very sad specimen of humanity, though my experience with the department of Social Welfare leads me to believe she is far from unique. Now if the government really wanted to do something about the public finances or curb public spending, they should, at the very least, shear “Kay”’s pay and allowance. They ought really to sack her and her ilk, but this government, made up of crooked cowards, hasn’t the balls to do that. If they were feeling generous they could send her on a long course of counselling that might help her deal with her paranoia and the clear issues she obviously entertains about her fellow human beings.
But I think “Kay” should be applauded for her honesty. She has shown that all the hipe from her department about providing a service, and looking humanely on benefit recipients as clients worthy of common respect, is nothing but spin. Benefit recipients are still all “on the make” until such time as the department of Social Welfare’s inspectorate declares otherwise. Such people are “living it up” at public expense, though I think they’d have to pursue multiple claims to come close to the pay and allowances of even the most junior clerical officer.
Minister Hanafin must take responsibility for the snarling attitude of her employees, which seems to be so general that it must but
Two-faced
the result of training. It’s bad enough being poor, without having to put up with the prejudice of pen-pushers.
Cavan’s white elephant
On Monday November 8th, I was listening to RTE’s “Drive Time” show, where a list of the various benefits to which people in the public services were entitled was broadcast. During a break the presenter read out some text messages. One was from a social welfare employee called Kay. She expressed her displeasure at facing a pay cut, and felt that resources should be given to her department, especially in the area of countering that great evil Social Welfare Fraud. “Kay” was perturbed about the way in which many claims for the dole were being fast-tracked. To her mind, this was allowing no end of fraudulent claims to get through. (Listening between the lines “Kay” was probably irate at payments to “fuckingforeigners”, “black bastars”” and other children of a lesser god.) She ended by describing the injustice of having to take a pay cut while giving out money to people who don’t deserve it.
Does “Kay” not read the papers or listen to the news? We are living through an economic slump. Businesses and factories are closing on a daily basis, throwing thousands of people onto the dole. These people have worked in the private sector, and have had to face the ups and downs of the free enterprise system, unlike “Kay” and her colleagues in the public service, with their lifetime-guaranteed jobs. In short the days of the lad doing a nixer with the labour are gone. There are no jobs, not even part time. The same is true in Northern Ireland and the UK. I image that “Kay” is “no chicken”; she is obviously stuck in a 1980s time-warp dominated by Thatcherite-Tebbittite notions of the “work shy” who should “get on their bike” In fact, here ideas are motivated by prejudice; pity any poor bastard whose payments have to be processed by such a person. Most of those who find themselves unemployed need money in a hurry, to pay the bills. They may have families to support. It is bad enough that they lose their jobs without having to face needless penury because the department of Social Welfare can’t organise payments quickly. If it were left to them they mightn’t get any payments for at least a year, and even then they would lose the information,
The department of Social Welfare is one of the biggest spending parts of government, but perhaps uniquely is spends such a large
Come back Paddy Reilly to the Taj Mahal
proportion of its budget on trying to find excuses for clawing back the money it has already spent. It does this in pursuit of supposedly fraudulent recipients. No other department as far as I know, goes to such lengths to uncover fraud, even though the amounts are much larger. But then the main reason is that people who defraud say the department of the Environment are not poor people. Indeed they are usually very much a part of the establishment, at both local and national level. That’s how they’re able to get away with it.
“Kay” is a very sad specimen of humanity, though my experience with the department of Social Welfare leads me to believe she is far from unique. Now if the government really wanted to do something about the public finances or curb public spending, they should, at the very least, shear “Kay”’s pay and allowance. They ought really to sack her and her ilk, but this government, made up of crooked cowards, hasn’t the balls to do that. If they were feeling generous they could send her on a long course of counselling that might help her deal with her paranoia and the clear issues she obviously entertains about her fellow human beings.
But I think “Kay” should be applauded for her honesty. She has shown that all the hipe from her department about providing a service, and looking humanely on benefit recipients as clients worthy of common respect, is nothing but spin. Benefit recipients are still all “on the make” until such time as the department of Social Welfare’s inspectorate declares otherwise. Such people are “living it up” at public expense, though I think they’d have to pursue multiple claims to come close to the pay and allowances of even the most junior clerical officer.
Minister Hanafin must take responsibility for the snarling attitude of her employees, which seems to be so general that it must but the result of training. It’s bad enough being poor, without having to put up with the prejudice of pen-pushers.
Proposed prescription charges – a double whammy
As a recipient of a means-tested benefit I am looking forward to having the miserable pittance on which I survive cut still further. And now I learn that the minister for Health plans to introduce a per item prescription charge for medical cards. Since my diagnosis with Multiple Sclerosis I have been prescribed a Beta-Inferon preparation which so far has regulated, though not eliminated, relapses. But I am going to be penalised. This government, not content with spitting in my face by reducing my blind pension, seeks to harass me and many others. Does the minister think that I am misusing the medicines I receive? In that it improves my quality of life and keeps me alive, I suppose I am misusing them according to her perverted lights. The bitch really has a brass neck to pontificate on such a subject. The really frustrating thing is that thyi9s prescription charge will help to pay for the minister’s five-star champagne lifestyle as well as pay the salaries of some HSE employees so that they can continue their criminal activities.
Where might I ask are the Unions? Are they so selfishly myopic? Are they only interested in the lot of their members? And as for the Party of Slime who sit at the cabinet table with these bastards they have shown themselves up for what they are.
This criminal government should be – must be – overthrown BY ANY MEANS – before it can do any more harm to the Irish people.
I suppose I can expect a visit from the Gardai for the above statement – maybe at 1,30 in the morning.
The fall of the wall
I seldom listen to the radio these days – certainly not RTE. BBC Radio Four are running a series whereby they look back, day-by-day, on the events of that monumental year 1989. This week the fall of the3 Berlin Wall was covered. When I was reminded of that night, the tears that ran down my face then coursed over my cheeks once more. I remember feeling like Wordsworth: Bliss was it that night to be alive, and when I saw the people from Ost Berlin flooding through Checkpoint Chatlie, that symbol of repression with which I had grown up, the bars of Beethoven’s Fidelio flowed through my ears. This WAS history, and I longed to be in Berlin, not in this accursed place working on a doctorate on a subject which only interested me sometimes, but which I thought would be my passport out of misery. That night I was filled with so much hope, both for the world and for myself…
Twenty years’ on, and I am still in misery and want, even though I got the doctorate. So many of the hopes of that night were short-changed. I look around me here in this accursed country and I see a government made up of cowards, crooks, mediocrities and liars. What’s more they’re ugly; they seem like the front-men and front-women for a criminal organisation. My dear mother was with me that night in 1989, while my darling sister Anita was still alive too. What’s more I could still walk with ease. So, please don’t hate me if I express a wish to be back in November 1989: at least I still had my dreams.
Save Belturbet Library
A network of local branch libraries is a sine qua non of any democratic society, including Ireland. In areas where distances are long, library services cannot be concentrated in central locations without running the risk of turning areas in the littoral into emotional deserts. These branch libraries can be adjuncts of the central county libraries, providing the usual lending services and browsing facilities, while also being catalysts of activity in areas like local history and the arts. To this end the role of branch libraries, such as that in Belturbet, ought to be expanded, not curtailed. What’s more branch libraries are used on a daily basis. They do not occupy inaccessible perches.
Education is a life-long process; it ought never to be left solely to schools, and indeed it is often only after the pupil leaves school that he or she starts to learn effectively. Local libraries offer a venue for people of all age groups to acquire knowledge and confidence. Increasingly, libraries have collections of language-learning facilities as well as films on DVD available for loan. In this way people recognise that libraries can be fun places, as closely bound up with recreation as with education. Running costs can be defrayed through a small annual subscription.
We must never forget that knowledge is power, no matter how it is acquired. It is also seen by some as dangerous – no more so than when it is acquired informally, outside of conventional channels of education. The present government talks much about “the smart economy”, but in reality this is mere froth and it would be scared shitless of a smart populace. In fact those who hold power seek to disempower people and so the acquisition of knowledge is curtailed and made more difficult. It is within this context that the closure of branch libraries must be viewed. Of course they pursue their policies through their storm-=troopers in local government who loyally pursue their agendas. They are always avidly assisted by local, democratically-elected councillors. In the 1950s a local politician in Cavan (whose identity I have diplomatically forgotten) once supported a cut in library funding on the grounds that the “the people know too much already.”
The staff of Cavan County Council are my dear friends. I think it is a backhanded compliment to their skills and professionalism, and to the fact that they hold their jobs on merit, that the library services are being threatened. If the library staff had been colonised by the sons, daughters, relatives and well-wishers of councillors and council employees, it would be far better protected against cutbacks in its staff and would be able to waste money like confetti, contemptuous of any need to provide a service to the public
I am conscious that my defence of Belturbet library may actually damage the campaign being pursued by those wishing to maintain it. I’m not paranoid, I assure my readers, but there are a small handful of people at one time or another employed by Cavan County Council (whom I’ve never met) who have a propensity to lie about me, circulate vile rumours about me, undermine my activities and air brush me out of areas of Cavan life as if I had never existed. It is a reflection of the society we inhabit that such people, alas, have the ears of powerful people. I am also too sadly aware that some of the above may be deliberated and mischievously misquoted, or quoted out of context, or otherwise distorted by some in the pursuit of their nasty ends.
Blow-ins in Belturbet
Last Sunday, November 15th, we attended a get-together for that maligned and permanent element in Co. Cavan, the blow-in, organised in the Railway Station in Belturbet. This gave various organisations and clubs in the town an opportunity to alert people to their existence. The atmosphere throughout was pleasant, relaxed and enjoyable and tea, coffee, sandwiches and the ubiquitous buns were served in copious and delicious quantities. There was even a cake. Music was provided by the stunningly talented but modest Cormac McCann, as well as by a group of young musicians and choristers.
Amongst those to speak was my good friend George Morrissey. What George does not know about the history of Belturbet would fit into the far corner of the cheapest denomination of postage stamp. In his usual, engaging way he told of the act of phoenix-like resurrection which saw the present Railway Station complex rise from dereliction and decay. He mentioned how the funding for the vital FAS scheme which had done so much work there, had been ended. I couldn’t help wondering whether this had been to help pay for Roddy Molloy’s First-Class tickets. John Scott introduced those attending to the Bowls Club of whose existence I’m delighted to hear. Crown Green bowls is one of those games for gentlemen (which does not exclude ladies) which seems to breathe a spirit of decency and fair play, combined with consummate skill. It is a game with a long and distinguished history; we all know about Francis Drake’s fondness for it. Early eighteenth-century Dublin had many bowling greens, some of which were laid out by the unfortunate man who took on the thankless task of remodelling St Stephen’s Green in Dublin in 1708. The Reverend Stephen Clarke, the recently-appointed Church of Ireland incumbent also spoke, as did people from groups representing Active Age and the scouts.
On my arrival I was delighted to meet my good friend Canon Corrigan. We exchanged how we were both blow-ins of a sort in Belturbet, and he made the very important point that it is often the outsider who is able to realise a location’s possibilities and assets, which local people, maybe through that contempt-generating quality of familiarity, all too easily overlook. I think the capacity of welcoming and embracing people from outside has been one of Belturbet’s greatest strengths throughout its history.
We wus robbed
Like any Irish person I was dismayed by the events in the Stade de France. Pride in the land of my birth made me want to see the Boys in Green qualify for the world cup. It is dreadful to see hard work and talent and commitment rewarded with failure.
I know that if the Irish team had qualified for South Africa, every scumbag government minister would fly out at public expense to cheer on the lads on our behalf, though they’d never asked us beforehand. What’s more, unlike most Irish fans, they would stay in the plushest accommodation. Neither would I be surprised if delegations of county councillors did not escape to the sun, maybe because of some tenuous links between one of the players and their county. They would justify their junkets as “supporting a local lad” or some other trite shite, and those who would look askance at their larceny would be denounced as party-pooping begrudgers.
I believe that the goal scored by Thierry Henry, in spite of handling the ball, should be looked at in an Irish context. Here was the committed, talented team who had played their hearts out for ages, and who were much better than their opponents one of whom scored a decisive goal even though this violated the rules. These ought to have been observed and enforced by the referee – that’s what he’s there for, but instead he didn’t notice the fault because he was looking the other way, or had his head up his arse, or because he was related to the wrong-doer, or maybe because he was at mass… Whatever the reason, the result stands in defiance of the rules and the spirit of fair play and justice which inspired them. In this regard I see the events of last night as a metaphor for so much of what goes on in contemporary Ireland.
Hey Bobby, what's the French for 'cute hoor'?
The Murphy report
The Murphy report allows people to say openly what they knew already, that child sexual abuse was endemic in the Dublin archdiocese and that successive archbishops before the arrival of Diarmuid Martin systematically connived at covering it up.
Another fact which has nowcome into the public domain is that Archbishops McQuaid, Ryan, McNamara and Connell were out and out hypocrites, telling the people of Ireland what they could do, believe and read in the name of a religion whose tenets they were flouting.
McQuaid was a particularly egregious monster who sought to destroy many lives and reputations. But he was viewed as almost saint-like admiration by former bishop of Kilmore, Fracis McKiernan, a man who had a lot to answer for when it came to covering up the sins of errant priests on hiw watch. But McKiernan was such a great man and a historian of note. He was when he was alive the world’s expert on the O’Reilly clan. When a man sought the assistance of a certain research officer on a roject he was compiling about an O’Reilly of the late seventeenth century he received a reply stating the research officer’s complete ignorance of the O’Reilly involved – strange as the research officer is supposed to be an expert on the seventeenth century – and that sadly the person who would have known all about him – Dr Franbcis McKiernan – had taken his profund intelligence on the subject to his grave.
I don’t think it is unfair to say that reports similar to the Murphy inquiryt, which would be esqually shocking to the public and embarassing to the Catholic church, could be compiled in most of the country’s dioceses. But then many of the bishops who could be castigated were only following Vatican instructions on pushing the whole thing under the carpet. Any problems were to be deakt with by one person in the Vatican, the former Nazi Joseph Ratzinger, currently the rather reticent Pope Benedict.
Living in a republic
The Murphy commission report pointed to an inappropriate relationship between the Catholic archdiocese of Dublin and senior
Up the Republic Dermot?
members of the Irish police force. The report should have been more candid. These senior figures in the Gardai were often members of Catholic lay groups such as the Knights of Saint Columbanus, and often owed their positions and promotions to such membership. And when the church wanted something hushed up they could be relied upon to do it, You had a situation – in some places you still have a situation – where the legal system was infected. The colonisation of areas such as the judiciary and the police force essentially meant that the clergy as well as other members of these lay groups, were beyond the legal pale and could do what they liked. Such a form of infection is invidious and has nothing to do with Christianity.
As someone who belongs to the Catholic branch of Christianity I am appalled by the actions of some of its bishops in league with well-placed members of the laity, but my horror is not recent. Oh no, I have observed the hypocrisy, the double standards, for years. I have kept silent because to do otherwise would be to invite victimisation, and sadly the victimisation has come anyway.
I have nothing in common with these people in the Knights or Opus Dei or any of the plethora of Catholic Masonic groups. They have no part in the version of Christianity I subscribe to. In fact, I see them as fifth columnists, people who have infiltrated the Christian religion and who clothe themselves in a selection of its rituals and who pervert its doctrines in order to conceal their own baseness and evil.
Irish Justice Minister Dermot Ahern, in presenting the Murphy report, attempted to come over all radical, as a child of Rousseua and Voltaire. Instead of demanding the crushing of infamy he stated that we live in a republic where none are beyond the law. But yet how is it that his colleague Dr Michael Woods made such a nice deal with the religious orders so that they escaped having to pay out too much in redress to their victims. There wasn’t much sign of a republic there. Let us recall during the shameful referendum debates of the 1980s when Archbishop McNamara’s de facto political spokesman was that wonderful politician from the west Padraig Flynn who brought his children up so well, inculcating one of them with the belief that tax evasion was a worthwhile endeavour. Then there was senator Don Lydon who regaled the Irish senate with his homosexual fantasies, not to mention the late Jim Tunny. Former deputy for Dublin North West Michael Barrett who took part in the picket objecting to the screening of the boring Je Vous Salue Mariez, which, because it was denounced by the Vatican, acquired a notoriety it never deserved. I could go on, and on and on, but it would be boring. So, before Dermot Ahern starts trying to fly the flag of enlightened republicanism, he must dwell on how many members of his party, at all levels, are members of right-wing Catholic lay groups whose unspoken policy is to subborn the state to the Catholic church. No wonder Protestant bigots in Northern Ireland are able to snidely remark that Home Rule still means Rome Rule, while forgetting the nefarious influence of their Orange Order.
Clerical sex abuse in Cavan
Recently another case of sexual abuse involving a priest and a young boy has arisen here in Co. Cavan. The details are too sordid to interest me. What is interesting, though, is that the affair has been mentioned in the local rag, the Anglo-Celt. You’d know that the likes of Anselm Lovett Sr. no longer work there. This former chairman of the local Fianna Faill cumann was also a stalwart of the Knights, and was therefore able to ensure that there were no stories which might have caused embarrassment to the local clergy – t that, according to my information, he ever did so
Anselm was of course the father of David Lovett, one-time town clerk in Cavan; a brother of John Lovett of The Copper Kettle, Kilnaleck, a past president of the Irish vintners and keen beekeeper; and an uncle of poor Ann in Granard.
The Catholic Church really has an awful lot to hang its head in shame about in Ireland – not all of it necessarily the fault of its priests.
Brendan Smith T.D.
The following is a message for Deputy Brendan Smith TD, Minister for Agriculture.
I have known Brendan for over thirty years and I would consider him a friend. I have even written speeches for him before he was
Ta ra Brendan
inducted into the salubrious halls of the Government. Sadfly, I have to say I am ashamed of this friendship, as a result of the Budget framed by the same government of which he is a part.
I am partially-sighted, but I also have a PhD in history, yet for reasons too exgtensive to repeat, I am compelled to subsist on my non-contributory blind pension as my only source of income. In yesterday’s budget, this was cut. I feel this was undeserved, as no doubt the many tens of thousands who have suffered similar losses must feel. At least I feel privileged in being able to stand with the multitrude who have been shat on by this corrupt, incompetent and arrogant administration.
I also suffer from Multiple Sclerosis, and am dependant on medication to prevent this condition from worsening uncontrollably, yet the Budget has introduced a prescription charge, which I will have to pay for each batch of my medication. This has been introduced by the minister for health, who yearns to live in Boston, to combat abuse of medication. My medication has been prescribed by a leading neurologist. Without it I might very well become completely incapacitated by my MS. I had no hand or part in its prescription. Am I abusing medication simply by wishing to stay alive?
I have therefore been slapped in the face twice by the government of which Brendan Smith is a member. I think I am entitled to respond in some way.
It goes without saying that I will NEVER vote for Brendan Smith, or any candidate representing the Fianna Fail party, but furthermore I will NEVER speak to Deputy Smith again; Any communication from him or his office will be ignored. were he to attempt to speak to me at an event I will blank him.
Brendan should not feel too victimised, as I intend to adopt the same policies towards any member of the Dail or Seanad who votes in favour of the Budget, as well as any member of a local government body who belongs to Fianna Fail. This also applies to any member of the Green Party, but members of that shameful brood are thin on the ground.
I would urge others who feel as I do to adopt this policy, but it is up to them. I am sure that losing my friendship will cause Deputy Smith little loss of sleep.
As a constituent of Brendan’s I expect to receive a Christmas card from him. I believe that the expression of kindly wishes for Christmas and the New Year from a government minister, after what they’ve done, is hypocritical. If I recognise the envelope containing the card, which will no doubt be in a pre-paid Oireachtas envelope), I will ask the postman to take it back and return it unopened to the sender. I would urge others to do the same.
I still feel that Brendan is deep down a decent man, but as they say, if you lie down with dogs you will rise with fleas.
Blythe spirit
Ernest Blythe - Ireland's very own fascist
So the fascists are back in control and without a shot being fired. What’s more there was no March on Rome, not even on the Roma Takeaway in Lucan. People might accuse me of using terms like fascists loosely, but remember this. One of the most infamous occasions in which pensions were cut was in 1930 at the hands of Ernest Blythe. In the middle of the ‘30s he became an active member of the proto-Fascist Army Comrades’ Association, or Blueshirts. So shrill was he in his support for fascism that even the Fine Gael party distanced itself from him on its foundation. He therefore retired into obscurity, unloved and forgotten, remembered solely for his act of barbarism in reducing pensions from the princely sum of 50 shillings per week to 45. Such a fate I hope will befall the present minister for Finance, Brian Lenihan jr.
This budget is based on lies, one of them being that it’s about correcting the public finances. This is horses’ feathers. It is all about making Ireland into a country where there rich can stay rich and grow richer, sitting at the apex of society, while the poor remain poor or grow even poorer, denies any worthwhile chance of rising out of poverty by any legitimate means, and finding means of social mobility such as education effectively blocked by a culture of nepotism and cute-hoorism. Most of the people in employers’ organisations know little about business. They simply survive on some form of innate instinct for success combined with knowing who to befriend and who to do. Their knowledge of economics owes much to social prejudice. I remember the individual who put down all Switzerland’s success to the fact that it had draconian welfare laws. So the idea that social welfare payments were being cut was music to these people’s ears. They were backed up by a coterie of economists who are a disgrace to the profession, such as Colm McCarthy who always appears to be half cut and speaks like a Dublin criminal’s enforcer, or the economist from a long-established centre of education who pontificated on transport economics, although he lived on campus (and so at the taxpayers’ expense) within crawling distance of his work. And finally there are the fascist mandarins of the Department of Finance, the Sir Humphreys with Irish names. All of these groups found a willing and impressionable tool in Brian Lenihan Jr, who let’s face it, knows sweet FA about economics, but who, as a privileged child of the establishment, knew all about keeping the aspirations of the great unwashed at bay. While many might see education and learning as a means of advancement, Brian Lenihan did not have to worry about working too hard or indeed being too bright. The fact was he was his father’s son and so doors opened for him automatically. I still recall his arrogant, portly frame in Trinity. On several occasions he deigned to sit not far from me, but had I known what he would subsequently do I swear I would have put my hands round his fat neck and throttled him. He would be outraged at any hint that he did not gain his scholarship (entitling him to free tuition and board) on his unrivalled intellect. That may be true, but then why was the candidates’ identities not secret? Why were those who marked the papers not outsiders, but instead the very same people who had marked all of his work throughout the preceding eighteen months of his law course?
Ernest Blythe retired into a well-deserved ignominy. I would like to end by doing something which probably seems idiotic and futile, and which I know is pointless. I would like to place a really serious and malign curse on Brian Lenihan jr, something that will cause him sooner or later to feel excruciating bodily pain, disfigurement of his limbs, blindness maybe. I know I can’t do this, but with how I feel about Lenihan how I wish I could.
A house of lies
The budget debate in the Dail yesterday was riddled with lies and half truths. One of the most egregious of these was that the cost of living is going down. Come on Brian, get a grip! Do you believe that the tens of thousands of people from the Republic doing their shopping in the north every day are motivated by a perverse Brit-loving spirit that wants to give their money to Gordon Brown’s war effort in Afghanistan? Maybe he believes the crap peddled by his advisers that all these cross-border shoppers are on booze-cruises. Yet only last week a report on the Northern economy spoke of how all parts of the retail sector had benefited from Irish shoppers.
Another fiction is the creation of jobs for unemployed people. The fact is that any decent, well-paying jobs are immediately hovered up by relatives of Fianna Fail and Fine Gael councillors.
Lenihan told the Dail that his partner in crime Brian Cowen was taking a big pay dip, but this was only in his public salary. The expenses row which rocked Westminster earlier in the year told us how much we knew about the expenses of our parliamentarians and ministers i.e. not much beyond what they wanted to tell us.
We are told how the country’s in such a pickle, that it must face these tough aka cowardly cutbacks, but yet the egregious abuse of public funds continues unabated. At local level councillors still go to conferences where their presence is decorative at best. They avail of this “Wish-you-were-here” culture thanks to the department of the Environment (headed by Green Party leader John Gormley) and local council executives who thus reward councillors for letting them do as they please and not interfering. What’s more these junkets are compensation for the fact that councillors have less power than a eunuch in a brothel. Those attending these lavish conferences should reflect on the fate of a former county councillor whose political career is facing ruin because of events which occurred in a hotel in which he was staying while attending such a junket.
Like father, like son
At a recent lavish dinner taoiseach Brian Cowen said that the values of a nation could be seen in how it treated its less fortunate inhabitants. Well, on the basis of yesterday’s budget I would say that the Irish Republic has shown itself to have the values of a pack of hooligans. How can it be that those who are blind must suffer cuts in their miserable benefits, while at the same time being governed by a rigorously-enforced means test which prevents them from earning even the smallest amounts, while their chances of employment are stymied beyond the most menial jobs or training centres.
A country’s values can also be discerned by examining those groups who are able to influence its government. It is evident that the people who were listened to by the government when framing the budget were bankers, stock brokers, employers’ groups and the well-off. Interestingly another group whose influence was seminal were publicans and those selling the legal but addictive drug of alcohol, those people who, come every Christmas, are immune to the suffering their cause through wide sectors of society. So we have a perverse situation in which increases in duty on alcoholic drinks were nominal, if they were applied at all, while the government has cut back on funding for many children’s projects. So the guy who goes on the tear with his brew will be able to get that bit more, even though his benefit has been cut. However, if he goes home and beats up his wife and terrorises his children, the resources for helping them will be fewer. So, the message is clear this Christmas. If you’re feeing blue just crack open the booze. This may be due to an outmoded notion that it is only the working class who drink, yet the minister for Finance’s own father was living proof – while alive – that members of the profession were equally susceptible to alcohol abuse. Indeed Brian Lenihan Sr demolished his liver single-handedly. Brian og’s partial I believe to the odd drop, especially if someone else is paying, so I suppose it’s a case of something running in the family, like athlete’s foot.
Stoned
The Gardai Siochana really should go out on strike if they feel devalued, as claimed by Garda Representative Association P.J. Stoned. But they should stop the bloody sabre rattling and get out there and show for the first time that they are with the people, and not merely the paid security punks of the corrupt elite. As for that shit that Dermot Ahem came out with about it being anti-democratic and unconstitutional, stop the shaggin’ lights Bunny. As Ken Livingstone said if Democracy really changed anything they’d abolish it, and as for the constitution, nobody takes any of that seriously. And then there was the line that striking gardai could be arrested !!! There is only one group in Ireland who have either statutory or common law powers to arrest anyone – the Gardai. Does anyone think they’d arrest each other? They don’t do it for speeding or drunk driving.
So listen you flat-footed Fascist bastards. Come on and show us that you’re men and not fecking pansies, and that you’re able to stand up to REAL criminals, instead of harassing suspected illegal immigrants and rounding up their children prior to transportation.
Of course if the Gardai did go on strike that’s when things would really start to kick off. There would have to be a State of Emergency and the suspension of Civil Liberties. Jaysus that would be just the lad for all those Opus Dei cunts in the Department of Justice. There’d be no talk then of Clerical Sexual Abuse of Minors, and anyone showing less than clear deference towards their betters would be interned. I’m fairly sure that among the first to go would be this blog, but they couldn’t touch me. I’d just plead insanity. Now where did I put that packet of razor blades and that bottle of paraffin…
Flights of fancy
I thought the Silly Season was over, but I suppose when you’re dealing with Fianna Fail supporters and their new-found Fascist friends it’s silly season all year.
An example is the silly statements nay examples of outright mendacity they come out with, such as that the cowardly cutbacks of this week’s budget were necessary to prevent our national sovereignty, which would have been threatened by international financial institutions if we didn’t bring our public finances into line. This reminds me of the rumours some well-healed Fianna Failers tried to spread on the eve of the 12990 presidential election, that if Mary Reobinson were elected president there would be a flight of capital.
We are a sovereign state, with a history of democratic government. We are not some Banana republic or narco-state prone to frequent coups. In our state the people are sovereign, and any measure which is contrary to the interest of the people must be spurned. The International financial community can have no say in dictating our state, and given recent developments they would do well to get their own house in order first. We are not like the tenants of some dingy garret who must meekly accept the proscriptions of some slum landlord or gombeen man or risk eviction.
Fuck Off Deputy Gogarty
The Green Party to which Deputy Gogarty belongs, is a really disgusting outfit. I view it as I would a piece of dog shit on the path, something horrible, malodorous, to be avoided at all costs, and which should be put out of one’s memory. So that’s what the Green Party has become: the doggy poo of Irish politics.
Paul Gogarty’s outburst in the Dail can be looked at in different ways. The Green Party as a whole is like a young girl of spirit and some ideas, who has been lured into prostitution by promises of enjoying the high life. Indeed she has been put up in a luxurious mansion, has been wined and dined, allowed to fraternise with the powerful, as well as enjoying foreign travel and stays in five-star hotels. But all this has come at a price. Not a day goes by without her being fucked up the arse. What’s more her powers of expression has been altered, as she regurgitates the rancid spunk she has been forced to swallow in order to satisfy her master. But the good times may be coming to an end, as the grippers hover menacingly around the mansion. She knows that if her master gets evicted, it’s down to the gutter for her. She’ll have no friends, having wickedly spurned her long-held acquaintances during her time in high society.
In fact, Deputy Gogarty’s outburst can be seen from another psychological perspective, as stemming from attempted projection to overcome tensions between a perceived passive and active state, which is sometimes to be found amongst victims of abuse. So when Gogarty told a colleague to “Fuck off”, what he was really saying was “I’m tired of being fucked.”
It’s obvious that the strain’s beginning to show and if the pressure is kept on Gogarty he’ll crack spectacularly. I am expecting other, similarly sensitive Government deputies to expose themselves, or even moon at the opposition, and there remains the outside chance that Mary Hernia might flash her tits – I’m feeling sick already.
Deputy Gogarty’s restraint towards Deputy Stagg was remarkable though. I expected he might have added dark insinuations about bicycles or Phoenix Park.
In fact, on the QT, I am able to reveal that it was a younger Paul Gogarty who was the man that came by bicycle on an assignment to meet Deputy Stagg all those years’ ago. In those days the greens went everywhere by bicycle. He has since defended his actions by saying he thought he was meeting a girl called Emma.
Trading Places
I read with undisguised contempt the report that Brendan Smith TD assembled a nice big bill to cover his attendance at World
Keep your hands to yourself Brendan
Trade talks in Geneva, a bill that the Irish tax payer must pick up.
Now having travelled a bit I know that Geneva can be a dear hole at the best of times, but I’m sure the minister could have found a nice three-star, or even a four-star hotel in which he could have rested his sore arse. But it’s obvious; only the best from the boy from Corlough.
Also, the tab for travelling expenses. He was staying only a mile and a half from the conference venue, and I think even I, with my limited mobility, could have covered that on foot, even if I had to be linked. But not our minister. Oh no. He had to be “lorried” in a limousine. I would love to be able to use my legs again to walk with the brio and panache of the past, and so I feel very resentful of those people who refuse to use theirs.
But what’s the story with Mary Coughlan, the minister who was also attending the conference and who was apparently in the same hotel? They travelled by separate limos. Was this a comment by Deputy Smith on perceived personal hygiene problems possessed by Deputy Coughlan? Or was it that minister Coughlan refused to sit with Deputy Smith? Now I can give my word that she would have been perfectly safe with Brendan.
But then there was the ministerial backing-group, sixteen advisers / hangers-on who couldn’t use Geneva’s trolleybuses and trams but had to go everywhere by people carrier. Their presence was a reflection perhaps on the minister’s own ignorance. His secretary once admitted to me that he knew nothing about agriculture and still less about trade.
The whole gig cost around 17,000 euro – which would have covered how many blind pensions?
Thugs in power
The reduction in the blind pension was an act of sheer thuggery, no better than that of a schoolyard bully. Supposing we swallow to rubbish about correcting the public finances, the minister for Social Welfare could have annou8nced that while the Blind Pension was being cut, the draconian means test was to be relaxed or raised. As it is those who might try to make good the money that has been docked might find themselves being docked still more.
Such a move by the government woulod have been nothing more than an empty gesture, but a gesture nonetheless. It would have cost them nothing. But oh no. They are so obsessed with appearing macho and “tough” and pandering to the types of Mary Ellen Synon, that anything except such an act of base cowardice might not have been interpreted as being sufficiently crass to cripples. There is nothing tough about attacking the disabled.
The missing minister
Minister for Agriculture Brendan Smith has gone into hiding once again, afraid to present himself to an angry populace. Indeed I might have thought that he had died but for a shameful appearance on Thousand-and-One-Knights radio, in which he never answered a question directly and presented classical symptoms of being brain-washed.
He was due to perform a function at Drumcrave National School, which has educated many of the finest of Cavan town’s
Diarmuid Wilson TD?
inhabitants, but Brendan – not for the first time – didn’t show up. No doubt he was closeted with Colm and the bankers. Instead it was left to senator Diarmaid Wilson to do the duties. This was a really stupid thing to do. The dogs in the street know about Senator Wilson’s ambitions to secure a seat in the Dail. Brendan seems to think that, just because he got 15k plus votes last time around, he lives an electorally charmed existence, but remember Eithne FitzGerald in the admittedly more fickle constituency of Dublin South. While Smith no doubt would eventually be able to crawl back in, I sense that if an election were held today he’d have trouble securing his deposit, even with the whole of Corlough and the Sextons voting for him. (Speaking of which, why couldn’t Martina have performed the functions? She’d have done as good, if not better job than “that thunderin’ eegit’ ‘Diarmaid.) Now far be it from me to say that this is going on, but Senator Wilson could start projecting himself as the man on the ground, with his finger on the pulse, while Deputy Smith becomes ever more distant and aloof, too closely aligned to an unpopular government and its shameful policies. Naturally, though, senator Wilson would do this while professing his complete loyalty to his party colleague. And once the election gets underway Diarmaid’s people have only to say on the doorsteps that Brendan will get enough votes and come the count he will be toast. But still he’ll get a nice fat pension and then there is always that wasteful institution which mimics pathetically the British House of Lords.
But maybe Brendan could do himself and the rest of us a big favour and fuck off. I remember when he was John Wilson’s sidekick how he accompanied him on an official visit to Russia and Siberia, prompting the late Veronica Sharkey to quip. “a pity he wouldn’t leave him there.”.
Cowen the cheat
I never really liked Brian Cowen. He got elected in a by-election caused when his father, Ber, got called to the great bar in the sky. Then I remember one his magisterial contributions to a Dail debate in which he described the disgraced, dishonest – and diminutive -Charles Haughey as a “man standing head and shoulders above his detractors.” Then he adopted the role of the ard fheis comic giving what would could only be described as “oul’ guff” before the main act came on. You might say I always knew he was a creep, but I never realised what a nasty, dissembling, dishonest and cowardly cheat he was until last week,
Some weeks ago he gave a speech to pension funds managers in which he sought to cover his government in glory for the progress they had made on providing for the welfare of pensioners. He added that a country’s values could be gauged by how well it treated its most vulnerable citizens. Many commentators saw this as a “straw in the wind” indicating that pensioners were to be spared cutbacks in the budget. As a blind pensioner, in receipt of a benefit which has long been tied to old age pensions, I dared to believe that my miserable pittance would be spared and to luxuriate in a modicum of hope for the future. And then in the budget I and the thousands of blind pensioners learn that their hopes and optimisms were to be dashed, and that the blind pension had been decoupled from the old age pension which was to be left untouched. This in other to pay for the mistakes of bankers, property developers, and other bosom pals of Fianna Fail who, with their buddies in government have succeeded in bollocksing one of the most successful economies in Europe.
So that’s how you get off Brian, attacking the blind and partially sighted, whom you know can’t fight back? Miserable bastard. You needn’t worry Cowen about feeling cold, because there’s a perpetually warm spot waiting for you in hell, where you can be joined by all your miserable colleagues, the bankers, the economists, the stock brokers, the swindlers and all your other friends.
It is really difficult for me to put into words the level of contempt I feel for this cowardly, deceitful cretin, who, in spite of having a large pendulous lower lip still manages to talk out of both sides of his mouth. I think I must go to Australia to find some description. He is worse than a bastard: Brian Cowen was wanked up against a dunny wall by a poofter and hatched by the sun.
A dirty miserable cheat
Banking on success
This morning I head a programme on the BBC World Service about microfinance: the provision of small, unsecured loans for business and investment outside of the conventional commercial banking system.
Most of what I know about microfinance comes from my studies of the Grameen Bank in Bangladesh. This was established in 1972 by economics professor Muhammad Yunus – thereby proving that not all economics professors are heartless drunkards. Yunus found that in a village in Bangladesh many small craftspeople were sunk in poverty for, in spite of their hard work, lack of access to small amounts of capital mean that they were prey to loan sharks and usurious practices. Of course, the established commercial banks didn’t want to know such small fry. Indeed they would have been brushed away brusquely from their shining corporate headquarters. The actions of such institutions were dominated more by social prejudice than by commercial good sense. Muhammad Yunus found that by providing loans without demands for collateral, combined with education about budgeting, the recipients were able to reap the rewards of their labours. While they didn’t become rich, they were rescued from the abyss of poverty, and what’s more the repayment rate for these loans has continued to be in excess of 90 per cent.
The idea of microfinance isn’t new in the developed world, only here is has usually been called co-operative credit and is frequently
Yunus: a decent economist
identified with the credit union movement. In Ireland this has done much good. People will remember the difficulties the Credit Union movement faced from former Minister for Finance. Charles McCreepy. It is sadly only to be expected that our government will always side with the big bankers. It’s the old golden rule: the man with the gold makes the rule.
The commercial banking system is only interested in making larger and larger mounts of money. It can then spend these on the absurdly high salaries of its higher executives, who seem to believe they have a God-given right to be rewarded for their incompetence and recklessness. They have to have oodles of cash to spend on their expensive prostitutes (5k a night is bargain-basement rates there), as well as enough money to bribe politicians and capture regulatory bodies. At this time the whole of the Irish government is a hostage of the bankers.
There are worrying clouds on the horizon for microfinance. For decades it was viewed with derision by commercial banking. However their eyes started to sparkle at the high repayment rates, which no one in the developed world could even dream of. And so big banks started to push funds in the direction of those poor, filthy, illiterate souls they had formerly seen fit only to spit on. Some in microfinance organisations worry that the apparent splurge of available funds may actually undo the spirit of thrift and frugal economy built up by them amongst their clients. If Ireland is an example, we have seen how the sudden availability of money to previously poor people often leads to waste and the squandering of resources on useless baubles,
The Yogi Bear Syndrome
Ever wonder why it is that I you want the poor to walk harder you pay them less , but if you want the rich to work harder you pay
Smarter than the average bear
them more? Or why it is that some poor bastard who lost his job through no fault of his own, and maybe who is trying to make a bit to feed his wife and children through the odd nixer is vehemently pursued by the latter-day witch-hunters of the social welfare department’s fraud prevention unit while the head of some parastatal flitters away public money on ludicrous expenses like first-class flights and earns only praise? It’s because the people at the top are Ireland’s Yogi bears who are smarter than the average bear Boo-Boo. They usually have college education, but what’s more they are possessed of often super-human intellects and razor-sharp mental acuity. They are always inspired by the long term. They have prodigious appetites for work. They are soft-spoken, sober and given to moderation in their eating habits. Most importantly they are wedded to unquestioning loyalty to the State, its laws and institutions.
They stand out from those the bottom – those who must, according to God’s Divine law, stay at the bottom because they are not blessed with the intellects and abilities of Yogies. These individuals crawl cravenly from one welfare cheque to the next. which, no matter how generous, is never enough for them. If they are ever given jobs they skive off at the earliest opportunity to the pub or the bookies. Their hideous, mean little lives are embellished are embellished by binge drinking and consumption of junk food, punctuated by beastly fornication so as to be able to skim yet more from hard-working tax payers in Children’s allowance handouts. They show no desire to benefit from the helping hands offered them in charity by their betters, instead biting viciously at the claws that attempt to feed them, as hey seek all manner of ruses to defraud those whom God has placed over them, thereby forcing their rulers to devote ever more money to stamping out their fraudulent antics.….
…NOT!
Yogies are identifiable because of three attributes.
First, they are related to someone. They consolidate their positions with reference to another phenomenon beloved of the Irish establishment, The Itchy Arse syndrome – You scratch my arse etc. Second, they are arrogant, and third they are incompetent being shining examples of mediocrity. In fact, it could be said that they don’t know ho to wipe their arses, and that it is through the abundant use of aftershave and perfume that this weakness in their upbringing is marked. They are dyed deep in the culture of both, of “Ah sure it could be worse”, “the hoors won’t know any better” etc. It’s because the yogies are in charge of this fair land m both at local and national level, that we have gone from the bright sun-lit uplands of the Celtic Tiger to our present miserable economic state, and the worst of it is, they are still in charge, so don’t expectant anything better anytime soon.
That’s All Folks.
Fallout from Clerical sexual abuse
Dr Donal Murray has been forced to resign from the bishopric of Limerick. It is true that he was guilty of sins of omission, rather
Donal Murray - fall guy?
than commission. Donal Murray was not the worst member of the Catholic hierarchy – he was a saint compared to his boozy, Opus Dei-loving predecessor Jerry Newman. I can’t help feeling that he is being made a sacrificial lam, a fall guy if you will, for others in the body of the church and the laity. far more deeply stained with guilt.
The Murphy report was a very courageous and candid document that uncovered the horrors of a dishonest culture of silence and deceit. But people were shocked by the degree of what had gone on, not by the revelation that clerical abuse had occurred and been hushed up. The proverbial dogs in the street knew that.
So the report was issued to general, and to an extent quite correct condemnation of the Catholic Church in Ireland. This occurred only weeks before the most dishonest, cruel and vicious budgets in the State. Ordinarily it might have been expected that some members of the hierarchy, as well as ordinary religious, would have spoken out against a measure that deliberately targeted already disadvantaged sections of Irish society such as the blind. However, with the Murphy report on the table, all bishops were cowed into silence; had they spoken out against the budget I could well have imagined some government minister telling them to get their own house in order first or words to that effect.
Those who were the victims of abuse are still hurting. It’s possible the hurt will never heal. Alas, I sense that some of those in the government who have set themselves up as guardians of the rights of victims, or who have proclaimed themselves citizens of a republic, are the very people who knew full well that such abuse was rampant and systematic, but did or said nothing because they viewed the Catholic Church as too powerful and influential. It is only when they sense they can kick a dead horse with impunity that they do so with alacrity.
Melba toast in Longford
Not cold in Longford
On Christmas morning St Mel’s Roman Catholic cathedral was reduced to a mere shell by a raging fire which broke out early in the morning – only hours after the celebration of Midnight Mass there. Such an all-embracing conflagration was shocking and suspicious. A localised blaze, perhaps occasioned by an electrical fault or choirboy dropping an unextinguished fag might have broken out but resulted in purely localised damage. Were there no smoke alarms or sprinklers? So what happened? For my part I believe the inferno was caused by the ghost of poor Anne Lovett of Granard, as a revenge on the mass-goers of the diocese of Ardagh and Clonmacnoise and their bishop, Dr Colm O’Reilly, who were so diligent in attempting the shameful events surrounding her atrocious death, It’s not just the bishops and clergy of the archdiocese of Dublin who are good at covering up the failings of their flock. PP. The reportage of this event on the RTE news site was shocking. It was as if it had been written by a chimpanzee, or a non-native English speaker. No attempt was made to “fold in” Bishop O’Reilly’s statement into a fluid, readable story. Instead each of his statements was preceded by the words: “He said” which was repeated about half a dozen times. But this is yet further proof that if you want to do something really bad the day to carry it out is Christmas Day. There won’t be a journalist working in any newsroom,.
Our cancerous Finance Minister
We have been told, though not officially, that our dear Minister for Finance has cancer, yet the government responds in a manner more fitting to the old Soviet Empire, with silence and bad-tempered and bad-mannered diffidence. Does Brian Lenihan and those who govern us believe that they live so above the common heard that their health can be of no interest to the hoi poloi? Admittedly, it shouldn’t matter too much if those who govern us suffer from Piles, (as I am sure some do), or that some are seriously obese – we’d have to be blind not to notice. Then there are the ministers (no names mentioned) who have had a brush with venereal disease, not to mention – God forbid that we might – the minister who liked sniffing talcum power – mar dhea!
But Lenihan in his arrogance chooses to overlook an inconvenient reality. We, the people of the country, are his employers and an employer has the right and the duty to know whether his or her employees are able to the job they have been given. Now admittedly employers should not seek information about possible treatments, unless they reasonably believe this might interfere with the employee’s ability to do their work, or have similarly reasonable fears that such illness and treatment might be dangerous to other employees, or might have implications concerning insurance etc.
Now something like cancer is a serious ailment, and while we don’t need to know the intricate details we have a duty to know if our ministers are not enjoying rude health, and if the decisions they make may have been influenced by their indisposition. Could it be that the details of this dastardly budget were cobbled together by a man, who, instead of being on top of his game was on a cocktail of drugs?
But then, maybe, those who govern us through a mixture of lies and slight-of-hand, believe that the benighted populace must believe that those at the top are perfect in every sense, possessing immense intellectual, physical and maybe sexual prowess.
It’s a bit like going back to the old Celtic notion of kingship where the ruler was perfect and he was always a he – who entered into a form of congress with his territory – always personified as a female – who demonstrated her satisfaction with her consort through bounteous crops and all-round prosperity. And if the people were to learn by whispers and idle gossip that the ruler’s beauteous countenance was disfigured by anything as insignificant as a facial wart they might rebel, seeking to replace him with a better-looking exemplar of potency,
Given the fact that we live in a free country, where anybody who dares deny this faces a custodial sentence, I can see that talk of Brian Lenihan’s cancer may become a “no-no”, not to be mentioned by anyone under pain of immortal obloquy, though it may continue to circulate on poor-quality paper in samizdat, until one night Brian Dobson appears on the evening news dressed in black, a trusted precursor to the news that a prominent member of the politburo has shaken off his miserable mortal coil, as our radio waves echo to the strains of Chopin and Tchaikovsky.
The herd will lament my lack of Christian charity. Ah come on now Ciaran, he’s sick I will be told, Play the ball not the man etc. Hold on there. Brian Lenihan has steered through a budget which has heaped hardship on thousands of people. Rather than being in the least remorseful for this he has come away smiling, seemingly luxuriating in the harm he has done.
And let’s face it, cancer’s no big deal any more. The party loyalists can always organise a whip-round to send him off to the Mayo clinic, though taking care that the current party leader doesn’t dip into the funds, and once he has been cured he can take up residence in Buswell’s hotel beside a potted plant.
It just goes to show that our rulers are a crowd of lying, insecure nobodies.
Why I don’t like Brian Lenihan Jr
The news that Brian Lenihan Jr may have cancer does not cause me to shed many tears. I sense how the righteous will bristle with indignation at my anger which proves to their perverted minds that I really should be in a mental hospital – a bit difficult as most have been closed.
Brian Lenihan Jr was born with a silver cock in his mouth. As the son of a senior Fianna Fail politician he wanted for nothing. He was showered with academic honours, by amongst other my own alma Mater and thereby gained entry to the ranks of the Irish Bar, while others less blessed had to scratch around looking for briefs and not infrequently had to seek employment far from the Law.
But I hear my detractors retort as they munch their bacon butties: “But pray look at the pig. Can it be blamed throughout its life for being born in a sty?” Perhaps not, but it can have sympathy for those who have not had such accidents of birth. And then he becomes Minister for Finance and seeks to cover himself with glory for a budget the like of which had not been seen since 1930, which penalised the poor and the vulnerable for the excesses of the rich and the incompetence of his own administration. There are many people whose Christmases have been rendered even grimmer by his wish to appear macho and take “tough” decisions.
The blueshirt Blythe dragged out his miserable, pathetic existence for over four decades more, though a marginal figure in Irish life, disowned – rightfully – by many of his former allies, without any influence except in very limited theatrical circles. Providence may provide that Lenihan Jr won’t have to tarry so long upon life’s stage.
I knew Brian Lenihan Jr in Trinity College. He used to sit not far from me at meetings of the Erskine Childers cumann there. He was an arrogant sot, whose every piece of verbal flatulence was imbued with the colour of wisdom and sagacity by his numerous hangers’ on. I also knew he was destined for stardom, and while I might have had my eyes similarly stellar-bound I was wise enough to sense that I was far more likely to spend my days in the gutter. Had I known that he would be instrumental in robbing me of the small amount I received as compensation for being blind and partially-sighted, (as well as insisting that I must pay a prescription charge for the medicine that is slowing down the inevitable course of my Multiple Sclerosis) I would have gone over to him and put my hands tightly around his miserable, fat neck until such time as I had choked him. But then, nature seems about to do that anyway.
Brian Lenihan Jr should recall that not long ago in a previous post on my blog I placed a curse on him for his budget. I’m amazed, though pleased, that it has come to pass so quickly,
… Ah God knows Ciaran, there’s no call for that type of carry on, you’ve gone OTT on this one. I sense there will be those who will say: “Ciaran, you wouldn’t like it if someone put a curse on you, would ya” to which I would shrug my shoulders and reply “You get used to if after a while.”
But I believe in justice and it would be unjust for Brian Jr to suffer alone so I place an equal if not greater curse on his colleagues Taoiseach Brian Cowen, Minister for Social and Family Affairs Mary Hanafin and Minister for Health Mary Harney, as well as their economic guru Colm McCarthy. As for the rest of that miserable crowd at the cabinet table I can do no more than quote Pope Innocent III. “God will know his own.” To be honest, to put curses on all the bastards and bitches in this country would be tiring. I’m reminded of the joke: “What do you call a group of lawyers lined up against a wall in front of a firing squad? A start.”
Home sweet home
Let them eat slush
Yesterday (Sunday January 10th) we were given a further example of the contempt felt by this present regime for the Irish people when the Minister for Transport, Noel Dempsey, came back from his holiday with a smugness and alacrity that was insulting.
The inclement weather has created real hardships for tens of thousands of people, of all age groups, and it behoves those who rule us – and who get paid to rule us – to remain in the country where they can at least experience the difficulties faced by the Irish people. Minister Dempsey’s attitude was, however, “I’m a government minister, a big shot, and I can do what I like. In fact I can head off to the sun and leave all you scummy little people up to your arses in slush. Yez don’t deserve any better. Why d’ya think I’m a minister and you crowd of whingin’ hoors are nobodies?”
The minister claimed that he was so well-informed that it was as if he was back home. So, as he was being kept abreast of developments did he sit ibnside his refrigerator? Did he turn on the air-conditioning to full blast? When he went out for food did he worry whether he’d be able to get back to his pied-a-terre?
Dempsey seemed to imply that there was no need for him to be here at all. Many would agree there, but does he also agree then that there is no need to pay him a salary? What’s more, he came out with the accursed guff of “Oaying tribute” to those who had been trying to keep the country moving, but it sounded so insincere, like a back-handed jeer. Anyway, what he really meant was to send a message to the various managers that they’d be in line for a nice bonus later on in the year, especially if they had earned it by staying in their overheated offices and as far away as possible from snow and ice. or better stioll, had not bothered coming ibnto work at all but had directed operations from home.
Noel Dempsey, you’re nothing but a disgrace. Thank your lucky stars that I’m disabled and in a wheel-chair, because if I wasn’t and I met you I would give me the greatest pleasure to break your rotten neck. How many tears would then be shed amongst the very extensive extended Dempsey clan where possession of the surname or some other agnatic link guarantees a job and impunity from the law. I better make sure I n ever come up before your brother the judge.
The attractions of youth
I have never been great fans of either Peter or Iris Robinson. When Peter gave his news conference last week outlining how Iris had attempted suicide when Peter heard of her “inappropriate relationship” I for one was not all that interested in the details of the affair. In fact, I felt sorry for them. Affairs can trouble even the most soundly established marriage, and it can be difficult to try and mend the feelings of hurt and betrayal that are exposed.
However, the allegations revealed in BBC’s Spotlight programme made me feel that any sympathy was misplaced. Citizens are expected to observe the highest degrees of compliance, especially in their financial affairs, standards which their rulers hold in contempt. If I received a loan or a gift in kind I am supposed to reveal it to the relevant authorities so that they can penalise me. But not those who govern me. Oh no! they’re too clever, too “cute” to be bound by the same rules that bind little people. But that is where their arrogance blinds them to the truth.
I’m the last person to moralise, but I found the revelation that Iris Robinson, a woman of 59, was having a sexual relationship with a mere youth forty years’; her junior positively obscene and disgusting. She viewed him at first as a son, but it soon went beyond the platonic. If it had stayed there I doubt anyone would be troubled. He was young enough to be her grandson. (By the way I feel the same about a relationship between a man in his late ‘50s and a girl forty years his junior.) Had the youth been any younger it would have been a case of paedophilia.
Iris Robinson was trenchant in making high-sounding moral judgments about people, describing their behaviour as an abomination and equating gay people with murderers. At the very least she showed appalling lack of judgment. What’s more, the fact that this most inappropriate of relationships was accompanied by the handover of a large sum of money makes the whole thing look like prostitution,
And then there was the shocking statement by Peter Robinson that God had forgiven Iris. I am a Christian, and one of the central tenets of my faith is belief in a merciful God, but I can only believe and hope – I cannot know. To do so would be to know the unknowable. It would be the worst form of presumption, but then if you are the leader of the Democratic Unionist Party, the First Minister of Northern Ireland, and your wife is the honorary member for Strangford, I suppose you feel you know God and have a right to expect the best. There are shades of the belief that God is an Orangeman, and if he’s not he must be replaced by a man who is.
Leading figures in the DUP have expressed their sympathy for Peter. Did he really not smell a rat? He presents himself now as that figure of literary fun throughout the ages, the cuckold. (I knew a girl who used to love when I used the word.) There are those who say he deliberately looked away, as his own conduct might not be that blameless.
It is further evidence of the warped morality and ethics of our rulers. While the Robinson affair impinges on Northern Ireland voices have been raised questioning whether some of our high-powered female politicians may not be indulging in such inappropriate relationships. Maybe Minister Harney has a toy-boy, while I pity any youth who might have fallen for the lying blandishments of Minister Mary Hanafin.
I love it when you touch me there Kirk ... er Peter
Dempsey must go
I agree with Deputy Tommie Broughan who has called on minister Noel Dempsey to resign. Failing that he should be sacked for his
Tommy Broughan TD
arrogance and incompetence, but that it unlikely to happen. Let him who is without sin etc.
Minister Dempsey is liked a spoiled teenager who when castigated for his selfish behaviour, responded almost by saying like Harry Enfield’s character Kevin the Teenager “This is SO unfair. I’m entitled to a holiday.” I might consider hat I am entitled to many things, a holiday being one. I haven’t had a holiday or years. It is unlikely that
I HATE YOU!!!
I will get one soon as the benefit upon which I must live has been reduced. By the way I feel I’m entitled to get more than a pittance by way of a blind pension. I certainly feel that I am not entitled to have this cut, an act which the minister for Social and Family Affairs even denies doing.
There are many other things in life to which I might have felt entitled, such as a job as a lecturer in an Irish university but one of these august institutions of learning (the one which granted a scholarship to Brian Lenihan Jr) felt more comfortable employing someone whom they later had to suse3nd (on full pay) for sexually harassing his students. I might have considered that I was entitled to have been invited to speak at a conference on medieval and early modern history of Cavan, organised by Cavan county Museum (and to which people from the UK and US were invited and paid to attend), but the research officer was too afraid that I might be embarrassed by such an invitation. I might have considered that I was entitled to be given proper employment of and payment for my many skills, in spite of being doubly disabled, but those in positions of authority obviously know better.
I have learned to live with these many disappointments, and anyway, being a mere nobody of a citizen, there is nothing I can do about them, whereas Minister Dempsey can every one of his puerile whims fulfilled.
The attitude of the cabinet towards the Irish people is so instructive. After introducing the wickedest and most deceitful budget since the 1930s government ministers jumped up and said: “We’re off on holiday now, and yez can all go and fuck yourselves.”
Competitive lip-service
In a report the National Competitiveness Council has once again drawn attention to the lack of competitiveness in charges amongst the professions and locally-traded services. The council has been highlighting this for years and pointing to its manifest dangers to the Irish economy.
But one fears that Dr Thornhill and the council, while sincererly committed to greater competitiveness, are whistling in the wind.
NCC chairman Don Thornhill
By professions we understand such services as those provided by doctors, dentists, accountants and other financial personnel, lawyers and architects. By their definition these are self-regulating professions, so no outside agency such as the legislature can tell them what to do; Furthermore, the vast majority of the senior cohort of most of our political parties, who in turn form our legislature, are members of these professions, so nothing will be done to rein in their anti competitive behaviour.
Mary Hanafin is a liar
For as long as I can remember the non-contributory blind pension has been equivalent to the non-contributory old age pension. It
She's an ugly bitch - and that's no lie
has been governed by the same means test level. For blind pensioners to suffer a benefit cut, while old age pensioners were let unscathed, was not only unjust, but was discriminatory. Benefit recipients have suffered a cut because they are blind and partially sighted. It is also galling that blind pensioners should be included amongst others who have suffered similar cuts, such as unemployment benefit. Even at the height of the Celtic Tiger years, unemployment amongst the blind and partially sighted was much higher than amongst the “able-bodied.” But the ultimate insult came on the morning of December 23rd, just before 8.39 am, when the minister for Social and Family affairs, Mary Hanafin, stated, not just once but twice on RTE’s Morning Ireland news program, that in the budge pensions had not been touched/ This was a clear, unambiguous lie and the minister is a liar. The interview was introduced with the painfully cringing pun that the minister was getting her teeth into Irish dentists – some teeth!! This stemmed from a shameful example of how the minister was being swayed by prejudice into believing that certain dentists were making claims to the dental health scheme for patients who had actually died – whether in the dentists’[s chairs was unclear. The minister could not back up this claim as it was based on anecdotal information –better known as prejudiced rumour, which had been fed to her by like-minded officials who knew how eagerly she would swallow it. It reminded me of Nikolai Gogol’s unfinished masterpiece Dead Souls.
Gogol
But this does not take away from the fact that Mary Hanafin TD is a liar. I say this knowing that any action which shows up the minister to be a liar will no doubt be rewarded by me being investigate3d (routinely of course or perhaps as the result of an “anonymous” tip-off) for social welfare fraud. I have nothing to hide, but it would be demeaning to me to have to speak the truth, that I ham in receipt of no other source of income than the measly pittance of the non-contributory blind pension. Even though I have nothing to hide, and given the ambiguous attitude of the minister towards the truth (which must surely seep down through the department) it is probable that something might be manufactured against me, and that I would be found to be in receipt of wholly fictitious money. (The onus would be on me to prove my innocence, which I could do but do I need the hassle?)
I might have been prepared to accept the benefit cut, but the realisation that it had been made by such a dishonest person as the minister who wished to lie rather own up to what she had done showed how morally and ethically bankrupt she is. The decision was taken because Ms Hanafin, like her colleagues, believes herself so much more superior to the Irish people, especially those in receipt of social welfare benefits. They are hard workers, so they like people to believe, who are not dependant on handouts, but I never chose to be partially sighted, and I would always have preferred to have a proper job but none was ever offered to me. But I consider myself, and the vast majority of Irish people to be superior to her – we have something she obviously lacks: integrity. She likes to act in the persona of the schoolteacher, talking down to her class, but she has shown that she has far more in common with the playground bully.
Life at the bottom
I have to admit that the cut in my Blind pension, compounded by the disgraceful way in which the minister for social affairs has lied about it, has left me reeling. My self confidence has taken a knock. I certainly feel far more uncertain about myself.
I’m nearly forty-five, an age at which many people take stock of their lives. I’ve achieved much, and done a lot I can be proud of, but in purely financial and material terms I am no better off than I was when I was 18. My sight seems to be holding its own, but I have been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, a disease of the nervous system which will get steadily worse (unless some miracle cure is discovered). My medication has succeeded in slowing down and ironing out the degree of relapse, but I am realistic enough to know that eventually I face complete paralysis maybe in the medium term. But the Irish government has so far responded to me not by giving me more but by taking away the little it gives, so that I anticipate in the coming years the prospects of being a penniless and helpless cripple, unable to work, indeed unable to do anything for myself. I will probably be housed, if I’m lucky, in a home where I’ll be the recipient of the mixture of care and indifference such places provide. Of course I will be looked down upon , and treated with condescension.
This is not the life I had planned out for myself. I have never considered myself imbued with extraordinary intelligence, but I always worked hard at education. This was for a very simple reason. I didn’t want to live in the twilight world of a cripple. No, I wanted to contribute fully to the world around me and earn adequate amounts of money; I knew it would be tough with my sight problem, so I thought that if I have grades and qualifications of a higher level than other people it will force society and prospective employees to give me a chance and treat me as an equal. How naïve I was! In all my hard work in education I was only fashioning a rod with which others could beat me.
In Ireland disabled people have very few rights in employment. All the cards are held by the employer. If he or she has the slightest hunch that a disabled person will not be able to do a job they are perfectly entitled to sack the disabled person, or, as happens fare more often, not give the disabled person a job at all. I was not considered for a job because I was “not a driver and able to get around,” even though the job was not that of a chauffeur. I was very well qualified for the job in question, and I was then intended to do much of the work the successful candidate couldn’t do, but for a far lower wage than he received.
But those disabled people who are in employment are made to feel that they are lucky. Certainly they are in a minority. One of the reasons often put forward for the higher level of unemployment amongst disabled people is lack of skills. This may be true, but dare I say again look at me. I have a PhD, as well as diplomas in proofreading, copy editing and public relations. I have a knowledge of over a dozen European languages, as well as a keen interest in areas like management studies and world trade. Am I any better off? I know I should have paid more attention to scientific and technological subjects, but I honestly feel that I would be equally “unemployable” in the minds of many employers if I had a Masters degree in information technology. I have made mistakes in life, but none of them are so serious that they must be punished by a life sentence of poverty. And exclusion
Many disabled people are confined to employment ghettoes, doing low=skilled and badly-paid work without prospects of promotion. This is especially true of the public service, and is a situation that has been allowed to continue with the connivance of the trades unions. These jobs are often entirely unsuitable for the particular disabled people who get them. In one local authority I know of a girl who is a university graduate who has a job in the motor tax department. She is partially sighted and finds the work tedious, as well as placing great strain and stress upon her eyes. In the local authority concerned there is only one disabled person employed in a higher, supervisory, role – and he is the son of a former TD and County Councillor (a man who, by the way, has worked tirelessly on behalf of his son, for which he deserves much praise).
I like to see myself as standing up to evil but I’m no hero. Yest, I am afraid, because I see those in positions of power and influence as being very evil, wicked and cowardly people who cover their nefarious activities. They are as evil as the likes of Osama Bin Laden, but though evil they seldom have courage, certainly not the courage to do anything on their own bat. No, they much prefer to act in consort with others who are similarly stained by evil. In this they remind me of the phenomenon recognised by Hannah Arendt in the likes of Eichmann; an evil which is banal, not very spectacular, but which is nevertheless capable of causing great harm.
I gain happiness from my marvellous partner, Rosie, our family of three dogs and five cats, my family and close friends. But I feel so vulnerable. The rulers of this country and their advisors are a group of cowardly, selfish, vicious and hypocritical thieves who are able to act with impunity. Nobody comments any more on how bad things have got, because they know they can’t change anything. The media seem to have gone into abeyance. An opinion poll hasn’t been published in months, and won’t be until it is favourable to the government. The country as a whole chugs along motivated by a culture of botch and mediocrity, which can be summed up in the phrase “Ah sure fuck it, it’s bollixed but it can’t be helped an’ anyway it’s not my job.” In many of our bigger towns and cities there is an out-of-control crime wave, with tit-for-tat murders occurring nightly, while our police are scared shitless of any real crime because it would be a challenge to them to actually do something instead of riding around in their squad cars. Visits to my local hospital in Cavan are prohibited for the forseeable future, bceause of another outbreak of the “Winter VOmitting bug.” This must make a stay in hospital more akin to a prison sentence for patients, whether they are on trolleys or are lucky enough to have a bed, It’s a bit of a joke isn’t it; you go to a hospital to be cured, but in Ireland you may come out seriously ill.
For me personally the feeling of vulnerability is compounded by the knowledge that the various charities and voluntary organisations who supposedly campaign for the disabled have thrown in their lot with the powers that be and are far more interested in raising funds to keep their officials in employment. Sometimes my fear at the situation leads to panic.
NCBI part 2
On September 15th 2009 I received a letter from the National Council of the Blind outlining the work of their very worthwhile EYE CAN program. The letter was accompanied with a request for a monthly payment towards it. It goes without saying that this was, in normal times, a worthy cause, but I felt that such a request was slightly inappropriate. Those in receipt of the non-contributory blind pension occupy a position astride the poverty line, and there are more than enough calls upon our limited income. What was more everyone knew that the aforementioned blind pension was facing a cut in line with the evil prescriptions of the McCarthy report.
I was anxious to explain the position I was in and why I, and most other blind pension recipients, would have been unable to contribute to the EYE CAN program, no matter how much they wanted to. I also wanted to find out what the NCBI was doing about the prospect of benefit cuts. Had it made a submission to the government? Could blind pension recipients help? Could they, for example, lobby their local politicians?
The letter I received had been sent in the name of the NCBI’s director Des Kenny. There were no contact details, such as an e-mail address. However, I eventually found a way of sending a letter to Des via e-mail. I did so in late September 2009 and I have never received a reply.
I subsequently found out that the National Council for the Blind had indeed made a pre budget submission, but without any involvement from those poor wretches whom it represents. This submission was, I feel, not quite as strident or rigorous as was necessary, and I take the liberty of reproducing a paragraph of it here.
“The report by the Commission on Taxation recommended that the Blind Person’s
Tax Credit be discontinued, in favour of a direct payment. NCBI broadly
agrees with this recommendation as the Blind Person’s Tax Credit currently
only benefits people in employment. However, NCBI would like to be involved
in the consultation around what this direct payment should be before giving
our full backing to this decision.”
The NCBI’s Communications Officer, Ms. Fionnuala Murphy, added
“These recommendations are drawn up in conjunction with our community-based staff, who have regular contact with people who are blind or vision impaired and keep themselves up to date on the issues that people face in their daily lives.”
Let me repeat, nobody from the NCBI has been in contact with me for years. Nobody can say I’m a shrinking violet when it comes to expressing how I feel.
For one thing, I would have refused to even engage in a budget based on the recommendations of Colm McCarthy. This was an unoriginal and dishonest right-wing blue-print for rolling back government involvement in the economy. But such churlishness would have been pooh-poohed by some as outrageous behaviour towards people who pretend to no more about things than I do. And then people like government ministers, senior civil servants and economists might have been in a better position to make donations to things like the EYE CAN project, and their generosity should not be met with ingratitude. But would a more strident, dare I say macho stance towards the McCarthy recommendations have mattered? They were followed almost to the letter.
I haven’t heard of the response (if any) by the NCBI to the cut in the blind pension benefit. It may have occurred, but fell below the news radar. In any case, not everything that happens in this country gets reported, no matter how news worthy it is. Another name for it is censorship. I somehow doubt that there response has been as robust as mine, as when I call Minister Hanafin a liar, a name to which she is more than entitled. Maybe there are those who have been conned into believing that if they’re nice to Minister Mary she won’t cut the blind pension in the next budget, or indeed might augment it by a few euro – that is, if Mary Hanafin is still a minister at the next budget. Her involvement with blind charities in the past is well known, and she certainly publicised it in her attempts to gin election to, amongst other bodies, Fianna Fail’s so-called Committee of Fifteen.
I noticed that the attempts of some blind and partially-sighted people to protest against the cutbacks were met with frowns of disapproval by those who said such protests would achieve nothing, that the government no matter how evil or corrupt it might be, is all powerful and that the blind and partially sighted are pretty much on society’s bottom rung. But the biggest elephant can be driven mad by the smallest flea. As Dolores Ibarruri (La Passionaria) once said, it’s better to die on your feet than live on your knees.
NCBI part 1
The National Council for the Blind of Ireland (NCBI) is the largest voluntary organisation working on behalf of the blind and partially-sighted in Ireland. It has helped, I am sure, thousands of blind and partially-sighted people over the years and is no doubt continuing to do so. However, because it relies on workers in various localities, whose experience of dealing with the blind varies considerably, I feel that its work has been patchy. It has, with difficulty, shaken off well-entrenched “Victorian” attitudes towards disability.
I beg leave of my readers to share my own experiences of the NCBI. Growing up in Cavan I must admit I felt that the NCBI treated me as something of a freak. My ambitions to better myself were tolerated as a fad which I would work myself out of, once I discovered that no matter how hard I worked I could never hope to aspire to be treated equally.
In 1988 I had a serious confrontation with the government when the Department of Social Welfare tried to throttle my attempts to study for a higher degree in Trinity College Dublin. I eventually won, but I had to make sure the NCBI took no part in my case, as it was manifest from early on that their support would have been given to the other side and against me. An NCBI official decried how unreasonable I was and then screamed at me that I was fighting “the law of the land.” I wanted to live independently in Dublin, something I achieved, though at a financial cost. The same NCBI person asked me why I’d never sought accommodation in a blind hostel.
When I came back to Cavan I was introduced to the NCBI’s then case worker in the area, Ms Bernie Rawls. We got on like a house on fire. For one thing Bernie treated me like an equal and never looked down on me. She was of huge assistance in getting me specialist software and computer hardware, as well as being a constant source of advice and friendship. Sadly, Bernie resigned from her post, and in her final letter to me she told me her NCBI replacement would be in touch with me. This was more than five years’ ago, and no one has contacted me since.
… To be continued
Let it snow
The weather forecast for the weekend is giving snow showers. I want to be among the first that, no matter what comes out of the sky, it is NOT the fault of minister for Transport Noel Dempsey. He has probably heard the weather forecast. Now he doesn’t like the cold so I wonder has he anything planned like a trip to Australia to see the brother?
Events at Stormont
Northern Ireland which seemed for so long to be going somewhere, now seems on the verge of relapsing into the dark, though for some people comfortable days of the past.
Among the protagonists is the chief minister, a cuckold, a man who claimed to be unaware that his wife was having a relationship with a boy forty years’ her junior, for which she was paying handsomely – though with other people’s money. Amongst his cabinet colleagues are Sammy Wilson, living proof that sectarianism has transferred into racism, who also does not believe in man-made climate change. And then there is another minister who is a creationist, who rejects evolution. In most civilised nations such “colourful” souls would be left in Flat Earth Corner. And the whole power-sharing regime could be brought down by one side’s determination to perverse the rights of a religiously exclusive, male only clique to march through areas where they’re not wanted wearing bank manager outfits.
The chances for a successful resolution have not been helped by the involvement of outsiders, especially the Irish taoiseach Brian monkeyman Cowen, an individual who cannot be trusted and who talks out of both sides of his mouth.
So much also centres on policing and justice. The PSNI has made great strides to become a worthy professional police force, enjoying the respect of all. But the flat earthers aren’t happy with this. They want a return to the good old days of the B-Specials, with a proper police force who could be trusted to burn Catholics and undesirables out of their homes.
And then there is the prospect of a “grand coalition” between the UUP and the flat earthers, and worse still of a tie-up at Westminster between Big Orange and the Tories. David Cameron’s attempts to lay to sleep the ghost of Thatcherism would seem mere spin if he were to ally himself with such intractable bigots.
A monument for survivors of clerical abuse
A spokesman for a group of victims of clerical abuse has urged taoiseach Brian two-face Cowen to spend the money the government intended to devote to a monument to survivors on disaster relief in Haiti. I am entirely in agreement.
I am not a big fan of monuments, plaques, statues what have you. For me they are associated with authoritarian regimes that want
Someone to watch over me
to glorify themselves. One thinks of the way in which El Caudillo littered Spain with statues of himself, or of the gargantuan and hideous examples of bad taste associated with the bizarre personality cult of Saparmurad Niyazov in Turkmenistan, culminating in a larger-than-life statue of Niyazov which would turn in an orbit every twenty-four hours, topped with a strobe light to shine into different areas of Ashghabat, Turkmenistan’s capital.
I think the government’s commitment to such a plan demonstrates their bad faith towards survivors. They don’t give a damn about them, but such a project would be a nice little money=spinner for the boys and girls. There would have to be a committee, with a token representation from survivors’ groups, but made up primarily by higher civil servants, politicians and their relatives, all of whom would get nice expenses. Room might be found for the Arts consultant who was the minister’s brother who was paid by the taxpayer to go around the country telling the local arts officers what they should be doing. And then there would be an “open and fair” competition for the design which, once again, would be awarded to the artist or sculptor of the moment. But finally, what about the wording? Cowen has insinuated that the monument is an act of supplication from the people of Ireland to abuse victims. The ordinary people of Ireland need not ask the forgiveness of survivors – they weren’t the ones doing the abusing or covering it up. The people who should be on their knees are the Catholic hierarchy and leaders of religious groups, as well as those members of the laity who helped them up in it, namely the higher civil servants, health board officials, members of the judiciary and police force and members of certain Catholic lay groups which monopolised the upper echelons of Irish society. And let us not forget certain right-wing politicians, some of whom were members of Brian Cowen’s own party and were fathers of serving ministers, upon whom the Catholic hierarchy could depend to parrot their opinions and on occasions embellish them. They had a stranglehold over Irish life, having erected an impenetrable monolith which is only now beginning to crack but which still retains its vigour in certain areas. These were the antichrists, the devils disguised in soutanes and collars who should beg on their bellies for forgiveness and what’s more any resources they have (which one suspects are considerable) should be taken from them.
Let me end by quoting the Roman poet Horace.
Exegi monyumentum aere perennius
Regalique situ pyrammidum altius
Quod non imber edax, non Aquillo impotens
Posit dirvere …
That’s your actual Latin that is, and so lest Cowen or his goons read it, I should translate
I have built a monument longer lasting than bronze
And taller than the royal site of the pyramids
Which no hungry showers or impotent north wind
Can destroy…
I’d like this to be my epitaphs, though I don’t intend to have a ταφος on which it can be inscribed.
The earthquake in Haiti
Few people can have been left unmoved by the pictures of grief coming from Haiti. As if life wasn’t unfair enough to its people to be visited by an earthquake that may have killed quarter of a million people is beyond the unjust. Something that is equally unjust is that Haiti owes a consortium of international banks over $1 billion, some of it left over what the Duvalier family dictatorship. This has not been cancelled, so while the international community have made great efforts to rush aid and relief workers to Haiti, that country has to continue to repay money to mega-rich financial institutions, to ensure their management echelons have enough money to spend on their private jets, their five-star resorts and their ten gran a night prostitutes.
This unjust debt can and should be cancelled. A petition has been launched to bring pressure to bear on the finance ministers of the G7 to take such a move at the next G7 meeting scheduled for Canada next week. Details can be found at avaz,org
Maria Ginala’s new, updated website
I am conscious that I devote far too much of my blog to horrible, shitty things like lying cabinet ministers and corrupt officials. I want to make amends by informing my readers of the updated website of my dear friend, the talented artist Maria Ginala. It is truly beautiful and heart-warming. http://fainomenon.webs.com/
Take That Mary
The news that public money was spent on tickets to a Robbie Williams concert is just one more example of the grab culture that
Maybe Roddy fancied him
predominates here. Don’t ask “Is it right or wrong?” only “Can I?” The fact that minister Mary Coughlan defended it shows that she is just another rotting, yes rotting member of the cabinet. I used to think that Mary Coughlan was, well, not quite as bad as the rest of them. I think of the work she is supposed to have done with groups like Forfas and the National Competitiveness Council. Now she’s just as big a WHORE as the other people called Mary at cabinet level. Truth of the old Italian proverb: Chi va con lo zoppo impara zoppicare.” Who walks with the lame learns to limp, or, if you lie down with dogs you’ll get up scratching.
There is another aspect of this affair that is reprehensible. Last time I looked Robbie Williams was a British pop star. If they had to squander money on a concert why couldn’t they have gone to an Irish gig? Daniel O’Donnell, Mary Black, Foster & Allen? Oh no, Croppy Lies Down! If the tickets had been to an Irish act, like Daniel (who’s a constituent of hers), the minister would have been able to say that the artists were a credit to the country, who gave employment and paid their taxes sometimes, and that the visit was part of a worthwhile attempt to showcase Irish talent. Now this would never have happened under Albert Reynolds’ watch. Oh no. I still recall how the late Joe Dolan described Albert as “one of the daysenest fellas in the rack … the business”.
I view the present government as a bad dream. I wish they’d pack up and fuck off. Of course, I see visions of them all piling into the government jet, which because it would be overloaded with their loot, not to mention Mary Harney herself, would loose altitude and crash, maybe over the Bog of Allen but in the taoiseach’s own constituency.
Cavan meteorite
A small meteorite has landed in Co. Cavan. Now in the past the landing of meteorites and space debris has been greeted by the rock, once discovered, being renamed in honour of some megalomaniac. Thus, a meteorite which landed in the vast, landlocked nation of Turkmenistan was named Turkmenbashi in honour of the long-standing president Saparmurad Niyazov. I recall how President Francia of Paraguay had a meteorite named after him when it landed in an uninhabited part of his territory.
Had it landed here in Cavan during the reign of former county manager, it would undoubtedly have been named the Brian Johnston meteorite. His successor Jack Keys, is probably as anxious to have things named in his honour, but he would have to obtain the agreement of P. Elliott and co. first.
It’s hard to see how it could be named after anyone from local politics. The minister for Agriculture, Brendan Smith keeps such a low profile around Cavan these days that if it was named after him no one would be able to find it.
But this meteoric fragment belongs not just to Cavan but to the people of Ireland as a whole. It might therefore be more fitting for it to be named after the most powerful man in Ireland, whose every whim must be satisfied, Professor Colm McCarthy.
The most worrying aspect is whether the meteor will be entitled to exorbitant travel expenses, like so many Cavan County Councillors.
A country fit for wankers
The government has published its Finance Bill today, which will give effect to many of the measures announced in last December’s budget. Of course many of the cuts in welfare payments, which cause real hardship for people, came into effect last month with what could only be called indecent haste.
The finance bill sets out a nice, softly-softly approach to the wealthy who must never feel threatened in the enjoyment of their loot, no matter how illegally it may have been acquired
This is but one more part of the present government’s efforts to turn Ireland into a land fit for bankers, stock brokers and property developers to live in.
Smaller fry pay taxes, both direct and indirect. Often the amount is cripplingly high. However the members of the groups I mentioned in the previous paragraph are able to pay bribes – always more welcome to politicians and bureaucrats.
Government jobs strategy
In the Dail debate of February 3rd the opposition charged the government with having no jobs strategy. This is wrong.
The government has a jobs strategy. It involves making sure that all the nice, well-paid jobs are held by party supporters, family members and well-wishers, and that these jobs and the manifold associated perks NEVER slip from their grasps, no matter how badly the jobs are performed. Furthermore those holding these jobs must grab as much as they can, regardless of how little entitled they are to such sums or how unjust this larceny is. This must be performed with derision and contempt of the public at large and must give rise in the eyes of the latter-day gnomes of Zurich who apparently own our government, that they are tough and macho.
It is only fair to say that much of this strategy is also held fast to by the largest opposition party, who are able to sit back and see Fianna Fail pursue the policies it would dearly like to follow, while letting the government take all the shit for them. I must say though that I don’t believe that Mr Kenny and his colleagues possess the same moral cowardice as the present government.
Bye George
The departure of George Lee from the Dail is regrettable, though understandable. The worst charges that can be laid at his door are
Geerge Lee
naivety and impatience. He has exposed the rotten and dishonest system of government whose putrefaction has spread to all levels and which really is democratic in name only.
Lee probably thought that he could make a difference, and where better to influence things than at the theoretical centre of power. The principle of the division of powers was first put forward by eighteenth-century French writer, Baron de Montesquieu. There are three: the judicial, the executive and the legislative. Of these the legislative is, or at least should be, the first amongst equals. It’s the only branch whose members are chosen by the general public. It only took George Lee nine months to realise that, as a member of the Irish legislature he was as impotent as a eunuch.
I feel that those well-informed canines, the dogs in the street know this anyway. What’s more George has been rubbing shoulders for long enough with politicians, so he had heard all the comments by both present and past TDs that membership of the Dail gives you one of the best parking spaces in central Dublin, but sweet FA else. Still he wanted to try and make a difference. Naïve yes, but he is not to be blamed for trying. He may have believed that he might be able to influence the nation’s economic policies, but surely he realises by now that these are formulated by a small cabal of far-right economics and Finance ministry officials, many with links to shadowy Masonic or quasi-masonic organisations. It’s not really about economic policy at all, just making sure that those with lots of money keep it, and that those with little pay for the excessive tastes of those in power.
Thousands of people voted for George Lee; as their representative he has been cold-shouldered by “the system”.
George Lee was certainly impatient. I doubt that he is the first frustrated idealist in the Dail. Had he been a little more patient perhaps he could have tried to sit it out and meanwhile enjoyed the highlife – the parking space, the salary, the perks. He could have worked through his frustration with alcohol and prostitutes, like many parliamentarians before him. This way he might have eventually been allowed near the levers of power, but only when he had been completely transformed into a cynical, self-serving individual – in short, into a rank-and-file TD.
What of the thousands who voted for George in last summer’s by-election? Has he let them down? No doubt many voted for him because of what they hoped he could do, and if he feels that he cannot be true to the trust placed in him his resignation must be respected. He could have emulated public representatives at both national and local level who respond to the trust placed in them by the electorate by basically giving their voters the two fingers on being elected and saying that, as public representatives they deserve holidays and five-star accommodation.
George Lee has resigned not just from the Dail but from the Fine Gael party. This demonstrates how absolutely useless and defunct that party is and how little it differs from the bunch of scoundrels in power. In fact the liars and cowards of Fianna Fail would not be able to get away with half of their criminality if there was a genuine and authentic opposition. Fianna Fail is in the doldrums in the opinion polls and Fine Gael has been the main beneficiary of the anti-Fianna Fail backlash, but they are scared shitless of actually holding power. Their policies are just as unoriginal as Fianna Fail; and the latter’s hair-shirt right-wing economic projects are nothing more than unreconstructed blueshirt policies of the type that General O’Duffy would have been proud. The average Fine Gael supporter and politician is just as avid at grabbing from the public purse for himself, his family and friends as his or her Fianna Fail colleague. Historically, they just haven’t had the same access to power – at national level. At local level it is a different story, and spotting the difference between a greedy and corrupt Fianna Fail and Fine Gael councillor would outsmart the most seasoned “Spot-the-Ball” player. Fine Gael is afraid of gaining power far more than Fianna Fail is afraid of losing They might lose the cars, some might even lose their seats, but there’s always the senate, and it’s not as if any of them are likely to end up on the labour.
But what need was there for Monkey-man Cowen to get in on the act, saying that the life of a politician was tough? This was really implying that George Lee might be a nice guy but when it came to being a politician he just couldn’t hack it; that you need balls and no conscience to stick it out. George Lee has numerous talents, unlike so many members of the Dail, unlike indeed Brian Cowen is of no use to society. He qualified as a solicitor, and the life of a small-town legal big shot with family connections, getting people off drink driving charges, is a perfect job for him and for so many others
Tell the truth and shame the devil
Grouch O'Dea
Minister for Defence Willie Wit your whistle O’Dea has admitted that a sworn statement he made to the High Court contained material which was, as Oliver North would have said, radically at odds with the truth.
Unfortunately I’ve been out of the loop for a while now (drink, drugs, bisto gravy granule abuse etc.), but in my day making a sworn statement to a court containing information that you knew to be false was called perjury. But as Willie knows that so many of his colleagues have an ambivalent attitude towards telling the truth he just feels he wants to fit in.
Isn’t it comforting to know that at a time of economic hardship the government which is imposing unfair and draconian measures on the Irish people is composed of a pack of liars. And if they are not telling porkies they are defending liars and cheats. Take tanaiste Mary Coughlan. One of the reasons why she never bothered to get back to Ryanair boss Michael O’Leary was because she was too busy defending the likes of Roddy Molloy, the trip to the Robbie Williams concert, and other members of the rusty circle.
I’ve got one thing to say to Michael O’Leary: Good on ya mate!
Cumann cumann do the locomotion with me
It seems the Soldiers of Destiny are attempting to re-form in Cavan, and come out of the burrows of shame into which they have quite rightly retreated.
My sister recently received an invitation to a cumann meeting in Cavan town. The invitation listed all of the great things Fianna Fail had done for Cavan town, though surely such pork-barrel politics is seen for the scam it is. When any political party takes credit for anything I’m reminded of a comment made by Al Gore in the 1992 Presidential debate in the US, when he said George Bush Sr’s attempts to take credit for the fall of the Berlin wall was a bit like the cock taking credit for the sunrise.
The invitation went on to mention minister Brendan Smith, but failed to refer to his reluctance to meet with a local farmers’ delegation, or his insistence on using a private limousine to take him from a hotel to a nearby conference centre, even though his colleague, Minister Mary Coughlan, was staying in the same five-star hotel. Brendan may be personally honest, but yet he sits at cabinet with a group of lying gangsters whose policies include stealing money from the blind and then refusing to own up to their cowardly actions.
And then it finished by mentioning Fianna Fail councillors, but once again it was quite about the gargantuan sums in travel expenses racked up by some of them. But we must be even-handed here. The pursuance of the “grab” culture is just as evident amongst members of Fine Gael.
As for the invitation I am assured by my sister that she has no intention of accepting it.
Michael O’Leary
What I think of Mary Coughlan
It is an open secret that Ryanair boss Michael O’Leary is viewed with scorn by Fianna Fail. Remember Bathgate involving former minister Mary O’Rourke? It is obvious that he must have trod on some Fianna Fail toes, but it is far more likely that the disdain stems from senior officials in the government, the eminences greases [sic] who control politicians like marionettes by a puppet master.
I cannot say what has happened. Maybe Michael O’Leary’s no-nonsense approach to business has irked some people. The fact that he was, I believe, educated by the Jesuits may not have won him universal acclaim in the obscurantist corridors of power; we all know the degree of hatred which exists in some areas of the Catholic Church towards the Society of Jesus.
One thing we can be certain of. The hostility towards Michael O’Leary does not stem from some cabinet minister or senior mandarin having an unfortunate ex
One thing we can be certain of. The hostility towards Michael O’Leary does not stem from some cabinet minister or senior mandarin having an unfortunate experience on a Ryanair flight. Fie for shame! Ryanair is only for poor people.
Now there are some areas of Ryanair’s modus operandi that I might be less than happy with, but no one can doubt that Michael O’Leary has shaken up the airline industry, making air travel affordable to huge swathes of people for whom a trip in a ‘plane was previously a once-in-a-blue-moon luxury. One other thing cannot be denied about Michael O’Leary. He is a resident of the state, and pays his taxes here. He’s not an honorary consul for some taxation Elysium.
His treatment at the hands of the department of Trade etc. is unacceptable. A cow-boy property developer from rural Ireland (who contributed to party coffers) would have been treated more seriously. But maybe that’s just it. Michael O’Leary hasn’t been paying off senior officials and politicians. It would be in keeping with Michael O’Leary’s personality to believe that the business acumen of his proposals should sell themselves.
Limerick you’re no lady
Disgraced minister Willie O’Dea admitted in the Dail that the allegation he made against Councillor Maurice Quinlivan had originated with a member of An Gardai Siochana. Just as Willie O’Dea seemed to be obsessed with ladies of the night it is surely worthy of note that the guards in Limerick seem similarly obsessed with brothels. I wonder why? And in a city with a crime problem that is long out of control. No wonder gangs are free to rub each other out because the police are too inefficient to combat the violence. One recalls the Limerick bouncer murdered by criminals because he would not allow them to sell drugs in the club where he worked. Of course, the gardai were elsewhere that night, too busy cruising Clancy Strand, the old Dock Road and Perry Square in their squad cars to see who they could blackmail.
The allegation may not have been true, and O’Dea was just so gullible that he swallowed the bait, no matter how much of shit it tasted. Let’s just give O’Dea the benefit of the doubt. The garda in question obviously thought this would be a great way to get some promotion in the future – feed something to a politician who seemed, until recently, to be on the way up. Certainly the ministry of justice seemed one that O’Dea could aspire to. The minister would then remember the debt of gratitude he owed to the flatfoot and respond by giving him a pull up through the ranks. It is alas due to such procedures that many promotions are earned. It would be far better if they were earned for fighting crime, but Jaisus, that’s too dangerous.
Brian Cowen: you are below contempt
A couple of days before Christmas a Cavanman brings his son to the cemetery. The man stops and, pointing to one grave says to the boy: “Look son, that’s where Santy’s buried.”
Those grown-ups who believe in Santa Claus are probably the only people who believe Brian Cowen’s assertion that Fianna Fail had nothing to do with engineering Trevor Sargent’s resignation. In many ways the media are just as responsible. When O’Dea fell on his bodkin there were those who hailed it as the Greens getting their first head. It was obvious that many of the backwoodsmen in Fianna Fail blamed the Greens in the same way that nearly two decades ago they blamed the then Venereal Democrats for the resignations of Jim McDaid and Brian Lenihan Sr. The fact that the latter and O’Dea had shown they were unfit to serve in government never came into play. Fianna Fail has a God-given mandate to rule, or rather misrule. The O’Dea affair proved once again that Fianna Fail can never be allowed to rule on their own. When one of theirs fucks up the instinctive reaction is to crowd round to protect the erring member from attack. As a result misdeeds go unpunished, and in the words of John Milton they continue to “rot inwardly and foul contagion spread”.
What Trevor Sargent did was wrong, but in the scheme of things it was not nearly so wrong as stating in court on the Bible that what he was going to say was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth and proceeding to give information which was anything but.
The backwoodsmen may be happy they’ve scored the equaliser, but at what cost? They might have wanted to say: “We’re not the only crooks” but Trevor Sargent by his swift resignation and acceptance of responsibility has positioned himself on a different continent from O’Dea.
The question now is whether the Greens can stay in government with such people. Were they to leave now they might just be able to salvage one or two seats. If they stay any longer they are facing electoral oblivion. As someone who has long championed environmental issues this would be regrettable.
Corruption in Cavan County Council
Q. How do we know that the vagina was designed by Cavan County Council?
A. Because only they would ever think of putting a pleasure garden beside a shithole.
This joke was told to me by a self-confessed lesbian who claimed he loved women though he’d never been with a man.
Gluttonous ministers
RTE has announced plans for a new five-star travel show, a kind of up-market No Frontiers. It has been inspired by the expensive tastes; some might say gluttony, of our government ministers. Each week the same ugly and incompetent people will zip off to some five or six star resort. They will fly to and from there by a special executive jet, and once there they will dine at the most exclusive restaurants and eat the fanciest chow. They won’t need spending money, because everything will be free. The costs of the journey will be shown to viewers, but these will be so astronomical that no one will be able to afford them. broadcaster toyed with including a “reality” element, where the viewers would vote off each week the most insufferable person, or maybe the biggest glutton, or the one who had spent the most, but they felt that to make the show truer to reality the viewing public would just have to grin and bear it, as it seems the Irish public have to do with their government.
Really, the cabinet is acting like a crowd who have stumbled on a vast fortune, and are determined to spend it all before they can be caught. Minister Coughlan’s visit to the restaurant in Brussels defies hyperbole though. She got through over forty zakuskis. Now a zakuska is any Russian hors d’oeuvre. It is always served before a meal and is usually consumed with chilled vodka. It can include small pies or blinis with caviar or pickled mushrooms. They are very tasty, but I defy anyone but the greatest glutton to consume more than a dozen. In fact, Mary Coughlan’s consumption was like something from the pages of Gogol.
She had ikra – caviar. One wonders whether it was Beluga or Ostropolsky or some of that Iranian muck. However I don’t think this is being asked by the hard-pressed fishermen of Killybegs or Burtonport where sturgeon aren’t to be found, but then they’re only catching ordinary common-or-garden fish, just not suitable for Mary from Kilcar’s tastes.
All of this gluttony takes place far from our shores. Had these ministerial pig-outs happened in Ireland the ministers or their PR lia … handlers could have pointed out that the hotels in question were major sources of employment, using Irish produce. We once had a tourism industry. I think we still do, in spite of the weather. It gives jobs to thousands yet our government ministers seem to dismiss it with contempt.
There seems to be an obsession with foreign travel. I love travel but I think there is an awful element of one-upmanship and snobbery in boasting about travelling beyond our shores. Our weather is often indifferent, but however much I love La Belle France I’d rather be stung by a bee in Buttevant than by a mosquito in Marseille. What’s more it can be too hot. It’s alright for someone who can make a stab at the lingo, or who doesn’t mind resorting to gestures, but many Irish people, in common with the inhabitants of our neighbour across the “sheugh”, seem dead set against learning even a few words of the local language, holding the opinion that everyone should speak English.
I beg my readers’ indulgence for this little rant, but I am forced to observe that, thanks to the cuts implemented by this government I won’t be able to afford to go on holiday, even in Ireland. There are still so many parts of the country that I’d love to explore and that I’d love to introduce to my partner Rosie. And as for those making the cuts? They smirk “Wish you were here?!!!” from their luxury suites in foreign climes as they listen to their live pianist.
Minister on his back
Yeah ... that's SO good M...
Say a wee prayer now won’t you for poor Minister Martin Cullen who is crucified with back pains. The minister thought that he was Bill Clinton and so fantasised about having his cock sucked by a woman called Monica. Those who have blown him off were apparently so physical and strong that they have dislocated some of the bones in his back, leaving poor Martin in a horizontal position.
The poor minister has had to cancel a trip to the US west coast. Maybe, like Borat, he was going there in search of Pamela and, like Borat, he had heard that she sucked a lot of dick.
Instead Martin “Patsy” Mansergh is going, though if he meets Pamela it is possible she would blow him away. I knew Martin Mansergh’s father, a kind, erudite gentleman, the epitome of a scholar. They must have found Martin under a bush. Otherwise he is living proof of the phenomenon mentioned by Lady Wilde in the mid 19th century of the changeling.
So another of that accursed crew of a cabinet falls ill: my curse is gathering strength. He saw at cabinet and approved benefit cuts including that to the blind pension, and so he must share in my righteous wrath ….
PS. I would like to take this opportunity to reiterate in the strongest possible terms that I never believed any of those stories about minister Cullen buying expensive presents with public funds for PR people in return for oral sex, though I accept he splashed out on a dress.
Degrees of stupidity
Do you ever wonder whether you’re living in a free country or whether the efforts of past generations to attain our freedom were pointless? It sometimes seems as if the only icons of nationhood we see on a daily basis is the harp on official letters demanding money to support a corrupt and wasteful government. Sure, we have passports, but they’ve long been openly for sale to the highest bidder, and as an Irish passport holder there are many parts of the Middle East I wouldn’t feel safe going. So all of this sovereignty stuff is about as useful as a bowl of cold piss.
Take recently when the head of a US-based multinational described our education system as “average”. Our education system lacks flexibility, and has traditionally been too much controlled by druids and their acolytes in far-right Catholic lay organisations, but with respect to my friends in the US and UK our education system is better.
But this comment led to the Minister for Education, Batt O’Keefe, to launch an investigation into whether their had been “award inflation” (in other words, had people been given marks to which they were not entitled). This was but another act of insensitivity by this incompetent government. There are loads of people out there who, through no fault of their own, have lost their jobs or fear losing them. One of the few things they could feel sure about was their educational awards, but these have been devalued at a stroke. But these people must remember that their awards were earned through their own efforts unlike many of the hangers-on around this government who in spite of not having any awards to be proud of, have managed to crawl into lucrative and safe jobs.
Minister O’Keefe said nothing about award inflation within Irish universities, particularly for scholarship examination taking place independently of the end of term exams, such as the “Schol” system within my own alma mater Trinity College, In order to get such a scholarship candidates must achieve first class honours. It has long been felt that award inflation has been at work here and that those who have benefited have been sons and daughters of politicians, such as our present cancerous minister for Finance Brian Lenihan Jr and Ms Rachel Hussey, daughter of former education minister Gemma Hussey and “elected” a scholar in 1985, when her mother was serving as minister for education, But all of these people were “smarter than the average bear Boo-Boo” and deserved their awards, whereas the “award inflation” spoken of by Minister O’Keefe only deals with small people.
The invisible man speaks again
In today’s post I received an invitation to a talk organised by the National Council for the Blind (NCBI). This is to take place in Cavan’s library and the speaker will be Cavan County Museum’s Dr Brendan Scott, who will talk about the Franciscan friary in Cavan, a subject of such great relevance to the blind and partially sighted.
Now I know that Dr Scot and his miserable friends, who are such avid readers of my blog, would love me to spill my guts on my blog about this. But to be honest, I can’t be arsed. However, I never realised that Brendan Scott of Belturbet is such a low-down, cowardly, cruel cur. His father seems such a nice man though.
As for the NCBI they once again prove themselves to be useless. Indeed, one must question their role as a charitable organisation which claims to be representing the interests of the blind and partially sighted. When they want someone to give a lecture they don’t turn to the partially sighted person in their locality who has a PhD in history as well as years of lecturing experience. They claim ignorance of his existence, even though he is no shrinking violet, and in spite of also being confined to a wheelchair, leads a very public life. Instead they have to ask the County Council and the County Manager’s little darling. In the light of my description of him I think this speaks volumes.
Up up and away for St Patrick’s Day
The government’s travel plans for St Patrick’s Day have been announced, and as expected our governments almost to a man will be spending our national holiday abroad. They cynically say that this is motivated by job promotion. Now once again this displays a slave mentality. We have to look abroad for people to make jobs for us in Ireland. What happened to the spirit of Sinn Fein, or Ourselves Alone? The Sinn Fein of Arthur Griffith was the political ancestor of Fianna Fail. I think many will agree that we must keep an eye on our own homegrown businesses and firms, many of which are small-scale, but which has the capacity to improve our economic well being and provide sustainable employment.
But you know, I’m tired pointing out the fact that we’re ruled by scoundrels. It’s like flogging a dead horse at this stage. We do live in a democracy and we get the rulers we deserve. So if they shit upon the people, as they do, it is because the Irish people have allowed themselves to be shat upon. I would also be the first to admit that while our rulers are with few exceptions, a bunch of rogues, they are not alone. In many ways they perfectly reflect Irish society.
PS I am still the holder of a valid Irish passport but as I can’t afford to travel I don’t have much use for it these days.So if anyone from Mossad or any other secret service reads this and needs an Irish passport for a job it’s for sale. And if they’re prepared to pay a bit extra they can keep it.
Thinking about Patrick: the name Patrick
I am posting a number of brief items about St Patrick. I think they will show that I am something of a medieval expert.
The name Patrick
Patrick is without a doubt one of the commonest personal name in Ireland. There is nobody who doen’s know at least half a dozen Pats or Paddys. A man confronted by his wife one as to the people he was with on a binge the previous evening can usually get away with it by answering “… er Paddy was with us” even though he can recall nothing concrete about the event or the company he was with.
But the name wasn’t always so popular. During the Middle Ages, when Ireland was divided culturally between the Irish and the Anglo-Normans, Patrick was much commoner amongst the Norman nobility. In the late eleventh century Patrick, the first bishop of Dublin, was an Englishman from Worcester. A prominent landlord in Co. Meath was one Patrick Barnewall. But it was never popular amon the highest nobility, like the ears of Desmond, Ormond and Kildare.
In contrast, very few Gaelic Irish people had the name Patrick or Padraig. It was used only by the religious. Just as today people, on becoming a member of a religious order will adopt the name of a saint, so too Padraig only crept up among men who belonged to religious families or members of the hierarchy. For example, Padraig O Cridagain (O’Cregan) from northwest Leitrim who became bishop of Kilmore in the early fourteenth century. The saint and the name were obviously held in such high veneration that it was considered unseemly for ordinary folk to hold it.
Padraig did occur more frequently in combination. There was Giolla Phadraig, literally the servant of Patrick. This surname Mac Gioilla Phadraig was adopted in the eleventh century by a Laois family who rose to greater prominence later on in the Middle Ages. In the 1540s they were one of a handful of families involved in the “Surrender and Regrant” scheme of English Lord Deputy Anthony St Leger. In return for accepting the English king as their overlord they were regranted all their lands with a new noble title, the barons of Upper Ossory. They also had to change their surname and Mac Gioilla Phadraig became Fitzpatrick. Other families descended from a Giolla Phadraig eventually did the same, including a branch of the O’Reillys in Co. Cavan – incidentally the Giolla Phadraig in question was the son of a bishop!
The Mayo surname Padden or Mac Padden comes from the Irish Mac Paidin, but this is of Anglo-Norman origin. Members of families like the Barretts and Stauntons adopted Irish language and customs in the later Middle Ages and those called Patrick were known as Paidin, as were their descendants.
The name became more popular in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. As late as 1834 the great scholar John O’Donovan wrote: “I do not believe that Patrick, as the name of a man is a hundred and fifty years in use.”
Even though the name was not common, this didn’t take away from the reverence in which St Patrick was held throughout all Ireland. It was only in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that it became a common first name, leading to the situation that by the middle of the eighteenth century it became popular in England to depreciatingly refer to all Irish people as Paddies.
© Ciaran Parker
All hold my copyright, so Dr Brendan Scott or any other scum from Cavan County Museum in Ballyjamesduff better not think of stealing any of it, though the laws of copyright would be a mere inconvenieence to the son of a member of a town counciol or someone with Whacko Jacko behind him.
Patrick’s Purgatory
The site of St Patrick’s Purgatory in Lough Derg, Co. Donegal has drawn pilgrims for many centuries. During the later middle ages the fame of the site was known throughout Western Europe. Few mediAeval tourists were as intrepid and fearless as pilgrims. They
The modern basilicam Lough Derg
had to be, and while dangers and annoyances were commonplace nearer home, the idea of travelling for months into inhospitable lands inhabited by fearsome people, would have dissuaded all but the most foolhardy.
Among those who liked to live on the wilder side was a young nobleman from Catalonia named Joan Jose de Perelhos. He came from a good family and was quite wealthy. In the last decade of the fourteenth century, just a half century after the Black Death, he decided to travel to Ireland. This was a trip to the limits of the known world. involving at least two sea trips before he got to our shores. Once here he would have found the weather very different from at home. He would have had great difficulty in communicating with the locals. Travel was difficult as there were no established roads leading to Lough Derg. Accommodation must also have been a problem, and what was more he arrived at a time when the north of Ireland was experiencing a food shortage. The only food available consisted of thin oaten wafers. Because he was a member of the nobility he was given shelter by the most powerful family in the area, the O’Neills. Fortunately some of the priests at O’Neill’s court knew Latin, a language understood by Perelhos. On returning home he wrote an account of his adventures. While such brave travellers were rare we can be confident that Perelhos was not the only person from the continent to attempt the journey, but if they left any account of their trip it has not survived.
A little over a hundred years later a Dutchman made up his mind to go to Lough Derg, inspired by the tales of self-abnegation which pilgrims had to undergo there. Little had changed in Ireland. On arriving at the lake it was raining heavily; the Dutchman was brought in a rather leaky boat towards a cave where he was told the true purgatory of St Patrick was located. It was cold and, apart from the unpleasant sensation of entering a damp, dark cave, the Dutchman could see nothing. Rather than feeling that he had indeed experienced something like purgatory he left Lough Derg under the impression that the whole thing was a scam, a medieval tourist trap to lure the devout and wealthy world traveller and separate them from their cash. So disgusted was he that wrote a report to the Vatican who responded by formally suspending the pilgrimage to Lough Derg and removing all papal protection and support for those making the journey. This has never been reversed by any document from the Vatican, but it didn’t have much of an impact on Lough Derg. Pilgrims continue to flock here, with the Catholic Church’s full support.
© Ciaran Parker
The saint with the spear
One day in late summer St Patrick was summoned to Ardee to sort out a row about the disappearance of church funds. He set out on foot carrying his trusty staff as a walking aid. His way went through Moybolgue in the rolling borderlands of east Cavan. The day was blistering, with a sun that beat down on the saint from an azure blue sky. There wasn’t a breath of wind. Patrick was thirsty and foot-sore and what’s more he was “out of his head with the hunger”. As he walked along he saw before him in the distance a beautiful girl with long golden tresses cascading over her shoulders and down her back. She had eyes as blue as the sky and teeth whiter than marble. She was riding a lovely white horse which was being led along the pot-holed road by a handsome young groom. St Patrick was a saint but he was also a man. He thought the heat had got to him and that he was seeing mirages. The girl, horse and groom were riding along a hedge of wild bilberries, so close that the girl put out her hand to pick some fruit. Patrick watched avidly as her delicate mouth opened to receive the berries. As she bit into them the air was rent by the loudest clap of thunder St Patrick had ever heard. The sun darkened and clouds of acrid, foul-smelling smoke swirled around. The young girl was nowhere to be seen. She had been replaced by a giant hag with horrible, slime-green eyes shooting forth tongues of fire. With each breath this creature pulsated violently, spewing forth a suffocating poisonous mist. It opened its mouth to reveal a deep chasm, guarded by two horrible fangs which fell upon the horse and groom devouring both and digesting them with a stomach-churning belch. Not far off there was a funeral cortege. The mourners carried a black-draped coffin. On seeing the hag they dropped the coffin and ran off, but they were not swift enough for the hag who seemed to swoop down upon them, issuing a cackle before consuming them. At this the hag spied St Patrick. Its appetite was not yet sated and it moved towards him, with the obvious intention of adding him to the bill of far. He crouched down behind some stones and held the staff he walked with away from his body. He waited until he could feel the hag’s malodorous breath upon him and taking precise aim propelled the staff through the air towards the hag’s forehead. As it landed between its eyes it exuded an ear-splitting screech of agony, followed by an ever louder exposition, accompanied by fire and multi-coloured sparks. The hag separated into four large pieces which flew through the air. As each one landed the earth was shaken as if by an earthquake. The air then suddenly cleared, the smoke disappeared and the sun-blessed day of late summer reappeared. St Patrick was in no doubt that he had been saved from the hag’s fury through Divine intervention, so he built a small wooden church at the site. In the later Middle Ages this was replaced by a stone building whose ruins still stand today.
Locals still point out the places where the hag’s miserable body fell to earth. These are usually large stones, sometimes relics of the last Ice Age. Opinion is divided though about their exact identity, though everyone agrees that the final quarter of the hag crashed into a lake causing a minor flood, though once again not everyone agrees about exactly which lake was the recipient. Locals also point to another stone with two distinct hollows. This they say was the stone upon which the saint knelt.
This story is interesting because it portrays Patrick as an athletic, action-man saint with his sleeves rolled up fighting the forces of evil. It is interesting that he is portrayed as using his staff like a javelin or a spear. Lugh Lamhfhada (the well-hung), the ancient Celtic God of nearly everything, was also supposed to be a good man with a spear. His was called Gae Assail and came from Persia. An early Irish text relates that Lugh’s spear flashed like lightning and brought instant death to whoever it struck. It would then return to Lugh’s hands if he pronounced the word ibhar (yew) before throwing it. Also the action is set in late summer, near to Lugh’s feast of Lughnasa, maybe in the month of the year called Lughnasa in Irish, though known as August in English.
In the fifteen hundred odd years since these events Moybolgue has enjoyed a reputation as a quiet and safe place. A legend was long believed that the spot had not seen the last of the hag, and that it would return after thirty-three generations. Now let’s just say an average generation is a little over fifty years, and that the events described in the legend happened around say 450 AD … I’ll let my readers do the math.
© Ciaran Parker
Talk on Cavan’s friary
The National Council for the Blind in Ireland (NCBI) which claims to represent the interests of the bind and partially sighted in Ireland has organised a meeting for next Thursday. The “Special guest” will be Dr Brendan Scott who will talk about the Franciscan Friary in Cavan.
Brendan Scott is the same person who organised a conference on the medieval and early modern history of Cavan to which were invited specialists from as far away as the UK and America, though an expert who resided in Cavan, namely myself, was not invited. This was a deliberate snub, motivated by Dr Scott’s perception that there had been “trouble” between me and the museum, though it had been before his time.
Some months earlier Dr Scott had unsuccessfully sought to replace me as a contributor to the Cavan Echo. I think it is obvious that Dr Scott has same issues regarding me. Though I’m damned if I know what they are as I’ve never even met him.
This is the person the NCBI has invited as a special guest. Now it is bad enough that the NCBI does sweet FA to promote the interests of the blind, but quite another when they are siding with those who attack them. The invitation has cleared Dr Scott at a stroke of any accusation of discriminating against a partially sighted and disabled scholar. How could he have done such a thing he can say, when the National Council for the Blind itself invites him as a special guest – and in clear preference to the person whom he discriminated against.
I am reproducing here an article I wrote for the Cavan Echo about Cavan’s Franciscan Friary, that I wrote in October 2007. But how silly and impudent of me to make such a claim when it is obvious I never wrote this at all. I have merely dreamed that I have written this, when in fact my hand and brain were in fact being directed by my double Dr Brendan Scott. It’s copyrighted. It was Francis Bacon who said “Opportunity makes the thief.”
Given my expertise on the areas I have offered to give the talk instead, based on my own material, but the NCBI has responded to my offer with deafening silence. No doubt they are part of the voluntary sector in Cavan who are captives of the County Council, their members cowed into silence and acquiescence of discrimination by the promise of council grouses. While Whacko Jack presents himself as a guardian of disabled rights as he poses with yet another group of expensive, external consultants.
By the way Brendan, does it make yo0u feel big and macho to pick on a disabled person and to steal from a cripple? You’ll have no luck you miserable bastard.
Cavan’s Franciscan Friary
Cavan Echo, October 19th 2007
With the break-neck level of building development in Cavan town it can often seem as if the oldest surviving structure is a post-box or a petrol-tank. This accolade belongs however to the tower of the Franciscan Friary in the town’s Abbey Street, formerly known as Church Lane.
Founding father
The foundation of the friary, for monks from the Franciscan order or Ordo Fratrum Minorum (OFM) was the first surviving reference to Cavan in any of the surviving annals. The person who founded the friary was the recently-installed chieftain of East Breifne, Giolla Iosa ruadh O’Reilly, who more than anyone helped to re-establish the power of his family after the debacle of Magh Slecht half a century earlier which had seen the death of his father, grandfather, half-brother and many other relatives.
Poorest of the poor
The Franciscan order had been founded by St Francis in Italy in 1209. Their members were dedicated to rigorous and absolute poverty. At first they renounced even the principle of holding property in common. They spread like wild-fire throughout Europe, even reaching remote parts of Ireland, Scotland and Scandinavia within a century of their foundation.
The Franciscans had been particularly successful in urban areas, so their success in the north of Ireland, which was still devoid of towns, was unusual. The first monks may have come from Dundalk or Drogheda, or from friaries elsewhere in Ulster, such as Downpatrick and Carrickfergus. These were under the control of the Anglo-Norman earl of Ulster Richard de Burgh. The earl was generally on friendly terms with Giolla Iosa, who named one of his sons Risteard after him.
Nothing survives today from this foundation. An eighteenth-century antiquary wrote that Giolla Iosa built a chapel and marble mausoleum at the friary. This might have been too ostentatious for the friars though who were wedded to simplicity in all aspects of life.
Arson around
Many of the buildings were of wood. In 1452 much of the abbey was destroyed in a fire caused by a careless monk called O Mothlain who was reading his breviary by candle-light, although The Annals of Ulster infer that he had partaken too freely of wine. In May 1575 the friary, with much of the town of Cavan went up in flames, though on this occasion a highly-placed arsonist was to blame. The wife of the then ruler of Erfast Breifne, Aodh Conallach, had a grudge against one of the residents of Cavan and set fire to their house. Alas for the town and the friary the flames spread. .
Old peoples’ home with a difference
The friary soon developed a rather non-religious aspect closely linked to the ruling house; it became a strange mixture of a retirement home and political refuge. Fifteen years after its foundation Giolla Iosa gave up the reins of power to become a monk in the friary where he died and was buried in 1330. His son Cu Chonnacht (whose descendants eventually settled in the Munterconnaght area of Co. Cavan) also retired there to die in 1366. His time at the top had been marked by tension with his brother Pilip, and Cu Chonnacht’s act of renunciation of the world may have been all the sweeter because he knew the friary afforded the right of sanctuary to all who lived there.
The old order changes
For many years a mistaken belief was held by some historians that the friary had been founded not by Franciscans, but by their brother mendicants the Dominicans or Ordo Praedicatorum (OP) There was a change in the rule followed by the monks in 1503 when the then ruler of East Breifne, Sean Mac Cathail O’Reilly, successfully petitioned the Papacy for the friary to change from the mainstream conventual branch of the Franciscans towards the much more rigorous and fundamentalist Observantines, which had been founded in Italy in 1368. but which was sweeping all before it in Ireland.
A bishop’s residence
The friary was important in the local secular church, to which in theory it did not belong. The last bishop of the diocese of Tir Bruin before it changed its name to that of Kilmore, was one Donat O Gabhain, and in the 1430s the Franciscan friary was his residence.
A falling off
It is probable that, like many other religious institutions in sixteenth-century Ireland it suffered from a falling-off of membership and religious discipline. It seems to have survived the various troubles of the sixteenth century intact. Nettercliff’s map of Cavan town c. 1590 shows a plain rectangular building with a tower on the site of the present tower,
Kindly move aside
With the extinction of O Raghailigh power and the advent of English rule this church was pressed into use as a place of Protestant Divine service. During the upheavals of the middle of the century it changed back to being a church of Catholic worship, only to be once more seized by the conflict’s victors for their religious uses.
A final resting place
Before this it had, according to tradition, served as the burial place of Eoghan ruadh O Neill, the military leader of the rebellion in Ulster, following his death at Clough Oughter in November 1649. Other traditions in the Clough Oughter area dispute this though. It had certainly been a place of burial for the O’Reilly chieftains throughout the later middle Ages. The late Philip O’Connell recounted another tradition of the unearthing of stone-lined coffins during repaving work in the nineteenth century.
Going out for a slash
Some antiquaries also testify to the survival of a tombstone belonging to the legendary Myles the Slasher, but as “Myles” did not die at the Bridge of Finea but passed away in France such a monument must have been a figment of their imagination.
Continuation
The church continued to be used as Cavan’s parish church throughout the eighteenth century. The monastery was knocked down and its materials used for the construction of a barracks for horses nearby. The surviving tower possibly dates from the eighteenth century. The grounds were used as a cemetery until the late nineteenth century; amongst those buried there were the first barons arnham.
The end of the road
It was obviously too small of a building to act as Cavan’s Parish Church. In 1807 work began on a new structure on land donated by the Farnhams. Construction was delayed by the ongoing Napoleonic wars but by November 1815 sufficient buildings had been completed to allow the first services to be held there, thus condemning the structure in Abbey Street to obsolescence; one of the last services held there took place on Christmas Day 1815.
While still used for burials the site soon became overgrown, a condition only recently reversed. The inside of the tower itself was used as a dumping ground and alfresco public convenience. Some of the original wooden structures of the church survived until the 1880s, for in December 1888 the Anglo-Celt recorded a fire on the site, which by then had attained the importance of a sanctuary as the burial place of “Owen Roe”.
© Ciaran Parker 2007
I have since learned from among others Dr Eamon McDwyer of a long-current tradition that Eoghan ruadh O Neill was buried in 1649 at a site on the Bridge Street side of the abbey.
Frightful weather we’ve having
Spring is late this year. While our days are frequently bathed with quite warm sunshine, our nights see temperatures plummet well below zero. As a consequence plant growth is seriously retarded. This is not a unique phenomenon.
I am reading a charming and informative book called Since Records Began: The Highs and Lows of Britain’s Weather by Paul Simons (Collins, 2008) which records many of the most serious weather events that have afflicted the United Kingdom. In particular, March 1891 saw heavy snowfalls affecting the south of England resulting in metre-deep drifts in places like Dartmoor. One train, travelling from London to Plymouth became buried on Dartmoor with snow entering the carriages. There were no radios so the train’s misfortunes remained unknown until some day’s later when a local farmer out looking for sheep discovered the turret of the train engine sticking up through the snow. Even after being rescued some passengers insisted on travelling on to Plymouth, arriving there eight days’ after leaving London.
Strangely, two years’ later much of the south of England experienced one of the most serious spring droughts ever recorded. Rivers dried up while London residents, some of whom were just coming terms with new-fangled gadgets like flush toilets faced water rationing while there were serious outbreaks of diarrhoea.
The book contains examples mainly from the United Kingdom, though incidents like the Athlone lightning storm of October 1697 are mentioned. I think that a readable book looking at Irish weather phenomena would be popular; indeed I think there would be far more of a market for it than some of the turgid historical tomes that somehow managed to get published in this country. I’d love to write the book. I have already written about topics like the “Year without a Summer”, the landslide that washed away the village of Tober in the early 1860s and hurricane Debbie. Then there is the sterling work produced by my good friend Tom Hyde about the winter of 1947.
All I need is a publisher but given my free-thinking and fun-loving spirit and will not contain any coded excerpts from El Viaje, I doubt any of the Opus Dei printing houses who seem happy to provide vanity publishing for some people would be interested, even though it has considerable commercial possibilities.
Cavan Drama festival
I see that the Cavan International Drama Festival is about to get going again … yawn! I used to go there a lot many years’ ago. I was very interested in drama. I still am (I am currently re-reading some of August Strindberg). Really, the reason I went there was that there was this bird that I was kind of like interested in like, sort of, you know what I mean. However, she wasn’t interested in me and so I looked around at the crowd of poseurs, some of them sporting monkey suits that made them look like dodgy nightclub bouncers and so I stopped going.
And I’m not going this year either. For one thing I can’t afford it. I see on the leaflet that admission is 12 euro but there is a special concession for students and OAPS. I’m in neither category anymore – I might have been thought of as an OAP, but Mary Hanafin reclassified last December, and there is NO way I’m paying out good dosh to mix with the new generation of mushroom men and women. It’s interesting that there are no concessions for the disabled or for the unemployed, but the people who traditionally control the Drama festival wouldn’t want that sort anyway. I mean, cripples and the work-shy who are bleeding those middle class paragons dry through taxes. Let’s be serious.
I remember in the good old days when Frankie-goes-to-Hollywood McKiernan would strut around like a peacock expecting everyone to kiss his ring and how at the intermission those of us who had paid full whack would be shepherded into a room where we were expected to pay for cold, “wake tay” and even coulder and wayker chat, while TDs, ministers and their wives stepped to the left to the VIP lounge where the refreshments were always free. I remember how I kept here snatches from Mozart’s Serenade for Strings K 525, better known as “A Little Knight Music”.
And I see that the age-old connection between the Drama Festival and the Catholic Church continues to this day. The whole week-long wankathon is being opened by Cavan’s ADM while not so long ago his religious ancestors would have been banning anything which smelled of secular humanism or fun.
A cynic might see a reason why the Catholic Church is so interested in drama. After a few years many of their rituals must begin to seem like mere theatre.
But as for many of the laity they wouldn’t know good theatre if it jumped up and bit them on the … finger. It’s all about acting all right: their role as middle class respectable types for whom the old amateur drams have always been a bit of harmless fun.
Keep Good Friday special
The news that some publicans want to open their dens of iniquity on Good Friday is disturbing. I suppose I do belong to Ireland’s biggest religious sector – the lapsed Catholics, but I am still very much a Christian. For me Good Friday is the day that commemorates Jesus Christ’s sufferings to redeem mankind. In Irish culture Good Friday has always been a day of solemnity. This is true not only in Ireland but throughout the world. Was it not on Good Friday that Dante left his beloved Florence as an exile?
Of course Good Friday has long had a special place amongst dipsomaniacs in border areas who looked forward to it so that they could go up North to get tanked up. But today what’s stopping anyone going to the offie the day before and getting a few cans and bottles?
The fact that the move for Good Friday booze comes from the saintly city of Limerick is so worrying. Limerick has long been seen as an icon of true Catholicism in the vast swirling ocean of secular humanism. Limerick city’s commitment to the true Catholic faith was so amply demonstrated when its citizens, stirred up by a Redemptorist priest, drove out the city’s Jews. Let us remember the words of outrage expressed by a man following acts of desecration in a Limerick city graveyard. “Ya wouldn’t see this in darkest Africa, where there is no God.” But what would the late Bishop Jeremiah Newman, who kept the Four Courts Press humming away publishing the seemingly never-ending torrent of his literary rant and cant, and who only ever accepted the best food and drink, have said about it? No doubt. “Ah isn’t that great. I’ll be able to pop out for a quick one after the ceremonies instead of having to hide a bottle in my library.”
Health of the Nation
The present furore about Tallaght Hospital again demonstrates that tour great health service’s problems are caused by one thing and one thing only – sick people.
For a start there are the old fuc … old age pensioners. They have made their contribution. They’ve had a good innings and really they should just face facts. They’re going to die and they should be left to do it.
Then there are younger sick people, especially those too poor to afford private health insurance. Many of these people are unemployed. These work-shy elements already present a heavy burden to tax payers. The fact that they believe that they have some sort of right to be cured of illness at the taxpayers’ expense, is not sustainable, especially in the present economic climate.
Since taking on the poisoned chalice of health minister, Mary Harney has performed sterling work in cutting costs, eliminating waste and closing hospitals. There have been calls for her to be demoted in the expected cabinet reshuffle. These must be resisted. The minister herself (speaking from New Zealand) has mentioned her wish to stay on in the job, and enjoy the champagne-sprinkled, five-star lifestyle it brings with it. When asked what she might do were she to lose the job Minister Harney became quite emotional, saying that she couldn’t cope without the first-class air travel and the tinkling of the ivories to send her to sleep at night. What’s more she alluded to the possibility that her husband had threatened to leave her if she lost her job
Headshops in Cavan
The phenomenon of headshops has introduced us to retail outlets selling legal or quasi-legal highs for the first time. This has of course met with the disapproval of the killjoys in the government, as well as established drug pushers who have seen some of their market segment shrinking. Not surprisingly the one has responded with legislation (which may or may not ever be enforced), while the latter has responded by setting fire to headshops, whenever members of the Gardai have their backs turned.
These headshops are somewhat irresponsible. It’s all right for people of my age group, and maybe a bit younger. We’re responsible. But what about young teenagers who may be goaded into these places by peer pressure. They may be cajoled into experimenting with substances that could be both unpleasant and dangerous. It’s a bit like a teenager going to the whorehouse for the first time. He’s egged on by his friends and feels really grown up, but he may be robbed, beaten up or pick up a VD. People of my generation of course know that you get the best sex at home.
Personally the biggest high I could get would be to hear that minister for health Mary Harney, along with her party of officials, had just vaporised during their visit to New Zealand, or that the minister had insisted on going bungee jumping, but the whole thing had just gone horribly wrong …
What the bishop knew
The allegations that appeared in yesterday’s Sunday Times show that the former bishop of Kilmore, the late Francis McKiernan, knew of the activities of paedophile priest Brendan Smyth as early as 1975. One other fact should be borne in mind here. In 1977 I remember Dr McKiernan delivering a sermon in Cavan’s Cathedral in which he told parents that they should not listen to their children’s “tales” brought home from school, and that the children must be discouraged from doing this. Were the children being sworn to secrecy and silence too? I think that, taken together, one can only come to the opinion that there was a serious attempt to cover up charges of clerical sexual abuse going right up to the bishop himself and including the then Fr Sean Brady. The latter’s actions could very well be construed as criminal conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.
Once again those well-informed canines have known about McKiernan for years, but it is only now that the truth is seeping out, but it will not really affect the near saint-like devotion in which he is held by certain sections here in Cavan. He was such a great historian, they say, the world’s greatest living expert on the O’Reillys – until he died, and why wouldn’t he be? – sure he was the bishop.
The fire in Cavan’s orphanage, February 1943
Sixty-eight years have now passed insce the dreadful events in Cavan town’s orphanage, yet the victims and their families are still waiting for some form of fitting commemoration. My friend Sean Galligan has been campaigning to address this, and has set up a group on Facebook dedicated the Victims of Cavan’s Orphanage Fire “Remember the Cavan Orphanage Victims”. What’s more, he’s organised a public meeting to explore possible forms of commemoration. This is to be held in the Farnham Arms Hotel, Cavan town, on March 21st at 8 pm.
I have appended an article I wrote about the Cavan convent fire, that was published in the Cavan Echo in February 2007.
The victims of those terrible events and their families have had to wait long enough for justice. They have been made to inhabit a world dominated by a code of silence, which will be readily understood by anyone reading recent revelations. When the Diocese of Kilmore wants to cover something up they don’t do it by halves.
___________________________________________
The fire which swept through the top storey of St Joseph’s orphanage in Cavan town in the early morning of February 24th 1943 is one of the most sickening events to have ever occurred in Cavan town.
An enclosed order
The Poor Clares were an enclosed order of nuns, eschewing contact with the outside world. They had been brought to Cavan in the 1860s by Bishop Nicholas Conaty. They built a convent, chapel and school at the top of the town’s Church Street, and in 1868 they opened an orphanage for girls there.
Its inmates embraced a sad spectrum of Irish life. Some were orphans; others had been abandoned by parents often incapable of looking after them through hardship or illness. A handful were illegitimate. At the orphanage they were sometimes brutalised by nuns who were themselves psychologically damaged through living in a world that had rejected all human feeling.
The children were in effect prisoners. They were segregated from the other children in the school and beaten more frequently. They were treated as slaves and were cold, badly-clothed and ill-nourished. A small book used at the orphanage described the lessons they received in cookery and laundry work. They were seldom offered the opportunity to eat the dishes they had prepared.
The tragedy unfurls
In the early hours of February 24th, 1943 a fire in the orphanage’s laundry quickly spread to St Clare’s Dormitory on the building’s top floor, trapping over forty young girls. Attempts at evacuating the children had been thwarted by some of the nuns, who apparently did not want any of the girls to be seen in their nocturnal attire. The town’s fire engine consisted of a cart and hose-pipe. When it was attached to a standpipe the hose was full of holes and was of no use whatsoever. Some long ladders belonging to the urban district council, which might have been capable of reaching the top floor, fell apart and could not be extended.
The fire was eventually brought under control by the Auxiliary Fire Service. A properly-equipped fire engine eventually arrived from Dundalk at 5 am. By this time the fire was extinguished: so too were the lives of thirty-five residents of the orphanage, plus an elderly resident of the convent. A number of children were injured jumping to safety. None of the nuns was amongst the casualties.
Heroism
There were many acts of heroism. Some girls went back into the fire in an attempt to save their friends, often paying the ultimate price. Louis Blessing, a star of the county Gaelic football team which had first brought the All-Ireland trophy to Cavan, broke down locked doors and organised additional help. Mattie Hand, an employee of the Electricity Supply Board had some ladders capable of reaching the beleaguered children. He saved five girls who were on the point of being consumed by the flames.
Crocodile tears
In the days that followed messages of sympathy flooded in to Cavan, though they were seldom addressed directly to the families of the deceased or the survivors. They were directed to the abbess of the Poor Clare’s Convent, none of whom had perished, and stranger still they were sent to the Catholic Bishop of Kilmore, Dr Lyons. In the requiem mass the bishop spoke of the “… terrible ordeal it has been for the good nuns to have the fierce glare of publicity turned on their quiet sheltered lives.”
The dead were encased in eight separate coffins. They were buried in a mass grave at Cullies cemetery outside Cavan. Initially, this bore neither their names nor the dates of their deaths.
The response of the great and the good in Cavan was stomach churning. The town’s lack of adequate means for fighting a fire had been rightly criticised in the national press. Yet this criticism was rejected in a spirit of sullen vindictiveness by the local political elite. Senator Patrick Baxter used his membership of the upper house to deliver an intemperate attack on the press, denouncing its “misrepresentation of the facts”. Those responsible for the maintenance of safety equipment in the town made idiotic statements claiming that the hoses and ladders were in “excellent condition” and in “perfect order.” A member of the council stated that the town had been “disgraced” by the Irish Times in its exposure of the council’s abysmal negligence. Such stinging criticism was obviously more unsettling to the council than the immolation of the girls.
The inquiry
A commission of inquiry was set up. It met in Cavan’s Court House in April. The victims did not have any legal representation – it was clear that they did not matter. Among the evidence to trickle from it was just how remiss the fire prevention mechanisms in the orphanage had been. It also showed up the truly shambolic nature of Cavan town’s fire brigade, described by a commission member as “an afternoon’s amusement.” Its captain even claimed that he was only “sort of” captain,
Culpability
A finger of culpability could have been pointed with earnestness, but as it would have been directed at powerful interests the findings of the commission were something of a watered down whitewash. It stated that while it was “satisfied that more efficient means of escape should have been made available”, it added that it could not state that “… their absence of these contributed to the loss of life…” Not really to blame, only sort of. It did not require much reading between the lines to discern the urban district council’s negligence, yet the commission commented: “… we do not wish to suggest that the council was … avoiding its duty.” Not really to blame, only sort of. It did recommend the creation of adequate fire-fighting services throughout the country.
The secretary to the commission was civil servant Brian O’Nolan, far better known as the brilliant writer Flann O’Brian and satirist Myles na gCopaleen. Perhaps he best summed up the commission of inquiry in a limerick he supposedly penned in a Cavan pub.
In Cavan there was a great fire
Joe McCarthy was sent down to enquire.
If the nuns were to blame
It would be a shame
So it had to be caused by a wire.
O’Nolan’s scepticism was to cost him his civil service career in the future, for it was a Cavan politician, Paddy Smith, who, when named minister of O Nuallain’s department, oversaw his “easing out” from the Department of Local Government.
The end of the orphanage
St Joseph’s orphanage closed its doors in 1967. It must be said that not all of the nuns who served there were tyrants. It has taken many years for the acrid stench from the timbers of the orphanage to clear from the nostrils of Cavan’s town-folk, not to mention the refusal of those in positions of authority to accept blame.
© Ciaran Parker 2007
Should he stay or should he go?
I know, it’s so sad that I remember The Clash. People may guess that I’m talking about Cardinal Sean Brady. My answer? Well, to be honest, it’s all the
Drumcalpin's finest
same to me what he does. It’s no skin off my prick. In the words that Clark Gable would have used had Gone With the Wind been filmed in Cavan, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a shite!”
Knowledge is a dangerous thing
The Catholic Communications Office has revealed that, in 1975 then Bishop of Kilmore Francis McKiernan suggested that paedophile priest Brendan Smyth should see a psychiatrist (no doubt the hierarchy’s pet shrink Donal Lydon). I don’t care what McKiernan said or recommended. He could have advised him to go to a Dicky Rock concert as far as I’m concerned. The fact is he knew about Brendan Smyth and the allegations that had been made about him, but never sought to inform the agents of law and order in the state.
This knowledge sits uneasily with the claims made on numerous occasions by Dr McKiernan to a group of pupils in St Patrick’s College Cavan, that he had known “nothing” about the Brendan Smyth case. It also is hard to square with the assertion, much repeated by some of the faithful in Cavan, that Bishop McKiernan had only learned of Fr Smyth’s actions in the confessional, and was therefore bound by the confidentiality of the Rite of Penance not to divulge anything to the Gardai.
St Patrick’s Day in Cavan
The highlight of St Patrick’s Day is without doubt the traditional Patrick’s Day parade. This is a chance for Cavan people to see and be seen at their finest and generally feel good about being from the town.
The parade gets under way with an FCA colour party, marching to slightly out-of-tune instruments. Usually the salute is taken by Minister for Agriculture Brendan Smith. Unfortunately Brendan’s gone to Rome to see the pope. This resulted from a mistaken papal communication. Pope Benny, hearing of the shenanigans of the erring priest Brendan Smyth, is said to have snarled at one of his aids: “I vont ziss Brendan Smyth here now Ja?” The frightened curial officials did not realise that the paedophile priest spelt his name with a “y” instead of an “i”, and so an order summoning Brendan into the papal presence arrived on his desk, and who was he to refuse? (Honestly, I think given that the country is in a bad way, Brendan Smith would have done far better for himself to remain with his people on their national holiday, rather than taking flight with the rest of the scoundrels in government.)
Instead the salute will be taken by a cocker spaniel found wandering aimlessly in the Bridge Car Park.
Apart from the usual floats of little horrors in silly lurid green Irish dancing costumes accompanied by “irish music”,, parade participants will be joined by three smaller displays. The first will be by the numerically insignificant Paedophile Priests and Dr Francis McKiernan Tribute Band. This was formed by a number of clerics seeking to pursue intergenerational encounters with young people. Its aims were explained by PRO Fr Pat McSlyme in a recent interview on One-Thousand-and-One Knights Radio’s Sunday morning religious programmes. He admitted that their actions gave rise to suspicion and hostility, but he explained that they were based on rigorous research of theological authorities and had been cleared (in part) by some leading canonists. The weather may be nippy, so they’d better cover up well.
Other floats include the Tirquin Transvestites and Tribads Traditional Dancing group, whose renditions of favourites like “The Siege of Ennis” are likely to bring tears, if not to the eyes, well to somewhere else.
Some controversy surrounds the participation of the County Cavan Headshops Promotion League. They are particularly anxious to inform the public about the new headshop planned for Ballyjamesduff. It’s opening in a premises threatened with closure because it’s had difficulty attracting visitors, and it is hoped that the availability of highs will get the punters coming through the doors.
A novelty this year will be that the malodorous Cavan River is to be dyed green. This won’t be due to any expensive or harmful colour, but through the release of copious amounts of urine on days leading up to the festivities.
The parade will of course conclude with the traditional bun fight between the Half Acre and the Barrack Hill. St Patyrick’s Day always coincides with the Cheltenham horse racing festival, and Cavan town’s publicansd are more than happy to absorb any punter’s winnings. And then on the morrow Cavan town will be awash with a sea of vomit, spilled drink, shattered glass, as well as congealed blood from the odd fight. I woud advise vistors to bring their own piss, as my experience is that the glasses in licensed premises aren’t washed for about a week, making them prime vessels for viruses.
Need I (honestly) add that the above is just a bit of fun though admittedly in the poorest taste?
I would urge everyone this St Patrick’s Day to fuck responsibly and use a Johnny. Remember lads that when you come you release upto 500 million sperm and it only takes one to get a girl pregnant, and do you really want to be responsible for bringing another human being into this awful world?
The return of filth
It rains a lot here in Ireland, and sometimes the rain can come down in such a torrent that the drains overflow. When this occurs the drain’s contents of leaves, dirt and other ordure flow out along the streets. These days following St Patrick’s Day witness this process in reverse, as much of the filth of cabinet ministers, parliamentarians and county councillors who have taken holidays at public expense over the holiday return unbidden to our shores to resume their collective larceny closer to home. I think I speak for the majority of people in Ireland when I say that no one would shed a tear if they never came back.
The Catholic hierarchy is I believe partly responsible for much of the crisis currently affecting the church, but I believe in giving credit where credit is due. What would happen if, at important feasts in the Church calendar like Christmas or Easter, the hierarchy announced that it was heading off abroad for “deserved” holidays at the mass goers’ expense? Of course they wouldn’t be called holidays. No, they’d be described as trips to observe missionary activity. Now apart from a handful of globe-trotting prelates, including a deceased bishop recently in the news who used to love visit his diocesan priests in a place called Minna, none of them do this. They remain at their posts. It is often said that Catholic bishops aren’t elected, yet the Catholic church has never claimed to be a democracy. Those whom we elect democratically, who crawl on their fat bellies to win our confidence no sooner get elected than they depart on holidays at our expense and smirk at us that they’re able to get away with it because there is nothing we can do.
Is it true that Aer Lingus cabin crew seek danger money” at this time of the year, as compensation for having to deal with returning county councillors who demand extra alcohol even when they’ve already had more than enough? Readers will know the incident I’m referring to. They will also know the political party the individual belonged to. They may not know that soon after his return he received a standing ovation from the local branch of his party. What was that for? Good on ya mate for acting the cunt?
Cardinal Sean Brady again
Attentive readers of my blog will have noticed that I have refrained from calling on Cardinal Sean Brady to resign. There are many reasons for this. For one thing, as a lapsed Catholic, it would be churlish of me to make any demand, no matter how unlikely to be heeded, on an organisation with which I have severed most of my ties. What’s more, we’re both Cavanmen, and the fact that we come from the same county should count for something. (Furthermore I think a relative of his was my Godfather.)
I know Sean Brady, though not well, and I would hope that the name Ciaran Parker is familiar to him. Personally he has never done me any harm, and this counts for a lot with me. I invited him to a book launch in 2008 and I put down his non-attendance to pressures of work. This was not tokenism on my part. I certainly would have preferred to see him there than many of those I made damn sure remained uninvited. He was the first person, apart from myself, to teach me French. Perhaps he can take some credit for the fact that I now read French very well. My experience of him is that he is largely free from the pomposity of some members of the hierarchy, a weakness which I personally believe is often fed by the fawning sycophancy of sections of the laity.
As for his continued role as Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All Ireland, that’s a decision for him.
Bennos Briefe
Pope Benno’s pastoral letter is an amazing piece of spin. It presses all the right buttons, containing an apology, but its content is tendentious. He blames Ireland’s growing secularism for the child abuse scandal. In fact, what he is really saying is that, but for Ireland’s secularism, and its movement away from the shadow of obscurantism, the scandal would never have been made public. Benno looks back with nostalgia to a time when the Church ruled the roost in Ireland and when no one could say a word against a priest for fear of permanent ostracism. In this lovely world the inferior civil government was dominated by mass-going bureaucrats, who worked for organisations headed by members of quasi Masonic Catholic lay organisations. And you could walk the streets unafraid of being robbed and leave the latch off your door. A cynic might say that this was because no one had that much to steal, and anyway, the Church through means such as the nefarious funeral offerings had stolen a lot of the people’s wealth anyway. (it ought to be pointed out that this abuse was condemned by many priests themselves.) Of course the media, both locally and nationally, was dominated by Catholic values The national radio station broadcast The Angelus every day at noon and 6 pm (as it still does) while local papers published in full the Lenten pastorals of their local bishops loudly thundering against such secular ills as Communism, Protestantism and heavy petting in dark laneways.
|As a lapsed Catholic, I am reluctant to give the Catholic Church advice. I would urge it to try and free itself from the fetters of its un-human theology. Pope Benno has spent his life and his considerable intellect wedded to this theology, to the extent that he thinks he knows God. Part of his worldview is that the priesthood, no matter what its sins, is superior to the laity. Party of the church’s problems in Ireland have arisen from people forgetting that the clergy are, at the end of the day, only men.
Congratulations Mary Hanafin
Bye bye Mary
I want to take this opportunity to be amongst the first to congratulate Mary Hanafin on her demotion to the Ministry of Arts, Tourism and ….etc. It is a fitting tribute to such an ugly, mendacious bitch. No doubt she’ll be able to lie about the amount of money the Arts is getting.
Let’s face it, th Arts ministry has the reputation of being the departure lounge of the cabinet. If I were feeling charitable I might paraphrase the Bard and say ”Get thee to a monastery Mary.” But as John O’Donoghue showed, access to the ministry of Arts and Tourism can be luxurious.
Nut let me add finally that that sow Hanafin may have moved ministry, but she’s not off the hook, and I will never forget what she did to me and the tens of thousands of other blind and partially-sighted people whose pensions she cut.
Sean Connick
I sincere congratulate Sean Connick ion his promotion to a ministry of State. Sean and myself have one thing in common. We both have to use wheelchairs. I hope that Brian Cowen’s actions are not motivated by tokenism here. Sean has shown himself well able to perform the arduous and difficult tasks associated with government.
This is not the first time I’ve congratulated Sean. I sent him a message at the time of his first election. Sadly he never replied.
Sean has the opportunity of becoming a real role model for disabled people. He can demonstrate that we deserve a real chance to contribute to society, and be more than the obsequiously nodding backing groups to the often short-sighted actions of those who take responsibility for promoting the disabled.
As I have said myself and Sean have one thing in common. He has just been appointed to government, and yet I languor in obscurity. Sean has worked hard for his promotion, and deserves to be able to reap the rewards of his efforts, yet I’m supposed to just sit here and quietly accept the ongoing attempts of some people in this locality to rubbish me and my work.
Some might say that I somehow deserve my lot because of my outspokenness. But all I’ve ever done is call attention to waste and shortcomings. There are attempts also to portray me as some type of angry hothead who has never come to terms with his disabilities. I see my disabilities as gifts, yes gifts from God. Rather than raging against them it is up to me to work my way through and around them, as Sean Connick and many others have done. I remember once seeing an interview with him, where he said that, like everyone he had his good and his bad days – so do I. The most important thing is to keep going on and feel that you are making a positive contribution to the world around you.
Brian’s reshuffle
Credit where credit’s due. Brian Cowen did make some worthwhile changes. Moving Mendacious Mary Hanafin was top notch, while promoting Sean Connick from the backbenches was inspired.
Yet the cabinet continues to have its shady members. Ireland’s health service is barely functioning (and that’s the best that can be said for it), but the globe-trotting sybarite Mary Harney remains in place, even though she has no party allegiance. In spite of the fact that the Health Service is going down in flames Maro continues to fiddle like the Emperor Nero – or should that be tinkle the ivories in her five-star suite? No, she gets someone else to do that – at public expense. In fact given Mary Harney’s liking for piano music, would it not have been better if she had been appointed minister for the Arse … Arts and Mary Hanafin had been cast into the wilderness?
Also this new name for the old department of Social Warfare – the Department of Social Protection is clunky. It sounds like a brand of condom, though this is probably apt considering the number of pricks who’ve always worked there.
As for the Greens .. who?
True blue
Leo Varadkar’s snide attack on Dr Garret Fitzgerald was nothing short of disgraceful/ Dr Fitzgerald , during his political career, was a beacon of honesty and integrity, within the general sea of political filth. Garret was always committed to the principles of just society, something for which many in the Fine Gael party have never forgiven him.
Varadkar is probably one of this government’s greatest assets. He demonstrates to many people the futility of replacing the present government with
Dr Garret Fitzgerald
a party which, at its heart, is dedicated to the same heartless, right wing policies.
It is also a most heinous abuse of parliamentary privilege to make derogatory comments about named individuals who are not members of the house, and who are unable to defend themselves. I suppose Captain Kirk was asleep.
Green Party advertisement
Here is the copy for a potential DIY advertisement.
Are you involved in pollution, dodgy planning or climate change?
Let’s face it, you’re going to have to deal with Green Party infestation.
But there’s no need to suffer in silence.
Gormley Green Party Killer destroys Green Party activity from within, turning it into ordinary scum.
Gormley Green Party Killer – It does exactly what it says on the tin.
Gormley’s claptrap
Remember the days when Green Party conferences were places of slightly hippy and left-field idealism? Well thanks to Gormless John those days are past. In fact his speech could well have been delivered by a Fianna Fail minister. So identifiable with a Fianna Fail Ard Fheis was the whole thing that one wonders were the foyers of Watervford’s hotels filled with Green Party activists who had crashed out after a skinful.
Take the claptrap about “tough decisions”.. This swill could have come from the mouth of that bitch Mary Hanafin. It was worse, because it was an attempt by Gormless John to try and present himself as a big, hard man, but it sounded as butch as the hysterical squeaks from a harem’s eunuch.
Now cutting the blind pension is not a tough action; it is cowardly John. And then you come out with the real howler about commitment to a just society – in your dreams.
I find it hard to square the fact that John Gormley sat at cabinet with people making such cowardly cuts with his supposed defence of the rights of people in Tibet. It will be recalled how the Chinese ambassador was so incensed by his remarks some years ago that he left in protest. If Gormley cares as much for the people of Tibet as he does for Ireland’s blind and partially sighted, he is nothing but a common hypocrite.
Crossing the Red Sea poll with Micheal Martin
Ah come on now Carla...
It was so sad to hear Micheal Martin’s response to the Red C Poll findings. He sounded hurt and bewildered. How could the Irish people respond with such negativity when the government’s actions were earning plaudits from the European Central Bank, the European Commission, stock brokers, fat cat bankers and fascists everywhere. He hadn’t sounded so dejected since Carla Bruni turned down his request for a quicky while Nicolas’ back was turned.
Micheal, in spite of his Master’s degree in history, obviously still has a problem with how governments work here. Most of those people who think the government is doing a good job live outside the country. What’s more they have nice, well-paid jobs, they’re educated and able-bodied and work in comfortable, heated offices. They don’t have to suffer as a result of the cuts instituted by this government.
The devil’s in the detail. It’s all very well having a high-sounding policy, if its implementation is unjust, and is dependant on selfish and cowardly decisions inspired by short-term thinking and prejudice, it is worse than useless.
The sad thing is that we know that it doesn’t mater who is in power. Whether it’s Fianna Fail or Fine Gael the people of Ireland invariably lose and the gangsters who donate to the parties win hands down every time.
But Fianna Fail has a strategy up its sleeve for dealing with its electoral decline. If the poll findings get really bad Fianna Fail will play the race card. It will say that the cuts in social welfare, not to mention the bollocksed state of the health service, is all due to FFers (f*%£ing foreigners) coming here to steal our dole, our jobs and our women. This way they will hope to steal support from Fine Gael and the Labour Party.
How long is a piece of string?
How long is a piece of string? Does the answer differ if those charged with finding it out are supposed to work longer hours?
The public pay agreement is a marvellous spectacle of selfishness. Many of those who suffered cuts in the recent cowardly budget had no option but to sit and take it. The unemployed whose benefits were cut, were unable to go on strike. Similarly those like myself whose blind pensions were cut could not threaten to go on strike either.
What’s more public service union members will not face any pay cut until 2014, when it is hoped we have got back to Celtic Tiger land. No such guarantee exists for the unemployed, the blind or the partially sighted.
I have never had much sympathy with the complaints of people while being low paid, have permanent jobs. (Whenever I have been “fortunate” to have a job, I have invariably been low paid, and if I appeared the least dissatisfied with my wages or conditions out I went and what’s more I never had any union to protect me,) When there were protests about the pensions levy I wondered what would be the response of the public service unions when cuts in welfare payments were introduced. I predicted the deafening silence. None of these cuts could have been introduced without the active involvement of public sector workers who processed the changes. And they certainly could not have been implemented without their help.
The government knows that further cuts cannot be implemented without the support of public service workers. In fact the government relies on these storm troopers to carry them out. And just in case the government is seen as caving in to the threat of strikes they’ve tried to conceal their actions with talk about Public Service Reform. This probably involves a commitment by the membership of public service unions to work really harder at doing less.
Animal cruelty on TV
I hate seeing cruelty to animals. Some people may recall the old Mart & Market on RTE, where the livestock prices from the country’s marts was accompanied by a very grainy piece of film of a man poking a poor demented creature around a ring.
Well all this came flooding back to me just now when I turned on TG4. The advertised program was live coverage of the Dail. Instead there was a picture of a bespectacled pig in a suit. He was grunting wildly and incoherently, trying to fend off the prods of threatening spectators. He was obviously in pain and distress as he was urinating and defecating all around him, so the smell must have been so atrocious. This was so upsetting that I switched channels to Cash in the Attic. Someone tried to tell me that this was our Prime Minister, but they were obviously pulling my leg.
Pog mo hol aris
A report issued on March 29th by An Cominiseir Teanga castigated a number of public bodies and county councils for their failure to carry out their statutory duties vis-à-vis the Irish language.
What a piece of unbelievable tokenism. I never knew such an organisation or person existed. Talk about Mahogany gas-pipes!
People can be assured that, through the efforts of this organisation, they are being ripped off, cheated and oppressed bilingually. For so many officials of local government the only phrase of Irish they might need would be “An bhfuil an airgead agat?”
In spite of all this hypocrisy the Irish language still thrives, though its obsequies have been choreographed with typically bureaucratic incompetence, and its undertakers have been richly renumerated.
By the way is there a Cominiseir Bubilin?
Let’s get physical
The results of a survey carried by RTE news has found that 10 % of Irish secondary schools are dropping Physics as a subject, partly due to budget cuts impacting on teaching.
Now I think this is significant. It is time to challenge this pack of panderers, drunkards and cheats who rule us with the assertion that their claims about wanting to create a smart economy staffed by educated people, which will make Ireland a competitive player in the world market, are nothing more than rancid piss.
I have many regrets one being that I did not work harder at Maths while at school, and as a result I turned away from Physics. If I had my life over again it would be so different … I opted instead to concentrate on subjects like history, and in retrospect I feel that history is a subject for losers -it’s a thing of the past.
But how can we provide significantly qualified scientists and engineers, the bedrock of any truly competitive economy, while removing Physics as a subject choice? The subject needs teachers with properly equipped laboratories. It is not something that you can study on your own. To make cuts which impact so seriously on our ongoing competitiveness is nothing short of stupid.
But we all know that our government is no more than a pack of puppets in the hands of a small group of unrepresentative and shadowy scoundrels. They seem inexorably wed to the McCarthy report, a document which, once it proposed cuts in social welfare payments was like a wet dream to the hard right in Ireland, and to those who, having managed through fairer means than foul to scrape their hoards together, are damned if they’re going to let anyone else do the same.
Teachers’ pay
It is a disgrace that “front-line” public servants like teachers should be included in the dishonest pay agreement announced on Monday. The Teachers’ union of Ireland (TUI) would be right to reject it. Unlike the “lower paid civil servants” for whom that wretch Blair Horan speaks, teachers already work long hours. What’s more they face increasing obstacles to doing their job through education cutbacks.
When Horan’s members overcome the tedium of another day of pen-pushing, and the clock strikes four or five they are able to leave their “tasks” unfinished and unloved for another day, to be taken up if and when they return the following day. By contrast teachers’ work never ends when they leave the school; they bring home with them not only their pupils’ homework, but other jobs, such as working out lesson plans.
And yet this pay agreement has the cheek to expect them to work an extra hour and for less pay. The result of this will be that teaching will be far less attractive as a career choice and will tend to be chosen by those who cannot get anything else which retains any social cachet. This lowering of standards will feed into the education system as a whole. We will then have a nation of dunces – just the thing really, as they won’t know how badly they’re being ripped off.
Flann O’Brien
Flann O'Brien
Today April 1s marks the forty-fourth anniversary of the death of Brian O’Nolan, aka Flann O’Brien, in my mind the greatest Irish writer of the twentieth century. He combined an immense intellect with a love of words. His second novel, The Third Policeman, is an overlooked jewel. Some of his best writing is to be found in his An Cruskeen Lawn column in The Irish Times, where he wrote under the nom-de-plume of Myes na gCopaleen. It was never enough for him to write for some numerically small elite who might understand him. Accessibility to the people of Ireland was as important. The world in which he lived appears to us the be anything but inspirational, apparently dominated by intellectual inertia and social sclerosis, yet Flann O’Brien’s genius was set ablaze by this unpromising environment.
Should we leave Chad?
The Irish government has announced that it is withdrawing its contingent among the peacekeeping force stationed in Chad.
Reducing commitment to the peacekeeping operation really sends the wrong signals. The long serving Chadian dictator, Idriss Deby, would dearly like to see the back of it so that he an his cronies could get on with siphoning the country’s wealth into their own pockets. Over the years Ireland’s reputation as a country has been immensely enhanced by our presence in UN peacekeeping missions.
The trimming of overseas involvement is in line with the McCarthy report. This canonical document’s author is wedded to the maintenance of useless state frippery like armies. If he was really committed to worthwhile savings he would have recommended the disbandment of the army altogether.
What does it do? Does anyone really think it’s capable of putting up a fight were this country to be invaded. Maybe against the armed forces of somewhere like Sao Tome e Principe or the Swiss Guard if they were pissed.
And look at the amount that the government would save. Not only would there be no army salaries to pay but barracks could be closed and sold off for development as brothels and alternative health resorts, while the increasingly obsolete equipment could be hawked to film crews. Fishery protection vessels could be turned into prison hulks (most of them are leaking anyway), while search-and-rescue helicopters could be knocked off to people wanting to leave the country in a hurry and on the QT. What’s more no armed forces, no need for a Department of Defence, and even better a minister of Defence. The savings would be mega….
But the McCarthy report didn’t recommend this because, in spite of all their uselessness, McCarthy and Co. see the armed forces as potentially having an important role in Ireland’s future. It might come in useful in case those lefties ever seemed capable of introducing real change here. In that even the army could be relied upon to step in and restore law and order.
And let’s face it none of the boys themselves really mind leaving Chad. It’s all desert and it must be murder getting a pint there, and as visiting government delegations have found it’s too far from the coast to be a serious junket destination.
J. M. Synge 1871-1909
J. M. Synge
We all recall how John Millington Synge was commemorated by James Joyce in his doggerel “Gas From a Burner”:
… The Great John Millicent Synge
Who soars above on an angel’s wing
In the playboy shift that he pinched as swag
From Maunsel’s manager’s travelling-bag.
J.M Synge was born on April 16th 1871. He belonged to an ecclesiastical family. One of his ancestors, an eighteenth-century bishop of Clonfert, wrote and spoke widely against the Penal Laws then in force.
In his writings he eschewed a sentimental and romantic portrayal of Irish life.; He successfully achieved what he termed a collaboration between a naturalist, realist Zola-esque style and one based solely on the imaginary. His portrayal of Irish life was anathema to the gaelgoiri later satirised by Flann O’Brien in An Bėal Bocht.
Ireland was going through a period of linguistic transition in Synge’s day, as the use of Irish as a vernacular was declining. Yet Synge was sensitive to the speech of ordinary folk and he could see that the Irish language continued to9 influence the speech patterns, vocabulary and psychology of those who were adopting English. In this regard the Irish language was operating as a happy ghost.
Had Hogdkin’s Disease not taken Synge at the early age of thirty-seven, it is hard to see how his genius could have subsequently operated in the independent Ireland, whose society and culture were dominated by the Catholic Church inspired mediocrity which became Ireland’s unofficial religion, and remains so in many areas to this day. It is possible that he would have become as well known as a poet, as he was a dramatist. I include here the final lines from his poem “On an Anniversary”.
And so when all my little work is done
They’ll say I cam in Eighteen-Seventy-one,
And died in Dublin. …What year will they write
For My poor passage to the stall of night?
Till Death do us part
Obituaries are a means of paying tribute to someone’s life. They can take numerous styles. One the one hand there can be the panegyric, which extols the person, mentioning their positive achievements and traits. maybe at the expense of anything that might detract from their memory. This may sound insincere, but in Ireland we have always had great respect for the dead and it is not uncommon to here people remark, even about the greatest scoundrel, that he or she “wasn’t the worse of them”.
Then there is the obituary which is nothing more than a hatchet job, and which can often be nothing more than a cowardly settling of scores. Many Irish nationalist, as well as left-wing politicians from throughout the world, have long experience of such obituaries being penned by ostensibly literate journalists and being published in so-called “quality” British newspapers.
But let us return to the role of the obituary. It serves as a memorial for a life, no matter whether the subject was the most powerful or the least distinctive member of society. It appears at a sensitive time, when the individual has passed from this world to the next, leaving behind grieving relatives and friends.
Let me mention now a third category of obituary, which I will name the Cavan obituary. It is the product of one particular individual whom I will not name, though anyone from Cavan will know who I mean. This author has such contempt for the subjects of the obituaries he pens that he cannot be bothered to find out anything about them, or to check whether the “facts” he reproduces are accurate. One might consider such an individual as quaint, had he any literary skill. In fact, he is possibly the worst writer on the planet for whom rules of grammar or syntax are mere external and unwelcome encumbrances. I know of no one who has a good word to say about him, even including his close relatives. He is a shining example of mediocrity.
This figure had worked for many years in local journalism, where he had displayed his lack of writing ability and his particular élan for writing obituaries. His retirement had been greeted with universal joy. However, so bored by his retirement had he become that his former employer brought him out of retirement, to do what? Write obituaries. One of the reasons I refer to Cavan society as perverse is that someone who is so manifestly incapable of performing a task is allowed to continue doing it, while others who could do it better are never given a chance. Perhaps they are expected to provide their efforts for free to such mediocrities in the hope that maybe one-day pigs might fly.
People will take the above comments as further evidence of the anger of the “clever cripple” Ciaran Parker whose arrogance and impatience have been his undoing and who has therefore never tried to “play the game.” But perhaps I am arrogant; certainly I have no taste to play any games with such mediocre sportsmen. Although disability has prevented me from taking an active role in sport I have nevertheless participated in many sports as a passionate observer. For me sport and games are about skill. Essential, though, to any sport is a set of rules observed by all participants. The problem about the “games” played in Cavan and in Ireland is that the rules are changes frequently and arbitrarily, to insure that the “right” people always win.
Cavan County Museum again causes air pollution
The toilets in Cavan County Museum in Ballyjamesduff ae blocked again. This has resulted in a malodorous cloud wafting uncontrollably over the town and surrounding countryside, seriously disrupting the weekly bus to Cavan.
Everyone must realise that the above is a joke, though in bad taste. It has been posted merely to annoy Cavan County Museum’s friends and well-wishers. I’m not sure who is working there now but I’m reliably informed that Dominic the doormat is gone, but more importantly Scotty the Research Officer has gone too. Now I think it’s fair to say that Scotty hated me. I don’t know why. I’d never met him or said anything about him. His area of expertise was diffrent to mine but he still contiues to try and encroach on what I’ve been doing for well over two decades. I think part of the problem was that he was listening to nasty things nasty people said about me. He shouldn’t have been listening to this crap, still less basing his assessments about me on baseless evidence. But far more, people shouldn’t have been spreading muck about others behind their back in the first place..
Thomas D’Arcy McGee (1825-68)
This month (April) marks the 185th anniversary of the birth of Thomas D’Arcy McGee – writer, journalist, politician and the man who founded
A father of Canadian national identity
Canadian identity.
He was born in Carlingford, Co. Louth on April 13th 1825, where his father worked for the Irish coastguard, although his parents moved when Thomas was seven to Wexford. He was deeply influenced by the heroic nationalism, tinged with still fresh memories of the events of 1798. Ireland’[s struggle with England was age old, but her cause was just. It is interesting that in later life his anti-English sentiments never translated into anti-British feeling. He saw the British Empire, headed by the British Crown, as a desirable system capable of protecting the rights of all its citizens, regardless of their religious beliefs.
His education in Ireland was, in modern terms, rudimentary, but the fact he went on to edit many newspapers and was noted for his oratory is a testament to the high standards of literacy that could be imparted from teachers from the “hedge schools”.
In 1842 he left Wexford, first for Quebec and then for Boston, where his literary skills were recognised by Cavan man Patrick Donahoe, the editor of the Boston Pilot. After serving as editor for a year he returned to Ireland, first to work for the Freeman’s Journal, and then The Nation. He became ever more involved in the Young Ireland agitation of 1848, eventually fleeing Ireland for America. However, he found Canada a far more attractive destination, in spite of the power of anti-Catholic groups like the Orange Order in many areas of life. In 1857 he moved to Canada permanently, soon after being elected a member of the Provincial Legislature. More significantly, he was soon appointed to the post of Minister for Agriculture, a considerable achievement for a newly-arrived immigrant still in his early thirties. He was in favour of the development of Canadian agriculture and industry behind high tariff walls, as well as the promotion of immigration. Throughout he maintained a sometimes bitter anti-American stance, viewing Canada’s southern neighbour as an unfriendly predator. He believed strongly in the need for Canada and Canadians to build a strong and robust Canadian identity, separate from that of America, This would be attached to an independent Canada that would nevertheless retain strong ties with the British crown. This was achieved, with D’Arcy McGee’s help, with the grant of Dominion Status to Canada in 1867.
Although a strong believer in Irish nationalist aims, he was opposed to the Fenians, especially their attempts to invade Canada from America. A week before his forty-second birthday D’Arcy McGee was shot dead near the parliament building in Ottawa, a very rare example of assassination in Canada. His assailant, Dublin-born tailor Patrick Whelan, was a Fenian. He was eventually executed. While D’Arcy McGee’s death bore all the hallmarks of Fenian-inspired revenge, there were many, both in Canada and the United States, who believed that Whelan was only a stool pigeon of a faction of Canadian Orangeism, outraged by D’Arcy McGee’s advocacy of Catholic rights.
His skills as a poet should not be overlooked. He is still remembered as the author of the poem “The Celts”.
Long, long ago, beyond the misty space
Of twice a thousand years
In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race
Taller than Roman spears …
A land fit for pariahs
The BBC reports that President Ahmedinejad has arrived in Zimbawe on an official visit. Photographs show the two pariahs – Ahmedinejad and Mugabe – together. I’m not sure whether there are any Jews left in the country that he can insult.
I find it sstrange that when a bad-mouthed pseudo historian like David Irvine makes comments denying the Holo0caust he is (rightly) ostracised, but when a heade of state does it he suffers little by way of such a cordon sanitaire. I am sure he would be welcome in Ireland.
But Mugabe’s days are numbered. I can reveal though that part of his exit strategy includes retiring to Ireland. This will be announced in conjunction with his ttrip to Dublin to receive the Jim Tunney Memorial Gay Bashing award next year. President Bob has long complained how his rest has been disturbed by a homosexual on the farm he seized from its white owners. As for Ahmedinejad there are persistent rumours that he intends to apostasise from Islanm. This would mean automatic death. To avoid this he will stay in disguise in the Redemptorists’ Mother House in Limerick City.
All go in the church
Ireland’s TV3 network recently aired an exposee about two Irish priests working in Florida who used their parochial funds to pay for a five-star
Just resting in his account?
lifestyle of gambling and womanising. The priests, now in their ‘80s, are now serving jail terms.
What they did was reprehensible, as it involved a betrayal of trust. But I couldn’t help feeling that stealing money, even in such large amounts, was certainly a lesser crime than systematically abusing children. They have offered to repay any money stolen. The hurt and anguish of sexual abuse however, leaves a mark which is often impossible to erase.
They served in some of the most well-heeled parishes in Palm Beach, whose members dutifully kept putting large amounts in the collection plate each week, and may have viewed the Catholic Church as a necessary bastion against the evils of communism, socialism and secular humanism. Some of them may even have sought to have their donations set off against their tax liabilities. So the priests could hardly be painted as robbing from the poor. In fact, they were robbing from the rich, to give to the rich – themselves. They were slightly more just than the Irish government, who steal from the poor to give to the rich - and pay for the champagne lifestyles of politicians and public officials.
What’s more, as the priests said themselves, they had never taken a vow of poverty. They were not like the Franciscans who have. They never said they were saints. They were not the first priests to live it up, gambling, drinking and whoring, and to pay for this by dipping into the collection. And historically, that’s just what most members of the hierarchy did. Remember that bishops still live in palaces and who paid for the still unnamed Irish bishop’s visits to London prostitutes? Did they get sex on approval or was it paid for by well-wishers in the laity? And then there was the former Bishop of Limerickm, a big friend of Opus Dei who made no secret of the fact that he would only accept the best food and wine. *He loved Frankie
Please yourselves then
Howerd in Up Pompeii, especially the line when Nausius says “I feel like a new man” and Lurcio replies, “Well it’s always better than sticking with the old one”.
Personally, seeing the lifestyles they enjoyed, I have had reason to question my decision not to pursue a life in the church. The only problem was that they would never have a cripple in their ministry.
James Clarence Mangan (1803-49)
James Clarence Magna, who was born on May 1st, 1803, is now probably one of the most overlooked and misunderstood of Irish poets. For many his “fame” rests on one poem, which I do not consider his best.
He was a self-taught polymath. Although he worked in a solicitor’s office, and an assistant in Trinity College Dublin’s library, he nevertheless taught himself seven languages: Irish, French, German, Spanish, Hungarian, Icelandic and Persian, to such a standard that he was able to make viable translations.
Mangan was a man whose learning and erudition were too great for the increasingly blinkered world of nineteenth-century Ireland. Work and money were always in short supply. In order to assuage the pangs of hunger and frustration, Mangan turned to alcohol and laudanum. He died at the early age of forty-six in Dublin’s Meath Hospital, a location which was still as forbidding in the early 1980s when I had my tonsils extracted there, as it must have been in 1849.
This is a personal opinion, but I think that Mangan is to be seen at his best not in the long declamatory odes but in the shorter, more intimate pieces, such as “And Then No More”.
I saw her once, one little while, and then no more:
‘Twas Eden’s light on Earth awhile, and then no more.
Amid the throng, she passed along the meadow-floor:
Spring seemed to smile on Earth awhile, and then no more:
But whence she came, which way she went, which garb she wore
I noted not; I gazed awhile, and then no more!
He was very much a poet of the Romantic nationalist school, whose verses were inspired by a dram-like vision of Ireland’s past. looking back to a dreamy Hibernian past which had never anything much to do with reality. One of the poems from this vein was “A Vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth Century”
I walked entranced
Through a land of Morn;
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn
And lustrous gardens aleft and right
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain,
Beams no such sun upon such a land;
But it was the time,
‘Twas in the reign
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red hand.
The poem was taken up by the godfathers of Independent Ireland’s education. Appearing in numerous schoolbooks earning a near permanent spot on curricula. Its subject, Cathal crobhdhearg O Conchobhair (died 224), was the brother of Ruaidhri, the so-call “last high king of Ireland”. It is fair to say that its picture of Connacht bore little link to reality. Mangan had only limited access to historical sources so his attitudes towards some historical figures like Cathal Crobhdhearg was imperfect. One in particular, gives an alternate, though no less praiseworthy description of Cathal crobhdhearg. It is his obit or death notice from the Annals of Connacht., in which he was described as
The king most feared and dreaded on every hand in Ireland; who carried out most burnings and plunderings on Gael and Gael who opposed him, who was the fiercest and harshest against his enemies that ever lived, who most killed, blinded and mutilated rebellious and disaffected subjects, who built most monasteries and houses for religious communities…
In his lifetime Mangan was viewed as a social outsider. He contributed to this outcast role through his behaviour, often dressing in a long black coat, wearing green spectacles and a blond wig. He underwent something of a bloated canonisation in the twentieth century, as he joined the pantheon of nationalist poets. But his new respectability was easily given once he was dead. It also failed to take account of his wide erudition, and the complexity and richness of his poetic vision which was never confined solely to Ireland. .
Stamp issued by Irish post office on the 100th anniversay of Mangan's death in 1949
Bashir victorious in Sudan
Aam de business bro
Surprise, surprise. Sudanese strongman and would-be break-dancing king Omar al-Bashir has won re-election in the country’s presidential elections. Now isn’t that a turn up for the books?
Al-Bashir is a wanted war criminal, so he can’t travel that much outside of his country, except to visit other despots. He had been hoping for a relaxation on British travel restrictions, as he had set his heart on taking part in this year’s Strictly Come while Dancing. Being honest Omar, you’ll have to put in more practice before you could get by Len Goodman. Brucie wouldn’t mind you though. You could even stay in his gaff. Augusto Pinochet was his neighbour for a while, so he’s used to living beside blood-thirsty dictators.
Young men of Ireland beware!
Tonight, April 30th, is Walpurgisnacht, the night when witches congregate on the Trocken in Germany’s Harz Mountains for their annual witches’ Sabbath.
The name was said by some to come from a shadowy Anglo-Saxon nun called St. Walburga. However, there was a much longer cult among the German tribes of worshipping a forest deity called Waldborg. This traditionally occurred on May Eve. So deeply entrenched was the belief that the Christian authorities dealt with it by making Waldborg into St Walburga, whose relics were moved to the German town of Eichstatt on … 30 April which then became her feast in the Christian rite.
The Sabbath on the Trocken wax always marked by excess. The witches met there with their master, the Devil or as they say in these parts, the lad with the horns. They engaged in wild and delirium-inducing dances, and after being laid prostrate by constant circular motions the Devil would have beastly carnal knowledge of them. Once awaken again they would compete with each other to satisfy his voracious lustful appetite, by taking his manhood in their mouths. At the moment of consummation they would allow the diabolical seed to spurt out onto the ground. Tradition held that wherever the Devil’s semen landed would be devoid of crops for seven generations.
The air was often permeated by frightful growling sounds like thunder. This was caused by the gargling of other witches as they allowed the diabolical essence to course through their bodies. No matter how many times they gave head to their master, he remained unsalted.
Similar Sabbaths were held in parts of Ireland. It was held that the locations where the witches spat out the Devil’s seed were marked by the plant long known in Irish as the Bohillan bui. This had poisonous effects on the soil and was also toxic to livestock.
Walpurgis night falls fatefully this year on a Friday night, and so young Irish males returning at late hours from discos should be on their guard against the temptations of disguised witches. They should remember that these ladies have experiences and kills of sucking men dry with far bigger tanks than theirs.
Captain Cook’s Irish sailors
Irishmen were to be found among the crew of all of Captain Cook’s voyages of discovery. I’ve identified four who played not insubstantial roles in his second voyage.
This set out with the aim of discovering a southern continent. It consisted of two ships; the Endeavour, captained by Cook himself, and the Adventure, a former collier, commanded by Tobias Furneaux.
The Adventure became separated from the Endeavour early in 1773. The two ships endured a much longer separation beginning in October of the same year off the New Zealand coast, and were not destined to be reunited. The Adventure landed at Queen Charlotte Sound on the north-eastern extremity of New Zealand’s South Island at the end of November 1773, only a few days after the Endeavour had sailed a way. On December 17th a party of experienced seamen was sent, several days’ later, to the nearby Grass Cove (called Wharehunga by the local Maoris), to collect information and foodstuffs. They were expected to be stay for only a few hours, but night fell without their return. The next day a search party commanded by Lieutenant Burney found the grisly indications of what had happened to them. They first found fresh meat which they wrongly identified as dog meat, but the discovery of ten headless and disembowelled corpses showed that the men had been murdered. What’s more there were indications that they were being prepared for eating. (Anyone interested in reading more about he Grass Cove Massacre should visit New Zealand History online
Those on board included Francis Murphy, the ship’s quartermaster, and John Cavenaugh. I don’t know where in Ireland they came from, but their surnames give us some clues. The surname Murphy is common throughout the island, but is especially numerous in Co. Cork. Cavenaugh or Kavanagh is common in the southeast, especially in counties Carlow and Wexford.
Murphy and Cavenaugh can, I believe, hold the rather dubious accolade of being the fire Irishmen killed in New Zealand.
The company of Cook’s ship Endeavour included an Irish gunner’s mate named John Marra (probably O’Meara). The surname is common in Co. Tipperary. He had previously joined the Dutch naval service, or probably the Dutch East India Company, which brought him to Java and Batavia (now Djakarta). It was there Captain Cook first met him, while returning from his first voyage of discovery. Marra professed to having no friends or contacts in Europe, and when the Endeavour stopped off at Tahiti in 1773 he exhibited a strong indication to stay there. This may have been enhanced by the low cost of living and the welcome of the natives, especially the women. Cook however impressed upon him the need of staying with the ship. We don’t know how he did it but maybe the threat of flogging or the cat o’ nine tails did the trick for he returned to England with Cook. Once there he did not initially go gentle into that good night of obscurity. All of the officers and crew promised Cook they would not publish accounts of the voyage until the Admiralty had given its consent. Public interest in their findings was intense and rumours abounded about what he had discovered and their appetite for information could not be assuaged by then non-existent media like television. It was therefore with considerable unease that in September 1775 Captain Cook learned that an account of the voyage, written by one of the participants, was at a London printers and was awaiting publication. Suspicion initially fell on the Endeavour’s gunner, Robert Anderson, but when Cook challenged him he denied all knowledge and undertook to find out who had written about the voyage. A visit to the bookseller and printer Francis Newbury provided him with the necessary information: it was \Anderson’s old friend John Marra, then residing at the Angel Inn, Angel Court, Southwark. Anderson left him in no doubt that he had earned the displeasure of the captain. Although he denied involvement he travelled with Anderson to the publisher where he insisted that the account of the voyage they had should only be published under hi8s name. But he was still anxious to retain the patronage of Captain Cook so he paid him a visit, again denying any involvement in the publication scheme himself but pointing the finger of blame at others, including a coxswain named Reardon – a surname of Counties Cork and Limerick. These people had already supplied drafts to the publisher who had rejected them because they were so badly written. Cook was content that if these were the only publications then pending, they did not think they were “worth regarding”. But he intended to pay a visit to the printers to discover the truth of the matter. This would be made3 easier by his knowledge of all the handwriting of his crew.
Whether he ever made this trip I do not know. Certainly at the time Cook had other, and bigger fish to fry, not the least was the invitation to lead yet another voyage to the South Pacific. This was the prove his last, from which he was not to return. I have found no references to Marra being one of the crew.
© Ciaran Parker 2010
.
How does my garden grow
I love growing vegetables. There is something so life affirming about watching seeds germinate, tending the young and growing plants, harvesting the crop and then eating the freshest produce available. Sadly, I can’t say I possess green fingers, unlike my partner Rosie. As a result of my lack of horticultural assiduity Rosie has tended to steer me clear of gardening, but this year I have been allowed to nurture a number of crops from sowing to (hopefully) harvesting.
These include “cut-and-come-again” salad crops. A few weeks’ ago I sowed two seed collections, both from the long-established company of Thompson and Morgan. The first was a selection of leaves such as endive (which I adore – much more flavour than ordinary lettuce), escarole lettuce and salad burnet whose Linnaean name is I think Sangisorbus. These suffered a mini disaster early on when one of our five cats decided to take a dump in the container. However, the seeds have germinated in the remaining poop-free part of the container and are already healthy and vigorous seedlings. The second sowing in a different container consisted of oriental leaves, such as red mustard, mizuna and pak choi. They too are doing well.
On the same occasion I sowed some French beans. These were a dwarf, purple-podded variety called Purple Queen from Unwins . I rounded off my horticultural adventures by sowing a dwarf variety of pea called Piccolo Provenzale from those wonderful seed merchants Franchi, also known as Seeds of Italy, whose seeds ae always remarkable for their freshness.
The other area of vegetable growing I showed interest in was courgettes. Yesterday I sowed three varieties: Tondo di Nizza, Rugosa Friulana and a golden variety, all from Franchis. Even if we get a glut of courgettes I look forwarding to eating their delicious flowers stuffed and fried.
Captain King in Kamchatka
Apart from those members of Captain Cook’s crew who were unambiguously Irish, there were also many with strong links to Ireland. One of them was Lieutenant (later Captain) James King. Although he was a native of Clitheroe in Lancashire, his father, who was a curate in Lancashire, was subsequently named Dean of the diocese of Raphoe in Donegal.
King had served with Cook as assistant astronomer and second lieutenant during the latter’s fateful third voyage. On Captain Cook’s death he was named first lieutenant on board HMS Resolution under the ailing Captain Charles Clerke and accompanied him northwards towards the Kamchatka peninsular. When the voyage landed at Petropavlovsk Kamchatskiy he travelled to meet the commanding officer on the peninsular, the Baltic German Major Behm who resided at Bol’sheretsk on the Okhotsk Sea. Both ships were then furnished with adequate provisions, and both the Resolution and her sister ship HMS Discovery left Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy in June, just after they had witnessed an eruption of the nearby volcano Avachinskiy. This showered the ships with an inch-thick covering of volcanic ash. He sailed towards the Bering straits in a vain attempt at finding a north-western passage leading to Baffin Island and Hudson’s Bay, but they were frustrated in their travels by thick pack ice, which forced the ships back to Petropavlovsk. It was while lying off the harbour that Captain Clerke died and King became the commander of the Discovery.
King continued Captain Cook’s journal of the voyage. He has left behind some amazing and interesting descriptions of life on the Kamchatka peninsular at the time. The area had been opened up to Russian settlers in the preceding decades. Many of these were fur trappers, as well as Cossacks who pursued an unspoken policy of genocide against the native Itelmens or Kamchadals, similar to what would happen on the other side of the Pacific Ocean in the next century. Their numbers had been further thinned by a serious outbreak of smallpox in the 1760s.King describes a surprising level of co-existence between native and settler. The natives were governed by officially appointed toions or magistrates, many of them the result of intermarriage between the Russians and Kamchadal. They had tax collecting powers, as well as what amounted to complete criminal and civil jurisdiction over the Kamchadal living in their area. The only person above them was the provincial commander. Major Behm’s departure to return to European Russia to another appointment coincided with the expedition’s leaving, and King noted genuine sorrow on the part of the Kamchadal to see him going. King described their dress and domestic arrangements, as well as the particularly close relationship they enjoyed with the bear. Their dance was characterised as a series of movements of ursine imitation – sounds just like Strictly – while the Kamchadal observed the habits of bears closely, using berries and plants that the animal used for dealing with cuts and abrasions.
Nowadays there aren’t many Kamchadal left. Most had given up their language in favour of Russian, and because there were so few of them they didn’t qualify for any of the largesse of Stalin’s Nationalities’ Policy, such as their own National Area.
A forgotten Italian poet
The late Thirteenth century was a marvellous time in Italy. It was like the dawn of a new era in human history. The medieval world was giving way to something far finer and more outward looking, which came to be known as The Renaissance. Already new forms of painting under such masters as Cimabue were being developed. The dead hand of plainchant was giving way to polyphony in music. Speak of this era and one immediately thinks of Dante, but there was another poet, a few years’ Dante’s senior, who deserves to be better known.
Cecho Angiolieri was born in Siena around 1260. (My friend Gerry jokes that he has one big thing in common with Jude Law – they’ve both been in Siena …) Cecho moved to Rome where he son became famous, if not infamous for his skills as a versifier and a satirist. He liked the finer things in life, like wine and women, but seldom had money to pay for either, and what littler he did make he soon squandered away at the gaming tables. Surprisingly Cecho lived to the ripe old age (for his day) of fifty-two.
Cecho is famous for a fresh and unencumbered style. Not for him the anally retentive prissiness of Dante and the dolce stil nuovo dominated by its adoration of love and female perfection. While Dante swooned after his Beatrice, Petrarca his Laura, and Boccaccio his Fiammetta, Cecho lusted after his Becchina, but whereas these poetical muses were “high class totty”, either married or destined to marry noblemen and w bankers, Becchina was a full-blooded, three-hundred-and-sixty degrees woman, the daughter of a cobbler and leather worker. Incidentally he is reputed to have once called dearest Dante a bollocks, or the Florentine equivalent.
About 150 poems by Cecho including the sonnet “S’ I’ fosse foco” (If I were fire) which I have appended in a rather free translation which probably seems like Jack Kerouac meets Stewy from Family Guy.
If I were fire I’d burn the world,
If I were wind I’d blow it away.
If I were water I’d drown it,
If I were God I’d send it to the depths/
If I were Pope, I’d have a great time
As I’d do everyone in Christendom.
If I were emperor – do you know what I’d do?
I’d cut off the heads of everyone around me
If I were Death I’d go to my father’s,
If I were life I’d flee from him.
I’d do the same with my mother.
If I were Cecho, which I am and have been.
I’d take the girls who are young and gay,
And give the old and ugly away.
Hommage a Francois Villon
Every time I travel down Cavan town’s Farnham Street, and I look at the site once occup0ied by the Farnham Hall, Villon’s refrain from his “Ballade des dames du temps jadis” comes into my mind: “Mais oú sont les neiges d’antan?” (that’s your actual French that is, as Kenneth Williams said). “Where are the snows of yesteryear?” The Farnham Hall was knocked down unceremoniously in an act of barbaric vandalism one October Saturday morning. (It must be said though that the man who did it, while having the social graces of a skunk was an angel of transparency when compared to his two-faced successor.) On the altar of its destruction has risen a building displaying the architectural élan of a six-year-old playing with Lego bricks. But let us return to Villon.
He spent quite a lot of the life known to us in prison. He was very gifted intellectually, and I feel a certain affinity with him, as I often feel imprisoned. He stole money from the Chapel of the College de Navarre, which had probably been gained dishonourably anyway. Then he was sentenced to death. It was while on death row that he wrote his “Ballad of the hanged men”. One manuscript copy of the poem is illustrated by a drawing of a scaffold with three men swinging from it, two at least of whom wear something suspiciously like a smile. But Villon’s death sentence was commuted to banishment from Paris. This was in January 1463. After that he vanishes from history. He may have fallen an anonymous victim of the tavern brawls he delighted in. Maybe he changed his name (he had done it before), or maybe he led a long and fulfilling life in some French provincial backwater, his wants amply catered for by a succession of wenches.
The Ballad of the Hanged Men
Human brothers, who live after us,
Do not harden your hearts against us,
For if you pity us poor sinners,
God will be more merciful to you.
As for our flesh, which we fed too well:
It is long since wasted and rotten,
And our bones become ash and powder;
Let nobody laugh at our bad luck.
But pray that all will be forgiven!
If we call you brother, do not have;
Disdain for us, though we be murdered
Lawfully, since you know all about
How not all men have common sense
Intercede for us who are no more-
With the Son of the Virgin Mary,,
That his grace for us should no0 dry up,
But preserving us from Hell’s lightning.
We are no more, let no soul harry us;
But pray that all will be forgiven!
The wet rain has washed us with its mist,
The hot sun has dried and blackened us;
Magpies and crows have gouged out our eyes
And have torn our beards and our eyebrows.
Never, at no time, are we seated;
Now here, now there, as the wind changes
Ceaselessly, at its pleasure, we move;
We are pecked full of holes like a thimble.
Thus do not be of our fellowship.
But pray that all will be forgiven!
ENVOI
May Prince Jesus who is lord over us all,
Prevent Hell exerting lordship over us:
Let us not have any dealings with it.
Men, nobody is laughing where we are,
Let us pray that all will be forgiven!
(translation by Ciaran Parker)
Sweet Cicely
Sweet Cicely
Recently the love of my life Rosie acquired some plants of Sweet Cicely (Myrrhis odarata). This is a love plant, with light green lace-like leaves. Its odour is remarkably pungent, being similar to fennel and anise. It belongs to the same family as parsley (Apiaceae) and is distantly related to plants such as caraway and chervil.
Its resemblance to chervil has led to a crisis of identity in continental Europe. In france3 it is called Cerfeuil d’Espagne, in German Spanischer Kerbel, in Italian Cerfoglio di Spagna, while the Hungarians know is as Spanyol turbolya. These can be translated as Spanish chervil, a name which may owe something to the belief that it originated in Spain. But the confusion is more extensive. A Dutch name is Roomse kervel or Roman Chervil, while the Finns calls is Saksankirveli or German Chervil.
It was known to the first-century Greek physician Dioscorides and has long been used to add flavour to food and drinks. Allan Davison in his Oxford Companion to Food describes how it has long been an ingredient of chartreuse. What’s more it is also used in Scandinavia to flavour akvavit. Richard Mabey in Food For Free describes one use in French cuisine, where the leaves are coated in a light batter and fried, as well as an old utilisation of the leaves in Cumbria to clean furniture and doors made of oak. Cicely leaves when added to dishes containing very sharp-tasting ingredients like rhubarb, has the ability to cut through the acerbity. There is thus less need for added sugar and indeed the herb can be used in bitter-tasting dishes as a sugar substitute, making it attractive to some diabetics.
Its use as a medicinal plant was never great; Culpeper didn’t mention it. However, the Encyclopedia of Hefbs and Herbalism, edited by M. Stuart, refers to its one-time application to wounds to stop haemorrhaging.
Check out Gernot Katzer’s excellent Spice pages.
Savories
Viewers of Alys Fowler’s BBC series The Edible Garden will recall the glee with which she dug up some of her Jerusalem artichokes. These tubers are amongst my favourite vegetables, but everyone knows that they contain a substance called inulin, which is non-digestible. In fact, this leads to almost uncontrollable flatulence. You just can’t stop farting, and the more you try to keep it in the more you resemble a turnip that’s just about to burst. It’s just the thing if you’re due to meet a bishop or monsignor. Alys 
mentioned a plant to alleviate the baleful effects of Jerusalem artichoke – chewing the leaves of winter savory (Satureja Montana). I must admit I’d never heard of that remedy.
I knew of course about winter savory’s better-known cousin the summer savory (Satureja Hortensis). Both belong to the mint family. This has been known since classical times and Virgil recommended it as a honey herb to be planted near beehives. It was known in medieval England as satturey but somehow it adopted a “v” instead of a “t”. It has long been used in association with legumes, especially beans and lentils, and it most certainly adds to their occasionally monotonous taste. In Germany it has long been known as the bean herb or Bohnenkraut. The association with beans isn’t just culinary though, as summer savory has been proven to be an effective companion plant, which when grown beside beans deters black fly. Gernot Katzer mentions that it can be used as a very poor substitute for black pepper. Its peppery quality has led to another German name Pfefferkraut. According to the Larousse Gastronmique, its affinity to pepper has led the plant t be known in some parts of Provence as poivre d’ane or Donkey Pepper. I don’t believe this was ever meant as a compliment.
The savories were so well known in mid seventeenth century England that Culpeper didn’t think it necessary to give a description. He preferred the summer savory. It had quite wide medicinal uses, including the suppression of wind and flatulence, so Alys is on to something. A decoction made with ther leaves and oil of roses and applied as ear drops could ameliorate tinitis, while a poultice of savory leaves and wheat flour was effective against sciatica.
Winter savory shares all the qualities of the summer variety, but is reckoned to be spicier. I cannot wait for ours to grow before tucking into some Jerusalem artichokes. Rosie has promised to make me some of that old Victorian favourite Palestine Soup, after which I would recommend those with delicate nostrils to stand well back.
Courgette update
I am delirah an’ exitah to be able to relate that the courgette seeds I sowed a while back are all now germinating very healthily. This possibly has something to do with the pleasant turn in the weather, providing both heat and sunshine. I can now look forward to a bumper crop. What’s more I discovered another packet of a variety of courgette called Romanesco, again from Franchi’s Seeds of Italy. This is a strasighter, light-green and ribbed courgette.
I think my current success owes much to the guidance of my horticultural consultant partner, who told me how to properly sow the seed. Apparently in the past I was pushing it in too deep, but I just have to say in my defence that I’ve always been a guy who like a real deep penetration – well there is something phallic about courgettes.
Cutting the mustard
The oriental leaves we sowed a few weeks ago are producing a great crop of edible leaves. Over the weekend I spent most of my time taking advantage of the good weather, munching away on handfuls of oriental mustard, washed down with copious draughts of Polish lager, while listening to M&M.
The oriental mustard, also known as mustard greens, is in fact distantly related to the cabbage. Its botanical name is Brassica Juncea. It is beloved of Chinese cookery. It is also adored by the Meo or Hmong people of Vietnam. These Montagnards converted in large numbers to Christianity during the colonial period. They also earned a reputation, perhaps undeserved, of collaborating too closely with the Americans.
Oriental mustard is distinct from the mustard we grow in mustard and cress collections. This has the botanical name of Sinapis alba, and its seeds are one of the essential ingredients in the condiment mustard.
Cumann Seannchais Breifne at it again
Lately I’ve received lots of emails asking me what’s wrong. Why are so many of my posts taken up with gardening and herbs, to the exclusion of commentary about things in Cavan. The truth is I’ve wanted to devote my energies to pleasant things, to the exclusion of the pea brained bastards of Cavan who leave the pleasant Cavan landscape, at its most beautiful at this time of year, covered with the rodent-like casts of their intellectual banality.
But unfortunately the foul stench of Cavan’s petty filth invades my nostrils. I learned through a friend of a friend that the Cumann Seannchais Breifne was holding a meeting where the speaker was Micheal Mac Craith OFM from Galway. Now as one of Co. Cavan’s most qualified and experienced historians (this sticks in their craw) I might have expected to have received notification of this event, rather than learning of it third hand. But sadly one of the top honchos in that organisation is an insecure and envious little jerk-off pipsqueak. This meeting was no doubt held in the Ballyjamesduff bomitarium.
The talk, which I know was excellent, was on the Franciscans, a worthy topic. But it seems too redolent of the days when the C.S.B. was the plaything of the former Bishop of Kilmore, Francis “Frankie goes to Hollywood” McKiernan, when the society’s talks were dominated by discussion of priests and primary teachers. Given that the status of the priesthood has been so badly damaged by the actions of the priesthood’s aberrant members, I am confident that to the general public, the continuing obsession with the clergy must seem inappropriate.
Rumours abound that the talented Dr Snott is engaged in writing two books. Is one of them a Festchrift (a book of commemorative essays) to the memory of Dr McKiernan? I doubt very much if I will be invited to contribute (my article in Jim Lydon’s Festchrift is one of the most significant of my papers). Were I to be asked I would have to decline on the grounds that I was barred from so doing by a confidentiality clause aka gagging order imposed upon me in the 1970s. I can’t no how Dr Snott finds the time, with his hectic schedule which includes giving public lectures to the blind and partially-sighted.
Cloverhill booklaunch
This Friday evening, May 28th, sees the launch of a history of the church and community of Cloverhill Co. Cavan, written by my good friend Dr Jonathan Cherry.
St John’s Church Cloverhill was built by local landed proprietor Mary Ann Sanderson. in the 1850s. It is like an old friend to me as I have passed it on innumerable occasions. The compilation of a history of the church and community since 1725 is long overdue. Thankfully this has now been remedied.
Jonathan is a local man, from just down the road at Drumellis. We have a certain amount in common. We both went to the same school, the venerable Royal School in Cavan. What’s more we have both been “doctored”! He currently lectures in St Patrick’s College, Drumcondra.
It promises to be a marvellous event and there can be no better time for a book launch than the wonderfully light-suffused evenings of May.
Orphanage fire victims’ commemoration
Our efforts to commemorate the victims of the convent fire of February 1943 are going from strength to strength. A panel containing the names of those who lost their lives is to be unveiled shortly near the entrance to the convent complex from Cavan’s main street. An ecumenical service is also to be held next month at the convent. Carina Charles of Shannonside Northern Sound Radio is preparing a documentary about the tragedy, which will feature interviews with residents of Cavan town at the time, as well as contributions from Sean Galligan and yours truly.
The aspect which h is most pleasing is the strength that the members have been able to muster internally from the group by acting as a team. It is always edifying to know that ordinary people with a purpose and a focus can get results.
Patrick Lyons wartime bishop of Kilmore
Patrick Lyons was the bishop of Kilnmo9re at the time of the immolation suffered by the girls in the Poor Clares’ Convent of February 1943.
He was not a Cavanman, but a native of colon, Co. Louth. He was ordained for the archdiocese of |Armagh. He was appointed bishop of Kilmore in August 1937 after the death earlier that year of Bishop Finnegan.
His response represented the chilling heartlessness o9f the time, when he spoke of ““… the terrible ordeal it has been for the good nuns to have the fierce glare of publicity turned on their quiet sheltered lives.” While barely mumbling an type of commiserations to the families of the unfortunate victims.
In Cavan of course he was a true prince bishop. In fact, like many prelates of the time God was a mere junior colleague who lived and worked somewhere else. He had a chauffeur-driven car which was always supplied with petrol even at the height of war time shortages.
He had access to other items beyond the purchase of most of his flock. These included oranges, which he doled out as presents to altar boys at Confirmation ceremonies throughout the diocese. There was another fire, far less serious, which affected Bishop Lyons’ Episcopal residence. In 1944 soldiers were asked to put out a fire at Cullies House. Among the items they rescued was a large crate of whiskey. Sensing that its disappearance could be blamed on the flames they consumed its contents, leading to some drunken antics observed by a then resident of the nearby St Patrick’s College Cavan.. Thus deprived of his tipple poor Bishop Lyons was unable to drown his sorrows at the defeat of the Nazis in 1945 and the death of Adolf Hitler.
At the first public performance of the Cavan International Drama Festival in 1946 Bishop Lyons took the opportunity to express his admiration for the play “The Righteous are Bold”. What’s more he felt that it was in such plays that the “true nature of the Irish” was expressed, and not in the scribblings of disaffected degenerates (he didn’t use the term) like Joyce, Beckett et al, whom he and his cronies made sure were banned anyway.
He died in April 1949.
Our journey?
Rosie, my sister Gill and myself have received an invitation to an event to be held in the Irish Wheelchair Association headquarters at Corlurgan, on May 28th. This is a play about disabled people and starring disabled people from Co. Cavan. It is a most worthy project and I wish it the greatest success to those taking part.
There are a number of aspects that trouble me however. First, as far as I can discern, the play has not been written by disabled people, but by an able-bodied dramatist, maybe commissioned by Cavan County Council’s Arts Office. There seems to be the implication here that disabled people’s thoughts are too raw and coarse to be consumed by the general, able-bodied public, and have to be interpreted by someone else. Is it about disabled people’s journeys but in the words of the able-bodied? Apart from those unfortunate enough to suffer from aphasia or any other condition that causes loss of speech, all the disabled people I know (including myself) can speak very well and clearly.
Bound up with this may be the assumption that disabled people wouldn’t be able to formulate their thoughts intelligently, let alone write a play.
As I have a prior engagement I won’t be able to attend. This should not be seen as a snub by me towards those taking part in the play, who have my boundless respect and admiration. Unfortunately I feel I know what is going to happen. The event will be turned into a photo opportunity. My good friend Brian Mulligan will be on hand to take the pictures of the disabled who will be lined up for the shot. They will thus appear as nice, well-behaved and non-threatening cripples. This will then appear in the pages of the Anglo-Celt as exhibits in the ego-trips of those able-bodied people who want to appear caring. It might be said that the disabled are therefore being cynically used. Bridget Boyle will be there of course, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t have her friend Whacko Jacko Keys there. Bridget enjoys the privileged position of being the only disabled person he deigns to communicate with. Another sure show will be the chairman of the County Council, Winston Bennett, who will play the role of the self-important courthouse jester by wearing a silly chain round his neck. (Now men who wear jewellery are often ridiculed and called names like “trannies”. What’s more the only people I know who are called Winston are from the West Indies.)
The drama has been assisted by Cavan County Council’s Arts Office. I used to enjoy very close relations with the office’s staff but I seem to have dropped out of their orbit. I cannot understand why the Arts Officer, my dear (or at least I though dear) friend Catriona O’Reilly never told me about this project. No doubt it would have been inappropriate for her to have contacts with me. How could she own up to being the friend of someone who has said such dreadful things about poor Brendan Snott and his neurotic predecessor in the Ballyjamesduff County vomitarium? She could have contacted me by ‘phone while out walking were she afraid that contact me through her office would be overheard.
I cannot second-guess the play’s contents, but I do hope that it is realistic and not a dire panegyric singing the praises of the Irish Wheelchair Association or telling of Cavan’s disabled community’s gratitude to Cavan County Council for putting them on the housing waiting list – and keeping them there – where they know that any criticism of the council’s policies will earn them backward movement on the said list. Funny thing is that I don’t think there are that many houses being built, but no doubt the council will restart their construction once they get some of the 25 million euro they’re owed by developers.)
Now I am confined to a wheelchair, although thankfully I can walk for about half a mile each day. The play is called Our Journey, but I don’t feel it’s my journey, as nobody ever contacted me for my input. This is not prompted by churlish resentment. I do believe that my story, which is not superior to anyone else’s, might be of interest. It is certainly of no lesser value, but it seems that some of those behind this project just don’t want to hear it. They may think that it would be too embarrassing and too likely to offend “certain people”. Yet my disabled journey is a joyful story. I see my disabilities as gifts from God; they are challenges which have been given to me and which I see myself as having a duty to overcome as best I can. I know that there would be many who would bristle with discomfort were I to say the unutterable, that I am actually proud of my disabilities and how I continue to deal with them on a daily basis.
But it seems as if there are some in Cavan who want to ignore me. The great lie is spread that I am angry. I am portrayed as someone who has never accepted my position as a cripple, one of God’s accursed. My outlook is heretical, because I do not humbly accept my disabilities as the actions of a wrathful God, (and it goes without saying that the people who think this know God well). What is more I refuse to come to terms with the “fact” that no mater how many books I write or languages I learn I can nevcr, never be as good as the laziest and most incompetent able-bodied person.
I am therefore not worthy of charity, (not that I want it), or kindness. The nun who used to wipe clean the blackboard when she would see me attempting to discern what she had written, and who forbade any of my classmates to give me their notes, was thus justified because I had stood up to her tyranny. I haven’t changed. In the past I have offended the petty local establishment and thumbed my nose at organisations like the knights of St Columbanus. Did I not go to a Protestant school and refuse to kiss Bishop McKiernan’s ring? I must therefore be punished by being airbrushed out of Cavan’s reality like someone who doesn’t exist, never has and never will.
Let me repeat that I wish the event all the very best luck. At least I was invited. In the past Tess Kennedy of the Irish MS Society, which has close links to the IWA, has invited me to give talks on local history and other subjects to members in St Christopher’s, and I hope that those who attended enjoyed themselves and found the experience as instructive and rewarding as I did. This action stands in marked contrast to that of the National Council for the Blind in Cavan. Now both Tess and Bridget Boyle knew of my skills and abilities, and both of them were well aware of my contributions to the sadly defunct Cavan Echo. They have never been afraid to count me as a friend and indeed an equal.
No doubt Dr Snott, so long employed by Cavan County Council and taken to their collective heart, thought that he was a real clever boy when he accepted the invitation to speak from the NCBI on a topic that I had worked on for over two decades. The apposite adjective for him is, I believe unprintable even on my blog.
Kerb crawling in Cavsn town
Yesterday I had to pay a visit to Cavan town. This was no big deal. I am in a wheelchair and I was going to an address in Wesley St. (not the FAS office). The problem was caused by the kerb, which was so high that my wheelchair couldn’t traverse it. Luckily (indeed very happily) the charming young lady who was with me held my hand as I got out of the wheelchair and gained access to the footpath.
Cavan town is a nightmare as far as wheelchair and disabled access is concerned. I must ask Where is the Irish Wheelchair association? Its top honcho in Cavan, Bridget Boyle, enjoys a special relationship with Cavan County Manager, Jack Keys, so I’m sure that she could make usual representations. But then what business do I, or any wheelchair user, have to be attempting to follow an independent life? Should the only journeys I make outside of my home not be in the IWA state-of-the- arse” Mercedes minibus to their centre at Corlurgan, where I can spend the day with other wheelchair users, before regaining my seat on the minibus (a sparkling existence)?
The [problems regarding disabled access in Cavan can be solved cheaply and with common sense. Dished footpaths can be installed, though unless they have a corresponding dished footpath on the other side of the street facing them they are worse than useless. This would not be expensive. I would go so far as to say it would cost less money than the fees and travel expenses paid to “access auditors” from Scotland to come and write glossy reports about Cavan, a location unknown to them. The considerable gaps in their knowledge being supplied by local disabled people who are expected to “shadow” them – for free of course. ,
All in all I enjoyed my little trip to Cavan town – a journey most people take for granted. What’s more I had the pleasure of momentarily holding the hand of a pretty lady – sometimes being in a wheelchair has its advantages.
What you won’t find in disabled toilets
This week’s RTE Guide contains a very interesting interview with the talented young British actor David Proud. David is of course, wheel-chair bound, and he has used with wonderful skillsto help overcome some of the prejudice and ignorance surrounding disability. He asks why is it that there are no condom machines in disabled toilets? I can answer cynically because it is considered by the £able-bodied” who make decisions, that disabled guys just don’t have sex. They haven’t got the proper kit, it is believed. They are incapable of performing “proper” jobs so it goes without saying that the sexual act is beyond them as well. And then so many of the “Voluntary organisations” which supposedly look after the disabled would never ask such a question, as invariably their patrons include more than their fair share of do-gooders.
I’d love to tell David about the plight of a certain partially-sighted guy who couldn’t always see the condom machine, and who was too embarrassed to ask. He knew well that it would be a waste of time contacting the National Council for the Blind of Ireland on this, as on any other problem. What would Archbishop Clifford say?!
David also mentions another piece of unbelievable ignorance – that disabled people don’t swear. Of course, if they do it is because they are angry and they are still having problems coming to terms with their position as God’s accursed.
All the fun of the Fleadh
The residents of Can town are looking forward to the Fleadh which is to deswcend upon the town at the end of August. Those who are looking forward to it the most are the town’s publicans, who number in their ranks the odd councillor, senator and other assorted political low life. How Cavan town was awarded the Fleadh in the first place is beyond me. There isn’t adequate infrastructure, and there not enough hotel or guesthouse places to go round, prompting an initiative to encourages the cash-starved people of Cavan to make a bit of extra dosh by letting out spare rooms, and failing that a kennel.
Let us imagine Cavan town in the Fleadh’s aftermath, a scene of broken bottles, pilled drink, vomit, broken glass and discarded condoms (you see, there are still a couple of Cavan lads who haven’t got the hang of condoms.)
But I have been told by one Fleadh head that this will not happen. A fleadh was held not long ago where the only problems were caused by … wait for it … “foreigners”. Now what constitutes a Foreigner here I wonder. I suspect that quite a large number of those attending will be non Irish people, but of course, they’ll be white.
The clean-up will be left to Cavan County Council staff. There are fewer of them – the cutbacks you know. But why shouldn’t Whacko Jacko and some of the councillors go out with his pooper-scooper?
I like a good b low out, especially one accompanied by good music and friendly females (though I suspect some Fleadh aficionados have different tastes, the legacy of so long spent on the road). I had the reputation of someone who really knew how to push the boat out.
I am no party pooper, but I’m definitely not a party puker either. When having a good time I have always ensured that I deposit my bodily fluids only in warm and concealed spaces.
Orphanage fire victims’ commemoration in Cavan, 15/6/2010
The commemoration for the victims of the convent fire will be a truly memorable and heart-warming event. Everything is falling into place. Even the weather looks as if it’s going to be pleasant. I am sure that our efforts are being helped along by the spirits of the thirty-five girls and the elderly cook who perished that night.
Our involvement in this project has been a pleasure. It is amazing how a group of people can make a difference when they set their minds to it, and how they can move mountains by harnessing the skills they have amongst themselves. I already knew Sean Galligan, who is the spring-board of the group. I have een able to meet again my old friend (though not in age) Ita Madden, whose knowledge and commitment has always ensured that the group always does he right thing. But I have made so many new friends, like Eamon and Lorraine, not to mention Fr Ultan McGoohan., a true gentleman. Some may have heard Karin Charles’ wonderful documentary about the tragedy and the commemoration on Northern Sound radio.
The ceremony is for all the people of Cavan. It is an opportunity to remember those who perished, but without rancour.
Alas our success has attracted the attention of some elements of Cavan town’s publicity-hungry political pond-life. They couldn’t be persuaded to come to our meetings, (even though I saw one of them in the bar of the Farnham on a night we were having a meeting, until they sensed that, by not getting involved they might lose a photo opportunity. I do hope none of them come along wearing their chains, though it might be difficult to tell them to get lost. They’ve been of no help to his so far, but that does not mean that they couldn’t be a hindrance to us in the future.. But let us not think of such people, but instead of the thirty-five girls and their cook who died that night. Had they lived they would have been able to spin that web of magic which each of us spins, which is called our lives.
Book about St John’s Cloverhill, Co. Cavan
I have recently completed a charming book called Cloverhill: A Church of Ireland parish in County Cavan, c. 1720 -2010 written by Dr Jonathan Cherry. This was produced in association with the 150th anniversary celebrations of the parish church’s consecration.
Jonathan Cherry is a very good friend of mine. We have much in common. We both attended Cavan’s Royal School where the teachers, not least Douglas Anderson and Ivan Bolton, imparted that spirit of civility, combined with a thirst for knowledge, which has served us both so well. We have both been “doctored” in history. We are both scholars, motivated by a deep and sincere respect for each other’s work. What is more we both come from well-respected families in our respective communities.
Dr Cherry’s book is a history of a small, vibrant and tenacious rural community. He traces its history, using written sources, maps and folklore, as well as less traditional sources. But this is more than just another history book, as Dr Cherry brings the unique perspective of an historical geographer to his task. He tells the story of the locality, but never forgets that its story unfolds in a far wider context.
Cloverhill was, for over two centuries, synonymous with the local landholding family of the Sandersons. Dr Cherry sympathetically describes their relationship with the community, and what emerges is a picture, not of exploitation, but of co-operation. The Sanderson demesne lands at the centre of the parish were a considerable employer, while the rents collected didn’t feed the gaming habits of some far-off and ambivalent absentee proprietor. Instead they were used by a series of landlords, including the indomitable Mary Ann Sanderson, who was deeply committed to Cloverhill.
The central aspect of this community is without doubt St John’s parish church. It was built by the aforementioned Mary Ann Sanderson. Like many people I had been misled into thinking that the church had been consecrated in December 1856 by a centenary service reported in the Anglo-Celt in December 1956. The formal consecration took place in 1860. This may help in identifying the architect. Dr Cherry repeats Jeremy Williams’ assertion that one of the Wellands may have been responsible. Why I felt that it was NOT the work of William Hague Jar (1836-99) was that, in 1856 Hague was only twenty years of age and not a qualified architect. If the building work only began say in 1857 or 1858 it Hague might have had a hand in drawing up the plans for his father who built the church, although he was as yet still too young and inexperienced to be credited with the work.
In an introductory chapter Dr Cherry outlines the various sources he used. He outlines one which is probably the most important, and which is all too easily overlooked: an intimate knowledge of the location. He writes:
An often understated but hugely important source in understanding the sense of a place or the place as lived is personal experience. As a native of the area … I have been immersed in the history of the place since an early age. My own personal interest in the evolution of the village and district, coupled with strong familial ties to the area, have been of significant value in charting the history and understanding Cloverhill past and present. Speaking with local people and simply observing change has given me a greater understanding of what Cloverhill means to those who live there.
This is a local study par excellence. It is of value on many different, though parallel levels, first as a local history, and then as a volume that gives keen and erudite insights into rural and religious history, as well as the history of landscape. All these elements are deftly brought together by Dr Cherry through his engaging and pellucid style.
Orphanage fire victims remembered in Cavan
The commemoration for the Cavan Orphanage fire victims is an event that few of us will forget in a hurry. It was so moving. Over two hundred people came along. What’s more the weather lovely, and we were able to enjoy a typical balmy June evening, something which we hadn’t seen for a number of years. The music was delightful. The young children gave spirited renditions of a number of hymns, while Ita Madden’s interpretation of “Going Home” was breathtaking. Karin Charles’ has a voice not unlike La Piaffe, only without the harshness. John O’Donoghue is a wonderful sing and song-writer whose lyrics are like the flapping of birds’ wings while I don’t think there was a dry eye as the lay whose name just escapes me sang “Na Paisti Beaga”, especially when it was companied by the release of doves. At that moment we all knew that the sprits of those whose lives were cut short on that dreadful night were amongst us. Ann from Dublin who was a resident of the Orphanage, though she was not there on that fateful night, than sang a song she used to sing to the younger girls to try and get to sleep.
There were readings from a number of people, including a poem by Pat Joe Kennedy of Quivvy. I don’t think there are many who will disagree with me when I say that Pat Joe is one of the finest of Cavan’s poets. His verse comes from the heart, and they resonate a familiar internal and external landscape.
Prayers were also said by, amongst others, Sean Gillian, my good friend Brian Sulilvan, Sean Galligan and a representative of the Baha’I faith, while Fr Ultan McGoohan was a very gifted master of ceremonies. Another representative from the Buddhist community laid some flowers.
As usual on such occasions I met many people whom I had not met for a long time. One of those whom my heart filled with joy to see was Eileen Kinsella. Eileen looked after my dear mother in the final weeks of her life, and she always brought a smile of contentment to my meteor’s face, as she did to mine.
The events were a tribute to Cavan ‘s people, and what they were capable of achieving when they set their minds to it, not least Sean Galligan, Lorraine Kelly and Eamon, whom we’ll adopt as a Cavanman, in the face of thejustified howls of protest of his native Sheep-stealers. I hope I haven’t left anyone out, but if I have I will only be too happy to rectify my error. The ould memory is going very quickly. There are times I have difficulty remembering my own name these days, and when I look at myself in the mirror I say. “Keith, you’re a horrid bollox”.
Gardai issue warning to public
Gardai in Cavan town are warning people to be extra vigilant on the evening of Thursday, 17th June, when they have learned that the town is to be visited by notorious and shameless criminal mastermind Noel the Dwarf. Noel belongs to a criminal family based in Trim, which was suspected of supplying the getaway vehicles to fellow underworld figure, the vegetarian Gormless john, in his heist in Hay-on-Wye last year. Noel the Dwarf is expected to take part in a meeting with members of the local criminal confraternity, scheduled for the Farnham Hotel. The Dwarf’s gang is in turn part of a nationwide racket called The Cabinet Crooks whose members are involved in protection rackets, identity theft, credit card fraud and prostitution. Like the Russian mafia they have recently gained a reputation for complete heartlessness and their most recent scams have involved stealing money from the blind and partially sighted. No one could accuse The Dwarf of keeping a low profile, as he travel s around Ireland in a chauffeur-driven car and gets the taxpayer to cover his mileage and holiday expenses. In fact, some observers feel that he deliberately courts prosecution, in an attempt to show up the impotency of the criminal justice system. Gardai are nevertheless advising people not to approach the Dwarf or any o his associates, as they are extremely dangerous. .
The Raid
One of Leo Tolstoy’s earliest yet finest stories is entitled “The Raid”. It was set in the North Caucasus and includes details drawn from Tolstoy’s own experiences fighting the Chechens. Yet I think a short story of the same namer, though without Tolstoy’s charm and poise, could be written about events in Cavan town, as they unfolded on the weekend beginning June 18th. At that time, customs and excises officials raided a number of licensed premises in the town and seized alcohol that was being sold there, but for which no duty had been paid, thereby making its purchases price lower and the potential profit from resale higher.
I have heard that one premises in particular was targeted, and no, I’m not going to repeat it. Suffice it to say that its owners are well connected politically at both local and national level. What’s more the premises’s dining facilities are completely inaccessible toe me and to all other wheelchair uses. This is not a legacy of the building’s age. It should have been diaphanously clear to the planning authorities who signed off on the plans, but sure, who cares about cripples? But the owners should know that there is NO difference between the ten euro note proffered by the cripple and the able-bodied citizen, just as there is no difference between the able-bodied note and the cripple at election time.
It will be interesting to see if any prosecutions arise. They would be embarrassing to say the least, and for that reason I suspect the ‘phones in the DPP’s office have been ringing loudly. But then as the affair of Ivor Callely shows, there is one law for members of Seanad Eirinn, quite another for the rest of us.
Going back to the short story I suspect that the denouement of this particular roman will be inconclusive.
Cavan in the news in the hermit kingdom
People in Cavan are blissfully unaware that events swirling around their heads interest far more than themselves but are actually the subject of comment far, far away. It has recently been learned that happenings here have been mentioned in the North Korean media. Items to have made their way onto the nation’s news broadcasts have included the recent Hen night festival, the rumoured closure of the Cavan County Headshop in Ballyjamesduff while mention has also been made of the forthcoming fleadh. Check it out.
There are persistent rumours that the secretive Dear Leader Kim Jong-il is planning a rare foreign ttrip to Cavan later in the year to inaugurate a link between Cavan’s Johnston Central Library and the Kim Il-Sung Central Library in Pyongyang. This will include a public lecture in the library on “The Diocese of Kilmore and Korea in the Later Middle Ages”, given by the library’s preferred little darling of a historian, Dr Brendan Scott.
Cavan County headshop, Ballyjamesuff
The Cavan County headshop in Ballyjamesduff may escape the attempts by Justice Minister Dermo Ahern to close them down. You see it doesn’t actually sell legal highs; the only highs available are for those working there and recent members of staff. Anyone else who visits there usually leaves with an unpleasant, nauseous feeling of having been ripped off.
Dodgy planning at local government level
Some of the senior staff in the six local authorities whose planning decisions are being investigated by the minister for the environment must be feeling pretty pissed. N doubt they are seething with resentment at being apparently singled out for public opprobrium, when the planning practices of other local authorities (no names mentioned) are equally questionable. But no one need worry. The whole thing will be a whitewash and the final report of the inspectors has already been written (oops, shouldn’t have said that: sorry).
Dr Brendan Scott’s public lecture in Cavan Central Library
A priest is hearing confessions. A young man comes in and says. “Bless me Father for I have sinned. I’ve had sex with Pussy Green two or three times a week for the past two months.”
“Fornication is a serious sin. You must say five Our Fathers and a decade of the Rosary in penance.”
The next in the confessional is a slightly older male with a shaven head.
“Bless me Father. I’ve fucked Pussy Green every day for the past six weeks. Some days I’ve done her twice or three times and she lets me turn her round so I can fuck her up the ar ..”
“…Okay, Okay. I get the message” says the increasingly exasperated priest. “But who is this Pussy Green?”
“She’s a slapper that’s moved onto the estate. You must have seen her at Mass Father…”
“You have sinned gravely against God and against yourself. For your penance says twelve Our Fathers.”
Next day is Sunday and, just before Mass the priest is standing at the altar beside an altar boy, when in strides the most voluptuous long-legged blond wearing an emerald green mini dress and matching high heels. She demurely walks to the front row of the chapel where she sits down in full view of the priest who can hardly take his eyes off her. He bends down to the altar boy and whispers. “Tell me son, is that Pussy Green?”
“No father”, answers the boy. “It’s just the reflection of her dress.”
Forthcoming royal visit
It has been announced that the new spirit of Irish-British rapprochement is to be sealed by a royal visit by Her Majesty The Queeg. Although the details have not been announced it is possible that Queen Elizabeth, along with The Hun, may be shown around some of Ireland’s state-of-the-art medical facilities. This reminds me of the joke about her visit to a similar medical flagship during a visit to Canada. She was being shown round the facility by its director, when she came upon a man sitting on a bed jerking off. Shocked the Queen exploded “This is disgusting.” The director responds: “This man suffers from a very rare condition where his testicles fill up with semen every five hours. If he doesn’t evacuate it the semen builds up and his testicles could explode, killing him.”
“Oh I quite understand”, answered the queen sympathetically.
She goes to the next floor and looks into a private room where a young nurse is kneeling in front of a patient giving him a blow-job, Not wishing to appear to lose her Sangfroid the queen asks: “and what’s going on here?”
“Same problem ma’am” answers the director, “only a better Health care plan.”
Cavan again in ther news in North Korea
The recent Hen night festival in Cavan, sponsored by Breffni Condoms, continues to make waves in North Korea. A video about the event has been shown more or less continuously, on North Korean television. It is accompanied by a song which is a Korean rendition of the wel-known Cavan number, “My Cavan bitch so fat.” The lyrics have been changed to suit the still rampant cult of personality, and start off with the obligatory mention of Kim Jong-Il. “Hard on, hard on, I always get a hard on when I think of the Dear Leader”.
Dr Brendan Scott’s talk to the NCBI in Cavan County Library, or Ciaran’s joke of the day
One day a priest is walking through a really tough neighbourhood when he spies a youth tossing off in an alleyway. He goes up to him and says: “Stop it immediately. You should save that till after you get married.” The youth shrugs his shoulders and runs away.
Ten years’ later the priest is again walking through the same neighbourhood when a young man approaches him. “I bet you don’t remember me, but ten years’ back you saw me tossing off and you gave me some sound advice. You told me to stop it and save it till after I got married.”
“Ah yes,” says the priest. “I remember you now. And tell me did you follow my advice son?”
“Sure did father, replied the young man. And guess what? I’m getting married next week.”
“That’s marvellous,” says the priest. “It’s great how things have worked out for you.”
“There’s only one small problem father, “ says the man. “ I’ve got a ten gallon container of the stuff in the back of my pick-up, and I haven’t a clue what to do with it after I get married.”
Bit remember, masturbation is NO joke. It can lead to blindness, and no one wants to be dependant on the NCBI do they.
Dr Brendan Scott’s lecture to ther NCBI in Cavan’s County Library, or Ciaran’s joke of the day 29/6/10
A man is standing at the urinal in a lavatory beside another male in an olive-green suit who seems no bigger than a dwarf, but his attention is drawn by the size, length and girth of this second man’s male member, which is, without doubt, a whopper. The first guy doesn’t want to appear to be getting his kicks by looking at another guy’s cock, but his interest is noticed. “Is everything ok?” asks the dwarf.“No problems. I’m sorry but I just can’t help remarking on the size of your cock. As a man you’re on the small side but it’s enormous.”
“Ah let me explain. You see I’m a leprechaun and all leprechauns have massive cocks in spite of their size.”
“I wouldn’t mind having one that size”. comments the first man.
“That can be arranged. After all I’m a leprechaun so I can grant anything you wish for, but you have to do something for me.”
“Name it!”
“You’ll have to let me give you one up the butt.”
“Well I don’t know about that…” stutters the first guy.
“Now it’s your decision and I’m putting absolutely no pressure on you” counsels the dwarf soothingly.
“I suppose no one need know”, answers the first guy and quickly looking around to ascertain there’s no one else in the can he gestures to the dwarf to join him in one of the cubicles.After several moments of excruciating pain for the man the dwarf asks him:
“How old are you?”
The man turns his head and answers, though writhing with agony: “I’m … ugh … I’m thirty-six… arghhh!…why?”
“You’re thirty-six are you? And you still believe in leprechauns?”
Felicidades al equipo de Paraguay!
Mi corazon esta pleno del alegria. El Paraguay ha ganado. Mi gustan mucho los Paraguayos. Una vez El Presidente del Republica fue obispo. Espero que los Paraguayos perdonen a los Irelandes. Eliza Lynch no fue Irlandesa – era rubia y todos las mujeres Irelandesas son pelirrojas.
Dr Brendan Scott’s talk in Cav an County Library or Ciaran’s joke of the day 30/6/10
Ricky finally summons up the courage to ask Rachel, the office bike, out on a date. Afterwards they pull into a lay-be where they kiss for a while, and Ricky, sensing that Rachel is hot, pushes his hand up under her skirt and between her thighs.
“What are you doing?” she asks coyly.
“I’d like a little pussy Rachel”.
“So would I”, she answers. “Mine’s the size of a bucket.”
Eventually, his hand reaches its destination and he is soon inside her knickers. She responds characteristically with moans and sounds of arousal, until suddenly Rachel yells:
“Owww! That hurts you bastard.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You should have taken your ring off before you finger-fucked me” she replies.
“Hey, that’s not my ring: it’s my watch”
Dr Brendan Scott’s lecturre in Cavan County Library, or Ciaran’s joke of the day 1/6/10
A man is standing at the urinal in a lavatory beside another male in an olive-green suit who seems no bigger than a dwarf, but his attention is drawn by the size, length and girth of this second man’s male member, which is, without doubt, a whopper. The first guy doesn’t want to appear to be getting his kicks by looking at another guy’s cock, but his interest is noticed.
“Is everything ok?” asks the dwarf.
“No problems. I’m sorry but I just can’t help remarking on the size of your cock. As a man you’re on the small side but it’s enormous.”
“Ah let me explain. You see I’m a leprechaun and all leprechauns have massive cocks in spite of their size.”
“I wouldn’t mind having one that size”. comments the first man.
“That can be arranged. After all I’m a leprechaun so I can grant anything you wish for, but you have to do something for me.”
“Name it!”
“You’ll have to let me give you one up the butt.”
“Well I don’t know about that…” stutters the first guy.
“Now it’s your decision and I’m putting absolutely no pressure on you” counsels the dwarf soothingly.
“I suppose no one need know”, answers the first guy and quickly looking around to ascertain there’s no one else in the can he gestures to the dwarf to join him in one of the cubicles.
After several moments of excruciating pain for the man the dwarf asks him:
“How old are you?”
The man turns his head and answers, though writhing with agony: “I’m … ugh … I’m thirty-six… arghhh!…why?”
“You’re thirty-six are you? And you still believe in leprechauns?”
Ciaran’s Something for the Weekend
Brendan had been going out with a girl for a year but he’d been reluctant to go onto Level 2 of the relationship because he was ashamed at the smallness of his willyu. He decided to ask the advice of his friend Eugene.
“Size isn’t everything”, counsels Eugene. “It’s what you do with it. Get her in the right place and the right mood, and the fact that you’re a bit on the small size won’t make any difference.”
Armed with this advice he goes out with his girlfriend. They drive to a dark spot where Brendan considers it’s a now-or-never moment. He unzips his fly, whips out his willy and gently guides his girlfriend’s hand to it.
“No thanks,” she says. “I’ve given up cigarettes.”
Ciaran’s something more for the weekend
Mary told her parents she was going out with some of the girls from work for a drink, and that they shouldn’t wait up. In fact she was going on a ate with the office stud. He wanted her to come back to his place, but because she was a virgin and she sensed that his intentions were not honourable she invited him back to her home, cautioning him not to make a noise.
Once inside the door he announced that he needed to go to the toilet – badly. As this would have meant a trip upstairs past her parents’ room she stopped him.
“But it’s urgent. Can I go in the kitchen sink?” he pleads.
I don’t know”, she aide. “So long as you don’t make a sound and clean up after you.”
He agrees and goes into the kitchen. Mary stands nervously outside, expecting his imminent re-emergence. But the seonds become minutes, and she eventually says. “Are you ok in there?” whereupon he sicks his head round the door and asks:
”Is thereany toilet paper?”
And he could just as well have wiped his arse with the booklet about the Fleadh in Cavan that I receiverd today. I deon’t know whether it was addressed to me at all. It just read “Ciaran Parker 4 Earlsvale Road.” Now I live at 5 Earlsvale Road, and I couldn’t be addressed by my proper title as this would have made that blatherskite from Belturbet look bad. The idea that someone else has a PhD in Cavan, of longer standing, is something he just can’t hack, so I have to be airbrushed out. To be honest the whole thing makes me totally ashamed to be from Cavan.
Dr Brendan Scutt’s talk at the forthcoming Flea [sic !] in Cavan
When I received a list of the events organised to accompany the forthcoming fleadh and saw that the speakers included that no good beggar from Belturbet, I was reminded of the story about the two fleas pigging out on a piece of shit. One of them farts very resolutely and loudly, causing the other to say: “Ah now, can’t you see I’m eating?”
And then I lookied at the committee and I was reminde of yet another story. A bar in the Texas Panhandle organised a contest where they were offering $1,000 to the guy whose girlfriend or wife’s pussy smelled the worst. A local factory worker jumped on stage and told the MC.
“The money’s as good as mine. Wait till you smell my wife’s pussy.” He went away, returning five minutes’ later pulling a aft and bloated womn by her hair. The MC commented. “My., I can smell her pussy from here.”
“Just you wait”, said the man, as he pushed up her skirt, took down her panties and exposed her pussy. The room wass immediately filled with a truly stomach-wrenching tidal wave of stale urine, sweat, faeces and what could only be described as ten-year-old Thai fish sauce. This was so overpowering that it led to a stampede as members of the audience rushed towards the exists, clambering over those who had fainted and through large pools of vomit. The MC was barely able to remain standing, so powerful was the stench, and he turned to the man with a cheque for $1000 and said |”Okay, no contest. You win hands down. But how do you live with someone with such a smelly pussy?”
“It’s not that bad,” he replies. “ The first three weeks after she died were the worst.”
Dates
Today, July 6th, is the anniversary of the death of Guy de Maupassant in 1892. How many July 6ths did Guy de Maupassant pass without realising that it would be the day of his eventual death. Something tells me all of themj.
Now we are all used to celebrating anniversaries of one form or another. In the western world we celebrate our birthdays; the anniversaries of our advents into this valley of tears. In the Eastern Orthodox tradition it is more common for people to celebrate their “name day”", the feast day of the saint after whom they were named - provided, that is, they have not been named after someone like Keanu or Brittney. Robinson Crusoe, in Defoe’s novel, celebrated the anniversary of his shipwreck. But I am entranced by the possibility of being able to at least note the date of the day upon which I am to die. It would allow for so much purposeful preparations. There would be no need to worry about leaving loved ones behind; they could be let in on the secret years in advance. One could also make sure that all those fiddly little arrangements had been put in place. Disputes about who gets the Tom Jones vinyl collection could also be settled amicaby.
Courgette newsflash
Some of the courgettes I sowed in May have started to fruit. Already my mouth is salivating with the thought of freshly-made ratatouille.
