Archive for October 2006
A refugee from blogger
I am a refugee from blogger, particularly beta in blogger or blogger in beta or whatever they call their excretous little service. I am heartily sick of their arrogance. For example, on their status site (once you find it) visitors are told of a “series of Publishing Issues” that they’ve been having since Saturday morning. It is then said that “Blogger beta has not been affected.” Well I seem to be permanently locked out of Blogger beta; whatever problems they’re having are most definitely affecting Blogger beta, but I can’t find anyway of telling them this. And I am pissed off trying to find somewhere to send a message to. Actually the message I would like to ask them is how I can move my blog from their shitty embrace and bring it here. So, the message I really want to send is “Get lost Google.”.
I’ve waited some days now for Blogger, which is an extension of Google to get their act together. They might have started by admitting there is a problem. But no, not a bit of it. So I am compelled to say Sayonara. Those wanting to see some of my old posts can trot along to my old blog site.
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China in your hands
China in your hands A Kerry priest in a very rural part of the Kingdom once preached a very long and elaborate sermon on why the chapel should invest in a chandelier. After Mass a number of the parishioners went to see him in the sacristy to express their disagreement. First, they said, only half of the people in the parish knew how to spell chandelier. There was no one in the parish who could play one, and what the church really needed was more light. Now I freely admit to plagiarising that joke from the great collector of Kerryman jokes Des McHale. I’m not really plagiarising it: I make no claim that it was ever mine. There are many people who take up other people’s ideas. They may very well develop and elaborate the idea, before passing it on in time. If they are courteous they will acknowledge the debt they owed to the other person. That’s the currency of intellectual debate. But then there are those who take huge swathes of others’ work and claim it as theirs, not acknowledging the real author. And what’s more, they get away with it. Added to the element of dishonesty is the fact that the plagiarist is usually able to profit by their deceit, and profit from what they have stolen in a manner and to a degree which is usually denied to the original author. There is nothing as bad as realising that your work has been plagiarised. It is truly sickening. You feel, well, violated. It’s not unlike having your house burgled but, worse, then seeing the burglars set up a stall along the road-side to sell your stuff.A rather noisome individual here in Cavan, who lived in the fool’s paradise that he is a journalist, used to call me a plagiarist – on what basis I do not know. I think that it may have been that I wrote (as I continue to do) in a fluid and elegant manner and that I do not struggle with language. Nobody born and bred in Cavan as I am is supposed to possess such literary facility, so when I write well I must “lift” it from somewhere else. Now the said individual probably doesn’t know how to spell plagiarise – he doesn’t know how to spell anything else. He is certainly not aware that plagiarise comes from the Latin plagiarius, a kidnapper. I’ve had quite a number of children who have been kidnapped; not held pending payment of a ransom mind you, but kept in atrocious conditions until they are sold off into slavery or prostitution. But like any other offensive behaviour plagiarism ultimately demeans its perpetrators. They aren’t very bright – if they were would they steal others’ work? Can they not do something for themselves? This was a period of my life upon which I have turned my back. However, a few days’ ago I found a website belonging to Butlersbridge Central Primary School, only a few miles from Cavan town hosted by an organisation called SIP. It celebrated the life and work of Cavan-born architect William Hague (1836-99) whose family came from the Butlersbridge area. As I read I was seized with a very painful sense of déjà vu. It was mostly taken from the page of my old website devoted to William Hague. Yet not a word of citation of my site, indeed not a mention of yours truly at all. This site claims to be the work of the children of the school’s third and fourth class. But such an oversight cannot be laid at the children’s door. The kids are not the plagiarists. No child does anything in school without the approval of its teachers. Now I was not entirely unknown to at least one of the school’s teachers. I designed Butlersbridge Central’s first website. The school was thus amongst the first to gain a web presence in Co. Cavan. The teacher of the third and fourth classes, Ms Evelyn Brady, was the person for whom I did the web pages, and while they might not have been the finest example of the webmaster’s art she was entirely satisfied with them. Why wouldn’t she be? She got them for nothing. Web design isn’t rocket science. Some primary school kids could easily design a very workable if perhaps pedestrian site. Yet this site is very slick. I would hazard a guess that professional web designers may have had a part in it. On the basis of my far less sophisticated web design Ms Brady’s school had received commendation from I think, the Irish ministry of Education. It was one of a handful of Irish schools then having its own website which were being held up as technological trail-blazers. She was certainly an eager pursuer of extra largesse, pursuing the political route. I do not say there is any link but she was frequently seen at Fianna Fail Ard Fheiseanna. All of these painful, (and I mean painful) memories came flooding back, and they were far from welcome. I had tried to close the lid on this Pandora’s Box. But as I looked at the site I recalled something else. There were various buildings attributed to Hague which caused me to exclaim: “Well that’s not right for a start.” Then I discovered mention of buildings he could never have designed, because they’d never existed. I suddenly remembered it all, and its recall caused me to clap my hands with glee. About seven years ago I heard that Evelyn Brady was seeking funding for a new school website concentrating on William Hague. She had, by this time, broken all ties with me – something which was not entirely unwelcome. The fact that I wasn’t invited to participate in this new scheme didn’t surprise me. I wasn’t feeling well and I hadn’t the energy for brown-nosing, but I was determined that Evelyn Brady wasn’t going to get her hands on my work. I asserted my moral rights as an author on the section of my website devoted to William Hague and reminded readers that it was covered by my copyright, but I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that this would dissuade the avid plagiarist. So I added some new, previously unknown yet entirely fictitious works to the architect’s curriculum vitae, attributing to him works which were never begun and never even dreamed up In the first place. And then I turned my back on my website, on my interest in Hague and local history. It was all too disgusting, a small malodorous pond inhabited by sharks. I wasn’t well. I was finally diagnosed with Multiple sclerosis the following year and I completely forgot what I’d done. The idiots in Butlersbridge, meanwhile, in their eagerness to steal my material had taken the paste along with the jewels that they’d been seeking. People are free to plagiarise whatever they like from my on-line writings. Go ahead, I can’t stop you. I can assert my moral and legal rights as an author as much as I like. Why not show a bit of class and just ask me whether you can you use the stuff. I’ll usually say yes and I won’t charge anything. But if you must steal stuff which isn’t yours you shouldn’t believe it’s going to be true or accurate. I’m reminded of the words of the T’Pau song from 1987. Would-be plagiarists should remember the things they steal may very well end up being just
China in their hands.
Racism in Northern Ireland
Racism in Northern Ireland
Hardly a week goes by without a report of an attack on immigrants in Northern Ireland. They are subjected to verbal and physical abuse, while their homes are frequently petrol-bombed. The source of these reprehensible actions are usually Loyalist youths, inspired and encouraged by their political leadership. These people come from a culture that defined itself in hatred, hatred especially of Catholics. Many, if asked to define what being a Protestant meant, would answer that it wasn’t being a Catholic. Tague-baiting was in the blood.
However, it’s a little bit politically incorrect these days. But they still need people to hate and despise. The Poles are Catholics – the former “whore of Babylon” (the anachronistic name used to refer to the pope) was Polish, so there you go. Tagues by another name, probably Tadeusz, who are aiming to take over the North and turn it into a boot-camp for the Jesuits, the pope’s SAS. The same goes fo the Lithuanians. The Latvians are a different quantity. Those from the Latgale region of the country’s south-east are Catholic, but the rest could be Russian Orthodox or even Protestants. But fuck it Sammy, they’re fuckin’ foreigners.
It is sad that so many of those in the south of Ireland, who would profess themselves the sworn enemies of this loyalist scum, should also have a similar thwarted world view and poisoned vocabulary.
The Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI) seem to be doing a very good job in countering these hate attacks. For their fight against extremism and this new form of bigotry they deserve the unqualified support of all sections of the community and all political parties and formations. Remember, the PSNI is not the RUC (the Royal Ulster Constabulary) or the B specials (the loyalist paramilitary squads who were their predecessors). And Thank God, they are not An Garda Siochana (The police force of the Irish Republic), better known as “The fukkin’ gyards.”
Racism and Racists
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Racism and racists
Most people are by now well aware of how I feel about non-Irish people coming to work or live here. I welcome them unreservedly. I hope they have a good time and I also hope many of them will settle down and make their live here and maybe set up businesses. They don’t frighten me. They do not tweak some deep-seated insecurity. Some of the women are beautiful, even though I’m spoken for, thanks to a girl who is herself not a native of Ireland.
I suppose I can understand how the advent of difference upsets people, especially older folk. For so long they were used to people leaving Ireland in droves, so the idea of large numbers of people coming in the opposite direction. However, my dear and lovely mother, Mary Parker, who passed away this July at the age of 88, had no such feelings of insecurity. Perhaps like her son she knew that the people who really make you feel scared are your white neighbours.
These people are not bad or evil in themselves. Their fears though are played upon by wicked and mischievous people.
What I would say to any of them is: I understand how you feel, but I don’t agree with you. There is nothing to fear. I would also appeal to them to show some class and to eschew the cornerboy rhetoric. Alright, so you don’t like foreigners, but why refer to them with a rare flight of allieration as “fucking foreigners”? Or the other phrase which disgusts me because of its innate violence “black bastards”. If one quarter of the world’s population cause them such unease why not call them niggers or coons – equally offensive but not as violent and full of hate as the preceding. This type of language is meant to demean non-Irish people, but the only ones whom it demeans are the Irish people who use it. It’s the equivalent of calling people Fenian bastards, dirty Jews or enemies of the people. It leads inexorably in the direction of Auschwitz.
Labels: fear, older generation, racism
Bonfire night comes early to Pyongyang
The Cavan Echo
Friday, October 20, 2006
The Cavan Echo
I am dellighted to be able to speak of a truly positive development here in County Cavan, the appearance of a new local newspaper, The Cavan Echo, which is worthy of the people of the county. As I thumbed through the pages of the first edition I was overjoyed to be able to read a paper which had a truly all-embracing view of news in the area. So many things happen here but they have not been recorded. There has been a reluctance to pursue news in the Cavan area, lest it be found to offend someone. As a result true journalism has withered on the vine in the interests of a sorry and tired self-slorification of a particular group of self-important nobodies. I’m not going to point an accusatory finger but the dogs on the streets of Cavan probably know where I think the blame for this lies. As I remarked to Maria McCourt, the new paper’s very able and delightful editor (if only all editors were so delightful!) I knew that a change had occurred the moment I skimmed the photographs. There were none of the toy-soldier poses of (pictured from l. to r,) the good, the bad and the unspeakable, as if they needed identifying.
But let us not talk of blame. Let us rather celebrate that there is still a niche, and a ccommercial possibility, for such a local newspaper. Perhaps this is because the Cavan Echo is fully aware of the possibilities of the Internet, not as a rival but as a partner. They plan to make the newspaper downloadable in PDF format, as well as carry blogs. The management realise that the only hope for local newspapers is to become truly innovative.
The paper was formally launched on October 19th, in the Cavan Crystal Hotel, a venue which is fully wheel-chair accessible let me add. There was a buffet meal consisting of a tasty chicken ruby, though not as tasty as the rubies made by my Rosie. The launch was attended by a charming buffet meal, while the inevitable speeches were short and incisive and free of the waffle that all too frequently tarnishes such events. Mr Peter Quinn gave an intersting and visionary contribution in which he spoke about a venture like the Cavan Echo, employing just six people, could be a force for change and progress within the Cavan area.
It is only fair for me to place my cards on the table here. Yes, I am contributing a regular feature to the paper. I’m both proud and pleased to be doing so. It was very nice to be asked. And while running the risk of being catty and the attendant threats to have me done, it is heartening for me to see my words appear in a Cavan newspaper under my by-line. In the past my prose has appeared in another Cavan publication, though under someone else’s by-line. There is such a thing as intellectual property. There is also consequently something called intellectual theft, long practiced by a self-styled journalist of a long-established Cavan newspaper. While Proudhon pronounced that “Property is theft”, theft is most certainly not the same as property in intellectual terms.
Let me finish by wishing the Cavan Echo every success to its staff, its advertisers, its contributors, and generally to all who sail in her.
The Irish Language
The Irish language
Whenever I think of the Irish language I am filled with an immense feeling of shame: shame that I cannot speak it better and that I don’t use the little knowledge I have to its full effects. For despite the best attempts by teachers over the years to inculcate hatred towards it, I still love Irish. It is part of who I am. However, English is my vernacular. My desire is to attain a state of practical bilingualism. I would be able to get there, especially as I have attained such a situation with other language, but I’m lazy.
I don’t like turning on the TV, because whenever I do so I am inevitably put into a bad mood. This morning I caught a panel discussion on, I think, RTE 1. Some little anally-retentive little prick with a Dublin 4 accent was complaining that “the money he paid in HIS taxes” was being spent to subsidise the Irish language. He claimed that he had nothing against the Irish language as such (apart from the fact that he couldn’t speak it). Somebody pointed out that the government subsidises many groups, especially disadvantaged groups. “That’s another matter entirely”, though his demeanour suggested that he would be equally appalled by the notion of HIS taxes benefiting the poor or the “great unwashed.”
Many crimes have been committed on the nation’s youth over the years under the banner of promoting the Irish language. But times have changed. The lunatic, Hurley-wielding Gaelgoir fringe, so well parodied by the late Dermot Morgan, have now mostly gone to the great Feis in the sky. Any money spent by the government on promoting the Irish language is to be welcomed. No one forces anyone to speak a language in this country, though no doubt the prickeen would compel people to speak American English, so as to promote our business competitiveness.
There are some people I form an instant dislike to, and he was one of them. I would have loved to have given him a good, sharp, arse-kicking, only I fear that, given the location, he would derive too much pleasure from the experience.
Bad news
Bad news
I sometimes feel I’m living in a nightmare, This morning I turned to the RTE teletext news pages where my attention was drawn to one particular item:
38 TALEBAN KILLED IN AFGHANISTAN
Now I know that the Taleban are a group of bastards, but bastards they may be, but as my late mother would have said each one of those 38 had a father and a mother, probably still alive and grieving for their son. It is also likely that they were married and had children, This act, which has an air of the celebratory about it, has created a whole new raft of widows, not to mention children burning with hatred and a desire to revenge the deaths of their fathers. Sadly, when (and I say when not if) this comes to pass, the people who will suffer will also be innocent by-standers, not the puffed-up war-mongers and the poodles like Blair and Bush.
Europe’s Second-class citizens
It has been announced that workers from Romania and Bulgaria will not have an automatic right to work elsewhere in the EC, when the two countries join next year.
Why have they been allowed to join so, if their citizens are to be effectively second-class citizens of the European Union? I feel that this is a violation of a fundamental, and I mean fundamental tenet of the EU. It makes a mockery of one of the four factor freedoms which were at the heart of the European Union’s foundation: the free movement of labour.
This has been done to please racist, diseased filth like Toby – insecure little people leading shitty little lives and doing shitty little jobs which, however, they are so fearful might be taken by “foreigners”.
But there is a far more insidious reasoning behind the decision, which displays a form of racism which the European Commissioners are afraid to admit to. It is designed not to thwart labour from Romania and Bulgaria in its entirety. Both countries have large communities of Roma who are the subject in both countries of frightful discrimination. I have heard them described as “black Romanian bastards”. In Romania, Ceausescu may be long dead but the hatred of the Roma continues and is, in many aspects of life, institutionalised. Roma are frequently targeted for assault which are hardly ever investigated by the police who are, in most instances, sympathetic to the assailants – if not actually committing them themselves.
Some time ago a really horrible local councillor from Belturbet commented that Belturbet was in danger of being turned into Bucharest. Apart from being impressed that he knew the capital of Romania I was compelled to make the following comment, which I have had no reason to alter since. I believe that such a transformation would be an unqualified improvement for Belturbet, especially since Bucharest has been cleared of its feral dog problem.
In Bulgaria the Roma face an even worse time. An organisation called Attaka sits in the Bulgarian parliament. It makes blood-curdling statements about Roma and members have been implicated in arson attacks on Roma homes. A sickening psychotic thug named Volen Siderov, backed by Attaka, won over 21 per cent of the vote in the recent Bulgarian presidential elections, forcing incumbent president (and former historian – we have to stick together you know) Georgi Parvanov into a run-off, which he is thankfully assured of winning.
So when the regulations were announced that Romanians and Bulgarians would have to get permits to work in Ireland, but that people from these two countries would be given preferential treatment, the sub-text was clear enough: preferential treatment would indeed be given to non-Roma from these two countries.
The Roma aren’t good at telling their story. It would shock too many. Nobody is quite sure how many Roma were murdered by the Nazis; a conservative estimate says half a million. It is known that over 23,000 – yes twenty-three thousand, were killed in Auschwitz alone. Along with the Jews, the Roma were targeted for extermination as part of the final solution, but unlike the Jews they did not have rich cousins in America prepared to tell in technicolor detail of their sufferings. No doubt there are those who say that, like the Jewish holocaust, the Roma holocaust never happened; that it was all part of a “holo-hoax”.
I was once outraged by the ignorance and stupidity of an Irish racist who, when talking of the Roma described them as “Dirty, black, Romanian bastards.” Dirty!?! How dare he say such a thing. The Roma subscribe to a very strict regime of personal and ritual cleanliness, perhaps originating in India. They will only eat certain foods (amongst them, traditionally hedgehog). They will not allow cats and dogs to share their living space. This is because both animals habitually lick their genitals while washing, and thus are unclean to the Roma. Indeed in their eyes, we, western Caucasian Europeans, are the dirty ones.
A British newspaper carried a headline that “illegal immigrants” would be fined £1.000 This reminded me of a film I saw recently with Rosie, called Children of Men – a beautiful film but very disturbing. It is set in a nightmarish world in the future where women have lost the ability to conceive, and where the radio carries messages warning people that sheltering “illegal immigrants” is a crime. The fate of those caught by the immigration police is to be caged up in concentration camps. A surreal glimpse into the future? It’s already happening.
Irish minister Micheal Martin, in defending this racist move, did say something which should be remembered. Tens of thousands of workers have come into Ireland in the past number of years, and it would be difficult to perceive of a “Celtic tiger economy” without them Difficult? Impossible! If it wasn’t for these people what we’d have would be a Celtic kitten, a wan, sickly, yet vastly obese creature who would never catch mice on a Monday because it was too wrecked after the weekend; which wouldn’t catch mice on a Friday afternoon either; which would be “under the vet” for the rest of the week, unable and unwilling to do anything; which would respond to any attempts to move it by pissing over everything; which wouldn’t even consider licking its arse after it crapped itself without a sufficiently large cash inducement; and which would defend its antipathy to catching mice (or anything else) with reference to a lack of adequate resources.
Labels: Bulgaria, historians, Roma, Romania
