Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

The tragedy of Somalia shows no signs of going away. Heavy fighting between the Ethiopian occupation forces and the Somali army on the one side, and resurgent Islamic militants on the other has led to the departure of hundreds of thousands of refugees from the capital Mogadishu. These poor people are faced with a journey into the unknown, during which they are prey to every form of blackmail and extortion. There are probably many in the country who look back nostalgically to the corrupt and despotic days of military tyrant Mohamed Siad Barreh.

The Ethiopians now admit that they are bogged down. They know they’re not wanted and indeed have made themselves hated by their indiscriminate killings of innocent civilians. In the middle of it all is a miniscule African Union ”Peace keeping” force, made up entirely of Ugandans, the only country which made good its promise to commit soldiers.

Somalia has no de facto government. As such it’s a neo-con’s dream: no government, no taxes – except “extraordinary donations” to the various armed factions for protection. The mobile ‘phone industry is doing a great trade. It is, after all, the only way for people to communicate without going out of doors where they run the risk of being targetted by snipers. Then again, with the greater use of artillery by all sides, there’s no guarantee that life’s safe even staying in doors. 

As a native of east Breifne I’m duty-bound, I suppose, to offer my most sincere congratulations to fellow Cavanman Sean Brady on his elevation to be a hinge of the church. Fr Brady (as he was then) was the first person ever to teach me French, and my memories of him are of a very kind, erudite and warm-hearted man. I see today that Barrow-boy Bartie had to do his duty as a good son of the chorch (sic) and a son of a gardener in Archbishop’s House by greeting Cardinal Brady on his return. Barrow-boy really showed himself up in the Dail on Wednesday. At one stage I expected him to scream: “Shut your fuckin mou’ Gilmore or I’ll punch your fuckin’ lighs ou’”. Once a gurrier always a gurrier. But then Barrow-boy’s looking for an exit strategy. It is ironic that today’s news should be dominated by the cardinal’s return, as only last night I was reading Gamini Salgado’s excellent volume on the Elizabethan underworld. In his description of the Red Light district of London’s Southwark he explains that the brothels or stews as they were known advertised their services with a painted sign which was called a cardinal’s hat. This was because of a perceived similarity between the hat and the depiction of the aroused male sexual organ.

As a historian – a proper historian – I am sick and tired of seeing David Irving referred to as a historian, even a “controversial” one in the media. He is not a historian. He is a fantasist and an imposter.

The ranks of historians are a mixed bunch. Not all are kind, cuddly, generous people like me. There are alas many who are mean-spirited and devious, as well as the many who have fallen prey to alcohol and other drugs. But one thing unites us all: we do not fabricate.

Irving is like all narcissists, obsessed by publicity and unfortunately he gets too much of it. He has also consistently lied about his qualifications. Imposters are far too numerous not only in the ranks of historians.

Irving, along with his buddy Nick Griffin, whinge when they are denied “freedom of speech” for their hate-laden offerings. Yet when someone is being kicked in the face by one of Griffin’s supporters because of their skin colour or their dress, freedom of speech doesn’t come into it – they can’t speak at all. And what about the millions of victims of Nazi extermination – Jews, Gypsies, people with mental and physical defects, homosexuals etc. Freedom of speech doesn’t matter to them, because they’re dead.

I hope the Bank of Ireland will forgive me for calling the charming event on the evening of  November 15th a birthday party. But that’s how it appeared to me – a very enjoyable get-together of people. Myself and Rosie had a great time. We both had lots to eat and drink – perfect. There was even a lovely tasty birthday cake. Well Done to the Bank’s wonderful staff.  I met a number of old friends like Basil Clarke and his son, as well as Dessie Cullen and Gerry Somers. The Corlough Cuckoo was there too as was the affable County Manager Mr Jack Keyes. Music was provided by Martin O’Donohoe and some of his talented family members. Rosie thought Martin’s daughter Savannah had a beautiful name, leading me to ask Martin whether he felt left out namewise? After all Martin’s a very boring name isn’t it. I suggested Marrakesh O’Donohoe instead. 

 I also thought that Lorraine Teevan’s photograph of yours truly published by the Echo was spot on. I’m not someone who cares much about having my ugly mug reproduced in papers, but this shot was the business. I looked positively rock n’ roll. You often see people at events with postures like someone’s stuck a pitchfork up their backs, as well as having that rabbit-in-the-headlights look on their faces, giving the overall demeanour of people awaiting a vasectomy with only local anaesthetic.  I looked a bit like a rock star, albeit a fading rock star, but definitely younger than my forty-two years. But I was having fun, and fun was the name of the game on the night in question.

I was really really touched to be asked. 

Observers of Westminster will have seen how the cowardly MP for Upper Bann, David Simpson, used parliamentary privilege to make unfounded allegations against Sinn Fein MLA Francie Molloy. Simpson is a biggotted pea-brained thug – just ask David Trimble. But of course such cowardly behaviour is not unusual for Unionist MPs. I remember a similar abuse of parliamentary privilege by the late Reverend Robert Bradford, and we all know what happened to him.

But one thing which did not happen to Simpson was that he was not called to account for his actions by the Speaker, who may well have been asleep or on a toilet-break. There are some elements within Unionism who, in spite of the Peace Process, just can’t resist any attempt to give a dig to a tague.

Poverty is a relative concept; there are those, (indeed most people), who earn more than I do, but I feel infinitely richer than them. Others need money for mortgages and for expenses associated with cars which I don’t have, as I can’t drive. And let us not forget those souls who need ever increasing sums to feed their cocaine addiction. I would like to earn more, simply because I would see this (and I don’t want to blow my own trumpet here) as recognition of my talents and abilities. Yet I am a lowly individual in our society, pretty near the bottom in fact. I could huff and puff for more money but no one would listen to me. I am, let me repeat, a nobody, and I no doubt owe my lowly stature in the world to my own lack of talent. 

But money doesn’t really interest me. I wouldn’t know what to  do with the stuff. OK, I’d know how to spend a small amount, but anything larger would leave me at sixes and sevens. And one thing I most certainly wouldn’t do would be to snort it up my nose.

 Income disparities are alas an integral part of modern capitalist society. But they seem indefensible to me. People might say they are based on educational achievement. Yet returning to yours truly, I have a PhD, amongst the highest degrees you can get, and in purely materialist terms any achievements I may have earned in the world of education have been of bugger-all use. People earning large amounts of money may also say they have more responsibility, or have to deal with greater levels of stress. I remember about fifteen years ago a study which was carried out on stress levels amongst different categories of workers. The people who had the most stressful jobs, it was found, were bus drivers. Having spent some of my happiest moments as a bus passenger I know how tough life can be for bus drivers. They have a hugely responsible job, looking after their passengers, some of whom can be most awkward customers. Then there is the traffic, not to mention having to keep to schedules often drawn up by morons in suits who’ve never been on a bus in their lives. I think being a bus driver in a large city must be exceptionally stressful. I remember one driver who had moved away from Dublin, in favour of driving busses on regional routes. When asked if he’d like to go back to the city he replied he wouldn’t do so “for all the tea in China.”

The occupation with the lowest stress level, according to the survey, was that of university lecturers. a group about whom I suppose I know a great deal. The survey obviously was referring to academics with permanent positions. Those without tenure in universities have an incredibly high stress level caused by the knowledge that no matter how hard they work or how well they do their job there is absolutely no guarantee that this will be translated into a permanent position when 0ne becomes available, and that at the end of their contracts they won’t be told merely “Bye-bye, stand aside for the current blue-eyed boy or girl or the next wide-eyed sucker who we can screw”. Academics are the most ungrateful people on the planet. Once someone is inducted into the hallowed hall of permanent university academic posts,  stresses, while not non-existent, are fewer. Yes, there is the fact that you hate your colleagues’ guts with an intensity which is only the rightful due of such a talentless group of little upstarts. There may also be fears about being found out for “borrowing” aka plagiarising some graduate student’s work, but these present fears, to quote the bard, are never anything more than horrible imaginings. Even if the graduate student does make a fuss he or she can usually be reassured by being told that they’re not doing their careers any good, as your colleagues (who possibly hate you as much as you hate them) will always stand by you against the outside world and will get the wagons to form a circle. You’re in; they’re still out. And if the stress levels really get on top of you there’s always the pub, or the drinks’ cabinet or a splurge at the next all-expenses-paid academic conference you attend. And if you get really pissed, no-one will notice. Returning to the comparison with bus drivers I remember once hearing of a driver who, with nothing to do between routes, whiled away the hours in a local snug. By the time it came for him the drive the bus back to Dublin he was barely able to walk, yet, luckily for him, he still possessed enough presence of mind, so that when he saw his bus being flagged down en route by an inspector he pretended not to see him and drove past, earning a suspension. This was a far lesser penalty than that which awaited him if the inspector had found him scuttered in charge of a bus with forty or more passengers on board. Going back to the academic world the sight of a lecturer “under the weather” is far from uncommon. It may not be as egregious a display as Michael Caine in Educating Rita. The problem manifests itself in irritability, short temper etc., - all tell-tale signs of the morning after the fortnight before, or maybe you might just not bother turning up for work at all, take a sicky and stay away from the hoors er  other lecturers altogether. Now I know of an academic whose drink problem was an urban legend. I approached him with caution, yet I always found him the nicest, most courteous man I ever met in the academic world, unsparingly kind and helpful. Indeed owing to the fact that some of his colleagues did the dirty big time on me I came to the conclusion that if I were working alongside such snakes I too would hit the bottle.

But I’ve gone off on a tangent. So bus drivers have a high stress job; university lecturers by contrast have a comfy life. But who do you think gets paid more?

It’s unjust and unfair and I could rail against it indeffinitely, but I’m not going to. As Bill Gates once said: “Life’s unfair - get used to it.”

One thing that is in my opinion indefensible is the ease with which those already earning salaries many times in excess of others can award themselves pay raises. Take the rises awarded by the present Irish cabinet to itself. Not only is it unjust, it is hypocriticaal for such people to turn round and say to others earning far less that they should “tighten their belts” and show pay restraint. But worse than the injustice and hypocrisy is the fact that it demonstrates a lack of maturity and childishness, bordering on an infantile psychosis. The current government has sought to defend the decision in any number of silly ways, but basically what they are saying is that they want more money – so do we all –  but only they are in a position to make it happen.

Anyone who observes very young children playing or maybe who remembers their own childhood, will recall how there might be the child who wants to play with all the toys and who doesn’t want to share them with anyone else. If they don’t get what they want they throw a tantrum or bawl and cry. This is common enough amongst four or five year olds.  Yet as they grow older kids learn that they have to share and that they can’t always get what they want, at least not always directly. This is part of growing up. People at the top of organisations (not just the Irish government alas), don’t always seem to have grown up, or they demonstrate narcisistic tendencies showing that they want to get back as quickly as possible to the nursery and the play-pen. And that is how I view the present government: a group of irresponsible children, like oversized four-year-olds in suits. Recently I attended an event which was also attended by a government minister. He knows me, but he didn’t come over to speak. I wasn’t in the least affronted, as had we come into contact I wouldn’t have been able to prevent myself from asking: “Does your mammy know you’re out this late?”