Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

Listening to Deputy Chief Lenny Harper’s news conference about the police investigation at Haut-de-la-Garenne, it is obvious that his inquiries have rattled the cages of some powerful people on Jersey, and perhaps further afield. These are powerful people who either were involved in abuse or who stood idly by knowing full well the horrors that were occurring. These people are now using the media to try and discredit the police and those who have made allegations. In Ireland, and especially in Cavan, we know all about how such evil powerful people are able to manipulate the media to their own devilish ends. Indeed they often have many media outlets in their pockets.

Our new taoiseach Pretty Boy Biffo has been castigated for using a profanity, or in plain man’s language a curse, though this seems to reek of double standards. The offending word was used not in connection with a member of the opposition, but members of the National Consumer Agency, an unelected, overpaid group of quangoites. it goes without saying that such elevated and self-important people never use bad language, and even if they do they can never be held accountable for such actions. Here in Cavan we used to have a public official whose discourses were peppered with profanities – unless someone else had written a speech for him. He was inestimably proud of his “colourful” language, and anyone who criticised him too openly was leaving themselves open to victimisation.

Now if I were Biffo I wouldn’t apologise. Instead I would have borrowed a line from Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys – I only said it; I didn’t do it.

The Eurovision song contest is a pathetic joke., It always has been, but it is now an embarrassment. So why do we continue to take part and bring down upon ourselves humiliation? Are the denizens of RTE land so desperate for a junket? It seems that the subtle humour of Dustin the Turkey was too much for the voters. Maybe they didn’t understand the lyrics. I suggest that if Ireland really wants to get into the contest next year they should enter a song, maybe with a Middle Eastern flavour, performed by a girating semi-clad female and sung in heavily accented English by a non-native speaker.

I only viewed the semi-finals for brief temporal segments, never exceeding two minutes, and what I saw did not impress me. I particularly disliked the injection of Serb patriotism, but I heard nothing of such events of which Serbs are no doubt inordinately proud as Srebrenica, or the assassination of Franz Ferdinand by the Serbian natiionalist Gavrilo Princip which led to the deaths of millions throughout Europe and the permanent physical and psychological injury of millions more.

Readers of my scribbles will see how my latest contribution to the bonfire of my vanity in the Echo concerns those remarkably generous and indulgent people, the Poor Law Guardians of the 19th century. I didn’t have an opportunity to mention a most curious incident which occurred at a meeting of the Bailieborough guardians in July 1876 and recorded in the Cavan Weekly News of July 7th. The meeting, chaired by Thomas Chambers of Bailieborough (for many years sir John Young’s principal agent) recorded the receipt of a letter from William Leslie, a justice of the peace who was associated with the Provincial Bank in Cootehill. The letter, dated July 1st, enclosed an envelope which had been handed in to the Bank that morning accompanied by a £5 note. The envelope’s contents merely stated: “Sir – Place to the credit of Bailieboro Union £5. ” Mr Leslie informed the guardians in his letter of his resolution to hold onto the £5 until he received a reply from the guardians giving “any information or explanation respecting the transaction.” He added “It looks something like a troubled conscience seeking to make restitution.” The Guardians were dumb-founded by the letter, but while being unaware of the source of the “mysterious donation” they nevertheless received it with thanks.

Readers of my little column in the Echo are also no doubt aware of my interest in the sad lives experienced by the inmates of the industrial school in the Poor Clares’ convent, as well as my disgust at the parsimony of the “well-healed” pillars of local society in those days. In the Weekly News’ report of the Cavan Petty Sessions in the issue of July 14th 1876 brief mention is made of how a poor girl named Bridget Connolly was summoned by one J.F. O’Hanlon for begging and having no visible means of support. For her horrendous crimes she was sent to the Industrial School. J.F. O’Hanlon’s attempts to have another girl, Sarah Magovern, punished for begging were not successful.  What tremendous acts of charity!

The Weekly News occasionally eschewed its hrill and vulgar anti=popery to carry intersting snippets. In the edition of July 6th referred to above some rather oddly worded epitaphs seen on tombstones in a town near Dublin were reproduced. The first read:

“Here lies the body of John MOUND-
Lost at sea and never found.”

while another announced:

“Maria BROWN, wife of Timothy Brown, aged eighty years. She lived with her husband fifty years, and died in the confidant hope of a better life.”

I was truly saddened and distressed to learn of the sudden death of my good friend Veronica. We’ve known each other for more than thirty years. Co. Cavan has lost one of its most distinguished voices, and Mullahoran a true daughter.

I first came to know Veronica through my naive involvement in politics during my youth, when we both belonged to the same political party. She belonged to those whose political involvement was based on principle, and while I have long turned my back on those principles I respect those whose involvement is characterised by probity and decency. She was moved by the collective principles of sinn fein, while many of those who have recently joined that particular party are motivated solely by the principles of me fein.

Veronica was a lady of acerbic wit. I remember attending a meeting where she denounced participants in a meeting organised by the Fine Gael political party as ”a crowd of farmers up from the arse-hole of Leitrim.” Somebody at the meeting queried whether this was the Irish name for some locality.

Veronica was also someone who hated humbug and hypocrisy. I remember how, following the election of hunger-striker Kieran Doherty on a H-Block ticket in 1981, an advertisement appeared in the local rag stating that “Deputy” Doherty was, in the circumstances, unable to play as large a role in local politics as he might wish, but that if any of his constituents had any problems with which they needed help they should contact a telephone-number which was provided. It is very doubtful if poor Kieran Doherty knew any of this, and he was certainly in no condition to help anyone. The given telephone number was not that of the Maze Prison but one which Veronica recognised as that of a Cavan-town hostelry frequented by H-Block activists. She decided to ring it, adopting the persona of a “Mary Brady from Cornafean” who was having problems getting a ”White” card for payment for medicines and other health board -supplied services. Veronica immediately recognised the man who answered the ’phone as belonging to a notorious drunk of Cavan town, who was easily taken in by Veronica’s subterfuge. However he could do no more than offer sympathy and platitudes to “Mary Brady’s” problems, prompting the frustrated Veronica to finally come out of character saying: “D’ya know what you can do Frank? Ya can shit on it”" whereupon she slammed the ‘phone down.

Veronica was a member of both Cavan’s Town and County Councils. I remember her joy on election to the latter, though it may have been the beginning of a host of problems, for she unseated fellow party member, ”Pro-Life” activist and flat-earther Mary Lucy who responded to her loss by flying out of the count-centre on her broomstick laying a curse on Veronica, or so the latter believed. Certainly Veronica suffered from a litany of illnesses. not to mention crushing personal tragedies, all of which she bore with strength.

It is perhaps ironic that Veronica departed this vale of tears on May 13th, while my dear sister died on May 12th. I am certain that two good friends are at this moment having a laugh and a good natter up above.

Ni bheidh a leitheid ann aris go tdeo. 

My piece in the Echo on orange order halls has, as usual, elicited a great response.But I have to come clean. I#m not interested in ay aspect of the Orange Order, and I find research into such organisations highly depressing.

I want to take this opportunity to urge a non-vote in the forthcoming referendum – not a no vote; nor am I advocating abstention. Let me explain.

I have always been a committed European, who has learned several European languages, and who is dedicated to the idea of greater European unity. Our membership of the European family has helped us as a people become more broad-minded and tolerant. It has also benefited Irish people,, though it must be said that some have benefited more than others, especially those involved in the disbursement of European funds.  Yet I am disinclined to vote for this treaty. I believe in a Europe for everyone and I am worried that this treaty has the supported of big business. Also, the government has taken the Irish people for granted once again, and despite the dire warnings being peddled by the government, a no vote is not the end of the world. If they don’t get the result they want the first time, they’ll keep trying until they do. So I am not going to vote yes in the referendum.

What is more it is a bad treaty, cobbled together in a vain attempt to try and win over euro-sceptics. and those who complained much of the enslavement of eastern Europeans by Communism but who sing an altogether less welcoming tune when those same eastern Europeans seek to be treated as equals in the European Union. I agree with some of the arguments of Sinn Fein, the only political party here which has taken anything like a principled stand on the issue. Yet I am not prepared to stand with the racist, rabid, ignorant racaille of this country, for whom everything from suicides to bad weather is the fault of “fucking foreigners”. So, I will not be voting no either.

Am I going to abstain from voting? Oh no, for that would be to ally myself with people who can’t be arsed to vote or take a stance on anything, and who would no doubt respond to the loss of their right to vote – not that it matters that much – with an ungainly shrug of the shoulders accompanied with a phrase such as “Ah, sure what odds?”

One of the few benefits of being disabled is possession of a postal vote, which I intend to use thus. I will take out my ballot paper, look at it, and then place it back in the envelope ready to be posted. I might place a mark in both the yes and no boxes, and I might even draw a small portrait of our dear and much loved taoiseach. It will be counted as either an invalid or a spoiled vote, but that’s just the point – it will be counted. This is what I mean by a non vote and it is what I am asking other people to do in the referendum.

There will be those storm-troopers of democracy who will scream that I should be stripped of my postal vote and should be dragged to a polling station, through the usual circus of party activists all of whom are to a greater or lesser extent breaking the law. But once there, what I choose to do in the confines of the polling booth is up to me, and so long as my actions there conform to accepted norms of decency and hygiene, they are my affair and no one can force me to do anything – least of all vote for a person or a particular proposition. .

I would hate anyone to think that I am looking for sympathy. I can no longer walk as well as I could in the past but I try my best to go for short walks as far as I am able. Given the surface of my local paths, made more lunar by the habit of some lazy residents leaving their cars parked on the pavement and thereby excavating large holes, this can be a challenge worthy of any assault course on the Krypton Factor.  Yet I was truly angered today when I attempted to go for a walk aided by my assistant Pat McNamara.

A physiotherapist once explained how we all have hundreds of thousands of little receptors on the soles of our feet, and how people with Multiple Sclerosis, whose sense of balance has been damaged, subconciously build up a mental template of the surfaces they cross. When the surface suddenly changes they can be in real difficulty.  So how do you think I felt when I encountered a large hole on the footpath a few doors away from my house, which had not been levelled off and whose surface looked like the aftermath of a lava flow? If I had been on my own I could easily have fallen and injured myself. This hole is not small and covers most of the footpath between the kerb and the gate-pillars of the first house in the row.

I know who did this – to an extent - as there were quite a large number of men working at the spot on Wednesday May 5th. They were supposedly instaling a fibre-optic cable so that the great and the good of Cavan town can enjoy super-fast broadband services – for free - while I and most other broadband users have to pay for slower services. These people didn’t come down from a cloud. Indeed it is more than likely that they were contractors working for Cavan County Council. I am sure that once I begin to investigate no one in that organisation will know who these people were. I repeat I could have fallen and injured myself. If I had there would have been a cut-and-dried case for compensation. It has long been established that public bodies owe a duty of care to the public to ensure that footpaths and footways are safe for the public, and that none of their employees should do anything which may impinge upon this. This extends to those contracted by them.

I hope that this hole is soon repaired, though I am not holding my breath. A similar one (into which I did fall) remained unrepaired for years – indeed it almost took an Act of Parliament to mend it.

Let’s just say there are times when I get heartily fed up. especially by the negligent acts of people who have full use of their limbs but who act like indifferent zombies. Cavan County Council makes much of its commitment to improving access, but I for one sense that on the whole this is no more than words.

This is the same body which transformed my roadway, Earlsvale Road, into a rat-run for cars and heavy vehicles. This is a partial reason why residents along the road do not park their cars in their drive-ways, because the act of turning in while other vehicles are whizzing past in both directions would demand the skills of Eevil Kneevil. The council’s past indifference to the public of Cavan is therefore manifest.  While this may have been the result of an action taken in the past by a former regime, they should remember the biblical injunction of how the sins of the father will be visited on the sons.

This little volume of poetry has had a major impact on me. For one thing, the story of its re-birth after so many decades of obscurity reminds me how tenuous poetry is, and how dependant it is on human intervention, for good or ill.

In her memoirs Hope Against Hope Nadezhda Mandelsthtam wrote about how there were many poets’ wives and widows throughout the Soviet Union whose hairs were going white for fear that they might forget one word of their husbands’ poems. Commitment to memory was the only way by which the verses of those whom Stalin considered too dangerous to live could retain their existence, especially when things as fagile as manuscripts were so easily destroyed.

The poems of Faeries Hither! were originally published in 1935, a year in which the dreadful cogs and levers of Stalinist terror were being oiled in preparation for their application. It was the year before those proud defenders of Christianity in Spain wouid launch themselves in alliance with the Nazis against the forces of liberalism and humanity, an endeavour in which they would be aided and abetted by the Catholic hierarchy and laity in Ireland for whom any non-conformity of thought had to be suppressed as quickly as any episcopal jackboot would allow. It is interesting that the book was published not in God’s own country but in London.

It was published in the year before the abdication crisis. Those events were the very partial inspiration for one of my feeble forays into poetry in which I wrote how I maintained my sanity and sense of personal decency in Cavan by each day abdicating from the local ”set up”  dominated at the iime by a sickeningly shallow yet all pervasive pretence worthy of grotesque pantomime, that was at the same time stultifying yet so transparent that it could not suppress the stench of rank corruption emanating from those who sought to preserve it.

 Thankfully those days are more or less over I hope, and these verses are a wonderfully fragrant antidote to them.