Watch out wankers!
Watch this space as I’m going to make some really inflammatory comments about that silly conference. You’ve been warned – but then again I may already have said all I want – I am a master of subminimal comments after all!
Watch this space as I’m going to make some really inflammatory comments about that silly conference. You’ve been warned – but then again I may already have said all I want – I am a master of subminimal comments after all!
I’m a child of the sixties, and I suppose I wasn’t really there because I remember it slightly. So the sight of Russian tanks thundering through territory where they’re not wanted reminds me of Prague in 1968.
Now Putin’s actions are easily explained as nostalgia for the old Soviet Union, but the actual object of the nostalgia may not be fully realised by observers in the west. Like so many things in the world Russia’s aggression towards Georgia is motivated by good old penis envy. For Putin and co the days they look back on with fondness were the ’70s when Russian women went in droves to Georgia because Georgian men were known to be much better lovers, and much keener on giving them satisfaction than Russian males with their industrial, “slam-bam-thank-ye-ma’am” attitude to sex. The average Georgian washed regularly and actually cared for and looked after his equipment, in contrast to the Russian counterparts whose genitalia stank to high heaven and let’s face it sex isn’t much fun if you have to hold your nose before, during and after the performance. So Ivan and Vladimir and Dmitri had to stand back in horror as their mini-skirted Irinas and Nadias headed to Tbilisi or the Black Sea for some R&R Soviet-style. They could do nothing except down more vodka, which only made matters worse.
I’m reminded of a joke from those days which tells about how a Georgian brings his Russian bride back to their wedding-suite. He’s impatient, so he throws her onto the bed, pushes up her dress, opens her legs and goes into action, but no matter how hard (no pun intended!) he pushes he just can’t effect penetration. After a while his cock’s starting to get really raw but then finally he makes it. “Phew” he says. “I never realised you were still a virgin.” “Virgin my arse” she replies, “but you shoulld have taken my tights off first.”
Oh if only we had an airport here in Cavan. All Gary Glitter’s problems in finding a home would be solved. What’s more, there’d be no questions asked about his holiday activities in South-East Asia, and certainly no hassle about the sex offenders’ register. Indeed he’d have so many friends to look out for him.
Rob Steinke’s Museum of the Master Saddler at Corlough, Co. Cavan, truly is a unique placel iI t is the only museum dedicated to the work of the saddler and harness-maker - crafts which were vital in the past when we relied so much on horse traction. Saddlers were to be found throughout the country; here in Cavan town the Simon family provided saddles and harnesses for generations of people from their premises on the town’s main street.
Rob is holding two open days on Saturday August 23rd and Sunday (24th) - incidentally my birthday – when there will also be a launch of the Horse-Drawn Post Project, an ongoing exhibition show-casing the vital role of the horse in our postal system. I believe in progress, but I often wonder how it was that in the days of horse-drawn postal services a letter, newspaper or parcel could be posted in the evening in Cavan or Sligo, and be delivered directly in Dublin the next day. Now such items often have to take a detour to the south, to Athlone, where they are sorted and with luck will be delivered the next day but if they aren’t it’s a “system failure”, i.e. it’s nobody’s fault – except your own for handing it over to the postal service in the first place!
The museum springs from Rob’s own passion for saddle-making. He trained with Keith Luxford, the Queen’s saddler, and studied at Cordwainters’ Leatheer College in Hackney. He has written several books, including Repair Your Own Saddlery and Harness (J.A. Akken, London).
Rob Stainke is a very versatile and talented guy. Not only is he a genius in the world of saddlery and harness-making but he’s also a gifted artist, writer and photographer. What’s more he shares his talents through lessons and classes., but don’t take my word for it; visit his website!
I have connections with one of the other crafts ancillary to the use of horses in Ireland: my uncle Frank was a blacksmith, but with the replacement of horses by spanking new Volkswagon Beetles and Massery Fergusson tractors this trade became sadly obsolete, and we considered the fumes belching from the exhausts of these vehicles to be a sign of progress.
Most people are no doubt horrified by the Russian government’s actions towards Georgia. As a child of the ’60s the sight of Russian tanks careering through towns bring forth memories of Prague in 1968. I for one thought that the prospect of such things disappeared with the fall of the Berlin Wall, but there are those in the Kremlin who look back with nostalgia on that period.
It’s all too easy to feel helpless, but one little thing that ordinary folk can do is sign the online AVAAZ petition, calling for a cessation of hostilities and the removal of combat troops. Here’s a link to the petition.
I couldn’t believe it when I heard that T.P, had died. I didn’t want to believe it. I’ve lost not only a great colleague but a dear, dear friend. T.P. combined two qualities which are so rare amongst historians. He was a gentleman – a true gentle man – but he also possessed at times infuriating humility.
He truly was the unsung hero of Cavan history. He was content to beaver away in the midst of sometimes musty manuscript repositories, no doubt often facing the frustration of not finding what he was looking for, but knowing that his dedication and commitment would be eventually repaid.
One of the articles I am proudest of is the study of the creamery company I co-wrote with T.P. last year, He would have been entitled to claim the whole piece as his work, as he had dont most of the research and I just re-arranged it, but instead he didn’t want his name to appear on the article at all. This wasn’t because he was ashamed to be mentioned as joint author with me, but was once again a product of that humility I mentioned earlier. Now it’s a convention hallowed by years of use that co-authors are listed alphabetically but T.P. insisted that I should be put first, and it had been such a hard job to get him to put his name at all to the article that I gave way.
I’m feeling really shook up by the news. I could always rely on T.P.’s friendship and advice, as well as his ability to ferret interesting data out of collections that I can’t get to these days. But then T.P. was a true historian. Whatever historical work I do in the future is dedicated to him. Oh God above, why do you take away the good people and leave this world (which you created) to be overrun by crawling scum?
But you know, when I think of T.P.. I smile as I remember the happy days when he was alive and the fact that I was privileged to know him.
Virginia-based artist Jim Mc Partlin is truly a master of his chosen “oeuvre” of water-colour painting. As Cavan is a region where water is never far from the surface (and is often on the surface) it seems particularly apt as a means of reproducing the area’s landscapes. But Jim is able to do much more than merely reproduce. His paintings aren’t images chasing after photographic perfection. They seem to contain the inner spirit of the locations chosen, so that the observer senses that they are actually at the place and soaking in its atmosphere. What’s more Jim is a really great guy and a wonderful colleague. We have worked together on a book about the county to be published by Cottage Publications of Donaghadea next month. The charming illustrations which have been so well reproduced in the publication are naturally Jim’s work; the text can be laid at the door of yours truly.
Tours around the town.
Farnham Street
Farnham Street was once described by someone on gange as Cavan’s Champs Elysees. It seems to have a hidden message for visitors – it leads away from the town. When it was first laid out the idea was to provide Cavan with a wide, clean street which would take away from the grot of its other thoroughfares, Now it is just as grotty as everywhere else alas. It used to have a nice little park along part of its length, but that was swallowed up by ugly bourgeois houses and office blocks in the mid twentieth century.
Pat & Felim’s Druids’ Hall of Fame
Let’s start our tour of the town at the top of Farnham St., near the junction of the Cathedral Road and Keady Lane. The latter was the old road to Belturbet, and the place where it joins Farnham St is probably where a lot of the fighting in the bloody Battle of Cavan took place in February 1690.
At the street;s northern end is Pat & Felim’s Druids’ Hall of Fame. It is a very solid icon of the faith of those poor people who helped pay for it, when they probably had better things to do with their few bob, such as feed themselves or pay their children’s fares into exile. It is also an excellent example of Catholic ‘We-Won- The-War’ triumphalism; it sits on a hill overlooking the Church of Ireland on the other side of the street as if saying: ‘My spire’s bigger than yours mate.’ ‘But mine’s got a lightning conductor …’
Not so long ago Frankie’s Ten o’clock show (The Golf Club At Prayer) was a sell-out every Sunday while his Christmas Midnight Mass special (when there was often standing room only), literally emptied the pubs. He had only to utter his catchphrase: ‘Let us pronounce the Entrance Antiphon together’ in his dry, nasal tones to bring the house down. His sermons were masterpieces of – woodwork. The same, tired homilies were wheeled out with nauseating regularity, with even some of the regulars groaning sotto voce “…ah no, not this one again… .” He intoned every one with the passion of the answerer in a Greek drama. They involved the usual denunciation of liberals, humanists, communists, the Dublin Media, as well as some snide snipes at “Our Separated Brethren”. His style of homiletics might be described as austere. No passion, no emotion, unless there was some group of recalcitrant progressives against whom he wished to thunder. Whenever he grew passionate in these he became especially pathetic, like the inmate of a lunatic asylum complaining about room-service. He had a way of enunciating the name “Christ” which demonstrated that he considered the holder of the name as a colleague (probably of junior rank) – as much as to say “Christ down in Customer Accounts…” Then there were the prayers for “Our three diocesan missionaries in Min-na…” These brave souls were fighting the good fight against the forces of darkness and “paganism” in “NI-Geree-a – now that’s in darkest Africa my dear people.”. He had once visited them there, and had met the bishop of “Sock-oto … an indefatigable Irish American” who had urged him to tell his flock on returning to the Forty Shades of Green to ‘Pray fervently night and day for the conversion of Nigeria’s Muslims’ “.
He oversaw the devoted and bored listeners who entered this intellectual abattoir like a prison guard during a recreation period. In the Liturgy of the Eucharist things brightened up; when he prayed for “me your unworthy servant…” the congregation began a rhythmic chant of “He’s the Man!” worthy of any southern Baptist church in deepest Mississippi.
But it was often difficult to hear the punk on the altar, as even with amplification his utterances had to compete with a chorus of squawks and screams from the younger members of the congregation, for the good, Mass-going battlers of Cavan insisted on attending en famille, with “Daddy”‘s eyes bleary from the previous night’s skinful and his face smarting from Brute, and “Mammy” trying to hide her embarrassment at the belated realisation that the man she had married was a no-good boozy, abusive bowzy who bet on horses and who chased other women if only with his eyes. One of the couple usually held the latest little horror up in their arms, but not even the strongest remonstrations could keep them quiet. Eventually “Mammy” would have to rush outside when the rafting of a rank odour signified that little Johnny (aged 3 and a quarter) had shat himself again.
The druids have hit hard time since the days when the hall was built in the 1930s and ‘40s. Now the punters are sadly fewer, maybe some of them relied too much on “Do-As-I-Say, Not-As-I-Do” exhortations to the faithful. We’ve all heard about the scandals and the cases of clerical sexual abuse. My own opinion is that the rank and file of the Catholic clergy, who are a really decent and hard-working group who often have to operate in difficult circumstances, have been badly served by prominent members of the Catholic laity, especially those belonging to certain quasi-masonic lay-groups who think that they own the church. They have often insinuated themselves between the clergy and the laity, and because they often have a few bob they always seem to be able to catch the ear of the hierarchy. Yet everyone sees through the presence of these “holy joes”. They see how they use a pretence of religious orthodoxy and unswerving belief to reap rich gains for themselves and their families. People may have heard the joke about how “the lad with the horns” came onto Earth one night – near Mullingar actually, I don’t know why. Anyway he was trying to cross a road when he got hit by a car which tore off his tail. Anyway he takes the separated member and walks up the road to a pub. He enters it and immediately asks: “Do you re-tail spirits here…” Groan. But these are the people who have tried to silence any mention of clerical wrongs. The vast amount of priests are innocent of any involvement in such heinous acts. They are revolted by them, They also want an opportunity to clearly distance themselves from them, but their lay protectors like to think they know different. (Is it the fact that I discuss these things that “annoys” some people in Cavan?)
In the past people used to trot to mass out of a mixture of duty and fear. You got the feeling that most people were there simply for the sake of appearance “an’ sure it does no harm like.” Now buildings like Paddy & Felim’s are truly cavernous. This too in my opinion is a pity, for now more than ever the world needs to hear a message of love and forgiveness. True to form we Irish can never do anything by halves: it’s all or nothing.
But let’s get back to Frankie, who, incidentally often seemed to be a lonely figure, surrounded by a crowd of yes-men and women telling him how wonderful he was. It is often said that when you become an Irish Catholic bishop there are two things you’ll never get in the future: a bad meal or the truth. Frankie especially belonged to what might be described as the Erin Soup brigade of Christian ministers – Get this inside you, it will do you good. On one occasion, around 1977, I remember him telling his flock not to listen to any tales their children might bring home from school. In the light of what was happening in some locations this was advice which was truly frightening. But maybe Frankie didn’t know about this stuff (as he claims) and even when told about it he didn’t understand that it was bad, as so many of his fellow bishops claim. This is somewhat disingenuous, because when it comes to what is bad and sinful one would expect the Catholic hierarchy to be able to recognise it at some distance. In those days they were aficionados at denouncing those who disagreed with them, but when it came to sin within their own ranks they became somewhat more sheepish.
The inherently decent and spiritual Dr Willie Walsh, Catholic Bishop of Killaloe, recently stated that there are wide areas of the Catholic church in Ireland which are still in denial as far as child abuse is concerned. He is correct. More important though is the fact that there are still many members of the Catholic laity who are still in denial. Quite literally they are out of the boat and in the N… (old joke).
Cavan Town
Cavan is one of the oldest towns in Ulster, predating the vast majority of urban settlements in the north of Ireland by a good century and a half. In recent years it has developed frantically, but much of this development is centripetal, so battteries of soulless suburbs and housing estates are marching into the green hinterland while the town’s centre is allowed to rot and decay, becoming a no-man’s land after six o’clock in the evening, often inhabited only by surreptitious shadows and the clanging of metal shutters blowing in the wind. Any residual business activity is going to be wiped out by the erection of a spanking new TESCO store, which has been approved by the County Council’s executive and approved like lapdogs by the elected councillors. Plans are afoot for Cavan to become a new Financial Servicers centre with a specialised market in the sale of grannies belonging to councillors and senior council staff.
Litter Free??!!!
Don’t believe the propaganda – Cavan is a seriously dirty town. Every so often a group of anti-litter freaks let drop into some important local ears that they are coming to do an inspection. On the day assisgned the pubs are emptied with promises (seldom kept) of free drink in return for picking up litter and sweeping away rubbish. This is then piled into ditches and behind hedges close to local authority housing estates and the Halting Site. The inspectors arrive to an immaculate scenario and are invited to eat their dinners off the footpaths. They gush about how clean and tidy Cavan is and invariably award it a five-star rating. Once gone the rubbish is redistributed and augmented. But then the Most-Hated-Man-in-Cavan, N. Teebone, would know about casual litter in Cavan. After all, most Cavan men eat out of drawers and peel apples and fruit in their pockets. Look at the average Cavan man and you will see his pockets bulging with sweet-wrappers and fruit peelings. And we have already mentioned the Cavan lads’ aversion to throwing away condoms.
Some of my readers will remember the scene in Father Ted where the two priests hitch a lift from a lorry driven by Pat Shortt. Earlier we see Pat’s character being given a crash curse on how to open the lorry’s doors, and which lever to pull to enter its contents. Pat gets mixed up and while inadvetertly attempting to let the priests into the cab covers them in shite. I’d love if a lorry would do that in the centre of Farnham St.
Everyone knows that the stereotype of the “maen” Cavanman is a myth. The real misers in Cavan are certain Americans whom everyone believes to be fantastically wealthy and who expect everyone to bow the knee to them, but who are as “maen as cat shite”.
There is an on-going campaign though to keep Cavan town skitter-free. This is fronted by signs bearing a crossed-out lavatory over the legend “Don’t do it here – do it somewhere else.”
Getting There and Away.
The good news is that buses arrive in Cavan town on the hour. Even better news is that they leave on the hour too. If the thought of wandering Cavan’s streets for sixty long minutes is just too much excitement, you can always stay on the ‘bus making obscene hand signs at passers by. Better still stand up in the ‘bus and expose yourself and in the District Court defend your actions as being due to “peer pressure”.
Accommodation
If you feel like a splurge why not try the admittedly pricey Vincent de Paul Night Shelter in Abbey Street. This is perfectly situated for the Bridge Street strip, Cavan town’s entertainment heart, so you can entertain any conquests in style. And the YMCA’s just round the other corner, if that’s what you like.
Those who prefer the freedom of the roads can stay at the town’s Caravan park / halting site. This has marvellous views of the town and is close to shops and pubs. It also has all the facilities you could want.
Eating Out
There are lots of reasonably-priced chew ‘n spews, but some of the best deals are offered by Mucky Mick’s BYO. The walls are covered with photographs taken from the “In Memoriam” cards of those who died from food poisoning contracted there. There are also blown-up images of the numerous bugs located on the premises by food inspectors – find a new variety and you’ll get 10 per cent off. If you can find a table try and get one as far as possible from the Gents’ toilets, which aren’t separated from the eating area by a door. Mick explained that it was taken off because the patrons found it an obstacle as they were in a rush to evacuate their stomachs.
(Seriously, there are lots of good places in Cavan offering great grub to suit all pockets, but I am afraid that my recommendations would be targeted by ‘resting’ Sendirastas for retaliation. Another problem is access. So many eateries still don’t realise that the cripple’s cash is as good as the able-bodied.
Pubs
If you’re looking for more than a quiet pint, head to The Hard Cock Cafe in Bridge Street. This is definitely THE haunt of Cavan’s horizontal joggers. In fact, if you can’t get a root here … of course you would have to be stoned to look at some of the sheilas. It really is a swamp donkey sanctuary, so you’ll need your beer-goggles, but as Holly Johnson said in the song “Relax … when ya wanna come”. Always insist on a condom, because you can never tell what dose you might pick up.
There are some pubs which are really nice and civilised drinking places and then there are those to which no sef-respecting human would go, unless on a crawl. These can usually be identified by the lack of carpet on the floor, having stone or mud floors instead. When asked why, one landlord said that it was “easier to mop up the sick offf a stone floor.”
Also keep an eye on the change you get. at times when there are large crowds (such as the Fleadh) it is not unusual for bar personnel to “accidentally” short-change punters. And it is not unknown either for Cavan’s hostelries to be, as Daniel Defoe once wrote, “Extravagant in their reckonings”.
If you’re under age, getting a drink in a Cavan town pub is no problem. It has been said that the only issue about giving a pint to a baby is that it mightn’t be able to carry it too far.
Entertainment and Night Clubs.
If you want an atmosphere that’s truly animal, head for Bokassa’s or Crufts – where love stories begin – and end; if your expectations of the animal experience incline more towards an abattoir, and your preferences are for a dark, malodorous, overcrowded and overheated “dancing area” then it has to be Crufts. The stench of body odour and stale beer has led to it being nicknamed Smelly Nelly’s. The unfriendliness of Cavan’s womenfolk is legendary and few will just politely refuse an offer of a dance. No, you”re lucky if you get away with a snarl and some friends of mine were left scarred for life after being severely bitten. If you like your teeny-boppers teeny head out of town to the Club Tropicana. All Cavan’s night spots (like the town’s women) have one thing in common: they’re to be seen at their best with the lights off. Wuff wuff!!!
Cinema.
Cavan’s cinema is a good bet if you’ve got nowhere better to go. Films were first shown in Cavan in 1912, but for many years there was no cinema. This was an important argument for those who moaned: “There’s nothin’ to do in Cavan except get pissed”. Cinema was available thanks to the Trojan efforts of the Cavan Film Club which met in Belturbet. But that was excuse numero uno – the Cavan town bods were too exhausted after a stressful day’s sittin’-on-their-holes to go to Belturbet. The Film Club used to meet in Cavan town but evacuated to the Village by the Erne because of lack of support. And then there was the fact that many of the films shown were foreign – with subtitles – showing full-frontal nudity – and explicit kinky sex scenes, sometimes with animals … A new cinema was then built in Cavan and opened with much publicity – a multiplex no less. At the time of writing only one screen is open to the public through lack of public demand. Oh dear. The staff are really friendly too. Tuesday is the best night to go if you’re a pensioner or a cripple, but be warned: ignore blandishments about pop-corn, sweets or soft drinks which are horribly overpriced.
Sport
Sports and Recreation buffs are amply catered for in Cavan. The town’s 8 hole golf club (they had to have the other ten filled in) is perfect for those who want to play around. This is where Cavan’s Mushroom men like to be seen. A new car-park has been built with spaces for caravans, while the local Department of Social Protection is planning to open a sub-office here so that patrons can collect their dole before teeing off. Dress code is casual but smart (in other words, fur coat and no knickers for women), yet if rumours are to be believed (and why not? – as Barry Norman claims he never said) when some of the “Lady” players get a couple of voddies inside them their under-dress code becomes, how do you say, minimalist, and they stop putting on an act that they are anything but jumped-up slappers. Bring your own keys and, like your hands, keep them in your pockets. One ill-considered grope can end up in a costly legal action and, let’s face it, if groping’s your bag, why bother with mutton when you can have lamb, Spring lamb and lots of it, at The Springs? This may be some miles out of town, but the journey is more than compensated for by the unlimited games of Hide–the-Sausage available ‘round the back. Don’t let appearances fool you here: just because they look young doesn’t mean they lack experience. Once again Safety First. Bring a new packet as the club’s dispensing machine may have run out. What’s mre it may have never had any rubbers at all in it, but most punters would be too ashamed to go up to the bar and ask for a refund, especially if the barman happens to be their brother-in-law.
If you prefer to do some human potholing but like the caves a little bigger and wider try the Rugby Club, only stay away from the toilets.
Things to see, people to do.
Pride of place must go to the National Incineration Centre for cows infected with CJD at Monery near Kilmore on the outskirts of Cavan town. It dominates the town and surrounding area with its smell. This near sickening odour doesn’t seem to upset Cavan people at all. If anything they luxuriate in it. “It’s not so bad after a while when yev gotten useto it like. In fact I like sittin’ upta me oxters in shite, an’ the smell’s nice an’ its grate for the complekshan…like”
But Cavan town is all about atmosphere, and there is nowhere better for soaking it up than Rossa Place on a Sunday morning around 3 a.m. You can hear the melismanic meows of Cavan’s tomcats as they engage in a night on the hump, while Cavan’s human lovers pursue some alfresco fumbling in doorways and alleyways. At this time of the morning you’re never far from the land of the Technicolor Yawn and the two-pot screamers.
Does Cavan town have any good points? That’s a tough one … Not all the women in Cavan are from the town or county, which means that they are friendlier. I suppose the fact that Cavan has lately attracted immigrants from many parts of the world has helped to inject some variety into the prevailing greyness. At the risk of repeating myself I cannot but have sympathy for immigrants – life must be really shitty at home if they come to a place like Cavan. Many of the immigrants are females from eastern Europe and the Baltic States, and everyone knows how Slavic women do something for me. … rrr! I don’t know, maybe it’s their high cheek-bones, their lustrous eyes that appear capable of digging into your soul, the fact that they are always entranced when spoken to in their vernacular…
A week after the coup in Mauritania, its leaders have started to reveal some of their intentions, as well as why it took place.
General Abdel-Aziz has said that, while he plans to hold transparent elections, he does not rule out being a presidential candidate himself.
When, three years’ ago,,General Vall seized power and set the country on the road to democracy, he made it crystal clear that he was not going to be a candidate for president and that he was going to take a back seat. This policy is now obviously viewed as a mistake by Gen. Abdel-Aziz (who was one of Gen. Vall’s associates in that coup). The idea of giving power to others is clearly seen as unacceptable, as is the option of ruling through civilian proxies.
So the soldiers launch a coup, call for elections in which the coup leader stands for president. He’s then elected, gaining a democratic imprimatur, and swaps his military uniform for a nice expensive business suit (or twenty).
The African Union plans to suspend Mauritania until a return to constitutional government. But thiis is the way many African presidents (and AU members) have come to power – Yahya Jammeh in The Gambia, Blaise Compaore in Burkina Faso, and more recently Francois Bozize in the Central African Republic. It must be said that some soldiers make good presidents, such as Yoweri Museveni in Uganda and Alpha Toumare Toure in Mali. The latter led a coup against the authoritarian Moussa Keita and then retired, only to reemerge as a successful presidential candidate over a decent spell of time.
If General Abdel-Aziz decides to run in elections he is certain to win. For one thing he will have what’s referred to in the world of strategic management as “First-mover advantage”. He will set the date for the match, pick the venue and set the rules. He will also be able to dictate access to match facilities as he will control the media. In this regard it’s hard to see how these elections can be transparent, apart from being a transparent farce.
