Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

My good friend Patrick Clark of New York has told me about a pardon he has found on the Patent Rols of James I dated February 1604/5, granted to Philip Mc Shane McCale ORelie of Ralaghan. Along with him were pardoned 54 of the name O’Clery. I am in agreement with Pat, and the late Tom Barron, that this points strongly towards the O’Clerys having been employed as kern or mercenaries, no doubt by Pilib dubh O Raghallaigh (died 1596). as they were operating in the Clankee area which had been assigned to Pilib as part of Perrot’s Composition of 1585.

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

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”.

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.

On the topic of blogs I’d really love if some of my readers would pay a visit to my

Afriican Violets blog, looking at contemporary African news. And that is what it deals with, no hidden subliminal messages about the so-called great and not-so-good of Cavan. There is a wider world out there.

 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 19^th 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!

 .

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.

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.

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?