Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

A view of the world from an Irish hole

Month: March, 2010

Headshops in Cavan

The phenomenon of headshops has introduced us to retail outlets selling legal or quasi-legal highs for the first time. This has of course met with the disapproval of the killjoys in the government, as well as established drug pushers who have seen some of their market segment shrinking. Not surprisingly the one has responded with legislation (which may or may not ever be enforced), while the latter has responded by setting fire to headshops, whenever members of the Gardai have their backs turned.

 These headshops are somewhat irresponsible. It’s all right for people of my age group, and maybe a bit younger. We’re responsible. But what about young teenagers who may be goaded into these places by peer pressure. They may be cajoled into experimenting with substances that could be both unpleasant and dangerous. It’s a bit like a teenager going to the whorehouse for the first time. He’s egged on by his friends and feels really grown up, but he may be robbed, beaten up or pick up a VD. People of my generation of course know that you get the best sex at home.

 Personally the biggest high I could get would be to hear that minister for health Mary Harney, along with her party of officials, had just vaporised during their visit to New Zealand, or that the minister had insisted on going bungee jumping, but the whole thing had just gone horribly wrong …

Health of the Nation

The present furore about Tallaght Hospital again demonstrates that tour great health service’s problems are caused by one thing and one thing only – sick people.

 For a start there are the old fuc … old age pensioners. They have made their contribution. They’ve had a good innings and really they should just face facts. They’re going to die and they should be left to do it.

 Then there are younger sick people, especially those too poor to afford private health insurance. Many of these people are unemployed. These work-shy elements already present a heavy burden to tax payers. The fact that they believe that they have some sort of right to be cured of illness at the taxpayers’ expense, is not sustainable, especially in the present economic climate.

 Since taking on the poisoned chalice of health minister, Mary Harney has performed sterling work in cutting costs, eliminating waste and closing hospitals. There have been calls for her to be demoted in the expected cabinet reshuffle. These must be resisted. The minister herself (speaking from New Zealand) has mentioned her wish to stay on in the job, and enjoy the champagne-sprinkled, five-star lifestyle it brings with it. When asked what she might do were she to lose the job Minister Harney became quite emotional, saying that she couldn’t cope without the first-class air travel and the tinkling of the ivories to send her to sleep at night. What’s more she alluded to the possibility that her husband had threatened to leave her if she lost her job

Keep Good Friday special

The news that some publicans want to open their dens of iniquity on Good Friday is disturbing. I suppose I do belong to Ireland’s biggest religious sector – the lapsed Catholics, but I am still very much a Christian. For me Good Friday is the day that  commemorates Jesus Christ’s sufferings to redeem mankind. In Irish culture Good Friday has always been a day of solemnity. This is true not only in Ireland but throughout the world. Was it not on Good Friday that Dante left his beloved Florence as an exile?

Of course Good Friday has long had a special place amongst dipsomaniacs in border areas who looked forward to it so that they could go up North to get tanked up. But today what’s stopping anyone going to the offie the day before and getting a few cans and bottles?

The fact that the move for Good Friday booze comes from the saintly city of Limerick is so worrying. Limerick has long been seen as an icon of true Catholicism in the vast swirling ocean of secular humanism. Limerick city’s commitment to the true Catholic faith was so amply demonstrated when its citizens, stirred up by a Redemptorist priest, drove out the city’s Jews. Let us remember the words of outrage expressed by a man following acts of desecration in a Limerick city graveyard. “Ya wouldn’t see this in darkest Africa, where there is no God.” But what would the late Bishop Jeremiah Newman, who kept the Four Courts Press humming away publishing the seemingly never-ending torrent of his literary rant and cant, and who only ever accepted the best food and drink, have said about it? No doubt. “Ah isn’t that great. I’ll be able to pop out for a quick one after the ceremonies instead of having to hide a bottle in my library.”

Cavan Drama festival

I see that the Cavan International Drama Festival is about to get going again … yawn! I used to go there a lot many years’ ago. I was very interested in drama. I still am (I am currently re-reading some of August Strindberg). Really, the reason I went there was that there was this bird that I was kind of like interested in like, sort of, you know what I mean. However, she wasn’t interested in me and so I looked around at the crowd of poseurs, some of them sporting monkey suits that made them look like dodgy nightclub bouncers and so I stopped going.

 And I’m not going this year either. For one thing I can’t afford it. I see on the leaflet that admission is 12 euro but there is a special concession for students and OAPS. I’m in neither category anymore – I might have been thought of as an OAP, but Mary Hanafin reclassified last December, and there is NO way I’m paying out good dosh to mix with the new generation of mushroom men and women. It’s interesting that there are no concessions for the disabled or for the unemployed, but the people who traditionally control the Drama festival wouldn’t want that sort anyway. I mean, cripples and the work-shy who are bleeding those middle class paragons dry through taxes. Let’s be serious.

 I remember in the good old days when Frankie-goes-to-Hollywood McKiernan would strut around like a peacock expecting everyone to kiss his ring and how at the intermission those of us who had paid full whack would be shepherded into a room where we were expected to pay for cold, “wake tay” and even coulder and wayker chat, while TDs, ministers and their wives stepped to the left to the VIP lounge where the refreshments were always free.  I remember how I kept here snatches from Mozart’s Serenade for Strings K 525, better known as  “A Little Knight Music”.

 And I see that the age-old connection between the Drama Festival and the Catholic Church continues to this day. The whole week-long wankathon is being opened by Cavan’s ADM while not so long ago his religious ancestors would have been banning anything which smelled of secular humanism or fun.

A cynic might see a reason why the Catholic Church is so interested in drama. After a few years many of their rituals must begin to seem like mere theatre.

 But as for many of the laity they wouldn’t know good theatre if it jumped up and bit them on the … finger. It’s all about acting all right: their role as middle class respectable types for whom the old amateur drams have always been a bit of harmless fun.

Frightful weather we’ve having

Spring is late this year. While our days are frequently bathed with quite warm sunshine, our nights see temperatures plummet well below zero. As a consequence plant growth is seriously retarded. This is not a unique phenomenon.

 I am reading a charming and informative book called Since Records Began: The Highs and Lows of Britain’s Weather by Paul Simons (Collins, 2008) which records many of the most serious weather events that have afflicted the United Kingdom. In particular, March 1891 saw heavy snowfalls affecting the south of England resulting in metre-deep drifts in places like Dartmoor. One train, travelling from London to Plymouth became buried on Dartmoor with snow entering the carriages. There were no radios so the train’s misfortunes remained unknown until some day’s later when a local farmer out looking for sheep discovered the turret of the train engine sticking up through the snow. Even after being rescued some passengers insisted on travelling on to Plymouth, arriving there eight days’ after leaving London.

 Strangely, two years’ later much of the south of England experienced one of the most serious spring droughts ever recorded. Rivers dried up while London residents, some of whom were just coming terms with new-fangled gadgets like flush toilets faced water rationing while there were serious outbreaks of diarrhoea.

 The book contains examples mainly from the United Kingdom, though incidents like the Athlone lightning storm of October 1697 are mentioned. I think that a readable book looking at Irish weather phenomena would be popular; indeed I think there would be far more of a market for it than some of the turgid historical tomes that somehow managed to get published in this country. I’d love to write the book. I have already written about topics like the “Year without a Summer”, the landslide that washed away the village of Tober in the early 1860s and hurricane Debbie. Then there is the sterling work produced by my good friend Tom Hyde about the winter of 1947.

 All I need is a publisher but given my free-thinking and fun-loving spirit and will not contain any coded excerpts from El Viaje, I doubt any of the Opus Dei printing houses who seem happy to provide vanity publishing for some people would be interested, even though it has considerable commercial possibilities.

Talk on Cavan’s friary

The National Council for the Blind in Ireland (NCBI) which claims to represent the interests of the bind and partially sighted in Ireland has organised a meeting for next Thursday. The “Special guest” will be Dr Brendan Scott who will talk about the Franciscan Friary in Cavan.

 Brendan Scott is the same person who organised a conference on the medieval and early modern history of Cavan to which were invited specialists from as far away as the UK and America, though an expert who resided in Cavan, namely myself, was not invited. This was a deliberate snub, motivated by Dr Scott’s perception that there had been “trouble” between me and the museum, though it had been before his time.

 Some months earlier Dr Scott had unsuccessfully sought to replace me as a contributor to the Cavan Echo. I think it is obvious that Dr Scott has same issues regarding me. Though I’m damned if I know what they are as I’ve never even met him.

 This is the person the NCBI has invited as a special guest. Now it is bad enough that the NCBI does sweet FA to promote the interests of the blind, but quite another when they are siding with those who attack them. The invitation has cleared Dr Scott at a stroke of any accusation of discriminating against a partially sighted and disabled scholar. How could he have done such a thing he can say, when the National Council for the Blind itself invites him as a special guest – and in clear preference to the person whom he discriminated against.

 I am reproducing here an article I wrote for the Cavan Echo about Cavan’s Franciscan Friary, that I wrote in October 2007. But how silly and impudent of me to make such a claim when it is obvious I never wrote this at all. I have merely dreamed that I have written this, when in fact my hand and brain were in fact being directed by my double Dr Brendan Scott. It’s copyrighted. It was Francis Bacon who said “Opportunity makes the thief.”

 Given my expertise on the areas I have offered to give the talk instead, based on my own material, but the NCBI has responded to my offer with deafening silence. No doubt they are part of the voluntary sector in Cavan who are captives of the County Council, their members cowed into silence and acquiescence of discrimination by the promise of council grouses. While Whacko Jack presents himself as a guardian of disabled rights as he poses with yet another group of expensive, external consultants.

 By the way Brendan, does it make yo0u feel big and macho to pick on a disabled person and to steal from a cripple? You’ll have no luck you miserable bastard.

 Cavan’s Franciscan Friary

 Cavan Echo, October 19th 2007

 

With the break-neck level of building development in Cavan town it can often seem as if the oldest surviving structure is a post-box or a petrol-tank. This accolade belongs however to the tower of the Franciscan Friary in the town’s Abbey Street, formerly known as Church Lane.

 Founding father

 The foundation of the friary, for monks from the Franciscan order or Ordo Fratrum Minorum (OFM) was the first surviving reference to Cavan in any of the surviving annals. The person who founded the friary was the recently-installed chieftain of East Breifne, Giolla Iosa ruadh O’Reilly, who more than anyone helped to re-establish the power of his family after the debacle of Magh Slecht half a century earlier which had seen the death of his father, grandfather, half-brother and many other relatives.

 Poorest of the poor

 The Franciscan order had been founded by St Francis in Italy in 1209. Their members were dedicated to rigorous and absolute poverty. At first they renounced even the principle of holding property in common. They spread like wild-fire throughout Europe, even reaching remote parts of Ireland, Scotland and Scandinavia within a century of their foundation.

 The Franciscans had been particularly successful in urban areas, so their success in the north of Ireland, which was still devoid of towns, was unusual. The first monks may have come from Dundalk or Drogheda, or from friaries elsewhere in Ulster, such as Downpatrick and Carrickfergus. These were under the control of the Anglo-Norman earl of Ulster Richard de Burgh. The earl was generally on friendly terms with Giolla Iosa, who named one of his sons Risteard after him.

 Nothing survives today from this foundation. An eighteenth-century antiquary wrote that Giolla Iosa built a chapel and marble mausoleum at the friary. This might have been too ostentatious for the friars though who were wedded to simplicity in all aspects of life.

 Arson around

 Many of the buildings were of wood. In 1452 much of the abbey was destroyed in a fire caused by a careless monk called O Mothlain who was reading his breviary by candle-light, although The Annals of Ulster infer that he had partaken too freely of wine. In May 1575 the friary, with much of the town of Cavan went up in flames, though on this occasion a highly-placed arsonist was to blame. The wife of the then ruler of Erfast Breifne, Aodh Conallach, had a grudge against one of the residents of Cavan and set fire to their house. Alas for the town and the friary the flames spread. .

 Old peoples’ home with a difference

 The friary soon developed a rather non-religious aspect closely linked to the ruling house; it became a strange mixture of a retirement home and political refuge. Fifteen years after its foundation Giolla Iosa gave up the reins of power to become a monk in the friary where he died and was buried in 1330. His son Cu Chonnacht (whose descendants eventually settled in the Munterconnaght area of Co. Cavan) also retired there to die in 1366. His time at the top had been marked by tension with his brother Pilip, and Cu Chonnacht’s act of renunciation of the world may have been all the sweeter because he knew the friary afforded the right of sanctuary to all who lived there.

 The old order changes

 For many years a mistaken belief was held by some historians that the friary had been founded not by Franciscans, but by their brother mendicants the Dominicans or Ordo Praedicatorum (OP) There was a change in the rule followed by the monks in 1503 when the then ruler of East Breifne, Sean Mac Cathail O’Reilly, successfully petitioned the Papacy for the friary to change from the mainstream conventual branch of the Franciscans towards the much more rigorous and fundamentalist Observantines, which had been founded in Italy in 1368. but which was sweeping all before it in Ireland.

 A bishop’s residence

 The friary was important in the local secular church, to which in theory it did not belong. The last bishop of the diocese of Tir Bruin before it changed its name to that of Kilmore, was one Donat O Gabhain, and in the 1430s the Franciscan friary was his residence.

 A falling off

 It is probable that, like many other religious institutions in sixteenth-century Ireland it suffered from a falling-off of membership and religious discipline. It seems to have survived the various troubles of the sixteenth century intact. Nettercliff’s map of Cavan town c. 1590 shows a plain rectangular building with a tower on the site of the present tower,

 Kindly move aside

 With the extinction of O Raghailigh power and the advent of English rule this church was pressed into use as a place of Protestant Divine service. During the upheavals of the middle of the century it changed back to being a church of Catholic worship, only to be once more seized by the conflict’s victors for their religious uses.

 A final resting place

 Before this it had, according to tradition, served as the burial place of Eoghan ruadh O Neill, the military leader of the rebellion in Ulster, following his death at Clough Oughter in November 1649. Other traditions in the Clough Oughter area dispute this though. It had certainly been a place of burial for the O’Reilly chieftains throughout the later middle Ages. The late Philip O’Connell recounted another tradition of the unearthing of stone-lined coffins during repaving work in the nineteenth century.

 Going out for a slash

 Some antiquaries also testify to the survival of a tombstone belonging to the legendary Myles the Slasher, but as “Myles” did not die at the Bridge of Finea but passed away in France such a monument must have been a figment of their imagination.

 Continuation

 The church continued to be used as Cavan’s parish church throughout the eighteenth century. The monastery was knocked down and its materials used for the construction of a barracks for horses nearby.  The surviving tower possibly dates from the eighteenth century. The grounds were used as a cemetery until the late nineteenth century; amongst those buried there were the first barons arnham.   

The end of the road

It was obviously too small of a building to act as Cavan’s Parish Church. In 1807 work began on a new structure on land donated by the Farnhams. Construction was delayed by the ongoing Napoleonic wars but by November 1815 sufficient buildings had been completed to allow the first services to be held there, thus condemning the structure in Abbey Street to obsolescence; one of the last services held there took place on Christmas Day 1815.

While still used for burials the site soon became overgrown, a condition only recently reversed.  The inside of the tower itself was used as a dumping ground and alfresco public convenience. Some of the original wooden structures of the church survived until the 1880s, for in December 1888 the Anglo-Celt recorded a fire on the site, which by then had attained the importance of a sanctuary as the burial place of “Owen Roe”.

© Ciaran Parker 2007

I have since learned from among others Dr Eamon McDwyer of a long-current tradition that Eoghan ruadh O Neill was buried in 1649 at a site on the Bridge Street side of the abbey.

The saint with the spear

One day in late summer St Patrick was summoned to Ardee to sort out a row about the disappearance of church funds. He set out on foot carrying his trusty staff as a walking aid. His way went through Moybolgue in the rolling borderlands of east Cavan. The day was blistering, with a sun that beat down on the saint from an azure blue sky. There wasn’t a breath of wind. Patrick was thirsty and foot-sore and what’s more he was “out of his head with the hunger”. As he walked along he saw before him in the distance a beautiful girl with long golden tresses cascading over her shoulders and down her back. She had eyes as blue as the sky and teeth whiter than marble. She was riding a lovely white horse which was being led along the pot-holed road by a handsome young groom. St Patrick was a saint but he was also a man. He thought the heat had got to him and that he was seeing mirages.  The girl, horse and groom were riding along a hedge of wild bilberries, so close that the girl put out her hand to pick some fruit. Patrick watched avidly as her delicate mouth opened to receive the berries. As she bit into them the air was rent by the loudest clap of thunder St Patrick had ever heard. The sun darkened and clouds of acrid, foul-smelling smoke swirled around. The young girl was nowhere to be seen. She had been replaced by a giant hag with horrible, slime-green eyes shooting forth tongues of fire. With each breath this creature pulsated violently, spewing forth a suffocating poisonous mist. It opened its mouth to reveal a deep chasm, guarded by two horrible fangs which fell upon the horse and groom devouring both and digesting them with a stomach-churning belch. Not far off there was a funeral cortege. The mourners carried a   black-draped coffin. On seeing the hag they dropped the coffin and ran off, but they were not swift enough for the hag who seemed to swoop down upon them, issuing a cackle before consuming them. At this the hag spied St Patrick. Its appetite was not yet sated and it moved towards him, with the obvious intention of adding him to the bill of far. He crouched down behind some stones and held the staff he walked with away from his body. He waited until he could feel the hag’s malodorous breath upon him and taking precise aim propelled the staff through the air towards the hag’s forehead. As it landed between its eyes it exuded an ear-splitting screech of agony, followed by an ever louder exposition, accompanied by fire and multi-coloured sparks. The hag separated into four large pieces which flew through the air. As each one landed the earth was shaken as if by an earthquake. The air then suddenly cleared, the smoke disappeared and the sun-blessed day of late summer reappeared. St Patrick was in no doubt that he had been saved from the hag’s fury through Divine intervention, so he built a small wooden church at the site. In the later Middle Ages this was replaced by a stone building whose ruins still stand today.

Locals still point out the places where the hag’s miserable body fell to earth. These are usually large stones, sometimes relics of the last Ice Age. Opinion is divided though about their exact identity, though everyone agrees that the final quarter of the hag crashed into a lake causing a minor flood, though once again not everyone agrees about exactly which lake was the recipient. Locals also point to another stone with two distinct hollows. This they say was the stone upon which the saint knelt.

This story is interesting because it portrays Patrick as an athletic, action-man saint with his sleeves rolled up fighting the forces of evil. It is interesting that he is portrayed as using his staff like a javelin or a spear. Lugh Lamhfhada (the well-hung), the ancient Celtic God of nearly everything, was also supposed to be a good man with a spear. His was called Gae Assail and came from Persia. An early Irish text relates that Lugh’s spear flashed like lightning and brought instant death to whoever it struck. It would then return to Lugh’s hands if he pronounced the word ibhar (yew) before throwing it. Also the action is set in late summer, near to Lugh’s feast of Lughnasa, maybe in the month of the year called Lughnasa in Irish, though known as August in English.

 In the fifteen hundred odd years since these events Moybolgue has enjoyed a reputation as a quiet and safe place. A legend was long believed that the spot had not seen the last of the hag, and that it would return after thirty-three generations. Now let’s just say an average generation is a little over fifty years, and that the events described in the legend happened around say 450 AD … I’ll let my readers do the math.

© Ciaran Parker

Patrick’s Purgatory

The site of St Patrick’s Purgatory in Lough Derg, Co. Donegal has drawn pilgrims for many centuries. During the later middle ages the fame of the site was known throughout Western Europe. Few mediAeval tourists were as intrepid and fearless as pilgrims. They

The modern basilicam Lough Derg

had to be, and while dangers and annoyances were commonplace nearer home, the idea of travelling for months into inhospitable lands inhabited by fearsome people, would have dissuaded all but the most foolhardy.

 Among those who liked to live on the wilder side was a young nobleman from Catalonia named Joan Jose de Perelhos. He came from a good family and was quite wealthy. In the last decade of the fourteenth century, just a half century after the Black Death, he decided to travel to Ireland. This was a trip to the limits of the known world. involving at least two sea trips before he got to our shores. Once here he would have found the weather very different from at home. He would have had great difficulty in communicating with the locals. Travel was difficult as there were no established roads leading to Lough Derg. Accommodation must also have been a problem, and what was more he arrived at a time when the north of Ireland was experiencing a food shortage. The only food available consisted of thin oaten wafers. Because he was a member of the nobility he was given shelter by the most powerful family in the area, the O’Neills. Fortunately some of the priests at O’Neill’s court knew Latin, a language understood by Perelhos.  On returning home he wrote an account of his adventures. While such brave travellers were rare we can be confident that Perelhos was not the only person from the continent to attempt the journey, but if they left any account of their trip it has not survived.

 A little over a hundred years later a Dutchman made up his mind to go to Lough Derg, inspired by the tales of self-abnegation which pilgrims had to undergo there. Little had changed in Ireland. On arriving at the lake it was raining heavily; the Dutchman was brought in a rather leaky boat towards a cave where he was told the true purgatory of St Patrick was located. It was cold and, apart from the unpleasant sensation of entering a damp, dark cave, the Dutchman could see nothing. Rather than feeling that he had indeed experienced something like purgatory he left Lough Derg under the impression that the whole thing was a scam, a medieval tourist trap to lure the devout and wealthy world traveller and separate them from their cash. So disgusted was he that wrote a report to the Vatican who responded by formally suspending the pilgrimage to Lough Derg and removing all papal protection and support for those making the journey. This has never been reversed by any document from the Vatican, but it didn’t have much of an impact on Lough Derg. Pilgrims continue to flock here, with the Catholic Church’s full support.

 © Ciaran Parker

Thinking about Patrick: the name Patrick

I am posting a number of brief items about St Patrick. I think they will show that I am something of a medieval expert.

The name Patrick

Patrick is without a doubt one of the commonest personal name in Ireland. There is nobody who doen’s know at least half a dozen Pats or Paddys. A man confronted by his wife one as to the people he was with on a binge the previous evening can usually get away with it by answering “… er Paddy was with us” even though he can recall nothing concrete about the event or the company he was with.

 But the name wasn’t always so popular. During the Middle Ages, when Ireland was divided culturally between the Irish and the Anglo-Normans, Patrick was much commoner amongst the Norman nobility. In the late eleventh century Patrick, the first bishop of Dublin, was an Englishman from Worcester. A prominent landlord in Co. Meath was one Patrick Barnewall. But it was never popular amon the highest nobility, like the ears of Desmond, Ormond and Kildare.

 In contrast, very few Gaelic Irish people had the name Patrick or Padraig. It was used only by the religious. Just as today people, on becoming a member of a religious order will adopt the name of a saint, so too Padraig only crept up among men who belonged to religious families or members of the hierarchy. For example, Padraig O Cridagain (O’Cregan) from northwest Leitrim who became bishop of Kilmore in the early fourteenth century. The saint and the name were obviously held in such high veneration that it was considered unseemly for ordinary folk to hold it.

 Padraig did occur more frequently in combination. There was Giolla Phadraig, literally the servant of Patrick. This surname Mac Gioilla Phadraig was adopted in the eleventh century by a Laois family who rose to greater prominence later on in the Middle Ages. In the 1540s they were one of a handful of families involved in the “Surrender and Regrant” scheme of English Lord Deputy Anthony St Leger. In return for accepting the English king as their overlord they were regranted all their lands with a new noble title, the barons of Upper Ossory. They also had to change their surname and Mac Gioilla Phadraig became Fitzpatrick. Other families descended from a Giolla Phadraig eventually did the same, including a branch of the O’Reillys in Co. Cavan – incidentally the Giolla Phadraig in question was the son of a bishop!

 The Mayo surname Padden or Mac Padden comes from the Irish Mac Paidin, but this is of Anglo-Norman origin. Members of families like the Barretts and Stauntons adopted Irish language and customs in the later Middle Ages and those called Patrick were known as Paidin, as were their descendants.

 The name became more popular in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. As late as 1834 the great scholar John O’Donovan wrote: “I do not believe that Patrick, as the name of a man is a hundred and fifty years in use.”

 Even though the name was not common, this didn’t take away from the reverence in which St Patrick was held throughout all Ireland. It was only in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that it became a common first name, leading to the situation that by the middle of the eighteenth century it became popular in England to depreciatingly refer to all Irish people as Paddies.

© Ciaran Parker

All hold my copyright, so Dr Brendan Scott or any other scum from Cavan County Museum in Ballyjamesduff better not think of stealing any of it, though the laws of copyright would be a mere inconvenieence to the son of a member of a town counciol or someone with Whacko Jacko behind him.

Up up and away for St Patrick’s Day

The government’s travel plans for St Patrick’s Day have been announced, and as expected our governments almost to a man will be spending our national holiday abroad. They cynically say that this is motivated by job promotion. Now once again this displays a slave mentality. We have to look abroad for people to make jobs for us in Ireland. What happened to the spirit of Sinn Fein, or Ourselves Alone? The Sinn Fein of Arthur Griffith was the political ancestor of Fianna Fail. I think many will agree that we must keep an eye on our own homegrown businesses and firms, many of which are small-scale, but which has the capacity to improve our economic well being and provide sustainable employment.

 But you know, I’m tired pointing out the fact that we’re ruled by scoundrels. It’s like flogging a dead horse at this stage. We do live in a democracy and we get the rulers we deserve. So if they shit upon the people, as they do, it is because the Irish people have allowed themselves to be shat upon. I would also be the first to admit that while our rulers are with few exceptions, a bunch of rogues, they are not alone. In many ways they perfectly reflect Irish society.

PS I am still the holder of a valid Irish passport but as I can’t afford to travel I don’t have much use for it these days.So if anyone from Mossad or any other secret service reads this and needs an Irish passport for a job it’s for sale.  And if they’re prepared to pay a bit extra they can keep it.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.