Here is a short message for Dr Brendan Scott and his adoring fans, his patron and protector Whacko Jacko Keys and the others who organised talks in association with the forthcoming fleadh in cCvan. It is taken from the lyrics of the inimitable Marshall Bruce Matheers III, aka Eminem:

YOUL’LL BURN IN HELL FOR THIS SHIT

Every time I travel down Cavan town’s Farnham Street, and I look at the site once occup0ied by the Farnham Hall, Villon’s refrain from his “Ballade des dames du temps jadis” comes into my mind: “Mais oú sont les neiges d’antan?” (that’s your actual French that is, as Kenneth Williams said). “Where are the snows of yesteryear?” The Farnham Hall was knocked down unceremoniously in an act of barbaric vandalism one October Saturday morning. (It must be said though that the man who did it, while having the social graces of a skunk was an angel of transparency when compared to his two-faced successor.) On the altar of its destruction has risen a building displaying the architectural élan of a six-year-old playing with Lego bricks. But let us return to Villon.

He spent quite a lot of the life known to us in prison. He was very gifted intellectually, and I feel a certain affinity with him, as I often feel imprisoned. He stole money from the Chapel of the College de Navarre, which had probably been gained dishonourably anyway. Then he was sentenced to death. It was while on death row that he wrote his “Ballad of the hanged men”. One manuscript copy of the poem is illustrated by a drawing of a scaffold with three men swinging from it, two at least of whom wear something suspiciously like a smile. But Villon’s death sentence was commuted to banishment from Paris. This was in January 1463. After that he vanishes from history. He may have fallen an anonymous victim of the tavern brawls he delighted in. Maybe he changed his name (he had done it before), or maybe he led a long and fulfilling life in some French provincial backwater, his wants amply catered for by a succession of wenches.

The Ballad of the Hanged Men

 Human brothers, who live after us,
Do not harden your hearts against us,
For if you pity us poor sinners,  
God will be more merciful to you.
As for our flesh, which we fed too well:
It is long since wasted and rotten,
And our bones become ash and powder;
Let nobody laugh at our bad luck.
But pray that all will be forgiven!

If we call you brother, do not have;
Disdain for us, though we be murdered
Lawfully, since you know all about
How not all men have common sense
Intercede for us who are no more-
With the Son of the Virgin Mary,,
That his grace for us should no0 dry up,
But preserving us from Hell’s lightning.
We are no more, let no soul harry us;
But pray that all will be forgiven!

The wet rain has washed us with its mist,
The hot sun has dried and blackened us;
Magpies and crows have gouged out our eyes
And have torn our beards and our eyebrows.
Never, at no time, are we seated;
Now here, now there, as the wind changes
Ceaselessly, at its pleasure, we move;
We are pecked full of holes like a thimble.
Thus do not be of our fellowship.
But pray that all will be forgiven!

ENVOI

May Prince Jesus who is lord over us all,
Prevent Hell exerting lordship over us:
Let us not have any dealings with it.
Men, nobody is laughing where we are,
Let us pray that all will be forgiven!

(translation by Ciaran Parker)

James Clarence Magna, who was born on May 1st, 1803, is now probably one of the most overlooked and misunderstood of Irish poets. For many his “fame” rests on one poem, which I do not consider his best.

 He was a self-taught polymath. Although he worked in a solicitor’s office, and an assistant in Trinity College Dublin’s library, he nevertheless taught himself seven languages: Irish, French, German, Spanish, Hungarian, Icelandic and Persian, to such a standard that he was able to make viable translations.

 Mangan was a man whose learning and erudition were too great for the increasingly blinkered world of nineteenth-century Ireland. Work and money were always in short supply. In order to assuage the pangs of hunger and frustration, Mangan turned to alcohol and laudanum. He died at the early age of forty-six in Dublin’s Meath Hospital, a location which was still as forbidding in the early 1980s when I had my tonsils extracted there, as it must have been in 1849.

 This is a personal opinion, but I think that Mangan is to be seen at his best not in the long declamatory odes but in the shorter, more intimate pieces, such as “And Then No More”.

 I saw her once, one little while, and then no more:
‘Twas Eden’s light on Earth awhile, and then no more.
Amid the throng, she passed along the meadow-floor:
Spring seemed to smile on Earth awhile, and then no more:
But whence she came, which way she went, which garb she wore
I noted not; I gazed awhile, and then no more!

He was very much a poet of the Romantic nationalist school, whose verses were inspired by a dram-like vision of Ireland’s past.  looking back to a dreamy Hibernian past which had never anything much to do with reality. One of the poems from this vein was “A Vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth Century”

I walked entranced
Through a land of Morn;
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn
And lustrous gardens aleft and right
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain,
Beams no such sun upon such a land;
But it was the time,
‘Twas in the reign
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red hand.

The poem was taken up by the godfathers of Independent Ireland’s education. Appearing in numerous schoolbooks earning a near permanent spot on curricula. Its subject,  Cathal crobhdhearg O Conchobhair (died 224), was the brother of Ruaidhri, the so-call “last high king of Ireland”. It is fair to say that its picture of Connacht bore little link to reality. Mangan had only limited access to historical sources so his attitudes towards some historical figures like Cathal Crobhdhearg was imperfect. One in particular, gives an alternate, though no less praiseworthy description of Cathal crobhdhearg. It is his obit or death notice from the Annals of Connacht., in which he was described as

The king most feared and dreaded on every hand in Ireland; who carried out most burnings and plunderings on Gael and Gael who opposed him, who was the fiercest and harshest against his enemies that ever lived, who most killed, blinded and mutilated rebellious and disaffected subjects, who built most monasteries and houses for religious communities…

In his lifetime Mangan was viewed as a social outsider. He contributed to this outcast role through his behaviour, often dressing in a long black coat, wearing green spectacles and a blond wig. He underwent something of a bloated canonisation in the twentieth century, as he joined the pantheon of nationalist poets. But his new respectability was easily given once he was dead. It also failed to take account of his wide erudition, and the complexity and richness of his poetic vision which was never confined solely to Ireland. . 

Stamp issued by Irish post office on the 100th anniversay of Mangan's death in 1949

J. M. Synge

We all recall how John Millington Synge was commemorated by James Joyce in his doggerel “Gas From a Burner”: 

… The Great John Millicent Synge
Who soars above on an angel’s wing
In the playboy shift that he pinched as swag
From Maunsel’s manager’s travelling-bag.

 J.M Synge was born on April 16^th 1871. He belonged to an ecclesiastical family. One of his ancestors, an eighteenth-century bishop of Clonfert, wrote and spoke widely against the Penal Laws then in force.

In his writings he eschewed a sentimental and romantic portrayal of Irish life.; He successfully achieved what he termed a collaboration between a naturalist, realist Zola-esque style and one based solely on the imaginary. His portrayal of Irish life was anathema to the gaelgoiri later satirised by Flann O’Brien in An Bėal Bocht.

Ireland was going through a period of linguistic transition in Synge’s day, as the use of Irish as a vernacular was declining. Yet Synge was sensitive to the speech of ordinary folk and he could see that the Irish language continued to9 influence the speech patterns, vocabulary and psychology of those who were adopting English. In this regard the Irish language was operating as a happy ghost.

Had Hogdkin’s Disease not taken Synge at the early age of thirty-seven, it is hard to see how his genius could have subsequently operated in the independent Ireland, whose society and culture were dominated by the Catholic Church inspired mediocrity which became Ireland’s unofficial religion, and remains so in many areas to this day. It is possible that he would have become as well known as a poet, as he was a dramatist. I include here the final lines from his poem “On an Anniversary”.

 And so when all my little work is done
They’ll say I cam in Eighteen-Seventy-one,
And died in Dublin. …What year will they write
For My poor passage to the stall of night?

Northern Ireland which seemed for so long to be going somewhere, now seems on the verge of relapsing into the dark, though for some people comfortable days of the past. 

 Among the protagonists is the chief minister, a cuckold, a man who claimed to be unaware that his wife was having a relationship with a boy forty years’ her junior, for which she was paying handsomely – though with other people’s money. Amongst his cabinet colleagues are Sammy Wilson, living proof that sectarianism has transferred into racism, who also does not believe in man-made climate change. And then there is another minister who is a creationist, who rejects evolution. In most civilised nations such “colourful” souls would be left in Flat Earth Corner. And the whole power-sharing regime could be brought down by one side’s determination to perverse the rights of a religiously exclusive, male only clique to march through areas where they’re not wanted wearing bank manager outfits.

 The chances for a successful resolution have not been helped by the involvement of outsiders, especially the Irish taoiseach Brian monkeyman Cowen, an individual who cannot be trusted and who talks out of both sides of his mouth.

 So much also centres on policing and justice. The PSNI has made great strides to become a worthy professional police force, enjoying the respect of all. But the flat earthers aren’t happy with this. They want a return to the good old days of the B-Specials, with a proper police force who could be trusted to burn Catholics and undesirables out of their homes.

 And then there is the prospect of a “grand coalition” between the UUP and the flat earthers, and worse still of a tie-up at Westminster between Big Orange and the Tories. David Cameron’s attempts to lay to sleep the ghost of Thatcherism would seem mere spin if he were to ally himself with such intractable bigots.

The decision by Donal Og Cusack to admit to being gay is a tremendously courageous one. But his sexuality shouldn’t have

Doma; Og Cusack

anything to do with the fact that he is a great Gaelic games player. Hopefully it may provide an alternative role model for players at all levels of the game. They’ll now realise that it is possible to operate at the pinnacle of the sport while eschewing the long-accepted and too long tolerated stereotype of the GAA player i.e. a heavy-drinking, philandering, wife=beating thug who nevertheless sits beatifically through Mass, and who is willing to do anything his church tells him. Let’s hope more players are able to stand up to the hypocritical homophobes in the association, most of whom would shit themsel at the sight of a ball hurtling towards them.

New CSB website

I’d like to tell all my readers about the new CSB – Cock-Suckers of Breifne – website. Naturally, it’s given over to narcissistic self-publicity on behalf of the soi-disants experts on local history, including that bad-assed cowardly scumbag The Honourable Dr B. Squirt, who appears in at least one photograph surrounded by druids. This was taken in association with a special novena held at the Ballyjamesduff pigsty in which they were praying for a miraculous increase in visitor numbers, so as to fend off the growing phalanx of calls for the pigsty’s closure as a costly white elephant.

 It is so reassuring for people like The Honourable Dr Squirt that, even at a time of swingeing public spending cuts, he inhabits a nice little sinecure enabling to get paid from the public trough even in the midst of economic recession. And it’s all thanks to daddy.

 Some in the pigsty have hit upon a new way of getting the punters in  – a pilgrimage. The pigsty has recently been recognised by the Sacred Congregation of Wights and others doing the work of God as a site intimately associated with the life of Blessed Oliver J. Hannigan, patron of blue plumbers, haemorrhoid sufferers and general pains in the arse

 Already miracles have been reported. One pilgrim from a Ballyconnell heritage group said: “For years I’ve been plagued with the piles, but since visiting Ballyjamesduff Pigsty I haven’t needed the Anusol once.“

 Another prized exhibit is the original confessional in which the late Fr Brendan Smyth confessed his craven sexual obsession for young children to a former bishop.  The hallowed prelate was a great idol of Dr Squirt’s, who considered him the greatest living expert on the O’Reillys, even though he was dead.

(Never having visited the site I don’t know whether I’m mentioned on it. I earnestly hope not.I’m more than happy to be thereby snubbed by that crowd of narrow-minded, bigoted, obscurantist budgie brains. Indeed I take it as a great compliment, as I thereby join other fine students of Cavan’s locl history who are now sadly deceased.

 Dr Squirt doesn’t like me; as I am not and never have had aspirations of becoming, either a poodle or a prostitute his likes are of no concern to me. But given that he has never met me I wonder what’s the reason for his problem? Many people have said it’s down to his jealousy towards me. Anyone who is jealous of a partially sighted individual who spends much of his tine in a wheel chair deserves our prayers – not a job – but then he could be in no better place. Aithnionn ciarog ciarog eile.

 People reading the above must be aware that it springs from my own opinions and does not aim to be in anyway factual. What’s more, there is no malice, which is more than I can say about the attitude of the pigsty’s “research officer” (!) towards me. I believe it constitutes fair comment, though there will be those who say it’s unfair comment. I reply that I consider that the only form of comment to which these people are entitled is no comment at all.

 I hear he’s writing, not just one book but two. I wonder what the titles are? Maybe the semi-autobiographical All Hands on Dick, while the second might be a history of clerical child abuse in the diocese of Kilmore. Most ordinary writers have to struggle with the financial demands of daily life while they complete their work, as well as with hectoring editors, but the Honourable Dr Squirt has his nice County Council sinecure to cushion him. But after all he is such a great writer, greater than any other who has ever worked in the benighted hole of Cavan.

I know how much this will annoy Brendan and his friends, peoplke like the equally jealous yet ill-informed Barry Leddy.

Cavan people must be tickled pink that the Blueshirts oops Fine Gael party decided to hold a meeting of its parliamentary coven in Co. Cavan, and in of all places the SAS Radisson hotel be God.

 Their choice of venue is significant. The building was formerly Farnham House, the headquarters of the largest, most tyrannical and possibly most bigoted family amongst Cavan’s landed gentry.

 The Farnhams were originally called Maxwell, and they were among the second wave of mongrel foxes to grab land in Ulster. It is hardly significant that the land surrounding Farnham House is still amongst the best in the county.

 Their tenants were forced to pay exorbitant rents. During the Great Famine inability to pay was never accepted as a valid excuse and usually resulted in immediate eviction. The Lord Farnham of the time, it is true, showed no religious favouritism towards Protestant or Catholic in such soulless dealings.

 But the money robbed from their tenants did not go on the gaming tables of London. Oh no, much of it went to build Farnham House, which, in spite of extensive renovations, is still a cold and forbidding place. The Farnhams were avid partisans of the “Second Reformation” in Co. Cavan – attempts by Protestant evangelical societies finances by people like the Farnhams and the gullible praying classes of England to bribe the Irish peasantry to forego the religion of Rome for that of Canterbury.

 While one of the Lords Farnham died a horrible death in the Abergele rail disaster of August, 1868 the spirit of religious intolerance continued at Farnham. In 1896 Lord Farnham’s agent T.R. Blackley recommended to the lord that the vacant posts of under-steward and gardener be filled by “English Protestants”. This would have precluded amongst others the historian Lord Acton and Edward Elgar, composer of that anthem of tub-thumping and nauseating imperialism “Land of Hope and Glory” from employment at Farnham. Both were members of English society par excellence but both sadly were Roman Catholics.

 It is in the bosom of such exclusivity that the latter-day Blueshirts have assembled. They could have staged a re-enactment of the frightful “human hunts” which took plaee at Farnham, and whose lurid details were told to me by Cavan-town publican Linus McDonal, as in many ways this epitomised the current traversty of a democratic system we have. Young girls were stripped naked and made to wander through Farnham’s grounds while  packs of savage, baying dogs were set upon them so that they were forced to climb into one of the ground’s many trees from where they were rescued by “gentlemen” on horseback – n return for sexual favours. These gentlemen were often descendants and close relatives of members of te Anglican clergy. The hapless girls might have been saved, but at the price of being fucked.

Sadly bad weather prevented a march past by Fine Gael volunteers who are setting off on their battle to assure Ireland of a place in a Christian Europe. However there was a special trooping and blessing of the colours – a yellow banner urging a “YES” vote in the forthcoming and completely undemocratic re-run of the Lisbon Treaty referendum.

 Now the Blueshirts / Fine Gael are very big on jobs, so Enda Kenny and senior Blueshirts then went on a tour of sites in the county employing relatives of Fine Gael councillors such as Cavan town’s courthouse, town hall and hospital. I have learned that Fine Gael leader Enda Kenny was forced, through pressure of time, to turn an invitation from Councillor John Scott of Belturbet to visit his son in Cavan County Museum.

On the topic of vindictiveness you only have to look at the fate of the Combat Poverty Agency. It was trying to highlight the systematic penury which due to structural inequalities persisted in Ireland even at the height of the so-called Celtic Tiger period. However, it was gradually starved of funds and has now been swallowed up by the Department of Social and Family Affairs where it will have no other identity except that of a bauble in the midst of a ministry headed by the Lady Bountiful who doesn’t believe anyone is entitled to any welfare payments, a stance in which she is supported by her senior well-paid officials.

I may have mentioned that the story about the ombudsman was nobbled. It was pushed off the top of the news – in fact the news altogether – by reports about how some government agency has identified 5 billion euro worth of public spending cuts. These will include a savaging of welfare payments. It won’t effect the members of the oligarchy and elite, who can be comfortable that their taxes aren’t going to the “work shy”. It will of course lead to an increase in mendicancy and probably an increase of those women and girls who will be forced to sell their bodies in order to make ends meet. Such an increase in supply will be music to the ears of the many senior civil servants, judges and members of the judiciary who frequently use such services – I could name names here. They’ll be delighted to have prossies who speak English instead of all of the foreign women they’ve had to deal with. But then some of these gentlemen’s tastes extend beyond women and girls.

The sentence handed down to Frank Dunlop shows once again how blind and socially prejudiced the Irish courts are. He’d have got a heavier sentence for having multiple welfare claims. But this reiterates what every one knows: Irish jails are for poor people – knackers, people from the other side of the tracks who aren’t members of golf clubs.

There is another peculiarity of the Irish judicial system. Those who are prosecuted can get time taken off their sentence for the trauma of the prosecution itself. The fact that they have been outed as crooks and the resultant loss of social cachet is viewed as something deserving pity and the commiserations of the court.  There is a glib saying in the ‘states; if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.

But then there are the personnel of the judicial system: judges, barristers, solicitors. They wouldn’t know justice if it jumped up and bit them on their penises, though from what I have heard some of them are willing to pay a lot of money for the experience in the North Inner City.