Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

The residents of Can town are looking forward to the Fleadh which is to deswcend upon the town at the end of August. Those who are looking forward to it the most are the town’s publicans, who number in their ranks the odd councillor, senator and other assorted political low life. How Cavan town was awarded the Fleadh in the first place is beyond me. There isn’t adequate infrastructure, and there not enough hotel or guesthouse places to go round, prompting an initiative to encourages the cash-starved people of Cavan to make a bit of extra dosh by letting out spare rooms, and failing that a kennel.

 Let us imagine Cavan town in the Fleadh’s aftermath, a scene of broken bottles, pilled drink, vomit, broken glass and discarded condoms (you see, there are still a couple of Cavan lads who haven’t got the hang of condoms.)

 But I have been told by one Fleadh head that this will not happen. A fleadh was held not long ago where the only problems were caused by … wait for it … “foreigners”. Now what constitutes a Foreigner here I wonder. I suspect that quite a large number of those attending will be non Irish people, but of course, they’ll be white.

 The clean-up will be left to Cavan County Council staff. There are fewer of them – the cutbacks you know. But why shouldn’t Whacko Jacko and some of the councillors go out with his pooper-scooper?

 I like a good b low out, especially one accompanied by good music and friendly females (though I suspect some Fleadh aficionados have different tastes, the legacy of so long spent on the road). I had the reputation of someone who really knew how to push the boat out.

 I am no party pooper, but I’m definitely not a party puker either. When having a good time I have always ensured that I deposit my bodily fluids only in warm and concealed spaces.

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.”

Another year is drawing inexorably to its close. I always count as happy and worthwhile any year in which I add to the number of my friends and I consolidate existing friendships. Many of these contacts have sprung from my work and my writing; I believe that such friendships are the most important result of my work. Many have flowed from my contributions to the Cavan Echo, and I am cheered to know that I have a loyal readership many of whom I’m able to reach though I haven’t yet met them.

And then there are the friends I’ve made through the book on Co. Cavan. One friendship stands out; that with artist Jim McPartlin, whom I had not met until we were brought together on such a rewarding journey. Then there are the wonderful people in Cottage Publications in Donaghadea, with whom it was a true joy to work. I will never forget the night the book was launched.

For all my friends, both those I have the pleasure of knowing, as well as the many I have not yet met, I hope you have a really wonderful and peaceful Christmas and New Year marked by enjoyment and contentment, which will be marked by the pleasantest of memories.

For me writing is a pleasure because it is a means of expressing how I feel about things. It is also a medium of communication, for I always see my words and phrases as not being pieces of waste paper thrown into a void but being meant for an audience. It is very frustrating when I try to communicate with people and they are too rude to reply. I use two of the most common forms of communication available today, e-mail and standard mail (often referred to snail-mail), yet nothing can apparently penetrate the indifference of some. Am I to use pigeon post or maybe talking drums? Of course I know it is outrageous to think that important people like county managers or TDs should have the time or inclination to even think of replying to a mere cripple whose father is not a member of even a town council.

I have a special message for them. I hope they have a really miserable Chrimbo, that they get the skitter for three days and that they’re not able to get off the jacks until the New Year.

But remember girls and boys, don’t drink and ride this Christmas; it’s dangerous and it’s far more fun when you’re sober.

A Muslim is sitting next to Felim from Cavan on a plane. Felim orders a whiskey.
The stewardess asks the Muslim if he’d like a drink too. He replies angrily:’I'd rather be raped by a dozen whores than let alcohol touch my lips!’
Felim hands his drink back & says ‘Me too, I didnt know we had a choice!’

Scientists in Mexico’s National Autonomous University have succeeded in making synthetic diamonds from tequila. The diamonds are too small to be made into jewellery, but they can be used in industrial applications, such as the cutting edges of medical devices. They can also replace silicon in chips. And the good news is that they can be made from the cheapest and nastiest brands of tequila available. I wonder whether you can do the same with poitin or my own favourite tipple, methylated spirits?

The Progressive Democrats, that mould-breaking party which stood up against clientilism, cute hoorism etc. and the tendency of government to hand over tex [sic] to the work-shy and the indolent, is no more. Let’s just exclaim a massive “AAAAAAAAA”.

As people will know I have a couple of secrets, one of which was that I once belonged to the PDs. It was at the start, the very start. Indeed I was in at the beginnings with a couple of other defectors from the soldiers of destiny. I was caugft up in the heady liberalism, the ability to say “Up Yours Charlie and your hangers-on, Dessie’ll get you yet ya hoor!” I’m not proud of it, but then again there were a lot of things I did in the mid to late ’80s of which I am now ashamed. I can blame some of it on drink but not my flirtations with the PDs who were always a party of strict Ballygowan topers. And when it came to “the other”, let’s face it I was getting enough in Fianna Fail.

But it all went sour. For me the defining moment was the first Party Conference. There I was queueing up for a coffee behind someone I recognised as an old soldier from the Spanish Civil War, only he hadn’t fought on the Republican side. Still I thought the ould bastard was attempting to make amends for his life of shame, and then I heard some of the comments coming from the speakers. There was a distinctly Thatcherite/Reaganite tinge to these and all the usual suspects were being wheeled out to blame for the state the country was in: the poor, the unemployed, students etc. Thanks but no thanks.
The PDs never repeated their success of 1987, possibly because they allowed themselves to fall into the category of being a yuppy, neo-Thatcherite, neo-Reaganite party. Many of the rank and file were decent individuals with whom I mightn’t agree. Others were just hypocrites: I recall in particular the comments made by a PD senator when he attacked Senator David Norris for criticising the original neo-Fascist nominee of Silvio Lots-a-do Berlusconi to the European Commission. This was unnecessary political opportunism of the lowest form, but no doubt the fact that he had taken on that “Queer from Trinity” earned him a few brownie-points with the local knights.

But the question is now: where do the PDs go? Ciaran Cannon might set up a detective agency like his grand-uncle Frank …. Grealish was going to the FFers anyway, but what about Fatso Harney? The prospect of her jumping ship fills all ocean-going vessels with a degree of horror. But what’s she doing in the cabinet now? Her party has disintegrated. The comments of Monkey-man Biffo were hypocritical, talking about the contributions of the PDs etc. Shit on it Brian; we all remember the evening the PDs pulled out of Albert Reynolds’ government back in the mid ’90s when you were sitting there on the front bench giving guff to Mary Harney and Des O’Malley. In classic Darwinian natural selection Brian Cowen shouldn’t be able to survive, but sadly he does.

Now the PDs never made much headway in Cavan – Oh no! The idea of being against clientilism (whatever that was) would be anathema to most people here – if they knew that anathema was. I remember how a Fianna Fail Councillor exclaimed with unrestrained glee on local election night and on local radio that he was “delighted to see that nepotism was alive and well in Cavan.” Let’s face it you can’t get a job anywhere in the county council unless you”re somebody’s son or daughter. If perchance in years to come some political science or history student should ever be inclined to do a thesis on the PDs in Cavan c. 1986 I would urge them to contact me because I feel I would be able to provide them with rare if not unique insights into the party’s membership.

Two men are out just fishing at

Killykeen and drinking beer.
Almost silently, so as not to scare

 the fish, Pat says, ‘I think I’m

 gonna divorce my wife. She

hasn’t spoken to me in over 2

months.’

His friend Mick l continues slowly

 sipping his beer then thoughtfully

says,
‘You’d better think it over, Pat. 

 Women like that are hard to find.’