Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

A view of the world from an Irish hole

Category: Fianna Fail

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Ya said wha’ Gay?

I know that we’re in the Silly Season but the idea of putting up Gay Byrne for president is just pushing the joke too far, For a start he’s passed it. I hear people bristling with indignation and the murmur of “ageism” coming from their skinny lips. I believe that the term refers to the incorrect belief that an older person cannot do the job of a younger person, or at least not with the speed or ability of a younger person. It is therefore wicked and immoral to say that a man or a woman of 60 or 70 cannot carry out the same tasks as someone aged 20, What is the requisite skillset of a president? Cutting ribbons, unveiling plaques and signing your name to legislation. As for sending it to the Supreme Court if it is “repugnant to the constitution” fuck that; it’s a waste of time as they always give it the thumbs up unless it’s about something like employment rights for cripples.  True there are also official visits to places like Kazakhstant but that’s not obligatory. You may also have to accept the credentials of ambassadors but that just takes a shake of the hand so there’s no hassle. These are tasks that could be carried out by a three- or four-year old child, as well as someone aged a hubndred-and-seven.

 You need balls to be President?

The framers of our constitution, in their urge to re-create a system as close to that of England as possible, did not want to imbue the office with any powers. In fact, they ensured that the holder of the presidency would be politically castrated. It might be said that old people are time’s eunuch, castrated by its unstoppable flow (Who said that? er me actually), so an older person fits the bill. The constitution stipulates that the president must be 35 or older and such a clause has long existed in the United States, which has a real executive president and not a wimp as head of state. Sadly there is no upper age limit.

Sin a Fianna Fail

Fianna Fail support for Gaybo is reasonable as they understand the essential impotence of the office. An old person, perhaps growing in infirmity, is castrated by time.  They may be able to rise to the occasion if their pension allows frequent access to the little blue tablets but otherwise they’re fucked – metaphorically. As a result the FFers have always seen the office as a comfortable and gilded old folks’ home, to be given as a reward to elevated party members as a reward for their service, or as a compensation payment for being shafted.

The roll of (dis)honour

  • Sean O Ceallaigh had every reason to expect that he would be named Minister for External Affairs by De Valera, but Dev kept the job and the kudos for himself throughout “The Emergency”, The pay-off came in 1945 when he was nominated for and elected president.
  • When he had served his two terms, what better way was there to reward the 77-year-old long fella than with the presidency?
  •  At the expiration of his term the presidency was thought a fittingly harmless role for the intellectually far too well-equipped Erskine Childers Jr. Poor Dr Childers was not a well man.
  • On his untimely departure from life’s stage he was succeeded by the learned Cearbhall O Dalaigh without an election. President O Dalaigh withstood the petty restrictions of the office, as well as the insults of the political cornerboys of the Fine Gael / Labour coalition until the publican of Monasterboice in a moment of sherry-trifle inspired tiredness and emotion called him a “thundering disgrace”, and he resigned.
  • The coalition, reading correctly that its days were numbered, did not oppose the nomination of Dr Patrick Hillery by Fianna Fail, who was thus being rewarded for his services to the party by a sentence of fourteen years in Aras an Uachtaran from which he was lucky to come out alive.

 The worm turns

 In 1990 Fianna Fail attempted the old strategy by nominating the visibly frail Brian Lenihan Sr. as presidential candidate. By this time Ireland had grown up and realised the Soldiers of Destiny’s cynical ploy. And now they’re at it again. At the Magill Summer School Micheal Martin tried to present himself as a forward-looking politician who had realised that the Irish people had meted out a just and long-deserved punishment on his party. By courting the likes of Gay Byrne as a candidate he shows that this was all bullshit and that he is deeply dded to the Fianna Fail past.

Name recognition

Apart from Gay Byrne’s age, there is also the fact that Fianna Fail has been rattled by the candidacy of my friend and fellow Cavanman Sean Gallagher who has gained public recognition through his appearance on the Dragon’s Den programme. The simpleton from Connemara, Eamon [O] Cuiv is not liked by the electorate – I wonder why? – so they needed someone with name recognition, but Gaybo is yesterday’s man. Gay Byrne has gone down in my estimation by even giving them the time of day, and all his assurances about his campaign being “autonomous” are about as sincere as a debutante’s commitment to her virginity.

 If Gay says no…

 ll is not lost for Fianna Fail if Gay refuses to play ball. I am assured that there are plenty of other broadcasting hasbeens out there who would jump at the chance to come out of senility for one last gig with the added bonus of a plushy pad and, let’s not forget it, the state funeral, so  Tom Carter could stick his funeral expenses policy and the charming carriage clock up his arse. Names that come to mind are:

  • Bunny Carr who charmed generations of Irish people with his quiz show for the intellectually bollixed Quicksilver and who then serenaded those same folk into a calm state before they popped their clogs along with Anne O’Dwyer in everyone’s favourite Going Off; How about
  •  Sonny Knowles? (age 78). He can’t sing any more (could he ever?) but he’d be able to take on most presidential tasks with ,, er … aplomb? 
    Q. What is thirty feet long, has ten teeth and reeks of piss?
    A. The front row at a Sonny Knowles concert. 
    How about
  •  Sean og O Ceallachain (age 88 – now we’re cookin’ baby); all the right cred with the Gah. a familiar voice associated with tranquillity on a Sunday night before the rigours of the week began afresh…  I’ve got it
  • Liam O fuckin’ Murchu (age 82), Bualladh bas agus pog mo hol agus … suck me dick etc.
  • Arthur Murphy (age 80 ish?) who must find life really sucks since they pulled Mailbox on RTE and he no longer had to read out badly spelled missives from irate clerico-fascists from sheets smeared with semen,
  • Donncha O Dulaing (age anyone, must be hitting 80). Very fir for his age. Who can forget his memorable walks in the footseps of O’Sullivan Beare or Eamon De Valera? What’s more, he’s politically safe
  • Brendan Balfe (age 65, not really old enough). According to contacts he’s really pissed off since he got the elbow from RTE. What’s more, he doesn’t seem to have a pension either.
  • Andy O’Mahony. Remember programmes like Dialogue? He’d be just the man in our troubled times. We’d forget we were up shit creek because he’d put us all to sleep.
  • Hal Roach (age 83). Swallow me I’ll be right behind you but … er…no.

Other names crying out to go forward are

  • Podge and Rodge, or their alter ego Fester and Alien
  • Dustin the Turkey
  • Bosco

Don’t be silly I hear you scowl, they’re puppets. So? That’s exactly what the president is.

One final name that springs into the fetid sewers of my memory is

  • Liam Nolan. I recall with nostalgia how, as an undergraduate in Trinity I used to listen to a then pirate radio station in Dublin. First would come Fr Michael Cleary who would give it between the eyes to all the shifty lefties and liberals, and then would give it between the legs to his housekeeper. I recall with fondness his attempts to spur his listeners to go to Knock on pilgrimages. “It’d be a great day out on the train. Ya could go with a flask o’ tea and a couple o’ sanbos, an’ after ya’d done with the prayin’ ya’d be back in De Citty before nightfall.”I recall how he was once telephoned by a distraught parent asking for assistance in tracking down her son’s skate bird. The next morning I met my friend Marc coming out of the Common Room. “I say Marc. A chap has lost his skate board and I was wondering where he might start searching.” “I’m awfully sorry old man but I haven’t the foggiest” he replied. Father Cleary  was followed by Liam Nolan with his mix of “easy listenin’” including Dianna Durban’s Greatest Hits such as “It’s foolish but it’s fun”. He would read from correspondence and it seemed to me that, while those listening to Fr Cleary had real-life problems, those who listened to Liam Nolan had fought the good fight and failed, after which they’d gone into homes for the bewildered. Ni fhecfimid a laethaid ann aris go dteo

Now if that far right birdbrain Dana Rosemary Scallon is thinking of runnng again, what is there to stop Johnny Logan (who won Eurovision one time more than Dana, back when it was worth winning) or Charlie McGettigan?

But honestly, Gay Byrne for President? Stop the shaggin’ lights Bunny.

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Booze and Irish politics

 For many years there have been calls to replace our national anthem “A Soldier’s Song” with something less militaristic, and which

Our new Molly Malone

 reflects better the reality of modern Ireland. In the light of recent events I would like to propose the adoption of Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab”. The first line of “A Soldier’s Song” is “Sinne Fianna Fail”, which, as everyone knows, translates as “Wankers Are We …”

 The actions of the Irish Cabinet in rallying around Boozy Brian are despicable but hardly surprising. As one person said to me: “Jaysus they had to do that, otherwise he’d have fallen over.” And I’m sure that Brian in any of his lucid moments must realise that the messages of support are hollow and that the knife with which he going to be stabbed in the back is being sharpened as we speak.

 But do they not see the bad example they are giving? This affair reminds me of the temporary trouble suffered by a Monaghan County Council called Hughie who became verbally aggressive with Aer Lingus cabin crew on a return flight from a St Patrick’s Day junket in America. He wanted more drink but it was considered by the crew that he ha had enough. Hughie returned to Ireland, apparently a chastened man. But at the end of the week, amidst calls for his expulsion from the Monaghan group, team (or is it squadra?) of Fine Gael councillors he received a standing ovation from a meeting in his native parish. Surely some of those on their hind legs that night were parents. What message were they sending to their kids> That it was ok to get hammered at public expense when on official business and then make an absolute bollocks of yourself, as well as causing worry and distress to other members of the public> A drunken man on an airplane at 30,000 feet is no laughing matter.

 This affair once again shows to high Heaven the lack of judgement of our leaders. Why if he was feeling a bit rough did Cowen insist on doing the interview? Why didn’t he do a Mary Hanafin and feign illness when she was faced with taking part in an interview that might have proved uncomfortable?

 But I really think that Brian Cowen is one hell of a guy. I mean, eight pi9nts! Did he no9t have to answer the call of nature? I know I couldn’t have three without having to go and point Percy at the Porcelain and whistle “waltzing Matilda”. But Brian didn’t have to piss. He reminds me of the joke about the two lads having “a yoke” against a wall when they are spotted by a policeman who barks” Stop that and put them away immediately!” This is obeyed by both men though one turns to his comrade and says: “I never you were so obedient of the pigs?” to which the other replied. “Ok, so I may have put it away, but who says I stopped?”

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Banjaxed Brian

Banzuke Brian ha ha ha!!!

Brian Blessed with his magnificent booming voice is a wonderful actor. He really stands his seventy-four years very well. This is

Is that a pint I see in front of me?

partly because, as a Yorkshire lad, he knows how to value some of the finer things in life, such as condensed milk. Those who watch Challenge TV may have been initially surprised at his latest avatar, in which he presents the English language voice over for Japanese programmes devoted to the art of the impossible – Banzuke. In this Brian has adopted the mantle of Banzuke Brian.

 Here in Ireland we have to put up with Banjaxed Brian. Not content with fucking up the country, he is now slowly descending into alcoholism. He is exhibiting symptoms of disorientation and memory loss ande the poor man should be pitied this weekend when he is expected to go to the All-Ireland final in Croke Park but may end up going to Belfast instead. A friend of mine responded to the latest outrage about his less than stellar performance on Irish radio by saying that he couldn’t have been hung over, as he never took a drop. My friend said this with great irony. But of course the booze that Banjaxed Brian swallowed at the Fianna Fail wank-in in Galway was paid for by, you’ve guessed it, the Irish taxpayer.

Fianna Fail taoisigh must be used to dealing with the affects of the morning-after. We all remember how a drunken Boris Nikolaevich Yeltsin kept Albert Reynolds waiting on the red carp. The ‘plane kept circling as the president’s staff made vain efforts to sober him up. Meanwhile Albert had to put a brave face on it, stating that the president’s blood pressure was “goin’ up and down.” Not many people know the truth behind that incident. A female member of the Department of Foreign Affairs, whom I knew in TCD, formed part of the official welcoming party. She thought that she was outstandingly beautiful, and some men might have agreed if the light was behind her, or better still was off altogether. Anyway Boris Nikolaevich heard that she was going to be at Shannon Airport. He’d had a few already but then he exclaimed to the cabin crew: “I am a man, and I will not be able to hold in my passion for this Irish diplomat. The moment I lay eyes on her I will tear off her clothes, bring her to the ground and make love to her on the spot, in the manner that only a Russian muzhik knows how to do.” In order to prevent a diplomatic incident and yet further loss of his already tarnished domestic image, his staff had to ply him with ever larger quantities of Jack Daniels in an attempt to knock him out.

But returning to Banjaxed Brian. He couldn’t even make a decent excuse for being hung over. It was a case that the Irish people had to just “put up and shut up”. They deserved no better from him. But then so many of government clique are fond of the jar. There is the economic advisor Lord Snip McCarthy who always sounds as if he’s half cut. So we shouldn’t really be too harsh on Banjaxed Brian because h happened to have a few jars inside him and then felt a bit rough the next morning. But that’s on e of the problems in this country. Those in positions of authority have been consistently “under the weather” and not up to the job. They have been too busy dosing themselves with paracetamol and allka seltzer to note the warning signs. In fact for the last couple of Years the Irish Republic has been in Monday Morning mode twenty-four seven, three-five-six.

Now if I had an employee who came into work bearing the signs of over indulgence in gargle I’d tall him to fuck off back home and sort himself out. I would enforce upon him the fact that he was only being allowed to do this one time only and that the next time – well there wouldn’t be a next time.

But the Irish public have to just sit in silence and accept that they are ruled by a pack of inept, corrupt and alcoholic bastards – oops, some of them may actually be proper bastards, sorry! More ominous is the possibility that the government finally realise that the game is u and that there is nothing they can do to get the country out of shit creek. Unfortunately there are yet in denial, so they are incapable as of yet of proclaim. “All right it’s a fair cop. We’ve buggered the country” and handing it over to a blueshirt-led administration to do more or less the same, depending s they would be on the same group of lazy, corrupt and arrogant civil servants who allowed their previous masters free access to the cookie jar in return for being left alone.

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Where the bee sucks …

The government’s good news department has announced that Ireland’s bee keepers can look forward to a cash windfall of 300,000 euro from Europe, as well as matching funding from the Irish Exchequer. Now isn’t that grand lads? Of course, there is something fitting, as let’s face it the people of Ireland have been stung by this government.

A black an' yella bastard

I recall how a local politician, a political man from Kilnaleck got a whole lot of grants for keeping bees in the early ‘80s. This man was the proprietor of the famous Copper Kettle which has more recently started to cater for a more alternative crowd (It’s now entitled to call itself The Copper Butt-plug.). Any, the local politician’s foray into apiculture went well for a while, but then, as a friend of mine from Kilnaleck described it with such breath-taking literary élan”…didn’t Lovett go on the beer and forget to feed the fuckin’ beers, an’ didn’t the black and yella bastards swarm lad.” Therein lies a lesson for us all.

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The minister’s book launch

Many people are shocked at the lack of political judgement being displayed by Conor Lenihan in launching a book written by some

Wanna banana?

flat-earther aiming to rubbish evolution. Lenihan claims he’s doing it as a favour to a constituent and doesn’t know what the fuss is about. Speaking as a published author I have encountered great difficulty in getting serving cabinet minister to even attend my book-launches. It is far more common for the minister’s constituency secret, usually a civil servant on secondment, to be sent instead to express the minister’s crocodiles tears for not being able to make it in person, and thus leave me with the impression that he has far more important things to do than launch books.

 I thought that the Lenihans, of all people, would be fervent Darwinists. Does the family not prove how intelligence and ability to exploit natural resources will be replicated in the success of certain species over others?

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Bridge over troubled waters

Yesterday marked the opening of a new bridge in Mullingar, named in honour of the town’s greatest son Joe Dolan.

Joe Dolan

 I met Joe a couple of times in my youth, and I know his brother Ben. While I wasn’t into his music I recognise talent (more than Simon Cowell and weepy Cheryl) and Joe had it in spades. Through his artistry over many decades he brought joy to hundreds of thousands of people. Success breeds success, and everyone knows that among those who caddied for Joe was a young Michael O’Leary who even then was probably dreaming of ruling the skies. 

 I do feel, however, that Joe would be appalled at a bridge being named after him. There was the really sickening display of the official opening, carried out by Noeleen Dempsey, who took the opportunity to remind people that it was fast approaching that time of the year when he’d be off on the piste again. “From Aspen we’ll probably go to some nice Caribbean island, from where I can control Ireland’s transport better than if I was really there, an’ once again there can come blizzards and snow storms and yez will have to be diggin’ yourselves out a ten foot snowdrifts, an’ I won’t give an earwig’s fart”. I suppose the event was also attended by examples of pond life from the local Destiny’s Mercenaries, including Camillus “Rocky” Glinn and Wiggy, while the local blueshirts were no doubt there in force along with the requisite panoply of over-paid, over-fed, bureaucratic filth. Where were all the political puppets when, an indecently short time after Joe’s death, hundreds of thousands of euro was being clawed back in allegedly underpaid tax, to pay Senator Callely’s travel expenses?

 I so recall Joe’s participation in a tribute show hosted by BB Baskin for former taoiseach Albert Reynolds. Joe’s comment about Albert will stay with me forever. “Albert Reynolds is probably the daysentest fella in the racket oops I mean the business.”

 As for the title of this post, I’m sure I heard Joe sing the song./

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One, two, three O’Leary

The results of a recently released survey have found that something like forty per cent of Irish males experience difficulty with maths. I think my post about Bread and Circuses shows just how prevalent this is. Not alone do senior members of county council executives have serious issues with basic literacy and letter-writing skills (not to mention wiping their arses), but many of the hoors can’t count. Ah, but then they know that the true value in any balance sheet comes in the “Below-the-line” or maybe in the “Off-balance-sheet” items – sure fuck it! Isn’t it only monopoly money anyhow?

 This is the reality under which so many people in Ireland have to suffer, and to be honest it’s getting a bit tiresome being lectured to by that pampered cancerous poseur intellectual  Brian Lenihan Jr. I don’t carte at those who will be outraged by what I’m about to say, but Being Brian Lenihan Sr’s son may have helped you get “Schol” in Trinner, butt could it stop you getting pancreatic cancer?  Illness or disability is nothing to be ashamed of, I think most decent people will agree. It’s no joke for anyone, but why should Brian Lenihan Jr., the Minister for Finance, who is doing the country down with such arrogant aplomb, be any different from a man or  a woman in the street who’s been working hard all their lives and who never had the chance to attend Trinity College, far less become a “scholar” there be any different? So why should such unfortunates have to suffer as a result? Maybe not at Brian Lenihan or any other government minister’s directions, but at the hands of their employees in the Public Service?  You see when I was in Trinity., studying in the library on a Friday night, I thought I was a true scholar. But no! The only ones entitled to sup at the banquet of riches are the members of “The New Class”; not the New Red Class of Milovan Djilas, but the new Green Class, or here in Cavan the New Blue Class. whose fathers are politicians in either national or local government,. Clever and all that I thought I was I somehow missed that.)  You see I could have become a legal practitioner, but I realised, perhaps in time, that I loved justice too much (and myself not enough) to become a lawyer.

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Newsweek and the life of Brian

Recently Newsweek magazine chose Irish top honcho Brian Cowen as amongst the worlds top ten statesmen. Was this a joke? Cowen as about as much statesmanship as a randy stoat. He is a typical example of the Irish education system, not to mention a stellar example of the Legal profession, a brainless oaf lacking any social graces. Newsweek could not possibly know of Cowen’s display of statesmanship on the night Albert Reynolds’ regime fell, when he sat amongst the Fianna Fail front benches giving guff to those he disliked in the Dail. Nor could they know of his role as the “Clown Prince of Fianna Fail” when he would seek to rouse the assembled party faithful prior to the presidential address at the Ard Fheis, once more displaying gifts of oratory and rhetorical élan. If I might paraphrase an American labour leader of the McCarthy era. “If it looks like a twit, talks like a twit, chances are it’s a twit.” His face and demeanour are reminiscent of the overall-wearing character Benny on ATV’s soap opera Crossroads. Compare this idiot to statesmen like Barack Obama, or even David Cameron, who sometimes bears too close of a similarity to Family Guy’s Glenn Quagmire, and you see what I mean.

 

 Recently I was reading Plutarch’s description of Tiberius Gracchus, the illfated Roman statesman of the Second Century BC. He wrote of him and his brother Gaius that they were never given to personal abuse of their opponents and that furthermore “… in situations where ambitions and tempers flare … a good natural disposition and a sound education controls and regulates the mind.” Plutarch never says that Tiberius Gracchus ever bawled across the Senate at one of his many opponents: “Ya should put up or shut up” or that Gaius ever told one of the optimates that if they weren’t going to piss they should get o9ff the pot.

 Newsweek has the temerity to praise him for imposing fiscal discipline and chide the Irish people for not supporting him. The fact is Cowen presides over a group of swindlers who are maintained in power by an incompetent and corrupt bureaucracy. There is only one thing this crowd is good at – ensuring that they have enough money to keep themselves, their friends, their families, and their prostitutes in the lap of luxury. I wonder would any of the senior staff writers in Newsweek be able to survive on the reduced unemployment benefit? Of course, they should be lucky to get even that, as they might have been declared “habitually non-resident” by the sagacious Department of Social Protection.

 I am urging those Irish people who feel as angered as I do about Newsweek’s actions to boycott the magazine. People who need a laugh should read The Onion instead.

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Killer Queen

With reference to the forthcoming royal visit, I must say that I have nothing against Elizabeth Windsor. She has lived her life imprisoned in one great doll’s house, with an insensitive brute for a husband and a family who have gone from one emotional disaster to the next with reckless abandon. I certainly mean her no harm. She’s an old girl now, 84 I think, and I hope she brings her bus pass. I would certainly prefer if this were to be a private visit, but instead it will be surrounded by all the rubbish that the government can think of. There are those who are monarchists at heart anyway. The spiritual ancestor of the Fine Gael party, Arthur Griffith, never made any secrecy of the fact that he was, at heart, a “kings, lords and commons man”. But those who will be most fulsome in their celebrations will be the soi disants republicans of Fianna Fail. They hanker after a House of Lords and a knighthood system, but haven’t they got it already? There’s Brian Lenihan, second Earl of Castleknock and the Baron of Clara himself.

 The queen’s visit would make a far greater contribution to the ending of mental hostility between our countries if she were to meet with and apologise to the victims of “loyalist” violence in the republic. Those who carried out these attacks claimed to be loyal to the British crown, and this would be an irrevocable opportunity for the sovereign to distance herself from these barbarities. But the Official Secrets Act might get in the way, as it is generally suspected that many of these, while claimed by “loyalists” were masterminded by sections of the British intelligence establishment.

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The Raid

One of Leo Tolstoy’s earliest yet finest stories is entitled “The Raid”. It was set in the North Caucasus and includes details drawn from Tolstoy’s own experiences fighting the Chechens. Yet I think a short story of the same namer, though without Tolstoy’s charm and poise, could be written about events in Cavan town, as they unfolded on the weekend beginning June 18th. At that time, customs and excises officials raided a number of licensed premises in the town and seized alcohol that was being sold there, but for which no duty had been paid, thereby making its purchases price lower and the potential profit from resale higher.

 I have heard that one premises in particular was targeted, and no, I’m not going to repeat it. Suffice it to say that its owners are well connected politically at both local and national level. What’s more the premises’s dining facilities are completely inaccessible toe me and to all other wheelchair uses. This is not a legacy of the building’s age. It should have been diaphanously clear to the planning authorities who signed off on the plans, but sure, who cares about cripples? But the owners should know that there is NO difference between the ten euro note proffered by the cripple and the able-bodied citizen, just as there is no difference between the able-bodied note and the cripple at election time.

 It will be interesting to see if any prosecutions arise. They would be embarrassing to say the least, and for that reason I suspect the ‘phones in the DPP’s office have been ringing loudly. But then as the affair of Ivor Callely shows, there is one law for members of Seanad Eirinn, quite another for the rest of us.

 Going back to the short story I suspect that the denouement of this particular roman will be inconclusive.

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