One of the most egregious examples of the way in which the achievements of Cavan’s disabled have been rubbished came last March. The National Council for the Blind, the largest Irish charity working for the benefits of blind and partially sighted people in the country, wanted to hold a meeting in Cavan’s County Library, run by Cavan County Council. They were encouraged to organise a talk on “local history”. However, they didn’t turn to the partially-sighted holder of a PhD in history in their midst, someone who had years of experience as a writer and lecturer on the subject, (myself) but to the council’s dream-boy Dr Brendan Scott, son of Councillor John Scott of Belturbet. Unfortunately the NCBI’s organiser here in Cavan, Ms Helena McDonald, did not realise how she was being set up, and I didn’t realise what was happening until I received an invitation to the event, featuring the aforementioned Scott as “special guest”. Alas Dr Scott, though holding a doctorate in history, is such a craven example of humanity that he felt it was but one more occasion for him to humiliate me and to repay me for the “trouble” that had existed between me and the museum (though before his time), that he jumped at the occasion to give a talk on Cavan’s “Franciscan abbey” (wherever that was). He accepted this invitation so as to rub in my disability to me and at the same time to say that, even though I had a doctorate and considerable experience as a historian, he stood higher amongst the miserable scum of Cavan Co. Council’s establishment. Years of experience has shown that many of the greatest academics are not people you’d willingly associate with, but I wonder do Dr Scott’s colleagues realise what a craven piece of excrement he is? I’ve never met him but since his appointment to Cavan’s County Museum he has pursued a vendetta against me, something in which he has been aided by many in the county council’s executive, including its highest members.

 Now I had thought of Cavan County Library as a home-away-from-home and its ever-helpful staff as friends. I had enjoyed carrying out research there. Sadly, one of the other users of the library did not feel I belonged there, and complained of my whispering into my hand-held tape-recorder. I do not know the identity of my accuser, but I think I’d be able to pick him out in an identity parade. Libraries can be noisy places, yet I ensure that I do not add to the existing background noise level in any way. It was quite clear that I was a wheelchair user and that I needed to use a low-vision aid in order to read text, but a fellow human being responded to my plight not by seeing whether he could help me in any way, or even ignore me, but by making a complaint that I was causing a disturbance. I can assure my readers that my whispers were less loud than the noise made by him and his troupe of hangers-on, who seemed to think that they owned the library’s research area and to resent the presence of strangers there. This was disturbing, but more disturbing was the fact that the library authorities took these vexatious complaints on board. This was enough for me to be banished from the library to the eyrie of the Genealogical Office that has a rather disturbing view over the County Council car park, and it can only be reached by a rather narrow and awkward lift. I was rather embarrassed when I was told of my fate, for no matter how justified I personally felt it was as if I were a schoolboy who had been caught out picking my nose during Morning Assembly. My non-presence ion the public parts of the library frees the county library of the obviously too distressing visage of a partially sighted library user. How capricious is Father Time. I have in my possession a photograph from the Anglo-Celt from a number of years ago, showing me using a piece of magnification equipment in the main body of the old library. I am obviously an inappropriate fixture of the newer library.

 (Let me add that I do not blame the rank-and-file of the library’s staff for this sea change in my fortunes. I feel that this has come from higher up, and from those who do not like being called “Whacko Jacko”. Let me assure him that this epithet is mild compared to the one I feel he is more entitled to.)

 Some historical talks have been organised to accompany the fleadh. They are to be given by Dr Jonathan Cherry (a good friend) and the multi-talented Dr Brendan Scott. Both these speakers are, thank God, able bodied. There has been no invitation to the wheelchair-bound and partially sighted Dr Ciaran Parker, who has written about all aspects of the history of Cavan town. But honestly, the sight of him in his wheelchair speaking without notes would not set the right tone at an even which obviously sets so much store by physical perfection.

 The reason why I haven’t been asked to speak is puzzling. Last February I was asked to lead a walking tour of Cavan town by Catriona O’Reilly, the County f Arts Officer, and a member of the fleadh’s organising committee. This was in conjunction with a festival taking place in Cavan town at the time. I naturally agreed, but I was unable to lead the tour because of a freak snowstorm that led to the cancellation of most other events. I was assured that the event would be rescheduled for a later date. A fee had been mentioned, but I wasn’t doing it for the money. Had that been now I know full well Dr Scott would have been invited instead. A snowfall wouldn’t affect him as he can walk on water – he certainly shows no problem walking through the shit he causes. And as for payment, it is only natural that in a time of budgetary constraints the council should ensure that all monies stay within the broader County Council family of employees, members and theitr families.

 Another puzzling aspect is why I was approached by a local writer associated with the fleadh. He sought historical advice and information for a number of short plays he had been commissioned to write for the aforementioned fleadh.   It seems a bit unfair to pump someone for information whom they were going to snub And whose very name was not to be mentioned.. Why didn’t he go to Dr Scott for his intelligence? No doubt because he or his friends knew he’d be disappointed.  I write this so that people attending the fleadh will no what a miserable crowd of back-stabbing, lying cheats have organised it.

YOUL’LL BURN IN HELL FOR THIS SHIT

“Is everything ok?” asks the dwarf.

“No problems. I’m sorry but I just can’t help remarking on the size of your cock. As a man you’re on the small side but it’s enormous.”

“Ah let me explain. You see I’m a leprechaun and all leprechauns have massive cocks in spite of their size.”

“I wouldn’t mind having one that size”. comments the first man.

“That can be arranged. After all I’m a leprechaun so I can grant anything you wish for,  but you have to do something for me.”

“Name it!”

“You’ll have to let me give you one up the butt.”

“Well I don’t know about that…” stutters the first guy.

“Now it’s your decision and I’m putting absolutely no pressure on you” counsels the dwarf soothingly.

“I suppose no one need know”, answers the first guy and quickly looking around to ascertain there’s no one else in the can he gestures to the dwarf to join him in one of the cubicles.

After several moments of excruciating pain for the man the dwarf asks him:

“How old are you?”

The man turns his head and answers, though writhing with agony: “I’m … ugh … I’m thirty-six… arghhh!…why?”

“You’re thirty-six are you? And you still believe in leprechauns?”

 Jonathan Cherry is a very good friend of mine. We have much in common. We both attended Cavan’s Royal School where the teachers, not least Douglas Anderson and Ivan Bolton, imparted that spirit of civility, combined with a thirst for knowledge, which has served us both so well. We have both been “doctored” in history. We are both scholars,  motivated by a deep and sincere respect for each other’s work.  What is more we both come from well-respected families in our respective communities.

 Dr Cherry’s book is a history of a small, vibrant and tenacious rural community. He traces its history, using written sources, maps and folklore, as well as less traditional sources. But this is more than just another history book, as Dr Cherry brings the unique perspective of an historical geographer to his task. He tells the story of the locality, but never forgets that its story unfolds in a far wider context.

 Cloverhill was, for over two centuries, synonymous with the local landholding family of the Sandersons. Dr Cherry sympathetically describes their relationship with the community, and what emerges is a picture, not of exploitation, but of co-operation. The Sanderson demesne lands at the centre of the parish were a considerable employer, while the rents collected didn’t feed the gaming habits of some far-off and ambivalent absentee proprietor. Instead they were used by a series of landlords, including the indomitable Mary Ann Sanderson, who was deeply committed to Cloverhill.

 The central aspect of this community is without doubt St John’s parish church. It was built by the aforementioned Mary Ann Sanderson. Like many people I had been misled into thinking that the church had been consecrated in December 1856 by a centenary service reported in the Anglo-Celt in December 1956. The formal consecration took place in 1860. This may help in identifying the architect. Dr Cherry repeats Jeremy Williams’ assertion that one of the Wellands may have been responsible. Why I felt that it was NOT the work of William Hague Jar (1836-99) was that, in 1856 Hague was only twenty years of age and not a qualified architect. If the building work only began say in 1857 or 1858 it Hague might have had a hand in drawing up the plans for his father who built the church, although he was as yet still too young and inexperienced to be credited with the work.

 In an introductory chapter Dr Cherry outlines the various sources he used. He outlines one which is probably the most important, and which is all too easily overlooked: an intimate knowledge of the location.  He writes:

 An often understated but hugely important source in understanding the sense of a place or the place as lived is personal experience. As a native of the area … I have been immersed in the history of the place since an early age. My own personal interest in the evolution of the village and district, coupled with strong familial ties to the area, have been of significant value in charting the history and understanding Cloverhill past and present. Speaking with local people and simply observing change has given me a greater understanding of what Cloverhill means to those who live there.

 This is a local study par excellence. It is of value on many different, though parallel levels, first as a local history, and then as a volume that gives keen and erudite insights into rural and religious history, as well as the history of landscape. All these elements are deftly brought together by Dr Cherry through his engaging and pellucid style.

 The arsonist(s) are probably on the run now, fearing apprehension, but I want to give them some words of consolation for the future. You should really get out of the grime of the big city and move to a border county. There your involvement with arson will be initially forgotten, especially if you join Fianna Fail and the Knights of St Columbanus. You will then be able to look back upon your past with pride and speak candidly and unashamedly about it. And what’s more you will even get a job with the local authority.

 Instead of having to keep a low profile to escape the Bill, you will be able to have your mugs emblazoned on a weekly basis in the local paper. When you attend social events camera bulbs will flash as if you were Brittney Spears. If you still have criminal tendencies you will be able to steal with impunity, and because of your newfound friends you will be able to slander decent people, and what’s more be believed.

I find it sstrange that when a bad-mouthed pseudo historian like David Irvine makes comments denying the Holo0caust he is (rightly) ostracised, but when a heade of state does it he suffers little by way of such a cordon sanitaire. I am sure he would be welcome in Ireland. 

But Mugabe’s days are numbered. I can reveal though that part of his exit strategy includes retiring to Ireland. This will be announced in conjunction with  his ttrip to Dublin to receive the Jim Tunney Memorial Gay Bashing award next year. President Bob has long complained how his rest has been disturbed by a homosexual on the farm he seized from its white owners. As for Ahmedinejad there are persistent rumours that he intends to apostasise from Islanm. This would mean automatic death. To avoid this he will stay in disguise in the Redemptorists’ Mother House in Limerick City.

 Now I know that Dr Scot and his miserable friends, who are such avid readers of my blog, would love me to spill my guts on my blog about this. But to be honest, I can’t be arsed. However, I never realised that Brendan Scott of Belturbet is such a low-down, cowardly, cruel cur.  His father seems such a nice man though.

 As for the NCBI they once again prove themselves to be useless. Indeed, one must question their role as a charitable organisation which claims to be representing the interests of the blind and partially sighted. When they want someone to give a lecture they don’t turn to the partially sighted person in their locality who has a PhD in history as well as years of lecturing experience. They claim ignorance of his existence, even though he is no shrinking violet, and in spite of also being confined to a wheelchair, leads a very public life. Instead they have to ask the County Council and the County Manager’s little darling. In the light of my description of him I think this speaks volumes.

Another fact which has nowcome into the public domain is that Archbishops McQuaid, Ryan, McNamara and Connell were out and out hypocrites, telling the people of Ireland what they could do, believe and read in the name of a religion whose tenets they were flouting.

McQuaid was a particularly egregious monster who sought to destroy many lives and reputations. But he was viewed as almost saint-like admiration by former bishop of Kilmore, Fracis McKiernan, a man who had a lot to answer for when it came to covering up the sins of errant priests on hiw watch. But McKiernan was such a great man and a historian of note. He was when he was alive the world’s expert on the O’Reilly clan. When a man sought the assistance of a certain research officer on a roject he was compiling about an O’Reilly of the late seventeenth century he received a reply stating the research officer’s complete ignorance of the O’Reilly involved – strange as the research officer is supposed to be an expert on the seventeenth century – and that sadly the person who would have known all about him – Dr Franbcis McKiernan –  had taken his profund intelligence on the subject to his grave.

I don’t think it is unfair to say that reports similar to the Murphy inquiryt, which would be esqually shocking to the public and embarassing to the Catholic church, could be compiled in most of the country’s dioceses. But then many of the bishops who could be castigated were only following Vatican instructions on pushing the whole thing under the carpet. Any problems were to be deakt with by one person in the Vatican, the former Nazi Joseph Ratzinger, currently the rather reticent Pope Benedict.