The fleadh taking place in Cavan town will be a great showcase for traditional musicians to display their skills and also to learn from each other. It will also be a spectacular opportunity for the general public to enjoy one of the most important and irreplaceable aspects f our national character. It is such a pity that the disabled are being locked out of taking part.

 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.

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

Brendan had been going out with a girl for a year but he’d been reluctant to go onto Level 2 of the relationship because he was ashamed at the smallness of his willyu. He decided to ask the advice of his friend Eugene.
“Size isn’t everything”, counsels Eugene. “It’s what you do with it. Get her in the right place and the right mood, and the fact that you’re a bit on the small size won’t make any difference.”
Armed with this advice he goes out with his girlfriend. They drive to a dark spot where Brendan considers it’s a now-or-never moment. He unzips his fly, whips out his willy and gently guides his girlfriend’s hand to it.
“No thanks,” she says. “I’ve given up cigarettes.”

A man is standing at the urinal in a lavatory beside another male in an olive-green suit who seems no bigger than a dwarf, but his attention is drawn by the size, length and girth of this second man’s male member, which is, without doubt, a whopper. The first guy doesn’t want to appear to be getting his kicks by looking at another guy’s cock, but his interest is noticed.           

“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?”

A man is standing at the urinal in a lavatory beside another male in an olive-green suit who seems no bigger than a dwarf, but his attention is drawn by the size, length and girth of this second man’s male member, which is, without doubt, a whopper. The first guy doesn’t want to appear to be getting his kicks by looking at another guy’s cock, but his interest is noticed.           “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?”

One day a priest is walking through a really tough neighbourhood when he spies a youth tossing off in an alleyway. He goes up to him and says: “Stop it immediately. You should save that till after you get married.” The youth shrugs his shoulders and runs away.

Ten years’ later the priest is again walking through the same neighbourhood when a young man approaches him. “I bet you don’t remember me, but ten years’ back you saw me tossing off and you gave me some sound advice. You told me to stop it and save it till after I got married.”

“Ah yes,” says the priest. “I remember you now. And tell me did you follow my advice son?”

“Sure did father, replied the young man. And guess what? I’m getting married next week.”

“That’s marvellous,” says the priest. “It’s great how things have worked out for you.”

“There’s only one small problem father, “ says the man. “ I’ve got a ten gallon container of the stuff in the back of my pick-up, and I haven’t a clue what to do with it after I get married.”

 Bit remember, masturbation is NO joke. It can lead to blindness, and no one wants to be dependant on the NCBI do they.

I have recently completed a charming book called Cloverhill: A Church of Ireland parish in County Cavan, c. 1720 -2010 written by Dr Jonathan Cherry. This was produced in association with the 150^th anniversary celebrations of the parish church’s consecration.

 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 commemoration for the victims of the convent fire will be a truly memorable and heart-warming event. Everything is falling into place. Even the weather looks as if it’s going to be pleasant. I am sure that our efforts are being helped along by the spirits of the thirty-five girls and the elderly cook who perished that night.

 Our involvement in this project has been a pleasure. It is amazing how a group of people can make a difference when they set their minds to it, and how they can move mountains by harnessing the skills they have amongst themselves. I already knew Sean Galligan, who is the spring-board of the group. I have een able to meet again my old friend (though not in age) Ita Madden, whose knowledge and commitment has always ensured that the group always does he right thing. But I have made so many new friends, like Eamon and Lorraine, not to mention Fr Ultan McGoohan., a true gentleman. Some may have heard Karin Charles’ wonderful documentary about the tragedy and the commemoration on Northern Sound radio.

 The ceremony is for all the people of Cavan. It is an opportunity to remember those who perished, but without rancour.

 Alas our success has attracted  the attention of some elements of Cavan town’s publicity-hungry political pond-life. They couldn’t be persuaded to come to our meetings, (even though I saw one of them in the bar of the Farnham on a night we were having a meeting, until they sensed that, by not getting involved they  might lose a photo opportunity. I do hope none of them come along wearing their chains, though it might be difficult to tell them to get lost. They’ve been of no help to his so far, but that does not mean that they couldn’t be a hindrance to us in the future.. But let us not think of such people, but instead of the thirty-five girls and their cook who died that night. Had they lived they would have been able to spin that web of magic which each of us spins, which is called our lives.

According to RTE news Gardai are investigating a suspected arson attack at an industrial estate in Dublin.

 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.

Patrick Lyons was the bishop of Kilnmo9re at the time of the immolation suffered by the girls in the Poor Clares’ Convent of February 1943.

 He was not a Cavanman, but a native of colon, Co. Louth. He was ordained for the archdiocese of |Armagh. He was appointed bishop of Kilmore in August 1937 after the death earlier that year of Bishop Finnegan.

 His response represented the chilling heartlessness o9f the time, when he spoke of ““… the terrible ordeal it has been for the good nuns to have the fierce glare of publicity turned on their quiet sheltered lives.” While barely mumbling an type of commiserations to the families of the unfortunate victims.

 In Cavan of course he was a true prince bishop. In fact, like many prelates of the time God was a mere junior colleague who lived and worked somewhere else. He had a chauffeur-driven car which was always supplied with petrol even at the height of war time shortages.

 He had access to other items beyond the purchase of most of his flock. These included oranges, which he doled out as presents to altar boys at Confirmation ceremonies throughout the diocese. There was another fire, far less serious, which affected Bishop Lyons’ Episcopal residence. In 1944 soldiers were asked to put out a fire at Cullies House. Among the items they rescued was a large crate of whiskey. Sensing that its disappearance could be blamed on the flames they consumed its contents, leading to some drunken antics observed by a then resident of the nearby St Patrick’s College Cavan.. Thus deprived of his tipple poor Bishop Lyons was unable to drown his sorrows at the defeat of the Nazis in 1945 and the death of Adolf Hitler.

 At the first public performance of the Cavan International Drama Festival in 1946 Bishop Lyons took the opportunity to express his admiration for the play “The Righteous are Bold”. What’s more he felt that it was in such plays that the “true nature of the Irish” was expressed, and not in the scribblings of disaffected degenerates (he didn’t use the term) like Joyce, Beckett et al, whom he and his cronies made sure were banned anyway.

 He died in April 1949.