I've just seen Queen lay a wreath in the Garden of Rememberance and, to my total surprise, I burst into tears.
When I first heard that Queen Elizabeth the Second of England was coming to Ireland on a State Visit I didn't think much about it. I was happy that she had been invited, it suggested that as a nation we were growing up and , in view of the history between the two countries I knew it was significant but I wasn't going to be standing on the streets hoping for a glimpse. Personally I find the whole idea of royalty a hint medieval but, if other countries want it, fair dues. I hoped there would be no trouble from republican hot-heads who enjoy hurling insults and petrol bombs. Then I thought no more about it.
I had a late lunch to-day and I turned on the t.v. for a little distraction and there was the Garden of Remembrance and a voice was telling me that the Queen was expected in minutes so I stayed for a look. She arrived with Mary McAleese and stood in front of the sculpture of the Children of Lir. I though Mary looked a bit sober in black but the Queen looked her usual neat self in a pretty coat cutaway coat and signature hat. The army officer gave commands, the soldiers presented arms, the band played God Save the Queen. God love her I thought she must be bored out of her tree. But the Queen is an old hand at memorials and military events i knew she'd be fine.
Then she took a wreath and laid in in front of the memorial sculpture and that's when it hit me. She was laying a wreath for the men and women who had opposed her predecessors. I was watching history, the good kind , where people get reconciled. I remembered than that the sculpture of the chjildren of Lir is about transformation and that the mosaic in the memorial pond is of arms abandoned forever. Then they played our national anthem. I had been reared on the "seven hundred years of slavery", "the glories of 1916" and the "evils" of the British Crown and there, in front of my eyes was the English Queen standing for our national Anthem. It felt to me like a balm, a blessing and a resolution.
Tuesday 17 May 2011
Friday 15 April 2011
EVEN LE CORBUSIER NODS.
When I was in Primary School, there was one year when, due to renovations, the school day finished early. Because my mother was working and there would be nobody at home, I went to an aunt's house until she was home from work.
My cousin Colm had just started studying Architecture and he took it upon himself to instruct me on the wonders of modern design. He told me all about Bauhaus, Walter Gropius, Mies Van der Rohe, Frank Loyd Wright and Le Corbusier which made me feel terribly sophisticated. I longed for an opportunity to show off my new-found knowledge but, ten-year old girls have little interest in whether function should dictate form or not. It was many years before I had to chance to fling "Bauhaus" into a conversation in the hope of impressing people with my knowledge.
Colm showed me pictures in Architectural magazines of cutting-edge buildings including the Dominican Couvent de Saint Marie de la Tourette in Eveux in France, designed by Le Corbusier. He'd said that Le Corbusier was one of the great geniuses of the twentieth century and I was more than happy to believe this. So, recently, when we were in Lyon and La Tourette was nearby, I couldn't wait to visit it.
You take the train from Lyon to L'Arbresle and then walk up a hill and keep on walking. The walk took the best part of an hour but it was a lovely day, the views were delightful and we stopped frequently to admire the scenery... well that was my excuse. Finally we got there and I couldn't believe my eyes.
It was hideous. It is made entirely of concrete and concrete doesn't weather well. The outside walls were badly stained and the bell tower looked as though a particularly clumsy child had stuck it on in the wrong place. The entrance was puddled and muddy and they had put wooden boxes down to keep your feet dry but I still had high hopes for the interior. I remembered photographs of light beaming down through coloured shafts.
The interior is a huge, rectangular, concrete box with a high concrete ceiling. The concrete is dirty and stained. I kept thinking "gas chamber, gas chamber, gas chamber". Yes, the light does come in through coloured shafts which are painted red and yellow and blue but the paint is cracked and bubbling, the windows are spiderwebbed and leaking and there is a terrible air of neglect. Curiously though, some sections still photograph well. The building induced a great sense of unease and agitation in me. This is in contrast to the cathedral and basilica in Lyon, neither of which are particularly outstanding but both are peadceful, calm spaces.
The rest of the monastery buildings have also worn badly and the entire complex had the air of a sink estate built in the sixties. Having held the name of Le Corbusier in high esteem all my life I felt terribly let down and yet, and yet, I have to admit to a certain pleasurable schadenfreude. Finally I had serious a word with myself and reminded myself that, geniuses too have their off days.
My cousin Colm had just started studying Architecture and he took it upon himself to instruct me on the wonders of modern design. He told me all about Bauhaus, Walter Gropius, Mies Van der Rohe, Frank Loyd Wright and Le Corbusier which made me feel terribly sophisticated. I longed for an opportunity to show off my new-found knowledge but, ten-year old girls have little interest in whether function should dictate form or not. It was many years before I had to chance to fling "Bauhaus" into a conversation in the hope of impressing people with my knowledge.
Colm showed me pictures in Architectural magazines of cutting-edge buildings including the Dominican Couvent de Saint Marie de la Tourette in Eveux in France, designed by Le Corbusier. He'd said that Le Corbusier was one of the great geniuses of the twentieth century and I was more than happy to believe this. So, recently, when we were in Lyon and La Tourette was nearby, I couldn't wait to visit it.
You take the train from Lyon to L'Arbresle and then walk up a hill and keep on walking. The walk took the best part of an hour but it was a lovely day, the views were delightful and we stopped frequently to admire the scenery... well that was my excuse. Finally we got there and I couldn't believe my eyes.
It was hideous. It is made entirely of concrete and concrete doesn't weather well. The outside walls were badly stained and the bell tower looked as though a particularly clumsy child had stuck it on in the wrong place. The entrance was puddled and muddy and they had put wooden boxes down to keep your feet dry but I still had high hopes for the interior. I remembered photographs of light beaming down through coloured shafts.
The interior is a huge, rectangular, concrete box with a high concrete ceiling. The concrete is dirty and stained. I kept thinking "gas chamber, gas chamber, gas chamber". Yes, the light does come in through coloured shafts which are painted red and yellow and blue but the paint is cracked and bubbling, the windows are spiderwebbed and leaking and there is a terrible air of neglect. Curiously though, some sections still photograph well. The building induced a great sense of unease and agitation in me. This is in contrast to the cathedral and basilica in Lyon, neither of which are particularly outstanding but both are peadceful, calm spaces.
The rest of the monastery buildings have also worn badly and the entire complex had the air of a sink estate built in the sixties. Having held the name of Le Corbusier in high esteem all my life I felt terribly let down and yet, and yet, I have to admit to a certain pleasurable schadenfreude. Finally I had serious a word with myself and reminded myself that, geniuses too have their off days.
Monday 11 April 2011
Revolution isn't pretty close up.
Life, that old joker, took me and stopped me from doing several things that I wanted to do including blogging.
We went to visit Girona recently and while there we visited several of the surrounding towns. In one particular place we were in a shop selling local foods.
Where are you from?" the shop owner asked.
"Ireland."
He got very excited and started to tell us of his great admiration for the I.R.A. who had so recently liberated the Irish nation from the hands of the evil British. While I was trying to formulate a reply he went on to say that he wished the I.R.A. would come to Catalunya and help the Catalans to liberate themselves from the clutches of the evil Spaniards.
I burst his bubble by telling him that the I.R.A. had not liberated anyone from anything but had started thirty years of bloodshed which had caused the deaths of thousands of innocent people and sown fear and distrust in the province of Ulster. He didn't like what I was saying. He wanted a free Catalunya.
He reminded me of the people you meet here in the Republic who support all that the I.R.A. do and have done. But it's easy to talk that kind of dangerous nonsense when you are safe and snug in your home ,when you can sleep easy. When you're not the one who is going to the morgue to pick up the body of your friend or your mother or brother who's been shot. When you haven't been forced to drive a car that is carrying a bomb to the centre of town. When your sister has not had her legs blown off and your brother has not disappeared without trace. When your home has not been burnt to the ground and no one you know has been knee-capped.
Not long after we got back from Spain we heard the tragic news of the car bomb that killed young Ronan Kerr. Twenty-five years old and only three weeks out of police training. It doesn't bear thinking about. I can only hope that it doesn't herald a return to the terrible times. And I hope that the people of Catalynya have more sense and humanity than to bring the curse of the bomb and the gun on themselves and on their compatriots.
Revolutions are neither romantic nor idealistic . It is only distance that lets them appear so. Up close they are vicious and bloody and ugly and vile and should be avoided, except in extremis. And even then, only if all else has failed. They cause such high levels of fear and mistrust that it takes generations to heal the damage. And, however lofty the ideals of some, you can bet your last farthing that the chance of wreaking havoc will attract every criminal and freak in the land and give them carte blanche .
We went to visit Girona recently and while there we visited several of the surrounding towns. In one particular place we were in a shop selling local foods.
Where are you from?" the shop owner asked.
"Ireland."
He got very excited and started to tell us of his great admiration for the I.R.A. who had so recently liberated the Irish nation from the hands of the evil British. While I was trying to formulate a reply he went on to say that he wished the I.R.A. would come to Catalunya and help the Catalans to liberate themselves from the clutches of the evil Spaniards.
I burst his bubble by telling him that the I.R.A. had not liberated anyone from anything but had started thirty years of bloodshed which had caused the deaths of thousands of innocent people and sown fear and distrust in the province of Ulster. He didn't like what I was saying. He wanted a free Catalunya.
He reminded me of the people you meet here in the Republic who support all that the I.R.A. do and have done. But it's easy to talk that kind of dangerous nonsense when you are safe and snug in your home ,when you can sleep easy. When you're not the one who is going to the morgue to pick up the body of your friend or your mother or brother who's been shot. When you haven't been forced to drive a car that is carrying a bomb to the centre of town. When your sister has not had her legs blown off and your brother has not disappeared without trace. When your home has not been burnt to the ground and no one you know has been knee-capped.
Not long after we got back from Spain we heard the tragic news of the car bomb that killed young Ronan Kerr. Twenty-five years old and only three weeks out of police training. It doesn't bear thinking about. I can only hope that it doesn't herald a return to the terrible times. And I hope that the people of Catalynya have more sense and humanity than to bring the curse of the bomb and the gun on themselves and on their compatriots.
Revolutions are neither romantic nor idealistic . It is only distance that lets them appear so. Up close they are vicious and bloody and ugly and vile and should be avoided, except in extremis. And even then, only if all else has failed. They cause such high levels of fear and mistrust that it takes generations to heal the damage. And, however lofty the ideals of some, you can bet your last farthing that the chance of wreaking havoc will attract every criminal and freak in the land and give them carte blanche .
Wednesday 23 February 2011
ELIXIR
I've been reading James Lee Burke. What a writer! I feel jealous every time I read him. But I'm not here to critique him, I want to quote him. No better man for the arresting insight but, this one knocked me for six. It's from his novel RAIN GODS.
But then comes the deadening of conscience. That brings us to the bomb on the bus, the bullet in a neighbour's head, the daughter gang-raped, the tyre necklace, the gas chamber, the trench filled with quicklime.
Surely there's somewhere in between? Some border we don't have to cross? Can we use the fire in the belly for good? Can we still keep our conscience alive?
- "Theologians claimed that anger was a cancer and that hatred was one of the seven deadly sins...... They were wrong.... anger was an elexir that cauterized sorrow and passivity and victimhood from the metabolism; it lit fires in the belly; it provided you with that deadening of the conscience that allowed you to lock down on someone with iron sights and forget that he descended from the same tree in a Mesopotamian savannah that you did."
But then comes the deadening of conscience. That brings us to the bomb on the bus, the bullet in a neighbour's head, the daughter gang-raped, the tyre necklace, the gas chamber, the trench filled with quicklime.
Surely there's somewhere in between? Some border we don't have to cross? Can we use the fire in the belly for good? Can we still keep our conscience alive?
Wednesday 16 February 2011
GOK WAN IS A WALKING SAINT
Gok Wan is a walking saint. Put him up there with Nelson Mandela. I can hear the superior sneers coming from people who have either never watched him or do not understand what he's doing. They think that he's just about fashion and sparkly handbags.
Soooooooooo wrong.
He's all about lovin the skin that you're in and if you think that's irrelevant then you know nothing about how most women see themselves. And even less about how the media and the fashion industry terrorize women. Nor how women terrorize each other.
Take me for example. I'm big. I'm not gigantic, I'm not overweight. I eat healthily, I exercise regularly but I still need to buy extra large clothes. I find it difficult find gloves, shoes, hats, bracelets or rings in my size. When I need an outfit for that special occasion I have to start looking several months in advance to ensure that I get something that isn't black or navy or grey and shaped like something the circus puts up in a field outside the town. But the problem of finding flattering clothes in my size is as nothing compared with the attitudes that big women have to deal with.
If, in the course of a conversation, I mention the fact that I'm big, other women rush to assure me that I'm not fat, that I'm attractive really and they implore me to stop putting myself down! Hang on a moment. I didn't say I was ugly. I didn't say I was overwweight. I'm not putting myself down. I'm merely stating a fact. I am big. But clearly for most women the word "big" is just too hideous an idea to contemplate.
And then there's the shopping itself. Many assistants are delightful but there is a leathel breed that waits till you're in your underwear, trapped in a dressingroom with three mirrors and a harsh light.
"Why don't you go on a diet?" they coo.
"Have you thought of "proper" foundation garments?"
"Would you not think of taking up jogging?"
"Someone your size can not wear a dress!"
"You should try black, it's kinder to the fuller figure"
I've been listening to those kind of comments since I was fourteen. It grinds you down. Besides, standing in your underwear is not conducive to being assertive.
"I'm not exactly an elephant," I once snapped to one of these harridens.
She smiled pityingly.
"Not quite." she replied.
Ouch!
But my favourite of all was the assistant who looked me up and down when I asked for my size and replied without batting an eyelid,
"People of your size can't afford our clothes!"
Nowadays I smile sweetly and tell them that I've just lost four stone. That shuts them up.
Which brings me back to Gok Wan. He dismisses the diets and dictates of fashion and shows people how best to dress for the body they have. He points out their good features, shows them how to flatter their shape, how to choose colours that enhance, necklines that suit , hemlines and trousers that make the most of their legs. He dismisses the size on the label and attends to the fit. And when he's finished the people are transformed. Their confidence rises and they feel good about themselves. Surely that alone is enough to canonize Gok because, when people feel good they are nicer to others, they work more effectively and they make the world a better place.
Soooooooooo wrong.
He's all about lovin the skin that you're in and if you think that's irrelevant then you know nothing about how most women see themselves. And even less about how the media and the fashion industry terrorize women. Nor how women terrorize each other.
Take me for example. I'm big. I'm not gigantic, I'm not overweight. I eat healthily, I exercise regularly but I still need to buy extra large clothes. I find it difficult find gloves, shoes, hats, bracelets or rings in my size. When I need an outfit for that special occasion I have to start looking several months in advance to ensure that I get something that isn't black or navy or grey and shaped like something the circus puts up in a field outside the town. But the problem of finding flattering clothes in my size is as nothing compared with the attitudes that big women have to deal with.
If, in the course of a conversation, I mention the fact that I'm big, other women rush to assure me that I'm not fat, that I'm attractive really and they implore me to stop putting myself down! Hang on a moment. I didn't say I was ugly. I didn't say I was overwweight. I'm not putting myself down. I'm merely stating a fact. I am big. But clearly for most women the word "big" is just too hideous an idea to contemplate.
And then there's the shopping itself. Many assistants are delightful but there is a leathel breed that waits till you're in your underwear, trapped in a dressingroom with three mirrors and a harsh light.
"Why don't you go on a diet?" they coo.
"Have you thought of "proper" foundation garments?"
"Would you not think of taking up jogging?"
"Someone your size can not wear a dress!"
"You should try black, it's kinder to the fuller figure"
I've been listening to those kind of comments since I was fourteen. It grinds you down. Besides, standing in your underwear is not conducive to being assertive.
"I'm not exactly an elephant," I once snapped to one of these harridens.
She smiled pityingly.
"Not quite." she replied.
Ouch!
But my favourite of all was the assistant who looked me up and down when I asked for my size and replied without batting an eyelid,
"People of your size can't afford our clothes!"
Nowadays I smile sweetly and tell them that I've just lost four stone. That shuts them up.
Which brings me back to Gok Wan. He dismisses the diets and dictates of fashion and shows people how best to dress for the body they have. He points out their good features, shows them how to flatter their shape, how to choose colours that enhance, necklines that suit , hemlines and trousers that make the most of their legs. He dismisses the size on the label and attends to the fit. And when he's finished the people are transformed. Their confidence rises and they feel good about themselves. Surely that alone is enough to canonize Gok because, when people feel good they are nicer to others, they work more effectively and they make the world a better place.
Friday 11 February 2011
ALL THAT GLISTERS
I'm in stunned mullet mode. The non-stop radio and tv discussion of the State of the Nation is turning my brain into polystyrene! Let's talk about glitter.
My motto is "All that glisters may not be gold but who cares? Just as long as it glisters." For this reason I've been a great fan of "Strictly Come Dancing". Any programme with that many sequins has to be good. For Christmas, my own personal Santa gave me tickets to see the live show in the O2. I would never have considered buying them myself. As far as I am concerned what happens on the box stays in the box but, hey, I wasn't going to throw them back in his face.
Now I know that there are people out there, curling their lip with distain as they read this. People who think that programmes like "Strictly" are too far beneath them to even mention. People who despise "popular " entertainment because it is "mere" entertainment, bread and circuses for the ignorant masses . People who believe that, if you have more than two brain cells to rub together, you should only engage with Literature, Theatre, Opera, Ballet, Classical Music, and the artistic pursuits best suited to people of refinement and education.
What a lot of old cobblers!
Why not enjoy both?
What exactly is wrong with enjoying both Strictly and Coppelia? Don Giovanni and Tinie Tempah? Stephen King and Dostoyevsky? For me the criteria are simple. Does it do what it set out to do? How well does it do it? And if the answer is: "Yes, it does what it set out to do." and "It does it superbly well". then I'm in. Quality is quality whether it is mere entertainment or Art.
Yes, yes. I know - there's some hideously bad mass entertainment out there but, let's face it, there's some hideously bad stuff masquerading as Art as well.
Now that that 's off my chest, back to the "Strictly" live show. Was it great Art? No. Was it great entertainment? Yes, yes and yes again. There were enough sequins to satisfy my innermost Diva. There was cheering and booing and laughter and voting, just like on the tele, and some fabulous dancing as well. Even my personal Santa, who has no time for "Strictly" on tele, enjoyed it. He went in to the O2 out of duty, prepared to suffer for my sake and came out with a huge, happy grin on his face.
That's the thing about good entertainment. It may not reflect on the meaning of life, the state of the world, nor the morality of venture capitalism but, it does lift the spirit. It gives your mind a break from the everyday world, a mini mental holiday. A mini holiday that makes you better able to deal with the world and, if the big questions are your thing, better able to address them.
My motto is "All that glisters may not be gold but who cares? Just as long as it glisters." For this reason I've been a great fan of "Strictly Come Dancing". Any programme with that many sequins has to be good. For Christmas, my own personal Santa gave me tickets to see the live show in the O2. I would never have considered buying them myself. As far as I am concerned what happens on the box stays in the box but, hey, I wasn't going to throw them back in his face.
Now I know that there are people out there, curling their lip with distain as they read this. People who think that programmes like "Strictly" are too far beneath them to even mention. People who despise "popular " entertainment because it is "mere" entertainment, bread and circuses for the ignorant masses . People who believe that, if you have more than two brain cells to rub together, you should only engage with Literature, Theatre, Opera, Ballet, Classical Music, and the artistic pursuits best suited to people of refinement and education.
What a lot of old cobblers!
Why not enjoy both?
What exactly is wrong with enjoying both Strictly and Coppelia? Don Giovanni and Tinie Tempah? Stephen King and Dostoyevsky? For me the criteria are simple. Does it do what it set out to do? How well does it do it? And if the answer is: "Yes, it does what it set out to do." and "It does it superbly well". then I'm in. Quality is quality whether it is mere entertainment or Art.
Yes, yes. I know - there's some hideously bad mass entertainment out there but, let's face it, there's some hideously bad stuff masquerading as Art as well.
Now that that 's off my chest, back to the "Strictly" live show. Was it great Art? No. Was it great entertainment? Yes, yes and yes again. There were enough sequins to satisfy my innermost Diva. There was cheering and booing and laughter and voting, just like on the tele, and some fabulous dancing as well. Even my personal Santa, who has no time for "Strictly" on tele, enjoyed it. He went in to the O2 out of duty, prepared to suffer for my sake and came out with a huge, happy grin on his face.
That's the thing about good entertainment. It may not reflect on the meaning of life, the state of the world, nor the morality of venture capitalism but, it does lift the spirit. It gives your mind a break from the everyday world, a mini mental holiday. A mini holiday that makes you better able to deal with the world and, if the big questions are your thing, better able to address them.
Monday 7 February 2011
ALL CHANGED, ALL CHANGED UTTERLY
We have grown up. It won’t stop us making mistakes in the future but the Tiger years have indeed change the Irish nation.
We gained confidence.
We now know that we can excel. And not just at home, we can excel on a world stage.
Our population is well educated.
That gives us options and choices. It increases our range of skills and makes us more employable and more desirable as employees.
We speak English.
We may grumble that this is the language imposed on us by the Sasanach but we cannot deny that it's handy to have. The fact that it is the lingua franca of international commerce gives us an edge in the world market.
We’re starting to take responsiblity for ourselves.
We've at last stopped blaming the "seven hundred years of slavery" for all our shortcomings. Listen to radio and you'll hear about the projects local communities are setting up to help themselves through this recession.
We’re more entrepreneurial than ever.
Our new found confidence means that we are more willing to take risks and try new ideas.
We’ve have travelled the world.
That has broadened our views and shown us that, compared to much of the globe, we are very well off.
We have started to demand responsibility and accountability.
We are demanding it of ourselves, of business, trade, the churches, the professions and our politicians. And about time too.
We have a great sense of humour.
This means that we can laugh at ourselves, we can laugh at the world and we can make the world laugh at us and itself. An essential attribute during a recession.
Most important of all - we’ve stopped kow-towing to authority.
Another advantage of our new confidence is that we can look authority in the eye, ask the hard questions and demand the answers.
None of this will prevent us from making mistakes but it will stand to us nevertheless..
Thursday 3 February 2011
THE COUNTRY GROWS UP
The Irish have been like adolescents, so busy partying that we’ve only just realised that our parents are fallible, that not everything our teachers told us was true, that politicians are duplicitous and Life is not as simple as we thought.
When we set up our little Republic in the 1920’s we were innocents. We believed in Santa Claus, the Catholic Church, Bankers, Doctors, Layers, Teachers and, in spite of the fact that they slaughtered each other as well, we still believed in the Men who Fought For Our Freedom... but hush now, don’t mention the Civil War.
We believed that Church and State were a marriage made in Heaven and that they should definitely be in bed together. And when that marriage gave birth to the Constitution, we were thrilled. We prided ourselves on our National Independence and our Faith in the Catholic Church.
But, whenever we challenged authority, religious or lay, they slapped us down like bold children. And we acted like school-children confronted with a sadistic teacher. We did as we were told, bowed the head and said nothing or we ran way from home to England, America and Australia.
Then we got education, money and rock bands. We started to win things. We got into the quarter finals of the World Cup. Foreigners started to tell us that we were clever and funny. We became cocky teens. We partied,drank,snorted and had guilt-free sex. We travelled the world, wore designer clothes, arranged fabulous weddings. We were all for the craic and the craic it was mighty.
Then we came down with a bang. The Church let us down, the Law let us down, the Medical profession let us down, Bankers destroyed us and laughed in our faces,our politicians screwed us to the wall and blamed it all on the world economy.
Now the party’s over. Now we’re demanding accountability, responsibility, equality. In other words, we’ve grown up.
When we set up our little Republic in the 1920’s we were innocents. We believed in Santa Claus, the Catholic Church, Bankers, Doctors, Layers, Teachers and, in spite of the fact that they slaughtered each other as well, we still believed in the Men who Fought For Our Freedom... but hush now, don’t mention the Civil War.
We believed that Church and State were a marriage made in Heaven and that they should definitely be in bed together. And when that marriage gave birth to the Constitution, we were thrilled. We prided ourselves on our National Independence and our Faith in the Catholic Church.
But, whenever we challenged authority, religious or lay, they slapped us down like bold children. And we acted like school-children confronted with a sadistic teacher. We did as we were told, bowed the head and said nothing or we ran way from home to England, America and Australia.
Then we got education, money and rock bands. We started to win things. We got into the quarter finals of the World Cup. Foreigners started to tell us that we were clever and funny. We became cocky teens. We partied,drank,snorted and had guilt-free sex. We travelled the world, wore designer clothes, arranged fabulous weddings. We were all for the craic and the craic it was mighty.
Then we came down with a bang. The Church let us down, the Law let us down, the Medical profession let us down, Bankers destroyed us and laughed in our faces,our politicians screwed us to the wall and blamed it all on the world economy.
Now the party’s over. Now we’re demanding accountability, responsibility, equality. In other words, we’ve grown up.
Saturday 29 January 2011
THE MEN FROM KILMACOW
Last Thursday was gravestone cold with bitter wind sneaking into any chink in our coats, scarves and hats as we stamped our feet and hunched our shoulders outside Kilmainham Jail. The Kilmacow narchers were there getting their banners ready and happy to talk to supporters and press. They are ordinary working men from Kilmacow in Co. Kilkenny who were so fed up with the mess our politicians have created that they decided to march to the Dail in protest against the way they have been ruining the country.
They set off from 'The Fox's Den" pub five days ago. By the time they got to Dublin one was on crutches, another had shin splints but they were determine to finish the march. On their way up the country they got great support and were offered enough tea to float the Queen Mary.
We set off from Kilmainham jail led by Donal Fallon of Historical Insights. As we marched cars honked, groups cheered, people waved from windows and doorways and shouted good wishes and bystanders joined in It was a happy kind of a walk. Some people were there because "I'm always giving out about the government and I thought it was time to walk." Others had sons or daughters who have to emigrate to find work because builders bankers and politicians have destroyed our economy. All were united in their disgust at the Fianna Fail/Green Party coalition but especially at the Fianna Fail.
On the way we stopped at various historical sites and Donal Fallon talked about various men who had fought and died for Ireland. At first I was uncomfortable with all this historical 'up the republicanism@. I've felt for a long time that it's time for us Irish to stop quoting our martyrs and get on with making our country and decent place to live but, as the march went on I realised that what Donal was doing was reminding us of the men in the past who were prepared to take action and to give their lives to make this country a decent place to live and that the comparison with them and our present Government was very odious indeed.
The men laid a wreath at the G.P.O.for all those young people who will have to emigrate. When we came to the Dail, they read a simple statement urging us all to use our votes in the elections and the demand responsibility and reliability from our politicians.
I found the whole thing very moving and I am deeply grateful to the men from Kilmacow. They are:
NED MURRAY
KEVIN DUMPHY
JOHN KAVANAGH
STEPHEN TOBIN
PATRICK LENNON
ARAN(SCRAWNEY)TOBIN
JOHN DUMPHY
DERMOT MURRAY
JOHN CROWLEY
CHILLY HOBAN
THANK YOU, GUYS.
They set off from 'The Fox's Den" pub five days ago. By the time they got to Dublin one was on crutches, another had shin splints but they were determine to finish the march. On their way up the country they got great support and were offered enough tea to float the Queen Mary.
We set off from Kilmainham jail led by Donal Fallon of Historical Insights. As we marched cars honked, groups cheered, people waved from windows and doorways and shouted good wishes and bystanders joined in It was a happy kind of a walk. Some people were there because "I'm always giving out about the government and I thought it was time to walk." Others had sons or daughters who have to emigrate to find work because builders bankers and politicians have destroyed our economy. All were united in their disgust at the Fianna Fail/Green Party coalition but especially at the Fianna Fail.
On the way we stopped at various historical sites and Donal Fallon talked about various men who had fought and died for Ireland. At first I was uncomfortable with all this historical 'up the republicanism@. I've felt for a long time that it's time for us Irish to stop quoting our martyrs and get on with making our country and decent place to live but, as the march went on I realised that what Donal was doing was reminding us of the men in the past who were prepared to take action and to give their lives to make this country a decent place to live and that the comparison with them and our present Government was very odious indeed.
The men laid a wreath at the G.P.O.for all those young people who will have to emigrate. When we came to the Dail, they read a simple statement urging us all to use our votes in the elections and the demand responsibility and reliability from our politicians.
I found the whole thing very moving and I am deeply grateful to the men from Kilmacow. They are:
NED MURRAY
KEVIN DUMPHY
JOHN KAVANAGH
STEPHEN TOBIN
PATRICK LENNON
ARAN(SCRAWNEY)TOBIN
JOHN DUMPHY
DERMOT MURRAY
JOHN CROWLEY
CHILLY HOBAN
THANK YOU, GUYS.
Tuesday 25 January 2011
FAITH OF OUR FATHERS
I’ve never been able to understand why the Fianna Fail party has the support of so many good, honest, responsible, upstanding citizens. The party has been corrupt since the beginning. It’s founder, Eamon De Valera, sold fake shares in the Irish Press to Irish Americans. There was Taca, there was Gubu, the mohair suits, the Arms scandal, Ray Burke, Liam Lawler, Charlie Haughey, Bertie the Hernia, John O'Donoghue, expenses scandals,jobs for the boys, backhanders, brown envelopes… the list goes on. If I, the least political person in Ireland, knew about this stuff, party members must have known too. So why did they stay members? And why did so many more keep on voting for them?
I think it’s because the Fianna Fail party is not an expression of politics, it’s an expression of faith. Faith in “up the republic,” “wrap the green flag round me.”, “thank God we’re surrounded by water”, “burn everything British except its coal”, “don’t worry Missus, I’ll get you the medical card”.
It is akin faith in the Catholic Church. It took scandal after horror, after horror, after scandal to shake the power of the Catholic Church in Ireland. And still there are people who, in the teeth of the evidence, insist that it’s all the fault of the media. Now it is taking the ruin of the country to undermine faith in Fianna Fail.
There was a hymn we learned in school which went:
“Faith of our father’s , Holy Faith
We will be true to thee till death.”
And boy but we took those words to heart.
I think it’s because the Fianna Fail party is not an expression of politics, it’s an expression of faith. Faith in “up the republic,” “wrap the green flag round me.”, “thank God we’re surrounded by water”, “burn everything British except its coal”, “don’t worry Missus, I’ll get you the medical card”.
It is akin faith in the Catholic Church. It took scandal after horror, after horror, after scandal to shake the power of the Catholic Church in Ireland. And still there are people who, in the teeth of the evidence, insist that it’s all the fault of the media. Now it is taking the ruin of the country to undermine faith in Fianna Fail.
There was a hymn we learned in school which went:
“Faith of our father’s , Holy Faith
We will be true to thee till death.”
And boy but we took those words to heart.
Saturday 22 January 2011
Buffo Bows
Buffo bows to the inevitable and resigns. But it's only a partial resignation. He's resigned as leader of the party. He's still Taoiseach. So he's not fit for Fianna Fail but he is fit to lead the country?
This stuff is happening so fast we can't keep up.
But there are a number of young men marching on Dublin in protest about everything that has been happening in this green little island of ours. Will it be like Ghandi? Will people join them on their march? I hope so. I intend to. Let's see what gives.
This stuff is happening so fast we can't keep up.
But there are a number of young men marching on Dublin in protest about everything that has been happening in this green little island of ours. Will it be like Ghandi? Will people join them on their march? I hope so. I intend to. Let's see what gives.
Thursday 20 January 2011
ELECTIONS - AT LAST
We've had great excitement since Sunday. After numerous calls for his resignation and demands from all quarters for an election, the Taoiseach, otherwise known as Buffo rose on his hind legs in front of the T.V cameras and press.
"I'm proud," he said, "of the discussion our party has had."
It was behind closed doors so who are we to comment.
Then he declared that he had tabled a motion of confidence in himself for Tuesday and it would be a secret ballot. And immediately went into election mode. Tough decisions/ interests of the country/put the country first etc.
So they had their secret ballot. Buffo won. Then Ministers started resigning. By lunchtime to-day six Ministers were gone. Buffo could not be found. Mary Hanafin came on tele and did her best but looked pretty freaky-eyed as she tried to tell us that she didn't agree with the Taoiseach but she still supported him.
Then they announced an election.
Already the Fianna Failers are singing Buffo's tune
"We took the hard decisions,
And we know ye're all upset
But in the interests of the country
Fianna Fail is your very best bet"
And you took those "hard decisions" because...?
The downturn in the International Economy.
Why are we so much worse off than almost anyone else? We were, after all, one of the wealthiest countries in Europe before all this?
International markets/ banking crisis/ burble-de-burble-de-burble.
No. It's because you, the Fianna Fail party, who has been in office almost continuously since the foundation of the State have behaved like ignorant cute hoors and ruined us.
How do you expect us to have any faith in you if you don't have the guts to own up to your disgraceful behaviour in office.
We're not eejits.
"I'm proud," he said, "of the discussion our party has had."
It was behind closed doors so who are we to comment.
Then he declared that he had tabled a motion of confidence in himself for Tuesday and it would be a secret ballot. And immediately went into election mode. Tough decisions/ interests of the country/put the country first etc.
So they had their secret ballot. Buffo won. Then Ministers started resigning. By lunchtime to-day six Ministers were gone. Buffo could not be found. Mary Hanafin came on tele and did her best but looked pretty freaky-eyed as she tried to tell us that she didn't agree with the Taoiseach but she still supported him.
Then they announced an election.
Already the Fianna Failers are singing Buffo's tune
"We took the hard decisions,
And we know ye're all upset
But in the interests of the country
Fianna Fail is your very best bet"
And you took those "hard decisions" because...?
The downturn in the International Economy.
Why are we so much worse off than almost anyone else? We were, after all, one of the wealthiest countries in Europe before all this?
International markets/ banking crisis/ burble-de-burble-de-burble.
No. It's because you, the Fianna Fail party, who has been in office almost continuously since the foundation of the State have behaved like ignorant cute hoors and ruined us.
How do you expect us to have any faith in you if you don't have the guts to own up to your disgraceful behaviour in office.
We're not eejits.
Thursday 6 January 2011
AT THE WEXFORD OPERA
AT THE WEXFORD OPERA
I met Richard Wargo in Annamakerrig, the Artist’s Retreat in Co. Monaghan. The house felt like it was exploding but that was because the theatre group Charabanc was staying. Writers, musicians and visual artists tend to disappear into their studios and only emerge at night for food. Theatre groups are different. They’re often only able to stay for a short time so every second counts. And is some way which I don’t understand this intensive work seems to up everyone’s energy levels and the rest of us stop clutching our brows and get loads of work done as well. On top of that Charabanc were an all female group who made us all laugh and took no prisoners
Richard writes Opera and this was his first time in Ireland. He arrived into dinner tired, jet-lagged and looking like a teddy-bear that had been left too long in the rain. The Charabanc women ragged Richard him mercilessly. I felt sorry for him and tried divert their attention but Richard needed no help. We’ve been friends ever since.
Richard is a composer and has written two short Operas “Winners” and “Losers” based on the Brian Friel plays of the same name and this year “Winners” performed at the Wexford Opera Festival. Festival goers feared the worst, Richard is American and Friel is a literary god. It might be Riverdancing leprechauns.
I had my own fears. What would I say if it wasn’t much good? But as soon as it started I knew that I could relax. It was wonderful. Faithful to the Friel play and, at the same time, adding another dimension. It was funny and tragic and at the end I was in tears, my husband was in tears and most of the audience was also in tears.
There were only two disappointments.
1. The Festival did not use a full orchestra and,
2. On the night of the premier Richard had to bunk down with friends of friends because the festival did not provide his accomodation.
I met Richard Wargo in Annamakerrig, the Artist’s Retreat in Co. Monaghan. The house felt like it was exploding but that was because the theatre group Charabanc was staying. Writers, musicians and visual artists tend to disappear into their studios and only emerge at night for food. Theatre groups are different. They’re often only able to stay for a short time so every second counts. And is some way which I don’t understand this intensive work seems to up everyone’s energy levels and the rest of us stop clutching our brows and get loads of work done as well. On top of that Charabanc were an all female group who made us all laugh and took no prisoners
Richard writes Opera and this was his first time in Ireland. He arrived into dinner tired, jet-lagged and looking like a teddy-bear that had been left too long in the rain. The Charabanc women ragged Richard him mercilessly. I felt sorry for him and tried divert their attention but Richard needed no help. We’ve been friends ever since.
Richard is a composer and has written two short Operas “Winners” and “Losers” based on the Brian Friel plays of the same name and this year “Winners” performed at the Wexford Opera Festival. Festival goers feared the worst, Richard is American and Friel is a literary god. It might be Riverdancing leprechauns.
I had my own fears. What would I say if it wasn’t much good? But as soon as it started I knew that I could relax. It was wonderful. Faithful to the Friel play and, at the same time, adding another dimension. It was funny and tragic and at the end I was in tears, my husband was in tears and most of the audience was also in tears.
There were only two disappointments.
1. The Festival did not use a full orchestra and,
2. On the night of the premier Richard had to bunk down with friends of friends because the festival did not provide his accomodation.
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