mycolmarc

Renaissance Man says Yes He Can! Cheers Mr. Obama

2011-12-21T16:30:00.010Z

Eureka! I have at last found the ultimate answer to our modern life strife
When an absence of purpose and fulfilment can permeate ones very life
But it’s really no secret for the solution does not need a savvy soothsayer
So there is no need for wringing of your hands or even gasps of despair.

History often repeats itself you may recall in textbooks having often read
But unfortunately learning from it does not gain much social kudos instead
We are advised to concentrate on an ever specialised and refined life role
And can miss out on any positive world experience if we end up on the dole.

As an antidote many indulge in dull electronic trivia and banal social media
And some have recourse to drugs for reasons not requiring an encyclopaedia
So it is evident to all that trouble and personal strife has now come to the fore
But do not think us especially different, for man has faced this problem before.

In the Middle Ages artists were also prone to such exhortations of hocus pocus
But they found a solution in a broadening of their human sphere of mental focus
Thus Da Vinci was a great painter and an inventor of strange concepts appealing
And Michelangelo was the world’s finest sculptor and painter of the Sistine ceiling

In this manner these famous Renaissance Artists established their skills and their fame
For they needed to broaden their artistic scope if they were to keep ahead of the game,
So I have decided to broaden my own interests to embrace artistic skill and pure invention
And in this way I intend to dazzle my family and friends and hope to keep their attention.

From now on I will proudly proclaim to all ‘Yes I can’ like the President Barack Obama
And will forge a new spiritual renewal the likes of which characterise the great Dali Lama
My head is already teeming with wild artistic ideas which I can soon hopefully espouse
But to start off I shall in a simple way first apply myself to making a new hen house

But wait, where are the timber laths and nails which are essential for my creative work
Surely Michelangelo did not proceed without basic tools and so I’m being driven berserk
As a result my creative instincts are now stymied and I alas sit forlorn on my garret floor
And if I make too much fuss my family will ridicule my efforts and even call me a bore.

Thus the motto of this verse is Renaissance Artistic fervour is laudable and true to tell
But without proper tools and good equipment available, you might as well rot in hell
So perhaps its really best to reign in my own creative efforts at this Yuletide time of year
And simply to drink a fine toast to all and to offer my fond Twitter Friends good cheer!

Note: This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only.

Artistic Antagonisms, Anghiari And a Sweet Room in Hell.

2011-12-19T11:55:00.003Z

The battle of Anghiari is now more famous because of a lost masterpiece by Leonardo Da Vinci than any perception of the historic significance of the battle itself which took place between the competing forces of the city states of Milan and Florence in mid 1440. The actual painting has being lost for centuries due both to its method of execution and indeed political changes affecting Florence itself over the intervening centuries. However, the sketches which remain and the copy executed by Pieter Paul Rubens depict in stunning graphic detail the ferocity of the struggle between men and horses which characterised the battle and the visceral energy expounded by the participants. To a modern sensibility this may seem like a profound comment of the horrific intensity of human warfare but it was in fact commissioned in the 16th century to actually celebrate it from the perspective of the supposed glory of Florence.

I visited the pretty hillside town of Anghiari some years ago while on holiday in Arezzo and had seen the Leonardo sketches of the battle in a small local museum. However, I had no idea at that time that this work was the subject of a major competition in Florence pitting the then perceived greatest artists of the time directly against each other in producing paintings to adorn the Great Council Hall of the city until I read the wonderful book ‘The Lost Battles’ by Jonathan Jones. In this book he expertly analyses and explains the forces, both artistic, social and political that shaped the work of both Leonardo Da Vinci and Michelangelo Buonarroti in approaching their respective commissions within not only Florence but other key city states such as Milan and Rome at that time. It also introduces us to the personalities and political intrigues of key medieval figures such as Savonarola, Lorenzo de Medici, Machiavelli and Pope Julius among others who not only influenced but sometimes dictated the scope of the work being undertaken by both artists. In fact the Great Council of Florence deliberately encouraged and fostered the competitive ‘duel’ between these artists not only to encourage them to try harder to achieve artistic excellence but also as a symbolic expression of their power base and control of the local populace. Indeed, such was the intensity of the bitterness and rivalry actually forged between these two famous artists that Michelangelo himself wrote a verse in the margin of one of his drawings for the competition referring to the ‘dolce stanza nell’ inferno’-‘a sweet room in hell’.

The Lost Battles book captures in a realistic and profound way the level of intrigue and rivalry which gave rise to the social milieu within which both Leonardo and Michelangelo had to curry favour in order to work at all and the acute strains which developed between each artist as they sought to outmanoeuvre the other. In fact, it is interesting to note despite our own expressed ‘level field’ attitude to modern competitive commissions that such forces are all too evidently at work in the Arts today.

A final interesting aside to this historic perspective is the row, reported in the Irish Times of 4/12/2011, which has broken out among Italian Art experts over the decision to drill a hole through the great painting by Vasari which currently adorns the Great Hall of Florence but which it is thought may hide the lost painting of the Battle of Anghiari behind it. Once again in a small illustration that history repeats itself, the social, political and artist forces within and without the artistic establishment are at ‘war’ over this painting. For my own part, I feel that the artistic vision encapsulated within the sketches and reproductions should encourage us to reflect on the intensity of Leonardo’s vision rather than attempt to uncover small parts of a painting which even at the time of its execution was quickly falling into disrepair.

I would highly recommend Jonathan Jones fine book to anyone with a shred of interest in the forces which mould artistic endeavour and those great artists who give it tangible expression for the enjoyment of present and future generations.

Musical Magic with Kafka Cats and Wonderful Water-Ways!

2011-11-17T15:30:00.002Z

I’m sure that many people share my experience when I leave off reading for a while in that I find it difficult to refocus on the kind of new book that will both stimulate and perhaps amuse but at least will not bore. The recommendations in the newspapers are often unhelpful as they seem at time to veer wildly between ‘solid’ academic tomes and chick lite pap. So I was delighted recently when my good wife recommended the Japanese author Haruki Murakami to me and especially his novel ‘Kafka on the Shore’.
It is a marvellous read which in an often bewildering fashion blends the lives of twin character both young and old in a magically cohesive way linked by suspense, humour and the power and beauty of music as a medium of expression. Furthermore he mixes dreams and reality in a highly original way during which we meet lost cats and raining fish in such a mesmerising manner that I kept staying up late to sneak in another chapter.

As an accompaniment to reading I often find that some mellow music playing in the background, and perhaps an odd glass of wine, can relax the spirit and make the experience of the imagined fictional world more tangible. I have long been an admirer of the music of Toru Takemitsu, who also being Japanese, has an acute sensibility in his musical expression which I feel compliments the written words of Murakami. I chose Takemitsu’s cd Riverrun &Water-Ways to listen to during my recent reading and I found the music deeply moving and heart felt and a perfect companion to the book.

Thus, I would recommend to anyone reading this blog that they investigate the work of both artists. My good wife suggested that perhaps a little Sushi might add the final touch of excitement to my Japanese experience. However, the very idea of raw fish being consumed still leaves me cold but I might just try some Sake instead.

Note: Toru Takemitsu’s CD with Paul Crossley and the London Sinfonietta with Oliver Knussen are on the Virgin Classics label and of course, Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami is published in paperback by Vintage Books.

Followers Leading me on a Merry Twitter Dance?

2011-09-22T11:37:00.005+01:00

I have just reviewed my fond followers list on my home Twitter page
And the make up of this motley crew would even puzzle a savvy sage
You see a wish to keep up with my blog rantings is all good and well
But reviewing the interests of these Cyber tweeties is like visiting Hell.

The writers, publicists, economic pundits and media types are all very fine
But at voodoo and black magic interests one should surely draw a clear line
I know that people are just looking for some social media attention it is true
But like Jedward said, if you’re going to talk its better if you do it with two.

The trouble is that I have begun to see myself as a reflection of this media hype
With unfortunate consequences which run against my normal conservative type
For example, after I have on occasion taken to calling myself Laddie Da Da
After reading tweets on celebrity gossip and attempting to sing like Lady Ga Ga.

Cyber space singing may even be cool but there will certainly be no glitzy frock
As such manifestations of new image would hardly increase my ‘HE’ manly stock!
I suppose like @8Orion8 I could try to calculate how many cats reside on this earth
Or like @MakeMommyCoffee I could even befriend a unicorn for what its worth

More pointedly like @mduffywriter I could bravely assert that’ any dream will do’
Or even like @hlane try fen shui with dogs to get me out of my current cyber stew.
Should I even talk on FM radio and try like @Barbarascully to befriend a large spider
Or write fine short literary pieces like @Bigalphy before I take to drinking only cider.

I could have recourse to a Beatle with @Musicshosh on my Long and Winding Road
Or try ‘sort of’ everything as per @Tracytid to avoid being perceived as a social toad
Like @bloowriter I could assert the importance of intelligence in language of colour
Or @DrCesa assert psychology as a means of refining my sense of not becoming duller.

But in the end I have decided to follow @linda_grimes and seek solace in a hearty laugh
For her blog site is an ideal breadth of fresh air, good humour and not a little social gaffe
You see for me its not enough tweeting about cups of strong coffee or bubble and squeak
For in these times without humour social media has much interest for me as taking a leak.

So I am now renewed and ready with my followers for a new dawn on my Twitter Day,
As no new vast number or range of friends will be needed to tweet in a very positive way
So here’s thanking all my followers for their forbearance and the their keen sense of fun
As celebrity fame or fortunes are no substitute for real life when all is said and done.

Note: This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only.

No need to feel Forlorn as I'm Cooking up a Storm!

2011-08-14T13:03:00.003+01:00

Everyone does it with conviction whether at home or in business I hear you say
But the truth is I have never until now really thought about it in my very own way
You see that cooking was something best left to the wife or before her the mother
And committing time or energy to it was beyond me and really too much of a bother.

But now for once let’s sound the bugle and lets with total conviction issue a rallying call
For with idle time on my hands I have at last committed to master the art for once and all
And like any previous resolution in life I will study it with great precision and some care
For it’s useless to start out on this venture with no proper utensils or the cupboard bare.

So I have acquired a series of colourful cookbooks, mostly I’ll admit with fine Italian fare
And I have redecorated the kitchen to give it a new image of a sophisticated culinary lair
Of course I have also watched DVD’s of Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsey and even Contaldo
For though I wish to cook mostly Italian I don’t want to basically mix up freddo and caldo.

Like all men who aspire to taking lessons in life I am not ready to simply just rely on luck
For like Hester Blumenthal, my ambition is to run a famous restaurant like The Fat Duck.
I have already begun to take notes and to ponder whether snails go with salmon moose
But my wife remains very sceptical and thinks that I will just end up cooking my goose.

She should wait until she tastes my fine food and she can ask her friends round for tea
And perhaps she could even recommend me for TV fame or at least Come Dine with Me.
Yes there is no limit to my potential for achieving an expression of gastronomic delight
Alas my efforts so far could be deemed a trifle banal, trivial or even a sad and sorry sight.

Perhaps my first efforts in preparing Fegato Grasso al Balsamico left me in a sort of bind
And my wife’s view that my Risotto Primavera was just edible could even be deemed kind
Maybe I was a little over ambitious in first attempting to serve Tuscan Fagiano Tartufato
But I have to admit that her criticisms of my cooking process were beginning to ‘grato’.

So she took me aside, sighed and said that my cooking fare required some key reflection
For example, could I without any knowledge or skills achieve a harmonious perfection?
Cooking she said is an art form forged by many people over a lifetime of trial and error
And any attempt to master it by me over a weekend could lead to disaster or even terror.

In cooking like prison, she said, you have to do time and with my efforts she was pleased
But I’m not sure if this assuaged my sense of unfilled ambition or indeed of being teased.
She said why not start by aspiring to getting her breakfast in bed which would be super
And would give me a real break from rugby football matches and drink induced stupor.

I now realise that cooking for each other is best thought of as a form of human sharing,
And that the relative skills of each party should not be a source of friction to that pairing
But deep down in me there is still a small but smouldering sense of uneasiness and dread
Because I sometimes think that she may have hoodwinked me just to get breakfast in bed.

On balance though when I smell and taste her fine cooking I get a great sense of yearning
I suppose it’s not too much to ask to bring up her coffee, porridge and toast of a morning.
You see cooking fine dishes are but pastimes best enjoyed with friends purely for fun
And endless discussion on their relative merits is unnecessary when all is said and done.

Note: This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only.

Colour me Beautiful with Fish, Fruit and Florio wine!

2011-08-13T15:28:00.014+01:00

Words seem superfluous here because I am posting a few photographs largely for my own sake to remember fondly all the magnificent vibrant natural produce of the Sicilian seas and countryside which of course can best be savoured with a glass of wine. Although the Florio Marsala wine is very sweet and is therefore best enjoyed in a milder climate than the average 37 degrees of heat common throughout the summer in Sicily, it’s labelling at least catches the colour and light of the landscape where it is produced. A celebration therefore of Pure Magic all round!

A Sicilian Sogno with Cheerful Cherubs and 'Ellenico Splendico'

2011-08-13T14:39:00.012+01:00

It seems that we arrived too late in Syracuse. The famous tenor, Andrea Bocelli had been singing at the wonderful open air Greek Theatre the previous week. However, my wife and I did take time to visit the Theatre which is still in operation and dates from the 5th century B.C. It is a magical place set in the hills above the city and indeed it is only one of many Hellenic Splendours (Ellenico Splendore) to be found in Sicily from another open air Greek theatre in Taormina to the magnificent Greek Temple at Segesta. However, a few days later when we visited the famous baroque Town of Noto I came across a street trader selling cd’s in the market square and I was able to acquire from him Bocelli’s CD ‘Sogno’ or dream in English translation. It is a lovely collection of songs and we were able to listen to them in our apartment in Ortigia while we savoured the historical ambience and were seduced by the lovely old buildings of Syracuse.

Sicily is of course famous for its fine baroque buildings. This architecture dates from the late 16th century and was employed by the Catholic Church as an expression of triumphal power and prestige in response to the detractions proffered by the Protestant reformation. Thus it became a dominant force in Sicily after the devastating earthquake of 1693. There are of course many fine examples of Baroque architecture throughout the cities of Sicily. Indeed, Ortigia itself, being the area of Syracuse jutting out into the sea, is an UNESCO World Heritage site where 380million euro has been spent between 2001 and 2006 restoring the city infrastructure. However, it is probably Noto, which is more famous for its Baroque buildings probably because they dominate the whole character of the central area from the main piazza, to the town hall and the magnificent Duomo. It is also famous however for its Spring Festival which culminates in the “Infiorata di Via Nicolaci” when local artists decorate a steep narrow street in a carpet of flowers.

Although Baroque decoration and ornament can appear excessive and even a trifle ‘vulgar’ to some modern minimalist aesthetic tastes it is nevertheless a wonderful celebration of artistic endeavour at a particular period in Italian history. However, while acknowledging the significance and intrinsic value of this architecture I must say that I find the Italian fascination with ‘cheerful cherub’ stucco or Putti statues a bit ‘off putting’. These little chubby figures of supposed infant children are found in abundance in churches and paintings and we even found a pair of reproduction Putti attached over the bed head in our apartment. However, the most extreme example of these petty ‘puttis’ was I feel in the Cappella Palatina (Palace Chapel) on the upper floor of the castle in Castelbuono. It is described in the brochure as a “sumptuous spectacle extremely rich in images within a setting of the relic of the Virgin Mary’s mother”. However, such is the profusion of marble, stuccowork, putti and friezes that the overall effect is one of bizarre overindulgence in cherub chic. Indeed I feel that the brothers Guiseppe and Giacomo Serposa who are credited with this work must have had the historic equivalent of a Barbie doll fascination such was there affinity with these ridiculously banal cherub statues.

May I therefore end this little discourse by recommending to you a YouTube video of Andrea Bocelli singing with Eros Ramazzotti the song from the CD Songo called “Nel Cuore Lei” in which the following lines are sung and for me sum of the spirit and magic of Sicily:

“She’ll touch your heart” or in Italian”Ti prendere il cuero”

Sicily indeed renews one’s faith in baroque architecture and the people who continue to treasure it.

Enjoying Perfect Pizza with a side order of White Tiles and the Colour of the Wind

2011-08-06T12:08:00.007+01:00

If I were to list my favourite foods, pizza would not be high on the list. I have a particular aversion to the stodgy food under the pizza label, sold in many supermarkets packaged under the name of a gangster movie or card game title. In fact many of these pizzas resemble a flat pancake with a thinly spread dubious looking sauce and what appeared to be synthetic plastic like vegetables interspersed on top. Not a sight never mind a taste inclined to make one salivate in anticipation of a delicious meal. However, my opinion of Pizzas has changed radically after visiting the Calvino Pizze in Trapani on a recent visit to Sicily. This small establishment in the old town is famous for its wonderful freshly made food and local wine and does a roaring trade both in talk away pizzas and in house dining. Its layout is supposed to be based upon a Moroccan theme in that the interior is decorated with only white tiles with a green trim and green tablecloths and it has stepped ziggurat pattern of small opening between each eating area. It is the first restaurant where I have eaten where the toilet décor is exactly the same as the front house treatment. If the food were in any way questionable this décor might appear somewhat banal but in reality the food and wine are so good and the fellow guests and indeed staff so friendly that the whole experience could be said to be a gastronomic delight. The secret of course lies in the fresh ingredients used and the attention to detail employed in cooking the food. After this fine dining experience I would prefer to eat the packaging than resort to precooked supermarket pizzas ever again.

While visiting Trapani my wife and I stayed for a few nights in the wonderfully named “I Colori del Vento”, kindly translated by the owner for us as the colour of the wind. This small B/B establishment is located facing directly onto the seafront on the edge of the Old Town itself. Thus it is readily accessible to the fine Baroque buildings nearby but is also right beside the ferry to the Egadi Islands and also to the busy fruit and fish market adjoining the old port. The rooms themselves are spacious and nicely decorated and there is also a lovely reception room accessible all day where snacks and coffee are available. A particular nice feature was the nice music playing in the reception area when we arrived. Thus we were serenaded by Diana Krall and Cat Stevens at various times during our stay. I also feel that the music of Melody Gardot would find a true echo in this lovely place. In fact I was so impressed by the B/B name that I looked it up in Irish on my return. The nearest translation would be ‘Dathanna na Gaoithe’ I think. However, while the sound of the spoken Irish translation has a nice ring to it, I feel the original Italian one, I Colori del Vento’ really sings to you. Like the guesthouse itself it has a special resonance. Thus, if I was asked to choose a colour which best summed up our visit to Trapani I would have to refer to the title track from Donovan’s 1967 music album. It was aptly called ‘Mellow Yellow’ and that exactly summed up our holiday experience in the sun of Trapani despite temperatures reaching in excess of 37 degrees at times. Thanks to all concerned for making our Trapani break so special.

An Irish Twitter President for every Man in the Tweet!

2011-08-05T14:54:00.006+01:00

As you may know in Ireland the election race for the Aras* is now in full swing
But in betting on the candidates yet declared there is surely not any sure thing
So when I was recently reflecting on the nature of the policies, pundits and refrains
I could not but wonder if they really had any relevance to social media domains.

Poor old Davis Norris had to retire from the fray because of an inappropriate letter
But had he simply tweeted his views on the web he might have done a lot better
And now it is rumoured that Dana, Rosemary Scanlon, has cast her hat into the ring
But in society circles voting again for ‘all kinds of everything’ is hardly the done thing.

In the political sphere Gay Mitchell of Fine Gael seems to think the election is in the bag
But what of Michael D of Labour whose verbal eloquence has never been known to lag
Still I can’t help feeling that the ambition of many politicians owes more to ego or vanity
Not to mention the odd perk and a degree of high expenses that many regard as insanity.

In truth most young people are bored by the presidency and so we must make amends
If its role is to impinge positively on the quality of their lives or that of their friends
So what better place to find a new outlet for the President but on a social media forum
Where he/she could choose from Twitter or even Facebook without loosing decorum.

I would go even further by suggesting that the President be elected only by Twitter vote
And could then genuinely lay claim to the support of tweeters and many bleaters of note
The cost of the institution could be reduced and foreign travel would be greatly curtailed
As the President in web mode using access by tweet would be seen not to have failed.

But is this in itself really an adequately radical approach or do we new a new creation
For when all is said and done perhaps the answer best lies in the field of Pixar animation
After all do we need an actual human person in the role and so I exclaim what the heck
Couldn’t we simply draw up a new superman hero along the lines popularised by Shrek

I realise that this might prove a slight problem for Miriam O’C on her Saturday show
But we know she has had her fair share of Monsters and Aliens on previously, so let it go.
Our new President could adopt a name like SuperPres, Perkman or even Lark in the Park
And so you see that the options are endless but without Twitter the choices are stark.

But even the best animated character needs a distinct voice over artist to seal his fame
And I’m glad to relate here that I am reluctantly out of sense of duty up for the game
So if you in future choose to tweet your vote of approval to this humble Irish resident
Just curtsy at first to this newly created superhero and call me for know Mr President.

So lighten up friend, while this new animated character provokes a merry Twitter dance,
And please all you traditionalists, don’t just carp and adopt a too rigid judgemental stance
For Twitter experience has leads me to assert one crucial thing about any subject matter
That social media trivia is to some as fine as Alice in Wonderland or even the Mad Hatter

Note:*Aras refers to the current home residence of the Irish President in the Phoenix Park, Dublin.

This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only.

Ancient Mores, Front Doors and 'Hearths' of Gold!

2011-06-23T11:37:00.006+01:00

The folk tales of Ireland contain a wealth of myth and legend attached to traditional vernacular dwellings. There are several features common to these houses which served to symbolise the life cycle within and may have a resonance for our own very different lifestyle. Among the most striking of these features was the location of the front door and the hearth for the fire which were closely integrated.

In western areas of the country the door was often placed well away from the fireplace with a second door leading out through the back of the house directly opposite the front door. In windy locations these two doors were used to regulate the draught so that the kitchen fire did not smoke. Sometimes they were known as ‘doras na foittine’-the sheltered door and ‘doras na gaoithe’-the windward door. A stranger who presumably did not know the district or was unaware of the direction of the prevailing wind might try to gain admission by the wrong door and be gently reminded that he would make a poor sailor as he did not seem to be aware of the wind direction. In my own modern humble abode I also have two doors both front and rear. However, they do not function as symbols of the wind direction but rather as formal and informal social entry points to the house. I was amused some years ago when one our young children declared that the rear door was really the ‘front door’ as most of her school friends entered that way. It is sad to relate however that some modern houses have no front door at all but only an obscure side entrance thus offering a confusing symbolic greeting to those approaching the house. It is interesting to note that one of my favourite public houses in Galway is called the Front Door over the entrance facing one street and Sonnies on the other street entrance. Little do they realise but they may well be asserting the importance of a unique historic tradition and I’ll drink to that.

John O’Donohue in his book ‘The Four Elements-Reflections on Nature’ stresses the importance of fire as an elemental association in any settlement grouping. The hearth in traditional Irish dwellings is where this fire was accommodated within a house shelter. It was not only a place of warmth however as it was a place for imparting wisdom and knowledge and for social meetings. Here the ‘seanchai’ (storyteller) held court and the cultural traditions of the local people were handed down to future generations. Indeed it was the simple traditional equivalent of our modern technological information highway. Thus, John O’Donohue beautifully described it as ‘a theatre of word’.

However, with the increased urbanisation of modern life rural traditions are no longer learned informally but are taught academically according to explicit rules. The knowledgeable scholar has become the arbiter of public taste, while real choice is now constrained by shared aspirations forged within the confines of accepted good taste and social manners and within the dictates of styles of building deemed appropriate to our modern age. These building types are often the same whether for farmer or urban dweller, large family or small, rich or poor and may bear little or no relationship to community structure.

In the home, the television has replaced the hearth as the primary social focus and the I-Pad or home computer has become the primary means of acquiring or dispersing knowledge. Despite the huge number of animated interactions between those social media forums such as Twitter and Face book, perhaps there is a sad and lonely core of personal isolation at the heart of these endeavours. While I accept the personal value of these technological innovations, when it comes to our homes we should remember that a house should not be simply a structure which gives basic shelter and towards which we adopt an aesthetic attitude and a social aspiration. Rather it should also reflect the activities and personal associations of the people living within it. Hence, like out traditional predecessors we should endeavour to make a conscious place in our home for flexible social interaction whether through food preparation, family dining or indeed group conversation around the fire in the Hearth. It is not for nothing that the Irish proverb had a special place in our hearts:

“Nil aon Tintean mar do Thintean Fein”
(Translated: ‘There is no Hearth like your own Hearth’ or more simply Home is where the heart is.

DeMent,Dinosaurs and the Devils Spine Band in Galway

2011-06-21T11:14:00.008+01:00

Firstly today I have to confess to an addiction. I have had it now over 30 years and it flares up every July in varying degrees and it’s is highly contagious and has affected my children and in turn my young grandchildren are now starting to show distinct signs of its pervasive influence. Its symptoms are usually defined in turn by sudden bursts of wild laughter, dramatic jaw dropping wonder, magical musical outbursts and a tendency to take to the streets in the most outlandish garb and costume. In its earliest manifestation this infection was confined by the World Heath Authorities to a small area around a small city in the west of Ireland but recently its influence has spread across the globe. It knows no barriers of culture or creed and indeed many sufferers have been known to carry the affects of its benign affliction from one year to the next. It is an addiction shared by famous actors and humble artisans alike and it goes by the name of the Galway Arts Festival and this years Festival runs from 11-24th July in the City of the Tribes.

I read in the national press in the last few days how some 70,000 people attended an open air concert in Dublin where they witnessed a small group of singers perform on a stage in the centre of a football pitch and tried to follow them in close up on huge television screens on either side of the stage. Perhaps this was a worthy spectacle but it certainly was hardly an intimate concert. Had they decided to visit Galway in July instead, they could have attended an intimate concert by Blondie, Afrocubism or De La Soul in the Festival Big Top Tent, gone to the World Premiere of Misterman with Cillian Murphy in the Black Box Theatre and literally touched and been touched by the ‘Fierce Beauty’ of the famous Macnas performers through the narrow winding streets of the Medieval city. They could probably also have done this for less than the cost of the Dublin concert and they still would have had time for a drink or meal in the Latin Quarter of Galway after the show. If they needed a break from the magical mayhem of the Arts they could always visit the wonderful scenery of Connemara to the north of the city or indeed the dramatic landscape of the Burren to the south.

I suppose I should admit that I am not entirely an unbiased spectator in the sphere of the Galway Arts Festival. Although I have no direct involvement in the Festival itself and therefore this blog is written entirely in a personal capacity, I was the architect for both the Town Hall Theatre and the Black Box theatre where some of the Festival events take place. Indeed I have very fond memories of an open air concert performed by Chinese drummers before a crowd of thousands in front of the Black Box soon after its opening. Thus my sole reason for this little blog is to remind everyone to support this wonderful Festival especially during a time where the economic recession is affecting the Arts so badly. As usual there is a wonderful variety of performance scheduled covering theatre, music and dance and I have especially noted the attraction of Iris DeMent, whose music has been featured on the soundtrack of the film ‘O Brother Where Art Thou’, the children’s spectacle of the Dinosaur Petting Zoo and 'saloon' theatre of The Devils Spine Bank inspired by Oscar Wilde’s visit to the mining town of Leadville, Colorado in 1881.
Indeed it was Oscar Wilde himself who proclaimed that the best way to overcome temptation is to yield to it. So I will be feeding my addiction happily again this year and my long affection for the Festival is underlined by the number of old festival posters on walls throughout our house, photos of some of which are included with this blog.

May I end therefore with a quote from the Festival brochure on the Macnas parade ‘This Fierce Beauty’ which I feel underlines both the beauty not only of the Macnas personnel but also of the entire Festival staff of volunteers:

“Somewhere in space
My heart hangs
Sparks streaming,
Shaking the air
To other boundless hearts.”

Enjoy the Festival.

A Snap Shot on Blue Moods,Green Fingers and Little White Lies

2011-06-17T10:39:00.020+01:00

Let’s face it; my gardening process is never going to win me an award at the Chelsea Flower Show like my compatriot Diarmuid Gavin. Far from managing to design a flower garden suspended in mid air, I am finding it difficult to control the one I have at ground level. The severe cold weather last spring damaged or even killed many tender plants and frequent downpours in recent weeks have made it difficult to even cut the grass never mind attend to the needs of flowering shrubs. This has led to some blue moods of despondency at times. It also occurred to me that my wife and I have been spending large amounts of time each year transporting weeds and decaying vegetation from one part of the garden to another and then returning it back the next year in the form of compost. This work was so extensive and back breaking that we resembled bit players in the Coen Brothers movie ‘O Brother Where Art Thou’ in that we could have been taken for members of a chain gang on a prison farm. Thus we have decided to ‘execute’ these weeds in future rather than transport them to pastures new. With our new resolve to stop ‘Dead Weeds Walking’ as it were, we find that we have more time and energy to manicure our green fingers and apply them to positive gardening. Thus, some recent photos posted by some of my blog followers of their own idyllic shrubberies and lovely lawns have enhanced my enthusiasm and sense of purpose in applying me to the restoration of my own humble patch of green. So I am posting some photos of my own garden as a work in progress. However, I must admit that I feel a little guilty about the subjective close ups of some of these pictures as they as yet are not typical of the garden as a whole. I hope though that in offering a limited and somewhat false photographic perspective on the overall garden condition, my fellow green garden goblins will forgive me my little white lies.

PS. Our grandchildren consider our hens and indeed the garden their ‘gnome away from gnome’, which may help to explain the increasing number of little cherub like statues beginning to proliferate there! Hi Ho! Hi! Ho! It’s off to work we go---

Special Thanks to @TheIrishMother and @Peepsqueak for lovely photos shared.

Turner Landscape: Celebrating 40 Years in 'Toon' with his Times

2011-06-13T12:12:00.009+01:00

Martyn is now celebrating a 40 year birthday in drawing great cartoons
So hooray for his insight into politicians, despots, villains and mad loons
For he merges humour and terse words with great images in pen and ink
Of this wide human spectrum as there is no bottom to which some will sink

Here he has portrayed the vanities of Haughey, Ahern and others with unerring eye
And with his expert sketches and concise words has made pundits eat humble pie
Abroad he has featured Gadaffi, Gorbachev, Franco, Thatcher and even Tony Blair
With a unique humorous perception that would make even them smile to be fair.

In the North he has lampooned IRA bombers and Orange men marching with brollies
While in the South he has cleverly linked our Bank Bailouts to abject political follies
In Environmental concerns he has warned of the dangers of Chernobyl and Sellafield
And in Public Life of a motley crew of corrupt politicians who wheeled and dealed

Of course all his cartoons are expertly drawn and he’s a great caricaturist, it’s true
But as you’ve probably like me spent 40 years loving them, that’s not news to you.
In Saturday’s paper he tells Kathy Sherdian about listening to the radio and a 7am start
And of dwelling on concepts and cucumbers to set a vision of the food scare apart.

I myself have a confession to make as every day I firstly search the Times for his work
And if I don’t find it I look blankly at the page in despair and feel like going berserk
Ah wait, didn’t I myself feature in one of his fine drawings which my fond daughter got
But it’s a privilege to be included within such a gallery of chancers and the odd media lot.

Many may not know that he started out when England won 1966 World Cup Soccer fame
So I’ll have no problem being long entertained if he works until they win that Cup again
I suppose like him I could start living in France or even consider acquiring an Irish Setter
But really I would much prefer to just follow his cartoons as I genuinely know no better

So let’s raise a glass and send Happy Birthday wishes to a cartoonist who is the real deal
That is until tomorrow or the next day when I can savour his latest cartoon with my meal
Thanks to Martyn then for all the laughs and the insight and toon punchlines set to tease
For without your cartoons, life would just be all too dreary with certainly less to please.

Note: Photos taken from Saturday's Irish Times and Martyn Turner book cover.

Hey Jack Doh! What are you Crowing about?

2011-06-11T21:09:00.003+01:00

It may come as a surprise even to the likes of Sir David Attenborough, the noted naturalist, but Jackdaws in fact drink! Of course I do not simply mean that they imbibe water but that they have a penchant for beer or indeed any other alcoholic drink for that matter. You may well ask how I have come to acquire such insightful knowledge of their behavioural disposition. In fact I became aware of this peculiar characteristic a few weeks ago when I was awoken by the shrieks of two Jackdaws fighting with each other on our roof at about 4 o’clock in the morning. There is no other viable explanation for their loutish behaviour other than the fact that they had previously consumed large amounts of an alcoholic beverage earlier in the night. I make this definitive observation from my experience of similar behaviour exhibited by humans after partaking in protracted drinking binges. This point may be difficult to fathom for many at first but may I remind you that our house is located in close proximity to several village pubs where patrons have been know to discard half empty beer cans after leaving these drinking emporiums at closing time. Thus our feathered friends swoop down and consume the dregs from the cans with the resultant ‘ri ra agus ruaille buaille’ (irish for mayhem) on my roof at night.

However, noise and disturbance from these rakish rooks is not confined to the night time hours as they have taken up residence in several of our chimney pots and are refusing to leave. In fact, one could say that they are proclaiming ‘squawkers’ rights in this matter. They squeal and cry in the chimney flues during the day to such a degree that I find it difficult to concentrate on the melodious chants of the Gregorian monks which often can be heard on my CD player. In fact I find their antisocial behaviour a source of extreme discomfort both day and night. This is particularly distressful as I recently just gotten used to the rural pleasures of squealing hen parties in the coop, cats cavorting in the shrubs, neighing nags (Connemara ponies) in the fields behind the house and barking bitches (neighbours dogs) in a sort of canine chorus of nightly sounds. My good lady sleeps blissfully through this entire clamour and says that I am simply a ‘clownie from the townie’ at heart and that I should be able after some 30 years living in the countryside to make some concessions to the nocturnal niceties of rural living.

However, I was adamant that I would not ‘brook these rooks’ or let them get the better of me. At first, I decided to turn up the sound on my CD player to such a degree that it would drown out their constant wailing. Unfortunately, the sound carried further than I had imagined and I was accused of holding a ‘shebeen’ in my house late at night. For a while I must admit that I developed a kind of crow obsession and could be seen listening to Sheryl Crow and indeed Counting Crows at all hours of the day and night. In fact the whole scene was reminiscent of the Hitchcock mover ‘The Birds’ such was the sense of impending disaster pervading our house. However, when one day I heard my good wife explain to my daughter that her father was showing severe signs of rural stress, in what she referred to as my ‘Bats in the Belfry’ disposition, I must admit that I was beginning to feel that I might be letting the matter get to me just a little more than I had first realised.

At last, I hit on a viable solution and as a distraction from the crows I started counting sheep at night. This procedure was at first not helped by questions from my good lady in the morning asking ‘did you sheep well’ last night. However, I am glad to report that I am now sleeping like a new born lamb. I have begun to act in a more tolerant manner to my immigrant chimney friends and indeed with the help of my sheep counting exercises the crows no longer knock a feather out of me. There is one small anxiety however which my perceptive wife has quietly mentioned to me in passing. She ventured an opinion that I might simply be replacing one animal obsession with another one. Of course this is ridiculous I replied sheepishly, as there is no way that I am going to allow such theories to pull the wool over my eyes.

To Quote the Sheryl Crow song lyric:

“ All I wanna do is have some fun, I got a feeling I’m not the only one---“

All comments and musings on this daft nonsense welcome!

Reflecting on Rocks, Resonance and the Stone Slabs of Heaven

2011-06-08T11:21:00.010+01:00

In any attempt to give tangible expression to man’s physical presence on earth, the relative long term place association with his landscape surroundings is surely one of the most important. In this respect, those elements which are relatively stable over time can afford special spiritual and sacred refinement to his cultural development and evolution. Thus, stone in its many manifestations throughout the landscape of Ireland has been a major source of inspiration and has been the focus of myths, legends and folktales down through the centuries.

The reason behind these current reflections on the value of stone is partly because of a wonderful book I picked up recently during an afternoon walk in Oughterard, County Galway. It is called “Stones of Adoration-Sacred Stones and Mystical Megaliths of Ireland” by Christine Zucchelli, and is an enchanting exploration of the origins and rituals associated with stones in ancient and modern times. The book refers, in clear terms through text and photos, to the background and social context of megalithic tombs, passage graves, standing stones and indeed even beds of stone for ‘old hags and fair maidens’. I particularly liked the story of the sorcery that was employed to weaken the warrior Cuchulainn and the ancient history behind that ‘Big Man’s’ Stone.

For my own part, I have personal recollections of the background behind The Proleek Dolmen, known as the ‘Giant’s Load’, where those wishing to find themselves a partner would throw a small pebble onto the capping stone. If the pebble did not fall down, the applicant could assume that he or she would be married within a year. I myself tried this out successfully when young and although I cannot recall whether my own marriage followed within a year of the event, I san say that its continuing longevity testifies that it was not a ‘rocky’ experience. At any rate it can still be viewed in the grounds of Ballymascanlon Hotel outside Dundalk and so far I have not heard of anyone disputing the powers of the stone.

Some of the more fascinating descriptions in the book refer to the origins of the Ogram inscriptions on stones going back to the time of the mythical Tuatha De Danann tribe and also to the influence of the Sheela-na-Gig statutes which feature naked female figures that emphasise the genital area and have been seen by many as a symbol of fertility and protection for women with spiritual significance even to this day. In fact the entire book ranges over a vast variety of stone types from birth stones to wishing stones and even ones associated with ‘petrified sinners’. I have pleasure in posting a few photos from the book but I would highly recommend it to those with a sense of awareness of the importance of their experience of soul as witnessed in stone symbols employed through the passage of time.

My final reason for reflecting on stone at this time was the decision, partly prompted by the book, to remove the ivy covering the old stone wall at the back of the garden. Some of the stones probably originate from the outhouses of an old landlord residence long demolished and have lain covered by ivy for at least 30 years. So over the holiday weekend I began laboriously to remove the layers of clutching vines and was very pleased to discover a wide range of both granite and limestone shapes of different size and colour. Indeed if Christine Zucchelli’s book is to be believed, some of the round stones uncovered could well be ‘swearing stones, cursing stones or protective idols’. At any rate such was the effort required to dislodge the ivy from underneath some stones that a few new curses emanated from yours truly during the clearing process. The Irish tradition for the construction of random rubble, dry stone walls can be seen stretching across most of the western seaboard from the famous Burren limestone crags in Clare to the wild hills and bogs of Connemara and even across the barren stone strewn landscape of the Aran Islands. It is therefore nice to think that in opening up and restoring a natural wall feature one is participating in an action which has a resonance in Ireland across the Millennium of time. It was truly a life affirming ‘ripple of a pebble in a pool’ moment for me.

Thus, on finally inspecting the cleared wall I was pleased to echo the words of Saint Colmcille, my namesake according to my parents, uttered in the sixth century:

“Let not the Old Glen be violated, the site of the Stone Slabs of Heaven”.

All comments and musings welcome!

How can I lose while singing the Tweet Twittter Blues?

2011-05-23T15:03:00.004+01:00

I believe you are now on Twitter said my illustrious home dinner guest
So please don’t think me inconsiderate or perish the thought, a mere pest
But I can’t understand why people would want to make comments so trite
Which most people would consider banal, trivial or even a harsh slight

On characters who have no recourse to respond in return or even explain
But must simply put up with the anguish of written abuse and often pain
And I believe that some of these Twitter pages are linked to extensive blogs
With content longer but no better, so I really think we are going to the dogs.

But of course I’m sure that your own contribution is not stuck in this rigid bind
So some day you must afford me a chance to read your blog if you would be so kind
But in the meantime could you shed some light on this Twitter Social Media forum
Without being too harsh a critic of my acute observations or loosing your decorum.

I sighed and said that this new Social Media can at times give us all cause for reflection
For example, does Twitter domain in any way enhance society’s harmonious perfection?
But there is really no need to get too serious and po faced about it, so just have a ball,
As its purpose is to provide a social outlet for written fun and frolics to one and all.

140 characters long Tweets can appear basic and even obtuse, and some are never pleased
But this is hardly a reason for philosophical rants or Twitter writers being so often teased.
Indeed many Tweets exemplify intelligent content with a thought balance which is super
Unlike some male pastimes which settle for football fantasies and drink induced stupor.

So lighten up friend, lest you get carried away in a self absorbed judgemental stance
As I suggest that Tweet humour is the missing chink in the armour of your sorry dance
For Twitter experience has leads me to assert one crucial thing going right to the core
Of tweeting successfully to others whether friend or foe and that is never to be a bore.

Tweets are like little ephemeral small bubbles blown fondly by children into the air
Which are sensed for a moment of magic and then burst and are gone from your stare
So if you think of them in this light way they will always be a source of simply pleasure
To be enjoyed happily on your I-phone or home computer as a form of innocent leisure

My own Twitter and blog addiction is I feel a mild vice and should cause little plight
Even if it can lead to midnight sojourns to check for new tweets downstairs at night.
Thus we should try to share our tweet enjoyments and blog discourses purely for fun
For it’s a harmless diversion from sadly singing our blues when all is said and done.

Note: This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only but do not ask for my credits as refusal may offend!

A Feather in my Cap with the Pecking Order Restored

2011-05-17T10:26:00.011+01:00

I had occasion yesterday to recall one of the insightful maxims of that great philosopher of our times, Judy Judge, who is often inclined to stress that ‘no deed is too good to go unpunished’. The reason for this reflection was my noticing that one of my ‘free range’ hens was showing distinct signs of being bullied by her immediate neighbours. Those of you familiar with this blog will recall that I have two hen enclosures, one containing the original two Rhode Island reds and another larger one that was constructed later containing two more Rhode Island reds but also a French Maran Hen and Light Sussex breed. However, in the last few days I noticed that the French Maran hen had missing feathers around her neck and on part of her breast plate. I watched carefully and decided that it might be better to put all the Rhode island reds into the larger enclosure and put the Maran and Sussex hens into the smaller pen for the welfare of all. I surmised that peace might then reign supreme. However, on inspecting the hens at dusk I found that two Rhode Island reds were attempting a sort of ‘Coop’ d’etat on their new arrivals and that the latter were cowering in the corner afraid to go inside to the dry roistering area for the night. I thought that overnight that the French Maran would surely forge a ‘detente cordial’ in her new enclosure at least. Alas she also seems somewhat bewildered and now the French hen seems red, with white (light Sussex hen) and feeling blue. Thus, on inspecting the ‘flock’ this morning I found that all seems distressed and disoriented and hence I decided that it would be best to restore the pecking order as it were and put the hens back where they originally resided. Of course this took me a good hour to catch them and restore them to the original enclosures. Thus my concept of a good deed was misplaced and all hens are happily now producing eggs as before.

However, as I was consuming my daily egg for breakfast this morning after my hard boiled adventure I could not but recall the sucking stones discourse in ‘Molloy’ from Samuel Beckett’s wonderful book. He also has a somewhat similar if more complex dilemma in trying suck sixteen stones in order without sucking any one twice before the other. I recommend that you google this passage and it is wonderfully humourous. I felt an echo in my own vain attempts to distribute the hens safely in groups of two without causing them distress but of course like Molloy I had to abandon the principle. Hence a small quote from the book may seem apt here:

“ There was something more than a principle I abandoned when I abandoned the equal distribution, it was bodily need”.

Of course in the end Molloy gives up and states that he doesn’t give a ‘tinkers curse’ which way the stones are sucked. But it is the overriding desire to organise, plan and distribute the stones in groups between his pockets while sucking them in turn which wonderfully captures the human need to give order and purpose to the world despite the irrational point of this exercise from a limited philosophical perspective. So I’m glad that Molloy did not have to solve the problem of redistributing my hens but I’m sure that he would understand the ‘bodily need’ to do it.

Note: Poultry (some in chocolate) photos from home and Damme, Belgium.

The Celthick Tiger and the 3 Little Pigs

2011-05-16T14:24:00.005+01:00

I have always wanted to try my hand at writing a short story for children which adults could also appreciate so as a trial run as it were, this blog discourse is my first attempt:

There once was a little tiger called Celthick who lives in a far off place on the edge of Europe. Although he had in fact broad strips on his back and could roar like other Tiger Cubs, he was in fact very different because he was really an electronic toy model who needed constant recharging to keep going. Celthick lives in Jedland where everything was done twice, when elsewhere one would normally suffice. It appeared to him that everyone had two houses, two cars and two children and so Celthick felt very alone at times as he had no other tiger cub to play with. Over time he became more and more distressed and his batteries became flat. One day he saw a little bird perched on a tree whom he knew as Ollie Wren, who although a very small bird had a reputation for wisdom, and he asked him what he should do. After studying his figure(s) for some time Ollie concluded that his problem arose because he was really a transformer toy and because no one had thought to change his profile, he was stuck in tiger mode. He suggested that he ask someone to change him. At first Celthick could not find anyone to help him and he sat alone wishing for a Merkel (German miracle). He also came across a Little Red and Blue Riding Hood who offered to help but he soon realised that this was just a sarky loup (French wolf) in a child’s clothing. He was totally despondent until he happened upon a boy called Chopra who was a Toymaster and was adept at transforming toys into many fantastic and unusual figures. Chopra set to work on Celthick and he was soon ‘bailed out’ of his tiger fix. To his great surprise he was now magically transformed into a Pig.

At first Celthick was not entirely overjoyed to be cast as a pig but he was assured by Chopra that there were at least two other prominent Portuguese and Greek pigs in Europe. He also told him that the famous historical flight of the wild geese from Ireland was in fact a flight of the pigs and that many fine Jedland people had made pigs of themselves while abroad. Celthick was still a bit apprehensive but he then remembered other famous pigs like Peppa and George and he further consoled himself that he could have been turned into a dinosaur or worse. So he happily accepted that Chopra’s transformation could have been rasher although he was warned not to tell too many porkies about the contents of his little piggybank. For a while he contended himself by reading the many Bacon reports in Jedland but he was still unhappy about his Celthick name.

One day Celthick was watching ‘STY’ tv when he heard that President Obuma was coming to Jedland. Of course this was not the president’s real name. He was sometimes referred to as plain Hank from Hawaii but he was also called Obuma for short after his affectionate tendency to say ‘Oh bummer’ after every request he received to totally change the world for the better in a few months. President Obuma was pleased to meet Celthick because he remembered his nations own problems with their Bay of Pigs event. Celthick asked him how he could change his name. The president thought hard for a long time and offered to introduce a few navy seals to distract attention from the pigs. However, he finally suggested a more radical and simple solution. He suggested that the little pig drop his ‘thick’ name appendix status and concentrate more on being a true Celt from now on. The little pig was elated and is now a happy and contented pig that will live happily if in penury for years to come. And in honour of his sage presidential advice he is now called Barack Celt in Jedland but still Hank Celt in Hawaii.

So the moral of this little tale is that you may think that your troubles may last until ‘pigs will fly’ but in reality if at first you don’t succeed just Sty, Sty, Sty again.

Note: This nonsense for amusement purposes only and does not purport to refer to any real pigs either living or imagined.

A Picture of a Poet Peddling and Market Meddling off Pat

2011-05-14T11:10:00.004+01:00

On a recent visit abroad, some friends of ours gave us a cutting from the International Herald Tribune with a photo of what the paper described as a ‘poet peddling’ his work on the street and set this in the context of the Irish Government concerning itself with the easing of the country’s debt crisis. However, the two subjects are entirely unlinked as the poet in the photo is one Pat Ingoldsby who in fact has been selling his poetry on Westmoreland Street in Dublin for many years seemingly more concerned with the welfare of his own cat ‘Willow’ than any economic Celtic Tiger. In fact Pat has self published some twenty volumes of poetry, prose and even children’s books and is a well known feature of the Dublin Urban landscape. The Irish Times recently had a feature article dedicated to the launch of his latest book called “I thought you died years ago”. It would appear that some people knowing that Pat is now in his late sixties sometimes pose this question to him with typical Dublin sensitivity and reticence. Pat is quoted as stating that he felt ‘almost as if I let them down by not doing so (dying). I always apologise and promise to try harder’. The poems of Pat Ingoldsby are acutely perceptive and full of pathos and humour. In fact, they often remind me of the work of the American writer Richard Brautigan in the early seventies such is there lovely gentle humour linked to a highly imaginative take on the human condition. I would like to quote as an example part of his poem called ‘The Last Supper’ from his book “If you don’t tell anybody, I won’t” published in 1996:

“The man with nowhere to go
Stood under
The cold petrified
Night-time tree
In the middle of
O’Connell Street.
Because he had nothing
else to do
he joined up
all the white dots
which the birds had dropped
onto the pavement
and he created
a perfect picture
of the Last Supper.”

Pat Ingoldsby says that he continues to wander the world with a trolley full of books and dreams. At this stage I probably know some of his older poems ‘off Pat’, i.e. by heart, so I am particularly looking forward to reading his new book. Finally, the newspaper photo of him has a poster saying ‘ Dublin Poet I’d be a God anywhere else’. Well, to some of us who are acutely appreciative of his personal charisma and wonderful work, he indeed manifests the touch of the Almighty.

Coseying up to Clint, Clones and Cliches in the Wild West

2011-05-13T21:01:00.008+01:00

It would appear that people respond in many different ways to the pressures on the current economic recession. However, I have noticed in my own personal domain a tendency to find solace by revisiting the simple story lines and basic rhetoric of the western dramas which characterised my formative youth. As a boy my heroes were taken from the TV western series such as Cheyenne, Bronco Lane, Laramie and Wells Fargo which we viewed on TV and later from John Wayne and Clint Eastwood movies. You may indeed consider this an example of simply nostalgia and harmless escapism. However, of late I have noticed an alarming tendency for such basic western homespun philosophy to manifest itself in simple observations and perceptions. I fact like a strange manifestation of an American Republican Party philosophical conversion, this process has become a sort of ‘elephant’ in the room.

For example, while my wife and I were watching a western on TV the other night, I could not but notice that she had a blanket drawn up around her neck like a Clint Eastwood clone and that in her remarks she was certainly ‘shooting from the hip’ when she suggested that I make supper for her. She added that I had done this ‘Once upon a time in the West’. So to please the ‘love interest’ in my home movie scenario I rustled up some beef jerky and baked beans! It would seem however that she would have preferred an ‘Indian’ so when I suggested that we mosey down to our local saloon and get a Sarsapilla for her and couple of shots of Bourbon for me, she told me to hitch my horse to another rail of the OK Corral. Shucks, life ain’t easy getting her to ride the High Country to the Last Chance Saloon. Of course, I could have got plum riled up by my little Calamity Jane but fortunately we have been through the Good, the Bad and Ugly together for more years than I care to remember so I figured I’d stick around and simply Play Misty for Me. She then proffered the observation that I was becoming a High Plains Drifter since my work had dried up like a water hole in the Sonoma Desert. I responded that I had in fact big plans to cut me a few steers from our neighbour’s cattle and take them on a cattle drive down to Clifden. But she sneezed at this idea and said she would not put it ‘El Paso’ me to act dumb in this way. She then added that I would soon run out of rope in my search for a fast buck as I was a just another City Slicker trying to follow my own ‘Legend of Curly’s Gold’. I must admit that I quit chewing the cud with her at that stage as I remembered my western saying ‘When in doubt, let your horse do the thinking’. So even though I may be Unforgiven at home, I have decided to saddle up at High Noon and ride out with the Sons of Katie Elder. For after all, as John Wayne himself would have it: ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do’.

Shucks the hell I will.

“Cheyenne, Cheyenne, where will you be travelling tonight,
Lonely man, Cheyenne, will your heart stay free and bright”

Theme from WB Cheyenne Bodie Western tune on YOUTUBE

Note: This nonsense is just for idle amusement purposes and my very own Calamity Jane actually remains the love of my life in our little House on the Prairie!

Happy Easter to Lambs,Hens and a Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

2011-04-19T17:14:00.017+01:00

After a year on Twitter in March last I was reviewing my humble blog dalliances and noticed that my Little Bo Peep (sheep followers) blog was the most popular during the last year. However, despite still attempting a passable take on John Ford in ‘The Sheepman’ western who kept trying to bring his herd of sheep to town only for the cattlemen to turn him back, I have indeed lost a few stray sheep myself during this period. However, as it almost time for the Easter Parade, as it were, I feel that it is now time for me to concentrate more of the welfare of my little lambs rather than my sheep. In this respect therefore, I hope you will bear with me a moment and allow me to indulge my affection for my two grandchildren without raining on my parade. In the pantheon of lovely lambs, these two little grandsons, that I refer to as Fanboy and Chum Chum (to protect their identity in cyberspace) are surely the most precious of all. That it why I have been out in the garden ‘designing’ (I didn’t quality as an architect for nothing) and constructing a mini golf course where they can play with their plastic clubs/ golf balls. Even if both are not quite seven years old yet, I feel that Rory McIlroy will soon have to contend with competition from two new Masters.

Easter is of course a very productive time for our six hens and most days we have an egg from each, leading to my wife and I having to offload some free range eggs on our neighbours. I include a few proud photos of our hens and their eggs but also some photos of chocolate eggs courtesy of Liam & Maire Payne of the Olio & Farina shop in Galway. You really have to credit that Italian company with both the quality and presentation of their lovely confectionery. Yum, Yum! Finally, I should for my daughters sake also pay tribute to our ‘ancient’ cat called ‘Catouille’, who greets me first thing each morning and sits beside me in the sun when I am out gardening. You could not have a nicer companion while you work but alas as soon as my wife returns in the car she hopes up on the bonnet to best gain advantage from the warmth of the engine. In her affection for sunbathing on the metal car bonnet, I feel that even Tennessee Williams might not mind me referring to her as a ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof’.

Let me end therefore by genuinely thanking all those who have followed my twitter site during the last year and particularly those who have tweeted me or left messages on my comments column. At a time of significant stress in my professional life, you have been a source of great amusement, acute observation and kind human contact. Thank you and may you all enjoy a Happy and Healthy Easter.

Up off your Aras if you want to become a Roget's Thesaurus

2011-04-16T20:58:00.022+01:00

There are some whose greatest ambition is to occupy the Presidential Aras,

But for me my fondest wish is somehow to become a Roget’s Thesaurus.

I realise for many this is banal, trite and even perhaps extremely absurd,

But even they have to admit that I then would never be lost for a word.

At present I labour to finish the crossword whether Simplex or Crosaire,

But as a Thesaurus I could find a ready solution without pause or care.

No more expletives would issue leading to calls to the local constabulary,

As my ever present wordy options would help increase my vocabulary.

I could confer verbal charity of expression like a linguistic Chuck Feeney,

And could aspire to matching a poetic master like one Seamus Heaney.

Moreover, these verses would not as at present lack rhyme or reason,

But would have multiple choices for words appropriate to every season.

I know some are still sceptical and consider this just so much babble,

But they must admit that I could be very effective in winning at Scrabble.

So I do not need to just differ with you, and feel I should now take a bow,

Because the Thesaurus me could also bicker, disagree, quarrel and row.

I feel that I would soon acquire a name for being insightful, cultured and erudite,

And this despite the fact that plebs among you may well profess to not giving a sh*te.

Words like magnetic, magnification and magnificence will simply slip of the tongue,

And I will introduce new words like dollop, dolour and dolorous really just for fun.

But wait, a sudden thought, concept, belief, musing, or idea has entered my brain,

Which if it goes unchallenged or unquestioned could mean I would be acting in vain.

Perhaps not the number of words but there application is the secret of literary fame,

So simple usage of an ever increasingly variety will not in itself win me the game.

Alas mere recourse to a wide language facility could occasion gibber, gibberish and gibes,

A reflection upon which one should give serious thought before one swallows or imbibes.

Yet an extensive and comprehensive literary usage is an asset when all is said and done,

So let’s raise a glass and give praise to the dictionary, glossary, wordbook and lexicon.

Note: Aras means residence in Irish as in 'Aras an Uachtarain' meaning the Presidents residence.

This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only.

Ghost Light reflections with Georgia on my Mind

2011-04-15T16:35:00.015+01:00

We are fast approaching the may fly fishing season in the West of Ireland when hundreds of intrepid fishermen descend annually on the famous Corrib Lake hinterland seeking specimen trout and salmon during the hectic fishing period associated with the short life of the famous little may fly. So in order not to be caught unprepared and unpractised for this event, I set off recently to my own favourite fishing spot near to the ‘Quiet Man’ fishing bridge made famous in the old John Wayne movie. However, much to my chagrin, I could not persuade even the smallest of the little trout to rise to my carefully presented tasty offerings and so after a few hours of fishing failure I set off for a stroll around the lake edge and include here some photos taken at the time. It is strange during this period of calm reflection how the very process of capturing these images on a mobile phone can recall recent and indeed past experiences in a vivid way. For example, the skull of the dead sheep in the bog recalled to me the paintings and indeed the Ghost Ranch of the famous artist Georgia O’Keefe which I had visited in Abiquiu, New Mexico many years ago. The ghostly theme also brought to mind the wonderful book by Joseph O’Connor called ‘Ghost Light’ which I am currently reading and which I can highly recommend. It is a work blending fact and fiction based around the character of J.M. Synge, the Irish playwright and his romantic association with one Molly Allgood. It is magnificently written and captures in a very clever and humorous way the evocative magic of a lost era. If ever I were to aspire to write a book of this quality then attempting to match this work of fiction would surely represent the pinnacle of my ambition. Indeed while I was walking around the lake, I noticed a fishing boat partly submerged in the bog water and could not but recall the words of the novel quoted below:

“There was a day many years ago, in Connemara or Kerry, when you happened upon an old rowboat that had been dumped in a bog. Cross-bench crushed and buckled, rotting tiller wrenched askew, it had sunk to its oarlocks in the oozing, black peat.”

I also walked along part of the line of the old Clifden railway and took some photos of the ghostly images of the stones and aqueducts which are all that remain of this historic line. Thus, despite the absence of fish, perhaps my day was not without rewarding personal stimulation from the wild rugged landscape of lovely Connemara and its fond memory associations.

Images near the Sea Coast at Clock na Ron, Galway

2011-03-29T15:46:00.026+01:00

On my way to Clifden for the Connemara rugby match last Saturday, (about which enough said!), I took the coast road through Roundstone via Balyconneally to Clifden. The Village of Roundstone is called Cloch na Ron in Irish which means the seal's rock and in fact I did see a seal basking in the sun on a rock near Ballyconneally a few years ago. Much of the coastal road is blighted by too many badly designed and poorly located bungalows but there is still some wonderful scenery to be enjoyed. So by way of enticing others to perhaps consider spending some of their holidays here, I am including some photos of the sea, the rocks, and the coral beach near Ballyconneally. Magic!

To really get into the mood for this photo montage, may I suggest indulging in a can of stout (if a pint is not readily available) and listening to Mairtin O'Connor's Cd music on 'The Road West'. Ah! I can feel the beauty of it all in the soul itself!

PS. Those perceptive among you may notice that the CD cover artwork is by Joe Boske, a very talented artist whose work is referred to in a previous blog entry of mine.

All in a Twitter over the Molecule Mayhem of Flann O'Brien

2011-03-25T12:43:00.010Z

After visiting my esteemed local Dubray bookshop last weekend, I acquired some new books but in my perusal of the fiction section I noticed a re-issue of Flann O’Brien’s paperback novel ‘The Third Policeman’. I recalled having read this work before and indeed there were some treasured memories of it residing in my psyche, so when I got home and searched my bookshelves I found a copy dating from February 1978, or some thirty three years ago. I soon sat down to explore its wonderful contents once again and was immediately struck how very refreshing and even exhilarating it seemed even after all these years. Described modestly on the book cover as an allegory of the absurd, it is in fact much more, embracing a hilarious comic discourse on everything from surreal policemen, through bicycles with magical properties to a macabre murder mystery. Although the book has many fine humorous passages, it is the theory of Atomic Theory expounded by one Sergeant Pluck which struck a particular and familiar cord with me on this occasion.

The essence of Sergeant Pluck’s Atomic theory is that everything is composed of ‘diminutive gentlemen’ called atoms which are ‘flying around in concentric circles and arcs and segments and innumerable other geometric figures too numerous to mention collectively, never standing still or resting but spinning away and darting hither and thither and back again, all the time on the go’. He then goes further to explain that ‘consecutively and consequentially’ when a cold hammer strikes a bar of iron over time, some atoms of the bar will go into the hammer and vice verse. The end result is he suggests, that people for example, who spent most of their natural lives riding an iron bicycle over the rocky roads of a parish get their personalities mixed up with the personalities of their bicycle so such an extent that the many end up being half human and half bicycle. Thereafter it could be often difficult to distinguish between peoples’ bicycle and bicycle people. He cites the postman, due to long periods riding a bike, as being seventy one per cent bicycle. Of course, this ‘intricate theorem’ could also be extended to animals, as for example his reference to his great grandfather who rode horses all his life and was for a year before his death, to all intents and purposes, a horse. This old horse was in such a contrary way and gave so much trouble however, ‘coming into the house at night and interfering with young girls during the day and committing indictable offence’, that the local family had to shoot him.

I have to admit that I was greatly impressed by this Atomic Theorem, for it seems to explain many of the peculiar characteristics and behaviour patterns of my own extended family and indeed even of some of my followers on Twitter. My own good wife for example has a great affinity with chocolate which up till now, in my ignorance, I put down to a sweet tooth. However, having carefully considered her behaviour in the light of Sergeant Pluck’s theorem, I now realise that she is probably at least 45% chocolate. This of course is not a fixed percentage as it can fall as low as 10% during the Lent period but can surge to some 75% around Easter. As a result of this new insight I can now fully understand why my wife is a trifle flaky at times, states on occasion that it is her way or the milky bar way and often has a head choc full of sweet nothings. However, I think she is the ultimate sweet treat to love, bar (choc?) none. My daughters also portray many of the characteristics of Pluck’s theory. For example the older girl is at least 35% cat at this stage and 10% rugby ball with the result that when Ireland wins an international match she can be seen curled up in the corner with a small imitation rugby ball purring to herself. However, if they loose, she is best avoided as she can hiss at you and attempt to scratch your eyes out. The younger Lady has three male ‘children’, two boys and a her man, each of which is treated in the same childlike manner. The all have ‘fat Friday’ parties, cut out and colour little paper shapes and sing children’s songs. I now realise that far from developing into a maturing adult, my daughter due to her prolonged association with young minds, is regressing towards her former childhood state and is effectively now 42% child herself.

Although my own Twitter followers are difficult to read clearly from a series of short 140 character letters, nevertheless an application of Pluck’s atomic analysis to some them is illuminating.

Musicshosh for example is probably some 27% Beatle at this stage as she tweets from ‘here, there and everywhere’ along her very own ‘long and winding road’.

Hlane on the other hand could be said to be a mix of 15% cat and 25% dog with the result that she appears at times to be going around in circles with her dog disposition constantly trying to catch up with that of her cat.

RhiannonPaine I seem to believe is a good 20% dancer, 40% book and 12% chocolate which may explain why she spends so much time dancing around with a book in her hand looking for chocolate and why she is thus invariably ‘Late for the Festival’.

KarlaTelega may well be 22% comic sleuth combined with a 15% insomniac disposition which leads her to form cookie companies in her sleep; perhaps through a form of sleep talking on her oldtube I-Phone.?

AbbyHarenberg could possibly be 27% camera by now which may explain why her fine tweets can be so black and white with very precise memory exposure.

Tracytid is 33% out of sorts, sort of clever, sort of amusing and sort of smart cookie!

And other followers display similar unusual characteristics, the extent of which can be guessed at through careful tweet analysis. For my own part, my good wife has told me that I have become a mix of 28% old goat and 35% Twitter addict over the last year. I feel that this is widely exaggerated but I don’t wish to lock horns with her over the matter. Rather I pointed out to her that I has been working on a new social web site called Front Door Square where everyone who visits this pub tweets their location to each other. However, she remains sceptical that such a silly location defining device would catch on and says that I should stick with being a sap rather than aspire to being an app. Must end now however as I need to tweet the barman for another pint of stout.

Note: This nonsense discourse is for amusement only but I would seriously recommend that anyone reading it would be well served by becoming familiar with the comic works of the famous Irish writer, one Flann O’Brien.

Wouldn't It be Handy if I became A Yankee Doodle Dandy?

2011-03-21T17:53:00.008Z

Investment in our poor country is now running to the sea like a river in spate
With many people wondering if we any longer have even a real sovereign state
And for many like myself life has been very tough and has taken a hard toll
But suddenly there is hope from green shamrock contained in a little Superbowl.

Our Prime Minister Enda gave it as a present to the USA on last St Patrick’s Day
And your President in turn then promised to come visit and cheer us up in May
But how could a humble little bowl of green plants lighten our own financial task
And how a recovery in fortune could result from same, you may well indeed ask.

Well you see that we as a nation are not as green as this plant from an Irish field
Because this shamrock in a form of hedge fund with which riches can be sealed
So in return for retaining a corporate tax here as low as twelve and a half percent
We will ensure that all American Foreign National’s profits to home can be sent.

And to those who may be incredulous and doubt that this will please your Uncle Sam
Can I simply point out that the same was done before with tulip bulbs in Old Amsterdam
Our Celtic Tiger was a cub from a liaison like that between Freedie Mac and Fanny Mae
So the green shoots of recovery can be found in the humble shamrock whatever they say.

Those who have scoffed or have said a spell of change would take the Magic of a Merlin
Should try to remember like minister Harney that we may be closer to Boston than Berlin
And a little bowl of shamrock brought a broad smile to the cheeks of one Barack Obama
Not to mention the green hue appearing on our Edna’s face like a chubby Irish Dali Lama.

Yet some you remain unconvinced by my treatise and think that I am merely teasing
But most Irish people would also like to benefit from your Dollar’s quantitative easing
Indeed the White House fountain has turned green and Obama has a very friendly tone
And it’s said that Timothy Geithner of the US Treasury Dept is even considering a loan.

A new alliance with the United States in our current dilemma could indeed prove handy
But it could lead us to loose identity and be referred to as a mere Yankee Doodle Dandy
Still we could claim as our new president Barack Obama, who has charisma and charm
So even if we turn our country into a mixture of Disney and Dallas, is it really any harm.

But wait, is it certain that the Molly Blooms in our green Irish garden will ever be rosy
Or is this proposal a mere knee jerk response to the remarks of French President Sarkozy
Maybe we should reflect a little longer before we apply to use the standard dollar bureau
And despite our reservations continue with the IMF/ECB rescue and especially the Euro.

You see, joining the United States team would not be without some problems after all,
For example, we might have to eat humble Apple pie and replace hurling with baseball
So perhaps on balance, we are not as badly off as we think and should stop our wailin’

For come next election we might not get Obama as we hope but good grief, Sarah Palin.

So we’ll simply resolve to be better at being Irish and we will not give up all our hope
For good and all as Obama is for Ireland, can he really be as infallible as a German Pope
And staying as we are means we can still enjoy fine drinking, long chats and good craic
Without feeling obliged like our American Yankee friends to invade countries like Iraq.

And sure green shamrock is best worn on a proud chest but one Saint’s day each year
As even hedge or field funds do not guarantee vast returns of income it has become clear
So let’s simply raise a toast to being Irish, to our fine country and especially to our stout
For when it comes to facile money answers, there are already enough daft solutions about.

Note: This is a light fictitious verse written strictly for amusement only and is dedicated to Martyn Turner the wonderful cartoonist with the Irish Times whose shamrock cartoon inspired the little verse.

Sporting Ri Ra agus Ruaile (Rooney) Buaille?

2011-03-21T15:32:00.013Z

What a great sporting weekend in Ireland. Having just beaten England at their very own game, cricket, the Irish stopped the English firmly in their tracks at rugby as well, just as England seemed to be heading for a Grand Slam victory in the Six Nations Championship. Before the game no one forecast that the Irish team would rise to the occasion but on the day they simply outplayed and outclassed the much vaunted English team. Not since the national recession swept the country have the Irish had a real opportunity to celebrate their pride in being truly and uniquely Irish. O Joy! What magic and I can agree that the sentiments of the old Gaelic phrase used in the title to this piece readily sums up the popular feeling among all sport lovers here.

"Ri Ra agus Ruaile Buaille' translates as uproar and commotion' in English.

P.S. It emerged today that England were so sure of beating Ireland and winning the Grand Slam that they made a Victory video and printed 500o T-shirts with Grand Slam winners 2011 emblazoned on them! Poor boys, don't they ever learn that you can never beat the irish!!!

Those perceptive among you will also notice the introduction of Wayne Rooney into the title. This is by way of celebration at the visit of our two grandchildren for the match and the six year old's obsession with Manchester United. (hence his little cartoon drawing). Although I myself am an ardent Spurs supporter, I feel that in a spirit of generosity brought about my our sensational routing of the English, I should at least do Sean the compliment of including his United talisman here too.

Thanks to the grandchildren and the Irish rugby team for a brilliant weekend and Ok, Sean,I suppose that Rooney isn't too bad either!

A Saintly Enda has got it off Pat!

2011-03-14T17:50:00.008Z

On the 17th March we celebrate Ireland’s patron St Patrick each year
With such as green beer, Irish dancing, street parades and good cheer
But this time our European bank bailout is clouding our nation’s attention
And in this respect our new prime minister, Enda is worthy of mention.

For already European leaders have adopted an aloof stance with a shrill whine
And on the subject of renegotiation have reaffirmed the self same fixed line
That Ireland must stick rigidly to the terms of their recent EU/ECB/IMF deal
No matter what deep sense of injustice the plain people of Ireland may feel.

But it seems that Enda borrowed from St Patrick a reference to our green shamrock
To assert with full conviction that it is high time for them to newly take stock.
And reminded them that the EU/ECB/IMF was simply a mere symbolic troika
Just like the petals of a shamrock and so they could go and ‘get on their Boika’.

He acknowledged that Ireland may for some years have had a Celtic Tiger as a pet
Yet this was hardly a reason alone to leave the Nation with a mountain of debt.
But some Heads of State had seemingly not been spoken to like this ever before
With the result that before the meeting was over there was abuse and uproar.

The French President Sarkozy went blue with rage and had a major fit of pique
While he rocked back and forth on his toes in the hope of enhancing his petit physique
Stressing that Ireland's problems were due principally to our regulations too lax
He said a sign of good faith would be a unilateral reduction of our corporation tax.

Chancellor Merkel professed herself at Ireland’s new direct attitude, deeply shocked
Obviously her nation’s forbearance has just resulted in their efforts being mocked.
She reasserted her view that all her senior bondholders must never feel pain
While acknowledging that some his points of reference may indeed be germane.

Silvio Berlusconi said he was impressed and Enda should not have to wait on
Provided on his next trip to Italy he brought along the lovely Lucinda Creighton
For his own part he would have preferred a musical message more ‘sunga sunga’
But he did feel that pointers could be gained to defend his own bunga bunga!

The Greek Prime minister, Papandreou, asks why the need for all this Olympian drama
For after all didn’t Ireland transfer all its financial problems to something called NAMA?
And why couldn’t Enda simply enjoy some Ouzo and employ a Greek like resolution
In support for refinancing all loans over an ever extending period as an ongoing solution.

The others sang dumb and even Barroso thought this firm attitude unfair
But the alternative was Ming Flanagan so they thought it best to ‘beware.’
To protect Irelands interests Enda declared he would accept no volte face
On corporation tax or Irelands sovereignty and he sat down to rest his case.

So come next Thursday when we enjoy our annual St. Patrick’s celebration
And for one day we can be merry and forget the woes of the nation
We should toast Enda the Taoiseach, his honour, his fortitude and his skill
Which if he perseveres with it, will stop Europe doing down our people at will.

Only then can we be reborn as a People and once again we can forever walk tall
And in political terms, sure Enda Kenny, as Taoiseach, will have no rival at all
And even St Patrick as patron may have in time to be displaced and be stood down
For a more illustrious and virtuous Mayo Man from Castlebar could well take his crown.

Note: This is a light fictitious verse written for the amusement of all those enjoying St Patrick’s Day! Hope you are all green with envy!!

P.S. I have no connection with Fine Gael or indeed any other political party!

Children Walking the Walk without even Talking the Talk

2011-02-17T09:25:00.005Z

My wife bought a little card in town yesterday, as reproduced on this blog, which amused us both and brought back some nostalgic family memories. Some years ago during the height of the Celtic Tiger time in Ireland my brother and I brought one each of our respective offspring to Rome for the 6 nation’s rugby international between Ireland and Italy. As my daughter and my nephew were clad from head to toe in Irish scarves, lime green shirts, tricolour flags and multicoloured hats of ‘questionable’ taste, my brother and I decided to walk ahead of them at a reasonable distance so that the stylish residents of Rome would not necessarily associate our presence with that our fond offspring. However, on looking back we noticed them pointing at us with heightened amusement. On asking why these young people portraying all the fashion sense of ‘green lounge lizards’ should find us so amusing, we were told that my brother and I were strolling along with our hands clasped firmly behind our backs in a studied pose which they said, we seemed to adopt regularly in a characteristic manner. We of course denied such an accusation and told them that this observation may have been distorted by the amount of green paint streaked across their foreheads and thus we suggested might have affected the clarity of their vision.

However, some years later when I was out walking with my little grandson, who was about 3 years old at the time, he proclaimed that he was going to walk like granddad and set off skipping along with his hands firmly clasped behind him. Both my wife and I were very amused by his pose as can be seen from the photo attached to this blog.

Thus, when my wife saw the little greeting card she instantly recalled granddad’s ‘studied’ walk. You may talk the talk to children in any manner you like but based upon their own observations, they will walk the walk themselves.

So the motto of this blog is never to underestimate the powers of observation of young children and for these fond nostalgic memories I would like to give a special thanks to baby Sean, for pointing out Granddad’s strange walking ways!

Life in a Cocoa Blender or What's Up Choc?

2011-02-16T12:09:00.008Z

As I grow ever older some conundrums still give me cause for reflection
For example, how do a man and a woman achieve harmonious perfection?
Although happily married to the same lady for longer then even I can recall
I often think that the mind of a woman is something I don’t understand at all.

Of course I fully appreciate the core physical differences occasioned by gender
And do accept that women like men may often like to go out on a social bender
But men somehow appear more basic if obtuse, and some would say easily pleased
While on subjects like weight gain and hair style, they seldom mind being teased.

No lets face it, contrary to popular opinion; women are a very different motley crew
Whose entire life ambitions are rarely satisfied by bawdy sex talk and strong brew
Indeed most women exemplify great intelligence with a life balance which is super
Unlike many men who often settle for football fantasies and a drink induced stupor

But wait, lest ye women readers get carried away in a self absorbed congratulatory stance
Let me hasten to add that I have found a small chink in the armour of your merry dance
For experience has lead me to declare there is one crucial thing going right to the core
Of this distinction of women from men which realisation may make some feel sore.

This fact you need to appreciate if like an athlete you want to get away from the blocks
For it is the absolute obsession of females with cocoa concoctions and all kinds of chocs.
These sweet confections can be black or white, and may contain scotch, bourbon or rum
But all good husbands should never answer their question about adding size to the bum.

You would think that chocolate consumption by fond females is but a simply pleasure
To be enjoyed happily in the company of your loved one as a form of innocent leisure
But chocolate consumption for some ladies has a dark secret and angst never quiet
For it is often accompanied by guilt and a professed profound need for a new diet.

So my advice to those male partners who wish to give succour to their own Fraulein
Is not to simply depend on the chocolate pleasures of ganache, caramel or praline
You may buy her dark or light cocoa boxes but any doubts about diets you must muffle
For unkind predictions of future weight gain can spoil any shell-molded, enrobed truffle.

My good wife has even eaten our Children’s Easter eggs and left only the wrapping paper
With a heartfelt plea to give up all chocolate the next day and replace their eggs later.
But such a sweet craving surely is a relatively mild vice and should cause little plight
Even if it can lead on occasion to her rummaging for chocolates downstairs at night.

So let us men drink to the health of our fair ladies from the perspective of our own bars
Though men’s may be found more often in pubs while theirs can be consumed in cars
But we should endeavour to share our enjoyments and of my discourse this is the nub
Even if one may risk a mild asthma attack by consuming such as chocolate in spice rub.

Note: This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only.

"nine of every ten persons say they love chocolate. the tenth lies."- Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin
as quoted in 'Discover Chocolate' by Clay Gordon. (Gotham Books)

One Man One Vote:Sounding a Fresh Note?

2011-01-24T14:39:00.004Z

Those familiar with my general blog postings will recall a recent little verse where I attempted to poke fun at those, largely academics and media pundits, who seem to be adamant about running for election to the new Dail (Irish Parliament) as a means of changing our government processes for the good of the populace in Ireland. While I don’t wish to pour cold water, as it were, on their obviously genuinely heartfelt zeal for change, I would like to once again question the real value of such an exercise. My own view is that current Dail procedures do not cater for or indeed in any way facilitate genuine democratic contributions from non government parties or groupings at all. In fact, they don’t really encourage much genuine contributions from even those elected within the government party itself. Thus, small groupings, even of committed and well educated ideologues of economic academia, are unlikely to have any real say in government policy unless like previous crews of motley independents they happen to hold the ‘balance of power’ in the Dail. Thus I feel that the declared ambition for forging real change within the current or even promised Dail structures is at best naive and probably total folly.

Perhaps a more viable approach would be to reform rather than replace the ‘upper’ house not as a discredited ‘Seanad’ for banal exchanges lacking any obvious positive value in composition of or contribution from it’s members. Rather I feel that it should be replaced by perhaps four ‘Forum’ structures where the general public would elect a small group of say 7 to 10 people to sit on committees to forge policies and clear recommendations in the areas of Physical Environment, Economics, Arts/Culture and Social Policy. In the spirit of the current Dail committees such as the one on Financial Accountability, these Forum groups could publish key policies and clear objectives for reform of our society in the face of the current economic recession. Thus, instead of simply engaging as a loose alliance of pressure groupings which can easily be marginalised in the Dail, these elected Forum members could actually publish real policy documents and contribute clears objectives for change. Furthermore, the public at large could readily assess whether the government was prepared to act upon these recommendations within the Dail itself.

There is no doubt that our country has reached a sorry state of crisis and it is easy to detect an almost tangible sense of despair throughout Ireland. However, rather than simply engage with a discredited process and within the current restrictive government structures, I feel that a more refined and viable solution for channelling this reform commitment is necessary. In this respect, mass rallies of the populace or indeed pressure groups within the Dail, have limited opportunity for developing and refining real initiatives for change. What is need is a means of shedding more light rather than heat on alternative options and my hope is that this small blog discourse will in some small way contribute positively to this process.

In ending I have added a photo of the Girolamo Savonarola statue from Ferrara, Italy to this blog as I feel that the life and indeed temporary popularity of this 15th century Dominican friar may well have a parallel to some reforming zealots of our own age. Let us not forget therefore that those who do not learn from history are likely to repeat it.

Adverse Irish Voting Options in the Twitter Age: Simply Academic?

2011-01-21T11:28:00.003Z

Charles Darwin says man has evolved to date by a process of natural selection
Which unfortunately in Ireland will not apply in the forthcoming Dail Election
For many economic windbags and TV economic pundits are now intending to stand
With a singular vanity and sense of entitlement to help save our endangered land.

Fresh from stormy encounters and political tirades on the VB soap box on TV3
They have totally forgotten what happened to the dreams of such as George Lee
To save the Nation they will put personal ambition and celebrity status to one side
For their total opposition to the banking bailout and IMF folly they simply can’t hide.

Yes it’s time they say to replace banal candidates, admittedly part of a local community
And give new ones with a celebrity focus or academic knowledge a proper opportunity
We should of course kindly overlook the fact that they have represented no one before
Except perhaps their own egos but let’s not dwell on that or else we will seem a bore.

Indeed we may not even need a dated ballot box process as a means of voter selection
When to an X Factor political TV show and voting system their should be no objection
And to those dull politicians who may be discouraged and feel this banal and absurd
They don’t even need to sing or dance as this was no problem for those like Jedward.

Yes, it’s high time that existing politicians and the general public got with the new show
As only the treatises of newspaper columnists or academic scholars are really in the know
All politicians should be required to be on Facebook or at least Twitter like a connoisseur
As a firm basis for communicating with the electorate or putting their views out there.

Policies should be rationalised and confined to not than 140 characters as a Tweet
As an acceptable means of reaching and keeping the attention of the Man on the Street.
For our social media skills have now left us like Albert Reynolds as a one page Man
So we don’t really wish to wade through the lengthy chapters of any Economic Plan

And we certainly don’t want to turn up in numbers at political rallies no matter where
No, we would much prefer to stay in the local pub and tweet its location on Foursquare
In fact this whole Election business is already becoming tiresome and a boring distraction
For despite appalling mismanagement, is their any point in changing the current faction.

But wait, do we really want academics in ivory towers to run our country on our behalf
For we may be disgruntled with politics as currently practiced, but we really aren’t daft,
So go and vote on March 11th and give a local candidate of your choice your number one
For as you can see upon reflection, the alternative may be much worse, when all is said and done.

Note: This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only.

Secret Search for Twitter Tweeting Celebrity Status

2011-01-07T14:33:00.005Z

I’ve a secret to relate that some of you will consider quite lame
For I have to admit that deep down inside I want to seek fame
Of course I don’t mean the showy, vulgar and bling filled kind
As I’m sure you’ve already deduced I’m not out of my mind.

I’ve no wish to repeat the celebrity crisis of a rocking Rolling Stone
For when I comes to getting my Satisfaction I prefer to seek it alone
And tabloid reported TV angst of stars like those from Lost and Glee
Does not hold water or make me jealous of them as you’ll soon see.

No, the fame I seek is more modest and might be found on my local RTE
I could be interviewed by SamanthaLibreri or do a soccer commercial for Wii
But so far my great talent has gone sadly unnoticed which is more the pity
For strange to relate I can’t even get a walk on part in such as Fair City.

Are my celebrity ambitions too high, should they be abandoned with finality?
Perhaps when all is said and done I should simply seek to be a Personality.
I am riven with doubt, I cannot sleep and have had recourse to a sleeping pill
In fact things are now so bad I may only achieve fame by appearing on Dr Phil

Should I appear on X Factor or American Idol or is this banal and totally absurd
I know I can’t sing or dance but this was no problem for those like Jedward.
I must not get discouraged or falter in my upward trajectory towards success
And may even like Louis W have to consider Botox to get out of this mess.

If I could only bake like TheIrishMother I could front my own TV cookery show
Or expound the quick wit of Bloowriter I could join Oprah Winfrey in the know
And the knowledge of Womenwhowine would allow me to guest as a connoisseur
If I could write like efloraross and Linda_grimes I could put a TV script out there.

Perhaps I could provide a comic turn like tawnafenske which would surely amuse
Or even relate old stories and gags from ValOD1 without appearing to be obtuse
But OMG my anxiety at lack of recognition is causing me to develop a stutter
Or is it just that I have overindulged in almond cakes made by runningonbutter.

Yes it’s true that I’m becoming desperate and have totally lost my celebrity way
In fact I’m considering a name change of distinction like that of demerybakersaye
There seems to be no ready answer to my dilemma and my world is so full of care
I’ll even agree to take part in a photo shoot with Annie Liebovitz for Vanity Fair.

But alas, my celebrity recognition doesn’t stretch this far and hence here is the wrench
When it comes to self projection, I’m more comfortable acting like 2GirlsonaBench.
So I’ll take the advice of hlane, and replace celebrity focus with a fond home pet,
And consider all this vain ramblings about celebrity status as being just, well, wet!

So I now feel cleansed and rejuvenated to be rid of the silly celebrity focus,
For as most of you know, its main ingredient is just so much hocus pocus.
No, I’ll now strive in my new life to having a Personality instead of becoming one
Which I’m sure you’ll agree is actually more balanced and a better recipe for fun.

Note: This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only.

Gullible's Travel with Child Cherubs and Lucky Lanterns.

2011-01-07T10:09:00.006Z

Let’s face it, for those even vaguely familiar with the works of the renowned Irish writer, one Jonathan Swift, my wife and I would be classified among the Brogingnags Tribe. This is not to say that our physical presence alone represents a particularly giant like stature as indeed my good wife hardly breaks the five foot five height level. Rather it has to do with the fact that after spending a great deal of our lives devoted to rearing our small clan of little persons, in our case two ‘divine’ young daughters, we now seem far removed from this development stage and have become more attuned to adult company and grown up individuals. This has had a ‘knock on’ (perhaps not an ideal choice of words!) affect on the decor and disposition of our household which has now the studied grace and quiet refinement of a little well tended museum. However, since our youngest daughter presented us with two lovely grandchildren in recent years, the ‘knock on’ factor affecting our house has indeed become more pronounced.

On each recent visit by these adorable boys to our humble abode, I have noticed a significant and increasing shift in power and perspective from the ‘giants’ to the ‘little’ people. This process reached its zenith during our last festive season at Christmas when the whole house was taken over by two child cherubs, aged a mere 6 and 3, respectively. Long treasured items of any token value had to be quickly moved to higher shelves while two marauding young pirates gave full rein to their childish enthusiasm and zest for life. At first I thought that I could contain or even channel this seemingly endless energy surge but soon realised that any such thoughts were misplaced and extremely gullible on my part. I could hear my inner self advising me to ‘go with the flow’ and indeed I decided to ‘play along’ with the new power sweeping the house from top to bottom. I soon realised that I needed to travel lightly if I was to make any positive contribution to the ever-changing ‘toy story’ being lived out in the house. Thus, Thomas the Tank Engine tracks had to be quickly laid by me and batteries inserted in engines for the three year old while long forgotten Lego ships had to be retrieved from the attic and football gear set out for the 6 year old. The hens never had it so good as they were constantly fed by their two new admirers and eggs collected and replaced so that each fellow could retrieve his own egg from the hens nest when he was ‘ready’. I noticed that I was now spending a great deal of the day lying prone at floor level so as best to interact with the new ‘low’ profile visitors Thus the whole character of the house was changed completely into a virtual ‘Lilliput’ by our new proteges during the festive season and our previous status as formal Brogingnags was thoroughly banished by the arrival of Hurricane Cherub.

This domestic transformation was an exhilarating if somewhat exhausting experience and our little friends left with their parents for Clifden for a few days ostensibly to show them new sights but really I feel more to give us time to recover our ‘wits’. However, I am delighted to say that they returned for New Year’s Eve when we decided to have a lantern flying celebration in the garden. There was great smoke and sparkles produced as the two boys and all their grown up relatives ran around the garden. Then we released our ‘lucky’ lanterns into the night sky with each of the two boys expressing a wish for the New Year. The wish was supposed to be kept a closely guarded secret but the younger James simply shouted ‘Happy’ as his wish and continued chasing madly about in his usual way. This was a lovely ‘Roswell’ like moment as I believe that such lanterns rise so high that some people have reported them as flying saucers in parts of Ireland.

At midnight we watched the amazing fireworks display on Sky TV from London and Sean (6) managed to stay awake just long enough to drink (water in his case) to our health. When he retired his parents related two little stories about the boys which warrant retelling in a short version below:

James (3) is fully ‘potty’ trained but does need a little help sometimes cleaning himself. So his Mum would call into to him at times and ask him if he needed any help. However, on one occasion when she herself was using the toilet, suddenly in came James and sat down on the small metal waste bin. Can I help you he says or get you a tissue! He was told unceremoniously to leave immediately but we all had a good laugh at his initiative!

Sean (6) was being left into school by his dad when they stopped at a traffic light. ‘what’s feckin’ wrong’ said Sean. His dad was visibly taken aback at what he considered to be Sean’s foul language and began to chastise him. However, Sean just pointed at the bus passing where the words ‘what’s feckin wrong’ were emblazoned on the side. So much for teaching children to read and thus they both saw the funny side of this story.

As you can see we had an amazing Festive Season with both our two daughters, their partners and of course with our wonderful grandchildren. My wife and I have decided as a New Year resolution to ‘lighten up’ and be guided by the new young spirit ‘sweeping’ the house. Indeed this was the only kind of sweeping that could be done while they were there. In fact the whole house resembled a dwelling after a tsunami when they returned to Dublin but the lovely memories lingered long after the dust had settled.

So the motto of this blog is never to fully loose touch with the innocence and joy of youth however old you get. And you can take it from this person’s ‘Gullible Travels’ that it will all prove worthwhile in the end.

Note: Photos of children and extended family have been omitted to protect their privacy.

Add Verse Tweeting Solutions to New Year Resolutions

2011-01-04T15:44:00.004Z

Like many I’m left feeling bloated at this early time of year
From overindulgence in turkey, iced cake and bottled beer
But be not aghast for I have just found some clever solutions
By recourse to a few inconsequential New Year resolutions.

First I will resolve to give up all food with high carbohydrate fat
And instead of constantly coveting it, simply feed it to the cat.
Wine and beer will be a thing of the past along with black stout,
For I think you will agree with me, there’s too much of it about.

At the crack of dawn I will rise with vitality and head to the gym,
To prove that a stringent exercise regime for me is not just a whim.
After pumping iron, lifting weights and running on the treadmill
I will return with taut muscles for which sorry wimps would kill.

My wife will be in awe and be left like a dumbfounded Lady Ga Ga
For she'll begin to realise that other women now covet her Mr Da Da
For I shall soon have the vigour and vim of someone half my age
Just as soon as I make headway with the long list on this short page

But wait what’s this little morsel so alone on this Christmas plate
Surely disposing of a little left over slice of cake would not grate,
take away or even diminish in any way my new found fervour and fun
For I can just as easily start tomorrow with an early morning run.

Perhaps a glass of wine and a last chocolate would also not go amiss
For after all, a too rigid code could be deemed to be taking the piss.
And what if my lovely wife is not impressed by my new body build
Upon reflection, a more modest workout schedule might better be willed.

And giving up alcohol entirely could be deemed antisocial and even mean
And I must be considerate enough to think of others in any new regime
So maybe I am being a bit too ambitious in my list of New Year resolutions
For I know my wife would settle for freshness and daily water ablutions.

I must also save my strength for Twitter messages and dedications Foursquare
As strict resolutions could make me calorie deficient, so I refuse to go there.
You see I can’t rely for tweeting on cups of strong coffee or bubble and squeak
As with little food or drink I could have a problem going to the bog or taking a leak.

So what on earth will I do to improve my health and my personal appeal?
I suppose I could reduce my pints consumed or drink water with each meal
I could even walk to the shop on occasion and perhaps eat less fatty food
But total abstinence is undesirable and could leave one in a bad mood.

So at last I am now resolved to be fitter in starting a new Twitter Day,
As no new extreme change will be needed to tweet in a positive way
So here’s wishing all my followers the best New Year Fortune and Fun
For resolutions are no substitute for a real life when all is said and done.

So what’s the overriding message of this tweeting blog post?
About a decision not to change radically but simply to coast
Well if you want real happiness instead of living by a fine line
Just accentuate your positive vibes, drink up and you’ll do just fine.

Not every good fortune in this Year depends upon ambitions so lofty
Especially those undertaken at haste in case one is dubbed a fat softie,
I myself embarked on these unreal resolutions because of a foolish bet
So I now ask My Lord to please make me hale and hearty, but just not yet.

Note: This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only.

A Neotenic Tweet for A Happy New 'Ewe'r!

2010-12-31T13:42:00.011Z

As Mr C. is out counting his chickens before they hatch (not to difficult even for him as he only has 6 in total), I decided to cast a cold eye (have you seen the Irish weather lately) over his blog entries during the last year. Although the blog posts now exceed 150 discourses, most of which contain levels of corn best reserved for the said hens, a quick glance of the viewing stats reveal that the most popular blog entry was the one referring
to Little Bo Peep and his lost ‘sheep’ followers. Well, all I can say is that I could have told ‘ewe’ so as a photo of yours truly, Mr Bo Peep, features prominently on this page posting. So I think that it is only fitting on New ‘Ewe’rs Eve to page tribute to these valiant sheep who have continued to provide mental sustenance to the forlorn Mr. C with their tweet little ‘hogget’s’ of wisdom during the last year. Thus I would like to try and list some of these small ruminants before the shepherd returns to resume his attempts to bore his flock further. Needless to say because of the worldwide reach of Twitter there are sheep followers across the globe with for example the St Louis Rams in the USA and lots of ewe-ro sheep throughout Europe. But I have found no better way to falling asleep than trying to count my sheep and I would like to apologise in advance if I omit any little lamb who may have inadvertently strayed during the year. Remember there is no ‘fleece’ on me, so here goes a list of some of my woollier flock —

Baa! Baa! New Ewer to Americannanny, Beachanny, BigAlphy, 2 Girls on a Bench, mitchellnicola, Aurora111, StoryRoute, susxox, KarlaTelega, TheIrishMother, runningonbutter, cathyby, DrCesa, DinaSantorelli, bloowriter, bsfirstpages, hlane, Musicshosh, Burn2Write,Yawn!!!!!, sensibleflutist, CynthiaY29, arkarthick, colm_ryan, stephenkinsella, RodolfoGrimaldi, Yawn!!, Stretch!!! Liamooo, DorothyDalton, maybenextweek, Kool_Aid_Wino, Doallas, talktojoe1850, iheartrhody, Baa! Baa! Wake up a moment, they sheep also skip and dance: ElizabethBastos,Mollydcampbell, alaindebotton, ananelson, DeeGF, sarasheridan, AmyOscar, AllieDillon, linda_grimes, Iamdebra,Junecaldwell, AnnieAtkins,
ckingwriter, Amacvittie, hprw, Anouilh, ouch! my hot water bottle is getting cold!, HeatherKephart, LjinNW, deshocks, 8Orion8, Werethe1s, 20euro, womenwhowine, gunsinger, ina, Scallejo, colmtobin, franksuntimes, seoconcept, eolai, kaeliferguson, Calbion, sarahndipitous,Twyttlededum, ThePondJumper, Twowitwowoo, counting 322 I think, jennyfoxe, MiriamOCal, MargaretMolloy, MiriamDonohoe, saoireobrien, zzzzzhhhh!! Snoreeeeeeeeeeee!!!

Written in jest by Mr Bo Peep, the Alter Ego of Mr C, your regular blogger.

Most popular blogs in 2011:

1) Mr Bo Peep has lost his sheep (followers) again- March 2011
2) Culture Night in Galway-Charlie ‘Byrne’ after Reading
3) Is Fame the Real Name of the Tweeting Game?

And Mr. C’s own favourite dedicated to his Grandson:
‘My little Irish Giovanni’- ahhh!

Note: If you are not listed above and feel needled by your woolly treatment, please tweet and u will be added to the friendly flock right away!

Happy New Year and here’s to Fine Tweeting in 2011

A Tweeting greeting for the New Year to my Redundant Reindeer

2010-12-28T11:47:00.004Z

This is an updated post Christmas verse as written in jest and on a whim
As a response to an overindulged festive season and a hangover so grim
But also to wish New Year Health to my tweet followers and blog friends
By conveying good will, fond wishes and hopefully to make some amends
For any banal, silly or even obtuse tweets sent during the last long year
By expressing thanks for all tweets received and proposing a toast of good cheer.
Over the last year some five thousand people have visited my profile blog
Some have left comments about their love life and even feeding their dog
So lets thank them now during the festive season, raise a glass and be happy
A thought you really shouldn’t need to be told by this head sore chappy.

For let’s drink a toast to the New Year and to my now redundant reindeer
Who follow me despite it being 363 days until they’re needed again I fear
Dasher, Dancer, Vixen and Prancer may be tired having pulled Santa’s sleigh
But I still enjoy Padraig_OMorain, DorothyDalton and LJinNW come what may.
Santa’s favourite Reindeer once had a fine regal stature and a famous red nose
But Bloowriters’s colourful tweets have left him blue with a tummy full of woes.
I should refer to the down at heel state of reindeer Comet, Donner, Blitzen and Cupid
But kaeliferguson,gunsinger and rosecasanova are still flushed so lets not be stupid.
My Polar Bear support is on the wane I’m afraid from MargaretMolloy and 8ORION8
And Penguin friends like Werethe1s, Mitchellnicola and Suga_Lumps are tepid of late
Snow ball like tweets of glee are melting from such as Burn2Write, hipcop and Confusad
Some of which during Christmas had brought a red faced reaction to this old Dad
You see, in the festive cold weather I had shared a tipple tweet with womenwhowine,
Even became a Slave_to_coffee,and enjoyed jokes from Twowitwowoo, so that fine.
But there is still a distinct chill on my Twitter site as some still consider me a nutter
And that’s despite the best cooked up tweets of my redundant reindeer ‘runningonbutter’.

During the last few days, my festive mood has lifted with the visit of my grand boys
And I have yet again always found solace in playing with Star Wars and other toys.
So grandchildren don’t complain this year if you have to visit your poor old grandad
Just remember MargaretMolloy, Suga_Lumps and Americannanny as life ain’t bad.
So what’s the essential secret of the Twitter experience of this post Festive Fare?
Well, for me, it’s the hope of new friends to be made and tweets to be read there
For despite our continued economic gloom in home and in the fractured Irish State
We must remember in the New Year to cherish friendship and fun before it’s too late
The New Year should begin in hope and anticipation with children, family and friend
And if so, our opportunity to grow in health and happiness will see us through in the end
So to I say Bah Humbug to Scrooge, moaners and whiners and ask you to give pause
As with Christmas still in your heart there’s still a place for reindeer and Santa Claus.

Note: Reindeer names refer to twitter sites of some followers.
This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only.

Thanks for all the Sweet Tweets & Blog Logs during Year and Happy Xmas

2010-12-22T19:51:00.002Z

Is Playing Blind Man's Bluff Enough: Economic Blog for Fintan O'Toole

2010-12-01T15:52:00.006Z

The recent so called ‘bailout’ of the Irish economy to the tune of €85 billion by the IMF/ECB has lead to increased hysteria in the media in particular but also among the Irish populace at large. This sense of outrage and despondency culminated in the Union organised march in Dublin last Saturday supported by about 50,000 people. There have of course been many commentators before this, proclaiming Armageddon if Ireland continued on its current path towards restoring fiscal rectitude and some, little David McWilliams the economist have even toured some of the country’s theatre venues like biblical soothsayers proclaiming the end of the credit world for our sovereign identity and indeed for the nation itself.

In the last few months Fintan O’Toole has used his newspaper column to also preach against the inequalities inherent in the fiscal solutions being proposed by our financial ‘saviours’ and has highlighted in particular the challenge to the democratic process inherent in decision making being executed by unelected European and indeed international decision making organisations. Mr O’Toole lays the blame for this situation arising at the door of ‘the demoralised rump administration served by the Department of Finance’ and more generally on a government that was ‘spooked and stamped by the small-time bullies of the Irish banks’. He also calls for the creation of a new more genuine, democratic republic and has even taken his sense of grievance to the forum of the streets like Ireland’s famous worker rights figure James Larkin.

However, while I fully understand and concur with Fintan O’Tooles sense of outrage and indeed support his call for a fundamental reappraisal of the benefits of a privileged elite in the Ireland of today even in the recession, I have severe doubts that he will achieve his goals. The real danger in the current approach I feel is that it is too broadly focused, dissipates too much energy in pillorying the alleged culprits and its prescriptions for change are too general as to make them practical to implement in the short term at least. Simply put, I believe that the current clamour for change may produce more energy that light and may simply produce an alternative government administration with a renewed fiscal friendly focus but basically selling the same flawed product. In other words, it could resemble the process of re advertising an existing washing powder product as new when it in fact is merely being repackaged to gain increased market penetration.

Thus, I feel we should focus succinctly on the core issues facing the country, being how we got here, what we should do about it right now and what should we aspire to in the future, as elaborated upon below:

Context on Crisis:

I fully accept Mr O’Tooles contention that ‘the primary responsibility for what has happened in Ireland lies with our own political, administrative and banking elites’ and that ‘Europe was barely less stupid’. However, I would also emphasise the broader context in which much of our economy in the Celtic Tiger years was forged. Thus our economic ‘success’ was mainly due to the fact that we were considered a very poorly controlled tax haven and that the 12.5% corporate tax that we now defend so strongly was merely an additional bonus to those firms relocating here. Thus we created a milieu of tax free money and light regulation in which it was not only considered opportune but highly advisable if not essential for foreign banks to invest here, in order to maximise financial returns to their shareholders. In essence during this period, our country was a National Money Laundering Location for foreign investment and this alone explains the decision of bond holders/foreign banks to invest so much here. However, it is too easy to just dwell on past excesses and waste time indulging our new found fury on politicians alone. We have a short memory indeed in this respect as very few people complained during the boom years. So much of the responsibility rests with our good selves for overindulging at that time.

Indeed we could be said to resemble a person with a severe hangover who blames the party guest the next morning for providing free beer.

At any rate, the current obsession with finding scapegoats will only contribute to excess negativity and only fan the flames of bitter dialogue over supposed corporate greed and bank bail-outs. Peeved petulance is no remedy for the real grievance felt by many tax payers now burdened with the cost of the Celtic Cull of our lapsed largesse.

Context of Bailout:

Fintan O’Toole rightly states that it is the core capitalistic system of money supply and investment which is effectively holding the World to ransom at the moment despite the best efforts of government’s world wide. Thus the ECB and the IMF are merely bit players in this worldwide economic perspective. Nevertheless, we gladly played this financial game in boom times as pointed out above. However, the price now being asked of us is so severe that we, as a nation have had to seek a ‘bailout’ from European/
International funding organisations. In response, we are prone to act like spoilt children who want to throw their toys across the floor in exasperation when told off and demand more pocket money. We have been so profligate with the money extended in loans to us that as a nation we are now effectively bankrupt and have a Hobson’s choice now facing us as a Nation.

Hence, we must accept the terms of an €85 billion bailout or be unable to pay ourselves within six months. Furthermore, we will probably need yet still further funding if the albatross nature of our bank loans is to be reduced. Faced with this appalling dilemma, we vent our fury on the government and blame such as Brian Lenihan, for guaranteeing the Bank Loans. In the process, we have moved from Celtic Tiger Land to Cloud Cuckoo Land. Unless we want to strike out as a new genuinely socialist republic and adopt a Cuba like isolation from other capitalist nations, we simply have no choice but to cut the best deal we can get and no nonsense about the government playing a better hand of cards will detract from this cruel reality. Essentially we are victims of the three card trick (IMF/ECB/EU) whether we like it or not and any other type of card game is only going to involve a game of Blind Man’s bluff!

Sovereignty Debt and Bank Debt Distinction:

As most economists will testify, there are two distinct parts to this real debt burden: one the sovereign debt and the other being the bond holding debt, or in actual terms, the European banking sector debt. In the former case we have no option but to meet our obligations in this respect but in the latter case we can seek to transfer some cost of the bank bailout to the bond/bank holders. However, as the actual cost of bailing out our banks is likely to greatly exceed the current amount of the IMF/ECB loan, and as contagion is likely to spread to Portugal/Spain at least, it is better to wait a ‘final fiscal’ solution before formally raising this issue further at this stage. Thus, on balance, I feel that we have no option but to bite the bullet and get on with a 4/5 year recovery plan whichever government is in place.

Real Caring is Fair Sharing:

I feel that true leadership at whatever level in Irish society can only flourish if there is genuine feeling of hope in the future and a sense that the ‘gain will justify the strain’ as it were. However, in Irish society at the moment, as Fintan O’Toole and indeed Constatin Gurdgiev and other informed economists have rightly pointed out, there is no fair or even an agreed foundation on which to build this leadership structure, and as an architect I can testify that poor foundations augur badly for future stability. I personally feel that the poor in our society are becoming increasingly marginalised and frustrated by the direction of government cut backs and that salaries should be cut by up to 50% for sums more than €150k if any progress is to be made on perceived sharing of this pain. The need for other major structural reform has been flagged elsewhere.

Value versus Cost of Social Inclusion:

There would appear to be little appreciation of the value as opposed to the cost of the contribution made to this society by those classed within its currently redundant work force, especially the young. Core business activities for both small and medium sized firms are being starved of bank cash support. Furthermore, there has been an exponential increase in red tape and regulative activity by government agencies presumably to keep them busy during the recession.

Thus, I would personally be more concerned by the absence of any attempt to ‘cherish all the children of the nation equally’ as expounded by our founding fathers as any concern for a supposed loss of our sovereignty. If we personally take out a mortgage on our home we don’t loose ‘sovereignty’ over it, we only loose that sovereignty if we cannot repay that loan. Thus, it is essential, that all vulnerable people in our society be particularly cared for in the current recession. In this respect, I would like to see the dole abolished and jobs offered in lieu to all our people in conjunction with loans extended over a lifetime if they are unable to pay premiums on mortgages in the current situation. Thus, instead of hounding people into Fas courses for training in jobs that will never exist, young people should be offered structural employment at a minimum pay if necessary as an alternative to the dole. Many people I’m sure would prefer even a basic structured job than the prospect of being idle and being treated as a mere number on a dole register.

Hope in a Time of Malady:

The extreme sense of malaise and despair felt by most of the Irish population in the current recession is systematic of the waste and lack of appreciation of talented and creative people, both young and old in our society. People in protected jobs in both the private and public sectors cling to their sense of entitlement and the government’s tries to usage the guilt of the excluded unemployed by an unreal new emphasis on the merits of the supposed smart economy. However, for many buried under the weight of joblessness and personal debt, this emphasis is neither really smart nor genuinely economic.

One Last Wilde Wish:

I have avoided commenting on our countries financial dilemma for a long time and have endeavoured to offset my own severe loss of work opportunities as a self employed architect by posting mostly light blog entries on Twitter as a light distraction from my own problems in this respect. However, I feel that the carefully argued proposals of both Fintan O’Toole as a journalist and such as Constantin Gurdgiev and Brian Lucey as economists, deserve at least a considered response and support from me. I do not pretend that I have set forth any brilliant insights but I assure all those who read this blog that its sentiments are heartfelt and genuine.

In ending this little discourse, therefore, I would like to refer finally to a quote from Oscar Wilde, which even in the sense of acute despair felt by many aspires to a feeling of hope in it’s uplifting outlook for the future:

‘We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars’

I for one, despite having felt severe adverse effects from the recession on my own business in architecture, remain hopeful both for my family and their future in this wonderful country that we all love so much.

Signed:

Colm O’Riain

Twitter profile: @COLMORIAIN

Photo: Christmas Cheer in the Crystal Ball?

Toyboy Story 3: A Woody Won't He Buzz Slight Year?

2010-11-26T16:03:00.007Z

They say I’m a bit old in the tooth for Santa gifts it’s true
But at this time of recession, living in hope is all we can do,
I continue to get a buzz from the toys driven on Top Gear
Even though our family fortunes have had a slight year.

There must be someone with FUNds in the IMF or even the ECB
Who will put aside contagion fears and simply think of me,
For obviously a simple Sports car is still a toy boy pleasure
Which should be nurtured and enjoyed at a guy’s full leisure

Any minor difficulties encountered in affording petrol for the car
Could be offset by heightened vanity and being a peer group star
For even mature men at heart are really just older and taller boys,
Whose continuous fantasy is to own some gadget or drive big toys?

You see a married man may seem to settle down with a fond soul mate
But when it he hears an engine roar, his heart jumps and he just can’t wait
To sit at the wheel, put the accelerator to the floor and give it full throttle
For fear people think he lacks such an appreciation or having the bottle.

So don’t fret when your man suddenly gets broody this festive season
And seems withdrawn, morose and introverted without any apparent reason
You see the problem lies deeper than image and our current economic woe
For a man’s whole identity lies in racing cars and bikes with others in tow

So by all means buy the children small gifts, toys and presents so sweet
But don’t forgot the old man and his addiction to the sleek on the street
Even a small dinky toy car or truck will often suffice to keep his mood fun
For modern man just needs the illusion of power when all is said and done

Therefore, be mindful of Christmas spirit promised but never fulfilled
As men for the most part are more sensitive than they are often billed
So tweet them with dignity, pride and a sweet love in its proper place
Especially when their toy boy illusions drive them to set a fast pace

Addendum:

This verse is intended only to amuse and offer some fine Christmas Cheer
But to those with no appreciation of men, its sentiments may appear queer.
It’s no harm to study the verse but don’t dwell on it more than you ought
Just remember that men are really much deeper than first you may have thought.

A Fairytale so Tragic, no Prince to Break the Spell

2010-11-17T11:05:00.005Z

The appalling news in Ireland yesterday of the double slaughter of four small children and two young women by male companions, one of whom later killed himself, leaves one in a state of complete shock and bewilderment. It is true that Ireland as a nation has seen some dark economic days recently but nothing has prepared us for such a heartrendingly awful occurrence. In a supposedly Christian country where family values are still regarded as paramount, it simply beggars belief that such a terrible act of extreme violence against ones own young family could be perpetrated by anyone. Furthermore, the fact that this occurred in two separate locations and affected two families within the one day reinforces the extreme sense of shock accompanying the news of this terrible tragedy. One is left reeling and trying desperately to understand what possible depressive mood or imagined reason to despair could possibly provoke such unspeakable acts of savagery. Truly our whole identity as a family focused society in Ireland is rocked to the core by these terrible events.

And yet I have experienced such feelings of personal shock before, perhaps not so much in respect of innocent children within a family unit, but more broadly, for example, at the slaughter of innocent people in the wider conflict in Northern Ireland some years ago and of course at the time of the attacks of 9/11 in New York. I especially remember watching on television the unfolding appalling spectacle of the 9/11 attacks and the sheer scale of the human and physical destruction occasioned by these atrocities. However, like many people I struggled to find works or indeed emotions adequate to reconcile ones sense of despair at the events with a profound feeling of compassion for the extended families linked directly to such tragedies. Strangely, I found a wonderful expression of these feelings, not in documentary programmes or indeed in wordy book tomes but in the music of Bruce Springsteen and in particular in his music on the CD ‘The Rising’.

The lyrics and music on this Springsteen album underline in eloquent and very moving terms the sheer scale of anguish, hurt and sense of abject loss experienced by those involved as extended families in the 9/11 tragedy. Songs such as ‘Counting on a Miracle’, ‘Empty Sky’ and ‘The Missing’ give emotional expression to broken hearts and lost dreams. So as I was dwelling on the appalling human tragedy in the loss of such innocent children in particular in Ireland yesterday, I was reading and listening to Bruce Springsteen .I feel that the words from one of his songs, which form the title of this blog, affords a vivid expression of the lost innocence typical of a child’s fairytale books when a magic prince can no longer arrive to break the spell and release us from this agony. Finally, although I like others hope that the extended Irish families will somehow achieve peace and perhaps even forgiveness and understanding over time, the overriding sense of despair at the moment is summed up in the words of the song: ‘You’re Missing’ part quoted below:

“Shirts in the closet,
Shoes in the hall
Mama’s in the kitchen,
Baby and all
Everything is everything
Everything is everything
But you’re missing”

But God give them comfort and some solace from the seemingly bottomless human well of sadness and despair.

Enjoying Old Dogs,Children and Watermelon Wine

2010-11-12T11:25:00.008Z

There is a famous Hollywood axiom which, I’ve read, is proffered to aspiring actors, the gist of which advises them never to go on stage with either animals or children as they will be upstaged and their appeal will be greatly diminished if they do. Although I would hardly describe myself as a major ‘player’ either on stage or screen, I do subscribe to the Shakespeare’s famous lines in the play ‘As You Like It’:

‘All the World’s a stage
And all the men and women merely players
They have their exits and their entrance
And one man in his time plays many parts’

Thus, when I was recently offered an opportunity to play such a part, and in the process gain considerable local ‘fame’ by agreeing to perform a walk on role in a commercial photo shoot, I jumped at the opportunity. The occasion in question was the production of a promotional web for the new ‘Enjoy’ café/food shop adjoining the renowned White Gables Restaurant in Moycullen Village. Although I am an eager supporter and indeed consumer of the wonderful array of ‘sweet sensations, gourmet delights and stunning wines’ available in the new shop, I was at first rather reluctant to take on the role of an ‘average’ customer for the photo shoot. This diffidence was increased when I was told that I would be seated with a dog to provide a more caring and sensitive image, as I pointed out that I have no such animal. I thought it best here not to suggest that I substitute one of my Rhode Island hens for the dog as I believe that this might be considered foul play on my part. However, I was greatly relieved to be told that a dog would be provided for me and all I had to do was sit outside the café and have some coffee and cake. Thus my reticence was assuaged and I realised with pleasure that in this respect at least, I could have my cake and eat it as it were.

I arrive at the café at around 4pm and was duly assigned a seat outside where I was served delicious coffee and pastries. However, I began to notice that there was some problem with the manner in which the photographer was ‘directing’ his work. Simply put, despite the dog being allocated a ‘lead’ role, he was late for the shoot presumably on the basis that he was not going to be treated as any mere gun dog. When he arrived with his owner, he refused to sit down beside me but took great interest in the pastries being served on my plate. I began to try and coax him by rubbing his neck and pushing gently on his back to try and get him to sit down. I don’t remember the dogs name but I think it might well have been ‘Brando’ as he obviously saw himself as a sort of Marlon Brando like actor portraying a similar ‘sensitive but stubborn’ personality portrayed in the film ‘On the Waterfront’ but here played as ‘At the Shopfront’.

As the photographer was becoming ever more agitated, it was suggested that the dog lead be attached to the table to allow me to hold a newspaper in a casual manner while accepting a cup of coffee from the waitress. However, every time some passing motorist hooted a car horn, the dog jumped up and tried to head off down the road after the car with the table in tow. Thus, the ‘director’ had to hold up traffic to assuage the dogs concerns and Brando eventually sat down with a suspicious demeanour beside me. By that time however, the two lovely girls behind me had finished their lollipops and soft drinks and these had to be carefully replenished in case the dog would take a liking to them as well. Finally, the director had just set up his required set piece when a friend drew up in his car, rolled down the window and shouted over to me:
“I’m NOT a celebrity, get me out of here’, ha!
The dog barked, the chair fell back and the newspaper blew away in the wind.

I’m glad to say that the owners Kevin and Anne Dunne were extremely gracious about the whole affair and later declared themselves happy with the resultant photos. But you do not have to take them at their word as you can see all the photos themselves and indeed find full information on the restaurant and café/shop by looking up the ‘Enjoy’ part of the White Gables Restaurant web site.

For my part, I must admit to having found the whole affair to be a chastening experience for any airs and graces that I might have had, for I was truly upstaged by two small children and a big brown dog as the accompanying photo on this blog will testify. Thus, whenever I am now inclined to aspire to any notion of vanity I simply listen to the lyrics of Tom Hall as sung by John Prine and Mac Wiseman on the CD; ‘Standard Songs for Average Children’ (to be heard on Amazon.com) and in particular to the words quoted below from the song: Old Dogs, Children and Watermelon Wine’

“Old dogs care about you even when you make mistakes,
God bless little children while they’re still too young to hate,
When he moved away I found a pen and copied down the line,
‘Bout Old Dogs and Children and Watermelon Wine’

Note: This blog entry is intended only as a humorous testament to our ability to have a pleasant experience even in the current recessionary time and to thank the Dunne family for providing such wonderful local culinary experiences in Moycullen, County Galway. Here’s hoping you all ENJOY it as much as me!

In Honour of a Gifted Artist 'Toon'ed to Irish Times

2010-11-03T15:12:00.013Z

There was a competition on Irish Television recently to nominate Ireland greatest person and it was won deservedly in my opinion by John Hume, the now retired Northern Irish politician. The award was an appropriate recognition that John Hume literally risked life and limb in his efforts to bring peace and reconciliation to this country and was rewarded by being granted the Nobel Peace prize. However, if there was an equivalent award for the artist who best represented Ireland’s social and political life over the last three decades in a humorous and insightful way, I personally feel that this honour should go to Martyn Turner, whose cartoons feature in the Irish Times on a regular basis.

There are always two items which I look forward to in that newspaper each morning and which in their modest way define my day whether in good times or bad. One is the Sudoku puzzles which act as a morning stimulus to the waking brain and the other is any cartoon from Martyn Turner which never fails to both inform and amuse. In fact at a time when the use of 140 character messages on Twitter has become a hugely popular medium for the transmission of cryptic social discourse, it is worth reflecting that Martyn’s cartoons have long predated this phenomenon and indeed surpassed it in their effectiveness in communicating an amusing insight in a few words linked to an exceptionally drawn sketch. It is worth collecting his books as they reflect a visual history our time by often underlying the vanity, egotism and double standards which permeated much our national psyche during the last three decades and are represented so well in his work.

I remember visiting the Shelbourne Hotel Bar in Dublin with one of my daughters and commenting how envious I was both at the quality and skill personified in the cartoon images of politicians hung in framed prints on the walls. It must have stuck a chord with her because on the occasion of my twin brother’s (not identical) sixtieth birthday, this same daughter presented D and me with just such a cartoon of us executed by Martyn Turner. She told us that it took considerable commitment and perseverance to get Martyn to undertake the commission as he had never met us and had to work from photos. However, D and I were absolutely thrilled with the result and although there has been some debate as to which of us is better captured in the cartoon, we were both amazed and honoured by the work. In fact, if Marina herself reads this blog, may I say that it I will be eternally grateful to her for her kindness and consideration in getting us this wonderful gift. You have indeed made an old man and father very happy and proud of you as ever.

Note: I have included photos of some of Martyn Turners books and recent cartoons with this blog as an encouragement to others who as yet may not know of him, to look out for his work. For those who have asked where my profile image originated, a glance of the 'twin' cartoon will illuminate all. Finally, as my brother and I are due to meet once again for the all Blacks v Ireland rugby match in November (still talking after all these years) I have included a rugby sketch and of course a copy of our own personal treasured cartoon!

Is Fame the Real Name of the Tweeting Game?

2010-11-01T15:46:00.005Z

If I want to achieve increased recognition and Twitter Fame
Perhaps I should change my Bio and even my name
You see being an old Irish named fogie is all very well
But to some Cyber tweeties it’s just like visiting Hell.

Maybe it’s time that I stepped up anew to the plate
Like an X Factor hopeful with a Simon Cowell date
I know I can’t sing a song or dance at all it is true
But like Jedward said, this really shouldn't deter you.

Perhaps I should now call myself Laddie Da Da
As I love Italian food and can sing as well as Lady Ga Ga
But I would certainly have to draw the line at a glitzy frock
As that would hardly increase my ‘HE’ manly stock!

No perhaps it’s best to call myself a more modest GodCannabbe
Just like a good follower on twitter named GoddessWannabe
But even at the thought of this new image my mind buckles
So perhaps the best option is to adopt a name like Lady Chuckles.

But it’s true that my followers might laugh at me not my name
So a new PR image may be needed to keep ahead of the game,
I am now torn between copying CoastalKate or even MusicMicetro
And am toying with CoastalColm or perhaps HipHopMicgogo.

But I’m also out of line with my tweets and my location Foursquare
And as for posting photos on Facebook I simply refuse to go there.
You see tweeting about cups of strong coffee or bubble and squeak
Has as much interest for me as going to the bog or taking a leak.

So what on earth will I do to increase my personal appeal?
When trivia and banality are often the only real deal
But Lo!, DrCesa may have solved my dilemma with a simple mantra
By suggesting to try tweeting happiness as much as I cantra

So at last I am now renewed and ready for a new Twitter Day,
As no new name change will be needed to tweet in a positive way
So here’s wishing all my followers the best Fortune and Fun
For Fame is no substitute for a real life when all is said and done.

So what’s the moral message of this tweeting preamble?
About a crisis of conscience and not taking a gamble
Well if you want to be successful in social media on line
Just try to project your positive self and you’ll do just fine.

Note: This is a purely fictional verse written for amusement only.

Mobile Photo Magic:Autumn Leaves and River Heaves!

2010-11-01T14:49:00.013Z

It's amazing how the weather in the West of Ireland changes so quickly at this time of year from torrential downpours one day to lovely Autumnal sunshine the next. What is consistent however, is the steady fall of the leaves which seems to blanket the ground in a vibrant pattern of golden yellow and red colours. Thus, last weekend I took some photos along the Owenriff riverside, waterfall walk in Oughterard, Co. Galway to try and capture the rushing flood of water in the river and the beautiful array of colours in the leaves carpeting the walkway itself.

Note: photos taken with a HTC Legend Android Phone

A Toad in a Hole while Living under a Mushroom Cloud?

2010-10-29T16:45:00.006+01:00

I have been reminiscing on this blog before about the joys I experienced as a young person in times now distant, going out to collect mushrooms at this time of year. Thus when my wife and I were travelling across country in our car recently we felt sure that we would come across some wild mushrooms in the fields. I of course could not look too carefully at the passing fields while driving but my wife scoured the fields in the hope of discovering this treasured crop. The problem of course is that mushrooms may not be found in the same fields as the previous year due to fluctuating factors such as the rotation of crops, animal husbandry etc. Suffice it to say here therefore that we did not locate a single wild mushroom on our travels. You can imagine my surprise therefore when I left the house a few morning ago to find a series of wild ‘mushrooms’ dotted in clumps below the garden trees. Of course these may in fact be dangerous toadstools rather than benign mushrooms.

Thus I am putting some photos up with this blog in the hope that someone may be able to advise me as to their name and type. However, I hasten to add that I do not intend to consume any of these mushrooms and I am only posting this query out of curiosity.

Still until I find an answer to my query I’m afraid that I will continue to labour under a mushroom cloud of doubt.

A Little Ponying Up for Barbie Days and Care Bear Nights

2010-10-25T20:16:00.014+01:00

I’m sure that in common with many people when their children grow up, I experienced a profound sense of emptiness and absence when our children left the home nest. I always feel that such little persons really start out as tiny ‘birds of pray’, in that they seem the answer to all ones prayers. However, during their teenager years they more often resemble ’birds of prey’ more than the saintly variety as they seem to need to swoop upon the latest fad with the concentration and swiftness of action characteristic of a wild eagle or other such untamed wild bird. As our own particular home life was dominated for many years by two little darling girls, I am long familiar with the need to respond quickly to demands for Magic Johnson basketball shirts, Spice Girl platform shoes and even Michael Jackson thriller attire. However, most of these fashion items have now gone the way of tight fittings leggings and flowery mini skirts and have been consigned appropriately to Fashion Hell where presumably they will be worn by other unworldly devils for eternity.

Although we seem to have little to show in material terms for our girls teenage years, we have a whole attic full of pre teen toys that they cherished so much that they could not part with them come fashion hell or high water. As both girls are now in their twenties and as one of them has two little boys of her own, both have at last agreed to allow us dispose of these toys. So I recently climbed into our attic, risking life and limb, and sorted the girl’s toys from the other motley collection of boxed clothes and Christmas trees/decorations. The reason for this climbing adventure is that my wife has decided to embark on what she affectionately refers to as her new ‘hobby’ by attempting to research the origin and value of these toys before selling them on E-Bay. At the last count we had 33 different ‘My Little Pony’ toys but 12 seem mysteriously to have ridden away into the sunset. Please don’t scoff here and scream that this seems an unduly large number of ‘horsey’ toys. You see there is a valid and logical explanation. It is that both Santa Clause and I were both assured that the purchase of such galloping friends would be cheaper than keeping a real pony. But in retrospect, I have to admit that this argument might not hold water unlike the little pails and buckets which were bought to give added ‘life’ to the pony experience. Thus we have ‘wedding ponies’, nursery ponies with cot and even Cinderella Castle ponies. It is enough to make a man think that he was taken for a ride himself at this time.

Our girls interests were not confined to ponies however, as I also remember a wide range of Barbie trucks and cars as well as all ‘necessary’ accessories. I don’t remember ‘Ken’, like the principal male of our own house, getting much of a ‘look in’ during this play time. My contribution to balance was to acquire a range of Lego kits which I am glad to say were also adopted with enthusiasm. Of course, the acquisition of this wide ranging toy collection was not entirely inexpensive, so one Christmas I decided to ‘cut my losses’ as it were, by getting a cheaper brand of Care Bear which to me looked an exact copy of the original but retailed at about a third of the price in a local department store. However, on Christmas Day I noticed that our youngest girl was not taking much interest in the Care Bear delivered by Santa. When I asked why I was told that it just wasn’t a ‘real’ Care Bear. She simply turned the Bear upside down to show that he had no ‘heart’ symbol on his bum! Needless to say poor Daddy hadn’t the heart to try this ploy again and at her next Birthday a real Care Bear magically appeared to great joy.

I’m glad to relate that our house has now been totally transformed from a girl’s paradise home into one geared for boys as our grandsons are now welcome visitors. Of course, we have learned from previous excesses of gift giving. Now we just sit back, lift every object with any semblance of value up onto the highest possible shelf and just let them rip! Even the hens have been known to go inside their coop to take refuge from the energetic zeal of the youngest boy. However, despite some misgivings about our ability to restore our home into a place for viable living purposes after they have left, we have simply decided to abide by the basic rule which applies to all young boys-

Just play ball or you will never score with them!

Note: this little blog is by way of evoking fond memories of two lovely girls and two young lovely boys who have never given us a moment’s anxiety in our entire lives!!

I swear it’s true! Really!!!

A Walk on the Wild Side in Roundstone-Photos

2010-10-25T10:06:00.017+01:00

It seems like only a few weeks ago since Western Connemara and the Roundstone area was covered in yellow gorse and purple flowering heathers but now it has turned amber and brown as the Autumn colours are bathed in the rays of the low sun. I have included a series of photographs taken while walking with my wife yesterday along a bog road in Connemara and also at the harbour at Roundstone. As you can see it is no wonder that the quality of the ever changing light and colours within this landscape is an inspiration for artists and indeed general travellers alike.

Note: Photos taken on a HTC Legend Android Mobile Phone

A New Stamp Needed on Blog posts or Just a Black Mood?

2010-10-24T13:09:00.007+01:00

After added some 100+ blog entries to my blog profile page I must admit to feeling a little uneasy about the personal value of the whole Twitter process. Most of my peer group think that I am mad to have anything to do with this social media and I have to admit that there are times when I get tired and bored by it. Furthermore, I realise that the core raison d’être of Twitter is an instant message exchange process whereas I much prefer the sharing of human interest ‘stories’ on the blog pages. As a result, I feel that the Twitter experience is for me often akin to a person stranded on top of a mountain who shouts out from time to time but hears mostly a faint echo of his own voice.

I had a crisis of Twitter conscience when returning by car from Clifden on Saturday when I decided after contemplating the amount of time that I am ‘wasting’ on Twitter each day to ‘sound the last post’ as it were, and withdraw gracefully from the whole process. However, this black mood may have in part being due to the fact that the Connemara ‘Blacks’ Rugby team I follow had just lost their third game in a row by a wide margin and now reside firmly at the foot of the table. Upon further reflection I decided that perhaps I was being too judgemental and introspective and that, just as in the case of my favourite rugby team, the dedication to whom I have no intention of quitting, I should perhaps simply seek a more balanced commitment both to the success or otherwise of my time committed to ‘sport’ on the rugby pitch or indeed to sport on social media in general.

Thus, I am posting some photos from Griffins Bar in Clifden by way of renewing my support for the ‘Blacks’ and I am also resolved to try to put a new slant on my blog entries with a commitment of a shorter period of time. It is especially important for me at my ‘age’ to allow adequate time for reading, for listening to music and above all for enjoying the spectacular scenery of Connemara itself.

As a start I would like if someone could advise me whether the followers on my blog page need me to send them a link on my home page to each new blog entry or whether they are automatically reminded of this by the Twitter process. I would link to reduce time forwarding or re-tweeting blog entries to people who may not even want to see them at all. To me, as I have said before, the blog page is like a personal magazine where I can indulge myself setting forth personal opinions and photos. My only regret is that I can’t share photos of my grandchildren to protect their privacy on the Internet.

I would like to sincerely thank all those who have followed me through my home or blog page and the words of encouragement that you have tweeted to me. At a time of significant stress in my severely restricted work environment, they have genuinely been a great source of comfort to me. May I end this period of personal reflection by hoping that any further blog entries will be of some interest and at least wont ‘bore the socks’ of all concerned.

Note: 'U2' photo is by way of celebration of 100 blog entries, to say that 'you too' can do likewise and as an affirmation of the need for a sense of Fun above all else!

Spiderman to join Superman in Coalition Gov.

2010-10-23T11:26:00.008+01:00

Spiderman weaves a web of happiness for all who know him!!

A Blue Nun and A Devil Woman in the Ballroom of Romance

2010-10-22T12:33:00.014+01:00

The potential for misunderstandings and frustrations inherent in extended family relationships are comically and dramatically brought to life in the wonderful American sitcom ‘Modern Family’. However, when I was growing up as a teenager on the east coast of Ireland in the mid sixties I was fully aware of such ‘relative’ complications which did not always manifest themselves in a comic way if seen from my perspective on that time.
I was part of a family of six people, comprising the usual mother and father, but also including an older sister, a twin (but non identical) brother and another younger brother. However, we lived a few short houses away from a married aunt’s family which also included a grandmother and a maiden aunt. Suffice it to say here that as teenagers, my twin brother and I were not short of advice or ‘moral guidance’, not just from our parents but also from my maiden aunt and even sometimes from my older sister.

During these ‘formative years’ growing up in an Ireland of very restrictive religious policy and practice, my brother and I often took refuge in ‘Rock & Roll music. Thus in my mind at the time, I was enjoying a ‘Whole Lotta Love’ with Led Zeppelin; I was consuming a ‘Strange Brew’ with Eric Clapton & Cream while I was wearing Blue Suede Shoes when checking in at the Heartbreak Hotel with Elvis Presley. However, because of the moral imperatives employed to justify the imposition of restricted access to social gatherings of our young peers, when it came to actual romantic fare, we personified the title of the Rolling Stones album of the time, in that we were indeed at a ‘Beggars Banquet’. This latter Pop group was of particular concern to my Aunt who riled against them and warned against the moral corruption inherent not only in their songs but also in their appearance. For her at least a warning to beware the ‘Ides of March’ was not enough, as she felt that this foreboding should be extended to include the ‘Ides of January to December’ of each year. In response, we would turn up the volume of the Stones track, 'The Last Time' with the sentiments ‘I told you once, I told you twice, but you won't take my advice,--this could be the last time’

The only real opportunity to make a romantic conquest to realise our teenager fantasies lay in the annual ‘Freedom from Hunger Dance’ at the local Ballroom which was sponsored by the Town schools with the funds collected going to Charity. Our parents saw this as a worthwhile ‘cause’ in supporting the alleviation of hunger abroad but we saw it as a more immediate opportunity to satisfy our need to alleviate a more pressing ‘hunger’ being experienced at home. Thus when I listened to Marty Robbins singing ‘Devil Woman’ on the transistor radio at night in bed on Radio Luxemburg, I longed to meet my own ‘devil woman’ and hoped that I would fulfil my desire at our own local ‘Ballroom of Romance’.

Dancing in Ireland at that time was concentrated on ‘ballrooms’ where so called ‘Showbands’ would play everything from fast jive music to slow foxtrots usually by employing only three chords on their instruments. Thus, the beat of the music often seems vaguely familiar whether being applied to a song by Elvis or the Beatles. The attendance at such dances ranged from hundreds to even thousands at each venue and stars such as Joe Dolan, Dickie Rock and Brendan Bowyer were household names throughout the country. Brendan Bower’s Hucklebuck Dance was a special craze at that time. Indeed such was the adulation afforded such stars that some females were reputed to throw items of their underwear at them during the ‘show’ and I myself in later years witnessed a distraught fan imploring Dickie Rock to ‘spit on her’ as a manifestation of his affection for her. Such a demonstration of fan frenzy may seem somewhat surprising especially as most of these venues were forbidden to serve alcohol. Of course, the Irish were not major players in the Bootleg years of Prohibition in the USA for nothing, so alcohol in some form usually found its ‘merry’ way into these dance halls.

Thus, when my brother and I decided to attend our own particular ‘Hunger Dance’, we had the unfortunate prospect looming of a ‘dry’ night. If seems a daunting prospect at our young age to approach our selected devil woman without recourse some illicit sustenance to give us some Dutch courage in our romantic pursuits. However, my mother did not allow ‘drink’ in the house except for a bottle of ‘Blue Nun’ wine (for visitors) and a small bottle of Powers Whiskey which was to be served by a spoon as a relief from flu. (Old wives tales of guaranteed remedies died hard in those days). Thus, my brother and I concocted a ‘strange brew’ of Blue Nun wine, Powers Whiskey and lemonade in an orange ‘crush’ bottle to bring to our date with destiny.

On the night of the actual dance, it turns out that we needed all the help we could muster from human stamina and illicit potions to bravely go where no teenager from our house had ever gone before. At such Ballroom jamborees, all the girls lined up along once side of the hall while the boys lined up along the opposite side. They then eyed each other suspiciously like two warring armies before a momentous battle. As soon as the Showband struck up a tune from their three chord repertoire, the boys would advance across ‘no man’s land’ to ask some selected girl to dance. However, this process of selection, while always invariably initiated by the boy, was not without hazard as some ‘haughty women’ were inclined to reject such requests while announcing in a high pitched voice that they were still drinking their lemonade and hence could not be expected to agree to dance at that time. There was a further complication during the slow set as if a girl extended her arms downwards in front of her, if signified that she did not ‘fancy’ you and wished to return to her friends as soon as possible.

Thus, the trick was to use the fast numbers to illustrate your facility with the jive, a dance which my older sister had taught to us, by way of impressing the fickle female. Then during a slow set one could press home ones advantage. However, any actual ‘pressing home’ against the bosom of the dancing partner was severely frowned upon by the supervising parents although a slight touching of the cheeks was considered an adequate expression of affection for all concerned. Suffice it to say that at the last slow set of the evening my partner Mary leaned over and gave me an almost imperceptible peck on the cheek. I have never before experienced such an electric fusion of sudden shock and sexual charge. Gee whiz! I had found my devil woman and I was on a high when I returned home in jubilation to tell my sister of my new conquest. However, my sense of personal fulfilment was soon shattered by my sister when my brother told her I was now doing a ‘line’ with Mary. “Jesus”, she said, quoting the nursery rhythm, “Mary had a little lamb, God, she must be hard up indeed.” I reacted with anger and stormed off professing by undying love and loyalty to her forever. You see for me at least after all months of internal anguish, like my true friend, Marty Robbins, I had at last found my ‘Devil Woman’.

So my advice to those reading this blog who are still searching for true romance is to go dancing and to be inspired by these words from the ‘Hucklebuck’ song:

‘Wriggle like a Snake and Wobble like a Duck’
That’s what you do when you think you’re out of Luck’

I suppose in retrospect folks, like the Beatles, 'I should have known better' but like many aspects of Life itself, I can still echo the Stones when I say that 'it's only rock and roll, but I like it'!

Note: This is a ‘faction’ blog for amusement only in that it is comprised of real memories and some wistful thinking and should be read with a glass of lemonade or at least some POP in hand while listening to Marty Robbins sing 'Devil Woman' on U tube!

The statue in the accompanying photo is of Joe Dolan in Mullingar, Ireland.

The Maddening Misconception of a Rocket Man Writ Large

2010-10-20T17:45:00.006+01:00

Many years ago during the first few years of my university course I decided that I wanted to be a writer instead of architect. Thus for some time thereafter I stayed up late at night after completing my studio work, endeavouring to write short stories in the mode of Frank O’Connor but with an infusion of what I considered to be the piercing wit of Oscar Wilde and the melancholy reflection of Samuel Beckett. My first coherent composition was a modest effort called ‘The Maddening Misconception of Jonathon Amesbury’ which told the story of an Anglo Irish misfit who considered himself to be a vampire and who thus lay out on tombstones at night and tried to have unlawful congress with any ‘passing’ female whenever the opportunity presented itself. Although of course sincerely committed to the success of my new writing venture, I did not write in a total vacuum as it were. I had a particular female fellow student in mind as a source of inspiration that I felt would surely share my heightened sense of creative purpose. I knew that she regularly frequented a select coffee house called ‘Jonathon’s’ in Grafton Street and her first name was ‘Aimee’, thus I felt that the title of my little piece was sure to strike a chord with her.
Furthermore, we were both particular fans of the music of Elton John at the time and I used to play his records while bent over my foolscap pages trying to give suitable written expression for my artistic endeavours.

As I didn’t want to spring the finished hand written and much corrected and amended work on the object of many romantic desires in a casual way, I decided to have the work ‘typed up’ to give it added gravitas. As I had no money at the time I had to give the story to my elderly maiden aunt to have the work done. However, she was greatly disturbed by it’s sexual ‘overtones’ and unseemly vampire focus and it took the intervention of my mother, who loudly proclaimed that it was just a phase I was growing through, to get her to undertake the task at all. As you can readily appreciate this negotiation took a considerable length of time. However, I was buoyed at that time by the lyrics of Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man’ in that I was sure that in the eyes of my female focus, I was soon going to be considered ‘high as a kite.’ So as I worked diligently to finish my ‘opus’ I sang along with Elton and echoed his song lyrics; “I’m not the man they think I am at all, Oh! No! No! I’m a Rocket Man. However, I should have known better about the fickleness of this female friendship as no sooner had I got my treasured short story in typed edition ready to captivate my sweetheart’s sensibilities did I find out that she had transferred her affections elsewhere. Like Elton John’s Rocket Man lyrics, I suddenly realised that the attainment of any reciprocal affection was going to take ‘a long, long time’ so I gave up my Oscar Wilde writing phase in frustration.

However, once again Elton John’s lyrics came to the rescue, and I could readily appreciate the sentiments expressed in the song: “I guess that’s why they call it the blues” especially in the lyric; “between you and me I can honestly say that things can only get better’. And so it proved, because within a short few weeks I had entered my Beckett phase of short story writing. After a concentrated period of endeavour I came up with a radical new departure expressed in the short story “The Rodent Image in the Moon Rays’ which dealt with the mental reflections of a ‘gaunt and expressionless old man lying in a rubbish heap’ and thinking about Hiroshima. As you can gather from even this cursory description of its contents it was hardly a barrel of laughs. Being acutely aware of my failure to get an ‘honest’ appraisal from my fellow Irish students, particularly of the female persuasion, I sent it to a friend abroad. After a number of weeks waiting with bated breadth, I got a letter to tell me for ‘God’s sake’ to snap out of these pessimistic ramblings and to get out more often!!

So my literary career was stillborn from that moment and I only ever showed these pieces even to my good wife after we had successfully negotiated some 20 years together. I’m glad to say that she was the epitome of kindness and consideration and simply gave me a big hug and said to make sure they were kept out of the reach of our young impressionable children. So I was amazed to find an old notebook at the bottom of the bookcase some days ago and to find the original typed stories collected inside. So I reread them with a fresh perspective after all these years and at the same time replayed Eton John’s greatest hit songs because ‘sad songs say so much’.

And after reading them was I sorry for giving up my literary ambition so long ago? I’m afraid that I have to readily admit that in the intervening time they have not improved with age. No I’m afraid that once again my critics were proved correct but I still in a way don’t feel sorry for trying to write at least. Because, in a sense the time spent in writing was for me like my then idol, Elton John, expressed so well in the lyrics of his songs, ‘No Sacrifice for me at all’ and because even now ‘Sorry seems to be the Hardest Word’.

Note: This blog is written in an attempt of recollection and humour and like the stories described therein should not be taken with any degree of seriousness.

Black Rugby, White Ponies and a Train of Thought

2010-10-15T12:15:00.021+01:00

For the benefit of those residing on a distant planet, the rugby season has started in earnest in Ireland. Thus in the true Irish tradition of supporting the underdog I continue to support the Connemara Blacks team from Division 3 although this particular ‘underdog’ in true Connemara style has yet to bark let alone bite, having lost their first two games by a ‘wide’ margin. Nevertheless, I am undaunted by these lacklustre displays to date as ‘hope springs eternal in the human heart’.

The Connemara home games are played in Clifden which is a small town about an hours drive from our house on the outskirts of Galway. To some people this is a very long journey to view an ‘under performing’ rugby team. However, they fail to appreciate the beauty of the scenery on the way or the historic character of Clifden itself, particularly around the old Railway Bar, Hotel and Transport Museum. The old Galway to Clifden railway line is unfortunately now no more but the station in Clifden has been restored in a fine and memorable way.

Even in autumn, one can see the wonderful range of light and colour in the bog, limestone and heather landscape, the wild Connemara ponies grazing alongside the road or the ever diligent sheep doting the landscape. It is these reasons and the range of little specialist shops in Clifden that persuades my good wife to accompany me on my journeys. Needless to say I haven’t as yet persuaded her to actually attend the games but we both enjoy a fine meal in the Railway Bar before the game and meet up again in Griffins, the local supporter’s bar, after the game for a celebratory pint with friend and foe (other team supporters) before returning home after each match.

So I am writing this blog by way of encouraging people in a hopefully gentle way to ‘leave no stone unturned’ in their efforts to visit Connemara as soon as they get a chance and they could do worse than leave some time in their schedule to ‘roar on’ the Blacks at Monastery Field just outside the town.

According to my blog counter this is my 100th post! Good grief!

A Chimney Sweep, Paul Bowles and Yesterday's Perfume

2010-10-15T10:53:00.004+01:00

It is strange how even life’s seemingly little inconsequential events are often interconnected and can lead from one planned occurrence to a somewhat unexpected one. Thus for example, last week when we had a chimney sweep in to remove soot and the remnants of a bird nest from the house chimneys, I had covered some of the furniture to protect it from dust. When the work was finished, I removed the sheet coverings, moved the couch and exposed the full height bookcase in order to clean behind it. In doing so I managed to dislodge a book from the overloaded shelves, called ‘Yesterday’s Perfume’ by Cherie Nutting. This is a book memoir of the author’s affection for both Paul Bowles, the famous American writer, and indeed of Morocco, where Bowles spent much of his life. I had totally forgotten that I had acquired this book and was delighted to find it in such an unexpected way. Cleaning implements were quickly set aside and I began to peruse the book’s writing and photographs. This lead to my re-examining my treasured shelf collection of his novels, music and the DVD’s of his film ‘The Sheltering Sky’.

Paul Bowles has been one of my favourite writers for some time as the photo accompanying this blog post will testify. His written works are often dark in tone and disturbing in their breadth of vision but nevertheless explore man’s existential quest for meaning in a chaotic world. The American writer Norman Mailer I feel best described his importance as follows:

“Paul Bowles opened up the world of Hip; he let in the murder, the drugs, the incest, the death of the square, the call of the orgy, the end of civilization”.

Among the distinguished writers whose lives intersected to a degree with Bowles, are Aaron Copland (influenced Bowles music), Gertrude Stein, Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg. Thus Bowles autobiography, ‘Without Stopping’ is a good introduction to both his fellow writers and his work in general. However, it is for the novel ‘The Sheltering Sky’ that he is most famous, principally because it was turned into a film by Bernardo Bertolucci. However, I would strongly recommend that anyone wishing to appreciate the film should read the novel first as without the inspiration of the written word, the film may appear long and unstructured even if beautifully photographed.

The Sheltering Sky chronicles the odyssey of an American couple in the deserts of North Africa and far be it from me to attempt to explore its core themes here. However, one of its interesting ideas which particularly appeals to me is the difference that Bowles saw between a tourist and a traveller. It is worth quoting from the book here:

“The difference is partly one of time, he would explain. Where the tourist generally hurries back home at the end of a few weeks or months, the traveller belongs no more to one place than the other, moves slowly over periods of years, from one part of the earth to another---another important difference between tourist and traveller is that the former accepts his own civilisation without question; not so the traveller who compares it with the others and rejects those elements he finds not to his liking—“

At a time when many of our personal experiences are being defined in writing and music by ever narrower publishing criteria and that in travel by ever more packaged products, I feel that the work of Paul Bowles can still offer an exotic and stimulating prism on real life which can be an inspiration to us all.

May I end therefore by wishing that we can travel in hope and read in joy with Paul Bowles as a true companion.

Hemingway,Bullfighting and Cheyenne Frontier Days

2010-10-10T12:00:00.014+01:00

Ernest Hemingway, the Nobel prize winning American writer, once described bull fighting as an art form and dedicated many short stories and the novel ‘Death in the Afternoon’ to extolling it’s supposed virtues as practised in Spain. In fact, he was famously quoted as saying that “auto racing, bullfighting and mountain climbing are the only real sports-all others are games”. The fact that this ‘sport’ always involved the bating and tormenting of a bull by a matador in the full view of a large number of spectators did not disturb Hemingway as he expressed an admiration for the ‘spiritual enjoyment of killing’ and praised the ‘nobility of the kill’ which although decadent was, he felt, an art form in every way. I have only been a witness to one such bullfight some years ago in Granada, in Spain and I must admit that I found the ‘sport’ totally devoid of any redeeming features and an exercise in cruel and sadistic manipulation of goaded and largely defenceless bull. I have to admit that I did not wait until the end; such was my sense of disgust at this cruel spectacle which had resulted in the death of at least five bulls before my departure from the spectator arena.

It was therefore with a great sense of relief that I witnessed a much more humane ‘sport’ in the United States of America where bulls are ridden at Rodeo shows and no harm at all befalls the bulls taking part. In fact, it is the bare back rodeo riders themselves who risk life and limb in trying to ride these bulls for even a full minute. I first witnessed one of these rodeo shows when visiting New York State many years ago but it was at the famous Cheyenne Frontier Days that I enjoyed the greatest spectacle of ‘western’ sporting activity. I first travelled to Cheyenne, Wyoming after finishing a business trip to Denver to enjoy a weekend break before returning home to Ireland.

Even Denver Airport itself is a fine gateway to lovely Colorado. I was hugely impressed by the airport’s main terminal building, which is rightly famous for its soaring white tepee style roofs which stand out as magnificent silhouettes in the surrounding landscape and seem to proudly announce the western context of the Colorado State itself. Denver city is a lovely mix of high rise and low rise buildings which nevertheless retain an essential human scale and ready accessibility. Like most American cities, Denver has a wealth of retail, cultural and historic sites but as an architect I really loved the Denver Arts Museum, designed by Daniel Libeskind, because its distinctive geometric shapes enclose and define a wonderful range of exhibition spaces showing the history of the American Indian in particular. The town of Boulder seemed to personify the charm and intimacy of a true American small town, where you can wander along pedestrianised streets and eat at lovely sidewalk cafes and restaurants. But the most unusual experience for me as foreign visitor was the Spectacular Cheyenne Frontier Days Celebration which seems to run for a full week each year.

Although I had time to spend only one day in Cheyenne, I witnessed a carefree carnival like atmosphere of relaxation and enjoyment with a full programme of horse riding, cattle roping and of course, bull riding. This was accompanied by a large range of exhibition areas including fun fare rides, an Indian village and of course, in the true American tradition, a vast eating complex containing every imaginable type of ‘light’ food snacks. I enjoyed my visit so much that I began to consider the possibility that I might return some day to try my hand as an ‘Irish’ bull riding cowhand. Although my good wife pointed out on my return that my advanced age and somewhat delicate knees might preclude such an eventuality, I have not as yet totally ruled it out.

I’m pleased to relate that my daughter Marina flew in specially to accompany me on my weekend visit when we drove a famous Ford Mustang car from Denver airport to reach Cheyenne. We both loved the Frontier Days Show as the photos accompanying this blog entry will testify. So if like me you would like to have enjoy a great opportunity to ‘get on your pony and ride’, you could do a lot worse than travel to Cheyenne and become a true cowboy for one day a least.

Shucks! As John Wayne used to say:’ A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do’. Hell! Yes!!

This blog post is mainly for family enjoyment and is set down as a treasured memento of the lovely time my daughter and I shared at Cheyenne Frontier Days.

Finding an Echo of Being in the Stillness of Sunday!

2010-10-07T16:17:00.010+01:00

I would like to take this opportunity to reflect upon and hopefully find an echo in the eloquent sentiments expressed by Annie Q Syed on her twitter blog. In one area of her writing she refers to the process of ‘chilling out’ and relaxing in New York City on a Sunday where she says she ‘wraps the stillness of Sunday morning around a pen and puts part fragments on paper’. Lest we consider this process as leading to easy reflection and relaxation, she relates the story of a man who constantly paces up and down in a neighbourhood chanting ‘God, God, and God— ‘acting as a gong’ against the flow of her thoughts. She finds his whole manner and disposition irritating and feels like disparaging his behaviour and presence and yet months later on returning to that area of the city she feels an overwhelming desire to seek him out again and to ask him to explain his behaviour so that she might better understand his motivation. She fails to find him and reflects upon his potential significance by stating that “all who know what they are talking about appear crazy”.

I partly share Annie’s contention in that some people who display antisocial or non conformist tendencies are often regarded as ‘crazy’ as a means of safeguarding ourselves from an intrusion into our comfort zone. However, I would not necessarily regard this as a positive sign as to either their mental well being or potential attraction as a source of human inspiration. Nevertheless, I myself had a similar experience some years ago in Galway City when we had to temporarily relocate our work practice over a restaurant in Galway while our own offices were being renovated. Each morning when we entered our premises, we would be greeted by the smell of stale food wafting up from the kitchen waste facilities below. Although the offices adjoined a busy junction we had no option but to open the windows to get fresh air. However, a young man of small stature and impoverished attire would locate himself each morning at the front window of the department store opposite and launch at full voice into the most appalling dirge which had no semblance of musical order or vocal skill. It was so shrill that it was rumoured that he would wait at a certain spot until he was given enough money to move elsewhere. However, his morning always started outside our office and he could be there for at least an hour or two and often longer. In the following few weeks I would see him again at various strategic places around the city and would sometimes take an alternative route to avoid him. But strangely, just as in Annie’s tale, when he left the city, I somehow began to miss him. This was certainly not out of any sense of appreciation of his musical process but rather like her, I wondered at his family background and why he sang so strongly and impassionedly on a street corner fearing neither friend nor foe! It is well said about the Irish that ‘all their wars are merry but all their songs are sad’. I would gladly have gone to war to rid me of the sound of that man’s song but when he left all one could feel was a profound sense of sadness.

Annie Syed also writes “what sustains my imagination and intelligence is directly proportional to my own creative output” and asks indirectly if this attitude could be considered conceited. My own view is that such a singular stance is perhaps too self centred rather than conceited and might preclude the simple pleasures of association with such as the ‘God’ man if they do not prove a source of inspiration for creative writing. Furthermore, she touches on the limitations of social media sites such as Twitter and Facebook for accommodating the ‘human desire for response’ and refers to those who will not follow someone on twitter unless they are also followed by them in turn. I have long shared a similar anxiety with the scope for beneficial human fulfilment gained by using Twitter and indeed my first blog verse emphasised just such a dilemma for me.

Perhaps it is my age or personal disposition which is a significant source of frustration for me and I have often felt that the tweeting process resembles a Wine and Cheese Party where one consumes largely plonk, nibbles at cheesy remarks and talks to people one hardly knows about often private and personal issues. My own personal reason to persevere is related to the desire to put together a little cyber magazine of my musings and amusings which I can pass onto my family as a memento when I am no longer physically fit to set out such little observations and discourses.

Nevertheless, I must admit that I have spoken to people all over the world about issues as diverse as surfing dogs to book connoisseurs, and I have read wonderful and stimulating writing by people such as Annie and have discussed happy mantras with Get Happy Quick gurus! At a time of recession which has left me with more time that I would normally choose from my work and when I will soon be facing the prospect of full retirement, My Little Twitter site has proved a source of fickle but fond laughter, frustration, embarrassment and annoyance just in fact like life itself. Tweet anyone?

Note:

1) You can follow Annie Q. Syed writings on Twitter @so_you_know

2) You can read my 'Twitter Poem in Jest' on March blog 2010

A Grand Chum Chum and Fanboy Birthday Celebration

2010-10-06T12:11:00.007+01:00

There is no more cherished love throughout the land
Than that felt for little children by their parents grand
To them these fond offspring are so precious and fine
That they have forgotten the need to draw any line
On behaviour to others which might appear somewhat extreme
For to them it’s enough that they have joined the home team.

Although in our own family count there are only really two
But boys make a sound enough for a full cabin crew
As parents we had only been used to placid girls before
And a transition to boisterous chaos was at first a little sore
But now we have grown accustomed to the patter of tiny feet
No to mention jumping and leaping and grinding of teeth.

Ornaments and plants have been moved to a high shelf
And drawers and cabinets have been locked with the delph
The cat have been put in the shed for his own safe fare
The hen coop cordoned off and a sign erected ‘beware.’
Still they are really only aged one three and one six
So we should concentrate instead on taking their picts.

With names like James Alesana and Sean Moses
They have to be loved unconditionally one supposes
In order to protect their privacy I can’d post their face
But I can assure you that on broad smiles I rest my case
Their cartoon nicknames are Chum Chum and Fanboy
But to us at least they are undoubtedly an ever present joy.

So on Sunday we are having a very special celebration
And for one day we will forget the woes of the nation
James Alesana will be three on that Celebration Day
So whether in rain or shine we will gladly ‘make hay’
We will toast his humour, his fun and his jigsaw skill
Which already astounds us all as he can do them at will.

But we can’t end yet without praising Little Sean so tall
Who for this grandad at least has simply no rival at all
So to our birthday celebration I now raise a long glass
For to us our grandchildren will always be first class
This verse asserts that all children are a joy not a trouble
So enjoy them while you can and don’t live life in a bubble!

A Maran Hen, Karl Marx and The Division of Labour

2010-10-04T09:50:00.007+01:00

I have never had a particular fondness for narrow political perspectives on the organisation of society as for example, in communism or indeed socialism, as anyone can glean from even a cursory glance at the convoluted thought processes underlying my meandering blog entries. Socialism got a bad name for me when our now retired Taoiseach (Prime Minister), Mr. Bertie Ahern, declared himself to be a socialist as well as leader of arguably the largest right wing party in Ireland. However, I see from a television advert for a tabloid newspaper screened last night that he now writes a column on soccer for it. To reaffirm the significance of this, he was shown seated inside a kitchen cupboard drinking a cup of tea and presumably readily available to offer his views as soon as the lady of the house opened the press door. As a mark of respect for the significant contribution which this man has made to the economic mess in which the Irish Nation now finds itself, I have pledged to take out an annual subscription to this newspaper and to proclaim myself a socialist for life, if the said retired Taoiseach agrees to stay in this cupboard for as long as he remains in our impoverished country.

I’m afraid that I have little time either for the magic cleansing properties of the Communist Formula for a whiter than white social product. Nevertheless, when I awoke last Saturday morning from a peaceful night’s slumber and had recourse to a friendly conversation with my good wife, I could not help thinking of some of the key teachings of Karl Marx and in particular his perspectives on the ‘Division of Labour’. One of Karl’s warnings in this sphere was that specialisation in work practices may result in a lack of enthusiasm for work. He described this process very aptly as ‘alienation’. In fact he put it very succinctly when he said that a worker could be ‘depressed spiritually and physically to the condition of a machine’. The cause of this radical recollection and keen insight on my behalf was the belief that my good wife was suffering from ‘depressed spirituality’ and machine like rigidity last weekend, presumably occasioned by the demands of her day job. For how else can one explain the fact that she was prepared to risk total alienation of our life long social partnership by refusing to take her turn to get up and go and feed the newly expanded hen brood outside in the rain! Shock! Horror! Indeed!

Quickly and correctly reading the surprised expression on my face, she explained that she genuinely supported ‘my’ choice to expand the hen flock and that she was fully prepared to participate in what she called my ‘home farm initiative’ but that she just had not enough time due to work commitments to do more than collect the eggs on occasion. She then gave me a somewhat inappropriate ‘peck’ on the cheek, curled up happily in bed once more and went back to sleep. Thus it was the teachings of Karl Marx that came suddenly to mind as I went downstairs and out to the yard in the rain with only my dressing gown, my old cloth cap and wellies to protect me from the elements.

However, I was pleased to find all my poultry friends in fine fettle. We now have 4 Rhode Island reds, a lovely white Light Sussex breed and a French Maran hen. I had researched the profile and quality of each breed on the Internet and could not help recalling what I had read about the Maran hen in particular. It said that although she was an excellent bird of renowned stock and lineage, in summer some of such hens could be broody in disposition. I could not help thinking about the similarity in name between the Maran hen and the Marian name of my wife upstairs who I felt at that point of the day was also prone to showing a broody manner. I know call this hen ‘Mar’ in a show of genuine affection.

I’m glad to relate that the good relationship between my wife and me and indeed between us and our lovely hens has been fully restored. However, there are no ‘Marx’ going for guessing who had to get up and feed the hens the following morning. Notwithstanding this little fowl exchange, I feel that we should not fall out over a small ‘Division of Labour’ whether it is the subject of an ancient political polemic or not.

No, I think it is to William Shakespeare that we should leave the last word on this topic. Perhaps upon reflection I should not have put such unreasonable pressure on my own little romantic chick companion but I now know for sure when it comes to ‘dishing the dirt’ of my feathered friends that for my wife at least it is certainly a case of ‘Loves Labour Lost’.

Written as an attempt at humorous part fiction only and in order to avoid an onslaught from any feminists let me assure you that Marian remains my treasured and fully respected pride and joy! In fact she has agreed to provide a guest blog on my site in the near future but as she points out ‘Women multi task but Men multi tweet’ so I will have to wait some time yet. Her topic she says will be ‘specialist metal manhole covers’, (there was an exhibition of same in Ferrara last summer). She claims that contrary to my initial impression that this is not a ‘waste’ of time and so lets hope that her enthusiasm does not ‘drain’ away in the interim time.

Finally, does anyone know if there is a problem in keeping goats or sheep in a domestic environment as I am thinking of expanding my farm ‘pet’ initiative! Help?

All comments and musings welcome!

Diddly Dee! Fiddling Cats and Laughing Dogs!

2010-10-01T14:27:00.009+01:00

We have always had pets in our house, and I’m inclined to list our two daughters and two grandsons among them. However, when we first moved to our village house from Galway City, we were not especially animal oriented. In fact our first immediate experience of a small furry neighbour took the form of a rat that ate through the base of the old shed door and gnawed through the plastic bin to get at the contents. We were advised to get a cat to keep away the rats and I’m pleased to relate that we were soon without both shed and rats and thanks to our feline friends we have never seen any rats since. Buoyed by the affirmation in the lyrics of the song: ‘Old McDonald had a Farm’ which our children used to sing, we decided to ‘swallow a spider to catch a fly’ as it were as we then acquired a Jack Russell to act not only as guard dog but as a pet. However, our rural idyll was shattered when the dog was killed by a passing car and our cat population began to multiply to such an extent that we soon had 10 kittens and two female adult cats. A combination of the help secured from the local animal welfare society, a protracted sourcing of ‘good homes’ and the intervention of a fox while we were away on a weekend break, soon reduced our cat population to more manageable proportions.

Undeterred by this experience, we then added some gold fish and a pet hamster that proceeded to introduce us to a breed of eight new born ‘babies’ on Christmas Day! I must admit that I often thought that our pet policy needed radical review but every initiative was immediately ruled out by my daughters with an intensity of wailing and keening that would not be out of place at a wake. Thus by way of a solution, we decided to add rather than detract from the pet ‘sanctuary’ of our cat home. Thus, we acquired an American cocker spaniel called ‘Cutie Kate’ on the basis that if such a dog was good enough for ‘Oprah’, then surely we could manage her as well. She (the dog, that is), proved to be a real dote except when she would roll in of the wet garden grass every time she was washed and run around with twigs and general garden debris attached to her coat. She used to sleep in the shed at night to avoid her coming upstairs during the night and waking the entire household.

We then considered that a balance had been restored to the composition of our animal home, only to find that our cat decided to leave in protest at our new dog’s presence and went happily to live in the next door neighbours house. This situation proved especially divisive as one daughter wanted priority for the ‘original’ cat and the other proclaimed that the dog was the more affectionate pet. After a few fraught weeks however, the cat, called ‘Catatouille’ (after the movie Ratatouille) decided to come back and reassert her presence. There was a certain amount of scratching, hissing and barking before both animals decided to share the shed. A few weeks later during a cold snap, I was amazed to find the cat sleeping on top of the dog for warmth. When she later had kittens, Cutie would lick them and protect them from any passing tom cats. In fact, we wondered whether she was becoming a ‘cat’ such was her docile and friendly manner to her cat companion.
Cutie Kate was a constant house companion for over 14 years until she got so old that she had to be put down but Catatouille is still with us and remains alert to this day. After the passing of our dog the cat would whine as she seemed to miss her company. She has now taken to greeting me every morning at the glass sliding door to ensure that she is fed before the chickens that have now joined our domestic brood. Although our two girls are now ‘grown up’ and living in Dublin, they constantly check on the welfare of our feathered and feline friends. We are also lucky enough to have Connemara ponies and cows grazing in the fields immediately behind our home. Thus, when I think of our little menagerie, it brings to mind the old children’s nursery rhyme, as follows:

“Hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon.
The little dog laughed to see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon”

In the current economic recession some people contend that our financial lot will not improve until ‘pigs will fly’ but in Moycullen at least I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if I saw the cows in the field behind us ‘jump over the moon’.

Written as a humorous part fictional memory only!

All comments and musings welcome!

Magic Mushrooms, Cowboy Capers and The Greenore Train

2010-09-30T18:34:00.008+01:00

When I looked out my bedroom window the other morning to assess the general autumnal climate, I was greatly surprised to see what appeared to be two very large mushrooms at the edge of the compost heap in the garden below. On later inspection in the garden itself, I found that two mushrooms had appeared magically overnight. This you might think is hardly surprising for this time of year but in fact we have never had such mushrooms growing in our garden before and these ones proved a catalyst for the lifting of a ‘mushroom cloud’ from my earliest childhood memories. You see gathering mushrooms was a particular focus of my family’s adventures during the Autumn months of early childhood and in so doing marked a significant shift in the perception of our father’s status in our family life. However, in an attempt to explain this change in the family, I first need to refer to the ‘western’ context which imbued the pastimes of teenage boys at that time.

In the absence of our own television in the home, the greatest treat that my twin brother and I could be offered was a visit to the Cinema to see a Western, with John Wayne movies being a particular favourite. My earliest childhood cinematic memory though was ‘High Noon’ and although I considered at that time that the film itself had not enough gunfights and Indians in it, nevertheless for some time after I thought of my father as a kind of Garry Cooper figure who would protect us from all harm. This western role for our father was soon surmounted however by a radically different perspective in the next few years when, as in his attempts to ‘keep the law’ as we grew older, we began see him more as a cowboy Marshall than a benign life saver. More disturbing to us was my father’s inclination to live out the Marshall’s role by barking orders at us. Such behaviour always came to a head during a fishing trip or indeed mushroom hunt with him.

Thus, each autumn he would organise a special day out to collect mushrooms in the countryside near Greenore on the shores of Carlingford lock. Bicycles would be hauled out of the shed and quick repairs and cleaning executed while my father hurried around us complaining about the way we kept the bikes and why we could never locate a simple bicycle ‘pump’ when needed. My mother, as in all good westerns of the time, fulfilled the female ‘interest’ role in this soap opera, by making us sandwiches and hot drinks, locating coats and endeavouring to cool my father’s iridescent temper. My youngest brother, aged about three at the time, was given an opportunity of riding ‘shotgun’ on my fathers bike where he was perched precariously on a small saddle on the cross bar with his feet on metal shoes just below the handle bars. After my father deemed that our bicycles were suitably loaded like ‘pack mules’ for the journey ahead, he would roar out the order to proceed and we would set off on our 18 mile round trip journey on the Greenore trail with John Wayne leading from the front.

For the most part these trips were actually good fun for us as we had long become adept at reading the Marshall’s moods and we were careful to avoid a ‘shoot out’ with him. However, there were also some times when our cherished inclination to mimic what we considered ‘Apache whoops’ would drive him to distraction and he would threaten to see us in ‘Boot Hill’. Nevertheless, we had some sympathy with his predicament as we were all well versed in the John Wayne dictum that ‘a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do’.

When we reached the pasture fields near Greenore, we would tie up our bicycles to a fence like horses to a coral. Then, we would scour the fields for mushrooms and set out eagerly into the chosen one despite risking life and limb from bulls, goats or potentially wild horses. When we asked our father what was ‘magic’ about such small white mushrooms, he explained that they would appear magically overnight and hence that you had to be up early to collect them before they ‘disappeared’ again. No wonder some people in Ireland still believe in fairies!

We always made time to visit the old Greenore railway station and the derelict old red brick hotel which now seemed so incongruous as it was surrounded by industrial port machinery and product and its heyday was only a distant memory. My father told us how we had once travelled to Greenore from Dundalk on the now abandoned railway but he never shared a secret memory which we only learned after his death. Seemingly, his own father had been employed on the old West Clare Railway and had been killed in a shunting carriage accident. This had resulted in his family having to leave their small railway cottage and had made their lives greatly impoverished thereafter.

As I recall, on our way back from one such a trip, we were almost killed by a Morris Minor car speeding on the wrong side of the road and driven by a local priest. Our father luckily called upon his John Wayne persona and waved us to turn off into the grass verge quickly. We ended up in a state of some distress wedged up against a rusty garage door but otherwise unharmed. My father though let out a stream of abuse at the ‘heavenly’ driver which you would be unlikely to hear even in the most violent ‘spaghetti’ western and did not let up even when explaining the incident to my mother on our return home. When my mother tut tutted his language and suggested that the ‘poor man’ may have been on an urgent sick call, this simply added to my fathers ire and he added that he would certainly be in need of a ‘sick call’ if he had got hold of him. As you can see being a ‘ranch hand’ on the family homestead was no easy task.

When we grew older and left the ranch for good as it were, we would visit our small terrace house on occasion and reminisce about such mushroom trips. At that time my brothers and I had grown so much that we resembled the ‘Sons of Katie Elder’ in that we seemed too big for the roles allocated to us and our aged father had assumed a new air more reminiscent of Ben Cartwright of Bonanza than any previous gunslinger role. However, though our memories seemed carefully screened to edit out any previous discordant note, they were nevertheless vividly embraced by all.

Thus, even now when I see a humble mushroom in a compost heap, I cannot but recall the distant memories of the Greenore Train run and although some of these memories may in reality represent more of a toadstool than a genuine mushroom sentiment, the value of their recall is always MAGIC to me!

PS: visited Greenore on 12th Oct 2010 and the the Hotel is gone!!!!!!

Written as a humorous part fictional memory only!

All comments and musings welcome!

Nostalgia and Norwegian Wood in Tigh Neachtains Bar!

2010-09-27T11:32:00.019+01:00

I have a special fondness for Neachtain’s famous old traditional Bar in Galway. One reason may be that we both have a long ‘association’ with each other dating back some thirty years or more involving the consumption of copious pints of the ‘black stuff’ on the premises. Another reason may be a certain pride I take in the small design input I provided as an architect to its owners when they were renovating the upper floor restaurant and struggling to adapt such an historic old building to meet stringent and very inflexible fire safety standards.

However, it is memories associated with my family connections with the place that gives me the fondest feelings of pleasure. You see my wife and I were first introduced to the place by a friend when it had all the hallmarks of a Chicago ‘Speakeasy’ in its operation. At that time you had to tap on invariably closed doors and hope to be allowed into its hallowed interior if you were known and trusted. You entered a smoke filled atmosphere of ‘serious’ drinking and ‘non’ serious but lively and often impromptu music playing and singing. The bar was very compact, with a series of interlinked small cramped spaces and a small number of treasured ‘snug’s (for those unfamiliar with traditional Irish pub interiors, a snug was a small fully or partly enclosed cubicle where one could imbibe the pleasures of the ‘dreaded’ drink in relative privacy).You invariably had to come early (coming the previous day might even be advisable!!) to gain entry to a snug and invariably a small group of drinkers hovered within your personal ‘comfort zone’ hoping that you would leave and thus give them an opportunity to occupy the treasured space. However, the unwritten rules of pub ‘etiquette’ normally applied (except of course by the tourists who were often unaware of them) in that when you ‘fought’ (in the nicest sense of this word) through a surging throng to get to the toilet, your seat was often ‘taken’ in the snug but would be given back on your return. This was understandable as such a call of nature could take up to a half hour or more as although the distance was finite and small, the human and furniture objects to be negotiated were many and anyway one was usually ‘waylaid’ by a person with a story to impart or a song to sing for your ‘benefit’. Thus, trips to naturally dispose of the human residue of the black stuff required a ‘stoutness’ of purpose and indeed I often had to turn back and go next door to relieve myself.

Another object of dubious value depending upon your time of arrival was a roaring turf fire which occupied a prominent place in one of the small recesses and which of course was a welcome source of heat and comfort on a cold winter’s night in Galway. However, as the pub became ever more crowded as the night progressed, one usually became aware of the amazing sight of people trying to retrieve a pint from the bar while simultaneously trying to avoid being roasted like chestnuts against the raging inferno of the turf fire alongside them. I often think that it was only the thought of carefully balancing the need for both inner and outer well being that made people run to/from that bar counter past the fire with a pint clutched to their chest in case the precious liquid would spill.

Of course, these halcyon days of blissful pleasure were soon interrupted for my good wife and I by the arrival over a couple of short years of two little ‘dotes’ in the form of our little offspring. We soon replaced the exigencies of the bottled black stuff with that of the white stuff associated more with Cow and Gate milk that the St. James Gate (brewery) with which we had previously been more familiar. So for a few ‘dry’ years we only made the journey into town to Neachtains Bar when we could combine it as a night out with a visit to the Druid Theatre and when we had our precious offspring being minded by a tried and trusted babysitter. However, as I worked just a short distance from the pub and as the children grew older, we began to develop a ‘habit’ of calling in for a pint after work on Friday with our two girls ‘in tow’ before heading home for the evening. We would give the girls some money for sweets and they would go across the street and view the toys in the Wooden Heart Toy shop. (I noticed at the weekend that this lovely shop is still going strong although almost 20 years have passed since this time). For a while we thought this to be an ideal solution and money saving exercise as we did not need a baby sitter so often. The girls were always welcome in Neachtains until 7 o’clock in the evening, so we would spend about a half hour there before we left for home. However, our little illusion was soon shattered when our youngest daughter wrote an essay for the teacher on her ‘best weekend ever’. She described how her Daddy & Mammy gave her lots of money to go to the shops to buy sweets and toys while they went to the ‘PUD’ (she had trouble writing ‘b’ letters) and then her Mammy came go and took the tea out of a brown bag! Needless to say the teacher was a little alarmed by the picture painted by our eloquent daughter and we had to assure her profusely that our little darling had a ‘fevered’ imagination at times. However, just to be on the ‘safe side’ and to avoid a visit from child protective services, we decided to restrict our Friday visits as a result.

Many years have passed in the meantime and my wife and I have continued our valued association with Neachtains Bar. However, having had to close my Galway city based business office because of the recession some two years ago, we have not been accustomed to visit as often or as easily as previously. Thus, it was with a little trepidation that we went there for a drink after our Culture Night celebration in Galway on Friday last. It proved to be a wonderful experience and in a sense was like ‘coming home’. There was a wonderful atmosphere of camaraderie and fun and in the corner playing beautiful traditional music were four musicians from Sweden and Finland called ‘Café Minor’.(CD is called Northern lights). I hasten to add that their music may have been ‘Café’ in style but was certainly not minor in quality. They played a lovely tune called ‘Inis Oirr’ which they associated with a ferry to Inisboffin Island and it would bring tears to your eyes such was its intense beauty of expression. However, the rendition of the song that most surprised and amazed me was their take on the Beatles song ‘Norwegian Wood’. Some of the lines in this song are: ‘she asked me to stay and she told me to sit anywhere, but I looked around and found that there wasn’t a chair’. These lines in a packed Neachtains seemed appropriate to the place at the time but like the song itself they find an echo of memory in the heart and melody in the soul.

So in finishing, may I saw that it is good to be back in Neachtains again and to still feel a close affinity with the place? I think that it is Tony Bennett who sings that ‘he left his heart in San Francisco’. Well, for my part, I left my ‘Wooden Heart’ in a lovely shop opposite Neachtains in Quay street but part of my emotional heart will always be located in a small snug at the back of Neachtains Bar with a little girl whispering in my ear that she wants another wooden toy NOW!

Motto: Children and Neachtains never stop toying with your Heart!

All comments and musings welcome!

Culture Night in Galway-Charlie 'Byrne' after Reading?

2010-09-26T23:27:00.014+01:00

In the economic desert like atmosphere pervading the social life of Galway City in the last two years, the bookshop being run by Charlie Byrne and his staff remains an oasis of mental sustenance and a beacon for renewal of the human spirit. The shop not only provides a huge range of new and second hand books covering a very diverse range of subjects but also acts as a forum for authors to read from and publicise their works at public readings. Thus when my wife and I visited on Friday last as part of a Cultural Night experience in Galway, I was particularly gratified to listen to a very wide range of new and established writers reading short stories and poems. To my surprise, they also had some people reading non fiction works with subjects ranging from an Irishman’s prophetic early warning of Nazi influence in Poland prior to the Second World War to a history of ASTI, the secondary school teachers association. However, while you listen to these authors you are also given an opportunity to enjoy a glass of wine and to explore the vast number of books on display in the shop during your visit. I must say that I came away, not only with a deeper appreciation of the quality and commitment of a number of Galway writers that I previously had no knowledge about, but also acquired four diverse and interesting books during my Friday visit.

On a light, but important note nevertheless, I discovered a slim volume on ‘The Right Way to keep Chickens’ (those following my blog will know how important it is to keep my Rhode Island Red Chickens happy for good egg production), a very interesting and beautifully illustrated book on Irish Names (which lead me to realise for the first time why I had been called COLM, it being the Feast Day of that Saint on the Day of my birth, but still leaves me bemused unfortunately about the source of my twin brothers name- perhaps just an afterthought, I having been born first), and two books of short stories. The first book called ‘The Wind across the Grass’ is by Nuala Ni Chonchuir, whom I know from both her Twitter site and the fine newspaper reviews of her work. I had been promising myself for some time that I would read one of her books and was glad of the opportunity of acquiring it on Friday last.

However, the biggest and most thought provoking surprise to me was the book of short stories called ‘The West’ by Eddie Stack. On flicking through the slim volume I could see that his work was likened to that of the author Myles na Gopalean (a favourite of mine) by one eminent reviewer. Furthermore the cover artwork, showing an artistic painting of ‘Blake’s Corner’ in Ennistymon, Co. Clare also struck a cord with me as I had taken some photos there of my two children some twenty years ago and I had both cherished photos and indeed memories of that place. So when I got up the following morning I read a few of Mr Stack’s stories and found them to be beautifully written and wonderfully human and comic in tone and expression.

I was so impressed by his writing that I managed to contact him on Twitter to express my admiration at his achievement and to wish him well in any future endeavours. I must say that I returned to Charlie Byrnes on the Sunday afternoon where I was able to acquire the CD mentioned in his book blurb which includes not only Mr Stack reading four of his short stories but also accompanying music by the renowned traditional Irish musicians, Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill. The CD is simply called ‘The West’ and is promoted by Tintaun records, in County Galway.

So if you think that a ‘Night at the Museum’ can make an interesting film or two, you should not underestimate the pleasure that can also be gained by a ‘Night at the Bookshop’, particularly if it is organised and run by Charlie Byrnes Galway staff!

Note:

1) The title of this little blog owes a gratitude to the wonderful Coen Brothers movie:

'Burn after reading' which is highly recommended also.

2) I love the sentiment of the poster for Kenny's Galway Bookshop by Gertrude Dagengardt;

'It's About Time to have a Good Time'- too true!!
All comments and musings welcome!

Riding on a Sea of Emotion with Druid on Culture Night

2010-09-26T19:12:00.011+01:00

As part of the Galway Culture night my wife and I visited the newly renovated Druid Theatre to view a screening of a film showing the Druid production of ‘Riders to the Sea’ by J.M.Synge. The short 30 minute film tells the story of a mother’s struggle against the forces of the sea on the West Coast of Ireland, which tragically takes the life of all her six sons over time. The play dates from 1904 and George Moore, the famous Irish writer, is quoted as describing this one act play as “an experiment in language rather than a work of art” and went on to state that it was its language was in his opinion principally “a discovery of style, a vehicle of expression”. Certainly it has none of the vitality and animal vigour characteristic of Christy Mahon and his fellow islanders in the more famous Synge play ‘The Playboy of the Western World’. This may be due in part to the restrictions inherent in a one act play for the development of facets of the central characters. However, the Druid Theatre Company under the direction of Garry Hynes could give added dramatic weight and depth of realisation to even a TV soap opera and the acting, set and camera angles used all give heightened affect to the plight of a hapless mother in the face of the often tragic influence of the sea in the life of the Aran Islanders. Thus, although some of the language used in the play appears somewhat dated and contrived when viewed at a century removed from the time of its first writing, there is no doubting the acting skill of Marie Mullen in particular as the agonised mother, which gives it’s a very strong emotional impact.

Finally, it was wonderful to see the building which housed the original Druid Theatre having been restored and renovated in such a fine way while still retaining the intimacy of the core stage/seating auditorium. Here’s hoping that Druid Theatre focus on the provision of a wonderful and insightful dramatic experience in the artistic life of Galway City will continue to grow and prosper even in these hard economic times.

The Druid Theatre celebrated 35 years in Galway last May and I must say having lived in the city for all of this time and seen most of their productions, that I have never seen a bad play by Druid. Perhaps the highlight for my wife and I was the time we travelled to Inismaan Island (Aran) to see Druid's production of the Playboy of the Western World in the very place where it was set originally. We will never forget the magic island setting and a wonderful never to be forgotten dramatic experience.

So if any readers get a chance to see Druid either in Ireland or abroad, please do not hesitate to go and see them.

All comments and musings welcome!

Judging a Wine by its Label, Sour Grapes?

2010-09-17T16:35:00.010+01:00

They say that you shouldn't judge a book by it’s cover but in reality the cover graphics of a book jacket often tell you a lot about the inner contents, if only in an indirect day. I mean we are hardly likely to mistake the outside cover of the latest chic-lite pot boiler with a treatise for example by Stephen Hawkins on the origins of the universe. Although when I come to think of it, some of the factual theories behind such later works may have a similar fictional ring of conviction behind them. However, my own particular tipple here is more fluid than fiction based. You see that I am fascinated by the thousands of different wines which are marketed in an ever-increasing number of producer countries without much attention at all being given to the wine label presentation and or indeed to the description of its contents. Simply stated I don’t feel that I can reasonably bottle up by concern with this perceived deficiency much longer.

There are of course a vast range of wines available to the discerning customer and even a greater range available to the non discerning one. Think about it! Most people when choosing their favourite or indeed experimental tipple, will be guided by the country or region where it is produced, by the kind of grape used in the wine, by the reputation of the producers for quality or even by the extensive guide books available to rate the more established wines. Although in the current recessionary climate the overriding consideration could well be the price of the wine itself. However, when the average amateur wine buff visits his local wine shop or supermarket franchise, he is still likely to be faced with a daunting display of alternative choices! Arguably the greatest recommendation for the selection of a fine wine is its taste of course and its nose, or smell! However, I have rarely been offered an opportunity to sample either of these in the average local winery. Thus, the potential of another dominant sense is largely ignored in the presentation of the wine product to the consumer. This is of course the visual attraction of the wine label and how readily the information on the wine type, grape and taste expectation is presented on this label.

During the summer I had the distinct pleasure of visiting the Tuscany region of Italy, for example, and in even the most basic winery was faced with a daunting task in attempting to distinguish between the wines on offer. However, some are very creative and admirable in depicting local artistic achievements on their wine bottles to imply extra refinement to the wine. I wish to applaud the Brunello di Montalcino Winery for the wine labels illustrated in accompanying photos. One depicts the great Leonardo Da Vinci on the bottle and claims that the wine which is made from Sangiovese grapes is regarded as the “King of Italian Wines”. Modesty forbids me from commenting on this claim but the label is certainly well presented. However, my own favourite is the CastelGiocondo Wine label showing a depiction of the famous fresco in Siena allegedly by Simone Martini of a famous horseman passing through the barren hills of the Maremma. Who could resist these wines, especially as a tourist?

However in recent years my fascination with wine bottles and labels has begun to get a little out of hand. Simply stated I have developed a serious drink problem. I hasten to add here by way of explanation, that this is not so much a drinking problem but a storage problem. You see, I have begun to collect wine bottles, even empty blue one for their coloured hue in sunlight, and full ones like those described earlier. I have now added ‘celebrity’ wine labels to my collection including Marilyn Monroe (Merlot on the label), Elvis Presley, Che Guevara and Napoleon along with some lesser known mortals. This wine fixation has not gone down well with the ‘good wife’ who has begun to ‘whine’ about the clutter in the house occasioned by my bottled up emotions. She has suggested that I drink the wine, through away the bottles and put the wine labels in a display booklet. However, I for my part feel that this is only sour grapes on her part as she does not fully understand the aesthetic integrity of wine, bottle and label being appreciated as one design entity. No indeed, wine to her is just something to drink pleasurably! It’s enough to make one see Red, as it were. However, we have as usual over our long years of happy tippling together, hit on a compromise solution. I have promised in a written agreement signed in red wine (or is that blood?) that I will no longer pine for long sought after wine labels and she in turn will not whine about the banality of collecting labelled bottles.

We have opened a fine bottle of Italian Sangiovese wine to celebrate our agreement but if I said that it was one of my treasured ‘designer’ bottles, I would indeed be telling a White lie!

All comments and musings welcome!

Cherished Memories of Lost Souls set in Stone

2010-09-17T09:24:00.008+01:00

There would appear to be a dichotomy prevalent in modern social practice in our relative difficulty in coming to terms with the manifestations associated with the rituals accompanying the death of loved ones. The late Irish poet and philosopher John O’Donohue has written and indeed spoken profoundly in his book/CD called ‘To bless the Space Between Us’ about the absence of ‘rituals to protect, encourage and guide us as we cross over into the unknown’. I do not intend here to attempt to improve upon John’s wonderful life affirming insights into the world of healing and personal affirmation but I would just like to relate a little story which John was also fond of telling about the importance of and association with the memories of those who have died, or in modern terms passed, belonging to us.

One of my first commissions some 27 years ago as an architect was to renovate and restore the small rural church at Ros Muc in County Galway. The newly appointed parish priest was horrified to see that the little existing stone walled church, which had been perched on a hill overlooking the sea for centuries, was scheduled for demolition and replacement with a modern concrete edifice. He asked me if I could review these plans as he explained that the local people had a very strong personal identification with the old church over many years. Indeed the church was even referred to locally as ‘Teach on Phobail’ which translates as the ‘House of the People’. I’m glad to relate that I were able to come up with a restoration proposal which integrated new and old elements into the overall building while replacing the rotten roof and restoring the fabric of the existing stone walls and stained glass windows. We even managed to arrange for the construction of a new stand alone cross outside the main entrance made from large roof timbers taken from the old roof. The parish priest was very pleased by the completed works as he felt that they symbolised the continuity of the church’s spiritual role and physical presence in the local community.

However, there was one final work task which we both felt would provide a final affirmation of this newly restored identity. He wished to place an old stone cross retried from a shed on a large circular rock at the base of the hill so that when visitors arrived they would know where to enter the church property. Our problem was that it was very difficult to obtain a suitably large stone in the immediate area on which to sit the cross. Although the landscape of Connemara is of course covered with a vast numbers of stones of all sizes, it was proving difficult to find a stone of the right size and shape. However, after much searching in the immediate area, I was elated to find such a stone in a field nearby. As I knew that the church restoration was proving to be very popular with most locals I was confident that the owner of the land would agree to let us use this stone.

However, when I asked for his permission, he refused outright. Seeing the surprise and confusion on my face he explained in simple terms to me that ‘the souls of my ancestors lie in the stones in that field’. I was completely stunned and looked again in detail at these stones. To my great surprise, I realised that the field contained, what at first sight I had thought to be a random pattern of loose stones, but what I now saw to be the remains of old stone cottages and outbuildings. These probably dated back to the great famine in Ireland in 1845 and to this man they still represented a sacred place. I thanked him and explained humbly that I now saw and understood his dilemma and assured him that I both appreciated and respected his view. I’m glad to relate that we were eventually able to get another stone elsewhere which is illustrated in the sketch accompanying this article.

In some respects, this little story reminds me of the saying that a butterfly’s wings when flapped can have an impact world wide. Thus, when I sometimes read in Irish newspapers of hooligans desecrating graves and gravestones, I often still think of this man and his affirmation of the importance of acknowledging the continuity of life’s human memories of all who have died belonging to us. This spiritual affinity has similar strength of feeling to that associated with the sacred burial grounds of the Native American Indian and in some ways reflects the intensity of emotions felt by many American families towards the rubble left after the 9/11 atrocity in the USA.

Although I feel that a ‘place’ association is very helpful in acting as a focus for our intense feeling at the lost of a loved one, this place association can take the simple form of a picture or indeed even a small stone object and does not need to have to take the form of large symbolic edifices so prevalent in our older graveyards. I myself love the Greek habit of leaving small oil lamps lighting in graveyards at night. However, if one cannot find a suitable physical space or object, I’m sure that anyone with true feeling can find a place in their heart for such memory association.

Therefore, for all people who have died or ‘passed’ over, whatever the saying, let us respect our dead, cherish their memory and know that their influence continues in our lives and through our children so long as human life continues on earth. As you can see from this little discourse, they can even be found in a collection of random stones in a small field in Connemara.

Note: This blog is dedicated especially to the memory of my wonderful nephew, Donagh O’Riain who died in August on this year aged 29 years of age and who was and who will continue to be a treasured memory in our lives.

All comments and musings welcome!

Have Fun but Wipe that Smile of Your Face!

2010-09-12T14:15:00.009+01:00

I must confess that I don’t have much time for many current stand-up comedians as I find most of their material and delivery contrived, offensive and more importantly not particularly funny. However, I really enjoy Ireland’s Dara O’Briain and Scotland’s Billy Connolly because much of their humour is based upon exaggerated perception and the highlighting of ordinary human experience. Hence I was pleased to view again ‘An Audience with Billy Connolly’ on TV on Friday night, where he entertained a celebrity crowd. During his hour long monologue he referred at length to his childhood growing up in a tenement in Glasgow as a Catholic. Although I myself also grew up as a Catholic in a small terrace house in Ireland, the behaviour of his mother and children at the arrival of the local priest for a visit struck a particular cord with me. His description of one such visit is worth retelling here.

His mother told the children to go into the bedroom, stay in bed and keep quiet when the priest arrived. It was bitterly cold in the tenement at that time of year so she spread a heavy coat over the bed to keep them warm. However, the two boys kept fighting with each other and she roared at them that if they didn’t stay quiet that she would ‘wipe the smile to the other side of their face’. Billy stressed how ridiculous this expression was and then proceeded to attempt to show in hilarious fashion how this might somehow be ‘physically ‘achieved. This reminded me of a similar expression that my own father used to my twin brother and I when we teased and giggled when we were very young instead of eating our food as quickly as he thought desirable. He would shout at us and warn us that he would give us a ‘clip’ so and wipe the smile of our face! Looking back I also had visions of my father getting a face cloth in the bathroom and in a gesture favoured by my maiden aunt attempting to wipe the smile as it were from my face!

In Billy’s story the priest duly arrived and was served tea, crumpet and special biscuits while the bedlam continued in the boys’ bedroom. One of them called out to his mother that the other guy was keeping most of the ‘coat’ to himself on the bed. Of course, his mother was aghast at the idea that the good priest would think that they had to spread a coat on the bed. She cried to them that ‘she was finding it difficult to hear herself think’ with the noise and assured the priest that all the coats were of course in the ‘cloakroom’. So, while proffering more ‘custard cream’ biscuits to the priest she cried out to the boys so that the priest would understand: ‘Silly boy, that is not a coat, it’s called an eiderdown, so stop your fighting and go to sleep’. However, after a few moments of relative quiet, the boy shouted out again: ‘Mum, it’s him again, he putting his feet into the sleeves of the eiderdown’.

Brilliant! I love it as it reminds me of my own mother throwing a coat on ‘rare’ occasions over our bed as children when we too complained of the cold at night! And despite our small house being occupied by 2 adults and 4 small children, we had a room set aside during the early years of our life for ‘visitors’, which seemed to include a visit from the local priest more than anyone else. How Ireland has changed despite the recession and Billy Connolly’s little monologue brings back these memories in a humorous and insightful way.

It is true what people say, that humour is the salvation of the soul especially at times of stress!

Note:

1) This section of his monologue can be seen on YOUTUBE under ‘An Audience with Billy Connolly’ -8/12: Enjoy!

2) The cartoon is from one of our daughters and seeks to highlight the respective image they have of G/Dad and Granny on Twitter!

All comments and musings welcome!