Backwater America gets a bad rap. It’s a popular pastime here to point to the Deep South and marvel at how stupid, uncouth and backward they all appear to be. But are they really any more backward than their equivalent over here? It is down solely to the fact that the inhabitants of these few states appear to hold the balance of power every four years that their inhabitants come into such sharp focus. The American Presidency has a huge impact on all of our lives and we resent the idea that sometimes the casting vote can lie in the hands of people who have never heard of Snow Patrol. In 2000 it was possible for all of us to hone in our anger and frustration on a few hundred Floridians. That anger required that we characterize these people as obese, in bred and very stupid.
There are probably people who are just as backward thinking on social issues, on religion, on the Middle East living in North Yorkshire or Donegal but we never have any occasion to give them a second thought. God only knows what’s lurking in the valleys of Wales and Scotland. The biggest issue these people get to vote on is who in the village grows the most impressive marrows or what potholes to fill in this year. If subjected to the same scrutiny as their equivalents in places like West Virginia or Georgia are every four years, I’m sure we would find their credentials just as suspect when it comes to voting in the “right on” fashion that we think is appropriate. It’s so easy for us to whittle these people down to a trigger happy bible bashing characterization and ignore the other elements that inform their conservatism. They might be pro military because the local navy base is the biggest employer in the county, they are pro life because they are religious. This is a religious country. Everyone in this country over the age of I would suggest fifty (and at least half of those under fifty) are also pro life yet we never hear people of this ilk described as ignorant rednecks.
The worst possible thing to happen to the global profile of American Christian conservatives was George Bush. With such a repugnant figurehead it is easy to stockpile revulsion for the grassroots, for those who put him there. If the exact same things had taken place in America over the past eight years under the stewardship of someone like John McCain (though with anyone but Palin as vice), the conservative base would not be half as much of a lightning rod for global hatred and anger as they are. We generally view McCain in a more positive light and I think under his leadership decisions such as the one to invade Iraq would not have been viewed as one more leg in the compilation of a new, evil right wing world order. It would have been viewed as wrong absolutely and condemned but not as part of a sinister and premeditated plan to subvert world power structures.
Bush was responsible for ensuring that every move the White House made attracted a disproportionate amount of scorn from every quarter and was viewed through the prism of suspicion and hostility. The revulsion we felt for the man himself clouded everything. It is still only very grudgingly that any credit is given to Bush for being the only US president in two generations to increase aid to sub Saharan Africa. The profile we have devised suggested that Bush was incapable of pointing out Africa on an atlas so the suggestion that he would be capable of increasing aid to that continent does not compute.
They make easy targets and provide good comedic entertainment those rednecks. We chortle at their names like Cleetus, Billy Bob. We dismiss their outlook on life, their social conservatism and bible thumping sensationalism. We resent that in a November every so often our destiny becomes entwined with theirs. It’s an uncomfortable reminder that they exist, that we share the planet with such specimens with their pickup trucks, their guns, their home made liquor. We don’t like it one bit but make no real attempt to understand them. So we respond with put downs, ruthless dismissals of their motivation, their backgrounds, their way of life. A playground moment “You’re a stupid head, well you’re a bigger stupid head”
Cleetus believes in being left alone, that some government is necessary to keep the show on the road but for the most part he doesn’t want too much interference in his day to day life. Cleetus wants less governance and believes that this will logically lead to him having to pay less taxes. He’s a patriot, he believes in God and isn’t sure about children being brought up by two mommies or two daddies. If Cleetus lived here he would probably have joined the queue to ring Joe on Liveline in the aftermath of the Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross phone call furore. He can’t afford college for his kids as things stand and believes that an obvious upshot of all the tax he has paid throughout his life is subsidised or free university education. He will pay a modest health insurance premium for effective and efficient health care. He sounds like he’s from another planet doesn’t he? The conventional wisdom here suggests that we could not trust such a specimen to put one foot in front of the other never mind play a pivotal role in deciding the direction of his country and our world.
The political right in America, that in our infinite wisdom and moral superiority we so denounce, have devised a system whereby they claim Cleetus as a loyal subject by virtue of a smattering of patronizing pronouncements on what they call social issues. But their real passions lie elsewhere. They believe that all the power and wealth should be concentrated within a small, select grouping. They believe that this group should collaborate, co operate, take care of each other’s interests and act to prevent the ascent of anyone from outside their sect to any position of power or influence. It believes that any manner of deception, dishonesty, criminality or manipulation is justified in achieving this end. Does any of this sound familiar to you? Yanks, eh? What a shower of fecking eejits. It seems Cleetus is not the only one being taken for a ride.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Cowenesian Economics
Those of us who monitor the National Irony Level Indicator have identified April 7th as the day on which the readings are most likely to go off the chart or at the very least venture into perilous orange.
This is the day on which the Minister for Finance is set to talk up our knowledge economy credentials and potential while simultaneously reintroducing third level fees and increasing student teacher ratios.
He is also set to announce a substantial reduction in the €1billion annual budget of FAS, the state employment and training agency, in response to the recent emergence of a trend away from full employment to employment haemorrhaging.
This is not surprising as it is generally agreed amongst economists that during a period of economic and fiscal utopia it is vital to grossly over fund your state employment agency and that during a period of economic and fiscal freefall it is equally as important to slash that funding as mercilessly as possible.
It is known internationally as "The Offaly Approach".
This is the day on which the Minister for Finance is set to talk up our knowledge economy credentials and potential while simultaneously reintroducing third level fees and increasing student teacher ratios.
He is also set to announce a substantial reduction in the €1billion annual budget of FAS, the state employment and training agency, in response to the recent emergence of a trend away from full employment to employment haemorrhaging.
This is not surprising as it is generally agreed amongst economists that during a period of economic and fiscal utopia it is vital to grossly over fund your state employment agency and that during a period of economic and fiscal freefall it is equally as important to slash that funding as mercilessly as possible.
It is known internationally as "The Offaly Approach".
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Show Me The Money
We have had to listen to a lot of debate recently about the value for money provided by our elected representatives, most notably the ones who occupy Leinster House. The extent and nature of allowable expenses, participation in out of hours committees, the merits of the Junior Ministries amongst other issues have been discussed and dissected ad nauseum by panels of experts and journalists up and down the land. Well I’m glad to report that I have heard all I need to hear, I have considered all the evidence and am now in a position to weigh in with my conclusion.
None of them should be paid a red cent. Give them nothing.
These people never tire of reminding us that their sole motivation is the prosperity and well being of their constituents. Their raison d’etre is to look after the interests of those abandoned, voiceless peasants who saw it in their hearts to make the ultimate declaration of trust and vote for them in the first place. To do anything less than work ceaselessly and tirelessly on their behalf would be a downright betrayal of that trust, wouldn’t it? Well yes it would, now that you mention it. In fact it seems that we are in such noble territory, on such lofty moral ground that when I think of the likes of the selfless Beverly Flynn depriving herself of the most basic human entitlements in order to deliver unequivocally for the impoverished inhabitants of Mayo that the mere mention of money seems somehow inappropriate, crass and vulgar. That’s right, crass and vulgar.
Supposedly the best public representatives are people who have first succeeded in other fields. People who bring all their experience, their positive attitude, their connections and expertise to bear on political and fiscal matters and as a result excel at getting things done. Having realized all of their commercial ambitions their attention will then inevitably turn to giving something back, to being a force for good. Money does not even come into the equation. And here we have the kernel of what should be the start of a new political order in this country and ultimately the world.
Means testing for those seeking to run for public office.
They’ve done it to us, let’s do it to them. You must satisfy a minimum net worth or be excluded from even declaring your candidacy. We want to take money off the table as a motivator. Willingness to work for the common good is the only motive we’re interested in. I have a feeling we would be less uptight about helicopter trips, first class seats and bonuses for chairing of Oireachtas committees if we knew we weren’t picking up the tab. Have as many Junior Ministries as you like. In fact I always thought there should be one for plumbing paraphernalia. Minister of State for Back Boilers. About time.
The problem we have with the likes of Martin Cullen and Noel Dempsey is that they are grubby little wasters on the make, strutting around the place like big shots. Well in this scenario our TDs already are big shots, they’ve already made it. We can’t begrudge or complain about anything because they’re paying their own bills. It opens the door for proper no nonsense, unencumbered governance without prejudice. It has the potential to disentangle us so completely from the political realm that life could conceivably become enjoyable again. We could actually make plans to do things like go fishing with our buddies rather than face another evening tethered to the radio lest we miss details of the latest shambolic misappropriation of our money on Bullfart Radars by Brendan Smith. You want your life back don’t you? So do I.
I’ll give Denis O’Brien a ring, I’m sure he’ll run in Kildare South.
None of them should be paid a red cent. Give them nothing.
These people never tire of reminding us that their sole motivation is the prosperity and well being of their constituents. Their raison d’etre is to look after the interests of those abandoned, voiceless peasants who saw it in their hearts to make the ultimate declaration of trust and vote for them in the first place. To do anything less than work ceaselessly and tirelessly on their behalf would be a downright betrayal of that trust, wouldn’t it? Well yes it would, now that you mention it. In fact it seems that we are in such noble territory, on such lofty moral ground that when I think of the likes of the selfless Beverly Flynn depriving herself of the most basic human entitlements in order to deliver unequivocally for the impoverished inhabitants of Mayo that the mere mention of money seems somehow inappropriate, crass and vulgar. That’s right, crass and vulgar.
Supposedly the best public representatives are people who have first succeeded in other fields. People who bring all their experience, their positive attitude, their connections and expertise to bear on political and fiscal matters and as a result excel at getting things done. Having realized all of their commercial ambitions their attention will then inevitably turn to giving something back, to being a force for good. Money does not even come into the equation. And here we have the kernel of what should be the start of a new political order in this country and ultimately the world.
Means testing for those seeking to run for public office.
They’ve done it to us, let’s do it to them. You must satisfy a minimum net worth or be excluded from even declaring your candidacy. We want to take money off the table as a motivator. Willingness to work for the common good is the only motive we’re interested in. I have a feeling we would be less uptight about helicopter trips, first class seats and bonuses for chairing of Oireachtas committees if we knew we weren’t picking up the tab. Have as many Junior Ministries as you like. In fact I always thought there should be one for plumbing paraphernalia. Minister of State for Back Boilers. About time.
The problem we have with the likes of Martin Cullen and Noel Dempsey is that they are grubby little wasters on the make, strutting around the place like big shots. Well in this scenario our TDs already are big shots, they’ve already made it. We can’t begrudge or complain about anything because they’re paying their own bills. It opens the door for proper no nonsense, unencumbered governance without prejudice. It has the potential to disentangle us so completely from the political realm that life could conceivably become enjoyable again. We could actually make plans to do things like go fishing with our buddies rather than face another evening tethered to the radio lest we miss details of the latest shambolic misappropriation of our money on Bullfart Radars by Brendan Smith. You want your life back don’t you? So do I.
I’ll give Denis O’Brien a ring, I’m sure he’ll run in Kildare South.
Hey Joe, Where You Going With That Assertion In Your Hand?
What can be done about the scourge that is Joe Duffy? For me, listening to his show is strictly a form of research, an attempt to gauge the mood of outraged Ireland, to see what is on the mind of the inhabitants of our parallel reality.
Today was a good example. Tommy from Ballyfermot rang to voice his disgust that Deirdre de Burca was running as a Green Party candidate for the European elections in a Dublin constituency. Tommy’s hostility to de Burca stemmed from a vote she cast as a Wicklow County Councillor some years ago to extend an existing law which limited the granting of planning permission in Wicklow to local residents with local need only. The law was extended to limit the sale of houses in small developments in small towns to local people thereby eliminating the need for a plethora of unsightly second rate developments to accommodate Dubliners chasing their lifelong dream of owning two Labradors.
An eminently sensible law which sought to restrict the disfigurement of the country side with crap semi detached houses. Now our friend Tommy had placed a deposit on a site in Wicklow with the intention of applying for permission and building himself a house and, according to himself, the enactment of this law precluded all of this. No mention was made of the fact that existing planning laws would already have prevented him from doing this, as it would have done in every other county in the country, laws which have existed since before Deirdre de Burca was even born. Tommy dressed up this bitterness in a rudderless rant about how “you can’t have it both ways”, that De Burca had “nailed her colours to the mast” and was now looking to Dubliners for her vote, thousands of whom according to Tommy had been deprived of their childhood dreams of moving to terraced houses in Wicklow by her.
Joe, as moderator, made no attempt to suggest that the woman’s motives were in fact honorable and all too rare. Here was someone who was an advocate of good planning and anxious to arrest or at least limit the needless destruction of the Irish countryside. He in fact took up the torch passed by his Ballyer comrade, got de Burca on the line and promptly facilitated Tommy and some other moron who had arrived onto the phone lines by this time to belittle her along with her motives and background. Duffy is smart enough to know the logic behind her vote but at no point provided her with an uninterrupted forum on which to air it preferring instead to see her humiliated and shouted down. Duffy knows that unsophisticated reactionary twits are a much bigger proportion of his listenership than enlightened Green party advocates and so was content to throw her to the wolves, even getting in the odd dig himself.
Apparently what ultimately offended Tommy and his ilk irrevocably was the notion that someone with obvious ties to Wicklow could just simply migrate and seek election in Dublin. This according to him “is just not right”. Duffy did not see fit to point out the irony of this assertion in that what Tommy had originally sought to do was to simply migrate to Wicklow. The good people of Kilcoole dodged a bullet here and should consider staging an annual Deirdre de Burca appreciation day. The only tragedy is that she is ten years too late.
Today was a good example. Tommy from Ballyfermot rang to voice his disgust that Deirdre de Burca was running as a Green Party candidate for the European elections in a Dublin constituency. Tommy’s hostility to de Burca stemmed from a vote she cast as a Wicklow County Councillor some years ago to extend an existing law which limited the granting of planning permission in Wicklow to local residents with local need only. The law was extended to limit the sale of houses in small developments in small towns to local people thereby eliminating the need for a plethora of unsightly second rate developments to accommodate Dubliners chasing their lifelong dream of owning two Labradors.
An eminently sensible law which sought to restrict the disfigurement of the country side with crap semi detached houses. Now our friend Tommy had placed a deposit on a site in Wicklow with the intention of applying for permission and building himself a house and, according to himself, the enactment of this law precluded all of this. No mention was made of the fact that existing planning laws would already have prevented him from doing this, as it would have done in every other county in the country, laws which have existed since before Deirdre de Burca was even born. Tommy dressed up this bitterness in a rudderless rant about how “you can’t have it both ways”, that De Burca had “nailed her colours to the mast” and was now looking to Dubliners for her vote, thousands of whom according to Tommy had been deprived of their childhood dreams of moving to terraced houses in Wicklow by her.
Joe, as moderator, made no attempt to suggest that the woman’s motives were in fact honorable and all too rare. Here was someone who was an advocate of good planning and anxious to arrest or at least limit the needless destruction of the Irish countryside. He in fact took up the torch passed by his Ballyer comrade, got de Burca on the line and promptly facilitated Tommy and some other moron who had arrived onto the phone lines by this time to belittle her along with her motives and background. Duffy is smart enough to know the logic behind her vote but at no point provided her with an uninterrupted forum on which to air it preferring instead to see her humiliated and shouted down. Duffy knows that unsophisticated reactionary twits are a much bigger proportion of his listenership than enlightened Green party advocates and so was content to throw her to the wolves, even getting in the odd dig himself.
Apparently what ultimately offended Tommy and his ilk irrevocably was the notion that someone with obvious ties to Wicklow could just simply migrate and seek election in Dublin. This according to him “is just not right”. Duffy did not see fit to point out the irony of this assertion in that what Tommy had originally sought to do was to simply migrate to Wicklow. The good people of Kilcoole dodged a bullet here and should consider staging an annual Deirdre de Burca appreciation day. The only tragedy is that she is ten years too late.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Fairground Infraction
We are dealing with an unprecedented set of political and economic circumstances which will undoubtedly require the enactment of all manner of innovative and radical legislation over the coming months. Recent revelations regarding the scurrilous goings on in all quarters during the boom will ensure that the gabel of illegality falls upon all sorts of heretofore perfectly acceptable behaviour.
Well if we are going to wipe the slate clean I have a suggestion as to where we might start. The utterance of the phrase “it was a rollercoaster ride of emotions” should be re classified as a criminal act and one which should attract merciless censure.
What used to be the preserve of inarticulate and illiterate footballers during vacuous post match interviews has stealthily made its wicked way into the mainstream vernacular. Only yesterday on the radio I heard a chap who is on the production team for what is apparently a fairly high brow musical biography of Michael Collins which is about to open in the Cork Opera House describe the show as “a rollercoaster of emotions” for the prospective audience. Now only the revelation that this man’s role in the production team is the procurement of hot beverages and jammy donuts for the standby carpenter could possibly assuage the horror I felt at hearing such linguistic excrement emanating from someone involved in the thee-aaat-re.
Overrated, overused, meaningless and perenially out of context it is a phrase which has much in common with its best known proponent, the Thesaurus of Tallaght, the one, the only Robbie Keane. At the end of the day.
Well if we are going to wipe the slate clean I have a suggestion as to where we might start. The utterance of the phrase “it was a rollercoaster ride of emotions” should be re classified as a criminal act and one which should attract merciless censure.
What used to be the preserve of inarticulate and illiterate footballers during vacuous post match interviews has stealthily made its wicked way into the mainstream vernacular. Only yesterday on the radio I heard a chap who is on the production team for what is apparently a fairly high brow musical biography of Michael Collins which is about to open in the Cork Opera House describe the show as “a rollercoaster of emotions” for the prospective audience. Now only the revelation that this man’s role in the production team is the procurement of hot beverages and jammy donuts for the standby carpenter could possibly assuage the horror I felt at hearing such linguistic excrement emanating from someone involved in the thee-aaat-re.
Overrated, overused, meaningless and perenially out of context it is a phrase which has much in common with its best known proponent, the Thesaurus of Tallaght, the one, the only Robbie Keane. At the end of the day.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Glad You Asked
The meek, introspective singer songwriter came to the end of the latest particularly heartfelt tune and in a bid to initiate a bit of banter with the audience asked in a mock stern, lecturer type voice “Anyone got any questions?” “Where do you buy your Johnnies?” came the immediate, booming retort from the lone Irish guy at the back of the packed, hushed auditorium.
A Simple Life
What would you do without eggs? Can you even contemplate such a prospect? Yet when was the last time you stopped what you were doing and gave thanks for eggs? You can’t remember because you’re an ungrateful article. Eggs are awesome and yet appear to get absolutely no credit. You can have them poached, fried or scrambled; they are an essential element of almost every sweet or savoury dish. They provide essential protein yet in excess can be very dangerous. A seemingly inoffensive foodstuff, yet so volatile, can turn on you if abused. The flipside, you could say.
The sandwich is another example. Fast yet wholesome food, can be made any way you want, healthy or indulgent, any meal any time of the day; the sandwich is versatile and irreplaceable.
Right, but aside from uncomplicated food look at all the things you take for granted; the humble, unsung aspects of your life. The unglamorous things that we don’t pay much attention to but would yearn for if taken away.
The radio is still the simplest, most wholesome way to be entertained. Mindless chat, provocative debate, avant garde music or art – the radio has it all yet the concept has not changed one jot since its inception. The old ones are the best then apparently. Like the X ray, how old is the bloody X ray? Still hasn’t been surpassed. Penicillin is another beauty. Combustion engines. You can churn out all the talking maps and automatic wipers you like, you won’t make one dent in what’s happening under the hood.
The newspaper, one would have thought that the whole concept of the newspaper would have been outrun in this digital age but it’s doing more than hanging on it’s thriving. There is still something very exciting and relaxing about opening up your paper when you know you have a bit of time to read it. It is so synonymous with break time, with relaxation that its mere sight triggers our brains to make the association with being seated, having a cup of tea. For an addict the most exhilarating moment is not when the drug is actually taken but the moments before, the anticipation causing the body to produce adrenalin which surpasses the effect of the substance itself. It’s the same with the paper, the few seconds of the preamble to reading it is always better than the reading itself.
The weather forecast, when you spend most of your time outdoors and your work depends upon it there is still a little bit of you that gets giddy just before the weather forecast. It could be great tomorrow. It could be gorgeous. Disappointment inevitably follows. It’s a bit like the Irish soccer team, you always harbour a faint hope they are going to thrill but they never seem to do it. The flame of hope remains lit though, no matter how often we’ve been let down. Hope against probability, evidence and logic. Like watching the lottery. It’s definitely not going to be me but it could be me. Charlie Bucket and the Golden Ticket.
I wish Mart and Market was still on the television with Michael Dillon. “Now we go to Kilcullen where there was a lively trade in store heifers making a hundred and two pound per hundred kilos” Those were the days, when you could equate the price of beef in the supermarket or in a restaurant, if you ever got out, back to the guidelines Michael provided every week. You knew where you stood, you were clued up on the Beef Standard.
It’s hard to know where you stand with Brazilian beef, I don’t speak Portuguese. I’d like to see the Brazilian equivalent of Michael Dillon, he is probably the image of Luis Felipe Scolari but he delivers his weekly report against the backdrop of a packed Rio beach with the national ladies volleyball team in the background limboing under a bamboo stick to a banging samba rhythm. Although that could just be an image I concocted from a collection of tried and trusted stereotypes. In fact it definitely is. Bring back Mart and Market and its sister programme Landmark. They were inextricably linked, indistinguishable, incapable of surviving independently; the Minneapolis St. Paul of late night agricultural and livestock programming.
The sea area forecast on Radio 1 always makes me feel calm even if they are predicting north westerly winds reaching gale force on all Irish coastal waters and on the Irish Sea. Is that ironic? Does anyone actually know what irony is anymore? Is it ironic that nobody knows when anyone is being ironic? Or is that just a curious idiosyncrasy? Or a strange dichotomy maybe? Who is the go to guy when it comes to irony, who can we trust to be the sole incontestable arbiter of what is ironic and what is not? This person is like a shaman, before he dies we need to be sure his secrets are passed down to the next generation or irony could easily disappear forever.
It’s safe enough for the moment though, in Ireland at any rate. Instead of a national threat level there should be a national irony level. The other day the radio told me that banks and building societies are looking unfavourably on mortgage applications from people who have online betting accounts. In the eyes of these people gambling with one’s own money is apparently the ultimate faux pas. The national irony level surged to iridescent red.
The sandwich is another example. Fast yet wholesome food, can be made any way you want, healthy or indulgent, any meal any time of the day; the sandwich is versatile and irreplaceable.
Right, but aside from uncomplicated food look at all the things you take for granted; the humble, unsung aspects of your life. The unglamorous things that we don’t pay much attention to but would yearn for if taken away.
The radio is still the simplest, most wholesome way to be entertained. Mindless chat, provocative debate, avant garde music or art – the radio has it all yet the concept has not changed one jot since its inception. The old ones are the best then apparently. Like the X ray, how old is the bloody X ray? Still hasn’t been surpassed. Penicillin is another beauty. Combustion engines. You can churn out all the talking maps and automatic wipers you like, you won’t make one dent in what’s happening under the hood.
The newspaper, one would have thought that the whole concept of the newspaper would have been outrun in this digital age but it’s doing more than hanging on it’s thriving. There is still something very exciting and relaxing about opening up your paper when you know you have a bit of time to read it. It is so synonymous with break time, with relaxation that its mere sight triggers our brains to make the association with being seated, having a cup of tea. For an addict the most exhilarating moment is not when the drug is actually taken but the moments before, the anticipation causing the body to produce adrenalin which surpasses the effect of the substance itself. It’s the same with the paper, the few seconds of the preamble to reading it is always better than the reading itself.
The weather forecast, when you spend most of your time outdoors and your work depends upon it there is still a little bit of you that gets giddy just before the weather forecast. It could be great tomorrow. It could be gorgeous. Disappointment inevitably follows. It’s a bit like the Irish soccer team, you always harbour a faint hope they are going to thrill but they never seem to do it. The flame of hope remains lit though, no matter how often we’ve been let down. Hope against probability, evidence and logic. Like watching the lottery. It’s definitely not going to be me but it could be me. Charlie Bucket and the Golden Ticket.
I wish Mart and Market was still on the television with Michael Dillon. “Now we go to Kilcullen where there was a lively trade in store heifers making a hundred and two pound per hundred kilos” Those were the days, when you could equate the price of beef in the supermarket or in a restaurant, if you ever got out, back to the guidelines Michael provided every week. You knew where you stood, you were clued up on the Beef Standard.
It’s hard to know where you stand with Brazilian beef, I don’t speak Portuguese. I’d like to see the Brazilian equivalent of Michael Dillon, he is probably the image of Luis Felipe Scolari but he delivers his weekly report against the backdrop of a packed Rio beach with the national ladies volleyball team in the background limboing under a bamboo stick to a banging samba rhythm. Although that could just be an image I concocted from a collection of tried and trusted stereotypes. In fact it definitely is. Bring back Mart and Market and its sister programme Landmark. They were inextricably linked, indistinguishable, incapable of surviving independently; the Minneapolis St. Paul of late night agricultural and livestock programming.
The sea area forecast on Radio 1 always makes me feel calm even if they are predicting north westerly winds reaching gale force on all Irish coastal waters and on the Irish Sea. Is that ironic? Does anyone actually know what irony is anymore? Is it ironic that nobody knows when anyone is being ironic? Or is that just a curious idiosyncrasy? Or a strange dichotomy maybe? Who is the go to guy when it comes to irony, who can we trust to be the sole incontestable arbiter of what is ironic and what is not? This person is like a shaman, before he dies we need to be sure his secrets are passed down to the next generation or irony could easily disappear forever.
It’s safe enough for the moment though, in Ireland at any rate. Instead of a national threat level there should be a national irony level. The other day the radio told me that banks and building societies are looking unfavourably on mortgage applications from people who have online betting accounts. In the eyes of these people gambling with one’s own money is apparently the ultimate faux pas. The national irony level surged to iridescent red.
Brutality
The Sunday evening ritual was always the cause of anxiety and conflict. They had talked about it exhaustively on countless occasions, from each Friday evening onwards they in fact seemed to talk of little else. Ethan was capable of putting forth all kinds of inspired rationalisations as to why he shouldn’t have to participate in what he considered to be the ultimate manifestation of tyranny and victimisation. Nobody he knew had to endure such brutality on such a regular basis; he was quite sure in fact that his parents, far from being the liberal right on types his friends maintained that they were, belonged to a local chapter of some obscure and sinister medieval cult and only delighted in the practice of its more sadistic ceremonial elements on him. But contrary to what his son believed Oscar derived no pleasure from administering the treatment. He could barely stomach inflicting that level of misery with such regularity on someone he loved so dearly. But he also knew that it was required of him, that he could not hope to survive and prosper indeed even function in this community without indulging his hosts, without satisfying their conventions however repugnant they may have seemed to him or his son.
His wife had long since managed to detach herself from the whole arrangement. She made a point of being somewhere else when the time came. There was grocery shopping to do, a friend to visit or maybe even in desperation a church to drop in to. The initial guilt at being so willing to disable the emotional connection between herself and her son for that hour every week had subsided and been replaced with the kind of steel edge she never thought she would be able to summon. Knowing what needs to be done; simple, unavoidable. She just hoped the scene she arrived back to was palatable, that the aftermath would not be too brutal to bear. She had heard of the tipping point and knew that hers could not be far way.
Marianne and Oscar married in 1998. They were living what hindsight calls an unconventional life, a sort of international freeform bohemian escapade with no discernible pattern or plan. But they were ready for something new. They were ready to replace the glamour of being broke and disorientated with the glamour of expansion tanks and high thread counts. The quest for normality brought them deep into the realm of a civilisation on whose periphery they had previously existed. They both knew that there would be bizarre concepts to confront, strange conventions to grapple with, compromises to be made; change to be embraced not resisted. This was all going to be fine because they were ready to do whatever was necessary to make a go of a real life, a life with regularity and certainty where the bin is wheeled to the kerb every Tuesday night and wheeled back every Wednesday afternoon. The kind of world where the merciless efficiency of the structures themselves let you off the hook, swallow so much of your workload. Pay and display. Life by numbers.
The reality was invariably different. The idea that the machinery of society, as devised by the clever people who know how to get things done, would absolve a person of the need to think or try too hard had apparently been tried and was found to be a complete failure as a model for human behaviour. This came as something of a shock to Oscar who suspected that it had simply been run by the wrong people. Oscar began to find increasing tracts of his time given over to the accumulation of items for which he fundamentally had no need. The system which he thought would insulate and cradle him was now responsible for all the compounding anxiety he constantly felt.
He questioned everything. He struggled with the grim realities of this new world order, the illogical hierarchies, the surreal demands he felt were put upon him. His wife became preoccupied, drifting slowly away leaving him alone to contend with the great expectations of an unforgiving world of someone else’s making.
“Who made up these rules?” thought Oscar as he began the latest fraught instalment of their Sunday ceremony. Through years of practice he had perfected a way of controlling Ethan as he pulled off his clothes and held him under the tepid stream of water amidst flailing arms and other worldly screams. “When it was over his eyes blazed with a sort of demonic fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat” Oscar would remember later. “I’m nearly six, I don’t need to have a shower every week” Ethan screamed as he let go and began the dripping march to his room to seethe, sulk and plot his father’s inevitably gruesome demise.
His wife had long since managed to detach herself from the whole arrangement. She made a point of being somewhere else when the time came. There was grocery shopping to do, a friend to visit or maybe even in desperation a church to drop in to. The initial guilt at being so willing to disable the emotional connection between herself and her son for that hour every week had subsided and been replaced with the kind of steel edge she never thought she would be able to summon. Knowing what needs to be done; simple, unavoidable. She just hoped the scene she arrived back to was palatable, that the aftermath would not be too brutal to bear. She had heard of the tipping point and knew that hers could not be far way.
Marianne and Oscar married in 1998. They were living what hindsight calls an unconventional life, a sort of international freeform bohemian escapade with no discernible pattern or plan. But they were ready for something new. They were ready to replace the glamour of being broke and disorientated with the glamour of expansion tanks and high thread counts. The quest for normality brought them deep into the realm of a civilisation on whose periphery they had previously existed. They both knew that there would be bizarre concepts to confront, strange conventions to grapple with, compromises to be made; change to be embraced not resisted. This was all going to be fine because they were ready to do whatever was necessary to make a go of a real life, a life with regularity and certainty where the bin is wheeled to the kerb every Tuesday night and wheeled back every Wednesday afternoon. The kind of world where the merciless efficiency of the structures themselves let you off the hook, swallow so much of your workload. Pay and display. Life by numbers.
The reality was invariably different. The idea that the machinery of society, as devised by the clever people who know how to get things done, would absolve a person of the need to think or try too hard had apparently been tried and was found to be a complete failure as a model for human behaviour. This came as something of a shock to Oscar who suspected that it had simply been run by the wrong people. Oscar began to find increasing tracts of his time given over to the accumulation of items for which he fundamentally had no need. The system which he thought would insulate and cradle him was now responsible for all the compounding anxiety he constantly felt.
He questioned everything. He struggled with the grim realities of this new world order, the illogical hierarchies, the surreal demands he felt were put upon him. His wife became preoccupied, drifting slowly away leaving him alone to contend with the great expectations of an unforgiving world of someone else’s making.
“Who made up these rules?” thought Oscar as he began the latest fraught instalment of their Sunday ceremony. Through years of practice he had perfected a way of controlling Ethan as he pulled off his clothes and held him under the tepid stream of water amidst flailing arms and other worldly screams. “When it was over his eyes blazed with a sort of demonic fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat” Oscar would remember later. “I’m nearly six, I don’t need to have a shower every week” Ethan screamed as he let go and began the dripping march to his room to seethe, sulk and plot his father’s inevitably gruesome demise.
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