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.