I haven't been able to get hold of a copy of the report yet but my mate Bock the Robber, the Limerick blogger, has produced a couple of summaries of both the report data and the witness statements which you can get here and here
Other than to point once again to the failure of indigenous Irish society, and the native bourgeois class in particular, to concern itself with anything more than its own survival, there are no words adequate to describe the reign of terror which the Catholic hierarchy presided over for so long.
That the Irish taxpayer is now footing the 1.3 billion Euro bill for the abuse carried out in its name by the Catholic theocracy, a fact which, since it is impossible to undo the damage done, I find even more galling. The very people who suffered will contribute to the compensation bill while the perpetrators will escape with their assets intact.
In my work on migrant mental health, I encountered so many Irish people whose problems ultimately resided in the psycho-social and sexual abuse they had experienced at the hands of brutal religious in Ireland. Their difficulties were often severely exacerbated by the fact that, because of their experiences, they were effectively excluded from the network of support which, without any sense of irony, the Catholic church provided to Irish migrants in Britain.
I wish there was a simple, adequate response that one could make at moments like this. I always refused the hell that Catholic teaching said I was destined for, but tonight I wish I could believe in a hell hot enough to hold and punish these evil-doers and the people who protected them for so long.
Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts
Friday, May 22, 2009
Sunday, April 29, 2007
We don't have class in Ireland
I was recently much engaged by a discussion over on Bock the Robber's blog regarding the notion of class in Ireland. It brought back a number of memories for me from around the time I began to associate with middle class Irish people for the first time.
Now as any Marxist schoolboy knows, class is not an attribute of an individual. It is a social relationship to the means of production through which we live our lives. In the most broad and abstract Marxist terms, if you operate the means of production you are working class, if you own them, you are middle class. But even old Charlie recognised that there were more than two classes in society at any given time and that the subjective experience of class varied considerably.
The problem of revolution often boiled down to how you got working class people to recognise their common relationship to the means of production under capitalism and unite as a means of changing that relationship. This is sometime referred to as the problem of 'false consciousness'.
In the industrialised societies of the 19th Century it was relatively easy for workers to recognise their common experience. They were all pretty much treated like shit, excluded from political power, education and the other trappings of citizenship we nowadays take for granted. With the top down reforms that came from the end of the 19th Century and continued during the 20th Century as a means of heading the revolution off at the pass, it became harder and harder to consider class in this clear cut kind of way. So much so that by the 1960s some deeply confused and ideologically motivated sociologists were talking about the 'end of class.'
Nonetheless, the basic principle of seeing class as a social relationship rather than a characteristic or attribute of the individual is as true now as it was in the mid-19th Century. Understanding class in this way is less a matter of what you work at, what you own, or how you label yourself in the here and now than how you experience the world and act in it in largely unconscious ways learned very early on in life. As Anthony Wilden once said 'Class is something you don't grow out of.'
When we start to think about it as an attribute of individuals, the problems and confusions around the concept really begin to escalate because, again as any Marxist schoolboy knows, we are confronted by a series of contradictions and misrecognitions about social relationships that as human beings we don't handle very well. They make us feel uncomfortable and uneasy when we experience them.
The situation becomes even more complicated and contradictory in colonised and post-colonial societies because class relationships typically get obliterated by national ones. The nationalist middle class typically horizontalizes the class structure and induces people to think of themselves as, say, Irish first and everything else second, if at all.
The Irish political structure, the practices of clientilism, stroke politics and the high degree of centralised control and localised surveillance, not to mention emigration, kept people toeing the national line and made the Irish ruling class probably the most successful in Europe at maintaining control over its people. Paradoxically, it made Irishness and the concept of identity amongst Irish people a very fragile and inward looking thing indeed.
Anyway, I digress. Until I went to work at the Institute of Irish Studies in Liverpool I had never met middle class (as defined by occupational status, access to education, and income) Irish people. My day to day experience of Irish-born people was pretty much restricted to folks from the same background as me and my parents (manual workers from Coronation St neighbourhoods) and relatives from similar backgrounds in Belfast and Dublin. The issue of class was a non-issue in such company because it was patently obvious what class we came from, raised no contradictions and therefore needed no discussion.
However, in the more socially rarified environment of the Institute I began to meet people who became increasingly agitated when I raised the issue of class politics in an Irish context. Seemingly intelligent people such as academics, journalists, diplomats, artists, and other professionals would have coniptions when Liam the Red introduced a class dimension to the discussion of phenomena relating to contemporary Irish society and culture.
They would almost inevitably and invariably resolve their unease with the same phrase: 'Ah now, Liam, you can tell you're not Irish. Everyone knows we don't have class in Ireland.' After a while I gave up trying to argue with this apparent truism in the spirit of rational debate and would simply resort to saying something like: 'Perhaps you'd be kind enough to inform my cousins in Ballyfermot and Ballymun of that next time you're passing that way, assuming you know how to find your way there.'
The illusion of the absence of class and class relationships in Ireland is precisely that, an illusion. What's more it is an illusion historically maintained by the privileged as a means of maintaining their privilege. If you speak out about it you run the risk of losing your claim to Irishness altogether, letting the side down, or otherwise being less than a credit to your race. This is a very powerful means of ideological control in a post-colonial society and when it's backed up by the sanctions of social exclusion and the threat of the emigrant boat, it doesn't take long for most folk to get on the programme.
Anyway, that's the sociology rant over. If anyone still doesn't believe me then I suggest they take this little test from the English Daily Torygraph. If the results can be relied upon, I'm expecting my invitation to the Duchess of Devonshire's next 'at home' to arrive any day now.
I was recently much engaged by a discussion over on Bock the Robber's blog regarding the notion of class in Ireland. It brought back a number of memories for me from around the time I began to associate with middle class Irish people for the first time.Now as any Marxist schoolboy knows, class is not an attribute of an individual. It is a social relationship to the means of production through which we live our lives. In the most broad and abstract Marxist terms, if you operate the means of production you are working class, if you own them, you are middle class. But even old Charlie recognised that there were more than two classes in society at any given time and that the subjective experience of class varied considerably.
The problem of revolution often boiled down to how you got working class people to recognise their common relationship to the means of production under capitalism and unite as a means of changing that relationship. This is sometime referred to as the problem of 'false consciousness'.
In the industrialised societies of the 19th Century it was relatively easy for workers to recognise their common experience. They were all pretty much treated like shit, excluded from political power, education and the other trappings of citizenship we nowadays take for granted. With the top down reforms that came from the end of the 19th Century and continued during the 20th Century as a means of heading the revolution off at the pass, it became harder and harder to consider class in this clear cut kind of way. So much so that by the 1960s some deeply confused and ideologically motivated sociologists were talking about the 'end of class.'
Nonetheless, the basic principle of seeing class as a social relationship rather than a characteristic or attribute of the individual is as true now as it was in the mid-19th Century. Understanding class in this way is less a matter of what you work at, what you own, or how you label yourself in the here and now than how you experience the world and act in it in largely unconscious ways learned very early on in life. As Anthony Wilden once said 'Class is something you don't grow out of.'
When we start to think about it as an attribute of individuals, the problems and confusions around the concept really begin to escalate because, again as any Marxist schoolboy knows, we are confronted by a series of contradictions and misrecognitions about social relationships that as human beings we don't handle very well. They make us feel uncomfortable and uneasy when we experience them.
The situation becomes even more complicated and contradictory in colonised and post-colonial societies because class relationships typically get obliterated by national ones. The nationalist middle class typically horizontalizes the class structure and induces people to think of themselves as, say, Irish first and everything else second, if at all.
The Irish political structure, the practices of clientilism, stroke politics and the high degree of centralised control and localised surveillance, not to mention emigration, kept people toeing the national line and made the Irish ruling class probably the most successful in Europe at maintaining control over its people. Paradoxically, it made Irishness and the concept of identity amongst Irish people a very fragile and inward looking thing indeed.Anyway, I digress. Until I went to work at the Institute of Irish Studies in Liverpool I had never met middle class (as defined by occupational status, access to education, and income) Irish people. My day to day experience of Irish-born people was pretty much restricted to folks from the same background as me and my parents (manual workers from Coronation St neighbourhoods) and relatives from similar backgrounds in Belfast and Dublin. The issue of class was a non-issue in such company because it was patently obvious what class we came from, raised no contradictions and therefore needed no discussion.
However, in the more socially rarified environment of the Institute I began to meet people who became increasingly agitated when I raised the issue of class politics in an Irish context. Seemingly intelligent people such as academics, journalists, diplomats, artists, and other professionals would have coniptions when Liam the Red introduced a class dimension to the discussion of phenomena relating to contemporary Irish society and culture.
They would almost inevitably and invariably resolve their unease with the same phrase: 'Ah now, Liam, you can tell you're not Irish. Everyone knows we don't have class in Ireland.' After a while I gave up trying to argue with this apparent truism in the spirit of rational debate and would simply resort to saying something like: 'Perhaps you'd be kind enough to inform my cousins in Ballyfermot and Ballymun of that next time you're passing that way, assuming you know how to find your way there.'
The illusion of the absence of class and class relationships in Ireland is precisely that, an illusion. What's more it is an illusion historically maintained by the privileged as a means of maintaining their privilege. If you speak out about it you run the risk of losing your claim to Irishness altogether, letting the side down, or otherwise being less than a credit to your race. This is a very powerful means of ideological control in a post-colonial society and when it's backed up by the sanctions of social exclusion and the threat of the emigrant boat, it doesn't take long for most folk to get on the programme.
Anyway, that's the sociology rant over. If anyone still doesn't believe me then I suggest they take this little test from the English Daily Torygraph. If the results can be relied upon, I'm expecting my invitation to the Duchess of Devonshire's next 'at home' to arrive any day now.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
High TreasonI do not love my country.
Its abstract splendour
is beyond my grasp
But (although it sounds bad) I would give my life
for ten places in it, for certain people,
seaports, pine woods, fortresses,
a run-down city, gray, grotesque,
various figures from its history,
mountains
(and three or four rivers).
This is always a difficult time of the year for me. As a devout Marxisante I'm religiously opposed to nationalism in any way, shape, or form. But as an Irishman, Easter always has significant emotional connotations for me, as it does for countless Irish people. Connotations that can't be resolved in just any old materialist dialectic.
I hate nationalism. I love my country. The sense of being Irish and proud was ingrained in me early on. When I was making myself sick on too many chocolate eggs the names of Padraig Pearse, James Connolly and the rest of the mad bastards who wandered out to take on the British Empire at Easter in 1916 would be raised as a reminder that the season was about more than a Smarties egg or some bloke in Palestine being nailed to a cross.
Nationalism represents a major dilemma because however much you try to separate your Marxist analysis from your heart, if you're an Irish Marxist there's a level at which you can't escape this historical equivalent of the club versus country debate.
So I shall do as I have done for many a year now. I shall wait until the speeches are over, the flute bands have shagged off to the pub, and the wilted Easter lilies have been put away until next year. I shall wander alone up to Kilmainham Jail and then onto Glasnevin where I shall pay my respects to a Jock, a Scouser, and a Big House toff whose legacy of struggle and inspiration was swiftly pushed aside in the rush to nationhood after 1916.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Who are these people, Fine Gaelers?
While both Bertie Aherne and the management of Diageo may be selling their souls to the the great earth mother by going green, it seems the message isn't getting through to some consumers on the Emerald Isle.
Distressing news about anti-eco goings around around the bottle bank in the village of Corofin, Co Galway came my way this morning. According to that august organ, the Tuam Herald
The failure of elements in the locality to cop on to the ecological message being
thrummed out by everyone from Bertie downwards led to tragedy last week. Canon Oliver, the parish priest, embarrassed with what was described as 'the filth in the village' , which had recently traumatised some visiting French students, stepped out on Paddy's day to clear up some of the mess.
While salvaging some old pallets from the site for use, and I quote, 'in a Santa Claus event' he dropped one on his foot resulting in some nasty bruises to his saintly plates. The good canon was forced to pull out of the best dressed priest competition and the freestyle mass giving mosh, both of which he has won unopposed for the past 75 years. A swift visit to casualty followed and the good pastor is currently smiting his parishioners with the fear of hell and damnation on the hobble.
The bottle bank has been banished from the parish and would be eco-warriors now have to drive their SUVs to the sink-pit of Hell that is Tuam to do their re-cycling. The French students were provided with counselling before being returned to their homes in, well, France.
While both Bertie Aherne and the management of Diageo may be selling their souls to the the great earth mother by going green, it seems the message isn't getting through to some consumers on the Emerald Isle.Distressing news about anti-eco goings around around the bottle bank in the village of Corofin, Co Galway came my way this morning. According to that august organ, the Tuam Herald
The condition of the local bottle banks at the Dr. Duggan Hall has continued to deteriorate into what parishioners have described as a "total disgrace" and a blight on our lovely village. Their condition has been highlighted on numerous occasions and appeals made to the perpetrators both from the altar and in the Tuam Herald.
The failure of elements in the locality to cop on to the ecological message being
thrummed out by everyone from Bertie downwards led to tragedy last week. Canon Oliver, the parish priest, embarrassed with what was described as 'the filth in the village' , which had recently traumatised some visiting French students, stepped out on Paddy's day to clear up some of the mess.While salvaging some old pallets from the site for use, and I quote, 'in a Santa Claus event' he dropped one on his foot resulting in some nasty bruises to his saintly plates. The good canon was forced to pull out of the best dressed priest competition and the freestyle mass giving mosh, both of which he has won unopposed for the past 75 years. A swift visit to casualty followed and the good pastor is currently smiting his parishioners with the fear of hell and damnation on the hobble.
The bottle bank has been banished from the parish and would be eco-warriors now have to drive their SUVs to the sink-pit of Hell that is Tuam to do their re-cycling. The French students were provided with counselling before being returned to their homes in, well, France.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Make Mine a Cliché
I love my country but there are times, like most days, when I just despair. As a wise man, I think it was Twenty Major or it might have been Bock, possibly said 'it makes you wanna holler some times' (actually no, it was Gil Scott-Heron come to think of it).
There have been periods in my time here when my despondency over the state of the nation has plumbed such depths that a mere glance at the headlines would bring me out in the rash-like symptoms which are the psychosomatic accompaniment of deeply repressed rage and frustration.
To cope, I have gone weeks starting the Irish Times from the back and rarely straying beyond Crosaire, and Brendan McWilliam's weather column. Anything else would have me being drip-fed Class A pharmaceuticals in a back ward at St Ita's-on-Sea. There are only so many times in confronting the news here that you can shrug your shoulders and scream 'What the fuck else do you expect!' at passers-by on Dame Street.
This has definitely been one of those 'what the fuck else do you expect?' news weeks.
Here are just a few of the many stories that red-lined on the Where Angels Fear' melancholometer this week:
The Director of Public Prosecutions went for a nice meal with his wife and possibly a round or two of golf followed a by a mini-break in Lanzarote before public opinion in the shape of Joe Duffy, Pat Kenny and yer moaning wan from Cork on Newstalk 106, probably, forced him to appeal against the 3 year suspended sentence for rape handed down by district court mentaller Justice Paul Carney.
The dozy old beak observed that Adam Keane of Barnageeha, Daragh, Co Clare had said the rape was out of character for him and that he came from a respectable home. Oh well then, that's a comfort to his victim. Maybe he could invite her round for tea on the best delph by way of recompense.
Footnote: Ancient Brehon Law allowed for a category of marriage arising from 'sexual intercourse with an unconscious woman'. Perhaps Carney's sentence was an attempt to turn the clock back 1500 rather than merely 50 years.
Bent Galway councillor Michael Fahy refused to resign his seat on 'considered and conscientious grounds' and sought leave to appeal a jail sentence for misuse of public funds for personal property improvements. I would suggest Galway CC fund a nice cast iron lamp-post for the Fahy estate from which to string the fecker up, but with his neck he'd probably survive.
Newstalk 106 Galway vox-pop consensus: 'He's a great fellow who's done a lot of good for the community.' Ah they're as charitable as they are fucking stupid, them boggers. I can see why they let them keep the vote.
In the same vein, at the opening of the tribal gathering of the men with skulls on sticks, otherwise known as the Fianna Fáil Ard Fhéis, the current head man Bertie Aherne has said he was not going to be lectured to about environmental policy by parties "who think things up by the day".
Begob, Bertram, that's more time than you give it you (hesitates here for fear of accusations of plagiarism) cunt.
I love my country but there are times, like most days, when I just despair. As a wise man, I think it was Twenty Major or it might have been Bock, possibly said 'it makes you wanna holler some times' (actually no, it was Gil Scott-Heron come to think of it).
There have been periods in my time here when my despondency over the state of the nation has plumbed such depths that a mere glance at the headlines would bring me out in the rash-like symptoms which are the psychosomatic accompaniment of deeply repressed rage and frustration.
To cope, I have gone weeks starting the Irish Times from the back and rarely straying beyond Crosaire, and Brendan McWilliam's weather column. Anything else would have me being drip-fed Class A pharmaceuticals in a back ward at St Ita's-on-Sea. There are only so many times in confronting the news here that you can shrug your shoulders and scream 'What the fuck else do you expect!' at passers-by on Dame Street.
This has definitely been one of those 'what the fuck else do you expect?' news weeks.
Here are just a few of the many stories that red-lined on the Where Angels Fear' melancholometer this week:
The Director of Public Prosecutions went for a nice meal with his wife and possibly a round or two of golf followed a by a mini-break in Lanzarote before public opinion in the shape of Joe Duffy, Pat Kenny and yer moaning wan from Cork on Newstalk 106, probably, forced him to appeal against the 3 year suspended sentence for rape handed down by district court mentaller Justice Paul Carney.
The dozy old beak observed that Adam Keane of Barnageeha, Daragh, Co Clare had said the rape was out of character for him and that he came from a respectable home. Oh well then, that's a comfort to his victim. Maybe he could invite her round for tea on the best delph by way of recompense.
Footnote: Ancient Brehon Law allowed for a category of marriage arising from 'sexual intercourse with an unconscious woman'. Perhaps Carney's sentence was an attempt to turn the clock back 1500 rather than merely 50 years.
Bent Galway councillor Michael Fahy refused to resign his seat on 'considered and conscientious grounds' and sought leave to appeal a jail sentence for misuse of public funds for personal property improvements. I would suggest Galway CC fund a nice cast iron lamp-post for the Fahy estate from which to string the fecker up, but with his neck he'd probably survive.Newstalk 106 Galway vox-pop consensus: 'He's a great fellow who's done a lot of good for the community.' Ah they're as charitable as they are fucking stupid, them boggers. I can see why they let them keep the vote.
Galway water officials confirmed they all have shares in Ballygowan, Bord Gáis and the ESB as water boiling goes on apace around the county. An outbreak of the squitters in recent weeks has forced officials to resume the hunt for the cryptosporidium bacteria, them little critters on the right there, which are the presumed source of the outbreak. Thing is, these lads have known about the risk since 2005 and did shag all about it. They now claim they can't find the contaminated source.
I know it rains a lot but how many water sources are there in Galway? It's not like they have to take a microscope to every tap and spigot in the county for fuck's sake.
In the same vein, at the opening of the tribal gathering of the men with skulls on sticks, otherwise known as the Fianna Fáil Ard Fhéis, the current head man Bertie Aherne has said he was not going to be lectured to about environmental policy by parties "who think things up by the day".
Begob, Bertram, that's more time than you give it you (hesitates here for fear of accusations of plagiarism) cunt.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Gaybo, are you watching?
One can't help but wonder what would have happened if they'd tried this here. Possibly fewer than eight deaths over the weekend.
I wouldn't recommend it for the drink driving, though. Not with the stress our mental health services are already under.
PS It seems the lads at You Tube won't let you watch this from here unless you're logged on to them. You can avoid this techno-imperialism by clicking HERE
One can't help but wonder what would have happened if they'd tried this here. Possibly fewer than eight deaths over the weekend.
I wouldn't recommend it for the drink driving, though. Not with the stress our mental health services are already under.
PS It seems the lads at You Tube won't let you watch this from here unless you're logged on to them. You can avoid this techno-imperialism by clicking HERE
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
And now the news in brief
Father Dougal alive and well and writing for the Jesuits
In the recent Jesuit AMDG Newsletter a certain Fr Paul Andrews SJ has expressed his puzzlement over the use of the word 'Roman' to describe the Catholic church. He observes
The 'arsee' bit is, fortunately, a little easier to understand. In the days before he became England's favourite Irishman and was still funny, Graham 'Fr Noel Hurley' Norton used to do a bit about growing up gay in Bandon (no not 'gay abandon'). He recounted how, even in those unenlightened times, the town was fortunate to have its own gay bar, where a young man keen to explore his sexuality could gain experience in the company of older men over claret and nibbles. It was known locally as the 'Altar Rail'.
Reform of maternity services announced
Health Minister Mary Harney today announced radical plans to shake up the delivery of maternity services in the Irish Republic and reduce waiting lists further. Ms Harney's announcement comes in response to news that women attending the maternity unit at Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital in Drogheda have to wait until the start of the fifth month of pregnancy before seeing an obstetrician.
Ms Harney's plans involve the streamlining of the service to expectant mums by combining ante and post natal services across the nation. Under the plan, obstetricians will now pop in for a five minute shuftee as soon as possible after birth, 'just to make sure everything's ok' an HSE spokesperson said. Mothers will be re-assured to hear that a plentiful supply of midwives will be on hand to bring the doctor his tea, as and when it is needed.
According to the Minister
Father Dougal alive and well and writing for the Jesuits
Yes, Dougal, it's called Roman because
that's where the boss lives
that's where the boss lives
In the recent Jesuit AMDG Newsletter a certain Fr Paul Andrews SJ has expressed his puzzlement over the use of the word 'Roman' to describe the Catholic church. He observes
As a boy I had a spell in England - Lancashire and London. I had been born into a Catholic family, and I used be puzzled by a word that some of my parents' Protestant friends used: they spoke of "arsees". .....Now I have heard presenters on Irish media, who watch too much English TV, talking about arsees, sometimes with a wan ecumenical courtesy, and a deference to the presumed prejudices of their audience.Well I always thought that it was called Roman because that's where head office is but clearly not. Presumably, as Fr Jack would say 'That would be an ecumenical matter.'
The 'arsee' bit is, fortunately, a little easier to understand. In the days before he became England's favourite Irishman and was still funny, Graham 'Fr Noel Hurley' Norton used to do a bit about growing up gay in Bandon (no not 'gay abandon'). He recounted how, even in those unenlightened times, the town was fortunate to have its own gay bar, where a young man keen to explore his sexuality could gain experience in the company of older men over claret and nibbles. It was known locally as the 'Altar Rail'.
Reform of maternity services announced
Health Minister Mary Harney today announced radical plans to shake up the delivery of maternity services in the Irish Republic and reduce waiting lists further. Ms Harney's announcement comes in response to news that women attending the maternity unit at Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital in Drogheda have to wait until the start of the fifth month of pregnancy before seeing an obstetrician.
Ms Harney's plans involve the streamlining of the service to expectant mums by combining ante and post natal services across the nation. Under the plan, obstetricians will now pop in for a five minute shuftee as soon as possible after birth, 'just to make sure everything's ok' an HSE spokesperson said. Mothers will be re-assured to hear that a plentiful supply of midwives will be on hand to bring the doctor his tea, as and when it is needed.
According to the Minister
'We do not foresee any problems with this change. Isn't pregnancy the most natural thing in the world? Sure, women in Africa have been doing it for donkey's ages without medical intervention. The impact on waiting lists will be significant and enable us to target resources to areas of greater need, such as the building of hospitals for the rich.'A spokeperson for An Bord Altranais, which represents Irish midwives, today welcomed the change and said it would have little impact on the health of Irish mothers and children;
Sure, aren't most of the pregnancies these days them immigrants looking to get a dig out from the Social Welfare. They have their own ways, more natural loike, and they wouldn't be happy with us interfering. They'd be after dropping babies at breakfast and back working in the fields by dinnertime. Anyway so, they'll all be off home to Africa as soon as the Department of Justice gets its act together.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Sororial Solidarity to all (or is it both?) my readers. Drape yourself in purple and green and hang out your brightest colours. Today, as I'm sure you know, is International Women's Day and I would like to make my small contribution to this global fest of feminism and femininity with some hopeful and hopefully helpful suggestions to members of the local sorority on the Emerald Isle. So here we go:
1. Do not begin sentences with 'I'm not a feminist but.....' . Either you are or you aren't and there's definitely nothing wrong with feminism that you should have to apologise for it. I'm a feminist. All men should be, if only for survival reasons. And before the purists out there start to whine that 'a man can't be a feminist' I would point you in the direction of my Uncle Mary.
2. Pay no attention to John Waters and his mates in the Amen Corner (who haven't been the same since Andy Fairweather-Low bought the farm). The man is a fool who never got over being dumped by a looper. It's the price one pays for starfucking. Anyway, anyone who thinks Sinead O'Connor is representative of women in general lost touch with reality somewhere along the boreens of pre-Celtic Tiger Ireland
3. Do not confuse feminism with lad-ism, lesbianism or me-ism. Women's rights and status are not advanced by you behaving like Weslian prop forward in Annabel's on a Saturday night.
4. Whatever you might think, drunken joyless sex with a stranger you're likely never to see again, or even want to, is not a sign of sexual emancipation. Quite the contrary. Liquor may be quicker but if the only way you can enjoy sex is bordering on the edge of alcoholic oblivion, then you may have my sympathies and the name of a good therapist.
5. Stop dancing with an agenda. My favourite feminist Emma Goldman once dismissed the bearded denizens of the Comintern by saying 'If I can't dance I don't want to be in your revolution.' Dancing is good thing in itself and not necessarily an invitation to sex , marriage and mortgage on a two bed semi above in Naas. The ballroom of romance days are long gone but if you keep resurrecting them every time you make shapes on the dancefloor it truly will be murder, of the soul if nothing else.
6. Give up the 2 men good 1 man bad approach to inter-gender social encounters. You know the one I mean. You start talking to one guy you’re interested in a bar. Once you’ve got his attention you then immediately behave as if you’re more interested in his friend or some other bloke in the vicinity, often a completely innocent bystander. It doesn’t make you more enigmatic, desirable or interesting, not when the competition is a fine pint of creamy porter or two. It’s the kind of childish coquettishness that wouldn’t be out of place in a 5th form disco. Time to move on.
7. Complaining about the elevation of the toilet seat does not enhance your claims to equal rights and treatment. Learn to work the fucking thing. You're a big girl now and you've come a long way, baby. If it's up, put it down or whatever you fancy yourself. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.
And finally,
Irish womanhood might have gone from the BVM to the Spice Girls overnight (without I might add the benefit of Madonna in between) but that doesn’t mean that Sex in the City rules and values could or should be imported wholesale. Those girls just ain't happy campers. Mullingar isn’t
Parts of this blog were previously published in Your Destiny I am grateful to the publishers for permission to re-write them here
Monday, October 23, 2006
Life in the fast lane....
I've decided not to write anymore about XXX for a while. I imagine the point has been made and as therapy it wasn't really working for me. As a form of anger management, it was about as effective as a 1 legged man at an arse kicking contest. I've decided to turn to matters less self-centred, but no less symptomatic of modern Ireland, from now on.
This weekend another 7 people lost their lives on Irish roads bringing the total of road deaths so far this year here to over 300. Every time there is a cluster of deaths on the roads, and it occurs with sickening monotony, breasts are beaten, solemn ministers promise stricter legislation and the media people ask what the garda are doing.
When I first came to live in Dublin I realised that being a road user here in any form carried with it certain hazards not typical of other European societies. The most apparent thing was that there seemed to be two kinds of red lights on traffic signals. The first kind said 'Stamp on the accelerator and plough right through. Go on yeh boy yeh' the other kind said 'What? You mean I'm supposed to bring the car to a halt here? That's cat that is. Are you sure I have to stop? Reeeealllly?'.
The other was that most people, pedestrians or drivers, seemed to be so lost in thought on our highways and by-ways that mere questions of personal survival paled into insignificance beside what Ciaran texted to Cliona on the mobile.
They say that for a healthy heart, you should do something that scares you at least once a day. After eight years of cycling around Dublin I expect my heart to keep beating long after the rest of me has been reduced to the dust that is the fate of all things mortal. Survival as a cyclist or a pedestrian here requires, as they say in Liverpool, eyes in the back of your arse, not to mention the clairvoyant powers of a seventh son of a seventh son from a long line of gypsy fortune tellers.
It's not so much that Irish drivers are bad (They are, though) it's just that they are relatively unregulated and as a consequence many drive with the gay abandon and devil may care of a teenaged joyrider auditioning for the next Mad Max movie. A lot of the others seem to have unresolved issues with their vehicle about who is actually driving whom. Is the car in control here or am I? Oh bollix, now look what you made me drive into....
A large part of the problem lies with the failure of the state to tackle the problem of driving tests. Ireland is the only country in the EU where, to my knowledge a learner driver can drive him or herself unaccompanied to a driving test, fail it and then drive away. I know people who only have a full licence because the Government declared an amnesty due to waiting lists of such magnitude that they wouldn't be reduced before internal combustion was replaced by cold fusion as a means of vehicular propulsion.
Something like 20 percent of all full licence holders here have never taken a test and a huge number of provisional licence holders have no intention of ever doing so if they can get away with it. The current waiting list for tests is 137,000 and grows by 1500 a month. It can take 62 weeks to get a test in some parts of the country. In the fast moving, I want it yesterday culture that is modern Ireland, no politician worth the title of gombeen man is going to render him/herself unelectable by restricting the driving habits of that many voters.
Another factor that renders life on the roads here as exciting as a game of russian roulette in a fall of Saigon late bar is the absence of adequate traffic policing on both major or minor roads. I have driven from Dublin to Cork on numerous occasions and failed to clap eyes on a single blue uniform on the lookout for moving violations. Last year I drove to Donegal. The only police presence I saw was on the road into Letterkenny where the Comhaltas National Fleadh was taking place. They appeared to be stopping and searching vehicles on the way into the town lest they might be carrying non-traditional musical instruments, like banjos or, God forbid, didgeridoos.
Unlike many people here I don't actually blame the Garda Siochana for their laxness in this respect. They might be overpaid but they're certainly under-resourced when it comes to traffic enforcement. And when they do enforce matters, the judiciary tends to let the side down. In a recent case a man stopped for travelling at 127 kph in an 80kph zone had his case thrown out because the judge didn't think a charge of dangerous driving was merited. Where is the encouragement to drive responsibly if you know that even if you do get caught the likelihood of conviction is minimal? Moreover, even if you are convicted and banned, short of a prison sentence there's nothing to stop you just driving yourself home from court.
In Ireland our rulers pass legislation at the drop of a hat (or preferably a brown envelope stuffed with Euros) and I have no doubt that before long, newer more draconian laws will be passed targeting the speed freaks and the boy racers at the centre of this week's moral panic. It won't, however, make a blind bit of difference. There's no point in passing laws which, a few weeks after the dust has settled and the knees have stopped jerking, will be not so much unenforceable as merely unenforced.
You see we don't care too much for any old legislation in this country. In terms of compliance the most succesful laws in the last few years have been the smoking ban in pubs and the plastic carrier bag tax which imposed a levy on the supply of carrier bags by shops to customers. What both of these had in common was the onus they placed on bar owners and shopkeepers to enforce them. The old rebel spirit was quashed overnight when the pockets of the petit-bourgeois were threatened, no question. And not for the first time in the history of this country.
There's a bank holiday weekend coming up soon and these are normally an occasion for mass carnage on our roads. The events this past weekend will probably induce some calm and possibly a reduction in the number of deaths. But that will be it. A few weeks will pass and then it will all start again as the national characteristic of comfortable complacency resumes its course back on the road to God knows where....
I've decided not to write anymore about XXX for a while. I imagine the point has been made and as therapy it wasn't really working for me. As a form of anger management, it was about as effective as a 1 legged man at an arse kicking contest. I've decided to turn to matters less self-centred, but no less symptomatic of modern Ireland, from now on.
This weekend another 7 people lost their lives on Irish roads bringing the total of road deaths so far this year here to over 300. Every time there is a cluster of deaths on the roads, and it occurs with sickening monotony, breasts are beaten, solemn ministers promise stricter legislation and the media people ask what the garda are doing.
When I first came to live in Dublin I realised that being a road user here in any form carried with it certain hazards not typical of other European societies. The most apparent thing was that there seemed to be two kinds of red lights on traffic signals. The first kind said 'Stamp on the accelerator and plough right through. Go on yeh boy yeh' the other kind said 'What? You mean I'm supposed to bring the car to a halt here? That's cat that is. Are you sure I have to stop? Reeeealllly?'.
The other was that most people, pedestrians or drivers, seemed to be so lost in thought on our highways and by-ways that mere questions of personal survival paled into insignificance beside what Ciaran texted to Cliona on the mobile.
They say that for a healthy heart, you should do something that scares you at least once a day. After eight years of cycling around Dublin I expect my heart to keep beating long after the rest of me has been reduced to the dust that is the fate of all things mortal. Survival as a cyclist or a pedestrian here requires, as they say in Liverpool, eyes in the back of your arse, not to mention the clairvoyant powers of a seventh son of a seventh son from a long line of gypsy fortune tellers.
It's not so much that Irish drivers are bad (They are, though) it's just that they are relatively unregulated and as a consequence many drive with the gay abandon and devil may care of a teenaged joyrider auditioning for the next Mad Max movie. A lot of the others seem to have unresolved issues with their vehicle about who is actually driving whom. Is the car in control here or am I? Oh bollix, now look what you made me drive into....
A large part of the problem lies with the failure of the state to tackle the problem of driving tests. Ireland is the only country in the EU where, to my knowledge a learner driver can drive him or herself unaccompanied to a driving test, fail it and then drive away. I know people who only have a full licence because the Government declared an amnesty due to waiting lists of such magnitude that they wouldn't be reduced before internal combustion was replaced by cold fusion as a means of vehicular propulsion.
Something like 20 percent of all full licence holders here have never taken a test and a huge number of provisional licence holders have no intention of ever doing so if they can get away with it. The current waiting list for tests is 137,000 and grows by 1500 a month. It can take 62 weeks to get a test in some parts of the country. In the fast moving, I want it yesterday culture that is modern Ireland, no politician worth the title of gombeen man is going to render him/herself unelectable by restricting the driving habits of that many voters.
Another factor that renders life on the roads here as exciting as a game of russian roulette in a fall of Saigon late bar is the absence of adequate traffic policing on both major or minor roads. I have driven from Dublin to Cork on numerous occasions and failed to clap eyes on a single blue uniform on the lookout for moving violations. Last year I drove to Donegal. The only police presence I saw was on the road into Letterkenny where the Comhaltas National Fleadh was taking place. They appeared to be stopping and searching vehicles on the way into the town lest they might be carrying non-traditional musical instruments, like banjos or, God forbid, didgeridoos.
Unlike many people here I don't actually blame the Garda Siochana for their laxness in this respect. They might be overpaid but they're certainly under-resourced when it comes to traffic enforcement. And when they do enforce matters, the judiciary tends to let the side down. In a recent case a man stopped for travelling at 127 kph in an 80kph zone had his case thrown out because the judge didn't think a charge of dangerous driving was merited. Where is the encouragement to drive responsibly if you know that even if you do get caught the likelihood of conviction is minimal? Moreover, even if you are convicted and banned, short of a prison sentence there's nothing to stop you just driving yourself home from court.
In Ireland our rulers pass legislation at the drop of a hat (or preferably a brown envelope stuffed with Euros) and I have no doubt that before long, newer more draconian laws will be passed targeting the speed freaks and the boy racers at the centre of this week's moral panic. It won't, however, make a blind bit of difference. There's no point in passing laws which, a few weeks after the dust has settled and the knees have stopped jerking, will be not so much unenforceable as merely unenforced.
You see we don't care too much for any old legislation in this country. In terms of compliance the most succesful laws in the last few years have been the smoking ban in pubs and the plastic carrier bag tax which imposed a levy on the supply of carrier bags by shops to customers. What both of these had in common was the onus they placed on bar owners and shopkeepers to enforce them. The old rebel spirit was quashed overnight when the pockets of the petit-bourgeois were threatened, no question. And not for the first time in the history of this country.
There's a bank holiday weekend coming up soon and these are normally an occasion for mass carnage on our roads. The events this past weekend will probably induce some calm and possibly a reduction in the number of deaths. But that will be it. A few weeks will pass and then it will all start again as the national characteristic of comfortable complacency resumes its course back on the road to God knows where....
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