Buffed and Butch on the Beara

Buffed and Butch on the Beara

Last summer’s  ramblings of a new rural romantic.

What you have to understand is that I am a city kid. I have never lived anywhere without a corner shop- literally on my street corner. As a non-driver, I have always lived where there are at least two bus routes serving my area. When I lived in Belfast there were six bus routes to my home, but public transport is a commitment up North, not a miracle. I’m an urban girl. I like to have a pub within staggering distance and a few neighbours, who are amiably disposed towards a gossip. I even get withdrawal symptoms if there are no kids kicking a football outside the door who I can give an ear-bollocking to- its so good for venting one’s frustrations- consequently I have never felt the need to see a therapist and it has saved me a lot of money.

So, it has all come as a bit of a shock to discover that I am in love with the vast, sparsely populated landscape of the Beara Peninsuala. I can sit for hours on end watching the sky- and doesn’t it go on forever? I stand outside at night in gobsmacked awe at the number of stars in the firmament. I  voluntarily, nay, even with a spring in my step, walk two miles to the nearest shop. I practically skip along the hedgerows oohing and aahing at the wildflowers that spring up every visit to greet me. The dominant colour this month is the blood- red of the fuschia, last month it was the lavender of battalions of foxgloves, the month before it was the brilliant sun yellow of gorse and next month it will be my favourite hot orange as thousands of clumps of  monbretia burst upon the scene. Listen to me- I’m an eejit for this stuff.

The last two visits have seen particularly extreme manifestations of my new, tree- hugging- smell- the- good- wet –earth- and –bless-the day-that’s-in-it self. It started when we bought a bow saw. Herself is a keen and extremely talented gardener, whereas I shuffle two paces behind as she attempts to explain to me for the one hundred and third time what the difference is between a weed and a plant that she has nourished and nurtured for months. (Did you know that a weed is just a plant that nobody wants? A bit like Michael Mc Dowell really.) Basically, she is able, knowledgeable and efficient in all matters horticultural and loves nothing more than to sink her hands into earth and tend to growing things. I usually admire all this from a safe distance- things crawl in the soil.

But then the bow saw came into my life. And I have been transformed- praise Jesus!
An ecologically –aware friend, (I’ve know her for 25 years and only now am I paying any heed to the wisdom she has tried to impart to me over the last quarter of a century), suggested we cut down some of the young sycamores on the land around the cottage because they seed quickly and choke the other trees. Hence, the bow saw. This sounded like a job even I could do- unskilled labour. Truth be told, ever since I was a kid I’ve wanted to shout “TIMBER!” and mean it.

I have felled six of the buggers so far AND turned them into firewood. I am a  Tasmanian devil with purloined, serrated teeth. There is a ritual to my toils. Up early, coffee cup in hand, sizing up the job to be tackled each morning, then I put on the kit. Men’s construction shorts with lots of pockets for ‘things’ and even a wee loop to hold your pencil, in good weather a sleeveless tee-shirt or vest, a pair of thick socks and walking boots and a baseball hat.  Like those Japanese soldiers who were found in South East Asian jungles 30 years after the war ended, I look like the Greenham Commoner that time forgot. All I lack is my bender (a tent made from branches and a dog blanket- I think), a campfire and rolling tobacco. I have muscles on top of muscles but they are all on my right arm and the incongruity of my upper limbs is beginning to show. But who gives a damn- in my tree-felling rig-out I am the butchest looking thing around for a half a mile, until you get to John Joe’s farm and his prize ram. I am getting more ambitious as the weeks roll on, I now have a pair of giant, telescopic secateurs and those suckers can lop off a branch as thick as my arm- well, my less developed left arm. Lately, I have been pondering the technicalities of making my own wooden bench from the supply of logs I have amassed. I fancy something rustic, bound together by sheer grit and a bit of old rope-sort of Ikea without the straight lines.

I have amazed myself. All this from the woman who went to Greenham Common and  lasted less than 48 hours there. They had no corner shop.

Family Fortunes

My store of optimism had been fast depleting with the increase in stories and incidents illustrating the continued hypocritical stance in this country about children, families and which ones are “worthy” of care and state protection.

  The continued state neglect of unaccompanied, refugee and asylum seeking minors, the state sanctioned ruthlessness of forcibly removing other such families from the homes, communities and lives they have made for themselves in this country to return them to situations of brutality and fear surely demands that our Constitution give supremacy to the rights of children instead of the paltry lip service that currently exists towards children’s rights.

I know too, that I am not alone at feeling disgust at the predicament of young Tristan Dowse, returned to an Indonesian orphanage because it no longer suited his married, adoptive parents to keep him, while Irish right- wing fanatics presented the Oireachtas Committee on the Family with a highly questionable petition against same sex couples having a right to family life.  A few days ago, a friend told me about a Christian fundamentalist website where members of its particular misanthropic sect had posted posed photos of their own small children wearing “ God hates Fags” t-shirts and it was then I truly felt the despair creep up around my shoulders.

But just when I felt like putting the duvet back over my head for the rest of the week, I found this little gem of a story.  It is no panacea for all of the disgusting behaviours I have just outlined, but it brought a grin to my face and a whole new meaning to the  “Mother and Child Campaign”.

It seems that the Cincinnati Reds, a major league US baseball team have got themselves a highly-talented, young pitcher by the name of Joe Valentine. Joe was first professionally signed on discovery by a talent scout to the White Sox in 1999. Last year, during Spring training with his new team Joe was interviewed by Newsday. The lad paid homage to his parents for all their support and encouragement throughout his life and their particular nurturing of his sporting abilities. Nothing unusual about that, just a well brought up young man who wanted to give due recognition to the parents he loved. Except Joe has two moms and always has. Deb Valentine, his biological mother and Doreen Price who raised him from birth have been together for 30 years. It was his mom, Doreen who was involved in competitive softball who nurtured Joe’s love of baseball.

Joe Valentine told the Newsday reporter about his upbringing with his moms because “ I just wanted to give them some sort of recognition for this. I feel in my heart they did a great job with me and I thought it would be nice to just have them see that I appreciated it.” Valentine’s nonchalant statements about his parents and family life have been received with a similar kind of “cool shrug” by his teammates in a sport previously renowned for the kind of anti-gay sentiment that bordered on paranoid.

Joe is married and trying to start a family of his own, his moms moved from their old family home in Las Vegas to be close to Joe’s new team home.

“ I don’t see myself as an activist although I will speak up if I need to. I think people need to judge others for who they are, not by any prejudiced ideas or thoughts. I’m a baseball player who was raised by two wonderful, loving mothers. How can anyone criticize that?” Indeed Joe, how could anyone criticize that?

Supernanny to the Rescue

                
The bunch of tantrum-throwing, ill-behaved, incorrigible, squabbling, bad-mouthed, dysfunctional brats we elected to government are an international embarrassment and a national disgrace. It is obvious that our ability to call them to account is wholly inadequate.  The behaviour we have witnessed for several years now from the overgrown kids in Leinster House is spiralling out of control. It is only a matter of time before Michael Mc Dowell throws himself face down on the Dail floor kicking and spitting in uncontrollable rage if any grown-up dares to suggest that he is wrong.

It is obvious that lads like Jim, Conor, Michael, Micheal, Seamus, Martin, Mary and ringleader, Bertie are desperately seeking our attention- hence the fits of pique, the challenging behaviour, the bad language, the deliberate playing out, the offensive insults, mugging of the elderly and the interminable lying. This is a job for….. SUPERNANNY.

As fans of Nanny Jo Frost, aka Supernanny (of the Channel 4 programme of the same name) will tell you, brats who behave this badly are in need of a firm hand, consistent discipline and constant reminding that if they do not do what they are told there will be consequences-for them. Adults must hold the line on these principles. There must be no rewards for brattish, lazy, dishonest acts. They must learn that their behaviour will not be tolerated and that we, the grown-up electorate are the final authority.

If we apply Supernanny’s methodology to our own mob of malfeasants we will be on our way to creating a more harmonious and effective government. First we must establish a “cool down area”. This is to be used immediately the bad behaviour kicks off and the wilfulness takes over. Instead of bemoaning the situation and pleading for them to behave themselves or entering into arguments which they will always reroute, we must act decisively by removing them to the “cool down area” until they have learnt their lesson and are ready to apologise for the outrage they have perpetrated. Mountjoy prison is ideally placed to serve this function.

Once we have clearly established that there will be immediate consequences for criminal acts perpetrated under the influence, wilful obstruction and embezzlement of old people’s pensions as well as a few ASBOs served on the boorish element in the Office of Overseas Development, we can move to the next phase of treatment. This involves giving each brat something to aim for, a tangible means of measuring good behaviour that leads to a deserved reward. The system is already in place- it is called the General Election. But we must stick rigidly to the contract. No giving in and voting for them if they have failed to live up to their side of the deal.

Each upstart must be assigned a specific set of tasks to undertake and promises to keep.  It must be made extremely clear in language that these outsized tikes understand that failure to comply will result in the forfeiture of all privileges and pocket money.  We, the grown-ups, will in turn guarantee to provide proportional affirmation and encouragement when genuine efforts are made to; clean up their mess, abide by the rules of civilised society, treat the populace with respect and refrain from using inflammatory, abusive and racist language.

However, Nanny Jo would also point out that the disgraceful antics of the Leinster House louts continues because of our laissez faire attitude as an electorate. It is not that we are inadequate or unable to cope. We too, are exhibiting learned behaviour gleaned from decades of neglect, betrayal, making do and putting up with.  Consequently, we have allowed the brats to get out of control and to believe that they are in charge. By allowing self-seeking, unprincipled, double-standards to go unchecked amongst our government ministers we have helped preserve a culture of  democratic unaccountability and contempt for the basic rules of good governance.

Supernanny might find that given our predicament and the entrenched nature of our problem that specifically tailored measures are needed to copper-fasten good behaviour amongst our government delinquents. Five yearly check-ups by way of general elections alone only serve too give a long leash to these particular pups.  Additional checks and balances are required: Dail Committees established to regularly monitor the performance of individual Departments, effective, independent procedures to investigate abuses of power by politicians and a grievance procedure operated by a Standards in Government body, identifying the types of misconduct expressly prohibited by any member of the government and empowered to enact consequences when misconduct occurs.

Supernanny does warn of having unreasonable expectations of undeveloped minds. The effects of this can be seen in those Departments headed up by Ministers who are quite obviously not up to the job.  Nanny Jo says this is setting ‘kids’ up for a fall before they have even begun. Leaving us to consider that Bertie’s ministerial choices are the work of a much darker force.

Powerful Positions- No Women Need Apply

First published 4th April 2005 in Village magazine.
This was the week that the new Pontiff, Benedict XVI was elected and senior members of the DUP were invited to meet over dinner with Dublin’s Chamber of Commerce and other key business figures.      



       POWERFUL POSITION- NO WOMEN NEED APPLY

Have you ever noticed how, if you raise the issue of gender representation in decision-making within organisations, the first reply you get is- “ but we have a woman on the committee/board/management etc.”  I force myself to think of that response as recognition that one, solitary, lone, token woman is the equivalent of the dozen men who have permanent residence on the committee/board/management. In allowing myself that little fantasy, I am working to suppress the overwhelming desire to deck the eejit who just said something that dumb.

My powers of self-restraint are really put to the test when the response goes along the lines of, “ but our meetings are open to women and they are just not interested.” Oh boy! That would be the meetings that are held just when children are being fed their main meal of the day, read to and put to bed, or the ones held in the morning when kids have to be got washed, dressed, fed and deposited at school.  Or, maybe that would be the meetings that no one knows about especially not women because no one bothered to tell any women. Perhaps it’s the meetings where the ‘resident men’ enter into rhetorical pissing competitions with one another to see who is the dominant male, smartest lad in the class, or mummy’s clever little boy. These kind of meetings are lots of fun for men but as interesting as watching cheese mould for women (and not much better for those men who have more sense than the majority of their peers.).

Then there is the position much beloved of quite a few NGOs and semi-state bodies,  “But- we- are- an- inclusive –organisation.” This is a revolutionary new approach to inclusion.  It involves chanting  “ we are an inclusive organisation” mantra-like over and over, until eventually the chant transcends reality. I am particularly intrigued by that response because it demonstrates the intense level of self-delusion that can be attained without the use of psychotropic drugs. The levels of self-delusion will be roughly proportionate to the gaps in representation of women, people with disabilities and ethnic minorities in the organisation. It is also important to note that a token disabled person working the phones or doing the photo-copying, several women in the typing pool and a Ukrainian cleaner does nothing to diminish my point.

But I bring you glad tidings on the gender balance front or rather, Minister Frank Fahey with responsibility for Equality does. He announced recently that he had requested, “ all Ministers put in place the necessary procedures to implement the Government decision on equal representation on State Boards.” According to the Minister, all nominating bodies must put forward both male and female options for appointments to State Boards.  Fahey’s instructions are an attempt to finally get somewhere close to the 40% female representation which he identifies as having been promised in both the Programme for Government and Sustaining Progress 2003-2006.  Minister Fahey’s actions are most definitely welcome.

However, women have been waiting just a little longer for government to take that kind of action than the Minister’s statement suggests. The 40% gender representation target has been around since 1991. The National Women’s Council of Ireland first proposed it as a target in their submission to the 2nd Commission on the Status of Women in 1990 who successfully recommended it be adopted as a policy guideline by government. So, it has only taken fourteen years to produce a specific action to bring about its implementation. And of course Minister Fahey’s timing has not been influenced by Ireland’s imminent attendance in July at the UN, Charter for the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) Committee where, our government will have to show what progress, if any, has been made on addressing women’s inequality in Ireland on a number of fronts.

Nevertheless, in a week that saw a global leader appointed in a ritual by 144 patriarchs invoking the elitism and sexism of a darker age, and a business dinner for unionist brethren hosted by the fathers of Irish finance and industry in a gentlemen’s Dublin club, then Frank Fahey’s small and tardy gesture is all the more essential.

Remembering the Holocaust in Ireland

First published in Village magazine January 2005

It begins with the belief that those who are different are in some way lesser beings. It continues with the infringement of their liberties, restrictions on their freedom of movement, the denial or removal of their rights, forcibly removing them from their homes, their campsites, confining them to camps and ghettoes and increased efforts to erode their human-ness by inflicting any number of small indignities leading to ever greater indignities. Until finally one day, unfettered and unchallenged bigotry and hatred proceed to the next level- extermination.

In answer to an interviewer’s question on whether he believed the Holocaust could happen again, Primo Levi, perhaps its most eloquent survivor replied; “ The idea is not dead. Nothing ever dies. Everything rises renewed.”

Mass graves, concentration camps, the destruction of places of worship, the bombing of schools and residential areas, starvation, forced migration, mass rape these are the ultimate expressions of tyranny and bigotry, from Cambodia, Indonesia, Rwanda and Bosnia to Darfur- and yet after Auschwitz the world said, “Never Again.”

In 2000 the Irish government signed the Stockholm Statement of Commitment pledging amongst other things, “ to strengthen our efforts to promote education and research about the Holocaust and other genocides” and, “ to encourage Holocaust remembrance by holding an annual Holocaust Memorial Day.” The Statement also recognises that “humanity is still scarred by the belief that race, religion, disability or sexuality make some people’s lives worth less than others’. Genocide, anti-semitism, racism, xenophobia and discrimination still continue.” It pledges signatories to, “ a shared responsibility to fight these evils.”

Three years after they had signed up to these pledges the Irish government had done nothing to meet their commitment in recognising the Holocaust. It was not until an ad hoc voluntary committee comprised of members of Ireland’s Jewish community and those who shared an interest in remembering the Holocaust organised a memorial event that leading members of the Irish cabinet sat up and took notice.

The first Holocaust memorial event in Dublin City Hall in 2003 was without question one of the most potent commemoration ceremonies to ever take place there. It did not focus on praising dead heroes or patriotic blood sacrifice. With the first Holocaust Commemoration a new tradition of remembrance was established wherein the common humanity of all is re-emphasised and the simple message conveyed that prejudice unchecked poses the greatest threat to that humanity.

All of the victims of the Third Reich are remembered during the event now in its third year.  The centrepiece of the commemoration is the lighting of candles in memory of the minorities that Nazism attempted to eradicate forever, the Roma community, people with physical and learning disabilities, people of African descent, lesbians and gays and Europe’s Jews. Candles are also lit for those who were murdered because of their political and religious beliefs, trade unionists, communists, Quakers, Jehovah’s Witnesses and others.

Each candle is lit by an Irish representative of those minorities. On behalf of the six million  Jewish victims, candles are lit by six of the tiny number of remaining survivors of the Holocaust living in Ireland. Several came as refugees via Britain on the kindertransport, the groups of children who were lucky enough to be evacuated from Europe by their families before the full terror was unleashed.  Two of the Irish survivors, Suzi Diamond and Zoltan Zinn- Collis met as small children in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp were they were rescued after the liberation and brought to Ireland by an Irish Red Cross doctor, Robert Collis and his Dutch wife, Han who was a nurse. Ireland has very few Holocaust survivors because so few, so very, very few Jewish refugees were allowed to enter the country during the war or in the post-war period. Katrina Goldstone an Irish anti-racist activist who has documented Irish anti-semitism estimates that only 65-100 refugees were ever admitted.

At the 2004 Commemoration the Minister for Justice, Michael Mc Dowell publicly apologised for government predecessors of the 30s and 40s who denied refuge to those in such desperate need. This year, An Taoiseach, Bertie Aherne will also attend. An apology for the callousness of a previous government and official attendance at an annual remembrance event notwithstanding, there is little evidence to show that Irish officialdom has reflected on the lessons of the Holocaust in their current policies towards certain minorities, refugees and those vulnerable to bigotry.

Acts of omission in addressing racism comprehensively, indifference to the absymal provision of Traveller halting sites, the official feeding of public prejudice and paranoia in relation to immigrants and refugees as witnessed in the recent citizenship referendum, the scapegoating of those same immigrants for the absence of a coherent, transparent immigration policy, the refusal to allow asylum seekers the dignity of work, these are the responses of a government for whom the Holocaust is little more than an historical footnote.

Lynn Jackson of the Holocaust Commemoration Committee (Holocaust Educational Trust) is dedicated to ensuring that commemoration of the Holocaust is linked to the fight against racism,

“ The Nazi Holocaust is the extreme example of racism. It highlights where unchecked bigotry, prejudice and hatred can lead. It teaches us that we must all be mindful of the dangers of racism and protest in the strongest terms when we witness anti-semitism, xenophobia or any form of intolerance expressed in any of its manifestations.”

At the conclusion of the commemoration each year, Dublin City Hall resonates to the  Kaddish, the Jewish prayers for the dead. For those who died in the Holocaust rest and peace are implored for; “ the souls of all our brothers and sisters… who were butchered, murdered, slaughtered, incinerated, drowned, shot and strangled…at the hands of the Nazi oppressors.” The cantor’s voice rises and falls in a cadence of heart-aching clarity as he asks that, “ the master of mercy shelter them in the shadow of his wings for eternity and may he bind their souls in the soul of life.”   Amen.

National Sorry Day for Politicians

Originally published in Village Magazine 4th December 2004

I was tickled to read that in response to the withdrawal of their funding by Belfast City Council that “The Vacuum” a free monthly paper is organising a “Sorry Day” on December 15th. Admittedly, it’s a tongue in cheek retaliation to the Christian fundamentalists of the Council who withheld the paper’s funding and demanded an apology from the editors because they had the audacity to publish an article on Satanism.

The possibilities of a “Sorry Day” are endless but I think it would be particularly effective if it were aimed at politicians who are especially deficient in the apology department. On Sorry Day, career politicians would have to cease their other activities for the day and enrol in a training workshop entitled, “Mea Culpa- the Beginners Guide to Begging for Forgiveness.” The Elton John track, “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word” would be played on a continous loop throughout the day’s training-there has to be some opportunity for gratuitous revenge after all.

Mea Culpa would be an action- oriented workshop. At the end of the eight hour session each participant would appear on an extended RTE News to demonstrate their newly acquired skills by performing one wholehearted, unequivocal apology for something they should have apologised for much sooner. The National Grid would go into meltdown as the entire nation tuned in to watch a marathon broadcast of contrition.

Liam Lawlor ex-con, dirty politician, inveterate liar and greedy, self-seeking excuse for a public representative steps in front of the cameras outside the Dail. Chastened by his day of self flagellation and looking into the special Mea Culpa Mirror which shows him as others see him, Liam falls on his knees , tears open his shirt to show his exposed left breast and implores the country from the bottom of his heart to forgive him for betraying their trust, abusing his position and bringing a whole new level of debasement to Irish politics.

The Taoiseach shuffles coyly into view. He has spent a lot of his workshop time exploring with the help of an army of facilitators which specific sin/offence/ act he should choose to apologise for. Eventually it was decided it should be the most recent as that would hopefully act as a deterrent from committing further insults to the electorate. Once that was agreed the facilitators spent the rest of the day scripting a statement of apology for him to learn by heart so that at least his public apology would not be marred by any unnecessary verbal mangling. Bertie, directs his most doleful gaze into the camera and recites as he has been taught that he will never again exploit the plight of the poorest, most deprived people in the world to make himself look good in front of his international pals. He apologies profusely for his schoolboy boasting about increasing overseas aid and begs our forgiveness for his lack of sincerity and humanity.

Perhaps about now there would be a commercial break to allow viewers to partake of a stiff drink and pinch each other to ensure that they are not dreaming. Right after the advertisement for the newest line in sackcloth, ashes and hairshirts available now at all good stockists, we return to Kildare Street for my particular highlight of Sorry Day.




Standing very much alone but with a familiar defiance in his eye, is the Minister for Justice. For some minutes he continues to stand without saying a word, until a large, muscular facilitator sidles up to him and whispers in his ear. The facilitator remains at his side, as it is clear that the Minister is in need of extra coaching and persuasion. The facilitator attempts to push the proceedings along by telling us that the Minister has something he would like to say. It happens too quickly to be sure but eagle-eyed viewers are certain that the facilitator gives the Minister a hefty dig in the back which sends him falling to his knees. The camera pans down to the Minister’s now penitent face to hear him utter sotto voce that he wishes to apologise for being Michael Mc Dowell.


I am only sorry it will never happen.


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