Eurovision Countdown 5

Niamh Kavanagh. Cork. 1993

In Your Eyes

This is the first Eurovision that I actually remember. I would have been seven at the time, if I actually aged.

I particularly enjoyed the wee video of Niamh (in double-denim, no less) going for a walk, shearing a sheep and then calling into Peig Sayers and Co. for a little carding. Then she sits at a loom, like a total plóta, and watches in earnest as another delightful double denim outfit is churned out by Donegal tweed, but sure, that's how RTE depicted Ireland to the Euromasses back in the day.

Anyway, sartorial choices aside, the song is absolute amazing. Niamh looks gorgeous and her voice is striking. Let's hope that she can do it again this evening, and that she can do it when it counts, on Saturday.

Eurovision Countdown 4

Linda Martin. Malmo. 1982

Why Me?

Poor ould Linda. She's irrepressible. Like herpes, there's no cure and she refuses to go away. Linda has participated in the National Song Contest (A Song for Ireland, as Father Ted would put it) nine times. Oh yes, Linda graced our screens in as part of an act called Chips in '76, '77, '78, '82, each time defeated.

She won as a solo artist in '84, with Terminal 3 - a song that eventually came second to a song called Diggi-Loo Diggi-Ley. A national travesty! Funnily enough, Dublin Airport still only has one terminal, something which is actually a national travesty!

She was back again in a song for Ireland in '86, '89, '90, and once again she qualified, finally, in 1992. In short, she's a Eurovision junkie. One could make up a rhyme about featuring the words Eurovision and skag, and then finding words to rhyme with it, but that would be naughty. Suffice to say, she's our Eurovision heroin(e).

She scored a massive high in 1992 with Why Me? It's believed that the withdrawel symptoms, when they eventually occur, will not be pleasant.

Eurovision Countdown 3

Mr Logan is back, this time in Belgium.

Johnny Logan. Brussels. 1987

Hold me now

They raped our villages and burned our women

David Mitchell takes the Vikings to task.

Eurovision Countdown 2

Johnny Logan. The Netherlands. 1980

What's Another Year

This is the actual winning performance by Johnny in 1980. I love Thelma Mansfield's bit as Gaeilge at the start. She dishes all the dirt on him. He was 24! So cute!

Eurovision Countdown 1

Dana. Oslo 1970

All Kinds of Everything

And here's Dana, in a bit of bawneen. Look at the video of Dublin in 1970. Not a soul to be seen.

Wee John's a gay man now

(Thanks Aaron.)

This man killed 230,000 people

Meet Theodore Van Kirk, the sole surviving crew member of the Enola Gay. This smiling 89 year old veteren, was directly responsible for the deaths of 230,000 Japanese people on 6th August 1945, when the Enola Gay dropped the first atomic bomb over the port city of Hiroshima.

He is interviewed by Ed Pilkington in G2 today. It's really rather fascinating. Just goes to show the brutality of war and the conditioning that he received within the US Air Force in order to render him capable to take part in the highly specialist bombing raid.

Factoid alert: The Enola Gay flew for 8.5 hours, covering a distance of 1,800 miles to get to the drop zone. The bomb was then dropped and the plane had to turn in mid-air and retreat a distance of a least 11 miles before the bomb exploded. There was a 43 second window in which to do this.

Single road death wipes out eight of population

The NZ Herald reports today that a rowi kiwi bird (the actual feathered creature, not a girl from Auckland) called Cee Cee was found dead, knocked down by a car. The bird, aged 13, had the potential to live to 80 and sire 50 - 60 chicks, which would equate to about 15% of the entire population of this highly endangered variety of Kiwi.

Strange Kiwi-related facts:

As a bird's beak is measured from the tip to the nostrils, the Kiwi, despite it's apparently long beak, actually has the shortest beak in the world.

Also, the kiwi has the largest egg in relation to body size of any bird. As you can see from the skeleton here. Push!

And finally, the hairy fruit is named after the bird. Previous to an aggressive 1950's marketing campaign, they were known as Chinese gooseberries, however this name was dropped admid Cold War distrust of Maoist China. Funnily enough, most of the kiwis that we eat in Ireland are in fact, grown in Italy.

The (TED) "Talk"

"How we evolved. It does seemed odd. It is a little bit like having a waste treatment plant right next to an amusement park. Bad zoning!"



(Thanks Irene.)

Scissor Sisters Olympia Theatre 20 June 2010

Scissor Sisters - Fire With Fire

BLAIR | MySpace Video

See you there.

A-leafy-alla-joke-all

Taken from yesterday's Drivetime column, Joe O'Connor teaches us how to pronounce Eyjafjallajökull.

The volcano, in Iceland
Is fuming one more time
And for the poet there’s a problem
Cause I can’t find a rhyme.

Now, I’ve been told
I’ve a talent for the vocal
But I just can’t say the word
Eyjafjallajökull.

It’s twisting me tongue,
It’s racking my pallet
And it’s pounding in me brian
Like a hard swung mallet

The eruption’s in Iceland
But the ash cloud is local
Still I just can’t say it
Eyjafjallajökull.

It’s wrecking me head
And it’s causing frustration
Unclimbable mountain
Of tough pronounciation.

I’m trying and I’m crying
and I yet might beat it
but Eyjafjallajökull
just has me defeated.

See, I’d like to write a poem
But it’s causing me panic
That I can’t say the name
Of that nemesis volcanic.

Tried saying it early,
Tried saying it later
And I’m down in the dumps
What a miserable creatur.

It’s causing annoyance
That’s what it’s doing
Like an Irish politician
It’s blowing and spewing.

And up goes the lava
And down comes the flights
And Eyjafjallajökull
Gives me sleepless nights

And we’re queuing in the airports
Waiting on the planes
Hopping on the ferry boats
Wracking our brains.

The trip’s been cancelled
The service cut in half
And Eyjafjallajökull
Is having a laugh

And what does it mean?
What’s the translation?
No one seems to know
In the whole Irish nation.

We’re victims of nature
It’s a bit of a face
Eyjafjallajökull
Means a pain in the... neck!

Try it yourself
Every murderous syllable
Torture on your tongue
Like something evil and killable

Vulcanologists use it
Newsreaders refuse it
Eyjafjallajökull
Why did they choose it?

Iceland, a nice land
Of glaciers and Bjork,
But the banks there are buggered
And there’s thousands out of work

The economy’s battered
And bloodied and gorey
Eyjafjallajökull
What’s the bleeding story?!

Please say it with me listeners
Let’s say it together
Eyjafjallajökull
Means it’s dusty auld weather

If you shout it at your radio
Maybe I’ll learn
Eyjafjallajökull
Burn, baby, burn!

It’s after going off again!
You must be bloody jokin’
Wish to high heavens
It would give up the smokin’.

Travel plans pounded
Jumbo jets grounded
People must be wishin’
They could fly the planes around it.

I suppose
I should be happy I’m not stranded overseas
Cause pronunciation problems aren’t much
Compared to these

If I knew the right prayer
I’d be happy to pray it
Eyjafjallajökull,
I just wish I could say it

But saying such a mouthful
Is troublin’ and taxin’
But my tongue can’t cope
With an Icelandic accent

For it’s supercalafragilistic -
expialidochal
But I can’t get my head around
Eyjafjallajökull

Joe O'Connor

Do Not Resuscitate

I'm just after finding David Mitchell's soapbox series in the Guardian. They are quite fascinating really. Here he is, once again speaking about language, but this time it's to do with the rights and wrongs of preserving ancient languages.

He makes some excellent points. Cornish flatlined on the table with a pretty big DNR over it's head. Scot's Gaelic isn't looking all that healthy either. One must also remember that with a population of over 60 million, these really are tiny languages within the great British scheme of things. Should taxpayers' money be pumped into minority languages? Or is the death of a language merely a case of natural selection?

Irish take heed. You could be next.

Speaking the Queen's English.

David Mitchell give's the yanks a few pieces of linguistic advice on behalf of Her Majesty.



Now, I'm off to hold down the fort...

Leonard Cohen Bingo

My tickets for Leonard Cohen arrived today. Myself and James are off to see him in Lissadell house on 1 August. We've still got two spare tickets if there are any takers. Should be an amazing concert.

Unfortunately one cannot embed his videos, but here's a link to Closing Time. I think it would be a great number for Panti to do, as part of her Country and Western (yes, she likes both types of music) Set.

And I thought that it would be nice to play a little game of Leonard Cohen Bingo.

For this example, first we take Manhattan, New York. A great city in a great nation, which as we all know is a democracy. Were we to go dancing in New York, you might suggest that we dance to the end of love, in a nightclub called the tower of song. If might say to you. "Would you like to take this waltz, cause if you would, I'm your man. Although you'd better hurry up cause everybody knows it's nearly closing time."

Cosmic Love

Behold the ginger goddess! I've finally found her music video for Cosmic Love. (I think it has only been released on single, hence the video.)

It kinda makes me sad to listen to it, cause it makes me think of Niamh and the current state of domestic unrest in the Big Gay House for Ladies. But as Ok Go would sing, This Too Shall Pass.



Anyway here she is in all her Auburn Glory. I give you Florence Welsh.

Priscilla's New Fella

Priscilla is my lovely bicycle. And this is Jeremy Clarkeson riding her new boyfriend! Ya wha'

Follow the leader

This is Olivia O'Leary's Drivetime radio column from this evening. RTE claim that the podcasts are available on their website, but in reality, the latest available podcast aired on the 13th April.

I want an election. It struck me with a bang this morning that I really, really want an general election. I don’t think I have ever in my life felt so helpless, so excluded from massive decisions for which I and mine will pay for generations; so unable to have my voice as an ordinary citizen heard. I cannot count the number of times I have heard friends over recent weeks who have said that the lie awake a night worrying, trying to count the cost of policies with which they utterly disagree but feeling powerless to influence any of this. But sure who wants to listen to me, they say.

Well, we’ll have to be listened to at election time. It’s the one time in the utterly centralised system of democracy which operates in this country, that the citizens get their chance to speak. There was a time that I would have argued that an election would have been too distracting at a time of national crisis. I’m not beginning to think that it is the only thing which will allow us to address what has happened to us as a country, and try to put it right.

I want an election, and I want a Taoiseach who wants to be Taoiseach. I have never felt that’s true of Brian Cowen. I think he’s a decent man, straighter than his predecessor, but I have always felt that he viewed the premiership as a bit of unwelcome palaver, which accompanied his more important job as leader of Fianna Fáil. He has never really tried to stretch out beyond that tribe, to use the real warmth and engagement which is so obvious at a personal level, to make a connection with the people he governs. There’s a “take it, or leave it” surliness about his public persona. He could have done something about that. He chose not to.

Just like Gordon Brown, who came out to the cameras outside Number 10, Downing Street yesterday to announce his eventual resignation and then turned and walked back into Number 10. And I felt no sense of regret as I watched because it seemed to me that Gordon’s back was the view that most people had of him during his period as prime minister. Gordon’s back, or Gordon’s averted face as though Number 10 was his long overdue right and he didn’t have any need to make an effort with, or overtures to, the electorate.

Time and again I heard interviewers give him space to connect with the people. To paint his view of Britain. “Look at my record” was all he would say smugly. Yeah, well, they did.

Elections give you a chance to say what you do or don’t agree with, and there is so much going here with which people do not agree. The initial decision to guarantee the banks, including hopeless institutions like Anglo Irish Bank and Irish Nationwide. The decision to stop the inquiry into the banking crisis short of those dates which would cover its political dimension. The wishful thinking by government that the recapitalised banks would provide credit to SMEs. The pointless hemorrhaging of tax-payers money into Anglo Irish Bank. The elaborate banks and developers’ plan which is NAMA, but no plan at all, as Matt Cooper pointed out in his contribution to the Aftershock programme last night, no plan at all to help the homeowners in negative equity - the very people on who’s backs economic recovery and future tax revenues depend.

Oh yes, I think I’d like to vote on some of those issues, thank you. Just as I’d like to have my say on the scandal of corporate funding of political parties and the question that raises over so many of the disastrous property related tax break policies which subsequently undermined our whole economy.

When you’ve been in power for too long, you stop governing and you spend your time defending your record. Because you cannot admit the mistakes you made, you cannot set about putting things right. You become the problem. Elections allow for the stables to be properly cleaned out. The resulting government could still include Fianna Fáil but perhaps not those who have a vested interest in defending the status quo.

Who knows what combination the electorate would return? But at least those seeking power would have to debate with us the massive commitments that are being made in our name. At least we’d be able to raise our heads and interrupt, even for a short time, the tramp of financial jackboots across our backs. At least, for a very short while, they would have to listen to us.

Olivia O’Leary

"Fuck me! I've just seen Imelda Quirke's arse coming over that wall!"

Possibly the funniest thing that Glenn Hansard has ever said.

Anyway, here's the Commitments singing Mustang Sally.

Forgive the intrusion of the ever irritating Jimmy at the end of the video. It was a great film, but he drove me mad. Now I watch it, gleefully envisioning him in terrible accidents involving combine harvesters.

Miniature Death Camp

When I was in London last September, I visited the Imperial War Museum. They have holocaust memorial as part of their exhibition. The most striking thing about this memorial was the scale model that they had made of the Auschwitz concentration camp. The model itself was vast and it was just a small portion of the facility.

As you'll see from the photos, it is not like any model we ever see in college. Here is scaled depiction of mass murder on a mechanised scale. There is also the distinct, and unpleasant possibility that this wasn't the first model that was made of the Auschwitz scheme. It is very possible the the Nazi architects and engineers also built a scale model to show Himmler how the death camp would look and operate.

He's not the Messiah, he's a really naughty boy

From the darkness

Look at this photograph of David Cameron. See how he seems to emerge from thin air, with a heavily pregnant Samatha behind him. It's taken from the Meet the PM page on the No. 10 website. I suppose, he's only in the job two hours, they are only working with what they've got.

Still, a rather sinister image, don't you think?

It's been a bad day

It's been a bad day here on several fronts.

David Cameron has just become the new prime minster of Britain.

Niamh is moving out of the Big Gay House for Ladies.

The Irish government has just introduced legislation to ban most substances sold in head shops, with immediate effect.

On the bright side, I published the paper version of my blog LEGION OF MARYS: Committed to paper.




Oh, and also, my Mam won her matchplay in the 14th. So the score is 3 catastrophes versus 2 minor triumphs.

Speaking of prime ministers, it was Benjamin Disreali who made the distinction between a misfortune and a catastrophe:

"If Gladstone fell into the Thames, well that would be a misfortune. If someone pulled him out again, that would be a catastrophe."

Up close and personal

Here's a picture of my friend Thor, in Iceland, with the volcano behind him. Cool, eh?

Yes, minister, but where is the minister?

This is taken from yesterday's Observer. It is a senior civil servant who wishes to remain anonymous. It didn't appear on their website, which would suggest that they're not entirely thrilled at the prospect of having it bandied about the Interweb. Oh well, a good article is still worth touch-typing.

It provides an interesting insight into who the British government actually works - the clash of the political will and the administrative will, or the administrative won't - as is quite often the case.

As a senior government official, I was expecting to greet my new cabinet minister last Friday and start working together. It was due to be a long, hectic weekend. Once a new cabinet is announced, there is no rest and no reflection until August. Government is in overdrive, seeking to set the agenda and capitalise on the momentum, refreshed by new faces and policies.

The civil servant's job is to hide the chaos - to present it as another smooth transition. In reality a vast nervous army awaits its new masters. Mistakes are made. People moved on. Careers broken. Departments have their names changed and responsibilities shift. However, the problems remain.

Senior civil servants have been planning the changeover for weeks. While the politicians campaigned, the bureaucrats were scouring the manifestos working out how to make them a reality.

In time for election day, each government department produces a folder of implementation papers for potential new ministers. There is one for each part, named for their colour a big detailed blue folder a shorter red folder and a very thin yellow folder. Until this morning, the blue folder was the only game in town. Each folder begins with a note from the permanent secretary of state, a document that sets out the challenges and opportunities ahead. Every one has the same message - there is very little money, even less than you thought. You will have to make some tough choices.

By Thursday evening the corridors of Whitehall were bare, posters and pictures removed, as if to cleanse the memory of the past 13 years. Departmental signage deemed too New Labour was scrapped. On Whitehall vast scaffolding was bult for TV crews to film the new prime minister arriving.

Civil servants were smarter than usual on Friday morning in anticipation of making a good impression on the new team. Gone were the usual jeans and T-shirts of dress-down Friday, replaced by crisp suits and an array of blue shirts and ties. But no one arrived.

The message come through before 10am that negotiations would start between the parties. Anything could happen. Lacking the lightening bolt of new priorities, we talked of kind, hard-working ministers who had lost their seats and less savoury individuals who had somehow avoided the axe. Ironically it won't be long before the axe is held over us. Budget cuts could mean a third of us will be gone in three years.

There was no swift, brutal exit of the sitting prime minister with sad words outside No 10. Instead, he gave his permission for the other parties to talk and went back inside to enjoy the hospitality for perhaps one last weekend. The old government is still governing. The new government is nowhere to be seen.

One thing is certain. All across Whitehall the yellow folders are being taken out of the bin and carefully read for the first time.

This morning's papers

(Thanks Mark.)

And we're back

Our good friend with the unpronounceable name (Eyjafjallajökull) is back to her old tricks. Apparently there's near anarchy in Dublin Airport as the Irish Aviation Authority shut Dublin airspace at 11am this morning. Of course there were lots of people already in the airport who'd been up at the crack of dawn and driven from places far beyond the Pale, who only found out that the airport is closed as the queued for check-in. I've had that experience before; it's not nice.

Anyway, this image is taken from the New Zealand Herald, so obviously news of our plight has made it around the planet.

Maybe this time

This has been going around in my head since Niamh bought me the Glee album. I suppose it's relevant enough to proceedings currently underway.

Book Review

Dracula was a great read. I really enjoyed it. Once again, it is a case of a great novel enduring the test of time, although in this case Dracula was only written in 1898, which makes it surprisingly recent.

Anyone that I had spoken to about the book (prior to reading it myself) said that it was written in diary form and that this grew quite tiresome. I don't know if I agree with that; I personally found that the diary entries were a great way of getting into the first person perspective on the action. One was simply reading about how the events had unfolded, much like an historical account.

One thing I did notice about it is how misogynistic it is. Women are either protrayed as frail little creatures who desperately need the protection of menfolk, lest evil should befall them, or they are depicted as evil incarnate - literally blood-sucking vampires who would lure an innocent man to his doom. I suppose there is comparison here to how the Catholic Church views women; offering us just two role models - Mary Magdalene and Mary Immaculate, Mother of God. Women are presented as either pure, saintly creatures or as wanton harlots. One could argue that the book is of it's time, however one must keep in view that it is a foundation on which other tales have been built.

My friend Emmett claims that it is his favourite book, and it is a worthy choice. I've never read anything of the horror genre before and was pleasantly surprised. I do like it, but my favourite still remains All Quiet on the Western Front, by Remarque. Anyway, I've just scoured the bookshelf downstairs and I've settled on The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by Joyce (rather apt, one might think; we're all about the existential struggle and our little First World Problems round here at the moment.) Anyway, the Joycean tome was a birthday present to me by my friend Bernard, an intriguing individual whom I hold in the highest of regard. So anyway Bernard, here's to you! Thank you for the book and I'm sorry that it has taken me three years to getting around to reading it!

The Marshmallow Challenge

It would be really interesting to do this in college and see how it works out. Thankfully the results prove that architects and engineers are the best at it, followed closely by Kindergarten students; then CEOs, Law students, then Harvard Business School students...

Here are the instructions.

Alone in a boat.

This lady gave up her day job and decided to row across the Atlantic ocean.

Look at her, she's positively glowing she's so happy. I have taken great heart from this story, especially in the light of my current collegiate circumstances.

Lest we forget

The previous post featured Joe O'Connor replacing the word "fuck" with the word "forget", in order to preserve any sensitive ears. The following is a little ditty composed by Tim Minchin about our dear friend Cardinal Ratzinger. Now Tim is a smart guy, but he forgot to "forget", so prepare yourself for the word "fuck" in large doses.

Yes indeed, the word "fuck" or a derivative therefore of, is used 92 times in that 2:17 clip. That works out as a profanity once every 1.48 seconds, which according to Joe, is about right for the average Irish conversation.

In fact, I was so impressed by Tim's lyrics that I transcribed them below. So shield your eyes!

Fuck the motherfucker, fuck the motherfucker
Fuck the motherfucker, he’s a fucking motherfucker
Fuck the motherfucker, fuck the fucking fucker
Fuck the motherfucker, he’s a total fucking fucker.

Fuck the motherfucker, fuck the motherfucker
Fuck the motherfucker, fucking fuck the motherfucker
Fuck the motherfucker, fuck the motherfucking pope.

Fuck the motherfucker, fuck you, motherfucker
If you think think that motherfucker is sacred
If you cover for another motherfucker who’s a kiddiefucker
Fuck you you’re no better than the motherfucking rapist
And if you don’t like the swearing that this motherfucker forced from me
And reckon it shows moral or intellectual paucity
Then fuck you, motherfucker, this is language that one employs
When one is fucking cross about fuckers fucking boys.

I don’t give a fuck if calling the pope a mother fucker
Means you’re unthinkingly branding an unthinking apostalate
This his nought to do with other fucking godly motherfuckers
I’m not interested right now in fucking scriptural debate
There are other fucking songs
And there are other fucking ways
I’ll be a religious apologist on other fucking days
But the fact remains that if you protect a single peadyfucker
Then pope or prince or plumber you’re a fucking motherfucker.

You see I don’t give a fuck what any other motherfucker
Believes about Jesus and his motherfucking mother
I’ve no problem with the spiritual beliefs of all these fuckers
While beliefs don’t hit back on the happiness of others.

If you build your church on claims of fucking moral authority
And with threats of hell impose it on others in society
Then you you motherfuckers you can expect some fucking wrath
When it turns out you’ve been fucking us in our mother fuckings arses.

So fuck the motherfucker, fuck you, motherfucker
If you’re still a motherfucking papist.
If he covered for a single motherfucker who’s a kiddy-fucker
Fuck the motherfuck, he’s as evil as the rapist.

And if you look into your motherfucking heart and tell me true
That this motherfucking stupid fucking song offended you
With it’s filthy fucking language and it’s fucking disrespect
If it made you feel angry go ahead and write a letter.

But if you find me more offensive than the fucking possibility
The pope protected priests when they were getting fucking fiddley
Then listen to me motherfucker this here is a fact
You are just as morally misguided as that motherfucking
Power hungry, self-agrandised, bigot in the stupid fucking hat.

Fuck the motherfucker, fuck the motherfucker
Fuck the motherfucker, he’s a fucking motherfucker...

Tim Minchin

Forget me not

Joe O'Connor on the Irish and their relationship with bad language. Click here to listen.

You know, one thing I’ve really noticed since returning to live in Ireland after five months working in America, is that we swear, we curse, we profane. Walk the streets of Dublin or any other Irish town and you’re likely to witness unusual climatic occurances as the air is turned blue by the perpetual hurricane of low-level but toe-curling Father Jackism. Curt, harsh words machine gun the land. Activities that would be impossible for anyone who is not a contortionist are recommended and name of the Bethlehem Baby is uttered so often that you’d swear we spent most of our time praying.

I’d like to give you some examples but of course I can’t because certain vivid words of an Anglo-Saxon nature cannot be repeated on a family programme, which is one of the reasons why Mr Paul Gogarty, TD, is not one of the Teletubbies, or at least currently. One of the most amusing hyprocracies of American television is that they don’t bleep out the offending focal dána when it appears in a movie, instead the overdub it so that the actor is heard to say the word "forget" in its place; his voice miraculously producing the innocent duo-syllablatic verb despite his lips being seen to move only once. As in “Go forget yourself buddy” or “I drank so much last night I got totally forgettin’ wasted” or again to return to the Kildare Street chuckle-factory “With all due respect, forget you Deputy Stagg, forget you”. For the purposes of this column, forget will have to do. Linguistic stand in. the star of the profanities subs bench,

One of the things revealed by the Paul Gogarty pre-Christmas outburst of goodwill to all men is our capacity to have our sensibilities inflamed, by a word. But given that we hear it nearly every day of the week in Ireland, it’s a wonder we’re not all perpetually crying. That forget word seems to have become a kind of emotional comma, a pausing for breath; a reminder that the speaker has not fallen asleep; a means of keeping the conversational taxi-meter still running when the vehicle isn’t actually going anywhere.

My grandmother used to have a number of handy stock phrases she used on these occasions like “God between us!” and “All harm”, “Merciful hour! That beats Banagher!” “Sure God is good” and my own personal favourite, that lovely phrase from the primordial Irish past “Stop the lights!”

I have very happy memories of one occasion when I used this phrase in a short story that was to be eventually published in France. And the French translator rang me up in a state of blissful wonderment saying, “What a beautiful sentence. Stop the lights. Is it from the works of William Butler Yeats?” I had to explain that it was actually from a 1970’s quiz show presented by a man named Bunny Carr. “Ah, Bunny Carr!” exclaimed the Frenchman quietly, “In my language he would be called Monsieur Lapin Voiture”

But back to this business of non-stop Irish swearing. In my view we can be a little prissy about this; since words are only words, the play things of the everyday and there are times when we need them to be salty as well as sweet - something we have always understood in Ireland. That said, my time in America had temporarily erased the memory of quite how non-stop Irish vulgarity is, to the extent that to reproduce in print many Irish conversations would result in such a plethora of censuring asterisks that the effect would be like looking at a map of the Milky Way.

Nothing had prepared me for the conversation that I overheard on my first day back in Dublin when one man in the pub turned to his newly arrived friend and happily exclaimed “Ah forget you, you fat forgetter! How are you forgettin’ keepin’? And how did you get over the forgettin’ Christmas?” To which the answer came back “It was fairly forgettin’ quiet, to be honest” At which point the former conversationalist came chiming back in “Forget me, I wish mine was quiet, it was non-stop noise with the forgettin’ kids and the forgettin’ dog and the forgettin’ mother-in-law; up on a visit from Borris-in-forgettin’-Ossary, she was laid on like the forgettin’ gas, she was the forgettin’ aul wonderly wagon.”

Well, the affairs of the nation were then gone over for a while “Sure the country is forgotten, them forgetters in Dáil, Fianna forgettin’ Fáil and Fine forgettin’ Gael. One shower of the the forgetters is as bad as the other and the Labour party don’t be talkin’ don’t get me started. Oh Jim Larkin is back in the saddle right enough and yer man the Greens is the biggest forgetter of all it’s no wonder the place is forgot. And the forgettin’ builders and the forgettin’ bankers down in their forgettin’ tent in the Galway forgettin’ Races and Bertie the forgettin’ king of them. Well we won’t be forgettin’ well forgettin’ them when it comes to the election, will we? We’ll be forgettin’ well rememberin’ them won’t we?”

It was like being in a wind tunnel of happy hearted profanity, when someone has switched the controls up to eleven, and it continued unabated for at least two hours until with a final fanfare of forgetfulness, they fecked off.

What does it mean? Are we linguistically lazy in Ireland? Given our mastery of the byways of the beautiful English language - a tongue that has a word for pretty much any situation imaginable, is it just that we cannot be bothered to learn? I used to know the answer but I’m not sure I remember it anymore. Yes, you might say, I’ve forgotten.

Joe O'Connor

A prayer to Saint Patrick

Following the popularity of the Joseph O'Connor's most recent radio column, which I transcribed during the week, I've transcribed this poem to Saint Patrick. This was written six years ago for St. Patrick's Day, so some of it is slightly dated, yet NAMA hasn't gone away - so it's not all totally irrelevant.

The Drivetime radio dairies are available from the RTE Drivetime website, however quite often there can be a substantial delay between the broadcast date and the podcast going live on the website. If you'd like a written version of the radio column, then you'd better learn how to touch type!

Click here to listen to Joe read his poem.

Hail glorious Saint Patrick.
Dear saint of the green
If you’re talking to God
You might mention we’re keen
For divine intervention.
In difficult days
Deliver us Patron
From government ways.

At lot of kerfuffle
About the re-shuffle
We’re promised a team
Willing and able
Not the usual yes-men
Arranged like dull chess men
Around the cabinet table.

From where is to come the solution?
We really don’t have an idea
We’d probably have revolution
By now if the guillotines came from IKEA.

And the parties with soundbites to offer
Go throwing the head in the Dáil.
They rant with impunity
No sense of unity
Out here, we’re sick of them all.

There’s a feeling the ship has no rudder
A fear that auld Erin is fecked
We’re a broke Irish joke
Buying pigs in a poke
We’ve a Taoiseach we didn’t elect.

And over-promotions in Cabinet
And faces familiar ten years
And under-performers
And wasters who scorn us
And wafflers and free-marketers.

A government, distant and sullen
Its evasions like snuff at a wake.
Afraid of the voter
They’re growing remoter
Their motto seems
“Let them eat cake.”

While they’re bailing the bankers who wrecked us
It’s proving a hard to watch drama
Some call it essential, the brave new prospectus
And some call the thievery NAMA.

And we need to talk of the Taoiseach,
For he doesn’t express himself warmly,
He’s growing more curt
As we all feel the hurt
And the tensions emerge with John Gormley..

And our parliament rings with the rumpus
Of point-scoring schoolboy scenes
Distracting attention
From generous pensions
And the hum of the State limousines.

And Willie O’Dea, you’ll remember
Is a member resigned in a fuss
And we need to start talking about Willie,
Before Willie starts talking about us.

And Enda’s agenda’s uncertain
Now George Lee has kissed him so long
And we need to talk about Enda,
‘Cause we haven’t a breeze what he’s on.

Just an earful, dear Patrick
We’re fearful
And we’re scared to go spend what we’ve earned
For we’re fiscally floored
And we cannot afford
And we’re banjaxed and Bertie Aherned.

And your island has come to a junction
But our leaders will not let it wither
Oh they put the fun into dysfunction
Collecting their pay as they dither.

Saint Patrick, o’ blight of the serpent
And foe of all slimy reptilians
We founded a quango, for giving to Anglo
A couple of more bailout billions

Prey mercy on Ireland, Saint Patrick
For of irony rich
We’re the star.
Look down from your steeple
The banks robbed your people
And we’re buying the getaway car.

Joseph O'Connor

The Liberty Bell

American composer, John Philip Sousa, composed the Liberty Bell March; which is probably most famous for its use in the opening credits of Monty Python's Flying Circus.

Here is a lovely German girl playing it live and acoustically on a gee-tar.

And here, is the collage carnival that is Monty Python. Interestingly, the giant foot of that does the squashing at the end of the credits was painted by Renaissance painter, Sandro Botticelli. Somedays I wish that I too could have a giant Botticelli foot to do some squashing with.

The ASA Ball 2010

This year, I couldn't afford a ticket for the Ball, so I gate crashed it at about midnight, armed with my camera. Here is a short film of some of the better photos of the night. The soundtrack is the ever amazing Leonard Cohen.