Meditations on Madrid

Just back from Madrid - an estimable city that heroically resisted that old brute Franco and had the gumption in 2009 to to strip him of all his self bestowed titles (honorary mayor of Madrid, Adopted Son of Madrid etc.).

The hugely impressive metro system takes you from the airport to the city centre for €2. Most other journeys cost €1. Whenever I travel in Europe I am struck by how the citizens are looked after by their governments. We have a dysfunctional public transport system and a punitive regime towards cars – the worst of both worlds. The four days I spent there I used the metro exclusively - it operates until 1:30 or so and is clean and regular. Now that's what I call public service.

The highlight of course was the Prado. My nomination for the best gallery in the world. I kept my focus narrow because you can be overwhelmed by the infinite variety on offer. I confined myself to Goya, Velázquez and Titian. I love Titian, his Ecce Homo is one of the most powerful paintings in the building and his Danae is definitely the most erotic. However I had never seen Velázquez en masse before and his wonderfully expressive portraits left the most lasting impression. Most of them were of Spanish royalty but painted as the poor bare forked animals that lay beneath the ruffs and finery. There was also a series of portraits of the court jesters or bufoons. The one that lingered in my mind's eye was Velázquez's portrait of Sebastian Don Morro. In his expression you can see his intelligence at war with his ridiculous station.




The Reina Sofia Gallery was also worth a visit - not just to see Picasso's austere masterpiece Guernica - but also to enjoy a playful collection of contemporary sculpture.

There's a moving minimalist memorial to the 2004 terrorist attack in the Atocha train station. It's interesting to see that amongst the 191 victims named in the monument there are only a couple of non-Spanish names - and these are Eastern Europeans ones. An indication that Madrid is not a tourist city like Barcelona.

Blue Notes

Blue arrived in our secondary school half way through 3rd year and so was always going to be an outsider. His family came from Dublin so his surname (Coughlan) was pronounced Cocklan rather than the Cork variation Cawlan. A confirmation of his outsider status. He was a rheumy-eyed, dirty blonde boy with a blotchy complexion. Our school was relentlessly philistine and success on the sports field mattered far more than other pursuits. Blue had no interest in games and not much in academic matters either. He also had a fine line in insolence, which did not endear him to Brother Leo - our ferocious Latin teacher. Leo made it his mission to beat this insolence out of Blue. He was singled out for almost daily beatings that went far beyond the routine punishment we all suffered. Leo would often lose his temper as he beat him out of the room and continued his ministrations in the small adjoining teacher’s room.

One curious thing I remembered about Blue was his virulent dislike of his mother. We all had issues with our fathers, but it was unusual to hear any boy berate his mother.

We were never very friendly and I thought no more of him after we left school. A few years later between stints at university I spent some time in London. Going into Picadilly Circus tube station one day I met Blue and a couple of other Cork guys – including the infamous Judd (later to spend time in US, British and Irish jails for heroin dealing). We got talking and they told me that they had a scam operating whereby they went around different dole offices in London signing on under different names. This way they made a comfortable living. They also had acquired a pile of unused tube tickets and generously tossed a few in my direction.

I bumped into him and his cronies from time to time in London in ’68 and ’69. These were halcyon times – the anti-Vietnam protests in Grosvenor Square, the legalise pot rallies in Hyde Park and of course the Stones in the Park (disappointing). Blue had started to deal drugs – mainly hash but also LSD and various uppers and downers. He had become, according to his friends, extremely paranoid and reckoned he was being followed. He carried a Polaroid camera with him every where and would wheel around in the street and photograph those walking behind him to try and establish who was on his trail.

I moved back to university in late ’69 and didn’t see Blue again for about 6 years. After university I spent a few years working on oilrigs around the world. Between drilling stints we spent 6 months in dry dock in Amsterdam getting our drilling ship refitted. We would head into the flesh pots most evenings after work. I was walking through the red light area one night on my own when I bumped into Blue. He was very upbeat and invited me back to his nearby apartment to sample some of his wares. It transpired that he had moved on to heroin dealing and was doing well. He introduced me to his very pretty 17-year old French girlfriend. She couldn’t stay long as she was going across the canal to her work in a live sex show. Blue made some tea and invited me to snort some heroin. I remember how careful he was to warn me about the possibility of vomiting – a common occurrence for first time users. We sat back and reminisced about the old days in CBC. A little later there was a knock on the door and Blue opened it to reveal two middle-aged Chinese men in suits. It became clear that my presence was superfluous to requirements so I took myself off back to the rig.

In 1979 I had moved to Dublin and found more conventional employment. I was driving past the old Salvation Army hostel off Stephen’s Green one late afternoon and spotted Blue emerging. It seemed he was down on his luck. A few week’s later I was sitting in Stephen’s Green admiring the flowers. Suddenly Blue appeared making erratic progress across the grass and through flower beds. He seemed very agitated. He was talking to himself and kicking the heads off flowers. I left him to it.

My last sighting of him came around 1990. I had been staying in a hotel on Russell Square and was getting a tube to Heathrow the following morning. I was standing with my suitcase on the platform of Russell Square tube station when I saw a familiar figure working his way down the platform begging. He was very shabbily dressed and I particularly remember that the sole of one of his shoes was flapping. About half way down the platform he spotted me and before I had a chance to say a word he abruptly turned down one of the exits and was gone.