Jack Donovan and Pinkey Downey’s

An edited version of this snippet appeared in the Winter edition of the Irish Arts Review.

Not long before he died in 2014 Jack Donovan was asked by a friend if he was still painting. His reply was pithy: “Of course I’m bloody painting. It’s a disease, I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.” It was a disease that Donovan passed on to many a budding artist during his inspirational sojourn as head of the Limerick School of Art from 1962 To 1978. Two of those inspired, John Shinnors and Donald Teskey, are now in the front rank of Irish contemporary art. Shinnors saw Donovan more as an exemplar than a teacher. Rather than overseeing his charges, Donovan set up his easel amongst them and led by example. “To me and my fellow students, Jack was an artist who practised his art amongst us. His self-imposed presence was unorthodox.” Nudes, clowns and a penchant for the irreverent were Donovan’s stock-in-trade. The earlier nudes often came in the form of collage using images torn from ‘girly’ magazines. In the later work, his nudes were painted, stylised, candy-store pink creations - far from erotic. There was a darker edge to his early paintings, while his later style became positively playful – even when depicting scenes from the crucifixion. Nude in Bed from Pinkey Downey Series  in Morgan O’Driscoll’s late October sale featureda large pink nude typical of his later work except for the fact that the eyes are painted realistically instead of his customary black orbs. The Pinkey Downey referred to in the title was a well-known bar in Michael Street (not far from the Hunt Museum) that also operated as a discreet brothel. Donovan and his friend the poet Desmond O’Grady were regulars there. It would be cheeky to suggest that they sampled the full range of options available in the long-closed premises. However, the hat hanging on the far side of the bed is exactly the type that Donovan favoured. This prime example of the storied Limerick artist went under the hammer at a modest €3,000.

RWC 2023 - Regrets We Have a Few

 

This current Irish team is the best I’ve ever seen since started going to rugby internationals as a schoolboy in CBC Cork back in the early 60s. Perhaps we need another world-class prop and a bit more cover in the second-row but generally we have outstanding players in most positions. With New Zealand in rebuilding mode, South Africa and France seemed our only challengers. This was an opportunity for this team of all the talents to achieve sporting immortality. That this opportunity was not taken will haunt them to their death beds. The distorted nature of the draw was a factor - it stretched our resources and depleted our energies. And maybe South Africa, with greater strength in depth, husbanded theirs better. The closeness of the four top teams is illustrated by the fact that Ireland beat SA, SA beat France, France beat NZ and NZ beat Ireland. All by small margins. But even allowing for our limited backup resources, the defeat to New Zealand was avoidable but for a series of mistakes – some of which were inspired perhaps by Joe Schmidt’s intimate knowledge of our team. Our lineout was a mess and we couldn’t rely on regular clean ball from it. We didn’t seem able to counteract the NZ contesting tactics on the fly. I think James Ryan’s absence was a major factor here. Remember his injury removal for the latter stages of Leinster’s loss to La Rochelle in the European club final turned the tide in that match. The referee Wayne Barnes is an officious little prick, full of his own importance, and had clearly been briefed on Porter’s scrummaging style. Our boys should have been aware of this and adjusted accordingly. Losing all those early scrums and line outs sucked a lot of confidence and momentum from the team. The timely intervention from Jordie Barrett when it looked a certain try for Ronan Kelleher was a real killer blow. But still we hung in there. Then Murray gave away a silly three points for obstruction when there was no danger and Sexton missed a routine penalty not long afterwards. A six-point difference that would have given us the match. Even if one of those had not happened we could have been chasing a drop goal or penalty in those last desperate minutes rather than the required try. And then the ever-reliable Doris knocks on a routine catch near the NZ twenty-two when we are gathering momentum for a final surge. Thin margins, fine lines. And suddenly it’s all over. For ever. The Roundheads won - the brute pragmatists South Africa with their scrum-based tactics and their supreme defensive excellence vanquished the Cavaliers from France, Ireland and  New Zealand. One positive note - we were saved from having to endure more of that appalling song the team seem to have adopted. I remain unconvinced of the Cranberries talents but Zombie has to be one of their direst efforts.

Recent Reads - October 2023

 

Be Mine by Richard Ford

****

This is supposed to be Ford’s last novel in the Frank Bascombe series. And it certainly has an elegiac feel to it with the ageing and infirm protagonist taking his dying son on a road trip to Mount Rushmore. Doesn’t sound like much fun but it’s Ford’s usual blend of acute observation and reflections on Middle America - and there is much humour in his rueful account of the difficult journey and the parade of characters they encounter as they traverse parts of America that rarely appear in popular fiction. Even though he’s a cranky old bollocks I would strongly recommend it.

A Thread of Violence by Mark O’Connell

*****

Probably one of the two most engrossing books I’ve read this year. It sound unpromising - revisiting the much trodden path around Malcolm MacArthur and his two brutal murders. However, it focuses less on the murders and more on the slippery MacArthur, his family background and his current post-jail circumstances. O’Connell explores his psychology and fails to reach a conclusion. MacArthur’s inability to accept his deeds as anything more than a momentary aberration and his complete absence of remorse and empathy certainly suggest sociopathy. He sees himself as above the common herd and the only motive we can ascribe to his deeds is his quaint notion that gentlemen should not be burdened with the need to work. It all makes for a riveting read. 

Prophet Song by Paul Lynch

****

My tip for this year’s Booker Prize. It’s set in the near future where an authoritarian government, complete with Stasi-type intelligence services, began to sort out their supporters from the dissidents. The resulting violence and turmoil create a very modern state of disruption and deprivation in our own Fair City and beyond. It’s told through the experiences of a particular family as they go from cosy middle-class comfort to dislocated refugees. A convincing and timely warning of how fragile our world is and how we must guard our freedoms. Lynch writes well and draws us into this highly credible dystopia. 

Bee Sting by Paul Murray

***

Another tale of the cosy certitudes of a middle-class family being smashed but this time it’s economic recession rather than a fascist government. Murray focuses on the gradual diminishing of a family’s material well-being and the consequent effect it has on the individuals in the family: mother selling her clothes on eBay, daughter hiding their alarming fall from riches from her friends etc. This is also a Booker nomination but I found it somewhat lighter and less absorbing than Lynch’s book. Mildly entertaining at best.

Old God’s Time by Sebastian Barry

**

I must confess that I’ve never really warmed to Sebastian Barry as a novelist although I remember enjoying very much his play The Steward of Christendom. Perhaps the fact that I saw the version with Donal McCann in the lead role (at The Gate) helped. There is a certain straining for effect, trying too hard for the literary flourish in his writing, that I find grating. This novel got such good reviews I thought I’d try him again - the fact that it was set down the road (in Killiney) also encouraged me. But no, it just didn’t work for me. There was a decent story in there somewhere but I found the journey to get there tiresome. I finished it but it was a struggle.

The Wager by David Grann

*****

This was the second of the two most enjoyable books I’ve read this year. But a very different sort of book to Mark O’Connell’s. This is a ripping yarn. There are few psychological musings - just a highly readable account of of the privations suffered by the shipwrecked crew of a Royal Navy ship on an inhospitable island off Cape Horn. This was the 18th Century with strict hierarchies on board ship which slowly break down as those best equipped for survival come from the lower ranks. Hints of Lord of the Flies in there and Mutiny on the Bounty. The sources for Grann’s work included the detailed diaries kept by two of the survivors - one of whom was an ancestor of the poet Byron. So we got a couple of perspectives on all the main events and loads of attendant detail. There is even the added bonus of a very surprising ending.

The Singularities by John Banville

****

Banville just can’t let Malcolm MacArthur go - this is the fourth novel in which his doppelgänger Freddie Montgomery features. As always with Banville you can luxuriate in the fine writing and the waxing and waning of the narrative is unimportant as usual. There are many sly references to characters and places from his earlier novels - even as far back as his books on the cosmologists. Those familiar with Banville will nod knowingly, but it can be enjoyed without having consumed his back catalogue. The characters are well rendered and the setting lovingly depicted. He story kind of peters out when Freddie moves into the background but we don’t read Banville for a neat conclusion. The particularly ugly cover features an irregular black sphere and when I queried Banville about it at the Dalkey Book Festival he maintained that it represented a full-stop - so maybe this is his last go at MacArthur. 

Claire Keegan: Rocks Rocked in Dun Laoghaire

Entertaining event at the Pavilion Theatre in Dun Laoghaire last night. Claire Keegan was interviewed live on RTE’s Arena arts programme by its presenter Sean Rocks. She was not an easy ride for the amiable and always well-briefed presenter whose customary savoir faire was severely tested. His reasonable questions and mild assumptions frequently provoked tart responses. For instance when he spoke of her lucky break in having a family in the USA sponsor her studies over there, she responded that her own hard work had a lot to do with her success. In addition, her answers, like her novels, tended to be short and succinct leaving the unfortunate Rocks having to dip into his question bag more frequently than felt comfortable. She comes across as very self-possessed and a tad earnest - with little interest in playing the game as it’s usually done at these events where the interviewer lobs a safe question and the interviewee lobs back a bland answer and keeps the ball in play for a while. She did however do three fine readings from her books. Although she comes across as slightly humourless, there were flashes of dry wit. During a discussion of misogyny in Irish men she did aver that due to the smallness of her dating sample she would refrain from generalising. The full house was about 80% women - and they gave her an enthusiastic reception. I am a fan of her work and came away from the event an admirer of this doughty woman also. 

Great Expectations - Tempting Fate in Paris

There seems to be general optimism about that we will beat New Zealand in the Rugby World Cup quarter-final today. Anyone with a sense of history should be feeling a slight pessimism. I have been watching rugby since I was a schoolboy in CBC Cork in the late 1950s (saw Jack Kyle at Musgrave Park, saw Tommy Kiernan play scrum-half for UCC at the Mardyke, attended Ollie Campbell’s Triple Crown win in Landsdowne Road in 1982). I also marked the great Jerry Walsh at centre when I played a practice match for UCC minors against the senior team. In all my years watching, this is without question the best team we have ever had. There are no weak links. It’s a golden era - we now expect to win rather than hope to win, and have been rewarded with Championships, Grand Slams and regular wins against all the powerful rugby nations. But this match today is different and I’m sure all concerned feel the weight of history. We have never won a quarter-final in the World Cup and to do so we must beat the team with the best record in the competition. It’s not the all-conquering New Zealand of recent times but there is no such thing as a poor NZ team. Also, having won 17 matches in a row there is a statistical likelihood that at some stage we are going to come undone. I feel that the match is going to be very close and could revolve around an injury to a crucial player or, more damagingly, a sending off. I’m sure Peter O’Mahoney has been warned to button his lip around Wayne Barnes who always considers himself to be the most important person on the pitch and reacts badly to lip. There have been bitter disappointments over the years. I was at Landsdowne Road in 1991 when we came closest to a semi-final. We threw away a winning chance against Australia in the last minute. (If only Saunders had found touch.) We had never been expected to win that match so perhaps the players were free of the kind of pressure our guys will face today. One factor may prove useful. We have injected some New Zealand blood into our our team in the form of Lowe, Aki and Gibson-Park. They carry that winning DNA that could  tip the balance in a match that’s sure to be close. If we win, no matter what happens next it will be seen as a great campaign. If we lose, a nation will go into mourning. 

Thus Spoke Jeremiah.

Richard Ford is a Cranky Old Bollocks But…

 I’ve read most of Richard Ford’s novels over the years and have always enjoyed his meandering, observational style. He documents Middle America with a keen eye for humbug and bigotry but also with a wry acceptance. He’s a bird watcher. His novels ignore mostly the over heated and over-written-about East and West Coasts and focuses on the mundane lifes of low achievers and regular Joes in the heartland. We follow his modest Everyman Frank Bascombe as he goes through life in five of his novels and in his latest novel, Be Mine, Frank is facing the final curtain. He visited the Dalkey Book Festival in the summer and I experienced first hand his reputation for being a cranky old bollocks when I asked him a question about a negative review by Claire Lowdon in the TLS. I persisted in making my point, a tad after it was clear he wasn’t having it, and experienced the full force of his impressive wrath.  I had bought his latest novel Be Mine a few weeks before and following my very public reading from the altar in the Dalkey Town Hall I was disinclined to read it. However, I found myself short-taken and bookless one night so I decided to forgive him and give it a try. The basic premise of the book sounds unpromising: a sick and ageing Frank Bascombe takes his dying and autistic son on a final road trip to Mount Rushmore. What fun we think. But astonishingly it is fun and turns out to be one of his most densely packed and amusing books. Check it out.

Galway – Beware Highwaymen

Galway should be ashamed of itself, or rather its City Council should be. Take a bow recently retired long-term chief executive Brendan McGrath. This collective of nincompoops has been presiding over the most snarled up, traffic-jammed city in Western Europe for as long as I can remember. Those who listen to the morning and evening traffic reports on RTE are familiar with the daily Bothar na dTreabh debacle. We always felt it had the worst traffic management system in the country but a recent EEC study has confirmed that it’s actually the worst in Western Europe. You’d have to go to Seoul in South Korea to encounter the like.  A Galway bypass is regularly proposed and regularly opposed - so some blame must also attach to our idle government who should have stepped in and sorted out access to a city that is central to our tourist industry. Meanwhile the people living there waste time and psychic energy languishing in their stationery cars – belching out pollutants the while. And it’s not just the locals – Galway is the main gateway to Connemara so many of those travelling to Clifden and Roundstone must pass through it. (As I do frequently.) If you’re travelling from Dublin to Connemara I’d recommend turning right at Athlone – taking the Westport road and avoiding the whole mess altogether. Even though it’s a longer journey (unless maybe you’re going to Leenaun).

 

But inept as they are at dealing with Galway’s traffic problems, the City Council has a  wonderful revenue gathering racket going on that makes you wonder if its tardiness in sorting out the traffic issue is deliberate. If it were to make life easier for motorists, it could jeopardise this lucrative scam  – its extortion racket on the N6. This road is a dual-carriageway on the eastern outskirts of Galway that takes you to freedom from the slough of despond of its accumulated traffic and onwards to the M6. The speed-limit on this capacious, non-residential road is a ludicrous 50 km/hr - that’s very close to 30 miles an hour. The cunning burgers running this shit-show of a snarled-up city have stationed a speed-trap at the very point where motorists having escaped the clutches of the inexorable traffic jams see the open road ahead and crank it up to 60 or 70 km/hr – that’s just over 40 mph. But beware, this light at the end of the Galway tunnel is a lure to line the pockets of the incompetent pricks that run the city. A bonus for incompetence. For you are entering a section of the N6 at Baile an Phoill that has levied the most fines for speeding in the country last year – by a country mile. A total of 326,240 fixed cost penalties – that’s a fine of €160 and three points on your licence. There are moves afoot to thwart this scam by raising the speed limit but no action has been taken yet.

 

In the meantime I’d just avoid the city. Galway always seems to get a good press: the place to go, the craic is mighty, the cosmopolitan crowd, a musical Mecca and so on. I’m not so sure. From my experience in recent years there are only three good reasons to go near the place: one is its location as the gateway to glorious Connemara, its annual Arts Festival and Charlie Byrne’s bookshop where you can encounter those obscure and interesting books that the accountants tell other bookshops not to bother stocking. (On my last trip I got a copy of John Rechy’s selected essays. Rechy was a brave pioneer of gay literature in America in the Sixties with his classic City of Night).  Otherwise the city centre is a Disneyland of Paddywhackery with not one but two Carroll’s shops shamelessly doing brisk business in leprechaun hats and red beards. But I’m not here to bury Galway but to heap opprobrium on the inept clowns that run the city – and specifically those who mismanage the road system. Perhaps the new (interim?) Chief Executive Ms. Patricia Philbin can deliver us from this evil. 

 

My Dog Missy - Portrait of a Lady

 

I’ve had lots of dogs over the years and loved them all in my fashion – some obviously more than others. Susie, our amiable Golden Labrador, was certainly up there with my favourites. She was part of our children’s early years. Missy took over in their teens and saw them through to adulthood and off the premises. The bond I shared with Missy was stronger than with any animal I ever had. Over the years I travelled a lot and so was not attached as much to our previous dogs as were Diana, Sally and Cass - who were with them constantly. However, the arrival of Missy coincided with my decision to abandon the corporate world and move into the art world where I was able to do my writing and dealing from home. Thus I spent most of the past 14 years constantly in her company – apart from a three-week spell in the USA (where I worried about her constantly to the detriment of my holiday).  She was also cherished and looked after lovingly by the rest of the family but they would all agree about our special relationship while still admonishing me for my flagrant favouring of her over Shyla our other dog.

Missy was a cross-breed but had pedigree royalty on both sides. Her mother was a gorgeous Red Setter and her father a Bernese Mountain Dog. Both had been acquired with a view to continuing illustrious lines within their breeds. They lived on neighbouring farms outside Virginia in Cavan and an illicit encounter between these aristocrats produced a litter of beautiful pups. My daughter Cass searching the Internet for puppies saw a photograph of them and next thing I knew I was en route to Cavan. The owners were a farmer and an artist and they introduced me to the straying mother who greeted me by planting her front paws on my chest and giving me a warm welcome. We were smitten by her and her gorgeous litter and headed back to Dublin with our bouncing puppy. There was much debate about a name but given her lady-like demeanour we settled on Missy.

She was the first dog I ever trained properly. I took her on a DSPCA course in Rathfarnham (10 consecutive Saturday mornings – there’s commitment) and this inculcated in her a life-long ability to keep at heel and return when called – not to mention a healthy respect for  commands of “wait” and “sit”. She scored 95% in her end-of-course obedience test – a matter of great pride to her owner although I suspect that the female examiners were so in love with her and her sweet nature that this result may have flattered her. All was not perfect however, she had one expensive flaw – she fought fiercely against all attempts to groom her – either by us or by professionals. She was a shaggy dog and her luxuriant tresses needed annual shearing. The first time I took her to a groomer the female groomer, myself and my two daughters could not hold her still enough for the operation to proceed. At one stage the four of us and the determined dog were all on the floor struggling. We gave up and she departed haughtily with just a few clumps missing. So we evolved an expensive annual strategy to deal with the issue. Every June, en route to a holiday in Schull, we stopped at Skibbereen where an amiable vet called Jerry McCarthy gave her a mild anaesthetic and while she was knocked out the local groomer gave her a radical shave. Jerry also carried our the other routine maintenance dogs require. The bill was usually around €500/600 - more than I spend on my car’s annual service but worth it to see her freed of her winter wool and swimming and gambolling in the summer sun.

My daily routine with Missy started first thing in the morning when she came down to our bedroom to say hello - either scratching on the door to be let in or walking right in if the door was ajar. She would come over to the bed for a pat and a hug and and and then head back to kitchen to be let out and to be fed. She was never overly affectionate at any time of the day - a quick lick on the hand, a rummage between your legs and she was off about her business. When in a playful mood she would bat you with her great paddle-like paws – a tendency that required a speedy reaction if you were at her level as she had formidable nails. She was a very unfussy eater right up to the last 6 months of her life (when she became very finicky and needed cooked mince or boiled chicken).  Around 11 am everyday we’d go for a walk on Killiney Hill, Dalkey Hill, Killiney Beach or around the large open areas in Shanganagh – bordering Woodbrook Golf Club. Occasionally we would go out to Wicklow, to Knocksink Woods for the wild garlic or up to Kippure to play in the snow that she so adored. In latter years (during and after Covid) we discovered the gorse covered paths of Roche’s Hill that flanked Killiney Golf Club. There we always stopped to sit and look across to Bray Head and the Wicklow mountains. There was a convenient rock-pool nearby where Missy liked to have a drink – the murkier the water the better. Then I’d go back home and settle down to do the three or four hours work that was my daily lot – and Missy would settle at my feet. If I was eating (breakfast, lunch or dinner),she was under the table just below me. In the evening when we stayed in and watched TV we had a standard routine. I would sit in my favoured arm-chair and Missy would  lie beside me on our sofa – giving my hand a lick before she settled down. She always began facing away from me, but at a certain point she would stand up and precariously execute an about turn to face me and lay her head on the arm of the sofa adjacent to my armchair. This was to facilitate the occasional rubbing of her ears that accompanied our evenings together. Before bed I’d take her and Shyla for a walk down our cul-de-sac and she’d often enjoy a fruitless fox chase. Until the last days of her life she liked her own bedroom (our dining room) and would, unlike her companion Shyla, never sleep in our room. She did sleep there for her last two nights – as if she was making the most of our company before she headed into that bourne from whence there is no return. Her delight at our reunions after even the briefest of separations was one of her most touching attributes. If I left home for an hour, a day or week she would greet me with unfettered delight, barking and jumping up on me – making a fuss of me.  But she wasn’t just a pet – there was a utilitarian side to her as well. She was a very big dog with a deep-mouthed bark that would be set off by any stranger arriving in the vicinity of our house. Significantly over the duration of her life we were one of the few houses in the neighbourhood that wasn’t broken into. Both our immediate neighbours suffered significant robberies.

Now as I go on my walks it has become like the Stations of the Cross, a via dolorosa. There’s that bench by the nearest green patch to our home where we used to rest during her last brief walks; There’s that throne-like rock on high overlooking Killiney golf course where we spent so much time just taking in the panoramic view; There’s the spot on Dalkey Hill (near that ugly communications tower) with its glorious view of Killiney Bay; And there’s the walk by the dog pound in Shanganagh where she barked indignantly when we brought her in to meet other dogs (apart from Shyla she was benignly indifferent to all other dogs); There’s the patch of grass on the way to Killiney Beach where she liked to perform her morning office; There’s the  bush where she collapsed on our way back from the beach one sunny day and had to be carried on a sleeping bag by a press-ganged group of helpers (thanks Jeff, thanks Joe); and there’s the bench on the path overlooking Killiney Bay and Bray Head where we sat in harmony as we took in the view – the tip of Dalkey Island to our left.

Her last 5 or 6 months were grim and it broke our hearts to see her so diminished. I took her to the vet during this period to have her put down. So sure was I of its inevitability that I  took off her collar and brought her down by the sea to say goodbye - to the site of our many walks there. But the vet, seeing my distress, said we’d give her a course of steroids and see how it worked. She lived on for 7 or 8 more months.  But gradually she was weakening and there were a few alarming collapses where she needed extreme pharmaceutical assistance to continue. She had trouble standing up as her back legs wouldn’t support her although the steroids helped this for a period. Her delight in rolling on the grass when we took her to a field was no more – she just plodded along morosely. Her joie de vivre was going. For the last few weeks she couldn’t even climb up on the sofa beside me without some serious support by us. Our daily walks got shorter and shorter as she panted furiously at any venture – even the brief one up and down the cul-de-sac.  Occasionally there would be a collapse where she would lie under the table and ignore all food and drink and appear very distressed. These episodes were the worst. Finally I rang the vet and said that we were going to have the awful deed done. When I asked him about the disposal of the body, he suggested bizarrely that I dig a hole in the back garden and place her there. I was shocked at this -  I wasn’t keen on be reminded of her demise every time I looked out the window. However, it sowed the seeds of an idea. My daughter’s partner’s family have a fine estate near Cong which has a beautiful sunken garden where they bury their dogs. They are hunting, fishing, sporting folk who appreciate their animals. I made the request and they were happy to oblige (thanks Peter). One of their workers (thanks to the other Peter) dug a fine deep grave and there on a lovely sunny afternoon we lead the poor creature to a blanket placed by the lip of the grave and the vet did his business. We get to pet her for a few minutes while the sedative took effect before she slumped down and he administered the coup de grace. A final, feeble, heartbreaking wag of the tail and she was gone.

 

My daughter’s partner and I filled in the grave (thanks Ross) and covered it with sods. I placed a large rock from my mother’s family home on the grave and my daughter Sally painted her name on it. I also bought a good solid bench for the garden where we can sit and remember all those happy days we spent together. I visited it a few weeks ago and was happy to see her resting under a glorious rhododendron bush in full bloom. 

 

It’s now nearly five months since she died (February 25^rd 2023) and, it’s time to write her story - her obituary. Her demise has enhanced my awareness of the brutal finality of death. Happy memories folks are not enough. It is painful to realise that I will never see her again, never walk the fields and beaches with her again, and never again revel in her unbridled joy at greeting me.  I am consoled, to a degree only, by the thought of what a happy life she had and how there was never a moment when she wasn’t treated with care and affection by all of us. From that whirlpool of atoms into which we are all destined to fall I can hear her spirit speaking and can see her beautiful head in my mind’s eye  – she is telling me that she is grateful for all the care and love she received.

John P. O’Sullivan

 

 Dalkey/Connemara

July 2023

 

 

Rancid Ruminations - 12 July 2023

This RTE imbroglio seems bound to lead to a good healthy purge. For many years it was run as a private fiefdom where corporate governance just did not apply. Aside from the financial slackness, generations of the same families followed each other into the station as if by divine right (the Sports department was especially afflicted). Apart from a generally efficient news team over the years, and occasionally Prime Time, its output is fairly mediocre. Ok, I like Nationwide also and Sunday Miscellany and that John Bowman programme early on Saturday – and I’m sure I’m forgetting many other worthy shows. However, in general, the term  “Talent” was at best an exaggeration, at worst a ludicrous misnomer.  It’s most enjoyable and informed radio presenters (such John Creedon, Philip King, Sean Rocks and the entire Lyric team) were not included under this precious umbrella. Fair dues to Tubridy for turning the base metal of his talent into gold but I never rated him beyond bland (and he banged on all year about that bloody Toy Show), nor the annoyingly cheerful Ray D’Arcy, and as for man-o-the-people Joe Duffy, heaven forfend. Off with all their heads I say, or at least curtail their salaries or let them see how they fare on the open market. As someone whose worked in journalism I can tell you that most practitioners find it hard to eke out a living from it. Most would happily settle for any salary that approached or exceeded six figures.

I was mildly amazed by the outpouring of grief on our national media (especially RTE) on the death of Christy Dignam. It was almost Lady Di-like in its coverage. Lead item on the nine-o-clock news, multiple interviews with friends, family and fans, and follow-up coverage of his funeral cortège. Now to be honest I was never a fan, in fact I wasn’t even sure who he was as I had a tendency to mix him up with Christy Hennessy – both tended to play the working-class hero card. I had heard of Aslan but never listened to them much and couldn’t name a single song of theirs. But maybe it’s a generational thing and I’m in the minority here. Listening to his songs and singing I’d say he had a modest talent but seemed to be a pretty sound guy – sincere, articulate, and honest. But he ain’t Prince or even Bono. I suspect that he was a very good live performer and to Dubliners of a certain generation he represented a seminal period in their lives. A generation that now make decisions about content on our national media perhaps. If Bono were ever to die (God forbid) we’d have to close down the country for a week to accord him proportionate respect. 

 

The intractable divisions in the North are getting air time again today. The same dreary stuff. I am continually amazed that nobody north, south or across the water has addressed the major factor that contributes to this tiresome, anachronistic situation. By and large new arrivals to these the two warring tribes are separated at birth and placed in two different educational systems. If the southern states of the USA can desegregate education then surely it’s not beyond our wit to do the same. But where’s the will? Whose brave enough to even suggest it? Where’s the Martin Luther King? 

 

 

 

Richard Ford Turns on Local at Dalkey Book Festival

 

The Dalkey Book Festival is a genteel event where concerned book lovers turn up in droves to sit at the feet of a distinguished cast of international writers from the worlds of literature and politics. The format is usually an interview followed by a Q & A. Aside from the odd bore, these Q & A sessions are mild affairs with gentle lobs aimed at the distinguished guests. Controversy is rare, these are love-ins where the converted are being preached to. Even the comedians are treated with reverence. A tired-looking Dylan Moran did a set in a packed hall at the Cuala GAA club that, apart from 10 minutes or so where he slagged of those lucky enough to live in the area, was distinctly weak. He clearly ran out of energy and material as the show went on and finished up early. Nonetheless the packed hall gave him a generous ovation at the premature end.

 However, I am sad to report these tranquil proceedings were disrupted yesterday by this writer when I managed to turn that benign elder statesman of US letters Richard Ford into a snarling beast. Here’s how it happened.The well-known literary hatchet-woman Claire Lowdon had recently published a vicious attack on the man and his work in the Times Literary Supplement. Amongst the many literary crimes cited she accused him of being racist, sexist and boring. There seemed to be a tendency in her review to conflate Ford with his character Frank Bascombe in Be Mine (his latest) and other novels. She also encouraged her readers not to buy Be Mine.

 

I’m an admirer of Ford’s meandering style and have enjoyed most of his books. I was pissed off by the flagrant unfairness of this review. When it came to Q & A I was first up. I asked him had he read the abusive review and if so what was his response. “I never read reviews”, he answered, “my wife does and filters the contents before I see them”. I then started to try give him a précis of the review but he interrupted me in an agitated fashion and there was much hand waving from interviewer Merve Imre (a great hand waver generally by the way even in the most placid of situations). “Stop stop!” was the message. The microphone bearer was sent to wrest the organ of discourse from my blood-stained hands but I motored on about Lowdon’s urging us not to read his book. The mood in the room turned ugly, lynching was never on the cards, but much tutt-tutting and turning around and glaring. (My poor wife sat frozen with mortification beside me.) I reluctantly handed it over but not before declaring limply “I thought this was a Q & A.” A clearly maddened Ford barked “grow up” from the stage. Lacking the mike I was unable to respond. If I had been, I might have made the point: “you’re telling me to grow up and yet you get your wife to read your reviews.” So perhaps it was for the best.

 

My big mistake of course was mistaking the nature of the game we play at these events. Instead of giving the great man a gentle lob, I executed a sliced backhand that he found unplayable. Poor show.

 

Shall I Compare Thee to a Small Tuscan City

Travel certainly broadens the mind and can make you aware of how fucked up some things are at home. On a recent trip to Tuscany I flew in to the small city of Pisa (pop. 90,000). Straight out of Arrivals I was able to get a clean, fast, modern, shuttle train service to the main station in the centre of the city: a hub for onward travel to Lucca, Florence etc. It cost 2 euro. On arrival back in Dublin it’s retrieve your car from an expensive car park (if you can find a space), catch an extortionate taxi, or take your chances on an Aircoach as it follows it’s latest ludicrous route (Never however to a central hub.) Our ostensibly business-oriented government still hasn’t managed to sort out such a basic requirement for a modern city. We should all I suppose cycle home.

Cheltenham 2023 – Day 3 & 4 Ruminations and Day 1 & 2 Triumphs and Regrets

 

I’ve had seven winners so far: two on Day 1 and five on Day 2 but apart from a Dream to Share (4-1) in the Bumper and Langer Dan (10-1) in the Coral Cup my bets were relatively modest. So I am well ahead but could perhaps have been braver. Also, Geri Colombe losing by a short head in the second race cost me close to four figures. However, more importantly, I am well covered for Day 3 with some multiple bets running on to horses tomorrow so I don’t need, for example, to back horses I have in doubles with my darling A Dream to Share.

 

So here goes. I’m a sucker for the big handicap hurdles and will go for two of Henderson’s Walking on Air (9-1) and Mill Green (25-1) in the Pertemps ar 2.10. One of Elliot’s sneakily well handicapped entries could of course do the business – but which one? In the Stayers Hurdle I have been getting promising intelligence for Home by the Lee from the owner (via a mutual friend) and Tom Segal has also tipped him He’s worth an ew nibble but bear in mind he ran a stinker here last year. De Bromhead’s horses have emerged from the doldrums (not a dry eye in the house when Honeysuckle won on that epic Tuesday) and he has multiple runners in the memorial race named after his son Jack. Foxy Girl (9-1) and Magical Zoe )7-1) seem the two best placed to provide the fairy tale result. The Kim Muir is not a reliable betting medium but I like the look of the handily weighed Angels Dawn (15-2) trained by Sam Curling down the road from Ardmayle. He unseated his apprentice jockey when cruising into contention at Punchestown in his last race and he owes me a few bob. His jumping is normally excellent and he stays well.

 

On Day 4 it’s all about the Gold Cup and I am hoping that time has not withered the two De Bromhead horses that have come first and second over the past two years: A Plus Tard (7-1) and Minella Indo (20-1). Having backed both of them on each occasion I will stick with them for surely they will win if I don’t – and I don’t like anything else in the race. My other bet will be on Hiddenvalley Lake (17-2) in the Alfred Bartlett. With four places on offer he is surely a good thing to be placed at least,

 

 

 

Cheltenham 2023 – Day 1 and Day 2 – Ruminations

I normally have strong feelings about the Supreme Novices Hurdle but I confess I am flummoxed by this year’s edition. The favourite Facile Vega ran a stinker last time out and I would prefer one of Mullins’ other runners Il Etait Temps. Marine Nationale has the best form but hasn’t run recently and his speed may be blunted by the forecast soft going. High Definition could be the answer but he fell last time and his jumping is generally sketchy. Staying is always a concern and one horse who will surely stay and is a tried and tested campaigner is Paul Nichols’ Tahmuras. He may have more modest top-grade form but at 11-1 he appeals as a decent e.w. bet. To confuse things even further I had hoped to back de Bromhead’s Inthepocket in the Ballymore and now I find he’s adding to my confusion by turning out here. Another e.w. chance perhaps..  

 

The Ultima offers plenty of decent ew value and I will be looking at two horses with good course form – Happygolucky (14-1) and Corach Rambler (7-1). The former is lightly raced this year and had a prep over a distance way too short. 

 

The Champion Hurdle is not a betting proposition but I’ll be interested to see how close State Man gets to Constitution Hill. 

 

The Mare’s Hurdle is a fascinating race – not least because we get to see how much Honeysuckle has declined. I would love to see her win but will be putting my few bob on Echoes in the Rain – a top flight flat horse with form on soft.

 

The Boodles at 16.50 is a lottery but I may speculate on Bad (9-1) trained by Ben Pauling – excellent French form and a modest weight. His trainer has had a great season and is positive about his chances.

 

I’m a sucker for a Henderson horse and will back Mister Coffey (9-1) in the last on the basis that he will have to stop coming second at some stage.

 

On Day 2 my main interest is in seeing if my only substantial ante-post bet A Dream to Share wins the Champion bumper. She was hugely impressive at Leopardstown – so much so that McManus who owned the second in that race promptly bought her from the Gleeson family. 

Damien Dempsey at the Abbey

 I have to confess that I am not familiar with Damien Dempsey’s music  – I knew of him vaguely as one of our standing army of singer-songwriters but couldn’t name you a song of his. However, when a friend offered me a ticket to go and see Tales from the Holywell at the Abbey based on his life and featuring his songs I went along mainly because it was directed by Conor McPherson whose Girl from the North Country (based on Dylan’s songs) I had enjoyed. This however turned out to be a much different kind of production. Instead of dramatised scenes accompanied by songs, we got Dempsey himself telling the story of his life and stopping occasionally to sing songs accompanied by a very accomplished quartet of musicians on violin, double-bass, keyboards and drums. He’s a personable, entertaining guy with a good stock of mildly amusing stories. His life was not as hard scrabble as his working-class hero persona might suggest. Both his parents worked and he attended a third-level college. He had a comfortable upbringing, even if it was in Donaghamede, which is hardly the Gorbals. But that’s alright, most successful artists, writers and musicians have a well-polished origin story that often strays from reality. His anecdotes and stories were not enough however to carry the evening for me. My main problem were his songs and his singing. He has a strong voice but with a limited range - it was frequently flat and out of tune, more shouting than singing occasionally. The songs themselves were often banal with clichéd language and commonplace rhymes. Best listened to in a crowded pub after a few pints I suspect. The sentiments expressed were admiral, but their mediocrity left me completely cold. (He’s no Richard Thomson nor indeed Teddy Thompson). However, I was pretty much alone in this regard as the packed audience greeted every song with ecstatic applause and in between hung on his every word as he told the story of his life. Fair dues to him for parleying a modest talent into a successful career. His amiable manner and impressive communication skills suggest to me that he’d make a good radio presenter – but of other people’s songs. 

An Cailín Ciúin

 I can’t think offhand of any Irish-made film that has impressed me as much as An Cailín Ciúin. I had read Claire Keegan’s small jewel of a novel (Foster) on which it was based. Colm Bairead’s restrained and sympathetic direction turns it into a flawless masterpiece in another medium. Not very much seems to happen but every frame is loaded with import as the girl in question blossoms under the loving care of her fostering relations. But all the time we are aware that this is an interlude and she will probably be retuning to her chaotic and dysfunctional home presided over by her brutish father. The acting is flawless – especially the slowly thawing character of her uncle played by Andrew Bennett and the father rendered convincingly by Michael Patric. The most violent scene in the film is the latter’s stubbing out of a cigarette on his dinner plate and yet the whole film thrums with suppressed emotion and latent violence. There are lighter moments too – the interrogation by a local busybody where she is asked does the aunt use butter or margarine in her baking. The naturalism of the setting helps also – the slightly down-at-heel farm set in the lush green countryside. Comparisons with its fellow Oscar nominee Banshees of Inisherin do McDonagh’s ludicrous and overblown melodrama no favours. 

Rugby, Racing and the Fear of Relegation

 I enjoy the Rugby Six Nations more than any of the other sporting competition – it is I suppose because of its history and the old rivalries renewed. I’ve been watching it since the early 1960s when our Cork school used to go en bloc. I particularly enjoy the Welsh match because they take it so seriously and history has sown the seeds of some serious antipathy. Many will remember the Mike Philipps farce in 2011 where a dim-witted linesman ( “it’s the correct ball”) allowed a clearly illegal try by the opportunistic scrum half. Older folk will remember the infamous punch delivered by the Welsh captain Brian Price to Noel Murphy (no angel mind you) in 1969. And on a personal note I always found the Welsh fans tendency (in the old Landsdowne Road days) to use the terraces as urinals a tad unseemly. So I certainly relished last Saturdays’ drubbing – although like most I was disappointed that the team took its foot off gas in the second half. The pack were outstanding, flawless in the line out and solid in the scrum with the back row in particular doing well – O’Mahony in the line out and Doris and Van der Flier everywhere. Keenan was superb at full back – brave and reliable as usual. 

 

The Dublin Racing Festival at Leopardstown was compulsory watching for anyone interested in top-quality racing and in form spotting for Cheltenham. The one slightly sour note was the absolute dominance of Willie Mullins, and to a lesser extent McManus as an owner. Mullins has become the Manchester City of racing with many of the big buys by the big owners ending up in his stable. Gordon Elliot is his only substantial rival with Henry de Bromhead in very poor form so far this year – even the great Honeysuckle has been vanquished. A feature of the racing was the number of Mullins hot shots who got beaten, only for the stable 2^nd or 3^rd string to triumph. These included Blue Lord at 1-4, Lossiemouth at 1-3, and the ostensibly unbeatable Facile Vega at 4-9. It’s rare to hear the generally amiable Mullins being critical of Paul Townend his stable jockey but in two of the cases mentioned he had a go at him in the after-race interviews. Of Facile Vega’s run he said next time Townend should “ride him like a racehorse and not a machine.”  State Man in the Irish Champion Hurdle, owned by my old school mate Joe Donnelly, put Honeysuckle (over the hill?) in her place and he has to be considered a serious rival to the much hyped Constitution Hill in the Champion Hurdle. I was unimpressed by Galopin des Champs in the Paddy Power Gold cup and can’t see him winning the Cheltenham Gold Cup. I’ll be hoping de Bromhead’s pair (A Plus Tard and Minella Indo) recover their mojos. Another impressive performance was John Kiely’s A Dream to Share (see image above) in the bumper on the first day – a race that always throws up Cheltenham contenders. He was up against 7 Mullins’ horses (Willie, Thomas and Emmet all had runners) but won handily. A small owner and trainer prevailing - with a McManus horse in second. I had a decent bet on him at 14-1 and will be hoping for a repeat performance in the Cotswolds. While I’m on the subject of creatures being “over the hill”, would somebody please retire Ted Walsh. His son Ruby is probably one of the shrewdest analysts around and is always worth listening to on RTE and ITV and his daughter Katy doing her interviews on horseback is a nice touch even if it’s all a tad incestuous and unchallenging - many of the winning horse are attached to a stable with strong family connections. But do we need three Walshs? Ted has atrophied into a caricature of himself – with a desperate need to be blunt and salty (is using “arse” every time he’s on TV written into his contract?), and a singular lack of detachment.

 

Not many people know that I’m an Everton supporter. But I’ve been at it long enough to see them win leagues, cups and even the European Cup-Winners cup in 1985 – beating Bayern Munich on the way.  Their golden age in the 80s coincided with the Liverpool-inspired European ban for all English clubs – irony of ironies. I can’t remember why I started following them but assume it must have been because of the number of Irish internationals they featured in the 1950s: Peter Farrell, Tommy Eglington and Mick Megan to name a few. Kevin Sheedy was on their great 80s team. In recent years I’ve kept this near-fatal attraction quiet. The notion of them being relegated seems unspeakable – especially when you know their history and have seen at first hand the pride and esprit-de-corps at Goodison. But they have fallen into bad company in recent years and the management merry-go-round has been farcical. I was happy to see a no-bullshit, pragmatic manager such as Sean Dyche appointed . If anyone is going to drag them out of the slough of despond it’s surely him. So I was very pleased to see stirrings of pride and honest endeavour last Saturday when they beat Arsenal. I just wish it hadn’t been against Arsenal who I have begun to take an interest in because of the fine football they play and of course because of Arteta – their Everton connection. Now a result against Liverpool next week would be a different matter.