A Funeral in Kerry

A first cousin dies, on my father's side, the oldest surviving male from that branch of the family. (I'm next.) So I hie myself south dutifully - but also with curiosity as I see very little of my Kingdom cousins. We arrive in a packed funeral home in Tralee.  The corpse is on display - not looking too good. I'd have given him a bit of colour. Corpses leave me relatively unmoved as they are palpably shells. The family are arranged around the perimeter of the room and we (my two brothers are with me) do a circuit of hand-shaking - hard for us, tedious I'm sure for them.  I have no idea who many of them are - partners and children of cousins and nephews etc.  Then we proceed to a anteroom and wait for the lengthy line of sympathisers to travel the same via dolorosa. It's teeming down outside.

When the whole town has paid its respects (or so it seems), the doors into the viewing room are shut and last farewells are said. The doors open again and eight male family members emerge to shoulder the coffin and slow march down the street to the church a few hundred yards away. They are followed by the hardiest of the mourners. The rest of us divert to our cars and get there relatively dry. At the church we join the sodden funeral party to say a decade of the rosary and listen to a few readings. The main event will be tomorrow.

And then back to the son's house to a laden table (cake, sandwiches, fancy savouries) and an inexhaustible supply of drink. The smokers are undeterred by the cause of death (lung cancer) as they assume a position just outside the kitchen door where the cakes and ale are within easy reach.  A good night ensues.  All agree we should try to meet more frequently, and not just at funerals.  Although funerals may soon start getting more frequent.

Rancid Ruminations - July 2012

Aosdána eh, you have to laugh in order not to cry. What is it for? Maybe it helps out the odd indigent genius but by and large its sole purpose seems to be to piss off those who can't get in.The idea of an artist's union is essentially risible anyway. I like my artists as outsiders pouring scorn on the pragmatic preposterous world - not cosying together in cliques making sure no unruly elements get in. They meet and pontificate to no avail - as in their recent airy effusions on the hare-brained plan to yoke our various cultural institutions together. And their finest hour was surely the election of that irredeemable old fascist Francis Stuart to the position of tSaoi. In recent times I notice they're electing architects.  What's next, pastry chefs?


All this crap about McGuinness shaking hands with Queen Elizabeth. I for one am disgusted with him. How can you call yourself a republican and kowtow to this ridiculous lame-brained privileged anachronism. What's wrong with the Brits that they tolerate her and her ilk? Is it sentimentality for lost glory? How can you be happy to be a subject and refer to someone as "your highness"?  I like to believe that we're all equal and no man is my better by divine right. Confiscate her property and assets for the common weal I say - they need the money.  Give her a nice house and a nice pension (a few horses even) and trot her out to impress the tourists when required. For God's sake grow up.

I do despair of our politicians. Does anyone take anything they say and do seriously. Little Enda trotting around Europe acting as if someone over there gives a shit about Ireland's financial plight. And Gilmore at home suffocating us with blandness - socialist firebrand eh. The Croke Park agreement is a scam - agreed by one weak government, and confirmed by another weak government. It's inspired by fear of the public-service unions and the desire for a quiet life - it's Benchmarking Mark II. And it's palpably unsustainable. The culture in the public service (increments, everyone's great, sickies by right, inflexible work practices,  fat pensions etc.) will take generations to change. We need a purge now. Abolish this ludicrous agreement - let them strike. Courage mon amour.

Peerless Pirlo

Andrea Pirlo's penalty against England has to be one of the finest examples of chutzpah in the history of sport - or any other field of endeavour for that matter.  At the business end of a major tournament, with millions watching, he eschews pace or placement to chip the ball into the middle of the goal - right at the spot just vacated by the diving goalkeeper.  I'm not a soccer enthusiast but that for me was the moment to cherish from the overblown hype of this European championship.

The Ostracisation of Michelle de Bruin

The advent of the London Olympics has highlighted again the shoddy treatment of Michelle de Bruin by the Irish media and the Irish sporting establishment. The campaign of vilification and the subsequent ostracisation was led by camogie-loving Tom Humpheries, late of the Irish Times. Some may question his right to occupy any elevated moral ground.  Humpheries was joined by Paul Kimmage whose indignant righteousness on all matters drug-related preclude taking anything he says very seriously - perhaps he is bitter about his mediocre, but drug-free, cycling career.

Here's what I think.  For a lengthy period -  maybe up to eight years ago - the majority of Olympic athletes were chemically enhanced in one way or another.  In some cases it may have been blood doping rather than chemicals.  In that famous Olympic final that Ben Jonson won, and subsequently lost, it was later established that the majority of the field had taken drugs of some kind. Recent Olympics have seen remarkable improvement in at least one British female athlete without any subsequent innuendo - apart from the odd whisper on sporting blogs. In the swimming arena the changing shape of female swimmers in the last thirty years suggested something more than hard graft.  As my mother used to say, they were all at it.  Closer to home our sainted cyclists Sean Kelly and Stephen Roche have both been exposed to more than suspicions about drug use, without the attendant boycotting suffered by de Bruin.

I was delighted to see a prominent figure like Eamonn Coghlan sticking up for her in a recent article in the Irish Times:

http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/ireland/2012/0609/1224317568167.html

Where There's Hope There's Life

I trekked along to the Forbidden Fruit festival at IMMA yesterday - mainly drawn by the promise of seeing Hope Sandoval and Mazzy Star. The portents were promising. It was a glorious sunny day and the concert site was showing no signs of distress after two days of inclement weather and hard partying. I noticed rubbish collectors in constant motion. The arena was colourfully bedecked with giant flowers and the perimeter lined with food outlets offering sushi, gourmet burgers and all kinds of other goodies. The crowd were mainly in their late 20s I'd say and there was almost no evidence of drunkenness - even late in the day.

We were early so we found a seat looking down on the main stage and settled back to enjoy the sun and the music. I had only heard of a few of the acts but was immediately impressed by Andrew Bird and his band - in fact we left our strategic perch to stand just under the stage. He sang, played guitar, violin, a glockenspiel and even whistled a bit. it's hard to categorise the music but it certainly rocked and he ended with a very impressive version of Townes Van Zandt's If I Needed You.

An amusing side show,  as we watched Bird, was an ever-expanding team of lesbians nearby. It started with a group of four, all in black, all short and sallow with some very ornate piercings (right ears mainly), elaborate head shavings, and bracelets. Two of them were strikingly beautiful. They looked like they had come from New Mexico or somewhere sunny, arty, and exotic. There was a fair amount of physical contact between them - beyond friendly. As time moved in they kept being joined by other small groups, including what looked like a couple of local apprentice lesbians - these lacked the style of the original group. They included one with an unfortunate resemblance to Elton John and a tall, pallid, cropped, very weird looking androgynous creature  - who radiated psychic unease.

Impressed by Mister Bird we stayed to the end and then moved on to the comedy tent. A mixed bag. The MC was plain unfunny - three very drunk, and very young,  girls tried to disrupt things but were crudely and rather cruelly put down. The highlight was a guy called Jarlath Regan - personable and intelligent stuff.

Then on to the smaller tent for the Mazzy Star gig. We got there early and bagged a spot just under the stage. The band as always are  relentlessly cool - incorporating a pedal steel guitar into their hypnotic grunge. As usual the back of the stage is used as a screen for a series of striking and surreal images. Time has not yet transfixed the flourish set on Hope Sandoval. She's still strikingly beautiful and retains that ethereal slightly other worldly presence. She rarely smiles and seems extremely self-conscious - hands on hips, hands behind her back, hands playing with the mike, hands occupied with a tambourine or the maracas. But such beautiful hands - long elegant fingers. And she rarely faces the audience - preferring a side on profile. The expression is one of slight alarm combined with an exasperation at her situation. She's famously shy.  For a flavour of her performance check out:  http://tinyurl.com/d6vadv6  Try the Blue Flowers video especially.