LAPDOG BITES BULLDOG (54) by Perkin Warbeck




Liberty Hall is the ugliest building in DUPlin: to begin with.

There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of its ugliness was signed by The Woman in the Street and The Man in the Street, for this is a shared space, and also by Síle Citizen, Seán Citizen  and  other denunciators of shoe-box architecture and all its abominations. Particularly that genre  of sub-s.b. architecture, Anraoi,  which so appeals to Continuity Sticks. Even the barking corgis in the street left their loyal pawmarks on the register.

The Perkin signed it. And The Perkin’s name was good and still, possibly, is, for anything he chooses to put his refined hand with its tapering fingers and filed nails, to and into, too.

Glactar le sin mar fhíric rofhollas nach gá solas a dhíriú uirthi.

There is no doubt that  Liberty Hall is the ugliest building in DUBlin. This  must be clearly understood, or nothing wonderful will come of the piece The P is about to tap out on his  laptop  about journalistic lapdogs on Liffeyside other than The Lapdog.

Ní saoirse go dtosnaíonn muintir na hÉireann ag ronán a chéile.

There is a statue in D.2, which is the Number One ugliest statue in DUPlin. Perhaps this is precisely so because it is located on a traffic island in College Green with its bum to  Dame Strteet rather than to Mott Street. This is, gan amhras,  as a consquence of DUPlin, aka The Big Orange,  having been twinned with New Amsterdam, aka The Big Apple, before the grid configuration of the latter had gone into lockdown, socio-cultural traffic-wise.

The Miaow 2 movement is older than is suspected.

Thus Dame, an Americanism, is attached to a DUPlin Street while Mott, its Hiberno-Gaelic equivalent, is attached to a New Yawk Street. (Mott being derived from Maith as in Maith an Cailín, or, Fine Girl, y’are).

Just like the blueprint  for the facade of the university formerly known as UCG  ended up in Galway by mistake (allegedly) rather than on a university in Honkers (aka Hong Kong), and vice versa. This mix-up (supposedly) occurred  back in the balmy, palmy day of the Sun-drenched Empah which resolutely  refused to set its dial to double down.

-And where opium was the opium of  Imperialism, oops, Aggressive Nationalism, aka, A.N. Other during the reigning seasons of Queenie 1 and Queenie 2..

 The Miaow 2 movement is older than the ladies are prepared to admit.

That the ugliest statue (of some stature) in DUPln  should be that of a mere male  becomes, therefore, easier to fathom, Adam. Call it, if you will, Paul, the Staute of Liberty :

-The statue of Thomas Davis.

Yes, the same lifeless lump of a gazumped Tommy Davis Jr,  dumped on an unsuspecting Dubhlinn, as it then was. This hideous  exclamation mark cast in bronze was first unveiled in the distant past of 1966 and it has remained hideous in plain sight ever since.  And with each passing year on year, it seems it grew some in its gruesomeness.

It looks now like nothing so much as a pre-emptive strike at the poker-faced pose of an upright and long-overcoated Trump on the stump. Especially when  confronted by the Forest Gumps of the hackitariat, including the Washington reporter of RTE neeeoooze (pronounced like a plastic bowl pirouetting to a stop on a bare flagstoned floor in Ballydehob).

As for the dead-head face  in this (gulp) sculpture reputed to be that of Thomas Davis,  of whom there are contemporary portraits galore still extant: oh, dear. Even the most sophisticated of Facial Recognition Techniques would balk as the prospect of identifiying this physog which is as anonymous as a gawky stalk of bog-myrtle, Myrtle.

Dev it was, Kev, who did the unveiling of this travesty, Travis, on the 50th anniversary of another abortive Rising.  And it was indeed lucky, in hindsight,  for the statue (more ghastly than ghostly)  and its cack-handed  perpetrator that the unveiling was done by one whose eyesight was something less than 20/20 in 1966. (The Dev’s number was always gonna be 16/66)

Otherwise it might have got as short shrift as the Houyhnhnms did from Jonathan Swift. This abomination  of a (gasp) scultpture  is about as animated as a bronze scarecrow with its arms straight down by its side and  which, patently, had the monster of Frankenstein as its model. Standing as it does beside the Bailiwick of Booty (i.e., The Central Bank of The Free Southern Stateen) it resolutely  remains less than a Thing of Beauty, Tess.

Familiarity breeds, if anythng, more contempt. Even the seagulls now show great nous by  giving it a miss at poo and piss time. You know there is something dysfunctional  in this would-be erection of a dead-eye bronze beast with no sign of a glint, when one is compelled to praise the granite plinth:

Tomás Dáibhís :1814-1845.

But this Thing of Non-beauty, gan amhras, need not be a whipping-boy forever, Joy, with its bronze butt to  Dame Street, Dublin 2. Forcing people, after all, to look at a lump of dumped and frozen  cac they don’t have a grá for is self-defeating. This is a joyless hunk of street furniture junk, Joy and it doesn’t have to be like this forever, Trevor..

   Assuming there is still  a statute of limitations for statues in Occidental England.

Some weeks ago a statue of a bishop was abbreviated in Thurles, home  of hurling, much in the manner of, say, the hurley to hurl. It did not even merit short shrift from the Nodalong Newsmedia on Liffeyside, possibly because it was a traditional statue of  a mere RC bishop.

Now, one is not suggesting similar treatment  –  decapitation once again is out !–  or anything so religiously racist  and drastic. Instead, minus its plinth,  the askew statue of a dopey TD, which has caused innumerable nosebleeds to innocent, squinting  passersby,  might be transported elsewhere.

A feasibility study has shown this might be carried out slowly but with ease via  Convoy, Co. Donegal, roped on the roofs of a fleet of  Epis-Taxis (epistaxi is the medical term for nosebleed), down to Dev’s political home.

In Ennis, mecca for the merchants of the greasy till,  it might be resurrected in all its ill-gotten hideousness on a fada-free  plinth, inscribed with a similar  initialed name:

-Timmy Dooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooly, TD  !

Edward Delaney was the cack-handed  perpetrator of this truly unique monstrosity in College Orange (this is a shared space) with its bronze backside to Dame Street.

 By an an extraoridinary concidence a truly unique monstrostiy of similar hideousness, cast in Gonzo journalese this time, rather than in bronze, was last week published in the Occidental English Dependent (OED) by none other that the son of same with a near-identical name, one, Eamon Delaney:

Forcing people to learn a language they have no ‘grá’ for is self-defeating.

   Notice the compulsory  G-for Gaelic word there? Grá. Dontcha  just lurve it? Gets ya right                 between na súile.

Has the same premedicated impact as, say – lemme see, ah, yis – as the last word of the judge’s sentence to death in 1992 of the notorious Florida hitchhiker, Aileen Wournos, woman. After she’d  been convicted / denied the right to choose to shoot through the right eyeball, any male who happend to pick her up:

-And may God Almighty have mercy on your……corpse.

251 hacks and hackettes’ ballpoints simultaneously stopped in the mid-air of a silent court:

-Did he just say……………………..corpse !!!?

That this article by E (for Eamon)  is not only  hideous but is hideous in plain sight ought to come as no surprise to those who have a caubeen-doffing aquaintance with The Leprechaun:

Briseann an múcas trí shron an chait mara.

It picks the pocket of every platitiude favoured by the linguistic imperialists and no loose change of cliché so beloved of them is left uncycled. Truly is it a joyride through every contemporary bromide of the Compulsory English cant-merchants in the mono-minded, monoglot  media cois Life. Renowned for putting the hackneyed phrase into their dayjobs with the hackitariat. When it comes to hoary old chestnuts falling down, Eamon Delany is a first responder, dosháirithe .

-But it’s all about choice, and that’s what our State hasn’t got – for decades. Successive Irish Governments persist in the idea that making Irish compulsory will revive it when, in fact, the very opposite is the case. Compulsory Irish and the often dogged nationalism behind it has driven away multitudes who should be enjoying this rich tongue.

No, actually, it’s not all about choice, Joyce. (But savour first, that biblical word ‘multitude’ from the Book of ED which is imbued with same.)  What planet has this scribe been reared on?  Possibly  a planet inhabited with creatures of a tribe  who resemble the dead-eyed dead-head called Davis with his bronze bum to Dame Street.

Fact is, children have no choice:  firstly, when it comes to picking their parentage;  certainly not till they become culturally, mentally and financially independent. All children are broke and certainly where the male of the species is concerned, remain so till at least they are of an age when their voices break.

When Eamon Delaney was happy in his nappy and having Compulsory English stuffed down his throat along with goody (it’s a traditional dessert-like Dublin dish made by boiling bread in milk with sugar) did he have a choice?

When he later became a member of the Southern Irish Foreign Office (a DUPlomat?)  in NY did he get his diapers in a twist on hearing the children in the International School for Diplomats’ Brats converse effortlessly in a menu of languages, whether they had an amor / amour / amore / liebe for the mandatory languages in question or not? They just took it on the tongue like cod-liver oil.

(Grá obviously did not enter the equation as they were never coerced to converse in Erse)

You cannot make people do what they don’t want to do. It is unfair and self-defeating. It is particularly unfair to do it with children, many of whom struggle with Irish in primary school. This is why it is good news that the Government is to allow more exemptions for these cases. But it is not enough and we should be looking at removing the compulsory aspect altogether.

Like, kids don’t want not to go to bed before midnight, earliest. Like, kids don’t want to get inoculated, agin ebola. Like, kids don’t like not to ring the doorbell of a nasty neighbour, and run. Like, kids don’t not want to dream about running up and down escalators in a shopping mall, not screaming their heads off.. Like, kids don’t like not to ‘box the fox’, i.e, rob apples from a toxic neighbour’s orchard. Like, kids don’t like not to eat crispy  cornflakes rather than stodgy porridge.

Let them be, so: and watch them grow and become members of the Southern Irish DUPlomatic Service. Spot the difference between the bawling Eamon Delaney’s take on the Leprechaun and say –  lemme see, ah, yis – that of the name-calling DUP. As vast as the iffy differ between, fan go bhfeicimid, an alligator and a crocodile. (Was on the verge of writing ‘between hurl and hurley’ but that, Matt, would not be cricket. Howzat?)

Thankfully, Irish is actually thriving now, with the growth of clubs and gaelscoileanna and its growth in Northern Ireland. But it’s all about choice. And about enthusiasm and doing things willingly.

This genial genius then proceeds to promptly contradict himself:

It’s not about putting all public notices and bus timetables in Irish, even though almost nobody is to be heard speaking Irish on the street any more – not to mention Government and council literature.

But the political establishment is content with this gesture, and we all go along with it. Firstly, because it is a convenient fig leaf, an illusion to console ourselves that we are a bilingual nation, proudly speaking ‘our native tongue’ (whatever that even means).

Eh, Eamo?

Ciallaíonn sí ‘an mháthairtheanga’ seachas ‘an leas-mháthairtheanga, Bass,.

Wake up, Little Suzie, the next bit is a doozy.

The Irish language lobby which, despite its small size, still has a strong hold over the political culture, or at least over Fine Gael and more especially Fianna Fáil. It is like the National Rifle Association in the US – no politician dares cross this cranky lobby and so we persist with the idea, for example, that the Gaeltacht areas are bigger than they actually are, or that Irish is a working language at the EU.

Does one hear, Mick, the ricochet here of the  Ivan Yeatsian dictum, i.e., ‘Gaelgores (sic)  are cultural terrorists (more sic) ’?

And which got the sucked thumbs up (which is imperial for imprimatur)  from the Goody Goodies of the (gulp) Executive Complaints Forum / Foram Feidhmiúcháin Gearán of the (gasp) Broadcasting  Authority of Ireland /  ÚDArás Craolacháin na hÉireann, DUPlin, D 31.

Ireland is now a multi-cultural and diverse society, thankfully, and the days of a narrow definition of nationality are gone. It is about choice.

Eh? Like,  kids in Ireland (meaning south of the Black Sows Dyke ) no longer  have a choice whether to be born or not.

It is about choice.  And if the Irish language movement was confident of itself, and of what it represents, it would readily accept this.

Or, like, else?

You might easily end up on a less than culturally diverse plinth  with a puss on you  like Tomás Dáibhís, who, thankfully,  only got what he so richly deserved by poking his ERSE perversely and provocatively at Dame Street and  holding it up as a trouser-coughing truth less than universely acknowledged:

Tír gan teanga, tír gan anam.

                                         TUILLEADH   LE  TEACHT:  TO  BE CONTINUED

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