As we reel into the ghastliness that is January, two politicians are catching the public eye. One was Micheal Martin, the leader of Fianna Fail, who has declared that his party could become the biggest party in the twenty-six counties. He has “strongly ruled out” coalition with Fine Gael because they’re “too right-wing” and with Sinn Féin because they have a “militaristic uniform approach to politics with no diversity of opinion”. The second is Charlie Flanagan, the south’s Minister for Foreign Affairs. The Fine Gael man tweeted a New Year wish that “2015 offers Ireland the choice of Constitutional(sic) politics or Cult (sic) politics”. He got a response from Sinn Féin’s Donegal TD Pádraig Mac Lochlainn, who put up a picture of some Blueshirts giving a fascist salute in the 1930s with the comment “Hopefully cult politics doesn’t make a comeback”. Another tweeter responded “Think it was a spelling mistake” and Charlie replied “Yep, left out the ‘n’ “ (Fingers in ears, Virginia: the word the Minister was dancing around was ‘cunt’).
These exchanges, you’ll note, are from those in government and those in opposition in the south. The TUV’s Jim Allister complains bitterly that Stormont is an insult to democracy since it doesn’t have an official opposition. So here’s the thing: when’s the last time you heard a politician in opposition say of a government action “That was a fine decision – well done”? Alan Dukes of Fine Gael announced his famous “Tallaght Strategy” in 1987, when he said his party would not oppose economic measures by the Fianna Fail government of the day where they were in the interests of the state. It was an unprecedented instance of an opposition leader agreeing to support the government when it believed the government had acted in the public interest. Dukes lasted three years as Fine Gael leader.
So what’s so terrific about having an official opposition? “It keeps the government on their toes” you’ll hear. No it doesn’t. What you get is a government acting and regardless of the action, the opposition saying they’re hopeless and should be kicked out. Bang, wallop, thump, take that you bounders. Admittedly Sinn Féin and the DUP acting together doesn’t seem to have prompted any notable emergence from frozen unionist attitudes over the last ten years or so. But if they’re like they are now – if Jim Allister is like he is now – just think how they’d be if they were in official opposition.
There’s a better argument to be made that parties working together would be more likely to achieve something worth while and develop decent relationships, than one party in power and the other party in automatic mode continually damning the government’s every action.
I could be wrong, of course. Our Christmas dinner might have been better if half of the family had made the meal and the other half had bombarded them with criticism for a bunch of fools and why didn’t they lay down tools and let the other half show what it can do. It might work better, that oppositional way. Might.
So if one did not like the way the parties working together were taking things, who would one vote for?
The opposition perhaps? Oh that’s right, there isn’t one.
Tweedledum or Tweedledee?
“The Untouchables” (Ross and Webb 2012: 234 – 279) contains a ‘Handy Guide to Ireland’s Golden Circle’ in relation to some of the people who control the public and private sector in Ireland. We will continue to witness attacks on working conditions and rates of pay during 2015. We will not hear so much about the individuals who sanctioned “dig outs” and “bailouts in billions”, courtesy of the taxpayer to staunch losses associated with dubious lending practices. Why settle for an OBE when a $1million donation to Vatican museum projects will get one a Michelangelo Medallion?
Some benefactors may have less in common with Martin Luther and more in common with Lex Luther.
Flanagan’s use of that particular word t o describe SF is totally inappropriate in that it just does’nt sound right when uttered by a pompous blueshirt. A few weeks ago I drew your readers attention to a video entitled “water charge protestor calls Kenny a #### “.I stated that I first heard the word uttered nearly 50 years ago by my uncle when a bullock stood on his foot.Both he and the young working class woman protestor carried out their swearing with an aplomb that Flanagan could never hope to match!
Jim speaking about opposition, as about much else, is in denial of reality. Apparently, he’s a smart fellow, so one suspects a little divilment.
We can’t have an opposition, as in the democratic norm, because we’re not in a democratic norm. A myopic North West 200 motorcyclist whizzing past a history book could see that.
Like a man who needs crutches, we would be best using our consociational structures until we get better. That means the basics of democracy: accepting the rule of law (e.g. on parades), and democratic ballots (e.g. FM Martin McGuinness, if that’s what the ballot says).
Speaking of which; mainstream Irish nationalism has evolved from the Catholic associated iteration of 100 years ago, and accepts that the British identity of unionists must be accomodated in a pluralist Ireland.
Political unionism, on the other hand, seems a bit too ready to retreat into the political Protestantism of pre-reformation Paisley (e.g. Twadell), and seems to see any official accommodation of the Other identity as a Very Bad Thing.
So, Jim, let’s learn some chords before we book the Albert Hall.
Not only did the New Year get off to a happy start in the Free Southern Stateen but it did so, with a veritable Hib-Heb Happy one itself.
Hib-Heb being, of course, the South Irish equivalent of the Hip-Hop music which originated yonks ago in the South Bronx.
And the leading exponents of Hib-Heb are, gan dabht, that uproarious pair of breakwindy dancers, Flanagan and Alan. Being a reverential nod back in the direction of their role-models Flanagan and Allen whose glittering showbiz career in the 1930s coincided with the rise of the, erm, Blueshirts.
It behoves us all, by Jove, to pay particular attention to the lyrics of Flanangan and Alan – boasting, rhyming, uptown throwdowns of political commentary – as those of their prototypes turned out to be more prophetic than could be guessed at the time:
Pavement is our Pillow
No matter where we stray
Underneath the arches
On cobblestones we lay.
That they were foretelling the tragic downfall of Sir Anthony ‘Tones’ O Reilly – may BOD be good to him ! – is only now becoming clear, some eighty years anon.
So, what had that Hib-Heb duo of Flanagan and Alan have to say in the dying days of the Old Year? Be all ears to their sounds, fellow Basset Hounds:
We’re the pair of blueboys you need to consult
If you guys need an insult there’s none like ‘cult’
These hilarious words were first published in – irony of pig ironies ! – the restrained and solemn pages of the weekly bulletin of (gulp) The Sunday Independent Cult (sic). Yes, the same strong weekly which devotes the bulk of its coverage to the ongoing strugg between the thugs of SF and the smugs of SF (Squeaky Fromm). Which latter role is performed on a rotating basis by the likes and dislikes of Babe Ruth to Eyelash O Handjob to Bim-bom Harris him/herself.
The founding Daddy Cool of Hip-hop music was the rap-man DJ Cool Herc, of the South Bronx, via Jamaica and indubitably would have not disapproved of those Hib-Heb lyrics quoted above. As indeed would his favourite nephew. (Yes, Perkie is innordinately proud to call him ‘Uncle Hercie’).
An innovation of the Hib-Heb form of music is that whereas the Hib element (in this case, Flanagan) gets to play Bad Cop, his sidekick, Alan the Heb is allotted the role of Good Cop. (Thus ordained by the Protocols of the Elders of Zion Road, Rathgar, Dublin 6.) This means the latter can just about get away with saying what he likes with impunity (as in: ‘Sinn Fein are fascists’ being his up to datest). Hit me, he seems to be saying, with the High and Unholy Cost of living in my arms!
Contrast that with Flanagan the Hib who, after designating the Shinners as a cult, was compelled to grovel in a twittering of apologies, like the proper Charlie / twit he is.
It all added not inconsiderately to the gaiety of the Free Southern Stateen in the crossover from the Old to the New. Rivalled only in hilarity by the catastrophic newsflash that Bono may no longer be able to play a guitar again. (Whaddya mean….again?).
And looks set to becoming one of the first of a succession of cunning stunts prescribed by the Spin Doctorate for the Raparee-singers of the Funky dudes of Fine Gael in 2015. The SD initials there remind one that the Norneverland equiv of the Hib-Heb phenom are the SDLP. Yes, indeedy: Snoop Doggy LP. One understands Not so Famous as He would have Liked to be Seamus has even taken of late to wearing his baseball cap backwards. That would be his Babe Ruth one (see above).
All of which must bring a certain inner glow of satisfascism to the Founding Father of Hib-Heb music, none other than Daddy Cool O’Toole. On the craftily chosen day of Christmas Eve he picked as his latest item in the TUT series ‘Ireland in a 100 Art Works’, the very best of the Good Books……’Ulysses’ by J. Joyce.
Knowing as he does and is, Perkie’s inner Kermit immediately leapfrogged down to the last paragraph to find the best whine,oops, wine. He was not disappointed. For there was Daddy Cool O’Toole’s choice as the starkest example yet of the eternal battle between Good and Bad, between the Hib called the Citzen and the Heb known as Leopold Bloom:
‘This generosity extends to Joyce’s implied vision of what it might mean to be Irish. The three main characters have lived, or have roots, elsewhere. Bloom, attacked by an anti-Semitic nationalist, insists that his nation is Ireland: ‘The same people living in the same place’.
It was not the official definition of Ireland,but as with much else in Ulysses, it is a truer one’.
Daddy Cool O’Toole is not nicknamed as the Puller of G-strings for nothing; an integral function of what he is about to bestowing G for Generosity on his friends and other heroes. For starters, Daddy Cool O’Toole is great friends with himself.
Which, by a commodious vicus of recirculation brings one back to the hilarious Heb himself, Alan who bally well bodes well to make smithereens of,erm, fascism again.
Stand by so, all ye ungenerous Paddy Stinks and Mickey Muds and true, deprived of a tolerant education by the unrabid rabbis of the S.J. school system, there is a New Place being prepared for you and your less than silky ilk.
Perkie’s inner punter has predicted that Paddy Power will shortly open a book and begin laying odd on the name of this Place.
Early fav: Long Kosher.
Perkie! There should be a sign preceding your postings reading ‘Danger! Genius At Work!’ I near as dammit gave myself a hernia laffing on at least four separate occasions on this one. How do you do it? Btw, I too have lived in Rathgar – oh, OK, Upper Rathmines. But it overlooked a tennis court, so you can see it was a, um, select area. Stop it, Perkie, I love it, as the girls were wont to say in my youth…
One is not as all surprised, Esteemed Blogmeister, to read of how you lived in Rathmines rather than Rathgar.
The latter parish, as befits a place whose name is a rough take on the original leprechaun ‘Rough Ring Fort’ is appropriately populated by rough diamonds and assorted other gougers, bowsies and gurriers drawn from the ranks of bankers, the judiciary, and the medical profession, being particularly top heavy with spin surgeons.
Rathmines, on the other hand, has always had a particular attraction for those of a Londonderry backgroud who are loyal to the proprieties and committed to the diktats of decorum.
It was to Rathmines, for instance, that Jane Ross of Limavaddy cordially mailed in the early 1850s the doh ray me of the Londonderry Air, and where the great George Petrie, antiquarian and song collector, was resident at the time. It she had not chosen that prudent action it is just possible they would have had to pick a different tune to play at the funeral of Elvis P. some time later.
As regards the issue of signage one must insist on sharing some of the blame with at least one of one’s former tutors in the Q’s English.If indeed not most of the blame. Back in the dear dead days not at all beyond recall.
In these more enlightened times when the contribution of the bainisteoir (think Joe to Jose to Jim, from Schmidt to Mourinho to McGuinness) back in the days when one first encountered a tutor with a Foyle-side style of verbal delivery nobody had a clue who managed the likes of necromancers as Mick O’Connell or Mike Gibson and cared less.
We are wiser in our generation now. If only one could recall the name of the scooter-riding (possibly) tutor one would well be on the way to finding a fellow player to participate in the blame game. All one is reasonable sure of is that he was given to distributing photo-copied sheets of pages from literary works like ‘Back to Methuselah’ to his captive studes.
But then, that was back in the time of M. and one just cannot be too Shaw any more.
Nua-bhliain den scoth, EB, agus go mbeirimid beo ag an am seo aris !
Go raibh cead maith agat, Perkie, agus gurb amhlaidh duit.
Jude, I wouldn’t get too uppity about living close to tennis courts.
Thirty years ago there were two of them in the little park on the Belfast road in Carrickfergus.
But then those good burghers learned sense and dispenses with such sissy ways, and the town is in much more of a Caleb situation.
No Irish, no Micks, no gays, no tennis courts – the land of purity itself.