I’m writing this a few hours before heading out to JFK airport to get the flight back home, so I’ll keep it brief.
It’s a point I sometimes struggle with: how much information do my readers need? I was talking to an intelligent young Englishwoman (OK, she’s my daughter-in-law) and she said she frequently found that reading my blog postings was baffling, because it assumed a background in many things Irish that she didn’t have. I firmly believe that the wider the audience for the site, the more likely we are to have discussion that is varied and perspectives that are fresh.
So whether you’re from Ireland or whether you’re from beyond its shores, can you suggest one or more areas where blogs should be more specific? Or is there a glossary of terms we use that should be organised and made available to people who aren’t necessarily familiar with SPADs and OFM/DFMs and The Constitutional Question? I’d be interest in your thoughts, particularly if you can suggest specific steps that might make reading easier for those who don’t have the good fortune (do be quiet, Virginia) to live in our little northern or slightly larger southern state.
Over to you, Constant Readers…
Could it be that your daughter-in-law is ‘intelligent for a young English woman’?
I live in Milwaukee Wisconsin. 9 times out of 10 I know exactly what you’re talking about & generally agree with you. You continue to further my education in matters Irish. I do love your beekeeper columns. Keep up the good work. I don’t agree with your daughter-in-law.
Apart from your immediate family who must read your blog under pain of being removed from the will, does anybody only our poor demented selves care. Most of us intend to die unreconstructed.
Well Jude .That’s probably why some of my own written pieces might come across as sometimes being a bit convoluted and maybe even a little over-written sometimes. I tend not to take it for granted that the reader is up to speed on the shorthand of words or ideas that flit through my mind.. In my mind I’ll assume that whoever I’m writing for is a complet Luddite or has no notion at all so I’ll try to describe exactly what I mean to say .
I have noticed and noted , in return,that many one-liner answers or non -sequitors contain the expectancy that somehow the rest of the readers are enhanced with ESP (extra sensory perception)….and know exactly what is supposed to be meant by their SNRS (snappy nebuolus retorts}… There is so that so much can get lost in translation, though , so we all usually spend many further moments attempting to explain what we actually MTS(mean to say).. I have to say it would be something of a chore to have a glossary every time something is written but it might be possible to describe exactly waht the DUP (Democratic Unionist Party) or SF (Sinn Fein)or whatever, was,…. initially in brackets and then continue in the pre-ordained abbreviated shorthand, if the the name is to be repeated throughout the piece.That would surely solve the problem for anyone not up to speed.
In this world of LOL (laugh out loud) and OMG(Oh My God) textspeak , there is a language laziness creeping in …although some will say it is actually just a new language that we’ll all just simply have to learn anyway so that we can continue to communicate…just as we’ve had to bone up on all that gubbins about computers which was like Greek to most of us a few short years ago…..
I’ve heard many youngsters actually speaking like that …OMG!!!!
I would be interested in hearing your thoughts Jude on political issues outside of Ireland. Things like the US elections, rise of right wing nationalism in Europe, Vladimir Putin Russia’s reassertion of power. Things like that might also draw in more people who aren’t up to speed with the fine detail of Irish/British politics and history (who can blame them). It’s good to remind ourselves that there’s a big world out there and everything doesn’t revolve around Ireland.
I believe that acronyms are used in the north more that anywhere else on earth.
FGAU, KAT, DUP,SF, TUV, GSTQ, SDLP, a small example. Perhaps a dictionary of some sort is required for an understanding of the local lingo, not to mention the many euphemism’s in daily use.
A penny for your thoughts may be a tad expensive
Never assume, is the adage, however, Penny Mordaunt, Ministry of Defence remained undaunted with her lack of information on EU matters.
The Prime Minister, on Preston On Sunday, stated his Conservative colleague had made
“a very misleading claim”
when she said Britain would not be able to stop the accession of new countries into the EU.
He made the comments following an interview with Penny Mordaunt on The Andrew Marr Show. Asked if Britain had a veto on the issue, Ms Mordaunt replied:
“No it doesn’t.”
The Prime Minister stated that Penny Mordaunt was doing a good job in the Ministry of Defence, note the past tense, before adding:
“but on this question of whether or not we have a veto, the leave campaign are wrong.”
It would appear, the papers were not easy reading for some on a neighbouring island.
Northern Ireland is a conglomeration of farraginous alphabet soup of acronyms intelligible to very few.
When the south is added to the pot the brew gets more and more esoteric and murky.
Fellow British citizens in Finchley and environs are totally unaware of what’s going on or what went on. And they could care less. Many would like to see the entire island pushed out well into the
Atlantic.
Your typical Irish American in , say Hicksville, knows more about yesterday’s baseball scores than she does about TUV or RSF.
One of the former direct rulers, Owen Patterson, famously announced that he knew all about the wee north since he had spent some small time in a particular area .
I have it on good authority that an official Northern Ireland governmental body was on a trip across the border and someone suggested to it’s leader that since they were in Ulster that they have an Ulster breakfast. The leader was surprised to learn that they were in a part of the ancient province of Ulster. Never knew that.
So the point is that in order to understand what is being discussed takes a combination of experience, reading history and keeping up on current developments and events.
A glossary would not be a bad thing but who to do It? And no doubt it would lead to some acrimony over what to include and what definitions to attach.
Correct MT?
ERIN GO BRAGH:
Despite/ Because of its one misspelling, one mispronunciation and one grammatical mistake this is a simple enough political slogan to get one’s head around.
First imported into the Land of Uncle Sam from Spudonia when beads were still being bartered for hair gel where Trump Towers now stand, Erin go Bragh really hit its straps south of the border during the Mex-Tex vexation in 1847.
When a group of non-lingo speaking gringos, all answering to the name of Murphy with roots in Spudonia, switched sides and raised a green flag with a gold harp and Eirin Go Bragh stitched in gold lettering. A fluttering which caused the hearts and eyelashes of the local muchachas to flutter first and then, dance la cucaracha. Such are the spoiler alerts of war.
Over the years the invention of Murphy morphed into multitasking mode.
Having been first taken down from the mast, as directed by Irish beraters, Erin go Bragh showed its versatility by lending its name to countless bars, pleasure craft (from a converted tugboat to a leaky schooner) to a doomed brand of upscale feminine underwear and, of course, to 163 registered Irish wolfhounds in 37 different states.
In recent times, however, its popularity has been supplanted by a vaguely moribund slogan, which is uttered as much in exasperation as in desperation :
-You’ll. Never. Beat. The. Irish.
Though the future of even this slogan may well be in doubt. Thereby leading to a possible revival of Erin Go Bragh.
Certainly, if the appointment last week of the Lady Latex on Liffeyside as the brand new, shiny new Government Chief Whippette is anything to go by.
Enter, stage right, to the tune of Fine Gael y’are ! and with cat o’ nine tails in hand:
-Ms, Regina Doherty, TD.
Hopefully, the above will prove of some assistance.
Certainly of much delight. I like the rich vein of high-boots-n-whipcracking that runs through your thinking, Perkin.
Harry, to tangentialise slightly. As a man who has sampled the delights for 40/50 years of fíon dearg, have you any thoughts on Italian? I have had early experiences of Valpolicella etc and have never come round to the type again. Also believing that the only good French is a dear one. I usually avoid it too. As a Malbec/Rioja afficionado can you point me to a similar Italian. I would ask Jude but he never got past Buckfast.
Shurely shome mishtake??
Your best Sean Connery impersonation , no doubt ,Jude …have you asked mighty Perk if he’s been ill ? i thought he’d been quiet this past while …Iwas beginning to worry…
Snap, PK…
Concern expressed much appreciated, PK.
Am currently concocting an excuse-note sufficiently plausible to pull the wool over the eyes of Esteemed Blogmeister.
Some hope !
But then, one must, above all, keep faith in hope.
Great minds, as has been noted by the great mind of Socrates, think alike, including even those belonging to welfare tourists.
Thus one found oneself , Esteemed Blogmeister, on a seven day sabbatical at the same time and even simultaneously with your good self.
Indeed, having discovered that you too were also Stateside-bound , one resolved to keep a weather eye out to see if one might even catch a glimpse of you at one of those Transatlantic Truckstop Thingies in the sky.
Alas, it was not to be. One knew something was up (at 35,000 feet and cruising) on discovering that the only items on the in-flight menu were moussaka and vegetarian moussaka. The drachma dropped as soon as one landed to be confronted by all these airport signs which looked suspiciously like Greek to this traveler.
Instead of finding oneself in the Athens of the South as one had thought one instead discovered one was being welcomed to Athens, full stop.
A bit like boarding the bus to Athenry at Busaras, under the impression one is heading to Athy. Though not as bad as that of course (perish the v. thought !). No small free bird worth his Trevelyan’s corn would dream of flying to Athenry – ever.
To say one’s disappointment was colossal is to dive deep into the deep cerulean of understatement; and no amount of parsimonious sympathy from the airport staff could assuage that. Proving, as if proof was needed, that one ought never trust a Greek bearing thrift.
Still, it could have been worse: would might have found oneself in Rhode, County Offaly.
One manfully opted to make the most of things, possibly because there was no alternative. As the main reason one had intended heading for the Athens of the South was to view, once again, very possibly one’s very favourite edifice in the entire globe, its very own Parthenon. That of course, would be the spick and span one. As they say in the Leprechaun: gan bharrchleite amach no bunchleite isteach/ without a top feather out, or a bottom feather in.
Sadly, the Athenian version of the Parthenon is a sorry state. To say it’s in rag order to be too kind. Its rackety ruin looks so shambolic it seems as if it would take the merest earth tremor to bring the whole sorry shebang a-tumbling down. One thought Greece was in a bad way, but not quite this bad.
Somehow, one got through the Hellenic week, just about.
One made the most of it by turning to the solace of music and so it was on the wings of song that one eventually made one’s one home. One’s just filled one’s head with four local songs, one for each corner of the Parthenon, secured one’s safety belt, closed one’s eyes and let the following do the rest:
Never on a Sunday/ Melina Mercouri; Good bye my love, good bye / Demis Roussos; The White Rose of Athens/ Nana Mouskouri and, of course, Zorba the Greek / Mikis Theodarakis.
Given the unfortunate circumstances, as blissful a return flight as one could have dared hoped for. But that was soon to end. Leave it up to the Sindo to bring one firmly down with a jar. (Not the potable sort).
On opening the sports page one found none other than Joe Brolly berating one of one’s tastes in music with a furled version of his surname. Bad enough to have failed to make it to one’s intended destination, the Athens of the South, but to have its musical culture dissed like this left one but one alternative. One sat down by the banks of the Tolka and wept. Even though forgetting to purchase some duty-free ouzo, had something to do with it as well, in fairness, going f.
-A 53 year old man of good character, pleaded guilty at the Coleraine Magistrate’s Court on Monday on a charge of causing criminal damage. And the reason for this unusual behavior? His neigbhour in the flat upstairs was playing Nathan Carter’s song ‘Wagon Wheel’ on a loop. Over and over again’.
Fair enough, so far. No jury in its right collective mind would do anything other than find him innocent. But this is where Joe departs from reality and stumbles into Camp Platitude:
-The first principle of all country songs is that they must be all be understood and sung by a two-year olds.
Not true, Joe. Just not true. Not unless you are a two year old by the name of Aristotle Plato-crisps. Joe’s article was written in the context of the current Derry football team and just because are there are no Jim McKeevers or Anthony Tohills or Sean O’Connells or Dermot McNicholls or Tom McGuinnesses or Henry Downeys or Tony Scullions around at the moment, this is not to say that Derry football was always bottom of the charts.
Same with the music of Nashville,Tn (aka the Athens of the South). Oddly enough, perhaps the most celebrated record producer ever to emerge from Music City, USA was Owen Bradley – how Derry footballers could have done with the skillset, if not the mindset of Eoin Bradley last Sunday in Charlie Nashville, oops, Derry.
It’s no so much that Joe Brolly is living in a musical time warp, but rather in the wrong musical time warp. There are t.w.’s and t.w.’s and not all of them are bad. It is obvious he is showing his age, especially his lack of same.
For those of us lucky enough to grow up (?) during the Fabulous Fifties ( with a little spill-over ) this decade marked the platinum era of country music when songs were songs. And the art which made up the main part and was at the heart of this music was that which concealed art.
By way of illustrating what happened back in the Athens of the South one may take one song as an illustration from its namesake in the Aegean:
-The White Rose of Athens.
This ineffably beautiful song was adapted from a folk melody by the gifted Manos Hadjidakis – much as Sean O Riada adapted Rioisin Dubh – a simple question of White and Black, indeed.
And just as there is a White Rose of Athens so also was there a Fred Rose of The Athens of the South. Fred Rose composed two classic songs of the Country genre which are already undergoing the process of fermentation which will lead them, in the fullness of time, to be accepted as authentic American folk songs: ‘Take these Chains from my Heart’ and ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain’.
Fred was a truly interesting guy: apart from discovering Hank Williams he also knew the speakeasies of Chicago (where he wrote ‘Deed I do’ for the Red Hot Momma herself, Sophie Tucker) before seguing on to the honky tonkies of the Athens of the Sough. Manos Hdjidakis, by the same token, also penned ‘Never on a Sunday’.
As for wordplay, wit and wisdom one would worry for a two-year old who would readily understand what such geniuses as John Prine, John D. Loudermilk, Kris Kristofferson, Don Gibson, the Millers Roger and Ned, Marty Robbins, Harlan Howard, Dolly Parton, Carson J. Robinson, Cindy Walker, Willie Nelson, Tom T. Hall etc etc etc are about. The list is longer than even Joe B. could wave his cleanest dirty shirt at.
Mind you, one wouldn’t be too bothered about Joe B’s lacunae in his musical knowledge, especially when on display in a sporting context. Take a look at this latest racist-lite rant from that paragon of cultural inclusivity, The Unionist Times:
-Welcome to the Championships and a New Summer of Naked Blackguardism.
In which the following may be plucked at random:
….a ridiculous state of affairs made even more stupid by being part of an even
greater bullshit culture which dresses itself up in cod-psychological, self-regarding garbage that the GAA specialses in.
The author, of course, is one Brian O’Connor, racing tipster, who has some form in these matters. As nobody knows better than Joe B himself.
Yasas !
Glad to see you back in harness Might Perk… after your adventures . Did you know that the aforementioned “Rock Me Mama Like a Wagon Wheel” actually began its life as a song scribble by the mighty Mr Dylan., possibly in the company of Mr Kristofferson, while making “Pat Garret and Billy the Kid” way back in the day. They were most likely having a bit of a jam and this throwaway turned up in my bootleg collection many years ago…never officially released…It began life as this small innocuous hosanna and was given wings by one Ketch Secor of Old Crow Medicine Show who wrote some more verses for the song around Dylan’s original chorus. Secor’s additional lyrics transformed “Rock Me, Mama” into “Wagon Wheel”.Of course after that everybody and his dog got their hands on it ….as you have already mentioned….not surprisingly some people still think that the currently world -straddling Adele also wrote His Bobness’s “Make You Feel My Love”….
Aw fiosrach …kick out the jams and take out that third mortgage and invest in a case or two of Chateau Margaux….. about £15,000 per box of twelve…you’ll be in debt forever but at least you’ll die happy…not for the faint-hearted mind ..like liquid opium…only had a glass once in me life …bought for me ..a 1963 I think it was …then I had children and could never afford to even think about it ever again….!
All joking aside fiosrach… I’m slurping down a lovely wee Italian Chianti as I write this and it was only about six quid a bottle!
Right. Will try on your recommendation.
GRMA, PK, for that hitherto unsuspected piece of info.
I have a cheerful acquaintance (honest !) whose father’s farm in Bellaghy was contagious to the Heaney family farm. Despite this, he is a big Nathan Carter fan and whistles Wagonwheel when he is not cracking wise.
In one’s more enlightened state one shall view him with a little more compassion from now on, though how long that tolerance will last is, at the mo, touch and go.
As for the……’world-straddling Adele’……..!!!!!!!
What can one do but borrow a phrase from a title of a book by the late, lamented Eamonn Mac Thomais:
-Janey Mack, me shirt is black
What will I do for Sunday?
I’ll go to bed and cover me head
And won’t get up till Monday.
PS. Which reminds one, PK, one once had the pleasure of being the designated driver to ferry Eamonn Mac home from a pub in distant Wicklow to his house in Glasnevin. He had been delivering one of his celebrated slide-illustrated talks on the history of Dublin. The raconteur who could rack and roll his way into the Hall of Fame. Reached his destination about 2 in the morning, switched off the engine, and got an extra enjoyable earful of yarns. Yarns tall, yarns small, of cotton fibre, flaxen thread and spun wool made. The dawn in its russet mantle clad had already begun to walk over the dew of yon high eastern hill, that sorta thingy, before one finally managed to make one’s reluctant departure.
Just keep writing. We all have to stop occasionally and work out acronyms but stay on Ireland as the subject, the rest of the world is even madder than us
I’m currently writng a piece about eggs I have loved, Jim…it might be a bit scrambled…
The lead lies with you Jude and the other blog authors. If they use acronyms then they should qualify them once in the blogs. Everyone else will probably follow your lead.