While Roos (as in Kangaroo Courts) were much to the forefront in the Free Southern Stateen end of Mother Ireland this week, courtesy of the Oedipal Media, as in: It’s what the RA’s do: Roos) the singular legacy of Theodore Roosevelt was overshadowed.
That, of course, was the Teddy Bear, which dates from a bear hunt in Mississippi in 1902 and a subsequent political cartoon in the Washington Post by Clifford Berryman.
The Teddy Bear came to mind during the week with the launch of, erm, Creative Ireland by the cuddly Heather Humphreys. And more specifically, while reading, oops, perusing, the comment piece by Gerard Howlin (sic) in the Irish Examiner (sic-er) , under the trumpeted title:
-Recognizing that only culture can credibly define the country (sic-est).
The only problem here is to define the country which is getting, erm, ‘howled’ at. Not unlike the Roosevelt Cottages in Dublin 7, a lane located off the Navan Road and overlooking the railway line which facilitates the Iron Horse on its sallies to the Wild West, there is an element of d for doubt.
But, which Roosevelt are these cottages name after/ for ? Theodore or Franklin D ? The Perkin, erm, frankly does not know. One always felt however it served as a kind of counterweight to Washington Street in Cork, like: a lane in Dublin being the equiv of a street where de newspaper with de Big Ideas about Itself is published – De Irish Examiner, boy.
There are at least three memorable songs about the Teddy Bear, two or which are connected with Ireland:
– The Teddy Bear’s Picnic, composed by the undimmable Jimmy Kennedy of Omagh (Tryone, not Nebraska);
-The Teddy Bear’s Head by the Wolfe Tones whose first door was in Bluebell, Dublin 12.
– (I just wanna be your ) Teddy Bear by Elvis Presley with no known Irish connections. Mind you, his middle name was, erm, ‘Aaron’.
With the birth of Creative Ireland (American papers please copy and/or ignore ) It is clear that Gerard Howlin is beside himself with the excitement of it all – (Gerard, introduce yourself to the person beside you : Hi, I’m Howlin: what a coincidence: I’m Howlin too).
-It is an aftermath of the successful 1916 Centenary Celebrations.
Hmmmm.
(Would the successful avoidance by the Canadian Ambassador of being brought before the Beak for an act of outrageous and somewhat undiplomatic thuggery be included here?).
-In 2016, synthesis replaced the certainty of 1966.
Synthesis ? (A daarlin’ word, Joxer). But, pray, which kind of synthesis? Might it be a venial synthesis or merely a mortal one?. Both varieties are namechecked as it happens in the Elvis A. Presley song, though, again, it is not specified, which is which. Judge for yourself, faithful reader:
-I don’t want to be a tiger
Cause tigers play too rough.
In the Teddy Bear-shaped island of Ireland, going backwards, the tiger referenced here was obviously The Celtic T., an economic d. for deee-saster, Master.
-I don’t want to be a lion
Cause lions ain’t the kind you love enough.
Hmmm.
These are the contentious lines, and may well be sung with the tongue firmly in the Corkonian cheek of the de Irish Examiner, like. Expect to read no end of references to the (roar ) British and Irish Lions by the Egg-chasing Correspondent of De Paper, Droning Donal Lenihan between now and the B and I Lions’ Tour Downunder next year, going forward. Pay particular attention to his P for Pride in the number of Irish Lions in the pack.
As Gerard Howlin headlined:
-Recognising that only culture can credibly define the country.
Hmmm.
What would the (gulp) Howlin Wolfe Tones (both Real and Continuity) make of that with their ‘Teddy Bear’s Head’?
Let it rip, lads:
-Her face is over in Donegal, her brains are in Belfast
Her arms outstretched in Galway for the friends that go past
Her hair is in the North Coast – Derry, Antrim, Down
I’m sure the head would be better off without that bl—dy crown !
Alas, the last verse of the E. A. Presley song would strike a dissident note of dissonance with the understated sentiment referenced in the above verse and much sung wherever Post-Hiberno Hacketry foregather to wassail in the West British way on Loyal Liffeyside:
-Oh, Lizzie , let me be your lovin’ teddy bear
Put a chain around my neck
And lead me anywhere
Oh, let me be your lovin’ teddy bear.
Eminent musicologists – and well they might – have traced the melodic roots of this song to an ole Blues number which focuses on a malign insect. Their theory would be buttressed if they were to lend an ear to the, erm, Boll Weevils of West Britannia who dominate the disinterested DOBland Media (sic).
So, what does G. Howlin hope will emerge from this importantish inish, Creative Ireland?
-Will a new building to suitably house the Abbey Theatre rise up on the banks of the Liffey?
Hmmmm. Indeed, double hmmmmmmmmmmm.
Coincidentally, the same Abbey Theatre (AT is where it’s AT ! – unless, ar ndoigh/ course, you are gawm enough to take the Amharclann na Mainistreach subtitle half-seriously) issued its (gasp) programme for (gulp) 2017 at the top of the same week, going backwards:
-What happens next is this !
This is the stiff, formal and starched wing-collared prose in which the new regime of the Abbey T. have launched their maiden year long voyage: Neal Murray and Graham McLaren.
The joint new Directors were formerly with the National Theatre of Scotland before they took the (gasp) giant step of brexiting to Baile Atha Cliath / Bubblin’ Dubln. From the publicity photos (which only show the pair from the waist up) it is not clear if either or both or neither is wearing a (gulp) kilt.
That they are both ‘thrilled and honoured’ goes without s., but just to emphasise the point:
-We believe in the concept of a National Theatre which reaches all the country.
One wonders will the shape of the new building of the Hallucinatory Howlin Heap of bricks and mortar on the banks of the Liffey, i.e., the new Abbey Theatre take the shape of a scraw-thatched shieling ?
One will forbear from proferring an opinion: to do so would indubitably necessitate a, erm, spoiler alert.
Gerard Howlin of the Irish Examner concludes in a manner which is t. in keeping with the non-eradicable traditions of Corkonian newsprint:
-Creative Ireland, like perestroika, is a beginning – it won’t be an end.
It was of course, the Skibereen Eagle, boy, which famously kept its guzz-eye (rebelspeak) on de Czar, like. The Leprechaun was never likely to get a look in during the Howlin homily: as one who is a go-to gadabout guru on the Merry-go-round Media Studio Circuit .
Afforded innumerable opportunities, he has never failed to parade his, erm, less than perfect grasp of the Lingo of the Little Folk by this not infrequent pronunciation:
-Fine Gwale.
Which of course is Glasnost for ‘Blue Shirt’.
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Love it…
Fáilte romhat, BP, a chara.