Sunday Tribune, 8 March, 2008
June 1995, the sun is shining, the economy is recovering, people are smiling… and there's a cloud over my head. I am redundant and staring at the dole office in Dún Laoghaire. I'm 28 and about to sign on for the first time.
The dole office is located beside the 'Tech' college. I always thought this was a strange juxtaposition that sent out the message: "We know you're going to fail your Leaving so we conveniently plonked the dole queue a few feet away."
I wound up repeating my Leaving there in 1985 because I'd cocked up my application to journalism college.
After an all-boys private school, this was heaven. I got to sit beside girls. (GIRLS!) This concentration-drain guaranteed that I was never going to see the inside of journalism college.
Luck loves a chancer, however, and during my stint at the Tech I had my first article published in the Evening Press and landed a job as a 'junior'. Two years later I was a staffer with money in my pocket and a false sense of pride and security.
Ten years on, in June 1995, the Press collapsed and I walked out of the sunlight and into the dole office. All my grafting amounted to nothing and I was a failure. People from Middle Ireland didn't draw the dole. I was a pariah, in my own eyes at least.
It was hard to see the back of the dole queue through the cloud of Major smoke. I'd like to say I smelt the scent of defeat in the air, but I don't recall it. Just my own shame, magnified by the drabness of the surroundings. This was something some of my peers picked up on.
Although it wasn't said, drawing the dole was the final resort. It carried a stigma that ranked somewhere between banging on the poorhouse door and being named in Stubbs Gazette. You were a dosser.
The man who paid me my dole each week clearly thought this as he flung my money through the hatch. His eyes said: "Sponger."
Thursday 5 March, 2009, and the sun is shining. I'm redundant and at the dole office, signing on again. This time I have Jarlath from RTÉ's Mooney Show at my elbow, recording my thoughts.
Production journalism, from which I made 80% of my living, is being universally pared back and it was inevitable that my job as associate editor would come to an end. Last in, first out, and there are, genuinely, no hard feelings.
I am worried though: my wife has taken a 10% pay cut and this column is my only income. I am worried – but I'm not embarrassed. I have asked the Mooneys along because I want to go public about being made redundant. I am not ashamed of this. Middle Ireland still is though.
In the dole office, I spot a former neighbour who was a legal secretary. The man to my left tells me he's in IT and to my right is a luxury car salesman. There are two graduates in front of me. No one will go on the record.
Outside, Jarlath speaks to an architect who agrees that the stigma persists. So does the lady who deals with my claim. She was very sympathetic, by the way.
I tick all the Middle Ireland boxes: I have a semi-d with a crippling boomtime mortgage and a formerly comfortable life. Now I am looking for help from the state.
I went public on the Mooney Show last week to say that there is no shame in this. This is a democratic recession and everyone is being hit, from lawyers to labourers. We are all in freefall and it's vital to remember that it's nothing personal and your own worth hasn't been diminished. If you're reading this and are unemployed, don't be afraid to admit it. There are 350,000 others like us.
I hope I didn't come across as a twat on the radio, whingeing about my own situation. I don't want sympathy: there are people out there much worse off than I am. However, I am very grateful for all the kind messages I've received.
Anyway, enough of all this gloom.
Normal service will resume in this column next week. Brian Cowen, your arse is in my crosshairs.
dave@davekenny.com
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Face reality, we're marching over the edge of an economic cliff
Sunday Tribune 1 March
"Jesus! Who shot you?" My friend, Andrew, was walking towards me with a bullet hole in his forehead.
"It's Ash Wednesday, you idiot," he sighed, pointing out that we had just entered the solemn festival of Lent. Forty days of fast, abstinence and whatever else you're (not) having. I had forgotten this because Lent started early this year in the Kenny household, as it did in thousands of others.
That evening, on RTÉ, I watched protestors march outside the Dáil and recalled beating a similar path 14 years ago.
The summer of 1995 was drier than Daniel O'Donnell's drinks cabinet: perfect weather for a street protest, lousy weather for a sit-in. At noon on Saturday 27 May, a lanky young hack (me) legged it down Burgh Quay, staggering under the weight of a colossal hangover. My sore head was the result of a night spent lamenting the imminent demise of my employer of 10 years, the Irish Press Group. Despite the bleariness, I was determined to take part in the unfolding events.
The background to the Press's decline is unimportant now, but, in short, we journalists believed we could save the loss-making titles, while management appeared hell-bent on closing them down. We decided to lock ourselves into the building as a protest.
In the newsroom, my colleagues had gathered around the 'night town' desk, listening to the radio headlines. On the cigarette-scarred desktops were piles of the XPress, a home-made paper we'd assembled the night before. The air crackled with nervous excitement. At 5.30pm the building was sealed and we were 'locked in'. I remember the rush of empowerment: we were finally making our stand. We would win.
Over the next four days we ate cold pizza and produced the XPress, occasionally braving the icy waters of the machine hall showers. Outside our co-workers fought the propaganda battle. Reporters' contacts books were shared and politicians and celebrities rallied to our cause. Soccer correspondent Charlie Stuart called Jack Charlton and, in a surreal exchange, we cheered out the window as the Irish team cheered back at us from Poolbeg Street. Boxer Steve Collins came too and waved his fist at us – in a friendly way. Gifts of food and booze piled up in the newsroom and well-wishers kept up a constant stream of calls.
Our band of 40 slept on the floor or on desks, scaring each other with tales of the White Lady who was said to haunt the building. We spent the days pulling all the strings we could.
On our last night, we broke into the booze and finished up having a chariot race around the newsroom in swivel chairs. Despite our situation, our morale was high for the upcoming 'second front'. The next morning we marched out as heroes, following a rally attended by 1,000 hacks outside the Dáil. Government and opposition politicians were behind us and came out to shake hands like they did with the protestors last week.
The 'second front' was waged from Liberty Hall where we edited the XPress and continued our campaign: gigging, lobbying and marching to save "our" paper.
Summer doesn't last forever though, and the evenings began crawling in. Colleagues drifted away and the public forgot the Press. It was dead. In September, we wound things up and I slipped, utterly disillusioned, into the dole queue.
We'd been naïve. There are some fights you can't win. Protest marches may make you feel better but they won't stop the inevitable. You can't stop a recession with shoe leather either and strikes will only make it worse.
Ictu is insane if it believes that withdrawing productivity will help the economy. Part of me suspects that David Begg et al are delighted to see strident trade unionism resurrected at last and are manipulating emotions to justify their existence. Don't get me wrong, I believe in the democratic right to strike, but doing it in unprecedented times like these is suicidal.
I say this with genuine sympathy for the protestors: it's better to have a job and take a cut than be on the dole. I know, I've been made redundant three times and have just taken a hit again.
Face reality, don't march away from it. Lent's just starting: there's a long way to go until the resurrection.
"Jesus! Who shot you?" My friend, Andrew, was walking towards me with a bullet hole in his forehead.
"It's Ash Wednesday, you idiot," he sighed, pointing out that we had just entered the solemn festival of Lent. Forty days of fast, abstinence and whatever else you're (not) having. I had forgotten this because Lent started early this year in the Kenny household, as it did in thousands of others.
That evening, on RTÉ, I watched protestors march outside the Dáil and recalled beating a similar path 14 years ago.
The summer of 1995 was drier than Daniel O'Donnell's drinks cabinet: perfect weather for a street protest, lousy weather for a sit-in. At noon on Saturday 27 May, a lanky young hack (me) legged it down Burgh Quay, staggering under the weight of a colossal hangover. My sore head was the result of a night spent lamenting the imminent demise of my employer of 10 years, the Irish Press Group. Despite the bleariness, I was determined to take part in the unfolding events.
The background to the Press's decline is unimportant now, but, in short, we journalists believed we could save the loss-making titles, while management appeared hell-bent on closing them down. We decided to lock ourselves into the building as a protest.
In the newsroom, my colleagues had gathered around the 'night town' desk, listening to the radio headlines. On the cigarette-scarred desktops were piles of the XPress, a home-made paper we'd assembled the night before. The air crackled with nervous excitement. At 5.30pm the building was sealed and we were 'locked in'. I remember the rush of empowerment: we were finally making our stand. We would win.
Over the next four days we ate cold pizza and produced the XPress, occasionally braving the icy waters of the machine hall showers. Outside our co-workers fought the propaganda battle. Reporters' contacts books were shared and politicians and celebrities rallied to our cause. Soccer correspondent Charlie Stuart called Jack Charlton and, in a surreal exchange, we cheered out the window as the Irish team cheered back at us from Poolbeg Street. Boxer Steve Collins came too and waved his fist at us – in a friendly way. Gifts of food and booze piled up in the newsroom and well-wishers kept up a constant stream of calls.
Our band of 40 slept on the floor or on desks, scaring each other with tales of the White Lady who was said to haunt the building. We spent the days pulling all the strings we could.
On our last night, we broke into the booze and finished up having a chariot race around the newsroom in swivel chairs. Despite our situation, our morale was high for the upcoming 'second front'. The next morning we marched out as heroes, following a rally attended by 1,000 hacks outside the Dáil. Government and opposition politicians were behind us and came out to shake hands like they did with the protestors last week.
The 'second front' was waged from Liberty Hall where we edited the XPress and continued our campaign: gigging, lobbying and marching to save "our" paper.
Summer doesn't last forever though, and the evenings began crawling in. Colleagues drifted away and the public forgot the Press. It was dead. In September, we wound things up and I slipped, utterly disillusioned, into the dole queue.
We'd been naïve. There are some fights you can't win. Protest marches may make you feel better but they won't stop the inevitable. You can't stop a recession with shoe leather either and strikes will only make it worse.
Ictu is insane if it believes that withdrawing productivity will help the economy. Part of me suspects that David Begg et al are delighted to see strident trade unionism resurrected at last and are manipulating emotions to justify their existence. Don't get me wrong, I believe in the democratic right to strike, but doing it in unprecedented times like these is suicidal.
I say this with genuine sympathy for the protestors: it's better to have a job and take a cut than be on the dole. I know, I've been made redundant three times and have just taken a hit again.
Face reality, don't march away from it. Lent's just starting: there's a long way to go until the resurrection.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Go away Bertie, like the Riordans your muck-spreading days are over
Sunday Tribune, 15 February
"Geddup the yard, there's a smell of Benjy off you." Remember that schoolyard insult? If you were a child in the 1970s, you probably will. It referred to farmer Benjy from popular RTÉ soap The Riordans and the fact that you smelled like him – ie of cow dung.
The soap was revisited last week in the excellent RTÉ documentary Tea, Taboos and Tractors. It brought back memories of Sunday evenings with tea and jam sponge, and no homework done, listening to Tom blathering on about "sarcoptic mangemites" and "worm drench". They were simpler days, when no one locked their front doors. The world was a happier place, wasn't it?
Of course it wasn't. The North was ablaze, there were oil shortages, strikes and no money. That's the great thing about nostalgia: it rinses the crappy bits off the past and hoses them down the slurry pit. Probably the kindest thing to say about Riordans' Ireland is that it was less pretentious. There was no micro-celebrity circuit inhabited by people like, say, Rosanna Davison.
Rosanna's face is everywhere. On the day The Riordans documentary was aired, one paper reported
that she would be announcing her plans for St Valentine's night at a photoshoot in Dublin.
Wow. Was the shoot for Vogue? Harpers? Elle? No, it was for… pizza. Rosanna and her boyfriend would recreate the iconic John and Yoko
'bed-in' to advertise pizza. 'Give pizza a chance' was the slogan.
Now I like pizza, but the sight of Rosanna and her boyfriend nibbling it in bed turned my stomach. They represent everything I disliked about the Celtic Tiger, which made "celebs" out of models and created a "social scene" out of PR launches.
Rosanna is queen of the celebrity/models and regularly gets to voice her opinions. Such as this one on Tuesday: "Photocalls are useful. They only last for an hour or two, then you're free for the rest of the day." (Sounds a bit like signing on.)
And this last July, when she 'revealed' she had taken a 'cheapo' flight to Marbella: "We came over on a whim. It was a particularly rainy day in Dublin when we decided… All the talk of the recession does make you more careful. We were very careful to get a good deal." Last Sunday, Rosanna
spoke about the economy again. I'm not going to tell
you what she thinks because, frankly, I don't care. She
spent last Christmas in Mauritius and has a daddy who's richer than Croesus (Croesus de Burgh). She doesn't need to worry about the recession.
Neither does former taoiseach Bertie Ahern, who has a nice fat pension. Like fellow Tiger celebrity Rosanna, he is omnipresent in the media. Last week, he was pictured at a launch in the Burlington Hotel, grinning like a man bursting to tell a private joke. He looks like
that all the time now as he smugly waits to be made president.
Bertie's joke was about the recession. He told guests at the hotel, "If the economy had kept going the way I had left it, this place [the Burlington] wouldn't be here because they [property developers] were going to knock it down." Ho, ho, ho. Burlington Bertie, what a card. "The way I had left it." If Bertie was at the helm, we'd still be afloat.
Many people hanker for the Bertie days. Like The Riordans, he reminds them of happier times. That's if you forget that he led us into a property boom which has now imploded, causing misery to hundreds of thousands of people.
A boom that saw the reckless over-development of land for the benefit of his party's friends and where fortunes were squandered. The economy he "left behind" was a time-bomb, primed by him and the man currently trying to douse the flames that followed its explosion, Brian Cowen.
Bertie obviously still hurts over his demotion and consoles himself by thinking that we, secretly, want him back.
We don't, Bertie. Your Ireland is dead. If Rosanna Davison represents the superficial celebrity of the Tiger years, then you represent the avarice and cronyism. Your comments on the economy are as irrelevant to most of us as hers are.
Things are bad enough for the country without a has-been taoiseach hanging around making snide comments. Like The Riordans, Bertie, your muck-spreading days are over. Now shut up.
"Geddup the yard, there's a smell of Benjy off you." Remember that schoolyard insult? If you were a child in the 1970s, you probably will. It referred to farmer Benjy from popular RTÉ soap The Riordans and the fact that you smelled like him – ie of cow dung.
The soap was revisited last week in the excellent RTÉ documentary Tea, Taboos and Tractors. It brought back memories of Sunday evenings with tea and jam sponge, and no homework done, listening to Tom blathering on about "sarcoptic mangemites" and "worm drench". They were simpler days, when no one locked their front doors. The world was a happier place, wasn't it?
Of course it wasn't. The North was ablaze, there were oil shortages, strikes and no money. That's the great thing about nostalgia: it rinses the crappy bits off the past and hoses them down the slurry pit. Probably the kindest thing to say about Riordans' Ireland is that it was less pretentious. There was no micro-celebrity circuit inhabited by people like, say, Rosanna Davison.
Rosanna's face is everywhere. On the day The Riordans documentary was aired, one paper reported
that she would be announcing her plans for St Valentine's night at a photoshoot in Dublin.
Wow. Was the shoot for Vogue? Harpers? Elle? No, it was for… pizza. Rosanna and her boyfriend would recreate the iconic John and Yoko
'bed-in' to advertise pizza. 'Give pizza a chance' was the slogan.
Now I like pizza, but the sight of Rosanna and her boyfriend nibbling it in bed turned my stomach. They represent everything I disliked about the Celtic Tiger, which made "celebs" out of models and created a "social scene" out of PR launches.
Rosanna is queen of the celebrity/models and regularly gets to voice her opinions. Such as this one on Tuesday: "Photocalls are useful. They only last for an hour or two, then you're free for the rest of the day." (Sounds a bit like signing on.)
And this last July, when she 'revealed' she had taken a 'cheapo' flight to Marbella: "We came over on a whim. It was a particularly rainy day in Dublin when we decided… All the talk of the recession does make you more careful. We were very careful to get a good deal." Last Sunday, Rosanna
spoke about the economy again. I'm not going to tell
you what she thinks because, frankly, I don't care. She
spent last Christmas in Mauritius and has a daddy who's richer than Croesus (Croesus de Burgh). She doesn't need to worry about the recession.
Neither does former taoiseach Bertie Ahern, who has a nice fat pension. Like fellow Tiger celebrity Rosanna, he is omnipresent in the media. Last week, he was pictured at a launch in the Burlington Hotel, grinning like a man bursting to tell a private joke. He looks like
that all the time now as he smugly waits to be made president.
Bertie's joke was about the recession. He told guests at the hotel, "If the economy had kept going the way I had left it, this place [the Burlington] wouldn't be here because they [property developers] were going to knock it down." Ho, ho, ho. Burlington Bertie, what a card. "The way I had left it." If Bertie was at the helm, we'd still be afloat.
Many people hanker for the Bertie days. Like The Riordans, he reminds them of happier times. That's if you forget that he led us into a property boom which has now imploded, causing misery to hundreds of thousands of people.
A boom that saw the reckless over-development of land for the benefit of his party's friends and where fortunes were squandered. The economy he "left behind" was a time-bomb, primed by him and the man currently trying to douse the flames that followed its explosion, Brian Cowen.
Bertie obviously still hurts over his demotion and consoles himself by thinking that we, secretly, want him back.
We don't, Bertie. Your Ireland is dead. If Rosanna Davison represents the superficial celebrity of the Tiger years, then you represent the avarice and cronyism. Your comments on the economy are as irrelevant to most of us as hers are.
Things are bad enough for the country without a has-been taoiseach hanging around making snide comments. Like The Riordans, Bertie, your muck-spreading days are over. Now shut up.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Don't forget we're Irish – fighting The Gloom is in our genes
8 January 2009
Are you as sick of The Gloom as I am? Have you a pain in your gut hearing how doomed we are? Do you wish George would throw himself into the river Lee?
Last week, as the airwaves crackled with more bad news, I decided to try and write about something cheerful. So I looked around. And around. And around.
There's a stretch in the evening, I thought. Good, but I can't stretch that to a column.
Fuel prices are coming down. Great, but I'll wind up bashing the Greens (any excuse).
What about Mary Harney? She was photographed leaving a Dublin restaurant at 1.30am. She looked decidedly un-gloomy even though it was a school night. I could write about her fiddling while Rome burns but … more Gloom.
As I pondered this, The Gloom paid me a personal visit. I won't say what happened, but it made me more determined to be upbeat.
So I looked away from Ireland to the English papers, only to be rewarded with the downbeat headline, 'Children are unhappier than ever'. More bloody gloom.
According to the 'The Good Childhood Report', the UK is raising a generation of kids who have been "damaged" by parental "neglect".
It singled out "individualistic" women for choosing to work rather than stay at home. Well, that won't be a problem any more, will it? (Sorry, nearly spoke about The Gloom again.)
I wondered if Irish kids are unhappy. Our two societies, like our children, are much the same.
During the boom we raised a generation of latch-key children in designer clothes. This was a result of both parents having to work as everything was so expensive. Junior was bought off with guilt money, PC games, etc. According to the report, he's now "damaged" because he wasn't nurtured.
So much for something positive to write about: on top of adults feeling grim, our children are miserable too.
Want a pleasant surprise? It turns out, that despite everything, they aren't. Ireland has the happiest children in Europe.
Two months ago, the government published a study of childhood here, drawn from 22 data sources including the CSO and WHO. The 'State of the Nation's Children Report' concludes that our kids exercise more and are more likely to be happy compared to other EU children. Finally, some good news.
It sounds slushy, but there IS truth to the adage that happiness is infectious. This was confirmed on Monday when the nation woke to its first proper snowfall in 18 years. It was like a hug from an old friend and, instead of 'meltdown', the talk was suddenly of 'freeze-up'.
Ireland skittered to a halt, totally unprepared despite all the forecasts (sound familiar?). Roads were clogged and eejits had to be rescued from mountainsides after going to admire the view.
Then came the sound of Nintendos being flung aside as a generation of children and a lot of older teenagers experienced their first Irish snowfall.
On the hillside near me, trays became makeshift sleighs. The happiness spread as the snow whitewashed The Gloom. Children and adults flung snowballs at each other. Misshapen snowmen appeared. The Sixth Estate – the internet – spoke of nothing else. No economics, just snow.
Ireland wanted a distraction, anything to take its mind off The Gloom. We wanted to go outside and be children again. Or to stand at the pub door and – happily – grumble about it.
I realised that this is what makes us Irish. We're irrepressible. We're genetically programmed to fight glumness. It's why we've thrived on this dank little rock.
We're surrounded by greyness most of the year, so when a reprieve comes in the form of a glowing snowfall, we squeeze it dry. We celebrate it as a boisterous day out.
My memory skidded back to the snow of 1991 and my friends and I spinning down a frozen road on metal bin lids.
Our footballers had conquered Italia 90 the previous year and, lifted by their example, we believed that everything was possible.
"You'll never beat the Irish." We were on our way to Tiger land. We were emerging from The Gloom.
We'll emerge again. Besides, we still have each other, whatever the forecast.
February 8, 2009
Are you as sick of The Gloom as I am? Have you a pain in your gut hearing how doomed we are? Do you wish George would throw himself into the river Lee?
Last week, as the airwaves crackled with more bad news, I decided to try and write about something cheerful. So I looked around. And around. And around.
There's a stretch in the evening, I thought. Good, but I can't stretch that to a column.
Fuel prices are coming down. Great, but I'll wind up bashing the Greens (any excuse).
What about Mary Harney? She was photographed leaving a Dublin restaurant at 1.30am. She looked decidedly un-gloomy even though it was a school night. I could write about her fiddling while Rome burns but … more Gloom.
As I pondered this, The Gloom paid me a personal visit. I won't say what happened, but it made me more determined to be upbeat.
So I looked away from Ireland to the English papers, only to be rewarded with the downbeat headline, 'Children are unhappier than ever'. More bloody gloom.
According to the 'The Good Childhood Report', the UK is raising a generation of kids who have been "damaged" by parental "neglect".
It singled out "individualistic" women for choosing to work rather than stay at home. Well, that won't be a problem any more, will it? (Sorry, nearly spoke about The Gloom again.)
I wondered if Irish kids are unhappy. Our two societies, like our children, are much the same.
During the boom we raised a generation of latch-key children in designer clothes. This was a result of both parents having to work as everything was so expensive. Junior was bought off with guilt money, PC games, etc. According to the report, he's now "damaged" because he wasn't nurtured.
So much for something positive to write about: on top of adults feeling grim, our children are miserable too.
Want a pleasant surprise? It turns out, that despite everything, they aren't. Ireland has the happiest children in Europe.
Two months ago, the government published a study of childhood here, drawn from 22 data sources including the CSO and WHO. The 'State of the Nation's Children Report' concludes that our kids exercise more and are more likely to be happy compared to other EU children. Finally, some good news.
It sounds slushy, but there IS truth to the adage that happiness is infectious. This was confirmed on Monday when the nation woke to its first proper snowfall in 18 years. It was like a hug from an old friend and, instead of 'meltdown', the talk was suddenly of 'freeze-up'.
Ireland skittered to a halt, totally unprepared despite all the forecasts (sound familiar?). Roads were clogged and eejits had to be rescued from mountainsides after going to admire the view.
Then came the sound of Nintendos being flung aside as a generation of children and a lot of older teenagers experienced their first Irish snowfall.
On the hillside near me, trays became makeshift sleighs. The happiness spread as the snow whitewashed The Gloom. Children and adults flung snowballs at each other. Misshapen snowmen appeared. The Sixth Estate – the internet – spoke of nothing else. No economics, just snow.
Ireland wanted a distraction, anything to take its mind off The Gloom. We wanted to go outside and be children again. Or to stand at the pub door and – happily – grumble about it.
I realised that this is what makes us Irish. We're irrepressible. We're genetically programmed to fight glumness. It's why we've thrived on this dank little rock.
We're surrounded by greyness most of the year, so when a reprieve comes in the form of a glowing snowfall, we squeeze it dry. We celebrate it as a boisterous day out.
My memory skidded back to the snow of 1991 and my friends and I spinning down a frozen road on metal bin lids.
Our footballers had conquered Italia 90 the previous year and, lifted by their example, we believed that everything was possible.
"You'll never beat the Irish." We were on our way to Tiger land. We were emerging from The Gloom.
We'll emerge again. Besides, we still have each other, whatever the forecast.
February 8, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
Bend the rules, minister – everybody loves a maverick
Sunday Tribune, 1 February
Everybody loves a maverick cop. You know, the kind that's normally described like this: "In a world without rules… he made his own rules…" The kind that will beat the bejaysus out of the bad guy, crash dozens of cars, be shouted at by his captain, surrender his badge, and then solve the case while on suspension. This will, inevitably, mean shooting the crook with his last bullet.
Back in the 1970s, the US had Dirty Harry, while Britain had Regan from The Sweeney.
In Ireland, we had… Lugs Brannigan.
Sergeant James 'Lugs' Brannigan didn't need a gun. He had hands the size of dinner plates which he used to keep Dublin's gougers in line. Last week, Justice Paul Carney recalled how Lugs's techniques made the city safer. He also said that the garda "heavy gang" of that era, who specialised in eliciting confessions, were more misguided than bad. The media picked up the thread and, by Wednesday, Ireland was fondly recounting stories of coppers clattering skangers into submission.
Now, I don't know about you, but I don't want to see a return to that type of heavy-handed policing. If Nicky Kelly is reading this, I'm sure he'll agree. In 1978, he was wrongly convicted for his alleged part in the Sallins mail train robbery. He had 'confessed' after being tortured by the 'heavy gang' and, in 1992, was given a presidential pardon.
That said, with all the genuine crime we have, it's understandable why people hanker for Lugs's methods. He broke the rules to mete out natural justice. He believed that, sometimes, it's okay to go above the law to serve a greater good.
That's a sentiment that should be echoed by another lawman who was in the news last week – Justice minister Dermot Ahern.
On Tuesday, Nigerian woman Pamela Izevbekhai lost a High Court challenge to the minister's order to deport her. She says her girls, Jemima and Naomi, will be subjected to genital mutilation by their father's family if they are repatriated. Her other little girl, Elizabeth, died after undergoing the procedure in 1994. The European Court of Human Rights has now intervened and Pamela has been given a temporary reprieve.
Rules are rules. The Minister for Justice has done everything by the book in this case. He's upheld his duty to protect our borders. He needn't feel guilty about Pamela's case. Neither should we as a nation feel any guilt towards Africa. We didn't colonise it. So the state should fight on to deport Pamela's girls. Rules are rules, right?
In short, no. Jemima and Naomi were aged three and four when their deportation was ordered in 2005. Four years is a long time in a little girl's life. Sligo is now their home. The overwhelming desire of their Irish friends to keep them here confirms that. It's now a case of, simply, making an exception.
We are used to bending the rules in this country – politicians do it for developers all the time. We're also a very compassionate race, and I don't believe minister Ahern, who has children of his own, can be unmoved by Jemima and Naomi's situation.
He is a man of strong convictions. Last month, he defended forwarding a complaint from reviled terror chief Michael McKevitt to a previous justice minister. "It would be a dereliction of duty," Ahern said, "if I was to ignore families when they come to me indicating that there is, perhaps, in some way, some infringement of someone's human rights."
Are the rights of two vulnerable children not as important as those of a prisoner?
Ahern has the power to bend the rules and let them stay. It won't, as some say, open the floodgates to mass immigration. It's about doing the right thing.
Just two weeks have passed since the Roscommon incest case came to light. The state failed in that instance to protect children from the barbarism of a parent. Will it now fail to protect Naomi and Jemima from relatives who want to mutilate them?
Bend the rules, minister. Administer natural justice. Everybody loves a maverick.
Everybody loves a maverick cop. You know, the kind that's normally described like this: "In a world without rules… he made his own rules…" The kind that will beat the bejaysus out of the bad guy, crash dozens of cars, be shouted at by his captain, surrender his badge, and then solve the case while on suspension. This will, inevitably, mean shooting the crook with his last bullet.
Back in the 1970s, the US had Dirty Harry, while Britain had Regan from The Sweeney.
In Ireland, we had… Lugs Brannigan.
Sergeant James 'Lugs' Brannigan didn't need a gun. He had hands the size of dinner plates which he used to keep Dublin's gougers in line. Last week, Justice Paul Carney recalled how Lugs's techniques made the city safer. He also said that the garda "heavy gang" of that era, who specialised in eliciting confessions, were more misguided than bad. The media picked up the thread and, by Wednesday, Ireland was fondly recounting stories of coppers clattering skangers into submission.
Now, I don't know about you, but I don't want to see a return to that type of heavy-handed policing. If Nicky Kelly is reading this, I'm sure he'll agree. In 1978, he was wrongly convicted for his alleged part in the Sallins mail train robbery. He had 'confessed' after being tortured by the 'heavy gang' and, in 1992, was given a presidential pardon.
That said, with all the genuine crime we have, it's understandable why people hanker for Lugs's methods. He broke the rules to mete out natural justice. He believed that, sometimes, it's okay to go above the law to serve a greater good.
That's a sentiment that should be echoed by another lawman who was in the news last week – Justice minister Dermot Ahern.
On Tuesday, Nigerian woman Pamela Izevbekhai lost a High Court challenge to the minister's order to deport her. She says her girls, Jemima and Naomi, will be subjected to genital mutilation by their father's family if they are repatriated. Her other little girl, Elizabeth, died after undergoing the procedure in 1994. The European Court of Human Rights has now intervened and Pamela has been given a temporary reprieve.
Rules are rules. The Minister for Justice has done everything by the book in this case. He's upheld his duty to protect our borders. He needn't feel guilty about Pamela's case. Neither should we as a nation feel any guilt towards Africa. We didn't colonise it. So the state should fight on to deport Pamela's girls. Rules are rules, right?
In short, no. Jemima and Naomi were aged three and four when their deportation was ordered in 2005. Four years is a long time in a little girl's life. Sligo is now their home. The overwhelming desire of their Irish friends to keep them here confirms that. It's now a case of, simply, making an exception.
We are used to bending the rules in this country – politicians do it for developers all the time. We're also a very compassionate race, and I don't believe minister Ahern, who has children of his own, can be unmoved by Jemima and Naomi's situation.
He is a man of strong convictions. Last month, he defended forwarding a complaint from reviled terror chief Michael McKevitt to a previous justice minister. "It would be a dereliction of duty," Ahern said, "if I was to ignore families when they come to me indicating that there is, perhaps, in some way, some infringement of someone's human rights."
Are the rights of two vulnerable children not as important as those of a prisoner?
Ahern has the power to bend the rules and let them stay. It won't, as some say, open the floodgates to mass immigration. It's about doing the right thing.
Just two weeks have passed since the Roscommon incest case came to light. The state failed in that instance to protect children from the barbarism of a parent. Will it now fail to protect Naomi and Jemima from relatives who want to mutilate them?
Bend the rules, minister. Administer natural justice. Everybody loves a maverick.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Deny hospice patients the tabernacle? Go to hell, PC brigade
Sunday Tribune, 25 January
It's easy to snigger at the Catholic church. Take Pope Benedict's new announcement about the Virgin Mary. Anyone who claims they have been visited by Her must remain silent until the church has done a full, lengthy investigation. If they don't, then they're lying.
At face value this seems a bit unreasonable. I mean, what if Mary's message is: "Quick! Tell everybody: the world will end in less than 24 hours" or "Don't tell the Pope this, but…"?
All right, I'm being flippant, but even when the church is just going about its business, weeding out charlatans, it still presents an irresistible target.
It is also easy to be frequently enraged by the Catholic church. Especially if 'contraception', 'gay' or 'Aids' are words you feel strongly about. Or 'abuse', 'cover-up' or 'Bishop of Cloyne'.
Whatever way you look at it, an organisation as non-PC as the church has a big bullseye painted on it. However, although it's hard to defend, that's no excuse for not defending it when necessary. Even if that defence is coming from a non-church-going, 'collapsed' Catholic like myself.
Last week, Catholic chaplains at Letterkenny hospice were told to remove a tabernacle from its prayer room as its presence was contrary to HSE policy. This was despite the priests getting the consent of the Church of Ireland and Presbyterian chaplains.
On Wednesday's Joe Duffy show, one of the priests concerned pointed out that 80% of patients there are Catholic. Eighty-six per cent of us, by the way, told Census 2006 that we were Catholic too.
So who had taken offence? Nobody. Political correctness won and the tabernacle was removed, denying comfort to patients too ill to leave the building to commune with their God. The HSE says it will accommodate the tabernacle elsewhere, subject to consultations. Just not in the prayer room.
This type of political correctness seeks to please everyone, and ends up pleasing no-one. Its logic dictates that, as the prayer room is multi-denominational, it should contain symbols of every faith, not just Catholic. This might require an extension: Hindu symbols – like statues of Ganesh the elephant god – tend to take up a bit of space. Should Scientology be allowed to leave photos of L Ron Hubbard there? What about the Moonies?
As this is impractical, the PC solution is to ban all symbols and ignore everyone's rights.
Ireland strives to be a pluralist democracy where all religions are accepted. To achieve this we must safeguard the rights of the majority as well as the minority. We
can't be hamstrung by the obsessive PC fear that we might/possibly/may offend some unspecified group.
An example of this fear occurred last month when the Broadcasting Commission banned an RTÉ radio ad by Catholic publishers Veritas, because mentioning Christmas on-air could cause offence by promoting Christianity. The previous Christmas, Veritas had to remove the word "crib" from a radio ad for the same reason. Who, reasonably, is going to be offended by the word "crib"?
If a minority is going to complain about a religious festival celebrated by the vast majority, it can hardly claim to be tolerant itself and so nullifies its own argument.
The commission's concerns were perplexing when you consider that RTé broadcasts the Angelus twice a day. The station says it has no evidence that other faiths find this oppressive. So where was the evidence for the cribs? And where was the evidence of oppression the HSE used to ban the tabernacle? There was none.
Ireland's hospices do extraordinary work. It's hard to quantify the amount of physical and emotional pain they ease. However, the PC behaviour displayed in Letterkenny was insane. Whatever about 'policy', ordering the removal of a tabernacle from a prayer room used predominantly by ill Catholics is beyond disgraceful. If the room was used mainly by Muslims and they were told to remove a copy of the Qu'ran it would be equally indefensible.
Where does this PC nonsense end? Should we cover up all our churches, mosques and synagogues because they might be offensive?
Karl Marx called religion the "opiate of the masses". Let the masses have their opiate. Let people console themselves however they see fit.
And let the PC brigade go to hell.
January 25, 2009
It's easy to snigger at the Catholic church. Take Pope Benedict's new announcement about the Virgin Mary. Anyone who claims they have been visited by Her must remain silent until the church has done a full, lengthy investigation. If they don't, then they're lying.
At face value this seems a bit unreasonable. I mean, what if Mary's message is: "Quick! Tell everybody: the world will end in less than 24 hours" or "Don't tell the Pope this, but…"?
All right, I'm being flippant, but even when the church is just going about its business, weeding out charlatans, it still presents an irresistible target.
It is also easy to be frequently enraged by the Catholic church. Especially if 'contraception', 'gay' or 'Aids' are words you feel strongly about. Or 'abuse', 'cover-up' or 'Bishop of Cloyne'.
Whatever way you look at it, an organisation as non-PC as the church has a big bullseye painted on it. However, although it's hard to defend, that's no excuse for not defending it when necessary. Even if that defence is coming from a non-church-going, 'collapsed' Catholic like myself.
Last week, Catholic chaplains at Letterkenny hospice were told to remove a tabernacle from its prayer room as its presence was contrary to HSE policy. This was despite the priests getting the consent of the Church of Ireland and Presbyterian chaplains.
On Wednesday's Joe Duffy show, one of the priests concerned pointed out that 80% of patients there are Catholic. Eighty-six per cent of us, by the way, told Census 2006 that we were Catholic too.
So who had taken offence? Nobody. Political correctness won and the tabernacle was removed, denying comfort to patients too ill to leave the building to commune with their God. The HSE says it will accommodate the tabernacle elsewhere, subject to consultations. Just not in the prayer room.
This type of political correctness seeks to please everyone, and ends up pleasing no-one. Its logic dictates that, as the prayer room is multi-denominational, it should contain symbols of every faith, not just Catholic. This might require an extension: Hindu symbols – like statues of Ganesh the elephant god – tend to take up a bit of space. Should Scientology be allowed to leave photos of L Ron Hubbard there? What about the Moonies?
As this is impractical, the PC solution is to ban all symbols and ignore everyone's rights.
Ireland strives to be a pluralist democracy where all religions are accepted. To achieve this we must safeguard the rights of the majority as well as the minority. We
can't be hamstrung by the obsessive PC fear that we might/possibly/may offend some unspecified group.
An example of this fear occurred last month when the Broadcasting Commission banned an RTÉ radio ad by Catholic publishers Veritas, because mentioning Christmas on-air could cause offence by promoting Christianity. The previous Christmas, Veritas had to remove the word "crib" from a radio ad for the same reason. Who, reasonably, is going to be offended by the word "crib"?
If a minority is going to complain about a religious festival celebrated by the vast majority, it can hardly claim to be tolerant itself and so nullifies its own argument.
The commission's concerns were perplexing when you consider that RTé broadcasts the Angelus twice a day. The station says it has no evidence that other faiths find this oppressive. So where was the evidence for the cribs? And where was the evidence of oppression the HSE used to ban the tabernacle? There was none.
Ireland's hospices do extraordinary work. It's hard to quantify the amount of physical and emotional pain they ease. However, the PC behaviour displayed in Letterkenny was insane. Whatever about 'policy', ordering the removal of a tabernacle from a prayer room used predominantly by ill Catholics is beyond disgraceful. If the room was used mainly by Muslims and they were told to remove a copy of the Qu'ran it would be equally indefensible.
Where does this PC nonsense end? Should we cover up all our churches, mosques and synagogues because they might be offensive?
Karl Marx called religion the "opiate of the masses". Let the masses have their opiate. Let people console themselves however they see fit.
And let the PC brigade go to hell.
January 25, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
If you put history aside, the Brits are just like our annoying cousins
Sunday Tribune, 18 January 2009
There it was, all grizzly and grinning, topped off with a Brillo pad and so craggy you could plant spuds in it. Miley Byrne's head was back in the papers last week, looking as fresh as if it had been preserved in a bog for the past eight years. Tourism Ireland had dug it up for the photocall to announce their new online marketing campaign.
I've missed Miley. He represented the core values of Old Ireland: farming, cups of tea, muck and rogering in hay barns. The only 'on-line' Miley knew was where Biddy put the washing.
He was there to add local colour to the search for 'quirky' Irish people to 'star' in 10 internet movies, to be made by Keo Films. They will talk about their favourite places and the films will showcase our true nature. You know: hospitable, friendly, all that crap.
Well Holy God, did Tourism Ireland get a lash when it was later revealed that Keo Films aren't Irish – they're from London.
This isn't the first time our tourist chiefs have been criticised for using foreigners. In 2007, a TV advert promoting whale-watching in Kerry was revealed to contain a large error – the whale apparently swimming off Ireland had been filmed in the southern hemisphere and digitally 'dropped' into the ad. Oops.
So now they've asked the British to shoot scenes of us in our native land. It could be worse. They might have asked the French. After Lisbon they just wanted to shoot us, full stop.
Picture the opening French advert:
'Scene: old house, west of Ireland. Frenchman with floppy hair sits down as Irish colleen slices a lump of Kerrygold to butter her spuds.
"Uhhhh … could you … to me … [shrugs Gallicly] … pass ze Kerreeegold?"
She glares balefully and shouts, through a mouthful of spuds, "No!"
"Mais, madame …" he stammers.
"No! No! NO! I've said 'No' once already. You can't force me to pass it!" she shrieks, wrapping herself in a tricolour. Camera closes in on butter… the word 'Lisbon' is carved on its surface. Frenchman shrugs [Gallicly] again. FIN.'
Or the Polish? The notice on the website: "Wanted: actors to play typical Irish people. No Irish need apply."
Or the Germans? Actually the Gerries did a couple of propaganda movies about the Irish during the war – 'Mein Leben fur Irland' and 'The Fox of Glenarvon'.
Possible ad could feature Willie O'Dea showing German Chancellor Angela Merkel around his favourite Limerick haunts before legging it and leaving her stranded in the middle of feud country. (They have history.)
No, on reflection, giving the job to the British was a good idea as they actually like us. For example, they gave Colin Farrell his break in Ballykissangel. They always vote for us in the Eurovision. They commissioned Father Ted (although that may have been compensation for allowing Foster and Allen perform in leprechaun suits on Top of The Pops).
And let's not forget that Ireland's been their favourite holiday destination for the past 800 years.
The films could feature Irish people showing the crew around their favourite places to shop: Tescos, Marks & Sparks, Topshop, Boots…
Their favourite sights, like the Dublin Spire – which was designed by an Englishman, Ian Ritchie. Or favourite pub where they watched Jack's boys in Italia '90. (Wasn't he English?)
They could even quote from Foras na Gaeilge's new Irish dictionary. Last year an East Sussex company won the contract to work on half of it.
So is outsourcing our Irishness to England such a bad thing, considering we've done it before? When you have 1,500 Irish film workers on the dole, of course it is. Tourism Ireland say they were hamstrung by strict tendering laws, but it just isn't morally right.
That said, if it had to go to anybody, I'd prefer it to be the Brits. We watch their TV, enjoy their sense of humour, dress like them. If you put history aside, they're just like annoying cousins, really.
Another problem with getting Keo Films to market us is that they might do too good a job. Then, just as the recession is bringing us back down to earth, we'll start believing our own press and get all smug again.
Ah, shure everybody loves the Irish, as Miley might say.
There it was, all grizzly and grinning, topped off with a Brillo pad and so craggy you could plant spuds in it. Miley Byrne's head was back in the papers last week, looking as fresh as if it had been preserved in a bog for the past eight years. Tourism Ireland had dug it up for the photocall to announce their new online marketing campaign.
I've missed Miley. He represented the core values of Old Ireland: farming, cups of tea, muck and rogering in hay barns. The only 'on-line' Miley knew was where Biddy put the washing.
He was there to add local colour to the search for 'quirky' Irish people to 'star' in 10 internet movies, to be made by Keo Films. They will talk about their favourite places and the films will showcase our true nature. You know: hospitable, friendly, all that crap.
Well Holy God, did Tourism Ireland get a lash when it was later revealed that Keo Films aren't Irish – they're from London.
This isn't the first time our tourist chiefs have been criticised for using foreigners. In 2007, a TV advert promoting whale-watching in Kerry was revealed to contain a large error – the whale apparently swimming off Ireland had been filmed in the southern hemisphere and digitally 'dropped' into the ad. Oops.
So now they've asked the British to shoot scenes of us in our native land. It could be worse. They might have asked the French. After Lisbon they just wanted to shoot us, full stop.
Picture the opening French advert:
'Scene: old house, west of Ireland. Frenchman with floppy hair sits down as Irish colleen slices a lump of Kerrygold to butter her spuds.
"Uhhhh … could you … to me … [shrugs Gallicly] … pass ze Kerreeegold?"
She glares balefully and shouts, through a mouthful of spuds, "No!"
"Mais, madame …" he stammers.
"No! No! NO! I've said 'No' once already. You can't force me to pass it!" she shrieks, wrapping herself in a tricolour. Camera closes in on butter… the word 'Lisbon' is carved on its surface. Frenchman shrugs [Gallicly] again. FIN.'
Or the Polish? The notice on the website: "Wanted: actors to play typical Irish people. No Irish need apply."
Or the Germans? Actually the Gerries did a couple of propaganda movies about the Irish during the war – 'Mein Leben fur Irland' and 'The Fox of Glenarvon'.
Possible ad could feature Willie O'Dea showing German Chancellor Angela Merkel around his favourite Limerick haunts before legging it and leaving her stranded in the middle of feud country. (They have history.)
No, on reflection, giving the job to the British was a good idea as they actually like us. For example, they gave Colin Farrell his break in Ballykissangel. They always vote for us in the Eurovision. They commissioned Father Ted (although that may have been compensation for allowing Foster and Allen perform in leprechaun suits on Top of The Pops).
And let's not forget that Ireland's been their favourite holiday destination for the past 800 years.
The films could feature Irish people showing the crew around their favourite places to shop: Tescos, Marks & Sparks, Topshop, Boots…
Their favourite sights, like the Dublin Spire – which was designed by an Englishman, Ian Ritchie. Or favourite pub where they watched Jack's boys in Italia '90. (Wasn't he English?)
They could even quote from Foras na Gaeilge's new Irish dictionary. Last year an East Sussex company won the contract to work on half of it.
So is outsourcing our Irishness to England such a bad thing, considering we've done it before? When you have 1,500 Irish film workers on the dole, of course it is. Tourism Ireland say they were hamstrung by strict tendering laws, but it just isn't morally right.
That said, if it had to go to anybody, I'd prefer it to be the Brits. We watch their TV, enjoy their sense of humour, dress like them. If you put history aside, they're just like annoying cousins, really.
Another problem with getting Keo Films to market us is that they might do too good a job. Then, just as the recession is bringing us back down to earth, we'll start believing our own press and get all smug again.
Ah, shure everybody loves the Irish, as Miley might say.
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