Sunday Tribune 1 January, 2010
The best thing about 2009 is that it’s over. Unfortunately, in 2010 the government will invent new ways to squeeze even more money out of us. In addition to Nama, Brian Lenihan will set up Sofa (the Search Out extra Finance Agency).
This will deploy squads of taxmen to rummage down the back of the nation’s couches for spare coins. Apparently, there is still €370m-worth of pre-euro money hidden around the country. Start rummaging.
Iceland will continue to be a great source of relief to us as we say “could be worse. We could be Iceland”. We will continue to outperform Iceland financially. Iceland the supermarket chain, that is.
The financial institutions will announce the creation of new jobs… in India, by outsourcing. (Hibernian Aviva have already started that ball rolling.)
Sometime this year, the search party will return with news of George Lee. Has anybody seen him since he was elected last June? It might also find ‘ad hoc’ minister Mary Harney – it’s about time some party took her in. This year she will finally leave Biffo’s – and our medicine – cabinets.
Bertie Ahern will be elected honorary mayor of Newry. A year ago he told Newry Chamber of Commerce “the area deserves to be to the forefront of Ireland’s economic renaissances”. His book-signing there before Christmas, with the other southern shoppers, certainly played its part.
Visionary Joe Coleman will make further predictions. Last year, he forecast visions at Knock and pilgrims witnessed the “sun dancing in the sky”. This year I predict Our Lady appearing on ‘Dancing With The Stars’ on the telly.
Dermot Ahern’s Blasphemy Law will get its first test case. Possibly over the above gag. God will be called as witness for the defence. Get out of THAT one Ahern.
I predict another vision in the sky – that of John O’Donoghue taking a cheapo Ryanair flight.
Mary Coughlan will receive the Noble [sic] Prize for her thesis on Darwin’s Theory of Revolution and Frankenstein’s Theory of Relatives.
The Kimono will finally take off as Ivor Callely spots a gap in the rag trade. Beverly Flynn will have the upside-down coat hanger surgically removed from her smug gob.
Iran, continuing its brinksmanship, will play a practical joke and swap chairs with Ireland at the UN. Later, as the Yanks are nuking us, the Iranians will claim not to have had their “contact lenses in that day” and blame the alphabetical seating. ‘Iran, Iraq, Ireland’…
In showbusiness, Big Brother will end and I predict a headline in this paper that reads ‘Big Brother (no-one) is watching you’.
X Factor will return with Louis Walsh’s latest protégé: Jed Ward – a singing member of the Travelling community with a split personality.
In sport, Tiger Woods will restart on the Pro Tour. Not the golf one, the other kind of ‘pro’ tour.
As the monsoon season begins, Disney will buy County Galway and turn it into a water theme park called ‘Pirates of the Corrib’.
Ryanair will introduce ‘Pay-as-you-go’ airmiles. Run out of credit mid-flight? Off you goooooooooo….
Despite cutbacks at the station, TV3 will somehow find money to set up Ursula Halligan’s new office in the oncology unit of the Mater.
Finally, my top prediction for 2010 is … the end of the world. Later this month, in Switzerland, Cern’s Large Hadron Collider will be restarted. Critics say the Big Bang machine will create a black hole that will rip Earth apart. So forget the above predictions – we’re doomed.
The good news is that we’re all going down together. See you on the other side, folks.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
We need the unsinkable community spirit of the west
Sunday Tribune, 27 December
"He'll never make it. He must be mental." We watched the brown water at Kiltartan rise higher up the JCB's wheels. "Seriously, he's mental."
The stinking river, tainted by slurry and overflowing septic tanks, flooded across the broken N18 outside Gort, turning the hard shoulder into a beige waterfall. A snapped 'Stop' sign lay semi-submerged in its foam.
The driver was hell-bent on ferrying his neighbour's home. The torrent was hell-bent on making his digger join the 'Stop' sign. It was a tense few minutes.
We started to breathe again when his tyres re-emerged and he barrelled, defiantly, up the road.
There was a lot of defiance washing around Galway last month when I visited its flood sites. People whose homes were destroyed were defying the urge to drown in their own misery. They were determined that their neighbours would do the same.
In the hinterland of Beagh, I traipsed across acres of Somme-like mud with Hugh O'Donnell. Hugh's family, including his aged mother, had to be airlifted from the farmhouse he was born in. He, too, was defiant as he led us to his sub-aquatic home: he wouldn't let his spirit sink along with his belongings. "It just proves that you're not guaranteed anything in this world," he said philosophically, as the water lapped around his window sills.
His chief concern was that his mother was safe and happy "and that's all that counts". No self pity. 'There's always someone worse off than yourself'.
Above the waterline, we could see a kettle and a picture on the wall – the flotsam of 50 years of family life on the O'Donnell farm. Memories, his wife Kathleen later told me, were attached to every fitting: even to the gate Hugh's late father had built. There were memories attached to frames as well: the only pictures Kathleen had of her mother were in the house.
"I lie awake at night and wonder if I'll ever see a picture of her again." It was not a complaint, it was a regret – and all the more poignant for it.
Everywhere we went, we heard the same philosophy flowing through the conversation: don't complain, there's always someone worse off than you.
On Ashfield Drive in Ballinasloe, Michelle Devlin showed us around her parents' home. The flood water had receded, leaving cracks in the walls. The Sacred Heart hung behind her father Eamonn. "This is our dream home for 21 years," he said. "Now it may have to be knocked down." There was no display of, justifiable, self-pity. Just a resigned sadness and an overflowing concern for others as Michelle listed the damage her neighbours had suffered. There's always somebody worse off than you: someone deserving of your sympathy even though you're up the creek yourself.
The sad stories flooded out, as did the warmth and humanity of the people we met. Neighbours' dogs were being minded, houses were being cleaned and possessions stored. The Church of Ireland chapel was offered for mass as Catholic St Michael's was under threat from the river.
There was no public/private sector divide. There was no 'them and us'. There was just 'us'.
After a year of disharmony and disturbing revelations, here was tangible proof that we are still a fundamentally decent race.
We frequently behave like idiots – and we have some terrible skeletons in the national closet – but at the core we're disarmingly kind, despite what we say about ourselves.
Our problem is that we are, collectively, mad. Freud said we're the only race "for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever". We're too contrary.
Part of this madness manifests itself in our Dysfunctional National Body Image (© Dr Kenny). We don't know how small we are. We look in the mirror and see a big nation, although we're only the same size as Manchester. Look at the first Lisbon Treaty vote when we told Europe to stuff it. Four million of us against 500 million. We're nuts.
Look at the declaration of war with France over Thierry Henry. If we could harness the energy we wasted complaining about him we could be out of this mess by next week.
This lack of objectivity has led us to expect more from the world than we are entitled to. The result has been an inflated sense of entitlement which has now driven a wedge between the public and private sectors. We've wasted a year squabbling when we should have been behaving like a community. We're not some great sovereign power. We're a small community on the west coast of Europe that occasionally punches above its weight. We're the south Galway of the EU – and there's no shame in that.
Hopefully this new year we will start acting like a community again, bear the hardships for each other and stop the interminable bickering. The defiant, unsinkable community spirit of the west has shown that we can unite to ride out any storm – despite what Freud said.
That spirit will serve us better than the one displayed by Siptu's Jack O'Connor when he talks of indefinite strikes in February. We just need to tap into it.
The west's awake – the rest of Ireland needs to start waking up too.
dkenny@tribune.ie
December 27, 2009
"He'll never make it. He must be mental." We watched the brown water at Kiltartan rise higher up the JCB's wheels. "Seriously, he's mental."
The stinking river, tainted by slurry and overflowing septic tanks, flooded across the broken N18 outside Gort, turning the hard shoulder into a beige waterfall. A snapped 'Stop' sign lay semi-submerged in its foam.
The driver was hell-bent on ferrying his neighbour's home. The torrent was hell-bent on making his digger join the 'Stop' sign. It was a tense few minutes.
We started to breathe again when his tyres re-emerged and he barrelled, defiantly, up the road.
There was a lot of defiance washing around Galway last month when I visited its flood sites. People whose homes were destroyed were defying the urge to drown in their own misery. They were determined that their neighbours would do the same.
In the hinterland of Beagh, I traipsed across acres of Somme-like mud with Hugh O'Donnell. Hugh's family, including his aged mother, had to be airlifted from the farmhouse he was born in. He, too, was defiant as he led us to his sub-aquatic home: he wouldn't let his spirit sink along with his belongings. "It just proves that you're not guaranteed anything in this world," he said philosophically, as the water lapped around his window sills.
His chief concern was that his mother was safe and happy "and that's all that counts". No self pity. 'There's always someone worse off than yourself'.
Above the waterline, we could see a kettle and a picture on the wall – the flotsam of 50 years of family life on the O'Donnell farm. Memories, his wife Kathleen later told me, were attached to every fitting: even to the gate Hugh's late father had built. There were memories attached to frames as well: the only pictures Kathleen had of her mother were in the house.
"I lie awake at night and wonder if I'll ever see a picture of her again." It was not a complaint, it was a regret – and all the more poignant for it.
Everywhere we went, we heard the same philosophy flowing through the conversation: don't complain, there's always someone worse off than you.
On Ashfield Drive in Ballinasloe, Michelle Devlin showed us around her parents' home. The flood water had receded, leaving cracks in the walls. The Sacred Heart hung behind her father Eamonn. "This is our dream home for 21 years," he said. "Now it may have to be knocked down." There was no display of, justifiable, self-pity. Just a resigned sadness and an overflowing concern for others as Michelle listed the damage her neighbours had suffered. There's always somebody worse off than you: someone deserving of your sympathy even though you're up the creek yourself.
The sad stories flooded out, as did the warmth and humanity of the people we met. Neighbours' dogs were being minded, houses were being cleaned and possessions stored. The Church of Ireland chapel was offered for mass as Catholic St Michael's was under threat from the river.
There was no public/private sector divide. There was no 'them and us'. There was just 'us'.
After a year of disharmony and disturbing revelations, here was tangible proof that we are still a fundamentally decent race.
We frequently behave like idiots – and we have some terrible skeletons in the national closet – but at the core we're disarmingly kind, despite what we say about ourselves.
Our problem is that we are, collectively, mad. Freud said we're the only race "for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever". We're too contrary.
Part of this madness manifests itself in our Dysfunctional National Body Image (© Dr Kenny). We don't know how small we are. We look in the mirror and see a big nation, although we're only the same size as Manchester. Look at the first Lisbon Treaty vote when we told Europe to stuff it. Four million of us against 500 million. We're nuts.
Look at the declaration of war with France over Thierry Henry. If we could harness the energy we wasted complaining about him we could be out of this mess by next week.
This lack of objectivity has led us to expect more from the world than we are entitled to. The result has been an inflated sense of entitlement which has now driven a wedge between the public and private sectors. We've wasted a year squabbling when we should have been behaving like a community. We're not some great sovereign power. We're a small community on the west coast of Europe that occasionally punches above its weight. We're the south Galway of the EU – and there's no shame in that.
Hopefully this new year we will start acting like a community again, bear the hardships for each other and stop the interminable bickering. The defiant, unsinkable community spirit of the west has shown that we can unite to ride out any storm – despite what Freud said.
That spirit will serve us better than the one displayed by Siptu's Jack O'Connor when he talks of indefinite strikes in February. We just need to tap into it.
The west's awake – the rest of Ireland needs to start waking up too.
dkenny@tribune.ie
December 27, 2009
At Christmastime, we let in light and banish shade
Sunday Tribune, 20 December 2009
Warning: the following contains scenes of people enjoying themselves. Might be suitable for children.
We lit the tree in our village last week. We poured petrol over it and… only joking kids (don't try that at home). We turned on the lights and Christmas was welcomed in on a cold dark, Dublin evening.
Christmas always looks its best at night. Black suits it. It accentuates the light winking on trees and gutterings and spilling out of living rooms. Shadows retreat. The longest nights of the year are actually the brightest – and it's a man-made brightness.
When that brightness returned to our village last week, something else retreated. For an hour, cynicism, sadness and futility were exiled to the edge of town.
Small voices bubbled up around the stage in the church carpark. Clouds of breath hung in the air as children sang the praises of Rudolf's remarkable hooter. Inflatable snowpeople hummed along as air was pumped up their white posteriors from an invisible generator. The chill crept up through the soles of my shoes. "Santy," we were told, "will be along presently."
Feet shuffled, noses snuffled and children raced through prayers as Father John blessed the tree.
"Godblessourtree. Aaaaamen-wheressanta?"
The switch was pressed, the tree blazed. Light was slung over its branches like a broken cobweb. Then Santa appeared, in a shower of sparks, on top of Goat Castle. Children squealed and hundreds of adults, including non-parents like me, were led by the hand out of reality back to our childhood. Everybody was smiling.
Later, walking past the four dead businesses on Castle Street, I wondered what it would be like to see Christmas through a child's eyes again. To rub out the rubbish bits of reality and only see the good stuff. To blot out the misery of the past year.
Then I remembered the story of Jenny O'Connell. In May, the Dun Laoghaire mum had her sight restored after 46 years of blindness. She was able to see her husband and her children for the first time. She was able to see all the things we take for granted.
I realised that this is the first Christmas Jenny has seen since she was 11 years old. The visible world will be bright and new again on Christmas morning.
What a year to regain your sight, though. Since May, there has been nothing but images of floods, marches and angry faces. Jenny may have seen Alan O'Brien's, contorted with rage on The Frontline, as he berated Pat Kenny over his wages. Hardly a sight for sore eyes.
She may have seen Paul Gogarty's face as he effed and blinded in the Dáil.
She may have seen Bertie Ahern's as he told TV3 he wasn't sure if his years in politics "had been worth it".
She will finally have put a face to Brian Cowen but may still wonder what most of his government look like. From May to late September they were on holidays and now they're gone until 19 January. Biffo's probably on the couch, munching a mince pie reading this. Hey Biffo, quit dropping crumbs all over me, will you? And put on a shirt, like a good man.
She also regained her sight in time to read the headline announcing the cuts to her allowances and those of her blind husband.
She may have seen her first Christmas card in five decades. Hopefully it won't have been from her local TD. The exchequer spends €2.7m on TDs' cards. Imagine: your benefit is slashed and a card arrives with a picture of a politician on it – and you've paid for it. Happy Christmas.
She can finally see a Christmas panto again, if she likes. I recommend 'The Pied Piper' in Thurles tonight. Michael Lowry is making his stage debut in it as the 'good mayor' who holds the balance of power in Thurles/Hamelin. All together now: "He's behind you, Biffo – just so long as it suits him."
Apart from all the stupidity, avarice and anger, Jenny will see good things too.
After years of darkness, she will be surrounded by light. She will see it twinkling on trees and strung across streets. She will see carol singers, Santa hats and spray-frosted windows. She may be fortunate enough to see plundered selection boxes and faces streaked with chocolate. She'll see torn wrapping paper. She will see tinsel and baubles and cribs and stars and angels. She'll see primped people hiding hangovers at Christmas mass.
She'll see eejits jumping into the icy water at the Forty Foot. She'll see those eejits, purple and jibbering, race back ashore.
She'll see kindness in most faces and hopefully smiles on those of her family around the table. She can finally see where the sprouts are.
After 46 years of waiting, Jenny O'Connell will see Santa again. Hopefully, she'll see enough pleasant things this Christmas to fatten her spirit up for the lean months ahead. I hope you do too.
Here's a thought to end on: tomorrow, Monday 21 December, is the shortest, darkest day of the year. On Tuesday, the days will start getting longer again.
We'll have turned the corner. The darkness won't be here forever. If you don't believe me, go ask Jenny O'Connell.
Happy Christmas.
dkenny@tribune.ie
December 20, 2009
Warning: the following contains scenes of people enjoying themselves. Might be suitable for children.
We lit the tree in our village last week. We poured petrol over it and… only joking kids (don't try that at home). We turned on the lights and Christmas was welcomed in on a cold dark, Dublin evening.
Christmas always looks its best at night. Black suits it. It accentuates the light winking on trees and gutterings and spilling out of living rooms. Shadows retreat. The longest nights of the year are actually the brightest – and it's a man-made brightness.
When that brightness returned to our village last week, something else retreated. For an hour, cynicism, sadness and futility were exiled to the edge of town.
Small voices bubbled up around the stage in the church carpark. Clouds of breath hung in the air as children sang the praises of Rudolf's remarkable hooter. Inflatable snowpeople hummed along as air was pumped up their white posteriors from an invisible generator. The chill crept up through the soles of my shoes. "Santy," we were told, "will be along presently."
Feet shuffled, noses snuffled and children raced through prayers as Father John blessed the tree.
"Godblessourtree. Aaaaamen-wheressanta?"
The switch was pressed, the tree blazed. Light was slung over its branches like a broken cobweb. Then Santa appeared, in a shower of sparks, on top of Goat Castle. Children squealed and hundreds of adults, including non-parents like me, were led by the hand out of reality back to our childhood. Everybody was smiling.
Later, walking past the four dead businesses on Castle Street, I wondered what it would be like to see Christmas through a child's eyes again. To rub out the rubbish bits of reality and only see the good stuff. To blot out the misery of the past year.
Then I remembered the story of Jenny O'Connell. In May, the Dun Laoghaire mum had her sight restored after 46 years of blindness. She was able to see her husband and her children for the first time. She was able to see all the things we take for granted.
I realised that this is the first Christmas Jenny has seen since she was 11 years old. The visible world will be bright and new again on Christmas morning.
What a year to regain your sight, though. Since May, there has been nothing but images of floods, marches and angry faces. Jenny may have seen Alan O'Brien's, contorted with rage on The Frontline, as he berated Pat Kenny over his wages. Hardly a sight for sore eyes.
She may have seen Paul Gogarty's face as he effed and blinded in the Dáil.
She may have seen Bertie Ahern's as he told TV3 he wasn't sure if his years in politics "had been worth it".
She will finally have put a face to Brian Cowen but may still wonder what most of his government look like. From May to late September they were on holidays and now they're gone until 19 January. Biffo's probably on the couch, munching a mince pie reading this. Hey Biffo, quit dropping crumbs all over me, will you? And put on a shirt, like a good man.
She also regained her sight in time to read the headline announcing the cuts to her allowances and those of her blind husband.
She may have seen her first Christmas card in five decades. Hopefully it won't have been from her local TD. The exchequer spends €2.7m on TDs' cards. Imagine: your benefit is slashed and a card arrives with a picture of a politician on it – and you've paid for it. Happy Christmas.
She can finally see a Christmas panto again, if she likes. I recommend 'The Pied Piper' in Thurles tonight. Michael Lowry is making his stage debut in it as the 'good mayor' who holds the balance of power in Thurles/Hamelin. All together now: "He's behind you, Biffo – just so long as it suits him."
Apart from all the stupidity, avarice and anger, Jenny will see good things too.
After years of darkness, she will be surrounded by light. She will see it twinkling on trees and strung across streets. She will see carol singers, Santa hats and spray-frosted windows. She may be fortunate enough to see plundered selection boxes and faces streaked with chocolate. She'll see torn wrapping paper. She will see tinsel and baubles and cribs and stars and angels. She'll see primped people hiding hangovers at Christmas mass.
She'll see eejits jumping into the icy water at the Forty Foot. She'll see those eejits, purple and jibbering, race back ashore.
She'll see kindness in most faces and hopefully smiles on those of her family around the table. She can finally see where the sprouts are.
After 46 years of waiting, Jenny O'Connell will see Santa again. Hopefully, she'll see enough pleasant things this Christmas to fatten her spirit up for the lean months ahead. I hope you do too.
Here's a thought to end on: tomorrow, Monday 21 December, is the shortest, darkest day of the year. On Tuesday, the days will start getting longer again.
We'll have turned the corner. The darkness won't be here forever. If you don't believe me, go ask Jenny O'Connell.
Happy Christmas.
dkenny@tribune.ie
December 20, 2009
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
I won't be raising a glass to this 'Budweiser Budget'
Sunday Tribune 13 December
'When things go wrong and will not come right
Though you do the best you can,
When life looks black as the hour of night –
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.'
Brian Lenihan must have been reading Flann O'Brien's The Working Man's Friend before he dozed off and dreamed up last week's budget. What better way to take the sting out of bad news than by buying everyone a few scoops?
I like scoops. Probably too much. I regularly drink more than whatever the recommended guideline is. That's why I'm applauding Lenihan for lowering the pint by 12c. Right?
Wrong. Minister Lenihan, I didn't ask for – and don't want – your 12c cut. You can't buy me that easily. There are far more worthy recipients of your 'largesse'.
How about carers and the blind? Their allowances have been snipped by 4.1%. What does that say? Forget the blind, get blind drunk instead?
Or the pensioners who now have to pay for their medicines. Or the low-income families creaking under debts, levies, reduced dole and child benefits and a new carbon tax? Never mind them, a pint of plain is your only man.
I won't be raising a glass to cut-price booze, because these families won't be. This Budweiser Budget targets the most vulnerable and that's nothing to celebrate. Lenihan says lowering the alcohol excise duty will stop people going north. It won't and he knows it.
Last Tuesday, a bottle of Baileys cost €26.10 in Dunnes, Dublin. In Sainsbury's, €11.08. A litre of Carlsberg €3.98 and €1.84 respectively. The 20% excise reduction won't be enough to stop 'drink tourism'. The adjustment of Vat in January (to 21% here and 17.5% up north) won't make much of an impact either. Booze will still be cheaper.
Lenihan juggled CSO figures to justify his excise cuts. He said 44% of cross-border shoppers are buying alcohol. True. However, the CSO says it's not the main reason people head north – 79% are there for groceries. Instead of tinkering with alcohol, a more courageous move would be to lower vat to 15% and compete with the UK in the grocery market.
Lenihan's gargle cut is not about the north. It's a cynical stunt – along with not taxing cigarettes and gambling – to pacify us. What does that say about his opinion of us? Does he think unemployed people sup pints all day, in between trips to the bookies?
Does he see the rest of us as pliable booze-bags, who can be bribed to look away as he hammers the disadvantaged? The optics may be in his favour here. Look at the pictures of cars stuffed full of bottles and see how ridiculous our obsession with gargle is. Or stand outside the off-licence on Holy Thursday to see the panic-buying for Good Friday.
How does this look to the world outside? Lenihan said: "we're getting our house in order". He obviously meant 'public house'. Here's how the Chicago Tribune saw it: "Lenihan sought to offer one boost to public morale by cutting taxes on liquor. Ireland has the highest rate of alcohol consumption among major European nations…" This referred to the OECD Health at a Glance Report which was published the same day as the budget.
Morale boost: let the rummies drink beer. Embarrassed? I am. And annoyed when I think of all the effort the state made to change my drinking habits.
Look at those patronising 'Enjoy alcohol sensibly' warnings. (Don't most people drink to become insensible?) And the decision to close off-licences at 10pm. And the stricter drink-driving laws.
On Wednesday, none of this mattered. The government needed us boozed up. 'Never mind the warnings, drink up'. 12 cents! Hurrah!
Here's what I'm going to do with my 12c, minister. I'm multiplying it by 100 (pints) and adding it to our Christmas donation to the Vincent de Paul. Calls are up 30% this year and they need the money. It's not much, but it's a small statement of solidarity with those hit hardest by the budget.
Let's end with a rhyme, as we started with one. It's for you, Brian. Hope you like it…
The Working Man's Other Friend
(By DK, With apologies to Flann O'Brien)
When you're old and frail and times are hard
And your only friend's the medical card,
When you've paid your taxes, for your sins,
And they're charging for your med-i-cines,
When it's 50 cents to buy your pills
And you're terrified of getting ill,
'Don't worry,' says Brian, 'you'll be grand –
A pint of plain is your only man.'
When you're young and married with three kids
And life is, generally, on the skids,
When they've slashed your pittance from the dole
And Gormley wants to tax your coal,
When you're angry, broke and your house is cold
And Christmas cheer is put on hold,
When you have no pressies for your tykes
And turn to crime (when the Gardai strike),
When the crap has really hit the fan
And Ireland's swirling down the pan,
'Don't worry,' says Brian, 'you'll be grand –
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.'
dkenny@tribune.ie
'When things go wrong and will not come right
Though you do the best you can,
When life looks black as the hour of night –
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.'
Brian Lenihan must have been reading Flann O'Brien's The Working Man's Friend before he dozed off and dreamed up last week's budget. What better way to take the sting out of bad news than by buying everyone a few scoops?
I like scoops. Probably too much. I regularly drink more than whatever the recommended guideline is. That's why I'm applauding Lenihan for lowering the pint by 12c. Right?
Wrong. Minister Lenihan, I didn't ask for – and don't want – your 12c cut. You can't buy me that easily. There are far more worthy recipients of your 'largesse'.
How about carers and the blind? Their allowances have been snipped by 4.1%. What does that say? Forget the blind, get blind drunk instead?
Or the pensioners who now have to pay for their medicines. Or the low-income families creaking under debts, levies, reduced dole and child benefits and a new carbon tax? Never mind them, a pint of plain is your only man.
I won't be raising a glass to cut-price booze, because these families won't be. This Budweiser Budget targets the most vulnerable and that's nothing to celebrate. Lenihan says lowering the alcohol excise duty will stop people going north. It won't and he knows it.
Last Tuesday, a bottle of Baileys cost €26.10 in Dunnes, Dublin. In Sainsbury's, €11.08. A litre of Carlsberg €3.98 and €1.84 respectively. The 20% excise reduction won't be enough to stop 'drink tourism'. The adjustment of Vat in January (to 21% here and 17.5% up north) won't make much of an impact either. Booze will still be cheaper.
Lenihan juggled CSO figures to justify his excise cuts. He said 44% of cross-border shoppers are buying alcohol. True. However, the CSO says it's not the main reason people head north – 79% are there for groceries. Instead of tinkering with alcohol, a more courageous move would be to lower vat to 15% and compete with the UK in the grocery market.
Lenihan's gargle cut is not about the north. It's a cynical stunt – along with not taxing cigarettes and gambling – to pacify us. What does that say about his opinion of us? Does he think unemployed people sup pints all day, in between trips to the bookies?
Does he see the rest of us as pliable booze-bags, who can be bribed to look away as he hammers the disadvantaged? The optics may be in his favour here. Look at the pictures of cars stuffed full of bottles and see how ridiculous our obsession with gargle is. Or stand outside the off-licence on Holy Thursday to see the panic-buying for Good Friday.
How does this look to the world outside? Lenihan said: "we're getting our house in order". He obviously meant 'public house'. Here's how the Chicago Tribune saw it: "Lenihan sought to offer one boost to public morale by cutting taxes on liquor. Ireland has the highest rate of alcohol consumption among major European nations…" This referred to the OECD Health at a Glance Report which was published the same day as the budget.
Morale boost: let the rummies drink beer. Embarrassed? I am. And annoyed when I think of all the effort the state made to change my drinking habits.
Look at those patronising 'Enjoy alcohol sensibly' warnings. (Don't most people drink to become insensible?) And the decision to close off-licences at 10pm. And the stricter drink-driving laws.
On Wednesday, none of this mattered. The government needed us boozed up. 'Never mind the warnings, drink up'. 12 cents! Hurrah!
Here's what I'm going to do with my 12c, minister. I'm multiplying it by 100 (pints) and adding it to our Christmas donation to the Vincent de Paul. Calls are up 30% this year and they need the money. It's not much, but it's a small statement of solidarity with those hit hardest by the budget.
Let's end with a rhyme, as we started with one. It's for you, Brian. Hope you like it…
The Working Man's Other Friend
(By DK, With apologies to Flann O'Brien)
When you're old and frail and times are hard
And your only friend's the medical card,
When you've paid your taxes, for your sins,
And they're charging for your med-i-cines,
When it's 50 cents to buy your pills
And you're terrified of getting ill,
'Don't worry,' says Brian, 'you'll be grand –
A pint of plain is your only man.'
When you're young and married with three kids
And life is, generally, on the skids,
When they've slashed your pittance from the dole
And Gormley wants to tax your coal,
When you're angry, broke and your house is cold
And Christmas cheer is put on hold,
When you have no pressies for your tykes
And turn to crime (when the Gardai strike),
When the crap has really hit the fan
And Ireland's swirling down the pan,
'Don't worry,' says Brian, 'you'll be grand –
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.'
dkenny@tribune.ie
Tax gambling, minister – society will be the winner
Sunday Tribune 6 December
The caller from Cork was outraged. He had "never seen a guard in Douglas" before, and there were two on duty at Bertie Ahern's book-signing. "At either entrance to the shop" where Ahern was flogging his life story. This was for "protection", Liveline was told. For who, I wondered: him or Cork?
Bertie definitely needs protection from Liveline's listeners. They were furious that he was being driven around, at their expense, to sign books. One signing venue that got them particularly annoyed was Newry. Isn't this where his party says only "unpatriotic" shoppers go?
The racket on Liveline won't have bothered Bertie. He has a neck like a jockey's proverbials and knows all there is to know about rackets – political ones at any rate. He's sitting on a pile of pensions and allowances and will make a bundle from his autobiography. And he won't have to pay any tax on it.
Basket Case Ireland strikes again. We blame Ahern for the economy, yet his tax-free version of events is likely to be the most-read book this Christmas. Instead of making him put a sock in it, we're putting him in our stockings.
Will someone please put Ireland back in its straitjacket? Anyway, this column isn't about Bertie not paying tax on his story-telling. It's about him not paying tax on another pastime: the horses. Remember how he revealed his fondness for them at the Mahon tribunal? How he won his unexplained cash?
Last year, Bertie and other chancers spent €5.5bn at the bookies. This was a great boost for the exchequer, right? Wrong. According to Horse Racing Ireland, €1.7bn of it was gambled, tax-free, online.
Just as well the bookies paid tax on the rest, then. What was the rate? 20%? 30%? No, they paid… 1%. Remember that figure when you read Brian Lenihan's budget cuts this week. Everything else is screwed by the taxman but gambling is virtually untouched.
Why? Because the racing/gambling industry is enmeshed with Fianna Fáil. This goes back to 1969 when Charlie Haughey introduced tax exemption for profits on stallions at stud. Thirty years later, Charlie McCreevy did the industry a favour again and lowered betting tax from 10% to 5%. Charlie's from Kildare – racing's heartland – so no bias there. In 2001, he made it 2% to "safeguard the betting industry by reducing the incentive for Irish bookmakers to move off-shore". The only stipulation was that the bookies, not the punters, would pay this nominal amount. This derisory 'tax' was then put back into racing, for prizes etc, through the new Horse and Greyhound Racing Fund. In 2002, Fianna Fáil reduced it to 1% 'just to be sure'.
It was a bit like the banks, really. Fianna Fáil gave the bookies a form of 'guarantee' so their business wouldn't collapse.
Last year, Brian Lenihan raised the tax back to 2%. The bookies cried as if it was the apocalypse. They have loud voices, bookmakers. In May, Lenihan crumbled and 'postponed' the rise to examine the impact of offshore, online gambling on the industry.
What has been the major bookmakers' response to this threat? They've gone… offshore themselves.
Someone is having a laugh here – and it's not the taxpayer.
The bookies claim 2% tax will endanger jobs. Everyone's in danger at the moment, so why should they get preferential treatment while paying so little back? Gambling has been around for millennia – it's not going to disappear overnight. Bookies shops are closing, certainly, but people haven't stopped gambling. Online betting, according to Horse Racing Ireland, accounts for one-third of wagers. A betting shop can't compete with the accessibility of a computer.
Fianna Fáil has shown disproportionate favouritism to gambling over the years. This was epitomised by the annual bash at the Galway Races. Here they toasted Ireland's new gambling fraternity – the Property Speculators. Our property bubble, the most reckless 'gamble' of them all, was inflated at a race course.
Last week on TV3, Ahern recalled the betting that took place at Galway. On Budget Day, Lenihan can put some distance between his party and that era of gambling.
Doubling the tax won't be enough. Last year it raised a paltry €36.5m from €3.8bn worth of taxable bets. Get your abacus out minister, we can do better than that. Make it 10% and bring in some real money.
If you think the bookies can't sustain this, then divide the tax between them and the punter. If someone can afford to potentially lose money on a bet, then they can pay 5% tax on it. That would add just 50c to every €10 punt.
If that's too much for either side to bear, then tax the winnings, rather than the stake, at 10%. Tax all online betting, too, and level the field for smaller bookies.
This is your chance to make gambling work for society, minister, and it comes with a 'sweetener'. Bertie had a go at you last week for bitching about him behind his back.
You can't get even by slapping tax on his autobiography, so why not slap one on those mysterious wagers he loves?
You won't get him on the book Brian, but you can definitely hit him at the bookies.
dkenny@tribune.ie
December 6, 2009
The caller from Cork was outraged. He had "never seen a guard in Douglas" before, and there were two on duty at Bertie Ahern's book-signing. "At either entrance to the shop" where Ahern was flogging his life story. This was for "protection", Liveline was told. For who, I wondered: him or Cork?
Bertie definitely needs protection from Liveline's listeners. They were furious that he was being driven around, at their expense, to sign books. One signing venue that got them particularly annoyed was Newry. Isn't this where his party says only "unpatriotic" shoppers go?
The racket on Liveline won't have bothered Bertie. He has a neck like a jockey's proverbials and knows all there is to know about rackets – political ones at any rate. He's sitting on a pile of pensions and allowances and will make a bundle from his autobiography. And he won't have to pay any tax on it.
Basket Case Ireland strikes again. We blame Ahern for the economy, yet his tax-free version of events is likely to be the most-read book this Christmas. Instead of making him put a sock in it, we're putting him in our stockings.
Will someone please put Ireland back in its straitjacket? Anyway, this column isn't about Bertie not paying tax on his story-telling. It's about him not paying tax on another pastime: the horses. Remember how he revealed his fondness for them at the Mahon tribunal? How he won his unexplained cash?
Last year, Bertie and other chancers spent €5.5bn at the bookies. This was a great boost for the exchequer, right? Wrong. According to Horse Racing Ireland, €1.7bn of it was gambled, tax-free, online.
Just as well the bookies paid tax on the rest, then. What was the rate? 20%? 30%? No, they paid… 1%. Remember that figure when you read Brian Lenihan's budget cuts this week. Everything else is screwed by the taxman but gambling is virtually untouched.
Why? Because the racing/gambling industry is enmeshed with Fianna Fáil. This goes back to 1969 when Charlie Haughey introduced tax exemption for profits on stallions at stud. Thirty years later, Charlie McCreevy did the industry a favour again and lowered betting tax from 10% to 5%. Charlie's from Kildare – racing's heartland – so no bias there. In 2001, he made it 2% to "safeguard the betting industry by reducing the incentive for Irish bookmakers to move off-shore". The only stipulation was that the bookies, not the punters, would pay this nominal amount. This derisory 'tax' was then put back into racing, for prizes etc, through the new Horse and Greyhound Racing Fund. In 2002, Fianna Fáil reduced it to 1% 'just to be sure'.
It was a bit like the banks, really. Fianna Fáil gave the bookies a form of 'guarantee' so their business wouldn't collapse.
Last year, Brian Lenihan raised the tax back to 2%. The bookies cried as if it was the apocalypse. They have loud voices, bookmakers. In May, Lenihan crumbled and 'postponed' the rise to examine the impact of offshore, online gambling on the industry.
What has been the major bookmakers' response to this threat? They've gone… offshore themselves.
Someone is having a laugh here – and it's not the taxpayer.
The bookies claim 2% tax will endanger jobs. Everyone's in danger at the moment, so why should they get preferential treatment while paying so little back? Gambling has been around for millennia – it's not going to disappear overnight. Bookies shops are closing, certainly, but people haven't stopped gambling. Online betting, according to Horse Racing Ireland, accounts for one-third of wagers. A betting shop can't compete with the accessibility of a computer.
Fianna Fáil has shown disproportionate favouritism to gambling over the years. This was epitomised by the annual bash at the Galway Races. Here they toasted Ireland's new gambling fraternity – the Property Speculators. Our property bubble, the most reckless 'gamble' of them all, was inflated at a race course.
Last week on TV3, Ahern recalled the betting that took place at Galway. On Budget Day, Lenihan can put some distance between his party and that era of gambling.
Doubling the tax won't be enough. Last year it raised a paltry €36.5m from €3.8bn worth of taxable bets. Get your abacus out minister, we can do better than that. Make it 10% and bring in some real money.
If you think the bookies can't sustain this, then divide the tax between them and the punter. If someone can afford to potentially lose money on a bet, then they can pay 5% tax on it. That would add just 50c to every €10 punt.
If that's too much for either side to bear, then tax the winnings, rather than the stake, at 10%. Tax all online betting, too, and level the field for smaller bookies.
This is your chance to make gambling work for society, minister, and it comes with a 'sweetener'. Bertie had a go at you last week for bitching about him behind his back.
You can't get even by slapping tax on his autobiography, so why not slap one on those mysterious wagers he loves?
You won't get him on the book Brian, but you can definitely hit him at the bookies.
dkenny@tribune.ie
December 6, 2009
Why Ireland is the (shopping) basket case of Europe
Sunday Tribune 29 November
"See that man over there, he's on strike." The crop-headed Dub pointed off-camera. We couldn't see the striker, but there was a dull 'thunk', which might have been a slab of beer hitting a car boot. Newry's The Quays Shopping Centre was full of southern reg plates – many of them belonging to striking public sector workers.
Another man asked the RTÉ reporter "sure, what else would you do on a day off?" It summed up the insanity of Tuesday's day of protest. Our public servants went on strike saying they're hard-up, got docked a day's pay… and legged it over the border to spend money they don't have on a Christmas they can't afford in a country that can't pay their wages.
Strike? This was trade unionism striking a blow for capitalism.
Not that anyone should be too shocked. This is just further proof that Ireland is Europe's Largest Open Air Lunatic Asylum. Tuesday's behaviour wasn't an aberration, it was just 'The Irish Way'. Country in crisis? Don't just pull a sickie: pull a sickie while… pulling a sickie.
This wasn't the only example of The Irish Way in action last Tuesday. Here's another five random ones, all from the same day.
1: The Irish Way is to let a tax evader hold you ransom in the Dáil. Brian Cowen was asked to reveal what voting deal Fianna Fáil has with disgraced TD Michael Lowry. Had plans to build a €460m Las Vegas-style casino on his Tipperary doorstep anything to do with keeping him sweet? No, swore Cowen. Honest.
The Irish Way is to do deals with cheats. It's also to build a massive casino during a recession. It's hard to say which is madder.
2: The Irish Way is to be quick to take offence. On Tuesday, Liveline buzzed with complaints about Tesco putting security tags on meat in less affluent areas of Dublin. It was disrespectful. Disgraceful. How is wanting to protect your goods in a time of rising petty crime 'disgraceful'? The real disgrace is that no one said how sad it is that people are now stealing food.
3: The Irish Way is to believe, like Whitney Houston, that "children are our future". President McAleese said she does in the Irish Times. Just think: that orange, American-accented teen, gawking at the telly, is going to be running the country some day. God. Help. Us.
A few pages away, a poll in the same newspaper revealed that 81% of 18- to 24-year-olds want to see the number of foreigners living here reduced. Children are our future… and that future's the Fourth Reich.
4: The Irish Way is to introduce webcasting to local government to show that councillors are not wasting money. The Evening Herald revealed that Dun Laoghaire council spent €30,000 on 12 broadcasts last year. The council had wasted money to prove… it wasn't wasting money.
5: The Irish Way is to declare we are a post-Catholic, pluralist society – and then introduce a crackpot Blasphemy Law. Surprisingly, it has its fans. A conference in Dublin heard that one country has cited it as an example of "best practice" – Pakistan. Ireland is now a role model for one of the world's maddest countries.
The Irish Way is to be an irrational, reckless, dysfunctional race, who really are too cracked to govern themselves. The sooner we realise this, the better it will be for our mental health. There's only four million of us. We're not as important as we think we are. In Europe's eyes we're a medium-sized city – and a complete basket case.
The Germans think we drink too much. To them, we're the annoying little tosser who turns up drunk at the party, drinks all the host's booze and then picks a fight with him.
To the French, we're ungrateful peasants. They forced us to replay the Lisbon Treaty but wouldn't replay the Paris match. They got away with this because Fifa doesn't like us either. Even the eastern European countries don't like us: they keep booting us out of the Eurovision. Stuck out here in the Atlantic, we're like Europe's mad cousin, locked away in the attic. Ignored and unloved.
We only have each other now. So, instead of feuding, I propose we have a National Day of Inaction, with both sectors working out a plan to get someone sane to rule us.
Here's an idea: how about selling Ireland to the US and becoming the 52nd state? With a little investment we could re-open the country as a huge water theme park.
Think I'm not serious? It's not as batty an idea as that strike last week. As the protestors headed north, Ireland slid out of the IESE Business School's list of top 20 countries to invest in. We've gone from 16th to 21st. Could the striking and general stupidity on display have anything to do with this?
The unions have threatened further action. So here's my plan: on the day of the strike, all us non-protestors will meet up along the border and hide in the bushes. Then, when the last striker has crossed into Newry, we'll leap out and seal the border. Let the Queen keep them. Problem solved The Irish Way.
We really are the (shopping) basket case of Europe.
dkenny@tribune.ie
"See that man over there, he's on strike." The crop-headed Dub pointed off-camera. We couldn't see the striker, but there was a dull 'thunk', which might have been a slab of beer hitting a car boot. Newry's The Quays Shopping Centre was full of southern reg plates – many of them belonging to striking public sector workers.
Another man asked the RTÉ reporter "sure, what else would you do on a day off?" It summed up the insanity of Tuesday's day of protest. Our public servants went on strike saying they're hard-up, got docked a day's pay… and legged it over the border to spend money they don't have on a Christmas they can't afford in a country that can't pay their wages.
Strike? This was trade unionism striking a blow for capitalism.
Not that anyone should be too shocked. This is just further proof that Ireland is Europe's Largest Open Air Lunatic Asylum. Tuesday's behaviour wasn't an aberration, it was just 'The Irish Way'. Country in crisis? Don't just pull a sickie: pull a sickie while… pulling a sickie.
This wasn't the only example of The Irish Way in action last Tuesday. Here's another five random ones, all from the same day.
1: The Irish Way is to let a tax evader hold you ransom in the Dáil. Brian Cowen was asked to reveal what voting deal Fianna Fáil has with disgraced TD Michael Lowry. Had plans to build a €460m Las Vegas-style casino on his Tipperary doorstep anything to do with keeping him sweet? No, swore Cowen. Honest.
The Irish Way is to do deals with cheats. It's also to build a massive casino during a recession. It's hard to say which is madder.
2: The Irish Way is to be quick to take offence. On Tuesday, Liveline buzzed with complaints about Tesco putting security tags on meat in less affluent areas of Dublin. It was disrespectful. Disgraceful. How is wanting to protect your goods in a time of rising petty crime 'disgraceful'? The real disgrace is that no one said how sad it is that people are now stealing food.
3: The Irish Way is to believe, like Whitney Houston, that "children are our future". President McAleese said she does in the Irish Times. Just think: that orange, American-accented teen, gawking at the telly, is going to be running the country some day. God. Help. Us.
A few pages away, a poll in the same newspaper revealed that 81% of 18- to 24-year-olds want to see the number of foreigners living here reduced. Children are our future… and that future's the Fourth Reich.
4: The Irish Way is to introduce webcasting to local government to show that councillors are not wasting money. The Evening Herald revealed that Dun Laoghaire council spent €30,000 on 12 broadcasts last year. The council had wasted money to prove… it wasn't wasting money.
5: The Irish Way is to declare we are a post-Catholic, pluralist society – and then introduce a crackpot Blasphemy Law. Surprisingly, it has its fans. A conference in Dublin heard that one country has cited it as an example of "best practice" – Pakistan. Ireland is now a role model for one of the world's maddest countries.
The Irish Way is to be an irrational, reckless, dysfunctional race, who really are too cracked to govern themselves. The sooner we realise this, the better it will be for our mental health. There's only four million of us. We're not as important as we think we are. In Europe's eyes we're a medium-sized city – and a complete basket case.
The Germans think we drink too much. To them, we're the annoying little tosser who turns up drunk at the party, drinks all the host's booze and then picks a fight with him.
To the French, we're ungrateful peasants. They forced us to replay the Lisbon Treaty but wouldn't replay the Paris match. They got away with this because Fifa doesn't like us either. Even the eastern European countries don't like us: they keep booting us out of the Eurovision. Stuck out here in the Atlantic, we're like Europe's mad cousin, locked away in the attic. Ignored and unloved.
We only have each other now. So, instead of feuding, I propose we have a National Day of Inaction, with both sectors working out a plan to get someone sane to rule us.
Here's an idea: how about selling Ireland to the US and becoming the 52nd state? With a little investment we could re-open the country as a huge water theme park.
Think I'm not serious? It's not as batty an idea as that strike last week. As the protestors headed north, Ireland slid out of the IESE Business School's list of top 20 countries to invest in. We've gone from 16th to 21st. Could the striking and general stupidity on display have anything to do with this?
The unions have threatened further action. So here's my plan: on the day of the strike, all us non-protestors will meet up along the border and hide in the bushes. Then, when the last striker has crossed into Newry, we'll leap out and seal the border. Let the Queen keep them. Problem solved The Irish Way.
We really are the (shopping) basket case of Europe.
dkenny@tribune.ie
Unwrapping some good news amidst all the gloom
Sunday Tribune 22 November
The rain is streaming down my coat and into my shoes. My collar is drenched and there's a drip on the end of my nose. I'm broke. The only thing rattling in my pockets are my keys. I am walking through soggy Dublin thinking of Donie Cassidy.
One of the reasons I am thinking of Donie is because I've forgotten to bring something to cover my head. The other is to do with something he said in the Seanad. He, and some of his colleagues, believe the media is responsible for the grim state of the nation. Senator Anne Ormonde says the press is "creating so much gloom that it is depressing those in the world outside".
Donie's solution is to get broadcasters to "give us 30 minutes of good news every day" as a tonic. Suddenly a lightbulb has switched on over my head: maybe Donie's right. So I start flicking through the week to find something positive to write about for a change.
Ireland is no longer corrupt, according to new figures released by Transparency International.
That's good, isn't it? Or does it just mean there's less money around to steal?
Irish writer Colum McCann has won the top prize for fiction at the US National Book Awards. Great but, well, it's hardly going to overshadow our World Cup heartache, is it?
Brian Lenihan has 'scored' a victory over AIB by making it accept the €500,000 salary cap. That's good, isn't it, Donie? If you ignore the Financial Times poll that rated him Europe's worst finance minister. See, Donie, it's hard to find something positive to write about.
Another lightbulb goes on over my head. I look up: Miriam O'Callaghan has switched on the Christmas lights on Henry Street. Or 'Hahnry' Street as she calls it.
Finally, something positive to report: the lightening of Dubliners' moods by something simple and free. I am a boy again in town with mum, dad and sisters, looking at the Moore Street stalls as ould wans sing "Annywan for de last of de Cheeky Charlies?" Gaudy beads of yellow, blue and green light shiver between the lamp posts. Sleet spits at us, but we hardly notice: we are too excited at the prospect of seeing Santa in Arnotts. Afterwards, there will be coffee, cake and the unwrapping of colouring books and plastic crappery which will break, like the Cheeky Charlie, on the way home.
Walking south across the bridge, we wonder what herky-jerky robotic wonderland waits for us in Switzers' snow-sprayed window.
Memory is a great bolthole. There's no entrance charge and looking back beats looking forward into an uncertain future. If I sound like I'm going soft, I'm not. Even cynics need a break sometime.
In previous years I've given out about Christmas coming too early. Last November, mayor Eibhlin Byrne lit the city's tree at the start of the month. This was to encourage us to do our "civic duty" and spend our money in Dublin, not Newry.
I wrote a column telling her to stop turning Retail Therapy into Retail Guilt. If Dublin wanted my money, then its merchants should lower their prices. Groceries were 28% cheaper up north.
This year, Mary Coughlan led the patriotic charge. She said cross-border shoppers are supporting "her majesty's government". I thought we'd moved on from that "Crown Forces" rhetoric. The war is over, minister.
Although her faux-republicanism is annoying, I agree with Coughlan in principle. Not about ropey patriotism but about our economic reality – 250,000 southern households are shopping over the border (TNS Worldpanel). It doesn't take a genius – and Coughlan's no genius – to see how this affects our tax take.
Southern retailers can't win a price battle with the north. Running a business here is more expensive, between energy costs, Vat and exchange rates. They are trying, though. The National Consumer Agency says prices are continuing to fall.
It's no longer a case of "them and us". Retailers are now as jiggered as the rest of us. They may have fleeced us in the past, but I don't like seeing businesses go to the wall.
Unlike last Christmas, Dublin City Council deserves some credit this year. It's easing the idiotic bus corridor on College Green for the festive period and providing 1,400 free parking spaces.
The city's merchants have started to show some civic spirit too. In 2006, 30% of them were unwilling to fund the Christmas lights. This year, they've paid to illuminate six new streets.
All that said, I'm not telling anyone where to shop. It's a matter of conscience and means.
If you decide to head north, the best of luck to you. I won't see you there, though. I've decided to spend less this Christmas – and to spend it locally.
So there you are, Donie. I've tried to write a positive column this week. I'm giving Dublin my business and thanking its retailers for temporarily blinding me, with Christmas lights, to the rain, the soccer etc.
Why don't you come and see the lights with me, Donie? You've a day off on Tuesday because of the Oireachtas strike, haven't you? Tell you what, come to O'Connell Street this evening instead to watch the lighting of the tree.
Damn it, hang on a minute, more bad news: wasn't it made in France?
dkenny@tribune.ie
The rain is streaming down my coat and into my shoes. My collar is drenched and there's a drip on the end of my nose. I'm broke. The only thing rattling in my pockets are my keys. I am walking through soggy Dublin thinking of Donie Cassidy.
One of the reasons I am thinking of Donie is because I've forgotten to bring something to cover my head. The other is to do with something he said in the Seanad. He, and some of his colleagues, believe the media is responsible for the grim state of the nation. Senator Anne Ormonde says the press is "creating so much gloom that it is depressing those in the world outside".
Donie's solution is to get broadcasters to "give us 30 minutes of good news every day" as a tonic. Suddenly a lightbulb has switched on over my head: maybe Donie's right. So I start flicking through the week to find something positive to write about for a change.
Ireland is no longer corrupt, according to new figures released by Transparency International.
That's good, isn't it? Or does it just mean there's less money around to steal?
Irish writer Colum McCann has won the top prize for fiction at the US National Book Awards. Great but, well, it's hardly going to overshadow our World Cup heartache, is it?
Brian Lenihan has 'scored' a victory over AIB by making it accept the €500,000 salary cap. That's good, isn't it, Donie? If you ignore the Financial Times poll that rated him Europe's worst finance minister. See, Donie, it's hard to find something positive to write about.
Another lightbulb goes on over my head. I look up: Miriam O'Callaghan has switched on the Christmas lights on Henry Street. Or 'Hahnry' Street as she calls it.
Finally, something positive to report: the lightening of Dubliners' moods by something simple and free. I am a boy again in town with mum, dad and sisters, looking at the Moore Street stalls as ould wans sing "Annywan for de last of de Cheeky Charlies?" Gaudy beads of yellow, blue and green light shiver between the lamp posts. Sleet spits at us, but we hardly notice: we are too excited at the prospect of seeing Santa in Arnotts. Afterwards, there will be coffee, cake and the unwrapping of colouring books and plastic crappery which will break, like the Cheeky Charlie, on the way home.
Walking south across the bridge, we wonder what herky-jerky robotic wonderland waits for us in Switzers' snow-sprayed window.
Memory is a great bolthole. There's no entrance charge and looking back beats looking forward into an uncertain future. If I sound like I'm going soft, I'm not. Even cynics need a break sometime.
In previous years I've given out about Christmas coming too early. Last November, mayor Eibhlin Byrne lit the city's tree at the start of the month. This was to encourage us to do our "civic duty" and spend our money in Dublin, not Newry.
I wrote a column telling her to stop turning Retail Therapy into Retail Guilt. If Dublin wanted my money, then its merchants should lower their prices. Groceries were 28% cheaper up north.
This year, Mary Coughlan led the patriotic charge. She said cross-border shoppers are supporting "her majesty's government". I thought we'd moved on from that "Crown Forces" rhetoric. The war is over, minister.
Although her faux-republicanism is annoying, I agree with Coughlan in principle. Not about ropey patriotism but about our economic reality – 250,000 southern households are shopping over the border (TNS Worldpanel). It doesn't take a genius – and Coughlan's no genius – to see how this affects our tax take.
Southern retailers can't win a price battle with the north. Running a business here is more expensive, between energy costs, Vat and exchange rates. They are trying, though. The National Consumer Agency says prices are continuing to fall.
It's no longer a case of "them and us". Retailers are now as jiggered as the rest of us. They may have fleeced us in the past, but I don't like seeing businesses go to the wall.
Unlike last Christmas, Dublin City Council deserves some credit this year. It's easing the idiotic bus corridor on College Green for the festive period and providing 1,400 free parking spaces.
The city's merchants have started to show some civic spirit too. In 2006, 30% of them were unwilling to fund the Christmas lights. This year, they've paid to illuminate six new streets.
All that said, I'm not telling anyone where to shop. It's a matter of conscience and means.
If you decide to head north, the best of luck to you. I won't see you there, though. I've decided to spend less this Christmas – and to spend it locally.
So there you are, Donie. I've tried to write a positive column this week. I'm giving Dublin my business and thanking its retailers for temporarily blinding me, with Christmas lights, to the rain, the soccer etc.
Why don't you come and see the lights with me, Donie? You've a day off on Tuesday because of the Oireachtas strike, haven't you? Tell you what, come to O'Connell Street this evening instead to watch the lighting of the tree.
Damn it, hang on a minute, more bad news: wasn't it made in France?
dkenny@tribune.ie
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
