While our parents stoked the fires of justice, we fell asleep beside them
Sunday Tribune 26 October 2008
Two stories caught my eye last week. The first was about the cancellation of bus services to UCD because of violent behaviour by drunken students. The other told how education minister Batt O'Keeffe was attempting to lure Chinese students here with the offer of great opportunities in our universities.
What an excellent idea, I thought. If we fill our universities with young Chinese folk, they can show our lot how students should really behave. They could teach them how to be the architects of social change, as opposed to just being anti-social. China's students, after all, were responsible for sowing the seeds of democracy with their defiant stance in Tiananmen Square. Even the most belligerent Belfielder would admit that squaring up to a tank is more impressive than getting tanked-up and squaring up to a bus driver.
Also in Dublin last week, a young "protestor" was fined for causing €13,500 worth of graffiti damage. I'm calling him a "protestor" because protesting was generally the reason people sprayed graffiti when I was a teenager in the 1980s. What was the message he wrote? Brits Out? Say 'No' to Apartheid? Free Nicky Kelly (with every packet of cornflakes)?
No, it was 'Konk'.
That's right, 'Konk'.
'Konk' was his graffiti tag-name. So instead of making a controversial, witty or inspirational statement, he did the literary equivalent of jumping up and down and shouting 'Look at me!' The idiot.
While I was pondering the state of our not-so-disaffected youth, an old familiar voice was tuning up in the capital. It grew louder and louder and by Tuesday afternoon was soaring over the spire of St Andrew's Church, Westland Row, and out across the country. The battle cry of a generation had been recommissioned: 'We Shall Overcome', the pensioners sang, and the government trembled.
Then, like a clip around the ear, came the realisation who these angry old folk were. They were the generation who first manned the barricades in the golden era of protest, the 1960s.
These were the young people who marched for civil rights.
These were the angry young men who protested against Bloody Sunday and burned down the British Embassy.
These were the brave young women who defied church and state by bringing a train-load of contraceptives into our prudish Republic.
These were the people who filled the streets to protest against the cruel taxation system of the late 1970s.
These furious grey-hairs who besieged the Dáil on Wednesday were the people who taught my generation to fight for the underdog.
Stirred by their example, we supported the Dunnes Stores strikers in their stand against apartheid. We campaigned for nuclear disarmament and told Ronald Reagan to go home when he visited Ballyporeen.
We shouted 'stop' to the destruction of Wood Quay and followed Sean DBR Loftus as he tried to save Dublin Bay.
We marched, sat-in, fasted and signed miles of petitions in support of the oppressed – from El Salvador to Cambodia.
This era of protest peaked in 1985 when we raised our voices to demand employment at the Self Aid concert in the RDS.
And then, when we got what we wanted – the jobs, the prosperity – we fell asleep. We dozed off beside the fire instead of continuing to stoke it. We became complacent and let our leaders turn this country into a Nanny State. We became the 'Me Generation', obsessed with wealth and status. Those of us who entered politics helped consolidate this new materialism.
It has taken the pensioners of Ireland to smack some manners back into us. And we deserve their anger.
As I stood outside Leinster House on Wednesday and watched them spank the government, I felt ashamed of myself and my generation.
Instead of passing on what our parents taught us about caring for others, we showed the next generation only how to be consumers. We failed them.
At 2.30pm, the pensioners gave way to another army fired up by their actions.
The students had arrived. They had looked beyond my generation to our parents for leadership. They proved there's still hope for us.
Long live the Granny State.
dkenny@tribune.ie
October 26, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Would the real Gerry Ryan please sit down and think of others
David Kenny, Sunday Tribune, 19 October 2008
It was billed as "the most revealing showbiz book in decades" and that for two euro I could "read it here
first."
It promised to uncover the state's greatest "shock jock's" innermost secrets.
It offered "exclusive" extracts from 'Would the Real Gerry Ryan Please Stand Up'.
I was hooked from page one.
Ryan stretched the full length of the Mail on Sunday in a tuxedo, hand on hip, jacket thrown over shoulder. With those full lips of his he brought to mind Oscar Wilde doing a stint as a nightclub bouncer.
To his left were the headings: 'I know I drink too much', 'Why I lost out on millions','The truth about Pat Kenny'.
There were to be "warts and all" as we read about Ryan's "astonishing life" and "women". Would we please turn to pages 32 to 37?
Expectations were high. Would we hear the twang of knicker elastic in a broom cupboard? Or read of Keith Richards-like excesses?
Would we? Answer: "no".
The title of Ryan's autobiography echoes a song by Eminem. The newspaper article, however, was very 'slim' on anything 'shady' in his life.
We learned that Ryan drinks too much. "Enough to have you certified as a borderline alcoholic." Note 'borderline'. Here's a question: how many middle-aged Irishman DON'T drink too much?
We read about his compulsive obsession with rearranging the shirts in his wardrobe. Sex god David Beckham has the same problem although he rearranges soft drink cans. Unfortunately, there the comparison ends.
He spoke of the greatest experience he's had with drugs – they were diet pills.
He "revealed" his love of food and money. (Stop yawning.)
The "truth about Pat Kenny", by the way, was that Ryan believes he should be paid the same as him.
Oh, and he had a vasectomy (Ryan, not Kenny – that we know of).
So much for the feast of "outrageous" revelations. This was merely a puffed up soufflé that exhaled and died at the first prod of the spoon.
The truth about Ryan appears to be that he has led a relatively unshocking life. The paper gamely attempted to hype it up anyway. Here's an example: the headline stated 'My kids are great. They've seen their father drunk in his underpants, falling down and getting back up'.
What Ryan actually said in the piece below was: 'My children have seen their father in his underpants, drunk, (note commas) besuited and feted, celebrated, falling down and getting back up again'. This was an entirely more banal statement.
And that's exactly what these revelations were: banal. This was no full-frontal flash – just middle-aged belly-spread being stroked in a come-hither fashion.
The real revelation was the apparent extent of Ryan's ego and how he loves to indulge it.
His references to his wealth and how he likes to spend it were nauseating.
The 52-year-old – who was paid €100,000 for his memoirs – apparently spends so much he gets calls from his bank manager telling him he's overdrawn.
He spoke of his favourite sommelier (who's yours?) and how much he enjoys five star hotels and travelling first class – "that, my friends, is better than the 44A".
He told of ordering a €2,000 bottle of wine in a Paris restaurant that he thought was €200 euro. Only 200?
He told how he lost out on "millions" by not doing a deal with NewsTalk.
Then he referred to the moment, after interviewing rape victim Lavinia Kerwick, that he "became absolutely convinced that [he] was a significant figure".
Finally, the real Gerry Ryan had stood up. A self-indulgent, vulgar man, beloved by hundreds of thousands, but perhaps none more so than himself.
Today the listeners who pay his wages are feeling the pain of last week's budget. Ryan might like to remember that as he sips on his chilled Montrachet.
For my two euro I would have preferred less talk of Gerry in his jocks, a couple of decent shocks and for him to stop waving his wad in my face.
Would the real Gerry Ryan please sit down.
dkenny@tribune.ie
David Kenny, Sunday Tribune, 19 October 2008
It was billed as "the most revealing showbiz book in decades" and that for two euro I could "read it here
first."
It promised to uncover the state's greatest "shock jock's" innermost secrets.
It offered "exclusive" extracts from 'Would the Real Gerry Ryan Please Stand Up'.
I was hooked from page one.
Ryan stretched the full length of the Mail on Sunday in a tuxedo, hand on hip, jacket thrown over shoulder. With those full lips of his he brought to mind Oscar Wilde doing a stint as a nightclub bouncer.
To his left were the headings: 'I know I drink too much', 'Why I lost out on millions','The truth about Pat Kenny'.
There were to be "warts and all" as we read about Ryan's "astonishing life" and "women". Would we please turn to pages 32 to 37?
Expectations were high. Would we hear the twang of knicker elastic in a broom cupboard? Or read of Keith Richards-like excesses?
Would we? Answer: "no".
The title of Ryan's autobiography echoes a song by Eminem. The newspaper article, however, was very 'slim' on anything 'shady' in his life.
We learned that Ryan drinks too much. "Enough to have you certified as a borderline alcoholic." Note 'borderline'. Here's a question: how many middle-aged Irishman DON'T drink too much?
We read about his compulsive obsession with rearranging the shirts in his wardrobe. Sex god David Beckham has the same problem although he rearranges soft drink cans. Unfortunately, there the comparison ends.
He spoke of the greatest experience he's had with drugs – they were diet pills.
He "revealed" his love of food and money. (Stop yawning.)
The "truth about Pat Kenny", by the way, was that Ryan believes he should be paid the same as him.
Oh, and he had a vasectomy (Ryan, not Kenny – that we know of).
So much for the feast of "outrageous" revelations. This was merely a puffed up soufflé that exhaled and died at the first prod of the spoon.
The truth about Ryan appears to be that he has led a relatively unshocking life. The paper gamely attempted to hype it up anyway. Here's an example: the headline stated 'My kids are great. They've seen their father drunk in his underpants, falling down and getting back up'.
What Ryan actually said in the piece below was: 'My children have seen their father in his underpants, drunk, (note commas) besuited and feted, celebrated, falling down and getting back up again'. This was an entirely more banal statement.
And that's exactly what these revelations were: banal. This was no full-frontal flash – just middle-aged belly-spread being stroked in a come-hither fashion.
The real revelation was the apparent extent of Ryan's ego and how he loves to indulge it.
His references to his wealth and how he likes to spend it were nauseating.
The 52-year-old – who was paid €100,000 for his memoirs – apparently spends so much he gets calls from his bank manager telling him he's overdrawn.
He spoke of his favourite sommelier (who's yours?) and how much he enjoys five star hotels and travelling first class – "that, my friends, is better than the 44A".
He told of ordering a €2,000 bottle of wine in a Paris restaurant that he thought was €200 euro. Only 200?
He told how he lost out on "millions" by not doing a deal with NewsTalk.
Then he referred to the moment, after interviewing rape victim Lavinia Kerwick, that he "became absolutely convinced that [he] was a significant figure".
Finally, the real Gerry Ryan had stood up. A self-indulgent, vulgar man, beloved by hundreds of thousands, but perhaps none more so than himself.
Today the listeners who pay his wages are feeling the pain of last week's budget. Ryan might like to remember that as he sips on his chilled Montrachet.
For my two euro I would have preferred less talk of Gerry in his jocks, a couple of decent shocks and for him to stop waving his wad in my face.
Would the real Gerry Ryan please sit down.
dkenny@tribune.ie
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
No 17 Erindipity Does Cork
Biggest county for being better than Dublin (whether it is or isn't)
LAST week this column received a nice email from a reader in Cork. Dave McArdle is his name and he hosts a radio show on RED FM.
Dave asked if we'd put together a special Erindipity Does Cork Miscellany for his listeners, which we are more than happy to do. To the rest of you non-Corkers, we say, please read on as we hope you'll find a ramble around the Rebel County invigorating. Let's get started with the . . .
Eight reasons why Cork is better than Dublin
>> Cork has more vineyards than Dublin.
>> Cork gave the world the name of one of its greatest revolutionaries. Ernesto Guevara took the nickname 'Che' after watching Cork characters 'Cha' and Miah on Hall's Pictorial Weekly. True story.
>> Cork is a bigger county than Dublin.
>> Michael Collins was a Corkman, not a Dub.
>> Michael Collins was shot in Cork, not Dublin.
>> Cork has the widest trees.
>> A Corkwoman once rogered the king of France.
>> Cork has more muck millionaires than Dublin.
Best place for making muck out of brass
Before we get to that, let's explain a couple of things. Ireland's widest tree is a Monterey Cypress (12.05m wide by 27.5m) and can be found in Innishannon, Co Cork.
The tallest tree in the country is a 56m high Douglas Fir in Co Wicklow. Douglas is also a place in Cork. Is this a coincidence? (Yes. ) Cork has three vineyards (Blackwater Valley, Longueville House and Thomas Walk) while Dublin has one, Fruit of the Vine.
Corkwoman Marie-Louise O'Murphy (1737 . . . 1814) was King Louis XV's mistress for two years.
Now back to the muck and brass.
One Cork company loves its home province so much that it's exporting it to America.
Crookstown firm, The Auld Sod Export Co. , is getting filthy rich shipping Irish muck to the yanks for $15 a bag. The 340grm packs are sealed for "freshness". Well you wouldn't want your muck to be 'off ', would you?
When the business started in 2006, one 87-year-old ex-pat snapped up $100,000 worth to fill his American grave. Another spent $148,000 on . seven tons to spread under the house he was building in Massachusetts.
The company's website is currently offering four bags of Official Irish Dirt, four bags of Shamrock Seeds and free shipping . . . for only $20. What are you waiting for?
There's a typically Cork twist to this enterprise. Where do they get the muck from? Tipperary.
Exporting their county is one way of avoiding the Tipp boys in hurling, we suppose.
Better for being older than Dublin
According to legend, Cork was established in the 7th century when St Finbarr kicked a huge serpent out of the Lee and set up a monastery. This makes it older, and therefore, better than Dublin which was founded in 988. The serpent yarn is rubbish of course.
Everybody knows St Patrick got rid of them in the 400s.
Best name for a rebel county
The name 'Cork' derives from 'Corcach mor Mumhan' which means the 'big marsh of Munster'. This explains why 'Mallow' is in Cork.
Cork is also known as the 'Rebel County'. This is because the inhabitants have been giving stick to outsiders for centuries, long before Mick Collins did.
One theory is that the county got its name in 1603 when Cork's leading Catholics refused to accept James I as king. The lovely Lord Mountjoy stamped out the revolt. Mountjoy, by the way, was named after a jail in Dublin.
Interesting fact: Cork harbour is the second largest natural one in the world after Sydney. This means that it's better than anything the dockers of Dublin have ever worked on. Also, as Sydney is very, very far away, Cork harbour is better than that too.
Tallest building
The tallest building in the Republic is the Cork County Hall (67m). Liberty Hall is only 59.4m. Dublin does have the tallest sculpture though (the Spire at 120m). Mind you it's a hell of a lot uglier than the Ballycrovane stone in Co Cork, which is the tallest Ogham standing stone in Europe (5.2m). If that doesn't impress you then Cork has the longest building in the country . . . the former Eglinton Lunatic Asylum.
It was built with long, long corridors so the loonies would never have to go around the bend.
Best place to go to the loo
In 2002 the VHI hosted a beauty contest . . . to find Ireland's loveliest public loo. This was part of a bladder control awareness campaign, although you'd want to be pretty dopey not to be aware that your bladder's out of control.
To win the 2,000 prize all you had to do was submit a photo of your town toilet's interior and exterior.
Let's reflect here for a moment on the bravery of the photographers who stood inside their public loos taking photographs ("no really, officer, it's for the Top Toilet competition").
Naturally, Cork won and the best place for a wee is Gougane Barra.
Interesting fact: Traditional Cork food consists of tripe, drisheen and crubeens. That's a combination of stomachs, guts, blood and pig's trotters. Anyone who can stomach a foot which has spent all of its life caked in pig poo is some man. Or a foot fetishist.
Best Place to survive a nuclear attack?
During the '70s west Cork was invaded by continental hippies who believed it would be the safest place on earth to survive a nuclear holocaust. Word had gone out on the hippy wire that Ballydehob's latitudinal/longitudinal coordinates,
51 33 45 N and 9 28 38 W, rendered it immune to fallout-carrying winds.
What the hippies didn't know was that down the road, UCC was storing 2.5 tonnes of uranium and a so-called "student training reactor". In 1980 energy minister George Colley told the Dail that "the sub-critical device" was acquired under a "grant provided by the government of the United States of America".
Students? Uranium? Rag week?
God help us.
Interesting Cork slang fact: Bernhard Langer is not an affliction of the trouser department caused by chaffing.
10 of the best Corkonians
>> Sir John Arnott . . . famous businessman who owned Arnotts Department Store in Dublin.
>> Thomas Croke . . . Archbishop of Cashel who has a stadium named after him in Dublin.
>> Sir Hugh Lane . . . patron of arts whose gallery is in . . . Dublin
>> Gerald Goldberg . . . made first Jewish lord mayor in 1977 . . . 21 years after Robert Briscoe was made first Jewish mayor of Dublin.
>> William Annyas . . . first ever Jewish mayor in Ireland, when he became top dog of Youghal in 1555. The last Jew to become mayor in Ireland was Ben Briscoe . . . in Dublin.
>> Jack Lynch . . . taoiseach whose day job was in Dublin.
>> Sam Maguire . . . GAA man whose trophy is awarded in Dublin every year.
>> Sean Og O hAilpin . . . Cork hurler (from Fiji).
>> Rory Gallagher . . . Cork musician (from Donegal).
>> Eddie Hobbs . . . Cork TV personality.
Definitely not from Dublin: we don't want him.
A final clatter of Cork facts
There's a Cork Street in Dublin, but no Dublin Street in Cork.
The first Turkish Delight chocolate was made in Cobh, County Cork, by the Hadji Bey company in the 1890s.
The tallest Irishman ever, Patrick Cotter O'Brien (1760-1806), was born in Kinsale. He measured 8ft 1in (2.46m).
Elizabeth St Leger of Doneraile Court, Cork became Ireland's only ever female Freemason in 1712. She was forced to join after eavesdropping on a ceremony through a hole in the wall of her family home. Some masons, leaving a hole in the masonry like that.
In the 17th century Baltimore was famous for having the biggest Curry House in Ireland, which is where it gets its name from (Baile an Balti Mor).
And finally . . .
If that lot doesn't satisfy the Leesiders, they can stick a Cork in it.
LAST week this column received a nice email from a reader in Cork. Dave McArdle is his name and he hosts a radio show on RED FM.
Dave asked if we'd put together a special Erindipity Does Cork Miscellany for his listeners, which we are more than happy to do. To the rest of you non-Corkers, we say, please read on as we hope you'll find a ramble around the Rebel County invigorating. Let's get started with the . . .
Eight reasons why Cork is better than Dublin
>> Cork has more vineyards than Dublin.
>> Cork gave the world the name of one of its greatest revolutionaries. Ernesto Guevara took the nickname 'Che' after watching Cork characters 'Cha' and Miah on Hall's Pictorial Weekly. True story.
>> Cork is a bigger county than Dublin.
>> Michael Collins was a Corkman, not a Dub.
>> Michael Collins was shot in Cork, not Dublin.
>> Cork has the widest trees.
>> A Corkwoman once rogered the king of France.
>> Cork has more muck millionaires than Dublin.
Best place for making muck out of brass
Before we get to that, let's explain a couple of things. Ireland's widest tree is a Monterey Cypress (12.05m wide by 27.5m) and can be found in Innishannon, Co Cork.
The tallest tree in the country is a 56m high Douglas Fir in Co Wicklow. Douglas is also a place in Cork. Is this a coincidence? (Yes. ) Cork has three vineyards (Blackwater Valley, Longueville House and Thomas Walk) while Dublin has one, Fruit of the Vine.
Corkwoman Marie-Louise O'Murphy (1737 . . . 1814) was King Louis XV's mistress for two years.
Now back to the muck and brass.
One Cork company loves its home province so much that it's exporting it to America.
Crookstown firm, The Auld Sod Export Co. , is getting filthy rich shipping Irish muck to the yanks for $15 a bag. The 340grm packs are sealed for "freshness". Well you wouldn't want your muck to be 'off ', would you?
When the business started in 2006, one 87-year-old ex-pat snapped up $100,000 worth to fill his American grave. Another spent $148,000 on . seven tons to spread under the house he was building in Massachusetts.
The company's website is currently offering four bags of Official Irish Dirt, four bags of Shamrock Seeds and free shipping . . . for only $20. What are you waiting for?
There's a typically Cork twist to this enterprise. Where do they get the muck from? Tipperary.
Exporting their county is one way of avoiding the Tipp boys in hurling, we suppose.
Better for being older than Dublin
According to legend, Cork was established in the 7th century when St Finbarr kicked a huge serpent out of the Lee and set up a monastery. This makes it older, and therefore, better than Dublin which was founded in 988. The serpent yarn is rubbish of course.
Everybody knows St Patrick got rid of them in the 400s.
Best name for a rebel county
The name 'Cork' derives from 'Corcach mor Mumhan' which means the 'big marsh of Munster'. This explains why 'Mallow' is in Cork.
Cork is also known as the 'Rebel County'. This is because the inhabitants have been giving stick to outsiders for centuries, long before Mick Collins did.
One theory is that the county got its name in 1603 when Cork's leading Catholics refused to accept James I as king. The lovely Lord Mountjoy stamped out the revolt. Mountjoy, by the way, was named after a jail in Dublin.
Interesting fact: Cork harbour is the second largest natural one in the world after Sydney. This means that it's better than anything the dockers of Dublin have ever worked on. Also, as Sydney is very, very far away, Cork harbour is better than that too.
Tallest building
The tallest building in the Republic is the Cork County Hall (67m). Liberty Hall is only 59.4m. Dublin does have the tallest sculpture though (the Spire at 120m). Mind you it's a hell of a lot uglier than the Ballycrovane stone in Co Cork, which is the tallest Ogham standing stone in Europe (5.2m). If that doesn't impress you then Cork has the longest building in the country . . . the former Eglinton Lunatic Asylum.
It was built with long, long corridors so the loonies would never have to go around the bend.
Best place to go to the loo
In 2002 the VHI hosted a beauty contest . . . to find Ireland's loveliest public loo. This was part of a bladder control awareness campaign, although you'd want to be pretty dopey not to be aware that your bladder's out of control.
To win the 2,000 prize all you had to do was submit a photo of your town toilet's interior and exterior.
Let's reflect here for a moment on the bravery of the photographers who stood inside their public loos taking photographs ("no really, officer, it's for the Top Toilet competition").
Naturally, Cork won and the best place for a wee is Gougane Barra.
Interesting fact: Traditional Cork food consists of tripe, drisheen and crubeens. That's a combination of stomachs, guts, blood and pig's trotters. Anyone who can stomach a foot which has spent all of its life caked in pig poo is some man. Or a foot fetishist.
Best Place to survive a nuclear attack?
During the '70s west Cork was invaded by continental hippies who believed it would be the safest place on earth to survive a nuclear holocaust. Word had gone out on the hippy wire that Ballydehob's latitudinal/longitudinal coordinates,
51 33 45 N and 9 28 38 W, rendered it immune to fallout-carrying winds.
What the hippies didn't know was that down the road, UCC was storing 2.5 tonnes of uranium and a so-called "student training reactor". In 1980 energy minister George Colley told the Dail that "the sub-critical device" was acquired under a "grant provided by the government of the United States of America".
Students? Uranium? Rag week?
God help us.
Interesting Cork slang fact: Bernhard Langer is not an affliction of the trouser department caused by chaffing.
10 of the best Corkonians
>> Sir John Arnott . . . famous businessman who owned Arnotts Department Store in Dublin.
>> Thomas Croke . . . Archbishop of Cashel who has a stadium named after him in Dublin.
>> Sir Hugh Lane . . . patron of arts whose gallery is in . . . Dublin
>> Gerald Goldberg . . . made first Jewish lord mayor in 1977 . . . 21 years after Robert Briscoe was made first Jewish mayor of Dublin.
>> William Annyas . . . first ever Jewish mayor in Ireland, when he became top dog of Youghal in 1555. The last Jew to become mayor in Ireland was Ben Briscoe . . . in Dublin.
>> Jack Lynch . . . taoiseach whose day job was in Dublin.
>> Sam Maguire . . . GAA man whose trophy is awarded in Dublin every year.
>> Sean Og O hAilpin . . . Cork hurler (from Fiji).
>> Rory Gallagher . . . Cork musician (from Donegal).
>> Eddie Hobbs . . . Cork TV personality.
Definitely not from Dublin: we don't want him.
A final clatter of Cork facts
There's a Cork Street in Dublin, but no Dublin Street in Cork.
The first Turkish Delight chocolate was made in Cobh, County Cork, by the Hadji Bey company in the 1890s.
The tallest Irishman ever, Patrick Cotter O'Brien (1760-1806), was born in Kinsale. He measured 8ft 1in (2.46m).
Elizabeth St Leger of Doneraile Court, Cork became Ireland's only ever female Freemason in 1712. She was forced to join after eavesdropping on a ceremony through a hole in the wall of her family home. Some masons, leaving a hole in the masonry like that.
In the 17th century Baltimore was famous for having the biggest Curry House in Ireland, which is where it gets its name from (Baile an Balti Mor).
And finally . . .
If that lot doesn't satisfy the Leesiders, they can stick a Cork in it.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
No 9 Most Embarrassing Moments
Sunday Tribune, 20 January 2008
There are two types of person in the world: those who get embarrassed and those who do not.
Actually, that’s not true. There are loads of other types of person in the world, but this week we’re just concentrating on the aforementioned type.
This is due to the convergence of two recent events in our shrivelled brain. The first was the settling of clothes-maker Karen Millen’s case with Dunnes over the copying of her designs. The second was the fresh horse manure being spread at the Mahon Tribunal.
(Please keep reading – this isn’t about Tribunals.)
We’ll come to Karen Millen later, but for now let’s consider Mahon where, on Tuesday, lobbyist Frank Dunlop claimed he had paid trainer Jim Bolger the equivalent of €200,000 for a share of a horse in 1992.
The nag, which Dunlop had never seen, died before it could be registered and never had a name, passport or insurance. Remarkably, Dunlop didn’t ask for his money back and forgot about the affair until questioned by the tribunal. He denies giving money to Bolger for “onward transmission” to someone else, or of using him to facilitate a payment to someone else.
Judge Mahon was unimpressed and said he was making the horse story up, yet thick-necked Dunlop ploughed on, proving that he falls into the Impossible to Embarrass category.
Erindipity does not and is regularly embarrassed by our own behaviour.
And so, for your delectation, here is a selection of Most Embarrassing Moments, beginning with yours truly in a Dalkey restaurant.
Most red-faced Indians
Several years ago we found ourselves nursing a heavy cold and grimly celebrating our birthday in the Al Minar Tandoori. The Family had decided spicy food would unclog our nasal passages, which it did, and after the main course we went to the loo to blow our hooter.
Turning our nose up at the sandpapery bog roll, we grabbed a fistful of soft paper hand towels, and after a few blows had cleared our head. Relieved, we flushed the lav which immediately backed up as the towels had absorbed so much water they were the size of extra-large Pampers. We waited for the cistern to fill again and the water level to drop.
And waited and waited. Five minutes later sufficient water had dripped into the cistern to allow another flush.
Still the towels refused to budge. So we waited again on the pathetic cistern. And waited and waited. As this was the restaurant’s only men’s toilet, we began to panic, imagining that someone might be waiting outside for almost 10 minutes now.
Again we flushed to no effect and panic turned us into a sweaty ball of rage, waving our fist at the loo, kicking it and swearing (as quietly as possible) that we’d “f******g get you, you b*****d.”.
We lifted the lid of the cistern and yanked the ball-cock in an attempt to make the water flow faster, which it did and continued to do, as we stood with the broken implement in our hand, mouthing “oh my God oh my God” like a religious goldfish.
Over 15 minutes had elapsed when we returned to the table. There had been nobody waiting outside the bog and no-one to point the finger of blame at the perspiring madman who had, evidently, broken the loo after a quarter hour spent dealing with the effects of his vindaloo. We were in the clear.
“Cleared my nose,” we said to the our guests, as the strains of “Happy Birthday to you” started up behind us. Several red-faced Indian gentlemen surrounded the table, one carrying a cake with almost-spent candles.
“They’ve been waiting for 15 minutes for you to come out of the loo,” Mrs Erindipity whispered.
We never went back.
Most purple-faced Bishop
In 2006 the C of E Bishop of Southwark appeared at Mass sporting a black eye after being mugged following a drinks reception at the Irish embassy in London.
The Bishop had told police and his flock that he had been robbed after two hours drinking wine with the Paddies, but didn’t remember the incident.
Others did, however – much to his embarrassment.
According to witnesses the Bishop ended up in a lane near his cathedral where he climbed into a stranger’s Merc, setting off the alarm.When the owner came to investigate he found the robed Bishop sitting in the back, throwing toys out on to the road. The incident was to provide the classic definition of a Bishop’s job.
“What are you doing in my car?” the owner demanded.
“I’m the Bishop of Southwark,” the figure haughtily replied, adding helpfully, “it’s what I do.”
Most embarrassing line for an actress
Victoria Smurfit must have been transfigured with delight when she learned that she was going to act alongside Leonardo di Caprio in the movie ‘The Beach’. It was an experience she would never forget (however hard she tried).
The trade-off for acting with Leo was that she had to recite the worst line in a movie ever.
In the scene where his character is about to go ashore to get rice, Leo is inundated with requests for sundry items.
“New shorts and a new hat,” says one hairy chap.
“Bleach,” says a dyed blonde.
“Toothpaste,” says another hirsute islander.
And then it’s Victoria’s turn.
“Aspirin, paracetamol and,” she says, breathlessly, “six boxes of tampons.”
Interestingly, the movie was never billed as a ‘period drama’.
Least red-faced Rose
The Rose of Tralee regularly throws up (pun intended) a few moments of arch-squirminess among the regular squirminess we have become used to. In 2007 the Washington contestant surpassed all expectations and proved that it’s impossible to embarrass a Rose when she sang the alphabet backwards and spoke, onstage, to her mother in her own made-up language called ‘Op’.
Rose? Pricks? Construct your own gag.
Most embarrassing fashion moment
Finally we get to the previously mentioned Karen Millen story.
Last Christmas our good friend Dominick Lewis traipsed into Brown Thomas’s to buy his fiancée a pashmina. Dom, being a man’s man, knew that this was not a breed of dog, but was still unsure of what he was buying. After 20 minutes wandering around he eventually found the relevant department. Two assistants stood by the cash desk chatting as he fumbled through the rails. Eventually he gave up and approached them.
“I’m looking for a pashmina,” he said to Assistant One, “but I don’t know anything about them. Can you help me pick one out?”
“Certainly sir,” replied the lady, turning to her left, “This here is [italics] Karen Millen [close italics] . . .”
“Hello, Karen,” said Dominick to her colleague, “I’m looking to buy a pashmina for my fiancée . . .”
Most embarrassing jockey moment
Roger Loughran stood tall in the stirrups of Central House at the end of the Dial-A-Bet Chase at Leopardstown in 2005. He waved his whip at the grandstand and punched the air.
Roger had just turned professional and couldn’t contain himself after scoring his first Grade One victory. His joy was unbridled.
There was just one problem – he still had 80m to race. The hapless jock had mistaken the end of a running rail for the winning post, and as he slowed down two other riders galloped past, relegating him to third place. The crowd booed and he was, rightly, mortified.
His remains the second most incredible story about a man and a horse ever told.
So what’s the difference between Roger and Frank Dunlop?
One’s a jockey getting it in the neck for acting the b****x, while the other’s a man with a neck like a jockey’s etc, etc, etc . . .
There are two types of person in the world: those who get embarrassed and those who do not.
Actually, that’s not true. There are loads of other types of person in the world, but this week we’re just concentrating on the aforementioned type.
This is due to the convergence of two recent events in our shrivelled brain. The first was the settling of clothes-maker Karen Millen’s case with Dunnes over the copying of her designs. The second was the fresh horse manure being spread at the Mahon Tribunal.
(Please keep reading – this isn’t about Tribunals.)
We’ll come to Karen Millen later, but for now let’s consider Mahon where, on Tuesday, lobbyist Frank Dunlop claimed he had paid trainer Jim Bolger the equivalent of €200,000 for a share of a horse in 1992.
The nag, which Dunlop had never seen, died before it could be registered and never had a name, passport or insurance. Remarkably, Dunlop didn’t ask for his money back and forgot about the affair until questioned by the tribunal. He denies giving money to Bolger for “onward transmission” to someone else, or of using him to facilitate a payment to someone else.
Judge Mahon was unimpressed and said he was making the horse story up, yet thick-necked Dunlop ploughed on, proving that he falls into the Impossible to Embarrass category.
Erindipity does not and is regularly embarrassed by our own behaviour.
And so, for your delectation, here is a selection of Most Embarrassing Moments, beginning with yours truly in a Dalkey restaurant.
Most red-faced Indians
Several years ago we found ourselves nursing a heavy cold and grimly celebrating our birthday in the Al Minar Tandoori. The Family had decided spicy food would unclog our nasal passages, which it did, and after the main course we went to the loo to blow our hooter.
Turning our nose up at the sandpapery bog roll, we grabbed a fistful of soft paper hand towels, and after a few blows had cleared our head. Relieved, we flushed the lav which immediately backed up as the towels had absorbed so much water they were the size of extra-large Pampers. We waited for the cistern to fill again and the water level to drop.
And waited and waited. Five minutes later sufficient water had dripped into the cistern to allow another flush.
Still the towels refused to budge. So we waited again on the pathetic cistern. And waited and waited. As this was the restaurant’s only men’s toilet, we began to panic, imagining that someone might be waiting outside for almost 10 minutes now.
Again we flushed to no effect and panic turned us into a sweaty ball of rage, waving our fist at the loo, kicking it and swearing (as quietly as possible) that we’d “f******g get you, you b*****d.”.
We lifted the lid of the cistern and yanked the ball-cock in an attempt to make the water flow faster, which it did and continued to do, as we stood with the broken implement in our hand, mouthing “oh my God oh my God” like a religious goldfish.
Over 15 minutes had elapsed when we returned to the table. There had been nobody waiting outside the bog and no-one to point the finger of blame at the perspiring madman who had, evidently, broken the loo after a quarter hour spent dealing with the effects of his vindaloo. We were in the clear.
“Cleared my nose,” we said to the our guests, as the strains of “Happy Birthday to you” started up behind us. Several red-faced Indian gentlemen surrounded the table, one carrying a cake with almost-spent candles.
“They’ve been waiting for 15 minutes for you to come out of the loo,” Mrs Erindipity whispered.
We never went back.
Most purple-faced Bishop
In 2006 the C of E Bishop of Southwark appeared at Mass sporting a black eye after being mugged following a drinks reception at the Irish embassy in London.
The Bishop had told police and his flock that he had been robbed after two hours drinking wine with the Paddies, but didn’t remember the incident.
Others did, however – much to his embarrassment.
According to witnesses the Bishop ended up in a lane near his cathedral where he climbed into a stranger’s Merc, setting off the alarm.When the owner came to investigate he found the robed Bishop sitting in the back, throwing toys out on to the road. The incident was to provide the classic definition of a Bishop’s job.
“What are you doing in my car?” the owner demanded.
“I’m the Bishop of Southwark,” the figure haughtily replied, adding helpfully, “it’s what I do.”
Most embarrassing line for an actress
Victoria Smurfit must have been transfigured with delight when she learned that she was going to act alongside Leonardo di Caprio in the movie ‘The Beach’. It was an experience she would never forget (however hard she tried).
The trade-off for acting with Leo was that she had to recite the worst line in a movie ever.
In the scene where his character is about to go ashore to get rice, Leo is inundated with requests for sundry items.
“New shorts and a new hat,” says one hairy chap.
“Bleach,” says a dyed blonde.
“Toothpaste,” says another hirsute islander.
And then it’s Victoria’s turn.
“Aspirin, paracetamol and,” she says, breathlessly, “six boxes of tampons.”
Interestingly, the movie was never billed as a ‘period drama’.
Least red-faced Rose
The Rose of Tralee regularly throws up (pun intended) a few moments of arch-squirminess among the regular squirminess we have become used to. In 2007 the Washington contestant surpassed all expectations and proved that it’s impossible to embarrass a Rose when she sang the alphabet backwards and spoke, onstage, to her mother in her own made-up language called ‘Op’.
Rose? Pricks? Construct your own gag.
Most embarrassing fashion moment
Finally we get to the previously mentioned Karen Millen story.
Last Christmas our good friend Dominick Lewis traipsed into Brown Thomas’s to buy his fiancée a pashmina. Dom, being a man’s man, knew that this was not a breed of dog, but was still unsure of what he was buying. After 20 minutes wandering around he eventually found the relevant department. Two assistants stood by the cash desk chatting as he fumbled through the rails. Eventually he gave up and approached them.
“I’m looking for a pashmina,” he said to Assistant One, “but I don’t know anything about them. Can you help me pick one out?”
“Certainly sir,” replied the lady, turning to her left, “This here is [italics] Karen Millen [close italics] . . .”
“Hello, Karen,” said Dominick to her colleague, “I’m looking to buy a pashmina for my fiancée . . .”
Most embarrassing jockey moment
Roger Loughran stood tall in the stirrups of Central House at the end of the Dial-A-Bet Chase at Leopardstown in 2005. He waved his whip at the grandstand and punched the air.
Roger had just turned professional and couldn’t contain himself after scoring his first Grade One victory. His joy was unbridled.
There was just one problem – he still had 80m to race. The hapless jock had mistaken the end of a running rail for the winning post, and as he slowed down two other riders galloped past, relegating him to third place. The crowd booed and he was, rightly, mortified.
His remains the second most incredible story about a man and a horse ever told.
So what’s the difference between Roger and Frank Dunlop?
One’s a jockey getting it in the neck for acting the b****x, while the other’s a man with a neck like a jockey’s etc, etc, etc . . .
Monday, January 14, 2008
No 8: Ireland’s Fittest Corpse
Sunday Tribune January 13
"You are a bloated, disgusting, fat pig."
Erindipity never had a problem with being called the above as a tweenager. None whatsoever.
We did, however, have a problem with being called a "skinny, wimpy, little git" as this was an accurate description of a boy with pipe-cleaner legs, who was regularly bullied by butterflies and wore a crash helmet when it snowed.
Our pathetic physique was due to our habit of hiding food, particularly at breakfast time. School mornings began with Weetabix and hot milk. We really liked Weetabix with hot milk, but for some still mysterious reason, we felt compelled to stir it and stir it until it became a disgusting, dung-coloured emulsion. Even though we knew we were turning our favourite breakfast the consistency of cat puke, we couldn’t help it. We had to see if we could get all the lumps out (which we never did). Then we couldn’t eat it
Stuffing the bowl inside our pyjamas, we would sneak upstairs to the bathroom to hide the evidence of food-wasting.
Over time we discovered that flushing Weetabix down the loo was a non-runner as – due to its high-fibre content – it floated. Also, if any stuck to the side, it hardened like cement.
So we threw it out the window.
This practice continued for a number of years, until a man who had been painting the outside of the house asked our mum if she had been keeping cows on the garage roof.
"No. Why?"
"It’s covered in cow s***te, missus."
Another breakfast time ‘yeuch’ was eggs fried in the dripping she collected in an enamel bowl in the fridge. This would be added to over the course of many Sunday lunches and the only way of gauging its age was by slicing it in half and counting the rings. Depending on who was frying them, the eggs would variously arrive hard and shrivelled or runny and covered in burnt black fat. Either way, they tasted of beef.
These were secreted in various places downstairs: behind curtains, in the coal scuttle, in the cistern . . . One day our dad – who was an occasional golfer – pulled out his six iron and sent a petrified fried egg frisbee-ing across the fairway. He later discovered three more fossilised eggs clinging to his clubs.
Curiously, he didn’t give out, perhaps because he was too afraid to ask why his weirdo son was hiding fried eggs in his golf bag.
School lunches went uneaten too, due to a love/hate relationship with garlic salami sandwiches (our mum loved making them/we hated eating them).
As a result of this lack of eating we grew up looking like the pull-through they clean rifles with, and the butt of the usual ‘skinny’ jokes.
We mention all this here in the context of last Monday’s ‘Future Shock: Fat Nation’ programme on RTE, where we were told that 25pc of Irish boys and 30pc of girls are overweight.
The reason for this, we believe, is prosperity. Parents have more cash now, so they give their children more pocket money, which they spend on chips/burgers etc. We’re not saying this is a bad thing, it’s just that the pre-Boom generation would never have dreamed of spending their meagre money on food. That was something your mum gave you for free at meal-times. If you didn’t eat it, you went hungry.
If there’s one flaw in the current status quo, it’s that many parents spoil their offspring because they feel guilty about both having to work to pay for the mortgage. As a result Ireland’s latch-key kids are now a crowd of lard-arses.
With this body-consciousness in mind, this week we went in search of Ireland’s Skinniest Schoolboy (see above) and Fattest Man and, to our delight, discovered Ireland’s Fittest Corpse into the bargain.
Ireland’s Fattest Man
Roger Byrne, from Co Laois may or may not have been fond of his butter, but he weighed the equivalent of 728 pounds of Kerrygold (52 stone) when he wobbled off this mortal coil aged 54 in 1808.
If you have problems visualising 52 stone, then consider that Roger was over four times as heavy as Asha, the baby elephant born in Dublin Zoo four months ago (168 pounds).
As if being chronically fat wasn’t bad enough, the Laoisman was also named after the mark you get if you have sex up against a radiator.
Now let’s meet . . .
Ireland’s Strongest Man
There is an old 1950s reel in the Pathe News archive, filmed in a London gym, which begins with a shot of a man cleaning his teeth. He then bites the rung of a chair on which a girl is sitting, and lifts it off the floor, twirling it around. In another scene he lifts a weight with the girl seated on it and two young men perched on either end.
The doughty chap is Kerryman Michael ‘Butty’ Sugrue (1924/1977), a Kilburn Landlord who was the strongest man in Europe in his day.
Despite being a short-arse, Butty once pulled a fully loaded bus through the streets with his teeth.
On one occasion he got a former world champion boxer to use his stomach as a punch bag after lifting two men, tied together, over his head and spinning them around.
Another favourite trick was to tie a rope around himself and get six men to try and pull him over. They never did.
Butty was also a boxing promoter and responsible for bringing Muhammad Ali over to fight in Croke Park in 1972. To do this, he took Ali’s promoter around to meet his bank manager, who said Butty was "good for the $300,000" needed to stage the bout. The deal was settled on a handshake.
Those exploits aside, Butty is included here because of the singular diet he invented in 1968, when he decided to bury one of his barmen alive.
Mike Meaney was 33 when Butty planted him in a coffin nine feet under in the garden of the Admiral Nelson as a publicity stunt. For 61 days, Meaney – who was buried with some books and a torch – breathed through a hosepipe. For his daily sustenance, Butty fed him 1,000 calories of liquid food, plus Guinness, pumped through another pipe.
On the day he was due to be dug up, a huge crowd gathered to watch eight Paddies working away their shovels, to the strains of the London Irish Girl Pipers.
As the coffin began to emerge, Butty (never one to miss an opportunity) was the first to tell the BBC – and all of England – “we have him lads!”
After 15 minutes Mike rose from the grave wearing green pyjamas, sunglasses and clutching a crucifix. For a former grave-dweller, he looked remarkably fit and trim due to Butty’s Underground Diet.
Perhaps Butty’s diet may be the solution to dealing with today’s chip-gorging piglets – ground them and feed them through a hose.
Or perhaps not.
At any rate, it’s worth pointing out that – despite years of honing his superb physique – it was food that killed poor Butty in the end.
He collapsed carrying a fridge up the stairs.
So maybe this fitness thing is over-rated.
Chip Butty, anyone?
Monday, January 7, 2008
No 6: Worst excuse for dinner being late
Sunday Tribune December 30
DEAR reader, You are cordially invited to 'Erindipity's Ultimate Christmas Dinner' on 30 December, 2007. We would have sent this sooner but the cat ate the postman and . . . we, er, this, kind of . . . got lost?
We apologise. That was the Third Worst Excuse for Dinner Being Late.
The Second Worst Excuse is that John Boyne took over the Review section last week and we were all given the weekend off, so that's why our Christmas dinner is late.
Please join us now for our festive miscellany, which uses only the most outstanding ingredients. (We've written about some of these before, but they're worth reheating. ) For starters, may we offer you a seafood salad containing the world's . . .
Most confused prawn
In February 2007 a giant Japanese Tiger Prawn was found in the nets of a west Cork fishing boat. The shellfish is normally found in the Pacific Ocean and its presence here prompted fears of an invasion, which so far hasn't materialised.
A spokesperson for the Department of the Marine said they believed the 'prawn star' (as the saucy Irish Times called it) is not right in the head and simply decided to go 'swimabout'.
"The prawn's crackers, " the official said. Actually, that's a really lousy joke so we'll have another go at it.
"The prawn's Christmas crackers, " the official said. Nope, that's even worse, so we'll move on to the soup course which features the . . .
Best soup for killing you
Sorry, but you'll have to wait until after dessert for this. This will make sense later, so let's speed along to Co Cavan for the turkey course which will be served in the . . .
Best place for Christmas dinner if you're in a hurry
Cootehill is the home of the exceptional Vincent Pilkington. On 17 November 1980, Vincent became the fastest turkey plucker on the planet when he stripped a 16lb bird in one minute and 30 seconds. Vincent became something of a superstar in Co Cavan after his feat was televised by RTE. Yes, well, apart from The Angelus and re-runs of Mannix, there wasn't much else on the telly back in the '80s.
Plucky Vincent officially defeathered his last turkey in Bailieboro in December 2005. At the time of his retirement he could still handle an average of 16 birds an hour, making him the Jack Nicholson of the poultry world. Speaking of hams, how about a portion of the . . .
Most well-informed pigs
On New Year's Day 2003 new EU directives were introduced to keep our pigs happy.
Pig boredom is a serious issue for farmers as they are intelligent creatures and need entertainment, or else they get aggressive and surly (that's the pigs we're talking about).
The rules named specific materials, including novelty items (footballs etc) to keep the porkers occupied. That February The Corkman newspaper revealed that a farm in Dromcummer had the happiest and most erudite pigs in Ireland. It said the Lehane family's pigs' contentment was down to. . . The Corkman. They loved nothing more than getting stuck into a copy of the periodical. It even published a picture of four pigs browsing the front page and, unbelievable as this may sound, they really did look like they were reading it.
Three of them did, at any rate, one of them may have been probing some poo.
The Corkman is such a hit with the pigs that their neighbours bring it up to the farm by the car load. The pigs, for their part, have ensured that there's nothing but crap in the papers these days.
Back to the menu. Would you like some spuds with your ham? How about the . . .
First spuds in Ireland
These were planted in Youghal by Sir Walter Raleigh in 1585. Youghal, by the way, is the only Irish place name with an American accent. This is because when Walter left America with his spuds and tobacco, the Indians said: "Youghal come back now, yuh heah?"
Actually that's not true. They were glad to see him go.
By the by the way, did you know that 'Munster Plums' are, in fact, potatoes?
No? Neither did we. We thought southern plums were something you got from sitting in the saddle too long.
Care for a helping from the . . .
Biggest plate of veggies
In April of this year Harry Crowley from Walkinstown grew a recordbreaking carrot which was an astonishing three feet long. (Insert Carry On-style gag here, please. ) His parsnips are monsters too, with one reaching a length of 10ft 7ins.
Harry will also be remembered for setting the least-attempted of all gardening records . . . growing the Longest Horseradish in the World. It measured 10ft 4ins . . . enough to make a bucket of sauce to go with your dins.
In 2005, 'A Man Called Horseradish' likened gardening to studying electricity. "It is colossal, and you have to know a lot of theory, " he said, omitting to mention that nobody has ever been electrocuted by a garden vegetable.
Now for a glass of wine from Ireland's . . .
Most northerly vineyard
You probably knew that Ireland has a couple of vineyards. You didn't? Well bad news . . . Global warming is here and WE'RE ALL DOOMED. Ireland is an official EU wine-producing country and the majority of our few vineyards are located in 'lush' Munster. Here's a few: the West Waterford vineyards, the Blackwater Valley and Longueville House vineyards and the Thomas Walk vineyard in Kinsale.
Our Most Northerly Vineyard is located in Swords, Co Dublin and is owned by horticulturist, David Llewellyn. It's named Fruit of the Vine and does a nice little pinot noir.
(See? The northside isn't all Buckfast and cider. ) Room for dessert? Have a slice of cake. It's not traditional Christmas cake, but it is the . . .
Biggest cake ever
The largest cake ever baked in Ireland weighed 190lbs and was made to celebrate Dublin's 1988 millennium at the Mansion House. Like other occupants of that gaff, it was nutty and fruity, but it wasn't half-baked (Royston Brady where are you? ) and was eventually thrown out in 1991.
If you don't want cake you might try some of the . . .
Largest amount of ice cream lost at sea
Which was the 1,750 quarts of French ice cream aboard the Titanic.
Unfortunately you'll need to supply your own wetsuit.
And finally we get to the soup course and the . . .
Worst excuse for dinner being late
Dubliner, Brigadier General John Nicholson (1822-1857), was an utter bastard. This was especially true in India, where he was renowned for his foul temper. Remarkably, he inspired a short-lived cult there, despite the fact that he couldn't stand his devotees and had some of them jailed and flogged.
Like we said: utter bastard.
During the 'Indian Mutiny' of 1857 he displayed a particularly ruthless way of dealing with truculent kitchen staff. Having been told that the native regimental chefs had poisoned the company's soup, Nicholson ordered that they be forced to sample it first.
When they refused, he force-fed it to a monkey which, promptly, croaked.
Later, the General marched into the mess tent and coughed to attract the officers' attention.
"I am sorry, gentlemen, to have kept you waiting for your dinner, " he said nonchalantly, "but I have been hanging your cooks."
It remains The Worst Excuse Ever for Dinner Being Late. (It's even worse than blaming John Boyne for hogging the Review section. ) And on that charming note, we would like to assure you that no turkeys, pigs, monkeys or chefs were harmed in the writing of this piece.
They, like the Erindipity family, wish you a peaceful new year.
DEAR reader, You are cordially invited to 'Erindipity's Ultimate Christmas Dinner' on 30 December, 2007. We would have sent this sooner but the cat ate the postman and . . . we, er, this, kind of . . . got lost?
We apologise. That was the Third Worst Excuse for Dinner Being Late.
The Second Worst Excuse is that John Boyne took over the Review section last week and we were all given the weekend off, so that's why our Christmas dinner is late.
Please join us now for our festive miscellany, which uses only the most outstanding ingredients. (We've written about some of these before, but they're worth reheating. ) For starters, may we offer you a seafood salad containing the world's . . .
Most confused prawn
In February 2007 a giant Japanese Tiger Prawn was found in the nets of a west Cork fishing boat. The shellfish is normally found in the Pacific Ocean and its presence here prompted fears of an invasion, which so far hasn't materialised.
A spokesperson for the Department of the Marine said they believed the 'prawn star' (as the saucy Irish Times called it) is not right in the head and simply decided to go 'swimabout'.
"The prawn's crackers, " the official said. Actually, that's a really lousy joke so we'll have another go at it.
"The prawn's Christmas crackers, " the official said. Nope, that's even worse, so we'll move on to the soup course which features the . . .
Best soup for killing you
Sorry, but you'll have to wait until after dessert for this. This will make sense later, so let's speed along to Co Cavan for the turkey course which will be served in the . . .
Best place for Christmas dinner if you're in a hurry
Cootehill is the home of the exceptional Vincent Pilkington. On 17 November 1980, Vincent became the fastest turkey plucker on the planet when he stripped a 16lb bird in one minute and 30 seconds. Vincent became something of a superstar in Co Cavan after his feat was televised by RTE. Yes, well, apart from The Angelus and re-runs of Mannix, there wasn't much else on the telly back in the '80s.
Plucky Vincent officially defeathered his last turkey in Bailieboro in December 2005. At the time of his retirement he could still handle an average of 16 birds an hour, making him the Jack Nicholson of the poultry world. Speaking of hams, how about a portion of the . . .
Most well-informed pigs
On New Year's Day 2003 new EU directives were introduced to keep our pigs happy.
Pig boredom is a serious issue for farmers as they are intelligent creatures and need entertainment, or else they get aggressive and surly (that's the pigs we're talking about).
The rules named specific materials, including novelty items (footballs etc) to keep the porkers occupied. That February The Corkman newspaper revealed that a farm in Dromcummer had the happiest and most erudite pigs in Ireland. It said the Lehane family's pigs' contentment was down to. . . The Corkman. They loved nothing more than getting stuck into a copy of the periodical. It even published a picture of four pigs browsing the front page and, unbelievable as this may sound, they really did look like they were reading it.
Three of them did, at any rate, one of them may have been probing some poo.
The Corkman is such a hit with the pigs that their neighbours bring it up to the farm by the car load. The pigs, for their part, have ensured that there's nothing but crap in the papers these days.
Back to the menu. Would you like some spuds with your ham? How about the . . .
First spuds in Ireland
These were planted in Youghal by Sir Walter Raleigh in 1585. Youghal, by the way, is the only Irish place name with an American accent. This is because when Walter left America with his spuds and tobacco, the Indians said: "Youghal come back now, yuh heah?"
Actually that's not true. They were glad to see him go.
By the by the way, did you know that 'Munster Plums' are, in fact, potatoes?
No? Neither did we. We thought southern plums were something you got from sitting in the saddle too long.
Care for a helping from the . . .
Biggest plate of veggies
In April of this year Harry Crowley from Walkinstown grew a recordbreaking carrot which was an astonishing three feet long. (Insert Carry On-style gag here, please. ) His parsnips are monsters too, with one reaching a length of 10ft 7ins.
Harry will also be remembered for setting the least-attempted of all gardening records . . . growing the Longest Horseradish in the World. It measured 10ft 4ins . . . enough to make a bucket of sauce to go with your dins.
In 2005, 'A Man Called Horseradish' likened gardening to studying electricity. "It is colossal, and you have to know a lot of theory, " he said, omitting to mention that nobody has ever been electrocuted by a garden vegetable.
Now for a glass of wine from Ireland's . . .
Most northerly vineyard
You probably knew that Ireland has a couple of vineyards. You didn't? Well bad news . . . Global warming is here and WE'RE ALL DOOMED. Ireland is an official EU wine-producing country and the majority of our few vineyards are located in 'lush' Munster. Here's a few: the West Waterford vineyards, the Blackwater Valley and Longueville House vineyards and the Thomas Walk vineyard in Kinsale.
Our Most Northerly Vineyard is located in Swords, Co Dublin and is owned by horticulturist, David Llewellyn. It's named Fruit of the Vine and does a nice little pinot noir.
(See? The northside isn't all Buckfast and cider. ) Room for dessert? Have a slice of cake. It's not traditional Christmas cake, but it is the . . .
Biggest cake ever
The largest cake ever baked in Ireland weighed 190lbs and was made to celebrate Dublin's 1988 millennium at the Mansion House. Like other occupants of that gaff, it was nutty and fruity, but it wasn't half-baked (Royston Brady where are you? ) and was eventually thrown out in 1991.
If you don't want cake you might try some of the . . .
Largest amount of ice cream lost at sea
Which was the 1,750 quarts of French ice cream aboard the Titanic.
Unfortunately you'll need to supply your own wetsuit.
And finally we get to the soup course and the . . .
Worst excuse for dinner being late
Dubliner, Brigadier General John Nicholson (1822-1857), was an utter bastard. This was especially true in India, where he was renowned for his foul temper. Remarkably, he inspired a short-lived cult there, despite the fact that he couldn't stand his devotees and had some of them jailed and flogged.
Like we said: utter bastard.
During the 'Indian Mutiny' of 1857 he displayed a particularly ruthless way of dealing with truculent kitchen staff. Having been told that the native regimental chefs had poisoned the company's soup, Nicholson ordered that they be forced to sample it first.
When they refused, he force-fed it to a monkey which, promptly, croaked.
Later, the General marched into the mess tent and coughed to attract the officers' attention.
"I am sorry, gentlemen, to have kept you waiting for your dinner, " he said nonchalantly, "but I have been hanging your cooks."
It remains The Worst Excuse Ever for Dinner Being Late. (It's even worse than blaming John Boyne for hogging the Review section. ) And on that charming note, we would like to assure you that no turkeys, pigs, monkeys or chefs were harmed in the writing of this piece.
They, like the Erindipity family, wish you a peaceful new year.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Erindipity Column No 2
Sunday Tribune
Longest distance
sailed down the
Amazon in a bath tub
MICHAEL Flatley may be light on his
feet but he can never be accused of
mincing – least of all his words.
Last week the all-man, superheroboxing-
champ dancer caused ripples
on either side of the Atlantic when he
launched a broadside on the new
Ireland. He told the US Ireland Forum
that:
A:) the Celtic Tiger is NOT dead
B:) we are in danger of losing our
identity and
C:) we need to shed the old image of
Ireland being a land of drunken
leprechauns urinating outdoors on St
Patrick’s Day.
Now, some may say this leprechaun
remark is ironic coming from a man
who looks like he bathes in Lucozade
and makes his money from dressing
up as an oily Celtic warrior, flailing his
legs all over the shop. (The image is all
the more arresting when you consider
that he does this while fingering his
flute.)
Erindipity does not subscribe to this
view. Michael Flatley is a National
Treasure who promotes our culture
worldwide. He is also right: we need to
ditch the leprechaunism and appear
more dynamic while retaining our
Irishness. That quirky, eccentric,
adventurous quality that made him,
for example, the...
Fastest tap dancer in the world
When he recorded a phenomenal
speed of 35 taps per second in 1998 at
the age of 39.
His remarkable feat with taps got
us thinking about a number of other
Irish people with unusual connections
to bathroom items. Two that spring to
mind are Mr Ahern and the Bertie
‘Bowl’ stadium project that went
down the toilet in 2002, and ‘Lino’
Ritchie and his Finglas flooring
showroom. James Joyce is another
one: he was the first writer to put the
word ‘loo’ in print. (Short for
‘Waterloo’, in Ulysses). There’s also
Dubliner Robert Dowling and the
bath he sailed down the Amazon.
Please do not adjust your glasses,
you did read that correctly. We’ll come
to Rob presently, but let us introduce
you first to Violet Jessop, who is the...
Most unSinkable woman ever
In 1903, Irishwoman Violet set sail for
England to become a stewardess on
the White Star Line. This career path
was to lead to her being forever
chained to the word ‘sink’.
During her years at sea, Violet was
present at two maritime disasters and
one close call. By a strange
coincidence, the ships she was
working on at the time were the ‘three
sisters’ of Harland and Wolff’s
‘Olympic Class’.
On 20 September 1911, Violet was
on board the Olympic when it collided
with the warship, HMS Hawke, off the
Isle of Wight. The latter was nearly
capsized and the Olympic was
seriously damaged, but miraculously
no one was killed.
The following April she transferred
to the Olympic’s sister ship which was
(cue drum roll) – the Titanic, which
sank mid-Atlantic on 14 April 1912.
Violet survived and word spread of
her habit of being on board boats that
crashed. Therefore, it must have been
a case of ‘brown trouser time’ for the
sea dogs of the Brittannic when they
saw her boarding their ship in 1916.
True to form, on 21 November, the
ship struck a mine in the Aegean, with
the loss of 28 lives. Once again Violet
found herself in a lifeboat thanking
her good luck – until she realised her
small vessel was being drawn towards
the ship’s propellers.
She leapt out of the boat and was
immediately sucked under the
surface, banging her head on the keel.
Was this the end of our intrepid
heroine? Was she sinkable after all?
Nope. Violet still refused to sink and
was saved by another lifeboat. She
went on to live to the venerable age of
84.
While Violet Jessop’s life story
revolved around sinks, Robert
Dowling’s will forever be synonymous
with bath tubs.
Huge-hearted Rob can boast that
he travelled the ...
Longest distance ever
in a bath tub
In May 2006 the Donabate man set
sail from the town of Iquitos, Peru, in
a plastic bath. His plan was to travel
single-handedly down the 5,471km
Amazon – through Colombia and
Brazil – to raise money for Temple
Street children’s hospital. His
singular craft – should you ever wish
to attempt this yourself – was housed
in a steel frame supported by
stabiliser tanks and powered by a
15hp outboard engine. But let’s not get
carried away with the technical
details – this was still a bath and the
only thing preventing his bottom from
getting nibbled by piranhas and water
snakes etc.
The bath idea came to Rob 25 years
earlier when he was chatting to
friends about what mad thing they all
wanted to do before they die. Usually,
these type of conversations never
make it past closing time, but with a
lot of planning and a large dollop of his
own cash, he was on his way.
The journey, undertaken with
tinned food, a GPS unit, satellite
photos and maps, started off well. The
Peruvians had taken a shine to our
naval hero and he enjoyed a relatively
trouble-free run until he reached
Colombia. There he had to contend
with the threat of running foul of
ruthless rebel group, Farc. Travelling
as quietly as he could by night, he
stole by their campfires and
continued into Brazil.
It was here, unfortunately, that his
plans went down the plug hole. But it
wasn’t a rebel or a hungry fish that
ended Rob’s journey – it was a
bureaucrat.
After travelling 804kms down the
river he was told that he couldn’t
continue because he didn’t have a
licence for his bathtub.
Picture the scene: Irishman in a
bath accosted by little man with a
clipboard and a peaked cap:
Rob: “Morning.”
Bureaucrat: “Morning.”
R: “Looks like rain.” (Smiles).
B (snootily): “Well, you are in a rain
forest. Do you have a licence for this...”
(waves clipboard in direction of bathtub)
“...vehicle? Sub-section C,
paragraph One of the Amazonian
river code clearly states that all
motorised bath-tubs must be licensed.
It’s the law, you know.”
R: “No.”
B: “Would you mind stepping out of
the vehicle, sir?”
R: “Yes, I would mind.”
B: “Why?”
R: “Because we’re in the middle of a
river...”
And so ended – if not exactly in
those words – Rob’s journey.
However, the adventure doesn’t
stop there. He is currently making
plans to return and retrieve his tub
from Colombia and is looking for
funds (Michael Flatley are you
reading this?). He’s also planning his
next trip down the Amazon to raise
funds for disadvantaged South
American children – on a jet-ski.
Rob was presented with a ‘Best of
Irish Award’ by Bertie Ahern for
promoting the nobler side of our
Hibernian nature. He then dropped
off the nation’s radar. Erindipity
believes it’s now time to honour him
properly. Dublin City Council should
erect a statue of him on O’Connell
Street and we could nickname it ‘Roba-
Dub-in-a-Tub’.
Michael ‘Taps’ Flatley is bound to
approve of any move to applaud such
a true Irishman. If we had more
people like Rob we could easily shed
the ‘urinating-leprechauns’ image.
After all, who wants to be known as
the ‘wee’ people?
Longest distance
sailed down the
Amazon in a bath tub
MICHAEL Flatley may be light on his
feet but he can never be accused of
mincing – least of all his words.
Last week the all-man, superheroboxing-
champ dancer caused ripples
on either side of the Atlantic when he
launched a broadside on the new
Ireland. He told the US Ireland Forum
that:
A:) the Celtic Tiger is NOT dead
B:) we are in danger of losing our
identity and
C:) we need to shed the old image of
Ireland being a land of drunken
leprechauns urinating outdoors on St
Patrick’s Day.
Now, some may say this leprechaun
remark is ironic coming from a man
who looks like he bathes in Lucozade
and makes his money from dressing
up as an oily Celtic warrior, flailing his
legs all over the shop. (The image is all
the more arresting when you consider
that he does this while fingering his
flute.)
Erindipity does not subscribe to this
view. Michael Flatley is a National
Treasure who promotes our culture
worldwide. He is also right: we need to
ditch the leprechaunism and appear
more dynamic while retaining our
Irishness. That quirky, eccentric,
adventurous quality that made him,
for example, the...
Fastest tap dancer in the world
When he recorded a phenomenal
speed of 35 taps per second in 1998 at
the age of 39.
His remarkable feat with taps got
us thinking about a number of other
Irish people with unusual connections
to bathroom items. Two that spring to
mind are Mr Ahern and the Bertie
‘Bowl’ stadium project that went
down the toilet in 2002, and ‘Lino’
Ritchie and his Finglas flooring
showroom. James Joyce is another
one: he was the first writer to put the
word ‘loo’ in print. (Short for
‘Waterloo’, in Ulysses). There’s also
Dubliner Robert Dowling and the
bath he sailed down the Amazon.
Please do not adjust your glasses,
you did read that correctly. We’ll come
to Rob presently, but let us introduce
you first to Violet Jessop, who is the...
Most unSinkable woman ever
In 1903, Irishwoman Violet set sail for
England to become a stewardess on
the White Star Line. This career path
was to lead to her being forever
chained to the word ‘sink’.
During her years at sea, Violet was
present at two maritime disasters and
one close call. By a strange
coincidence, the ships she was
working on at the time were the ‘three
sisters’ of Harland and Wolff’s
‘Olympic Class’.
On 20 September 1911, Violet was
on board the Olympic when it collided
with the warship, HMS Hawke, off the
Isle of Wight. The latter was nearly
capsized and the Olympic was
seriously damaged, but miraculously
no one was killed.
The following April she transferred
to the Olympic’s sister ship which was
(cue drum roll) – the Titanic, which
sank mid-Atlantic on 14 April 1912.
Violet survived and word spread of
her habit of being on board boats that
crashed. Therefore, it must have been
a case of ‘brown trouser time’ for the
sea dogs of the Brittannic when they
saw her boarding their ship in 1916.
True to form, on 21 November, the
ship struck a mine in the Aegean, with
the loss of 28 lives. Once again Violet
found herself in a lifeboat thanking
her good luck – until she realised her
small vessel was being drawn towards
the ship’s propellers.
She leapt out of the boat and was
immediately sucked under the
surface, banging her head on the keel.
Was this the end of our intrepid
heroine? Was she sinkable after all?
Nope. Violet still refused to sink and
was saved by another lifeboat. She
went on to live to the venerable age of
84.
While Violet Jessop’s life story
revolved around sinks, Robert
Dowling’s will forever be synonymous
with bath tubs.
Huge-hearted Rob can boast that
he travelled the ...
Longest distance ever
in a bath tub
In May 2006 the Donabate man set
sail from the town of Iquitos, Peru, in
a plastic bath. His plan was to travel
single-handedly down the 5,471km
Amazon – through Colombia and
Brazil – to raise money for Temple
Street children’s hospital. His
singular craft – should you ever wish
to attempt this yourself – was housed
in a steel frame supported by
stabiliser tanks and powered by a
15hp outboard engine. But let’s not get
carried away with the technical
details – this was still a bath and the
only thing preventing his bottom from
getting nibbled by piranhas and water
snakes etc.
The bath idea came to Rob 25 years
earlier when he was chatting to
friends about what mad thing they all
wanted to do before they die. Usually,
these type of conversations never
make it past closing time, but with a
lot of planning and a large dollop of his
own cash, he was on his way.
The journey, undertaken with
tinned food, a GPS unit, satellite
photos and maps, started off well. The
Peruvians had taken a shine to our
naval hero and he enjoyed a relatively
trouble-free run until he reached
Colombia. There he had to contend
with the threat of running foul of
ruthless rebel group, Farc. Travelling
as quietly as he could by night, he
stole by their campfires and
continued into Brazil.
It was here, unfortunately, that his
plans went down the plug hole. But it
wasn’t a rebel or a hungry fish that
ended Rob’s journey – it was a
bureaucrat.
After travelling 804kms down the
river he was told that he couldn’t
continue because he didn’t have a
licence for his bathtub.
Picture the scene: Irishman in a
bath accosted by little man with a
clipboard and a peaked cap:
Rob: “Morning.”
Bureaucrat: “Morning.”
R: “Looks like rain.” (Smiles).
B (snootily): “Well, you are in a rain
forest. Do you have a licence for this...”
(waves clipboard in direction of bathtub)
“...vehicle? Sub-section C,
paragraph One of the Amazonian
river code clearly states that all
motorised bath-tubs must be licensed.
It’s the law, you know.”
R: “No.”
B: “Would you mind stepping out of
the vehicle, sir?”
R: “Yes, I would mind.”
B: “Why?”
R: “Because we’re in the middle of a
river...”
And so ended – if not exactly in
those words – Rob’s journey.
However, the adventure doesn’t
stop there. He is currently making
plans to return and retrieve his tub
from Colombia and is looking for
funds (Michael Flatley are you
reading this?). He’s also planning his
next trip down the Amazon to raise
funds for disadvantaged South
American children – on a jet-ski.
Rob was presented with a ‘Best of
Irish Award’ by Bertie Ahern for
promoting the nobler side of our
Hibernian nature. He then dropped
off the nation’s radar. Erindipity
believes it’s now time to honour him
properly. Dublin City Council should
erect a statue of him on O’Connell
Street and we could nickname it ‘Roba-
Dub-in-a-Tub’.
Michael ‘Taps’ Flatley is bound to
approve of any move to applaud such
a true Irishman. If we had more
people like Rob we could easily shed
the ‘urinating-leprechauns’ image.
After all, who wants to be known as
the ‘wee’ people?
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