Please Let Me Vote

Last night in Geneva I had the pleasure to be invited by (recently ensconced) Ambassador Gerry Corr to a reception at his modest lakeside apartment on the occasion of Minister for Foreign Affairs Micheal Martin being in town. About 30 or so Irish people from international affairs - mainly Red Cross, UN and civil society folk - made up the numbers. This was my first time to see such a group assembled in Geneva (the self-declared humanitarian capital of the world) so fair play to the Ambassador for the initiative.

Minister Martin spoke passionately and, I would say, sincerely about the importance for Ireland to have its citizens working in international affairs. “We need to value more the international perspective and experience that you can bring to Ireland” he told the assembled guests. "We need to connect more and find more means and fora to bring the ‘international Irish’ closer to the national scene."

Great stuff. I am all for it and would contribute in any way I could but I can’t help thinking to myself: if we are so important why can’t we vote? This is something that really frustrates me. As a child of the hungry eighties I remember well the self-defeating advice of Minister Brian Lenihan Snr. for us to get out of the country because "after all, we can't all live on a small island."

The sentiments expressed so well last year by Brendan Landers in the Irish Times resonated deeply with me and with most people I know who are in similar circumstances:

“Most of us who left Ireland during the 1980s ... went away not because we had itchy feet, had found our Eldorado or fallen in love with an exotic foreigner, but because Ireland had nothing to offer us.

No jobs, no opportunities, no scope to follow our dreams or aspire to even a modicum of success in life. The Irish economy was broken and it would take a miracle to fix it.
Along with the dismal state of the nation's finances, there was a sense that whatever wealth existed was hoarded greedily by a coterie of well-connected professionals, wide boys and golden circles. The land of our birth offered us nothing but tacit encouragement to leave.”

The point being that by leaving Ireland we did not willingly give up our voting rights. After almost 20 years abroad I have hungrily kept abreast of Irish current affairs (big thanks to the Irish Emigrant online newsletter being published since 1994 by fellow Galwegian Liam Ferrie) and I desperately want to use the hard-won democratic right to vote.

And I can’t resist wondering what type of country or what form of political culture or system might have evolved if the eligible voting diaspora were allowed to participate and exercise thier vote.

By way of comparison, a 2006 study by Global Irish of countries that allow their emigrants to vote included: 21 African nations; 13 North and South American countries; 15 Asian countries; 6 Pacific countries; and 36 European countries.

I know the Irish diaspora is reputed to contain as many as 80 million people and I am not advocating for a population more than ten times that of the island of Ireland to start voting. What is needed is fair but restrictive criteria such as: leaving cert graduate; Irish university degree holder (achieved at the end of an Irish primary and secondary education); born and resident in Ireland till the age of 16; certified apprentice; or similar i.e. citizens who know what it is to be part of modern day Ireland and who have emigrated for work and opportunities that were not possible at home (and yes, it is still home).

And, to fully underscore the earnestness of this very fair (in my opinion) demand I would also propose that Irish diaspora wishing to vote (and meeting the established criteria) should also make an agreed annual contribution to the Inland Revenue. Now, isn’t that a potentially good income generator for our beleagured economy? 

Am particularly keen to hear what my compatriots living in Ireland think of giving the vote to the recent diaspora. Should I and my wife not have a say in the Ireland that I want my children to return to? What of all those young, bright souls forced to leave Ireland today for instance – should they never vote again? Is that fair? Is that good for Ireland? 

/PC

La Honte de Henry

It hurts. Sweet Lord how it hurts. A night of fitful sleep punctured by dreams of a winning goal on 121 minutes has passed and it still hurts like a punch in the solar plexus. It was one of the best performances ever seen from an Irish team, men who grew from journeymen in Stoke and Wolves, to giants playing with composure and skill. The truth is we deserved it. We deserved it more than the French. And for so long we had the champagne on ice, only for the grapes to turn sour by a mind-blowing piece of cheating.

But amid all that, amid the heartache and the tears and the it’s-just-not-fair of it all, three things stand out. One, that FIFA is a farcical organisation dancing on Jules Rimet’s dream by seeding playoffs (how, I mean HOW can they justify it, other than telling the truth – that a Mondial without Ronaldo and Henry rather loses its sheen). Two, the ref had a good game, apart from the obvious. He could easily have given France a penalty late in the second half and then it would have been good night Josephine anyway.

And third, though it hurts like hell to write it, Henry did the decent thing. OK, ok, he could have run over to the referee and said no, fair cop, I handled it. But would Robbie Keane have done that? Would Bobby Charlton, the cleanest player ever? Would he f…

Henry could have done a Maradonna and been smarmy in a hand of God way but no. He went straight over to our boys and didn’t just mutter “sorry lads” and give a patronising ruffle of the hair. He sat with them, while million voices roared “CHEAT” at screens from Dallas to Darwin (I, rather pretentiously hollered “La Honte” and worse at the few Frenchies in O’Brien’s of Kiev).

After the game Henry told the press: “I said that I handled it to Richard Dunne but he said to me … you’re not the referee”. 

And Sean St Leger, who’s hip deflected the ball into the net in Croke Park put it well: “it doesn’t look great, but he’s got his team to the World Cup finals. If it had been one of our team we’d have probably done the same. The blame doesn’t necessarily fall on him, but he’s handled it. Everyone can see it around the world.”

Sometimes luck vanishes. We had ours in ’87 when Scotsman Gary MacKay put us into our first finals with a goal from nowhere on a cold night in Sofia. But we’ve had precious little since. All the way from Schillaci to Squillaci, you might say.

/JL

Vote Yes and Throw the Dog a Lisbone!

After putting forward its arguments yesterday for voting No to Lisbon, today, in a fairly forced effort for balanced blogging, Head Down Eye's Opener Paul Conneally puts the case for voting Yes to Lisbone (sic).

It's Friday, 02 October 2009, and the people of Ireland shuffle to the polls to vote for the much debated but little understood Lisbon Treaty. The Lisbon Treaty markets itself (badly) as a tool to tighten up ineffective and costly administrative mechanisms, enhance greater coordination and promote a 'one Europe' culture.

Ireland of course has already voted "No to Lisbon" back in June of 2008, a result which infuriated many EU states, not least our French and German friends. And, because the 4 million voters of Ireland tried to derail the Lisbone, because we voted contrary to what our European masters advised, (are those democratic values I see running out the door?) we are being (t)asked again to go back to the polling booths and 'to try to get it right' this time.

This time of course the world, and especially Ireland, is a radically different place. We have been pounded and plundered by economic crisis; panel-bet into a reality check that could well be the (convenient) decisive factor that strong-arms the pliable Irish into doing what Brussels wants.

Last time out I closely followed the Lisbon debates, weighed up the pros and cons and, early on in the campaign, came out on the Yes side. By the time voting took place however, I had both feet embedded in the No camp.

Bullies and Bulldozing Bureaucracy

Without too many details I remember that I became angered by the arrogance and condescension of the Yes camp whose arguments basically involved nothing more sophisticated than "vote Yes because we are telling you to". The blackmailing language, the subliminal threats of being excluded from the EU, the insulting innuendo that Ireland had gotten enough cash out of Brussels and now we should just shut up and put up; Ireland by the way is a net contributor to the EU i.e. we put in more than we get out – all of these conspired to expose a raw Irish nerve.

Then, in the weeks running up to the vote, as I sat firmly on the fence, I had a long discussion with a French acquaintance (who is politically active in Paris). I was told if Ireland voted No we would end up in the stone age where we belonged! I was fairly taken aback by what I considered inherent racism and not a little lack of solidarity with a supposed fellow European citizen. Is that what the great powers in Europe really think of Ireland? Is our annoying habit to put such major decisions democratically to the people really so Neanderthal? Should we just ignore what our people decide (after tireless debate) as happened in the Netherlands (and France).

How would other EU states cope if they had the actual courage and commitment to allow their citizens to exercise their democratic rights? Instead of development through democratic evolution the EU has opted to construct from the centre with a cosmetic consultation with the people. It is correctly perceived as a bulldozing and bullying bureaucracy.

Sarkozy Sycophants

Ireland should not have been punished and criticized (even by non-EU wannabes like Croatia) for informing its people and allowing them to vote on a treaty which would define their future relationship with the EU. Irish people are stubborn at the best of times but when Sarkhozy sycophants are barking threats then you call their bluff. And we did (Sarkhozy was de facto ‘President of Europe’ at the time you may remember) and we rained on Sarkhozy's parade and not a small amount of EU fury emanated from that shallow, low-lying, cultist perspective.

Sixteen months down the road there are still good reasons to vote No and only a brainwashed ideologue would not be incensed by the dishonesty and deceptiveness of Brussels. But that does not make it OK for the No side to falsely propagate that young Irish people will be conscripted into a European army; that our treasured (if delusional) neutrality will be compromised (get real, that happened years ago); that we will lose our voting powers (isn't this normal when the EU expands to twice its original size? It's called proportionality which can be countered by forming strategic alliances and voting blocs).

It is incredible that despite the major upheaval (and not a little glee) caused during the last vote that the Yes side are still unable to convincingly argue their point. It is the best indicator by far on the complete abstraction that is Lisbone. The Yes-sirs are asleep at the wheel and prefer to intimidate Irish voters with economic punishment if they vote No. And, the Irish voters, by the way, know very well that this is not a vote for membership of the EU; it is a vote for Lisbone alone - so why oh why are the Yes side not simply promoting the positive sides of Lisbon rather than portraying the entire EU project in dark and simplistic Bushian terms - you are either with us or against us - Why not reassure instead of bluff and bully?

Vote No for Idaho

Despite all this, I am advocating for the Yes vote (recognizing that there are many unanswered questions). Why? Put simply, I think Ireland is good for Europe. We belong in Europe. We have contributed much, gained much and the journey has only started. Ireland can be far more constructive and proactive by shaping the future of the EU from within, through collaboration, debate and influencing policy. Ireland does not belong on the fringes of the EU. We probably have more citizens scattered around the EU than any other member. We have embraced the great mobility and advances made possible by the EU ideal and we owe it to ourselves (not to Brussels) to remain fully on board. We have earned it. We have prospered. We should fight the good fight from the very core of the center.

Realpolitik dictates that Europe will anyway find a way to circumvent a No vote (if it happens) to make Lisbon work for the EU's remaining 496 million citizens (admittedly defeatist but this is what realpolitik can mean). They could also hold a spiteful and begrudging disregard for a once blushing partner and inadvertently convert Ireland into an economic backwater. I will vote Yes because I don't want to risk Ireland becoming the Idaho of Europe, where we educate our young only to feed them to the big cities and industries of the European mainland. A country reduced to an identity of emigration that lays waste the EU vision that it helped shape.

At the end of the day, despite all the concerns, it has to be Yes (and, remember, voting Yes is not a vote for those hoodlums that run the country - they will be dealt with in a proper election in the near future; an election where they won't have the luxury to say "ah, excuse me there lads, that wasn't the vote we wanted. Ye wouldn’t mind, ahem, doin that once more there again, wouldya? Thanks". Besides, with the latest breaking news, our good beer-drinking, beer-brewing fellow European travellers in the Czech Republic could yet take the heat off us.

/PC

To all things there is a season...

“I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear my trousers rolled”. Myself and HDEOpener-in-chief Conneally are (mis)quoting this line to one another with increasing frequency these days as the spider of wisdom spins her silken thread through his beard, or (to complete my ludicrous analogy) the piranha of baldness feasts upon my former crowing glory.


Sorry, enough experimental scribbling. The point is, we’re none of us getting any younger and I for one am wondering when, or if, I will every see myself through the eyes of others. When I dance (rare enough the spectacle) I see, across the dance floor of my mind’s eye, a thin, elegant mover, sans belly, sans wonky knee, sans white man’s overbite. To paraphrase Sting, when I dance, angels run and hide their bling. 


But with relentless, ruthless certainty, time is ticking. The arrival of children in one’s life seems to only speed the process. You’d think it would be the opposite. The new vaults of memories being filled: you wake at first light to see their sweet faces reflecting the light like soft new plums, you rush to complete the day and fall into dreamless sleep, but no, it’s the other way round. You become more acutely aware of your mortality, and how fast your are burning your allotted years. 

Hot girls may still look at you in the street, but (indulge me, eh?) perhaps only thinking “wow, what a good looking guy he must have been” or “hmm, expensive suit, but still somehow casual. Stylish, I bet he writes poetry”.

And of course there’s the feeling that there is just so much to do and it’s impossible to keep track without losing the… where was I?

I won’t give away any state secrets, but if you add together the ages of HDEOpeners numbers one and two you get a pretty good score, not three figures of course, nowhere near it, but the hard point is we are already both past the sell-by label which would have been slapped on us had we been born a century earlier. As it is, thanks to pills, jabs, sewage pipes, clean water, something approaching peace in Europe and basic health knowledge, we can both look forward to double the 1909 score or close to it.

Or not, of course. We still have to contend with weird and scary new viruses, fanatics who know God’s mind better than he/she, mutated cells, microbes and something as mundane as the number 7 bus.

Five short autumns ago a wise Irishman (ah, but is there any other sort) asked me was I married, did I have kids? I gave the savvy smile I’d been perfecting all through my thirties and answered in the negative. “Well don’t leave it too late”, he practically snapped at me - despite this being a) a formal reception (partially in his honour, I concede) and b) the first time we’d ever met.

Five autumns on and I have me jewel and darlin’ wife and two princesses and while it’s a bigger struggle that I ever thought it could be I still start and end each day (exhausted, middle-aged) but with the almost euphoric rush that I am still, against all the odds, here. Alive. Thriving. Putting on the pounds of weight and wisdom. Livin’, lovin’, keepin’ on.

Even though I was left with two roaring and hungry daughters this sparrow-fart, when herself had a doc’s appointment, things still conspired to be beautiful. Somehow, me and the lassies ended up standing on the dressing table, toothbrushes in hand, singing Rufus Wainwright’s version of “Hallelujah” to our reflections. (Yes, we had indeed been watching Shrek with our porridge, well spotted).

And yes I rue and miss and ache for the days of sitting at the zinc for hours lifting tubes of white-collared blackness, but I have that t-shirt and very occasionally I can still wear it. I don’t miss it that much, truth be told, and wouldn’t trade it for the robes I wear now.

We made it. Johnny, David, Dave, Des, Kayleigh, Colm, and more didn’t. We live for them. Our friends from teenage years who lived fast, or at least too quick.

They never made it to Georgia, beautiful Georgia, that scrunch of mountainous mayhem by the Black Sea, which this blog knows well. One of the most poignant of the many toasts made by Georgians, is the toast for the dead. It may seem inauspicious, even rude, to bring up this taboo at a social occasion. But when a skilled Tamada (toastmaster) does it, it's poetry. You can see, feel, almost hear the beloved ones enter the room and stand by your shoulder. A silence, a tear, and the feast continues, each one appreciating the other more.

Getting older really is a privilege. I’m just, just beginning to glimpse it. Bring it on.


/JL

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Head Down Eyes Opener-in-training, Denis McClean, celebrates how a thick skull can serve you well when wandering through the wilds of County Kerry.

My top 20 of personal misfortunes has a new entry this month. In the category of natural disasters, it has just overtaken an old favourite: being bitten some years ago by a dog on the Caribbean island of Montserrat during a volcanic eruption.


“New entry” is an apt term for describing the impression which a pre-historic piece of rock can make on the human skull when least expected.

I was taking what sun there was between the scudding clouds, and admiring the Blasket Islands in the distance while recovering from a bracing tumble in the cauldron of surf that helps make Coumeenole one of Ireland’s most beautiful beaches, when a fist-sized chunk of limestone jolted me from my reverie.

The sand around me was soon spotted with blood. Friends and family rushed to my aid with great wads of tissue-paper as we tried to make sense of what could have caused such an ugly gash on the back of my head.

We could only put it down to the Vivaldi weather – four seasons in one day – which has been plaguing the Dingle Peninsula for the past few weeks resulting in a loosening of the cliff rock as rain and wind continue their millennia-old work of shaping the unique Co Kerry landscape.

The steep stone road which spirals down to the cove which features in David Lean’s reworking of Madame Bovary, Ryan’s Daughter, is often lined with tourists looking aghast at the native Irish frolicking in the Atlantic rollers despite posted warnings of strong currents and what, to non-Irish eyes at least, must look like a clear ban on swimming there.

Legend has it that in those pre-climate change days, David Lean’s cast and crew waited for months to film a storm scene there, something that is pretty much a daily occurrence this summer.

These land-loving tourists often join the innocent souls sitting under the cliff face, oblivious to the threat posed by loose rock, so I am now urging Kerry County Council to put up a warning signs and some netting. Other weather-beaten maritime county councils might also take note.

In the meantime, I made the journey to Dingle with a splitting headache, but must have looked very relaxed with one hand holding the back of my head to avoid bloodying the upholstery of my brother-in-law, Peter Murphy’s car.

There I ended up on the operating table of Dr Margaret O’Shea at her Dingle surgery who kindly saw me out of normal office hours and deftly knitted up my scalp with seven stitches and threw in a hair cut for free to get at the wound.

She was anxious to have my skull X-rayed as quickly as possible, so the ambulance was summoned and I disappeared into the back of it feeling like a bit of a fraud.

Hoever, you soon get into the mood when you’re hooked up to an oxygen saturation monitor and strapped to a gurney while trying to take a swig from a bottle of Lucozade as the “white bus” shuttles you across the peninsula and you try to pick out landmarks such as Inch strand and Tom Crean’s South Pole Inn in Annascaul.

The journey was made that bit more agreeable thanks to the company of one of Ireland’s most well-known paramedics, Pat Hanafin, who was chairperson of the Association of Ambulance Personnel for eight years.

In light of recent tragic events in Croke Park, an ambulance ride across Co. Kerry is bound to awaken in any thoughtful Dubliner intimations of mortality, but Pat diplomatically steered the conversation towards more esoteric subjects such as how emergency medicine benefits from his passion: the high-tech world of Formula 1.

Pat bought one of its innovations, Water-gel, for the Dingle ambulance – out of his own pocket – some years before it became standard issue as atype of bandage which prevents further damage from burns and thus reducesthe likelihood of bodily deformity.

I felt a dart of loneliness as Pat said goodbye and left me sitting in a wheelchair in the A E department of Tralee General Hospital. My injury might have made the charts in Dingle, but it was only bubbling under as far as the busy medics of Tralee were concerned so some hours passed before, X-rays taken and examined, I was given the all-clear to be driven back to Dingle by my patient brother-in-law.

There was a full moon rising over the Conor Pass as we hit a rabbit on the road back. His head injury was a lot worse than mine. Ni fheicimid a leitheid aris ann.

This post first appeared in the Irish Times

Spancill Blog

I'll let Conneally or Lacken or McClean or Deely or someone else wax lyrical on the curious combinations but for now I want to celebrate the man and the method behind the words of one of Ireland's most famous and badly-sung songs, "Spancilhill". Or "Spencer Hill" as I thought it was when first I heard it.

No wonder, it's usually butchered by booze, verses juxtaposed and half sung, or even put to

the music of "Ghost riders in the sky" complete with "Yippie-yi-ya, yippy-i-o"s.

Oh yes Spancilhill exists, there's even a website warning ORGANISING COMMITTEE ACCEPTS NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ACCIDENTS TO HORSE RIDER OR INDIVIDUALS. But as I've never been, I'll leave it to others to reminisce on the famous fair. Or the disused Calcite mines.

The song's been on my mind as emigration increases from Ireland, and begins to take on a similar mythology it had in previous waves. The early Ryanair out of Dublin the equivalent of the 8.45 (am and pm) boat-train from Holyhead to Dun Laoghaire in the 80s, or the mailboat
in the 50s. Scattered to the wind and waves, re-convening on large islands like Australia, or smaller ones; Ellis, Staten, Dogs. Or like myself, isolated in a country without an Irish community. Is the "saudade" worse when lived alone, or with peers? Answers on a postcard...

Probably the greatest song of emigration, at least of how it relates to my generation, the soundtrack to the "hungry eighties" is "Thousands are Sailing" by the Pogues, which is well worth a post-Tiger spin.

McGowan is a gifted poet in his own right. We’ll celebrate him elsewhere on this blog I am sure. He has done the one thing that Michael Considine, author of "Spancilhill" couldn't: he has lived. And - sweet Jesus - how he has lived. Or perhaps, sweet Jesus, how has he lived?

Considine was born around 1850 and emigrated to the USA from Spancillhill around 1870. Some of his siblings came with him, but some stayed behind. One of his brothers, Patrick, died, leaving his widow to look after a five month old son called John (pay attention, that
detail is important).

Michael went to the USA with the intention of bringing his sweetheart over and for them to be married, but he never saved enough money for her passage. His sweetheart was "Mack the Ranger's Daughter" and not "Ned the Farmers daughter" as in the popularised version. She was his childhood sweetheart, Mary MacNamara.

Michael worked in Boston for two years or so before moving to California. He suffered from ill health for a long time. Knowing he hadn't long to live, he wrote the poem "Spancilhill" to send home in remembrance of his love. He sent the poem to his nephew, John,
Patrick's son, in Ireland.

Michael Considine died sometime in 1873. Some sources say he was buried in Spancillhill, but others say he was buried in California. Mary MacNamara remained faithful to his memory and never married.

In the late 1930s or early '40s, Robbie McMahon, a local folk singer and composer, during an Irish traditional music session in Spancillhill, was in a neighbour's house with some friends singing when someone suggested singing "Spancillhill". The woman of the house, Moira Keane, left the room and when she came back said, "If ye are going to sing that song ye might as well sing it right" and she gave Robbie a script of the original.

Some time later at another session in the parish Robbie was asked to sing "Spancilhill" when a gruff voice in the corner growled out "Don't sing that song". When asked "Why not?" the voice barked back " 'Cos ye don't know it."

Robbie, however insisted he did and launched into the version he'd got from Moira Keane. After singing a few lines Robbie noticed the gruff man sitting up and paying attention. As Robbie progressed with the song the gruff man foostered more and more with his cap and became agitated. When the song ended, the gruff voice in the corner demanded "Where did ya get that song?" in a tone both perturbed and pleased.

Moira Keane was the gruff man's aunt and the gruff man was 76 year old John Considine, who had kept his uncle Mike's song safe for 70 years.

Despite being a terribly simple rhyme, the type you'll find on any hallmark card, the song is deep and lovely. The rhyming scheme is AABB (or in fact AABB CCBB DDBB etc, as the third and fourth lines end with "...ill". Whenever I hear it now I can' help but think of the tragedy of Michael Considine, composing this piece of beauty sitting in a chair or propped up in a bed in California, slipping in and out of consciousness, knowing he'd never, ever again see Mary. No facebook in those days, no webcams. Probably for the best.

So forgive me for taking up your screen, but here's all eleven stanzas and a sung version. I've searched the web high and low for something approaching a definitive version, and the one by Geasa, which I'd never come across before ain't bad. Nor is Paddy Reilly's, the Dubliners' or many others. If, however, you can't afford an emetic, and botulism is too extreme, I recommend the Corrs wimpish piece of saccharine.

There's a few hundred versions out there in webland, many of them good, too many contrived, and just a few verging on brilliant. And as if to prove that you have to be very very good to make anything look effortless, I've picked Shane and Christy's version. Ruined slightly
by Gaybo's whooping at the end, but still and all a great piece of work.

/JL

Spancilhill

Last night as I lay dreaming, of the pleasant days gone by,
My mind being bent on rambling and to Erin's Isle I did fly.
I stepped on board a vision and sailed out with a will,
'Till I gladly came to anchor at the Cross of Spancilhill.

Enchanted by the novelty, delighted with the scenes,
Where in my early childhood, I often times have been.
I thought I heard a murmur, I think I hear it still,
'Tis that little stream of water at the Cross of Spancilhill.

And to amuse my fancy, I lay upon the ground,
Where all my school companions, in crowds assembled 'round.
Some have grown to manhood, while more their graves did fill,
Oh I thought we were all young again, at the Cross of Spancilhill.

It being on a Sabbath morning, I thought I heard a bell,
O'er hills and vallies sounded, in notes that seemed to tell,
That Father Dan was coming, his duty to fulfil,
At the parish church of Clooney, just one mile from Spancilhill.

And when our duty did commence, we all knelt down in prayer,
In hopes for to be ready, to climb the Golden Stair.
And when back home returning, we danced with right good will,
To Martin Moilens music, at the Cross of Spancilhill.

It being on the twenty third of June, the day before the fair,
Sure Erin's sons and daughters, they all assembled there.
The young, the old, the stout and the bold, they came to sport and kill,
What a curious combination, at the Fair of Spancilhill.

I went into my old home, as every stone can tell,
The old boreen was just the same, and the apple tree over the well,
I miss my sister Ellen, my brothers Pat and Bill,
Sure I only met my strange faces at my home in Spancilhill.

I called to see my neighbors, to hear what they might say,
The old were getting feeble, and the young ones turning grey.
I met with tailor Quigley, he's as brave as ever still,
Sure he always made my breeches when I lived in Spancilhill.

I paid a flying visit, to my first and only love,
She's as pure as any lilly, and as gentle as a dove.
She threw her arms around me, saying Mike I love you still,
She is Mack the Rangers daughter, the Pride of Spancilhill.

I thought I stooped to kiss her, as I did in days of yore,
Says she Mike you're only joking, as you often were before,
The cock crew on the roost again, he crew both loud and shrill,
And I awoke in California, far far from Spancilhill.

But when my vision faded, the tears came in my eyes,
In hope to see that dear old spot, some day before I die.
May the Joyous King of Angels, His Choicest Blessings spill,
On that Glorious spot of Nature, the Cross of Spancilhill.

Blast the Blasphemers

My dear auld sod, Erin go bràgh, seems to be loosin' the run of itself these days. You would think that navigating a country out of its worst sudden-onset recession on record was challenging enough without conjuring up needless distractions. Maybe that's it - maybe our politicians are driven to distraction with the impossible extrapolated percentages they are confronted with these days. Maybe the financial crisis has reignited our fundamentalist streak (Justice Minister Dermot Ahern, right, lighting candles in the holy city of Jerusalem).

In any case, in their collective wisdom, the Irish government is today -- I kid you not -- planning to introduce blasphemy legislation. Maybe it's in solidarity so that folks from Kandahar and Kerbala will feel right at home in Kilalla or Kilorglin. Well, that's one of the few possible reasons I can think of because the government itself doesn't seem to think it needs a reason and as such acts without any real motive - other than the fact that no such law exists.

Hardly a pressing legislative priority one would think (not least at a time when people throughout the country are rightly blasting the clergy off their high pulpits over the recent horrific revelations about child abuse).

Roy Brown, free thought champion and chief representative of the International Humanist and Ethical Union in Geneva, opined that it was “totally mind-boggling that a European government should even consider such a dangerous idea given that EU countries — now supported by the United States — have for years been fighting tooth and nail at the United Nations in Geneva and New York against almost identical proposals from the Organisation of the Islamic Conference to get a global ban on ‘defamation of religion’.”

Dermot Ahern, one of the sharper pins in the government pack I would have thought, is the minister responsible for pushing through the legislation and argued some weeks back in an oped in the Irish Times that under his proposals, blasphemous material would be prosecutable if it is “grossly abusive or insulting in matters held sacred by a religion,” causes actual outrage among followers of that religion and if there is intent to cause outrage. “Such intent was not previously required;” he noted in his article.

The Cork-based Irish Examiner (best sports journalism in the country as it happens), true to Corkonian introspection, choose to quote its own homegrown political strongman, Micheal Martin, our foreign affairs minister.

It noted that Ireland voted with all other EU countries against a resolution on “combating defamation of religion” at the UN last December. Explaining that vote, Micheál Martin said: “We believe that the concept of defamation of religion is not consistent with the promotion and protection of human rights. It can be used to justify arbitrary limitations on, or the denial of, freedom of expression. Indeed, Ireland considers that freedom of expression is a key and inherent element in the manifestation of freedom of thought and conscience and as such is complementary to freedom of religion or belief.”

So how come such a swing (and why choose blasphemy for a policy swing in the first case?) in the space of a few months? Though, truth be told, that's not my main concern. I wonder now if some of our best native comedic talent will be curbed in their enthuasiasm for the genre. Tommy Tiernan in particular, has long been a thorn in the proverbials of the Irish clergy: "We used to grow priests in Ireland. We used to grow them from bits of people that we didn't like. But we over-planted. We had an epidemic."

And the Irish Examiner must be thinking along the same lines coz it wound up its editorial plainly and simply: “One man’s blasphemy is another man’s comedy classic.” I'd wager they were thinking of one of Tommy's many hilarious rants against the Catholic Church (see embedded video for a typical stand up Tommy gem -- the jury is still out whether this type of fare could now be considered unlawful or libelous under the new draconian measures).

Good luck to Ahern and company trying to gag Tiernan and fellow travellers. That might be one battle too far even for a minister who wants to tackle Ireland's gangland head on with more emergency legislation that, among other things, will empower the tax collector and security forces, to monitor all mobile phone and email traffic within Ireland. While the reaction to this is understandably fervent in its opposition the blasphemy laws will be the benefactor and probably sneak in unopposed under the Céad Mile Fàilte welcome mat of the highest court in the land.

God help us all (now I didn't mean that in any blasphemous way you understand) but the Celtic Tiger is well and truly slain, if proof were needed!

/PC

A Horseman Passed By

The passing this week of a remarkable man moves Head Down Eyes Open to pen its first obituary.

Growing up in the west of Ireland, especially in East Galway, in the seventies and eighties, was to live in a land enthralled by the power, beauty and majesty of the noble horse. In the home of the oldest horse fair in Europe there was (and is) a deep-rooted bond with our equine cousins. And there was no one more synonymous with the horse racing world than the recently deceased Vincent O'Brien.

Michael Vincent O'Brien, was born in the village of Churchtown in north county Cork. His passing this week, brings to an end an era of unparalelled success and achievement in horse racing circles. His career stretched across five decades from 1944 till his retirement in 1994 and his final parting on the 1st of June was at the very respectable age of 92.

O'Brien excelled in both Steeplechasing (or Jumps) and Flat racing. Steeplechasing itself has its origins in Ireland in the very north Cork parish where O'Brien was born. The records show that in 1752 two local horsey men, Cornelius O'Callaghan and Edmund Blake, laid a wager to race their horses cross-country, over ditches and streams, between the church steeples of the towns of Buttevant and Doneraile - hence the name, steeplechase.

The reverence for horses in Ireland runs back into the early ages and continues to this day. In my own county for instance we have the Galway Race Festival every July (and the Ballinasloe Horse Fair every October). It's a local affair attended by more than 200'000 people roaring on some 50 races brimming with beasts competing for more than twenty million euro in prize money. Out the road, in our parish, there is a little village called Laurencetown, where we have point-to-point racing. This is amatuer horse racing at its best (scores of such meetings happen all over Ireland) which has its origins in fox hunting and is a curtain raiser for the potential stars of the more lucrative jump racing in Ireland and the UK.

Steeplechasing, was our main passion growing up. There was a clear journey from the Laurencetown point-to-point through to the Galway Races and onto the Fairyhouse festival after Christmas. This was a logical path in the sweat and guts of the steeplechase.

My father and his friends were point-to-point afficianados and loyal subjects in the court of O'Brien. For them point-to-pointing was an equine nursery capable of producing the next Derby or Grand National winner. They kept blue-lined ledgers and recorded all their observations and all the information on blood lines and form that they could muster. Oftentimes, these ledgers were dusted off, and proved their worth years later in picking a high-odds high-stakes winner in Epsom or Aintry.

Such occassions fed the dreams of ordinary punters fleecing bookies and forming horse racing syndicates to challenge the best that the Curragh or Chepstow could offer and maybe for a moment walk in the footsteps of giants like Vincent. Flat racing, the glamorous cousin of jump racing, was a summer sport and best avoided by ordinary gamblers who were scared off by short odds and slim winning margins.

The Master of Ballydoyle

What O'Brien has not won in racing is not worth a mention. But more than that he hand-picked his own stable of horses, designed and developed his own unique training centre - Ballydoyle, raked in huge sums from gambling and racing syndicates, revolutionized horse breeding and elevated Ireland to the very top rung of bloodstock breeding.

It is unlikely any trainer will ever match his achievements. Among the honours O'Brien won three consecutive Grand Nationals with three different horses, four Cheltenham Gold Cups and three Champion Hurdles. O'Briens twenty thee festival winners include an incredible ten victories in what is now the Supreme Novices Hurdle.

O'Brien's three Grand Nationals in particular is an unprecedented achievement but it was just a taster of what was to come when he turned his attention to flat racing in the 1950s. Altogether he would go on to win the Derby six times, four of them were ridden by Lester Piggott during a hugely lucrative partnership for both men. Besides the victories of Ballymoss he also won another two King Georges and another two Prix de L'Arc de Triomphes and he won the Dewhurst, Europe's premier two-year-old race, no less than seven times.

When the authoritative Racing Post held a poll to decide the best jump trainer of all time O'Brien won it hands down and when they held another poll to decide the best Flat trainer he also raced first past the post. Finally, he topped the paper's poll for the greatest figure in the history of horse racing.

O’Brien’s success with yearlings bought in America resulted in the start of a syndicate with Robert Sangster and O'Brien’s son-in-law John Magnier, the present-day owner of the renowned Ballydoyle stables.

Magnier, also the son of a county Cork farmer, is today Ireland's leading thoroughbred stud owner and enjoys continuing success as an owner-investor in football clubs and luxury Caribbean resorts, to name but a few.

With Ballydoyle in particular O'Brien raised the bar of success so high that it will most likely have to be lowered by future generations of trainers. Ballydoyle set him apart and demonstrated, if needed, that his influence extended beyond just winning big races and turned it into the foremost training centre in the world.

This was also the time of huge stallion syndication values and it was O'Brien who had the wit to introduce Northern Dancer's bloodline into European racing. That same bloodline is now the foundation of breeding on the Irish side of the Atlantic. O'Brien's great eye for a potential champion meant he picked most of them himself including the best horse of his long and illustrious career, Nijinsky, a champion two-year-old and the last horse to win the British Triple Crown of Guineas, Derby and St Leger.

Ballydoyle (and Coolmore) brought unprecedented wealth and recognition to Irish horseracing, epitomized by larger than life characters and wonderful anecdotes such as the glorious final hurrah when Lester Piggott returned from retirement and a jail-term to team up with O'Brien for a memorable Breeders’ Cup success on Royal Academy in Belmont Park in 1990.

“It was Vincent that gave me my greatest thrill ever at Belmont,” the legendary Piggott said later. “He has been the outstanding trainer of my time. He was special.” In a sport where opinions are rarely alligned, that is a perspective on which there will be unchallenged unanimity.

The passing of Vincent O'Brien is truly the turning of a page in the Ireland that I know. I picture him in that great racecourse in the sky looking down with affection at my father and his friends, and the millions like them, who have dedicated their lives to the love of horses, to the odd flutter, and the deep-seated thrill of a country race meet. Rest easy Master O'Brien and heartfelt thanks for such great memories and such great stirrings of shared pride in your 50 odd years of homage to the horse.

Vincent O'Brien: Life of a Master (taken from the Irish Times)

Name: Michael Vincent O’Brien

Born: Good Friday, April 9th, 1917 in Churchtown, Co. Cork.

Married: December 29th, 1951 to Jacqueline.

Family: Five children – David, Charles, Elizabeth, Sue and Jane.

First Winner: Oversway at Limerick Junction on May 20th, 1943.

Final Winner: Mysterious Ways at the Curragh on September 17th, 1994.

Champion Trainer in Ireland (13 times): 1959, 1969, 1970, 1972, 1977, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1981, 1982, 1984, 1988 1989.

Champion Flat Trainer in Britain (twice): 1966 and 1977.

Champion Jumps Trainer in Britain (twice): 1952-53 and 1953-54.

Major National Hunt Victories: Cheltenham Gold Cup (4) – Cottage Rake (1948-49-50) and Knock Hard (1953). Champion Hurdle (3) – Hatton’s Grace (1949-50-51). Aintree Grand National (3) – Early Mist (1953), Royal Tan (1954) and Quare Times (1955). Irish Grand National (1) – Alberoni (1952).

Irish Classics: 2,000 Guineas (5) – El Toro (1959), Jazzerio (1978), Kings Lake (1981), Sadler’s Wells (1984) and Prince Of Birds (1988). 1,000 Guineas (3) – Valoris (1966), Lady Capulet (1977) and Godetia (1979). Derby (6) – Chamier (1953), Ballymoss (1957), Nijinksy (1970), The Minstrel (1977), El Gran Senor (1984) and Law Society (1985). Oaks (4) – Ancasta (1964), Aurabella (1965), Gaia (1969) and Godetia (1979). St Leger (9) – Barclay (1959), White Gloves (1966), Reindeer (1969), Caucasus (1975), Meneval (1976), Transworld (1977), Gonzales (1980), Leading Counsel (1985) and Dark Lomond (1988).

British Classics: 2,000 Guineas (4) – Sir Ivor 91968), Nijinsky (1970), Lomond (1983) and El Gran Senor (1984). 1,000 Guineas (1) – Glad Rags (1966). Derby (6) – Larkspur (1962), Sir Ivor (1968), Nijinsky (1970), Roberto (1972), The Minstrel (1977) and Golden Fleece (1982). Oaks (2) – Long Look (1965) and Valoris (1966). St Leger (3) – Ballymoss (1957), Nijinsky (1970) and Boucher (1972).

French Classics: Prix Du Jockey Club (1) – Caerleon (1983).

Other Major International Races include: Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe (3) – Ballymoss (1958) and Alleged (1977-78). Breeders’ Cup Mile (1) – Royal Academy (1990). Washington International (1) – Sir Ivor (1968). King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes (3) – Ballymoss (1958), Nijinsky (1970) and The Minstrel (1977). Ascot Gold Cup (1) – Gladness (1958). Eclipse Stakes (5) – Ballymoss (1958), Pieces Of Eight (1966), Artaius (1977), Solford (1983) and Sadler’s Wells (1984). July Cup (5) – Thatch (1973), Saritamer (1974), Solinus (1978), Thatching (1979) and Royal Academy (1990). Sussex Stakes (4) – Thatch (1973), Artaius (1977), Jazzerio (1978) and Kings Lake (1981). Benson and Hedges Gold Cup (2) – Roberto (1972) and Caerleon (1983). Dewhurst Stakes (7) – Nijinksy (1969), Cellini (1973), The Minstrel (1976), Monteverdi (1979), Storm Bird (1980) and El Gran Senor (1983).

Career total winners in Ireland (Flat and NH) – 1,529.

Royal Ascot winner tally – 25 including including seven winners from eight runners in 1975.

Cheltenham Festival tally – 23 including 10 Gloucestershire Hurdles.

Honorary doctorates: from National University of Ireland and Ulster University.

/PC (posted as it happens on Epsom Derby day where all the jockeys are wearing black armbands as a mark of respect for Michael Vincent).