Turas Bride — Bridget’s Journey through Ireland, 2010

Tomorrow is February 1st, known in Ireland as Féile Bride or St. Bridget’s Day. It marks the beginning of spring in the Irish calendar, a day dedicated to the ancient goddess of fertility, animals and agriculture. Bridget has a pagan and Christian side, depending on who’s mind she’s in. She’s a patron saint of Ireland, like Patrick.

Bridget's Cross

We grew up believing that Bridget travelled the country on the eve of her feast day and we made small crosses from rushes on Jan 31 to honour and welcome her. On her travels she blessed people, animals, barns, fields and winter crops. After her feast day, the weather always improved and winter was over; farmers went to work in the fields and fishermen began getting boats and nets ready for the coming season.

This year when Bridget does her tour of the country she’ll see a lot of changes. Strolling through the streets of Galway, she’ll notice how quiet and almost serene the city has become since last year. She might be curious at the absence of all the pinstriped men and women, the twenty-thirty-forty-fifty somethings who strode around clutching important files and rabbiting on cell phones. Auctioneers, and engineers, solicitors, bluffers, bimbos, con artists, bankers, developers, builders, architects, shysters and hustlers — in previous years they pushed her out of their way. They’re ghosts now, and just the echo of their well tipped heels remain. She’ll say a quiet prayer that the musicians, poets, writers, artists and actors who gave Galway her counter-culture edge will return and retake their territory.

Bank advert from the Boom

Out the country, she’ll wince at the desolate half-built housing estates on once green meadows; monuments to greed and folly, the land is littered with them and they’ll never be finished. She’ll frown at all the lopsided ‘For Sale’ signs outside buildings and she’ll need a lantern to guide her way on the potholed roads. Craters deep enough to drown a calf will concern her and she’ll wonder why the county councils are not repairing them.

If Bridget rambles into any supermarket around Gort, she’ll notice that shelves are not as well stocked as last year. Gourmet is passé and some sections are combined — Asian, Italian and French food stuffs are all lumped together. She may wonder if people now have curry risotto with white wine sauce over noodles, sweet and sour coq au vin with fettucine. She’ll notice the East European and Brazilian shelves have given way to own brand juices, toothpaste, bathroom tissue and firelighters. She’ll see that shoppers are spending more time browsing prices, weighing up options. They’re more mindful and the days of ‘pick and toss into the cart’ are gone. But she’ll wonder why farmers are buying imported fruit and veg rather than growing their own. She may feel slighted by this, and file it away for future reference.

As she tracks out of Gort and over to the Burren, she might think the flapping remnants in the roadside trees and hedgerows are prayer flags in her honour. Coming closer she’ll see they are plastic bags and debris left behind by the floods. In most places the high water mark will be well above her head. Then she’ll know that the sandbags around some houses are there to keep out the water and not the rebels.

Colman's Stash

It will be late in the night when Bridget reaches Glencolmcille in the Burren. She’ll head to the glimmer of light in the hazel valley, the cell of Saint Colman, poet and mystic. He’ll have the kettle boiling and greet her with a mug of hot potín and a verse of blessings. Bridget will tell him what she has seen, as she does every year and he’ll listen in silence, only moving to feed the fire. Then he’ll give her his take on the place since they last met. He’ll tell her the circus has left town, but there’s still a few clowns around. Most of the trapeze artists and the contortionists are in hiding, but the Houdinis have escaped.

While the night wears on, Colman will relate stories of the boom, and how former taoiseach Bertie Ahearn had assured the nation that they were on the pig’s back and urged them to ride that hog all the way to the bacon factory. People didn’t understand how to ride pigs and they did the daftest of things. Small town taxi drivers bought apartments in Dubai and farmers became builders. School kids got their own cars and crane drivers took to cocaine. Hot tubs were installed in neo country cottages and swinger parties replaced the Saturday night game of cards. Lattes out did Barry’s tea for the morning jolt and the Panini trumped the sandwich. And then it turns out that there were no pigs, it was all an illusion and the fall was a heavy one. Colman will say that those who held Bridget in their hearts were unscathed by the boom and its aftermath.

Bridget will promise to pray for the country and rise to continue her journey. Colman will wrap his winter robe around himself and they’ll cross the Burren mountains towards the Atlantic. Over near Fanore they’ll reach the coast road, turn left for Doolin and continue to the Cliffs of Moher. Before dawn they will reach Dabhach Bride, Bridget’s holy well. She’ll bless the water as the sun rises and Colman and herself will recite prayers for those resting in the surrounding graveyard. Then they’ll hang in the shadows of the sacred grove above the well and wait for the pilgrims to arrive.

Dabhach Bride @ 1900

Colman will note that Clare still believes in her, that the tide has turned and more and more people are arriving every year: locals, strangers and New Age pagans. They’ll gaze across Liscannor Bay and down along the West Clare Coast and recall times past when huge crowds assembled at the well from as far as the eye could see. In the afternoon, the gentle sound of jigs and reels will seep from Murphy’s pub nearby. They’ll know the tunes, local to the core — The Piper’s Chair, The Heathery Breeze, The Doonagore Reel, Paddy Killoughery’s Jig.
“My duty is done,” she’ll say to Colman and they’ll stroll down the path and into Murphy’s.
Colman will order two hot whiskeys and they’ll sit by the fire and listen to the fiddle and flute. They might have a second drink and then leave as quietly as they entered. The fiddler will ask who they are and the barman will say,
“I don’t know their names but they come here every year since I was a boy at least.”

Maybe they’ll still be around when I go to Bridget’s Well tomorrow.

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Dabhach Bride photo: Clare County Library

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Wrenboys, Swarees and Scrap Parties in County Clare

On St. Stephen’s Day, December 26th, groups of musicians and dancers would get together in Clare, dress in disguise and set off around the countryside. Known as wrenboys or mummers, they called to houses, played music and danced sets, sang and recited. Then they collected money and invited donors to a mummers dance or swaree, which would be held locally a few nights later. A troop of wren boys was called ‘a batch’ and they gave a great boost to the Christmas.

Paddy Pharaic Shannon of Doolin, County Clare recalls the wrenboys of the 1930’s:

T’would still be dark on St. Stephen’s morn when you’d hear the horns blowin’ callin’ the wrenboys. If you looked out the window, you’d see all the candles bein’ lit in the cottages all around. The wrenboys used gather below at the bridge in Fisherstreet, they might be thirty or forty people in it between dancers and players and an amadan and an oinseach. They’d be dressed up with coats turned inside out and ribbons of green and gold. Stepheneen Hardy was their leader when I was young and he rode a black ass.

The wrenboys would travel the country that day and come back here at night. We’d hear the noise of them comin’ and everyone would go down to the bridge to meet them. Stepheneen would lead them through Fisherstreet and stop below outside Connor’s pub. That was their last stop. There used be great excitement and of course t’would go on for hours, music, set dancin’ and a bit of singin’. And then a few nights later there would be a big swaree beyond in Anton Moloney’s place.”

Swarees were held in houses that had a big kitchen with plenty of room for dancing. They were the most clandestine of country dances and had an wild edge or energy — Christmas spirit gone native. The ring of the word swaree conjures up mayem even though it’s a corruption of the genial French word soiree. There was loads of drink at swarees and they lasted from dusk to dawn and longer. Nothing sent parish priests around the bend more than a confessional whisper that a swaree had taken place in the fold. It was like an ambush of the faithful by Beelzebub.

A notorious swaree took place in Coor, near Miltown-Malbay, County Clare in the 1950’s. Held in the house of a ‘strong’ farmer on the 28th of December, the place was mobbed and makeshift bars were set up in the cowshed to cater for the attendees. Musicians came from as far as Doolin and dancers from Inagh were there out of a face. Late at night there were emergency dashes to Miltown, Lahinch and even Ennistymon for barrels of porter and bottles of whiskey.
The following night there was a scrap party from the leftovers— a ‘low key’ event for the musicians and high dancers. This was also a mighty night and went on very late. And just when it was winding down, musicians arrived from a swaree in Cree with crates of beer.
Like the miracle of the loaves and fishes, the drink seemed the replicate itself or something, and there was enough booty for a third night’s lashing. Word traveled fast and far and the second Scrap Party was a whale of a session. The Kilfenora crowd arrived, long coats and hair oil, machine guns in fiddle cases, they could have been from Chicago. Their music was turbo charged: their players took no prisioners and their dancers could batter heel or sole.
People said that the music from the swaree and the scrap parties hung over the countryside for weeks, like some sort of a fog. There wasn’t a minute of the day when they weren’t hearing jigs and reels and the clattering of steps on a flag floor.

A priest raided a swaree in the parish of Liscannor, County Clare. The ‘night’ was held in John Killoughrey’s house on New Year’s Eve. The place was packed and there was two barrels of porter and assorted bottles of poitin and whiskey in the parlor. On the kitchen table, Pakie Russell, concertina; Gussie Russell, flute; John Killoughery, fife; Paddy Killoughry, fiddle. The place was hopping when the priest arrived. He told John that the devil was in the house. John said,
‘Well isn’t it great work Father but I can’t see him.’
The priest supposedly tried to turn John into a pillar of salt or something, but the mumbo jumbo didn’t work.
‘And then he came at me with the umbrella,’ said John, ‘and wasn’t the dog under the table and didn’t he go for him. Well he got the fright of his life. He thought the dog was the devil! He ran out of the place roarin’ prayers.’

I took part in one of the last wrenboy expeditions who went collecting for a swaree in North Clare. We were a strange crew— a matchmaker, a carpenter, a boatman, a farmer, three students and four women mad for dancing. We weren’t the best mummers in Clare but we had rhythm and style. It was a rainy day and our progress was slow, delayed by hospitality and hot whiskeys. Our route took us through Corofin and there we tarried in Bofey Quinns, when we met a group of kindred wrenboys from Ruan. We played tunes and drank porter and lost track of our mission but had a mighty session. By the time we got back to Ennistymon that night, we were footless. Our money box was empty — only a few copper coins and a miraculous medal from Lourdes. There would be no swaree, a tradition was breaking.

The swarees died out in Clare in the 1980’s but the wrenboy tradition continues. So let it rip on day, Banner boys and girls, though my heart is in San Francisco, my spirit is with ye. Beir búa.

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Time Passes: Irish Christmas Story Podcast

The West Clare Railway, Ennistymon

Time Passes is a story about emigrants coming home to Ireland for Christmas. It’s set back in the days of the West Clare Railway and I was moved to write it after reading a poem in Irish about our town by fellow Ennisymon writer, the late Tadhg O hÉaghráin.
Time Passes was first read on KPFA radio in Berkeley, California in 1986 and subsequently published in The West: Stories from Ireland. It has also been published in several newspapers and magazines in Europe and North America and is in a few anthologies of short fiction. The song ‘Memories’ by Ron Kavana is based on this story.

Music is by Martin Hayes + Dennis Cahill

Available on itunes or via Feedburner. Click here: Stories from Ireland Podcast

Beannachtaí Nollag díbh, agus go mbeirfimid beo ag an t-am seo arís ag cómhóradh na féile — Christmas Blessings to all, and may we be alive at this time again to celebrate the Festival. ES

photo credit: Clare County Library

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Fooled by Faith: Ireland and Bishops

In her recent report, Judge Yvonne Murphy says the centralized culture of ecclesiastical secrecy of accountability, to civic and criminal law, was the root cause of church cover-ups of pedophile priests in the Dublin archdiocese. It appears that the Catholic Church in Ireland did what it liked, regardless of the laws of God or man. A tragic and despicable legacy from the convenient marriage of Church and State.

Though the fathers of Irish republicanism were Presbyterians, down the centuries, Irish freedom and Irish Catholicism grew entwined like the vine and the branch. You died for Ireland and you died for Jesus, same difference. Back in the 1900’s, the Unionists and Orangemen were on to something when they shouted ‘Home Rule is Rome Rule!” But the southern Irish didn’t listen and cuddled deeper in the bed with the Church. By 1922, Ireland was a Catholic Republic.

After the Civil War, it took Eamon de Valera and Fianna Fáil ten years to get into government. He was just settled in when the International Eucharistic Congress was held in Dublin, an event which marked the 1,500th anniversary of St. Patrick bringing the word of Jesus to Ireland. It was a big step on the world stage for the young nation and the theme for the congress was “The Propagation of the Sainted Eucharist by Irish Missionaries.” The extravaganza began on June 21st 1932, and ended with a star studded High Pontifical Mass in the Phoenix Park on June 26th. The Free State issued a special Congress stamp, with a cross and the legend “Inter-nationalis Congressus Eucharisticus”. It was a real church cum state love fest.

It’s estimated that over 25% of Ireland’s Catholics were in Dublin for the prayers and hymns. A big crowd of Irish-Americans came over as well — bishops and tycoons. The authorities calculated that a million worshipers attended the Mass in the Phoenix Park, which was celebrated by Papal Legate Lorenzo Lauri, well-bred Roman with a crooked nose. The Mass was broadcast around the world and was a great show of pomp, holy smoke, and men in odd costumes. Count John McCormack sang Panis Angelicus and a bell which supposedly belonged to St. Patrick was jingled during the consecration.

After the Mass, there was a procession to Dublin city center. Over 20,000 stewards herded the faithful along the route; every hundred yards, loudspeakers churned out hymns for the crowd. The procession was 15 miles long, from start to finish and was one unending prayer.

At the head of the parade was the Canopy of the Blessed Sacrament. This was carried by 16 Irish ‘gentlemen’ — top dogs in robes and cocked hats, who were noted for their piety and faith. They included de Valera, Sean Thomas O’Kelly, William Thomas Cosgrave, Speaker Francis Patrick Fahy, Senate Chairman Thomas William Westropp Bennett and the Mayor of Dublin. They all drank the Kool Aid.

Both the Church and State pulled out all the stops to present Ireland as a spiritual republic, a morally superior counterweight to the decadent British Empire across the pond. It was hoped that the Congress would heal the Civil War rift, but that didn’t happen. (Eoin Duffy set up the Blue Shirts a few months afterwards — fascist Catholics who later went to Spain to support Franco.)

In the wake of the Congress, Ireland became less a republican democracy and more of a clerical dominated theocracy. With the 1937 Irish Constitution, the Catholic Church was given preferred status and that consummated the marriage. An early agenda was to banish/punish anyone who thought ‘outside the confessional box.’ First up were the writers. They were a pain for both church and state, but thank God they were easy to deal with, you just banned their books and they went to England or America.

And then the Bishops were worried about dancing and the possibility for sin if things weren’t tightened up. They got a hand in forming the 1935 Public Dancehalls Act and it worked a treat for everyone. Country house dances were banned in a stroke of a pen and the cultural fabric of rural Ireland was ripped. There would be no more sets danced to flute and fiddle in Leary’s cottage and anyone caught breaking the law was brought to court. It drove Irish traditional music to the edge and destroyed the dancing customs. To fill the vacuum, priests built parochial halls in towns and villages. They hired the bands, took the money and watched over the dancers to ensure a sin-free environment. They paid a tax to the government and the dance proceeds kept the parochial house in steak and onions.

There wasn’t much protest when the writers were banned. There wasn’t much when the country-dances were stopped. Few questioned the interference of the Church in State matters and those who did were exiled. Ireland began to resemble a feudal bishopric more than a modern state. It got worse, much worse: the children were abused, psychologically, physically, sexually and spiritually. Nobody listened to their cries. The horror went on for at least half a century and neither government nor police tried very hard to break it.

In the fall-out from the Murphy Report we hear that a handful of Irish bishops ‘may’ resign because of their failure to act against the predators under their rule. We are told the Catholic Church in Erin is going to be overhauled, revamped, and sanitized. It’s too late, muckers, the damage has been done. Your time is up in Ireland: go home to Rome and bring the black prayer book with you.
Is it any wonder that Jesus wept?

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The Warrior Carty: Irish Christmas Story Podcast

Ennistymon, circa 1900

I grew up in a small pub in the west of Ireland, where every market and fair day, a cadre of old IRA men held fort at the corner of the counter. Known as ‘The Boys’, they were our local heros, the men who fought the British at Rineen, Monreel, 81 Cross and other hotspots. I once saw a picture of them taken in 1919 and was struck by how young they seemed back then, they looked like boys who’d just left school.

After ‘The Boys’ had a few drinks, conversation turned to the ‘campaign’ and who did what and who didn’t do that. Sometimes it seemed there was unfinished business from the revolution being settled in the pub. One man, Murt Hynes, used thump the counter and my father would have to tell him to take it easy. In the late afternoon, Murt often challenged his mates to take up the cause again and ‘finish the job for once and for all.’ They stared at the floor in silence, finished their drinks and went home. Alone, Murt would sing a few rebel songs and then my mother made a plate of ham sandwiches to fortify him for the journey home.

‘The Warrior Carty‘ is set on the day of a fair around Christmas time. The character is not directly based on any of ‘The Boys’, but I have always felt he was one of them. The music is by Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill.

I’ll post another Christmas Story, ‘Time Passes’, in a week or so. Please pass on the links to anyone interested in Irish stories, spoken word, music etc.

Available on itunes or via Feedburner. Click here: Stories from Ireland Podcast

Banner Abú

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Revolution: Stories from Ireland Podcast

This story returns to a time when the Revolution was just around the corner. It’s from The West and was recorded in San Francisco. Music is by Martin Hayes + Dennis Cahill and the tune is MacAllistrom’s March.

CLICK FOR PODCAST FEED

A friend who had a radio show on ClareFm discovered that Revolution upset the Ennis taxi drivers for some unfathomable reason. So he’d play it and they’d call the station and scream at him to can the track…it’s 11 minutes approx. He’d let it go for a few weeks and then drop it on them like a bomb, some wet night when they’d all be ranked around the monument in town. One night they drove out to the station and honked until the cops came…I never take a taxi around Ennis…

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County Councilors, Clampers and Visionaries

The Clare Crest: Faithful to our Heritage

Eyebrows were arched recently in Clare with the publication of the expenses incurred by candidates in last June’s county council elections. The top spenders included Cllr Tony Mulqueen (FG), who spent €6,531, Cllr Michael Begley (Ind) €6,173, Eugene McNamara (Ind) €5,541, Cllr Pat Hayes (FF) €5,830 and Cllr Brian Meaney (Greens) €5,180. Mr. McNamara, an Ennistymon publican, did not get elected, even though he ran a sleek campaign with snazzy suit, shiny car and Obamaesque posters. A total of 55 candidates went into the election battle and they included die-hard politicos, crackpots, local characters and a multi-millionaire.

Ironically, the multi-millionaire, Mr. JJ McCabe, only spent €2,390 on the campaign trail. It was his fifth time going for office and he was eliminated after the 1st count with 239 votes. The 73-year-old McCabe told the media he didn’t want to ‘buy’ the election and that he would never run for office again. He said:
“I have lost nothing. It is the electorate who have lost a man of great ability and skill.”
Fair enough, maybe he has a point.

JJ on the campaign trail

Back in 2004, when JJ last went for election, he was a small farmer with about 20 cows, give or take. He had a holding of 48 acres of rough land near the Ennis by-pass and lived the life of a rural bachelor who had a bit of style. A well-known hurling supporter, he soldiered at the annual matching-making melee in Lisdoonvarna, fleadh ceols, parties, discos and parish dances. Everyone knew JJ and his adventures coloured local conversation — like the time his car was clamped in Ennis. On that occasion JJ hitched home, came back to town with a tractor and low-loader and lifted the disabled vehicle on board. Then he booted for home, clampers following in their white van with lights flashing and horns blaring. JJ wouldn’t stop, swept up the boreen and into his farmyard, maniacal clampers behind him. Once they were in the yard, he closed the gate locked them inside. He told them they were on private property and went off and made tea, fed cattle, watched the news on television…Hours later, when they had unclamped his car, he unlocked the gate and wished them a safe journey home.

Those in the know say that JJ’s actions made the gods laugh and they showered him with good karma: it seems gods don’t like clampers… The next caller to his house was a developer who wanted to buy his land. JJ said lovely hurling and asked for 20 million. He had bought the holding from Lord Inchiquin for £5,000 some years previously, when the aristocrat was stuck for cash. JJ settled for €18.8 million. It was the biggest land deal in Clare during the building boom and the developer was subsequently refused planning permission. The land will probably be Clare’s biggest NAMA asset. JJ bought a pad in the Algarve, and an estate in France that has a castle, a hotel and ten houses on the grounds.

Now that he didn’t become a councilor, Mr. McCabe spends more time on his estate in France, drops over to the Med when he needs a change of scene. From there he can read what the successful councilors are up to. If he tunes into the news from Ennis town council he’ll learn about the proposal to recruit ‘Urine Wardens’ to police the county town on weekends — a revenue generating scheme like parking tickets for pee-pee violators. He’ll probably conclude that he’s better off being far away from Clare politics and uncork a bottle of vintage plonk from his vineyard.

And if he’s keeping up with local religious affairs, he’ll see that the Bishop of Killaloe, Willie Walsh (who he’d know from the hurling matches) has come out strongly against the recent apparition hysteria in Knock. According to Dublin ‘visionaries’ Joe Coleman and Keith Henderson, Our Lady will appear at Knock Shrine on December 5th next, at 3pm sharp. The bishop said,
“This sort of thing can bring religion into disrepute.”
While he would not normally discourage people from going to Knock, he thought they should stay away on that day. He continued,
“I would be unhappy about people dashing off to Knock just because the rumour goes out that there will be a vision. It has been proven time and time again that there is autosuggestion going on. For instance, like the moving statues — quite intelligent, normally sane people can believe they saw something. It’s like anything… if you look long enough at any object, you’re going to use your imagination and are liable to see something you hadn’t noticed before. If it is already suggested that this is a vision then you can in some way, unconsciously, convince yourself.”

Visionaries Coleman and Henderson

But like it or lump it, thousands will ignore Bishop Walsh and all the other bishops and follow the visionaries to Knock for the Apparition. Our Lady was scheduled to appear there at Halloween, and an estimated 15,000 people came for the event. Some claim they saw The Virgin, others reported seeing the sun change colour and dance in the sky. Skeptics wonder if the holy water was spiked. Others blame the recession for the ‘visions’. The Bishop said, “That view has been expressed before but I don’t know whether this happens in times of depression.”

Ok, Bishop…but what if she does appear…and gives out the winning numbers for the Lotto on Dec 5th? Should we still do the quick-pick or listen to Our Lady? We wouldn’t mind having a châteaux in the South of France and be able to drop in to JJ for an evening of craic in castle. It can be wet and dreary around Clare in the depth of winter, especially when prayer falls on deaf ears.

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John O’Donoghue & The Pogues: a match made in San Francisco?

The Art of the Con

John ‘The Bull’ O’Donoghue, former Minister for the Arts, Sports and Tourism, resigned as Ceann Comhairle on the same day the Pogues played in San Francisco. Normally these two events would be mutually exclusive, but with the recession, everything is connected.

The Bull racked up a half-million euro tab over his few years as mandarin for d’Arts and had an extravagant lifestyle, at the expense of the Plain People of Ireland. A martyr for top-shelf brandy, best of wine, fatted lamb, caviar, horses, plane hops, limos, banquets, nothing was too good or too sacred for The Bull. He consumed all before him like a Pac man, while Irish artists waited for the crumbs that fell from his department. How many stories might that half-million euro have helped write? How many tunes could it have composed? How many songs could have it sung? The Bull’s expense account could have kept an artist in clover for 50 years and raised spirits in the process. Instead, it fattened himself and his herd. It’s a triumph for Irish journalism that he was exposed and forced to resign. Take a bow, Sunday Tribune but don’t rest on your laurels.

A long white stretch limo was pulled at the curb outside the Pogues gig and it reminded us of The Bull and how he loved long shiny cars. We suddenly felt charitable and wondered if he should be rehabilitated rather than despised as a parasite. Then we had a brainwave: what if the Bull could drive the Pogues limo!! Maybe Shane would lend his Mexican Air Force cap to him…just while he’s behind the wheel. He could be cured. Cruising a half million miles up highways and down autobahns and boreens, the Kerryman would get plenty therapy from the lads. Plus, he’d still have a touch of the high life, he’d still be rubbing shoulders with stars and starlets…still be supping good grog, but not at the taxpayers expense. He could get really into it…maybe get promoted to roadie status.

Pogues, SF

The idea was exciting and when Mr. McGowan came onstage that night, a red plastic tumbler in each hand, we saw an expanded role for The Bull: he could be Shane’s batman!…carry the bevs for him, place them on the small table at the front of the stage and make sure to top them up now and again. He could light cigarettes for Mac…and anything else for that matter. In fact, The Bull might even test the mike for Shane. Wouldn’t it be a thrill to see him front of stage saying, “One, one, one, two, two. Check, check.” And maybe in true punk form he’d get showered with rotten tomatoes or eggs…

As the Pogues ploughed through their greatest songs in San Francisco, and Mac weaved this way and that, the idea of The Bull being part of the scene became more clear. The band might even give him a cameo part — take a bit of weight from Spider by having the Bull bang the tin beer tray against his head. And I know this is pushing it a bit, but maybe The Bull could play a bit of bodhran? On say, ‘The Irish Rover’? Would the lads let him join in the chorus? What about ‘Dirty Old Town’? Can’t you just see him on stage, belting out the refrain, sweet Cahersiveen etched on his face? Would he ever get to lash out ‘The Boys of Barr na Sráide’? His very own party piece…

On second thoughts, it may be better to keep him from the limelight for a while. It might be wiser to have him set up the backstage for the band, make sure everyone’s tastes and mores are catered for, and that there’s plenty of everything. He’d be good at that, he’s been freeloading for years and knows every rope in the book. He wouldn’t have an assistant, just an iPhone which he’d have to learn to use…there’s probably a Fás course for that. He’d have to know at any time, where drink, smoke and get-well cards could be got. And he’d have to learn to mix Tequila Dropkicks, Whiskey Windfalls and Brandy Bomb-Bombs…maybe learn how to hand-roll cigarettes. He’d get a much better education with the lads than he’d get hanging around the crowd in the Dáil bar.

We know it’s a privilege to work with the Pogues, and some might say that The Bull doesn’t deserve the chance. We understand all that, but feel it would be for the Greater Good, if he were rehabbed rather than punished or left to waste away on the backbenches of government. As some perverted form of entertainment, the Kerry voters will continue to return his whale carcass to the Dáil, forever more amen. It would take a few Pogues gigs to persuade them to release The Bull for the sake of art and culture. The band could play The Puck Fair, The Rose of Tralee, Listowel Races, Cahersiveen Winkle Festival. The Bull could play support for them at the ’Sive gig — it would be a perfect homecoming for the Prodigal Son.

It’s a win-win situation. The job would be good for The Bull: he’d still be flying around the place, ride limos and drink until maidin geal. He would be indentured to the Pogues. And here it should be said, the band would be better for his rehabilitation than U2. Like, Bono and The Bull could talk shite to each other all night and next morning…but there would be no shite talk with the Pogues. Everything would be straight up and politically incorrect.

The Pogues are The Bull’s only hope. And I know this is stretching it a bit far…but, what about Mrs. Bull doing a bit now and again? Remember, she was also part of his act and liked to jet away too. She’s a lovely singer and maybe she could do the female vox on Fairytale? And when Shane waltzes off stage with her, would The Bull know it’s only rock and roll? Or would he lose the head, like he did in the Dáil, and end up on YouTube again?

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Pogues SF photo: Seán Chon

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Books by Eddie Stack

Eddie Stack’s books for Kindle + iPhone

Stories from Ireland Podcast

Stories from Ireland is a podcast I’ve set up and I’ll be posting spoken word every few weeks. Limbo, the current story, is about going to school in Ireland + it’s 16 minutes long. First published in my collection of short fiction, The West, it was broadcast by the BBC as a play for voices + is included in the anthology Fiction in the Classroom.

This version is on a spoken word CD called Stories from Ireland which has musical accompaniment by Martin Hayes & Dennis Cahill. More info here.

Stories from Ireland podcast is free + can be played on a computer or mp3 player. It’s available on itunes or you can subscribe via Feedburner by clicking here: Subscribe to Stories from Ireland Please share this link.

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Books by Eddie Stack

Eddie Stack’s books for Kindle + iPhone

Mr. Jones: part II

(read part 1 here)

Canon Jones: The brother

Do you know his brother? The canon? Lovely man. They don’t talk at all. Haven’t for years. They had a row, up at the hotel one evening. It was terrible. The bishop and all the priests of the diocesse were there. I think it was after Confirmation, yes, yes it was. And he came in and gate crashed their gathering, you know, barged into the room where they were having a quiet drink or whatever. The canon told me about it later. You see, the canon knew he was drunk and tried to wheel him out before any trouble started, but he wasn’t able. Then they had a row. The canon was mortified because my fellow shouted that the bishop was having an affair with a certain nun. Maybe he was, I don’t know. The hotel people called the Guards and he was arrested. He refused to apologise to the bishop. Only for that, the canon would be a monsignor, maybe even a bishop now. But that finished him. After that the poor man was tranfered to a parish in the back of beyonds. They haven’t spoken since.

Of course that wasn’t the first time he was arrested, oh God no, he has been arrested several times. And always got away with it. Connections, you see, since his rugby days. If right was right he should have gotten jail a few times. But he didn’t. There’s no justice, is there? It all depends on who you know. One time he was arrested for striking a publican up the town. He broke his jaw because the man refused to serve him. He was drunk, very drunk. I think it was after a funeral or something. He loves funerals. Sometimes I think he only gets up out of bed to go to funerals. The first thing he does in the morning is to read the death notices in the newspapers. That isn’t normal, is it? So he broke that poor man’s jaw and was arrested in another pub down the street. He was singing a song apparently when the Guards came in for him and he wouldn’t leave until the song was finished. They brought him to court and the judge just bound him to the peace for two years. Terrible wasn’t it? After breaking a poor man’s jaw. He said he didn’t mean it, that it was a friendly tap. Friendly tap! I heard the court room was in stitches laughing. He should have got jail, but you see he had the connections.

And when I think of all the times he was pulled for drunken driving. And got away scot free mostly. Except for the time he was caught in the North somewhere. Ballymeana I think. He was up at a rugby match and of course was drinking his way home. The police stopped him and he became very abusive apparently, told them he’d get the IRA after them. Can you imagine? Nobody in their right mind would say a thing like that. Sure they wouldn’t? But he did. So they arrested him, and rightly so. He was locked up for days. The Guards came here to the door at three in the morning to tell me. I thought he was dead when I heard the knock. They let him out on bail, I can’t remember what it was but it was a lot of money at the time, several thousand pounds anyway. And then he had to go to court up there which was a different kettle of fish than going before one of his cronies down here. Oh it was in the papers and all. The judge called him a disrespectful thug who shoudn’t drink. He gave him a big lecture and a huge fine and would have put him in jail were it not for pressure from the Taoiseach. He knew the Taoiseach from the rugby, you see, and the Ard Fheises. Connections again. But of course he hated the publicity the case brought him. It was even on the radio about him. I said nothing to him. What was the point? I’d said it all already and he never listened to me anyway.
“Shut up woman! Shut up woman!” is all he ever said to me.

And when he’s drinking he gets into all sorts of silly business. You’ve seen him drinking? Haven’t you? He does stupid things and gets into terrible messes. Like that time himself and that…oh what’s his name…the fella from Mayo…I can’t think of him now…but anyway, they stole sheep one night over in Offaly. Total madness. They were after bringing over two horses to some trainer there and of course there was drink involved. So they stole sheep from a farm near Birr and brought them home in the lorry. Worse, the fools put them into our fields. He was in court for that too but got away with it. And when you’d see him in the morning after he gets up, and he dressed like Prince Phillip, you’d swear he was a proper gentleman, wouldn’t you. He dresses well, I have to say that for him. That’s the best I can say about him.

He goes to Cheltenham every year, you know. For the races. Once he was away for nearly three weeks. He had a big win, that’s what he told me on the phone. I could hear a party going on in his room, women laughing and somebody singing. I hung up on him. The next day I closed the butcher shop, why should I slave and he having a good time? And I always wanted to have a shoe shop so I got Tommy Hynes the builder to come in and change everything, take out the big cold room and the display cases and all that kind of thing. My brother has a fine shoe shop in Kilkenny and he supplied me with stock to get it started. I should have done it years before, but you don’t think of the obvious sometimes, sure you don’t?

When he came back from Cheltenham he was so drunk that he didn’t even notice the change in the place. It was a week or more before he realised it. One morning he went out to the shop in his striped butchers apron and stood behind the counter. Big man trying to make an impression, you know? He’d do that sometimes, pretend to me he was turning over a new leaf, especially if he’d overdone something. Atoning for his sins. Lot of sighing, like his mother. And standing at the door, smoking and chit-chatting. But he was too sick to go to the door this morning and he just stood behind the counter. I was watching him from the kitchen. He looked around the shop, and all he saw were shoes. I could see the confused look on his face. He must have thought he was hallucinating because he screamed and ran upstair to bed with his hands over his head. We never spoke about it. I don’t give him any money from the shop. Why should I? His father left him a fortune. He’ll never drink it. Maybe that’s the problem. What do you think?

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read part i here

title inspired by Bob Dylan’s Ballad of a Thin Man

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Books by Eddie Stack

Eddie Stack’s books for Kindle + iPhone