After Hours, After Nama: Part 2 — The Google Deal
Here’s the second part…like NAMA, it’s taking unexpected twists.
Read part 1 here
Peggy Morgan came to the counter and ordered a small brandy and a bottle of Tarzan Extra. She was with her mother’s lodger, Ms. McCabe, who worked for the dentist, and Egan wondered if they were lovers or just friends. After serving her, he asked Henry, “Has she a NAMA deal as well?”
“She has indeed. Apparently she’s a poet and gets a good slice of pie. Imagine! Did you know, that according to Fás, there are sixty-five registered poets in Ennis? Hah? More poets there now than Polish plasterers in the old days. Go figure that one out.”
“Brutal. And I bet you, there’s none of them as good a poet as Quaker Leary from Ballyfin.” Egan said.
“My point exactly. The Quaker wouldn’t go within an asses’ roar of NAMA; he wouldn’t take a penny from them. He paddles his own canoe. And for the record, there’s twenty-two potters in Kilfadeen, all on the NAMA tit. I mean, how many jugs do you want on the dresser? Hah?”
“My point exactly. But you see, Peter, we’re a tourist nation now, we’re in arts and entertainment. Tourists expect to meet leprechauns and talk to them, watch them do tricks with a crock of brass coins. But most of these shagging leprechauns spend their days on the beer. And a more awkward bunch of flutes you won’t meet in a month of Sundays. In my opinion they’re a liability to the place, they’re giving us a bad name…I mean how can it serve us well, to be known as the leprechaun capital of the world? Give me a break! Cut them off! The same goes for that terrible bore, MacClune the sheanachie, he’s another NAMA beneficiary, another national asset, an’ a most toxic one. I cringe every time I see him giving a spiel to tourists…and he hanging around Doyle’s Corner with a caubeen and a clay pipe. Straight from Disneyland. You see, they get paid for this shit. They’re all artists now, Peter.”
“What gets me most about this art stuff,” confided Egan, “is that it’s impossible to know the good from the bad. Like, you know if a carpenter hangs a door the wrong way…but this art stuff is different.”
“Aha!” said Henry, after he had a drink. “You put your finger on the crux of the matter. With art, there is no good or bad. Not anymore. I always said there should be a regulator for the arts.”“But you know, I blame Labour and the Greens. When they were in government, the whole shebang went belly-up…”
“I agree. NAMA should have stuck to the property problem, letting them near the arts was ludicrous. But that was the Greens, that was the Greens. And once NAMA sold the Book of Kells to Google, we were shagged, After that, everything was on the table. I know it got us out of a hole at the time, but…”
“Well of course, that was let go because of the whole church scandal but then they sold the Cliffs of Moher to Microsoft who hung a big fuckin’ sign on it that you can see from New York! What’s all that about?” Egan asked.
“My point exactly!” Henry said, beckoning for another pint, “We became a brand…good old Ireland of the grá mo chroí welcomes. Céad Míle Fáilte and all that shit. You see, even though Labour and the Greens were top-heavy with brains, they were no match for Google or Microsoft or Don Draper.”
Egan nodded. He knew Henry was getting loaded, but good enough for a few more pints, so he put another one in front of him.
“None of them were as smart as poor ol’ Charlie Haughey, bad and all as he was,” he said.
“My point exactly!” Henry said.
A woman named Kiki O’Neill was singing ‘Two Little Orphans’ and the pub roared the chorus. Brutal stuff. Henry said she had a NAMA deal — she sang five hundred songs a year and got big money for it. A microchip sent a message back to Apple every time she sang, he said, and money went straight into her bank account in Kilrush.
“It’s all microchips and PIN numbers now,” complained Egan.
“My point exactly!” said Henry, “we’re owned by Google and Microsoft and Apple, like it or lump it. They know where we live, what we ate. We’re fuckin’ guinea pigs, Peter, and they’re watching us. Monty explained it all to me one night. Bad and all as poor old Monty is, at least he’s a genius, I mean, and I really don’t begrudge him the Elite Plan he has. In all fairness, the likes of him need to be supported. ”
“What’s wrong with a poet or a singer getting a NAMA deal? NAMA helped all the big crooks, didn’t they?”
“But tis gone too far,” Egan said and Henry nodded, “I mean, there’s a fella in Barrana who got a NAMA deal to make statues out of old telegraph poles with a chainsaw…”
“My point exactly!” said Henry, “and they gave thousands to that nut Babbler Forrester to compose a concerto! I mean that guy hasn’t a note in his head…what was that Shakespeare said about the monkey and the typewriter? Oh damn, it escapes me now…but it’s the same thing.”
“The reality is, this country is just an anthill now,” the Geek said, “we’re all drones, bringing home bacon for the queens. We should have revolted when the Celtic Tiger imploded…we needed a program like the WPA that the Yanks had during the Depression. But we had to reinvent the wheel and fucked it up. Anyway, we can’t blame the Brits for the disaster, we showed the world we were well able to crucify ourselves. We believed our own blarney, the joke is on us.”
Egan moved down the counter to serve Dilly Mangan. He only tolerated the Geek because he needed him to hack the till now and again to get around the NAMA taxes. The landlord figured the Geek was too bright for his own good, and too thirsty as well. A tipsy woman was singing “Wooden Heart” in the dark and like a mating call at twilight, Dixie Daly, an amateur jockey, harmonized in the chorus. Egan wondered if they too had NAMA deals. The Guinness clock over the bar read 2.45am. Soon the greyhound race would be broadcast from Cancun, so he filled himself a pint, lit a cigarette and took a black ledger from under the counter.
(to be continued…)
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