The Writing Life & Other Absurdities

Democrafarcy

2016-05-07T11:31:00.000+01:00

After seventy long, wet and cold Irish days, Dail Eireann finally elected a new taoiseach yesterday. To consolidate the lunacy, the new taoiseach is also the old one, bright spark, Enda Kenny.
The accidental taoiseach became the first Fine Gael leader to be re-elected to the post - even if 75% of the electorate voted for the former school teacher to be sent packing. Kenny will lead a coalition government - don't be fooled by other terms - consisting of their old nemesis Fianna Fail and a rabble of 'Independents' selling out their status for short term local and personal gain. As you do in Ireland.

Stitched together, stitched up, call it what you will, Irish democracy took another hit yesterday with the establishment parties once again using the taxpayers money to lure a government no-one wanted.
'A mutant,' as Larry would say.

Kenny was Haugheyesque in his giving in order to secure his place in history, a stint that is sure to be short-lived. If the coalition limp through the first six months they could well go 2-3 years, a ministerial pension being the strong lure for those who chose to prop up the same old, same old. Indications are that could happen, over half of that first six-months is an expenses-laden holiday.
Who knows it could even go longer, if Kenny's inevitable departure provides a distraction in the coming twelve months and a more competent leader can be found within the Irish-Tory ranks. That might be a hard find, though I'll take a stab on Simon Coveney being that person having been seen wining and dining with the Bilderberg Group a few years back. But that's another story.............

It's too depressing to go into the list of new A & B Ministers. They offer nothing new. Coveney, Varadkar and Burton might feel a little shafted having been shifted from their existing portfolios into less-powerful ones. 29-year-old beanpole and spin soprano, Simon Harris gets the toxic Health portfolio.
The only plus was a more gender balanced cabinet, with Francis Fitzgerald leading the female posse in the role of Tanaiste and Regina Doherty getting the whip.

In a parting shot, Labour leader Joan Burton ordered her troops, all seven of them, to vote against Enda's stewardship having previously backed him and even flirted with the idea of being bedfellows again.
Obviously soured by the events of recent weeks over the issue of water, Joan remained defiant and proud of her parties term in government, before making her way to her true imprisonment on the back benches, just another number once again.
To say Labour were chewed up and spat out is putting it mildly, an indignant end to an indignant term. They were warned.

The 32nd Dail could very well be a historic one, but the reasons for that remain unknown. What is known is 65% of the electorate turned out to vote. Of that, 25% gave a vote to Fine Gael, equating to almost 550,000 votes. It's enough to grab power in Ireland.
Twice as many people did not even bother to vote. Making them realize the actual power they have is key to any significant change in Ireland going forward. That's a challenge that thus far as proved elusive to those who yearn for a more equality-based republic, where fairness is the rule of law and elitism is regarded as public hazard.

Larry, being a bit eccentric himself, might have liked new member of parliament, Danny Healy-Rae. When Ireland looks for people to take us forward though, the needle in that particular haystack would appear to be as distant as ever. Entertaining bunch, us Irish.

Let the games begin.

Uisce Batty

2016-04-28T00:54:00.000+01:00

I'm tapping this bedraggled - a bit like a Fine Gael and Labour follower in recent days I might suspect. Many stood on the crest of a wave just five-short years ago, toed the party lines, submissively whipped. Told it was all for the good of the country it was. They drove it home, the austerity. Relentlessly. The eviction bill. The treatment of minorities and the vulnerable, right down to those who can not care for themselves. The homeless crisis. The phantom debt deal. The sale of state assets to vultures. Some brewed at home. Most not.

And water. That abundant, if somewhat soiled substance, necessary for keeping humans alive and to a certain, personal, hygienic standard. Plants and animals like it too. Half the nation seems drawn to seep under it should it fall freely from the heavens at certain times of the year.
Yep, that pesky water sure caused a disturbance.

The protestations from across the class-divide, nationwide, met with derision from Michael 'Phantom deal' Noonan, Alan 'Power is a drug' Kelly and nearly everyone else across the established lines that cross between various orders vying for thought each day of the week in Ireland, now that the church no longer holds much sway with a more clued in population. Paddywackery may work for the tourists, but Paddy, it seems, is sick of the wackery. At least the political wackery of the past four decades.

Alan Kelly's Ministerial career

As it stands today, 62 days since Ireland delivered her verdict, a pact is emerging which will suspend water charges for a short period of time, whist a consultation period is provided for on the issue. It's face-saving guff for both parties, and if it remains as so, it will damage both. Unemployed TD's must be scratching their heads at Enda Kenny's hunger for a short second-term as taoiseach, while those who survived his five-year shambles decide how to feed him to the crows.

Fianna Fail promised a longer term abolition of charges and of its spectacularly named super-quango, Irish Water. They hardly peeled back the skin of the banana. If Kenny can bribe a few Indies now, Martin will support him as taoiseach and watch his demise from the sidelines, biding his time. He may regret that. If history is a governing concept of the future, there's enough to go by now to know that there are a few in the halls of the Dail that are there for the short-term biding. Few schools, few roads. The usual. Not much changes - except the popularity of the self-appointed wise. It's on a downward spiral that looks good on any graph. It can only be a good thing.

Water's for another day. Be a brave day to bring it back out. V is for victory. Expect it to be short-lived as they connive some other way to saddle most further.

I used to think Larry was mad when he mentioned a Tory-style poll tax here for Ireland back in the day. Now I'm not so sure. Just one of the ideas Larry had on taxation. A 'beer-bottle' tax and a tooth-tax being another two he wrote notes on. I may have a lead on them, but that's another day.

I mentioned my bedraggle-ment - vomiting bug. Seven long days. That's a lot of retching. Leave you sore. Old.
Still, got a banana down me today. It's still in there. I can also see me hip bones again. Even your one with the big arse and i-Phone can't claim that. Could brighter days be ahead?

"Ask me bolleeks!,' as Leon used to say.

Indeed.

Dictator

2016-04-08T00:10:00.000+01:00

Yesterday saw another doss day for most of our newly elected representatives. In short, many voted for another eight days off as their first point of business. Then they tried to elect a leader for the country.
First up, after some sycophantic ravings from selected members of the party faithful, was acting-caretaker-accidental taoiseach, Enda Kenny. He failed, his third attempt in five weeks. Fourth in all? A record perhaps? More mauling for Kenny, he got less support than when he first went for the post a few weeks back. Labour finally deserting him.
Joan 'days are numbered' Burton haranguing Fianna Fail on their past - they're on equal terms now on that one.
Next up was Michael Martin, vetted as the first Fianna fail leader not to be become taoiseach, and so far that remains so. He wants to lead a minority government. He too, failed, but he's not the one facing the end of his political career.
Then it was Ruth Coppinger's turn, the first female to ever stand for election of taoiseach of the country. It does tell a story in itself. She too was denied after polling admirably in double-figures.
No-one else was put forward. Gerry Adams called it a 'charade.' Outside the little cohort of interested parties, i think there's consensus on that.

Next up was an evening meeting on neutral ground between the natural bed-fellows. Tipple of choice. First stroke to Enda - he offers Martin an equal partnership in government with the help of a couple of Indies for security. History is in the making. Martin sleeps on it. Fine Gael teamsters feel smug. They are in the driving seat. Civil war politics is over. Who would refuse?
But the soldiers of destiny are having none of it. Brief meeting today - short. No deal. The charade continues.
Not a great time to be governing - the countries been stripped bare, there's little or no money and there are major crisis' in health and homelessness - to name but two. Not to mention the carnivorous dealings of the capital structures of state, NAMA being one. Defending tax haven accusations, both at home and abroad, being another. Shaky economic foundations worldwide and a geopolitical situation that's look more precarious with each passing day.

I doubt another election will sort the men out from the boys. There are no men. Unfortunately, world wide, statesmen seem to be in terminal decline. No vision much anymore. Election promises that turn out to be lies. The lust for globalization creating more division in societies everywhere than perhaps at any other time in history. The middle-class are the new working-class. What's left is swept up in no-hour contracts, work-for-free schemes, ineffective courses or long periods of soul-draining life on the dole.
What's left after that is a vast network of carers and volunteers, picking up the pieces of a century of failure of the political classes in Ireland - most voiceless. Barely funded. Not funded at all.

After the downfall of Charles J. Haughey, Larry suggested Ireland should go rogue and elect a Dictator. One candidate from the left, the right and the centre...and a novelty candidate from the Independent spectrum. All set out their stall - first past the post. Ten year term. £100k-a year. Tax-free. Full-reign. One-term. A guillotine vote at the end. Larry always had a touch of French about him.
'Keep them on their toes,' he'd say, painting up his latest placard.
One of the many ideas Larry had. All in his manifesto. I saw it a few times. Back when he and Leo were mates. Rather thick in content. Larry thought a lot as he stitched his animals together.
Someone must have it now. But who? Maybe I'll give Joe Lumley a call again. Fuckin' jet-setter, never in the office. I see he's into Financial Holdings now.

Ain't they all.

Panama Papers

2016-04-03T22:35:00.000+01:00

Ireland Inc. remains under the stewardship of a caretaker. Enda Kenny, the accidental taoiseach. As he tries to lure Independents with his stunning intellect and afford them the opportunity to support his continued stewardship - in a more official capacity - it's beginning to look like the only one that doesn't realise Enda's stewardship is up, is Enda himself.
Just five short years after having Fianna Fail at the edge of the Cliffs of Moher with a hurricane wind and the odd pitch fork threatening their being, Fianna Fail now find themselves in the unbelievable position of being that humorous cat, that idly plays with a mouse to pass the time, before moving in... You know the rest. They shouldn't play for much longer. Kids are going hungry, getting turfed out of their homes so vulture funds can maximize the theft of the taxpayers assets following the 'ineptitude' of Fianna Fail's own shock doctorates of recent pasts.
Even if they allow the Troika's poodle to continue, they know they'll control his government, waiting for the moment to pounce. Surely even Enda and his minders know that. Then again, being in his position from the one he was in in 2011, who can tell? Maybe they're of even lower wattage.
I'll be sorry to see him go. I like Enda - on another planet!

It rained a couple of good sized lakes on the Emerald Isle today and I am sure it was a show of defiance to the NATO murder machines currently docked in Dublin. 100 years ago, the UK contingent of their navy were blowing the shit out of the centre of Dublin, targeting everyone including the proclamation signatories who dared to want to rule themselves, free of empire. Imagine, free born beings having to sacrifice themselves to free themselves from a tyranny than runs certain classes ragged for their own ill-gotten gains. How much has changed.............
I'm all for new beginnings, forgiveness, reflection, but we are a supposed neutral country and on one coast of it we're facilitating NATO warships and on the other, US aircraft doing shit knows what to lord knows who.

'There is no lord,' as Larry used to say. No hesitation, no panic in his voice, no melancholic philosophical hangover to lament over.
My point exactly, Larry, cause no-one seems to know what the fuck they're doing any more. Not here, not there, not anywhere. The lunatics have taken over the asylum.
'They did a long time ago.'
Feck off, Larry.

After days of scouting and the occasional drowning I managed to find a place to put Larry's few grains of dust alongside the only other possession i had of his that could be easily disposed of. His play. It's not a difficult decision to hoard it away underground for a future museum. Not like it was ever going to hit Broadway.
The place was off the beaten track, wild like Larry's spirit. Then, within a corner or two, a bog. It looked like a nuke had gone off, but somehow, it felt right. I'm sure it contained the remains of many a dead animal that could, but for a gust of wind or the speed of a car, have otherwise ended up being taxidermied by Larry's gifted hands.

I found a tree among the desolation and dug a hole with a little garden hoe I'd brought along. I dug down a few feet around the roots and made a hole big enough for the little parcel to fit down. As water tight as a novice could make it. Air tight. Tight. Larry's dusting and his play.
I decided against putting in a metal object. You'd never know what strange being might be down here in the dead of night with a metal detector looking for Bogmen with swords. Was best to take no chances. I put in a little vial of my own. Just a couple of the remaining hairs on my head and a swab of gob on a couple of cotton bud. And an old tooth.
I put them in one of those containers the doc gave me a while back when he was looking for a stool. I can't be dealing with any of that. I only kept it 'cause i knew it would come in handy sometime.

I covered it all over and just as the heavens opened again, I slopped my way out of the bogland. Tears no-where to be seen. I wondered what had happened there. How the land had ended up like something from a dystopian future? Or past? Perhaps they were clearing it for something. Hardly seemed likely out here, in the middle of no-where. Five miles from town. As the feet walk. Then again, this is Ireland. They build in strange places. Could be a gym!

A day spent time capsuling surely beats a day showing impressionable minds the ships taxpayers fund so wars can be waged for the benefit of a few. You know, the tax-dodging types. Fingers, claws, teeth in everything. Panama Papers type.

I think Larry would have appreciated it today. The oddness. Nothing wrong with being different, is there? Wasn't a problem for Larry. In a perfect world, it might not be problem for anyone.

In a perfect world.

Ghostly Hours

2016-03-27T15:58:00.002+01:00

Lost an hour somewhere during the night. An hour we will not exist, in order to facilitate a brighter day and longer evening for the coming months. All fine, if the weather plays ball. It rarely does. Fear not, for in October, we take it back to facilitate the profits of energy companies, who act more and more like an grubby monopoly with each passing year. A bit like the political establishment. It's funny how the bills always go up right before the long damp Irish winter sweeps in from differing directions. Anyway, at the end of the day, what's an hour between friends?

Four weeks shy of the actual event, Ireland is commemorating the events of The Rising of 1916 this weekend. Though there are many grassroots and local events to visit, Ireland's elite began their commemorations safety tucked behind steel fencing, access denied to the common man and woman. It's difficult to watch, history being airbrushed for the world's media to digest, the faces of the leaders of the rising, those who died as we struck out for freedom, replaced by images of folk with no involvement in the events of that week. Some put there for modern-political gain. Few buy into it, as recent election results testify too.
There's little to celebrate. We remain divided as a society, not much semblance of the equality, that beautiful ideal the executed leaders yearned for and died for. Teachers, poets, trade unionists. Woman. Man. Child. Catholic. Protestant. Each suffered and died. For a ruthless capitalist system that takes the lives of our citizens with a growing gusto right under the watchful eyes of those who have facilitated Ireland's economic and social decline. The ones pronounced as dignitaries - mostly by themselves.

Will we even have a government when the actual date of the events come around? The old-waring parties are the only ones that can form a stable government, but that is unlikely to happen. The dream of the Celtic Tiger that we would be ready by 2016 to really step up and take our independent place among the nations of the world washed away by greed and corruption by many of those who see themselves are Ireland's modern day saviours. Despite their collective Curriculum Vitae of shame, be it directly or by aiding and abetting others to do it. Maybe we suffer from a collective amnesia or maybe it is just that we do not care.

Larry was often an apologist for many of the wrongs, citing our infancy as a nation. Used to get up the wick of Leon. Fermented an anger inside him by times. He did not see Ireland as an infant, he saw us as a seasoned player in the shaping of our side of the planet despite the indignation we often suffered as we set out to make better lives for ourselves when driven out by oppressors, at times foreign, at times native. How we brought civilisation to our nearest neighbour and nemesis and gave the world notables such as Joyce, Beckett, Boyle, Hoban and Connelly.
Larry be winding Leon up. Citing more modern figures. Bono, Geldof, Charles J, before Leon would depart, flying fucks, into the perils of his bottle of choice.
'That drink ill kill him,' Larry would say, nostradamacally.

Strange days we live in. Everything every human being could ever need and we, drifting further away from anything that might be described as humane. Pomp and ceremony will not change that. Relegating our rising leaders to the back benches won't do it either. We'll remember on the proper date. With others who feel the same. At the time. At the place. On the hour. Hopefully, the daylight will be there too.

Saved - for all.

Morbid Worlds

2016-03-22T00:33:00.000+00:00

There's an American who has been mentioned once or twice around here in times begone. He went by the name of Hugh Everett with an III to go with it. A brilliant mind, his many-worlds intrepration of quantum physics remains a player in the pursuit of the ultimate in knowledge - a unified theory of everything.
Who gives a fuck i hear some ask, and you may be correct, but as a morbid byline to a future movie, Hugh left instructions that his ashes be pegged out with the trash - after his demise. That demise came early in life - a victim to a lifestyle that required no thought into what one might do to their own body via the excesses of life.
A few years after his death, his wife, herself a somewhat tragic figure, duly obliged, and Hugh was pegged out, his final wish no longer obliged on her or anyone else.
As it should be.

You might imagine the surprise when a small little padded envelope arrived in the door about a year ago. A Joe Lumley, Solicitor, business card and a small, clear, zip-locked plastic pouch with what looked like dust inside. On the back of the card a few words -
Your bit of Larry. Do as you will.
I like that.
Joe.

It took me a few days to get to the bottom of it. I couldn't make contact with Joe myself, but he had left word with his secretary to say that science had finished with Larry, what was left was to be distributed among named beneficiaries and I happened to be one of them.

'We get weirdos a lot,' she said over the phone.

Several months passed and what was left of Larry was itself gathering dust. I tried to think what he might have wanted done with his last remnants. He was a loner once politics rejected him, so throwing him to the wind seemed like a cop-out. He'd have appreciated a Big Lebowski moment, but living miles from the sea, counties from a cliff, and a continent away from such a soulful evening in that scene that gives a certain clarity too - perhaps - ones own odyssey on this blue, soon to be blazing sphere, fizzing through mostly empty space at a phenomenal rate of speed.
Perhaps many spheres, hey Hugh?

'Smoke him,' my foreign neighbour suggested, blowing leaves into my yard, not a care in the world. Not sure if he was serious or not. Humour gets lost in translation sometimes.
And no, we didn't!

I finally decided what to do with my ounce and a half of what's left of Larry. I'll tend to that soon. Maybe after the rain.
Things are kind of slow round here with secret dealings being done in the corridors of power so that vested interests can take the scalp of national ones for a little longer. Doesn't seem right somehow, it being 2016 and all. Not sure how anyone else feels about being Irish, but I sense we have lost our way.
Think i'll bury Larry's absurd play in a desolate place, along with what's left of his matter. I wonder what the other beneficiaries did with their dustings?
The Ashes of Larry Mulligan. I can see it now. Up there in cobalt neon, somewhere in Dublin.
Who knows, if i vacuum pack it, then triple-wrap it in heavy-duty industrial plastic, encase it in a water-tight thingy and bury it deep enough, it might be found by another generation of wanderers who might be able to bring ol' Larry back to life. I should put a coin in too. While they're still tender. And a nail. For devilment. You know, for the metal detector enthusiasts of tomorrow. At the very least they might perform Larry's play in some far off cave in the future. Hovering around some cosmic energy source lost for centuries within the Vatican vaults.

For the last time, the typo-laden, predicatively naive, one act 'play' by Larry Mulligan.

Bailout - A Short Play

The Dearly Departed, Larry Mulligan.

2016-03-13T18:34:00.000+00:00

I left Mum in the care of Mattie this evening and made my way out into the countryside. A guy I used to know had unexpectedly departed. He was found yesterday morning sitting in front of his TV, watching the Extras box-set in his boxer shorts, a bong stuck rigid in his lifeless hand.

Larry Mulligan was one of the locality's personalities. Everyone knew him. He tried to enter politics early in his life, but no one took him seriously as an Independent when he ran as a supporter for the legalisation of Marijuana. He failed. I remember asking him once why he did not join a mainstream party. He said he didn’t like being whipped.
   Didn't get that!

Larry liked to speak his mind, but no one wanted to listen. After four more attempts at being elected he gave up the pursuit, retiring to a little cottage in the countryside and pursuing little but the taxidermy he liked to do on the side. Many a household around here are home to Larry's work.
    Legend has it Bobby Buchannan out the new road asked Larry to stuff his wife after she died, trying to lure Larry into a scam to keep collecting her pension. Larry could not be lured.

They waked Larry out at his cottage earlier this evening. I saw Bamber there as I arrived. I saw Frankie Bronson and I wondered how he knew Larry. I made my way into the small queue that aligned the outside wall of the cottage. Words like 'It's shocking, isn't it?' were whispered.
   “I heard he was on drugs,” was another one that I heard.
   I eventually made my way into the house to find Larry sitting bolt upright in his chair, with two birds he had recently stuffed displayed in his outstretched arms. I have never seen anything like it. By the time I made my way to where he sat, I had already made up my mind that I was just going to keep walking. I did notice the peaceful look that adorned his face. It's amazing what you can do with a bit of blusher these days. I made my way back outside.

It was an idyllic place. The star filled sky stretched for as far as the eye could see, lost clouds doing little to swallow the view. In the small courtyard a lamp stood lit that would not have been lost in Jack The Ripper's time. It glared upward into the naked arms of a grouping of trees. Apart from the hum of the whispering crowd and the sound of a nearby brook, nothing came forth from the night air. I'd love to live in the country.

Fr. Rooney gave a rendition of the Rosary to the gathered crowd. As he finished a van rolled into the drive and within seconds, Larry, still sat in his chair, was carried from the house and put into the back of the van. Fr. Rooney blessed the van as the doors shut and off Larry went. It was macabre.
Bamber filled me in on the details. He said he had it on account that Larry's heart had simply decided to stop beating. The rumours that the contents of the bong were to blame, nothing more than vicious rumours spread by those with fuck all else to do.

Bamber told me that Larry had left his cadaver to science, if his final wishes of being put on

display with his work were carried out at his wake. That was also the reason for Larry‘s unusual departure. He’d wanted it that way. I saw Joe Lumley there. Seems Larry had charged him with overseeing that his wishes were carried out. It would make an amusing story if it was not for Larry's age. 50.

Just didn’t seem fair.

*************

Excerpt from Booker's World

Don Bookered. Parting FAQ.

2012-11-14T14:41:00.000+00:00

So, it has been a while. Not long enough, I hear some say.

In response to a 'Where's Don Booker gone?' question that's been asked in recent weeks, it's with regret I inform that the character has relieved himself of his duties and gone deeper into Ireland to pursue other avenues.

Will he be back?
Nope. His time at The Writing Life and Other Absurdities is over. Though, a follow up of Booker's World will be available sometime next year. Or the year after.
He may also turn up in unexpected places from time to time.

Why now?
As the old adage goes, 'It's as bad a time as any.'

Where's he gone?
Spare, I've heard mentioned.

What now for the blog?
A return to something that does more justice to its title.

When?
In the coming weeks and months.

I'll miss reading his bullshit?
http://fbooker.blogspot.ie/p/bookers-world-ebook-series-2009.html

Final Muse?
He came. He saw. He ran.

Shocks

2012-09-23T21:08:00.000+01:00

'What you think?' Gus asked as we stepped out of Linda's car. The cold morning stung like the government. Attempts to wean residue from my eyes only made matters worse. Before I could answer, I was off. One, two ............. seven.
   'Better than sex,' Leon used to say when ever he sneezed. I never got that. Not the sex! The comparison.
   'God bless you,' Linda said. I wish He'd hurry on sometimes.
   The morning had barely turned nine. I'd already been in the car for what seemed like an eternity. The sun began to paste the trees a sad orange as it rose. It didn't do much for my eyes either.
   Ahchooooooooo.
   Aftershocks!

'I think you have cold in your head,' Gus said. It was looking like it. More and more I've been waking up like an old tractor. Starved of oil. Coughing and spluttering - crying to be fed. Smokey. Rusty, tired and worn.
   'No shit, Einstein,' I said back. Gus didn't know what I meant.
   'Come on,' Linda said. 'We'll show you around.'
    She slipped her hand around Gus' elbow and they began to walk toward the door of the house that stood no more than ten-feet away. I cleared my nose. My throat hurt as I attempted to go higher - into my head. See could I clear it a little. I must be coming down with something. That green belongs on the wall of some swish contemporary apartment with an nice red abstract contorting itself across the surface.
   I began to follow them.

Word of this early morning nuisance had reached me the day before. Gus doesn't really ask. His way of asking comes across as telling. Like he's doing someone a favour by interrupting the lack in their lives. I wasn't even sure why I had been asked to come along. They don't need a chaperon.
   They reached the door. Linda bent down and took a key from beneath a Mat outside the door. She opened the door. Good job the house was a little remote.
   'So, what you think?' Gus asked again. Give us a chance Gus. Books and covers and all that.
   'Looks (struggling for a word) big,' I said.
   It was big. Five bedroom dormer bungalow at the end of a quite cul-de-sac in wooded surroundings. Dining roon, reception room and a Gordon Ramsey kitchen. Conservatory and large decked area. Office. Upstairs and downstairs relief quarters. All rooms en-suite. Mature gardens.
   They were mature. Sort of grown up around the place. The house, cold and empty - like the heart of a government minister. Abandoned almost. Apart from the three of us and a distant wood pigeon there was little sign of life.
   'I'm thinking of buying it,' Linda said. 'Needs a bit of work, but it's going cheap.' She didn't part with a sum. I didn't ask.
   'You could do worse,' I said, starting to imagine it lived in. It definitely had potential. Lots of potential. Bit big for two, though.
   We went outside and out around the back. Large garden leading down to a wood. The grass was long and wet so we stayed close to the house. At the bottom of the garden lay the shell of an old house. It looked a hundred years old. It must have been the old dwelling before it got its modern makeover.
   'You smell that,' Gus said, breathing in. 'Peace.'
   Linda laughed. So i joined in.

   'Is it not a bad time to be buying?' I asked. Apparently not. Linda had bought her own house before Ireland thought it was Manhattan for a while. She told me that she could sell her own, buy this place, and hopefully have enough leftover to do this new place up. Sounded like a good plan.
   'If I don't do it now, I never will,' she said. I'd heard property in Spain and Greece was going cheap. Had climate not figured in her plans? Or does this climate not bother everyone?
   'Don...' she said - looking at Gus, who seemed excited. 'Would you think about moving out here with us - if it all goes to plan.'
    'Maybe rest you need is a change,' he added. His enthusiasm waned when i didn't answer. A hundred thoughts going through my head trying to seek an answer that might buy me some time and not kill off this unlikely friendship. Were they taking pity on me? Or after my rent?
   'Well have a think about it,' Linda said. 'There's nothing solid yet - no rush.' She beckoned us back to the car.
   'Yep, that's best,' I said. 'There's lots to think about.'
   The drive back to town was quite. I figured it hadn't quite worked out the way they had planned. But how could they expect an answer, right there, on the spot. This is a life-changing decision. Moving so far away.
    Twenty minutes later Linda had us dropped off. Gus yawned.
   'I better get eye-shut,' he said. 'I have work tonight.'
   'Might grab forty myself,' I said. He scooted off into his own house. I stood outside mine. Looking at it. Over 40 years written in her walls. In grime. Never painted. I could do with cutting the grass myself.

Bed is usually a good place to avoid having to think about stuff. Not this time. I've been sleeping with the enemy lately and the enemy has been keen on keeping me awake. Nights are long in the dark. In that silence. Writing might help. I used to be one. Back in the day.
   It only usually happens once a year. For a week - give or take a few days. It's been a month now. Not quite insomnia-tic in nature, but not too far off it.
   Ever get those jumps? An excited nerve ending - reacting to something - while you sleep? Or when something or other made the veins jump randomly. I put into down to posture.
   'Nah. You're on the way out,' as Leon used to say.
   These jumps though, they're like a lightening bolt. Usually happens in that micro-second - the one you take between the cross over from the waking to the dead - of night - of course. Bang. From Brain to foot and back again. Too quick to know for sure. It's usually enough to keep me up for the rest of the night.

It's funny the things you notice when you're wide awake in the black dark. The attic window gives much away. A kinda moving picture frame. Big. Live. Slow.
   Take last night. I'd just got a jolt and up I sat.
   'Jaysus, thought I was gone there,' I thought to myself - swallowing water like I'd rambled in from the desert. I lay back down, my back perched high on the pillow. Uncomfortable - like Eamon Gilmore. I wasn't risking another one of those shocks.
   I didn't do much night-sky watching in my time. The odd glance up maybe - after they expelled smokers from pubs. Walking home from hovels with Leon now and again. No - maybe not. That time was usually spent following our feet with our eyes. Wondering why they wanted to wander off - following them, hoping something was still functioning that may get us home.
   I watched it last night. As the sky above moved around. Or should that be the universe? Or is it us? You don't really notice it moving. I mean who watches the night skies for hours on end in unemployed Ireland? I got up and opened the window and peeked out. I don't know much about what I'm looking at - Big Dipper I think they call it. Taking up the right side of my view - along with the rest I could never name. Orion - half in view to my left. It's belt open. Another few million stars keeping him company. Planets out there too somewhere. Pulsars. And big black holes.
   They reckon there are as many planets out there as there are grains of sand on a beach. Always wondered what beach?
   Still, if you think about, that would mean an infinite amount of planets for every single human on this planet at the moment. And for non-humans too!
Assuming of course all those billions are vacant. And resource rich - can't forget the resources. We'd need a reason to, em, take care of it. Couldn't imagine us invading them. Could you?
   Pity we don't think about it that way sometimes. The size of it all - the potential in it all. How we could trade - not on rare commodities, but on abundant spheres, and minds that wander and wonder like a child becoming conscious of everything for the very first time. Each discovery made- a derivitive to be traded. Freely. Too further knowledge. Longevity. Perhaps, even form.

The tempeture soon had me running back between the sheets. I think it's time to get out the extra blanket. Must be just above freezing out there. The grass is still green. For now. Anyway.
   Perhaps it is time for a change of scene. Still the same sky out there! But little worse than that record, you know, that worn one. That lie in attics.

Elsewhere.

Hurl

2012-09-09T20:57:00.001+01:00

'Sit yourself down there and watch real men play sport,' I muttered to Gustav, a rare cultural superiority causing me, at an atomic level, to pulse. Slightly.
   'Fastest game in the known universe,' I said as we sat down. Cheap beer. Orange colored can. Sounds foreign.
   'What are those in hands?' he asked. I went on to explain what they were, what the players could do with them and told Gus that in a few hours time, one set of them would be the Hurling champions of the world.
   'But it is only in Ireland you play?' he said.
   'Well yes. Professionally anyways,' I said. 'But - without pay.'
   'I not understand this country sometimes,' he said as a posse of people invaded the hallowed turf of Croke Park. Hallowed everywhere, it would seem!
   You and me both, Gus!

What was this? The posse stretched themselves out into flags of welcome. A cry to the Irish masses who find themselves abroad. From RTÉ.
   Come back we call. Next year. For a time. Too dwell. Too spend.
   The Gathering.
   By all means come. We are a land of a thousand welcomes. Run ragged through the ages, the melancholy hides in the rain for those that remained. Too squabble. Too drink. Too play...

'Why he hit his friend with stick?' Gustav asked.
   'It's a Hurley,' I said.
   'Yeah. Hurley.'
   'He's G-ing him up,' I said. 'Getting ready for battle.'
   'I think I like this sport,' Gus said leaning forward. Lips drying up.
   'What's it name again?'
   The roar went out from within the cauldron and could be heard in every door throughout the land such was its might.
   OK, that's drivel. But it did go up and it does carry. Impressive also.
   I wish I'd surround sound.

Just an hour an a half later and both of us were exhausted. Gus' hair whipped east and west. I didn't bother pulling at mine. He's opted for the Tribesmen - because he 'don't like cats.'
   For a time it looked like he'd picked a winner. Galway, the men from the West - the provincial champions of Leinster - looked like they were picking up again from that Leinster final day when they whipped the cream from the Kilkenny whisker in a ten-point mauling. It's not often it happens, but it did force the Black Cats to think that perhaps, this year, they might not have things all their own way.
   But the Cats are a strange bunch. Instead of bickering and analysing everything, they closed their training camps to the public and held their enquiries behind closed door, before demonstrating the look of the Kilkenny of old in an successful, but unexpected, detour through the playoffs.
   It's rumoured throughout the island that Cats are born with a Hurl in hand. They have won five of the previous six All-Ireland finals. 33 in all. Star man of an age, Henry Shefflin, stood on the threshold of becoming the first Irishman to hold nine All-Ireland winning medals won from the field of play.
   But at half-time it looked like Galway were on to something as they left the pitch with a healthy five-point lead. It looked like the Tribesmen could bring the Liam McCarthy cup back across the Shannon for the first time in 24 years.
   In the end, Shefflin came within seconds of his place in history, before Galway's Joe Canning slotted over a free, having just missed one from a similar range the minute before. A sighing Shefflin at the final whistle was left reflecting on a thunderous personal performance - but one that could have been that little more, perhaps enough to have seen his kittens over the line.
   Trading scores with Joe Canning for much of the match, both players ended up scoring twelves points each. Canning, in his first final, scored 1-9. Shefflin's scored an even dozen points.The same number of Leinster titles he holds as it happens.
   Shefflin looked to set his own personal bar early on with a goal attempt from a close-range free - only to see it saved. When faced (twice) with similar situations in the second half, he opted for points. But when Kilkenny were awarded a late penalty, Shefflin once again assumed the leadership role - and opted for a point instead of going for goal, despite having hit the net on four occasions in previous All-Ireland finals.

'So what happen now?' Gus said at the end.
   Converted or what?!
   He was none too happy when I told him there was to be no extra-time. Cashing-in and all that.
   'I think this game is well for 3-D,' he said. 'It be awesomeness. That how you say?'
   Sure is, Gus - and what an idea! We should grab ourselves some suits and BS our way into RTé. An unemployed writer and a foreigner. In to save the day at the cash-strapped cash cow. Selling Hurling to the world - through green tinted glasses. Few pints of the black stuff and away with ye. Might be interesting on whiskey too. Get the NFL involved. Keep all our athletes in good jobs. Ones that pay a little.
   'So, did you play this game?' Gus asked, as I flicked the TV off.
   'Nope,' I conceded. 'Far too windy.'
   Have a think about that my foreign buddy. I heard him mutter 'ah, the weather' as I went to relive myself. That supermarket stuff doesn't half run through ye.

He left a few hour ago. Human contact done for another week. Opens a writing window.
   'I walk Linda from work home,' he said.
   Sap!
   Clouds closing in. Hope he doesn't get wet.
   Yesterday was a Vitamin-D stockin'-up day. Make hay while the sun shines - or something like that. Glad the weeks done with. A chance to put behind one of those cage rattlers that pass through us all from time to time. Just to let us now how fragile most things are. To remind us to take it all in whist we can.
   I don't like weeks like that. Weeks that make you think. Weeks that don't make sense. That kinda pull people about a little. Giving folk a little shake.

Too remind of whatever, wanted or 'wise.

*************

The ramblings here are three-years old this week, so great to see the blog shortlisted in the categories of Personal, Pop Culture and Humor blogs this week in the Blog Awards Ireland.

Booker's World will be free to download tomorrow, Tuesday and Wednesday at this link.

Pepperoni

2012-08-30T01:04:00.000+01:00

Seasons, like people, are subject to that passage of time sometimes referred to as the 'come and go.'
For those that follow the Gaelic Calendar, Summer already ended nearly a month ago. If Met Eireann - Ireland's weather service - is anything to go by, then Summer here in Ireland ends this Friday. Not that all agree with our national forecasters. Just ask the good people of Donegal.

For most though, myself included, the damn thing didn't even start. A climatic washout. Yet another one. With a change promised over the coming days, I felt it was time to clear the work diary so I can work on that tan I keep promising myself. It won't take much clearing.
   It used to be quite full. Lots of to-do notes and ideas amongst other little things. Not anymore. Total apathy have left wordless pages. Weeks of them. Months on end. I didn't really notice much until I had to check back on something I had wrote earlier in the year. A phone number. I couldn't find it - most probably torn from those A4 sheets that contain no dates. A makeshift diary. One for the unemployed.

I wonder how long, rain-filled and soulless grey days affect others whose working life constitutes trying various means of keeping busy while reading the blabber portrayal of a country that hasn't created a sustained job in nearly five years, but yet to be a statistic in that trend gets people targeted as social parasites. Labelled. One and all.
Like half a million people are all exactly the same. It's little wonder people live on stress. Until they don't

Rubber was how Gustav appeared at my door last Wednesday. Or was it the Wednesday before?
   'I pass. I pass,' he said, holding a piece of paper in his hand. He handed it to me as he stepped forward. I took it. He took two steps back.
   'I can not believe it,' he cried, tears rolling down his face. By this time he was nearly half way back down the path doing the Gustav shuffle. I looked at the piece of paper.
   English. Ordinary Level. D. The results of his exam.
   'That's brilliant,' I weighed in enthusiastically, stepping outside to retrieve the inebriated Gus. Since when did a D lead to this.
   'I happy - like piggy in shite' he said as i pushed him back up the path and ushered him into the house.
   'So what now?' I asked, as he fell on to the couch, his feet still trying to walk.
   'Next year I get C,' he said. 'No stopping now.' I left him there and went to make coffees. I think he needed one. When I returned he was in a coma. I drank them both.
   When I got up next day he was gone. To be expected. It was nearly evening. I saw what looked like a fifty note close to the couch. It wasn't. It was Gus' prize possession - his results.
   Result. So much for achievement.

An evening breakfast of cornflakes peppered with the remains of the milk carton somehow turned into a season-span in the company of Dexter Morgan. That turned into a second season, interrupted rudely by the onslaught of sleep. Fought. Till the bitter end.
   When I woke I continued on my way until I ran out of box-sets. Just in time too. I needed food. And paper. The toilet variety. I had my head set for a long weekend of procrastinating vagrancy. I'd get round to tackling that best seller next week. Planning it anyways. Best laid plans, hey?!
   The DVD shop was closed. A giant black wreath dressing the window of the door. I guess someone died. Odd though. They never turned the lights off at the back of the store. Must have been sudden. I slipped Dexter into the return box under the main window. Season 3, 4 and 5 would just have to wait.

I ran into Linda at the supermarket. My head was returning from being buried in a freezer gathering a pizza from the bottom. Fuck sake, it was only mid-day. Wasn't Gus working last night. Keeping up with the stock.
   'Hello stranger,' she said before I had even returned my head above the sliding panels. How did she know it was me?
   'Hello,' I said, my head grazing the side of the freezer. Gathering wisps of ice. Don't they de-frost these things?
   'Long time no see,' she smiled. Not long enough, I thought. The state of me. I should make more of an effort when I step outdoors. Shave at least. Cut the sides of my hairline. Stop wearing Bermuda shorts whenever the sun even threatened.
   'Been a while alright,' swiping the thawing fluff from my head.
   'You looked like you lost something down there,' she said.
   'Grabbing a pizza,' I said.
   'There's been a run on them this morning,' she said moving me to one side. Without me really noticing. Like a Barber does.
    Did.
   'Three for a fiver.' Half of her disappeared into the freezer. I was just averting my eyes when they caught those of some old ladies, throwing me a look in disgust. What the hell? She seemed to run into something that I couldn't see with her trolley. I pictured her flying off through the air, but before I could think of a suitable ending -
   'There you go,' Linda said. She'd skimmed the freezer wall as well.
   'Thanks,' I said. I didn't think it was a good idea to tell her i was just rummaging. Never could take to Pepperoni. Bit too Italian for me.
   'How's Gus?' I asked. She told me of the state he had got himself into the night of his results. I was just about to tell her I knew when off she went again about how distressed he was ever since. Drink can do that you.
   'He lost his result paper,' she sighed. 'I told him they'd give him another one, but he's up in a heap over it. Even took time off.'

   The old lady had made her way down our aisle. I'd seen her encroaching over Linda's shoulder.
   'He doesn't remember a thing,' Linda continued.
   'Where's do ye keep the cabbage, young wan?' the old lady said to Linda, but looking at me. Just like me Granny did once when she caught me with that Swedish book.
   'Come on and I'll show ye,' Linda said, faking a smile. Good thinking. I don't think the old dear could handle directions.
   'I'll see you around,' Linda said, heading off followed by the old lady. Starting another conversation with everyone's favourite subject. The damn weather.
   I wondered if it was just ritualistic subject with us Irish? An abstract way of communicating with everyone around us that we don't necessarily want to communicate with. An ice-breaker. A subtle shaker. Of the human kind. I stood there thinking about it until I became aware of it. Strange places, supermarkets.

I decided that the twist of fate at the DVD shop was a sign from somewhere to hit the writing once again. But words fail me for some reason. I've heard about muses. Not sure if I've ever had one. But if I have, it's deserted me.
   Shadowed attic walls lit by the environmentally friendly dim light from the laptop. Not a scene for pondering over the ins and outs of process. Listening to that most sacred one of all. The breathe. Not exactly doing fight scenes with James Cagney all day before heading to a bar all night, is it?

   I let Gus stew for another few days. Not intentionally mind. I was just waiting for Gus' memory to return. It didn't.
   'What's this?' he said, as I handed him a plastic bag. Green and white stripped one. Recycled wrapping - what can I say? Sealed with tape.
   'Open it,' I said. It took him a few minutes, but that was the intention in the Nietzchean way i had taped it. Vertically angled horizontals, looped over - twice.
   'You wrap well,' he said. He gave up the fight and just ripped it asunder. He took what was inside out.
   'Frame,' he said, looking at it closer. His face lit up.
   'Results,' he said, looking even closer. I filled him in on his visit.
   'I remember nothing,' he admitted. Jagerbombs. What ever they are?
   'You go to lot of trouble,' he said.
   Not really. It doesn't take long to empty a frame of its contents and wrap it up in a plastic bag. OK, I did insert the result paper.
   'Achievement needs to be recognised,' I said. 'You should be proud of yourself.'
   'Me is,' he said. I left before it turned into a thank-you festival. He promised to hang it up. In a prominent place too. I felt like Jackson Pollock.

Soon the leaves will shiver off the trees. Might throw a bit of color around the place. Might make the muse return. It's probably hiding out in a breezy beach side studio somewhere. Helping some hippie out. With the taking of it in. All it throws. Hail, Rain or Sunshine.

Trips & Double Majors

2012-08-13T00:58:00.001+01:00

I'm just in the door in time for the golf. I've been away too long. Longer than I had intended to be. Was it worth it? Can't say it did me any harm. On a battery level.

I don't know what it is about this particular year but, be it a US presidential election or visits to the nursing home, I seem to be tuning out. Seeing little benefits from certain things. Tiring to the point of - nonchalance.
   French word I think. General meaning. I really couldn't be giving a certain four letter work made famous by a fictional priest with a liking for alcohol from the Isle of Craggy. Desperate stereotyping - the genius type - but the subject of stereotyping couldn't have been further from my mind as I turned on the computer and prepared for another week writing for myself.
   Shortly after a deep sigh something unexpected happened. My finger just kinda stopped short of the 'on' key. Stayed there for a few seconds. Then moved again. Away.
   I gathered it up and closed the laptop down, grabbed a bag full of clothes and 37 minutes later I was sitting on a bus heading West. Spontaneity, I think they call it. I left the key of the house with Gustav who I woken from his sleep. He'd just got off the night shift.
   'I'll be back in a week,' I said. 'Keep an eye on the place,' handing him the key to the house.
   'Hold it a second,' he said, still half asleep. He went back inside, returning with his camera.
   'Where it is you go, take picture. I keep it for scrap.' He handed it to me. Cool.
   'OK, 'I said and hurried off. The bus to the big smoke needed getting if I was to make Mayo by nightfall. I could do it. It was 8.35. In the morning.

Go on Rory Mac. Whey! 3 shot lead in the final major of the year. Ooh, Tiger there's too. Nice. I'm glad I didn't extend my holidays into another week. There's no place like home on the last day of a golf major - however good it was to touch base with Mattie once again.
I tend to avoid impulsiveness since - well, you know. Never seemed to work out for me. Finding myself half way to Dublin on a whim was a surprise.

   'Anyone sitting in there?' an elderly woman asked me, pointing down to the seat beside the window. Was she blind? She didn't look blind. Was quite obvious there was no-one sitting there.
   'No,' I said, rising to my feet.
   'Oh, you could have just shuffled across,' she said, grazing past me toward the window. Bloody hell. What does she think I am? A poker dealer. A disco dancer.
   'You're very kind.' How little people know about others.
    'My pleasure,' I said, disguising my voice unknowns to myself. Like I do. Hiding who I was - where I came from - for reasons I don't even know. I sat back down. It's times like this I wished I'd brought a book.
   'So where you headed?' she said. Deep sigh. My mistake for sitting so close to the top on a near empty bus.
   Oldies.
    I looked at her face. Late sixties, I'd say. How could I fib?
   'Out West,' I said. 'To see a friend.'
   'I've never been,' she said, before telling me her life story. She's been to England once.
   'My sister died. Unexpected,' she said. 'I found thousands of pounds hidden everywhere when I was clearing out her flat. Her daughter was delighted. We could have had her brought home if we'd found it sooner,' she said. 'She'd have liked that.' She seemed sad all of a sudden.
   'Was too late be then. We'd cremated her. My niece said it was more environmental friendly.' I wasn't sure where to look. At least she had the window. Not that she cared as she went on to tell me how hard it was for adventurous women back in her day. Seems her sister was one of those.
   'Shocking to see them still leaving today,' she said, shaking her head. At last. On my level. Something I'd heard about. Emigration. I was just about to go into a rant at the expense of the present administration when the bus stopped suddenly.
   'Mrs McGuire,' the bus driver shouted.
   'My stop,' she said. For feck sake. I got up again and stepped out into the aisle.
   'Enjoy America,' she said walking forward. A little rustically. Age, I suppose.

Woo! Ian Poulter. What you at? Five birdies in a row. Leon would be proud.
Better watch your back, Rory Mac.

I was early for the bus to Castlebar. Three hours early. I parked on a bench and waited. The back of the bus felt like a seat from the heavens when I finally took it. I could have stretched out along them.
   Gone to sleep. Would have felt like home. There was no such luck. A few fellows took up their own residence on the back seats. Avoids. Luckily no one decided to use the seat beside me. You know the one? The one you don't pay for but still feel is yours.
   Buses. Strange places.
   The last time I came this way I found the trip bleak. We weren't long out of the city and I'd drawn the same conclusion again. I decided to do what I do best. Sleep. I dreamt of Granddad Booker making his way up from Mayo all those years ago 'walking barefoot in winter.' Never could tell me how long it took him. I tried to draw Granny out about it. One of her finger wagging 'don't mention that again' times, it was. Man, they fought like tigers. Funny stuff.
   A cleaner woke me when we got to Castlebar.
   'Last stop,' she said.
   'Barefoot,' I said, trying to remember where I was. She looked at me. Tired. Drawn. Beaten.
   'Just get off the bus,' she said. I hope I wasn't foaming from the corners of my mouth. I quickly moved on and stepped out on to the street. A Tesco's the only thing I recognized. Phew. Some bells rang six. I'd made it. Before dark. Hours before dark. I'm sure Mum was fibbin' to me when she said I'd never make it in out in the real world.
   'Is this Castlebar?' I asked a random passer-by. She kept walking. I put it to one side and built myself up to ask someone else. They look friendly.
   'Excuse me, is this Castlebar?' They stopped. They looked like students. I'm not sure what they thought I was.
   'Yes,' said the one with the messy hair. 'Where do you think it is?' Aggressive little git.
   'Sorry,' I said. 'I fell asleep on the bus and wasn't sure.'
   They looked at me - this freak. In off the bus. Clothes in a hold all. Had I even shaved?
   'Thanks,' I said after them. The natives were friendlier the last time. If a little more eccentric. I walked on up the street in the opposite direction and popped into a newsagents.

Tiger to -4. Normally starts falling away by this stage since his crimes against matrimony. Not today. Not yet anyway.

'Can I help you?' a girl said from behind the counter. Ah, this is more like it. Smile too.
   'Could you point me in the direction of the Pontoon Road?' I said, mirroring a smile back in her direction. Lord, but I must sound like a plank.
    'We have little maps of the town,' she said, pointing up to a stand displaying postcards. Enda Kenny's office? No way.
   I was sure I'd remember - Castlebar wasn't Dallas. But smiling she stayed until I reached up and took one.
   '€3.'
   Never broke the smile. I gave her it in change. She didn't seem to mind as she told me there was an 'alphabet' thing at the back and I'd find where I was looking for there. I didn't realise I looked so odd - so out of place - that I looked like someone who couldn't find their way around a map. I was a scout once. For two weeks.

Paddy Harrington! -4.

I stepped back out on to the street. It was busy. I continued on up the street and found a quite spot. I sat down on my bag against a wall and folded the map out.
P.
Pontoon.
To Pontoon.
Pontoon Road.
   Here we go. Quick turn 90 degrees. Booker luck. Back down where I'd just come from.
   A car horn. I looked up. Police. Irish ones.
   'Lost?' They had pulled up on to the footpath. I hadn't even noticed. I got to my feet.
   'I am, be dad,' I said. 'I'm looking for the Pontoon Road.'
   'Hop in,' one of them said. He didn't look old enough to be driving. 'We'll run you over.'
   I did as instructed. You don't mess with the law. Unless, you're from Rossport.
    'Thanks lads,' I said getting in. 'Very decent of you.'
    'New in town?' the passenger Garda said as his mate pulled off down the street.
    'I am,' I said. 'Just off the bus.'
   Silence.
   'Where you from?'
    I told them.
    'My aunty lives down there. Una Gangley. Do you know her?
    'Can't say I do,' I said.
    'What's in the bag?' the driver said.
   'Clothes,' I said. 'I'm here for a few days.'
   'I didn't ask you how long you'd be here?' said the driver. Pause. The two of them laugh.
   'Where will we drop you?
   'Little cafe,' I said. 'Tessy's.'
   'Mattie's joint,' they said together before laughing again.
   'How you know Mattie?' the passenger guy asked. I couldn't go into it. I'd need all night.
   'Old friends,' I said.
   'Ah, Mattie's alright. Best breakfast in the town.'
   The driver guy took a sharp turn right and then another almost immediately. I was glad i was sitting in the middle of the back seat. I'd definitely have been kissing window.
   Two minutes later they screeched up outside.
     'Mattie's place is down the alley at the back.'
   'Thanks lads,' I said, missing the door handle at the first attempt in my hurry.
   'We'll be seeing you about,' the driver said with a serious face. He then pretended to smile before they began twittering to themselves again.I shut the door over and they drove off.

Rory's taking Kiawah Island asunder. -10 at the turn. Two ahead of Poulter. Oh, who's that? Justin Rose. -6 for the day.

I kind of knew I'd find Mattie at something. As I walked down the alley, there he was. Mowing the lawn with one of those old mowers. The 1 hp. Keeping busy.
   'Do you never stop?' I called out. He was facing my direction. Head bowed. Watching the newly sharpened cutters scalp blades from the grass. He looked up and stopped.
   'Well it's about fuckin' time...' he said walking over to me.
   'Great to see you,' I said.
   'Aye, it is,' he said shaking my hand firmly. He's re-discovered a depth to his accent since he moved back over here. Sounds like Granddad used to - when he'd be telling his stories. His bullshit stories. Great bullshit stories.
   Within minutes normal service was resumed. Mattie cooking and serving me. Like the old days. Cabbage, bacon, spuds, onions and carrots all in the one pot. He filled two mugs from it as it fermented. If vegetables ferment - which I doubt they do. As good a soup as I've tasted in a while. Nice and salty. Great for the heart.

I could bore you into a coma with scenes of serenity as Mattie closed the cafe early each day so we could cycle some ruggedness. He damn near killed me on Day 3 - a four hour round trip to the place the road led off to. A little pub on a bend on the road, a lake for as far as the eye could see.
   I was a little worried as we set the bikes down up against the side of the pub and went inside. Mattie opted for a cordial when i went for the black stuff. Two to re-hydrate, two for pleasure - and one for the road. We got back by bike light around eleven, taking breaks to grab Gustav his snaps and to water the bog. Not that it needed it.
   By the weekend I was talking about going home but Mattie would have none of it.
    'What you going back for?' he said. 'Stay another week.' I didn't need convincing. There was something about getting lost on a bike in the middle of no-where which was appealing to me. A different state of recluse. A more natural one.

Bogey-bogey, Ian Poulter. Rory by four. Barring an Adam Scott...

My phone rid itself of some dust when it rang on the Tuesday night of the second week.
   'Are you alive?'
   Gustav. I'd filled Mattie in on our Gus. I sensed Mattie was glad I had a neighbour. I re-assured Gus I was well and good.
   'Maybe you come back this week?'
    I didn't know if that was a question or not.
   'Maybe,' I said. Jaysus. The freedom.
   'Please try,' he said. 'Linda's friend. She come for weekend visiting.'
   I knew there and then I wouldn't be going back. I wasn't going through that again.
   'I'll see what I can do.' I'd have asked him to feed the goldfish but I don't have any, so I bid him a quick goodbye. Mattie laughed as I told him of that fateful night.

There was days I just sat in his little cafe. Reading a newpaper. They still exist. Just watching the world go by. The two young Guards were in and out. Could be a comedy duo. Sonny could have done something for them. If the law didn't work out. If Sonny was here...
   They were drove off their feet. Some lorry with part of an drilling machine had jackknifed in the county. Heading to the coast. To drill. Who'd have thought? Oil - in the West of Ireland. Being given away.
   I couldn't resist. I stole away and found an internet cafe to find out what had happened. Shell had tried to sneak it under cover of darkness. Big escort. Media silence. Then the old bog road had her say. I find them hard enough on a bike. I had a snigger to myself as i read how Mother Nature had her say and thought to myself- only in Ireland. But when was planning ever a concern in this country?

Oh shut up. You're on holidays! Or were.

Rory. Can't see him doing anything but winning from here. Six clear. Two-majors at 23.

You can't help but deal with the issues at hand when with close friends for a time. It was no different here. I took what Mattie had to say seriously. Hadn't listened to many this year. Gustav's occasional rabble and that's about it. Mattie was always worth listening too. The coherent Mattie, that is. He's still hanging in there. Fighting like the Irish boxing team at the Olympics. And after spending a little time here, he seems to be winning as well. Funny where he found his place. Back home. Where he probably always belonged.
   We said what needed saying and no more. I promised return visits as i packed to leave.
   'You're always welcome,' he said. 'I don't forget.' I knew he didn't. He was one of life's good ones. Rare. Occasional. Proper friends.

The two boys in the squad car picked me up earlier today to run me to the bus. They had insisted. I'd got to know them by name. Larry and Larry. The two Larry's. If only Sonny were around. I made one last request.
   Within five minutes there I was. Standing in front of Enda Kenny's office. Jaysus, it's small. Bit drab. Depressing color. It seemed fitting. For the times that are in it.
   It was Sunday. I decided to take the chance that he wouldn't be in there. That he'd come out and tell the two Larry's that he wanted a word in me ear. Out the back!
   I got passenger Larry to take a quick snap of me. Outside the seat of power in the West. For prosperity. I giggled at that thought.
   They dropped me to the bus.
   'Add us on Facebook,' they said.
   'I'll do that,' I said, waving a backward five. Like we were buddies. I know I won't. But, good lads. The pair of them. Doing their job in a jobless country.
   I felt a little less stooped as the bus made her way back to Dublin. Raining one minute. Sunny the next. Cars racing along - Galway flags trying to escape from car windows. Heading for Croker. Hundreds of them. Cris-crossing. Too and fro across the island. In no time at all.
   Great country.
   Lousy government.

I don't think Gus knows I'm back. I'll knock into him tomorrow. With his photos. Can't have him ruining the golf. I'd missed the whole Olympic games. We did good. For a little country with feck all going for her. Our athletes have rarely let us down. This team certainly didn't. In youth I'd have been absorbed in it. Everything. From dusk to dawn.
   Things change I suppose. As people get older.They say a change is as good as a rest. For once, I think they're right.

Go on Rory. Roll it in. Nah, I don't believe it. He has. Win by eight. One of the Golden Bears records seems safe as Tiger faded. Just can't see him taking Jack's 18 now.
With no-one really knowing who is claiming who this weather isn't it great to watch someone as young as Rory McIlroy shove criticism back down his critics throats.

USPGA champ. Double major champion. Not bad, wherever you're from.

50 Shades of Green

2012-07-23T02:15:00.000+01:00

How often do you go to sleep and wake up feeling twice your age? I don't know what it was, but wave after wave of whatever it was slowly took any energy I did possess to places outside my person at the beginning of the week. I didn't feel particularly sick. Just aged.
   The stairs felt like Everest and attempts at writing were cast to the digital trash bin. By Wednesday morning I'd given up and took up residence on the sofa down on the first floor of the residence.
   I'd have went to the doctor but I don't think I'd have made it. There can't be many things worse than ending up on the broad of your back in broad daylight (and it would want to be pretty broad around here at times) on a public street and becoming the victim of wild story lines that plot their way around small places.
   I lie. There are far worse things that could happen - and happening.

The house seemed quieter than usual, it's hollowness more apparent as I cut a way through some deplorable daytime TV. I didn't want to eat. I couldn't sleep. When I did I came through, drowned, like a trip outside on an Irish summers day.
   By Thursday, even trips to the toilet were put off for as long as could be mustered from the rapidly declining stock of energy. Sometimes that bursting signal to go, just went away. That can't be good for you.
   Late in the afternoon I felt like my cognition was waining - like I wasn't processing much. Just sweat - by the large bead - cascading from wanton pores. For the first time I felt a little worried.
   As i caught the days happenings on the evening news, a press conference from Enda and Eamon had given caught my attention. After listening to what I thought Enda had said when defending James Reilly's glaring inadequacies when serving his department - in any department - I was convinced.
   I needed hospitalization - and quickly. My world had turned into a freaky cartoon, where the clouds were made of crows. Tall jagged shadows everywhere. Delirium?
    Who'd have thought? Enda - saving my life.

I don't know what happened. I passed out. For fifteen hours. Woken only by my humming of an old Oasis song, bladder filled beyond capacity. I lumbered to my feet. I could feel them again. The walking wasn't as difficult as it had been the past few days. The relief, when i got there - majestic.
    Noise. Turning the toilet water amber. Whatever it was that laid me out was coming out of me. At length.
   I was glad there was no mirror to ponder into as i felt cold water soothe the worn-out pores of my face. That could have been enough to throw a reversal into the mornings good fortune. For better or worse, it looked like I was on the mend. I was going to survive, much to the lament of many.

Saturday saw a meeting with food again. It felt cramped at times. The final test came late that evening as I climbed the steps of the stairs. Then the more difficult attic ones in search of the last sole place of purpose I still had left. My bed.
   I woke this morning a little after ten. It sounded like a Sunday so I went back to sleep. It made more sense to energize. I'd worry about the stone-and-a-half I'd lost during the week later. Despite those good intentions, I'm staying on the ice-cream diet. For a few more days anyway.

Gus called in the afternoon. Worried. He'd noticed that my curtains had been closed all week.
   'You look like train hit you with a bus,' he said, after he explained all the things he had found 'unusual' in order for him to reach his conclusion that maybe something was up with me.
   Good job I hadn't succumbed to life. Like old Larry had. Maybe even worse. Dying with that Oasis song on my mind might have lead to an uncomfortable death scene for anyone entering it.
   'No, just run down,' I said.
   'Aw. Depressed,' he said.
   'Nooo,' I said, before loosing him as quickly as i could by explaining in detail, using words i didn't even know, to describe a mysterious bacterial infection - cum virus - called 'Knockthebolleekouttaya.'
   'It sounded serious,' he said, before saying he'd call again soon.
   'I'm meeting with Linda,' he said. I knew it already. I could smell it off him. I'll tell him later I was only taking the piss. I'm sure he'll get the humor in it.

I returned to my couch to sit out the return to normality and watched as Adam Scott headed off on his final round at the British Open with our own Graham McDowell. Prowling together behind the ultimate prowler, Tiger Woods, looking to end a streak of nearly four years without a major win.
   They were all jittery to begin with - Woods being the less of the three. As Woods made steady pars, both McDowell and Scott were swapping between bogeys and pars and the very odd birdie.
   The wind was rising on the Royal Lytham and St. Annes course after giving the field as easy a ride a links course could over the first three days. At least that was what the commentator said as I lay there watching 50 shades of green through worn and beaten eyes. Unable to see any shade of white.
   Woods was the first to concede ground, something he didn't need, as he tried in vain to chase down Scott - now caddied by Wood's ex-caddie, Steve Williams. Woods and Williams paired together in 13 out of 14 of Wood's major titles.
   Woods seemed to have a decent approach to the 6th, but plugged his shot into a green side bunker. After skillfully dodging his ball which rebounded off the face of the bunker in his attempt to get it out, Woods got down on his knees to somehow manage to get the ball on to the green with his second attempt - but three putts away. With a +3 on his card there was now serious daylight between Woods and the likable Scott seeking his first major title.
   McDowell made birdie on eight to reduce the gap between him and his playing partner to three. However, G-Mac's joy was short lived. He bogeyed the next three holes and with Scott himself steadying with a string of pars it looked for all the executions in Texas that Scott was about to become a major champion for the first time.
   There was no push from the pack, who mostly all struggled around the back nine. Woods continued to look frustrated as his driver appeared with little effect for the first time in the week. His playing partner Brandt Snedeker was gone by the turn. World Number 1, Luke Donald, posted a -2 total, but when Adam Scott birdied 14 to get to -10, Donald's score was never going to take the Claret Jug.

Enter...

Damn to how the universe operates at times. Damn the way the human body does also. As Stevie Williams and Adam Scott walked from the 14th green to smiles and applause, it was at least concrete in my mind that it was in the bag for the Australian.
   Just like that. Out, I went. I must have fell asleep because I haven't went out again since I woke to find Ernie Els hoisting the famous Claret Jug to the green side spectators who roared their approval at the now 4-time major champion. The second 42-year old to win the Champion Golfer of the Year in a row after Darren Clarke's own fairytale last year.
   Oh no! I was sick again. Back in that other reality I seemed to have been in all week. I jumped up from my stretched out position. Nope. I was like a cat. I wasn't dreaming.
   Ernie Els. Where had he come from?

Els hadn't caught my eye. He'd been flirting with the 'there or thereabouts' all week - but at the turn he was +2 for the day and half a dozen strokes behind Scott. Then Ernie's putter got hot. Apparently!!!
   Birdies at 10,12,14 and a little monster on 18, saw the South African card a 2-under-par 68 for a -7 total. Then, like so many other times in the sport of golf, absurdity stepped in to even tie the tongues of the David Feherty's of this planet.

Scott bogeyed 15. No big deal. He could afford that. In fact he could afford a few of them. Luckily. Right on the next hole he missed a three-footer for par. Another bogey. Lead down to one. Surely not?
   Bogey at 17. All square. Unbelievable. I'm speculating!
   As Scott stood on 18 he must have been barely able to grip his club. He needed to steady himself. A par for a play-off. Having practically lead since Thursday he deserved at least that. Didn't he?
No-one knows who the God of Golf is. All that's known is that he works in strange way and mysterious ways. Much like many Gods. For Adam Scott bogeyed again. For the forth time in a row. You wouldn't write it.
   And I slept through it all. Never did happen before. Only one-person to thank for being able to witness it. After the event! The person who invented highlights.

Els, ten years and a day since his first British Open success at Muirfield, finishes practicing putts for a playoff - champion outright without having to walk another hole. In hindsight all the signs were there. The decade since his first. His experience at winning majors. Same age as last years winner. A second and a third at the same venue in past Opens. His return to form in the past year. How the game of golf writes the strangest of stories. Good punter might have put all that together and had an old flutter. I certainly didn't. There was no book-making for me this week.
   There were none more joyed than Ernie - none so disconsolate as Adam Scott. He hid it professionally as watched Els hoist the famous trophy. Steve Williams wondering how his experience couldn't carry the Australian down the home stretch for what would have been his sweetest major of all. But like so many stories surrounding this strange game, it failed to produce the ending most expected. The times it does that is extraordinary.
'Part of the lure,' as Leon used to say - though he wasn't talking about golf!

I nearly slipped and fell up the stairs as I returned to the attic to write this and gaze out at the clouds as I work on getting a degree of cognition back.
   An envelope. It had slid across the floor and half under the bottom step of the stairs. Bit dusty too. Must have been there a while. I opened it.
   Nice. A €50 note. Was I delirious again?
A letter with directions to Mayo.

Come across sometime.
Mattie.

No date. Bloody hell. That could have been there for... How long has it been since I heard from him? It definitely was this year sometime. Hope he doesn't think I just kept the money and ignored him.
   Why is it whenever I get the chance to get away it is always to Mayo. Not like the memories are the best I have ever had. What if I ran into Enda Kenny down there on his eight-week break from the Dáil with the other 165 TD's.

Love when that happens. Déja vu.
Enda. Press conference. Dancing jagged shadows. Sweats.

Within five minutes I'd found it. That press conference. The one I thought was in my head when my head was everywhere else.
'Oh my sweet...'
Words do fail me sometimes.

I've come across some statements in my time. The ones from modern 'celebrities' are a source of amusement to some - distress to others.
    Some observant musings can spark a thought - for better or worse. Some too obvious to even consider vocalizing into sound.
Other that still do. -

'Generally when people speak they use words.' - Enda Kenny

Profound, hey? Gives us great hope for the future. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or get sick!
   Though, I must stop projecting. I could have been causing a coroner a few awkward moments. If things hadn't gone my way. At least I've seen it into another week. Might get something done for a change. Maybe even head West when the weather picks up.

Mights and maybes.

Womble Don

2012-07-10T23:10:00.001+01:00

Eat, write and sleep. Write, sleep and eat.
Odd menial chores.
Sleep, eat and write.
Bathroom breaks. Various lengths. Some tasks rhyme with write - others with behave. Others hiss.
Weekly excursion - visit old folks home.
Collect wages on way back.
Eat, write, sleep.

'I think we need a hobby,' said Gus, already claiming his first week of paid leave from the supermarket. Linda was working. Coinciding holidays might give their little secret away. I mean, how dare they fall for each other contrary to company policy. Unwritten too. NO employee liaisons.
   'We?' I said, as Andy Murray, great British tennis hope, turned to his Mum, fist clenched, having just taken the first set in the Wimbledon final against Roger Federer. The time had come.
   'Yes. It can't be all working and no playing,' he said, grabbing two bottles from a box of top-end beer he had bought in a two-for-one children's allowance day offer at a rival store earlier in the week. Gus doesn't have kids. So, he doesn't get the allowance. But why shouldn't he, should we say, take advantage.
   'What's this?' I asked. 'Is this working. Sittin' here on a Sunday - getting slowly intoxicated?'
   'No. This is not my meaning,' he said, as Andy's Mum jumps forward, raising a loving fist at her son as he takes another game. I can't see Murray being denied. His time must be now. He's hitting it sweetly.

'Tennis?' Gus offered. I nearly choked on my suds.
   'You're kidding - right?' I said, recovering.
   'Do I look like I is for kidding?' He raised his right eyebrow. He didn't. Unfortunately.
   'Tennis isn't really my thing.' I said.
   'Then what? he asked. Break point, Murray. Looking like his day.
   No.
   A second one.
   No again. Fed ain't a six-time champion for nothing.
   'Then - how about we just watch the TV?' An extension of tone on the 'then.'
   'OK,' he said - ruffled.
   Menial conversations. On Wimbledon final day. Can't be having it!
   Another break-point.
   No.
   Murray would rue these. Minutes later he did. Federer wraps up the second set from no-where. Didn't see that coming. Neither did Murray by the looks of things. He's slumping. He has to hold.
   He does.
   Phew!
   Bottle.
   What next? The skies to open.
   Yes. Players off.
   'I must go,' Gus said rising. He took three bottles from the box and left them to the side.
   'Call in during the week,' I said. 'When you're off.' He picked the box up and put it under his arm. Clinking all over the place.
   'I is off now,' he said, waiting for a second.
   'Talk to you soon.'
   I jumped up myself, leaving Gus to let himself out. I'd bought strawberries. And cream. They're very green though. Must be the rain.

I shut the curtains over not long after Gus had closed the door. Soon after the roof went over Centre Court. Off, it would not come again. The rain hopped off it, rebounding out from the speakers on the TV. Quite the pour.
   As the players came back out to a longing British crowd, it didn't take long before they started to realise that Federer was hitting form, and try as he may, Murray had no answer. Federer was coming in more, making Murray move, being more aggressive on Murray's second-serve. An error that had cost the Swiss the first set. Serving sublimely. Focused.
   The writing's on the wall. With all the grace and elegance that has made him the greatest tennis player of all time, Fed reels off the closing two sets to claim a record-equalling seventh crown. His seventeenth grand slam title. World number 1 again. At 30.
   As Murray reflected on his fourth grand slam final loss, the disappointment flowed from his eyes as he thanked those around him. Graceful in defeat like William Wallace on his final day in Hollywood.
   Time is on his side - but he is playing in the Federer/Nadal era. Throw in a Djokovic, and one can see why it is difficult for the Scot - the weight of an entire nation on his back. The burden of carrying the failures of his peers at the London Venue stretching back to the 1930's on his shoulders.
   What might have been...

I lay prostrate on the couch. Head tilted to the side. Catching the glow from the fire and glimpses of the TV set in equal measure. The fire - patching my face. The TV - parching my brain. To combat the boredom I did what all self-respecting practitioners of the state of elusiveness do. I fell asleep.

There I was. Driving Sonny to talk Andy Murray off the Wimbledon roof. It took a long-winded motivational appeal, but Sonny talked him down.
    Seconds later.
    We're all refused entry in The Fed's private party. Wimbledon champs only - and their agents.
    'Maybe next year,' said Mike Tyson to Andy. He was bouncing at the door. With Mitch!
'I'm heading back to Italy,' Sonny said - telling Andy to keep his chin up. Andy thanked him for talking him down.
   'I do it all the time,' Sonny said, before shaking both our hands.
   'Nice to see you again, Don,' he said. He disappeared like the figment of my imagination he was.
   'Who are you again?' Andy asked.
   'Don Booker.'
   'Never heard of you, Don?' Don't worry about it kid.
    But this was a dream. My dream. I could have fed him anything. Took advantage of the scenario.
   'Wanna get drunk?' he asked. A bolt from the tartan.
   'Shouldn't you be getting back to your girlfriend and Mum?'
   'They won't stop crying. You'd think I'd died or something.' He turned his head back a little and attempted to smile. 'Unless you have to get back to yours?'
   No. That certainly wasn't going to be a problem!

Somehow or other my face had found itself nestled, nose first, down where lost pennies go to hide in the couch. Among the stale crumbs and discarded hairs. Forensic nightmare!
   We found ourselves drinking a 200-year-old bottle of Jim Beam on the very couch I lay sleeping on. From his private collection.
    'Bit of a hole,' he said, looking around. He passed the bottle over.
    Cheap shot.
    'Tis. Writings a bit of a slow burner.'
    Think.
'You must be devastated with your loss?'
    Cheaper.

   The mouth fulls pass.
   'Must be nice,' he said, offering his hand to take the bottle again. 'Being a nobody. Not that I mean any disrespect.'
    I handed Jim back over. Us pair of slang-slingers. Probing.
   'It has its benefits,' I began - not able to list many. 'It's quite for one.'
   'Yes it is,' he said.

   We listened for a time. Passing the bottle too and fro. Commenting occasionally on its hidden nectar's - its values - its historical importance in times of male woe. Near its death, it came.
   'What do I have to do to win one of these damn things?'
   That's Sonny's field. I had no answers. I thought about giving his a few positives. Like he had got to final. That he had millions in the bank. Third best player on the entire planet. Or is it the fourth? I was never third at anything. Not even at egg and spoon. But I didn't. Like a seasoned voter, I knew it wouldn't make a difference.
   'You need a hobby, man,' I said eventually, after some serious thought. I wanted to help.
   'You think?' he said, tipping his head as far back as it would go to drain the final drop of Jim down passed his mouth. It was an impressive sight. 'Like what?'
   Fuck. I should have just kept my mouth shut. I was stumped.

   'Do you read?' I asked. He looked at me like i had asked him something offensive.
   'Of course I can read.' Ignoring his hearing, I passed him the copy of my book which just happened to be in my hand.
   'Try that,' I said. I expected him to say 'No.' But he didn't.
   'Booker's World,' he said. 'Imaginative!'

   I don't know how long it took in dream hours, but he got through it in what seemed like the blink of a squinting eye.
   'And I thought I was a loser?! he said, breathing out, eyes bulging like he was stressing a fact.
   Bingo!
   'See,' I said. 'There always someone/something worse.'
   'I just needed reminding,' he said - shaking the empty bottle in hope. But this was not a fairytale. 'Thanks. Just what I needed.'
    I knew it would have its uses. Someday. I told him to keep the book.
   'Toilet reading,' I suggested.
   His Galaxy something sounded off. He took it out. Fancy.
   'It's the girls,' he said, passing it over for me to read.
   Sleek too.
   We've stopped crying now.
   'Guess, I gotta go,' he said, starting to rise. Thank fuck. The legs on which he sat were numb. I wasn't doing my own chest cavity much good either. So, I rose off me as well.
   'Do you think I can win a Grand-Slam?' he asked. He disappeared before I told him he could. He just had to do it. I sounded like a Nike cliche. I was glad he didn't hear me.
I woke from my slumber. Morning. Trying to cascade through those heavy curtains that served me so well. I felt like an eighty-year old man having just done a 12-hour shift on a ground-roller over rocky terrain. Which isn't good. I'm no where near eighty.

I attempted to stretch. I felt a twinge. Jaysus, had I pulled a disc? No. I could walk. My blood turned to pins as it began to circulate.
   What was that noise?
   Skype? Upstairs. Who'd be calling at this forsaken hour? Through a simple process of elimination I realized who it was. Sonny. He's the only one in my Skype list. Ordered to download it. By him.
    I made coffee. Purposely strong. Those cheap bottles!

Ten minutes later I'd framed myself adequately and had Sonny on the other side of a computer screen. Bronzed as usual. Reminding me of those medals I never won.
   'I tried calling you,' he said.
   'I heard,' I said.
   'Why didn't you answer. It could have been important.'
   Not to me.
   'Is it?'
   'Well, no...'
    I listened to him bang on again. Like his marriage counsellor. Amanda and Luke were fighting. Over how to develop the Italian enterprise to make Sonny 'fit in.' To make it pay for them all. So they'd never have to come back. I listened. Silently. Until he stopped for breath.
   'Do you think they're having an affair?' I said. I watched as the expected look fell across his face. The classic furrowed brow. Might as well give him something else to think about. Throw a little family triangle among those thorny Italian vines. Paint that. Abstractly.
   'I never said that?' he whispered - looking cautiously over his shoulder. No you didn't, Sonny. But now your thinking about it. Still - at least you have the sun down there.
   He convinced me there was nothing going-on. Not that he had too. Boredom's a wicked thing sometimes. My bad.
    Personal note to self - Must try harder in inter-personal relationships. Claim more sensitivity from universe. Must maintain friendships. Might need feeding. Someday.
   Eventually the conversation ended itself in its usual way. The connection died. Like it does. Not sure if he tried to call back. I'd sent the computer into hibernation and got beneath the bed covers. That's more like it for a Monday afternoon. I'd talk to Sonny soon.

Larry Mulligan used to say he'd ban days of the week in favour of a more 'floating' approach if he ever got into power. Not sure of the power he had on his mind - being the independent hippy of the wrong era he was. In the wrong town. In the wrong country. Contemporary California might have suited old Lar better.
   Me? I'd just ban Mondays. Make Sunday a 48-hour thing. Get the publicans on board. Reclaim the beer from the supermarkets. An Irish revolution.

You'd miss certain people. Certain places. Things.
Maybe I do need a hobby.
Kite surfing? You'd need a kite for that.
Research the family tree? - No thanks!
A job? - If only.

I think Ireland has me withered.
Write, eat, sleep.
Eat, sleep.

Sleep.

The Bailout Job

2012-07-03T21:35:00.000+01:00

Last Thursday night an expectant German nation watched as their football team took to the field in Warsaw to play Italy in the European Championship semi-final. Having rifled their way to the group of four with steely German precision, the country felt this team had come of age and were set to deliver again on the major championship stage. Italy, no longer considered the powerhouse of the past and caught up in a fixing scandal within their domestic league were expected by most - myself included - to be swept aside. Efficiently.

Meanwhile, in Brussels, EU leaders were battling it out amongst each other, trying to kicks some cans down ever windier roads within palatial summit surroundings. Enda Kenny was there too. Not bad for a man from Mayo. Grandad Booker would be proud.
   Angela Merkel, who Germans see as a good luck charm when it comes to the national team, is a footballing fan. The German chancellor was there for the previous match when the Greeks were dispatched - if not quite with the same ruthlessness as austerity - but European matters had her precedent on the night. Still, like she does, I'm sure she expected.
At worst Angela would have received whispered updates - as I'm sure any other fans around the table did that cared for the eccentricities of a moving liathróidí. What it is that attracts such beings remains a mystery for it seems to encompass all, peasant to president.
However Angela is fed her footballing news, I'm sure what she was hearing was not what she was expecting. And the worst was still to come.

The start of a bad night came from an wayward source - one of those flawed genius types which have graced the soccer field at times.
Rags to riches, Manchester City bad-boy, Mario Ballotelli - who had just heard that he was to become a Dad for the first time - rose to the occasion in the 20th minute to head a bullet into the German net from six-yards. Mario wasn't finished either. On 36 minutes he followed it up with, in my opinion, the best finish of the tournament - a 75 mile-an-hour rocket which flew past German keeper, Manuel Neuer - drawing applause from the beaten net minder and showing sportsmanship still exists somewhere.
   Try as they may the Germans could not find a way through the Italian defense and despite an injury time penalty, the coming-of-age would have to wait for another few years. They were packing up and going home. The Italians would play the Spanish in the final. Both from Ireland's group, but it doesn't help with the suffering.

In an attic, a failed writer, takes advantage of the muggy night, sleeps in skin, dreaming of owning a shed load of e-voting machines and getting paid to store them. Handsomely!

Meanwhile back in Brussels.
   Enda bites his nails. Another Mario - Monti - the Italian premier (unelected) throws eyes at Spain's own Mario - sorta - Mariano Rajoy, who eyes back in prospect. Tonight was not the night for squabble.
   Threatening to throw Europe into chaos by vetoing everything from growth packages to the fracking of the land - OK, not quite - if the Germans didn't do something to alleviate the stranglehold the markets had around their borrowing necks.
   Agreement was reached - in principal. Bank and sovereign debt are to be separated. Moves towards growth. Jobs for - well, not 25 million Europeans unemployed - for the time being anyway. More cutting.
Handshakes were faked. Monti claimed a double-victory. Merkel didn't approve. Balotelli milked the acclaim in the Italian press. A hero is born.

Morning breaks.

In an attic, a recluse wakes. Sweaty. Cold. Storage contract pulled. The rain, returned. A quick scratch of the nether, he embraces the groundhog in the day. A mouse circles.
   What's this? Seismic shifts? Game-changers? Yawn!
Breakfast.

Enda and Nooner had returned. A sense of triumph. A nation saved from doom. Peace for our economic time. Had a ring of 'Neville Chamberlain' about it to me.
   Ireland's leaders had the same cards the Italians and the Spanish had to play with - before, and on Thursday night.
   I doubt the lack of press coverage about Irish input into the happenings was cynically left out from all major reporting of the unexpected 'deal.' The Finns and Dutch have already threatened to throw spanners and clogs at it. And rightly so too! For what is a deal - in principal? Where has anyone seen principal being a force for anything involved in this debacle in recent years?
   Harmonization? Unity? Ask the Greeks - in fact, ask any nations citizen who is feeling the impact of austerity.
   The Spanish and the Italians - with French backing - played their cards and made the threat. They got the result they were looking for. On the night anyway.
   Ireland has kept her cards hidden for years. The Troika have seen the books. I'm betting Ireland will do as she is told to do. The coalition, elected on a mandate pitched to the Irish in a fighting tone, soon lost their bottle, dooming the vast majority of decent Irish people to carry the can once again for our nations political failures.
   This was not a V-Day for Ireland. If there is to be a victory - and I doubt it - it won't be anything to do with Irish leaders standing up for Irish concerns and that's for sure.
   And those which bankrupted us? They remain free... and flush.

Snap out. Fast forward. Sunday evening. Kiev.
   As Irish and German fans look on, dreaming of what might have been, one a whole lot more than the other, the victorious bailout nations took to the soccer field to decide who would be crowned champions of the ball for the next four years.
   Spain, reigning world and European champions, and four-time champions of the world, Italy. The Brussels Bunch.
   Spain. Favourites. They had never beaten Italy in a competitive match before. Looking to do what no other nation had done in the history of the game before - win a third major championship in a row. Olympics not included.
   Something had to give - and it did.

Goals from Silva, Alba, Torres and Mata rammed critique of the all-conquering Spanish firmly back down the throats of critics the world over. The ones who dared question their brand of slick football. Those who said they passed for the sake of passing. Those who had questioned their team without strikers. Those who questioned their lack of goals.
   Italy, to their credit, tried hard. The games statistics testify to that. But artistry was not to be outdone by workmanship on this occasion, and when Italian, Tiago Motta, limped off early in the second half, reducing the brave Italians to ten men, history began to write the record of a unique achievement which will be unlikely to be seen again. Not in a Booker lifetime.
Spain had prevailed. All week. By all accounts.
   As Ballotelli huffed down the tunnel, Iker Casillas stepped up to raise the Henri Delaunay trophy and send his nation into rapture once more. Tears poured from Italian eyes - graceful in defeat. Pirlo, so great for so long throughout the tournament, no answer to the Spanish weaving he'd just endured. Ballotelli returned from the tunnel to see see the light - sulk over. Flawed. Like us all.

Fernando Torres claimed the golden boot - albeit by being on the pitch for fewer minutes than his goal-tally equaling fellows, all of whom had found net three times throughout the tournament. The masterly Iniesta was the player of the tournament. The Spanish reign goes on.

The days of lives drift by where ever people hail from. All to the tune of different drums. Some under the boom of bombs, some in the glare of the Spanish sun, some in tandem with the rain, beating its melancholic Irish drum. Some doing favour for others - others doing themselves no favour at all.

Time for a swim. Where's me jumper?

Constants

2012-06-27T01:03:00.000+01:00

'You must give me €20,' he said, looking as if an invisible had a gun to the back of his head.
   'Morning to you too, Gus,' I said, telling him to come in. I quickly closed the door over on the rain pissing venom on anything that dare enter the world.
   'The bank. It not give me my money,' he explained as we walked through to the kitchen. It was 10am on a summers morning. It was dark. I flicked the light switch. That was better. Gus looked ill.
   'What you mean?' I asked.
   I haven't had a bank account in over three years. I wonder if they're charging me for abandoning it. But what's a guy to do with nothing to filter through it to be nibbled at by those pesky banking flies. Gus told me he couldn't access his account via the bank machine.
   'That happens a lot in Ireland,' I said, memories of such events rushing back. A trigger I think they call it.
   'You never understand,' he said. 'The wages, they not go in so no bills come out. This is like worst nightmare.' I'd hate to see him on Elm Street or in conversation with an English aristocrat.
   Seemingly there had been a little IT trouble at his bank which rendered its systems useless. Account holders unable to access their own money. Tran-suctions not taking place. Way to much Cyber for me. I could see his frustration all the same.
   'When they say it'll be fixed?' I asked, the kitchen lighting up from a sky strike outside.
   'Maybe next week,' he said. 'That's why I want the money from you. If you can be kind.'
   I felt warm. A headache coming on. Sweat needling me. Thunder rolling. Clamorous. Fuck this weather.
   'Sure,' I said, reaching for my gold-plated wallet on the table. It turned to worn leather as i touched it. I peered inside. A twenty and a ten.
   'I'm kinda like your bank,' I said, taking out the ten and handing it to him. 'Short on funds.'
   'It must do,' he said, almost tripping over the leg of the table in a bolt for the door. 'I must go. I not eat since yesterday morning.'
   'No problem,' I said, taking a more Saturday-ly approach to the front door. No need to say thanks.
   'I call soon with it back,' he shouted. I watched as he walked in a hurry toward the shops. Waiting. Another growl. Spit-Spat. Spit-spat. That's as far as it sounded warning, before the heavens opened - once again! Poor Gus. When it rains - it pours.

You'd wonder about them banks though, wouldn't you? Access to all those deposits upon which they can profit from in any which way they can. Then the access to cheap credit - which they then lend out nine-times over at extortionate interest rates to willing folk who want a bigger slice of life. Some slices bigger than others, I should add. The debt cycle begins.
   With so much opportunity - opportunity never afforded the ordinary man - it does beggar the question. Just how did they screw it all up? And why are they not held to account? Why are they allowed to continue? Fractional reserve, they call it. But did they keep the fraction? Do they even have your money at all?
   It's a flawed system, yet the cheerleaders are many. They are influential. They care little for society - less for those who make up its parts. A peak to trough - boom to bust - ponzi scheme that may very well go pop. Crazy, when you think about it. Crazy, that her top-practitioners work with world governments watching their backs. Paying themselves salary increases directly from the proceeds of austerity. So the heist can continue. For a little bit longer. In Casino Pon-zi.

I hate filling out forms. Particularly official ones. That come down from the top. It's part of the joyous world bitches to systems must endure throughout the year. So files can be updated. Giving people something to do.
   What have you been doing to find ...
   Provide proof.
   Penalties.
   I never like the wording. At least the banks hide their terms and conditions in the ultra-fine print that no-one can read. Not that people do in any case.
   Housing this time. Fill out forms provided. Return to sender.
   Never really bothered me before. Mitch was here a lot then. I got him to fill them out mostly. Mum was here, incapacitated as she was/is. She should have filled them out as she was the renter.
   It was the only trouble I'd ever had with them. I had to provide proof of her incapacitates. Doctoral. Apart from that it was home. For over thirty years now. I think herself got the chance to buy it once. The rent was cheaper. It fitted her philosophy. Back when she had one. Was never as full as it was a few years ago. Hardly ever lightly to be again. A constant. Apart from myself - my only real one. And it doesn't talk. That's always good.
   Number of residents?
   For once the silence got me. There was no-one else here. Didn't really bother me. It was the question that did?
   'Just stick down three,' I could hear Leon sneer. This was no time to be funny. I could put Mitch down as resident - he being kin and all. He still pops in. Every few months. The last time he was up from Dublin he told me he had spent the whole bus trip wondering if sometime he'll walk in the door and find me rotting there, akin to a beautiful girl from a film he'd seen. I told Mitch he should have himself checked out.
   I put the forms away for a day. But the question kept reminding me to answer it. It wouldn't go away. Like a constant ringing in the ears, it plagued. Until I returned to it.
   1
   Fifteen minutes later it was falling into a box dressed in a stamp and an address. Waiting for the postman. Damn postmen.

It's not often it happens. You open a door just as someone is stood there. Nearly jump out of your skin - though the skin doesn't move.
   'Just the one,' he said, as he handed me my mail. Been delivering here for years. I still don't know his name.
   'Thanks,' I said. I knew by it, it was official. I shouldn't have been too disappointed. It's not like people write personal letters anymore. Not to me anyhow.
   'The state are everywhere,' he said, beady eyes, trying to take in everything. In an instant. Relaying to me all the times in the past few days he had come across checkpoints, speed cameras, customs and welfare officers. The list was long. I half-expected Lord Lucan to get a mention.
   'Soon, you won't be able to shite. I used to be finished by now,' he scolded. I'm sure filling me on the nations development wasn't helping his cause much with that. I'd heard it had become like that. From someone...
   'I'll motor on,' he said. 'While I still can.' The poor hoor. Wonder if he has ever been bitten?

'No sense worrying about it,' I keep thinking. So why can't I see the sense. Not going to look good though. Me. Here. On my Tod. Hopefully they'll see my name on the form and just slip it over to the pile reserved for the familiar without going past it.
   I'm sure it would make some small family happy. Starting out. Three-bed house in quiet area. One previous occupant. Recluse! Shifted to a granny flat in an area riddled with kids. Meanwhile, down in Longford...

Maybe I'm reading too much into it. They'd hardly evict me to smaller quarters. Not that I'm into big places or anything. It's just this is home. I'm sure its been paid for by now. Twice-over.
   No, I'm right. As usual.

No sense at all.

Trapped

2012-06-21T19:42:00.002+01:00

I had a dream. It turned into a nightmare. An eight day one.
   Ten years is a long time. Especially when one waits on something. Like participating on the world stage in one of soccer's premier competitions, the European Championships. Sometimes things are worth waiting for - but over the past week and a half that proved to be nonce - proving that such sentiment has no place in the Irish soul.
   I'd given myself an unpaid holiday. I knew the start date - June 10 - the end, when Ireland were dispatched from Europe's top national competition. The first game was vital.
   Croatia - a superior team on paper - a result, a must. Less than two hours later Ireland's odyssey had begun. An odyssey that started as it ended - in a resounding defeat. While national governments and sporting bodies called for Fair Play awards to be lavished on the fantastic Irish fans, the players left the tournament with the worst record of a participating nation in the tournaments history - albeit sharing the accolade with a few others, namely Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and Denmark.
   Three damning defeats, eight goals conceded and just a solitary goal for the Irish supporters at home and abroad to force bouts of sporting ecstasy from a people in need of a lift. The team failed to respond to the challenges like teams of yesteryear who served us abroad. Simply, they were just not good enough.

In truth, but for a favourable play-off draw which paired us against European minnows, Estonia, we would not have been there at all. Thousands travelled to Poland and the Ukraine for the matches, but had to resort to renditions of The Fields of Athenry when shouts of support failed to inspire an aging, ill-managed team.
   Robbie Keane now plays his football in a Z-league in the United States and it showed. Fan favourites Damien Duff, Richard Dunne and Shay Given were equally disappointing. Not one of the squad provided a shred of positivity for the world cup qualifiers ahead. Dispatched after just two games, the manager had a chance to blood some new players. He remained loyal to the old - the tired and tested - the failed. Hardly instills a confidence in a manager who football philosophy is at best, dated.

Roy Keane had his now customary pops at Irish soccer - his inclusion of Irish soccer fans in his latest tirade - the spew of a bitter man now earning his living as a pundit living on controversy. Eamon Dunphy threw his weight behind the team and even backed them to get out of the group and to the knockout stages - a prediction with him walking Dublin's Grafton Street dressed as a clown.
   The only highlight was the fans. The best in the world. Too bad we don't give them much to cheer about. I'm pretty sure they have done more for Irish tourism in the past 10 days than Leo Varadkar could dream about doing in ten years. Yes, Leo was there. The Sports minister who knows little about sport. Appointed by Enda Kenny to his first cabinet it was the earliest sign of the new taoiseach's leadership qualities - or lack of as it turns out to be.
   But even I can't let the government take the fall on this one. The buck must stop with the manager - he picks the team. When those teams failed, he remained loyal. Poor management if you ask me. The players let him down. They let everyone down. I don't remember such a no-show from an Irish side in any of their five major tournament appearances since 1988.
   Should he stay? Who know? Though a near €3 million contract over the next two years suggests a certain level of extravagance the FAI are rarely noted for. We all remember Saipan and the 'facilities.' Ireland rarely has philosophies about things - soccer included. If we had one it would reap benefits within a generation. But like economic sovereignty returning, i just don't see it happening.

Summer!

Spanish Miracles

2012-06-10T12:27:00.000+01:00

Rain rain. Go to Spain.
Come back on Mammy's washing day.

There are many variations to that little nursery rhyme. That's the one we used back in the day. Chests leaning against the back of the sofa. Football in between leaving an imprint, like a giant measle. Looking out the window on sullen summer days. Heads peering out under Mother's lace curtains, looking for a gap in the clouds. Anything that might give us hope of a 12-hour kick about. Trying to ignore the shouts from herself for breathing on the window and drawing - well, mine were matchstick somethings. Yep, that bad.
   If memory serves me correctly - summers of the '70, '80 and '90's were not as bad as they have been over the past decade or so. A months rain fell in 36 hours this week. Flowers drowned. In June?
   Luckily, kids don't have to rely on a football as their sole source of fun these days. If it rains they just shift inside, that is assuming they actually do wander out occasionally. Big screen TV's and play - boxes now. (No free-advertising around here. There's a depression on)

The rain may never have went where it was willed to go, but the dark clouds of a bank bailout loom large over Spain as I write. Sums of between €40 and €100 billion are being mentioned. Spain are in a strong negotiating position on terms. By strong I mean, they have the capacity to take the whole Euro down. They know it and I'm sure the Germans and Co do too. Just can't see them applying the same interest rates Ireland accepted. Steered willingly into an economic abyss.
   The terms aside, the situation does threaten to throw the country back to the days prior to the Spaniards own Celtic Tiger, the Spanish Miracle.
   Franco's Spain, having been shunned after the Second World War, set technocrats, many of whom were members of the Opus Dei Catholic 'movement'- set polices in place which would see a dramatic change in Spanish fortunes, before eventually becoming the 9th largest in the world.
   The boom lasted until the mid-seventies when the oil crisis stunted it phenomenal growth. Spain continued to grow as they entered the Euro in 2002, but an inflated property bubble... well, you all know the rest.
   With unemployment bordering on 25% - the Euro zone's worst - and austerity the name of the game - the bailout of Spanish banks would seem to be the final nail in the Spanish economic coffin and perhaps also in the Euro itself if contagion catches on and spreads. A run on Spanish banks since the beginning of the year has seen the departure of €100 billion, with a notable acceleration in recent months.
   Across the pond in the US, Barack Obama is calling Europe out as the source of American economic ill. But with a debt of $15 trillion themselves - much down to the fighting of illegal wars - he perhaps should be thinking about taking back control of his own currency from the private Federal Reserve and serving the people currently holing up in vast tent cities springing up right across the US. Not their American dream, for sure.
   Who knows? A new currency. A bonding. A whole new order.

'I'm sorry, you not get job,' Gus said, relaying the bad news to me. Linda had done what she could, but...
   'I sure you were in the bag,' he said, looking like a puzzled mathematician trying to figure out the meaning to all.
   'Don't worry about it,' I said. I meant it too. It didn't seem to matter to what appeared to be a person close to despondency. For feck sake! It was 12-15 hours a week. Alternative night. The latter end of them. A smidgen above the minimum wage.
   'Everything must be finished by 7am,' Angela had said. A broad lady in a corporate suit. Slightly 'tached in the corners of her mouth. Bowler haircut. Linda told me she was the head of Human Resources. Out from HQ for the week. To conduct interviews. Countrywide. I hope she hires a few. Unemployment is up to 14.8% - another damning stat to weigh against government policy. She listed the duties, the expectations and the wage.
   'Any questions?' she said, taking up my application forms and hitting them end-up off the desk in front of her.
   Fuck it!
   'How soon can I have your job?' I asked.
   'Pardon me,' she said.
   'Advancement?' I said. 'Within the structure.' I tried to sound like one of those interns - so hungry for success I'd work for nothing. Even take scolding. To get to where it is they need to go. Before they're shown the door - reduced to a new societal low. The booted contemporary slave.
   'Shall we just get you started first?' she tried to smile.
   'So, you're offering me the job?'
   'Sorry. If we get you started.' I looked around. Nope. No-one else.
   'We?' I asked.
   I could almost see her face cheeks begin to blush. Not that pale shy blush. More like that wine angry blush.
   'I"LL let you know,' she said, rising. That hadn't worked out as planned. I thought a little pre-employment foreplay might have worked in my favour. I'm no oil-painting - but I reckoned Ang was there for the pulling. Call it intuition. I began to rise.
   'Any idea when?' I said - sounding pleasant.
   'How about right now, Mr. Booker? she said. I gulped. Why did I even open my mouth? That table would never hold the two of us.
   'I've seen 17 candidates since 9-30am this morning. You have been the worst. If I count in all those I've seen this week, which is 159 - you rank in the bottom three.'
   That's the table out, so!
   'You can read between the lines,' she began, before referring to my application again. 'Yes. You being a writer and the such?!'

I was beaten. The pain of rejection never felt so good. We stood there for a few seconds. Eye-balling. Hers, a steely grey. Mine, trying not to blink. Trying hard to win.
   'Bottom three. That bad?' I asked - breaking the stare-out. My eyes were watering.
   'Bottom three,' she confirmed - firmly. 'To be perfectly honest - I don't know how you even got the interview. The companies weaning protocol seems to have been abandoned for some reason.'
   What? I was just about to mention Linda's involvement when a sudden good idea passed through my numb-skull.
   Take the good fortune and run.
   'Thanks for the opportunity,' I said, dismissing myself.
   It poured from the heavens as I made my way home. Smiling - like a hung-over stop-out. That had just got laid. My shirt was nearly through my skin by the time I got in. Felt great.

'Linda could not have word for you. It is only reason. Usually her friend, she do hiring,' Gustav said. 'Don't worry. Next time. We make sure.'
   No. There would be no next time. Not there anyway. I confessed what had happened. I confessed I didn't really want the job. I confessed to having worked in the past for rogue traders - of the building type. When Ireland had such types. Before NAMA ended up employing most of them.
   I told him how pay never met the conditions. How, when a particular job ended - it meant JOB ENDED. How safety infractions were blindly encouraged. A 'no-one around to see' policy. How unions were crap. How my knee and hip flare up in the cold weather now. How, if I possibly could, I wanted to rely on no-one now. Paying tax at over 40% - and still paying for every service out there. No, there was no sense being sycophantic at this stage. No-one to rely on except the balding 40-something, live-in recluse that sat drinking tea before him.
   Not that that had worked either. I told him of my difficulty since in that pursuit. He sat and listened. Like an unpaid therapist. Like I used to for Leon.
   'You know what it is you do,' he said, with a wink. 'I am happy for you.' But that was the trouble. I don't! No-one has a clue what they are doing much anymore. Not even those elected with that responsibility.

A few years ago the mere mention of The Bilderberg Group led to taunts of nutty conspiracy theorist. Now the elite secret little club with a chequered history has seeped into the mainstream. They met for cocktails and ceremony last week. Not quite as far behind the shut door behind which they used to sit - talking. Drinking brandy. Talking shop.
   Who was among this invitation-only exclusive billionaire club last week? Good old Michael Noonan. You'd wonder why? What a finish to his final days in politics. Who'd have thought that when he stepped aside for the Kenny reign to begin. The tongueless taoiseach.
   While such swagger goes on and the gap between the wealthiest within society and the rest of us widens at record pace - in times of austerity - whatever is going on in Syria now threatens to implode, as government forces loyal to the Assad regime butcher civilians - women and children amongst them. One Syrian I saw on TV last night cried with his eyes to the heavens shouting - 'The Jews didn't even do this to us.'
   Assad denies it all - as any elected, unopposed dictator would do. UN resolutions have failed and the country stands on the verge of civil war. Veto's remain the block to international intervention. The Russians and Chinese on this occasion. Putin didn't turn up at the recent G-8 summit at Camp David - instead sending his swap-a-role, right-hand-man, Medvedev.
    An intervention is the best case scenario from what I can see - for if things kick off in that region, well, as some might say, it would be like opening up the gates to Hell.
   Does beggar the question though. Who is arming the Syrian rebels? One would have thought in a dictatorship, controls of such things would be top-priority.
   It can't be the vetoing countries. That wouldn't be protecting their interests. No. Definitely not them. Geo-political interests exchange terms like 'genocide' for 'condemnation' sometimes. To serve those interests.
   It's easy to see why the Americans want to move in. Right next door to Iran - current public enemy number 1. They must be feeling awfully claustrophobic with all those NATO and American bases surrounding their immediate borders at the minute. Watching. Waiting. Wanting.
   Best shut-up. Wouldn't want a droning. You never know what can happen nowadays. When Mayo is rattled with an earthquake - anything is possible.

'So how did the test go?' I said, breaking a silence.
   'Test?'
   'Exam. English exam.'
   'Don't even talk,' he said. 'Seamus Heaney - he never showed up.'
   'That's unfortunate,' I said - not sure what else to say. I'm sure Seamus Heaney didn't have to do the exam.
   'I think it will pass though,' he said.

Here's praying to it.

Knights of the Green Brigade

2012-06-06T02:43:00.000+01:00

There she was. Surfing the horizon. Going down - causing the skies on the east coast of Ireland to ponder colour. Cruising I was, a commercial success - implanted hair flying everywhere. Doing 35. An old Bentley. Soft-Top. Down. Sitting six inches from the road.
   I'd picked her up cheap. At an auction. Down at the Sheriff's yard. Some poor fool. Gone under. Took a dive. Felt the fall. Left the car. Absurd!
   It was one of those days that you dream of. When it all goes right. The smouldering voice that came through the stereo system. Marilyn Monroe's - on a sultry evening. Soon after the tequila ran dry.
   'Ireland is free,' she whispers, loud enough for the island to hear. 'Happy Birthday.' In that Galway brogue of hers. From the speakers. In the boot. The big ones. The sea hissing as it rolls in her background. Perched there high in her home in the hill-tops. Where Wales can seen. On a clear day. If you're deluded!
   Frédéric François Chopin ringing out from opened floor-to-ceiling bay windows as old fogies play lawn bowls and drink gin with gusto. Lamenting at little, aside the can-swilling, football fanatic, closet Rhianna fan - rendered the twenty stone beast she was - and him - by unemployment. But, no more!
   Ireland had rid herself of her ills. Unanimously. To the very citizen. In a vote. A Refer-Enda, A New Politic. A little off-center, pursuing a right-wing agenda with left-leaning goals.
   Enda had grown a pair - fed up with nightmares about his legacy - the nonce portrayed by irate bloggers who he'd see would soon the Atlantic mist. Up-close and personal. Tied to a rock. Riding waves.
   The people had chosen. To go back. Back. To '72. That New Year's Eve. Where flares swung wild and wide and socks multitask-ed. That last day when Ireland was truly Ireland.
   Now Kenny would lead. Doherty assisting. Higgins over-seeing. Adams defense. Cowen taking coats at NAMA's - Ireland's answer to Disney World.
   Phil Hogan sent to the islands. Howlin & Gilmore too.
   As our 'friendly foes' threaten nuclear options, with Enda the country stood. Doherty whispering in his ear. Higgins listening. Adams egging them on. Hogan, since pardoned, playing fiddle and singing of the rising of 2016.
   'Go ahead...' Enda urged them - a firm quiet tone. A menace in his eye.
   'Press it,' he dared.
   Irish brows rose. And with them returning smiles. Like the ones in the Summer of 2012 - when the boys in green took Europe home.
   'You go, Enda boy,' says a hopeless bass player. Locked in his black bedroom - caged there by himself. Streaming. YouTube. Happy.

'What about the deficit?' a lone wolf did cry. Bearded to a peak. Siding down. White shirt. Dressed in Hemp. Friendly sort.
   With it Hogan rises. To boos. And eggs. An army boot. A sod of turf. Not sure if I imagined the Septic tank or not. 'Big' Phil accepts them all. With a grace. For social sins.
   'With this pen - I declare no deficit,' he mantra's - stroking it away as the important watch on. The masses roar. In their scattered millions. Across land. Across sea. Across the world. Jedward told to hit the cruise liner circuit. Off Dubai. Dublin Housewives and Fair City are HBO hit.
   'How can you do that?' asked the wolf. The masses shush. Still. The ghosts of all that had passed through her land go through not one - but all. East to west. North to south. Young and old.
   'With free enterprise and social motivation - the likes of which have never been seen before,' he roars - a fist aimed northward to an eager masses. 'Skulduggery. Shenanigans. Sharks. 'Tis what we're famous for? Let's use it. For all its worth.'
   And Ireland did. With Hogan's call they rounded - but not on him. Not on each other. Not on your Nelly!
   The wolf got Propaganda.

Renowned minds were sought and bought with the best NAMA could provide for them. Oil men. Thinkers. Investors. Scientific and environmental heavy-weights. Social reprobates. Danish filmmakers. Lady Scandinavian CEO's. Social dictators.
   The tiny island formerly known as Iremany took her name back. She thrived. Prospered. She even paid it all back. Unsecured bondholders and all. Even Bertie and Brian's pension. Fuck, it even stopped raining in the summer.
   It did take time - but what's time in an expanding, infinite universe anyway. There were squabblers at first. Arts Minister, Dan Boyle suggested that was what smaller western and northern islands were for. The Greens were back. They'd not falter again.
   There the squabblers were free to fight - with each other - mandatory bare knuckle rules applied. Pitch fork or Scythe on a Sunday. Till they tire and roam the icy Atlantic rock filled lands that sometimes glisten like from another world. For a few days a year.
    When reflection peaked, they were welcomed back. To trade like mongrel dogs in a capitalist market with one sole aim. Too take it over. Then take it down. Like those who had did Ireland before. Back in the bad old days. When the gutter grime of grey Dublin buildings remained there. For all to see.

The Noble lost ground to The Higgins Prize as the years they did slid on by. The dynamite fell silent and with it the prize money. The nukes followed soon after. Sent towards the sun. As if it weren't bright enough.
   They all wanted 'The Higgins.' Coveted it was. Even more than Kim Kardasian. More than oil itself. Putin, Romney, (Congrats, btw), Palin, Bill O' Reilly - even the new Pope. Bono - 1.
   They would do anything to be considered for it. Merkel hosted a Dad's Army fancy-dress night on the net. She poll-danced. With Lucinda and Simon. On RTé.
   They all wanted to be bestowed - A Knight of the Green Brigade. The most successful army in the world. Never had fired a bullet. Since that day. When Enda ordered them out.

Of course, all that nonsense lies way off in the mind of a young Ming Flanagan or off in one of those multi-verses Hugh Everett found his fame for.
   For Ireland was not to be so nonsensical. Voters of the day decided to go with Europe - for better, that may yet turn too worse. The people spoke and despite very conspiratorial theories flying around the place - it's in the beefy bosom of the ESM, we place our future in.
   Except the beef is going-off. Stinking of austerity. Ireland has accepted her fall and will now pay the price with her assets, economic sovereignty and wave after wave of austere measures aimed at reducing a fiscal deficit that can only mean one thing. A stiff one. Yearly. For many to come.
    That Hendrix kid in his room. Unhappy now. Defeated.

   'You a real dancing queen?' Gustav muttered to my annoyances as he stepped in from the downpour outside to deliver the 'greatest news.' It has barely stopped since Friday. I'd offer an analogy for it, one that could drown in that vast sea of words, but...
    Interview Thursday. Twelve bells.
   'Wear a suit,' he offered in kind. I don't have one.
   'Sure will,' I beamed - falsely. It should have felt like a lotto scoop but it was more an old Christy Moore ballad involving the colour black. For that is the colour - as Europe threatens to go wallop unless austerity demands are met. And even then it don't look too Miami beach on a hazy July day, does it?
   'I have good feeling you get job,' he said - before telling me he was sitting his English Leaving Cert exam this week. Been studying, our Gus. In the evenings.
   'A grade would be of much pride,' he said, a lisp of achievement breaking through into his voice. 'Maybe next year I do Irish.'
   I felt like telling him he's be better served doing German or French - there was probably more opportunity in those language. I didn't. I just wanted rid. I got what I wanted.
   "Break your leg on Thursday,' he said, scooting off to do the night shift.
    Certain things bring up other things. Can be too easy to get lost there sometimes. In those other things that revolve around us in daily life.
   Ireland can't change things now. It's done. Hard to figure at the best of times. People do speak in the strangest of ways sometimes.
Still, I hope he gets his grade. A great one. Good luck to him/them.

As Ireland now begins the transition in order to meet this unachievable deficit reduction bound by these draconian terms, she also takes a firm back seat in World affairs. It was left to 955,091 people from a population of 3.1 million entitled voters to set us on this new course. How many of that number felt they had absolutely no other choice? We'll never know.
   The campaign was dirty - fear led - devoid of the leadership that may see Ireland through. The 'No' side failed by not offering solutions to the deficit - or should I say, by not being willing to saying it.
   For mention of cuts and tax-hikes and service depletion are not vote grabbers in any political language or arena. But yet, they now form the basis with which we limp forth. Or backward - depending on your viewpoint. For they're all coming. We accepted it - so no cop out to ill-governance anymore.
   The number gap between the populous entitled to vote and those that voted for the fiscal treaty, probably says more about the sad state of Irish democracy than any of the leaders that have served us ill throughout the course of our history. Be they here or otherwise.

'Let it go.'
Like a whisper it was - if it was there at all. Leon - way off out there in the mechanic mashes of all that exists blind to us. Beneath the surface. Fizzing, looping, shooting spectra of almost nothings, whirling about, directionless, playing quantum hide and seek, in realms, forming all, beyond most compressions.
   'Twas like the old beggar was back here for a nano-second. Saying that's there's more at play right now in the world than the troubles of a little green island in economic and social strife.
   What's a whisper, anyway? Between friends. Perhaps the whisper was right. In fact, it is right. There is.

A whole lot more.

Chapters

2012-05-31T23:05:00.000+01:00

I think the only reason I voted today was for the gateway to continue to comment about Ireland. Not that anyone reads them much, but if I didn't 'do the duty,' well, maybe in some eyes, it renders those comments useless. Unfortunately, it seems that way most of the time. A friend posted a succession of 'No's' on his Facebook earlier to get his own point across. When questioned by someone from across the Atlantic, he began his explanation by saying - 'We voted in a referendum today on whether Europe starves us, or we starve ourselves.'

I laughed. Strange reaction - surely it couldn't come to that. Until you read stuff that's happening in Greece right now. For any society who sees their suicide rate jump by 40% over the course of a few years has a problem on its hand. Austerity is what is driving the majority of these deaths there.

IMF chief, Christine Lagarde said late last week that she had little sympathy for the Greek people. She called them 'rampant tax-dodgers.' There was outrage worldwide. Then, just days later, she has to concede that she pays NO tax on her salary or expenses - which come in at a cool half-a-million a year. This is the type of human-being fronting an organization that has wrecked havoc globally since its inception and is currently pulling a lot of the strings attached to our political leaders. Those puppet ones. Ones who would sooner leave unborn children with a huge debt to be paid than come up with just one - yes, ONE - idea that may resonate somewhat on a national level. Something that doesn't have us dipping into a fund that has nothing but the disease of debt attached to it. What next? Anti-evolution groups using ponzi economics as an argument for their stance. It's a strong argument too. It used to be people acquired debt - of their own choosing. Now people are born with it. You have to give the establishment their dues on that one.

I rooted out the chapter from Booker's World that dealt with the day of the Lisbon 2 re-run. Got to say I ran an awesomely juvenile campaign on that one. Thorough, insightful, bit of Bruce Campbell - deleted! Fear of a backlash from the power structures for being an anti-Lisbon-er and accessing the means to get back to work. It didn't do any good though. Lesson learned. Stand true to who you are. Should be the standard way of thinking - but we're humans.

The only thing that has changed since 2009 is the swap of one set of Europhile implementers for a new one. And with it a steady decline. Into what? You'd think we'd know by now. But all we see are ruptures across Europe. An economic volcano waiting to erupt. No real desire to stop it.

Not sure if people think about this sort of stuff, but i kinda thought a spitting overcast day played to the "no's' - while bursts of sunshine would play to the 'Yes's'. It rained most the day. Around here anyway. In days by-gone I'd have looked at that as a positive. The truth is now, whatever the result, you'd have to have a third-eye or be a Capitalist to see the positive in this one.

Here's that chapter -

Poll Axed

I rose at six. Mitch had Mum dressed already. Mitch decided not to vote.

“Can’t they take ‘No’ for an answer?” he scolded in that squeaky voice of his. I'm sure he puts it on. To annoy me. After a quick coffee we set off. It was nice to walk with her; we don't get out much these days.

We arrived at the polling station just after seven. We were told we were the first. In my life, that felt like a little honour. I had my arm around Mum and pushed it forward, so she could hand in her form to secure a vote.

“Ms. Booker, it's lovely to see you out and about,” said a heavy-breasted lady sat on an uncomfortable chair. Mum stared forward at the blackboard behind the ladies.

“She's not quite awake,” I remarked, as they handed her the card.

“And here's yours, Mr. Booker,” she said. I smiled at her, before marching Mum behind the booth.

“I’m sorry Mr. Booker, but you can’t be with her behind there. One voter to a booth,” one of the ladies said, rising from her perch.

“It’s OK,” I said. “She forgot her glasses. Blind as a bat.”

“You’ll just have to bring her back later then” she said, her fifteen minutes in the corridor of power gone to her head.

“But…,” I began.

“But nothing,” she said. She took the polling card from Mum who in turn didn't help as she gazed off into space.

“I’m sorry Ms. Booker,” she said as she took it. No response. Just a vacuum.

I left Mum there as the lady talked to her. I quickly ran behind another booth. I put an X in the ‘No’ box. I walked up and put it in the voting box, returned to Mum and began to walk out.

“See you later, Mr. Booker,” the lady cried after us. Probably in there now talking about us behind our back. Hope those tits give her back pain. What sort of a Irish patriot is she anyway?

“Don’t worry, Mum,” I said. “When the result comes in tomorrow, we’ll have the last laugh.”

Today. Today we were heroes.

The very next day -

Freud

The people have spoken. The result is in. Ireland has approved the ratification of the Lisbon Treaty by a majority of 2/1. Didn't take us long to change our minds, did it? Hopes of 500 million Europeans resting on us. Felt kinda powerful. A chance to – ah fuck it. Who cares!

Maybe Freud was right about us after all when he allegedly said, “This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever.” Can't argue with you there, Sigmund.

***

Nostalgia. You can't beat it. Wonder what I'll be writing tomorrow? I get the feeling there's more money in erotica! Certainly beats filling out these forms.

Why do they want to know my interests? It's a job chaperoning a buffer! Where do you see yourself in 5 years time? I can't see tomorrow for feck sake. Email: donbooker@bufferservices.com. donbooker@icouldntgiveaflyinfuxk.org.

Forms need to be in by Saturday, Linda said. 37 in so far. They could do an X-factor thingy - for the Tube. Novice buffers. Bound to create a mass of hits. Free advertising. Bit of fun.

Champion buffer of the year : ???

1st prize - Minimum wage!

I wonder if Eamon and Enda are at home now. Shitting themselves. Remember milk bottles? The ones with the foil tops? I imagine they are like those crows that used peck the top of the bottles trying to get the goodness inside. We'll know soon enough whether they managed to crack the bottle. And to sign off on a hopeful note - I never did see it happen.

Today. Today, I'm tired.

Patriotic Scoundrels

2012-05-30T13:31:00.000+01:00

'Patriotism really is the last refuge of the scoundrel.'

I came across this comment yesterday when I was out accessing the world - via the Internet, of course. I do that daily. Fill myself in on the woes. In times past it's really got to me. All that has happened to Ireland over the course of the past few years. It's also worrying to note that the worst is yet to come. And with 'buffoons' at the helm, it does cast shadows into those that are obsessed with future. I'm more of a day man now.
   Luckily, for reasons of sanity, I've managed not to get to carried away in recent times. Found a few new ways to get Booker's point across. Little, almost still life-isms, in letter. It's not much of a contribution to things, but apart from my reclusive nature, apathy toward people and the knowledge that schmoozing - even as a way of making money - is never going to be part of my condition.

Ah yes, the comment. It's origins today are not of particular importance and I don't mean that as an offensive remark. The context in which it was made also can take the Kinnegad by-pass. The comment just intrigued me. I failed to see the connection between 'Patriotism' and 'scoundrel' for some unknown reason. So Sherlock Holmes was out - pipe and all.

The comment is not the actual quote from which it probably was derived from. The actual quote reads - 'Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.'
The quote is attributed to English author, Samuel Johnson. According to this source Johnson's biographer, James Boswell, writes that Johnson made the statement in 1775 - but does not provide a context for how the remark arose.
However, Boswell does make it clear that Johnson was not indicting 'all patriotism, merely false patriotism.'
The above link also speculates as to whom Johnson might have been referring to - and sure enough, it turned out to be an Irishman. A right-honorable member of the British House of Commons if you don't mind. The Dubliner son of a Cork man, the well-to-do Edmund Burke, was known to argue against the wishes of his own constituents on occasion when it came to Irish matters - such as free-trade and Catholic Emancipation. However, from the time he left Ireland at 20, he would only ever returned four more times. I wonder why?
Burke's views on society formed around the idea that people in themselves wanted to be governed or controlled and that property was the starting point to a human and social development. A revolutionary thought in it's day, but Burke saw it as a foundation upon which to tier his desired society.
   An undeniable member of the upper-crust within society - Burke's speeches are noted in academia and upon initial reading - worth checking out.
   However, Karl Marx sounded him out as a sycophant and the original 'flip-flopper.' Burke had supported American revolutionaries - but had denounced French ones, playing, according to Marks, to the 'best market.' Isn't that what most politicians do - so nothing new there. I personally think it might have had something to do with the public head-rolling and the squirt from jugular veins myself - but what would I know?
   If Burke is the subject of Johnson's statement, it's hard to see where the great writer was coming from. For the use of the word refuge suggests something that I just can't associate with Burke and I base that upon a piece from his Thoughts on the Cause of Present Discontents, in which he wrote - "when bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle." I see it's relevance in present day Ireland - the slow falling, that is! Not quite one by one - but too close for comfort.
   It doesn't sound particularly like the writings of a scoundrel to me. And if Patriotism doesn't extend to all people living in a nation, state, or country of origin, then it's hardly patriotism for all her worth, is it? Burke was a believer that the poor deserved no-more than what was handed down to them from the rich. It's funny how little has changed. But it doesn't make him a scoundrel.
   Of course, Samuel Johnson may not have been referring to Burke at all and even when I put Holmes away, he too, still had his doubts.

I can see the validity in Johnson's allusion. I can see how they can be combined - those two words for some reason that resonate with me more than others do. Patriotism and scoundrel. Probably down to nationality, environment - and Leon Jackson.
Patriotism is a devotion to ones country. But how far does one have to go to be a patriot? Say here in Ireland - Is shouting and screaming at a summer soccer match dressed from head to toe in green enough? Or does it involve facing a firing squad after the failure of rebellion? I guess it's down to the individual.
We know how Hitler whipped up a fervour on it's back just 80 years ago and the repercussions of that. Bill O'Reilly uses it in the States to foster the mind-sets of those ignorant or unable to think for themselves. Hell, our own Phil Hogan said all those who paid the Household Charge were 'true patriots.' Not that Big Phil would know the meaning of the word.
It probably boils down to that. How people define it for themselves. How people gain access to these differing patriot clubs and schools of thought in their own heads. It's a word that's there to be exploited in us all. Even the most liberal among us.

I can see how a scoundrel might see it's potential - there are plenty of instances of it. They've used Patriotism and will continue to do so.
I see little wrong in having a patriotic viewpoint. To what extent patriotism can sometimes go to however, form into the horror stories we see daily in war-zones around the world. These generations legacies - not that many want to think about that.
   Chants of 'Freedom' and 'Democracy' drowning out the whisper of 'plunder and murder.' It certainly wouldn't be any level of patriotism I'd inspire to.

If I cast my 'No' vote this coming Thursday it will be because I do want Ireland to do well - for herself. On Irish terms. On new principals - the foundation of which was laid out in a constitution that was so bravely fought for down through the centuries at times.
I think most would be hard-pressed to deny their own country the chance to do well for herself. I think we are being sold and at a terrible price. It flies in the face of our history, which if we are to be honest, has had it's fair mix of patriot and scoundrel on all levels along the way.
Who's to say the 'Yes' vote won't be the best thing for Ireland in the long-run. The trouble with long-run is lifetimes - and I'm living mine now. A 'No' forces Ireland to think. For herself. I think there is enough about the Irish people to be given that opportunity - but unfortunately, tying ourselves to this treaty also ties us to a new form of patriotism - a forced one.
   Forced, because European citizens are consistently denied their say as treaty after treaty is forced into laws and constitutions without their say and as is turning out in Greece - and could happen here - that has grave consequences. And for what? For patriots? For scoundrels? It certainly ain't for Joe Soap and Johnny Doe.

For an intelligent species we are irrevocably dumb by times. Much has been made of it - but few listened. Even less have cared. That's how this era may well be recalled off in the wiki's of the future. There's no real 'dumb' vote this Thursday. Not even in abstention.
We appear to have picked our path and they sure as hell don't write speeches like they used to. Did you hear Enda Kenny the other evening on RTé? It just made me shrug my shoulders. It's not apathy anymore either. It's like a satirical circus - except it's real.
I see nothing wrong with bondholders who played the world markets not getting paid. They lost. Tough shit - but there's kids starving out there. If Ireland did that the country would have had a fighting chance. I don't see major social catastrophes happening if the fiscal adjustments are made based on fairness and equality - something distinctly lacking in Irish society. We've took everything thrown at us for eons and we're still here. That doesn't have to change.
We talk about our image in the world? What does it say when we hold absolutely no-one accountable for bankrupting an entire country? Just who are the government inviting and trying to tempt in here on the back of that? Is that the Ireland most Irish people want? I don't believe it is - but when the guns to your head!

Fate decides everything in the long run. It's just too bad nobody's ever found it. Or proved it. Then, when did that ever matter?
Patriot or scoundrel, people have to decide themselves at the end of the day. Find their own justifications and reasons for things. I think it's the same for everyone. On some level.
In ways, a cop-out on this one can be forgiven - given the cheap state of present day democracy. But there's no point stuttering to the grandchildren - not that they'd listen anyway.

Linda posted in that application form earlier. Four pages long. It's a horrid lot of information to be giving out. To waltz a buffer.

Wizard of Waffle

2012-05-29T01:14:00.000+01:00

The sun came and conquered - and it's due to stay until the weekend. I'm as brown as bog water. I used to listen as the Irish complained whenever it got too hot. Those rare occasions, about once a year.
   'It's awful warm, isn't it?' they'd pant, their farmer's tan beginning to flake. I haven't heard anyone complain this time round. Then, how would I? There is no-one around.
   I've been soaking up the rays - stocking up on the old Vitamin D. They say the Irish don't get enough of it. I asked about it in a pharmacy once. They didn't stock it.

Today the sun shone particularly bright for some people. Namely holders of an AIB bond - cashing in to the tune of €2-25 billion in Irish tax-payers money. In this age of austerity, where hundreds of thousands of Irish lives have been ruined because of rogue banks involved in suicide Capitalism - all under the watchful eye of elected officials - this news should be news.
   In this age of increasing waiting lists to access health services, increasing child-to-teacher ratio's - and Jedward - this money could surely have been put to better use. But bound by the bank guarantee - the payment was made. Just one of many and one of many still to come. Yet it hardly gets a mention in our national news. TV3 flirted with it today - RTE, as far as I can see - ignorant of it. They led with the news of 100 new jobs at Amazon. Well, woofuckin'who!
   Those pre-election words from Leo Varadkar - 'not another cent' ring shallow now, don't they? Particularly for those who saw the new government as a ray of light. The ones who fell for the con. That politics could provide the answer. In the end, Labour and Fine Gael couldn't even honor their simple-minded mandate - remember it? That 5-point-plan. Just simple enough for ordinary folk to get it. Who cares after that?
   Well, the lights gone out now. Down a dark tunnel. Unlikely to re-emerge. They've played it dirty this referendum debate - the government tricksters. They've used the fear factor - scaremongering tactics - anything that might work.
   They've silenced the unpopular ones among them. Keeping them out of the limelight. Hoping the new found sunshine will give everything a more European feel.
   Enda Kenny prays that his refusal to debate the treaty with any of the other party leaders doesn't result in people wondering if the leader of the country and the chief 'Yes' man for Europe can't debate this treaty, then why not? He's taoiseach!
   More like The Wizard of Waffle!

Labour's demise continues as a poll at the weekend said that they were now the fourth largest party in the country - behind even Fianna Fáil. Sinn Féin's surge in popularity continues as they edge closer to Fine Gael off the back of opposition. It seems like only yesterday Eamon Gilmore seemed to be the man for all seasons. Now he's a government man. We all remember his famous, 'Frankfurt Way.' What a spoofer. The man called for Irish control over our budgets.
   Now in office, he's saying, let's hand over those controls - ie, more rampant austerity - in exchange for access to a fund which is hardly likely to cover the crisis emerging within the banking sector in Spain.
   If Labour don't act - and swiftly - they face an uncertain future. Not something they wanted to be considering in their 100th year. But like most Irish politicians over the years who dared to hog the limelight he has ultimately proved a disappointment. When Ireland needed a Statesman, Gilmore became an austerity-bearing Europhile.

About the same time as Gene Kerrigan was calling Enda Kenny a 'chicken', Gustav was roasting his own next door over a BBQ. Free food. Who was I to refuse?
   Linda was there. She looks so different from when she is at the supermarket. Like she's another person.
   'Linda has good news,' Gustav said, as the juice ran from the chicken fillets on to the coals below - igniting some of them. What - pregnant? Surely not!
   'There's an opening down at the supermarket,' she began. ' I can't promise anything, but I could get you an application form and maybe help you filling it out. Maybe swing it your way?'
   Christ, who does she think I am? What, I can't fill out an application form? I've an education you know. Be it a disappointing one.
   'What it is?' I asked, trying hard to hide my thoughts beneath my proudly tanned and newly shaved head. It would be difficult to go in straight to management. Even I knew that.
   'We're looking for a buffer - three hours - seven nights a week. It's part-time. From 4am till 7am.'
   'What's a buffer?' I asked.
   Gustav began removing the fillets from the BBQ grate.
   'It's when you dance with the floor,' he said. 'You know, with buffer machine. Where ever it bring you.' He began laughing. Linda looked at me.
   'I'm not much use cleaning floors,' I said. 'But thanks.' That was easy. See, I can talk up for myself. I mean, come on. Writers are known for strange things. But buffering?
   'No,' began Gus, laying the blackened chicken on to a plate of salad for me. 'Job is good. Easy money. You try for a few weeks. You not like. You leave.'
   'I can't promise you anything, though,' Linda interrupted, receiving her portion. The lines of the grill clearly visible on her fillet. Cooked to perfection.
   'Get form,' Gus said as he sat down to enjoy his own. It looked somewhere in the middle of Linda's and I's. 'You worry for interview when it arrives.'
   'Sure what harm will it do?' she added, cutting through the chicken like it was made for the knife.
   'OK,' I said, removing the black coat from mine. 'I'll fill it out.' Like Ireland I surrendered. Slow and painful. Until the bitter end.
    Gustav's cooking got better as the evening went on - until a chilly breeze forced me to leave for the warmer climate of the attic. Still, it was nice to get out of the house.

My vote on Thursday will be 'NO.' My hesitation is in casting it. One way or another it's going to be bad. No body's calling for the banks to go to hell - the ones that cost us everything. We have to 'stabilize' the banking sector, they say. Yet no-one calls for a new one.
   No body's talking about correcting the deficit and the measures that need to be taken to correct it. Yet, with a new banking sector that safeguards those who didn't profit purely from speculation and a fair spreading of the so-called 'pain' and we might have had a future. Given the resources we have. Before we signed them away - to more speculators. Employment remains at record highs. Emigration ain't to far behind. And Jedward! They finished bloody19th.

Thank fuck for the weather.

Dave

2012-05-23T01:49:00.000+01:00

Summer is here. Well, sort of. It's behind those clouds somewhere and it's threatening like a Fine Gael minister to burst through at any minute. I can feel it. The attic is warm. For a change. It broke out yesterday. I'd barely time to change into more suitable attire, but it was gone again. Various weather girls are saying it's here for the week. Getting stronger every day. Like the 'No' camp in the fiscal treaty debate.
   The debate itself - well it's scandalous - to say the least. If the answers to our current crisis' - and they number quite the few - lie within the political structure of this country, well, I'm sorry to say it and be blunt - but we're fecked. Totally and absolutely. Many would say we are already. Many would be right. Between derogatory remarks about the Greeks and talk about having to go to the polls again if we fail to comply with the directives on offer - the whole thing is a farce.

Sonny Skyped me on Monday night. He'd felt the quake that rocked Italy that morning. He looked relaxed. Best I've seen him in a while.
   'I felt a tremor. Amanda slept through it,' he said. Things patched up so! He said there was a steady stream of people going through his brother's artists commune down there nearer the equator.
   'I'm thinking of getting into vibration,' he said - before Amanda came into the room he was in.
   'You look terrible,' she said. Thanks for that. Nothing like a box just under the ribs, is there? Knock the wind right out of you.
   'Thanks,' I said.
   'I didn't mean it in a bad way,' she offered.
   I could have bought that. Cheered myself up a little.No hard feelings. I bit. But not hard enough.
   'How did you mean it, so?' I asked.
   'Touchy,' she said - turning to leaving. 'I only meant you look a little pale.'
   'You do,' confirmed Sonny, as she left the room. Like he wouldn't take her side. The power of a certain part of the female anatomy. The sucker.
   We swapped tales - my dreary ones - his ones, like the Sonny of old. He's going into 'Meditative States' - doing a few courses. Online. From some rogue university. He plans to use the arty tourists that stop by to bring his new product - which he hasn't 'refined' yet - to the world. Word-of-mouth.
   'Life's simpler here,' he said. Was that a chicken I heard in the background for an instant? Good old Sonny. Started a motivational business - and then got depressed. Only in Ireland!
   'Luke's bottling his own wine next year,' he was saying. Luke being his bro. 'It's been aging for seven years.' I couldn't imagine that sort of patience would have agreed with Leon.
   'I could get you a few months work during the summer,' he said.
    I'm sorry, Sonny. Vibration isn't really my thing.
   'Picking grapes,' he continued. I took a deep breath. Like Kenny Cunningham does. Between sentences. I didn't want to appear unappreciative. Or lazy. I'd refute such claims. I picked strawberries for three summers running when I was a kid. I ate more than I picked.The five-mile walk didn't help either.
   'Couldn't leave herself,' I said. 'She won't last the year.'
   'Maybe next year then,' he said. The cold fecker!
   The broadband began to act erratic and we barely managed a goodbye before the call ended with a noise from the computer that belonged on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. No. Not Richard Bruton's department. Boldly going - nowhere!
   Stress Booker.

I haven't seen much of Gustav this past week. He started work at the supermarket. Working the night shift. He popped in at 6am the other morning. I was coming near the end of an eight-hour session. A writing one. He said he'd noticed the light on in my attic. I must turn that off.
   'So how did you get on with Linda,' I asked him.
   'A gentleman never speaks,' he said, before changing the subject to his new job. A sheepish smile gave him away. I think!
   He's been designated a 'lane' at the 'store' and it's his job to stock it completely through the night.
   What ever happened to aisle and shop?
   'The one with the freezers down it,' he said.
   I'm sure along the way Gustav's tribe met an Irishman somewhere, and there's a bit of Irish embedded in his old DNA. Last week he was complaining he didn't have a feckin' job - this week it's worker conditions. What next? A run for the Dáil?
   'It is like homeland. In winter season,' he said, smiling. Sweet Jesus! I think he's in love.
   Whatever does it for him! He was gone in less time it took to warrant the intrusion.

A photo emerged over the past few days of British PM, Dave Cameron. At the US president's, weekend retreat - the suitably named - Camp David. As you can see from it, Dave, extends his sweaty armpits wildly into the air as Chelsea claim the mantle of Europe's footballing best.
   The first notion that springs to mind straight off the bat when I saw it was TWAT - but that seriously can't be helped. It's not an exercise in controversy - it's just a factoid within these here walls of mine.
   There are many far-reaching explanations - by many i must add - on how to draw on that politically-incorrect summation. For me it's simple.
   Dave is an Aston Villa fan. While not condemning that, it did make me wonder if many Villa fans were as boisterous as Dave, just as Didier Drogba slid home the winning penalty kick to make Chelsea the unlikely, and slightly fortunate, champions of Europe for the first time. My guess is few.
   Dave may chant nationalism as an excuse - but to any real football fan there is no excuse for that behaviour even if you are trying to get one over the German chancellor - who undoubtedly was rooting for Chelsea's opponents - Bayern Munich. Dave looks like a child who doesn't know who to follow - changing teams. Following the trophies. Like Dave's oil and economic pursuits. Stretching his society every which way in the meantime. Like Enda and Eamon are doing to ours. Minus the pursuits!
   That aside, it was a light-hearted moment as the worlds most powerful leaders met to strategically plan how to further ruin people's lives and keep their military complexes happy. I sense it does not matter too much to Angela Merkle. At the very least her economy isn't in the gutter. Then, Dave's isn't as far down as ours. Good job Enda wasn't invited to Camp David. He'd probably have been swinging out of someone.
   Obama looks American in the pic, doesn't he? In a soccer sense. A commendable attempt at trying to fit in. A good pic. In election year. To show commonality with us average suckers.
   I can only imagine what's going on in the head of new French President, Francois Hollande. He looks like he's wondering what he's doing there. Europe in meltdown - and they're watching soccer.
     Are these people mad? he must have thought.
     He seemed to verify it the very next day when he continued the strong start to his presidency by announcing a complete withdrawal of French troops from Afghanistan by the end of the year and a 30% decrease in minsters pay. Way to go!
   It's his forthcoming battles with Merkle I'm looking forward to. The Iron Lady of Europe has had it her own way for quite a few years now. The direction Europe is going right now is one engineered to drive down living standards and implement draconian cuts to public spending. The squeeze in on. The far-right in France are on the rise. To cut them off, Hollande needs to drive something new. And quickly.
   Austerity measures and the consequences that go with it are breeding grounds for extreme populous movements. We saw in the recent Greek election, Golden Dawn, winning 7% of the vote. The party has been widely labelled fascist and neo-nazi. Who's to say in this X-Factor world that some voters weren't trapped by just the name of the party?
   A promise of something new other than having to forage for scraps in bins to eat. But there's no promise in extremism. About as much as the promise that comes with austerity. The world's been there before. Many times. Humans ain't the kindest of species - it doesn't take much to push their buttons. We ain't the cleverest either - we seem to repeat our mistakes over and over again. In a world of plenty only a few have it all. The rest of us the reason they do. That's inspiring forward thinking in these strange times.

It's nearly 2am. I'm convinced I can smell that sun. It's coming out tomorrow.
   All day - and the next...

Job

2012-05-15T22:38:00.000+01:00

'So she thinks she can get me a job. So you must this do for me.' Gustav sounded like he meant it.
   'Do what?' I asked, telling him to come in from the downpour outside. Great start to the week. Great start to the summer. By the time he'd finished waffling, I wished I'd left him outside. That I stayed in bed and ignored the knock on the door.
   'Dating's not really my thing,' I said. His face dropped immediately.
   'It is no such thing,' he rebuked. 'It is nothing more than a friendly interview. She has friend in town, so she is along - you know - for the ride.' I knew what he meant. I just wasn't sure Gustav did.
   'Please. I need job. The dole it - sucks.'
   Tell me about it!
   'One drink,' I said.
   'Three,' he said. 'No more than four. What harm can it do?'
   What harm indeed. I agreed.
   'I owe you. Big style,' he said, leaving. 'I see you Friday. In my home. About 10-30.'
   10-30?
   'In the evening,' I called after him.
   'Yes in the evening,' he said. 'Stupid question!' He disappeared back across the wall. Phew! I thought he meant the morning. Grand for Leon - not for me.

I stopped by to see him after a quick visit to see her frailness in the middle of the week.
   'Ah, Mr. Booker,' said the nurse on duty, rather condescendingly. 'Nice of ye to drop in.' She finished making Mum's bed - patting and tucking all in the one movement. It was impressive to look at. She could have been a maid. If care hadn't worked out. She left without saying another word.
   Mum looked her usual lost self. A contented lost perhaps. She's clinging. I'll give her that. Pity about the weather. It spoils her view. I stayed for the afternoon, half hoping the nurse would come back. Others did. She didn't. But she was right. I should visit more.
   At least there was no snide remarks from Leon. The crappy day had given way to a amber evening - though it still bit with the cold. There were fresh flowers on the grave again which I found strange. I looked for a card, but there was none. Maybe his own bearer had dropped by. It started to get colder as the wind picked up for a few seconds, before dying again. I turned to leave. Straight into Will - Charlie Ferrell's brother. Charlie's missus in tow.
   'Seen you here. Thought we'd say hello,' he said. I don't know how long ago it was since I had seen him.
   'How's things?' I said, not sure where to look. She was draped to him. As she was the day I met them by the river.
   'Same as everyone else, I suppose,' he said. 'Keepin' the good side out. What else can you do?'
   'True,' I said as the wind picked up again. It threw her hair wildly to the side. It came to rest on Will's face. Just as it died off again. Her hair stayed there. Little strands of gold. He started to blow it off, but it did no good. He broke away from her.
   'Gusty,' he said.
   I made my excuses and wished them luck. I noticed a wedding band on her finger as I shook her hand. Maybe they had married. I didn't want to ask. They looked happy. I sauntered off back in the direction of the town as they made there way over to where Charlie was set down. Poor ol' Charlie. Didn't deserve that.

Government leaflets and booklets spammed my letterbox twice this week. A little nudge to sway me to the 'Yes' side of the treaty debate. I will bitterly drag myself up to vote. I remember the gusto I walked with all those years ago at Lisbon 2. I think I've zoned out now. It's all going to blazes as far as I can see.
   The markets are trembling as Greece remains in chaos politically. Consensus can not be found. More elections loom - with a swing expected to the anti-austerity side if that is the case. The stock markets rattled around the world as a Greek default and euro exit becomes a real possibility again. The rest of Europe seem prepared to let it happen. The consequence of that, yet to be known.
   A procession of anti-austerity rallies across the world at the weekend. Some marred by violence. There is a lot of social unrest in Italy and in Spain.
   Spain's government had to bail out their third biggest bank last week. Merkle's party suffered electoral defeat at the weekend. She acknowledged her conservative parties worst ever result in North Rhine Westphalia as a ‘bitter and painful’ defeat. Did she announce a change in strategy? Did she feck! She hooks up with new French president, Francois Hollande, today for the first time. You would have thought she'd have done the traveling, seen as this is his inauguration day and all. But no, Berlin bound he is. He's talking growth. She's driving austerity. Long live Europe.
   With all the uncertainty about the place, the call on our own heads of government is to postpone the vote. Time and again in the past number of days they have said the vote will proceed. For confidence. For stability. For the 5,000 sick days HSE staff take every single day. How would we survive?
   All joking aside - it's getting messy out there again. In that little world these players of economic chess remain cocooned within. Deluded - or simply ignorant of the realities. Their policies have failed. They have failed society. Continually now they suffer at the ballot box in various European states. Those pushing austerity as a way forward out of the mess Europe is in, are being cast aside by voters. But being cast aside for what? That remains to be seen yet.

I nipped into Gus on Thursday evening. I was getting a little bit worried about the following day.
   'You have nothing to worry for,' he said. I wanted to correct his grammar - but what would I know? And anyway - I couldn't speak a word of his language. This 'date' business had me flustered. Causing that irk in me to rise to the top.
   'Can't you just entertain the two of them yourself?' I asked - in desperation.
   'I thought we were draugi?' he said.
   Wha?'
   'Friends.'
   18 stone of foreigner layin' a guilt trip on me.
   'I'll go. I'll go,' I said. He filled me in on who we were meeting. Linda worked at the local supermarket. Not the Irish one. The other one. With the blue fronts. I shop there myself sometimes. It's cheery. The colour. Yeah - Linda...
   She was the assistant to the manager and they were looking for staff.
   'Security?' I asked.
   'Stacking shelves,' he said - proudly! I'd done it as a nipper. But as a man? He told me how he had flirted with Linda for a few months when he was in buying vodka. She'd mentioned the job over by the drink display.
   'I'll put in a word if you ask me for a drink? she had said to Gus. It was an offer he 'have not refuse.' I asked how I had got dragged into all this.
   'Bad timing,' he shrugged. Story of my life! He explained that her friend from Essex had had a row with her 'geezer.' He'd dumped her for weekend with the lads up in Manchester. For the final game of the premiership season. So, she'd turned to Linda for a shoulder to cry on. It was Linda's call to have her tag along. Gus' call to invite me.
   'It makes for good public relation,' he said assuredly. 'I must get this job or I must have to leave.'
   I don't know. It all sounded like a bit of a set-up to me.
   I didn't sleep a wink Thursday night. Twisting and turning - even fell out of the bed once. What was I worrying for? It was only a couple of hours. How bad could it be? I'd give anything for a quite life. I wonder if I boarded the house up would people get the message? I'd probably get squatters then. Never get them out.

I arrived into Gustav's about ten. A few shots never did the nerves any harm. Not at the time anyway. The girls arrived right on queue.
   'How I look?' asked Gustav. Oh for pete sake. I was breaking out in a sweat. Gustav opened the door. There they were - a bottle of wine each. In each arm.
   'Three for twenty,' Linda's friend said as she made her way past Gus at the door - already plastered. Linda pulled her lips wide across her face until they looked plastic.
   'Yikes,' she whispered, following her friend, who threatened to trip with every step she took. Linda introduced us to 'Emma' - fifty - if she was a day. Short black hair, leather jacket to match. Hot-pants. Pink ones. 'Tart' etched on the back. Tights. Laddered. High heels. More pretty than not. Gustav closed the door over. I hope the neighbours weren't looking out.
   'No funny business now,' she said to me once in the kitchen - eye-ball to eye-ball. Then she started laughing. Spontaneously.
   'I've a man, you know.'
   Yep. He was in Manchester. I was beginning to see why.
   'So what about those Tories,' I said. Bit of an ice-breaker.
   'Tories?'
   'Dave Cameron and that bunch,' I said, sounding - well, not like me.
   'Who?' she said, waltzing off. Bored of me already. Thankfully!
   She made herself at home. Rooting around in drawers looking for a wine opener - oblivious to Gus, who was already sliding a cork from a bottle. Into presses she went until she found an adequate drinking vessel. A pint glass as it turned out. She half filled it. She need not have bothered.
   She was wailing into a toilet bowl within ten minutes and unconscious upstairs within twenty. Linda was mortified.
   She told us that Emma was just a Facebook friend who she's met through a mutual liking for Nancy Spungen on her fan page. They'd spoken maybe three times 'on chat.' Then Emma announced she was arriving over. Emma needed to hit back. At 'Greg' - Emma's tattoo-splattered other half. His profile picture looked menacing as Linda brought it up - then in closer - on her phone. With her fingers! I'd have me one of those.
   'He's Metropolitian Police,' said Linda. 'Emma runs a nail-bar, that's pretty much all I know,' she continued, between bouts of profuse apologies.
   How do you run a nail-bar? Quite well spoken, Linda. Likable. Naive - but likable.
    'I'm so sorry,' she said to me as she filled up my glass. I raised it to my lips. It smelled like vinegar.
   'You probably thought you'd be getting a once-over,' she said as I gorged.
    I tried not to choke. But I did. Caught unawares. By abruptness. Of honesty. What this lady could teach a politician or two.
   'I'm sorry. I say stuff without thinking sometimes,' she said. A noble fault.
   I hadn't expected anything. Just to get in and out of Gustav's as quickly as possible and with stress levels I could manage. Once Emma was snoring upstairs I'd reached that point. I finished my glass and left them to get on with 'their interview.'
   'Sorry,' she said as I left. Nothing to be sorry for. I was back indoors before the cuckoo clock struck twelve. And I don't have a cuckoo!

I tuned into the football highlights on Sunday night. I watched as Manchester City claimed the league title in England- their first in 44 years. Two goals in injury time. Leon would have loved it. It's an old cliche - but you couldn't write the script for that one. Harvey Weinstein would laugh his tits off at ye.
   Arsenal nicked one like that back in 1989. Against Liverpool. At Anfield - a fortress at the time. Injury time. Up pops Mickey Thomas to score and send himself into Arsenal folklore. I'd watched that one in an old Snooker Hall. With Leon. Never forgot the feeling as that ball crossed the line. Bit of real life magic.
I saw it again on Sunday. Written on the faces of fans. Of Manchester City fans. They may have bought the title - but it doesn't take the joy of that moment away. If anything it stays with people forever. Brings them together.
   I wondered how Greg was getting on and if he had Emma on his mind as the blue half of Manchester drank away years in football oblivion. Liam Gallagher leading the chorus. Mario Balotelli tracking down Joey Barton. For talks.

Impossible things happen sometimes. Right before our eyes. A little jolt from somewhere - a push in a good direction. A boost from no-where.
   Don't know when Ireland's next one is due. But I guess that's all part of it, hey? Like the chocolates Mama Gump used talk about.
   I remember when Manchester City were riding the tail-end of the lower divisions. They've been down there. At the mercy of financiers. There existence in question. Life must have tasted pretty sweet on the blue side of Manchester these past few days.
   Better than the taste in Emma's mouth when she woke up I'm sure - whenever she did. She probably doesn't get out much. Over there in Essex. Probably a country girl.
   I've heard nothing from Gus since Sunday morning. He woke me with a text message. Before eight in the morning.
'I got job.'

*************

April

Torrential Showers

2012-05-07T20:19:00.000+01:00

We've just been through the wettest April in fourteen years those charged with such stats say. Maybe the days of April showers are over. Not sure how May is going to fare out - but looking up through the attic window and the deluge of water running down to flow over the gutters right now - there may be another record to go this month.
   I shouldn't be surprised. Ireland is noted for her rainfall. In the early days of the global warming debate there was promise of summers like those they have in the south of France. There was even talk of vineyards. Imagine.
   I think that promise is gone as the thinking diverts to the more encompassing climate change. Like so many things in Ireland that defy belief, it would seem Ireland's weather is out to do the same to us. Because I think if anything it's wetter and and a degree or two colder.

Gustav arrived back last Thursday. He looked years younger and definitely sticks out now with the Mediterranean he bestows among the ghostly faces here in Rain land. The sun was beating down in Latvia for most of the time he was there.
   'It's cold in here,' he said when he called in to thank me for keeping an eye on things next door when he was away visiting. It was cold. I always let the oil lapse coming into the summer months. Not sure why! I'd missed the fuel merchant out on his rounds. Not that I was really looking.
   'I missed the coal man,' I said. I was surprised he was empty handed. I was sure he'd have a bottle with him.
   'The decking.' he began. 'We can burn it?'
   Back in the day I had attempted to build a patio area out the back. Within days of starting I was told I was losing my job. I never finished it. Gustav said he would come back in at the weekend and help me break it up and cut it up for the fire.
   'Tidy the place up a bit,' he said. The feckin' cheek.

So Saturday he ripped out what had been put together with a nail bar and some brute force. As he dislodged each piece he handed them to me to take the nails out. It wasn't long before I feel well behind, as I struggled to remove the nails with the claw of a hammer. Sap spitting for the saturated timber as I tried to yank each nail out. With great difficulty. Sweat bubbling from my forehead and it wasn't even warm. Gustav meanwhile was in flow. I had at least half of the timber to de-nail when he finally pulled the last of it apart.
   'Now see the space you have,' he said. It did tidy it up, I have to admit. Gustav took the hammer from me and began to de-nail the rest of the timber. Half an hour later he was done.
   'Tomorrow we cut them up. Into little pieces.' he said, hurrying off to join up with the photography club he had joined. They'd been on an excursion when he was away. He wasn't too happy.

I thought Sunday was meant to be a day of rest? Not for Gustav - who was hammering the door out of it just after nine o' clock. I'd only been in bed about four hours as I got lost in a woodland with a troupe of survivalists led by new French president-elect, Francois Hollande. I was felling a tree with an axe. With Julian Assange. It was then I heard the door being rattled out of it below. I got up.
   'I've been knocking for an hour,' Gustav said, armed with two rusty looking hand saws. Hadn't he something more - electrical? Motor-powered? Another set of hands?
   The morning chill was enough to harden the parts we hide - but ploughing through wet decking timber with a saw past it's time soon softens them up. I was never much good with a saw. Gustav looked a natural.
   'Too and fro. Like slicing bread,' he kept saying when my forward thrusting met a blockage somewhere along the wood grain. It caused the saw to wobble and do damage to my wrist. I mean for feck sake. I'm a writer. I need my hands.

By the bells of mid-day we were finished. Every muscle in my body ached. Particularly the ones in my upper arms. I'm seriously in bad shape. Keep meaning to do something about that.
   I cooked a huge fry-up to thank Gustav for all of his help. I tended to that as he piled the wood into the shed to dry out.
   'It's an old Irish tradition,' I explained to him as he questioned the tomatoes with the cremated edges. I'm sure it's someones tradition. It's definitely a Booker's.
   'I not like this tradition,' he said, forking the frizzled half-moon back on to my plate. He doesn't know what he is missing.
   Three mugs of tea, a loaf of bread and a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits later Gustav was gone and I was once again listening to the fridge going on and off again. I sat myself down on Mum's old chair and pretended to read a book. I fell asleep after twenty minutes and didn't wake until this morning. Feeling arthritic. And eighty!

It's a Bank Holiday today in Ireland. That's nice of them. I'm sure if they had their way they'd cancel all such privileges for the general masses.
   France swept Sarkozy aside in favour of socialist, Francois Hollande - a boy who set out to be president by all accounts. Bit of visualization never did anyone any harm, I guess.
   In Greece, pro-austerity parties took a hammering as Greece tries to restore the democracy taken from them last year. The market reaction to that has been as volatile as it has been all year. It may threaten the euro-zone once more. Ireland should take care how she choose comes the end of the month.
   Hollande believes a clause needs to be inserted into the fiscal treaty which allows for stimulus and growth. The Germans disagree. Merkozy is dead. New uncertainties. More games.
   Let's be abundantly clear. Austerity is driving economies into the ground. The facts speak for themselves. Yet that remains the drive. This is the 'foresight' available to various European electorates across the continent in this age.
   I think it's safe to say now that this is in fact European policy. Austerity is being done on purpose. To drive down wages. To privatize everything. To decimate the social spend. To facilitate the Capitalist agenda that leaves the societies of those pursuant in disarray and in disillusionment.
   Will Hollande - the boy who would be president - make a difference? Come forth with an alternative. A new way of thinking? Unfortunately, I think not. Those who control it all - the market vamps - control and shape the thinking of the puppet politicians that front for them in increasing numbers.
   There can be little doubt after a number of years of austerity in various countries now that it has failed. The only reason for its continuance is if it is indeed policy - an agenda. But it's a poor agenda when people hold down full-time jobs and can't make ends meet, or more so, find it necessary to take their own lives.
   Arguments to the contrary should be directed to your local rep - not that it will make any difference. If you're voting for cuts in health, education, or in the care of the vulnerable within any society then you are the problem.
   Voters seem to be coming to grips with that concept and acting on it as voter apathy to austerity grows significantly in countries such as Greece, France and even in the UK, where last week one of Rupert Murdoch's favorite sons, Dave Cameron, took a Tory battering in local elections. That blow to a British Labour Party being led by a stiff!
Wasn't too long ago our own Enda was pitching Murdoch himself. Surely a public relations boob.

Fine Gael and Labour - as the Greens and Fianna Fáil before them - are part of this austerity agenda. They have proved that. Some more so than others. They choose to decimate public services and implement policy which have eroded our economy, seriously weakening standards of living on the way. They do it to bail out institutions that went far beyond the meaning of rogue. They insist on it by spewing fear to people. Shouting 'What alternative do we have?' While no-one is held to account.
   There lies the problem. No-one is offering an alternative. One that doesn't ride a populous wave anyway.
The shift has to be radical and idealistic. But idealism has been bought out of politics it would seem for a large part in modern day western society. It's a thriving breeding ground for radicals and extremists - right and left. All these attempts at greater unity are seemingly only creating greater divisions. Class divisions. Which is always a dangerous thing.

I see Newt Gingrich called time on his run for US president. Who'd have thought it? Down to Mitt Romney and Ron Paul now. Who'd have thought the old guy would have lasted this long? Languishing now in no-man's land after the Republican party through their backing and resources behind Mitt Romney. Valiant effort by the man who never really got a fair shot within America's mainstream media.
   I'd read Hunter S. Thompson's, F&L on the Campaign Trail '72 in the past twelve months. I thought taking a more in-dept look into how the Americans go about selecting their commander-and-chief might be fun. I tuned into the early rounds of this Republican race to face off against Obama in November. I wish I hadn't.

That's strange. Me ankles are frozen. There's a draft getting in from somewhere. That's all I need. The roof coming off the house. Bloody government aren't the only one with structural deficits to contend with! Was that a roll of thunder I just heard? That's one black mother of a sky out there now this evening.

I wonder if that wood is dry yet? Might light a fire. Ridiculous. It being summer and all.

*************

New novella, Cripple, now available here.