A National Treasure

I regret to announce that this Saint Patrick's Day brought disappointment to my heart. It was neither the sleety weather nor my failure to escape to another country for the holiday (as I so often do) that saddened me so, but the snub from the highest office in the land. My late uncle, Gordon Fairflower, whose poetry was short-listed to appear on Glaoch – The President’s Call, was considered, well, too dead to partake in a showcase about modern Irish creativity. We assumed, of course, that his poetry would be read by an actor or poet, but the show's producers saw my uncle's poetry as relevant to the show as the poetry of W.B. Yeats or Patrick Kavanagh, and they excluded him from their line-up. Our arguments about him achieving fame and glory posthumously were ignored, and the large numbers of viewers who tuned in missed out on the verse of a poet who is best epitaphed as 'a druid of Celtic mysticism and magic'.
My uncle was estranged for many years, wandering across the globe in his caravan. Wearing the gypsy boy image during the early '70s, he longed only for pure, inspired verse and the warmth of  female body. Throughout his travels, he visited all the sex capitals of the world - Bangkok, Amsterdam, Hamburg, Las Vegas, Tijuana, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, Kuala Lumpur, and Tubbercurry, Co. Sligo - and he fornicated in Ibiza long before it was fashionable. His passions and sensuality grew over the late '70s and early '80s, and it flowed easily into the many stanzas he composed over those years. In poetry circles, he was known as a rogue and a libertine, a pirate among scholars, and a hero among those who valued a free libido. Since his death, both Road Down Man and The Marquee of Sadness have been re-evaluated as classics.

Shakira: a fellow champion of the gypsy spirit.

I last saw him five years ago at an awkward family gathering. Despite the alcoholism and visible symptoms of some unclassified STIs, he was bearing the years well. I know of few men who could wear a thin polo neck sweater so well, especially given his once burly chest had turned into two little triangular-shaped sacks. He left us two years ago, passing quietly from the sensual world which so enchanted him.   His departure from this world happened on a small Polynesian island, which meant his corpse was left to the locals to dispose of, and his ashes were swept away with the wind, much like the man when he was alive. We held a small ceremony here for him, and my father read one of his most eloquent poems to see him off. The sensuality runs through the verses, but its most notable feature is the poignancy of the choice words that strike delicate yet devastating chords at every turn. Critics expressed dissatisfaction at the mechanical contrivance of a couple of the stanzas, but my uncle knew well that the inspirational flow of words had to be tamed in rewrites. And so, I leave you with the poem that dampened eyes at his funeral and champions the misadventures of those who live to wander.

Unfinished Love Song #43

A pint of gee’s the best there is,
so take it while you can.
No matter who the owner is,
a pint of gee’s your only man.



Hairy, smelly, old or wide;
it comes in many ways.
You’ll always remember the gee you had


for the remainder of your days.



Lash it in, don’t take it out
'til satisfied you are,
regardless whether the trip is short
or if the distance’s far.



Vagina, box, fanny or gash;


the names are far from few.


With your dying breath, you won’t regret


the many gees you knew.



Inoperable as it may seem,


don’t succumb to gloom.


Just put it in and hope for the best. 

For error, there’s always room.



The ear is a potent organ.


The gab can get the gee.


Open your mouth, and she’ll open lips.


I speak not of her mouth, you see.



Some are blessed with a mighty trunk


and some with a dithering twig.


It’s never a problem of being too small,


but a problem of gee that’s too big.
 

Yet, a pint a gee’s the best there is.


So take it while you can.


The owner may not be the best,


but a pint of gee’s your only man.

National Identity

In times of such great uncertainty, it helps to be able to look into the past and see how those who came before us grappled with the hand that fortune dealt them. In the rich, yet tragic history of this great Celtic land, lie great stories, which, when recounted, inspire anew. In this series, The Fair Observations, before drowning our sorrows deep in gin, looks back and tries to figure out how in the name of Jaysus we got here.

Irish History X, Vol. 5: Saint Patrick

Saint Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland, who lived and missioned in Ireland in the 5th century. Originally from Britain, Patrick was abducted and brought to Ireland by Niall of the Nine Hostages (an Irish king largely remembered for having a cool name). After six years of captivity, he managed to escape and then trekked two hundred miles to a port where he could sail home. Shortly after returning home, voices and visions told him that he must return to Ireland, where the people were crying out to be converted.
He returned, clad in a green coat and golden hat, and over the course of his lifetime, singlehandedly converted Ireland to Christianity (this, surely, is the requisite miracle for canonising him), banished all the snakes, and tried to disclose the mystery of the Holy Trinity, employing a metaphorical comparison with a shamrock. He failed in his attempted explanation for several reasons. Firstly, the mystery lies beyond the comprehension of the human mind. Secondly, the shamrock is one leaf and not three distinct leaves. And thirdly, nobody has any real idea what the Holy Spirit is or is supposed to do. It seems it doesn't do anything that cannot be done by God the Father or wasn't done by God the Son. It's also kind of blasphemous to suggest that God needs to delegate his powers.
Saint Patrick once took so long evangelising, in one particularly stubborn place, that his ash stick, planted into the ground at his arrival, had grown into a tree. This gave rise to a fossilised piece of Irish 'wit', where one claims they could have done something extraordinarily long and difficult by the time the requestee did a simple request, such is the slowness of the requestee. It is usually rendered in this formula: "Ah sure, Jaysus, I'd have done X (X being an extrodinary, long, or difficult feat) by the time you do Y (Y being a relatively simple activity).' For example, "Ah sure, Jaysus, I could have read a whole other blog by the time you got around to explaining this thing that nobody really says anyway, Nigel."
Before his death and burial in Downpatrick, County Down, Patrick met legendary Irish figures such as the warrior poet Oisín and the Children of Lir, apparently blessing the latter while they were swans. One can easily imagine how some local pagan took advantage of this situation:

Patrick: So, you want me to bless swans?

Pagan: They're not swans; they're innocent children who have been turned into swans by an evil sorceress.

Patrick: Fine, fine. These three here then?

Pagan: Well, we're not sure. You'll just have to bless them all. 

"I've had it with these muddafukin snakes on this muddafukin plain!"

Patrick was from Britain, and every Saint Patrick's Day, Irish people bleach their internal organs with alcohol in an attempt to forget this fact. Some of the more nationalistic among us try to distort this affront to our identity, by suggesting he was from Wales. Wales, a more Celtic country than England, is a far more palatable birthplace for our patron saint. However, all this is undermined by the simple fact that Wales isn't a real country. Whenever I remind people of this, I'm asked if I've ever been to Wales. I inform them that I have been to London, Liverpool, and Manchester. As they are all in the UK, and Wales has no significance, once considered under the subsumption of the Union, I have, in a sense been to Wales. The incredulity I'm often met with seems ridiculous to me. I mean, look at their flag; it's a dragon — a creature of fantasy like the country it represents. Their language furthers the sense of fantasy, as it so closely resembles Elvish. Beat out a few random letters on your keyboard and you will probably have typed out a Welsh word. Their primary industry, like Middle-earth, is mining. Irish irredentists believe we should support Welsh independence, as it would encourage the dissolution of the UK, and thereby lead to Irish reunification. This is a huge mistake, as it would actually encourage the opposite. Supporting Welsh nationalism is like subscribing to conspiracy theories about malevolent Reptoids controlling all the major events of the world. Legitimate criticisms and proposals from the Left are greatly weakened by association with such unfounded, laughable ideas, and supporting Welsh independence can only serve to weaken the credibility of Irish nationalists, making them look fantastical. I mean, I have nothing against fantasy cosplay, but I draw the line at creating your own Hobbiton nation. It pains me to say it on this day, when we destroy our livers in the name of our legendary saint, but we have to turn our back on fantasy when it so dangerously loosens our grip on reality. I know we let them have a rugby and football team, but this nonsense has to stop somewhere.

Pfft. Wales...

A Ramble into Nowhere

Walking home through the desolate and despairing parts of Dublin 8, a revelation visited me. Its blessed light compelled me to open my eyes, and I stood still, aghast at everything around me: the grey unyielding concrete, the smell of industrialisation, the litter, the cars, the noise, the dirty streets. I realised that I could take no more. I realised that I must take a flight to freedom; I must return to nature. Marching away from the city, I dreamed the speech I would deliver to those who failed to understand my actions. I would tell them that ever since the formation of the first societies, right through the expansion of industrialisation, and up to our the age of stooped heads transfixed on their smart phones, humans have been descending from our true way of life. Long ago, in a forgotten time, things were different. Our ancient ancestors knew a nobility and a fuller life about which we can only dream. The societies people initially formed were undoubtedly fairer and freer than ours, and they were made as enthusiastic, life-affirming projects — a creation from the fullness of life. The wheels and cogs of the system never sleep, however, and are they difficult to dismantle. Although we are now deeply and tragically locked in our corrupted lifestyles, we can make a stand and live as humans were intended to live.

So, I wandered into the wilderness from where I stood. I knew that had I hesitated, I would have invited doubts and perhaps cowered away from what I knew was right. My initial hurdle would be finding a place uncontaminated by humans. After three days of hiking through poxy-cold weather, taking shelter in warm public places, I settled in the wilds of rural Ireland, somewhere on the Longford-Westmeath border. For those of you unfamiliar with Irish geography, Longford is one of Ireland's forgotten counties, and Westmeath is a rural tumour cut off from the rest of County Meath. Sometime in the morning, I found a large, unkempt field of high grass and rocks, which sat quietly near a murky, brown bog. A stream flowed nearby, but I had to approach it at a certain angle, so my eyes would not see the distant electricity wire, which would ruin this boggy, midland Garden of Eden. Around midday, a tractor rumbled by in the distance. I imagined it was some beast of the wild, and I lay still against the grass, as my naive distant ancestors would have done. By evening time, the cold and hunger were beginning to weigh heavily on my sanity. I had last eaten in a chipper in Edgeworthstown, a meal so disgusting that it hastened my desire to abandon civilisation. Now, however, I had only a small frog to quell the pangs in my stomach (I'm so sorry, little fella!). I bent the rules of my return to nature, by allowing myself to return my clothes to my body.
After a night in the cruel, tragic damp of the midlands, I aborted my project. An insidious, ink-black revelation repealed the one from three days previously. I walked, stumbled, and crawled back to my bed in Dublin. Before I reached the womb of my pillows and duvet, I visited a natural food shop. Standing on a crate, with the rising and falling voice of a drunk Victorian parliamentarian, I delivered the following words:

I have grown weary of people who believe that a healthier life is one closer to nature. Such a belief is so demonstrably false. A simple look at the number of humans before and after industrialisation will quickly tell you how detrimental being closer to nature can be. Nature, as lovely as it may seem, is out to kill us. Land and sea predators would happily eat us; viruses are happy to occupy us until we die; the weather in most parts of the world would kill us without shelter; most things are inedible; the majority of our own planet is difficult to live on, never mind outside it; plants and bugs can poison us. The only upside of living in nature is the absence of proselytism [I tripped over this word a few times] from nature advocates about how wonderful and healthy nature is. Our ancient ancestors, who shivered and lived in fear, could never have dreamed of the high comfort we live in. The countless souls who died from disgusting and preventable diseases would consider our modern medicine miraculous.  
[whiny voice]"But natural remedies, like Chinese medicine, have been around for centuries" I'm told reflexively by gullible people, consumed with an Orientalism as ethnocentric as nineteenth century colonials. "It's survived throughout centuries of unscientific times, along with sexism, homophobia, religious intolerance, and geocentricity. 'Practical observations' of it working, I'm told, outdate the modern idolisation of contiguity as well as the most detrimental of social constructs — falsification. These arguments are obviously false, however. All is nature, and all is artifice. Our constructions all flow from our nature, and we utilise nature for all our products. Conversely, nothing escapes the constructs of our minds. To view nature, even in our idolised form, is to construct it and place it in our scheme of the world. That which benefits us and that which does not cannot be deliberated by an analysis that views the two sides of the same coin as different objects.

A skinny young woman with pale skin emerged from the shop and asked me to leave, threatening to call the Gardaí. I obliged her, unimpressed with her cult member perma-smile. I kept turning my head back as I walked away, knocking into some pedestrians and grumbling something about plastics. 

Of course, the camera also ruined the natural effect.