The Object Lesson

I came across this video recently, on one of my rounds patrolling the flow of human garbage, known alternatively as social media. I had seen a couple of his videos before, preaching about topics such as bilious animosity, the over-use of mobile phones, race, and being overworked, but this one piqued my interest. 

His heart is in the right place, but he misses the mark a number of times, and his interpretation is far too simplistic or lacking some important information. This is true of the majority of videos and posts we find on the internet, and the fact it takes the form of a song makes matters worse. As bad folk songs, interpretative dance, 1950s musicals, and the majority of actors talking about anything has taught us, the performance arts' bailiwick ought to be a very limited choice of topics. 

Music and dance, for example, should be confined to only that which it does well:

• encouraging stationary limbs into a state of locomotion
• revelling in the joyous power of ones youth
• inciting people to have sex (the Puritans accurately hit the g-spot here)
• sheepishly looking at the opposite sex on the dance floor
• grinding up against someone from behind on the dance floor
• grinding up against the sister/friend after being rejected by your first choice
• a Hillary Clinton pantsuit flash mob dance (which, somehow, didn't hand her victory)
• exercising à la the video of 2004's Eric Prydz classic Call on Me
• adding a special touch to an elevator ride (or a 'lift lift' in British English)
• generating excitement in films and advertisements
• intoxicating oneself in the chaotic revelry of Bacchanalia
• expressing the unique, near-ineffable joy of dancing on the ceiling (which, according to more radical historians, may or may not be the same point as the previous one)

In the main, songs fair poorly in conversations about politics, a pedagogical ethos, the role of the teacher in the classroom, and the financing and organisation of schools. This is surely because the brevity of songs results in a simplification of the message. Irish folk songs provide us with a clear example of this, the majority of which can be summarised as "fuck the Brits", clearly oversimplifying the relationship between our two countries. If they were to show more regard for the nuances of history — our intertwined heritages, the shared suffering of our common peoples, the misunderstandings and shades of grey — we would find ourselves with a fuller, more thoughtful message, along the lines of, "the Brits are a shower of bastards, who fucked us over all the time".

Another good example, which perfectly suits our focus here, is Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall. Despite the conscientious artistry of the band, and their virtuous persistence in trying to create a collection songs better owned and talked about than listened to, they still managed ham-fistedly vilify the education system. Aside from now being outdated (modern education employs, to a greater of lesser extent, many theories and activities unheard of 40 years ago), the song wilfully ignores the value of education for young people's self-esteem and abilities, and for their protection from all the manipulators and oppressors they will face in the adult world. It seems to have no regard for the many excellent teachers and many positive aspects of school curriculums, and it never once considers how modern education would be considered an incredible boon by our grandparents and great grandparents. Anytime I hear the song, I listen out for any sense of irony, but none ever emerges from it. Matters aren't helped by the fact that Pink Floyd engage in acts of 'clever art' and their most seminal albums were all released in the worst decade of all time.

This Pink Floyd-type thinking about schools pervades our culture, particularly among people who are not involved in education. For all claims by the malcontents that they value creativity and critical thinking, they still run with the same, decades-old, over-simplified opinions. They will criticise standardised tests, the focus on being productive, the focus on academic ability, the failure to nurture creativity and independent thought, the depreciation of individuality, the absence of life skills, and so on. These arguments have validity, but, as per the spirit of the complaints, we should question and carefully consider such assumptions.

I don't deny that education could be much improved, but I have observed the following counters to such criticisms in my teaching career:

• a teacher, as an authority figure, can offer an alternative adult guide in your life
• productivity is valuable as it allows you to be more than you are
• standardised tests are objective and, if used correctly and sparingly, can become a valuable part of assessing students
• assessment is absolutely fundamental to teaching (Imagine your child attending a school where there was no way of evaluating their progress.) 
• old-fashioned techniques, such as rote learning, can be useful if used as an auxiliary tool
• conformity happens at a certain age regardless of school
• individuality can be harmful if it enables a sense of entitlement etc.
• the restrictive conditions can prove useful, as life will not always offer you favourable choices, and children are often not good at judging what is good for them 

On top of this, we really ought to challenge creativity and critical thinking's status as some master virtues. This line of thought has led us to worship innovation as the saviour of mankind and all its economic woes. Lateral thinking is great, but to be a great person or organisation, you need an assortment of skills. Climate change deniers, for example, do not necessarily lack creativity or critical thinking, and you would be hard-pressed to call them conformist, yet they somehow believe that destroying the environment to proliferate our dependancy on a rapidly depleting source of energy is a good idea. Pollution, the risk of producing natural catastrophes, and a refusal to develop renewable energy cannot be discouraged by creativity and critical thinking alone. You need the slow explanation of the science involved, which requires a teacher and a degree of conformity from the students. All the questioning and free thinking in the world is of no value here if the students cannot be brought to understand the science involved. America's imbecilic president-elect, who is also a climate change denier, may well be considered an outlier of the education system, displaying a non-conformist attitude and an ignorance of the world around him. (More frightening is the fact that the beast could not be slain by all the flashmob pantsuit dances they threw at him.) In a related matter, supporting Trump is comparable to the outright dismissal of the education system, rejecting the flawed status quo without a clearly thought-out alternative.

I have one more objection: this specious picture, whose quote appears in the video above.

It's flawed in so many ways, yet people will quickly march behind it. Firstly, with a quick Google search, I discovered that there doesn't seem to be any evidence Einstein said it. Secondly, it offers us a terrible metaphor. Children's differing abilities are not comparable to different animals. It's also a false portrayal of any good school, where children are assessed in many ways. The worst aspect of this ideas is, however, that children who are bad at something cannot learn to be better — what a discouraging and disempowering thought! School is not a place you should go to feel bad about yourself, but good criticism and feedback help you grow and improve. The notion of trying to uncover the hidden talents of thirty kids, with apparently no form of assessment sounds like a calamity and a betrayal of our youth.

"So, dear teacher," you may ask, "what lesson can we draw from all this?" Well, my child, I have so much more to say on this matter, but I'll leave it short. Partially, because I could end up writing a book on the issue, partially because writing a fulfilling, thoughtful and informative article on the internet is kind of taboo, and mostly because having no conclusion makes the reader feel like you've engaged in a pointless, regrettable use of their time, which is what the internet was made for.

Otto Original Outlook

I listened to a pop song yesterday. For many, that is a banal activity, but for a man of my calibre, we’re talking about much more than listening. Something else is afoot. It’s the old familiar, but there’s a twist - something is different. For when I listen to a song, my seasoned wealth of cultural knowledge and good taste come into play. I can quickly discern a Susie Sensational Songs from a Tammy Turd Tunes, a Michael Magic Melody from a Davey Dire Ditty, a Jimmy Jaunty Jazz from a Larry Lousy Lyrics, a Vivienne Visionary Vibes from a Fanny phantasmagorical flop. I grade it according to the carefully ranked library of music in my head. Like poetry, my judgement seems to affect nothing from the outside, but within my mind, seas are changing. And I very much enjoyed this one.

Originality is key, as any credible artist will tell you - even though they are indulging in unoriginality by telling you about the importance of originality. Being original means that you did it first. That means that someone will do or has done it second. Which means they may well have copied you and therefore may not be as creative as you are. I value originality at all costs, and I will even forsake breathing if I need the air for an appropriate scoff at some fool who seems to be enjoying a knockoff tune. Indeed, I scoffed just the other day when someone told me that millennials are oblivious to Nirvana (there’s a certain irony in the phrasing). He enquired as to why I was scoffing, and I told him that ignorance of Nirvana was nothing to get indignant about. 

“Why not?”, he pressed further.

I answered his question with another. “What was their biggest hit?”

“Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

“And what is Smells Like Teen Spirit but some borrowed riffs from Transvision Vamp’s Baby I Don’t Care? And that itself borrowed those same riffs from Boston’s More Than a Feeling. And who knows where they got that song from. You are defending a copy of a copy. You’re getting irate about young people’s disrespect for a smudged, faded facsimile.”

“You are so wise, Nigel, and your knowledge of music is superlative.”

That last line may not have been uttered. I’ll admit that it’s very hard to hear other people when you are so high up on your own pedestal. However, I place myself so high, because I have such stringent standards. I deny any enjoyment of The Killers, for example, because all I can hear is sounds of the 1980s, like The Cure (proto-emo, post-punk reactionaries) and Bruce Springsteen (a Bob Dylan experiment gone wrong) in their songs. Of course, they aren’t as brazen as Oasis or Supergrass were about plundering the discography of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones respectively, but if you are going to be puritanical about music (which is surely half the fun), then you can’t afford any allowances. And so we lapse endlessly backwards though time, keenly aware that what we have taken for original and pure in its creativity is most likely contrived from pre-established parts, or stolen wholesale from the previous generation. Eventually, we find ourselves, in an effort not to appear unsophisticated, enjoying only that which has emerged from unadulterated creativity and inspiration. In a credibility arms-race, you find yourself competing with the worst of hipsters (a bunch of Sonny Smug So-longs) for the most original music possible, so you can be into it long before anyone else (And then complain later about the unwashed Billy Bozo Bandwagoners - this being the other half of the fun). 

Eventually, it becomes a free fall, where everything came from something else. This video illuminates the near futility of trying to appreciate originality and enjoy a song simultaneously. [Warning: contains ugly people]

If you are a person of integrity, folk songs, medieval ballads, classical music, and tribal beats all eventually get left by the wayside. The most hardened hipster will tell you that any early musical efforts were just ripped right out of nature in what was humanity’s first act of inauthentic derivation. In truth, however, most hipsters settle for primeval screams of the pre-historic swamp or Neanderthal grunts. On vinyl, of course. That’s a little too derivative for my tastes. Give me the pure sounds of Brownian motion on wax cylinder any day of the week. Critics might scoff that Brownian motion hasn’t quite been the same since the formation of the universe, but, for me, everything thereafter is just hackneyed, facsimiled crap. Except, perhaps, this uniquely crafted song, which as I mentioned at the top, I listened to yesterday. 

I'll Probably Still Watch the Fifth Season

The writer I aspire to be the most is Tom Yates from House of Cards. I believe personas like his should be the aspiration of all artists, particularly writers. Essentially, you have to produce very little, only enough material to allow you to cultivate your Mary Sue fantasies and exulted reputation. Who has time for volumes and volumes of writing when one is trying to construct a bullet-proof persona succulently built on a series of interesting paradoxes? You are an idealist and a pragmatist. You are also a deeply insightful psychologist, but unrestrained by the trappings of others’ feeling. You work hard enough to permit hours and days of idleness and self-destruction. You are stylish, fit and handsome with no apparent effort involved. You are pure and have integrity, yet you are immersed in the filth of things. You are an observer, but as per the observer effect, you affect the events under your study.

Our hero, Tom.

Of course, writing is your passion. You live for it, even if it brings you pain — especially if it brings you pain. It is your vocation, your calling, the fate you are bound to and always have been. It is paramount that you tell everyone you are a writer often. For it seems that being a writer is like being in a relationship — the most important part is reminding people of it and playing out the role. Never call yourself an author or novelist, but always a writer, as we are referring to a lifestyle, not a profession. High regard is also important; people must recognise you for your genius. When the occasion arises for your to prove your abilities, you must produce not particularly spectacular prose, which others (especially those whose opinion matters) are moved and impressed by. 

Tom made his first appearance in what was easily the most tedious and self-indulgent season of House of Cards. The efficient and seasoned political-maestro, Frank Underwood, decides (for some reason) that hiring a writer to produce a biography about him is how he is going to win re-election. He is (for some reason) impressed with Tom's 100-word blurb about a flash video game he (for some reason) reads in a magazine. In a world of soundbites and memes and Snapchat and short videos and visceral, snap outrage and shorter attention-spans, the president decides (for some reason) that hundreds of pages of prose, which people would have to pay for, is the best way to affect the opinions of the millions of voters he needs before the next election. And all within 18 months. If you haven't seen the show, email me, and I'll send you buckets of tiresome memes to help you fill in the gaps. It may be boring, being engaged in a conversation about something you have never seen (and, by God, Game of Thrones fans, I should know), but it will be more interesting than the third season. That is, of course, unless you like characters suddenly acting erratically and obvious political commentary. 

Totally vacuous.

The great irony of Tom Yates is that he is a love letter to writers, yet he is a blatant vanity project and part of a poor piece of writing. This is a classic pitfall of writers, where they descend into tedium and mediocrity when speaking about themselves. Aside from the fact that they are way off the mark with their generalisations about writers — writers, even at a precursory glance, clearly vary in character, motivation, and temperament —  the cardinal sin of writers writing about writers is that they indulge their desire to fossilise their identity as a writer. Writers write rightly when they write not of writings about writing. Much in the way that photos of you with a poor African child or in a far away land or enjoying some fancy dish or beverage is a transparent attempt to portray you as an interesting person, writers writing about writers is a tedious attempt to portray the writer as a unique individual.  

Tom Yates is a particularly nauseating example, as he is so important to the world he inhabits, and we know he shouldn't be. His flaws are really interesting (stubborn in a noble way, drinking, sleeping around, ghosts in his past). He often goes for long periods without writing, purportedly waiting for the right inspiration. This is a mendacious account of writers, as many writers find inspiration while writing, and I doubt anyone has ever mastered the art without persistently trying. Friedrich Nietzsche, who by all accounts is an excellent writer, wrote that if one wanted to become a great novelist, one should frequently write what one sees around them in the most interesting style they could. Within ten years, you should be well-able to express yourself excellently in the written word. No mystical powers surround the writer, and, as Nietzsche once pointed out, the mystical cannot even reach the level of superficial. Shallowness is the best we get, when writers start to congratulate themselves in their work. We get clichés and self-enamoured portrayals; we get specious lines about the power of writing. 

Of course, Tom becomes entangled in the Underwood's relationship. He shares a tender moment with Frank, and in the fourth season, he begins a sexual relationship with his wife Claire. Frank gives his blessing, and we leave one episode with the three of them sitting down for breakfast in a triumvirate of polyamory. This feeds further into the idolisation of the writer. I could elaborate on this point, but I think I will cut this one short, without any further comment. There are levels of pretentiousness that even I would not like to descend into. 

"Speciousness is its own form of meaninglessness."

The Great Britain

It has been two weeks since the British referendum, and the dust still has not settled. Much like power abhors a vacuum, people abhor uncertainty, and as the wheel of fate spins apace, we now witness much speculation, opportunism, and anxiety. At such times, people long for deep insight and wisdom, for clear, useful information, which we can use to more accurately auger the future. And what greater source for such information could there be than that  the lyrical expressions of the poet. Alas, to my knowledge, nobody has yet written a poem about Brexit; the balladeers of the soul have fallen as silent as a pause in a masterful composition. I considered filling in the void with words of my own, but I know well that I am not blessed with the mystic spirituality that my uncle Gordon had. Instead, the modest blog prose of a liberal arts graduate will have to suffice.

There have been a lot of attempts to depict those Britons who wish to leave the EU — they are old and inconsiderate of the youth of the country; they are racist, nationalistic, courageous, xenophobic, patriotic, ignorant, angry, reasonable, short-sighted, liberators, democratic, mostly in certain parts of the country, etc. With my philosophical reserve, I would only venture as far as saying that they are. They are. And with that, the issue is settled. However, I hear little coughs of expectation from my readers, so I shall speculate further. Let's look at what I believe stirs deep in the heart of British people, using the lens of literature as a guide. 

It may come as a surprise to many of you, but the most illuminating text for understanding the decision of the British people last month is not some passage from a religious book nor one of Aesop's Fables, but F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. Those in the leave camp most closely resemble James Gatz, with his lofty ambition to regain the romance of the past. The green light, which Gatsby sees across the bay, is blue, white, and red for the Brexiters. And it's all just within their grasp. When once confronted by a journalist about not being able to wind back time, Nigel Farage, bearing the unblinking eyes of a cult-follower, replied, "Can’t repeat the past? Why of course you can!", unaware that he was quoting the novel's protagonist verbatim. He also calls people 'old sport', but that's more of a 'little Britain' affectation than a transparent attempt to fake an affluent upbringing. Brexiters are as delusional as Gatzby in their attempt to bring back 1970s Britain. Even if we disregard the futility of trying to relive a time assimilated into the past, we still must, with cold, sober analysis, admit that the 1970s was a particularly miserable period in human history. Nostalgia has warped their perspective to see the exact opposite. The cringeworthy reality of the '70s has long since past, and it can no longer impose itself and save these poor unfortunates from delirious self-deception. 

1975's top 8 world's sexiest men

They long for a time when you could just call a Pakistani man a 'Paki', an Irishman a 'Paddy', and a black man 'choco'. What they wouldn't give to spend another day in a period when sophisticated food was something that involved a lot of mayonnaise, and it was okay to call Chinese food 'chinkey'. They ache with nostalgia when distorted memories allow them once again to walk around the pantheon of the '70s. And what sweet memories:

• bell bottoms
• safari jackets
• uncompromisingly yellow shirts
• disco
• the last time women had to quit work for having a baby
• Carry On films (outlawed by the Maastricht Treaty)
• kind of weird attitudes towards fucking teenage girls
• the OAPEC crisis
• Richard Nixon
• violence in Northern Ireland
• prime ministers so bad that Britain would turn to Margaret Thatcher
• that tedious gondola chase involving a Louisiana sheriff in The Man with the Golden Gun
• Roger Moore's hair and leathery, aged skin
• orange and brown decor and clothing
• parka coats
• shag carpeting
• the word 'shag' being in common parlance
• three TV channels
• more pubic hair
• lax attitudes towards drink driving
• lower standards for health and safety
• Carly Simon
• holidays in Blackpool
• no internet
• films about plane disasters
• Jimmy Saville
• Gary Glitter
• Are You Being Served?

Sir Roger Moore in Lie and Let Die

I haven't looked deep into this, but as far as I remember, some guy in the '70s hijacked a plane and, as ransom, asked the Pope to plead with God to bring the decade to a close sooner. That is the 1970s in a nutshell. It was balls. (We didn't even have this expression to air our misery.) Yet some wish to return there. They are not fools, who could not see what the economic consequences of Brexit were likely to be; they are dreamers, who cannot escape the ethereal, ever-fading past. Gatsby's love affair was ill-fated from the beginning and not what he believed it to be, and those in the leave camp are captivated by that same tragic romance. The muse of their dreams might be questionable, but the dream itself is beautiful. They long for the 1970s' glorious return, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before them. It has eluded them for decades as members of the EU, but that's no matter — tomorrow they will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . .  And one fine morning — So they beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

With the risk of taking sides, I feel duty-bound to add an important caveat about the referendum. As beautiful as the dream is, we must never allow it to manifest. I speak not of the economic fallout, nor of the problematic detangling of the UK from the many EU laws it has subscribed to, nor the issues of racism, nationalism, and national boundaries. I speak of how utterly disgusting the 1970s was. Some people use cheese graters or feces in their sexual practices, and that's okay, but we wouldn't want a whole society like that. My God, just the thought of the 1970s — it's so orange and brown and horrific.

Modern historians have yet to produce a consensus on how anyone survived such manky decor. 

Irish History X, Vol. 7

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 stories, which, when recounted, inspire anew. In this series, The Fair Observations looks back and the state of affairs in the affairs of state.

Bertie Ahern and Michael McDowell

One weekday night in early 2007, on a week which bore no special significance, one of the greatest political conspiracies in Irish history almost became unravelled. Michael McDowell, then Tánaiste and Minister for Justice, was participating in an edition of Questions and Answers, a show where politicians and political commentators discuss the issues of the day with a studio audience. An indignant middle-aged man in the audience expressed his disbelief and ire at the government’s plans to introduce civil partnership for gay couples. Utterly confused and angered at such a decision, he told the studio that he suspected the Tánaiste and then Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern, were secret lovers. Everybody scoffed. It was a ridiculous moment in Irish television comparable to the time Pat Kenny was called a piece of shit or that exploitative news shot of a man slipping on the ice. The presenter, John Bowman dismissed the comment, the audience giggled, and McDowell didn’t even bother to answer it. It was clearly not the motivation of the government, a preposterous idea, comical, homophobic, and pitiful. But it was also the truth. Had someone of competence entertained the idea, they would have uncovered one of the greatest scandals in Irish politics.

Who knew.

Back in 1989, they had met in a bar where men no longer needed to conceal who they really were. The future Taoiseach’s affable charm, lack of pretentiousness, and ever-ready smile proved too alluring for Michael. Bertie was also taken. He revelled in charming such a man, polished and well-spoken, unlike the many gurrier-type men he had had to contend with in his journey of sexual exploration. Michael was frank, but he struggled to assert himself past his shy mannerisms. At times, he got quite flustered and would trip over his words. Bertie found the whole thing adorable from the very beginning. The palatable tension between a devoted Fianna Fail man and an ex-Fine Gaeler made for a sexual chemistry that both men found irresistible. In the throes of the bedroom, both men conceded that they were of the same party.      

Over the years, their relationship developed tenderness and mutual respect, peppered with the sexual excitement of a secret love affair. Bertie’s marriage crumbled; the plotting and the governance and the love affair left him with no time to be an attentive husband, and it strained his later relationship with Celia Larkin. In November 1994, the night after Ahern assumed the leadership of Fianna Fail, he and McDowell met in privacy. Together, seated on perpendicular couches in their private nest, they ran their fingers in and out of each other’s and gazed deeply and honestly into each other’s eyes. They made a bold pact to plot themselves to the top of the political ladder with a scheme so subtle and cunning that nobody would suspect a thing. It was the flight of self-interest to self-interest in an act of self-interest itself. (Incidentally, this is also what happens when people vote for Fianna Fail or Fine Gael).

“Jesus, are they going to make that little faggot Taoiseach?” former party leader Charles Haughey quizzed PJ Mara after the 1997 election. He and other members of the party assumed that the coalition with the Progressive Democrats was a risky venture, but it was exactly as Bertie planned it. He became Taoiseach and slowly, ever-so-subtly began to undermine Mary Harney’s leadership of the PDs. The 2002 general election seemed to be a deathblow to her career, but Harney held fast. By 2005, Michael had become despairingly impatient and argued with Bertie about the set backs in their plan. “You sit on the throne with that bitch at your side. I want her gone so I can take my rightful place.” Bertie questioned Michael’s stomach for the ruthless mission they were on. After much stressful arguing, Michael broke down crying. Bertie consoled him, feigning pity. He secretly resented such weakness. “Listen, Harney is one of the toughest nuts I’ve ever met, but she is on the way out.” Michael stopped sobbing. “If I can make my daughter a famous writer, I can make you Tánaiste.” They left the room happy lovers once more, but the experience had diminished Bertie’s view of Michael. He noted that he must now plan to be rid of him. 

Within a year, McDowell was Tánaiste. He told himself it was a felicitous time, but deep-down he knew something was wrong. He had fallen too deeply in love with the Taoiseach, and he was cloy and overly-affectionate. He displayed too much joy when Bertie appeared on the radio in King Crisp ads. Bertie's affection by contrast had grown cold, and the he flinched when Michael referred to himself as his loyal queen. Michael had long-since conceded that they could not be a couple in public, but he was saddened that no such arrangement was possible in private. His wife no longer asked any questions, and the close political positions they held meant that nobody would suspect a thing, but Bertie still refused to let his guard down. One cold, rainy night in March 2007 — a night that should have been warmer and softer — Bertie ended the affair. Michael was devastated, but not entirely surprised. On his way home, he asked his security escort to let him walk the rest of the way. They grudgingly agreed, even though he refused an umbrella. He arrived back at his house saturated by the rain and his tears. His wife opened the door for him. “I’m home now”, he muttered meekly. 

Forsaken by his real partner and demoralised, Michael McDowell the politician crumbled. His passion for creating a country for wealthy elites waned, and he lost his Dáil seat to Green Party leader John Gormley later that year. The Greens replaced the Progressive Democrats as Fianna Fail’s partner in government, and the Taoiseach could have made Gormley Tánaiste, but Bertie was gracious enough not to replace Michael with his Rumble in Ranelagh opponent. 

And so, time moved on, and all trace of the love affair and the mechanisms and schemes that brought those two men to power were forgotten. As sad and beautiful as their love was, we must not forget that they corrupted and manipulated the political system to their own self-interested ends. People were crushed and conned by a system secretly rigged. Both men abused their power and stood on anyone who was an impediment to their ambitions. In the final analysis, what does it matter though? Nearly a year after the marriage equality referendum, do we want to dig up an old scandal that would link homosexuality with infidelity, nepotism, and conspiracy? And even if we did, wouldn’t the perpetrators just characterise it as a story of two men who found love, despite being trapped in an oppressive society? The Teflon Taoiseach would remain untouchable as he always has been. It is a regrettable state of affairs perhaps, but not as mournful as the longing of the former Tánaiste, who would refuse any opportunity of power to touch his true love just one more time.

"Ah, it's good to be the king."

Irish History X, Vol. 6

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 stories, which, when recounted, inspire anew. In this series, The Fair Observations looks back and weaves the past into a simplistic narrative that suits the modern mores, because that’s what people do. 

Michael Collins (Murder Mystery)

In my first attempt at a historical drama, we follow the life and demise of Irish revolutionary leader, Michael Collins. A pivotal player in Ireland's struggle for independence, Collins’s glittering career was fraught with high drama in the dangerous, treacherous days of revolution. He was Minister for Finance and TD for Cork South in the First Dáil of 1919, Director of Intelligence for the IRA, and a member of the Irish delegation during the Anglo-Irish Treaty negotiations. He was also a murderer. 

In a Columbo-styled crime novel, where we readers are in full possession of the details of the crime, we watch the leader of government and keen amateur detective, Eamonn de Valera, solve the mysterious deaths of a series of British soldiers and RIC policemen between 1916 and 1922. (Spoiler alert: They were killed by Collins and the IRA.) Here are some excerpts to whet your appetite.

At least it will be more accurate than this.

P. 23

The squeak of a spring mattress being thumped into submission reverberated off the dungeon-like walls of Collins’s basement room, accompanied by heavy grunts and moans. Mary was learning quickly why her cavalier lover was nicknamed the ‘Big Fellow’. 

“Oh, God, Mick! Yes, horse your langer into me!”

Collins grunted and ploughed on more violently than before, and within a matter of minutes the two lovers were lain satisfied on their backs beside each other. Collins had little patience for cuddling, but Mary was happy to claw him a little and admire what a fine brute he was. He rolled on his side and lit a fag for each of them, before turning back to face her and handing her a smouldering cigarette. They both rested on their elbows and puffed leisurely, contentedly couched in each other’s gaze. The rough love had lightened Collins’s mood a little, but it wasn’t long before the dark fury burned in his eyes again. Mary was captivated by them, as one would be at the uncanny sight of black fire.
  

“London is killing me, Mary.”, he said without prompting. 

“I know. It’s hard being away from home.”

He moved his lips to speak, but found himself at a pause. His eyes gazed blankly into the dark room, and he sighed a little. 

“What I would give to breathe the sea air of Clonakilty or walk amid its green fields,” he pined. “What am I doing here, Mary? Among the English, helping their wealthy take in more than their fill. I should be home, helping to free my land from our oppressors.”
Mary twisted her hips a little, entangling herself further in the warm sheets. “And how exactly would you do that, Mick?”

“I’d have to kill English men.”

“Is that so?”, she inquired, before taking the last of puff of her cigarette and reaching her arm behind her to extinguish the butt on the bedside table.
“I’d put bullets in them. I’d watch them bleed until they went cold.”

“Tell me more.”

“I’d plant bombs in the homes and watch them walk into their graves.”
Mary purred restlessly.
“I’d risk walking among the investigating policemen and bystanders just to breath in their burnt flesh.”

Mary eyed her savage lover with languorous surrender. He pushed her on her back suddenly, and positioned himself between her legs with no regard for civility.

“I’d walk up right behind them and slip a knife into their back”, her informed her, as he slid inside her. She moaned. 

“And when they turned around, I’d savour the terror and agony in their eyes.” Mary’s head tossed back in ecstasy. Collins proceeded to pound her with a slow, hard grind. Fiery lust raged between the sheets of the bed, and Mary could hide her wishes no longer.  

“Jesus, Mick! Would you choke me a bit, for feck’s sake?” 

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

P.102

Cannon fire roared around the rebels, and a storm of fiery ash and dust bore down on them. They held their positions like an utterly desperate rowing boat being swept along in a calamitous, raging sea. The pillars of the GPO, which stood so proudly during the Proclamation of the Irish Republic the day before, trembled with each blow, and the ground shook beneath Rising’s leaders. Members of the British Armed Forces scurried about the streets, trying to win advantageous positions, while the besieged rebels held fast as best they could. 

Fortunately, they stood with Michael Collins, whose courage never seemed to diminish. He moved from post to post, keeping the soldiers’ morale up with his enthusiasm. His stomach was aflutter and his heart banged inside his chest, but the passion which stirred inside him was not what they believed it to be. Collins felt alive and aroused by the opportunity to kill. 

“Keep your head up, boy”, he counselled Gearóid, a young soldier who was guarding a window towards the back of the building. “Even if we have to surrender today, the Irish people will inspired by our actions and rise against the tyrant. We’ll…” His words were cut short by an explosion, which blew the massive window and its fortifications out. Collins awoke in pain, his entire world whirring, and a ubiquitous, overwhelming ringing in his ears. As he gathered his bearings, he was relieved to find he was uninjured, bar the shock and some minor cuts. Gearóid was not as fortunate and he lay cold on the floor. Sadness washed over Collins, but as the ringing lessened in his ears, anger regained its place in his heart again. 

Blood ran from a gash on his face, and he quickly swiped it off. He looked around to ensure nobody could see him, before licking some off his fingertips. He froze suddenly. Across the street, a young soldier held a position that didn’t offer him the cover he assumed it did. Collins quivered as he crept cautiously towards the window. He raised his rifle, nervously hoping the opportunity would remain available for just a few seconds more. He trembled at the advent of his deepest, darkest fantasies. The young private, hardly past boyhood, looked around as though he was about to reposition himself, but somehow he continued his fatal error. Collins noted mentally how green the young man was, and his excitement began to overwhelm him. He pulled the trigger and, with a splash of red, rendered the boy ever-green. He threw himself back against the protection of the wall, panting with elation. For a few moments, he left the fray, lost in the glow of his kill. Another shell rocked the building, and he returned. He wiped the drool from his chin, and fought on. 

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

P. 327

“This will only escalate the war, Boss.”, Boland reminded DeValera. His voice was too dampened by resignation to give any hint of criticism.

“I know.”, he replied. He went to say more, but held back. The omnipresent drizzle further wet the canvas roof of the turbulent military truck traversing the Cork hills, and the erratic wind helped droplets into the back of the vehicle to further sullen the mood. 

“It’s a grey day.”, Dev muttered. “But there’s an encouraging brightness about it.” He looked towards the clay white clouds and took in a deep breath. 

“The sun will come out again.”, he declared. “Dark clouds are upon us, but we will endure them. And be better off for them.”

Boland looked sheepishly at the rifle in DeValera’s hand, which had slain Collins twenty minutes earlier. 
“I had to do it, Boland. I couldn’t in good conscience ask an other to carry out such an unconscionable action.” He clenched his jaw. “God will be my judge.”

“Christ, how did we end up like this? This bloody war.”, Boland spoke without raising his head.

“It was necessary. Collins was a murderer.”

“I have no doubt about that, but was it worth solving the case? I admire your superlative detective skills, but we have war on our hands.”

“We always have war on our hands; the hour that calls us to arms is ever-present.”, he edified Boland and the others seated in the truck with compelling sagacity. 

“There is a war that is waged in the heart of every man. Sometimes great sacrifices have to be made to insure that good wins.”

Boland relaxed his confused and angered conscience as DeValera furthered his sermon.

“Collins refused to hear the sense of duty that implored him from the heart. He turned cold and monstrous. He took advantage of the war, and used the opportunity to murder hundreds. Fathers, sons, brothers, and friends were all taken away by him and the deranged cult he built around him. Liberty, as we well know, is a costly affair, and fighting evil can certainly leave scars. At least now the world is a little less evil.”

The truck rode onwards, away from the hills and Collins’s mournful officers. The clouds permitted a tentative, narrow break for the sunshine, and a feint cliché of light glistened the road ahead. 

The Journey's End

I read an article last week claiming that most of the information we spread on the internet is 'bullshit'. I find it hard to doubt. In a world of memes, one-liners, and shortened attention-spans, the shallow is all-too-often often mistaken for profundity. We fall for specious, vague statements, easily seduced by the power of their confidence and conviction. But as any wise chambermaid who has surrendered her womanhood to a lusty Count will tell you, the power of the thrust says nothing of the depth. Of course, the deft, pithy line can wield a bounty of insight. Nietzsche, Shakespeare, and Stephen King, amongst many others, attest to brevity. Jack Kerouac probably has something to say about it too, but he undoubtedly phrased it in a boring, artless prose that isn't worth quoting. Despite the many endorsements of the succinctness, it must be obvious to anyone who cares to utilise the cogs and gears of their brain that brief statements, regardless of their wit or incisiveness, are not always the end of the discussion. True words of wisdom open up ideas and conversations, not only bring them to a close. 

But enough with the lofty talk. Like most people, I find myself among the pantheon of platitudes via base motivations, namely my ire at the annoying shit I see on the internet. How often have I seen something like this?

Bullshit.

Bullshit exegesis. 

Oh, well, if Steve Tyler says it...

Yeah, but fuck art.

All hail the King of Specious Garbage.

Now we're talking.

I get it. You never arrive at happiness or you never make it to a promised land, and you should appreciate where you are, regardless of what you are doing. However, for those of us who are inclined to pause and digest what information we are presented with, the idea hardly has universal application. There are a great deal of occasions where there is a very definite destination and it is preferable to the journey — a long-distance flight in economy is an obvious example. It's uncomfortable, tiring, and boring, if not frightening. Many people would prefer to fast-forward through those hours or be unconscious throughout. There is no ass paraesthesia at the destination. Or what about workday commutes, where we and our fellow lamenters regret having to earn a living? Or what about the workday itself? On an oppressive Tuesday morning, who among us would value the hours consumed by our jobs over the money and freedom they allow us? The end of the working day is far sweeter than the laborious hours that take us there. "But, you are rushing through your life," appeals the literary snot in you (returning from a long sabbatical). "Take your time to smell the roses," you say clichédily, not realising that one has to journey one's face to the destination of the roses' proximity.        

Here are a few more examples of how the destination can be preferable:

• Suffering from an illness
• Recovering from surgery
• Being in pain and waiting for relief
• Urgently having to use the toilet
• Having to hold your breath and desperately wanting to breathe
• Being exhausted and longing to rest
• Watching someone you love who is terminally ill and/or in agony
• Being that suffering, terminally ill person
• That time I had diarrhoea and was vomiting at the same time
• Waiting to discover if someone you love has died or been harmed
• Sobering up during drunken sex with a sexy-deficient person
• Being stuck on public transport with an unhygienic person
• The sentiment of the song 'I Want to Be Sedated' by  The Ramones
• Waiting in a long queue in uncomfortable conditions
• Beholding the wisdom of Silenus and longing for sweet death and her never-ending caress

There are surely counterexamples of course, like being stuck on the Love Boat or being on holiday or having a good time at a bar that closes early. The point is, however, that we should try to avoid arriving at snap, definite conclusions about large, multifaceted, things such as our lives. One line rarely encapsulates it all, and you probably overestimate your intellectual abilities if believe you can sum complex things up so succinctly. 

Regarding the spirit of the above posts, I of course applaud attempts to grab life and live it in an engaged and positive manner. But do keep in mind that when you die, you would like your eulogy be filled with examples of a memorable life, and nobody will ever remember the specious words you reposted. So, stop absorbing and reposting everything that seems congenial to your mindset and learn about things you are either ignorant of or disagree with. As any wise cow will tell you, you cannot expect to get very far if all you do all day is graze on your own bullshit. 

Give it over already, Kerouac.