Fat Gar

When attempting to promote my blog, I always encounter the same problem, where my would-be readers tell me that they find the subject matters 'too random'. After a lengthy explanation of how the process of writing articles is, on the contrary, a deliberate one, borne out of a variety of reasons, they then refine their objections, saying what they truly mean; they desire something topical. And who can blame them? Only one letter short of 'tropical', the allure of something fresh, and which everyone else is talking about, is difficult to resist. Human interest stories, fads, trends, farcical happenings, the dictates of fashion, political soundbites, and celebrity gossip all weave a rich fabric which constitutes the majority of our media. It is surely among the most humane products of our artifice, as it never troubles or tasks us, delivering the same, familiar formula everyday. Our minds are never strained by intractable complexities, a sustained narrative, conflicting yet equally valid views, or an aspirational ideology, as the focus shifts like a handsome country lad 'on the pull'. Best of all, we never have to second-guess ourselves, as our visceral first opinion is as deep as we are asked to go.

I hope you're happy now.

With this in mind, it may come as a surprise that I wish to address the Garth Brooks affair, perhaps the hottest topic in the land since the Saipan incident. As bad as it may seem, it could have been a lot worse had I not stepped in to de-tangle the issue earlier this week. On Thursday, an angry army of disgruntled ticket holders, clad in glittery, pink Stetsons, marched on Croke Park. They were met by indignant residents, determined not to be bullied, even by a 100,000 strong, line dancing legion. Garth Brooks himself was too busy standing outside the fire to get involved, so the burden fell on a prominent citizen to defuse the incendiary atmosphere and prevent any bloodshed. The situation was particularly dire, as evidenced by the epidemic reproduction of clichés. All the classics featured on people's lips and internet comment sections this week: "This is an outrage."; "What an embarrassment!"; "I'm so ashamed to be Irish."; "Only in Ireland."; and "We're the laughing-stock of the world.", a cliché so passé that it can only be used in the most desperate situations. I stood on a makeshift platform, and asked for the crowd's attention. I then asked for it again, asked again in funny voices, whistled hard, shouted 'Hey!' and 'Ah, c'mon, guys!' a few times, tried staring and them silently, said 'Silence!' about twenty-five times, and then tried a contagious clapping technique. Eventually, I had everyone's attention, both sides assuming I was supporting their cause. I pulled a speech out of my pocket and spoke passionately to the them, as we got battered in the relentless rain:

"A chairde,

I stand before you on this darkest of eves, where despair and desolation seem to be our only comrades. Fat Gar [This is my Dublin schoolyard handle for Mr Brooks. When addressing certain audiences, it can be helpful to show that you are 'keeping it real'.] has forsaken us. Neither the Taoiseach nor the Mexican ambassador can help us, and if the latter can do nothing, then surely nobody else can. The summer is over, as you can see, before it really took off, and there will be no country and western fest for the nation. What is left to celebrate, we ask? We have only tawdry pieces of paper, deprived of their golden value, bruised feelings, and arguments about numbers and noise. But there is surely hope for Róisín Dubh; our forefathers didn't fight for this great Celtic land only to have na páistí wailing in the street. They will sing and rejoice again, in the songs of old, including those of our adopted son, Fat Gar. 

Our fortunes are not so bleak; look at those of the Brazilians, who were humiliated at their greatest passion in their own homeland. [The crowd ooohed at how topical I was being.] If they can carry on with that pain in their heart, then so can we. They were crushed by the Germans at home, just like us, in Dublin two years ago. Our World Cup dreams crumbled before they were even built. The mighty Teutonic machinery dictated that we would not participate among the nations of the Earth. And as it was in football, so was it in economics. The ruthlessness of Merkel and company punished part of the vulnerable European system, claiming it was a solution to the crisis. Our greedy establishment betrayed us, and they bow to the cruel demands of the French and Germans. Defeated, in debt, ridiculed, we needed something to lift our spirits, but, alas, Fat Gar couldn't make it. Perhaps it's not too late for our football team to summon their strength and  compete in a major competition. We have a better manager, but do we have the players? Dunne and Keane are finished, and Stephen Ireland looks like he is never coming back. He could have helped take us to more major tournaments. Ireland needed Ireland, and in its hour of need, he abandoned us. Perhaps Ireland needed Ireland, too, but the ghost of his dead grandmother still holds too much sway with him to let him join us [or something like that]. Perhaps this is all a parable for a greater need; Ireland needs Ireland, and we abandoned us.

If we could just get the right combination of players, all playing in their right positions, we could play an attractive passing game. For once in our damn, little, transient lives, we could just stop punting the ball aimlessly up the field. For once, just once — I ask for just one brave attempt — we could continue to exert pressure after scoring one or two goals. Our manager needs to be courageous, to ask his players to play the heroic game that has given football the reputation of being beautiful. He needs to believe in our players and our abilities. Perhaps I'm being naive. Perhaps we don't have the players just yet. The golden days of Gary Breen may over, but surely a new, better team could be developed. For now, we need only a team that inspires. When the children see the boys in green on their TV, they must be encouraged to go outside and kick a ball around. They must be moved to switch off their game consoles — so called because they console our crushed aspirations — and go to the street or park. We must tackle obesity. Children are getting fatter — as fat as Fat Gar. Education is key, but we have less money to spend on it. Perhaps our government could shift its policy away from austerity and towards more nurturing policies, but I believe there is less chance of that than the shy, ugly, asexual country lad getting the shift. Parents should take to the streets, like us here, but they are less likely to do so than our children. In the heart of the ordinary Irish person lies an ancient, inerasable sorrow and a modern, crippling despair. When children look up for reassurance, what hope for the future can their elders impart? Unemployment is high and austerity chokes the spending power of the masses. Without the distraction of bright weather, alcohol, or some popular event, people can find no respite from the horrible truth of our predicament. Ireland is in debt and we are wedded to a system we have little control over. The Teutonic machine has strong-armed us into lying facedown on the ground, so that the sanctity of the Euro and the European banking system may stand on us. Our children watch their siblings emigrate, and they may never know what joy or glory mean. We may not qualify for another major tournament in my lifetime. Imagine that. All is lost, for their seems no way to return to more prosperous, confident times. Will we ever return to anything like 2007? Mika may have topped the charts that year and the first Transformers was released but at least we had dignity and money. So much money that we spent money on such awful things. Now we are poor and Transformers movies are still being made. Ah, Jaysus lads, the economy is fucked! It's all bleak, and I can see no way out. Shuffle home with your heads hanging. Your resentment and sorrow will never be extinguished, because its cause will always be with you. Ireland is forever lost, and there is nothing to be retrieved from our lives but the gnashing of teeth. We call her Róisín Dubh because all is black. Black is all there is to see. The blackness of it all. We've gone black, and we're never going back. It's black, so dark and black. Black… [barely audible] black. [Screaming] It's black! It's so damn black! It's all black!

Der Kreig ist verloren."