Hames-maker?

I was talking with two friends the other day when the subject of education came up. “Caitriona Ruane has made a complete and total hames of the whole thing!” one of them declared. So I asked my friend if he knew what Ms Ruane had done or not done that made her responsible for the hames, and whether or not the inaction or actions of others, including the DUP, might have contributed to the hames. He allowed in the end and in so many words that he didn’t know the answer to any of these questions.

The vilification hurled at Caitriona Ruane has had many sources. One is that she succeeded Martin McGuinness, a man well capable of handling abuse or anything else hurled at him. Caitriona Ruane, to her misfortune, is a woman, and so fair game for a certain class of unionist politician. She’s also got a southern (actually a western) accent, which grates with a certain kind of northerner. Thirdly, and for this Sinn Féin must carry some responsibility, she’s a poor performer on TV. 

And it’s the third of these that has allowed so many people who have no idea what she did or didn’t do to declare that she’s made a total hames of things.  In ways it’s understandable, really.  Her mission to move the north from its antiquated, socially divisive and tragically wasteful system of putting children in different schools is a noble one, and that has provoked opposition from those whose first instinct is to resist change, as well as the many who yell their opposition for reasons of self-interest, stupidity and/or a desire to clobber a Sinn Féin politician. My guess is that,  her weak TV presence aside, she’s doing a decent job.  But it’s just a guess. I’m open to revision, if someone can present me with facts that show otherwise.  That’s F-A-C-T-S, please, not parroted prejudices. 

Tree-hugging and other embarrassments

It’s understandable, I suppose. If  you’ve been depicted by the media for thirty years as Satan’s spawn,  while maybe dozens of people who would gladly kill you live within a mile or two,  you’d be happy to reach a stage where some redress of the balance is possible. But the documentary on Gerry Adams that I watched last night went a bit too far.

I don’t mind his contribution to the Middle East peace process: he speaks up for the million and a half people of Gaza, imprisoned in a piece of land “the size of County Louth”.  It’s right that he should be respected by Protestant clergymen for the work he has done in bringing about peace, even if they insisted on referring to it as “a journey”. But the bit where Tony Blair described a peace process conference at one of these country houses, and how he came out  one morning and found Gerry hugging a tree – I mean, COME ON, Tony. Martin McGuinness didn’t help by talking about a photograph he has where Gerry is hugging one side of a tree and Tony the other. Then there was the bit where Gerry was in his back yard doing a bit of planting or seeding or something, in little pots and trays... It was more like an At Home With Anne Widdicombe.

Politicians deserve to be judged by their ability to do the job,  and for a very long time the Sinn Féin president was judged with wild inaccuracy because of media and political bias.  When the history is written, Adams will emerge as a giant figure in late twentieth-century Ireland. The documentary gave us some sense of that, but bulb-planting and tree-hugging and doing a daft poc fada with a hurley stick on a mountain-side is like watching James Connolly demonstrate how to make the perfect omelette.     

How not to win in politics

 

The English team’s eye-watering failure in the World Cup has been put down to a number of things, prominent among them the fact that they were a divided camp. Fabio Capello was supposed to be the tough man in charge; then the team began to wobble and  John Terry jostled his way to a microphone to say that ‘im and lots of the lads thought Fabio was talking through his Italian orifice. But then the lads mentioned declared they weren’t part of  Terry’s gang,  and so it went on. A team riven in several directions was certain to end up limping home, defeated again.

Which brings us to politics in our own dear little six-county split from the province of Ulster. The two unionist parties – the DUP and the UUP  – are making moves to at least have some sort of electoral pact for next year’s Assembly elections. The UUP’s deputy leader Danny Kennedy says it’s necessary to stop the growth of Sinn Féin.  

It looks as though Maggie Ritchie shares his concern. The SDLP leader says she can see “no credible argument” for getting closer to Sinn Féin. She admits that her party and the Shinners have the same religion, similar cultural interests,  they both believe in Irish unity – but apart from that, they’ve nothing in common.  Unfortunately she doesn’t mention what are the important matters on which her party differ from Sinn Féin and which make electoral linkage impossible.

The truth about the English team is that they’re rubbish but suspicion and sectional interests make it impossible for them to improve.  The UUP and the DUP haven’t become as one (yet) because the UUP figures the DUP wants to gobble them up, and it doesn’t fancy the journey through Peter Robinson or Nigel Dodds’s alimentary canal. Likewise the SDLP, for so long in decline, doesn’t relish the offered embrace of Sinn Féin because it’s convinced Sinn Féin wants to squeeze the life out of it. It’d rather see nationalism reduced to limping impotence than go on so much as an electoral date with Sinn Féin. John Hume may have put peace before party interests but Maggie Ritchie isn’t going to make that mistake.  If you don’t believe me, ask Declan O’Loan. 

Green thoughts in a green shade

I wonder if there’s a cut-off point for becoming interested in something? Like, say, gardening. Yesterday I  dug the little three-metre strip that runs along the left-hand side of our driveway. It wasn’t easy. There are Things that have their roots in there that go down until they touch the  upper floors of hell. Then there’s the hedge that overshadows the strip and that needs brutal mutilation if it’s to be kept from leaning over the little strip and blotting out every last bit of light. Finally there’s the earth in the strip: it’s mainly dust and bits of old plastic, as far as I can establish. Certainly that’s what comes up when I dig and lever clear with my fork. (When I was young we called it a grape, and it was used for cleaning out the byre once every six months or so. Now it’s a fork.)

So I dug and twisted my fork and levered plastic bits and twisted hell-roots and mouldy earth-bits onto the driveway, saying “Holy shit!” and “Oh my God!” and “My back really hurts...”  until at last the strip was, well, actually, it was gone. Or the earth from it was mainly gone. All I had now was a three-metre strip of nothing, because my trusty fork had levered the entire contents onto the driveway.

So I went to the local garden centre and got two biggish bags of Multi-Purpose Compost, but the woman at the cash desk told me they’d cost £6.99 and if I got the same amount in one big bag, it’d cost only £3.99. Flushed by my exertions and  this amazing bargain, I hurried home and emptied the big bag of Multi-Purpose Compost into the little three-metre strip, then levelled it off with my fork. It looked wonderful. Like something from a gardening catalogue.

I came in and had a shower and cracked a tin of Guinness Extra Stout and thought about Rock Hudson in The Big Country,  where he puts his fist in the soil and lifts a handful of it towards the sky  and shouts “The good earth!” while the music soared.  Maybe I could become like that. Work on, transform my entire garden. Get the hedge straight and neat,  use the chain-saw to put manners on the clematis,  put Lawn-Gro on the lawn and make it nice juicy green rather than beige-brown and faint-yellow, and just generally have a garden that’d draw the eye of passing motorists and pedestrians who would stop to greet me and express admiration as I bent over yet another task in a  garden where every last detail was as neat and perfect as a Constable painting.

In fact the transformation would start today only there’s the England-Germany game  on TV.  You’ve probably heard. And after that the Argentina-Mexico game.  Meanwhile I’ve moved the car so when I look up from the TV, I can see the strip with its  chocolate-brown, smooth-surfaced,  weed-free elegance stretching all of three metres along my driveway. And when there’s a lull in the commentary, if you read my lips, you’ll find they’re saying  quietly “The good earth!” 

People who should be certified

I have a friend who was born and grew up in Ireland, then emigrated to Canada. In his mid-thirties he was faced with a choice.  Strip away the rhetoric and it came down to this: he became a Canadian citizen or he lost his job. Now he liked Canada a lot and wanted to live there,  but instinctively he was reluctant to give up, as he saw it, his Irish identity.  When I pointed out to him that becoming a Canadian citizen wouldn’t, couldn’t  erase his Irish identity – it was knit into the fabric of his life, regardless of how many oaths of loyalty he took to his adopted country – he cheered up briefly. “Except” I added “Ireland declares war on Canada. Then you’re really screwed”.

I thought of him today as the newspapers inform me that Ireland is considering issuing a ‘certificate of Irishness’ to those who qualify.  It’s not clear what degree of Irishness is required but those who can establish or have established for them that their roots are Irish will get the certificate.  Apparently there’s a real interest among the Irish diaspora, especially in – yes, right first time – the United States.  

It could be a money-spinner. If even a fraction of the 40 million people in the US said to have Irish ancestry apply, and if the certificate issued costs, um, let’s say €10 a head,  that could be a nice little earner, not to mention the reinforcement of the Irish diaspora as  a source of tourism and investment.   It’s an undeniable fact: there are people – again, more often than not American – who like framing their achievements and hanging them in a place of honour.

Sorry, but the whole venture makes me want to put back my head and screech briefly.  Surely being Irish has to do with, yes, your ancestry, but also the interest you take in Irish culture, your familiarity with the country and its people? Getting a certificate for framing proves only that you’re  hung up on hanging things,  and that you’d be well-advised to get a life while there’s still time. 

I'm not just me, you know

I was talking to a man last week and all the time we were talking (or he was talking - it was largely a speaker-listener relationship),  he kept impressing on me...well, impressing on me his own importance. I was told about a number of high-powered projects he had been involved in,  about other projects he is currently involved in,  about a number of important people he knows. No, not knows - is close to. Meets at their clubs. Has to his place for dinner. It got to the point where I was reluctant to mention an event or individual of any standing because I knew that somehow, he'd find a way of explaining how deeply involved he himself was with that event and/or how the individual of standing was actually his best mate.

What is it that prompts people to talk in this I-was-speaking-to-Salman-Rushdie-the other-day' way?  I put this question to three friends of mine  last night (you wouldn't be interested in them, they're of no standing worth mentioning) and two of them agreed that such people are pompous dick-heads who deserve to have their backsides kicked regularly to bring them down to earth.  That's a tempting suggestion but maybe a bit unfair. My guess is that it's a case of insecurity. People like my man last week have a subconscious fear that if they present just themselves to the world, without frills so to say, that won't be enough,  the world will be dismissive or laugh at them.

It's the same urge that drives people to use titles. The most obvious example is Catholic priests who can't  speak of fellow priests or even themselves without the title 'Father': 'That man there is Father Mickey Murphy and I'm Father Joe Soap".  The medical profession is famous for it - "This is Dr  Wilson"  - and likewise the academic world: 'I'd like you to meet Professor Jones".  The person him or herself won't be enough,  there's a need to buttress with titles.

Similarly with my man last week. The unfortunate individual feels he must impress on the world how elevated is his place in it, because if he doesn't  people will dismiss him as a mediocrity or even a nobody.They might even snigger at him.  So like the Wizard of Oz he constructs his facade of connections and enterprises. No, it's not ass-kicking the poor man needs. It's tummy-rubbing, preferably from a plump motherly figure, who'll tell him he's a grand little man, and  if he could just believe in himself enough to take the leap, it's amazing  how people will like and respect  him.

Alternatively, of course, he could stay exactly the way he is and go on emphasising the important connections and the mighty projects he's involved with. That was the suggestion of my third friend when we talked about it last night. "You think he should go on talking about his important friends and his major project-involvement?  You want him to go on boasting? For God's sake why?"   "Because I find him hilarious" my third friend replied. "And God knows we all need a good laugh".

Long to reign over us?

 So QE2 plans to visit the south of Ireland next Spring. That's something to look forward to, isn't it? As we struggle through January and February, the cuts biting ever deeper, weary from the rains of March and the showers of April, we can turn to each other and say "Don't forget - Her Majesty is coming!" 

The way the English commentators see it, it's really a question of people growing up - or to be exact, the pesky Irish doing so.  “After writing so much over the years about fighting, divisions and enemies, perhaps the next chapter in Anglo-Irish history will be entitled simply 'neighbours'”. 

See? You thought it was about political division  and domination when all the time it was really just a neigbourly difference of opinion.  What’s more, we must thank no less a man than David Cameron for paving the way for QE2.  It seems his speech in the House of Commons was so open and honest about Bloody Sunday, it’s washed away all the ill-feeling and sense of grievance on the part of the Irish.  All right, Cameron did argue that Bloody Sunday was an aberration and other than that the British Army did a sterling job in the north during the Troubles, but sure people were clapping so hard  by then, they probably didn’t hear that bit.

So that’s it – all friends now and don’t mention you know what and get out the red-white-and-blue bunting from the attic. There’s just one slightly dark cloud. If Richard Bruton had succeeded last week in his little heave to remove Enda Kenny as leader of Fine Gael,  he would very probably have had the privilege of meeting QE2 next April.  In which case he’d surely have found a way of smuggling in his brother John, the former Taoiseach. Your remember John Bruton?  He was the man who, as Taoiseach,  welcomed Prince Charles to Ireland and declared it to be “the happiest day of his life”.  One can only imagine the orgasmic delight he’d have taken from an encounter with QE2.

Still, not to worry. There are sufficient Irish politicians with similar passion for royalty ready to take his place.  I just hope Her Majesty is understanding and forgiving about that silly neighbourly spat we had in 1916.