Death of A Gentleman

R.I.P. John McGahern. His writings moved me more than words can express, making sense of ancient grievances and breathing lyrical life into the dusty realm of Irish literature. He will be sadly missed. More anon.

The Cartoon Thieves

Last August, myself and my significant other embarked on a whirlwind, unplanned tour of this fair isle. Originally, a (former) friend had promised me the keys to her parent's holiday home in Dingle, where we would recuperate after a manic summer. However, despite repeated assurances to the contrary, the day arrived and ex-friend wasn't answering her phone. Confronting her at work, I affected a 'how could you possibly fuck me over like this' stance, while she chose the 'I honestly thought it was next weekend, and I've lost my phone' path. Suspicious, I took my phone out and proceeded to call hers. The concomitant slatiness of her pallor confirmed my worst supsicions before i heard a familiar ringtone - hers - she had been lying all along. I never found out why and we haven't spoken since. No apology. No cottage.

I digress. Crestfallen, we resolved to make the best of a bad situation, and headed off with little intention but to remain alive for the weekend. We took in Tralee, bereft of the fun and frolics one might associate with the Rose of Tralee, which was being held that weekend, and had a tasty chinese meal prepared and served by the speedy gonzalez of the waitering world. On to Dingle, and the Blaskets, where I berated a long-since deceased Peig Sayers for ruining the lives of innumerable leaving cert students with her drab portrayal of island life. We had pizza in a funky wine bar and stole a poetry book which neither of us have ever read, and partook in a session with a one-dimensional lunatic accordion player and a drunken navvy who could affect the sound of a flute...with his bare hands. Our day trip to Killarney was hijacked by two hitchikers, with whom we drank far too much in a pub outside Killorglin while waxing lyrical on the vacuity of the modelling world. I also had my first run on our trip - 2 miles up and down a threatening hill drenched in summer rays. It would be reasonable to suggest that I hold our wonderful excursion in the highest regard, and the love that had been born months beforehand flourished and grew to an almost unimaginable level.

But we weren't through. Onward to Galway, where we bunked with Sean and Karen, old dear friends. At a loss as to how to pass one lazy evening, we took a chance on this band. And they blew us away. I had never been more impressed than I was by their electic mix of rockabilly and euphoria. Their craftsmanship was unprecedented in my experience. For months I plundered the interweb, seeking morsels of info on their present shenanigans. I found none...until today. On Monday 20 March, The Cartoon Thieves, in all their resplendent, indifferent glory, play Voodoo. I cannot say enough about these guys, they are absolutely fantastic, and I guarantee they won't disappoint. Go along, it won't cost an arm...or a leg.

Now to add my two cents...

Where were you when the Dublin riots broke out? I was happily tucking into Frank McNally's column in Saturday's Times, safely aboard the 12.40 to Westport. As the train skulked through the lazy, cold spring sunshine, I received a text from my younger brother. It read 'Dublin is burning'. I was reminded of the late Bill Hicks, who suffered a similar fate when the admittedly more serious carnage broke out in L.A.

Like Small Ball of Anger,I was too busy thinking about the whole thing to blog about it any sooner. I'd spent the previous week complaining that little of interest ever happened in Dublin, so the irony was not lost on me as i sat on a train while disaffected urban types and republican cranks ripped the main thoroughfare to shreds.

Excellent witness statements can be found here, here, here and here. As for the response it has evoked, well, it's clear that the condemnations of the establishment have been motivated broadly by two different considerations; one, the unflinching desire to smear the shinners in any way possible ahead of the 90th anniversary commemoration of 1916, and the wish to avoid a discussion surrounding the underlying cause of the bulk of the rioting; the poorly-articulated grievances of an urban underclass. Clad in the jerseys of clubs from the imperial atrium that they loathe so much, who wished to vent their anger at a state and media that they feel cares so little about them.

It is difficult to feel any sympathy towards these louts, especially when they were all bedecked in far more expensive clothes than most of us can afford. And it would be inaccurate to ascribe to the mob anything but an epithet of thuggery. As for republican grievance, I'm with Karl on the level of hating said one-eyed beast with a venom normally reserved for reactionaries like Joe Duffy and Ray D'Arcy.

The march was a bad idea. I see no reason why an organisation that was to spread the idea to 'Love Ulster' needs to promulgate such a message down here. Surely they have far more pressing business at home. Until the people of Northern Ireland get their collective shit together, there's no point trying to spread the positive word. Because it doesn't exist.

In the other hand, I'm disappointed that we couldn't turn the other cheek. I don't believe Orangemen marching down O'Connell Street is an incitement to violence. At least it shouldn't be. They pose no threat to us. And yes, they're bigots. But do we not want Unionists to do business with the Shinners, who want nothing less than the abolition of the northern statelet, in politics and government? Surely if we do, we must accept the right of wreck-the-head Nordies to march here. Furthermore, it must be stated that the Orange Order, like the G.A.A. and the Catholic Church, is an All-Ireland institution.

The march was an excuse for those who feel left behind, rightly or wrongly, by the agressive economic expansion of the last ten years. I thoroughly condemn the wrong-headed violence and the intellectual emptiness of their actions. Nevertheless, I find their reaction interesting. This was the first urban riot in the history of the state, a poorly-organised but extremely passionate attack on the power of the centre. Irony of Ironies, by hijacking a protest organised by nationalism against unionism to vent the anger of a disaffected minority against the organs of state power, did these scumbag rioters unwittingly write the first words of a new chapter in the history of our society?

A tentative thesis, yes, but one that certainly merits further discussion.

On a personal level, as I watched coverage of the riot later that evening, it saddened me to see the city in flames. I love Dublin deeply, words failing to convey my connection with its nooks and crannies. When I lived in Rathgar, I would walk to town on a Saturday to peruse the second hand bookshops and perhaps busk if it wasn't too cold, and as I crossed Portobello bridge, vibrant with its elegant swans and the drone of those sitting on the lock further down at the barge, I would feel the city rise through me, its urban beat pulsating through my body and welcoming me home. Now, I live in Drumcondra and on my route to town I pass through the modern-day tenements, the loins of Saturday's riots. And I fucking hate them for hurting the city that means everything to me.*

*I know this is a selfish view, but I believe the events of the 25th of March had a personal relevance for us all, as citizens of Dublin and I would welcome those sentiments from you all.