Banana Republic

Two journalists, summoned to the Mahon Tribunal face hefty fines and or a a spell in prison, because of their refusals to reveal the source of information leaked into the public domain about payments to Bertie Ahern when Finance minister.

The Mahon Tribunal was established in the teeth of the opposition of Fianna Fail politicians in Dublin to look into corrupt payments to politicians of all political stripes. It has done a very good job so far.

We all know that such a tribunal must have strict rules about disclosures. Yet the information about Ahern was leaked not to cause mischief, but because it was felt it was never going to be made public. It was to be buried, to be revealed, if at all only partially. Had it not been for the actions of the journalists we would not now know about Bertie's little present of £38,000. Nor would we know about the £8.000 appearance fee (or whatever else it might be called).

We are faced with a really bizarre situation, not one fitting a so-called liberal democracy. Those who expose lying and low standards in high places are imprisoned, while those politicians whom they have exposed are left free - to run the country.

And as to Biffo's contention that Bertie didn't break any law because there was no law there to break, that just shows how rotten our political system is. So because there were no guidelins saying it was wrong for a serving minister to accept payment for speaking at an event, over and above his hefty ministerial salary, it wasn't wrong is mealy-mouthed in the extreme. "Sure if it was wrong wouldn't The Church condemn it?" Perhaps Mr Ahern was speaking in a private capacity, as a private citizen. Perhaps it was a seminar on how people in public life can cope with the breakdown of their marriage, or how they can chastise their wife. We will see.

Bertie's visit to Cavan

Yesterday (thursday) witnessed a red letter day for Cavan when it received a visit from no less a luminary than an tea shock Bartholomew Patrick Ahern. Party functionaries were out in force with balloons, bunting, signs etc. It reminded me indeed of old Canon Spooner who once proclaimed: "When the boys come back from France we'll have the hags flung out."

The television news showed Bertie flanked by a representative sample of the FF organisation. Maybe Louie Walsh could help them to go out on their own. They could call themselves "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly". There was Brendan Smith (the good), D. Wilson and C. kelly. I'm not going to say which is which, for fear that the last-named would attempt to send me a solicitor's letter in a vexatious and futile libel suit.

But the event was marred somewhat when a mystery caller sent in a request to local radio station Northern Shite for Bertie. The caller, who identified himself only as "er... er ... Mack the Knife" was very specific in what he wanted played for the Tea shock. It was that anthem of the 1970s ABBA's "Waterloo". Who amongs us cannot remember with a frisson where we were and what we were doing when we first heard that song for the first time? The colours of the flares or bell-bottomed trousers we were wearing? I bet some in the Soldiers of Destiny are now wishing that Mary Harney hadn't decided to spend more time with her food.

Signposts

About a decade ago the local blobby roll published a letter from some sincerely bewildered Aussies. They explained how they had been travelling in Ireland and had lost their way, thanks to a sign-post having been deliberately turned the wrong way. They found themselves in the paradise of Cavan. It was beautiful they said, and they could not believe that such a jewel was being kept hidden by those responsible for tourism promotion. They ended their letter with a call for money to be spent on promoting Cavan as a tourism destination. They were obviously naive souls, unaware that money was already being spent on promoting Cavan's tourism assets. But they were genuinely unaware of this.

In my in-bred spirit of bloody-mindedness I penned a little letter of my own to the paper, titled Tinker Tailor Soldier Tourist. It was obvious that the most effective means of promoting Cavan was to use underhand and unorthodox means, taken perhaps from the pages of John le Carre. Perhaps there should be a new breed of tourism touts who would form a veriable fifth column. They would stand at strategic cross-roads in neighbouring districts, adopting the disguise of farmers looking at cattle in fields, but really keeping a look-out for the tell-tale signs of tourists who had lost their way. To their entreaties for directions they would give false information, directing them instead to County Cavan.

The local paper published my letter. Back then it still had some aspirations towards decency, since pulverised by the perverted desires of some members of staff to feed the narcissistic proclivities of their friends for cheap publicity. But leaving that to one side, let's go back to the Australian's letter. Since then much money has been spent on tourism in Cavan. The present government is to be lauded for increasing the amount. But what difference has it made?

Let us go back to the specific topic of sign-posting. Prime Minister Bertie Ahern is coming to Cavan this week, but heaven forbid he might look for the spanking new, "state-of-the-fart" tourism office. He won't find it, especially if he follows the signs. Now call me an arrogant sot but what sort of people put up wrong signposts? I can understand not putting up any at all. "Ah fuck it, I can't bother me arse putting up fuckin' signs. Sure can't the hoors ax [sic] som'in if they get lost like?" But to go to the trouble of commissioning signs and erecting them apparently at random implies imbecillity. "Ah sure what odds? If tha get lost tha get lost. Sure it can't be helped."

Recently a friend told me of a new campaign to promote Cavan and Monaghan involving TV advertising. This involved shots of people fishing, or at least holding a rod, and teeing off in a game of golf. These took place somewhere in County Cavan but where wasn't alluded to. It could have been anywhere. So, come to (or in) Cavan, fish and play golf. That's it is it? But I should hardly be surprised at the apparent reticence of the TV campaign to identify the sights shown. Those who commissioned and oversaw the campaign are familiares. They don't know the identities of the locations themselves. Some of them don't know where Cavan is. "Is it in Northern Ireland?" And don't forget that the camera team didn't know the places from the proverbial Adam. They are usually strangers, getting their overnight accommodation expenses in addition to their fees.

I have no time for this marketing crap. Tourism in Cavan is not just a product, to be promoted like a tin of baked beans or a brand of de-oderant. It is a far more complex phenomenon. For my part I liked to promote Cavan light-heatedly in My Only Planet Guide to Cavan. This mixed fact and fantasy, filling in the gray gaps with elements from my at times thwarted imagination, a la Myles na Gopaleen. Those who want to savour this can do so on my Tips for tourists page of my website. It may not be great literature but I certainly enjoyed writing it far more than reading the annodyne shite emanating from Tourism Ireland. Of course I was taken to task by a blow-in who, though hailing from San Francisco, retired to Ireland where he was inducted into the family. I was told in a most condescending manner that though I might be aiming to emulate Monty Python, I had missed the mark by a wide margin. i was also told that I could do far better. My response is that I think that I can, when the muse visits me, write stuff far superior to the often repetitive and silly dribble of Monty Python; Why should I produce stuff acceptable to "the family"? So that they can purloin it (attributing it to one of their shady members)? People might think that I want to participate in the shameful charivari which is Irish tourism promotion and rub shoulders with the Brute-wreaking wife-beaters in their oily suites. No bloody way Jose. As I said to the disapproving commentator: Fuck Off!

Prime Minister's visit

I received an invitation today from my local parliamentarian Brendan Smith to attend a meeting that will be addressed by our dear and much loved Tee-shock Bartholomew Ahern next Thursday. I am grateful for such a sign of prestige. Now Brendan's a good bloke (some might say too "good" for his line of business). Some have even said (sotto voce of course) that his relative lack of political preferment and government promotion is not due to a lack of talent and skill on his part, but to a rumour that Burtie the Barrow-boy doesn't like him. If this be true it is yet another of Brendan's assets.

I won't be able to attend. My darling Rosie is paying me an extended visit and for the next two weeks I will only have eyes for her. Furthermore I don't think I'd be able to breathe at such an event. Now I don't speak of the many "party workers", many of them brain-dead and hopelessly misguided, who probably have had an original thought as often as they've had sex. No. I refer to the many hangers-on, "developers", tricks, assorted pond-life, "familiares" and members of the parastatal officer Corp who will be in attendance. Of course the event will attain wall-to-wall coverage in the local blobby-roll called the Anglo-Celt. But I'll be glad I'm not there. No doubt it will go well. Burtie need have no worries about awkward questions.

Hungary for Power

The demonstrations which have become a nightly occurrence on the streets of Budapest are the most serious development in Hungary since the fall of Communism, maybe even since the Hungarian revolution of 1956.

I'm old enough to remember the euphoria that swept Europe in the fall of 1989. The estranged nations of the east were finally coming back into the democratic fold. The years of oppression and lies were at an end. I can't look back on that time without hearing the Ode to Joy from Beethoven's Ninth. "Freunde! Freunde!!" And yet less than two decades on and the people of Hungary are demonstrating, not against a corrupt and authoritarian regime that has clung to power by manipulations and threats, but a corrupt regime which has actually received the imprimatur of the electorate in polls deemed eminently free and fair.

Prime minister Ferenc Gyurcsany sparked the whole thing by boasting in a secretly-taped party meeting that his government had lied to gain re-election and that his government had done sweet FA for the past two years. Nobody likes a liar. I sense though that there is more to the anger of the Hungarian demonstrators.

They're not stupid. They've learned fast about democracy. It isn't populated by high-minded orators for whom the public good is the supreme law. No, it is peopled by liars, crooks and swindlers whose main goal, no matter what their political stripes, is to reap as many material rewards for themselves, their families, their loves and their friends. If our own dear Prime Minister were to go on national television and say "I loyed", there wouldn't be any marches. People would say: "Get over it Bertie, we've known for ages that you're a liar." However, in Hungary it was the bragging of Ferenc Gyurcsany that has infuriated the people. He was boasting that he had pulled a fast one over those suckers amongst the electorate and what's more he'd got away with it. But is this the first thing Ferenc Gyurcsany has got away with? He is widely believed to be Hungary's richest man. But where did his riches come from? That's what many people in Hungary are asking. The fall of communism seemed to herald untold riches compared to the dreary drudgery of State-sponsored and enforced poverty, but most of those who wer

Ask the family

I live in a green and pleasant land called Ireland. The part of the country I live in may not have breath-taking scenery, rugged coasts, but it is not bad. In fact, apart from the smell of the pig shit and the fumes from the local rendering plant the air is clean, the drink cheap and the women easy - okay so I lie on both counts.

The place should be promoted better for tourism. But it isn't. For a start those who should be promoting it aren't from the area. They are marketers (who don't know all that much about marketing). Many of them are supercilious, cheeky bastards and bitches. And let us not forget that they owe their position in tourism promotion to membership of "the family".

The family can be seen as a large and amorphous network, held together by loyalty to the Fianna Fail party (which, for non Irish people has governed here more often than anyone else). They may also be related to leading figures, both past and present, in the government. Membership of "the family" is also conditional on being incompetent. If you are competent, why would you want to join? And if you are competent, you wouldn't be even invited to join.

Members of "the family" are like an infection in the public service. They gnaw on the marrow of government. They are always noticeable by driving the same top-of-the-range vehicles. They always are able to draw on nice fat expense accounts which mean that overnight accommodation in the best hotels is never a problem.

It is often said that there is no difference between the two most important political parties in this country. That's true but there are differences of emphasis. For one thing the Fine Gael / Blue Shi(r)t / Fine Girl ya are crowd do have more respect for private enterprise, whereas the Fianna Fail crowd are more interested in enriching themselves at the public trough. Once engorged though, they are all equally opposed to people asking about the sources of their wealth.

Now the Fine Gael party are largely made up of pale pink wimps who nail their political principles to their rustic ranch fencing. This way they can be easily moved. Now I believe in giving credit where it is due, and I'd like to take this opportunity of thanking a Fine Gael candidate for attending my mother's funeral. (I won't forget it Joe.) His party colleague and former member of the legislature who lives nearer to here must have been on holiday. He's certainly out for lunch. My mother like a lot of my family (though not me) was from the Fianna Fail side of the political divide, though like so many other people they lost out to the more recent political converts with their big cheque-books. Yet a member of that party who sits in the Upper House of the Irish parliament never bothered to attend or to send a message of condolence. What's more the miserable little cunt still has some copies of a book I gave him on loan. Well, if you can't lend a book to a parliamentarian who can you lend it to? But I am biding my time. Tiocfaidh mo la, is cinnte.

Planet Parker

Planet Parker

Country & Irish

Country and Irish
My interests in cultural anthropology have naturally inclined me to an interest in the phenomenon of Country and Irish music. This differs slightly from Country and Western. The latter is firmly rooted in the Protestant work ethic, family values, stand-by-your-man, homophobia, voting Republican etc. The Irish variety is firmly Catholic in its religious underpinnings, conformist, "keep-your-mouth-an'-your-legs-shut-but-your-ears-open" etc. Its political orientation leaned towards the Fianna Fail party but blueshirts were to be found. Its political credo wais anything but revolutionary. It wais committed to the continuation of the establishment, the Status Quo (not the band mind you) and the happiness and contentment of those "whom God had placed above you". It wais also definitely homophobic but at country-and-Irish "dos", i.e. dinner dances and socials, a blind eye was turned to practical lesbianism. Draughty parish halls and other venues may have been distant from the balmy breezes of Lesbos but still Sappho's casted her footsteps, albeit in "sensible shoes", for it was far from uncommon to see women dancing with each other, mainly women of a certain age.

Now one of the well-known exponents of Country-an-Irish [sic] has to be Tom McBride, or as he is known to generations of Irish people, Big Tom. A friend of mine made a film about Big Tom's impact on his native Castleblaney in County Maawnahan [sic again. It must have been yan Brussels Sprouts] called A Happy Kind of Sadness. Two pigs i.e. Gardai siochana were interviewed about how they felt about Big Tom. One said. "Lookad, we have to work in this town." The camera then turned to a number of street urchins eating peanuts or junk food out of packets. Their hair-styles betokened aspirations to membership of some punk band - but remember Cyaaaaaselblayny's about two decades behind the rest of the world. Yet instead of head-butting the interviewer these corner-boys professed themselves to be devotees of Big Tom, assuring himr: "Aw Gawd Aye. Big Tom's de finest musishin' in Blaney." But the Piece de la Resistance was provided by some sixty-somethings who said they were "Big Tom's Ouldest Fans". They'd followed their hero everywhere, including to Camden Town where "a crowd o' six tousind wanted t' see Big Tom an' the chief o' Police in London hadta direct de traffic an' cuntrol de crowth." (Does Osama Bin Laden know about Big Tom I wonder?) "... But dem were de days, when the wimmin dresst like wimmin. Jaysus ya shud've seen the f'roxx tha had on dem." And no doubt the frocks stayed on them.

And that's just it. The message of Country-and-Irish was very clear. You'd never seen a naked woman until your wedding night, by which time it's was too late. There was no divorce so you had her for life. She, of course, has never seen a naked man far less an erect penis. But the old retail philosophy came into play: once you'd broke it you'd bought it, and you were committed to a life-time of struggle and hardship and bringing up a large family that you could hardly feed far less clothe and which were destined to be scattered throughout the face of the earth, because Father McPrick in his comfy presbytery commanded you to do so.

Country and Irish music provided a sound-track to Irish romance for decades. P.J. and Mary decided that they kinda liked one another, sort of. OK she had legs on her like tree trunks and a face tha was interesting, i.e. she wouldn't want to take you by surprise, and he was a bit of a wimp except when he had a few drinks inside him, but he was a different person on the pitch. So they'd start "goin' steady", i.e. attending dances and going to pubs together. But he always left her home. There was no cohabitation. I knew of one couple who were "goin' steady' for fourteen years and then the relationship petered out in the sands. I commented ruefully "What happened. Did they run out of chat?" Chat was the stock-in-trade of discourse between two people who were keeping company. It usually consisted of inquiries about the health of each other's parents, as well as little bits of news e.g. Uncle Mick was coming home from Derby for the Christmas. His son Michael was grown up and he was doin' a line with one who was as black as the ace o' spades - Be the hokey. (By way of a tangential aside I knew a Monaghan girl who was 'doin' a line" with a man from Zimbabwe. Her brother nearly had a fit, until it was explained that he was a white Zimbabwean.) There were also comments about the weather and the impact it might have on the hay. But tha was it. The male retained a wall of silence towards his girlfriend. He was ignorant, or pretended to be, of her womanly needs. It was true he knew she acted "a bit strange" once a month "but sure that's wimmins' tings". As for her she might have longed to say to her boyfriend. "Take me in the back seat of your Ford Cortina. I long for you to push your pulsating prick deep into my anticipating pussy... " but if she had such thoughts they would have been sinful, and she'd have been forced to tell them to the priest who'd have been shocked ... andt intrigued.

Such "hands on the table" romances are becoming rarer in Ireland, even in such God-forsaken holes as Cavan, Monaghan and Leitrim, but the popularity of County-and-Irish is as great as ever. A new generation of performers has come on stream such as the Grannies' heart-throb Daniel O'Donnell or Declan Nurney who seems oddly proud of the fact that he's from a dump of a place called Drumlish. For my part, always being a more discerning chap, I'm off to listen to my CD collection of Kenny Rogers ... Diane if your goin' to do him wrong again, but this could never fitted into the Country and Irish canon. No good Catholic woman would ever do her man wrong. And what's more the only girls called Diane in Ireland are Protestants. I knew two. Really nice they were.

A tactless pontiff

A tactless pontiff
I like many others felt heatened by Joseph Ratzinger's choice of Benedict as his papal name. Given his reputation many felt that Innocent or maybe Julius might have been a more fitting papal role model.

I like taking the micky, and like a certain oboist I don't always keep mine zipped up. Now I can't stop referring to the ex Joseph Ratzinger as Pope Benny. Some readers of my blog may be just old enough to remember Benny, the slow-witted drooling farm-hand on ATV's Crossroads. Benny had a major impact on me as I grew up. One might say he helped shape my personality and intellect. I was reminded of my debt to Benny the other night when a Catholic bishop from Birmingham came on BBC's Newsnight to defend Pope Benny.

I have read Benny's address from Regensburg and there isn't a word in it about Miss Dianne - that's gratitude. My initial response to it is that it is a very reasonably argued piece. In fact, it's so reasonable it's boring. It would make a fine paper in some dusty old Zeitschrift, buried deep in the stacks of a German university library. But it had a far wider audience, and Benny should have been aware of this. He might have hoped that some of his hearers had fallen asleep during its delivery. But that is a luxury only senior lecturers and professors can afford.

I've never been a supporter of Joseph Ratzinger. He has many fine personal qualities, not least a love of music. But because of his own theological certainties he has often been a cold, heartless disciplinarian. Part of his belief system is that the western, so-called Christian world is intellectually superior to others. I don't share such a belief. Yet even Ratzinger does not see such superiority as being based on silly notions of race. There is no prejudice. He is a reactionary but no bigot. He's too much of an intellectual for that, unlike many of those who danced and sang at his election but who have been rather disappointed because the Vatican's enforcer has so far failed to stamp out all testimony of the humane in the Catholic church.

He intended his remarks to be critical of an aspect of Islam. Some might say he was entitled to make them, but he should have thought of the context of presen-day realities. I''ll fight to the death for my right of free speech, but who am I? An unknown geek in front of a computer somewhere. A lecturer or professor in some German university or seminary might have been able to say what the pope said. No one would report it. But the pope is the head of the biggest religious sect in the world. If he mumbled something to himself while playing Mozart no one would hear it, But this was a public occasion. The world is beset by tension between Christianity and Islam, much of it deliberalty heightened and manufactured. Surely even Joseph Ratzinger knows this? Or does he believe that, like some Irish bishop, he can say and do anything and anyone, in defiance of the world, secure that any opposition can be silenced with a swing of the crozier? Could it be that he is showing a trait of devil-nay-care stubbornness typical, according to myth, of Bavarians? ... Das ist so typisch Bay'risch nicht waht?

It reminds me of a joke I once heard. Most things do. In the mid 1970s the Irish Republic established diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union. Two Foreign ministry officials, one Irish, the other Russian, were discussing freedom of speech.
"In Ireland" said the Irish official "there is complete freedom of expression. I could stand in the middle of Dublin's O'Connell Street and proclaim that Dr Garret FitzGerald [then Ireland's Foreign Minister] is a buffoon and a lunatic. Nothing would happen to me."
"It is the same in my country" replied the Russian. "I could stand in the middle of Moscow's Red Square, proclaiming that Dr Fitzgerald was a buffoon and a lunatic. Absolutely nothing would happen to me."

The pope stated that he is opposed to the use of force in attempts to promote religion. Would this not have been a fine opportunity to condemn the wanton barbarity of the Crusades then? The destruction of life and culture carried on during La Reconquista in Spain? Or might that have offended too many of his friends who do the work of God? Or better still would it not have been high time to adopt the good husband's approach to the past? Be like dad and keep mum.

Benny has now apologised, and I believe he is sincerely contrite. But the damage has been done. He spoke much about reason. Surely he knows that the world is not a reasonable place, least of all universities.

Prejudice

Prejudice
Racism has reared its ugly head here in Leprechaun land. I blame the church for some of it. Now generations of Irish men and wome have done truly heroic work in the developing world. Their example has been held up to congregations. As a young boy I used to think of becoming a missionary myself, but I have reconciled this with a latter-day commitment to pursue the missionary position as frequently as possible. But generations of mass attendees were told of the plight of "pagans", who were invariably black, and who needed saving. There used to be a special collection box with a figure of a young African boy standing over a slit. You popped in your few bob and the figure of the African would bow obeissantly.

Racism and prejudice is a horrible thing. It is based on stupidity. on ignorance, and on fear.

As a disabled person I've encountered a fair amount of prejudice. This has been especially so in the world of work. Naturally, it is always smeared in reasonable-sounding plattitudes, such as "They" [the disabled] "just can't do things we" [the able-bodied] "can do, like drive a car." The people who've said this about me aren't Poles, Nigerians or Black Romanian Bastards. No, they've been nice, white, church-going Cavanmen, pillars of the community. And then I attracted a further element of prejudice here in Cavan: I had a number of academic qualifications so I wasn't a drooling idiot.
But this post is neither the time nor the place to discuss my experiences of prejudice. Am I angry? No, just sad because stupid people make me sad.
Apart from the tragic minority of babies who are born with part of their brains missing we are all born with the same brain with the same cerebral capacity. The fact that some people go on to be rocket scientists has got nothing to do with the brain we're born with. That's the same for everyone. As for "intellectual quotients" such methodologies have been largely discredited. The vast majority of us lead ordinary lives. This isn't because we are born stupid. The fact is that we become stupid as life goes on. This gets enforced early on if a teacher tells us enough times that we're dumb, but we're not really dumb. We just aren't good at giving the "right answer" to the teacher. But then many people wear their stupidity with pride, like a badge of honour. In fact some actually consider themselves superior to the rocket scientists. But they're wrong - theyre just the same.
And one of the ways of really consolidating your stupidity is to think prejudicially about other folk: Pakie bastards, niggers, unmarried mothers, queers ... whatever you're having yourself.
But it's no good telling them they're dumb: they lap it up. They take it as a complement.

So much racism and prejudice goes back to fear. Animosity towards the outsider is a very old phenomenon. He (or she) may be a thief, a carrier of disease. This was particularly the case in rural communities whose inhabitants rarely went beyond the bounds of the village. To find such fears still in our technologically advanced world shows that, just because we've sent men to the moon, we're still nothing more than a crowd of apes who're afraid of the dark.

The "Foreigner" is known throughout Europe i.e. L'etranger who is, by definition etrange, Der Auslander in Germany or the concept of the nemyets in Russian. The nemyets was anyone from outside your village or mir, and don't forget mir is still the Russian word for world. It is also the Russian word for peace. The nemyets (plural nemtsy) is also the word for German in Russian. The concept of the "foreigner" is more complex here in sleepy old Cavan in the paw of the Celtic tiger. You see, for years there was, and indeed still is, the concept of the "blow-in". This is effectively any non Cavan person. It was a term of abuse. Well do I remember Liam Cosgrave standing up at a Blueshits rally aka National conventio and telling the blowins that they could either blow out or blow up. It was applied not only to those from other counties in Ireland, but I have heard of people referred to as "blow-ins" from Butlersbridge, only three or four miles down the road from the Jerusalem of Cavan. The problem with being a blow-in was that you couldn't do anything about it. It was like original sin. Once again this stemmed from an inferiority complex for the blow-in was invariably felt to be looking down at Cavan people. Now, imagine what it must be like if your mother tongue isn't English, or even if it is, you speak it better than Cavan people. When I hear people making disparaging remarks about "fucking foreigners" I say "hold on, my girlfriend is a foreigner. She's a citizen of the UK and as her possible Irish ancestors are five or six generations back she's not entitled to non-domicillary citizenship of the Irish Republic." But they then try to back-pedal. Rosie's not a "real" foreigner. She speaks English, and... and she's white.

But there is fear as well. There is the fear of these people coming in and "taking our jobs". But then no one has ever taken our jobs. That's not how it works. The jobs are in the gift of Irish employers who are naturally tight-fisted bastards who want to screw as much as possible out of their workers for as little as poss. So the job is offered to Janusz who does the same work - maybe more - than Micky but for half the wages. Janusz never gets a sicky on a Monday morning. Don't blame him for being able to keep heart and soul together for less than Micky. And what's more he probably has to send home some of his wages to his wife and family, whereas Micky's generosity to his nearest and dearest has a lot to do with whether he's back on the waggon or not.

Then mythology plays its part. Many of the Cavan racists believe that blacks are better - they're bigger. In other words they are better endowed in the old John Thomas department than the Cavan racists with their measly little tassles. Of course they feel inadequate, believing that Cavan women will go for the guy with the big cock ev'ry taam.

Now you may have read what I had to say about Benny in Regensburg. Well Benny has a whole new fan club amongst Ireland and Cavan's racists. You see, he was giving it to the Muslims. That's a good thing because well Muslims are bad. They suck funny water pipes; they speak a different language from the racists (though frequently they speak the racists' vernaculars far better than the racists). But perhaps the greatest problem with Muslims, and this is what Benny was really getting at, is that they're brown and some of them are even black.

I'm not making any of this up by the way. Such "beliefs" are alive and well in Ireland, and to be honest they are PURE FUCKING SICK. People who hold them oughtn't to be allowed on the streets. They need counselling.

Yet some would say I'm the candidate for counselling. I have two fairly serious disabilities, but I'm not fucked up. I'm truly happy. I don't wake up wondering "Who will I hate today?" I take people as they come, and nineteen times out of twenty I'm not disappointed. I've never had the strength to hate people. I've hated individuals but it was self-destructive. To hate a whole community would just be too much.

Yet I am told that I'm out of touch with the "real" world i.e. the little cesspit which is Cavan town, and how it is being innundated by "fucking foreigners". One racist tells me dreadful examples of criminal behaviour he has observed while cruising the streets of Cavan in the early hours of the morning. I am prompted to ask "Why are you wandering around Cavan at 1 or 2 a.m.?" I'm usually given some inadequate reply about wanting to see who is rogering who on the sly. My Chinese star sign is the snake, but I sure don't crawl at night. In fact, when it's dark, I much preferred to be tucked up in bed with my gorgeous girlfriend.

So. racism and prejudice are:
Stupid
Sick
But more than anything else they're just not nice.

I don't want to be snobbish but ranting racists usually betray their low social origins and status. As they say, you can take the snipe out of the gutter but you've still got a guttersnipe.