Europe's Second-class citizens

It has been announced that workers from Romania and Bulgaria will not have an automatic right to work elsewhere in the EC, when the two countries join next year.

Why have they been allowed to join so, if their citizens are to be effectively second-class citizens of the European Union? I feel that this is a violation of a fundamental, and I mean fundamental tenet of the EU. It makes a mockery of one of the four factor freedoms which were at the heart of the European Union's foundation: the free movement of labour.

This has been done to please racist, diseased filth like Toby - insecure little people leading shitty little lives and doing shitty little jobs which, however, they are so fearful might be taken by "foreigners".

But there is a far more insidious reasoning behind the decision, which displays a form of racism which the European Commissioners are afraid to admit to. It is designed not to thwart labour from Romania and Bulgaria in its entirety. Both countries have large communities of Roma who are the subject in both countries of frightful discrimination. I have heard them described as "black Romanian bastards". In Romania, Ceausescu may be long dead but the hatred of the Roma continues and is, in many aspects of life, institutionalised. Roma are frequently targeted for assault which are hardly ever investigated by the police who are, in most instances, sympathetic to the assailants - if not actually committing them themselves.

Some time ago a really horrible local councillor from Belturbet commented that Belturbet was in danger of being turned into Bucharest. Apart from being impressed that he knew the capital of Romania I was compelled to make the following comment, which I have had no reason to alter since. I believe that such a transformation would be an unqualified improvement for Belturbet, especially since Bucharest has been cleared of its feral dog problem.

In Bulgaria the Roma face an even worse time. An organisation called Attaka sits in the Bulgarian parliament. It makes blood-curdling statements about Roma and members have been implicated in arson attacks on Roma homes. A sickening psychotic thug named Volen Siderov, backed by Attaka, won over 21 per cent of the vote in the recent Bulgarian presidential elections, forcing incumbent president (and former historian - we have to stick together you know) Georgi Parvanov into a run-off, which he is thankfully assured of winning.

So when the regulations were announced that Romanians and Bulgarians would have to get permits to work in Ireland, but that people from these two countries would be given preferential treatment, the sub-text was clear enough: preferential treatment would indeed be given to non-Roma from these two countries.

The Roma aren't good at telling their story. It would shock too many. Nobody is quite sure how many Roma were murdered by the Nazis; a conservative estimate says half a million. It is known that over 23,000 - yes twenty-three thousand, were killed in Auschwitz alone. Along with the Jews, the Roma were targeted for extermination as part of the final solution, but unlike the Jews they did not have rich cousins in America prepared to tell in technicolor detail of their sufferings. No doubt there are those who say that, like the Jewish holocaust, the Roma holocaust never happened; that it was all part of a "holo-hoax".

I was once outraged by the ignorance and stupidity of an Irish racist who, when talking of the Roma described them as "Dirty, black, Romanian bastards." Dirty!?! How dare he say such a thing. The Roma subscribe to a very strict regime of personal and ritual cleanliness, perhaps originating in India. They will only eat certain foods (amongst them, traditionally hedgehog). They will not allow cats and dogs to share their living space. This is because both animals habitually lick their genitals while washing, and thus are unclean to the Roma. Indeed in their eyes, we, western Caucasian Europeans, are the dirty ones.


A British newspaper carried a headline that "illegal immigrants" would be fined £1.000 This reminded me of a film I saw recently with Rosie, called Children of Men - a beautiful film but very disturbing. It is set in a nightmarish world in the future where women have lost the ability to conceive, and where the radio carries messages warning people that sheltering "illegal immigrants" is a crime. The fate of those caught by the immigration police is to be caged up in concentration camps. A surreal glimpse into the future? It's already happening.


Irish minister Micheal Martin, in defending this racist move, did say something which should be remembered. Tens of thousands of workers have come into Ireland in the past number of years, and it would be difficult to perceive of a "Celtic tiger economy" without them Difficult? Impossible! If it wasn't for these people what we'd have would be a Celtic kitten, a wan, sickly, yet vastly obese creature who would never catch mice on a Monday because it was too wrecked after the weekend; which wouldn't catch mice on a Friday afternoon either; which would be "under the vet" for the rest of the week, unable and unwilling to do anything; which would respond to any attempts to move it by pissing over everything; which wouldn't even consider licking its arse after it crapped itself without a sufficiently large cash inducement; and which would defend its antipathy to catching mice (or anything else) with reference to a lack of adequate resources.

The Irish language

Whenever I think of the Irish language I am filled with an immense feeling of shame: shame that I cannot speak it better and that I don't use the little knowledge I have to its full effects. For despite the best attempts by teachers over the years to inculcate hatred towards it, I still love Irish. It is part of who I am. However, English is my vernacular. My desire is to attain a state of practical bilingualism. I would be able to get there, especially as I have attained such a situation with other language, but I'm lazy.

I don't like turning on the TV, because whenever I do so I am inevitably put into a bad mood. This morning I caught a panel discussion on, I think, RTE 1. Some little anally-retentive little prick with a Dublin 4 accent was complaining that "the money he paid in HIS taxes" was being spent to subsidise the Irish language. He claimed that he had nothing against the Irish language as such (apart from the fact that he couldn't speak it). Somebody pointed out that the government subsidises many groups, especially disadvantaged groups. "That's another matter entirely", though his demeanour suggested that he would be equally appalled by the notion of HIS taxes benefiting the poor or the "great unwashed."

Many crimes have been committed on the nation's youth over the years under the banner of promoting the Irish language. But times have changed. The lunatic, Hurley-wielding Gaelgoir fringe, so well parodied by the late Dermot Morgan, have now mostly gone to the great Feis in the sky. Any money spent by the government on promoting the Irish language is to be welcomed. No one forces anyone to speak a language in this country, though no doubt the prickeen would compel people to speak American English, so as to promote our business competitiveness.

There are some people I form an instant dislike to, and he was one of them. I would have loved to have given him a good, sharp, arse-kicking, only I fear that, given the location, he would derive too much pleasure from the experience.

The Irish language

Whenever I think of the Irish language I am filled with an immense feeling of shame: shame that I cannot speak it better and that I don't use the little knowledge I have to its full effects. For despite the best attempts by teachers over the years to inculcate hatred towards it, I still love Irish. It is part of who I am. However, English is my vernacular. My desire is to attain a state of practical bilingualism. I would be able to get there, especially as I have attained such a situation with other language, but I'm lazy.

I don't like turning on the TV, because whenever I do so I am inevitably put into a bad mood. This morning I caught a panel discussion on, I think, RTE 1. Some little anally-retentive little prick with a Dublin 4 accent was complaining that "the money he paid in HIS taxes" was being spent to subsidise the Irish language. He claimed that he had nothing against the Irish language as such (apart from the fact that he couldn't speak it). Somebody pointed out that the government subsidises many groups, especially disadvantaged groups. "That's another matter entirely", though his demeanour suggested that he would be equally appalled by the notion of HIS taxes benefiting the poor or the "great unwashed."

Many crimes have been committed on the nation's youth over the years under the banner of promoting the Irish language. But times have changed. The lunatic, Hurley-wielding Gaelgoir fringe, so well parodied by the late Dermot Morgan, have now mostly gone to the great Feis in the sky. Any money spent by the government on promoting the Irish language is to be welcomed. No one forces anyone to speak a language in this country, though no doubt the prickeen would compel people to speak American English, so as to promote our business competitiveness.

There are some people I form an instant dislike to, and he was one of them. I would have loved to have given him a good, sharp, arse-kicking, only I fear that, given the location, he would derive too much pleasure from the experience.

Bad news

I sometimes feel I'm living in a nightmare, This morning I turned to the RTE teletext news pages where my attention was drawn to one particular item:

38 TALEBAN KILLED IN AFGHANISTAN

Now I know that the Taleban are a group of bastards, but bastards they may be, but as my late mother would have said each one of those 38 had a father and a mother, probably still alive and grieving for their son. It is also likely that they were married and had children, This act, which has an air of the celebratory about it, has created a whole new raft of widows, not to mention children burning with hatred and a desire to revenge the deaths of their fathers. Sadly, when (and I say when not if) this comes to pass, the people who will suffer will also be innocent by-standers, not the puffed-up war-mongers and the poodles like Blair and Bush.

The Cavan Echo

I am dellighted to be able to speak of a truly positive development here in County Cavan, the appearance of a new local newspaper, The Cavan Echo, which is worthy of the people of the county. As I thumbed through the pages of the first edition I was overjoyed to be able to read a paper which had a truly all-embracing view of news in the area. So many things happen here but they have not been recorded. There has been a reluctance to pursue news in the Cavan area, lest it be found to offend someone. As a result true journalism has withered on the vine in the interests of a sorry and tired self-slorification of a particular group of self-important nobodies. I'm not going to point an accusatory finger but the dogs on the streets of Cavan probably know where I think the blame for this lies. As I remarked to Maria McCourt, the new paper's very able and delightful editor (if only all editors were so delightful!) I knew that a change had occurred the moment I skimmed the photographs. There were none of the toy-soldier poses of (pictured from l. to r,) the good, the bad and the unspeakable, as if they needed identifying.

But let us not talk of blame. Let us rather celebrate that there is still a niche, and a ccommercial possibility, for such a local newspaper. Perhaps this is because the Cavan Echo is fully aware of the possibilities of the Internet, not as a rival but as a partner. They plan to make the newspaper downloadable in PDF format, as well as carry blogs. The management realise that the only hope for local newspapers is to become truly innovative.

The paper was formally launched on October 19th, in the Cavan Crystal Hotel, a venue which is fully wheel-chair accessible let me add. There was a buffet meal consisting of a tasty chicken ruby, though not as tasty as the rubies made by my Rosie. The launch was attended by a charming buffet meal, while the inevitable speeches were short and incisive and free of the waffle that all too frequently tarnishes such events. Mr Peter Quinn gave an intersting and visionary contribution in which he spoke about a venture like the Cavan Echo, employing just six people, could be a force for change and progress within the Cavan area.

It is only fair for me to place my cards on the table here. Yes, I am contributing a regular feature to the paper. I'm both proud and pleased to be doing so. It was very nice to be asked. And while running the risk of being catty and the attendant threats to have me done, it is heartening for me to see my words appear in a Cavan newspaper under my by-line. In the past my prose has appeared in another Cavan publication, though under someone else's by-line. There is such a thing as intellectual property. There is also consequently something called intellectual theft, long practiced by a self-styled journalist of a long-established Cavan newspaper. While Proudhon pronounced that "Property is theft", theft is most certainly not the same as property in intellectual terms.

Let me finish by wishing the Cavan Echo every success to its staff, its advertisers, its contributors, and generally to all who sail in her.

Bonfire night comes early to Pyongyang

Most people were no doubt amazed by the pictures from Pyongyang in North Korea. The event celebrated was the 80th anniversary of the Anti-Imperialism League, or cynics might say the tenth anniversary of the last time the Dear Leader Kim Jong-il had a wank.

The reporters on Sky News spoke about "extraordinary pictures from Pyonngyang." Well, there's nothing really extraordinary about pictures of people dragooned like robots and made to move in military formations sometimes spelling out words like "Peace", "Screw" and "Shit" in Korean. This is usual prime time viewing, ever since Bruce Forsythe pulled out of a North Korean version of the Generation Game, because there was only ever going to be one family in the show: the Kims, and Korean Central TV refused to take the Irish show The Lyrics Board because it was unsure whether host Lynda Martin was a woman or a mannekin.
But last night the more I looked at these images of thousands of people carrying torches against a black background the more queasy I became. It was horrible, like a nightmare. A bit like Mississippi Burning, or maybe The Wicker Man without Britt Eckland and the sexy dancing. It was nightmarish, like something from a horror movie. There was a commentary by the North Koreans. I don't know Korean so I don't know what it said, but the announcer sounded as if he had had a vindaloo and that he was really bound up. Nothing would work.
The analogy with Mississppi Burning was not exactly crazy. We couldn't see the faces of the "protestors" in Pyongyang, so they could have been wearing white hoods. I also thought that the Nazis' torch-lit processions must have looked similar.
And one other little cavill: the gig was supposed to mark the foundation of the Anti-Imperialism League. It was accompanied by banal but jaunty North Korean marching songs. Now these don't sound very North Korean to me: there is hardly a glimmer of a pentatonic scale there. In fact, they sounded rather western, well in relative terms. They were very similar to the type of musical crap turned out by Stalin's musical minions just the last years of his reign.

Have You got a Police Record?

Of course I have - Walking on the Moon. It's an old one. I want to dispel a notion that might have got abroad. Some people might think that, because I write at such length and with such vitriol about the Fukkin' Gyards that I have an obsession with them. No I haven't. I think it only fair to say that An Garda Siochana, both past and present, counts amongst its ranks a fine array of men and women, most of whom operate to the highest standards of professionalism and who would be a credit to the police force of ANY country. Others still have made the ultimate sacrifice in the line of duty. And what is this duty? Nothing less than the protection of the people of Ireland.

Yet we have a situation, as seems to exist in Ireland now, where a minority, though a considerable one, of the police force is at the very least inept and at the very worst corrupt. We have a minister for justice who is an intellectual captive of his clerico-fascist mandarins, who doesn't really want to alienate the police force, lest they prove eventually unwilling to take on the real enemy of McDowell and his cronies, the poor and the unemployed. People are afraid to speak out for fear of attracting victimisation on themselves and their families. And who can the public complain to? Who watches the watchers?

I remember a former teacher of mine. He was called Father (not Doctor) Phil, though some of us unkindly referred to him as Pudgy - I can't think why. A favourite comment of his was that it only takes one bad apple to send the whole barrel rotten. That is a comment which can be made about An Garda Siochana. It only takes one "bent copper" to undo the great work done by others, and to tarnish their bravery and selflessness. But the culture of indiscipline comes from the top, from the most senior ranks. They have routinely failed to root out the bad apples; indeed. they've often denied their very existence.

I am not some anarchist hot-head. I believe in police forces. Maybe their continued existence reflects upon the human race's continued weakness and its inability to regulate its activities to the benefit of all without harming others. An efficient, professional police force enjoying the confidence of all sections, and I mean all sections, of the community, is a sine qua non of any society which pretends to be either liberal or democratic. Such a body not only deserves the resepct of the citizenry, but should be able to demand it as a duty of citizenship. I want a police force of which I as an Irish citizen can be proud. Speaking selfishly I want a force which responds to concerns I may have about people loitering at the bottom of my garden, which does not attempt to mow me down when crossing a street in my wheel-chair, whose members train cameras on criminals and not peaceful protesters, whose members do not indulge in a litany of racist comments about people from overseas. You might say that what I want is a respectable police force, not one that sounds as if it is made up of sewer rats.
I believe that such a police force is possible in Ireland. But then I used to believe in Father Christmas.

"Diarmuid Martin - That Fucker!"

It goes without saying that the statement in this post's title was never uttered by me. Archbishop Diarmuid Martin of Dublin is, unusually for a member of the Irish Catholic hierarchy, a man for whom I have an ocean of respect and regard. He is possessed of a quiet, unaffected charm, as well as being a man who attempts to be a true witness to his faith. He is also a man of great compassion for his fellow men, though this has been his undoing in the eyes of one rather sad specimen of pseudo humanity.

There is this individual (let's call him Toby) who has a habit of dropping in to see me uninvited. He seems to think himself so important, and everyone else so unimportant, that he can just arrive and be entertained. Many have been the occasions when I have been really busy, and my first response would have been to tell him to f"*k off (with knobs on), but I have been too indulgent towards him. On his most recent visit he started to "give out" about the pope and how he had covered up cases of clerical sexual abuse. I have long been upset by this, and so I listened to what he had to say, knowing well that it was perhaps less than sincere. (He is a man who has long been annoyed at not having been invited to join the Knights of St. Columbanus, an influential right-wing Catholic lay group. This surprises me, as recently they've been taking any scoundrel in. He has even explored the possibilities of joining the Free Masons.) I expressed my own feelings of disquiet about the handling by the Catholic Church of this sad phenomenon, and how the hierarchy had perhaps done less than they should. I immediately added how much I respected the comments made on this issue by Dr Diarmaid Martin.
"Diarmaid Martin, that fucker?" was the response. I asked why he said this.
"He wanted to bring back that black bastard that was deported."
Now as Toby knows how I feel about such intemperate racist language I went straight on the attack. Diarmaid Martin was obviously, I said, a man who took his Christianity seriously, who saw every man, woman and child on this planet as having been made in the likeness of God. I told him that he was obviously sick and unhappy, that I wake up each morning thankful for an an opportunity to experience the wonders of the world, not wondering who can I hate or despise today. Furthermore I stated that when I meet anyone, regardless of their skin colour, creed, sexual orientation or whatever, I view that person as having been sent to me by God and maybe they are God.

Yet none of this cut the slightest ice with Toby. I was told that the "black bastard" was an "illegal immigrant, who had been educated by the Irish tax payer, and ..." here I cut him off. I was so angry by this statement that I could have hit him. I'll explain elsewhere the reasons for my choler. I reminded him that many of the hundreds of thousands of people who left Ireland for England or America were technically illegal.
"But we worked" he answered, whereupon I reminded him of the stereotypes common in both England and Ireland of the lazy mick. It should be remembered that those seeking refugee status in Ireland were not allowed to work, whether they wanted to or not. As for the crap about "illegal immigrants", this man doesn't accept that there should be even legal immigrants, while the excreta about working is just that. He doesn't like the "black bastards" because, according to his sick worldview, they don't work; he doesn't like the Poles and Balts because they take Irish jobs and because they work.

I hate people with "one track minds" - though I might not mind if Toby had a more traditional "one track mind". This phenomenon usually speaks of a deeper mental malaise. It doesn't seem to matter what you're talking about with him, he'll bring it back to his sick racist prejudice. I recall the joy I felt when Rosie first pushed me around Cavan in my wheel chair. I was like a child seeing my native town again for the first time. I was also so impressed by how sympathetic the majority of motorists were who always stopped so as to allow us to cross a street. Yet when I related this to my "acquaintance" the response I got was "None of them were fucking foreigners." This was as stupid as it was banal. How could he say with such certainty that none of them were "fucking foreigners"? We didn't ask them for ID or a passport before they let us cross.


When Toby starts on his prejudicial philippics, whether against foreigners, gays, women... whatever you're havin' yourself, I feel physically sick. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to violently puke into his face. As I said above, I felt like hitting him. A number of things stopped me. The idea of me trying to hit anyone in my physical state would be laughable. But while I was very angry with him and what I perceived to be his insensitivity of my feelings I also felt immense pity for him. I could have floored him intellectually - I've been around long enough not to be frightened by stupid bigots. But I also felt that he was more of a danger to himself than to anyone else. I genuinely believe that he is not a bad person, just someone who has a whole lot of issues which only he can sort out. He has known his fair share of personal tragedy, indeed some would say more than his fair share. He is a very talented specialist who has been "fucked around", refused work and jobs for which he was more than entitled and qualified. But the people doing this weren't "Black Bastards" (how I hate that phrase) from Nigeria or Romania, but good white Irish people.

Toby attends Mass on a Sunday, usually going to the 10 o'clock showing in Cavan town's cathedral (which I long ago hristened "The Golf-Club at Prayer"). He probably believes in a place called Heaven, and all things being equal he stands as good a chance of getting there as the rest of us. But what would happen if, on passing through the pearly gates, St Peter turns out to be black? Will he demand relocation to the other place? Ah but sure I'm only wandering. He is betting on the existence of a nice Irish, White, Catholic heaven. (You've heard the joke about the guy who's being given a guided tour of heaven by an angel. As he rushes along the angel says. "In there are the Jews, over there are the Baptists, Around the corner are the Muslims..." As they walk along they come to an enclosure with a very high wall. The man asks the angel "who's in there?"
"Shhh, keep your voice down. That's where the Catholics are" replies the angel in a whisper.
"But why are you talking in a whisper?" asks the man.
"Because they think they're the only ones up here." answered the angel.

Racism and racists

Most people are by now well aware of how I feel about non-Irish people coming to work or live here. I welcome them unreservedly. I hope they have a good time and I also hope many of them will settle down and make their live here and maybe set up businesses. They don't frighten me. They do not tweak some deep-seated insecurity. Some of the women are beautiful, even though I'm spoken for, thanks to a girl who is herself not a native of Ireland.

I suppose I can understand how the advent of difference upsets people, especially older folk. For so long they were used to people leaving Ireland in droves, so the idea of large numbers of people coming in the opposite direction. However, my dear and lovely mother, Mary Parker, who passed away this July at the age of 88, had no such feelings of insecurity. Perhaps like her son she knew that the people who really make you feel scared are your white neighbours.

These people are not bad or evil in themselves. Their fears though are played upon by wicked and mischievous people.

What I would say to any of them is: I understand how you feel, but I don't agree with you. There is nothing to fear. I would also appeal to them to show some class and to eschew the cornerboy rhetoric. Alright, so you don't like foreigners, but why refer to them with a rare flight of allieration as "fucking foreigners"? Or the other phrase which disgusts me because of its innate violence "black bastards". If one quarter of the world's population cause them such unease why not call them niggers or coons - equally offensive but not as violent and full of hate as the preceding. This type of language is meant to demean non-Irish people, but the only ones whom it demeans are the Irish people who use it. It's the equivalent of calling people Fenian bastards, dirty Jews or enemies of the people. It leads inexorably in the direction of Auschwitz.

Racism in Northern Ireland

Hardly a week goes by without a report of an attack on immigrants in Northern Ireland. They are subjected to verbal and physical abuse, while their homes are frequently petrol-bombed. The source of these reprehensible actions are usually Loyalist youths, inspired and encouraged by their political leadership. These people come from a culture that defined itself in hatred, hatred especially of Catholics. Many, if asked to define what being a Protestant meant, would answer that it wasn't being a Catholic. Tague-baiting was in the blood.

However, it's a little bit politically incorrect these days. But they still need people to hate and despise. The Poles are Catholics - the former "whore of Babylon" (the anachronistic name used to refer to the pope) was Polish, so there you go. Tagues by another name, probably Tadeusz, who are aiming to take over the North and turn it into a boot-camp for the Jesuits, the pope's SAS. The same goes fo the Lithuanians. The Latvians are a different quantity. Those from the Latgale region of the country's south-east are Catholic, but the rest could be Russian Orthodox or even Protestants. But fuck it Sammy, they're fuckin' foreigners.

It is sad that so many of those in the south of Ireland, who would profess themselves the sworn enemies of this loyalist scum, should also have a similar thwarted world view and poisoned vocabulary.

The Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI) seem to be doing a very good job in countering these hate attacks. For their fight against extremism and this new form of bigotry they deserve the unqualified support of all sections of the community and all political parties and formations. Remember, the PSNI is not the RUC (the Royal Ulster Constabulary) or the B specials (the loyalist paramilitary squads who were their predecessors). And Thank God, they are not An Garda Siochana (The police force of the Irish Republic), better known as "The fukkin' gyards."

Another restaurant review

The Little Sicily

I have been a frequent visitor to the Little Sicily in Cavan town for many years. For one thing, in the days before I had such a beautiful assistant as Rosie to push me places, it was the nearest decent eatery to me. Another thing, and very important, it was accessible.

We went to the Little Sicily on the last night of Rosie's stay and as usual we made pigs of ourselves. We started with a dish of Suppli (rice and mozzarella croquettes) served with a creamy white cause. This made a change from the meaty sauces usually served with Suppli. As is usual with us we had a pizza for our main dish. Now I'm a twelve incher when it comes to pizzas. I love nothing better than to be able to cut it into wedges and eat it with my fingers, the way pizze are eaten in Napoli.

As the various cuisines of Italy (as varied as the country itself) are nutritious and healthy I never feel embarrassed by excess when eating in an Italian restaurant. Yet in the Little Sicily I always end up making the politically correct choice for desert, a fruit smoothy. These are wonderful. What's more by that time in the meal I am too lazy to use my hands, so begging your pardon missus, I can just sit back and suck.

We had two bottles of the house red, a very nice and velvety Merlot from La Venezia. This is a perfect accompaniment to a whole spectrum of foods, being pleasantly quaffable but not too strong as to drown out the flavours of the food. The Little Sicily is fully licensed, and this encourages me to indulge in numerous bad habits. For one thing, I've got into the bad habit of drinking vodka and tonic with my meals (in addition to wine. The old adage about never mixing the grain and the grape doesn't seem to apply to me.) If anything vodka enhances the flavour of food and I heartily recommend the practice to my readers.

Another character weakness which has been sprung from my armoire recently, and which has been facilitated by the Little Sicily, is ending a meal with a cocktail. Last Saturday I had a Margarita and let's just say that I would not have said no to dos o tres margaritas - comprende hombre?

On the night we were there the place was hopping. It was really noisy, and I just love noisy restaurants, the type of place where you can laugh uproariously. It shows that people are having fun and enjoying themselves. That's what they should do when they have a nice meal. I cannot stand those starchy restaurants where you can hear the cutlery clinking ashamedly against the backing sound of the muzak. You might as well be in a church, and sometimes you need the kiss of life when you're presented with the tab.

The price of our meal was, as always, very reasonable and well within my limited financial constraints. The staff were also attentive, courteous and helpful. One girl in particular, from Lithuania, shows that the women of that Baltic nation are amongst the most beautiful in Europe - along with the women of East Sussex.

The Mighty Kim

"Come on Without,
Come on Within.
You ain't seen nothin'
Like the mighty Kim."

I know, I know. I can't help it but I am a child of the '60s.

So the Dear Leader has done it again. And the world seems positively impotent to do anything about it.

The dealings of the world's "superpowers" with North Korea resemble nothing so much as a hostage drama involving a heavily-armed psychotic lunatic. They offer Kim Jong-il sweeteners and confidence-building measures like cigarettes maybe, a chance to talk it over, sort things out sort of. But most of their time is taken up in pleading with him not to do anything stupid. "Kim? Kim can you hear us?" they say on a loudspeaker. Kim shows he can hear by letting off a nuclear missile or something else that goes bang.
"Kim, put down the nuclear remote control. Just put it down. Now step away from the barrel of Sarin. We're not going to hurt you..."

The Dear Leader is a strange fish by anyone's standards. He lived a pampered life as a child, the heir apparent to the play-ground thug, better known as The Great Leader Kim Il-Sung. Hhe was the bane of all of his teachers because he showed that he was "cleverer" than them, and because he was deemed to be "smarter than the average bear Boo-boo" he always got great report cards and cool scores. It was known outside North Korea that he liked fast cars and fast women - actually any speed of woman - (what aspirant heir apparent doesn?), Cognac and movies. His pursuit of girls often took the form of the "no frills" type of flirtation favoured by the late Serge Gainsbourg when he said to the relatively clean Witney Huston on French TV. "Witney, I want to fuck you". The Dear Leader, it seems, never took "Let me think about it" for an answer. His cinematic tastes were also unorthodox. Whereas you or I might pop out to the video store for a DVD in the evening, Kim Jong-il liked to make his own films. If he couldn't find enough willing participants locally he would get the North Korean Secret Service to kidnap talent from abroad and keep them on set in North Korea for the duration of the shoot. If they didn't like it they could take part in another form of shoot. And remember, in the Workers' Paradise which is North Korea the notion of resting actors or actresses has long been unknown.

Since the Dear Leader took over the family-run concentration camp and vast Hell-on-Earth theme park, aka the Korean Democratic People's Republic, life for the ordinary citizen has defied expectations. Most thought it couldn't get any worse... I remember reading a piece a few years back in so august a publication as the Far Eastern Economic Review about the new Pyongyang. Readers were told how the place was changing, how those nostalgic for the old Stalinist days needed to hurry before the place was transmogrified beyond recognition into yet another Asiatic megalopolis devoted to money-making. North Korea might not have taken off like China but it was on the blocks sort of stuff. This gushing encomium aka bullshit was flatly contradicted by other sources who spoke of massive famine accompanied by public executions of speculators, wreckers and deviants. There were also reports of new execution methods including starving victims of oxygen until they died. Slower admittedly than a firing squad but having other definite cost advantages PLUS it didn't leave a mess. This is the country that has become the planet's ninth nuclear power.

But what of the secretive Dear Leader? One would think that he is an international pariah, yet not so long ago he was allowed to travel the rails of Russia in his armour-plated train, with an army of chefs and waiters, a lobster tank and silver chop-sticks, to meet Vlad the Impaler of Chechnya in Moscow. No worries about hold-ups or missing connections, because his train was given priority over all - ALL - other traffic on affected routes.

Now the reason why he had to go by train is because he's afraid of flying. He has been for years. Indeed he is supposed to be quite literally scared shitless of it. Still, that didn't prevent him from getting his pilot's licence.

The Dear Leader's behaviour, it is said, is becoming ever more erratic. You will remember how I mentioned his fondness for women? Well, let's just say, he's been having problems in that area for a number of years now. It seems that the Dear Leader cannot get his Little Leader to stand to attention, or he's having some other issues affecting sexual functions. At first he thought ginseng might help - it is a native Korean product, but even after eating lorryloads of the stuff his problems were as bad as ever. Then he hit on the idea of the Internet. It's not available in North Korea but it is reputed to have one avid fan and keen surfer: Kim Jong-Il. Maybe he'll read this (and I can take the opportunity to plug two of my books, Fool's Gold and The Thinkers' 50 which have both been translated into Korean). However, the Dear Leader's tastes tend towards the ... er... adult. His advisers felt that if he watched enough sexually explicit videos on the web then his libido might just be kick-started back into action. But reports from the Hermit Kingdom suggest that this too has been a flop.

He is naturally pissed off (which is all he can do with his equipment, sorry). This has led to an increasingly Quixotic attitude towards the development of nuclear weapons. Maybe deploying The Big One might lead to something else going up.

And so the world holds its collective breath, regional and International security being tied inexorably to the little prick of a little prick.




But just remember.
"When Kim the Eskimo gets ya
Every thing's goin' to be all right."

Anna Politkovskaya

The brave journalist Anna Politkovskaya has been murdered in Moscow. She helped to show up to her fellow Russians and the world the barbarity, often drug-fuelled, of the Russian army in Chechnya, actions which often leave those of the Nazis in the shade.

Russian prosecutors have stated that they are investigating the "possibility" that her death may have been "linked to the victim's social or professional duties". There isn't a person on this planet who doesn't believe that if they want to find her killers they should look in the Kremlin. The man ultimately responsible for her death, as responsible as the goon who pulled the trigger, is Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

Politics and Aesthetics

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, according to the old cliche. I know that I am hardly an oil painting myself, but if I were Irish Finance Minister Brian Cowen I would seriously consider plastic surgery. He looks like a pig and he has a personality to match. Just look at him, and I haven't touched the photo. I'd have loved to, but I feared that any alterations I might have introduced could only have ended up improving it.

Tonight I nearly brought up my tea (a really tasty dish of marinated pork chops), when I saw him on the telly sitting beside that crook Ahern. He talks a lot of shit but it looked as if he hadn't wiped his lips since the last time.

Politics shouldn't be a beauty pageant, and while not all politicians can be as good-looking as Baldy McDowell those of more questionable aesthetic qualities have a responsibility, nay a duty not to pollute the nation's airwaves.

Readers of my blog may well be aware of my musings about figures in the public eye with criminal demeanours. Well, the shot of Biffo and the Barrow-boy was like a still from a 1940s B&W film showing a pair of miscreants who have finally realised that the Feds are on to them.

Baldy saves the Barrow-boy's bacon

Michael Mc N'e'er-do-well is a man with right-wing sympathies. He isn't quite a fascist though, not in the mould of the GRA squadristi. He gets upset when he is the target of personal abuse, so, if you're reading this Michael, turn away. He was born with a silver foot up his arse, but for anyone who ever observed him walking up Kildare Street to the Irish parliament there was an uncomfortable feeling that that wasn't the only thing he liked up his arse. He used to wear this white suit and let's just say he was effected in his deportation. A friend of mine from Brighton, on seeing him exclaimed: "Oooooh, Get Her!!!!" and followed up with a question as to whether he was married. I assured him he was but got the reply. "That proves nothing."

Now I think it is fairly obvious that I don't like Michael Mc Ne'er Do Well that much. But you know, he probably doesn't like me a bunch either. We both have to live on the same planet sort of stuff. But leaving aside the personal abuse and dislike there is one thing that I have to say about Baldy: he is the Minister. He is appointed by and responsible to the legislature of this banana republic. We're a democracy, and that's how we do things in democracies. It is a fundamental principle called the separation of powers. Now Democracy and the separation of powers are probably too complicated for the likes of GRA general secretary P.J. Stoned - let's face it you don't have to be Mastermind to get in Templemore - but as public servants the police must accept government policy and implement it. They cannot oppose it or undermine it. If they are not happy with the minister's Police Reserve they can only do one thing - get out. In fact I believe that any attempt to undermine or obstruct the acts of the legislature can be construed as acts of insubordination. And the response of the minister in such circumstances must be to sack those policemen and policewomen who are standing in the way of the police reserve. What's more their dismissal must be accompanied by the removal of all pension entitlements. A bit harsh maybe? Well their actions are nothing short of rebellion against the democratic and constitutional order, and they should count themselves lucky not to be imprisoned. Let's face it in some "Police States" they might be tortured or even executed.

And remember that the Irish police force, while numbering amongst its members many brave and hard-working souls, has been found by a commission of enquiry to be riddled with serious indiscipline and corruption. The response of the GRA? Hardly surprising. More or less "Shut up yez fuckers or we'll bring yez into the barracks and beat the shit out of ye". The response of the Police Commissioner? "We knew what was going to be in the commission's report before it was published and we've addressed all the issues already, so there's no problem." Commissioner Noel Conroy is wasted. Look at all the money he could make as a clairvoyant. Instead he wears a ridiculous uniform with epaulettes. He should be sacked as he is patently incompetent.

We're talking high stakes here. If we are sincere about defending our democratic values we must be prepared to fight for them against thugs in our midsts. And if P.J. Stoned and his fascist thugs don't like living in a democracy they can fuck off to somewhere more to their liking like Burma, or maybe they can join Borat in Kazakhstan. But I forget: as they are such a linguistically challenged crowd they'd have to go to somewhere where English is spoken.

Baldy McDowell is supportive, on paper at least, of another praiseworthy development; greater recruitment by our dear guards of members of ethnic minorities. Are you mad Mick? If white members of the reserve are to be hated and detested just think what some poor bastard from Nigeria or Zimbabwe would have to face,

And just to make up for calling him Baldy I've given him some nice hirsute locks. He can't ask for more.

P. J. Stoned

A common pseudo-scientific notion of the Victorian age was that of criminal physiognomy. There were those who, by the cut of their gib, betokened criminality. Most criminals looked a certain way, and if you were unfortunate enough to have a criminal face well let's just say you were more than likely to end up in Broadmoor or better still in Botany Bay or Van Diemen's Land. If you then had some prominent bushy red facial hair your criminal career was assured.

This twaddle has long been exposed for the rot it is. Yet there are those who look dodgy. Take for example the Irish prime minister Bertie Ahern. Maybe it's just that he looks shifty. But for the real, honest-to-God criminal mien we need look no further than P.J. Stone, general secretary of the Irish Garda Representative Association (GRA). He is widely regarded by association members for dealing with vexatious allegations of corruption and indiscipline amongst members. But do a line drawing, stick it up on a few walls and maybe in the Hue and Cry, and all that's needed is the word "Wanted". In fact, his head has that particular shape which Victorians associated with serious mental dysfunction. In fact, P.J. Stoned would be well advised never to go near an identity parade, for he would be sure to be fingered for any crime.

At the moment he is at daggers drawn with fellow fascist pig Michael Baldy McDowell, over the latter's attempts to introduce a reserve police force. As the presence of a group of reservists might show up the lazy-arsed wasters who make up so much of the Irish police force this move has attracted the ire of P.J. Stoned. At a recent meeting he stated that members of the reserve would be "hated and detested". So they would join a long list of people who are already "hated" by GRA members. These include "fucking foreigners", "black bastards", "knackers" and indeed tiresome members of the public. It is also possible to be "hated" by association. The partner of a very prominent local government official who is active in travellers' rights, is spoken of with warmth by members of the local police force.

Poor John Carthy of Abbeylara knew what it was like to be hated by the Guardians of the Peace. John had mental issues which could have been addressed before he was forced like a rabbit from a snare into the sights of the Garda Emergency Response Unit. In the subsequent enquiry the Gardai attempted to say that this was a case of an extremely bizarre phenomenon referred to in the United States as "Death by Cop", i.e. where someone induces the police to shoot them. In my opinion it was far more like the form of execution practiced until recently in the state of Utah: death by firing squad.

Now I know I'm a bit thick but there is one group who never seem to be "hated" by GRA members - criminals. But Nigerians, Poles, "Black Romanian Bastards", members of the travelling community etc. are, unlike your average criminal, unlikely to represent any real physical danger to the Irish police force. They can be kicked around with impunity.

P.J. Stoned is nothing if not an honest representative of his profession. In his "hate-filled" jeremiad (look up the meaning P.J. if you don't know it) he also referred to a similar attempt to set up a reserve back in 1939. This encountered similar opposition from the Guardians of our peace. The first Irish police commissioner was none other than that disgusting pervert Eoin O'Duffy, progenitor of a dangerous and diseased race, who subsequently went on to found the "proto"-Fascist Army Comrades Association, better known as the Blueshirts. Some Blueshirts, after having received the long-armed blessing of the Irish hierarchy, fought communism in Spain though their actions were more comic than tragic. This is not the place to recount how Irish volunteers fired on a group of brown, and thus communist soldiers, who were unfortunately members of the Spanish Foreign Legion i.e. their own side. Therefore, at the beginning of the Second World War such a reserve was bound to cause anger amongst the fascist sympathisers in the Irish Police force who would have liked nothing better than hand our nation over to their Italian and German fellow travellers. Even rounding up Ireland's few hundred Jews for internment or worse would not have taken them more than a few week's work.

Irish crime boss John Gilligan would still be sitting pretty on his ill-gotten gains, but for the martyrdom of journalist Veronica Guerin. She had to pay for governmental ambivalence and yes, Garda collusion with organised crime, with her life. And let's not forget that it was an Irish, white assassin who shot her, after he had been informed she had left a court by a member of An Garda Siochana.

Why do I care about this? It's because I belong to a group of people who have long been despised by the "able-bodied". I know what prejudice tastes like. Recently I have been able to travel around Cavan town with my darling girlfriend Rosie. Motorists have shown themselves really helpful when I am being pushed across a road in my chair. One group who have consistently shown disregard for our plight in crossing streets, motoring on regardless, have been drivers of police cars. No doubt they were hurrying to apprehend a group of Nigerians breaking into a sweetshop.

Tom Fitzpatrick RIP

It is with deep sadness that I heard of the death of Tom Fitzpatrick, who served as a distinguished parliamentarian for over two decades, not to mention his decades of service as a member of Cavan Urban District Council. I send my heartfelt condolences to Carmel, and his children, as well as to his brothers, nieces and nephews.

You only had to meet Tom Fitzpatrick once to realise that here was a person of immense stature and integrity. He was a man cut from a different material to other politicians. For one thing his intellect placed him on a higher plane than many others who have pursued the high calling of politics. Tom pursued this path according to the highest standards, motivated by selfless ideals. He did not see politics as a means of enriching himself, but as a means whereby he could enrich society through the value of his contributions to it. Cavan will be a lesser place without him. Indeed it has suffered greatly since his retirement, especially at the level of local government. As he was his own man he would not have treated with deserved contempt the little Caesars who infected Cavan's local government in the 1990s. He was a public representative who was worthy of the name, and worthy of representing the people.

It was disappointing that the geriatric and decrepid peacock, Rory O'Hanlon, who currently holds the office of Ceann Comhairle (Speaker of the lower house of the Irish Parliament), could not have had the decency to attend the funeral. He was no doubt carefully attending to the partisan circus into which he has turned parliamentary debates. He doesn't care what message he sends to the constituents of Cavan and Monaghan, as he will be automatically re-elected at the next election. He is the father of Ardal O'Hanlon, better known to the world as Fr Dougal Maguire in "Father Ted". It is hard to think of a father and son who are more dissimilar. Dr Rory was for many years a general practitioner, and no doubt like many Monaghan doctors cared more about his patients' spiritual health than their physical well-being.

Migrant workers

The horrific case of Angelika Kluk's brutal murder in Glasgow has highlighted once again the perilous conditions confronted by migrant workers in Ireland and the UK. How far has our world progressed, when poor people are lured into leaving family and friends in the home areas in order to work for very little, to be exploited and encounter unspeakable danger?

There is a fair degree of "finger-pointing" going on at the moment in the aftermath of the arrest of a known sex offender. Blame is being spread quite liberally - but that's not going to bring Angelika back is it?

There are no doubt some really sick people who say that, had Angelika stayed in her native Poland she would still be safe and sound, and that she brought the horror onto herself by "taking" a job that might have been done by a Scottish, English or Irish person. Do such people also believe that there would be no sex abuse of children if there were no children or that there would be no rape if there no women? But then there would be no more human beings would there?
Such mentally ill people do exist - sadly I know one or two. Some belong to right-wing religious lay groups; at least one is disappointed that he's never been asked to join.

But while I am never shy about criticising the Catholic church as an organisation, I think that the sad case of poor Angelika has really left at least one person, Father Gerry Nugent in Anderston, in the light of a true embodiment of the spirit of the Gospel. He threw his home open to all those who needed shelter. He pursued an "open door" policy, giving shelter to all those who needed in. Fr Nugent has taken the Gospel and the message of Jesus Christ to heart. Those in the Catholic church (and indeed in any other Christian denomination) whose residences are more palatial, and certainly more capacious than his, should do likewise.

Restaurant review

People sometimes say I never write anything positive about anything or anyone. This isn't true. If there is one thing I like doing more than having a good shag it's having a nice meal and a couple of bottles of vino with good friends. And because I like to share I love telling people about it.

Eating out is a pleasure. In Cavan town though, it is not easy because many restaurants are not wheelchair-accessible. Obviously this is a built-in problem with older buildings. As for new developments that fail to provide lifts all I will say is that they need never worry that I will spend as much as a cent there as they obviously don't want my custom. So when I find a restaurant that is wheel-chair friendly, where the food is good, the service excellent and which is also great value for money I want to shout about it.

That's how I feel about Ventuno, an Italian restaurant on Cavan's strip, Bridge Street. The dining area is on the level and is easily accessible to anyone in a chair. The food is top notch and authentically Italian. You notice authenticity sometimes in the small details that might be invisible to others. I had a really scrumptious starter of salami, mortadella and prosciutto served with a salad of escarole, tomatoes, sweet peppers and green olives, accompanied by two slices of mozzarella. For main course I had some melt-in-the-mouth canelloni. Its ingredients were exquisitely balanced - not an easy task with a dish where the sauce has to be tasty yet not overwhelm the contents of the stuffed pasta. Everything about this dish was right. The various ingredients, the pasta, the spinach etc., were all able to make their entrance on the stage. For desert I left Italy, choosing the Spanish desert of Nata con nueces. This comprised vanilla ice cream and walnuts. I know a Mexican version using pecans. This was truly delightful and was a perfect end to a flavoursome feast.

On a subsequent visit Rosie and myself had a delicious lunch. We started with Funghi Ripieni and a bowl of hearty minestrone. As everyone knows Minestra means soup in Italian and so there is only one way to translate minestrone - soup with attitude. Well this minestrone had attitude coming out of every spoonful. For main course I had Chicken Cacciatore - pieces of char-grilled chicken in a wonderfully tasty tomato and vegetable sauce served with beautiful sauteed potatoes, while Rosie had Chicken Fiorentino, which had "a creamy buttery garlicky sauce to die for". One more thing, Mo serves the best cappucini that I've tasted in Ireland.

But what of the cost of these feasts? Lunch for four people cost the grand total of 55 euro. I asked Mo "How do you do it? You're an alchemist."

I cannot praise the staff enough. The sight of someone in a chair can cause some people to panic but there was none of this in the Ventuno restaurant. Everyone acted in a cool and professional manner, removing chairs so that I could park myself and pushing tables together to heighten the sense of bonhomie.

As I mentioned above Ventuno is accessible to wheel-chair users - might I say unlike some in Cavan. What's more they have toilet facilities for wheel-chair users. Gillian and Mo, the lovely couple in charge of the restaurant, are not from Cavan. Why does it always seem that it takes outsiders to act in a humane manner towards disabled people while Cavan people are still stuck in the Stone Age?

The Ventuno hasn't a wine licence yet so you're welcome to bring your own and they'll uncork it for you. I prefer being able to bring my own wine. It's usually cheaper and in an Italian restaurant, where there are usually so many tempting dishes on the menu, I can tailor my meal to the wine I've brought with me.

The restaurant is open from 12 noon weekdays and from 1 pm on a Saturday. Telephone 049-4372200. I heartily recommend Cavan people to support it.