The Royal
The Capital
Dixies
And even the wonderfully non-PC
The Indians.
Man, I loved those days.
A singer from Belfast then, no Van but David McWilliams, had a fine tune,
“The Days of Pearly Spencer.”
Summed it all up.
Then.
That the PC brigade were still pursuing the Indians to change their name was a measure of just how much we had lost our sense of fun over the years.
An elderly Bohermore woman summed it up:
“You’re afraid to open your mouth these days.”
As Israel and Hamas continued to add to a daily number of deaths and no sign of peace, yet another airline went down, Putin continued to wreak havoc in the Ukraine, Bill Clinton was yet again accused of affairs, the country tried to delight in five Garth Brooks concerts. But one asshole councillor in Dublin managed to derail them, depriving the people of the only hope of a bit of fun they’d had in years. Not to mention the loss of fifty million to the country in revenue.
Enda Kenny, our leader, was the most despised man in the nation. He smirked daily over water charges, Garth Brooks, and just about any issue that was of note to his population.
Our former tone of humor was now replaced by an all-prevalent fear as medical cards were canceled, bankers walked free after hugely expensive trials, but one woman stood tall. An ordinary housewife, she had been systemically abused as a child and for fifteen years sought redress. Even after the supreme court turned her down, she persisted with frail strength all the way to the European Court of Justice.
And won.
A small brave lady.
The government set up a committee to gauge whether she merited an apology.
A collective,
... for fucksake
From everybody: well, everybody of basic human decency.
Just before the Galway Races kicked off, I got a call from the arts editor of the Galway Advertiser, Kernan Andrews, asking me to do an interview. Kernan was one of the good guys. He was doing a series, “Faces of Galway.”
I figured I was under the subheading:
“Battered Faces of Galway.”
What the hell, I’d get to sit down with Kernan, sink a few, shoot the shit. We arranged to meet in Garavan’s. Grab the snug there and have if not privacy at least a certain amount of atmosphere. I recently had a new neighbor, an ex-army guy and — whisper it — British army.
Why you would retire to a Republican stronghold was beyond me. But he kept a low profile and his accent under wraps. We had shared a dram or two and he seemed to like Storm real well and when I had to get out alone, he would always be delighted to mind the pup. His name was
Charles Stokes.
He was usually addressed as Doc.
A good, no-frills UK name.
He’d done a stint in Northern Ireland and knew I had, let’s say, dealings over the border, but we had reached our own separate peace and, whatever flags we flew under, we had an appreciation of fine malt and Jameson. I brought the pup over to him early on the Friday morning, said,
“Believe it or not, I’m being interviewed.”
He was tall with a shock of steel to white hair, riveting stare with nigh on nonbreak hold. He adopted a very dry droll sense of humor. Said,
“Not helping with enquiries, one hopes.”
I handed over the pup’s dinner bowl and his cherished bandanna, said,
“Nope, an actual bona fide gig.”
He rubbed the dog, said,
“Talk as if you believed it.”
“Always end the name of your child with a vowel so that when you yell the name will carry.” (Bill Cosby)
As I said, Kernan is one of the good guys. Looks like a roadie for a heavy metal band and beneath a mellow, affable facade beats a mind as smart as a whip. We met in Freeneys, a slice of old Galway, unchanged and in the window they sell fishing tackle. I’d managed to procure for him a signed Barcelona shirt with the 2010 team names. Cost me... oh, some serious weight. In truth, I’d traded my 1963 All Ireland Galway Football shirt for it.
Phew-oh.
Loved that shirt, was even signed. Kernan greeted me warmly.
“So glad you agreed to do this, Jack.”
He was dressed as always as if en route to the ever-running Dylan tour. I’d worn my all-weather Garda coat, item 1834, that the Department of Justice even now wrote demanding back. I said,
“Buddy, hear my answers and then see how glad you are.”
He smiled. My acid tongue was part of the reason he liked me. The bar guy, Willy, knew us and asked,
“What will it be, lads?”
Sparkling water for Kernan and Jameson back for me. The gig lasted two hours and I haven’t said so much since Charles Haughey was shunted from office.
I list some of the more pertinent questions.
K: “So, Jack, any heroes?”
J: “... Once, in my naive days, I thought a lot of Lance Armstrong.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Sure, it wasn’t so much I knew a lot about cycling but I did, in an old Galway way, admire endurance.”
Kernan let that slide, tried,
“How would you like to be remembered?”
“As a fine hurler.”
Kernan... sigh.
The interview had some key questions.
“What are you reading now?”
“Cycle of Lies, Juliet Macur, and Wheelmen, the definitive accounts of the whole doping mess.”
Kernan had opted to create an interview that balanced the solemn with the fun, as in,
“Where do you get your... um... distinctive wardrobe?”
“The charity shops.”
Then,
“Have you still got passions?”
“Sure, books, my dog, and a new fascination with the Tour de France.”
“What is your most prized possession?”
“My father’s hurley, hewn from the original ash.”
“Do you still play?”
“Only in the alleyways and back streets and not a referee in sight.”
“Where do you stand on the Church?”
I laughed.
“More like the Church tries to stand on me. I see them as the ecclesiastical wing of Enron.”
I pronounced the last word wrong to draw out the sense of nonsense.
“Is there a significant other in your life?”
Here he paused, gave a small smile, warned,
“And I don’t mean your dog.”
“The person I am in most contact with is the Inland Revenue bollocks.”
“Will you ever leave Galway?”
I went with the half-formed truth.
“In Corsica, there is a lovely town, Bastia, and I have made inroads there with a man named Sabatini to buy a small villa.”
Kernan was skeptical, rightly so in light of my history.
I had left Ireland as often as the government did a decent thing. He asked,
“They serve Jameson there?”
I let that slide.
Then the semi-frivolous
“What are you reading, Jack?”
“Jason Starr, Gerard Brennan, Hilary Davidson, Eoin Colfer.”
“And music?”
“Johnny Duhan and Marc Roberts.”
“TV?”
“Lot of documentaries.”
Enron
The Armstrong Lie
Paul Kimmage, Rough Rider
Meet the Mormons
Conspiracy
And of course, Spiral, Luck, Orange Is the New Black, The Killing (Season 4), and revisited some movies: