Monthly Archives: June 2014

Own goal

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It’s that time of year again. The annual pilgrimage to the sold-out Springsteen shows. Relax. It’s just the sun giving me jip and having me mix up my religious rituals as the summers fade into one another. I mean graveyard mass, of course. Then there’s the monster raving Ulsterman cracking open the apoplexy, as is tradition. Or Joe Brolly, for short. Bruce and Joe. Imagine them trading birth places, if you will. Joey and Wee Brucie.

Not a porch door for any of Brucie’s average-looking women to slam. Maybe a broken lift to curse, or the person who was born in a hospital with swinging doors who left one wide open. Meanwhile, Joey’s giving it Red Sox knocking himself out commentating on the baseball league with Patty Spillane. Awesome.

There’s really not a whole lot that separates these two men from their traded places in terms of the people that inspire and drive them. It’s just that Jersey skylines go better with the universal theme of disenchantment and broken blue collar dreams than Tesco car-parks and doughnut tracks from twin-cams. Baseball is the unifying game that helps them forget about life for a while. Sort of like The GAA. Or the Grab All Association. Or the what’s-the-point and the anachronistic eye-rolls scornfully mocking the parochial game. Or its failure to compare with the beautiful game. Delete as you see appropriate.

It’s that time of year again. When the city/rural divisions rear their jerseys online, and the self-regarding antipathy breaks out on messageboards like a prickly heat rash. I’m no devotee, or apologist for The GAA. No sport has claimed to be the panacea for all societal ills, except maybe democracy. But it takes a certain blinkered snobbery to wilfully ignore the unifying power the GAA has in carrying communities through good and bad.

One of the more heartening developments in recent years has been the emergence of rugby as a more reachable sport for all the nation. Men and women getting stuck in on the great debate throughout the country (“O’Gara’s better looking” “No BO’D is”).

Plenty of sporting enthusiasts love both, some play both. Even so, it’s past time the minority of whingers paused the eyeroll and threw out the stale sweat smelling questions on the point of it all. Go listen to Badlands. It’s about living in Leitrim. Except it’s not, but it is. And Carlow. And Donegal. And Armagh. And Louth. And Tipperary. And even Dublin. Where the game breathes energy into connections between folk, and helps them forget about life for a while.

The dingo took my baby

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My car has broken down

I ran out of petrol

I’m locked in the house and can’t find a key for the windows

I’ve lost my car key

My child-minder is sick

I was visiting my parents who like to economise on basic needs and got frost bite

I got sun stroke

It’s a personal matter

It’s too embarrassing

Women’s problems

*crams dry cream cracker into mouth* Really sore throat

(4pm) I’ve just realised it’s Monday, I thought it was Sunday

Sorry I’m four hours late, I thought today was a bank holiday

I fell asleep on the bus and ended up in Cavan bus station overnight

I won last minute tickets for Glastonbury

Sorry I’m a bit late, traffic’s shit.

 

They’re so disarming, darling

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One of the countless comedy gold moments in Tom Berninger’s ‘Mistaken For Strangers’  arises during the director’s interview with Bryce Dessner. The lead guitarist, and one fifth of indie music messiahs, The National, bristles at the line of questioning.

“I thought you wanted to talk about me but it seems you just want to talk about Matt. That tends to happen a lot”.

Matt is lead singer with the band. As Tom’s older brother, he charitably invites him along on the world tour bus for a year to preside over essential duties like fetching towels and assembling the daily wish-list of goodies on the rider. All of which he undertakes with spectacular incompetency.

The feckless and disarmingly charming Tom has other ideas. Including having a good time in stereotypically rawk star fashion while honing his amateur filmmaking skills. Assembled from 200 hours of handheld camera footage,  Tom’s approach is less fly-on-the-wall than irritating mosquito-round-the-ear the band and crew just about endure until he’s batted off the bus.

Like Dessner, this viewer was expecting a reverent behind-the-scenes portrait of a band floating on the milky way of hard fought success. Those moments arrive, often hilariously, but quickly become the trampoline on which the Berningers bounce reflections on their lives and dreams: as individuals in pursuit of creative purpose; as men who have been in combat with the demons of self-doubt and failure; as one perpetually sizing up the other. But mainly as brothers. Their overlaps and differences are threaded together through the eyes of each, and others. As is the tenderness and good-humoured affection that has them reclining in deckchairs shooting the breeze with beer, counting their winnings from luck,  and from making the film we’re watching them in. Possibly the best leg-up from a big brother to a younger towards that elusive sense of achievement.

A gem. Not just for music-lovers and those who love an exquisite use of a New Order song in film. Currently showing at The Light House.

Things I can’t believe don’t exist (Part One)

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1.The Rock-A-Bye Baby™. An electronic rocking frame type thingiemejig for a Moses basket to slot into. The ad men are falling down here. I’ve even given them a brand name. Get me the patent office, Morag.

2.Personalised nappies. lf people are willing to root through shelves of Coke to get to a bottle with Aoife on the label, they’ll do it for nappies. Well, I probably would.

3.Doorbells with answer machines. OK, perhaps not. Would’ve been useful in the pre-mobile days all the same. Damn.

4.Split screen domestic TV. One half World Cup, one half Fair City. Like the pizza occasionally shared in front of the box that one half of the couple is slightly huffing about because they got the smaller half. Well, I probably do.

5.Silent Lawnmowers. Like with those silencers for a gun currently aimed at the noisy ones.

Top 5 ways I regularly make a tit of myself

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1. Waiting for the gates to lift after shoving the parking ticket in the machine. Then copping I forgot to pay it, with a Rizla paper sized space between my bumper and the next. There is no obligation for those queuing to show any tolerance or understanding of this outrageous act of civil disobedience. To prove this, I will release their collective thought bubble by loudly proclaiming to all within earshot my status as a numpty and a half. I might add gestures depending on the demographic. Gentle sideway head pleads for the older generation; a regular pistol to my head for the rest. Older and younger people – you are united in not finding any of these theatrics helpful or amusing. Concentrate on what you have in common, not what divides you.

2. Being introduced to someone new in work and casually enquiring “what do you do yourself then?” so I can make the correct prejudicial judgement and a mental note to avoid them in future. “I’m the Chief Executive” “I’m God” “I’m Jesus” “I’m Elvis” “I make Reese’s peanut butter cups”. Inevitably, all the big fromages I should be genuflecting before rather than having the impertinence to address them verbally or initiate eye contact.

My boss is usually in the wings wearing her thought bubble on her rolled-up sleeve (“Numpty”). First cousin to this awkward moment is the over-enthusiastic response to any hint of the boss being absent or out-of-reach. It’s a throwback to my younger days and the thrill of the parents going away. Twenty odd years and 200 miles later, a wave of giddiness still comes over me when I hear they’re going away for the night; even though I’m not actually there. This week’s classic… Boss: “This will be my last week here” Me: “Whaaaaaaaaat??” In that over-exuberant the-water-pipes-have-burst-there’s-no-school-today kinda what. “Eh I’m just moving to a different office”. Insert your own tumbleweed here.

3. People are so fucking cruel where I work, not one of them had the decency to point out that I ran the risk of exhibiting a dodgy drug habit with the remnants of face cream hovering round my nostril area. We Mothers Are So Busy™ sometimes we don’t notice. Thanks people. You’re the best. I’m not telling yiz there’s no toilet paper left. I didn’t realise. Honestly™.

4. Turn to the person next to you and try chatting to them with your hand vaguely covering your mouth and shuffle backwards gradually. This is how to behave when you’ve bumped into someone you haven’t seen in ages while convinced your breath stinks. I don’t want to think about what their thought bubble contained.

5. Because I wasn’t arsed reading up on the non-must-haves for newborns, I overlooked a few items. After three weeks watching re-runs of One Born Every Minute and bragging about my heroic stoicism compared to the screaming wimps featured, the inevitable emergency came (we had run out of cheese and pate). An outing was inevitable.

Landing at the deli-counter I bumped in my Mother-in-Law who looks down at the buggy and asks where the child is. She’s here, says I, lifting back 25 assorted blankets. Think princess and the pea. The baby being the pea. A foot muff arrived by Amazon super swift post the following morning courtesy of Grandma. I’m usually wearing 25 assorted blankets of one sort or another any time we randomly collide. It’s not that she’s not a decent spud, my Ma In-Law, it’s just that most times we have an unscheduled meeting, I inspire her to think…numpty

June 2024

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Aisling thinks I’m over-reacting about this morning. It’s the first day of teen camp a bunch of us parents started up last year. A hybrid of the CLP (child led play group) concept that become popular in recent years, and the political camp model traditional in Scandinavia. You can follow our blog on http://www.genderisasocialfuckingconstructok?.com (We’d appreciate a nomination in this year’s blog awards by the way – under the feminist section. You know the drill). Aisling’s real name is Kate but we all go by our daughters’ names.

We had to do something. There was nothing. I mean fuck all. Unless you count the Be the Bigger Person camps run by the GAA. But they tackle obesity primarily and my wee one would NEVER meet the BMI threshold for that. Or that Cut From the Same Cloisters mob. A camp that combines faith and fashion for those boys and girls pre-teen young people with an interest in going onto the priesthood. Credit to Mary McAleese for that one. The infamous Bonkersgate affair started with Cardinal McAleese slagging off the men of Rome for having the audacity to meddle in family affairs when none of them had (officially, anyway) changed a nappy in their puff.  Fearful that the Ordinary Decent People in the church would eventually realise it’s all bonkers, Francis upped the trendification a gear and declared weemen could join the ‘hood. Which was a relief to Leitrim that hadn’t had a priest in five years, and to the thousands of parents who can’t afford third level fees. The riots in Knock were less than becoming. The nuns took it particularly bad. That Reeling in the Years boxset is worth getting for 2019 alone.

I was just email harrassing saying to Caitlin Moran the other day that she should take some credit since she was the first to revolutionise contemporary feminism with a very simple theory. Her insistance on good manners helped usher in the Third Wave. Thanks to Caitlin, blokes have reigned in their randy mitts and are more likely to be heard politely complimenting women on their tits than imploring them to get ’em out for the lads. We’ve come a long way, sisters fellow adult women.

As our patron, Caitlin was due to come along today and read from her new book. Unfortunately we couldn’t cover her appearance fee and the offer of a teenage led massage, and a take-home pair of docs from the do-up your own docs workshop, failed to compensate. Pity. How to build a Reconstructed Social Construct is a seminal work that further advances the Third Wave agenda. I should know because I stampeded into the breach and read the opening chapter to the group earlier. For instance, having a deep love for the complete works of Abba is not incompatible with being a heterosexual male, while women can adopt their husband’s surname and STILL be a feminist and champion of equal rights. Who knew, girls young women? I asked authoritatively, my right hand in a perfect prize-winning Mary Robinson Claw™.

mary robinson

Sometimes it’s a challenge to look out at a sea of adolescent indifference. We had a few minutes to spare before the initiation ceremony when they colour a grey streak in each others hairs in pairs, so I thought I’d notch it up a gear. I explained that when I was born, my mother was legally prevented from returning to work due to the marriage bar in force at the time. Sure enough, this got them going. Mentally claw-punching the air, I could see the exchange of horrified looks, hear the sharp intakes of breath. And then, almost in unison, they shrieked.. “You’re that old?” My one erupted into tears before fleeing the scene.

Aisling said I should’ve taken it as a compliment before adding “but seriously, are you, like?”

Image: United Nations

Has anyone seen the counter-culture anywhere?

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Anyone?

Sorry, what was that? Where did I see it last?

Erm….let me think…mmmmm

Ah!

Miriam O’Callaghan and David McWilliams had it. Again.

I suppose I should look there.

Well, whadaya know.

Give it back you cosy-consensus peddling fuckers. Our anti-establishment forefathersandmothers didn’t rebel for ‘debate’ to permanently end up in the lap of the establishment.

Don’t you be getting all angsty now, Fintan.

Do we have to do a Father’s Day Post?

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Last January, because of the law in the Republic of Ireland, a man whose partner died shortly after giving birth to their catastrophically brain-damaged baby, had to seek court intervention to allow him give consent for the withdrawal of his child’s life support.

In response to the tragedy, Eamonn Quinn of the Unmarried and Separated Parents of Ireland, compared the legal deficiencies with provision in the UK. “If this case had happened ‘up the road’ in Belfast, the father would have automatically been the person making the decisions about his baby without having a court case added to his ordeal”.

The case was a rarity, but a reminder of the lack of legal safeguards or rights for unmarried fathers in Ireland.

Only married fathers have automatic guardianship of their children. In unmarried couples, the mother is the sole legal guardian unless and until the father actively seeks guardianship.

Without guardianship, the father does not have the right to seek medical treatment for his child, or query the educational or religious upbringing of his own child. Nor can he apply for a passport for his child or decide where he or she will live.

How does he get guardianship of this child?

One of two ways. If the mother is happy to share guardianship, he can get a form called the ‘Statutory Declaration of Father and Mother in Relation to Joint Guardianship of Child/Children’ which is available online or from court offices, and fill it in with his child’s mother in front of a peace commissioner. If the mother objects, the father can apply to his local district court to be made a joint guardian. The mother’s views will be considered but will not dictate the court’s decision.

What happens if he doesn’t seek guardianship?

If the couple separates, he will have no automatic rights to involvement in his child’s upbringing and can’t stop the mother taking the child out of the country. All rights would have to be fought for in court. Even in a stable relationship, lack of guardianship can cause problems if the father alone accompanies the child to hospital as he won’t be able to give treatment consent.

Is this a common scenario?

Around 26,000 children are born in Ireland every year to unmarried parents — 33% of all children born. It is not known how many of the fathers have a declaration of joint guardianship because the details are not recorded by any agency.

What’s being done about it?

Not enough say campaigners. In 2013, Justice Minister Alan Shatter promised legislation to grant automatic guardianship to cohabiting fathers but there no timeline was specified.

 

Sources: The Irish Examiner/The Irish Independent/Unmarried and Separated Parents of Ireland.

Rock me Daddy-O

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It’s two years to the month since I harassed your Dad for song ideas for your naming ceremony. It was far from naming ceremonies we were reared. Every generation has the responsibility of trying to make the best of what they’re about. For my folks it was original sin and prawn cocktail. More power to them. Or less, as was the case.

In truth, it was like the wedding ceremony we never had. Your Granny’s house was treated to the same epic spruce-up it received during the last bachelor days of all her boys. I volunteered your Auntie’s fine singing voice. Every tome and tune were pored over. Noses were flung skyward at the mention of a sausage roll. And I sighed heavily every time I looked at the family portrait above the TV in which I am channelling some groovy fairway fashion with my classic diamond v-neck golfer’s jumper replete with polo-neck.

Your Dad shrugged off his own suggestion at the speed his ears could hear it. “Ah, she won’t know it, and it probably wouldn’t fit. Nevermind.”

You don’t know this about your Dad yet, but that’d be typical of the man. Never one to strenuously impose his will or wishes on others, except when demanding someone pass him the hammer so he can drive the nails in when hanging himself on the Cross. Sorry, did you think I was using you to make passive aggressive comments? I actually find his martyring quite endearing. In a I’ll-see-your-persecution-complex-and-raise-it type way. Why did you think I married him? To let him win.

A few other things you don’t know yet:

When leaving the hospital to take you home, he pressed play on the car stereo and Stevie Wonder’s Isn’t She Lovely ricocheted off our hearts. The fucker.

Every payday he squirrels away savings into a Credit Union account he opened for you later that week. It’s a low point for responsibility when your own toddler has more savings than you. Any chance of a lo….etc.

That funny voice that cracks you up is his impeccable Godfather impersonation, complete with downward mouth and thick bottom lip. He does a brilliant Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris, too, but those had to be shelved. Sometimes he forgets until he remembers and there’s a pause before we both move on without saying anything.

Every few weeks he scurries over to the shopping centre at lunch for a quick flick through the children’s clothing rails. Sorry you were made wear those psychedelic jeans.

That microscopic white patch on the back of his head is a souvenir from his exam days when he would unwittingly soothe his anxiety by rubbing the one little patch of hair until he wore it down. Wearing him down is my job now.

He still does this sometimes when he’s nervous, or watching his team in a tense game of football. They’re without a manager at the moment and he fell out of bed last night exuberantly cheering a penalty they saved in his dream. The same team he held a season ticket for before surrendering it to buy you weird psychedelic jeans and other stuff.

Failing his first driving test at 18 was the last time he cried until accompanying you to get a general anaesthetic last year. When I say cry, I mean welled up, which is outright bawling to the rest of us.

He disappeared minutes before the ceremony was due to start (leaving his sisters, your Aunties, to piss themselves at the family portrait) returning with a used envelope housing his big-hearted words of love and gratitude he quietly expressed to all.

Your Granddads lit candles with ginormous granddad-sized matches. Your Grannies spoke words of wisdom handed down from minds more poetic than ours. Your Auntie rocked the (good) living room. Your Fairy Godmothers pledged love and loyalty, and we all serenaded you with a spectacularly out-of-tune Catch a Falling Star. Not a door slammed, not a grudge resurrected. The power you have.

Your Dad was right about the song. It belongs to you and him alone. On your Sunday drives together over the border for cheap diesel when he can add harmonies at top tonsil and belt out the drums on the steering wheel. Here it is.

You have no idea how lucky you are.

Image

Suggestion Box

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This is probably a premature and overly ambitious post given this blog’s small (but beautifully formed) following. I haven’t elaborated on why I took to the electronic quill, and I don’t know if it’s worth thinking about too much. If there’s a certain freedom to be found in writing, that feeling is maintained by keeping the space between the words free from reasons for them.

I’ve had to credit spontaneity more than once for progress in life (“Let’s stick a pin in a map! Denmark? Fuck it, let’s go live there” “I’d love go to the Netherlands. With no money” “Work with a triple X hard-core paramilitary infested community on every other side of the track? Fuck it, why not!” “Let’s run away and get married” etc.). This blog was another small act of defiance against boredom.

Being undisciplined in every aspect of life bar work and love makes for occasionally fun  – but sometimes chaotic – consequences. I find myself now in need of applying occasional discipline to the words here. Blogging is mostly about giving, but receiving the thoughts of others gives the thrill of thinking on the hoof. I type faster responding to another on a messageboard discussion than typing aloud to myself here to start with.

So if you would like to give me a keyboard up, feel free to throw out a topic or a post title or a line or a whatever you’re having yourself, below this post. I’ll aim to pick it up and run with it to see where it takes me. You can do it anonymously, if you prefer. The response function asks for an email but you can make one up. Pity suggestions to break up the rush of tumbleweeds are also welcome.

Thanks