High priests of Mammon

Questions and Answers has been quite interesting lately.

Fine Gael's leap onto the band wagon of anti-traveller prejudice was discussed a week or two ago and Jim Higgins managed to represent his party well, even getting in the old "sure aren't they all driving 4x4's" horseshite.

Last Monday the Irish Ferries dispute was discussed, amongst other issues. It was really quite amazing to hear the manner in which Eamon Delaney, deputy editor of Magil magazine, and Dr. Dan McLaughlin, chief economist with the Bank of Ireland talked about Irish workers. Sadly, their realtionship with humanity is indeed very distant. Delaney's arrogant Thatcherite assertions went so far as to imply that trade unions were no longer needed in modern Ireland, and indeed have been obsolete for decades. Patricia Casey, regional secretary of SIPTU, defended the trade union movement well, and spun Delaney's own argument back on him, arguing that it was he that was "peddling retro", and that the Irish Trade union movement was in fact more vibrant than ever.

All over the world workers are persecuted for trying to organize themselves and form unions. Globalized trade has made the right to organize more and more vital all the time and trade unions are one of the institutions of a democratic nation that we should be most proud of. One only has to look at the Irish Ferries dispute and the bold moves taken by Irish Ferries staff over the last week to see that workers should and must organize to protect their livlihoods.

Delaney's comments on George Best were equally repulsive. When asked what kind of monument should be erected to the legendary football player he said none, and that he should be remebered only as a wife-abusing alcaholic.

It was nice to see that I was not the only one who dispproved of these pontificating high priests of Mammon. A listener rang in to ask how much does the president of Bank of Ireland earn, while expecting us to work for nothing, and, towards the end of the show, a well-spoken elderly gentleman sitting at the back of the audience said that he was absolutely shocked at the lack of humanity in the lanuguage used by both McLaughlin and Delaney. "All I hear is Economy, economy, economy!", he said. " For God's sake, we live in a nation!"

Hear hear

What the hell

Some of you are probably wondering what the hell the post below was on about. Well, lets just say that it's related to our class, so feel free to skip over it and don't be getting yerselves all muddled and confused.

Ablogalypse Now!

Giant heads carved of obsidian appear upon the pebble beaches. Sounds like the beating of giant brass gongs reverberate in thundering booms across the land. Farmers recoil in terror as cattle give birth to ungodly two-headed off-spring. Old men, with ragged grey beards and mad glaring eyes, appear at street corners wearing sandwich boards, and with their long and crooked fingers they warn of impending doom. The wise stargazing sages of the countryside scan the dark heavens for eclipses and celestial signs. Fervent piety sweeps the land as the people of Ireland prepare themselves for the coming of the long promised apocalypse. On the island’s rocky western coast, fishermen report sightings of dark ominous shapes upon the horizon. With the land gripped by fear, the wagons begin to cross the Shannon and flee eastward. For something is afoot…..

Yet not all of the nation’s people cower in terror, and a small band of journalism students boldly turn against the human tide and make their way to the cliff-tops. With quivering hearts, they face out across the sea and await the arrival of fate.

The time that grown-ups fear to talk of has arrived. The rumour that haunts the frightened whispers of children has come to pass. Breathe deeply, and let your eyes linger for the last time upon the world as you know it, for all is about to change.

Here come the BLOGs

The Empire Strikes Back!

Yesterday's edition of the Guardian online had an interesting blog about the all new Henry Jackson Society.

The society has been set up as a "forum" (read neo-conservative think tank) to discuss Britain's role in this new terror-stricken world of ours. The introduction to the society on their web-site runs as follows:

"The Henry Jackson Society is a non-profit organisation that seeks to promote the following principles: that liberal democracy should be spread across the world; that as the world’s most powerful democracies, the United States and the European Union – under British leadership – must shape the world more actively by intervention and example; that such leadership requires political will, a commitment to universal human rights and the maintenance of a strong military with global expeditionary reach; and that too few of our leaders in Britain and the rest of Europe today are ready to play a role in the world that matches our strength and responsibilities."

One of their statement of principles states that the society "supports a 'forward strategy' to assist those countries that are not yet liberal and democratic to become so. This would involve the full spectrum of our 'carrot' capacities, be they diplomatic, economic, cultural or political, but also, when necessary, those 'sticks' of the military domain."

The sheer arrogance of the language used would be laughable were there not so many "distinguished" names signed up to the statement of principles. The image of the rest of the world as a dumb beast to be cajoled and coerced into submission to an American and British world view smacks of the kind of imperialist language used by the
Project for a New American Century.

A quick glance at the New American Century's statement of principles, written in 1997, and you can see how closely related they are to the principles of the Henry Jackson Society, if not more worrying because of the political clout wielded by the american signatories. All the usual suspects are there, Dick Cheney, Jeb Bush, the "end of history" man Francis Fukuyama, Scooter Libby, Donald Rumsfeld and Paul Wolfowitz. Even Dan Quayle got in on the action. You can get the gist of what they have to say in the following line taken from their statement of principles: "We aim to make the case and rally support for American global leadership".

As mentioned in the Guardian blog, one of the Henry Jackson Society's patrons is Whitehouse advisor Richard Perle, another leading light in neo-conservative circles and instrumental in persuading Bush to go to war.

Amongst those joining him in the British boys club are politicians such as Michael Ancram the shadow secretary of defence, David Willets, shadow secretary of state for trade and industry and even Nobel Peace Prize winner David Trimble.

The Times is well represented with assistant editor Gerard Baker and columnists Oliver Kamm and Stephen Pollard all signing up. Oliver has published articles such as the delightfuly titled "It's No Time to Ban the Bomb: Britain Needs Nuclear Weapons" and "Help, I'm a Pro-War leftie" on the site.

A couple of members of the Defence Manufacturers Association are on the list, including the always eager (to cash in on misery) Beaver ltd. (Their chirpy web-site offers "High Quality, up-to-date government and market intelligence for the defence, aerospace and homeland security industries." )There are also a couple of British military commanders amongst the others.

And what would any list of Neo-Conservatives be without the addition of a revisionist historian to give a weighty nostalgia to the whole affair. Step forward Andrew Roberts. He's one of the new breed of less-dusty looking televsion historians that pop up on Channel 4 and BBC these days.

It actually surprises me that Niall Ferguson's name isn't there. I'm sure some of you remember the popular British documentary series "Empire", with its rose-tinted re-imagining of the British Empire's historical legacy. His book "Collossus" apparently argues that America should take the lessons of Victorian Britain on board and accept its destiny.
Publisher's weekly described the book in this way. "Criticism of the U.S. government's imperialist tendencies has become nearly ubiquitous since the invasion of Iraq began nearly a year ago, but Ferguson would like America to embrace its imperial character."

Would he now. What really needs to be made is a different set of documentaries altogether, about the real historical impact of colonialism upon the world (a look at what was under the boot). Somehow I can't see Channel4 or the BBC making one though. Much safer to blow bubbles. More on that prick later.

What lies beneath

My bedroom has a good view of the street below. Bad management of my personal finances has left me without the necessary cash to buy any curtains until next month, so until December rolls around, I sit at my desk every evening stark naked, aware that I can be seen by all my neighbours across the street. Only joking. The lack of curtains bit is true though, and sometimes it's easy to get distracted by what is happening down there on the street. A few nights ago, I sat in front of the window for quite a while, spaced out and glassy eyed, with the dreaded book of shorthand lying open and ignored on the desk in front of me.

All of a sudden, a loud crashing noise snapped me out of my squiggle and dot induced stupor. I couldn't see what had caused the sound. In front of the 24 hour shop across the street, a group of about 5 or 6 young fellas wearing hoodies were shouting at someone further up the street. I couldn't see anyone at first, but eventually 3 men in their mid-twenties came into view, sauntering up as far as the group of youngsters, a confident bravado in the way they swung their shoulders and stuck their chests out. They didn't look Irish, though I could be mistaken. They had quite tanned skin and two of them had long hair. Only the loudest exclamations were audible, and it was hard to make out exactly what the confrontation was about, though from the hand gesturing and body language it was clear that the young lads had done something to annoy the three men, who looked like they had no intention of backing off from their much younger adverseries.

A teenage girl stood ouside the chinese takeaway on the corner, only a few metres away, and shouted something at the two groups. I heard someone telling her to fuck off. The stand off continued, the two groups staring each other down and after about a minute of verbal exchange, confronted by these older and stronger men, the teenagers seemed to back off a little. It seemed that all the posturing and threats would not lead to actual violence after all.

Suddenly, another group of young fellas came tearing around the corner. There were at least as many in this new group as there were involved in the stand off. With the fresh reinforcements, they now outnumbered the other group by at least three to one. The first to arrive hurled a glass bottle as hard as he could at the men. It struck one of them and smashed against the wall, scattering glass everywhere. The man who had been struck bent down to cover his face as he was hit, while his two friends ran back along the street. With only one vulnerable figure before them, the youngsters suddenly found courage, the kind that comes from being part of a mob, and began to rain punches and kicks down upon the man. He broke away from them and ran down the street. After a moments hesitation the youths pursued him, bottles flying through the air, and the sound of exploding glass ricocheted around the street. It was hard to tell if any of them had hit their target.

By now, a small group of curious passerbys had gathered around the girl, who was still screaming at them to stop. The three men had fled into what was presumably their apartment, because at this stage the young fellas turned their attention to a balcony a few floors up, just beyond my field of vision. Bottles, cans, peices of wood, anything that came to hand, was flung upwards. I could hear the sound of the projectiles smashing against the walls and windows and see how caught up in the excitement of the moment the boys were.

They heard the sirens of the gardai even before I did, and in the space of a couple of seconds had all vanished around the corner of the 24 hour shop again. Two gardai walked up and down the street outside for a minute or two, and had a quick peek down the dark and poorly lit road where the assailants had made their escape, but it was clear that they were just going through the motions.

Meanwhile, the girl called up to the three men to come down from their flat. I could hear her shouting "They've gone!". An ambulance arrived and reluctantly the man who had been struck by the bottle was persuaded to go with them. The other onlookers gradually drifted away after the ambulance had gone. The girl went back into the chinese takeaway, and the gardai sat back into their squad car and pulled away. The street was empty again and curiously peaceful. About 10 minutes afterwards, the guy who had thrown the first bottle was back again, his hood up, leaning against the wall at the corner of the 24 hour shop. Across the street, safe up in my room, I looked down at him and wondered what was running through his head after having done what he did. His head flicked up and his gaze hung in the general direction of my window for a prolonged moment. I don't know if he was looking at me, but my eyes shot down as fast as they could to Mr. Pitman's little book.

It seems silly now, but my first instinct had been to hide the fact that I had watched enthralled as these ugly and violent events unfolded beneath my window. I pretended to read so that I wouldn't make eye contact with this little thug, not out of fear of him, but because for some reason I felt a little embarrassed, like a voyeur caught in the act. Tis a strange dark world we live in.

The First Narrative Arts Club

Last night I attended the grand opening of the Narrative Arts Club in the Central hotel here in Dublin. The founder of the club, a somewhat nervous northern doctor, took on the role of MC for the night. With great gusto he informed us that this was indeed the first club of its kind in the whole world. We dropped our jaws at this earth-shaking revelation and tried to look suitably impressed. Alas, attendence was poor, and I think there were only about 7 of us there, not including the performers. My sister, her boyfreind and I made up almost half of the audience, so we endevoured to do twice the work of normal spectators, and notched up the volume of our laughter and applause accordingly. Not that any over-the-top thigh slapping was neccessary, with all of the participants performing admirably on the night.

While other storytelling clubs such as the Yarnspinners focus mainly on a more traditional Irish style of storytelling, the intention of the narrative arts club is to introduce a slightly more modern feel to the whole thing. There were four acts on the night, and two of them were performing for the first time. The MC did a couple of his own storys, followed by a short bearded guy who told us an at first believable but increasingly absurd tale of growing up on his father's tour bus. This was followed by an hilarious Jewish woman from London and then a great long improvisation on the theme of Irishness and the grand art of bullshitting from a Dublin man. it was made clear that anybody who felt the urge could come up and tell a story (none of the seven of us put our hands up), and surely if they manage to get a few more people to come along next time it'll be a great opportunity for any would be tall tale tellers to perform in front of an intimate but enthusiastic audience. A date has not been set for the next gathering, but I have been told it will be in December. Keep your eyes peeled.

Hieronymus Blog

Don’t ask me why, but I feel like boring you first of all with a few little musings of mine.

When moving into a new place, it’s always good to establish some little routines. Finding a café or bar nearby where the staff are usually friendly, a bakery that sells nice bread, getting to recognize faces that you see seem to see very other day on the street. These are all little pleasures that make a new place familiar and somewhere that you are least a little more comfortable in living. When I moved up to Dublin at first, it took me a while to get used to the place, and to be completely honest, I don’t know if I could ever see myself living here permanently. I have very itchy feet. Still, wherever the wind takes me over the next few years, it could and probably will set me back down again here in Dublin. So I may as well get used to it.

After an extended and confusing period of readjustment over the Summer months, I faltered initially when it came to adapting to Dublin and the whole student life thing again. I had an interesting month or so, wallowing in loneliness and self-pity at times, developing a tolerant co-existence with my flatmate and endeavouring to make my new bedroom seem like somewhere where I wouldn’t mind having to spend a good deal of the immediate future. In the meantime, I noticed certain things about where I live.

Wherever you happen to call your home, walking along a street in the morning is completely different from passing along the same street in the evening. There is a different feel to the place. Now that the evenings are darker, I usually set out for home in varying degrees of twilight, and sometimes under the yellow light of the street lamps. In the morning, its bright and frosty, with huddles of suited workers scurrying along to work. By evening, there are shadows everywhere and everything has a rougher, more exciting edge. When it is grey and overcast, the entire street lowers its head in gloom and manages to look like its suffering from some world-crushing hangover. The whole character of the street changes during the day and even the people begging seem to move on, only to be replaced by others.

It sickens me to see so many homeless and poverty stricken people on the streets of Dublin. So much affluence and wealth in the country, and nothing to spare for the unfortunate. There is this guy who sits everyday on the steps of Avalon house, with his head bowed down over his knees. He has his hand out, holding some kind of paper cup. He has whitish blonde hair and the palest of faces. Sometimes when his head is raised, I think he has Japanese features, but I could be wrong. Wherever he’s from, something awful must have happened to have brought him there, to where he now sits everyday, his head bent, all alone. It’s tragic.


I joined Laser video club a couple of weeks ago and boy am I having a ball, all by my little old self, watching good movies. How many years did I waste in Galway pacing up and down on the faded blue carpet of x-travision, scrutinising the rows of shite for the occasional worthwhile movie, or a comedy that didn’t have a pair of tits on the cover (okay, so i've exaggerated a little)? As I’m sure ye are fully aware, Laser is great.

I don’t mean to be a heaper of gloom, but unfortunately this blog entry could not come to an end without some reference to what happened across the road from the DIT yesterday evening. The laundry just down the road caught on fire and much of it burned down. I tend to carry a list of things I have to do (which only ever grows bigger) with me, and one of the things marked down for yesterday was to leave clothes into the laundry to be washed. Of course in a selfish way I’m glad I didn’t get round to it now, but I feel so sorry for the guys who run the place. I drop my stuff off there all the time, and it’s the fastest and cheapest laundry I’ve seen up here. The two guys who work there always smile when they’re talking to me and in a friendly way exchange the few words it takes to do our business. We’ve probably never had a proper conversation, but I like them.

Sometimes when I went in there, after giving them the ticket and asking for my bag, I would look at a stone tablet they had cellotaped to the side of the counter.
The writing looked Arabic, with beautiful characters that made swirling curves in the stone. One day, I asked the guy what it meant and he told me, “this is the name of God” and smiled at me. I am not religious and I don’t believe in any God, but I liked the way he said it and kind of admired the way he was so clear in his belief. For some reason I really enjoyed the short exchange, and left the place feeling reassured. It was a nice human connection. Which brings me back to all the talk of routines. Once a little connection is made with a place, it becomes part of your daily life, and whenever I passed the laundry, I had a pleasant association with the place.


I’m a damn rambler I tell ye, so ye’ll have to forgive me! Recently I heard or read something, somewhere, along the lines of,
“ask, and be embarrassed for a moment, don’t ask, and be embarrassed for the rest of your life.”
I know I probably have it arse-ways but I like that saying, or quote, or whatever the hell it is. The worst thing in the world is being too afraid to say you don’t know something and ask about it.


Another day I went in to drop off some laundry and the other guy, who always has a slightly more serious expression, was down towards the back of the laundry. He was dancing around, swinging his hips in a very feminine manner, with a short white apron held up to his waist. I could hear bursts of men’s laughter coming from back there. A long rack of plastic sheathed garments hid the laughers from my view. With a huge grin on his face, he whipped away the apron when he saw me at the counter, and ran up to take my bag off me.

I don’t know if these guys owned the place or were just running it, but it saddens me to think that they may have lost their jobs or even their business in the fire. Hopefully they have insurance and they’ll be back on their feet soon. As for all that clothing lost to the cruel flames, the customers are in for one hell of a shock in the morning.

The Blog of War

Foriegn correspondents of the future beware!
A brief glance at the reporters without borders web-site will give you a good indication of how little freedom of expression is valued in many of the world's countries.

The website runs a tally of how many journalists and media assistants have been killed since the start of fighting in Iraq in March 2003. An alarming 74 dead so far, and two still missing.

Little wonder then that the Guardian announced today that it will no longer maintain a fulltime correspondent in Baghdad. After the abduction of Rory Carroll last month, the paper held an internal review and decided it would be less risky for the journalists involved if they took turns out there.

"From the beginning of next year we will have a rota system. We will be there most of the time but we will have four or five people for four- or five-week stints"

An understandable position, but a little saddening. Even before the switch to part-time correspondents, it seems foreign journalists in Iraq rarely moved far beyond the walls of their compounds.

I made my way out to the Stilorgan hotel last month to attend a talk given by Robert Fisk. He touched on a huge range of issues, including the abduction of Rory Carroll and the dangers of reporting from Iraq. He described how foreign journalists rarely if ever ventured beyond the walls of their guarded compounds, instead forced into sub-contracting the risk out to local journalists.

A wee aside: Apparently the hired men standing guard on the towers of the New York Time's compound wear New York times t-shirts over their bullet proof vests, which I thought quite amusing, if its true (is it some sort of marketing thing, or just the crappiest of uniforms?).

Anyhow, I'm rambling on so I'll get back to the point.Fisk, a man of tremendous courage, said that while he may go back for one last visit, it was just too dangerous for him to think about working out there again. Once again, completely understandable, particularly coming from a man who has put his life on the line many times over during the course of his career.

But it does raise a question. If its too dangerous for the hardiest of professional journalists like Fisk and Carroll, where oh where will the news from Iraq be coming from?

And should the western media have kept so damn quiet when Al-Jazeera were getting turfed out of the country?

What do you reckon?

Don't make me use my mind-reading device 'cos if I do, it ain't gonna be pretty!