397. The Eblana Reel

Three burning castles shall no longer illumine
my Dublin dreams, nor will splintering glass
awake me, nor heavy knocks at the shuddering door.

THUNK

Sweety-pie, my Dove, my Love,
Pleeze, pu-leeze be true … ting!
Angelina, Angelina ...

THUNK-THUNK

carried her chest to Argentina …
both of them, by God, bazooms,
and a spare one in the baggage

THUNK-THUNK-THUNK

What?? But … but that’s outrageous!
You can’t possibly expect people to believe …
Omigod, you have the photographs?

All right, all right, I’ll do it.

Herr Hitler this is Senor Franco
No doubt you will wish to discuss the War
over a refreshing cup of Irish Coffee?

I’m in love with love and loveliness
myself. I cannot, Lord, quite help it:

Three sugars?

Tha buaidh air an uisge-bheath'
Tha buaidh air cha chòr e cleith
Tha buaidh air an uisge-bheath'
Gun òlainn teth is fuar i.

But you must tell me more, dear Adolf,
Well, yes, all right … Adi Baby,
Was Geli the Right Girl for you?

She was quite young, I believe?
Ahhhhh …. Hmmmm. Ah. Hmmmm.
Rotten luck she shot herself,

and now you do be with another young wan
in your big house there in the mountains?
Jolly piece, is she? Ah, that’s a step up, Adi.

She wants wha’? Kiss and make up with the Jews?
Fair play, but you can't allow that class of carry-on!
Step down hard, Adi, ship off another two million

and she's sure to come round, she'll be all over you,
sure, you'll be having to dig yourself outta her!
I crossed the frontier that evening just in time

not that the French had much going for them.
Dunno why nobody seems to like the French,
I’ve never had a problem with the bastards

apart from money, and that’s always the women,
great big fat craythurs with moustaches and abaci,
them clickety things, got up in their black bombazine,

eyes on them like gimlets, doing me bleedin head in
down in Mers-el-Kebir or wherever that place I was,
with the ocean, the Mediterranean, it must have been,

crashing on the shore, and the oul head none too steady
after those seven bottles of local plonk the night before
which I knew it was bad after the fifth, but carried on.

Soldiers, soldiers, such as we
Serve in the King’s Infanterie!
Bravely, bravely we’ll advance
Our Monarch’s fame we shall enhance!
Mister Cope do you have a hope
To shoot the head from off the Pope?

I’ve always had a fancy for that jolly little song
even as a Catholic, as if the Pope really needs me,
some oul' swarthy Italian git, I geeve you my blessssing,
my shhonn, I steek my finger up your …

That tune now, it’s so essentially English,
dunno how to express it rightly, it’s sprightly,
bouncy, so very jolly and profoundly stupid,
so English, expressing the genius of the race

who are without doubt gawky simpletons at play,
hee-hawing, dressing up with delight in silly costumes,
but hard as steel in business, harder still in war.

I do not think I love them.
I can't think of anyone who loves them.
And yet they seem to love themselves.

Hello, I am English. Do you love me?

Angelina, Angelina,
believes in things I no longer care about,
stalks me from a previous century.

God, I know, I can be stiff and boring!
Boring you, dear, when stiff, and poking fun
at the thrust of your missionary disposition:

you clutch a Bible in your left little hand
and a baby-pink (oiled & ribbed) in the other
and I fear you, my dear, your raw demand!

For now the wimp is limp,
half-hearted, garrulous,
what you might call Welsh.

Welshing.
O Darling!

You are the finest woman I have ever seen
(from a distance, anyway).
May we meet, my love, in Stephen’s Green.

396. Vita summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.  
           -- James Elroy Flecker


Too much bone and blood
and fortitude, too much straining
for the evanescent: passing years
drip by, form streams, gurgling,
receding, all too rapidly draining
to where we are today. I must say
there were some bloody great parties,
helpless laughter, incandescent trysts
with ladies now of a certain age,
fresh and gorgeous in my memory.

Girls are lovely, they really are,
most of all when they are young,
coming up like fresh little flowers
in each generation: the young boys
never figure this out, thinking the present
will last forever. Sad. Sad, also silly.

Detached from our purblind monomania,
age executes its subtle daily attacks
on hairlines, jowls and bellies; we rarely
seem to pay much heed or attention,
until, after a sudden glance in a mirror,
or faced with a photo of a recent funeral,
(not so long ago we attended weddings)
we think, Jesus God, can that be me?
No, it is not me. It is a cruel parody
of the brave young man shining within.
-------------------------------------------------
 Original:

Too much bone and blood
and fortitude, too much straining
for the evanescent: how the years
drip-drip, creating streams, gurgling
down the diverse and the dreary drains
to where we are today. I must say
we had some bloody great parties!
Helpless laughter, incandescent clicks
with ladies now of a certain age,
fresh and gorgeous in my memory.
Girls are lovely, they really are,
most of all when they are young,
coming up like fresh little flowers
in each generation: the young boys
can’t figure this out, thinking the present
will last forever. Sad, but it never does.
For us non-gay boys it doesn’t matter;
automatically married, dazed, a bit
sidetracked, a bit blind to our senses,
a bit unaware in our purblind monomania
to how age executes its savage attacks
on hairlines, jowls, and bellies, we never
notice or pay attention to these things,
until with a sudden glance in a mirror,
or faced with a photo at so-and-so’s funeral
(until not so long ago it was weddings)
we think, Jesus God, can that be me?
No, it is not me. It is a parody.
I am the brave young man that shines within.

395. West Clare, August

The wind, rippling across unruly fields,
is chill, not warm, on this summer night,
and it runs in a rush down the narrow road
between tangled bushes of unripe berries.
A tall shape appears, dark from the darkness,
a bicycle of the sturdy kind, its dim light dancing,
of a type much admired by bachelor farmers.
A song, a sweet tenor, separates from the air,
and the clear heart-breaking song of youth
arises: it is the thrush-like throat of Dinny Joe,
who was all of eighty-four when the sister died,
his housekeeper, last year or the year before?
I retreat without words into silent shadows
for I would not for the world interrupt him
as he cycles into darkness, legend and death.
----------------------------------------------------
Original:

The wind that rustles the fields of grain
is chill, not warm, on summer nights,
as it runs in a rush down the narrow road
among tangled bushes of unripe berries.
A tall shape appears, dark from the darkness,
a bicycle of the sturdy kind, its dim light dancing,
of a type much admired by bachelor farmers.
A song, a sweet tenor, separates from the air,
and the clear heart-breaking song of youth
comes from the thrush-like throat of Dinny Joe,
who was all of eighty-four when his sister died,
his housekeeper, last year, or was it the year before?
I retreat without thinking into silent shadows
for I would not for the world interrupt him
as he cycles into darkness, legend and death.

394. The Easter Rising

All is changed, changed utterly,
A terrible beauty is born
-- W.B. Yeats

Idiots, really,
drunk on oratory and illusions:
a poet's rebellion with real bullets.

I love how they went to the tailors,
taking fittings for fine new uniforms,
tunics and belts to be buried in.

It was the style of the thing --
sauntering out, sartorially splendid,
at lunchtime on a public holiday.

Christ is crucified.
Christ is risen.
Christ will live again.

A sidelong smirk, a furtive wave,
Jayzus, Jim, and what’s the craic?
Can’t talk, Joe, I’m on Parade!

The GPO. Left Wheel! Attack!
Look here, young fella, do you mind,
amn’t I next in the queue for stamps!

Kindly leave the premises, madam:
Volunteer Muldoon! On yer bike, missus,
G’wan, get away on out of it.

Run up the flag, the Plough and Stars!
Read out the lengthy Proclamation!
Ehh, ... hell's that fella after sayin’?

Look, here come the bloody Lancers!
Clippety-clopping along the cobblestones:
Volunteers! Five rounds rapid … Fire!

O God, dey do be dead!
Bear up, Muldoon, they are the enemy.
Feck the sojers, dem lubbly horses!

Agnus Dei
qui tollis peccata mundi

The English are capitalists, says Connolly,
they would never destroy public property!
Soon shells rain down on the central city.

Machine guns, snipers, rake the roadsteads,
and in little heaps, in shapeless huddled rags,
stray civilians go down in the crossfire.

Explosions, the zing and ring and ping
of bullets caroming off the stonework:
Get away, ya bleedin' hoor, ya missed!

Fires take hold, walls glow, grow white-hot,
the ceiling burns, then sags, starts to collapse:
ammunition low, the lads keep banging away.

We must charge the barricades, cries Connolly,
Jayz, Muldoon, yeh shoulda stopped in the pub!
Ehh, could we not, like, crawl behind them, sorr?

Hippety-hop, out one of the side doors,
the bullets spark on the flags of Henry Street:
a skip and a jump and it’s into Henry Lane.

Fires all around, bullets at every crossroad,
sandbag redoubts at the end of each street:
The O’Rahilly leaps up and leads a charge

but they’re all knocked over, bowled like skittles,
bleeding, groaning, beside upturned market barrows
among the cabbage leaves and cauliflowers.

It’s then that a bemused Commandant Pearse,
after seven days of ceaseless noise and slaughter,
decides the time has come to pack things in.

But how to get the English to stop firing?
White flags have been no help to the poor civilians,
nor even the sad appeasement of Union Jacks.

The Army over time has gone wild and feral,
enraged by the sting of huge, unexpected losses,
it means to impose revenge on this rebel City.

Let me try, says the nurse, Elizabeth O’Farrell,
and with a great big wave of her Red Cross flag,
she boldly steps out in the street …

And the English hold their fire.
Silence: Christ is on the Cross.

What follows is a tale of the times:
General Lowe, the British Officer Commanding,
cannot accept surrender from a woman!

Three hours later, the whole thing’s over,
and we can see the blurred but famous photo:
Pearse surrenders to General Lowe.

It’s over, so quixotic, so silly,
such a desperate hopeless military fling
in the face of a furious Empire

(who were none too bloody pleased
at this stab in the back, as they saw it,
in the midst of a War they were losing!)

Comes the question of retribution,
and with it comes the turning point,
when England loses Ireland forever.

With their city thrown into flaming ruins,
the populace is enraged, and not with the English,
but with these home-grown damn'd fanatics!

When the prisoners are led to the docks
the whole city turns out to jeer and pelt them:
Look at yez now, yeh bleedin’ bowsies!

England has only to be calm and cool,
to be reassuring, play on the prevailing mood,
but opts instead for savage executions.

First there is silent and stunned disbelief,
whispered murmurings, a stirring of anger,
and then the photographs begin to appear.

Images of the executed leaders proliferate,
first in private homes, then in gathering places,
then in public places throughout the land.

When the troops go angrily tearing them down,
the well-known stubborn streak comes out,
and the mood of the whole country changes.

The lads fought a fair fight, stood up to them,
and were good clean-living boys, the most of them.
No need to go shooting them down like animals!

Christ is Crucified.
Christ is Risen.
Christ Will Live Again.

1916 was the blood sacrifice,
a purity of belief that stayed in our minds
and gave rise to Irish freedom.

When I think of the men of 1916
I wish I had been one among them,
racing down to the barricades

and fighting for Ireland, not actually dying,
(Muldoon muddled through, very glad to hear it)
just dodging the bullets, having the craic

and then boring the pants off people in the pub,
cadging drinks on the strength of a '16 Medal
for ever and ever and ever and ever. Amen.

Slideshow link: http://picasaweb.google.com/dedalus07/1916...feat=directlink

Pearse surrenders to General Lowe at the top of Moore Street. Elizabeth O'Farrell has been airbrushed out of the photo (one can see her feet and the hem of her skirt beside the feet of Pearse).

393. With the World Cup Over, Is There Nothing Left to Live For?

Oh well, another disgusting final. I'm glad Spain won (mildly) since it would have been an affront to see the brutal hacking Dutch walk off with the prize. I like the Dutch, who doesn't, but not this team.

What's to do now for the next four years? Slip back into the black hole of anonymity ... if that's even a word. Work. Earn less money than I spend. Spend it anyway. Write. Enjoy cooking. Drink less. Eat more pickles. Avoid young & beautiful women. Search Google Images for pictures they'll ALLOW me to use to illustrate this shoestring Blog. Go to Peking next Wednesday ... that should be good.

392. Spain Brings Germany to Heel 1-0

 The Germans had been doing so well, racking up four goals in three separate matches, and they'd been playing a very attractive kind of football. They were so lightning quick on the counter-attack and could move the ball down the field in seconds. England looked absolutely stodgy and clueless against them and the vaunted Argentines simply fell apart. Then they came up against (arguably) the best team in the world. They certainly didn't buckle under and held on as dangerous contenders throughout most of the game. The Spanish were just the better team. The score doesn't really reflect the psychological game. The eager young German team tried everything and none of it worked. The Spanish foiled all of their moves and took over the game, inexorably imposing their superiority. The Germans simply couldn't rattle them. The header was brutal, to be honest, had nothing to do with the finesse of the passing game till then, but you could almost see the Germans losing heart. Schweinsteiger (pig-climber?) started losing his cool as did Ozil and Klose -- my personal bete-noir for reasons below -- and desperation began to set in. They began to realise they couldn't crack the Spanish defence. It was an absolutely intriguing game to watch.

Fair dues to the Germans, though. They were a young team with many players brought up from their Under-21s -- England take note!! -- and they played excellent attacking football against the big-name stars of the Premier League and South America. Spain simply contained them and then struck for the winning goal. Germany were hardly humiliated but they were taught a lesson in football all the same. You can be sure many of these same German players will show up in World Cup 2014 with more experience and could prove to be even more lethal. They played extemely well and they have nothing to be ashamed of.

I was hoping for a Holland-Germany final, if only for the drama. It would be like Celtic-Rangers on the world stage. Every match these two teams play is a mini-war with sheer hatred being the driving force. In the runup to the England-Germany match the British tabloids were plugging the Battle of Britain and World War Two but the Germans were basically indifferent. They are never indifferent when they play against Holland which they see as their main rivalry.

Too bad about that. Spain-Holland (a European Final, who says we've lost the plot and become a shower of wimps?) is almost as good, but the Dutch are going to have a hard time cracking the Spanish nut. The Dutch are tough, spirited and opportunistic in the best traditions of high-seas piracy but this Spanish team is so good, so confident, so abundantly bursting with talent that they'd be very lucky to win. Even so, this is football. You can never predict what is going to happen. We have a good match to look forward to next Sunday!

In my unbounded enthusiasm for the Spanish team I nearly forgot to add on the reasons I dislike Klose and would like to give him a good root up the arse. It goes back, as many things do, to the World Cup in Japan/Korea in 2002.

It was impossible to get tickets. People who were here then can remember that distinctly. Anyway, a pal from Ireland was coming over with spares and I could go to all three matches in the qualifying round if I wanted. This was June, but with the end of term exams looming I couldn't go mad altogether. Choose one, I told myself. Obviously that would be Germany-Ireland.

We met up in Tokyo and went off in a cattle train to the ground in Ibaraki. You can read the details here.

The Irish fans outnumbered the Germans by about 10-1. It was a Sea of Green and the Japanese wearing German kit were suitably intimidated. We had the bodhrans going ratatatat and we were roaring out The Fields of Athenry. The German team looked rattled when their national anthem sort of drifted away into the sultry air and ours shook the very foundations of the stadium. The match was nervy to start with as many first round matches are. The Germans were the superior team but the Irish were doing what they do best, tackling very hard, chasing every ball, and mounting unexpected counterattacks. The first half was inconclusive until Klose, an incomparable predator it has to be said, got his head to a high ball in the area just below where we were sitting and flicked an unstoppable header past Shay Given. It was a brilliant goal, but it's what happened next that pissed us off. He did his usual run and slide along his knees, fists pumping. So far what you'd expect. Then he stood up and shook his fist at the Irish fans in the stand with a look of pure malice on his narrow face. What?? This was met with a shower of Boos. Righty-o, mate, your card is marked!

End of first-half. Ireland down 1-0 ... I mean, it was a good goal ,,, but the fans are seething over this arrogant bastard. Second half goes back and forth, a few chances here and there, nothing serious, time starts running away. Next thing you know we're into overtime -- 4 minutes. First minute, nothing happens; second and third minutes, ditto, and then in the last thirty seconds of the game Robbie Keane bursts through into the area and slots one past the large and hairy German goalkeeper, Kahn. Goal! For a moment there is stunned silence and then the whole stadium erupts in a roar of delight from the throats of 5 or 6000 Irishmen. Tweet! goes the whistle and that'ts the end of the match. The German team seems to disappear in about twenty seconds and the Irish do the rounds of the pitch soaking up the cheers of the fans for ... oh, I don't know ... 10, 15, 20 minutes?

I'd told my school I'd be away for two days. But the match is on Tuesday (or Wednesday, or whatever, it was a weekday) and you can return that night or the next morning, surely? Ahh, no, I don't think so. My friends want me to show them around Tokyo. Total bullshit. I knew damn well that win, draw, or lose we'd be legless until 4 or 5 o'clock in the morning either celebrating or commiserating and that I'd be in no fit state for any sort of social intercommunication until well into the following afternoon and possibly for some time thereafter. Good thinking for so it proved. The Irish took over half the bars of Tokyo that night with our flags and songs. Ah, Klose, you miserable bastard: it's never as easy as you think!

391. Saved from the Flames

Excerpts from Granddad's Diaries
(the bits Grandma couldn't find to burn)

In my younger days I'd gape
at famous people: I was a fool,
when I think about it. I’d forgotten
the old and everlasting rule
that nothing, nobody lasts forever.

Too many friends
having topped themselves,
not very well, hardly
artistically, often with rather
messy consequences

I thought, I felt, well ...

My dear! Have you seen
what a train can do to a human body?
Grotesque! I had to identify
Emil in his various pieces.
Only his signet ring was conclusive.

I thought, but thinking
in those days, as in any day

was not encouraged … I harboured doubts,
let's say, as to whether literature was the path
to tread, waiting for my mind to be pure or totally dead
among many high-strung fine-featured females,
who never once, not once, were seen naked and beguiling,
and who had no intention ever, never,
of becoming naked, or of being beguiling,
as they could have ... so easily done, the bitches,
by sliding happily, gloriously into bed,
by being nice to you, making the whole world
in a moment ten thousand times better.

They carry around their god-given bodies
nervously, without an ounce of comprehension:
words, words, so many words instead.

The mustachioed pale-faced gentlemen
held delicate scented handkerchiefs
to their bony twitching noses, ultra refined,
leaving no echo of the sweat the blood and stink
of Arminius, of the looming Nazi hooligans,
who were coming on, like Werner.

He came up to me at the ‘Babalanka’
one of these forgettable but fantastic
cosy places we used to love in Berlin:
fizzy very bad champagne on the tables,
young girls pretending to be loose and wild
while thinking about Papa, of their riding lessons
on the weekend. Hello, Jew.

That’s what he said. I was so incensed,
amused, I let him believe it. After that,
throughout all my outrageous spying forays,
he protected me. He thought I was a Jew homosexual,
not one but two counts against me. He was
visibly startled and in spite of himself, impressed.
After the war started, not long after,
the Yanks, the Irish, pushed out the boat of neutrality
while the Brits, Canadians and the rowdy Australians,
and even the quiet New Zealanders (all three),
swiftly skedaddled. I was able to pick up
some used furniture on the cheap. The Germans
were not keen on the idea of war. It was obvious
they hated the whole idea. Um Gottes Will,
they said, downing liters at the local, Was soll denn
das alles sein? (the fuck’s this all about then?)

So, no enthusiasm. None whatsoever.
I was scribbling all of this happily down
and sending it out through US embassy pouches
thanks to Nick and weird Oklahoma Julie
because the so-called Irish embassy was run by
one of our very own anti-British fascist manqué,
a total blinkered idiot, so shaming, you didn’t
even want to go to the receptions. But I did

occasionally, so that’s how I first met Hermann Goering.
I’d brought a wee tin whistle and that's what got him going.
I played a few tunes, a jig, a reel, and then a plaintive air
and the fat fucker just went berserk, mouthing off
about Aryan purity and asking me up for the weekend,
so I went off to his place up at Karinhall. My God!
You wouldn’t believe the luxury this fellow lived in,
wall-to-wall paintings and tapestries and sculptures
and the whole bloody house lined in marble. He was
on his best behaviour, slapping me on the back,
bad-mouthing the English, saying the Irish were so pure.

Idiot. The fuck he knows about the Irish.
Anything that happens outside of Germany,
these people simply don't have a clue, I mean,
look at Ribbentrop: he says “Heil Hitler” to the King.
Then he hates England because the English laugh at him.
I laugh at him too. That’s normal. Even the Germans
want to laugh at him but that, of course, is not allowed,
Strengst Verboten! not in a land where an unguarded remark
can send you straight to prison. I'm sorry I bought
the furniture; I really think I ought to leave.

I got back to Berlin and who’s sitting in my room,
there in the chair at the foot of my bed, but Werner?
The hell you doing here, I say, pass over my pajamas!
I have message for you, Bernd, you must send please.
O God, that’s how it started. Neutrality, I’d have to say,
went out the window. The Americans got chucked out
in ’41 after Pearl Harbor, the Irish stayed on. Not many.

By then we knew what side we were on. Oh, but listen,
must tell you! Must tell you about the time I met Herr Hitler
and taught him a few words of Irish, Conas ata tú,
which I hope, you know, he took with him to the grave
along with Eva Braun. He could have turned to her
in their last moments, smiled and said: Conas ata tú ?
How are you? How are you? How are you?
She'd have had no reply, she never did, I only met her
the one time and it was Hermann who introduced us,
and after that to some sly sarcastic little dwarf,
a very nasty little piece of work who faded out of the picture
after I’d challenged him to a foot race: a name with “b” or “g”.

Werner was gobsmacked when I left for Sweden
so casually in the winter of ’43. You could still do that then,
even after Stalingrad. The truth hadn’t quite hit them.
I met him after the war in Hamburg, running a bar on the Reeperbahn.
People like Werner never go under, they just bob to the surface
while others are dying in droves all around them. They flourish,
eat well, screw and drink. He looked at me cagily, benevolently,
still thinking I was a corkscrew Jew so I pretended to kiss him,
but his smile went rigid when I whispered in his ear.
Crooks (this is the good thing) don't write books.

390. Germany Annihilates Argentina 4-0

Golly, this is no joke any more!

I am nearly praying for a Holland-Germany Final!!

389. Germany Demolishes England 4-1

So much for a rivalry. Germany made certain just who the better soccer club was Sunday by sending England off the pitch hanging their heads and on the bitter end of a 4-1 defeat in the first round of the knockout rounds of the 2010 World Cup. England controlled the tempo early on but could not overcome some precise ball movement from Germany and an unrewarded goal as Germany asserted themselves as the top team for at least one day.

Germany struck first blood when Miroslav Klose, who missed Germany's 1-0 victory over Ghana due to suspension, made his impact. Klose nudged the ball past England goalkeeper David James twenty minutes in. the score brought Klose three goals away from a tie for the all-time World Cup scoring record, held by Ronaldo of Brazil. Klose had made it clear that he intended to at least tie the record during this World Cup.

Miroslav Klose slots in Germany's first in the 20th minute

Twelve minutes later Lukas Podolski scored an incredible goal at a very tough angle, just barely hitting the far corner of the goal to put Germany up 2-0. England was quick to respond with a goal of their own, coming from Matthew Upson on a header roughly five minutes later. Then controversy took center stage as England's Frank Lampard kicked a ball off the cross bar of the German goal. The ball landed behind the goalkeeper Manuel Neuer and should have been a clear goal to tie the match (more on this goal below), but the refs failed to see where the ball landed. With no video replay system in order with FIFA the score remained 2-1 in favor of Germany.

England attempted a furious come back in the second half but Germany showed better athleticism and a better scheme to solidly put England away. On a free kick by England's Lampard the Germans defended nicely and created a 3-on-1 rush up field to the England goal. Thomas Müller capitalized on the rush by notching his first goal of the match to put Germany up 3-1 with 67 minutes played. Just three minutes later Müller once again scored a goal to put Germany up 4-1. At that point it was clear that Germany was going to cruise to the next round as England appeared deflated.

It did appear clear that with the first half winding down, England had in fact tied the match at two goals a piece. A shot by Frank Lampard hit the cross bar and landed clearly behind the goal line, as seen on television cameras, by at least a foot. Regardless, the refs missed the goal as they were behind the play and had a poor angle.

In this combination image composed of five photos, Germany goalkeeper Manuel Neuer looks at the ball hitting the bar and bouncing over the line during the World Cup round of 16 soccer match between Germany and England at Free State Stadium in Bloemfontein, South Africa, Sunday, June 27, 2010. (AP Photo/Gero Breloer)

England never scored again and allowed two more goals the rest of the way so one might say the unrewarded goal would not have changed anything. But to argue that would be ridiculous as the whole course of a game could have been altered if England had gone in to the half tied with Germany, rather than trailing and needing to press more for a goal. England came out in the second half on a mission and played the more aggressive soccer, but they may have used up all of their energy in efforts to tie the match. Had the game been correctly tied then England could have played a different style in the second half, before running out of energy and seeing Germany blitz past them.

-- report from Kevin McGuire at Germany Football Examiner, June 27

388. Why Are We Not Surprised Dept.

A post by David Beaver on the site Language Log:

First, a new twist on a story that our legal desk covered back in February: at the annual Ig Nobel awards ceremony earlier tonight, the Prize for Literature was awarded to the Garda Síochána na hÉireann (i.e. the Irish Police Force) for the 50 or more speeding tickets they've issued in the name "Prawo Jazdy", Polish for "driver's license."

387. Feeling Sorry for the French

Come to think of it, I don't feel that sorry at all. The Irish team should have been there instead of you. They would have done better. They couldn't possibly have done worse. Somebody (not me) put a right good curse on the French team. Now it's the long trip home, if they'll have you, in shame and disgrace. That's what you get for cheating, Thierry me bhoy, with your double handball, and you Domenech, FIFA and all the rest of yez. None of my doing, as I said above, but these things have a way of working themselves out. I take no delight in it but confess to no surprise.

386. Holland-Japan and the Night

It was good craic for the night that was in it ... so let's get on to the visuals.

Fu'ball at Marty's Kitchen & at Mehmet's KK

Click on the title under the picture above and you get sent to the slideshow in two moves: you need to click on the "Slideshow" button in the top left corner when the next screen arrives.

385. The Lighter Side of Adolf Hitler

Having discovered the Internet Archives a short while ago, I have been happily listening to and downloading a wide range of music, audio books, and just recently, recorded speeches from the worldwide uninvited trauma of the Second World War, in which various nations in Europe and Asia went under and others seemed teetering on the brink.

It is eerie to listen to the tired dispirited voice of Neville Chamberlain as he informs his bemused countrymen that a Final Note sent through diplomatic channels has not been answered … “I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently, this country is at war with Germany.” He goes on to record his disappointment that all his efforts have come to nought, and that Herr Hitler had not been … well, quite honest with him. It comes as a relief to hear the infinitely more pugnacious tones of Winston Churchill who replaced him as Prime Minister in May, 1940. Churchill talks to the nation in a series of memorable, literate, punchy, well-phrased speeches in which his loathing of Hitler and the Nazis comes through loud and clear. It’s nearly impossible to listen to him without wanting to pick up a gun and go out and fight on the beaches, in the hills, on the landing grounds, in the fields, and never never surrender! If all else fails, pick up a club or a hammer or a sharpened stick ... and all this for Ireland’s ‘ould enemy’ England, mind you!

Then I started to listen to the Germans.

My German is not bad. I lived there as a child, many years after the war, and languages you pick up when you’re young often stay with you. I can still function in Germany, no problem: the fluency and speed comes back in a day or two.

Goebbels is easier to understand than Hitler. He speaks quickly but in a fairly standard educated accent (he was, after all, a Doctor of Letters). Hitler requires more time. I had plenty of time. My job requires me to drive long distances to various Japanese companies so I’ve long been in the habit of whiling away the driving time with Audiobooks. Now I listen to Hitler.

In the beginning it was difficult. His accent and his rhythms are hard to get accustomed to. In American terms it would be like listening to someone with a very pronounced Southern accent, much stronger than Jimmy Carter’s light Georgia drawl (for which he was much ridiculed). In British terms it would be like listening to a Geordie, if not quite a Scot. He doesn’t use dialect as such but the sounds are significantly different from ‘Hochdeutsch’, Standard German. The ‘r’s are very heavily rolled and the vowels are frequently swallowed. He speaks quickly, and when he gets excited his voice rises to a barking crescendo with what seems a hammer-fall of words. He seems to be literally banging on the side of your skull.

We all have an image of Hitler. He is widely believed to be the most evil leader the world has ever produced (Stalin was on our side) leaving behind the also-rans who people the modern world, those who nevertheless manage to ensure thousands of people – usually their own, sometimes foreigners -- die before their time or live in abject misery.

I think Hitler was a disaster, and not only for the neighbouring countries of Europe, but ultimately, as the war turned against him, for his own people. My lengthy subjection to the hours and hours of recorded material has not changed this opinion in any way. Keep this in mind as I wander into new and unfamiliar territory below!

Hitler can be funny. No, honestly. He doesn’t tell jokes, as such, but he is a very accomplished storyteller. This hardly ever comes across in his set-piece speeches when he is addressing the party congress at Nuremberg, or the Hitler Youth Congress, or when he justifies the murder of old comrades during the 1934 ‘Night of the Long Knives’, or, later, the annexation of the Sudetenland in September 1938. The annexation of Austria, earlier in the year, has a load of laugh lines. He lies brazenly to the nation about the reasons for the attack on Poland on September 1, 1939. After Stalingrad there are no more anecdotes and very few public speeches. Towards the end of the war there are no speeches at all – except one after the failed assassination attempt on 20 July, 1944.

Hitler is at his most relaxed when he is addressing the “Alte Kaempfer”, the Old Fighters, who were with him from the beginning in the early 1920s. These speeches are very obviously ex tempore, because there are a number of verbal hesitancies. He makes sounds like ‘emm’ or uhh’ and you can see he is gathering his thoughts about what to say next. He goes off into a little story about some guy who did something silly, usually in the face of some stiff and respectable figure of the hated Weimar Regime, and the stories are actually quite interesting. The crowd roars. He rambles along every now and then and tells these little stories and of course they never got reported in the foreign press who had to concentrate on the political content.

He never strays very far from political content. It becomes increasingly apparent that the most exciting time of Hitler’s life was getting this tiny little unknown political party off the ground and eventually taking over the whole of Germany. He comes back to this again and again. All the difficulties! All the problems! No, it seemed hardly possible … but we did it! And we did it because the German people were simply waiting for us (for him) to come along and show them the way. Obviously. Otherwise the Party would never be where we are today.

The thing that struck me was how similar (in some ways) he was to Churchill. Both of these men were totally committed to an enhanced historical and rather romantic notion of their own country and its place in the world, and both were totally convinced that only they knew what needed to be done and that there were crowds of useless and annoying people that had to be swept aside to allow this thing to happen. Both went through years in the political wilderness before finally attaining the power they earnestly sought and both fell upon it greedily, elbowing aside all contenders and possible opponents. The significant and telling difference is that Churchill was a dyed-in-the-wool parliamentarian, steeped in the long traditions of the House, loyal to the Crown, a self-described Servant of the State. Hitler felt no such restrictions and effectively dismantled the power of the Reichstag, took over the Presidency upon the death of Hindenburg, and sidelined, imprisoned or even murdered any opponents. He was Caesar in all but name ... but the name suggests it, "Der Fuehrer".

It was a conflict of political systems and two strong leaders in which Britain seemed slated to lose. If Hitler hadn't attacked the Soviet Union or declared war on America after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, he could conceivably have won the war in the West. The RAF could not have held the Germans off indefinitely had the Nazis had no other enemies to contend with, in spite of the brave and fortuitous victories in the summer of 1940. The June 1941 attack on Russia took the pressure off Britain; the entry of the USA into the war told Churchill (he says as much) we have won; we can no longer lose.

Both men were gifted speakers, capable of rousing their people to heights of patriotic fervour. The difference was Churchill knew his people better than Hitler knew his. Churchill dealt with known strengths he had recognized from his own years in the Army and at the Admiralty: obstinacy, bloody-mindedness, a cheery surface, class-hatred tempered by admiration for courage or a touch of grace, understatement, a display of insouciant flash. The Scots and the Irish (the latter not even in the war, officially) were less enamoured, but the English lapped it up. Even the dogged class warriors of the Left got this vapid grin on their faces when the upper classes behaved nicely towards them, found themselves tugging at their forelocks: so depressing, so inevitable, so intrinsically English. Hitler, on the other hand, had no such "Fingerspitzgefuehl", fingertip sensitivity, a German expression never put into so many words in Britain but automatically acted upon. Hitler depended on blood loyalty, a racial vision of the German people that went back to Hermann (Arminius) and the German tribes who had defeated the Roman Legions in 14 AD. No Jews then! Most Germans neither knew nor cared. What was he on about? Hitler believed in all this turn-of-the-century Viennese rigamarole (he had lived there as a down-and-out) and Himmler was the little rat who set about exterminating the Jews of Europe by planned, efficient, industrial methods. Death factories. Hitler (quite carefully) never signed any papers but never raised a finger to stop him, either.

Isolated in his own glory, a stranger to any opposition, losing touch with reality, Hitler held up impossible standards of perpetual victory to his soldiers with not even the option of tactical retreat, so that after all the initial successes, the elation, when the first setbacks came on the Russian Front his adamant refusal to accept them gradually turned the Wehrmacht and his own generals against him. It was an Army conspiracy that tried to assassinate him in July 1944. Churchill visited the bombed areas of East London and other cities, went out among the people. Hitler never did. The Nazi bigwig who did go out and talk to the people was, perhaps not surprisingly, Goebbels. Goebbels was an opportunist, a professional liar ("Das Propaganda!") but he had one or two saving graces, a willingness to face the people being one among them. At the end of the war he was far more popular than Hitler. His speeches, although easier to understand than Hitler's, are unleavened by jokes or anecdotes. That was left for the more relaxed style of the Boss ... "Der Chef".



Hitler was amazingly indulgent to damaged and at times quite embarrassing public figures (Julius Streicher, pornographer; Hans Hoffmann, photographer and falling-down drunk) who dated back to the early days of the Party. Nearly everything was overlooked if you’d been with him in the Old Days. At times you feel as if they all used to play football together, or served in the same unit during the First War: Alte Kamerad! Churchill picked up and dropped people like playing cards: all he cared about was performance and Action This Day! He drove his staff crazy. His secretaries were scared stiff of him. Hitler, on the other hand, liked familiar faces and was courtly and fatherly to his secretaries, drank tea with them, and never fired anyone. He shot and hung people with piano wire instead ... but never any of his Inner Circle. Except, in the final days, the greasy Faegellein (Eva Braun's sister's husband).

Hitler's little stories are quite amusing, self-deprecatory, e.g. there were about 500 people in the hall back then, you know, and only 50 of them were listening. Some of them didn’t know why they were listening (knowing laughter) and I was in charge of a “Haufen”, a shapeless lump, but they were my crowd and I was happy and proud to be in charge of them. Maybe it's the way he tells it, the storyteller. The delivery is always dry, straight-faced, throwaway. If you didn’t know who this person was and what was about to happen, it could be seductive, calling forth complicity of a kind. I found myself smiling or grinning several times and I had to think … wait, wait, wait!! … this is, this is ... Hitler!

Time and time again he goes back to the insurmountable difficulties that were eventually overcome by “faith” and “will” and adherence to the principle of restoring the honour and freedom of Germany. There can be no question he believes this. Violence is always a method employed by the party’s many enemies – not a word about the SA or the SS.

At times Hitler sound quite genial, not the screaming fanatical fool we have been led to believe in. The crowd are obviously listening to him and hanging on his every word. Once you get used to his rhythms and the heavy accent it all starts to make more sense than before. He was a political disaster, a new Black Plague … but the charm and charisma in his less formal moments is undeniable.

What does this mean? It means, if nothing else (and I’ve been reluctantly honest about my reactions 70 years later, even with the benefit of hindsight) that what the Germans of the time heard and responded to was a form of rhetoric that was not simply a hammering political harangue in a spiky unpleasant-sounding foreign language but a series of stories and anecdotes that were often spontaneously connected and even humorous and amusing. Hitler was the Boss, sure, but he never came across to his public as a cold demanding poker-up-the-arse Prussian militarist. In reality he was far more dangerous than any Prussian but he never sounded that way: he could sound reasonable, he could tell stories, he could be avuncular, he was everybody's "Uncle Adolf". These recordings were an absolute revelation.

But none of this changes what happened. Hindsight is 100%. This is not a luxury afforded when you are living through events. When wars are far away (however unjust) and none of our friends or family are physically involved, we tend to be apathetic, if not simply content to allow them to happen. Too bad about the local Afghans and Iraqis these days, for example, just as in those days it was too bad about the Slavs and Jews. Of course it’s not the same thing – just another, slightly different, watered-down version. The aversion to doing anything about it remains, then and now, precisely the same.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
What if Hitler had invaded Ireland? Here is a rather chilling article from the Irish Times which makes it abundantly clear that the Nazis had no respect for Irish neutrality and fully intended to take over the country. Our survival as a free nation had little to do with our own efforts and everything to do with the victory of the RAF in the Battle of Britain. Thank God there were at least a few young men like Paddy Finucane who could see that!

384. Under The Waves Stays With You My Heart

Unter Die Wellen Bleibt Bei Dir Mein Herz

Frau Elena Proschkow, 92, remembers her first husband, her abiding true love, Kapitaenleutnant Hans-Christian Meier, commander of the submarine U-263, lost at sea on November 9, 1942.
-------------------------------------------------------

O Christian
how it all comes back --
I can see you now
so young, so eager,
so resplendent
in your tailored uniform,
your dark eyes gleaming,
your shy lovely smile,
the proud glances of your father,
the apprehensive eyes of your mother,
and, there, both laughing and fearful,
little me, three months pregnant
with Johann, our firstborn,
the child you would never see.

I weep now to remember;
I can see it all so clearly
even now, after sixty-eight long years,
like a photograph, like an image
burned into my brain;
you, my darling husband,
you, the best of all men,
on the night before you went to sea
for the last time, never, never
to return to the warm bed of love.

We had been married two years
and your parents had made
some initial old-fashioned fuss,
but you, my dear, had insisted politely,
with the hidden steel of a German officer
(I think they were a little afraid of you),
and I loved you all the more for that.
Christian, you made me so happy!

Father had an eye for a pretty girl
(yes, you smiled when you told me!)
and your mother soon capitulated
when she saw how much I loved you.
O Christian, Christian,
in those early days, we were
so happy together, so proud!

The degenerate filthy French
had been soundly trounced,
and the cold treacherous English
were left snarling on their island,
as the new Germany, under Adolf Hitler
became triumphant!

The shame and the stain
of the First War had been erased
(in which my father fell, as you know)
and the German nation, reborn,
was holding a lamp to the world:
Kraft durch Freude, Strength through Joy,
a bulwark against godless communism,
a shining example of will.

Do you remember, my darling,
that day we first met?
You were a young lieutenant
and I was a girl with the BDM,
(a Gruppenleiter, you never knew that!)
and we were lost in the crowds,
all the celebrating thousands
cheering for Goering and the Fuehrer:
that was June, after the fall of France,
such a day of heartwarming pride!

I was pushed this way and that,
lost one of my shoes, such enthusiasm,
and you, my dark-eyed knight,
came to my rescue, plucked me forth
from the surging multitudes;
you carried me off for coffee and cakes
at the Adlon Hotel. Such class!
I fell in love immediately.

The courtship was exciting,
but correct and approved,
and we were married within six months
after the usual blood tests
and racial examinations;
I thought my heart would burst
with sheer joy. O my darling!

The War continued for some reason
although it was perfectly clear
we had already won. The British
behaved very badly, in my opinion,
but you fought like a lion, naturally,
gaining a Knight's Cross (First Class!!)
followed by well-deserved promotion.
Then came your first command.

When you were away at sea
I would pray for you each day.
In one corner of my little room
(we had had to move to your parents'
after the cowardly bombing began)
I had a picture of the Sacred Heart,
and in another, the divine Fuehrer,
and with my arms outstretched,
I prayed to both of our saviours.

Keep my Christian safe!

Such joy whenever you returned!
I would rush headlong to the docks
(along with your mother and father,
now my dear friends, lovingly united
in our adoration for YOU, dear Christian)
and you would hold me in your strong arms,
there in full view of your crew,
who were lustily cheering and smiling,
waving their caps, even whistling!
My dear, how they loved you ...
but never so much as me.

Then came the attack on Russia.
We were surprised, but understood
these swine were the real enemy,
the Bolshevik dagger at the throat
of western civilisation: the foul
English, blind to decency and reason,
continued their useless resistance,
and you, my dear, punished them
remorselessly. Your name was respected.
I was proud to be your wife.

I noticed with concern how
haggard you had become; with each
successive homecoming from patrol
you became more withdrawn, less
enthused for the dream of Greater Germany.
Naturally, I restored your patriotism,
even when you were snappish and surly,
but I was a bit taken aback, darling,
when you removed the portrait of the Fuehrer,
and once (almost) I had the feeling
you were about to strike me:
silly, silly -- my imagination!

America (negroes and mongrels!)
came into the war, and the bombing
became much much worse.
They are such hateful, despicable
opportunists, everybody knows that,
bought off by the British and the Jews;
they came in for the money, nothing else.
Can't they understand anything?
The Bolsheviks want to destroy civilization!
Only Germany can prevent disaster.

Strange news is coming from the East
which I can't believe: the BBC
is spreading vile propaganda
about German actions in Russia.
These people will say anything.
They also say that the Jews,
having been removed for their own safety,
are being eliminated. Nonsense.
Our enemies will go to any length.

I worry so about darling Christian .....
--------------------------------------------------
At this point Frau Proschkow broke down and was unable to continue. The news of her husband's death shortly before the birth of their first child is something she still cannot discuss. There is evidence that Frau Proschkow entered into a liaison with an American sergeant after the conclusion of hostilities and was thus provided with food and, it would appear, cigarettes and nylons which she was able to trade on the black market. Charitably, one must assume that this was done to protect her young son Johann. This relationship seems to have led to a breach with her late husband's parents. In 1955 she married a prosperous factory owner named Werner Proschkow with whom she lived amicably until the death of Herr Proschkow in 1970. Johann Meier-Proschkow is now a senior executive with Siemens in Munich but was unavailable for comment. Frau Proschkow lives alone in a tiny apartment in Berlin surrounded by photographs and memoribilia of the early 1940s, most prominent of which are citations from the BDM and a large studio photograph of her first husband in naval uniform. He looks remarkably young.
-------------------------

-- BDM- Bund Deutscher Maedel - female equivalent of the Hitler Youth.
-- Gruppenleiter - group leader

383. Love in LA

When I first met you, darling,
you were an awful little bitch,
spoiled, living on Daddy’s money,
there beside the swimming pool
with your full, your bouncy little tits
contained in a scant bikini,
and you treated me like some
Mexican gardener, ordering me
about like a peon, so of course
I stomped out, angry, incensed,
past the jacarandas and the BMWs,
but you came running after me,
said you were not that kind of girl at all.

There was no way your family
would allow us to get together,
so we had to meet in out-of-the-way places:
burger bars, shopping malls, Starbucks.

I had a little car, a Rondeo.
You winced when you saw it.
Never mind, it moved, we went
skimming along the coast, laughing,
in love with life, so giddily
in love with one another.

We talked about everything,
your parents, my parents,
the total unfairness of life,
and then we kissed and hugged,
and you let me put my hand on your breasts;
trembling, I squeezed them ever so gently,
my whole being in my fingertips,
and once, only once, you touched my cock.
We were in love. Anything could happen.

Why did you do it? Why?
The first I heard was when my father said,
you know that girl you talked about,
she went and killed herself. Pills.

382. North Cider, South Cider, Rest of Ireland

The ideal Ireland that we would have, the Ireland that we dreamed of, would be the home of a people who valued material wealth only as a basis for right living, of a people who, satisfied with frugal comfort, devoted their leisure to the things of the spirit – a land whose countryside would be bright with cosy homesteads, whose fields and villages would be joyous with the sounds of industry, with the romping of sturdy children, the contest of athletic youths and the laughter of happy maidens, whose firesides would be forums for the wisdom of serene old age. The home, in short, of a people living the life that God desires that men should live.

-- Éamon de Valera (New Yorker, returnee, scholar, rebel, felon, Taoiseach, President, old man, corpse, transformed national icon) from a speech made on Irish Radio on March 17, 1943.

People laugh at the innocence of de Valera these days, and of course they are welcome to do so, but in my never sufficiently humble opinion, I think -- no, I know -- they don't have a clue where he's coming from. He may have been prudish in sexual matters, painstaking and upright in even the smallest financial transactions (thrifty, too), appropriately dressed on all occasions, and in many other ways a man of his time and its notions of respectability. But politically he was a dangerous radical, quite implacable, ready to employ violence if need be to bring about his unbending dream of an independent Ireland. Because of the rigidity of his character and his overweening belief in his own righteousness this was not always a good thing for the people around him (Michael Collins immediately comes to mind) and not always a good thing for Ireland either. His inflexibility caused a great deal of conflict and dragged us into a civil war over the Treaty in which former comrades within the IRA ended up hunting and killing one another in a war that could and should have been avoided. Like De Gaulle, even Robespierre, he was one of those authoritarian Great Men who identify themselves with the State at a time of overwhelming duress and will brook no opposition. But out of misery sometimes ... sometimes comes redemption.

But what about modern Ireland? Freedom becomes a habit, a thing one takes for granted. A free nation goes off in different directions, no longer focussed on national grievances or the humiliation of foreign occupation. Different lifestyles come into play. New difficulties swim out of the depths, raise their ugly heads, problems entirely of our own making. How we cope with them is the measure of the country we have become, now that the older generation that bequeathed us the Free State, then the Republic, have gone on to their grumbling & complaining final rest -- de Valera among them.

So what is Ireland like in 2010?

It's bloody hard to explain. It's a meritocracy with recent family overtones and less recent historical undertones. The class system, like America, is largely based on income. Kids who finish school and go on to university get jobs and make careers while the kids who drop out at 14 and hang out in the neighbourhood end up on the fringes. Family connections (it's a small country) can definitely help get you into a job; lack of them can also freeze you out. During the 1990s there was a huge economic boom which made some people incredibly rich and their kids got used to living on Daddy's money. At the same time the working class kids bounced around from one dead-end job to another and got caught in a world where the big money came from drugs and criminality. This is very evident in Dublin. The big distinction in Dublin is the River Liffey -- Anna Livia.

I wrote a poem below (Anna Livia) which simply talked about the river itself, and not what it does to Dublin City. The river runs through the centre of the city and acts as a kind of border-line, not quite like the Berlin Wall, but in local perceptions somewhat similar. The North Side is essentially working (now non-working)class: hard-scrabble, tough neighbourhoods, old houses, what we like to think of as the 'real' Dublin -- two guesses where I'm from -- with a heart and a soul, the part of the city where all the young fellas came from in the past who dropped everything and went out to fight for Ireland. Could be there wasn't all that much they had to drop: restricted lives and boring jobs, provided they had one. This is where Leopold Bloom lived, next to the church (dull stroke on the strike of nine) in Eccles Street.

North Cider/ South Cider was a clever ad by Bulmer's last summer -- a cider-making company who'd figured things out.

The South Side contains the Old Viking city, the University, the leafy Georgian squares, the government offices, the museums, the quiet avenues, the settled civilised side of the city. This is where all the 'outsiders' settle, coming up from the country and from foreign parts like you wouldn't know what. They've taken over the city in their upscale spreading suburbs. The rock stars and Hollywood celebs go further south to Killiney on the sweeping Italianate hills overlooking the sea. It's beautiful. It's expensive. It's so cool. The North Side (inner city) is turning into a slum. So that's what's happening.

This is just a lead-in. Sorry. A fellow Northsider -- now living in Spain, strange how we can feel so passionate about the place yet choose to live elsewhere -- sent me this. It's a parody, sure, of all the things I've been talking about above. It's no more than a joke, yeh? Trouble is, it's not that far from the truth ....

NORTHSIDE LEAVING CERT

MATHS TEST FOR SECONDARY SCHOOLS
IN THE NORTHSIDE OF DUBLIN

NAME _________________________

NICK-NAME ____________________

GANG NAME ____________________

1. Deco has 0.5 kilos of cocaine. If he sells an 8 ball to Vinno for 300 Euro
and 90 grams to Tomo for 90 Euro a gram,what is the street value of the rest of
his hold?

2. Anto pimps 3 brassers. If the price is 40 Euro a royde, how many roydes
per day must each brasser perform to support Vinno's 500 Euro a day crack habit?

3. Whacker wants to cut the kilo of cocaine he bought for 7,000 Euro, to make
a 20% profit. How many grams of strychnine will he need?

4. Christy got 6 years for murder. He also got 350,000 for the hit. If his
common law wife spends 33,100 per month, how much money will be left when he
gets out of the 'Joy?
Extra Credit Bonus: How much more time will Christy get for killing the
slapper that spent his money?

5. If an average can of spray paint covers 22 square metres and the average
letter is 1 square metre, how many letters can be sprayed with an eight fluid
ounce can of spray paint with 20% extra paint free?

6. Liamo steals Eamo's skateboard. As Liamo skates away at a speed of 35 mph,
Eamo loads his brother's gun. If it takes Eamo 20 seconds to load the gun, how
far will Liamo have travelled when he gets whacked?


SOUTH SIDE LEAVING CERT

MATHS TEST FOR SECONDARY SCHOOLS
IN THE SOUTHSIDE OF DUBLIN

NAME________________________________________
____________________________________________
____________________________________________
____________________________________________
____________________________________________
(if longer, please continue on a separate sheet)

SCHOOL____________________

DADDY'S COMPANY___________

1. Julian smashes up the old man's car, causing x amount of damage and
killing three people. The old man asks his local TD to intervene in the court
system, then forges his insurance claim and receives a payment of y. The
difference between x and y is three times the life insurance settlement for the
three dead people. What kind of car is Julian driving now?

2. Chloe's personal shopper decides to substitute generic and own-brand
products for the designer goods favoured by her employer. In the course of a
month she saves the price of a return ticket to Fiji and Chloe doesn't even
notice the difference. Is she thick or what?

3. Rolly fancies the arse off a certain number of tarts, but he only has
enough Rohypnol left to render 33.3% unconscious. If he has 14 Rohypnol, how is
he ever going to shag the other two-thirds?

4. If Savannah throws up four times a day for a week she can fit a size 8
Versace. If she only throws up three times a day for two weeks, she has to make
do with a size 10 Dolce et Gabbano. How much does liposuction cost?

5. Alexander is unsure about his sexuality. Three days a week he fancies
women. On the other days he fancies men, ducks and vacuum cleaners. However he
only has access to the Hoover every third week. When does his Sunday Independent
column start?



COUNTRY LEAVING CERT

MATHS TEST FOR SECONDARY SCHOOLS
OUTSIDE DUBLIN

Name: Paddy/Mary _________________________

1. If Paddy Joe Murphy drove a Massey Ferguson through PaddyJohn's turnip
crop at 10miles an hour. What colour was Paddy John's tractor?

2. If John Joe likes Mary and Mary likes Paddy, how much is a pint of stout
in O'Brien's at the crossroads?

3. Paddy Joe Mahoney has 25 sheep, 10 cows, 12 hens, a cockerel and 6 geese.
John Joe has 12 sheep, 18 cows and 12 pigs. How much does Paddy Joe offer to
John Joe for a dowry for Mary?

4. If it takes Sarah Jane 40 minutes to cycle 12 miles to O'Brien's on the
crossroads for the ceilidh and it takes Mary Murphy 40 minutes to walk 2 miles
to O'Brien's, which girl will end up in John Joe's hay barn?

5. If Paddy Joe's prize hen can lay 4 eggs every morning and his other hens
can lay only two each the odd morning, which one will he have for Sunday dinner?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yerra! Whoever wrote this knew first-hand what he (possibly she) was doing. This harks back to the ill-printed circulars and pamphlets handed out in the same old familiar streets 2-300 years ago on pain of Transportation. Cantankerous wicked people, they keep coming along, God Bless 'em entirely! Siochán leat.

381. Ithaca

Death is now a welcome guest
When I am laid in earth, may my wrongs
Create no trouble in thy breast;
Remember me … but ahh, forget my fate.
-- from the libretto to 'Dido and Aeneas' by Henry Purcell

The chainlink fence prevented and defied all access
so you had to walk hundreds of metres up to the gate,
sweating in the sun, but as the suitcase, thankfully, had wheels,
it was no big deal; the same hundreds of metres back again.

You get used to these things: world travel is basically
one inconvenience after another: people scrambling through
windows on Indian trains, scrabbling, losing their grip
falling under the wheels, screams. The old grandmother
collapsing suddenly upon your lap on the bus in Guatemala
who turns out to be dead, eyes open, dribbling on your knees.

Afghanistan. No, we don't want to go back to that,
to that young lad dying in my arms. Allah … Allah… Allah ….
his last moments spent with an infidel Ferenghi. His eyes, his eyes
fixed on me to the end: pleading, darting, then frozen glassy still:
poor poor young boy, I held you, carried you into your death.

Some things you simply remember, others you cannot forget.

An iron ramp led into the bowels of the boat, which was
rocking and swaying, even on a very sheltered harbour tide;
there came angry shouts, brilliant smiles, the usual Greek confusion,
as passengers come stumbling aboard like sheep, and me
among them: this battered old tub will sink and drown us all!

When setting out upon your way to Ithaca,
Wish always that your course be long,
Wish for many adventures, many good stories.
And let there be many summer mornings
When with pleasure and with great delight
You leave a harbour for the very first time.

In a stink of diesel fumes and alarming shudders
we departed the harbour, farting on all cylinders,
and left behind Patras and the Peloponnese,
and all of Greece, as troubled now as in ancient times,
with its pride, corruption and underpaid military,
almost (but not quite) Balkanized,
a summer playground for backpackers,
for pallid northeners with better salaries,
our EU partner who cannot pay their bills …

But I have seen Greece in a far different light
after emerging from Turkey, across the minefields,
(Idiota! Did you not know the risk? No, I didn't)
but I knew instantaneously I was back in Europe
after pleasant then precipitately rather unpleasant
relations with the Turks ( a small matter of a smuggled car)
when they wouldn't let me leave, I left anyway.
I didn't know about the mines. Obviously.
The Greek customs guys thought it was great,
clapped me on the back and plied me with ouzo.
One in the eye to the Turks! I actually liked the Turks,
far more stable than the Greeks, a bit ponderous,
Oriental, Muslim, but solid, not so excitable.
I love Istanbul. Been back several times since,
no hint of that phantom car on an expired passport.

It's so good to be young, you know?
No matter how stupid you are you still survive,
unless, of course, you don't. Happens.

But do not rush your journey.
Better that it should last for many years,
And that when you moor at Ithaca at last,
An old man, enriched by all you have gained,
You do not expect Ithaca to give you further wealth.

Here on this boat, snorting, plunging and struggling,
we passed by the coast of unknown secret Albania,
home of the greatest criminal gangs in Europe, recently
spreading their tentacles into Italy and even beyond,
a total plague not unconnected to the KLA or KSA,
whatever, that crowd NATO supported against Serbia.

But that was a couple of wars ago:
after a while, you lose count of wars.
Vietnam is simply fading into history,
all the deaths, the wounds, the pychological damage,
all the aging warriors, the damaged surfers
surviving on drink and pills. Well, they will soon
have a new bunch of veteran friends
from Afghanistan and Iraq. It will never end.

I lay no claim: I have no claim to lay.
I believe in freedom.
I believe in travel.
I believe in all countries open to all men.
I don't like war. I've seen it.
No thanks.
I believe in a rollicking great shag.
I believe in friends and family.
I believe in little children,
in desperation, love and honesty.
I believe in ... things that disappear
(well, fucking won’t be one of them).

You do not expect Ithaca to give you further wealth.
For Ithaca has given you the journey.
Without her you would not have set your course.
There is no more she can give.

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The quoted poem is from Cavafy, an Alexandrine Greek (1863-1933), and it's my own rather doubtful translation.

380. Anna Livia

Old lazy lizardslither
you come swiftly softly down,
concomitantly coiling
on your way to Dublin Town.

Here be a bridge, be water,
be people walking, talking
in a rapid half-sung dialect,
warbling inta mobile phones.

Half-heard tones of sub-aqueous
subterranean splendour, raise
the heads of sleeping river gods,
Lugh the Lord of Light, hidden spirits
within ancient aching stones.

(picture: Jack Yeats, "The Liffey Swim")

379. Kanzanji (a Japanese riff)

We got out there with the wind rippling rippling through the rice fields, so frail, so bending, so outstandingly beautiful, light green, dark green, hints of yellow ... Teruo said we needed some sake ... there was a shop by the side of the road with the Noren down, the split curtains across the door, a sure sign the place was open ... we poked our noses in ... Irrashaimase! Come in, come in! ... Mama san grinning behind the counter ... local boys from the Fire Brigade, red-faced, smiling, happy, been there for a while from the looks of them ... paid for the first couple of flasks and that was the last time we put our hands in our pockets ... Gaijin san, the hell you from? ... huh, what, ah who cares? ... pretty soon the place was reeling ... Mama san like a nutbrown berry, three teeth and a battered kimono ... Papa san's feet slightly showing, sleeping it off under the counter ... the roar and the heat of the lads ... Here for the fireworks are you? ... Well, yes. ... We know the best place to go, we'll take you, have another why doncha? Still early ... won't start till dark ... are you drinking or what? Me, I went out for a piss ... seemed to take half an hour, not pissing just getting there, aww Jayz that felt so good! Trees, woods, where the hell am I? Listen, listen, listen ... follow the noise. Claps and cheers, the prodigal returns, I come through the door, try to do a bow and fall flat on me arse. The lads go into hysterics. Where did you say you were from? ... Have a drink, gaijin san! Thanks, thanks and thanks again ... but then the shades of the Japanese night descended, descended in slow darkening spirals almost as though the freshening wind was bringing the darkness in from behind the mountains. Time to go. The boys rose almost as one and we rose with them ... out into the rapidly falling dark. Sticks were placed in our hands. Snakes! Poisonous snakes all along the narrow mountain trail! The lads were battering the bushes, laughing themselves silly, falling down ... the snakes, being sensible, stayed well away from us ... so up up up the mountain and down the other side ... and then the whole lit-up glory of the lake was there right before us ... people crowded crowded on the other side (not knowing firemen, not knowing our mountain, possibly also terrified of snakes) ... and the fireworks began! Crack -- boom! Explosions all over the sky, the oohs and ahhs from the other shore ... red, gold, purple, yellow ... crack! ... again and again and again. We sat by the water's edge with our mouths hanging open ... holy Jeeeeeeeezus!! Sat by the water's edge jarred into some semblance of sobriety ... and then with a glance and a grin both Teruo and I tore off our clothes and dived into the waters of fierce flickering reflections ... God, it was cold, but so fresh, so pure, so beautiful ... so silent when you went under and so full of colour and explosions when you came up again! Ha - hooh! I think we both went a little bit mad that night and it wasn't just the sake. It was ... it was just something.

378. Witness to His Century

The light, I see, is fading,
infinitessimally shading

daytime colours into tones of grey.

Twice have the servants come
offering to light the candles,
twice have I waved them away.

I know I am but a guest,
and I know the servants need their rest.

I sigh. I have little time. Come close and let me begin ...

I sit with this blanket on my knees,
obdurate, unmoving,
alone in this oh so familiar room,
communing with the dust-motes of the past.

We had returned in a lather after the hunt
Look here, old boy, don't be a c--t!
bellowed Ivo, expounding the need for war
just over there -- there by the cloissoné table;
(yes, we did use THAT kind of language then!)
This bloody old Kaiser needs what-for!

Ivo copped it in the first few days
along with his brother and four of our cousins
and Death became known in ... industrial ways
to all of our class and generation;
I was out there, of course, beastly drunk
from start to finish, can't recall a bloody thing

before drifting home, being let go,
to indifferent thanks from a shattered nation.
I still have the medal, you know, it reads
"The Great War for Civilization"

The Twenties passed in a cocktail haze
of very long nights and very short days;
I believe I got married once or twice,
so hard to recall, I was never quite sober
after Passchendaele, I can remember fondling
short-skirted girls, rubbery, frightfully nice!

And I seem to remember some trouble and fuss,
that was '26, I think, I was driving a bus.
There was a strike of some kind, and the 'civil power'
hadn't expected me to run over their own policemen,
which I did, I'm afraid, and when the crowd closed in,
they cheered the hero of the hour!

In the Crash my chums lost all their money,
silly asses, and none of them could quite see the funny
side of things, as I did, who lived on land,
or rather on the backs of my hardworking peasants;
and so I flitted about town, much the same as ever,
charming to a slight but unforgiving degree,
distributing wicked ... calculated presents.

The Thirties were long and infinitely weary,
the people poor, bad-tempered, resentful, dreary;
I considered a sojourn in warmer foreign climes
but was consumed with such malignant hatred
for Mosley, AND for that bastard Churchill,
that I chose to wait.

We should have gone to war in Thirty-Eight,
could have wrapped it up: '39 was too late.
But -- the pusillanimous politicians still held sway,
Halifax; and that grisly Birmingham tosspot, pallid
Chamberlain, "J'aime Berlin"; there was only Winston,
half-mad, a glowering crackpot, to lead the way.

I had quite a jolly war, I must confess,
half-sober, exciting, but you must not press
for details. Mum's the word, (dear lost and darling mother)
for it was a world of codes and radios,
parachute jumps and secret agents,
and when it ended, I prayed for another

being flushed, arrogant, never dreaming that

many years on, I would get my other war
but not the one I'd bargained for. Now, this moment,
as the room grows dark and the staircase creaks,
I sit here alone with this blanket on my knees,
straining hard to hear the echoes from the past,
voices, sounds, little leaks from shameful memories.