Cavan councillors reject circumcision

Male members of Cavan County Council have angrily rejected planned circumcision. This action was to be taken in the light of rising levels of verbal diarrhoea. Studies undertaken in local authorities where circumcision occurred have shown that infection rates have fallen by as much as 60%.

The action, which has the backing of the HSE and the local authority#s executive, has so far only secured the  support of one councillor (who always backed the executive anyway). However, even he stated that he would not go ahead unilaterally with the operation unless it had the backing of the whole council.

One councillor, speaking anonymously,  reacted angrily: “Lookad, my lad’s small enough as it is. If any more was taken off it’d be invisible.” A colleague, once again speaking anonymously, said “We don’t see the big lads in the executive being expected to have a bit taken off the top.”

These accusations of double standards were flatly rejected by a spokesman for the County Manager. “Most members of the execdutive are too old to be stilol sexually active. What’s more they’re all too busy.”  Heexpressed his disappointment at the councillors’ intransigence. While reiterating the health benefits of the procedure, he added that people engaging in frequent foreign travel, such as county councillors, had a moral duty to safeguard themselves against infection. He also urged the members of the local authority to think again, adding that he was sure they would come round to the idea, given sufficient persuasion. They were urged to consult with colleagues who had successfully been circumcised. “Most people undergoing the operation, which lasts only a few minutes, say they don’t feel a thing, though to be honest, most of them haven’t felt anything there for a while.” The spokesman refused to comment on claims that a county councillor in Kerry who had initially agreed to undergo circumcision, pulled out at the last minute when he heard that he’d only be given a local anaesthetic. “That’s typical o’ de HSE always tryin’ to cut corners. Fuck it I want an imported anaestetic.”                   

 The councillors’ actions mark a rare example of discord between the authority#s elected members and the executive. The former usually accept blindly and without discussion every policy put forward by the executive. Those believing that this marks a new departure may be disappointed however, as one of the most vociferous opponents of circumcision was at pains to point out that this was a once off.

 

The Cult of Personality in Cavan

Cults of personality are usually associated with despotic regimes. The freedom and wealth of the people usually stand in inversed proportion to the ego of their leader…The cult of Personality can take bizarre forms, as in Turkmenistan under the rule of the Turkmenbashi himself, Saparmarad Niyazov who had a statue erected of himself atop a plinth which moved full circle every twenty-four hours; one of the three television stations actually carried an image of the Turkmenbashi in the far right-hand corner. Less extreme, but still ridiculous manifestations of the egos of the political establishment involved the naming of airports after the president, as in Kenya during the rule of Daniel arap Moi, or the plastering of the leader’s portrait on every available wallspace..  I remember Alexei Sayles going on a televised visit to Syria during the reign of Hafez al-Assad, where he noted with his unique sense of irony, that the President’s image was to be seen on each corner and shop window. This reminded him of the publicity that might attend a performance by an artist or comedian when the ticket sales  had gone really badly and the promoters sought to boost the eventual crowds by a barrage of advertising in the hope of fending off a flop

It is usual in most parts of the democratic world to wait until someone is dead a decent time before they are commemorated by having a building, a road, or a fountain named after them. Cavan town is an exception where it is accepted that egotistical nobodies can be commemorated before they have gone the way of all flesh. I refer to an area near Drumalee Cross which I pass on my daily “fun run” which proudly bears the moniker Cullivan Court. As the building is partly owned by one Gabriel Cullivan, formerly a town clerk of the town, I assume that it has been named in his honour, and not that of the well-known and much-loved architect , the late Phil Cullivan. This is like an annex of Wall Street being renamed Boesky Boulevard or Madoff Parade. While such dreadful and unseemly self-promotion may appear tasteless, it must be remembered that Mr Cullivan, as a former employee of that shower of vindictive cowards Cavan County Council, can do what he likes – he has done it in the past – and should anyone demur, one of the sycophantic elected members of the council would propose a motion of “tanks to Mr Cullivan for his sterlin’ work” on behalf of himself and the people of Cavan over the years.

I need hardly mention that one of Cullivan Court’s biggest tenants is none other than the HSE – another crowd of arrogant, incompetent  anda superannuated shites. All that is needed there is the erection of a pillar surmounted by a statue of Mr Cullivan, maybe sporting the green leprechaun suit he wore  at the opening of the County Museum fifteen years’ ago and which was commented upon with so much mirth and derision by the then County Arts Officer, Ms Catriona O’Reilly. (I know that the present County Arts Officer is also  called Ms Catriona O’Reilly but she is altogether a different person from the one I referred to.

I expect these comments will meet with a frisson of disapproval, maybe even a threat of legal action, but my response is Bring it on baby! Some of them may even say that I shouldn’t be going so far on my fun run. Am I not confined to a wheelchair, and should I not come to terms with my disability like other cripples in the county by accepting my permanent inferiority to Cavan County Council, its employee and their families (more or less the same thing) by awaiting the grant of a council house?

 

More fleadh disruption

During my “fun run” today with my companion Pat along the Cathedral Road, our way was impeded by a man with what appeared to be a vacuum cleaner distributing water, whose origins were to be found in a mobile tank painted red. It was obvious that he worked for Cavan County Council. He was blocking the pathway and it was incumbent upon us to go out into the road in order to continue on our way. This did not elicit any response or apology for the inconvenience caused from the man with the hosepipe. On passing out in the road I felt duty-bound to ask him what he was doing. “I’m watering the flowers”, he answered in a rather defensive tone, implying that he did not like being questioned by mere members of the public. The flowers in question are contained in baskets attached to poles in a vainglorious and futile attempt to make Cavan appear beautiful. His posture, and the angle at which his hose was held, reminded me ever so much of a man coming out of a pub for a “yoke”, and this in turn set in train thoughts of the men who were told to fight The Great Fire of London during its initial stages by urinating on the flames. I felt duty-bound to say to him. “Well why don’t ya piss on them, or better still get Jack Keys to do it. An’ while he’s at it he could deposit something more solid which he’s full of.” My companion pulled me along, no doubt anxious for my safety.

Blow into the bag

No No No!

Cavan’s upcoming fleadh is due to be opened by renowned squeeze-box player Sharon Shannon. Ms Shannon has once again strongly denied persistent rumours that she plans to bring out a cover version of the late Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab”.

Preparing for the fleadh

My little ramble down the lanes of times past has been prompted by the preparations that Cavan County Council are making in preparation for the fleadh. They are certainly putting out their egg bag. It started recently with attempts to beautify the place with baskets of flowers. Grass in public places has been cut, though as someone observed to me the process was taking one man so long that it would have grown again before he’d finished.

Tar and cement

The most ludicrous aspect of these preparations is the re-tarring of Cavan’s streets which is occurring as I write. This is causing considerable disruption to traffic. If the streets needed to be re-tarred, why wait until three days before the fleadh begins? It is an attempt to insure that the town’s thoroughfares have a sufficiently shiny patina so that visitors can lick their food from them? The decision to begin this work now seems irrational. Management is often about making decisions about the deployment of resources, and whoever made this particular decision shouldn’t be called a manager – or paid for being one.

Imprisonment

I don’t know how far I’ll be able to participate in any of the fleadh activities. The decision is mine, and will not be influenced by the cowardly actions of the County Council executive and some of their employees who have tried to exclude me. I an sincerely concerned that there may be people in the town or who work here who will not benefit, either directly or indirectly, from the fleadh, but whose lives may be disrupted by it. This may take the form of footpaths and gateways being blocked. There may even be some, especially the old and the infirm, who will be literally imprisoned in their homes.

 Falling off the edge

 eople’s lives are being disrupted by this tarring fiasco, but they must be warned about grumbling too loudly. Any criticism of the council, no matter how warranted, will be presented as “anti-fleadh feeling”. In other words, those who are unhappy will be painted as knockers (and painting is the only way the council can get any), or grouches, paranoiacs, flat earthers, maybe even as manic depressives; in short, socially dysfunctional folk who deserve to be isolated. The next ineluctable stage is blacklisting.

It is alright for me to say what I have: I’m already blacklisted by the council and I want nothing from them.  But others might find this painful and costly, especially if they still view the council as just a bunch of bumbling, inefficient and superstitious fools who would rather not work in any week with a Friday in it, but who are really harmless.

 Health issues

 And finally, have the authorities taken steps to promote sexual health during the fleadh?  Not all followers of traditional Irish music are doddery old farts whose fingers only ever touch the strings or keys of their instruments. There are quite a number who are young and active. Have condom dispensers been located at points near to events? Have the pubs and chemists been alerted to the need to carry more stock? (I suppose if I carried a story claiming that I had evidence that a far right Catholic fundamentalist group with a kinky Latin name had flooded the town with punctured condoms the local paper would believe it and carry it on their front page.)

The yanks are coming

Rural Ireland was a place where few unexpected events occurred to break the predictable flow of time. People had sex infrequently yet babies dropped from the sky or were found under bushes or pots. However, the news that a family were to receive a visit from relatives who had spent many decades in the United States, or (worse still) from those who were related but had been born there and were returning to Ireland to see the ancestral homestead, would put the proverbial feline amongst the poultry.

 Both sets of visitors were referred to either as “the yanks” or “the yankees”. They were viewed as richer, though not every Christmas card contained a token of their wealth. They were also much more sophisticated, enjoying a level of culture far higher than available in Ireland. So all members of the family had to engage in an act of collective effort, referred to by their unsympathetic neighbours as “putting our their egg bag.”

 The paterfamilias or “oul’ lad” had to take regular baths, whereas beforehand a bath was a rare luxury, occurring at most once a year, and not always then. He would rationalise his aversion to water by saying: “Once I’m dead they can clane me, and once I’m in the ground no one’ll see whether I’m clane or clatty.” Such contrariness was a matter of real concern to the  “woman of the house”, and so plans were put in place to lessen contacts between him and the Yankees to a minimum.

 If time and finances allowed there might be structural adjustments to the house. One of these was the addition of an inside lavatory.  This might replace a “lean-to” structure referred to euphemistically as The Sugarhouse, though any disruption in the facilities dealing with bodily function was bound to be resisted by the “man of the house” who would express bewilderment at why the “hole in the yard” wouldn’t be good enough.  Everyone’s hair would be washed almost daily, and the children would have to undergo the torture of their locks being trawled by a heavy comb in the search for nits. The children would undergo a “no frills” crash course in manners and correct behaviour with the males being physically chastised each time they attempted to pick their noses. The man of the house was also told to leave his proboscis undisturbed, to refrain from using coarse or vulgar language, and to not break wind, especially at meal times. A toothbrush, with toothpaste might even be bought. Any miscellaneous expenses might be defrayed by the man of the house avoiding the pub. What’s more unsightly displays of over-indulgence in alcohol would no doubt disgust the yanks.

 The hen house, sometimes located in an old Volkswagen Beetle, would be towed out of sight or given on loan to a distant neighbour, while any other unsightly visions, such as piles of rubbish or excreta, would be removed.

 The visitors’ arrival was often anti-climatic. If they were native Yankees they might exhale delightedly at the quaintness of it all. The visit would end with the formulaic “You must come and visit us in the States” but it was seldom accompanied by the proffering of an airline ticket or displays of largesse. Once their (rental) car had staggered down the rutted lane there would be a collective sigh of relief, usually initiated by the man of the house stating: “Well thank fuck the hoors are gone. These new pants are cuttin’ the balls off me” followed up with “What’s for tae?” The “oul’ lad might be let back in, smelling strongly of urine, while the woman of the house would start scolding her husband, “Me mother always said I was makin’ the biggesht mistake o’ me life marryin’ you ya lazy, good-for-nuttin’ hape o’ shite, an’ she was right the Lord have mercy on her.” Little Seamus would then attempt to stem her wrath by asking: “Mammy, can I pick me nose now?”

Some thoughts on Cavan’s fleadh

As a naïve of Cavan town I naturally hope that this year’s coming of the Fleadh is a great success. A lot of people, many of whom will never be mentioned or who hope never to be mentioned, have worked hard to bring this about.  It provides a perfect showcase for performing traditional Irish music in an informal environment and the efforts of our local musicians, many with reputations that transcend the local like Martin bin Laden, should be commended. The following comments should not be viewed as carping, or an attempt to piss on someone else’s parade. They are my heartfelt comments, and I don’t see why they should be discarded, merely because they make a small handful uncomfortable.

 The Gonzo Theatre

 I am unfortunate enough to have mobility problems, which I am endeavouring to overcome. A number of events associated with the fleadh are to take place in locations to which I (along with other disabled people) would have trouble gaining access. One of these is The Gonzo Theatre above the Imperial. This sounds like a really cool place, while pictures appearing in Fuckyez Magazine suggest that it offers numerous possibilities for the practising ornithologist. As far as I know you can only get into it by a flight of stairs. This is not Philip Doherty’s fault. Philip is an exceedingly talented writer who has the rare gift of being able to work in a variety of genres. Philip has furthermore undertaken to help me get to the Theatre, something that would be possible as stairs do not present an impassable barrier to me. I am sorry that, until now, I haven’t felt well enough to take him up on his kind invitations.

Lie down croppy boy!

There are, I feel, some associated with the Arts in Cavan who are not in the least worried whether I can get there or not. Have I not bitten the hand that fed me? They may be surprised that “a cripple” or someone in a wheelchair would want to attend a show, along with “normal” people. Why can’t “they” be content with their own entertainment provided in venues like the IWA centre in Corlurgan, featuring plays that have been written especially about them? Or they could “shadow” (for free) consultants and “access auditors” employed by the county council (no doubt not for free) to draw up reports pointing out access black spots.

Coming to terms

Maybe I’m writing this because I am angry, or because I haven’t “come to terms” with my disabilities. True, if “coming to terms” with my disabilities means participating in a racket whereby the disabled are bribed into a state of submission as they wait for their number to come up in a council house lottery, I have not “come to terms” and never will. But I do not accept that I should “come” to someone else’s terms.

“Them” and “us”

I was ill for a number of months but I now feel much better. I am able to walk further than I ever could and I am determined to the best of my abilities to use a wheelchair less and less, partially because I see its use as a label of imposed separation. I do not and never have considered myself as belonging to that group referred to dismissively as “them” but rather to the collectivity of Cavan’s town people called “us”.

Very few people can share the sense of outrage and despair I suffered last year as I saw people from outside my town being invited to speak on its history. These experts “had their degrees” i.e. they had PhDs. But do I not have a PhD awarded in 1992? Maybe there are some who cannot “come to terms” with the fact that a PhD could be earned by a partially sighted individual?   Don’t get me wrong: I am not preaching a narrow parochialism or stating that only Cavan natives should be allowed to talk about its history. But when there is a Cavan native who can talk about it, and in an entertaining way, why should that person be ignored just because he has been blacklisted by some cowards in the council executive or because his father is not a town councillor?

Please forgive me if I have stepped on some people’s corns. I used to play an active part in the cultural life of this town: I would love to do so again.

Epilogue

(By the way, readers needn’t worry about “who he’s getting’ at”. I’m only getting at the same crowd of superannuated, impotent, God-forsaken fuckers as usual. Apologies to anyone who can’t rise to the occasion or get a hard on; I honestly didn’t have you specifically in mind.)

Who to bribe in Cavan and how much to give

Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
For just an itty bitty.
Now Jill’s two months overdue
And Jack has left the city.

 

Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
So Jack could lick Jill’s fanny.
But Jack got a shock –
And a mouthful of cock
When he found out that Jill was a tranny.

 

Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
To do a spot of kissing.
Jack made a pass
And grabbed Jill’s ass –
Now his two front teeth are missing.

 

Why did Dr Brendan Snott cross the road?

Because he was being picked on.

 

 

… And don’t forget, Every Little Helps

 

 

Corruption in Cavan – the latest

Things you should NEVER say to a naked Cavanman 1.

Aaah! Isn’t it cute!

Cavan town’s fleadh: some background

A musician born in Co. Cavan was living in the States. He couldn’t believe his luck when he was asked to write the music for a film which, the promoters said, was going to gross big. On completion of the score for the film, which he was told was about Ireland’s seven hundred years of oppression by England, he was paid handsomely and promised that he would be invited to its first screening.

 Some months later the invitation arrived, but to the composer’s disgust the first screening was to take place in a cinema well known for showing “porno” films. Swallowing his he went along anyway, but decided to keep a low profile, so he sat at the very back, alongside an elderly pair.

 The film left nothing to the imagination; there were graphic scenes featuring masturbation, group sex, anal sex and oral sex, while towards the end there was even some scenes featuring a dog having sex with a woman.

 When it was over the highly-embarrassed composer bent over to the couple beside him and explained that he was only there because he had written the film score, to which the old woman replied: “We’re only here because that was our dog.”