06.28.05
Posted in Sunday Times Columns at 1:32 pm by
Went to the final U2 concert in Croke Park last night. I’d been there for the Joshua Tree tour in 1987 and knew not to be blown away as I was then a mere teenager up the front. Now I was up in the seats in the Upper Cusack out of the throng. Still was most disappointed with the sound quality. We couldn’t hear Bono’s voice on most of the songs. Still, Running to a standstill, With or Without You, Where the Streets, Sunday Bloody Sunday, In the Name of Love and One, were all excellent. And I was delighted when they finished with 15 as they did in the old days.
And regardless of sound, they are still soooooooo coool. Especially Larry and Adam. They are what being cool is all about. Hanging out in the background wearing leather, not trying, just doing their thing. And I know it’s easy to slag Bono, but you know what, he’s right. I just hope Blair isn’t using him. As far as I can tell the whole debt cancellation thing is bullshit unless they change the trade laws. What’s the point in sending aid but then charging them huge tariffs when they try to process any of their raw materials?
Finally I went to a party at the weekend and got properly drunk for the first time in what felt like years. Crucially I did not puke, fight or cry. Thus I was deemed hilarious and can be sure to be invited back. Anyway, one friend relayed a classic row she had with her husband, most of which I was able to anticipate as she told me.
Normally she picks up the two children from the creche on the way home from work. She lets them out to play in the back and puts on their dinner. While it’s cooking she empties the dishwasher, puts on a wash, and empties the creche bags. One day, she was working late. Her husband picked up the kids, let them out, put on the dinner and sat down to read the paper. When she came home and tripped over the creche bags and fought her way through the dirty linen to get a plate from the dishwasher, needless to say she asked why the chores had not been done. “But I was doing the dinner!” the protest came. He was convinced that as a job was taking place, he was working. HOW could he be expected to do all those other things? He was doing a job! She should be grateful! She’s so meeaaan. I could just imagine the rest.
We agreed that it is absolutely true that men are incapable of multi-tasking. Women are the superior sex in this as in many other fields (like not going around raping other people). I offered to my friend that no doubt as she lay in bed at night planning how she would accomplish all the necessary tasks the next day, her husband probably accused her of insanity. I was right of course. Meeting all the same people just two days later for the U2 concert, my husband blabbed to her husband about her betrayal (since obviously I had attacked my husband with evidence of his sex’s sloth). All the husbands started ganging up then and demanding the right to a voice in my column. They want to campaign for lower standards at home. I say, fine. Have your lower standards but stop asking me where you might get a clean shirt at 8 in the morning….Of course you know what their solution is…outsource it. Let’s take money from the family budget because they can’t do the work and they’re sick of getting crap from us.
Which reminds me… there was a survey published in the ST which said that men are doing twice as much housework now than in the sixties but as they did feck all the in the sixties they are still doing feck all. Will it ever be 50/50? Not as long as they can only do one thing at a time. Like oppress people.
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06.27.05
Posted in Sunday Times Columns at 11:26 am by
Thought I should record how lovely the countryside is at the moment. Meadows are high; the four baby sparrows in the pump house are now roosting on the rafters. In another month or so I might be able to get in there to clean it out! Birds wake us up every morning. Goddamn rabbits still running around laughing at us. Everything is lush and green and most enjoyable.
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Posted in Uncategorized at 11:25 am by
Conspiracy theories apart, the right woman won
In the end, justice was done. For a few days it appeared that we would expose ourselves to international ignominy by voting Michelle Smith as Ireland’s greatest woman in a telephone poll organised by the Marian Finucane show on RTE Radio 1.
Those Olympic medals may be tarnished in the eyes of the right-on liberal establishment, but there is an inexplicably large element of the population that subscribes to bizarre conspiracy theories surrounding the discovery of whiskey in the swimmer’s out-of-competition urine sample. They phoned in their thousands for what they thought was the Ireland’s greatest victim competition.
The Irish penchant for the underdog and pity for the sinner is rarely subject to the scrutiny of the world’s press, who were titillated by the Smith story. Fortunately, sense prevailed and Nano Nagle, founder of the Presentation order, took the gold.
The poll was always going to be problematical; how does one define greatness? It can be measured in terms of achievement in one’s field, through personal bravery, bringing glory to one’s country or through great works that improve the lives of others. Even if Smith’s reputation were intact, personal success should not qualify one for the position of greatest.
If the poll had been for men, perhaps Peter Sutherland would have been nominated. His unfortunate but increasing resemblance to a large slug has not deterred the European Commission, the WTO and Goldman Sachs from appointing him to senior positions, earning him a fortune. But his success would never be confused with greatness.
A more relevant comparison could be drawn by crossing the water to examine the careers of Steve Redgrave and Winston Churchill. Redgrave is surely the greatest Olympian, having won five consecutive gold medals in the games for the endurance test that is rowing. But in the BBC’s greatest Briton competition he was no match for Churchill, whose inspirational leadership saved the country during the second world war.
I was relieved Mary Robinson didn’t win the RTE competition. The former president gets a lot of credit for what one biography calls the “universally acknowledged most successful presidency in the history of the state”. While that universal acknowledgement exists, I am not convinced it is correct.
Robinson’s greatest achievements stem from her days as a barrister when she won important human rights for travellers, women and homosexuals. True, she came from a privileged background which facilitated a fine education. But she justified this investment with her determination, and used the law to bring about much-needed social change.
Things become a little murkier when her presidency is examined. Her election in 1990 was by no means secure until Brian Lenihan’s campaign imploded. But it is her supposed achievement in transforming the presidency that irks me.
Her principal triumph was in securing more money for the post, which allowed her to entertain on a more elaborate and frequent scale than previous incumbents. But unless Ireland wanted a queen rather than a president, I fail to see why this was so significant. As far as the constitutional role of the presidency can be judged, it is clear that Patrick Hillery was her superior.
In the 1970s, the presidency was beset by controversy. Erskine Childers died of a heart attack only a year after his election in 1973. Then, two years into his term, Cearbhall O Dalaigh resigned after the infamous “thundering disgrace” remarks by Paddy Donegan. When Hillery, a former Fianna Fail minister and European commissioner, was asked to take over, what the country desperately needed was stability. This he provided, never more so than in 1982 when he stood up to his former cabinet colleagues and refused to yield to pressure to reject Garret FitzGerald’s request for a dissolution of the Dail. Given that this is one of the few constitutional powers possessed by the president, it is facetious to compare Hillery’s enormous constitutional test with Robinson’s tea parties.
Robinson’s career is far from over, and should she one day manage to overcome the hostility of the American government it is possible that she will become secretary-general of the United Nations. Only in the twilight of her life will we be able to judge her overall contribution and worthiness for the title of greatest woman in Ireland.
Fortunately, there were other nominees in the competition whose work changed the lives of others. I am not referring to the mythical St Brigid, regardless of the attractiveness of her eponymous cross. Nor Grace O’Malley, the supposed pirate, who probably rowed around in a currach rather than a majestic sailing ship.
Apart from legend and sentimentality, there were some extraordinary women nominated who, I am ashamed to say, I had never heard of before. Dr Kathleen Lynn pioneered the BCG vaccination movement. Nora Herlihy founded the credit union movement in Ireland in the 1950s in response to the plight of women desperately trying to manage their finances.
Nagle’s victory is to be welcomed, however. Another woman of wealthy background and fine education, she risked everything to leave a legacy from which every Irish woman is a beneficiary. Throwing away her reputation, battling the state in penal times, and persuading her rich family to back her, Nagle established schools for Irish girls.
The class struggle often focuses on education as the path to freedom. For Irish women, Nagle’s pioneering willingness to provide them with the means of their escape creates a debt which has now been repaid.
It was a close call though. Just 3.7% separated Nagle and Smith at the finish line. But, as Michelle might argue, a win is a win.
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06.23.05
Posted in Uncategorized at 8:53 am by
I think I did an injustice to poetry in my last comment. I have been impressed by other poems. Some of Shakespeare’s sonnets are great, even if I can’t understand some of the lines. How about:
” That thou are blamed shall not be thy defect
For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair”
“This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to that which it fears to lose”
Also Yeats is great. My own favourites (from the Leaving Cert course!) are No Second Troy and September 1913
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great.
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
and
WHAT need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland?s dead and gone,
It?s with O?Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman?s rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save:
Romantic Ireland?s dead and gone,
It?s with O?Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave;
Romantic Ireland?s dead and gone,
It?s with O?Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were,
In all their loneliness and pain
You?d cry ?Some woman?s yellow hair
Has maddened every mother?s son?:
They weighed so lightly what they gave,
But let them be, they?re dead and gone,
They?re with O?Leary in the grave.
I can recite this one late at night with some drink in. Or at least used to.
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06.21.05
Posted in Sunday Times Columns at 10:29 pm by
First off must retract previous statements re horrible charter. The flight was operated by Spanair. Gorgeous airbus, plenty of spare seats and most professional and courteous hostesses/stewards. Mature people who had pride in their work. Also we sat near the Ballina GAA Football Team who were being sent on their annual holiday as they had won the Club Championship. Very civilised bunch of guys, some quite good looking and they played with the toddler…..
Returned to usual routine and wish I could shake off the self-doubt that plagues me when I do housework. I don’t actually mind doing it except that I am constantly justifying it in my head. Do I really need to wash this floor? Am I a victim of a feminine mystique-type indoctrination? Would I be cooler if I said, “to hell with this floor! I’ll read The Atlantic”. But the floor is dirty and it must be worthy on some level to clean it. There is a level of course, but it is very low.
Then the Sky man came. I finally caved. I was quite happy with RTE1, RTE2 and TV3. Fair enough I had to rearrange my wire hanger (i.e. the arial) frequently but I felt virtuous by NOT having loads of TV channels. The babysitters were outraged and started getting aggressive and as they are free I had to indulge them. Anyway, the installer was a bitter South African (white) – they seem to be a dour lot, always complaining). He told me all the sneaky ways that Sky try to get extra money from you. The TV has to be connected to a phone line. You know how they are always telling you to press the red button for extra features? When you press that button it dials up the extra features and you pay through the phone line. I disconnected it the second he was gone out the door. Fortunately becaue when I checked out one of the children’s channels, they had red button icon in the top right hand corner with an ARRROW pointing towards it, encouraging little kiddies to press it. Finally I examined the 900 crap channels. All the ‘adult’ ones are at the end. I love the names. “Red Hot Housewives!” I suggested to M that we take a look. He said no. Betcha ANYTHING he sneaks a look when I’m gone to bed. However, as I read instruction books and he doesn’t I can ban them with a PIN number and he’ll never figure out how to get them. Ha ha. Of course, if he doesn’t even try then I am unfairly suspicious and will be struck down. We’ll see.
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06.20.05
Posted in Feminism at 11:30 am by
Here’s the link to Waters’ original article which may or may not work (subs reqd). If anyone would like it just email me and I’ll send you the text.
Not sure how long RTE keep recordings but if you can search, Waters’ was on June 9th and Gemma Hussey responded with the help of one of the curriculum setters on June 10th. On the main liveline site they just keep the previous week’s shows.
Joyce might be worthy, but he really is very dull
“I don’t need the permission of Gemma Hussey or any other Hussey to say what I think about the Irish education system,” said John Waters on Radio 1’s Liveline last week in response to a letter in The Irish Times by the former minister for education. At least, I assume he was referring to Hussey’s relatives, and not calling the former minister a woman of immoral character. Mind you, he also referred to her as a “blue blouse in an ivory tower in Dublin 4″.
Waters’s talent for articulate indignation always makes for enjoyable listening. The tragedy is that his outburst proved the point that Gemma Hussey was making. When The Irish Times asked him to analyse the English Leaving Certificate curriculum, he complained in his piece about the high number of women authors on the course. From his perspective, there was a dearth of white European male writers. The absences he bemoaned included Joyce, Beckett, Kafka, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Sartre.
Waters observed: “Of the 38 writers on the comparative list, 15 are women. Not a bad thing in itself, except that whatever way you look at it, the vast, vast majority of the great writers have been male. To attempt, therefore, to achieve even a relative balance of the sexes (roughly 60/40 here) is a recipe for mediocrity and, yes, subjectivity.”
Compiling any list, whether it is of the best books, films or footballers, is difficult. Therefore, a clear sense of purpose is essential. For example, when the BBC decided to establish a list of the top 100 novels, it asked for votes on the best-loved novels. The result was that many of the authors mentioned by Waters feature towards the bottom or not at all. Ulysses, for example, is number 78.
Perhaps Joyce is one of the world’s best authors, but does anyone apart from David Norris, actually like Finnegans Wake? In contrast, people adore and re-read Rebecca, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, all of which featured in the top 20.
The reason Waters’s revered list of authors doesn’t appear on the curriculum is because they are boring, and too difficult for the immature mind to approach. If male writers are going to wander around in their berets absorbed in alienated, introspective angst, they shouldn’t complain when their worthy but dull books are cast aside in favour of the passion and romance of an Austen or Bronte
The contrasting styles of men and women authors provide the motive behind the curriculum. The Department of Education does not pretend to put the “best” books on the course. It wants to expose students to a wide variety of human experience. While the white male has dominated literature by virtue of his education and opportunity, his narrow experience should not form the sole worldview of the adolescent reared on a cultural diet of EastEnders and George Lucas. Since women form more than half of the world’s population, their perspective is vital if well-rounded, and not simply well-read, adolescents are to be dispatched from our schools.
It is not just a matter of what subjects are explored by male and female authors, but how identical subjects are treated by them. A telling example of this is the hapless Sartre, whose omission is lamented by Waters.
Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir met at the Sorbonne, where in academic terms she frequently surpassed him. Lifelong partners, they wrote side by side. Typically, her reputation suffered, since everybody assumed her books were improved by his proximity. The truth is that his brooding novels are tedious, while her novels, such as The Blood of Others, or She Came to Stay, tell compelling stories in which there are tragic lessons for those who attempt to honour the existential experience and live according to a philosophical code. An academic might judge Satre’s books better, but surely they are pointless if they are inaccessible to what Waters calls “the average, general reader”?
Waters appears to criticise attempts to alert students to the importance of a writer’s culture and background when reading their works. In making this a goal of the curriculum, the department hopes that students will become “independent learners who can operate in the world beyond the school in a range of contexts”. So when they pick up a book or newspaper, or watch television, they will learn not to assume they are being told is the truth. Instead they will keep in mind that everybody has a motive, some visible, some not, when they tell a story. Knowing the agenda of the author is essential to appreciating their story.
The old Leaving Cert course taught me to swallow without question the experience of the author as fact. It wasn’t until I reached university that I was taught to examine the intent behind every text. If the Leaving Certificate teaches students to read a government manifesto with a critical eye, this is an excellent lesson.
Waters said: “What a pity for Gemma Hussey that The Irish Times has a commitment to diversity of opinion.” What a pity for Waters that the Department of Education has the same commitment.
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06.12.05
Posted in Uncategorized at 12:06 pm by
Positioning oneself for optimum tanning on a Balearic beach requires some thought. My head should be in the shade to avoid the ageing effects of the sun; my legs placed to catch the full glare in the hope of acquiring tanned ankles. With gaze hidden by sunglasses, I can then concentrate properly on critically evaluating the bodies of the bikini-clad women who share my patch of paradise.
As women are not given to the male practice of parading around locker rooms in the nude, one rarely gets a chance to make comparisons with one’s peers. So to judge myself accurately, I indulge the instinct to judge others.
I pity the elderly women and their varicose veins, praying that my fate will not be so cruel. I scorn the younger ones and their concave abdomens; they won’t be so smug in another 10 years. They may not even be smug now, but I automatically attribute negative personalities to thin, perfectly tanned bodies.
The closest inspections are reserved for the thirtysomething woman and my eyes narrow in forensic examination if she has a child or two in tow. Unfortunately, my holiday resort is primarily populated by Germans and Scandinavians. They all appear tall and fit, with bellies that fail to betray their fecundity. As one such specimen passes me, only to reveal a touch of cellulite on the back of her thighs, the bitter satisfaction confirms that the object most in need of examination is my conscience.
This innocent woman probably spent hours despairing of her bumpy buttocks. What had she done to deserve my harsh judgment? I had searched for flaws with the zeal of a preacher searching for sin. I attributed blame for imperfections that no penance would redeem. A silent inquisition, I looked for the ultimate sinner in the 21st century: the woman who had let herself go.
The only redeeming feature of my imaginary court is that I count myself among the accused. The ravages wreaked by two pregnancies have put an end to my bikini days. While my thighs are intact, a million sit-ups and a diet of water and linseeds will do nothing for the appalling stretch marks left in the wake of my bumper babies. There is no cream in the world that can erase the pitted welts that disfigure me from the belly button down.
Apart from the physical scars, the psychological ones are those of shame and guilt. In the mental self-flagellation of the insufficiently groomed, I stand condemned in a world in which physical perfection is a matter of personal responsibility rather than good fortune.
The exact standard to which one should aspire is ceaselessly established by images on television, billboards and magazines. The ideal abdomen is taut, smooth and points inwards and upwards. It belongs to a person with no internal organs. The breasts are like grapefruit, perched high on the chest. The thighs are like sticks, shiny and straight.
Our awareness that these women are freaks who invest everything in surgery and personal trainers has no bearing on the effectiveness of the propaganda. Every woman I know has a body part she despises most in herself. Any random group of women can, with great animation, compare the harsh regimes they inflict upon themselves for their failure to match the MTV benchmarks.
Diets used to be about forgoing cream and Coca-Cola. Now it’s GI this, gluten-free that, fruit but no bananas, fibre but no wheat, and have you resorted to colonic irrigation yet? Confessions completed, they will gleefully turn to the subject of the misfortunate – famous or friend – who has failed to maintain a shape in accordance with the ideal.
Men waste no such time. If we are granted any sort of summer, Irish men will strut up and down our beaches with bellies proudly hanging over their baggy shorts. Their unwaxed backs are unlikely to be the topic of catty conversation. Does any man secretly fret that his wife might stop fancying him if he doesn’t shape up like 007? How lucky to be a human being and form no association between physical decline and self-worth. When men aren’t working, they devote themselves to relaxing. When women aren’t working, they’re working on themselves.
Who is it for? While it’s nice to retain the power to attract men, they are rarely the ones overtly advocating the standard. The judgment of which we live in fear is that of other women and ourselves. As Naomi Wolf famously argued in The Beauty Myth, we have been trained to impose ridiculous and unattainable standards on each other.
The energy that women apply to their physical appearance is pitiable. Most dedicate themselves responsibly to their jobs while simultaneously engaging in the intensive mothering demanded by popular child psychology books. It speaks to the effectiveness of cosmetic marketing campaigns that we feel under moral obligation to take on the added responsibility of maintaining an unrealistic standard of grooming. If we fail to look fabulous in public, we think we have failed as people.
Imagine what your average woman could achieve if she redirected her energy from watching what she ate to watching the stock market.
A generation ago, Germaine Greer urged: “Lady, love your c***.” I thought I’d start by trying to love my tummy. Lying on the beach, I gave it an affectionate pat and it wobbled gently. It wasn’t ready for exposure, but if I could love it, maybe others would too.
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06.02.05
Posted in Feminism at 5:26 pm by Sarah
V. busy all week so hope this summary acceptable. Spent the early part recovering from a weekend trip to the in-laws. Was so exhausted went to bed at 7.30pm on Tuesday. I indulged myself in the DVD of the BBC adaptation of Pride & Prejudice (all 6 episodes of Colin Firth doing his fabulous repressed-in-love act). So superb I then read the second half of the book AGAIN. Without doubt best love story EVER. The men were so decisive about being violently in love – and ardently admiring the women. Major sighing.
On the current affairs front the major story was the Prime Time expose on the dreadful treatment of old people in the Leas Cross nursing home. The usual statements were made promising that something would be done. What irks me is that Fergus O’Dowd FG TD has been pursuing this issue for years and everyone just ignored him. His bigggest obstacle was the Freedom of Information Act. Maurice Manning’s (also FG) Human Right’s committee issued a report on the situation back in 2001 and it too was ignored. Why is it only when something is on the telly that a political reaction is finally generated. The meeja mutter about the uselessness of the opposition, but the opposition is raising the issues. The meeja ignore them until one of their own puts it in the headlines.
Aside from the political reaction you really have to wonder what is going on in the Department of Health. I could understand the cover-up over the pensions being paid to nursing homes because everyone is always in a panic about money. But officials in the Dept of Health were being made aware by relatives and people like Fergus O’Dowd that patients were being ill treated and they just did nothing. Was there no compassion at all? Was the lack of action also financially motivated? If the private nursing homes didn’t pick up the slack the knock-on effects in the public system would be too much to bear?
At the back of it all is corrupt old FF and their tax breaks to nursing homes encouraging the developers to move in. John Aherne (not Ahern) the owner of Leas Cross is a well known F’n'Fer. Is the scale of FF patronage such that officials would know not to make too much trouble for a mate of Bertie’s in north Dublin? I’m not saying that they were told to back off, but FF have been in power so long, is it possible that it’s a reflex not to interfere with known supporters for fear of the phone call.
Is this issue like that of the deaths on the roads? Somewhere in the pysche of the populace there is a willingness to accept a certain amount of nastiness in the country. They are terrified of giving up FF because they associate them with the money in their own pockets, even if FF’s time in government merely correlated with the Celtic Tiger? I am truly coming to despise the electorate. I have no confidence at all that a coalition will win the next election.
In the meantime Bertie got a soft interview on the Late Late show (so much for Pat Kenny’s political revival noted last week) and he’s on the front of the RTE Guide with the daughters. Has no one noticed that he NEVER does a political interview? The only time we see him is giving a one liner on the way in or out of a meeting. Where is the outrage and demand amongst the fourth estate for some accountability from him? Its not there because the government are spending money getting them all pissed at the races and in Farmleigh. They’ve all just been subsumed into the system and swallow the spin doctors lines sneering at all politicians and encouraging people to believe that they are all the same. They are not.
Anyway, I have to get a bloody charter flight at an horrendous hour to get to the sun in lovely Majorca. Last year we were able to go at a reasonable hour on a half-empty scheduled flight with Aer Lingus. They cancelled it because the route was loss making. Helloooo? Reason no. 56b to keep national airlines even if they don’t make a profit!!!! Willie Walsh has made our journey a misery. We are going to be the people that everyone else hates because the toddler will scream the whole way there because he should be in bed. Still, its only 2.5 hours……
Back next week.
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