January through March are horrible months in Ireland. The weather is bad, money is in short supply after the Christmas excesses and all the economic forecasts for Ireland in 2008 are in the gloom and doom category.
In sporting circles however, January means that it not far away from the start the Gaelic football and hurling season. Spring and summer beckon with all the usual anticipation and discussion from the county teams down to the Junior 4 club side. The summer in Ireland will be defined by how your club or county performs.
Weather is irrelevant. The GAA supporter is a hardy animal and in the playing months (usually March to October) he or she are possessed of an almost manic religious fervour.
The GAA organization and its games are unique in the world of sport. Nowhere are there as compelling and attractive games to watch, played by amateur men and women to very high fitness levels and a huge degree of skill. These games attract massive audiences within Ireland, and yet remain virtually unknown in any country worldwide. With the exception of ex-pats organizing games in the US, UK and Australia, these wonderful games are ignored by mainstream media the world over. And boy, what are they missing!
For those who may not know of the national games of Ireland a brief introduction is in order. Gaelic games are basically divided into football, hurling, camogie (effectively ladies hurling) ladies football and handball (akin to squash without racquets). The first two mentioned are the main games, played by men.
The core of the entire GAA system is the parish club and the amateur ethos. The parish is an area within a county the borders of which were originally defined by the Catholic Church. Generally, what is known as the “parish rule” applies in that if a player is resident in a particular parish he is obliged by rule to play for the club that exists there. Of course, many parishes are large towns in which there are multiple clubs and in such cases, players have a choice from which to play.
No player in any of the sports receives payment. Only at the top administrative level do officials who occupy full-time jobs get salaries and expenses. A grants system is about to be introduced in 2008 to compensate inter-county players. This has attracted controversy and it remains to be seen how it works out. In many ways, this has come about because GAA has become a victim of its own success with huge demands on players from county and club.
There are over 2,500 clubs in the 32 counties. The game is structured administratively by an All-Ireland Central Council and then on a provincial basis through to a county board command role down to the club itself. The best players from clubs are picked to represent their county in the provincial and all-Ireland championships.
The volunteer aspect of the organization is incredible. Mentors and officials at club and county level work passionately to ensure the continuation of the games through generations, as other sports vie to attract the kids. For a sport that is confined to the 32 counties, the attraction and huge power it wields is a phenonomen not seen any where in the world of sport.
The amateur aspect is also the key to its success. Gaelic sporting heroes are tangible, ordinary men and women who perform heroics on the field of play, watched by thousands, and by a vastly larger TV audience. Yet, they have jobs to go to on Monday, whether it is a building site, or an accountancy practice, a teaching job or a university place. These young men and women are touchy, feely people that you will meet down at the pub having a pint, largely ignored by their local peers, but mega stars in the national media. They live ordinary lives with their feet kept firmly on the ground. There is little room for posers in the GAA dressing rooms and the down to earth attitudes of most players, famous or not, is one that is implanted in them from a tiny age. .
As a huge force for good in every community, whether it be a tiny village or a large town, it is impossible to calculate the enormous cultural and personal benefits that emerge from the presence of the GAA club.
At a higher level, the success of the game has enabled the GAA, and Ireland, to have one of the great stadiums of the world - Croke Park. This stadium has a long history but the foresight of the upper echelon of the GAA to demolish it in stages and rebuild it completely was a truly fantastic feat for an amateur organization. If only these people would take over the running of the country from the dimwits that are doing it now. Croke Park is now an excellent stadium seating in excess of 82,000 people. Not alone though is there Croke Park, but also many excellent stadiums around the country. Venues such as the hurling stronghold of Semple Stadium in Thurles and Clones in Monaghan spring to mind as good examples of regional stadiums.
It speaks volumes for the quality of the people running a huge amateur organization when you compare them to their counterparts in the FAI.
This supposedly professional body has made a complete shambles soccer at local and national level, despite the great years of success in the 80’s and 90’s. The FAI never capitalized on the high profile and success that Jack Charlton brought to the team and the country. The incompetent imbeciles that parade as professional administrators in the FAI could take a lesson from what the soccer brigade sneer at as the Grab All Association.
It could be more correctly described as the Give Away Association when one sees the funds that filter down to ground level, creating high standard amenities in every little village and town land, whilst the soccer clubs are still togging out behind the ditch and the national team is homeless!
The some what archaic administration system where the existence of County Boards, Provincial Councils, and Central Council management tiers is often criticized for the inability to move issues along quickly. There is more than a degree of truth in that, and this has often led to stalemate in trying to reach important decisions. None more so than the thorny and controversial decision to open Croke Park to facilitate the playing of soccer and rugby, games that were once alien to GAA culture because of the British occupation of Ireland at the founding time of the Association in 1884.
This mindset was reinforced by the memory of a barbaric act by the British forces in 1921 when they entered Croke Park in armoured cars, and opened fire on both spectators and players without warning. Thirteen people were killed on that day of shame, including one player, Michael Hogan, whom the Hogan Stand is now named after.
Thereafter, members of the British forces were not allowed to be members of the GAA. As the state evolved into what it now is, a Republic of Ireland of 26 counties and a separate 6-county province of Ulster, governed by the British, the ban applied up until recent years to members of the then RUC (now the PSNI ).
The most controversial aspect of the GAA rules that carried through from the 1920’s was what was known as the “Ban”. This rule prevented players of Gaelic games participating in what were termed “foreign games”, this meaning soccer and rugby. These two games were considered to be British games and therefore alien to Irish culture. It was the most ridiculous rule ever invented by the GAA and was broken so many times, by so many different methods, that public opinion forced the organization to revoke the rule in 1972.
That the rule lasted that long is not something of which the GAA should be proud.
Thus, the controversy about opening Croke Park to soccer and rugby was rooted in the events of many years ago. It took three years to get the motion approved to allow this to happen, and showed that history can be a great restrainer of progress. However, happen it did and one of the great memories of this scribe was watching Ireland beat England in the 6-Nations Rugby Championship at Croke Park in 2006 at a packed and indescribable cauldron of emotion and pride.
Let it be written in stone so that none may forget. Gaelic games are the face of what make Ireland wonderful and unique. We should, as a nation, be intensely proud of the GAA and therefore proud of ourselves as individuals involved in any role that may be as a mentor, supporter or player.
Roll on the summer of 2008!
We can handle the January blues with the mere thought of the joys that might be ahead.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The LIE That is IRISH PUBLIC SERVICE
The most incorrect term for workers employed by the Irish state is that of “public servant”. The title suggests that they carry out their duties in their place of employment, be they gardai, nurses, teachers, county council employees, tax officials, or ( the old favourite) clerical workers, in a manner that serves the public in an efficient, fair and courteous manner. The title is an abomination of what it appears to portray, or what it should portray. Public servants are there to serve the public and are paid by them.
In thousands of little cameos ever day in this country there are examples of how the reverse is true.
From over zealous taxmen, to petty health officials and Gardai that thinks their uniform entitles to act like Hitler by dishing out punishment for the most diminutive misdemeanors whilst ignoring the real crime that would be too much of a problem to tackle, we are financing the most lazy and incompetent so called public service in the world. And that is before the breathtaking arrogance of some of these people and their representatives, the union leeches, are even taken into account.
Ireland has the highest amount of public servants per capita in all of the EU states and most likely, if it were checked, in the entire world. They make up 20% of the entire Irish workforce! An incredible statistic that when one ponders about it, is quite frightening.
Who are all these people? Where are they? What do they do?
One fifth of the working population is employed to service the beauracratic needs of the other four fifths, needs mostly created by that 20% in endless regulations and red tape scenarios that are a hopeless illustration of their worth to their employer, the Government, and most of all to their paymaster, poor Joe and Joan Soap, the taxpaying public of Ireland.
Ever since Charlie Mc Creevey lifted the ban on public service recruitment in the late nineties, the biggest employment growth sector in Ireland, even exceeding the construction industry, has been the Public Service. It is also now the highest paid mainstream employment sector, some 40% ahead of the average Irish industrial wage and way above the European average, of course.
This situation has managed to evolve largely because of the ludicrous Benchmarking Process when Bertie Ahern caved into the union demands some years ago in a withering surrender designed to keep him in power. If the Labour Party had been in power they could have not done such a good job.
The legacy is of course a completely bloated public sector pay bill that the economy was just about able to handle in the good times, but will in the future become the Great Nightmare now that reality is coming down the tracks with not even a light on it. And, of course, the last that will suffer are the incompetents that occupy the lofty perches of the public service.
Have you noticed the increasing public debate that is slowing becoming louder on the policy of the current Government (or is that lack of policy?) on the thorny issue of immigration. Irish Independent columnist, Kevin Myers, has sparked a bit of liberal uproar by suggesting that Ireland should enforce an immediate
ban on immigration within the thresholds of our legal commitments to the EU policy on the matter. The facts are that Ireland operates a wide open gate to nationalities of all shades and creeds to enter this country. They do not seem to have set any boundaries on the limits that should apply. Kevin Myers is right. This short-sightedness now is going to have massive implications for Irish society down the line in a decade or more.
We do not have any moral obligation to loosely open our borders to all and sundry just because when times were hard, we emigrated to other countries, such as America and the UK. We don’t owe Nigerians, for example, a living because our descendants worked in America or Australia or wherever. We owe them nothing and the pious attitude taken by Irish NGOs is naive to say the least.
Ireland is hard put to look after our own and, as stated above, will be even more so now that the economy has slowed down. To refuse entry to people with doubtful credentials is not racism. To consider our own needs first and foremost is not racism. We have an eminent bunch of do–gooders in this country that seem to think that if we are not absolutely open and inviting we deserve to be labeled with the ‘R’ word. These mouthpieces are generally well heeled, well educated, considered to be academic and totally removed from the harsh reality of modern Irish life. They sip wine and pontificate at art exhibitions and envelope openings about the enchanted overview we as a nation must have. Do not be specific, just generalize please. It makes it so much less painful.
Their attitude might become more specific when their little Johnny or Jane arrive home and announce that they are going to marry Raja, or Mutu, who are from just down the road (the Kandashar or Nairobi road, that is). Just watch them choke on their cheese and wine then!
At least Tourism Ireland might be happy. All these inter racial relationships will surely increase the numbers taking an Ireland vacation. Ireland Travel Information will have to set up new offices in the Congo and Brazil. The Four Seasons hotel in Ballasbridge will be inundated with enquiries for their ‘Pamper Packages” and Thornton’s Restaurant will be booked out for the year.
Happy Days !!
In thousands of little cameos ever day in this country there are examples of how the reverse is true.
From over zealous taxmen, to petty health officials and Gardai that thinks their uniform entitles to act like Hitler by dishing out punishment for the most diminutive misdemeanors whilst ignoring the real crime that would be too much of a problem to tackle, we are financing the most lazy and incompetent so called public service in the world. And that is before the breathtaking arrogance of some of these people and their representatives, the union leeches, are even taken into account.
Ireland has the highest amount of public servants per capita in all of the EU states and most likely, if it were checked, in the entire world. They make up 20% of the entire Irish workforce! An incredible statistic that when one ponders about it, is quite frightening.
Who are all these people? Where are they? What do they do?
One fifth of the working population is employed to service the beauracratic needs of the other four fifths, needs mostly created by that 20% in endless regulations and red tape scenarios that are a hopeless illustration of their worth to their employer, the Government, and most of all to their paymaster, poor Joe and Joan Soap, the taxpaying public of Ireland.
Ever since Charlie Mc Creevey lifted the ban on public service recruitment in the late nineties, the biggest employment growth sector in Ireland, even exceeding the construction industry, has been the Public Service. It is also now the highest paid mainstream employment sector, some 40% ahead of the average Irish industrial wage and way above the European average, of course.
This situation has managed to evolve largely because of the ludicrous Benchmarking Process when Bertie Ahern caved into the union demands some years ago in a withering surrender designed to keep him in power. If the Labour Party had been in power they could have not done such a good job.
The legacy is of course a completely bloated public sector pay bill that the economy was just about able to handle in the good times, but will in the future become the Great Nightmare now that reality is coming down the tracks with not even a light on it. And, of course, the last that will suffer are the incompetents that occupy the lofty perches of the public service.
Have you noticed the increasing public debate that is slowing becoming louder on the policy of the current Government (or is that lack of policy?) on the thorny issue of immigration. Irish Independent columnist, Kevin Myers, has sparked a bit of liberal uproar by suggesting that Ireland should enforce an immediate
ban on immigration within the thresholds of our legal commitments to the EU policy on the matter. The facts are that Ireland operates a wide open gate to nationalities of all shades and creeds to enter this country. They do not seem to have set any boundaries on the limits that should apply. Kevin Myers is right. This short-sightedness now is going to have massive implications for Irish society down the line in a decade or more.
We do not have any moral obligation to loosely open our borders to all and sundry just because when times were hard, we emigrated to other countries, such as America and the UK. We don’t owe Nigerians, for example, a living because our descendants worked in America or Australia or wherever. We owe them nothing and the pious attitude taken by Irish NGOs is naive to say the least.
Ireland is hard put to look after our own and, as stated above, will be even more so now that the economy has slowed down. To refuse entry to people with doubtful credentials is not racism. To consider our own needs first and foremost is not racism. We have an eminent bunch of do–gooders in this country that seem to think that if we are not absolutely open and inviting we deserve to be labeled with the ‘R’ word. These mouthpieces are generally well heeled, well educated, considered to be academic and totally removed from the harsh reality of modern Irish life. They sip wine and pontificate at art exhibitions and envelope openings about the enchanted overview we as a nation must have. Do not be specific, just generalize please. It makes it so much less painful.
Their attitude might become more specific when their little Johnny or Jane arrive home and announce that they are going to marry Raja, or Mutu, who are from just down the road (the Kandashar or Nairobi road, that is). Just watch them choke on their cheese and wine then!
At least Tourism Ireland might be happy. All these inter racial relationships will surely increase the numbers taking an Ireland vacation. Ireland Travel Information will have to set up new offices in the Congo and Brazil. The Four Seasons hotel in Ballasbridge will be inundated with enquiries for their ‘Pamper Packages” and Thornton’s Restaurant will be booked out for the year.
Happy Days !!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
WHAT HOPE IRELAND’S BANKS?
On the 17th March that great American financial institution, Bear Sterns, effectively collapsed and had to be bailed out by the Federal Reserve in a scenario not entirely unlike what happened in the UK with Northern Rock bank. It has been dubbed as the Paddy’s’ Day massacre
The difference was that while the Federal Reserve - the American equivalent of the European Central Bank (ECB) - done so in partnership with another giant American bank, JP Morgan, in the UK the British Government stepped and actually guaranteed the depositors funds. Northern rock is now probably the safest bank in the world in which to put your money. It also has an Irish branch in Dublin and this British guarantee applies to Irish depositors whose savings are lodged there.
You may well ask what has all this to do with the ordinary Joe and Joan Mc Soap in Ireland. They are going about their business, putting some money away in various institutions and stocks, bonds and ordinary savings. Some may be on company pensions. Some may have their cash locked up in a capital-guaranteed product with some of the Irish banks, earning a low but steady return and allowing them to sleep peacefully at night.
Yet others, who may consider themselves more financially astute, have invested in complex products with their broker or financial adviser.
So, the current meltdown in the world’s financial markets has everything to do with the future of the Mc Soaps in rural or city Ireland. It is time to head to the pharmacy and get some strong sleeping pills. You may need them if cold sweat interruptions to your sleep are to be avoided.
Two weeks ago, Irish investors in a Friends First bond which was packaged by the now defunct ITSC lost every cent of their investment when ITSC ran into liquidity problems caused in no small measure by the sub-prime lending crisis that started in America.
This crisis erupted when greedy American banks issued mortgages to people at very high interest rates because the borrowers were high risk. The banks however figured that they had weighed the risk correctly and, while there would be a higher level of defaults, the high interest rates on those loans that were repaid would more than compensate for that downside. Just to be sure, however, they securitized (sold on) these loans to other banks worldwide to reduce their exposure.
It is a bit like a bookie laying off a big bet that they cannot handle if it were to come off.
The American banks were wrong. Defaults were huge. The NINJA’s, as the borrowers were known, (No Income No Job No Assets), didn’t pay the money back and never will. And when that happened banks all round the world, including Ireland, were left holding the baby as these securitized loan packages became weapons of mass financial destruction. Billions and billions were lost by banks.
Lack of trust and confidence has now developed to the point where wholesale banks are refusing to lend to each other - an essential trading activity that keeps the wheels of commerce moving.
The knock-on effects are potentially disastrous for everybody from the greatest movers and shakers to the ordinary Joe and Joan.
Share prices in banks and construction companies have nose-dived. That pension you were planning on to retire to Spain is shrinking away. The actions of greedy and irresponsible banks in offering loans to people who had a poor credit history will destroy the value of your pension.
Here in Ireland, the PR people are spinning soothing expressions of confidence in our main banks. We have no problems, they say. We are not exposed to any possible liquidity problems, they murmur calmly. This at a time when the stock market value of Irish banks is a third of what it was a year ago. No problems?
What nonsense!
It is of course a front designed to keep the confidence of their customers. In the back office, you can bet your life there is panic.
And if they are panicking, then you should be having heart attacks.
If a run comes on an Irish bank and it collapses you get between 5% and 20% of your deposits back at most. And you will wait for it.
It is laughable at times to see how institutions and politicians delude themselves into thinking that Ireland is somehow insulated from the problems of the world because of our great economic achievements as a small nation in the last 15 years. The accidental Celtic Tiger has coated us with the lacquer of invincibility, it seems.
Let us spell out the reality. One week ago, Bear Stearns had assets under management equal to eight times the GDP of Ireland! Today they are no more.
Our advices is take your money from your bank and lodge it in Northern Rock.
The British taxpayer is paying to guarantee you that it is safe.
It will save you a trip to the pharmacy for those sleeping tablets!
The difference was that while the Federal Reserve - the American equivalent of the European Central Bank (ECB) - done so in partnership with another giant American bank, JP Morgan, in the UK the British Government stepped and actually guaranteed the depositors funds. Northern rock is now probably the safest bank in the world in which to put your money. It also has an Irish branch in Dublin and this British guarantee applies to Irish depositors whose savings are lodged there.
You may well ask what has all this to do with the ordinary Joe and Joan Mc Soap in Ireland. They are going about their business, putting some money away in various institutions and stocks, bonds and ordinary savings. Some may be on company pensions. Some may have their cash locked up in a capital-guaranteed product with some of the Irish banks, earning a low but steady return and allowing them to sleep peacefully at night.
Yet others, who may consider themselves more financially astute, have invested in complex products with their broker or financial adviser.
So, the current meltdown in the world’s financial markets has everything to do with the future of the Mc Soaps in rural or city Ireland. It is time to head to the pharmacy and get some strong sleeping pills. You may need them if cold sweat interruptions to your sleep are to be avoided.
Two weeks ago, Irish investors in a Friends First bond which was packaged by the now defunct ITSC lost every cent of their investment when ITSC ran into liquidity problems caused in no small measure by the sub-prime lending crisis that started in America.
This crisis erupted when greedy American banks issued mortgages to people at very high interest rates because the borrowers were high risk. The banks however figured that they had weighed the risk correctly and, while there would be a higher level of defaults, the high interest rates on those loans that were repaid would more than compensate for that downside. Just to be sure, however, they securitized (sold on) these loans to other banks worldwide to reduce their exposure.
It is a bit like a bookie laying off a big bet that they cannot handle if it were to come off.
The American banks were wrong. Defaults were huge. The NINJA’s, as the borrowers were known, (No Income No Job No Assets), didn’t pay the money back and never will. And when that happened banks all round the world, including Ireland, were left holding the baby as these securitized loan packages became weapons of mass financial destruction. Billions and billions were lost by banks.
Lack of trust and confidence has now developed to the point where wholesale banks are refusing to lend to each other - an essential trading activity that keeps the wheels of commerce moving.
The knock-on effects are potentially disastrous for everybody from the greatest movers and shakers to the ordinary Joe and Joan.
Share prices in banks and construction companies have nose-dived. That pension you were planning on to retire to Spain is shrinking away. The actions of greedy and irresponsible banks in offering loans to people who had a poor credit history will destroy the value of your pension.
Here in Ireland, the PR people are spinning soothing expressions of confidence in our main banks. We have no problems, they say. We are not exposed to any possible liquidity problems, they murmur calmly. This at a time when the stock market value of Irish banks is a third of what it was a year ago. No problems?
What nonsense!
It is of course a front designed to keep the confidence of their customers. In the back office, you can bet your life there is panic.
And if they are panicking, then you should be having heart attacks.
If a run comes on an Irish bank and it collapses you get between 5% and 20% of your deposits back at most. And you will wait for it.
It is laughable at times to see how institutions and politicians delude themselves into thinking that Ireland is somehow insulated from the problems of the world because of our great economic achievements as a small nation in the last 15 years. The accidental Celtic Tiger has coated us with the lacquer of invincibility, it seems.
Let us spell out the reality. One week ago, Bear Stearns had assets under management equal to eight times the GDP of Ireland! Today they are no more.
Our advices is take your money from your bank and lodge it in Northern Rock.
The British taxpayer is paying to guarantee you that it is safe.
It will save you a trip to the pharmacy for those sleeping tablets!
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
A Saint Patrick’s Morning : A poem for a dear friend of mine
The sun rises and gives off a glorious red hue,
the splendor which bathes the promising east.
Saint Patrick’s Day slowly creeps to life
As Ireland prepares to celebrate his feast.
The nurse moves silently around his bed
checking the many drips on a listless arm
that once had the power and strength
to tackle the hardest chore on the farm
On a cold and bright Saint Patrick’s Day
this man nourishes no desire or aspirations
to share his nurses cheery vision of how
she will partake in the day’s celebrations
another pulls the curtains and sunlight arrives
without invite or welcome to his sunken eyes.
He can muster only a cough to register his protest
that goes unheard among the gossip and the lies
More voices now converse loudly about him
careless and abstract as though he was not there.
Isolated by plumy tones of rich medical jargon
his miscomprehension a comfort blanket threadbare.
Dignity leaves you without smile or wave in this place
and tranquility is not yet the expected welcome guest
that comforts you in this surrendering dimension
and accompanies you to your one last harvest
He speaks little now, perfunctory is more convenient
than to give stature to false and optimistic platitude.
His mind is floundering in a deep dark forest of recess,
searching for the distant sunny clearing of gratitude.
Failing, for he is proud, and noble were his ways.
Of fair dealings, no man with a lie can ever unravel.
Transparency was his castle built high on a hill.
Decency and honour the avenue covered in finest gravel.
the splendor which bathes the promising east.
Saint Patrick’s Day slowly creeps to life
As Ireland prepares to celebrate his feast.
The nurse moves silently around his bed
checking the many drips on a listless arm
that once had the power and strength
to tackle the hardest chore on the farm
On a cold and bright Saint Patrick’s Day
this man nourishes no desire or aspirations
to share his nurses cheery vision of how
she will partake in the day’s celebrations
another pulls the curtains and sunlight arrives
without invite or welcome to his sunken eyes.
He can muster only a cough to register his protest
that goes unheard among the gossip and the lies
More voices now converse loudly about him
careless and abstract as though he was not there.
Isolated by plumy tones of rich medical jargon
his miscomprehension a comfort blanket threadbare.
Dignity leaves you without smile or wave in this place
and tranquility is not yet the expected welcome guest
that comforts you in this surrendering dimension
and accompanies you to your one last harvest
He speaks little now, perfunctory is more convenient
than to give stature to false and optimistic platitude.
His mind is floundering in a deep dark forest of recess,
searching for the distant sunny clearing of gratitude.
Failing, for he is proud, and noble were his ways.
Of fair dealings, no man with a lie can ever unravel.
Transparency was his castle built high on a hill.
Decency and honour the avenue covered in finest gravel.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
PADDY’S DAY – DON’T YOU JUST LOVE IT!
Next Monday is St. Patrick’s Day – and the publicans rub their hands in glee. You see they hate it when it falls on a Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday because the weekend is not latched onto it, and therefore turnover, and hence profits falls down.
We mention the publicans first, not out of any malice towards them, but rather to get the priorities in their correct order when it comes to describing the manner by which the majority of people celebrate the Holy Day of their Patron Saint.
Frankly, this scribe finds the whole parade business a lot of bullshit. Trucks, tractors, vans and jeeps pull tacky, garrulous floats up and the cities and towns of the country. The streets are lined with freezing cold children who are pissed off after the first ten floats pass by and want to go somewhere else.
Those who are not freezing on the footpaths are slowly dying of hypothermia standing on the back of some grossly themed display that nobody can understand, but may have some deep artistic meaning known only to those who devised it in the first place.
In many cases, the only reason that adults are lining the route along with the kids is because of the booze-up that will take place all day afterwards in the bars and hotels throughout the country. You will later that night find those same freezing kids asleep in the corner of some pub whilst their auld fella drunkenly sings a rebel song by which to remember St Patrick.
The parade will have high-kicking American high school bands and every conceivable brass band that exists in the country will be out in force. This is their glory day and a perfect opportunity to show their talents to what they wrongly perceive to be an adoring public. Every voluntary organization from sports clubs to scouts will dress up and make the effort to enjoy being gawked at by the crowds on the pavements. The only reason they are there at all is that some local busybody with plenty of time on their hands (think public servant) has decreed that the town must have a parade. It doesn’t matter about the quality, just get the quantity. Oh, the madness of it all!
Have you ever tried to go anywhere on a Paddy’s Day in Ireland? Actually drive somewhere in the country when you logically think that the road are quiet and free of trucks and commuter traffic.
Maybe you wanted to visit your mother in Ballydehob, or your grandchildren in Kiltimagh, instead of getting pissed out of your brains down at the local.
How do you get there? Every town and village across the state has a parade. They all start at different times, usually from 11am to 4 pm. There is traffic chaos in and around these places as the parade first lines up on the outskirts of the venue, and then proceeds at a snails pace past some local dignitaries (probably more public servants) standing on the back of a trailer in the middle of town.
So you sit there in your car, fuming as some jumped-up local community volunteer, elevated way beyond his status by the wearing of a high-viz jacket, tells you cannot move for an hour because of this very important event.
The country towns are the worst offenders for the quality of the parades. Anybody who has a business in the area, particularly if it involves wheels, is encouraged to come along.
It is probably an ego upper to be asked to partake in the first place, so Mickey Joe with his ten identical tippers trucks will put the whole lot on show, all clean and shiny.
Not to be outdone, John Joe, who owns the local skip hire business, will lash a dozen identical skip trucks into the convoy.
Of course, Willie Joe, with his agri-machinery business, will get star billing with combine harvesters and tractors with all sorts of contraptions attached to them. Naturally, Willie Joe will be piloting the lead machine and because of the slow pace of the parade, he roars down to potential customers along the footpath. Never one to miss a sales opportunity is our Willie Joe. The kids in crowd go wild when he invites some of them on board and the farmers whisper enviously on the street about the cost of the fancy equipment he has on display.
Add to that, every car-dealer in the area will have all their models on display in every available color, resulting in a tailback akin to what would be on the M50 on a Friday evening.
Meanwhile, you the unfortunate hoor that just wants to see your mother or grand children are forced to watch and wait whilst all this unfolds slowly in front of your unadoring eyes.
When you finally get moving, you are not on the road for twenty minutes when lo and behold another high-viz power junkie waves you to a halt at the edge of a village and the whole exercise is repeated.
Except, this time it is worse, because in addition to the local entries in this parade, you realize that the cars, trucks and skips from the last parade have made their way from the last place joined in as well! This is common practice in rural areas and ensures that the last parade in a particular county will be the longest
So there are you stuck again, having a Groudhog St. Patrick’s Day experience all over again.
Willie Joe is there again, sure enough, and him still roaring out of the combine harvester. Not that you can hear anything of course, because Mickey Joes’s tippers have mighty powerful air horns. Star attraction in this town is those twenty-three artics and trailers belonging to local hero, Paddy Joe’s International Transport and his air-horns are even louder than them feckers in the tippers!
You curse yourself for not going to your own local pub and getting pissed like everybody else. You are now stranded halfway to your destination and with no chance of seeing the mother or the grandchildren.
You are left with no alternative but to do a u-turn and head back home.
Just to put he finishing touches to your Paddy’s Day, a couple of miles out the road another high-viz jacket appears at a roadblock and informs you that you are 30 kilometres over the speed limit and dishes out a ticket and two penalty points!
Sure isn’t St. Patrick’s Day great crack altogether!
We mention the publicans first, not out of any malice towards them, but rather to get the priorities in their correct order when it comes to describing the manner by which the majority of people celebrate the Holy Day of their Patron Saint.
Frankly, this scribe finds the whole parade business a lot of bullshit. Trucks, tractors, vans and jeeps pull tacky, garrulous floats up and the cities and towns of the country. The streets are lined with freezing cold children who are pissed off after the first ten floats pass by and want to go somewhere else.
Those who are not freezing on the footpaths are slowly dying of hypothermia standing on the back of some grossly themed display that nobody can understand, but may have some deep artistic meaning known only to those who devised it in the first place.
In many cases, the only reason that adults are lining the route along with the kids is because of the booze-up that will take place all day afterwards in the bars and hotels throughout the country. You will later that night find those same freezing kids asleep in the corner of some pub whilst their auld fella drunkenly sings a rebel song by which to remember St Patrick.
The parade will have high-kicking American high school bands and every conceivable brass band that exists in the country will be out in force. This is their glory day and a perfect opportunity to show their talents to what they wrongly perceive to be an adoring public. Every voluntary organization from sports clubs to scouts will dress up and make the effort to enjoy being gawked at by the crowds on the pavements. The only reason they are there at all is that some local busybody with plenty of time on their hands (think public servant) has decreed that the town must have a parade. It doesn’t matter about the quality, just get the quantity. Oh, the madness of it all!
Have you ever tried to go anywhere on a Paddy’s Day in Ireland? Actually drive somewhere in the country when you logically think that the road are quiet and free of trucks and commuter traffic.
Maybe you wanted to visit your mother in Ballydehob, or your grandchildren in Kiltimagh, instead of getting pissed out of your brains down at the local.
How do you get there? Every town and village across the state has a parade. They all start at different times, usually from 11am to 4 pm. There is traffic chaos in and around these places as the parade first lines up on the outskirts of the venue, and then proceeds at a snails pace past some local dignitaries (probably more public servants) standing on the back of a trailer in the middle of town.
So you sit there in your car, fuming as some jumped-up local community volunteer, elevated way beyond his status by the wearing of a high-viz jacket, tells you cannot move for an hour because of this very important event.
The country towns are the worst offenders for the quality of the parades. Anybody who has a business in the area, particularly if it involves wheels, is encouraged to come along.
It is probably an ego upper to be asked to partake in the first place, so Mickey Joe with his ten identical tippers trucks will put the whole lot on show, all clean and shiny.
Not to be outdone, John Joe, who owns the local skip hire business, will lash a dozen identical skip trucks into the convoy.
Of course, Willie Joe, with his agri-machinery business, will get star billing with combine harvesters and tractors with all sorts of contraptions attached to them. Naturally, Willie Joe will be piloting the lead machine and because of the slow pace of the parade, he roars down to potential customers along the footpath. Never one to miss a sales opportunity is our Willie Joe. The kids in crowd go wild when he invites some of them on board and the farmers whisper enviously on the street about the cost of the fancy equipment he has on display.
Add to that, every car-dealer in the area will have all their models on display in every available color, resulting in a tailback akin to what would be on the M50 on a Friday evening.
Meanwhile, you the unfortunate hoor that just wants to see your mother or grand children are forced to watch and wait whilst all this unfolds slowly in front of your unadoring eyes.
When you finally get moving, you are not on the road for twenty minutes when lo and behold another high-viz power junkie waves you to a halt at the edge of a village and the whole exercise is repeated.
Except, this time it is worse, because in addition to the local entries in this parade, you realize that the cars, trucks and skips from the last parade have made their way from the last place joined in as well! This is common practice in rural areas and ensures that the last parade in a particular county will be the longest
So there are you stuck again, having a Groudhog St. Patrick’s Day experience all over again.
Willie Joe is there again, sure enough, and him still roaring out of the combine harvester. Not that you can hear anything of course, because Mickey Joes’s tippers have mighty powerful air horns. Star attraction in this town is those twenty-three artics and trailers belonging to local hero, Paddy Joe’s International Transport and his air-horns are even louder than them feckers in the tippers!
You curse yourself for not going to your own local pub and getting pissed like everybody else. You are now stranded halfway to your destination and with no chance of seeing the mother or the grandchildren.
You are left with no alternative but to do a u-turn and head back home.
Just to put he finishing touches to your Paddy’s Day, a couple of miles out the road another high-viz jacket appears at a roadblock and informs you that you are 30 kilometres over the speed limit and dishes out a ticket and two penalty points!
Sure isn’t St. Patrick’s Day great crack altogether!
Monday, March 10, 2008
PAISLEY: WHY NOT THEN RATHER THAN NOW ?
So, big Ian Paisley retired from politics at last. Dr. No, the most aptly applied moniker to the thundering preacher, left the Northern Ireland political scene through the side door rather than the marble exit as the forces of negativity in his own party got their way.
To judge by the acres of newsprint devoted to his leaving last week, one would think that Paisley was some sort of a saint, on whom praise was heaped for the wonderful achievements in a lifetime of work in the fiery cauldron of Northern Ireland politics.
There is no doubt that the last few years in Ulster politics have been hard to digest. Almost forty years of conflict, terror and massive loss of life across both Catholic and Protestant communities ended with Paisley as First Minister of the Northern Ireland Assembly and his arch-nemesis, Martin McGuiness of Sinn Fein, as his deputy leader.
Five years ago if somebody dared to predict such a scenario, they would immediately be carried away by the men in the white coats and never seen again.
It is without doubt astounding to see what has happened since the St. Andrews Agreement was signed two years ago. Decades of negotiation and intervention by American Presidents and political leaders, such as George Mitchell, failed to bring the two sides to any agreement. When it appeared on so many occasions that a final deal was about to be struck, Dr. No said exactly that and failure was a certainty.
Ever since the extremist DUP, led by Paisley, routed the more moderate UUP in various elections and became the Loyalist standard-bearers, the future of Northern Ireland seemed destined for more decades of decay. Exactly the same scenario was occurring on the Nationalist side of the fence where Sinn Fein created a powerful voting machine in working-class areas of the North to overcome the moderate SDLP and become the hard voice of the Republican movement.
Moderation was replaced by polar opposite extremity. Those watching on sidelines could not contemplate the possibility that anything remotely positive would happen in Northern politics because of the differences and historical hatred between the two sides.
Yet, incredibly, it did. The two sides settled down to working on practical day-to-day issues and genuine political problems. Paisley and McGuiness became known as the “Chuckle Brothers” such was the warmth of their working relationship.
Paisley came to Dublin, all smiles and bonhomie, to greet Bertie Ahern as though the man was a life-long friend.
The world looked on in amazement. This was a modern-day conversion of St. Paul on the road to Damascus. The immovable object that was Ian Paisley had seen the light on the M1 to Dublin! We rubbed our eyes in disbelief.
We were not alone. So too did the members of the DUP. What they saw was betrayal by an ageing and unwell egotist that wanted a grand epitaph on his tombstone. After years of being the hard-line bigot that blocked every peace initiative, Paisley had melted like ice cream in the summer sun as he prepared to meet his maker.
Peter Robinson and his cohorts wanted rid of him before any more harm was done. So, Big Ian and little Ian were shown the door last week no matter what way it was purveyed by the spin-doctors. The red flag of Ulster conveniently hid the knives in both their backs.
It was in retrospect no more than Paisley deserved. He should not be remembered grandly or graciously by history. His was the loud, inciting and unreasonable voice of prejudice when the troubles started in 1968.
The denial of civil rights to the minority Catholic population by the people and institutions he represented lit the fire that was to follow. Paisley and his “No Surrender” outpourings fanned the flames. His malignant influence created the loyalist terror gangs on the streets and the political thugs in chambers of power that undone the efforts of moderate and good men to bring peace about in those early years of conflict.
The real heroes of the torturous and protracted journey to where Northern Ireland stands today were conveniently forgotten last week in the hype surrounding Paisley’s conversion and departure.
The courage of John Hume to take the quiet, but momentous, step of engaging in secret talks with the IRA in 1994 kick-started this whole process. His name barely received a mention in all the demented rhetoric last week.
The ability of the leaders and doers in the Republican movement to convince their members to a cease-fire first in 1994, and then to give up their arms before any concessions from the Loyalist Para-militaries, are the foundations on which the existing power-sharing assembly is built.
When all the hard, ungrateful work was being done in the years since then, Paisley stood in the middle of the narrow road to peace, arms held wide, obstructing and halting the journey at every opportunity. Only at the last moment did he make concessions
Why he changed attitude so dramatically we will never know. Senility or conscience perhaps? Alternatively, the desire to be remembered benignly in the history books of the schoolchildren not yet born.
Shed no tears at his forced departure or sing no songs of praise.
Paisley had the power to this in 1974, not 2008.
A last minute conversion will not dismantle the structure of hatred and division that he built in his time.
He chose to use his influence not in search of peace but the pursuit of intolerance.
A suitable epitaph, perhaps?
To judge by the acres of newsprint devoted to his leaving last week, one would think that Paisley was some sort of a saint, on whom praise was heaped for the wonderful achievements in a lifetime of work in the fiery cauldron of Northern Ireland politics.
There is no doubt that the last few years in Ulster politics have been hard to digest. Almost forty years of conflict, terror and massive loss of life across both Catholic and Protestant communities ended with Paisley as First Minister of the Northern Ireland Assembly and his arch-nemesis, Martin McGuiness of Sinn Fein, as his deputy leader.
Five years ago if somebody dared to predict such a scenario, they would immediately be carried away by the men in the white coats and never seen again.
It is without doubt astounding to see what has happened since the St. Andrews Agreement was signed two years ago. Decades of negotiation and intervention by American Presidents and political leaders, such as George Mitchell, failed to bring the two sides to any agreement. When it appeared on so many occasions that a final deal was about to be struck, Dr. No said exactly that and failure was a certainty.
Ever since the extremist DUP, led by Paisley, routed the more moderate UUP in various elections and became the Loyalist standard-bearers, the future of Northern Ireland seemed destined for more decades of decay. Exactly the same scenario was occurring on the Nationalist side of the fence where Sinn Fein created a powerful voting machine in working-class areas of the North to overcome the moderate SDLP and become the hard voice of the Republican movement.
Moderation was replaced by polar opposite extremity. Those watching on sidelines could not contemplate the possibility that anything remotely positive would happen in Northern politics because of the differences and historical hatred between the two sides.
Yet, incredibly, it did. The two sides settled down to working on practical day-to-day issues and genuine political problems. Paisley and McGuiness became known as the “Chuckle Brothers” such was the warmth of their working relationship.
Paisley came to Dublin, all smiles and bonhomie, to greet Bertie Ahern as though the man was a life-long friend.
The world looked on in amazement. This was a modern-day conversion of St. Paul on the road to Damascus. The immovable object that was Ian Paisley had seen the light on the M1 to Dublin! We rubbed our eyes in disbelief.
We were not alone. So too did the members of the DUP. What they saw was betrayal by an ageing and unwell egotist that wanted a grand epitaph on his tombstone. After years of being the hard-line bigot that blocked every peace initiative, Paisley had melted like ice cream in the summer sun as he prepared to meet his maker.
Peter Robinson and his cohorts wanted rid of him before any more harm was done. So, Big Ian and little Ian were shown the door last week no matter what way it was purveyed by the spin-doctors. The red flag of Ulster conveniently hid the knives in both their backs.
It was in retrospect no more than Paisley deserved. He should not be remembered grandly or graciously by history. His was the loud, inciting and unreasonable voice of prejudice when the troubles started in 1968.
The denial of civil rights to the minority Catholic population by the people and institutions he represented lit the fire that was to follow. Paisley and his “No Surrender” outpourings fanned the flames. His malignant influence created the loyalist terror gangs on the streets and the political thugs in chambers of power that undone the efforts of moderate and good men to bring peace about in those early years of conflict.
The real heroes of the torturous and protracted journey to where Northern Ireland stands today were conveniently forgotten last week in the hype surrounding Paisley’s conversion and departure.
The courage of John Hume to take the quiet, but momentous, step of engaging in secret talks with the IRA in 1994 kick-started this whole process. His name barely received a mention in all the demented rhetoric last week.
The ability of the leaders and doers in the Republican movement to convince their members to a cease-fire first in 1994, and then to give up their arms before any concessions from the Loyalist Para-militaries, are the foundations on which the existing power-sharing assembly is built.
When all the hard, ungrateful work was being done in the years since then, Paisley stood in the middle of the narrow road to peace, arms held wide, obstructing and halting the journey at every opportunity. Only at the last moment did he make concessions
Why he changed attitude so dramatically we will never know. Senility or conscience perhaps? Alternatively, the desire to be remembered benignly in the history books of the schoolchildren not yet born.
Shed no tears at his forced departure or sing no songs of praise.
Paisley had the power to this in 1974, not 2008.
A last minute conversion will not dismantle the structure of hatred and division that he built in his time.
He chose to use his influence not in search of peace but the pursuit of intolerance.
A suitable epitaph, perhaps?
Friday, March 7, 2008
ARM THE POLICE AND SHOOT THE BASTARDS!
The recent tragic and horrifying killings of two Polish men in Drimnagh, Dublin brings us back to a topic that we mentioned some weeks ago in our series of “10 THINGS THEY DON’T TELL YOU ABOUT AN IRELAND VACATION”.
Two innocent young men, going about their business were attacked for no apparent reason and stabbed to death with screwdrivers by a gang of up to 20 youths, male and female, outside a chipper. The fact that they were Polish was only incidental to the matter – they could have been anybody.
By coincidence, Bertie Ahern was on a visit to Poland when this happened and the incident prompted him to go on TV there and sympathize with the Polish people about the loss of their two young compatriots.
We have no problem with Bertie doing that – it is mere good manners and whether he was in Poland or Ireland, he would be expected to state those sentiments. It is what he added to those comments that make the blood boil.
He emphasized that this was not the Ireland that he knew and this sort of violence was isolated and was not to be taken as a reflection of life in Ireland.
Are you for real Bertie? Do you ever go out at night apart from crossing the road to Fagans pub, escorted by your entourage of Special Branch agents? Does nobody in your massive pool of advisors ever tell you what the real Ireland is like after dark?
When your own Minister of Defence, Willie O’Dea, is not himself brawling in some Limerick pub, would he not enlighten you about the mean streets of our towns and cities around the country?
What about asking your Minister for Justice, Brian Lenihan, whose brief includes being in charge of the Gardai, for some information as to the real facts of what life is like for many unfortunate communities and individuals in Irish villages towns and cities?
If an accurate answer is given – which is unlikely- you will be told of old people being terrorized in their homes, of decent people being attacked on the streets by groups of yobbos who record the savagery on their mobile phones, of young couples out for a night being left for dead after being targeted by these scumbags.
You should be told of the horror of a family being told in the middle of the night that their son or daughter is brain-damaged after the work of these sub-human animals.
Can you imagine what that family and victims have to live with for the rest of their life?
When the headlines (if there are any) subside, can you begin to realize what the implications are for any family who now have a vegetable for a son or daughter who once brought sunshine and light into their lives? In a moment of blind madness, their circumstances are forever changed.
The parents and siblings become carers and all the dreams, aspirations and happy occasions that they imagined for their child evaporate just like the hot air you produce when you glibly pass off what happened in Drimnagh as “isolated”.
The truth is there are Drimnaghs every night of the week in Ireland. Not all end in death, although that would be the intention. Many end much worse, and do not even warrant a mention in the local media.
There is now an underclass in Ireland created by the monster of drink, drugs and lack of policing that regard random violence as recreation –something to do to highlight the night out – and have no remorse or emotion about the consequences of their actions.
We have said it here before; you fight fire with fire.
You Bertie, Brian and Willie have a duty of care to the law-abiding citizens of this country. Bring in a bill to arm the police. Ignore the moaning and whining you will hear from the civil liberties gang – just do it!
In addition, do what you have promised so often and increase those police numbers to what is needed to ensure that this cancer stops spreading.
Instead of cops stopping old men driving home after a couple of pints in their local, go arm them and put those same cops on the streets of Drimnagh and all its counterparts.
And so what if they shoot a scumbag who threatens violence on innocent people?
We don’t want any enquiries. Just give the cop a medal and tell them to go do more of the same.
Then, and only then, Bertie you might find yourself in a position to say that such incidents as Drimnagh are isolated.
In the meantime do not insult the victims, and those left to mourn and care for them, with your glib lies that all is well on the streets of Ireland. You do the country no service.
Two innocent young men, going about their business were attacked for no apparent reason and stabbed to death with screwdrivers by a gang of up to 20 youths, male and female, outside a chipper. The fact that they were Polish was only incidental to the matter – they could have been anybody.
By coincidence, Bertie Ahern was on a visit to Poland when this happened and the incident prompted him to go on TV there and sympathize with the Polish people about the loss of their two young compatriots.
We have no problem with Bertie doing that – it is mere good manners and whether he was in Poland or Ireland, he would be expected to state those sentiments. It is what he added to those comments that make the blood boil.
He emphasized that this was not the Ireland that he knew and this sort of violence was isolated and was not to be taken as a reflection of life in Ireland.
Are you for real Bertie? Do you ever go out at night apart from crossing the road to Fagans pub, escorted by your entourage of Special Branch agents? Does nobody in your massive pool of advisors ever tell you what the real Ireland is like after dark?
When your own Minister of Defence, Willie O’Dea, is not himself brawling in some Limerick pub, would he not enlighten you about the mean streets of our towns and cities around the country?
What about asking your Minister for Justice, Brian Lenihan, whose brief includes being in charge of the Gardai, for some information as to the real facts of what life is like for many unfortunate communities and individuals in Irish villages towns and cities?
If an accurate answer is given – which is unlikely- you will be told of old people being terrorized in their homes, of decent people being attacked on the streets by groups of yobbos who record the savagery on their mobile phones, of young couples out for a night being left for dead after being targeted by these scumbags.
You should be told of the horror of a family being told in the middle of the night that their son or daughter is brain-damaged after the work of these sub-human animals.
Can you imagine what that family and victims have to live with for the rest of their life?
When the headlines (if there are any) subside, can you begin to realize what the implications are for any family who now have a vegetable for a son or daughter who once brought sunshine and light into their lives? In a moment of blind madness, their circumstances are forever changed.
The parents and siblings become carers and all the dreams, aspirations and happy occasions that they imagined for their child evaporate just like the hot air you produce when you glibly pass off what happened in Drimnagh as “isolated”.
The truth is there are Drimnaghs every night of the week in Ireland. Not all end in death, although that would be the intention. Many end much worse, and do not even warrant a mention in the local media.
There is now an underclass in Ireland created by the monster of drink, drugs and lack of policing that regard random violence as recreation –something to do to highlight the night out – and have no remorse or emotion about the consequences of their actions.
We have said it here before; you fight fire with fire.
You Bertie, Brian and Willie have a duty of care to the law-abiding citizens of this country. Bring in a bill to arm the police. Ignore the moaning and whining you will hear from the civil liberties gang – just do it!
In addition, do what you have promised so often and increase those police numbers to what is needed to ensure that this cancer stops spreading.
Instead of cops stopping old men driving home after a couple of pints in their local, go arm them and put those same cops on the streets of Drimnagh and all its counterparts.
And so what if they shoot a scumbag who threatens violence on innocent people?
We don’t want any enquiries. Just give the cop a medal and tell them to go do more of the same.
Then, and only then, Bertie you might find yourself in a position to say that such incidents as Drimnagh are isolated.
In the meantime do not insult the victims, and those left to mourn and care for them, with your glib lies that all is well on the streets of Ireland. You do the country no service.
Monday, March 3, 2008
WHAT A HORRIBLE COUNTRY IRELAND CAN BE
The state and all its machinations is a very powerful enemy. Try fighting Ireland in the courts of our land over an issue that may set precedent for further action against it and you will soon know that the force is against you.
The fully armed battalions of government power will mobilize to crush the individual as surely as the foot of an elephant will crush an ant. The massive resources of the overweight bureaucracy, paid for by the taxes of the individual it is going to war with, creates a Goliath that David simply will never overcome.
Take the recent High Court case taken by Wicklow couple, Cian and Yvonne O Cuanachain on behalf of their son, Sean, requesting the State to provide their autistic child with 30 hours per week of specialist therapy known as Applied Behavioural Analysis (ABA), which is a proven method of individual treatment for autistic children.
At present, such children are taught in select mainstream National Schools in dedicated classes. However there are only 12 of these schools in the country and there is a waiting list of 345 children now for places in such schools.
What the O’Cuanachain family wanted was for the Department of Education to provide the funds and facilities to give these children a better future. They had already paid out thousands of euros to have seven-year old Sean have private ABA therapy because they could see the benefits it was giving him.
Last year, the High Court rejected their claim. Last month, the same High Court rejected their claim for the legal costs of taking the action. It deemed that the 5 million euro bill be carried by the HSE, the Department of Education and the O’Cuanachain family.
The first two will simply rob the taxpayer’s pockets to pay the legal eagles, whilst the unfortunate family, burdened already with the daily ritual of caring for their son, is left with the possibility of losing the roof over their heads to pay their share of the costs.
The reason for all the heavy –hitting artillery employed by the State in the 68-day hearing was not to just conquer this single unfortunate family.
It was to make sure that the precedent was not established to allow the other 345 families step up to the Government dining table to seek the crumbs to which they too would be entitled.
Mary Hanafin, so-called Minister for Education, sitting at the head of this particular table in her obnoxious school-marm arrogant mode, dismissed the concerns of the family and even refused a request to visit a school to see for herself the inadequacy of the current welfare her brief provides for theses children.
So a family that had the courage to fight Goliath Ireland if left crushed like the ants for the sake of what? A 10 million euro bill for proper ABA treatment?
Perhaps, even 20 or 30 million euro that it might cost to care for a tiny minority of citizens that the Constitution of the Republic of Ireland states it has a duty of care to. The family is the cornerstone of our Constitution, the ultimate core value protected by its parameters. Read it – it is there in black and white. Watch- as the State JCB drives over it and smudges the ink and the rights of those families enshrined in that document.
A few years ago, Noel Dempsey was Minister for Education. In a Dail debate on a subject unrelated to his brief, he defended one of the numerous costly follies that the Government had ventured into - and lost vast amounts of money on - as an exercise where “only 50 million euro was lost”. Only 50 million euro, you say! Loose change, you might say. Merely the cost of a consultants report, one would guess.
Yes, the State will crush its own when it thinks the “folly” of a family caring for the needs of their child will dent the Exchequer figures, even by as little as 30 million euro.
In addition, in case the impression given is that I have a political axe to grind with Fianna Fail only, let us quickly correct that by saying:
“Hang your head in shame Michael Noonan, ex-Fine Gael Minister for Health, who used all the legal torture instruments of the State to hound a brave mother and wife, Brigid McCole, to her death in 1995, because of the Hepatitis C blood infection scandal. On her deathbed you offered her a pathetic amount on the basis that she stays quiet and the farthings you offered were “without predejuice” to prevent any precedent being set”
You know something folks.
Ireland is a horrible little country to live in, ran by horrible little people!
The fully armed battalions of government power will mobilize to crush the individual as surely as the foot of an elephant will crush an ant. The massive resources of the overweight bureaucracy, paid for by the taxes of the individual it is going to war with, creates a Goliath that David simply will never overcome.
Take the recent High Court case taken by Wicklow couple, Cian and Yvonne O Cuanachain on behalf of their son, Sean, requesting the State to provide their autistic child with 30 hours per week of specialist therapy known as Applied Behavioural Analysis (ABA), which is a proven method of individual treatment for autistic children.
At present, such children are taught in select mainstream National Schools in dedicated classes. However there are only 12 of these schools in the country and there is a waiting list of 345 children now for places in such schools.
What the O’Cuanachain family wanted was for the Department of Education to provide the funds and facilities to give these children a better future. They had already paid out thousands of euros to have seven-year old Sean have private ABA therapy because they could see the benefits it was giving him.
Last year, the High Court rejected their claim. Last month, the same High Court rejected their claim for the legal costs of taking the action. It deemed that the 5 million euro bill be carried by the HSE, the Department of Education and the O’Cuanachain family.
The first two will simply rob the taxpayer’s pockets to pay the legal eagles, whilst the unfortunate family, burdened already with the daily ritual of caring for their son, is left with the possibility of losing the roof over their heads to pay their share of the costs.
The reason for all the heavy –hitting artillery employed by the State in the 68-day hearing was not to just conquer this single unfortunate family.
It was to make sure that the precedent was not established to allow the other 345 families step up to the Government dining table to seek the crumbs to which they too would be entitled.
Mary Hanafin, so-called Minister for Education, sitting at the head of this particular table in her obnoxious school-marm arrogant mode, dismissed the concerns of the family and even refused a request to visit a school to see for herself the inadequacy of the current welfare her brief provides for theses children.
So a family that had the courage to fight Goliath Ireland if left crushed like the ants for the sake of what? A 10 million euro bill for proper ABA treatment?
Perhaps, even 20 or 30 million euro that it might cost to care for a tiny minority of citizens that the Constitution of the Republic of Ireland states it has a duty of care to. The family is the cornerstone of our Constitution, the ultimate core value protected by its parameters. Read it – it is there in black and white. Watch- as the State JCB drives over it and smudges the ink and the rights of those families enshrined in that document.
A few years ago, Noel Dempsey was Minister for Education. In a Dail debate on a subject unrelated to his brief, he defended one of the numerous costly follies that the Government had ventured into - and lost vast amounts of money on - as an exercise where “only 50 million euro was lost”. Only 50 million euro, you say! Loose change, you might say. Merely the cost of a consultants report, one would guess.
Yes, the State will crush its own when it thinks the “folly” of a family caring for the needs of their child will dent the Exchequer figures, even by as little as 30 million euro.
In addition, in case the impression given is that I have a political axe to grind with Fianna Fail only, let us quickly correct that by saying:
“Hang your head in shame Michael Noonan, ex-Fine Gael Minister for Health, who used all the legal torture instruments of the State to hound a brave mother and wife, Brigid McCole, to her death in 1995, because of the Hepatitis C blood infection scandal. On her deathbed you offered her a pathetic amount on the basis that she stays quiet and the farthings you offered were “without predejuice” to prevent any precedent being set”
You know something folks.
Ireland is a horrible little country to live in, ran by horrible little people!
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