Man of Aran

Not only does it rain sideways in the west of Ireland, but as I discovered on my way over to the Tedfest this morning, it feels like a thousand tiny needles smacking your face, as you stand on the deck of the ferry, waiting to cross to the Aran islands from Rosaveel, about an hour from Galway, and a million years from the Celtic Tiger. My brothers and I spent the last our or so making references to any movies to do with being at sea, but Rob being who he is, he couldn't stop help himself and insisted on talking like George Clooney in 'A Perfect Storm'. He even smelled vaguely of cod after a while, which was particularly worrying.

The crossing involved force eight gales, and plenty of green faces. At one stage we nearly lost our youngest brother, Ben, who being hilariously scrawny and no sea dog, was overcome with cabin fever, and briefly confused himself with Noel Coward in 'In Which We Serve': he ran out to the bridge, and hurled abuse at passing German U-boats, until the big one crashed over the port side of the ship. It was close, but we finally dragged him out of the water after much stress and effort. Wasn't a pretty sight though.

All's well that ends well, and the truly hardy ones have made it, such as Pat Mustard the milk float Lothario, and Darren, the avuncular Corkman who has arrived with grey wig and a sparkly blue jacket. Still have no team for the football tomorrow, but we are hoping that some excessive defending could get us all the way in the Craggy World Cup, and perhaps the officials may be open to generous decisions our way. I only hope Ben recovers from his near death experience to play, or I'll be the soft touch the opposition kick up in the air. The next few hours will be crucial...

The best is yet to come...

So this is the week. Daddy has been not alive for ten years, and it feels like ten minutes. We miss ya big guy, and the sense of unpredictability that was so abundant when you were here has been notably absent in our lives, since you left us without warning. I'm also pretty sure Pentel have gone bust, given that no-one buys their green pens anymore. I do wonder what you'd make of being a cultural icon, and maybe you'd be faintly embarrassed, as the committee suggested at footie the other day. Either way, we're proud of you, and we're going to let rip for you this week at the Tedfest. And if anyone else is reading this, drink, dance, laugh and plainly smile with all the childlike joy of Winnie the Pooh for a man whose soul and lust for life outran his body when we needed him a bit longer. Thank heavens for small mercies. Thank heavens we had him at all!

In other news, Rob and I are still working on getting famous. Proper famous, not Jade Goody famous. The radio show project, "Late night with Rob and Don" is taking shape. We want sick humour and good music. And I am doing my work on the novel, biography and some damn fine poetry. I'm going to win the Nobel Prize for Literature by the age of 50. Normally you have to be over 80 to win it, but I'm feeling cocky!

Will keep you posted.

...that I may walk through the Valentine of the shadow of...

I've had this blog in my head over the last few days. Every waking moment, I've been thinking about it's grace, simplicity. Then, my self doubt creeps in and before you know it, I put off writing something new. Again. For the godknowshowmanyeth time.

Last Thursday was of course the great SAINT Valentine's Day, when all the women should be adored and adorned with all manner of trinkets, and all men should by right be scared out of their wits until the lights go out. My particular experience this year was very pleasant, thank you for wondering, and next year, I hope to have an equally pleasant night out with the Missus.

We went to a restaurant in Howth, the next best thing to the south of France in Ireland, without having to go west Cork, and with a more discreet set of Nouveau Riche than Dalkey, who might loudly talk in restaurants about having once used a urinal not two minutes after Bono. The Bono.

Perhaps having lived on Dublin's south side has made me jaded by all that tomfoolery, but Howth is just beautiful. Leaning towards posh, Howth is nevertheless is like a feisty fisherman's daughter who married well and lost none of her charms. At the end of the pier was Aqua, where we had dinner. Gorgeous, beautiful, smoozey Jazz, and my missus was looking as gorgeous as only she can. I said that I had a pleasant evening. Actually, it was wonderful night - we had a blast, and like all good evenings, some truths emerged about ourselves and the other guests dining.

At all the different tables, couples were peering at each other, leering, even sneering, as the waiters did their damndest to make their night as special as possible. The table behind us had a guy whose shirt had been demonstrably ripped from out his pants in an act of defiance, to the lady, who, it must be said, had made an effort. He let his fingers fish around his mouth, each phase of rummaging provoking winces of disdain and hatred, from someone who probably thought that rugged did not mean the same as feral.

But the real joy was the couple two tables down. They could not have been more than eighteen, shiny faces, scrubbed up and startled to be there. The waiters decanted and served their bottles of Miller and Bulmers. I swear they were happy as clams, and in their presence, it was clear we were all like them, all pretending to be grown up, when in fact, we were all in clothes that maybe we wouldn't like to wear normally, and hoping to God our partners would order soup.

I hope that couple remain as refreshing as they were, and are still having as much fun, seven days on.

Tom Lehrer & Cathal O Searcaigh

Ireland has a new craze gripping the public consciousness - it's called 'the great school poetry cull'. Where once line-dancing and incest were national staples, today we, the sohpistimicated, Irish get ourselves into a tizzy about the morality of art.

Recently, TD Tony Gregory called for the lyrics of Tom Lehrer's happy little ditty 'Poisoning pigeons in the park' to be removed from either a textbook. Now, as a would-be writer and (bad) poet, I was rather saddened, since my top five poetic lines includes the wonderful:

'my heart just keeps quickenin' with each drop of strikenin'

Nevertheless, there we go, as cold blooded as Tom, luring unsuspecting poetry books to our bosom, a scissors concealed until it's too late for the hapless creature. Enter Mr. Gregory, as well informed as a dead badger at the bottom of a black sack.

Funny. I had thought lots of people had heard of this song, despite being relatively new (if you are living in 1952). Nevertheless, as enlightened as we are, even we have limits in this society of ours. Poet Cathal O' Searcaigh also got himself into trouble in Nepal, being a little too comfortable with teenage boys than the listeners of RTE's Liveline programme were comfortable with. Imagine Ireland's surprise - a poet in dodgy lifetsyle-choice shock! John Keats to reception please...

Whatever the merits of such hulaballoo, both the case of Lehrer and O'Searcaigh raise to the surface how we in Ireland deal with difference of any sort. Be it a difference of humour or of lifestyle choice, the instinct displayed in public discourse is to remove iconoclasts and their work from the canon of our admissible culture.

Lehrer, for instance, specialises in black humour, which fifty-odd years since it was first performed is still refreshingly dangerous. O'Searaigh writes some of the most extraordinary love poetry today (though I must admit not appreciating him during my Leaving Cert). What both have in common is their outcome. Comedy and poetry, like all artistic endeavour, may entertain. More importantly, however, it should cause you to question your acceptance of the reality as permitted by the mediocrity of consensus.

Worryingly, it seems we cannot accept this for our young people, who mainstream culture would only have exposed to a limited selection of cultural output. Young people are more adventurous than that, no more so than at the untamed frontiers of language.

It would be one more disservice to our society, if we denied them (and the rest of us) the opportunity to explore, debate and hold to account the world we have created for ourselves. This is not possible, if 1950s solutions to unsettling questions are allowed to prevail. Otherwise, we may just all quit and go line-dancing.