Week ending 22nd February 2011 www.tourmakeady.com
I’m sure most of our
politicians have been saying their prayers that we do not have a repeat of the
1947 blizzard on Friday next, the 25th of February. They are
probably praying for a blizzard of votes
rather than a blizzard of snow. A repeat of what happened on that day sixty four
years ago could certainly scupper a lot of political careers. TD’s could end up
being elected on a handful of votes. Opinion poll predictions could be turned
upside down. The most important electoral apparatus this year could turn out to
be a tractor and a bag of salt, to clear a path to our polling stations.
Snow has featured prominently in teabag readings I have been doing in recent times. Anyone can read a palm or a few tea-leaves. It takes a particular kind of observer to read teabags. Note the plural. One bag is not enough. You need one each of the square, the round and the triangular. This removes the built-in bias involved in Barry’s Fine Gael tea which is already predicting an overall majority for that Party in the readings and ratings.. The triangular teabag tends to want to have things every which way it can, which may reflect the approach of many politicians. The round bag can be accused of just rolling over, though some would argue that is what is needed in a coalition situation.
Then there is of course Green tea which needs no further explanation. Earl Gray only works in British elections while Darjeeling has a problem with proportional representation. It is better to stick to the tried and trusted black dust swept up from the floor and bagged when the tea-leaves have been put into their packets. A large mug is required for the three bags unless you have a mouse to trot on what would be produced in a smaller cup. When the three talking teas get together for a golden moment, a potion is produced which can open braincells long wasted by the trials of life and living. This has nothing to do with predictions. It just makes you feel better about the woeful state of the country.
The predicting is done when you lie back on your pillow with a square teabag on one eye, a round one on the other and the triangular one, Hitler moustache style, resting on your top lip between nose and mouth. This method is foolproof – it will prove that I am a fool if I get it badly wrong. If I get it right or anywhere near it I will qualify as the teabag guru of this generation. My figures are the tantalising underall majority for Fine Gael with 81 seats. Fianna Fáil will be pleased enough in the circumstances with their 30. Labour’s 29 will be a long way off ‘Gilmore for Taoiseach ‘country but the best they have got since 1992. Sinn Féin’s 11 more than doubles their existing figure, while the Socialist Party will have 2, Green’s 1, People before Profit 1 and the rest Independents.
The snow on top of the triangular teabag may be as the result of putting too much milk in my tea, or did I remember to wipe my nose? The blizzard is of course still a possibility, at which stage all bets are off. Predictions come with a health warning. I have never got more than four correct numbers in the lotto, but there is always the next one.
Snow has featured prominently in teabag readings I have been doing in recent times. Anyone can read a palm or a few tea-leaves. It takes a particular kind of observer to read teabags. Note the plural. One bag is not enough. You need one each of the square, the round and the triangular. This removes the built-in bias involved in Barry’s Fine Gael tea which is already predicting an overall majority for that Party in the readings and ratings.. The triangular teabag tends to want to have things every which way it can, which may reflect the approach of many politicians. The round bag can be accused of just rolling over, though some would argue that is what is needed in a coalition situation.
Then there is of course Green tea which needs no further explanation. Earl Gray only works in British elections while Darjeeling has a problem with proportional representation. It is better to stick to the tried and trusted black dust swept up from the floor and bagged when the tea-leaves have been put into their packets. A large mug is required for the three bags unless you have a mouse to trot on what would be produced in a smaller cup. When the three talking teas get together for a golden moment, a potion is produced which can open braincells long wasted by the trials of life and living. This has nothing to do with predictions. It just makes you feel better about the woeful state of the country.
The predicting is done when you lie back on your pillow with a square teabag on one eye, a round one on the other and the triangular one, Hitler moustache style, resting on your top lip between nose and mouth. This method is foolproof – it will prove that I am a fool if I get it badly wrong. If I get it right or anywhere near it I will qualify as the teabag guru of this generation. My figures are the tantalising underall majority for Fine Gael with 81 seats. Fianna Fáil will be pleased enough in the circumstances with their 30. Labour’s 29 will be a long way off ‘Gilmore for Taoiseach ‘country but the best they have got since 1992. Sinn Féin’s 11 more than doubles their existing figure, while the Socialist Party will have 2, Green’s 1, People before Profit 1 and the rest Independents.
The snow on top of the triangular teabag may be as the result of putting too much milk in my tea, or did I remember to wipe my nose? The blizzard is of course still a possibility, at which stage all bets are off. Predictions come with a health warning. I have never got more than four correct numbers in the lotto, but there is always the next one.
Week ending 15th February 2011 www.tourmakeady.com
The recent
discontinuation of “The Star on Sunday” and the present troubles of “The Sunday
Tribune” are generally seen as results of the recession. People just have not
the money to buy many or any Sunday or any other kind of newspaper. Others
blame the Internet, or the proliferation of news at least every hour on radio
and television stations. As with the closure of a factory or any other kind of
business, there is sadness at the loss of employment, especially at a time when
jobs of any kind are hard to come by. My outfit is still recruiting, of course,
but I can not see many journalists, especially from those particular newspapers
queuing up to join.
I have been a regular reader of The Sunday Tribune since its inception and have generally enjoyed doing so. Some columnists got up my clerical nose from time to time, but I grinned and bore it in the interests of freedom of the press. I was never annoyed enough to write and complain, or to try and refute points made. It was just one of those things. You took the hit, or in some cases the insult, and got on with it. The choice was there to take it or leave it on the shelf, but for the most part I took it, feeling that the good writing generally outweighed the bad.
I have thought for some time that Sunday newspapers in particular have a problem. How often do you go into a pertol station, a paper shop or any other kind of shop on a Sunday night, and see piles of unsold newspapers still lying there? The big question is – is this because of the recession, or because of the content of those newspapers? It is the newspaper industry itself that needs to answer those questions, because like many other institutions, including my own, they seem to be in a state of denial. Does competition mean that far more newspapers than necessary are being produced to try and impress advertisers? Burying heads in stacks of paper may be the new ostrich way of keeping sand out of your eyes.
Many people would point to the content of Sunday and some other newspapers. I have often quoted the observation: “Will I buy a paper, or will I have a good day?” Millions, and by this I mean two to three million people feel that something they hold very dear is insulted most weeks in most Irish Sunday newspapers. Many columnists go out of their way to have a go at religion in any or all of its forms, and Roman Catholicism in particular. Most Catholics have no problem with the truth with regard to clerical child sex abuse or any other failings of church or clergy. They do draw the line at fundamentals of their faith being mocked or insulted.
Editors, columnists and journalists may say: “Get over it.” The trouble from their point of view it is that many people get over it by not buying a paper just to be insulted again. This issue needs to be addressed if more newspaper titles are not to go to the wall. Freedom of the press is a great thing. I personally revel in being allowed to express myself week after week in “The Connaught Telegraph.” Freedom of the press has its price and its responsibilities. One price is not alienating potential buyers. One responsibility is not to keep insulting more than half the population of the country on a regular basis. A bit of balance, and the Sunday evening paper mountain will become a molehill.
I have been a regular reader of The Sunday Tribune since its inception and have generally enjoyed doing so. Some columnists got up my clerical nose from time to time, but I grinned and bore it in the interests of freedom of the press. I was never annoyed enough to write and complain, or to try and refute points made. It was just one of those things. You took the hit, or in some cases the insult, and got on with it. The choice was there to take it or leave it on the shelf, but for the most part I took it, feeling that the good writing generally outweighed the bad.
I have thought for some time that Sunday newspapers in particular have a problem. How often do you go into a pertol station, a paper shop or any other kind of shop on a Sunday night, and see piles of unsold newspapers still lying there? The big question is – is this because of the recession, or because of the content of those newspapers? It is the newspaper industry itself that needs to answer those questions, because like many other institutions, including my own, they seem to be in a state of denial. Does competition mean that far more newspapers than necessary are being produced to try and impress advertisers? Burying heads in stacks of paper may be the new ostrich way of keeping sand out of your eyes.
Many people would point to the content of Sunday and some other newspapers. I have often quoted the observation: “Will I buy a paper, or will I have a good day?” Millions, and by this I mean two to three million people feel that something they hold very dear is insulted most weeks in most Irish Sunday newspapers. Many columnists go out of their way to have a go at religion in any or all of its forms, and Roman Catholicism in particular. Most Catholics have no problem with the truth with regard to clerical child sex abuse or any other failings of church or clergy. They do draw the line at fundamentals of their faith being mocked or insulted.
Editors, columnists and journalists may say: “Get over it.” The trouble from their point of view it is that many people get over it by not buying a paper just to be insulted again. This issue needs to be addressed if more newspaper titles are not to go to the wall. Freedom of the press is a great thing. I personally revel in being allowed to express myself week after week in “The Connaught Telegraph.” Freedom of the press has its price and its responsibilities. One price is not alienating potential buyers. One responsibility is not to keep insulting more than half the population of the country on a regular basis. A bit of balance, and the Sunday evening paper mountain will become a molehill.
Week ending 8th February 2011 www.tourmakeady.com
Sixtyfive
years ago this week I was found under a head of cabbage in the village of
Ballydavock, halfway between Belcarra and Clogher, about half a mile from
Doonamona castle. That is what I was told anyway, and I have often been told
since not to change the legend. Strangely enough the cabbage connection was
renewed recently as I embarked on the cabbage-soup diet. This is much favoured, I’m told, by the
celebrity classes at the moment. In fact everybody who is anybody among the
rich and famous is digesting cabbage as if it was in danger of going out of
fashion.
It may be the first time in the history of the world that cabbage is in fashion. All of the A-list celebreties are ladling it into themselves to help them get over the excesses of Christmas and the New Year. Then there are slimline dresses and tuxedos to be fitted into for the Oscars. The prevailing scent in Hollywood this year will not be of expensive perfumes but of well boiled Early York cabbage. While we are preparing here in Ireland for a change of government, the rest of the world is clearing out its insides in the interests of weightloss and good health.
My birthday candle this year will not be on an iced cake but on a head of cabbage, suitably stewed. This I will proceed to eat over a period of three days, which, allied to the few days I have endured already will add up to my diet for this year. If I find that it has increased my brain power I will consider taking it up again for Lent. In the meantime I intend to offer a head of cabbage to anyone who comes to canvass for my vote in the forthcoming election. The celtic tiger may be about to be replaced by the cabbage cat. Who needs free cheese when you can have celebrity cabbage for your dinner every day of the week?
It was not uncommon for those of us who were told in our youth that we were found under heads of cabbage to wonder were we related to the snails and caterpillars. The area in which I find myself closest to a snail is the imaginary house on my back which reminds me of what we used to call a seilimide even in the English speaking parts of Ireland. Like the snail I tend to be slow and ponderous, to like the taste of cabbage and all of its brassica relations, and to carry all of my baggage, my hopes, dreams and memories on my shoulders. Like much of the baggage of life we tend to let the contents of our slug-shell pile up until circumstances force us to deal with it.
Moving house and parish six months ago forced me to deal with much of the unnecessary pile-up of junk from the previous fifteen years. I had to go through my baggage of life to find out what was no longer useful and what could and should be retained. It is an exercise that is also worth applying to the baggage that we can not physically bring to the recycling or put in the skip or rubbish bin. The most useless part of my baggage contains the prejudices and the hang-ups, and especially the unnecessary burdens I can place on parishioners if I do not separate what is important from what is peripheral to the Christian life. Ease up on the burdens, approve, praise, recognise all of the good out there, has to be the motto.
As for my cousin the caterpillar, see what the cabbage-diet brings: Butterfly potential.
I don’t know what to make of e-mails I am receiving recently from what purports to be Eircom’s technichal division
It may be the first time in the history of the world that cabbage is in fashion. All of the A-list celebreties are ladling it into themselves to help them get over the excesses of Christmas and the New Year. Then there are slimline dresses and tuxedos to be fitted into for the Oscars. The prevailing scent in Hollywood this year will not be of expensive perfumes but of well boiled Early York cabbage. While we are preparing here in Ireland for a change of government, the rest of the world is clearing out its insides in the interests of weightloss and good health.
My birthday candle this year will not be on an iced cake but on a head of cabbage, suitably stewed. This I will proceed to eat over a period of three days, which, allied to the few days I have endured already will add up to my diet for this year. If I find that it has increased my brain power I will consider taking it up again for Lent. In the meantime I intend to offer a head of cabbage to anyone who comes to canvass for my vote in the forthcoming election. The celtic tiger may be about to be replaced by the cabbage cat. Who needs free cheese when you can have celebrity cabbage for your dinner every day of the week?
It was not uncommon for those of us who were told in our youth that we were found under heads of cabbage to wonder were we related to the snails and caterpillars. The area in which I find myself closest to a snail is the imaginary house on my back which reminds me of what we used to call a seilimide even in the English speaking parts of Ireland. Like the snail I tend to be slow and ponderous, to like the taste of cabbage and all of its brassica relations, and to carry all of my baggage, my hopes, dreams and memories on my shoulders. Like much of the baggage of life we tend to let the contents of our slug-shell pile up until circumstances force us to deal with it.
Moving house and parish six months ago forced me to deal with much of the unnecessary pile-up of junk from the previous fifteen years. I had to go through my baggage of life to find out what was no longer useful and what could and should be retained. It is an exercise that is also worth applying to the baggage that we can not physically bring to the recycling or put in the skip or rubbish bin. The most useless part of my baggage contains the prejudices and the hang-ups, and especially the unnecessary burdens I can place on parishioners if I do not separate what is important from what is peripheral to the Christian life. Ease up on the burdens, approve, praise, recognise all of the good out there, has to be the motto.
As for my cousin the caterpillar, see what the cabbage-diet brings: Butterfly potential.
I don’t know what to make of e-mails I am receiving recently from what purports to be Eircom’s technichal division
Week ending 1st February 2011 www.tourmakeady.com
The
excellent drama/-documentary shown on TG4 on New Year’s Eve about Antaine Ó
Raiftéirí, An Fiadóir focail (the weaver of words) reminded many of us once
again of Mayo’s bestknown poet whose words ring true on this Saint Bridget’s
Day, Lá Fhéil Bríd, the first of February, the traditional first day of spring:
As Raiftearaí wrote:“Anois teacht an Earraigh, beidh an lá ag dul chun síneadh
(Now with the coming of Spring, the days will be lengthening.”) The days have thankfully lengthened on those
long frosty evenings that I watched the sun sink over Carna bay, until we heve
brightness now right up to six o’clock. The worst of winter is hopefully over
and we are ready for growth and renewal.
The TG4 programme I mentioned made up somewhat for the fact that Dolly Parton was allowed to sing in the New Year on what many would expect to be the TV station that would reflect traditional Irish culture. Maybe it did in the fact that Dolly’s DVD was put on the box while the staff headed out for Tigh Johnny Sheáin next door in time for Auld Laing’s Zine, or however it is you spell the title of that song. I have no problem at all with Dolly Parton on three hundred and sixtyfour nights of the year. Could something more traditionally Irish not have been found for that particular night? No, I don’t want any of those e-mails telling me Dolly was pure Connemara in that she reminded you of two of the Twelve Pens. Political correctness is my middle name.
Apart from the longer evenings and the sprouting shoots of new life I like Saint Bridget’s Day in particular for the revival of the Saint’s cross. It is not that it ever came close to disappearing, but its value seems to be recognised much more from year to year. Beautifully simple in its various designs, it was a religious symbol made from some of the most available materials, straw, rushes or hazel. It did not cost anything which was a most important consideration in earlier times of hardship and penal laws. Hard times have returned for many families, to the extent that there is hardly a cent to spare, but the materials for the Saint Bridget’s cross are readily available, and I hope they bring many blessings to those who make them and put them up in their homes.
Another blessing available in churches this week is the blessing of candles on Candlemas Day, the second of February. How quickly the forty days since Christmas have flown by. This fortieth day was the one on which Jesus was brought to the Temple according to Jewish custom to be presented to the Lord. It is called Presentation Day for that reason, as well as Candlemas. It was the day on which Mary was told that things were not going to be easy for her son, that a sword would pierce her soul too. Traditionally it has been the day on which candles used in churches are blessed as well as candles lit in homes at times of danger, death or wakes. In almost any shop you enter at this time of year you can see such long wax candles for sale, but there is no hard and fast rule that only wax candles can be blest on the day.
I have worn my ‘going to Blaises’ gag thin over the years, but that is what I and many others will be doing on February 3rd, the feast of Saint Blaise, the saint associated with the blessing of throats. This has become one of the most popular Masses of the year in many churches. In times of flu and various other illnesses this blessing is appreciated. It is one of the nearest blessings we have to the traditional healing method of the laying on of hands. It is a great week for blessings, all of them free, available and there for the taking.
The TG4 programme I mentioned made up somewhat for the fact that Dolly Parton was allowed to sing in the New Year on what many would expect to be the TV station that would reflect traditional Irish culture. Maybe it did in the fact that Dolly’s DVD was put on the box while the staff headed out for Tigh Johnny Sheáin next door in time for Auld Laing’s Zine, or however it is you spell the title of that song. I have no problem at all with Dolly Parton on three hundred and sixtyfour nights of the year. Could something more traditionally Irish not have been found for that particular night? No, I don’t want any of those e-mails telling me Dolly was pure Connemara in that she reminded you of two of the Twelve Pens. Political correctness is my middle name.
Apart from the longer evenings and the sprouting shoots of new life I like Saint Bridget’s Day in particular for the revival of the Saint’s cross. It is not that it ever came close to disappearing, but its value seems to be recognised much more from year to year. Beautifully simple in its various designs, it was a religious symbol made from some of the most available materials, straw, rushes or hazel. It did not cost anything which was a most important consideration in earlier times of hardship and penal laws. Hard times have returned for many families, to the extent that there is hardly a cent to spare, but the materials for the Saint Bridget’s cross are readily available, and I hope they bring many blessings to those who make them and put them up in their homes.
Another blessing available in churches this week is the blessing of candles on Candlemas Day, the second of February. How quickly the forty days since Christmas have flown by. This fortieth day was the one on which Jesus was brought to the Temple according to Jewish custom to be presented to the Lord. It is called Presentation Day for that reason, as well as Candlemas. It was the day on which Mary was told that things were not going to be easy for her son, that a sword would pierce her soul too. Traditionally it has been the day on which candles used in churches are blessed as well as candles lit in homes at times of danger, death or wakes. In almost any shop you enter at this time of year you can see such long wax candles for sale, but there is no hard and fast rule that only wax candles can be blest on the day.
I have worn my ‘going to Blaises’ gag thin over the years, but that is what I and many others will be doing on February 3rd, the feast of Saint Blaise, the saint associated with the blessing of throats. This has become one of the most popular Masses of the year in many churches. In times of flu and various other illnesses this blessing is appreciated. It is one of the nearest blessings we have to the traditional healing method of the laying on of hands. It is a great week for blessings, all of them free, available and there for the taking.