Shuffling the cards

(This appeared in Issue 134 but for some reason I forgot to upload it)

Long before Ireland was plunged into this deep, dark fiscal abyss that begins with the letter ‘R,’ I was always very suspicious of cards.
Not, I hasten to add, those adorned with shovels and diamonds and two colours of royalty. Nor indeed those dished out by zealous referees whenever slight contact is made in the formerly physical sport of football. Rather the little folded pieces of stiffened paper that we give each other on the occasion of birthday, anniversary, retirement etc.
I must admit, I thoroughly enjoy going into Birthdays or Easons and gasping in mock amazement at the price of the cards on view, providing of course I am able to decipher the price from the unfathomable coding system they have on display. (Is it too difficult to get card manufacturers to come together at a big summit and agree on a universal coding system for the industry? What would happen if all clothing manufacturers adopted their own sizing system?)
“€4.25 for a bit of card?” I shout, clutching my heart, while my wife edges towards the exit looking for a quick getaway before I get around to informing the world that I could have bought a whole street in Cabra for €4.25 in the old days.
To make things worse, a good half of the card is usually blank. A half-hearted picture on the front and a bit of a verse on the third page and that is about it. And it’s only half-finished – you still have to add your own message to it!
Those that are really posh have a bit of paper stapled to the inside of the card, transforming it from a mere four pager to an eight page luxurious mini-booklet and adding another couple of euro to the price.
Personally, I long ago gave up buying cards for my wife. Cards for husbands can be funny, serious, wistful, romantic. Cards for wives tend to fall into two categories.
Firstly there is the cute little teddy bear holding a little balloon and smiling at a sheepish female teddy bear. This doesn’t really reflect our marital life together. I am not a teddy bear, a cat, a raccoon or a cuddly woodland creature and, the last time I looked, neither is my wife. And neither of us gets a particular buzz out of holding balloons.
The second sort of card is the one with a photo of a big bunch of roses, superimposed with the words “For my darling wife.” Why my wife – or anybody’s wife, for that matter – is supposed to feel grateful for a picture of a bunch of roses is beyond me. And if I ever called her “my darling wife,” she would probably think I was looking for something. This type of card normally has some sort of soppy verse on the inside which I never bother to read and probably wouldn’t make my neck-hairs stand on end even if I did.
Why are there never any funny cards for wives? Are women not supposed to have a sense of humour?
Not that the birthday cards for husbands are ever particularly funny. They normally focus on the recipient’s loss of hair, libido or eyesight, all subjects that the middle-aged man finds uproariously funny. Or else they advise the youthfully-challenged spouse to go out and down copious amounts of beer, without the stock proviso to drink sensibly.
Recently, my wife went out trying to find a card for her mother on Mother’s Day. Despite scouring the Blanchardstown Shopping Centre from top to bottom and despite the thousands of Mothers Day cards on view, there was not a single one addressed to Mother. Mum, yes. Mummy, yes. But none for Mother.
Cards for teenage boys tend to have pictures of cricket bats and model sailing boats on them, rather than hoodies and iPods. Cards for fathers have an antique car driving down a country lane, rather than an Avensis stuck in traffic on the N3. Get well soon cards have more teddy bears with bandages on their arms or over their eyes. And all for the price of a Ryanair flight to Grenoble.
My wife and I have come to some sort of arrangement over giving each other cards for Valentines Day, birthdays and anniversaries. I make a card myself out of recycled cardboard and she gives me the card she gave me the year before, which she has put away for the past twelve months. As she says, the sentiment is still the same one year on and as I have a memory like a sieve, what’s the point in her forking out for a new one?
I do feel a pang of guilt occasionally for poor Mr. Hallmark. Such has been my enthusiasm for self-made cards that I understand that his business has come perilously close to folding (excuse the pun.)
My cards have become veritable works of art down through the years, at least according to myself. My wife merely tuts and throws her eyes to heaven, trying hard to mask her excitement whenever I present her with a new creation.
Normally I stick a funny picture on the front, say a Meer cat, with a speech bubble saying “Watch out! There’s another birthday coming over the horizon!”
On the inside I’ll write a few verses of my own, possibly not quite as romantic as normally appears on such offerings and then perhaps another funny picture if something captures my imagination in the RTE Guide (a phrase that I very rarely use).
Then on the back, I’ll put “Copyright Cheapo Productions” and advise that no Meer cats were harmed during the making of the card.
They say it’s the thought that counts. My overriding thought is always that I can find much better things to spend €4.25 on, rather than a piece of card folded in half. And, of course, anybody can go out and simply buy a card that has been mass-produced in Vietnam. I, on the other hand, slave away tirelessly for a half an hour or more to bring my true love a card that is unique and highly personal. The card is the proof that I am prepared to go that extra mile for her, that she means so much to me that I prepared to work with Pritt Stick and felt-tip pen to give her a birthday / anniversary / Valentines Day card (delete as appropriate) to savour.
And it costs nothing.

Deck of Cards (Updated)

During the recent Afghanistan conflict, a Blanchardstown soldier was arrested for playing cards when he should have been annoying some people who had different religious and political views to his own. At his court-martial, the charge was read out, witnesses were called and finally the soldier was asked if he had anything to say in his defence. Looking the Presiding Officer straight between the ankles, the soldier replied: -
“When I see the ace, I think of the Blanchardstown Shopping Centre, the number one of its kind in the country and still the only Irish building that 75% of Peruvians could name in a recent survey.
“When the two comes up, I am reminded of the two mighty bridges spanning the Royal Canal at Clonsilla and also the number of cars that are able to cross the old Clonsilla Bridge at rush hour before the barrier is pulled across for the next train.
“The three puts me in mind of the wonderful highway connecting Blanchardstown and the city centre. In my youth it was a long and winding country thoroughfare that seemed to take an age to travel. Now it is a beautiful straight urban thoroughfare that seems to take an age to travel.
“I look at the four and I see the four mighty car parks that surround the Blanchardstown Shopping Centre - the Rapacious Red, the Bustling Blue, the Yawning Yellow and the Gargantuan Green. Like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse these mighty car parks stand guard at the corners of the golden retail citadel, and giggle uncontrollably when people roam around looking for a parking space at 3 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon.
“I see the five and I remember the marvellous Auburn Avenue Roundabout and the time of the evening when it’s best to avoid it like the plague. How I recall all the pleasant times sitting at a green light with an empty box junction beckoning and a motorbike Garda urging me to make his day.
“The six reminds me of November 2002 and the number of hours it took me to drive home from Glasnevin when the River Tolka burst its banks. If only I’d thought to go to the toilet before I set off. Still, the empty crisp packet in the driver’s door came in handy for something.
“When I turn over the seven it puts me in mind of the wonderful traffic aid in Diswellstown, which accurately tells you your current speed, minus seven kilometres per hour.
“When I turn up the eight, I am put in mind of Ravello’s in Clonsilla and what I did to the huge plate of fusilli chicken and mushrooms there on my wife’s birthday.
“The nine, on the other hand, brings me back to the ancient cinema complex of UCI in the Blanchardstown Centre and the number of screens therein. How many happy hours did I spend there in my youth glued to the silver screen? Well, none, actually – I always felt it was cheaper to wait till the films came on the telly.
“As I turn over the ten, I think of the average number of minutes it takes to reach the head of the queue of any of the financial institutions in Dublin 15. Their discouragement of personal banking is not reaping any dividends, for the queues keep getting longer. Still, nobody seems to care anyway.
“The Jack puts me in mind of the pantomime at Draiocht several years ago, when a lazy good-for-nothing climbed some foliage and stole property from a man living alone. In the ensuing chase, the victim was killed yet the perpetrator was branded a hero. Zero tolerance, my foot.
“The Queen reminds me of Joan Burton, the Darling of the Daíl, and whose picture on my locker out here has sustained me through all the hard times. And it also symbolises my best friend out here, Private “Sheila” O’Reilly, but we won’t go into that at this particular point in time.
“When I look at the King, I see an estate agent who, with Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Osborne, achieved record sales in the Dublin 15 area while the Celtic tiger was still roaring. And it also brings to mind the fine purveyors of quality burgers located near the aforementioned UCI.
“The joker brings to mind the route planner in Dublin Bus that decided that the number 39 should visit every housing estate in Dublin 15 before finally setting off for the city centre.
“I spread out the cards and I see four suits, recalling instantly Leo Varadkar and his sartorial elegance.
“The clubs naturally remind me of Verona, Clonee United, Castleknock Celtic, Erin go Bragh and all the other teams of all sports that help to foster a community spirit, often with little help from the Council. May the hedges that surround the pitches be forever watered; the hearts recall the organ of the body that Connolly Hospital has helped to keep ticking for so many patients down through the years, despite the draconian cutbacks annually implemented by the HSE; when I turn over a diamond, I think of Neil Diamond, and how his song Love on the Rocks was written after an uncomfortable experience on the big boulders that lined Millennium Park; and the spades of course put me in mind of all the housing development that has gone on in the area without the proper infrastructure.
“When you count the number of cards in a suit, you come up with the number thirteen, which is the number of trolleys in Tesco that can actually travel in a straight line for ten yards without crashing in to the display of parsnips. There are 52 cards in a deck, which is the average number of minutes that you have to wait to talk to a real person when you can’t see the match on Sky. And if you add all the spots in a deck, it totals 365, which coincidentally is the number of greys hairs that our Minister for Finance has developed since he took over the post just prior to the recession.
“And, so you see, sir, this deck of cards serves me as an almanac, a bible, a diary, a calendar and a pretty Easter bonnet.”
When he had finished speaking, the courtroom was in tears. At length, the Presiding Officer dabbed his throat, cleared his eyes and spoke: -
“That’s a load of codology,” he said. “Take him out and shoot him.”

Great bridges of our time # 245

The New Clonsilla Bridge, spanning the great expanse of water known as the Royal Canal, can lay claim to be one of the great bridges of our time, though this does not necessarily mean that anyone will take its claim seriously.
It spans the complete breadth of this great waterway, starting on the elegant north bank and reaching, in the best tradition of bridges, the south bank, while the foaming torrent of the inland waterway rages beneath.
Although not as long as the Öresund bridge linking Malmo and Copenhagen, nor as wide as the Golden Gate in San Francisco, the New Clonsilla Bridge, as it has come to be affectionately known by local residents, has a charm and a natural beauty that draws sightseers from all over the world, particularly at rush hour.
The need for a new bridge across the Canal was first mooted in the Middle Ages when several peasants died of starvation while trying to cross “ye olde humpe backe bridge” at Clonsilla. Such was the weight of vehicular traffic crossing to darkest Luttrellstown and beyond that the line of carts stretched “as far as the eye can see and even further, yea unto as far as the eye cannot see,” according to one reliable eye-witness.
With typical efficiency the New Bridge took seven hundred years to plan and discuss in a series of high-level interdepartmental meetings, with transport and environment bickering constantly and finance merely smiling and shaking its head. During this time, many plans were formulated and some even got as far as the drawing-board stage, notably the grandiose design of architect Wolverine de Guinness in the seventeenth century, whose chocolate bridge with liquorice balustrades won popular support from the local peasantry.
The great Isambard Kingdom Brunel came to Clonsilla in 1854 and proposed that a suspension bridge be constructed across the canal with Egyptian obelisks, surmounted with golden statues of furry woodland animals, supporting the chains. However, when the Council disclosed that they had only allocated £5 to the construction of the edifice, Brunel became moody and refused to leave the kitchen.
At Easter 1916, the Clonboyne Brigade of the Irish Citizens Army was apparently thwarted in its attempt to link up with Pearse and Connolly in the GPO by its inability to cross the old bridge on a Bank Holiday and despondently turned around and went home for tea instead. WB Yeats apparently wrote a play about the events but lost it one night in a cake shop.
The statistics for the construction of the bridge are frightening. 140 Norwegian spruce firs were scythed down in their prime to make the lats. 2,000 tons of sand was imported from Bundoran to mix the concrete. Ten men died during the construction, which took nearly seventy years and 10,000 migrant workers from Eastern Europe were involved in some way or other in the erection of this marvellous edifice. A plaque commemorating their efforts was attached to the bridge but it proved too heavy and fell into the muddy waters below like Excalibur disappearing back into the lake.
The new bridge was finally ready in 2008 and, on its opening, it was estimated that three million people crammed into the village to watch Lionel Ritchie cut the red ribbon and to plead with him not to sing Dancing on the Ceiling. A further 750 million watched on television and Diana Ross took penalty kicks as part of the high class entertainment. Charlie Bird’s hushed tones as the Dalai Lama made the first traverse of the bridge will live long in RTE history.
Originally designed as a twelve lane road / rail / aqueduct, Government cutbacks meant that the plans were scaled back at the last minute, leaving it with the capacity to carry fifteen pedestrians a minute north to south. The bridge is constructed in the classical style with 53 wooden slats forming a slight concave upon the grey iron surround.
The railings on either side were constructed to shoulder height to rule out the possibility of a rushing commuter slipping and plummeting to the canal ten feet below. Nevertheless Inland Waterways have installed a full time manned lifeboat station beneath the bridge, ready to push out into the stagnant waters at a moment’s notice, should the unthinkable occur.
One unusual aspect of the new construction is that the approach path is actually longer than the bridge itself as the construction company had a job lot of railings that they wanted to pawn off on the Council.
Many observers have also noted that the approach path also leads up to the bridge from an angle and have wondered aloud at the reasoning behind this. Apparently, (and I have this on good faith from a man I met in the Paddocks the other evening) this is because it was felt that commuters would build up too much of a head of steam if they had a straight run from approach path to bridge and would be unable to stop safely on attaining the railway station on the opposite bank.
The initial plan to prevent this had involved speed ramps but when it was discovered that the company had transferred their ramp-manufacturing business from Coolmine to India, it was decided in political circles that a good old fashioned 60° turn in the path would be a more desirable alternative.
Naturally the bridge has been earmarked as a possible target of an attack by Al Qaeda (full name – Alistair Qaeda) and a crack squad of anti-terrorist marines, disguised as wood pigeons in a nearby tree, hold the bridge under constant surveillance. There is even a rumour that at least one explosives expert is strapped to the underside of the bridge at all times in case Al watches Bridge over the River Kwai and gets ideas.
There are many legends and superstitions associated with the New Clonsilla Bridge. One states that if two lovers kiss on the bridge under a full moon in April during Coronation Street, then their first born child will have red hair, providing of course that one of them is female. And at least one junior minister in the government has been known to come to the bridge in his stockinged feet to pray to St. Attracta of Sligo for help in the local elections.

The Vermicelli Junction

I had occasion just prior to St. Patrick’s Day to travel down to Wexford which, as we all know, is somewhere over the other side of the Liffey. Unwilling to part with €3 of my hard-earned cash, I treated my family to the splendour of the country drive to Lucan before travelling onwards to the M50, thus avoiding the toll camera that, contrary to the cliché, appears to be quite adept at telling lies.
When I prepared to turn off the N4 onto the M50, though, I encountered a surprise of teddy bears’ picnic proportions. Where once there had been a large and busy roundabout, someone had now removed it (what they plan to do with it, I’ve no idea) and replaced it with dedicated roads that arc and swerve and gently ease you into your desired direction with continental finesse.
What vehicular ecstasy! No more waiting at lights or racing the car beside you to the first bend. Simply get in the right lane well before the junction and the road system cradles you up and deposits you down, kissing you softly on the cheek as it does so.
As I sped off southwards, I glanced back at this marvel of engineering, silhouetted against the sky like the Gwazi rollercoaster at Busch Gardens in Florida, and realised that it wouldn’t hold a candle to the Blanchardstown intersection when it is completed.
Scheduled to be completed next year, the M50 / M3 interchange will be virtually free flow with no roundabouts or lights to impede the progress of the dozen or so Navanites who will still have jobs in the city.
The first job will be to get rid of the two roundabouts belonging to Messrs. Scott and Auburn-Avenue. I expect they will simply dig them up, turn them up on their rims and wheel them down to Collins Barracks, where they will go on display. Personally I think they ought to try to sell them on eBay. There’s bound to be some avid roundabout collector out there who would be only too delighted to add this delightful matching pair to his collection.
After that, the interchange will follow the same pattern as the N4 / M50 road system outlined above with traffic whizzing by in all directions and hold-ups a mere distant memory, except when a truck breaks down or there’s a centimetre of snow, in which case the knock-on effect will be felt down in Tralee.
As it stands, we will have our own Spaghetti Junction. But don’t forget we also have the Maynooth railway line spanning the M50 valley at this point, carrying its cargo of sardines to Amiens Street and beyond. And the canal too, aquaplaning through the vehicular maelstrom like a cuddly cartoon character in a snuff movie. And bizarrely, the footbridge, a long, thin cage that actually used to be the N3 when the world ended in Blanchardstown but now gives the health-conscious walker lethal levels of lead poisoning when crossing from Castleknock to Blanchardstown. Spaghetti, pah! This will be a veritable Vermicelli Junction.
Oh what a wondrous sight this will be when it all comes to pass! It will resemble the internal combustion engine or the intestines of a cow with valves and arteries looping around carrying a mass of metal-encased humanity in all directions.
But why stop there? Why not phone the Guinness Book of Records man and really put Dublin 15 on the map?
A few bold strokes of the architect’s pen and we could have the eagerly anticipated Metro West joining the fun. As an added attraction and to boost ticket sales, I suggest that at the very vortex of the interchange, it performs a loop-the-loop to the delight of everybody aboard before continuing on its merry way towards Swords.
What about cyclists? Has the National Roads Authority even considered them? They can hardly be expected to compete with cars and trucks at such a busy junction and so for health and safety reasons alone, as well as for sheer divilment, there would need to be dedicated cycle lanes for those wishing to access the inner city in a more environmentally friendly manner.
And sure, while we’re at it, we could build a new Ryanair-only terminal for Dublin airport on the landfill site at Dunsink and construct a unique runway that starts somewhere in Abbotstown and straddles the M50. As an incentive to Mr. O’Leary to bring his considerable business to Dublin 15, we would of course offer him the use of this facility absolutely free of charge, with just the usual handling fees and charges.
Seeing that we are creating a hub of transport excellence here, we might as well build a helipad and possibly a rocket-launching site in preparation for when Dublin 15 joins the space race, though we would have to insist on close cooperation between air traffic controllers and ground control. This will be Vermicelli Junction with a side-plate of shredded octopus.
Of course, this massive feat of logistical planning will bring its own brand of tourism to the area, with millions of transport enthusiasts flocking from far and near just to watch the operation from specially constructed vantage points. A miniature railway, possibly operating on a cog system – funiculi funicula! - could be built to bring these hordes of people around the site with headphones and commentary in six different languages. A series of chairlifts could be constructed bringing tourists to the apex of this vast construction from the entrance of the underground station. Did I not mention the underground?
Of course, there will be a few problems when this modern wonder of the transport world is built. Despite the hi-tech technology that will be used, there is still nobody working in the transport system in Ireland that is able to devise the integrated system of ticketing that would doubtless be required for such a junction. Maybe we could send some of our councillors on a fact-finding mission to Cocoa Beach to find out how a combined ticket works.
There will also doubtless be protests from the Union of Comely Maidens at the erosion of their natural habitat – the crossroads – possibly accompanied by a mass sprightly jig and reel from O’Connell Street to the Daíl. However, an enterprising Minister for Culture could easily nip this in the bud by offering them free use of the Scott and Auburn Avenue Roundabouts in Collins Barracks instead.

An open application

Dear Sir / Madam,
My name is Peter Goulding and I would like to apply for the position of Writer in Residence at Farmleigh.
I am roughly the same stature as the last incumbent, Dermot Bolger, though possibly I have a few pounds on him in the midriff department. Furthermore I have come across his footsteps in the field opposite the estate and believe that I could very easily follow in them.
My qualifications for the post are impeccable. I am a writer and my preferred location for writing is in a residence. I have been writing in my own residence for quite a while now and feel it is about time I branched out and wrote in someone else’s.
When I say “writer,” it is true that I may not well be able to bandy words about with the loquacity of Mr. Bolger – in fact, I agonise over “What I Did on my Holidays” - but it is generally accepted within the family that I am a good speller, even to the point of pooh-poohing the spell-checker on my computer on occasions.
I have won many awards for my writing. You may have seen in the papers that I received a gold star for my story of Twinkle Bee in senior infants, the first of many such accolades. My repetitive poem “I must not throw cubes of jelly up at the ceiling” written during detention when I was a mere thirteen year old, drew gasps of praise from all those who read it and I believe my small ad in the Evening Herald attempting to sell a slightly faulty umbrella is still being lauded for its use of stark imagery.
Currently, I am working on what I hope will be the definitive Irish novel of our generation. Without wishing to give too much of the plot away, it is a tale of love, war and famine, set against the backdrop of League of Ireland football. I have already had a tentative inquiry from a Mr. S. Spielberg about the film rights and Johnny Depp has reportedly put his holiday in Bundoran on hold, such is his interest in playing the role of Macker, the one-legged centre-half, who finds love in the strangest of places.
I am also a poet of some renown and my epic sonnet “Open your bleedin’ eyes, linesman” narrowly missed the cut for this year’s Leaving Cert syllabus, unjustly overlooked in favour of some scribblings by a guy called Philip Larkin. I have heard that Seamus Heaney has commented very favourably on my ability to rhyme “cockily” with “broccoli.”
Visiting Farmleigh with its backdrop of the Phoenix Park, I have been struck by the beauty of the surroundings (though I would suggest that someone cut down a few of the trees as they tend to block the view of the rest of the park.) I feel sure that the ambient surroundings of the writer’s cottage would definitely help me complete Chapter Two of my novel, in which Rocky “Rock” McBiscuit, the Scythechester manager, stumbles across an illicit and erotic game of headers and volleys in a field outside Rouen.
On a more general point, I believe the solitude and peaceful surroundings of Farmleigh would definitely aid my writing. You’ve no idea how hard it is trying to concentrate when you have a garrulous canary whistling down one ear and two adoring children looking for money in the other. How much better I could write in a peaceful little cottage in the Park, disturbed only the night owls screeching, the wood-pigeons cooing, the security guards barking instructions on their walkie-talkies and the American Ambassador playing his Lionel Ritchie CDs at full volume.
I understand that with the post of writer in residence comes the almost exclusive use of the Farmleigh Library, which is far-famed throughout the western world for its fascinating collection of first editions. Can you tell me if it has the new one by Elizabeth George? I have been trying to get it in Blanchardstown Library for a while now and am dying to know whether Havers and Inspector Lindley finally get it together.
On the application form it requests that I submit “names and contact details of two authorities in your field who know you and your work.” I am afraid that I do not own a field, nor am I ever likely to. It seems a rather strange requisite for the post, if you don’t mind my saying so. Maybe I could rent one for a short period of time and entice two authorities in to it?
I see that I am also required to list a description of the work I intend to undertake if I am successful in my application. To be honest, I hadn’t intended to do much work. Of course, I’ll sweep the kitchen floor occasionally and may even give the skirting boards a lick of paint if I have a free afternoon but other than that, I intend to spend most of my time writing.
There is also a requirement to provide samples of my writing, which is not a problem. I still have a recent letter of complaint to Bord Gáis on my computer and my collection of adjectives now extends to almost two pages. Would this be okay? Sadly my note to our life assurance agent, detailing that we had just popped out and would be returning forthwith, was blown away by a sudden gust of wind and so this literary masterpiece is now lost to posterity.
Can I ask if Mr. Cowen intends to take up residence at Farmleigh during the summer? I only ask because I’ve heard he’s a bit of a hip-hop freak and I’d be a bit perturbed about all that thump-thump music at three o’clock in the morning when I’m trying to watch The Shopping Channel. Maybe you could have a word in his shell-like? Of course he’s welcome to come around an odd evening when he needs a bit of advice on the economy but not when “Ireland’s Got Talent” is on.
Before I officially submit my application form, I would also like to enquire about the official view of sub-letting the property at Farmleigh should I be successful. As you know the cottage is located in a highly-desirable location with easy access to the city centre, yet set in the exclusive surroundings of The Phoenix Park. I feel I would have no problems at all finding a tenant to move in, even on a short term lease. With the rent money, I could then enjoy an extended holiday in Coco Bay, Antigua, doing invaluable research in the resort where Macker’s childhood sweetheart spends Chapter Four improving her prowess as an assistant referee.

The mountain and Mohammed

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve dug this government out of a hole. In previous issues of this esteemed newspaper, I have solved the problem of our parlous transport problem in Dublin 15, argued for the creation of a blue flag beach at Abbotstown, proposed the notion of adopting the leaf as our national currency and pushed for the reintroduction of hedge schools. My suggestions, sadly, have not been taken up by those in power, which leads me to think that the time to break away and form an autonomous enclave here in Dublin 15 is getting ever closer.
However, I am nothing if not a fair man, and I will give the powers that be one final opportunity to redeem themselves before we launch our glorious revolution.
The proposed M3 Motorway. The Navanites are pushing for it because they want to get down to Blanchardstown and spend their money here as quickly as possible. The environmentalists are against it because its route scythes through, or at least near, the one defining symbol of our ancient royal heritage – the Hill of Tara.
Personally I’m surprised John Gormley can’t see the obvious solution. I’ll be looking for a higher calibre of minister when we finally form an autonomous government.
We move the Hill of Tara down to Kellystown.
Yes, I know it’s a brilliant suggestion and solves everybody’s problems but I’m not looking for plaudits or even a free holiday to the Bahamas from two grateful Councils. (Though if the subject came up, I do believe the people ought to be allowed to express their gratitude.)
Let’s get down to brass tacks. There is a huge big mound of earth – technically known as “a hill” – which, with complete lack of foresight, the ancients located on the route between Dublin and Navan. There are diggers and bulldozers standing idly by, waiting to spring into action and start building the brand spanking new M3 super highway that will enable folk from Navan, Kells and beyond (yes, apparently there is a “beyond”) to access the City Centre gridlock much faster.
The only people standing in the way of progress are the environmentalists, who claim that the Hill of Tara is such an important part of Irish history that to build a road anywhere near it is tantamount to blasphemy. This is particularly true, they claim, when a much less destructive route to the capital could be had by going through Athlone.
So, here it is in a nutshell. Would it not solve everybody’s problem, if we just loaded the Hill of Tara onto a fleet of dump trucks and transported the whole lot en masse to Kellystown? The commuters would be happy as the motorway could go ahead. The environmentalists would be happy because the Hill of Tara would be saved for future generations. And the archaeologists would be pretty thrilled too as the JCBs would throw up remnants of Niall of the Nine Sausages for them to drool over.
Of course we don’t want to make the same mistake as an American millionaire in 1968 who bought London Bridge, believing it to be Tower Bridge. We will need to have a team of stock-checkers both in county Meath and at Kellystown to make absolutely sure that we are getting the genuine article and are not being fobbed off with any old hill by our neighbours.
During the excavation, we would also need to have a team of spotters around the area, keeping a vigilant eye out in case Tony Robinson and his pals from Time Team try to gatecrash the party.
When the Hill is completely re-located, we can then start to maximise its full potential. Frankly, Meath County Council’s idea of leaving it to go to seed and putting a bit of a souvenir shop at the foot of it goes along away to demonstrating why the Royal County will never be a beacon for holidaymakers from around the globe. Who’s going to want to fly ten thousand miles just to be blown to bits on top of some hill?
In my vision, the Hill of Tara Theme Park would attract tourists in their millions. Roller coaster rides up and down the Mound of the Hostages; an artificial ski slope down the Rath of the Synods; the Banqueting Hall turned very appropriately into a Burger Arcade; the House of Cormac turned into a huge underground aquarium; scary characters dressed up in Brian Boru costumes having their photographs taken with frightened children for €20 a shot; the Tuatha Dé Danann selling ice-cream and candy-floss; musical entertainment nightly by Queen Medbh and The Druids – what a cash cow we would have on our hands!
It would also be a picturesque place for the family to go on a Sunday afternoon. In fact, a signposted track around the site could be labelled a High King Trail. Stalls could sell High King Boots, weddings could be arranged in special Hitch High King ceremonies – the possibilities are endless.
Of course, legend has it that Tara was the dwelling place of the gods and the gateway to the Otherworld. It is an exciting possibility that during the transportation of the Hill, we may in fact discover this gateway and thus gain free and easy access to the Otherworld as a major holiday destination. Dublin 15 would be the hub for millions of tourists wanting to try a holiday with a difference and of course being outside the EU, a whole duty free industry could be set up around this portal.
As well as that, the opening of the gateway could also attract holidaymakers coming the other way, many of whom would have been buried with lots of lovely gold sovereigns. This would further boost the economy of the local area as hordes of excited, if long-dead, spirits swarm out of the Otherworld on ethereal coach tours.
Of course there may be some up in county Meath who might object to the loss of their national heritage site, however underdeveloped. While one might sympathise with them for their Council’s lack of business acumen, it must be said that they would now have a brand spanking new motorway by which they could come and visit their beloved hill whenever they wanted – for a modest admission charge, of course.

Whether to stand...

The local Council elections are just around the corner, veering from kerb to kerb like a bad dream on wheels and I’ve still not decided if I should stand or not. Time is not only running out, it is turning around as it does so and sticking out its tongue.
Most of the other prospective candidates have already thrown their hats into the ring, which I secretly consider a waste of good headgear. It may be that I am too late already and that lost ground, like that in Kellystown, cannot be made up. On the other hand, I could always say that natural modesty debarred me from standing but that I have reluctantly agreed to go forward following strong representations from those in the community.
The problem with the local council elections is that most people tend to vote on national issues. If you stopped somebody in the street and asked them to name our eight local councillors, they’d probably ask you if they could get to the footpath first before answering.
I would of course be standing for the Independence for Dublin 15 Party. This will give me the perfect opportunity to lambast the Government for their mismanagement of the area over the past number of years and also condemn everybody else for their weak and ineffectual opposition. Independents will also get short shrift as without a party machine behind them they will merely be a lone voice crying in the wilderness.
The candidate who gets his name out there in the community stands a great chance when polling time comes around. If you only recognise one name out of a list of twelve, it has to be an advantage. If I do decide to stand, therefore, I will have to join the other candidates in letting the constituency know that I exist.
The first thing to do will be to produce a newsletter and get it distributed. I will call it The Goulding Report, as this will imply a regular communication from myself to the community that I profess to hold so dear, even though I have only latterly shown an interest in events beyond my hall door. If I also call it Volume 2 Issue 27, people will think my commitment to local issues has been ongoing for a number of years.
In the newsletter, I will select various issues from around the constituency (having of course scoured the Community Voice first) and give my two hundred word view on each of them. It is important that I do not concentrate on one particular area as this will restrict my vote-getting.
My views on each topic of debate will of course not depend on the rights and wrongs of the issue. Such an attitude may be praiseworthy but it will not get me elected. I will naturally side with the residents as they are the ones who will put their X on the ballot paper, not the issue itself.
Where the residents are up in arms, I will naturally launch a “scathing attack” on the authorities. Scathing attacks are always good for votes as they demonstrate real commitment. During this scathing attack, I will “call upon” the Council / the Government / the Gardaí to act swiftly to put an end to this “lamentable situation.” Again, calling upon people is a winner, even if those in authority have no idea who I am.
Where a resolution has been reached, I will “applaud the decision,” whatever it may be, despite the fact that nobody has asked me for my approval. I will also “monitor the situation” very carefully and “liaise closely” with the residents, if I can find out who’s in charge.
I will also dress up in a suit and tie and travel around to different areas and have my photograph taken there. This will show how hard I am working for all the residents in the constituency. I will not make the mistake of one previous PD candidate who simply superimposed his photograph onto the platform of Coolmine Railway Station, making him appear taller than the train beside him.
It is also vital that I organise at least one local meeting for people in my local community on whatever issue is most likely to be uppermost in people’s minds. Transport is always a good one. This will allow the riff-raff to come along and tell lurid tales of having to get up at 5am in order to be at their office by 8am. It is important though that I bar other candidates from attending the meeting, in case they muscle in on this nice little group of potential voters that I have assembled for myself.
At the meeting, I will stand up and launch a scathing attack on Dublin Bus and the local authorities, calling upon both of them to put an end to this lamentable situation. I will promise the residents that I will monitor the situation very carefully and will liaise closely with residents on the issue.
It is also advisable to shake as many people’s hands as I can, as this conveys trust, and when I am approached at the end, I should cradle my chin in one hand and nod my head vigorously, thus indicating empathy with whatever they are waffling on about.
After the meeting I should write a letter to Dublin Bus, calling upon them to immediately allocate another 25 buses to the area. When the inevitable apology comes back, I will then distribute both epistles to the community, thus demonstrating how hard I am working on their behalf.
Sometimes an issue might be so contentious that I might not be sure what the view of the majority of the residents is. In this case, it is a good idea to hold a rough straw poll of those entering the meeting. A quick tot up of the figures will easily show me where my sympathies should lie and I will come down unequivocally on the side of the majority, even when they are wrong.
Writing letters to the local paper is also a good way of raising the profile. I simply need to find an issue and then launch another scathing attack on the powers-that-be. Editors will be reluctant to withhold the letter in case they might be accused of political bias, so it’s a sure-fire advertising coup and if the letter is long enough, he might feel obliged to add my photo too.
Sadly, I would also need to spend a lot of money on election posters. It is a widely known fact that the more posters a candidate puts up, the better equipped he is for the job. “Oh, he must be a great man – he has a poster on every lamppost” is a comment widely heard at election time.
I probably will not go as far as one candidate in the last elections who flew a huge hot air balloon over the locality advertising his candidature. Not only did it create a hazard for bemused pilots making their final approach to the airport, but it also demonstrated to the community that some people have more money than sense and it failed to garner him enough votes to get him elected.
Between you and me, though, the thought of spending a lot of money is one of the main reasons why I am unsure about standing. True my commitment is deep and whole-hearted but I need to think about this year’s holiday to the Algarve too.
So if there is a local benefactor out there in the community who would be willing to sponsor my candidature, I would feel duty bound to consider acceptance, for the good of the community. The sum of €50,000 would go a long way to delivering a real voice for the people but of course I would not be able to entertain any rezoning requests my benefactor might make.
God forbid!
.
This was written for issue 131 but my wife didn't like it. She felt I was getting at too many people, she felt the article was disjointed and lacked structure and that without local councillors, the political system would fall asunder. As her views on my writing are of necessity more objective than mine, I didn't submit it.
PS. Three months later, Fergus asked me to do an extra political musings for Issue 137. I am ashamed to say I took the easy way out and submitted this piece, which appeared in issue 137.