Golf continued

Something went wrong and the golf blog ended before its time. Therefore I am simply moving on to the the real point, which is that I have now come across an equally dangerous infection. Angling. Think of it. The fishing season lasts a good six months during which the angler rarely thinks of anything other than killing fish. Alone in a boat with one other person for many hours on the trot, the surprising thing is that so few of them turn to homicide when the trout aren't rising I have a friend who caught the most virulent form of the curse about ten years ago. A lovely man, who I had hopes of turning into a serious observer of the political scene, he has now taken to the water for the season. And when not hell bent on fishing on the Loughrea lake, he is lured by another addict to deplete the stocks on every stretch of water in the West of Ireland. In fact, now I come to think of it, my friend has even taken to foreign travel in his murderous stalking of the innocent trout. Only the other day, I discovered that he has now been elected president of the local angling club. This makes him a man of some clout in the environs of our lake and a person anyone thinking of impeding local rights of way to access the lake would want to be careful of. This is a warning that the clergy would do well of consider. For it is my experience that you cross an angler at your peril.

The Curse of Golf

As a general rule golf is not seen as an occupation that should come with a health warning. Most people, considering joining a club, imagine that the worst they are letting themselves in for is a connection with a gang of the most unspeakable bores in christendom. It is my opinion that this fact is down-graded to a minor difficulty by the illusion, almost always erroneous, that golf club membership bestows some sort of social cachet - a fact that automatically puts you one up on your neighbour.Five minutes on the fairway, isolated from normal life by the prospect of seventeen more holes before escape is possible, should be enough to bring the acolyte to his senses. Unfortunately this is rarely the case. And as the the women - the curse is even worse. Just to look at the gang of haridans braying their way out of the locker rooms of every club in the country is to look in the face of disaster. These are the sort of tasteless females for whom the pinnacle of social grace is to fill their houses with Waterford Crystal - much of it never used -( if the Waterford tag is anything to go by.) What they have to talk about is anybody's guess, though I suspect their world view is not too far behind that of Desperate Housewives.

new boys

Welcome to the new boys - mark keaveney and ciaran cannon. I wish them well in their new positions as TD's. I do not share the same warm feeling with the other two men returned to power because both are chips off the old blocks. Mick Kitt inherited his seat from his late father and youngPaul Connaughton is his father's son (though the old boy has made way for the gassoon before shuffling off this mortal coil). In other words, both are carrying on the well-established tradition of dynastic inheritance. There are greater curses in Irish politics, of course, but in a small country, where everyone knows everyone else and most people are at least married to someone with a tangle of connections to their credit, the fewer relatives you've got the cleaner you can look to a jaundiced electorate. Having said that I came close, if only in jest, to claiming Mary Hanafin as a distant connection. Maybe this was what did for her.
Anyway, here we are in the bright new Ireland and there is no better time to remind the lads that they only have their seats on lease. Now that the electorate has got a taste for chucking politician out, if they don't perform, they could be out too.
And on this score a visit from a handsome young man brought to mind one of the serious problems that generations of Fianna Fail power has left us with. In a word cynicism. The young man was dishing out census papers (or almost small books). He turned out to be an archaeologist by training, and therefore, by definition, unemployed. We had a very pleasant talk about the census and he offered to lead me through it if necessary. What a good idea - give the few remaining young and educated people a chance to earn a bit more than they'd get on the dole. Then a few days later, I heard of another case where a retired teacher had bagged herself one of these numbers, even though she is already in receipt of a state pension. And this is where the cynicism comes back to haunt me. Can it be that there are no other people left in the country without a state pension. Now I come to think of it even I get one - just for being old. Maybe you just have to give the retired teachers and guards these little windfalls because there's simply noone else left? Thought actually I know this is not the case for a friend of mine applied for some jobeen on the census circuit. This friend is one of the most competent women I have come across as well as being very plasant to meet. She realised she had not got the gig when the Department failed to get in touch with her and she was resigned to it when she ran into one of the members of the interviewing panel who assessed her case. She asked him why she'd failed the test. Looking shifty, he muttered that the decision wasn't his. So, who's was it? Of course these appointments were made under the Old Dispensation, but in the new Ireland will they continue?Who you know being more important that what you know, and everyone knowing that this is the way to get ahead -by unchallenged corruption.
When Ciaran and Mark are finished putting the big things right, I hope - I really do hope, they'll do something to give us all, a straight and clean playing field.

confirmation

I wonder if its true what they say about cameras. You know, the one that goes," the camera never lies."? Because if it is I fear we're in for a tricky ride, candidatewise.
This thought struck me as I hit the outskirts of Galway. There, on every single lampost the image of Michael Martin smirked down like a confirmation candidate who has just taken the pledge - and means to keep it. In a line-up of the nearly angelic he could stand shoulder to shoulder with Enda Kenny. The pair of them every mother's pride and joy. But would you vote for them?
I mean ,with or without a halo, wouldn't you want someone who's, maybe tested the waters of the world, to lead us through the rough patches - not someone who looks like he never bought a round in a pub - let alone kept the guests in the Ardilaun up and roaring till the down broke.
It isin't that I'm dead set against virtue. I'm sure it has its place - but not necessarily leading a country. For that you need someone with a whiff of brimstone or even interest. The danger of the alpha male (or female) the suspicion that whatever sins they may have confessed, very few were venial - that's what you want in a leader.
The impression given by the portraits of all parties is of unsullied purity - like they never even thought of fiddling their exes and wouldn't know a banker if he came up and whacked them with a machie in the Druid's Glen.
Obviously this marks a departure from the days when the photographer's lens's were hard at work attempting to give Bertie the look of a favourite uncle with only a rabbit up his sleeve.Now that attempt at metropolitan sophistication is banished.
But the thing is can you be bothered voting for any of them. Personally I'm very underwhelmed. and then I realised that this election is only the first we 're in for this year. Immediately a truely brilliant idea struck. Why not run the general election and the presidential one in tandem? Indeed let's cut to the chase and declare Michael D the Prez by acclaim. Saves time and money.

Clapped-out on a hard lesson

The clapped-out Corsa seems to be having a nervous breakdown - that or a midlife crises. Either way the experience is as uncomfortable for me as it is for itself.Only last Wednesday the wagon engulfed itself in smoke at the beginning of a dual carriageway, leaving me and two dogs on the horns of a dilemma. Should I save myself from what might have been the start of an inferno - leaving the mutts to their fate? Or should I spend the last seconds before conflagration, attaching them to leads -( assuming I could find same).I'm not proud of the fact that I saved myself first. Needless to say this was not the end of the story. In due course, the smoke cleared. I retrieved my mobile and discovered that I had just run out of credit. This was odd since a couple of days previously I had topped up and should have had plenty of juice left in the Vodaphone well. But no - some days earlier I had attempted to ring a friend and got his messaging service. I left him a trailer of the news I had and listened as the phone imparted all sorts of strange groans and such. Suddenly I was through to my mate who informed me he was in Paris. What I should have done was close the connection, immediately. What I actually did was tell him an edited version of my news - thus wiping out my credit status with the Vodaphone bank. Next time I tried to make a call, I was in the doghouse. They wouldn't let me talk to ANYONE. Not even other 087 customers. So there I was on the hard shoulder , the smoke clearing and two dogs sitting in the back seat looking deeply aggrieved. Happily, I was saved by a charming young man with and iPhone. Imagine. Not only that but his car was a million miles away from clapped-out corsas I have known. Its a funny thing about disasters. Sometimes they come disguised as learning experiences. That was the case here. For after much nerve wracking and some extraordinary good luck they ended up teaching me much about life ( with a capital L). On this occasion I discovered that all the drama was down to having too much oil in the engine. In a racketty life as an intuitive unpredictable driver I had never heard of this one. And neither had the other woman who actually poured the extra two litres into the engine.You live and learn, I suppose, though mind you, the dogs are not all that mustard keen to get back into the wagon.

Cuckoo2

The last time I tried to record the arrival of the cuckoo in Kylebrack the machine let me down.

cuckoo

cuckoo

half past eight,I'm watering a few tubs and suddenly life changes gear.Close by, maybe in a tree, I hear my first cuckoo for two years. And there's no mistaking the sound. It is irristible.If I were a female cuckoo, I'd drop everything and follow the call.Thrilled with my connection to the life force and thinking of the happy conjunction of the cuckoo and the swallows now crowding the skies, I retire to breakfast and a little lie down before the day takes off.
On the radio Fi Glover is doing her thing and Alvin Stardust, a name I vaguely remember from my racketty past, are excavating his past when as the sig tune comes closer I hear Fi say,as if she had just invented the phrase, that something "would not happen anytime soon".
Oh Fi - how could you. Any Time Soon, indeed. If there's an overused catchphrase that gets right up my jacksy it this terrible overused three words. God, it gets to me. What's wrong with"don't hold your breath" as a way to indicate the likelihood of delay. That at least has some wit about it. But " any time soon"! I'd be prepared to lay money on it being American in origin. When I was a kid you might be told to "hold your whist".And you knew exactly where you were.
If there are any more sloppy incursions from America, I may be forced to write to the B.B.C.
I had a German here this afternoon. He's a man who can turn his hand to anything - but it turns out, not to-day. He's about to turn the chaotic rear of my house into an ordered arrangement of raised beds in which I intend to plant amazing combinations of " stuff". He arrived with a measuring tape. I wouldn't be surprised if he even had a spirit level handy., His conversation consisted of details of how my plans might actually be turned into reality. I was almost speechless with admiration. And then he said he'd be starting sometime next week. Shit. This fella has been in Ireland for a long time. I fear he may have been here too long.

caring professions

swallow - twice

Friday, and one of my hospital days.This one promised to be more action crammed than usual since it also included an anniversary do connected to the University. Greatly to my surprise it is fifty years since the otherwise prestigious University in Galway, handed me a BA degree. At the time I didn't stop to think why they had done this extraordinary thing but since then, depending on my mood, I've ascribed it variously to a temporary loss of mind or a deliberate decision to see the back of me, permanently. Either way this entirely undeserved distinction was enough to get me into journalism at a time when the owners of Fleet Street's greatest papers(with circulation figures that seem miraculous to-day)were smitten with the belief that only a transfusion of University educated people could raise the intellectual tone of the popular press. It is arguable that in the whole history of Grub Street a more baseless idea was never inflicted on a long standing profession , especially one with delusions to seriousness.Today, you can't get into the business without a degree.One look at the red tops, and indeed the remaining " proper" papers will tell you how wise this decision was. Anyway, fifty years on from the day when I got my piece of parchment, I am still on the go and though a natural loner, I decided I'd go to this do. But before turning up to the University for the bus tour of the Campus, I took Mr Giggs to Silver Strand for his first look at the sea. For a nervous dog he took to it very well - lured on to the beach by the cries of children and the yelps of other dogs, all of whom were enjoying the first real taste of warm weather. It was at this stage that I looked up into the clear blue sky and there dipping and wheeling like trapeze artists on speed, were two swallows.I've never been able to resist that first sight of swooping, gravity defying glory. And to have two of them, doing a choreographed duet in the sky above my head was almost too much pleasure for one day. I packed Giggsy in to the back of the clapped out Corsa and set off for the College. Very soon, the bus arrived with a load of other ancients and we set off for the tour.We hadn't gone far before I realised the wisdom of going my own singular way.These were the sort of people who sat unmoved by everything . They seemed to be wrapped in a sort of comfort blanket of sullen silence.At the first opportunity I baled out knowing that if I stayed around any longer I'd start swearing. Especially since a good number of the women seemed to former nuns. God know's what the men were. I didn't notice that they were all that closely attached to any women but that's not uncommon among the long married. and so forswearing the delights of the celebration dinner, Giggy's and I headed for the hills, eyes glued to the sky in the hope of more swallow sightings.

april fool

I seem to have done it again. On April Fool's day I posted a blog titled Spring and managed to lose it before I pressed the right button. I fear its time to face the fact that I am not a natural blogger. When I started this nonsence it was with the intention of subverting the Irish state. Sadly I couldn't hit the right tone of vituperative outrage. Jokes, ( poor ones) crept in and in the end I found myself leading a one woman campaign against the county council's plans to build a chemical loo on the most obvious scenic spot on the lake shore.The loo was opened, no-one gave a shit, and now it has become another leprous symbol of a country gone to the dogs. And then, at last the penny dropped.I was the only one reading my blog. The revolution curled up and died. Then of course, the government, or what is laughingly called a government in this beknighted island, took over and proceeded to implode. Or at least in any other country it would have imploded before being lined up, marched off,and eliminated by the outraged citizenry. Of course we'd have been left with the problem of who to replace them with.In Ireland the whole apparatus of government has been so totally corrupted by the dominant FF party that all the rest of the mob in Leinster House,by buying into the ethos of mutual back scratching, would just adjust the system to suit their particular needs. And the country as a whole is so conditioned to passivity for which i blame the catholic church that they can't be arsed.The pols would just call it something different, and go on milking a willingly stupid electorate as before. What'll happen in the end ? Personally I'm inclined to favour a termporary take-over of our " sovereignity" by a hand-picked gang of Northern Europeans all deeply imbued with Lutheran ethics. Ten years of having the noses of our political leaders stuck to the grindstone as against deep in the trough might have a salutary effect.
On the other hand the upright Lutherans might get a taste for democracy " Irish" style and become more Irish than we are. Its happened before....

spring

spring

judging by the reluctance with whick i approached this blog, you might almost think I had a reader, or better still was expecting to be paid. Since neither is true,its surprising that it took me till well past noon before i worked up enough steam to sit at the keyboard and attempt to infiltrate the blogger website.its all down to the number of bees currently buzzing in my bonnet.I could start with my reflections on how best to avoid weddings ( surely the most boring manifestation of allegedly polite society). I don't know which is worse, the terrible clothes or the fact that noone will give you credit for telling the truth. Mind you, its almost as bad now at funerals. Time was when you could have a good day out at a funeral.mind you that depended on the amount of booze on tap. I had a friend, now long gone, who only attended the obsequies of people known for their bibulousness. I was almost at a funeral this week. In the event I turned up late for all the ceremonies but in time for the feed. This was taking place in a room to which you had to walk down three steps, like you were making a modest entrance. Since I'm wobbly on my feet, this involves me hanging on for dear life to a handrail while balancing the descending hip on my sympathy stick.Reaching floor level without incident I noticed that the eyes of the Loughrea contingent were focused on my progress, eyes hungry for calamity. Disappointed once again they swivelled back to the soup. later that day I found that the post had arrived with an invitation to a celebration dinner organised by the alumni organisation of the university which once, in an act of undiluted altruism, awarded me a modest and undeserved degree.Luckily,in those innocent times, it was enough to get me into journalism. Nowadays, the best I could aspire to might be a chance at being a Dara O@Brian substitute on some godawaful smart aleck post ironic " comedy" show. But back to the serious business at hand. For the first time in many years I have to do some clothes shopping. Once again luck is at hand in the shape of my granddaughter who will be my official " shopper". Thus I feel confident that making an entrance apart, I can face the prospect of turning up at the 50th anniversary of the occasion on which I became a kosher graduand - as I think they's called.

joy

Joy

Hello again to my follower. And a very happy christmas. This year you'll be relieved to hear I've gone a bit Zen.Not quite the full extent of a spanner waving mechanic , but who knows, in this bright new world.
Anyway back to Christmas. Its my birthday. In fact this accident may well have played a large part in my overbearing nature, for looking back, I have to say the second world war was well over before I was able to concede that the reason people were jolly on that day at least, had anything to do with any event other than me. Of course it could well have had some thing to do with booze too. Anyway there I was growing up in a small village in the west of Ireland while in the distant world a war was about to rage.1939 and all that.
For a child it didn't matter and it wasn't until a lot later that I began to realise how incredibly lucky the timing of my arrival was because the we were stuck, brigadoon like, in a period little changed for maybe 100 years. Most of rural Ireland was without electricity, women still drew water from wells - frequently a distance from the house,the level of poverty was still brutal unless you were frugal and very clever.
But one of my strongest memories and one which still lingers, is the pervading smell of sheep - or more accurately lanolin, clinging to the rough black tweed in which the Irish farmer came encased.His wife, seen only on high days, was also clad in wool but in her case this included a fine big shawl and a large capacious skirt. lanolin again. And since one of the few times the whole household would be out in public together was the run up to Christmas when there was business to be done.This was the farmer's wife's chance to make a bit of money on her geese and chickens. At this period turkeys were rare and exotic.Having sold the fowl at the big pre-christmas market, the family would buy provisions for most of the year with the proceeds. This big shop was light years away from a trip to supermarkets and had more in common with the sort of expedition frontier women in the wild west would have done. All food for the house was either grown at home or cooked at home.
So newly provided with money and provisions,before setting off for the badlands of Sonnach the old women would assemble in the back bar, and seated on firkins - barrels of beer, they'd sip hot port and brandy, or maybe a sweet sherry or two. In our bar, I remember my grandfather, Willie, a jovial man serving behind the bar and shedding goodwill about in the manner of a former politician, now retired from the fray.
But once again it was a smell of old wet wool, compounded by old dried sweat and old mature lanolin and the pungent smell of GUINNESS and hot toddy that brings it back as sharp and true as ever.
Today I'm 70 and I find it entirely incongruous. In my head I vary from maybe 12 , or 23 or absolutely unstoppably sexually alluring. the truth may have been other than I remember.
But still, when on a steroid high I'm still no more than a really good 50. Which of course bring me back to Zen and this year I am recommending it to all my friends.
Also high on the list of recommendations for the future is the brilliant idea my good and talented friend Aidan Hodgins had. In view of everything he suggests that everyone with a half-decent sized garden should plant five common ash trees. In our climate the ash will be ready to fell in five years and one well- grown tree will keep a house in fuel for a year. Eco friendly - economic and just great good sense.Do it.But remember to plant a new tree for every one you cut.
Which brings me finally to my latest great thought.
If in life you happen to say a bit too much and perhaps bruise some deep sensitivities, apologise, of course. But it would be a fool to think that would end the matter. And should you inflict pain on a mountainy man it won't be solved that easy. Therefore if you-re going to get on the wrong side of someone, make sure its someone who can really hold grudge. That way you have some comfort.
Joy to you all.

parking permits galore

Due to my muscle problems, I have been on the hunt for one of those disabled driver stickers without which almost every driver in this neck of the woods, whether disabled or not,wouldn't dream of taking to the road. At first, I made the usual mistake of thinking that this must be straightforward. A note from the doctor, and for good measure a declaration from the cops, and Jack's your uncle - or so I thought.First off - try finding the relevant phone number to ring. Under Disabled perhaps ? No way.Turn to the HSE for a clue - forget it. Eventually the doctor's receptionist took pity on me and tracked the thing down. An hour after the start of the search, I was on to the right person, hidden away in the wastes of Mayo. The woman seemed almost pleased to hear from me. Perhaps I was the only caller of the day who had actually managed to make contact.I gave her my details and was surprised to hear that she wanted a brief medical run-down on why I needed a sticker.I was surprised. I'd have thought the doctor's word would be enough. However, not so, my claim would wither on the bough unless I wrote a brief note outlining my disabaility. I was surprised to learn that the reason for this is that the Disabled Drivers association can " create a paper trail". Is it any wonder the country is up the proverbial without a paddle, when a jumped up mob can demand medical details from an unqualified person to satisfy their appetite for a paper trail? Supposing I had listed my many neurosis, failing eyesight, tendency to road rage and periodic inattention to other road users, as well as lousy muscles, would they have turned me down or sent me permits for every condition outlined? However life is much too short so I did as I was told and set off in search of some passport photos.Since the last time I did something similar not only has the hair on my head grown but also the beard on my double chin is looking pretty lustrous. The overall effect is not just a picture of a fairly benign example of care in the community, but the slightly manic gleam in the eye, no doubt the result of jousting with the Disabled mob, is just a bit worrying.But the business is done and the application form, complete with cheque, dispatched.Now all that remains is to settle into a deep Zen like trance and wait to see what happens. In the meantime I will concentrate on the newest regime of self-improvement that opens before me. Goaded by my once baby sister, I am about to take to the water. A friend, of proportions almost as generous as my own, asked how I entended to get into the pool. I hadn't thought of this. But on reflection, visions of seals slithering into the waves sprang reassuringly to mind. The only remining problem is how to get out.It may be necessary to install a small crane to hoist me from the depths. I could perhaps open the event to the public - all donations to charity- would red nose day be interested I wonder? Perhaps a quick phone call- so long as they are not as hard to track down as the disabled sticker mob and their paper trail.

ps. an informant tells me that the reason for the paper trail is to eliminate the flourishing blackmarket in fake parking permits. A bit more enterprise like that and we'd solve our financial crises.

Since I became a cripple my perspective on life has changed. You might think this is predictable.What has come as a surprise to me is the way in which my new condition has affected me.Of course the extra time I have to lie in bed has brought on waves of lucidity, one of the more revealing of which is how much you still need to know as you clamber up the lower slopes of old age. For instance, through much of my adult life I cherished the notion that I knew pretty well everything, especially when it came to sexy stuff. Yet I was closing on 50 before I came across Auto Erotic Asphyxiation. And even though I had the process explained to me by a doctor, and have heard the CSI's of LV, Miami and NY mention it as casually as they order a coffee, I'm still not entirely sure I've got it right.I mean, why would you bother ?However the new knowledge is a bit surperfluous for persons post menopause.And only last week, while listening to Woman's Hour I heard Jenni Murray mentioning that Nicholas Sarcozy was having a spot of trouble in the perineum region.Do they make cheese there or what ? And if not where the hell is it. The thirst for knowledge was so sharp that I shot to an upright position thereby endangering my many dodgy ligaments.Could I have a perineam ? And more, could that be the source of all my troubles? And finally , horror of horrors, could it be somewhere you should keep to yourself, like pyles, for fear of provoking gales of ribbald laughter.Finally, I inserted myself into my crutches and the clapped-out Corsa, and headed to Ballinasloe. I had three things to be - get petrol - tax the car, and buy a replacement iron. All of these involved manoeurvres that would test me in my new persona as a cripple. But, game to the end I set out and achieved total success. It was while I was driving home that it struck me that the judicious use of a crutch, or a walking stick can elicit all sorts of help, especilly if you pass yourself off as a charming and helpless old biddy.Of yourse its possible to look at my performance as disgracefully manipulative. But surely not. I'm just nicer, that's all.

A mental work-out, before the crack of noon

The genius in London and I were shooting the breeze.As usual the subject had fast-tracked itself to the contradictions inherent in life in Ireland.On this occasion it was the attempt I am currently making to get the HSE to arrange a temporary Home Help while I'm on crutches. I hadn't mentioned the crutches ? Extraordinary. As readers will know I am not usually given to stoicism. But briefly, they came about when I presented myself to my friendly neighbourhood vet and asked him for a diagnosis of my state - as if I had been a horse.He took a measured look and said I buggered up a tendon somewhere in the groin-thigh area and he unearthed the crutches. Since then, they have been my only method of locomotion.
Now ten days later, the state of the house has deteriorated to the point where even I notice it. Therefore having given my predicament a lot of thought, I decided to call on the Heath Service for help.In theory they should have been chomping at the bit.
In practice I discovered that getting them to act involved filling out a form which asked probing questions about my mental state, the level of incontinence I experience, and finally demnded that I return the completed form by post. And there's the rub. How can I get to a post box when I can neither walk nor drive and a written note specifically denies me permission to email them.
As I was saying, the genius and london and I were tossing this one about when he called a halt to the fun by declaring that I was up to my tonsils in a Kafka-esque situation.
That was enough to launch the morning chat onto a different tack and after only 20 minutes or so, I heard myself using the word " exponentially" , without even blushing.
At this stage the genius pointed out that we had conducted a conversation before the crack of noon, in the course of which the words Kafka-esque and exponential had both cropped up and since it was unlikely that we'd be able to keep that standard up we'd better call it quits while we were ahead.
And still no sign of the revolution.

Waiting for the Revolution

Unaccountably, there is no sign of the revolution - yet. Its possible that this is always the way. Fellow visionaries, having read my last blog, may be mulling over the propositions made in it. It could be that they hesitate to embrace the freedom of anarchy, or that the prospect of all our politicians banished to a dismal island strikes them as too severe. Or maybe not severe enough. All I would say is that the idea of banishment is a well tried method of punishing miscreants. Back in ancient Rome placemen who failed the Emperor were always being banished so there's nothing new there. Of course it could be that people are mulling over the appearance of Balls O'Leary from Dalkey and Andrew Martin in my account of life in Loughrea.
Ballso sounds like the sort of wastrel who would wash up in the west, fleeing from the respectability of life in Dalkey. You can just imagine him fag in mouth,hat at a rakish angle, hiding the thinning strands of hair on his head and the brim shading the glowing red of a bibulous nose. He's be great craic in the pub, full of yarns about the fast life of Dublin and just enough irreverence to endear him to the west. But the clincher, the quality that marked Ballso as one of our own would be an intimate knowledge of the horses.
Andrew Martin, on the other had had something shady about him.Where Ballso had an address of sorts, Martin could have come from anywhere. In fact the name is so anonymous you'd be hard put to place him anywhere. No provenance, that's the fellow's trouble - even though it was said he was related to Dusty Martin - well known to the stewards of every racetrack for using the whip. However there was no question that Andrew Martin's reputation was connected to unspecified shennigans of a sexual nature.
As an example, I would refer to a case that came up before the District Justice lately where a young man was waiting on a window ledge at the West Bridge for a lift home. Having had a drop or two(in other words he was legless)he was letting his mind wander back to happier times when he shared a flat with a young person directly across the street from the window ledge. In the circumstances it seemed to him that the time had come to renew his acquaintanceship with the girl in question, so he popped across and got in a window. Once in the house - which was empty- he realised he had made a mistake and it was while he was climbing out that the squad car came upon him and led to his appearance in the court. There his solicitor Gerry Moylan explained to the judge that his client's behaviour was down to him being carried away by amorous thoughts. Or as my aunt Eilish would have put it, he was up to his Andrew Martins.Or would have been, if he'd got the right house.

Ballso and Andra -and the revolution

I spent Christmas mulling over the responsibility of the serious blogger. At my age, I decided, I HAD to put my thoughts in order. The state of the country demanded no less. As a former hack, I realised the vital importance of a good intro and thus the festive season bubbled along without any definitive sentence coming to my rescue. History repeating itself.
The problem was that every time I peeped into the abyss, I was distracted by - hope?
This may well be a universal trait of humanity. We cling to the hope that something will turn up when, in fact, Corporal Fraser in Dad's Army got it dead on the nail . "We're doomed" he'd bellow, eyes twirling "Doomed". And that's pretty much where we are this first day of 2009. Nothing short of total revolution will do.
I am not one of these blood-thirsty types who fantasise about rivers of blood flowing from the remains of our former rulers. In fact I favour Mao's approach of transporting the lot - FF and FG without exception- to a remote and stony island, lashed by Atlantic gales, there to cultivate the soil . This will be essential because the prospect facing the rest of us is the dismantling of the State as we know it. All office holders, all recipients of permanent and pensionable jobs, all CEOs in semi-state industries, all holders of official credit cards, all the crutches of the corrupt state would be obliterated. This has to happen because if any trace of the patronage of the present continues, the mob will recreate itself.
These were the thoughts that buoyed me up over the last week or so, and highly diverting they were. For hardly had I started on the deep thinking bit than errant strands of thought intruded. Inevitably I'd begin with lists of favourite candidates for the chop. Before I knew it I was forced to introduce a system of alphabetical order in case any bastard escaped in the confusion. Some parts of it were easier than others. The obvious suspects went first, thereafter I racked my memory banks until the B categories were denuded and we moved on to the C's. As a way of lulling yourself to sleep this is infinitely preferrable to counting sheep.
And then , without warning I found myself looking out onto the lake from what used to be Murphy's kitchen window as Phyllis, between paroxysms of cigarette coughing, launched into a tirade against Balls O'Leary from Dalkey. There was no secret who Ballso was. He was her husband, Peter.
My aunt Eilish when goaded by unacceptable behaviour in others, would claim that they were up to their " andra martins". Maybe Andra was really Andrew but noone, to my knowledge, ever attempted to identify him. Both Ballso and Andra have been my companions as I drew up my blueprint for the brave new world of 2009.
Well - you have to have a laugh.