In the sombre mist of a Leitrim morning

The rain descends on St. Swithin’s day.

A symphony of ghosts

tapping ethereally on the window panes, whispering secrets in liquid tones,

whilst out back a rhapsody beats on the tin-roofed shed,

playing percussive notes on footpaths,

in a chorus of bouncing pirouettes.

I fall dreamily into this symphony of nature’s tears,

each droplet a prism of dreams,

a tender watery waltz beneath a slate-grey pregnant sky,

birthing in tide-like sheets across the hills in Tullybradan,

and in its touch the land finds solace

and peace, and so do I,

a tender reminder of life’s sweet release.

Morning session

I start the day with some lovely coffee courtesy of our host. The troops are slow to get roused this morning but have slept well. We catch the Tram at Andel, alight near the Charles Bridge (Karlov Most) and walk across through the throngs. We really must do this crossing again at a quieter time of day (or night).

First cultural stop is the Museum of Torture and if anything proof that modern law enforcement is gone a bit ‘soft’. We learn some interesting facts, such as, execution by garrotting stayed on the Statute Books in Spain until 1975! I read this on the wall in the museum and haven’t bothered cross-checking that.

The torture tools have very romantic names – the ‘Virgin of Nurnberg’ is basically a sarcophagus with inward facing spikes, all mercifully positioned to avoid the victim’s vital organs – while simultaneously turning the prisoner into a human sieve. One recorded internee was inside this thing for three whole days. Another grapelike tool on display is called ‘The Spanish Tickler’, apparently it was useful in peeling skin off people who were unwilling to admit to doing stuff they probably never actually did. There was also the famous limb-pulling Rack and a medieval version of a water board. Most appear to have been reserved for witches and heretics. After this gruesome display we decided the only course was to repair, as quickly as possible, to the nearest Starbucks and once there we appreciated our iced macchiatos with new-found relish.

We wandered around the old quarter through its narrow streets now housing mostly kitschy souvenir shops and over-priced cafes. The Old square is dominated by the Town Hall. It is a beautiful space if only it was devoid of the plague of tourists inhabiting every square inch of it, says me the tourist. The Town Hall dates from 1338 making it one of the oldest still in use in the world. The building has had many changes and expansions in the meantime and been lovingly restored since its last significant damage in the Second World War.

One of the most popular past times of the burghers of Prague in medieval times was chucking people out windows. These events are better known as the infamous ‘De-fenestrations of Prague’. Plural because there were several. The first one occurred in 1419 when a group of reformists (now as the Hussites) marched through the city towards the Town Hall. As they were doing so some clown threw a stone from one of the upper windows of the hall and struck the leader. Apoplectic with rage (one of my favourite words that) the mob / rabble / angry crowd stormed into the Hall. Harsh words were exchanged, and it appears things got even more rowdy and out of hand, to the extent that some sensible soul decided the only way of settling things was to eject the Burgomaster and several members of the City Council by the nearest exit. It should be pointed out that elevators had nit being invented yet, so the nearest exit was in fact the windows of the main hall. The unfortunate council members soon found themselves briefly airborne before coming to a shuddering halt on the hard-cobbled street below. These violent actions started a long and bitter conflict in Bohemia known as the ‘Hussite Wars’.

The next famous defenestration in Prague took place almost two hundred years later at the Bohemian Chancellory. This time two catholic lord regents and a secretary were thrown out a window by some irate protestant nobles. The falling men survived the 70-foot fall. To their Catholic supporters this was a miraculous example of divine intervention. To the Protestant chucker-outs the intervention was believed to be a fortunately placed dung-heap. The event served to highlight the political & religious pressures in central Europe at the time which would soon lead to the Thirty Years War, (so called because it lasted 30 years).

Back to the present – Huge crowds are gathered under the famous astronomical clock awaiting the famous figurines to come out of hiding on the hour. We walked a bit further into the newer areas around Wenceslas Square before deciding that this was enough for today’s first cultural walkabout. We got the underground from Mustek back to Andel. The metro system is impressive, and transfers are easy to master. Tickets are relatively cheap at less than one euro for an adult and half that for children for one 30-minute trip.

Cultural Tip – If you do happen to have a disagreement with a Czech citizen please make sure to do so at ground level, you’ve a better chance of surviving the fall (highly unlikely I should add – they are lovely people, really).

Afternoon session of great cultural learnings expedition

Klementinum is not some newly discovered mineral on the periodic table. It is in fact a sprawling complex of buildings covering 2 hectares right in the centre of Prague. The place started as a Jesuit College before becoming merged with the Charles University in 1654. The place is famous for numerous reasons but the most interesting for me are the Observatory and the Baroque Library. On a tour you are limited to a small group which is great and useful as there are some very tight stairs to be manouvered later.

When it advertises a tour of the Library it is not exactly accurate. The Library is a UNESCO site and although still technically in use its not the type of library where you can borrow some books on Yoga & Mindfulness for a month. Many of the books here are first editions going back hundreds of years old. The Vyšehrad Codex is also here – it is a Latin coronation Gospel Book, considered the most important and most valuable manuscript kept in Bohemia. It was probably made to honour the coronation of the Czech King Vratislav II in 1085.

Now the “Tour” of the library is really only a glimpse into it. A door is opened and four or five of the Group are allowed into a cordoned off area for circa two minutes to savour one of the most beautiful rooms in the world. For Kultur Vultures this is the equivalent of Hamleys Toy Store on Regents Street for kids. The ceiling has amazing frescoes created by Jan Hiebl with the temple of knowledge at its centre symbolizing the raison d’etre of the library. The floor contains numerous globes including one map of the heavens. Two minutes is not enough to savour the grandeur and style of this place but on with the tour.

Next we all squeeze up (well I squeezed others just ascended gracefully) up into the Observatory Tower – the second part of the Tour. The Astronomical Tower has been here since 1722 and is adorned with a statue of Atlas holding the celestial orb. From the 1750’s the Tower began to be equipped with astronomical instruments. The penultimate floor has a meridian line passing through it which was used for determining the Prague High Noon – which was announced to fellow Praguers by the waving of a red flag – cue lots of gentlemen removing pocket watches from waist coat pockets and nodding approvingly.

From the top floor the panoramic views of the City are stunning. I took a few snaps as you can see – I think they look alright and do the city of a hundred spires justice. For €15 I would recommend this Tour for a brief glimpse at the amazing library and the awe inspiring city views from the top of the Tower.

It was too early to head back so I managed another quick visit to the mind curing Wallenstein gardens. Got a few snaps of the Peacock as well.

We ended up eating noodles in Smichov washed down by thirst destroying homemade lemonade. Quick change and refresh at the Apartment before a final evening stroll. Regretting didn’t get some concert tickets – lots of choice earlier. So much to do, so little time … krásná Praha

On this day in 1916, the Hospital Ship ‘Britannic’ sank off one of the Greek islands. The Britannic was a sister ship of the famous Titanic which was sunk on her maiden voyage in 1912.

Britannic was requisitioned as a hospital ship in November 1915. Much work had to be done to prepare her ready for her new role, this included the installation of extra davits capable of holding even more lifeboats and repainting her hull white. She also sported a horizontal green stripe and three large red crosses down each side. The first class dining rooms were converted into operating theatres and ‘B’ deck would be home for the medical staff.

Her Captain, Charles Bartlett (known as ‘Iceberg Charlie’ to his crew) was on the bridge on Tuesday 21 November, just after 8am, along with Chief Officer Hume and Fourth Officer McTowis, when a loud explosion was heard – something had hit the ship on the starboard side, near the bow between the second and third cargo holds. Damage to a bulkhead meant that the first five compartments would become flooded. The timing of the explosion was to be fatal: watertight doors between boiler rooms were open to allow shift changes to take place.

Bartlett ordered the ship to be abandoned at 8.35am, just twenty three minutes after the explosion. Over the next half hour, the 600 crew and 500 medical personnel clambered into thirty-five lifeboats or swam for their lives away from the fast-sinking ship.
Incredibly, there were three people on board who had survived the sinking of the Titanic.

Violet Jessop, a nurse, was on board one of the two lifeboats that were destroyed by the propellers. Realising the danger just in time, she dived clear and was sucked below the waves. Coming to the surface, she hit her head on the keel but was rescued by another lifeboat.

Also surviving both the Titanic and the Britannic sinkings was John Priest, a stoker.

The third survivor of both sinkings was Archie Jewell, the lookout. He was to be less fortunate when he was drowned off SS Donegal in April 1917.

Of the 1,066 crew and medical staff on board, only 30 (21 crew plus one officer and eight men of the RAMC) were to lose their lives; most of these were probably in the lifeboats that drifted into the propellers.

Credit – Western Front Association

Hunching into the crook of his arm to light his cigarette. The high heathery bank stretches off desert-like behind him, on towards Drumhanny and Drumcolligan.  ‘Bugger’ he says, after short gust of wind quenches his match. ‘Did you ever see what it was like after they bombed Birmingham?’  I ask quizzically. No response, at least not immediately, a cloud of smoke suddenly billets up from the overcoat and he is lit. ‘Birmingham’ he says ‘No, no I didn’t’.

He stoically surveys the black rows of turf footings, our mornings work. I look at him as he inhales deeply, his ruddy, gaunt birdlike face, his long fingers, varnished by decades of tobacco smoke. He won’t chat. Two more drags on his cigarette, more silence. I watch a blue, shiny dragonfly hover and zip along the surface of the dark water in the boghole. ‘Terrible thing to do’ he finally says. ‘Cowardly’. I look up but now his attention is on the plantation of birch that marks the boundary of the bog and the small garden meadows beyond. ‘Were you there that time?  I ask.  ‘No’ comes the swift reply. The reply is so adamant, so instant and so sure in itself.  He looks studiously at his company watch, the reward for thirty years of punctuality from Massey-Ferguson, then takes another long drag on his cigarette. From the acrid cloud of smoke around his head some words emerge, slowly, ‘but I was not far away, I was in Coventry. Yes. You had to keep your head down if you were Irish that time’.  

Carefully he squeezes the tip of the cigarette between forefinger and thumb, like an altar boy quenching a candle after mass. The black ended butt is placed securely in his breast pocket. It will emerge on his next smoke-break in half an hour. The fag-breaks in the factory must not have been long enough to smoke a full cigarette. ‘We wouldn’t even speak to each other if we met at a bus stop, in case someone heard the accent’ he turns towards the ordered rows of turf, ‘unless you wanted trouble’.  Back to work it is for man and boy, backs bent low on a turf bank in Leitrim in early June.

My grandmother once told me that he had worked on the building of the reservoirs in Wicklow, high up near Blessington and Poulaphuca. It was 1938 and the first chance her youngest brother had to earn a pay packet. Within two years he was in London working with her and two other brothers. He stayed after the War and found work in the midlands and settled in Coventry. Every year he comes home to help on the farm. Not much of a holiday I think, making hay, rearing turf. My brother and I stole some of his cigarettes last night and smoked them in the byre. It was a tip less John Player and we both felt dizzy and nauseous after. The granduncle won’t talk while he works, and he stays with his back bent low the whole time. I pop up every minute or so like a cormorant coming up for air. An ocean of unturned turf lies ahead of us, at least another week of hard labour, my annual penance.

‘What was it like in the Blitz?’ I ask. He sits now, cross-legged, his coat spread under him to keep the pismire ants from stinging his arse. Slowly he opens the bottle of sweet milky tea. ‘That’s a long time ago’. I pretend not to hear him and press on, ‘Did you ever hear the doodle-bug?’ ‘He takes a swing from the bottle ‘Oh aye, you could hear it plain, rattling across the sky and I saw it too’ .  ‘Wow! I replied excitedly ‘What did it look like?’ I had only seen it this secret weapon missile in comics like ‘Victor’ and ‘Warlord’. ‘I can’t remember’. ‘But You saw it?’ I ask curiously. ‘Didn’t I just tell ya I saw it’. I open the biscuit tin and unwrap the napkin covering the sandwiches. I offer him one and he takes the egg and onion one in his bony fingers.

‘Did you ever hear the V2’ I ask. ‘Yes…. if you heard that one you were alright …… it meant it had passed you by and some other poor bugger was going to get it. Ah yeah. I heard a few of them. Loud bugger too’. He is finally opening up I surmise, ‘They are supersonic that is why you would have heard them even though they had passed’. He looks at me through his narrow eyes, weighing me up. I feel the need to continue, to explain, to wash away his doubts about me, ‘you see that’s why you hear them after they’ve passed, they are travelling faster than the speed of sound’’. ‘Who told you that?’  he grunts.  ‘It’s science, it was travelling more than the speed of sound, that’s more than 800 miles an hour’. He pulls the cigarette butt from his pocket and lights it. ‘I don’t think so’.

Slowly he gets up, picks up his coat and begins to pat it, dusting it down. ‘I saw one over Croydon you see, and it wasn’t going that fast’. He stubs the butt out on the bank and begins to turn back towards the long runs of turf. As he does, he mutters, ‘Ya had better work like the speed of sound, there’s rain comin’

I had an appointment in Galway yesterday and took advantage of the good weather to take a stroll around town and visit my alma mater. It was comfortable to walk around in the absence of the usual throngs of this time of year. It was also a bit eerie. The city should have been buzzing. It was chosen as the 2020 European City of Culture and many were hoping to reap the bonanza such an award brings. Instead many business premises are using the lockdown to redecorate their premises. You can get a takeaway coffee or a gelato in town but that’s about it. I hope they all survive as I’m sure many are tied into big rents and paying big rates. When you’re giving unto Caesar there is often very little grain left for your own cupboard. Sin sceál eile.

The last time I walked down Shop Street in summer was several years ago. It was like scrambling to get into Croke Park ten minutes before throw in. It was probably worse. Over-tourism destroys many places; I’m thinking of postcards of Trevi Fountains and Bridges of Sighs; yet when you get to these places they are like anthills. Am I a curmudgeon? I don’t think so. I guess we all just want these places for ourselves. Galway is in the same category.

I had a lovely walk by the canal from Jurys to the Salmon Weir Bridge. Small groups of people were sitting out on the embankments.  Social distancing was adhered to also, which was good to see. Plenty of cans and bottles in hands but no sign of any litter. An odd guitar strummed too. I’ve never made my mind up about the Cathedral. Some days I like it and others I think it’s a monstrosity, but if Galway is to be a city, its skyline needs a Dome and the Cathedral has a great Dome. The University is looking well. The grounds are beautifully maintained. There is a lot of concrete and steel squeezed in between the Newcastle Road and the Corrib these days. Somehow the excellent landscaping blends everything in. I turned at the Quincentennial Bridge and came back along the very pleasant river walk. Almost on cue a couple of skulls passed by on the river their blades shimmering in the light as they cut the dark water. The grass verges have been left like almost meadow which is great for the bees. Nothing worse than an over manicured lawn for the fauna. For all the beautiful new buildings, each of sound architectural merit, the Quad is still the jewel in the crown on campus. Satisfied that my Alma Mater is in sound hands I strolled down Canal Road and headed for the West End.

On the opposite bank with its high wall I was hoping I might see one of the Poor Clare nuns abscond in an East Berlin type dash for freedom. It didn’t happen. I made a few detours to see old flats and houses I once called home. The Connacht Laundry is now closed. For years this place put hard earned pounds into students’ pockets, notes that would very soon be resting in neat rows in Mick Taylors till. Monroe’s looks well, pints and pizzas will return soon.

There is always a bit of breeze in Galway no matter what time of the year. As I walked back to town along the Eglinton Canal the wind was playing havoc with my lockdown locks. If only there was a barber shop open. In College days I liked to spread my non-existent loot around, so I went to three barber shops. A very odd time I went to a lad on Abbeygate Street, just behind Lynch’s Castle. He certainly gave a good haircut but wasn’t much into conversation. You need conversation in a barber shop.

Barber shops these days are all hot towels and beer fridges. There are some great ones, but you sometimes think many are all fur coat and no knickers. These establishments used to be a lot more puritanical, functional, unpretentious, friendly fiefdoms of masculinity. There were two other great barber shops in Galway that I remember fondly. Both could easily straddle either the traditional or the modern era. Tom Nally is still going in his shop between Griffins Bakery and the Kings Head. A tall, lean greyhound of a man always dressed very suave, a great man to talk GAA. If you had any talent and were unaligned Tom wouldn’t be long getting your name on a transfer form. Before you knew where you were, you’d be signed up for his beloved St. Michaels out in Shantalla / Rahoon.

When I lived over the West End I used to go for the chop to ‘Chick’ Gillens. I only found out today his real name was Michael John. Chick was a great character. I can still see him in his white coat, dancing around his customer on the balls of his feet. Like any good boxer he had great feet. If it was GAA that ruled in Tom Nally’s, Chicks place was a shrine to the Pugilist. The walls were adorned with all sorts of boxing memorabilia and the man himself had an encyclopedic knowledge of the sport. It often felt like you paid for the tales and anecdotes, but the haircut came free. There was something very manly about that shop and that man.

One day he told me a story about a young lad from the Claddagh called Tony who was very bright. He won a bursary to the University in the early 1960’s. The young student found the first few weeks in the College very difficult. The rest of his classmates seemed to be from privileged homes, and he was from a humbler background. Chick said he spotted there was something up. One evening as he was closing up he spotted the young lad walking by on his way home. Chick called him over. They had a good chat and the lad began opening up to him about his feelings. Chick said I’ll give you a haircut while you’re here and they chatted more in the relaxed environment of the shop. In the heel of the hunt the young lad didn’t drop out of University; in fact he went on to have a great career, one which crossed paths with my own. I never told Tony what Chick had said. It’s a bit of a parable but Chick was only doing what he had done for decades in his boxing clubs, giving young men guidance, self-belief, confidence in their own abilities. It was Chick who spotted an eleven-year old traveler boy at a tournament in Ennis and took him under his wing. It was the start of a collaboration that led to that young boy carrying our national flag at an Olympic opening ceremony. It might not be Selma, Alabama but it’s still an iconic moment.

Michael John ‘Chick’ Gillen died last week at the age of 87 and you can’t help but feel that a little piece of Galway died with him. The city that he loved will survive and prosper.

Middle aged, floating somewhere on the middle deck of this ship of life, somewhere between an older traditional Ireland and screen hugging modernity. Maybe most people feel this way in middle age. They find themselves providing two similar yet opposite information functions – explaining to their offspring about the past and to their elders about the present (and occasionally the future). Its an important role to be this conduit but its not very well remunerated.

One thing that struck me in recent weeks was the obsession my parent’s generation had with the Western. I was reading a great book by John Connell from Ballinalee, County Longford about life on an Irish suckler farm. Johns father, of a generation that grew up in the 60’s and 70’s in rural Ireland, loves nothing better than a good Western. Then last night I was getting through another self-isolating evening watching YouTube. I came across a video of the wonderful bawdy Dubliners song ‘The Mero’. One of the lyrics goes ‘Bang Bang shoots the buses, With his golden key’. This is of course reference to a well-known and much-loved street character who carried a large key and spent his time shooting people around the city with it. Bang Bang was what they used to call a Duine le Dia, but he kept himself busy mimicking his favourite gun men from the Wild West.

Our local Cinema was in its heyday in the 1940s and 50s and Westerns were the staple on the Billboard. Comics contributed to the cultural colonisation. Through these mediums Ireland learned about life on the Great Plains and the High Chaparral. We crossed the Rio Grande, took the Oregon Trail and sadly some of us ended up in Boot Hill.

By the time I came into the world so too had cowboy suits for Christmas. It wasn’t unusual to meet gangs of young lads running amok around the town in Chaps and Stetsons. Rows broke out over important matters such as who wore the sheriff’s badge. Or it could be finding the renegade who stole your ammo (your ‘caps’) leaving you inadequately armed with a revolver that made a harmless click when you pulled its trigger. The Milky Bar kid was the coolest man on telly, dishing out endless bars of chocolate goodness to his posse. The airwaves told us all about the Wichita Linesmen, The Cowards of the County and the Gambler imparted excellent advice on how to play your hand in poker.

The 1960’s was the Golden era of the Western TV series. The three biggest were Gunsmoke, Bonanza and The Virginian. Between them these shows produced over 1,300 episodes and captivated an entire generation. They continue to be syndicated around the world to this day. Gunsmoke was set in the wild town of Dodge City where the battle to maintain law and order was a constant struggle. LA Times columnist Cecil Smith once wrote: “Gunsmoke was the dramatization of the American epic legend of the west. Our own Iliad and Odyssey ..”

Bonanza was set in the high ground of Nevada, close to Virginia City, on the famous Ponderosa ranch owned by the Cartwright family. The Virginian was in the middle of the other two, in Wyoming, on a ranch called Shiloh – homage to the famous bloody Civil War battle that made the name of General Grant and wrestled control of the Mississippi from the Confederate South. The lead character as his name suggests was also a Southerner. The Virginian was played by James Drury who although been born in New York City, spent a lot of his youth on his mother’s ranch in Oregon. The role was that of a tough ranch foreman. He commands authority and respect. We never get to know the Virginian’s name nor much about his past which is shrouded in secrecy. He is a constant presence though – only Drury and Doug McClure were present in all the seasons the show ran. Drury was inducted into the Great Western Performers Hall of Fame in 1991. He is in good company there with the likes of Gary Cooper, Gene Autry, Clint Eastwood & John Wayne.

Drury’s grandfather, also James, left Kingsland, Boyle, County Roscommon and the farm of his birth in the 1890’s for New York. About ten years ago The Virginian arrived back in Boyle in his Stetson. There was much fanfare in the town. There was a band to meet him and local dignitaries clamoured for photographs with the returning son. By all accounts Drury was very patient and polite. There were quiet moments too when he met his cousins and visited the west of Ireland ‘Ranch’ where his grandfather was born. He lowered his Stetson as he said a quiet prayer over the graves of his ancestors. The big wheel of life had brought him back to the land of his forebears, where his roots ran deeper than on the plains around Medicine Bow. Drury was visibly moved by his visit. The following year he even helped fundraise for the local Alzheimer’s charity. One of the prizes was a ten-day trip to Texas that included spending time in the Cowboy’s company. I know many people who would consider that trip a dream come true.

James Drury, The Virginian died on Monday last at the age of 86.

I am going to fall into the trap. The trap that has been set so often now by Donald Trump, the one where you cannot sit in the middle, you are either with him or against him, you must show your hand.

There have been many comparisons recently between the crazy Emperor Nero and the current occupant of the Oval Office. One just has to substitute the word ‘Fiddling’ with ‘Tweeting’ to see that it is not wild comparison.

Nero apparently in the midst of an epidemic had has personal physician Andromachus, drum up a miracle cure called theriac. The modern equivalent of this ancient drug is Hydroxychloroquine. Most people never heard of this drug until recent weeks. A charlatan with dodgy credentials appeared on Fox News and mentions a test in France. Trump runs with it, it’s a “great little test” and “a game changer” he exclaims. The President shamelessly promotes the unproven drug, without any clinical trials. In so doing he completely undermines his country’s leading expert on infectious diseases Dr Anthony Fauci.  The eminent Doctor’s position remains unchanged, stating that there is no conclusive evidence or study to support using this drug as an effective antidote to Covid19.

This is a person who has sacked decorated Generals because he says he knows more about fighting wars than them, who casts government  officials aside and denigrates their competency and loyalty to their country, who grants pardons to his buddies because experienced Judges, in his amazing legal brain, obviously made an error. This person is the first omniscient President the US has ever had. There is no subject he doesn’t know more about than anyone else despite his childlike vocabulary. This is not normal. This person is a dictator in all but name. Everything that exists is there for his political manipulation and the Corona Virus is no different.

I fall into the trap. I think like many observers that I know America. I think this for numerous reasons but mostly because I feel I am a stakeholder. I even have ancestors that shed blood in Tennessee one hundred and fifty-seven years ago to save this glorious experiment in democracy. What has happened to the new Rome? The answer may be in the old Rome when the enlightened and respected Emperor Marcus Aurelius was succeeded by his son, the brutish and tasteless Commodus.

The alternative might be that America was never going to be the New Rome, (the old one wasn’t so great for most citizens anyhow) that despite its adoption of French Republican ideals at its foundation, it has never really embraced true liberty, real equality and the rights of the individual always trumps (no pun) fraternity. This is an society that encourages extreme individualism and less altruism, that despite its huge bloc of religious conservatism, the God universally worshiped is always Mammon. This is a place where the right to have access to a gun is seen as almost inalienable, even when set against the right to life itself. For the majority of the ideal of the American dream is in reality an illusion, blocked off as they are from real opportunities of advancement through lack of money. This is a land where only those who can attract huge financial backers can ever attain the highest office, where elite robber barons protect their wealth and influence in subtle but effective control of the political, fiscal and education systems, where foreign military misadventures that kill millions of people worldwide are portrayed as exercises in spreading ‘freedom’. This is a country where uniforms and flags are worshiped dissent and the cultural myth of doing ‘your service’ is raised to the highest virtue, but don’y dare ask who you are serving? Although not unique it is a place where all discussion is rendered useless by hyper-partisanship and misinformed noise.

It is not that unusual then that an Emperor who will protect the elites, who loves to stand and fight with his detractors in the Coliseum that twitter, is attractive to so many citizens.  Is it really such a surprise that a spoofing conman with a narcissistic streak is so popular in such a society? Is it it not a good fit to have a myth-making leader who measures his accomplishments by his ratings rather than substance. There is something rotten in the State I love and yet it’s hard to see anything but its re-election in November. The tune from this Emperors fiddle is just too sweet for too many.

We are all aware of what a cesspit social media can be these days.  Idiots spending hours sparring with each other, lambasting everybody from politicians to public bodies, institutions, banks, businesses, airlines, food companies and just about anyone that they feel like having a go at. Its so easy to do, to rant and rave. The one consistency is the ranters all think they are right. It must be great to live in a world of such confident certainty and never be wrong. If challenged we become like them – they can also give it but they cannot take it. When you argue with a fool all anyone sees are two fools arguing. We are all guilty at some point of venting but some people take it to new lows and specialise in vicious, personalised, ill-informed rants on subjects they know nothing about.

In this time of Global Crisis we must adopt a more conciliatory attitude. We need to smarten up and start looking out for each other. I have not been a huge fan of Leo Varadkar the outgoing Taoiseach or his party. This is based on their policies over the last 9 years now and problems such as the lack of affordable housing, homelessness and policies that do nothing to stem rural decline.

However, parking that aside over the last week the said Leo and politicians like Simon Coveney have shown great leadership. Others have not – they continued to play the game they have become used to. Everything exists to be exploited for political advantage. Now many have gone quiet. After the split election we just had last month anyone would see the Taoiseach’s Office as a poisoned chalice.

I sat down last night to watch Leo’s address to the nation. To be honest I was expecting some announcement of new restrictions and measures but instead it was a general, broad address pointing out where we are and where we are heading in this Covid19 crisis. There were no big bangs just a calm, reassuring tone and much more empathy than he has shown since he assumed office. This is what we need right now. We need to know that there is someone in charge, that they are doing their best and that we will come through this. This was Roosevelt and his fireside chats, it was Churchill calling his people to arms. Sure it was cliched mix of “never have so many depended on so few” , “ask not what you can do for your country” and “we have nothing to fear but fear itself”. Perhaps it is finally dawning on people what a Nation is. We the people are sovereign, the Government don’t have all the answers and it is up to us, each individual, the parts that make up the sum, to stand up and do what is right. We are at War and we need to mobilise.

It is sad then to peruse social media last night and this morning and see stinging criticism of Varadkar. I’m not going to repeat these moron’s angry tweets and posts. I am not and never have been a supporter of Fine Gael but that speech last night was probably a defining moment in Leo Varadkar’s political career. It is worth therefore repeating at least part of the message –

“I know many of you are feeling scared and overwhelmed. That’s a normal reaction. We’ll get through this and we will prevail. We need to halt the spread of the virus, but also the spread of fear. Rely on information from trusted sources. Fear is a virus in itself”