Two Songs

Where are protest pop songs (such as those presented below) today? Cthulhu knows we need them! (This isn't a rhetorical question, by the way; seeing as I'm hopelessly ignorant about a lot of contemporary pop and rock, I'm genuinely curious. The UB40 song is included because it might be the first politically aware pop song I ever heard.)

A Very Belated Accompaniment

This time nearly a year ago I wrote a short piece about Sappho and walking in moonlight (here). I only wish that I had had the following photo (taken this evening on Morriscastle Strand) to illustrate it with back then, but better late than never. (I hope this displays properly on your computer; it's quite dark!)

Here's the same scene without the shadowy figure (my partner, who was very obliging about having to stand still quite a few times while I cursed and tried to get the shot right).

And finally, here's a jolly pumpkin in the window of Chez Doubtful! (I'm off to watch some more horror films now...)

As It's Halloween...

Seeing as it's Halloween, and therefore everyone's blathering on about 'orror, I felt that I should stick my oar in and make a list of a few interesting films for the discerning fan of cinema's dark side. However, my definition of a good horror film is based on its power to unsettle or disturb me rather than by its ability to frighten me. After all, anyone can yell "boo!" in your face and make you jump; for me, the really good stuff gets under your skin and stays there, like a bad dream. This is why I found The Exorcist or The Silence of the Lambs laughable rather than terrifying; they were so overwrought, obvious, and just plain silly that these days I couldn't even sit through them. But the following ten films have a real sense of flair and imagination, a genuine brush with the downright eerie and disturbing, and/or a nightmarish descent into the dark depths of the soul, and are highly recommended for those who haven't yet seen them. And if you have seen them, why not watch them again? (These are just off the top of my head; this list could change as I rifle through my video collection!)

1) The Haunting (1963 version)

Definitely the best haunted house film ever made, and one of the spookiest, most intelligent horror films of all time (which was remade as a ludicrous atrocity by Jan de Bont in the 1990s; for shame!). 

2) Carnival of Souls (1962).

This is one of the oddest B-movie horror films from the era and a wonderfully imaginative, strange little film. Often touted as an influence on George Romero, but I can imagine that a certain D. Lynch was also paying attention when this little gem first appeared.

3) Night of the Living Dead (1968).

The original, and still one of the best, of the modern-era horror films, as well as being the best zombie film ever made. Thought-provoking, visceral, and with the most audacious endings in the genre. 

4) Deep Red (1975).

Everyone's favourite Italian madman/auteur, Dario Argento, has been off the boil for some time now (since the late seventies, many would say, and even then his ouevre was an acquired taste: lots of style and nightmarish imagery, but let down by terrible acting, preposterous plots, and gaps in logic excessive even for the seventies) but if you're only going to watch one, make it this one: a very weird and convoluted murder mystery with some extremely startling moments and a general atmosphere of twisted decadence. May be too grisly for some, though.

5) Vertigo (1958).

Some might argue against including this as a horror film; however, I've always seen Vertigo as a ghost story (which just happens to have no real ghost). Certainly, it has moments which are truly haunting, and is one of the bleakest, darkest, and most disturbing films I've seen. (It also makes no sense whatsoever...)

6) The Innocents (1961).

This film version of The Turn of the Screw scared the bejaysus out of me when I saw it one evening many years ago, and it ranks up there with The Haunting as one of the best ghost stories on film.

7) Witchfinder General (1968).

Michael Reeves' extraordinarily dark and pessimistic tale of nasty doings in the Cromwellian era remains the best film Hammer never made, and has the performance of a lifetime from Vincent Price (although I have a great fondness for the Corman Poe films as well).

8) Brain Dead (1992).

The ultimate zombie splatter comedy, with possibly the best line ever from a kung-fu priest ("I kick arse for the Lord!") and a no-holds-barred approach to zombie dismemberment that's both utterly revolting and totally hilarious. The best horror comedy since The Evil Dead II ("groovy!"). Strong stomachs are definitely required for this one!

9) Black Sunday/The Mask of Satan (1960).

A wonderfully filmed Gothic tale has atmosphere so ripe you could slice it with a cheese knife and serve it on crackers, and the deathly beautiful Barbara Steele. The other best film that Hammer never made...

10) King Kong (1933).

Need I say more? (The original Kong, like Frankenstein, might not be scary any more, but they're still the best monster films ever. And I hated the recent remake of Kong, which was three times as long and, despite 70 years' worth of special effects' advances, still lacked the charm and pathos of the original (insofar as that which can be possessed by a film about a giant gorilla). When 1933 Kong falls to his doom, I still get a lump in my throat; when 2005 Kong finally plunges to earth, I yell "About bloody time!" )

Having recently watched The Devil Rides Out, with a magnetic Christopher Lee fighting the forces of Satan, I'm keeping the horror vibe going by watching the little-known but recommended Night of the Eagle (from 1962, I think, and about witches) and The Haunted Palace with Vincent Price (based on Lovecraft's Charles Dexter Ward). Happy Halloween, y'all! And here's a suitable song and video:

Turning 100...

One hundred posts here at Chez Doubtful ... If you're in the mood for something interesting, please watch the following and see what you think (be warned that it's 18 minutes long). I think it's fascinating, and more information can be found here. (The Dailymotion video isn't as good as the one found at the link, but that video wouldn't embed properly, and the YouTube videos have an annoying habit of putting the title onscreen, thus spoiling any surprise.)

The Joy of Cooking for Zombies...

You know how it is. You've dined well, perhaps having quaffed a few glasses of ruddy plonk or a wee dram or two, and are sprawled out in front of the telly beside a roaring and horribly environmentally unfriendly fire (while more delicate users of English blanch at such an inelegant set of adjectives). You are at one with the world and radiating contentment like a Fianna Fail TD with a fat brown envelope. Then without warning comes an irregular pounding and scraping at the door, as of several hands beating and clawing its surface, accompanied by a low glottal grunting. A quick glance through the curtains confirms your worst suspicion. Once again, the shambling, brain-eating, ambulatory cadavers known as zombies are massing outside, with one instinct pulsing through their decomposed minds: to feast on your quivering and succulent brains. What to do? While the usual response in this situation is to hammer planks of wood across the windows, grab on to your trusty chainsaw, and once your defenses are breached you start lopping off limbs and heads like a psychotic topiarist on steroids. It's all very tiring, wears out the links on your chainsaw, and covers you with gory goo. A much better strategy, and one rarely seen in zombie films, is to offer the rotting horde a tasty and well-cooked dinner. And what better repast is there for the horrible creatures than Baked Brains and Eggs? Of course, you'll need a lot of frozen brains on standby, but these will defrost while the undead are vainly trying to figure how to break into the house. Here's the recipe (taken from 1931's stupendously exhaustive The Joy of Cooking, written by Irma S Rombauer. Suffice to say that if you ever come into the possession of a porcupine or a woodchuck, this book tells you how to cook 'em. More about the book here.)

1) Preheat oven to 350 (degrees Fahrenheit, I presumes).

2) Soak, skin and blanch two sets of brains (or however many you feel you need).

3) Cut into one-inch dice and place in four small greased casseroles.

4) Skin, seed and dice four tomatoes.

5) Combine the tomatoes with one and a half tbls of hot olive oil, one tsp chopped parsley, one tsp of chopped onion or chives, salt, paprika, and one tsp of brown sugar. 

6) Pour these ingredients into the casseroles.

7) Break into each one egg.

8) Bake for about eight minutes, or until the eggs are firm.

9) Melt and brown lightly one-quarter of a cup of butter and mix with two tsps of lemon juice. 10) Pour this mixture over the eggs.

11) Garnish with parsley.

12) Serve at once (not really a problem if the hungry dead are beating down your door!)

Of course, a huge plate of raw, steaming offal would probably satisfy the more crude and uncouth zombie (and any inebriated Irishmen who'd joined the horde by accident), but the beauty of this dish is that you can partake of it yourself if needs be (not that I've ever eaten brains, in black butter or served any other way). And, of course, while the dead are wolfing down their dinner and snarling at each other for grabbing the last tasty portion, you can heft your trusty pickaxe and bury it in the skulls of the awful creatures. It may not be the best manners to kill your guests while they're eating, but they are zombies!

And for something completely different, I'm not sure why I like this song (by a performer who I know nothing about) so much, but I can't seem to get it out of my head (and it has a very clever video).

Doubtful Crumpling

[The following is the introduction to a new blog I've started, titled " ... but what about the noise of crumpling paper ... " (ever the soul of brevity!). Writing about music is something that I've always wanted to do, but I don't feel that A Doubtful Egg is the forum in which to do it (ADE is more a smorgasbord-style culture blog). I also feel that, as writing doesn't come easily to me, I may as well put the effort into serious study rather than darting from one topic to the other like a gadfly (not that there's anything wrong with doing so - some of my favourite blogs do precisely that - but it's not for me). I'll still post some Doubtful stuff on occasion, but the main focus of my energies will be elsewhere. The following is the first post at the new blog, which explains what it is I'm trying to do. If you're interested in reading more, there's a link in my 'fresh eggs' blog list.]

“But what about the noise of crumpling paper which he used to do in order to paint the series of ‘papiers froissés’ or tearing up paper to make ‘papiers déchirées’? Arp was stimulated by the water (sea, lake and flowing waters like rivers), forests.” From a letter by Greta Ströh to John Cage, later used as a title for a piece of music by Cage (The Roaring Silence, David Revill, p. 277)

Ah, the burning shame of ignorance, in not knowing what froissés or déchirées, words which I’m sure are entirely familiar to the elegantly educated, actually mean. (Although, thanks to the interweb, all will be revealed as soon as I finish typing this...) But my ignorance extends in other directions, a vast, turbid sea of unknowing, and particularly in regards to my most beloved of art forms, music. In this blog, I intend to focus primarily on something I know a little bit about―contemporary composition and improvised music , as these interest me the most―and to try and give a mention to Irish practitioners of the same. Over the past twenty-something years I’ve spent quite a lot of my time slouched in front of a set of speakers as strange, unsettling sounds roared or whooshed or bleeped around me, while varying sets of housemates raised eyebrows, and I have a deep-seated urge to write about some of those delightful aural concoctions. However, I lack what one may describe as gravitas in this field; my musical education has been scattershot, preferential, and constrained by both time and budget, so my opinions are based solely on how a particular piece affects me rather than by its relation to others (or, to put it another way, I may praise a concerto to the skies and bestow my eternal gratitude to its composer for its creation, only for a more well-versed soul to point out that it is a pale imitation of Alphonse Beansprout’s magnum opus, Frankenstein’s Bicycle, or whatever (although such information is more than welcome!).) I view it as a kind of education in public (theoretically speaking, of course, as there’s no guarantee anyone will read these meanderings) where I listen to, research, and then write about, pieces of music that interest me, in the hope of encouraging others to seek them out. I chose the above title for my blog because, firstly, I like music produced from such unorthodox sources as crumpled paper; secondly, I am a great admirer of John Cage, who I feel is one of the most important figures in twentieth century art; and thirdly, I imagine I’m going to be crumpling a lot of paper as I struggle to write material for this blog (picture the hoary old cliché of a steel-mesh office bin surrounded by furiously crushed balls of paper, and an unshaven writer reaching angrily for a bottle of rough grain spirits). As to what I’ll be writing about: if the following performance puts steam in your engine, then this blog may interest you; if you reel back from your computer clutching your ears and muttering, “There is no God!”, then perhaps you may find satisfaction elsewhere. Enjoy!

An Outrage

This petition for Roman Polanski makes me want to vomit:

"We have learned the astonishing news of Roman Polanski’s arrest by the Swiss police on September 26th, upon arrival in Zurich (Switzerland) while on his way to a film festival where he was due to receive an award for his career in filmmaking. His arrest follows an American arrest warrant dating from 1978 against the filmmaker, in a case of morals. Filmmakers in France, in Europe, in the United States and around the world are dismayed by this decision. It seems inadmissible to them that an international cultural event, paying homage to one of the greatest contemporary filmmakers, is used by the police to apprehend him. By their extraterritorial nature, film festivals the world over have always permitted works to be shown and for filmmakers to present them freely and safely, even when certain States opposed this. The arrest of Roman Polanski in a neutral country, where he assumed he could travel without hindrance, undermines this tradition: it opens the way for actions of which no one can know the effects. Roman Polanski is a French citizen, a renown and international artist now facing extradition. This extradition, if it takes place, will be heavy in consequences and will take away his freedom. Filmmakers, actors, producers and technicians—everyone involved in international filmmaking—want him to know that he has their support and friendship. On September 16th, 2009, Mr. Charles Rivkin, the US Ambassador to France, received French artists and intellectuals at the embassy. He presented to them the new Minister Counselor for Public Affairs at the embassy, Ms Judith Baroody. In perfect French she lauded the Franco-American friendship and recommended the development of cultural relations between our two countries."

Here are some of the non-French signatories: 

Woody Allen, Pedro Almodovar, Terry Gilliam, Martin Scorcese, David Lynch, Jonathan Demme, Tilda Swinton, John Landis, Michael Mann, Wong Kar Wai, and Wim Wenders.

The full list (of over 100) is here. Looks like a lot of filmmakers believe there's one law for the little people, and one for themselves... 

Update: I was wondering why the US had decided to arrest him now, then I read this. If you want your crimes to be forgotten, it might be unwise to have a sycophantic film made about them...

Them Bleedin' Cuss Words

[This post is rather long, and contains a lot of swear words, albeit used in a context of analysis (if you wish to call it that) rather than for shock value or any other reason. However, if these words offend you greatly, please avoid. None of the following is particularly original either, but the opinions are ones that I've been casually musing about for some time now. All comments, whether yea or nay, are welcome.]

Part 1

I've been thinking a lot recently about language, and swearing in particular. Or whatever you want to call it: cursing, vulgar/foul/bad/coarse/obscene language, four-letter words, expletives, profanity, et cetera. Essentially, I mean words derived from bodily parts or functions, which are unlikely to be used on children's TV or in a church sermon. Such words are commonplace in our society these days, and tend to proliferate in certain circles of the Irish bloggoverse like nettles. Some people dislike them, while others seem to feel that liberally peppering the stew of your speech with them cuss words is part of what makes us so wonderfully irreverent and down to earth. It's also tied up in class consciousness; the working classes swear because they are coarse, earthy and vulgar (but also loveable and unpretentious) while the middle classes don't because they're prissy, snooty and repressed, and have Hyacinth Bouquet style delusions of respectability. It ties into this peculiar horror that so many Irish people have of being seen to be "above" yourself, and that being impolite, brusque and oafish (the Michael O'Leary School of Etiquette) means that you're somehow in touch with the common man and feel no need to put on "airs and graces". I once had an argument with an English English teacher (as in a woman from England who taught English) that the reason that a lot of Irish people swear so much is because they subconsciously wish to deform the language of their oppressors. I do swear myself on occasion, and used to quite liberally when I worked in catering, but then everyone did - it was a way of getting through the evening in a very pressurised, hot, and crowded environment. I try not to now, for reasons that I will go through anon.

I was in work recently and half-listening to two people nearby chatting about this and that, when I started to notice that one, a middle-aged guy, was swearing continuously. But not in a dramatic or emphatic fashion - he wasn't discussing a stirring event in his life - but as ever-present and utterly pointless adjectives. "So I went down to the f****n shop to buy a f****n paper, right, and I met this f****n guy I knew..." and so on and so on. I found that it began to bother me, because it coloured his entire discourse with an ugliness which was both unpleasant to listen to and wholly extraneous. Of course, if I had said this he probably would have retorted "What are you talking about?" (or, more likely, "What the f*** are you talking about?"). The following is my response (a rather excessive example of l'esprit d'escalier, methinks!).

Part 2

Obviously, there are times when swearing is entirely justified. For example, you are out in your dusty garden shed reaching for the shovel when you accidentally fall against the rickety leg of your workbench, and the entire structure collapses, bombarding you with paint tins, bottles, boxes of nails, and other sundry junk before a two-litre drum of creosote you hadn't sealed properly bursts open and pours all over you like a tarry, glutinous shampoo. You stumble to your feet like an extra from Dawn of the Dead and lurch out the door of the shed, trip over the aforementioned shovel, and fall headlong on to your future mother-in-law's Pekinese, which has just trotted into your yard to alert you of the arrival of your fiancee's parents, who've held you in contempt ever since you fell in their door blind drunk one night and threw up on their expensive imported carpet. Glued to you by the creosote, the Pekinese begins to howl like the damned as you try to yank it off your person, and when you do finally dislodge the horrid brute it is with such violence that it hits your mother-in-law's gleamingly white and very expensive trouser-suit like a sticky and wailing cannonball. At this point, it is perfectly acceptable to exclaim: "Oh, bollocks!" However, I dislike excessive (or what you might call wallpaper) swearing for a number of reasons, and it especially bugs me when people write it down.

Let us first put to bed that curious notion, espoused by people who support excessive swearing as being wonderful in every way, that they're only words. This shows a fundamental (and self-serving) misunderstanding of language: words are never "just" words. Words represent real things, and can possess enormous power. If you doubt this, fly over to London and take the tube to Brixton, walk up to the nearest black guy in the street and ask directions to Coldharbour Lane, ending your request with the N-word. You will very quickly discover, as a large and angry mob forms around you, that words can get you injured or even killed. Or, for those not adept at outrunning an enraged mob, call your wife/girlfriend/partner a "c**t" or "b***h" casually, in conversation, and see if she minds (perhaps I'm out of touch with the kids of today, but it's my experience that a lot of women have a problem with these particular epithets if directed at them). Or, on a more highbrow level, I remember reading once that the poet and concentration-camp survivor Paul Celan never once used the German word for "race" (as in ethnicity rather than athletics) in any of his poetry, due to its associations with Nazi ideology. Words can be very powerful indeed, which is all the more reason to treat them with respect...

Part 3

Here are some of the reasons why I have come to dislike excessive swearing.

1) Swearing is essentially coarse; these words, derived from bodily functions, are designed to be rough and unpleasant to the ear. I never use the word "f***" in its traditional sense; I would always say "slept with" or just "was with". But in general I feel that both sex and the toilet, from which all swear words originate, are fundamentally private things that should only be discussed with your nearest and dearest (or a doctor if needs be). I'm definitely not a prude as regards bodily functions, which neither bother me nor interest me, but I certainly do not wish to have my attention drawn to those of others. Why should I? They are messy, noisome, and best kept out of sight (especially if you're one of these overfed oafs who boast about the size and effort involved in your bowel movements, as if it's an defining part of your masculinity). My partner was at Electric Picnic last year and was both surprised and disgusted by the amount of Irish guys who'd whip out the chap and urinate in public, often right in front of her. Her point was that it's unhygienic, pungent, thoughtless and ignorant. I believe this view is shared by a lot of people, especially women (who tend to be more circumspect in these matters for obvious reasons), so surely common courtesy (seemingly a foreign concept in this brutish land) should dictate that you try to avoid offending people's sensibilities needlessly. Of course, in the privacy of their own homes (or on their blogs) people can roar on all day and all night about what comes out of them, urinate in their kitchen floors, and frame their turds on the mantelpiece if they wish, but in public such behaviour (or discussion of it) is entirely unnecessary.

2) It's more often than not entirely extraneous. Most swear words that you hear in public are not being used to describe what they were intended to describe; when they are not being used abusively, they are used as a pointless substitute for other words. "I was going down the f****** shops and I stepped in this f****** s*** that got all over my f****** shoe. Some c*** of a dog had done a s*** right there..." And so forth. What do these words add to this sentence? Nothing. They don't make it more colourful or exciting or dramatic, but they do make it uglier. And isn't the world ugly and brutish enough? Listen, if you will, to the following video.

I get very tired of Connolly's continuous use of the word "f***", primarily because his material is so weak that it comes across as a desperate attempt by a self-impressed but uninspired comedian to make himself sound edgy and outrageous. You're part of the Establishment now, Billy, so stop pretending you're an angry young man! Swearing, for da yoof, is a way of showing how unconcerned you are with social mores; like smoking, getting wrecked on cider, and listening to [fill in the blank yourself here] it's thumbing your nose at respectability, and demonstrating how much of a rebel you are. And I would also say that, for a lot of people, prefixing words with "f*****" has become a habit, in the same way that teenage girls will say "I was so, like, annoyed with..." (or whatever). But in addition to being extraneous, it also adds a strong sense of aggression to his performance, one of the other things I dislike about swearing. If I can once again test your patience, watch the following Connolly video (back when he was a lot funnier):

I remember that at one stage I had a temperamental video player, which would most often act up when I'd fallen in from work in the middle of the night and wanted nothing more than to watch something I'd taped earlier to chill out. I'd pop the cassette into the machine, and it'd spit it out. I'd pop the cassette into the machine, and it'd spit it out. I'd pop the cassette into the machine, and it'd spit it out. I'd pop the cassette into the machine, and it'd spit it out. This could happen up to thirty times before it'd accept the tape. By this stage I was gibbering and screaming like a psychotic on steroids, shrieking foul-mouthed abuse at this infuriating piece of equipment. It was therapeutic, though, and better than breaking the bloody thing. However, as said before, it points to a key feature of swearing: it is often an accompaniment to heightened passions, especially aggression. If you watch a film like GoodFellas or Glengarry Glen Ross (the scene with Alec Baldwin in particular) it's clear how the non-stop swearing is a major factor in increasing the film's underlying sense of threat and anger, the way it is used as a non-physical form of violence. Watch the following, and see how the swearing increases the temperature of this rather odd scene:

I hate confrontation, dislike raising my voice, and view argument as a way of pleasantly discussing ideas rather than competitively scoring points off the other person. But a problem arises when swearing is used continually, especially in writing. Not all swearing is meant aggressively, but without facial or other cues it can come across as unnecessarily belligerent and confrontational. This may be your intent - you may be a belligerent and confrontational person, whose idea of debate is shouting your opponent down with insults rather than dealing with the substance of their argument - but I certainly find it wearing. Too often "belligerent and confrontational" can mean "bullying and abusive"! But it also has the effect of diminishing the power of anything serious that a person writes, by reducing the impression that they are in control of their emotions and transforming their argument into a rant. And I am so tired of reading rants! Some bloggers obviously believe that it makes them sound uncompromising and hard-hitting, that it adds to the force and immediacy of their writing, but I would argue that it does the opposite. A quiet, calm, controlled voice always carries more gravitas in an argument than the swearing ranter! Of course, as said earlier, the occasional swear word, judiciously inserted, can pack quite a punch, but an unremitting barrage just becomes tiresome. Brian Aldiss once compared horror to salt: wonderful as a seasoning, but indigestible as a banquet. The same applies to swearing, in my opinion. Unless you're the sort of person who believes that statements like "Brian Cowen is a fat c***" are the height of political satire, this kind of abusive, foul-mouthed "commentary as entertainment" (a phrase I heard on the radio recently) comes across as diatribes pandering to an immature audience rather than being the challenging, daring analysis their creators imagine them to be. And, as I said before, isn't the world ugly enough, that we should try and avoid making it uglier with our language?

5) At this stage one one may hear the phrase "freedom of speech" come looming into view. "Why shouldn't I be free to say whatever I want?" shouts the inveterate swearer. Well, bearing in mind that you're not free to say whatever you want - make a slur on a public figure without facts to back it up and m'learned friends will give you an expensive demonstration of this - there is also the question, as I said earlier, of simple courtesy. I'm not saying that people should be prohibited from swearing by law, but that in a public place the hoary old concept of respect for others should be exercised. In the same way that a person shouldn't play their stereo too loud in an apartment, because those living downstairs have a right to peace and quiet, so a thoughtful person shouldn't swear in public, because people who dislike swearing should not have to listen to it. Seeing as swearing is, as pointed out above, usually extraneous to conversation in any case, this shouldn't be too hard. In my case, I would never swear in front of strangers or children, and try to avoid using such language altogether unless the person I'm with approves of it. It's not prissy, or prudish, or repressed, nor am I embued with a "superstitious" fear of certain words. I just believe in good manners, in trying to use language properly, and I'm sorry to say that this is a concept upon which a lot of my countrymen (and women) seem to place no value.

Venting Some Spleen: Yet Another Rant About Ireland, Saying Nothing That Hasn't Already Been Said Elsewhere, But With An Amusing Song At The End...

(The following is a short and rather unfocused rant brought on by depression at the current situation in Ireland. Please disregard if you're not in the mood and skip straight to the song at the end, which is entirely unrelated!) 

Reading about the John O'Donoghue expenses scandal recently (for those of you from abroad, O'Donoghue is a senior member of Fianna Fail, our governing party, who racked up an outrageously extravagant expenses bill over several years when a minor minister during the Celtic Tiger era), I am disgusted, but also surprised that anyone would be surprised by this. I mean, what did the Irish electorate expect to happen if they put a bunch of venal, irresponsible, arrogant chancers into office and give them carte blanche with their expenses? It was in 2006 when O'Donoghue took the now-notorious trip on the government jet to a constituency function (details here), and I can't imagine that he hid this fact as he was slapping backs and shaking hands in Kerry that night. Yet they weren't concerned with this staggering waste of taxpayers' money; instead, they voted him back into office the following year. In fact, he got 23% of the vote, the highest of all the candidates in his constituency. Or, if you want to despair, read this. 

It has been clear since the 1980s that Fianna Fail are the most corrupt, gombeen-ridden, unprincipled party in this country, who already bankrupted the state once with their reckless policies, yet it's only when the biggest bubble in Irish history inevitably collapsed that quite a lot of people have suddenly realised that electing such people to manage things in the first place might not be sensible. Where was the anger before? How come practically every FF minister topped the poll in the 2007 general election? Since the days of Charles Haughey, the most contemptible politician this country has produced so far, Fianna Fail have never greatly disguised their corruption and cronyism. When FF bigwigs were yakking it up with property developers in the VIP tent at the Galway Races, where were the protests? Where was the righteous fury then? The leader of the party was himself under investigation for extremely dodgy transactions, which later forced his resignation (when he wasn't recommending that people who weren't happy with the economy should commit suicide), yet a substantial proportion of his constituents, and the nation at large, didn't seem to care. If there was ever an international prize for Closing The Door After The Horse Has Bolted, the Irish should be a shoo-in. And it seems unlikely, with NAMA poised to screw the country for the foreseeable future (the last act of the Great Property Swindle, as it were), that anything is going to change. "If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face ... for ever." So said George Orwell in 1984. Well, if you want to see the future of Ireland, replace the boot with a golf shoe, picture the likes of Seanie FitzPatrick and Bertie Ahern doing the stamping, and the face as that of a mentally ill homeless guy, and you might be closer to the truth. Except there'll be some red-faced, big-bellied local in the background defending the politician: "Shure, he's a great fella all the same, hasn't he been great for the local people? So what if he kicked a homeless guy to death for the fun of it? Twas just a bit o' craic, like? It's all them Dublin media types pickin' on him!" And so on and on and on...

My apologies for this rant, but I'm so depressed and angry about what's happening in this poisoned little country that it is at times hard to think straight ... In fact, I feel better after getting that off my chest, and to apologise for that splenetic eructation, here's a song that makes me chuckle:

An Update

In my last-but-one post, I wrote about a stained glass window in a church in Wexford which still displays a dedication made by Ireland's most notorious paedophile priest, and I mentioned that I had written to the bishop of Wexford, from whom I still await a proper reply. Now, obviously the bishop is a very busy man, but I did hear him on the radio during the week exhorting everyone to pray to God for an end to the recent rain, as it's causing great (and justified) worry to local farmers. I don't really see the point of this, seeing as God regularly fails to heed the prayers of, say, the parents of terminally sick children, but each to their own, I suppose. (I am reminded of a line in that awful film The Island, where Steve Buscemi says: "Well, you know when you want something really bad and you close your eyes and you wish for it? God's the guy that ignores you.") And for something related to that, here's a song. 

An Amusement (XVIX)

The picture below (all captions refer to the pictures below them, by the way) was taken by pointing the camera at the back seat of the car without looking or checking the settings, so it's wildly overexposed, but I like it anyway.

Taken (by my partner) near the entrance to the woods in Courtown, and yes, I know it's a bit of a cliche, but it's still an interesting image.

This one's for you, Stan...

All distance is relative...

Another fine day out in County Wexford...

One Of Those "No Way" Moments (III)

A friend of mine recommended that I should visit the parish church in Ballymurn if I wanted to see something rather surprising. So off I went one fine day, and while wandering about the inside of the church I noticed a modern stained-glass window behind the balcony (pictured above). However, my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and shattered the glass when I saw the dedication on the left window (pictured below).

As is well known, Fr. Sean Fortune was a Catholic priest and serial child rapist who killed himself in 1999, before his trial for multiple counts of child abuse against 29 victims. A documentary, Suing the Pope, which was devoted entirely to his monstrous activities and the role of the Church in covering them up, was broadcast in 2002 by the BBC. Yet seven years later, and ten years after he killed himself, the dedication is still there (as of two weeks ago, when I photographed it). To me, it beggars belief that the people in the parish would not have demanded its removal, and boycotted the church until this was done. How difficult would it be to simply paint over it with opaque red paint, if they can't afford to remove the actual pane? I mean, would an Austrian church keep a window with a very visible dedication from Josef Fritzl on display? Or a Cheshire church keep one from Harold Shipman? Just what is wrong with this country that the name of a notorious predatory paedophile can adorn the window of a church, and nobody cares enough to have it removed? Here's a description of Fr. Fortune's behaviour in Ballymurn, from The Sunday Business Post in 2005 (full article here):

So, despite the numerous complaints and warning signs over the previous years [in Ferns], Fortune was allowed to make a full-time return to parish life in September 1989, when he was appointed to the Co Wexford village of Ballymurn ... As part of the job, he was appointed chairman of the board of management of Ballymurn National School, and gave classes in religious instruction in the Bridgetown VEC. Serious problems arose during Fortune's time in Ballymurn. Complaints were made in 1991 by a number of parents about the content of religious classes given by Fortune. They said he encouraged children to tell lewd jokes, used sexually inappropriate language and "asked prurient questions while hearing confessions". When confronted once again by [Bishop] Comiskey, Fortune vehemently denied the allegations. He was forced to leave his VEC position in 1991, but remained as curate and on the primary school board until December 1995, at the nomination of Comiskey. “He also continued to give classes there until he was arrested by the gardai in March 1995,” said the report.

Curiously, the offending panel has been airbrushed out in the church's official website, seen here. (There's no link to the exact page, but click on 'Photo gallery', then 'Ballymurn Church', and it's the last picture in the row). I wrote a letter to the bishop of Wexford recently about this and, while I received a reply from his secretary, I am still awaiting his response. The following is the text of the letter (I won't publish the bishop's reply as it would be discourteous, for I didn't inform him that I have a blog when I sent the message).

Dear Bishop Brennan, I was recently in the church in Ballymurn and found it to be well maintained and very interesting, especially the Meyer of Munich stained glass window. However, I was extremely surprised - shocked may be more appropriate - to see there a modern window containing the inscription "Dedicated by Fr. Sean Fortune 31st Oct. 1993." I was curious as to whether there are any plans to replace this with glass which doesn't contain the name of this ... well, it is hard to think of a phrase that one would use in civilised company to describe him, frankly. Omnium bipedum nequissimus, I think. (I notice that the offending phrase has been airbrushed from the photo of the window on the parish website.) Although I am not a practising Catholic, I feel that from a community - indeed, from a human - viewpoint, to have the name of this person on display is grossly inappropriate. I was wondering what your feelings are on this matter. [The Latin phrase translates as "Of all two-footed creatures the worst".]

An Amusement (XVIII)

A Doubtful Egg is on holidays. Please feel free to browse through the archive, and if you find anything that interests you, let me know. I'll be back in a couple of weeks. Here's a suitably themed video.

A Deleted Scene from "Oldboy"

[Warning: The following contains major spoilers for the film Oldboy (in fact, it reveals the whole plot) so don't read unless you've seen it]

A deleted scene from Oldboy

Revenge-obsessed villain (ROV) and evil henchman (EH) are seen sitting in ROV's office.

ROV: Remember that guy who spread the rumour that I was doing my sister in school? The one that made her commit suicide?

EH: Yeah, I do. (To himself:) You dirty bastard...

ROV: Well, I want to get him for that. I settle his hash alright.

EH: So what d'ye want me to do? Get a few of the lads, drive the guy down to the warehouse, and torture the shit out of him? That'll learn him!

ROV (shaking his head): No, no, no. That's too simple. I want his family to suffer too.

EH (getting visibly excited): We'll kidnap his kid and kill her in front of him, then torture him too! That'll really learn him!

ROV: Oh, EH. (Shakes head ruefully) You just don't see the big picture ... Here's what we'll do. We'll kidnap the guy and toss him into a room for 15 years. Then we'll hypnotise him so that when he gets out, he'll sleep with his own daughter. But we won't tell him why he's been shut away for 15 years, so he has to find out for himself, like a detective. Then, when he's discovered everything, he'll be destroyed and I'll shoot myself! Brilliant, eh?

EH: (Stunned silence.)

ROV (imperiously): Well, what do you think!

EH: Oh, it's fantastic, pure genius! There's no way I'd ever think up anything like that. So we'll lock the guy in a room for 15 years - wait, won't he be horribly weakened and disturbed after 15 years of solitary confinement? Like, if you let him out on the street you'll be lucky if he makes it ten feet before collapsing. He'll need months in hospital and a team of psychiatrists to get him over it! 

ROV: He'll be fine. We'll keep an eye on him while he's locked up. 

EH: But 15 years in a single room with no sunlight and eating nothing but dumplings will destroy his constitution. An infection, or even a single dodgy dumpling, could kill him!

ROV: He's strong; he'll be fine!

EH: But when he gets out, even if he's not horribly weakened and psychologically unable to function, he'll be incredibly disorientated. What if he gets run over by a truck, or falls down a flight of stairs, or gets killed by a mugger? That's 15 years of planning down the toilet, isn't it? 

ROV: I'm getting a bit tired of all these objections.

EH: And it'll cost you a fortune. You'll have to pay for his kid's upbringing and to keep this guy locked up (and what if she dies before the 15 years are up? Or turns out to be a lesbian? What if he's impotent after all that time?) And what if the guy's too thick to figure out the mystery? You'll just have to go in and tell him, which'll spoil the mood. What if you die before he gets out? You going to leave him a letter?

ROV: Shut up.

EH: Isn't it an incredibly roundabout way of getting revenge? Why not just shoot the guy? I mean, the guy gets out after 15 years and you tell him he's just slept with his daughter, right. And he could say: "Hell, that kid wasn't mine; my wife had an affair with the postman. Me and the wife had a long talk, and decided to keep the baby and raise it as our own." Or he could say: "Oh, that's horrible, but after being locked up for 15 years I'm not really bothered." And when you go on about how awful what he's done is, he'll just say "Oh great, lectures on morality from the guy who slept with his own sister! Pot and kettle, huh?" You really don't know how he'll react after all that time.

ROV: Shut up!

EH: Alright, alright; you're the boss. (Stands up to leave, muttering to himself:) Oddball...

ROV (puts feet up on his desk, and opens a box of Blue Dragon dumplings): Ah, dumplings! The perfect side dish for .... revenge! Now to listen to the radio. (Turns on the radio, which plays the following song. A frown crosses his face...)

Giant Wasp Terrorises Small Irish Village

The sleepy hamlet of Ballygombeen was thrown into chaos today by the appearance of a gigantic wasp, which flew over the village and devoured several citizens before noon today. The army, which would normally deal with such monstrous insects, was unable to respond as all military vehicles in the province were being used by government ministers to protect themselves from enraged constituents. "I don't know which is worse, An Bord Snip Nua or this," quipped one unemployed builder as the wasp partially demolished the roof of his house while seeking victims to feed upon. Local GAA players pelted the beast with sliothars to no avail, and it was only when the Holy Stump of Rathkeale was rushed to Ballygombeen in a white Hiace van that the enormous bug fled. It is speculated that the wasp was part of a publicity stunt that went horribly wrong, and locals are already blaming Bono, for no reason other than that nobody can stand him. 

[Some of the above may be lies. Thanks to my partner of taking and altering the photo above on her fancy new camera.]