Meeting John McGahern

Almost exactly about this time 13 years ago, early in April:
Why not meeting halfway, he had suggested; at Blake's in Enniskillen.

So, on a bright and sunny (Satur-) day arriving in Enniskillen. Oh, what a wonderful world! Eleven years ago, summer '85: Each of the few noises reechoing; a voice here, a pair of stilettos there; at least one person sitting in each of the few cars parking in the main road.
Today: spring in the air, spring in the faces; no one sitting in the long row of parked cars, reading a newspaper. A cheerful laughter here, no supicious glances at the stranger with the strange bag. What a difference!

Blake's of the Hollow. He's not arrived, yet. After a while, I decide to rather wait in front of the entrance, enjoying the sun and - the very difference.
"May I leave my camera-bag?" - "There's no bomb in it, eh?" Laughingly the barkeeper nods, takes the bag.

Waiting. Waiting. For Godot? No. For John McGahern. Here he comes.

Two pints of Guinness, some sandwiches and two pots of tea later - apart from his work - we'd have talked about: history; many of his colleagues; the (then) political situation; abortion; the (ab)use of language, censorship, the Church.

At one stage he says: "One of the best things in my life so far has been to see the Church's influence fading."
"Well, I remember f.e. that [in autumn 1990] especially in rural western areas quite a few priests would call upon their flock by no means to vote for Mary Robinson becoming President."
"And, did it keep the majority from electing her?"
"Still, ...
"Still?"
"And you think that's irreversible?"
"Yes."
"Hm, that's what Gorbatchov said about Glasnost and Perestroika."
"Never again was said after the Holocaust, too, and still we are having our Srebrenicas and Rwandas. Yes. But we should never give up hope."

"Is that your Message to the Irish People?"
"À la Seán MacBride?" And again there is this tiny almost imperceptible smile.

And so we are going to talk about MacBride's 'testimony', finally coming to chapter 11 - Criminal Neglect of Forestry.
"Ah, yes, forestry", he says, raises his arm and asks the waiter to bring us another pot of tea.

Why would I've told this? Well, today three years ago John McGahern died.
Died?
Not really, hm?
You can meet him every day - in his books.

Oh well ... and whenever striving through his forest.

O Fortuna

As the originally posted video (bottom of this page) is no longer available, here's Carmina Burana in full length performed by UC Davis University Chorus, Alumni Chorus, Symphony Orchestra, and the Pacific Boychoir.
For those who like to take the time: Lean back and enjoy.

Made in Dingle

How do they know?

Your result for The 3 Variable Funny Test...

the Prankster

(48% dark, 27% spontaneous, 16% vulgar)

your humor style:
CLEAN | COMPLEX | LIGHT



Your humor has an intellectual, even conceptual slant to it. You're not pretentious, but you're not into what some would call 'low humor' either. You'll laugh at a good dirty joke, but you definitely prefer something clever to something moist.

You probably like well-thought-out pranks and/or spoofs and it's highly likely you've tried one of these things yourself. In a lot of ways, yours is the most entertaining type of humor because it's smart without being mean-spirited.


PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Conan O'Brian - Ashton Kutcher





The 3-Variable Funny Test!
- it rules -

Take The 3 Variable Funny Test at HelloQuizzy

H/t to The Poor Mouth

The Ode is not yet composed

He's still 20 years younger than John Major, I am still 28 years younger than Maggie Thatcher, only the proportional relation between our ages has changed a bit.

Happy birthday, Jams!

Wishing the best of Omnium which is - as everbody knows - everything!

As Tetrapilotomos hasn't finished his novel In-climbing-two-cats, yet, and McSeanagall is still composing his Ode to the Poor Mouth, and as no Third Policeman was available on you tube, here's to you, with kind regards from Flann himself.







And now, dear readers, head over to Mr. Jams O'Donnell Esq., as herewith I declare the bazaar for congratulations opened.

Welcome in the summertime!

The Impossible Fact (Variation 02)

This morning while in fact busy with proofreading his 1669-pages-work "Pre-assyrian philately in a Nutshell" my closest friend Tetrapilotomos out of the blue declaimed following poem.
Listening I had a déjà vu.

Not only did it sound to me like a variation on a poem by Christian Morgenstern, but this time also as but a tiny variation on a poem by a certain McSeanagall.

Anyway, here it is:

The Impossible Fact

BiffO, used to rule and live in clover,
walking in the wrong direction
at a busy intersection
is run over.

"How," he says, his mood restoring
but without his wrath ignoring,
"can an accident like this
ever happen? What's amiss?

"Did RTE's administration
fail in free speech's deprivation?
Did police ignore the need
for reducing bloggers' speed?

"Isn't there a prohibition,
barring internet transmission
of a mighty to a wight?
Were the nasty bloggers right?"

Tightly swathed in dampened tissues
he explores the legal issues,
and his lackeys soon make clear:
Free speech not permitted here!

Thus BiffO comes to the conclusion:
His mishap was an illusion,
for, he reasons pointedly,
that which must not, can not be.

© McSeanagall

Omnium re Cowengate / Picturegate:

The Taoiseach's New Clothes

The Taoiseach's New Clothes II

Brian, Borges & Bioy

Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?

Physiognomy of fine gentlemen

Physiognomy of fine gentlemen

Following what some Irish would call picturegate, this afternoon a thought crossed my mind: This could become Usmanov-esque dimensions*.

Could have something to do with physiognomy.

Judge yourself.

Alisher Usmanov

Brian Cowen

Amazing, hm?


* And here's Omnium about the Usmanov saga (in chronological order):

Audiatur et altera pars

The Impossible Fact

Not about Mr. Usmanov

Above Mr. Usmanov's dignity

A diamond of altruism


Omnium about Picturegate:

The Taoiseach's New Clothes

The Taoiseach's New Clothes II

Brian, Borges & Bioy

Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?

Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?

Help yourself

And here's the saga (so far):

The Taoiseach's New Clothes

The Taoiseach's New Clothes II

Brian, Borges & Bioy

POETF Day*

Oh, how do I admire
that James McIntyre.
And may I require,
I beg you, please!
the entire cheese -
to caress it with
my tender teeth.

[Mc Seanagall]

* Piss off early, tomorrow's Friday

Mirroring fluids/fruits of temptation

Cast a cold Eye
on Fruits & Fluids
Horseman, pass by!

How could I?

The peace of the night!

Brian, Borges & Bioy

To be immortal is commonplace; except for man, all creatures are immortal, for they are ignorant of death; what is divine, terrible, incomprehensible, is to know that one is immortal.

I am god, I am hero, I am philosopher, I am demon and I am world, which is a tedious way of saying that I do not exist.

Brian Cowen, Taoiseach, March 25th, 2009

Blimey!!!!!

No.

Sorry.

This was a certain Jorge Luis Borges, quoted by Mr. Chris God-free Morell who, by the way, has nothing to do with a certain Seňor Morel, protagonist in Seňor Adolfo Bioy Casares' novel "La invención de Morel".

Well, yes, Seňor Casares had something to do with Seňor Borges.

No, none of the seňores had anything to do with any Taoiseach.

P.S. Sorry for any inconvenience: First the title, then the story.

The Taoiseach's New Clothes II

"But he hasn't got anything on," a little child said.

"Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?" said its father. And one person whispered to another what the child had said, "He hasn't anything on. A child says he hasn't anything on."

"But he hasn't got anything on!" the whole town cried out at last.

The Taoiseach Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, "This procession has got to go on." So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn't there at all.

Why would I spontaneously come to think of Hans-Christian Andersen's tale The Emperor's New Clothes (a short version to be found here), and why is Andersen rotating with laughter in his dwelling six feet under?

Well, Brian Cowen, Ireland's Taoiseach (Prime Minister) may have shivered like Andersen's Emperor; and so may his entourage when watching this on RTE.



And why not? It's not necessarily great fun to get hit by the shifts of (ribald) satire. Ask Mohammed.
So far it's been a modern adaption of Andersen's tale, varying only in so far as there was no child saying "But he hasn't got anything on!" but a clever (?*) chap gracing the (toilet-) walls of two museums with drawings of a Taoiseach who hasn't got anything on.
*- I'll come back to this point.

But then:



Pardon?!
Pain for the Taoiseach and his family?
Did the Taoiseach get tortured in Guantanamo, in a Chinese, Iranian or Syrian prison? Waterboarding, and so on?
Disrespect of his office?!?!
Mind you, it's honourable to demonstrate or even feel pity with one's boss when he's getting mocked, but: Are there 'tea-shocking' paintings of the Taoiseach's naked entourage, be they with member or without, gracing the walls of Dublin's toilets?
Didn't RTE tell all?

End of the beforegoing.

When telling him the above, my friend Tetrapilotomos, currently busy with finishing his encyclopaedia of pre-assyrian philately, did not even look up, but just murmured: "And there are medical scientists still discussing when a human being is braindead."

As mostly I did not understand. Until I stumbled via the best Egg in the blogosphere upon this:

The Taoiseach's New Clothes
with thanks to Allan Cavanagh

... and this:

126 seconds artwork
with thanks to Fustar

... and Damien Mulley

... and many many others

... and ...

... who knows what will happen when Bock the Robber has finally moved to his new server ...


... to be continued.