I had an apartment on the outskirts of London with a balcony that overlooked an office block and its ground level car park. More accurately, I could see the offices when proximal Whitebeam trees had shed their leaves. The office block and car park was empty for a few years until reopening under the flags of third level education. This was part of a British education initiative that delayed school leavers from entering the ranks of the unemployed while earning serious money from foreign students taking their studies in English.
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I Told You
‘Dúirt mé leat go raibh mé breoite’ is Spike Milligan’s epitaph. ‘I told you I was ill’ are the enduring words that recall his death in 2002, except they are as Gaeilge.
‘A Úachtaráin agus a chairde’ said Queen Elizabeth II in Dublin, at a State Dinner in her honour in Dublin Castle in 2011. It was hosted by the President of Ireland, Mary McAleese and that’s why the visiting monarch opened saying ‘President and friends’.
Martina Devlin has a story in today’s Independent that is quite surreal. It’s about an Irish language epitaph on a headstone that has been blocked in the UK. ‘In ár gcroíthe go deo’ which means ‘In our hearts forever’, would seem to be at risk of persisting ‘in our courts forever’.
The head of the Anglican Church spoke in Irish without translation and yet, her ecclesiastical courts have consistently ruled that Margaret Keane’s epitaph in Irish must be translated to avoid misinterpretation.
If I was a UK citizen in Northern Ireland, I would see this as an insult. I would treat this as an affront, a direct insult to me, to liberalism and to freedom of expression. I’m not a UK citizen and I’m pretty worked up about it because there is a history of mistrust. Like a natural resource of enmity and bile, this Anglican Church appears to mine a seam of bitterness and bring confrontations to the surface. One could say it suggests that the society the Anglican prelates represent are sliding back towards medieval if not authoritarian thinking.
It’s a disgrace that the Church of England should deny Irish speakers of British citizenship the right to express themselves in their own language. It’s antediluvian and harks back to the worst of Victorian memories when the poorest of British subjects in Ireland were allowed starve to death else forced to emigrate. It’s hard to prove causation or understand the 1840s imperial thinking but some argue that it was helpful to reduce the numbers of subsistence farmers, that it was a necessary step towards clearing the lands so that agricultural practices could be modernised. Some have said that Stalin learned from this program in creating the Holodomor of the 1930s.
A chairde, words matter and their language matters too.
Movember Again
It’s the middle(ish) of November and so it’s Movember again. Male sports is once again a showcase for the annual 70’s pornstar moustache revival. I used to do Movember fund raising when I had the enthusiasm that you get after you or someone close has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. Now I prefer to publicise the risks of cancer. I prefer to encourage men to have an annual screening specifically for prostate cancer.
Prostate Cancer Kills
I heard today that English goalkeeping legend Ray Clemence has died. Now, I’m not a big football fan despite growing up with compulsive enthusiasms for the top English leagues. While I’ve always preferred rugby, years in America taught me that any sport can catch your imagination and act as a gateway to a new culture. I learned that baseball is more pointless than cricket, that American Football is seriously bad for your health and that to watch basketball, is to see how evolution works, but more slowly.
Seeking a hopeful note in a journal on cancer (from this date 2014).
Clearer Tones
It’s the consonants that give meaning to language. In fact, it’s the impediments to our breath that give sense to what passes for speech.
Liquid Amber Maple Cherry
Food Insufficiency
I’m not sure why a trawler and a lighthouse on the horizon made me think of an allotment. But my mind drifted to sustainable food production while we were enjoying a sunrise walk along Dun Laoghaire pier this morning. The allotment in question was somewhere in Kent. I only remember it because of the conversation about North of England trophy fishing I had with a man who was planting potatoes in his well tended section. We talked about other things too. Unusual things like farming and wineries near Otago. And The Knowledge, the legendary taxi driver test in London.