2 October 2025

The complacent smirk on Netanyahu’s face at the press conference with Trump says it all about the “peace plan”. Meanwhile the slaughter of children continues. And the world clucks its disapproval.

Picture of the Week

Meridian II by Pascal Ungerer from his exhibition Congruence at SO Fine Art - ending on the 4th October. Perhaps you expect ruined castles and West Cork landscapes rather than dystopian industrial scenes from a man who grew up near Mizen Head. However, as son of the fabled Tomi Ungerer whose eclectic talents embraced children’s books, political satire and eroticism, you shouldn’t be surprised at the strange and unpredictable nature of his son’s vision.

The Moronic Inferno

Brett Molnar on Substack is always worth a look. Here’s yet another colourful example of his reporting on the American debacle:

“Donald Trump strode into Quantico imagining a coronation. What he got was a tomb of silence. He expected the room to rise on cue. Instead, he met generals whose stillness spoke louder than any chant or clap ever could.

From the very start, the tension was unbearable. “I’ve never walked into a room so silent before,” he confessed, his voice cracking under the weight of the quiet. Then came the pleading line: “If you want to applaud, you applaud.” That wasn’t authority speaking. It was the insecurity of a performer desperate to be carried by the crowd.

What followed was no strategy session. It was Trump’s greatest hits of grievance politics. Obama wrecked the nation. Biden made it worse. Only Trump, imagining himself a president without limits, could restore greatness. It wasn’t a briefing. It was bad television with the volume turned down.

The brass stayed unmoved. These are people who have stood under fire, written letters to grieving families, and buried their own. They’ve faced artillery with more composure than they offered Trump. Their silence was the judgment.

Trump brags endlessly about sacking generals who “aren’t warriors.” But at Quantico, the only shot fired was silence. No applause. No nods. No polite acknowledgment. Just the hum of contempt that filled the room like static.”

Read the full account on Brent Molnar’s Substack.

Musical Interlude

Sweet Sixteen by B B King

This song brings me back to the summer of 1969 when I was tripping on Hamstead Heath with Sharon a New Zealand girl-friend. We were a right pair of hippies at the time - long-flowing dress and head-band on her, shameful floral-inserts in my jeans. A guy in singlet and shorts was practising his sprint starts nearby. To us, in our elevated state, this was the most hilarious sight ever. However, he spotted us laughing and came over to remonstrate in an aggressive manner. Our mood altered instantly and we decided to head back to sanctuary of our flat in Holland Park. We took the Northern line from Hamstead, the deepest part of the Tube network. The train took off but after a number of stops it came to a halt between stations. Conversation rose and fell as the train remained immobile. The trip had turned sour, claustrophobia was burgeoning and Sharon began to panic. I was close to the edge myself, but held it together enough to prevent full-scale hysteria enveloping us. After forever, we resumed progress and made it back to our haven in Holland Park. We lay down in the bedroom and turned on a music station. The long version of this song (nearly seven minutes) came on and somehow brought us back down to the earth.

TV Viewing

The superb BBC series Accused (2012) written by Jimmy McGovern of Cracker fame has turned up on Netflix and I’d recommend it enthusiastically for its original story lines, harsh realism, violence and noticeably fine acting. The universally excellent casts in the various episodes include Christopher Ecclestone, Mackenzie Crook (playing a vicious NCO), Olivia Colman, a brilliant Stephen Graham, and our own Robert Sheehan. Each episode is self-contained and lasts a reasonable hour. An ideal post-prandial dish.

Sporting Highlights

It was sweet indeed to see Europe beat the USA in the Ryder Cup last weekend, and in doing so silence the appallingly boorish local supporters. As the stands emptied of the drunk and disgruntled USA fans, the European fans stayed on to take over the show - GAA jerseys and all. Of the many super performances from Europe, I thought Shane Lowry’s was the most significant. In his final match with the tide turning in favour of the Americans, he overcame a three-hole deficit to half the match that gave Europe the vital half-point that ensured retention of the Cup. His iron to the green and clutch putt at the 18th, in front of a baying crowd, were the finest examples of grace under pressure you’re ever likely to see. It also took the weight of expectation off the remaining pairings on course and ensured a clear victory. We’ll forgive him that exhibition of free-form dancing afterwards.

A Morsel of Memoir

On arriving in Cork after a number of years living in the Curragh - my old man had been promoted to Command Engineer in Collins Barracks:

“We arrived in the Campfield near Collins Barracks in Cork from Kildare in 1954 and my first impression was that the houses were small compared to our palatial one in the Curragh. That was built for British Army top brass and enjoyed two staircases (one for servants I assume) and a two-story garage). By modern standards the Campfield houses were a good generous size, around 2,000 square feet comprising four bedrooms, two large living rooms, a study, and a kitchen with scullery and pantry attached. We also had a large detached garage, a front garden on two levels with a cherry tree and a lilac tree, and a good-sized back garden with black currant, raspberry and gooseberry bushes. But for all this my initial feeling was that we’d come down in the world. The front garden had two mature palm trees flanking the path. The previous occupiers told us they had planted them when their twin sons were born and beseeched us not to cut them down. They had named them Seamus and Michael after the little whelps. They are still there today – more than a little bedraggled as no doubt are their namesakes.

One of my early memories of the Campfield was getting out of bed to watch the burning of the Cork Opera house in December 1955. We had a great view over the city from the nearby football field and the whole family was plucked from their sleep to watch the historic spectacle. I had only been in the Opera House once to see the great comedian Jimmy O’Dea. I have no recollection what show it was (probably a pantomime) but afterwards, in the large circular basement bar, the little man bought me a Club Orange. I was introduced to him by Gordon Blair, a family friend, who was on the board of the Opera House. Despite just coming off stage he was charming and graceful enough to spend a few moments and a few pence on a child he had never met before.”

Poetry Corner

Thomas Kinsella is a slightly neglected poet here - all that time in the USA I suppose. Here’s an extract from his fierce response to the Widgery Tribunal’s whitewash of Bloody Sunday>

BUTCHER’S DOZEN

A LESSON FOR THE OCTAVE OF WIDGERY

“Another ghost stood forth, and wet
Dead lips that had not spoken yet:
“My curse on the cunning and the bland,
On gentlemen who loot a land
They do not care to understand;
Who keep the natives on their paws
With ready lash and rotten laws;
Then if the beasts erupt in rage
Give them a slightly larger cage
And, in scorn and fear combined,
Turn them against their own kind.
The game runs out of room at last,
A people rises from its past,
The going gets unduly tough
And you have (surely ... ?) had enough.
The time has come to yield your place
With condescending show of grace
- An Empire-builder handing on.
We reap the ruin when you’ve gone,
All your errors heaped behind you:
Promises that do not bind you,
Hopes in conflict, cramped commissions,
Faiths exploited, and traditions.”
Bloody sputum filled his throat.
He stopped and coughed to clear it out,
And finished, with his eyes a-glow:
“You came, you saw, you conquered ... So.
You gorged - and it was time to go.
Good riddance. We’d forget - released -
But for the rubbish of your feast,
The slops and scraps that fell to earth
And sprang to arms in dragon birth.”

There’s plenty more in that bleak vein. And still so apposite today. Check it out. Put it on the school syllabus.