30 October 2025
A factor in Catherine Connolly’s resounding victory, aside from FFG’s tactical screwups, was the total lack of concrete action on Gaza. People want bans and boycotts on Israel not words.
Picture of the Week
Birds hanging out on John Kelly’s iconic Cow up a Tree - one of the many sculptural wonders and installations on view on his isolated land overlooking Castlehaven Bay. Kelly has been living and working in Ireland for about 30 years but his main market is in Australia where he grew up. A major exhibition of his paintings and sculpture opens in Melbourne later this year.
The Moronic Inferno
It’s a mistake to consult your phone for the news when you wake up in the morning. I grow weary of the daily horrors: the doings of the dominant axis of evil (Putin, Trump and Netanyahu) casting a shadow over the planet. The silence of the Arab states and the impotence of Europe and the UN in halting the carnage in Gaza and Ukraine is alarming. We’re in a mad house and there’s no one in charge. Bear in mind that Israel is a nuclear power, so if things go badly for its Zionist lunatics, they may release that foretold Armageddon on us all. Michael D’s. food security campaign is beginning to look like a very prescient initiative. Keeping a few plump dogs around may also be a wise move.
Musical Interlude
Warren Zevon was big here around at the turn of the century when he played two gigs at the Olympia and appeared a couple of times on the Late Late Show. The first gig was a disaster according to a serious fan of my acquaintance - Zevon was pissed or maybe stoned. When he came back two years later he started the gig by apologising for his last performance. I was abroad during those years but on my return my sorely missed old friend Donal Murray turned me on to Zevon’s music. At Donal’s funeral the final musical piece was Zevon’s Keep Me in Your Heart - another fine piece.
Poetry Corner
William Blake wrote this poem at the end of the 18th century as a defence of religion in general from the assaults of major rationalist figures like Voltaire and Rousseau. The poem has resonances in the current situation in Israel where no amount of reasoned discourse and criticism is going to deter the Zionists from their goal of annihilating the Palestinians and stealing their land. Qua poetry, I do love that resounding last verse.
Mock on, Mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau
Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau;
Mock on, mock on; ‘tis all in vain!
You throw the sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again.
And every sand becomes a gem
Reflected in the beams divine;
Blown back they blind the mocking eye,
But still in Israel’s paths they shine.
The Atoms of Democritus
And Newton’s Particles of Light
Are sands upon the Red Sea shore,
Where Israel’s tents do shine so bright.
A Morsel of Memoir
Shortly after I arrived in the Curragh I broke my leg in the school playground. I didn’t feel any pain, I just fell and found I couldn’t walk. The irate teacher chastised me for lingering in the playground and it took a while for my carers to determine I had actually suffered a major break to my tibia. I spent the next few months with a giant plaster of Paris on my leg. I never had crutches – I just dragged myself around on my arse. A couple of years later scarlet fever hit our family - all five of us children succumbed. I was the last. As I lay in bed at home one day my father came in to let me know that I’d be joining the others in the fever hospital in Abbeyleix. One big luxurious tear slowly emerged when I was told – my biggest tear ever. I never felt very sick but was whisked off to a spartan regime for about a month: early wake-ups, little food, interminable boredom. But one episode stood out amidst the boredom and semi-starvation. Because I was a boy surrounded by four sisters (one older, three younger) my mother developed a pragmatic approach to underwear – we all wore knickers. Now these were strictly utilitarian garments not festooned with ribbons and bows but they were unmistakably knickers. Our laundry was taken away regularly from our respective wards in Abbeyleix Hospital and returned promptly. One infamous morning a nun came to return our washing and held up what were clearly my knickers and asked the ward full of boys who owned them. There were a few titters but no one spoke up. I returned to the Curragh minus a pair much to my mother’s disgust. Further medical misadventures were to follow, including a year in a sanatorium in Foynes, but that’s another story.