Ginger Baker thighs
She said she played ukulele and banjolette, and wouldn't mind joining me on a tune. A ukulele is is a small thing, and might well have been about her person somewhere, so I hastily explained the dichotomy between guitarist and guitar player.
Oh, she replied from an astral plane, I believe all music is one natural, universal note.
Because my degree is in Philosophy, I am at two with Nature. So I remained silent.
Her friend took up the slack, however, and said, I heard you playing a Donovan song earlier. I like Donovan; I'd love to see him live.
This reminded me. I did. He played the Castle Ballroom in Banbridge ... long, long ago. My older sisters took me. It was Friday night, showband time; the place was full of people who, like my sisters, had come to do the Hucklebuck. Donovan came on, played Universal Soldier, then Colours. No applause, just bewildered muttering from the Plain People of Ireland, who wanted to dance, and pull. Donovan, a sensitive soul, caught the vibe, and walked off.
It occurred to me that if we, quite unwarrantedly, stripped His Royal Bobness of the Nobel Laureateship, even Donovan would be more deserving of it than droopy poet of the soul, Lenny Cohen. But I didn't say that. No, I'm a TERF after all, and would never risk it. Busking has taught me what women can be like on the subject of their Ladies' Man. And on flimflam man Bowie too, for that matter.
The real tragedy long ago in Banbridge was that I didn't even get to hear Catch The Wind that night.
Maudlin Laundry incident
The Guard, a woman, in Fair City is called Fidelma. A name I thought was reserved for nuns. The priests at St Colman's College, a shower of wicked, pervy bastards, ruined my whole life, sickened my happiness, and made me become a narcissistic pudknocker. But I also tangled with the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence ...
My sister attended St Michael's in Lurgan. Back then it was a girls' grammar school, run by nuns. One Sports Day the girls were asked to bring along a family member, the better for everyone to appreciate what a great place they had there.
My mother said I must go. A second year student at St Colman's, I was already well acquainted with how God's reps went about cherishing and nurturing their young charges.
Anyway, when we arrived, a nun, in that peculiar, creepy habit Jesus likes them to wear, hailed me as the lucky boy to be at the brilliant St Colman's. I bet you love it there ... ! she exclaimed joyfully.
I didn't love it there. It was a grim gulag of all things GAA, full of morons who could kick the shite out of each other on a Gaelic 'football' pitch, and were good at drooling and staring vacantly, but who were, in fact, inbred culchies unable to read, write or articulate beyond brawling.
Nevertheless, with the nun and a crowd of my sister's goggle-eyed, giggling mates all looking expectantly at me, I took Caitlín Ní Uallacháin's soup, and answered, Yes.
That represents the only contact I've ever had with Jesus's Sisters of Mercy. I asked my own sister if the nuns got tore into them, the way their sad sack, deranged male counterparts did to us at St Colman's.
She looked at me aghast. What are you talking about ... ?!? she asked.
Easily explained, that. From her earliest days she'd been a Fighting Female Fenian (i.e. a camogie player); so good at it that she went on to enjoy a county, provincial and national career. So, of course, Mother Superior and her burkha clad chums treated her royally.
Whereas I sloped around St Colman's with a copy of New Musical Express in my schoolbag. Also in there was a tennis ball so as me, and a few other Quislings, could sell out the Patriot Game by playing soccer in the handball alleys at lunchtime ...
Oremus
What with the decline of religion in general and praying in particular, a few of us have got together in an attempt to preserve the use of that ancient, appropriate, and lovely word ‘amen’.
We call ourselves the So-be-it Union ...
Terf and serf
In this time in my life, in this moment, I am overwhelmed by what God is calling on me to do and be in this world. In my life I've had the privilege to protect a number of ladies.
I got to protect my mother, who was one of the most strongest, most delicate people I’ve ever met, even though, at the time of her death, she hadn't spoken to me for years because I lost my religion, though she didn't really like me anyway.
I got to protect my ex-wife, even though at the time of our divorce she hadn't spoken to me for years, and hasn't done so since either.
I currently protect Jean, even though she somehow imagines me to be verbally and physically abusive.
All of this is not about control. Nor is it patronising. It's about brave feminist men like me assuming command and thereby creating strong women, because, let's face it, they're not strong enough to do that for themselves. But the thing is, we men haven't made them strong enough just yet, so a situation might arise occasionally where I have to deck some macho chauvinist dummy who thinks he's funny. Strictly on behalf of my delicate, fragrant sisters who are incapable of doing it for themselves.
I've been called on in my life to love people. And to protect people and to be a river to my people. Jean said to me a few minutes ago, at your highest moment, be careful, that’s when the devil comes for you, and tempts you to try and get out of the housework.
I want to be a vessel for love. That’s what I want to do. I want to be an ambassador of that kind of love and care and concerns and protection.
Mocking the afflicted
Well, to paraphrase Oscar Wilde in a different context, you'd need to have a heart of stone not to bust your gut laughing at the recent relegation from Division 1 of Armagh's Gaelic 'football' team. Yes indeed, the 'Orchardmen', as the Irish News calls them, managed to batter their way to a total of 5 points from a possible 14 over the season.
Somebody called Ethan Rafferty is 'crestfallen', and laments that Armagh haven't yet 'scratched the surface' of their potential. Perhaps they should have started scratching a bit sooner then, Ethan.
Orange flags all around the town hang haggard and limp, none more so than my neighbour's. Even his Micky Harte patented American baseball cap is perched at a less jaunty angle for Ireland. And the diddly-diddly crap music subdued. Funereal times. I was going to suggest Brahms Requiem ...
That's all hate speech, warned Jean.
No, darling, I corrected her, being a Taig myself, I'm perfectly entitled to opine that the G Ah Ah has been even less use to this place than the Orange Order ...
Plus, I'm from Co Down, so slap it into the Orchard bogmen.
Oh dear ... look what I saw in New Scientist ...
Some research has suggested that cycling for 3 or more hours a week may make it harder to get and keep an erection. It's not proven, but riding in the right position with a properly fitted seat may help prevent regular cycling from causing Erectile Dysfunction.
Greatly relieved I immediately told Jean, There you are, I knew there had to be a reasonable explanation for it ... !
She replied, It'd take a helluva lot more than scrapping the bike to fix you ...
But, you know, like I say, men like me and Will Smith who are creating strong ... er ... forthright women have to take the long view on our project, I suppose ...
Parlez-vous Erse ... ?
Like many Irish speakers, I alternate constantly between it and English in everyday conversation. It's one of the best ways to practise, and retain mastery of, the language. Learning and speaking Irish remains, of course, the greatest single contribution you can make to the preservation of Irish culture and heritage.
Mind you, living with a Prod doesn’t contribute much to this noble endeavour. Jean unwaveringly refuses to engage, averse even to learning a cúpla focail. So there's no back and forth, no mutual warmth, respect and enjoyment.
I try to involve her, nevertheless. For example, this morning I ventured:
Shore, Oy taught Oi'd loight de oul foy-your ...
It was like talking to the dead. She hadn't a clue what was happening ... 'til I got out the kindling and matches ...
She’s gutted
Jean is as sick as a parrot. She used to live in Saintfield and thinks it's Vienna, because there’s an antiques shop and a café serving vegan sausages. But today came the news that Armagh is now N Ireland's 'Gourmet Hub' ... It has a bistro where you can have breakfast and then just nip across the road to attend Mass in the Cathedral, a pizzeria offering 'stone baked' pizzas and 'curry in a hurry', and an avant-garde place where you can even buy a kangaroo burger ... !
Furthermore, Saintfield doesn't have a theatre, whereas Armagh has the Market Place. Upcoming acts include an Abba tribute band, a Neil Young tribute band, an Eagles tribute band, a Fleetwood Mac tribute band, a Queen tribute band, some diddly-diddly men with long beards, and May McFettridge.
There are no decent schools in Saintfield, either. But Armagh has the Royal School, which is already rated 128th in the UK best performing schools league table ... !
Plus, the Education Authority has a big office on the Mall, and somebody who works there has a sort of sports car of some kind. I see it parked there every day. The owner probably has a child, or children, at the Royal School. Which, all taken together, is big time, high class living in Armagh.
Get over yourself and Saintfield, Jean ...
Reflections of my life
As you get older, I told Jean, it's natural to reflect on the past; you look back and want to feel you've achieved something, made a difference even.
So, she asked, what have you come up with then ... ?
Well, I replied, Miss Lotte Lenya is old now, and a bit deaf, and her sight not great, so when I take her for a walk I have to hang around waiting for her as she mooches slowly around the place, muzzle to the ground and oblivious, because if I go on without her she looks up, doesn't see me, panics and runs, usually in the wrong direction.
And that's your big achievement in 70 years ... ? Jean said.
Yep, I answered, the most decent thing I've ever done; everything else I've tried has been a series of disasters, interspersed with the odd catastrophe ...
La Serenissima
In early Venice space was at a premium. Houses had to be tall, and people slim. But as trade flourished there was more money and more food. Space didn't increase though, or if it did, it did so very slowly, as the technology was painstakingly developed whereby masses of tree trunks could be pounded into the bed of the lagoon to serve as foundations for new buildings. In the meantime, with a surging population, La Serenissima was forced to enact a law which literally prohibited people from becoming unreasonably heavy and broad.
To avoid disputes as to who was and wasn't too fat a narrow passageway was built over a canal behind the Palazzo Ducale, connecting two parts of that building. If you could walk through it easily you were ok, if you couldn't you were deemed overweight, and had six weeks to either slim down enough to get through or face permanent, enforced exile. The passage has been refurbished and opened to the public (photograph shows Jean walking through it).
Not surprisingly, it became known as the Bridge of Size.
Happy birthday, girls ... !
It was Miss Lotte Lenya's birthday the other day, also that of Jean's granddaughter, so I, me, myself wrote them this tune, so as I wouldn't have to spend money on presents. It's all mine, made up entirely by me on my own, and not even faintly reminiscent of anything Bob ever did.
[Memo to musos who use more than three chords, and who deride this simple, retarded stuff: You're just showing off ... ]
Spring rolls
Primroses in the lane again. Penny plain, uncluttered, lovely things. When God made them He was in a minimalist phase.
Loads of frogspawn in the sheugh too. We aren't short of frogs around here. One hopped into the back hall last year. It hopped all over the place; I couldn't find it for love nor money. It’s lying, dead, somewhere. When God created frogs He was in a frivolous mood, I suppose.
On the other hand, when He knocked together my Varsity jacket, He knew a thing or two all right.
Reliving your youth then ... ? asked Jean, mockingly, when she saw it.
The truth is it's not bland enough for Jean. And what really annoys her is that it has a little pocket on the outside of one arm (see photograph), and she knows I keep a couple of condoms in there for those chance encounters with the chicks when I'm out and about on my own ...
Diversity .... but NIMBY ...
A sunny afternoon in Armagh. But damn ... in my preferred spot there already is a busker. And he's in a wheelchair ... Jesus, Mary and Josef K ... ! I said to Lotte, We'd better be careful how we report this on Facebook, and even though I'm really furious with that tube taking my pitch, I'll have to pretend to be right on and inclusive about it ...
Off I went, begrudgingly, to Market Street instead, and soon ragged blues were ringing out from my spiffing new amplifier.
About 100 metres away though, there was one of these creeping Jesuses with a microphone, bawling out that Hell awaits the whole bloody lot of you stinking scumbags. His mate, whom the Lord had called to distribute the spiteful little Gospel tracts, approached me and said, You'd think you'd show a little respect for the Word of God, like ...
Goebbels and I have drifted apart. Jean has cautioned me, so I no longer reach for my revolver, regardless of how reasonable and justified it may seem in such cases.
So instead, as the grim Servant of the Lord stood willing God to smite me, I wandered through Bach's Jesu, Joy Of Man's Desiring.
There’s respect then, I said.
What was that? he asked.
Primroses in the lane again. Penny plain, uncluttered, lovely things. When God made them He was in a minimalist phase.
Loads of frogspawn in the sheugh too. We aren't short of frogs around here. One hopped into the back hall last year. It hopped all over the place; I couldn't find it for love nor money. It’s lying, dead, somewhere. When God created frogs He was in a frivolous mood, I suppose.
On the other hand, when He knocked together my Varsity jacket, He knew a thing or two all right.
Reliving your youth then ... ? asked Jean, mockingly, when she saw it.
The truth is it's not bland enough for Jean. And what really annoys her is that it has a little pocket on the outside of one arm (see photograph), and she knows I keep a couple of condoms in there for those chance encounters with the chicks when I'm out and about on my own ...
Diversity .... but NIMBY ...
A sunny afternoon in Armagh. But damn ... in my preferred spot there already is a busker. And he's in a wheelchair ... Jesus, Mary and Josef K ... ! I said to Lotte, We'd better be careful how we report this on Facebook, and even though I'm really furious with that tube taking my pitch, I'll have to pretend to be right on and inclusive about it ...
Off I went, begrudgingly, to Market Street instead, and soon ragged blues were ringing out from my spiffing new amplifier.
About 100 metres away though, there was one of these creeping Jesuses with a microphone, bawling out that Hell awaits the whole bloody lot of you stinking scumbags. His mate, whom the Lord had called to distribute the spiteful little Gospel tracts, approached me and said, You'd think you'd show a little respect for the Word of God, like ...
Goebbels and I have drifted apart. Jean has cautioned me, so I no longer reach for my revolver, regardless of how reasonable and justified it may seem in such cases.
So instead, as the grim Servant of the Lord stood willing God to smite me, I wandered through Bach's Jesu, Joy Of Man's Desiring.
There’s respect then, I said.
What was that? he asked.
⏩Michael Praetorius spent his working life in education and libraries. Now retired, he does a little busking in Belfast . . . when he can get a pitch. He is TPQ's fortnightly Wednesday columnist.
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