Belfast, 1987

Belfast, 1987

The spell was a paid placement, though the Brussels money didn’t come until later. I was twenty-two at the time.

16th February, Monday

I took the one o’clock train. Liam seemed less at ease than me but as the day wore on I felt a bit bewildered. I stayed in Jimmy’s house in Twinbrook. He and his wife told me about the hunger strikes early the next morning. Emotional. They described it as the only time everybody stood together.

17th February, Tuesday

Jimmy’s house settled me. It sorted me out. Liam introduced me to Damien and Billy. I stayed in Damien’s place with the two boys. I watched them argue.

19th February, Thursday

We went to Newry to see P. Then I had to get some money so we crossed over the border to Dundalk. On the way back Liam decided to take a side road to avoid a heavy British army presence on the main one. We ran into a Brit checkpoint. They held us for two hours. We went up to the Felons’ Club in Andersonstown later and I stayed with Billy, off the Lisburn Road. I may be there the whole time.

23rd February, Monday

P. was up from Newry, talking about criminals and headbangers in the Provos. We drank with Jimmy in the Hunting Lodge and then we went to an EEC food meeting. I found Billy’s flat on foot.

24th February, Tuesday

The rain made me notice the hole in my shoe. We met up with G. and later we went up to Unity Flats. The nuns made my tea. The Brits were out in force in West. They stopped us twice in Twinbrook.

I finally got my last essay out of the way. I’ve put it in a large brown envelope. The Brits were crawling over West tonight. Liam and I were stopped twice in Twinbrook. He got us out of it by speaking in an English accent. We had just brought G. home. He’s Jewish. He was sacked from Queen’s for trouble-making.

He encouraged a strike among the cleaners.

I’m living with a Protestant called Billy on Wellesley Avenue, off the Lisburn Road. Damien is sound too. The two boys are always talking about their ‘relationship’. I feel comfortable here. Billy works at night in a place for the homeless so I only see him early in the mornings. Damien lives over on Cliftonpark Avenue. It’s supposed to be dangerous over there; front-line.

This is South Belfast. Queen’s is nearby and all students look the same. A joint RUC-British army patrol stopped us near the border last Thursday after Liam had driven over to Dundalk from Newry so I could get money. He decided to take a slip road on the way back but we ran into them. They searched us and went through the car. The police gave a bit of verbal abuse too [“wankers”, “shitheads” etc]. One of the soldiers found a Sinn Féin election leaflet in my bag and read through my diaries and notes. I got very nervous then [but he must not have been very literate]. They held us for well over an hour by the roadside. Darkness fell but eventually they let us go. Liam’s car had been seen in Bessbrook and somewhere else, according to them. Maybe they were just bored. I’m on the computer anyhow.

This city is amazing. P. objects to the criminal elements which he says exist within the Provos but still his bottom-line support is there. So is G’s, even though he wishes they had an overall socialist theory developed. So many people accept the armed struggle. It’s a different ball game here. The outside objections mean very little.

25th February, Wednesday

Liam called up and brought me down to the Front Page. I met his girlfriend. Damien was there too. We were surrounded by yuppies and social workers. Who’d be a social worker? Damien, Billy and I could not get into a disco on Sandy Row.

28th February, Saturday

Down to the Maze with some of the lads. I had to stay in the car park but later managed to get as far as the visitors’ café. They were visiting B. who was caught with D. A. when they were on their way to kill a policeman on the Ormeau Road. He got twelve years [there was fifty per cent remission of sentences at the time]. Now he’s education officer on his block. All the IRA prisoners are being politicised in there. They are big into Lenin at the moment.

I went out on my own, up the road to the Botanic Inn. If I’d wanted what I had to endure, I could have stayed at home.

1st March, Sunday

Billy brought me out to Finaghy to see an old man called Walter. It was raining. I find myself consciously looking around for external clues to a person’s make-up.

2nd March, Monday

I took the bus to Armagh and I met Tommy C. I had not realised who his brothers were. He showed me a logbook kept by Roddy in the months before his death.

I saw several entries where the Brits told him they were going to kill him.

Remember the sun on the way down. When I got back I drank in the Eglantine.

4th March, Wednesday

The Poly [University of Ulster, Jordanstown] is like a subway. The interview with R. L. freaked me out but we finished with a financial plan. He did help me. I need a letter to show a bank. A sob story and then I met Ray [one of Liam’s friends] and we had a few beers, snooker, burgers and chat. He is an extremely decent guy.

5th March, Thursday

Of course Billy insisted on walking in through Sandy Row. He has changed the flat around. I like Billy. They are all protective. Liam and I went down south to Navan, for a conference.

6th March, Friday

We collected my old pal D. in the night time. I met a girl called Bríd, a Montessori teacher, who turned and said, Tu es sympa, tu es mignon. Adorable. Really? D. got on well with the Travellers, especially the lame and wizened Bernie O’Reilly.

11th March, Wednesday

I’m waiting for the train to get moving. I have been out of Belfast since last Thursday night. Two days were spent at a Traveller conference in Navan and the rest have been spent in Maynooth, sorting out my money problems. I have no excuse for not making it back some time yesterday though. I just wanted to get seriously drunk and unwind after the financial hassle of a number of days. We’re moving now. For a while I did not know if I was coming or going. I’m tired. The rocking of the train puts me off writing. My socks are sticking to my feet. Haughey is the new Taoiseach. Garret Fitzgerald has resigned.

I got f*cking lost again in Belfast. I’m freaked out. An old man I asked for directions brought me to a taxi place near the Markets.

13th March, Friday

By the time we left for Derry four bombs had gone off. There was a council committee meeting in the Guildhall. Guys in suits handed out tea. A white terrier kept barking at the police in the Creggan. Explosions and hoaxes continued in Belfast all day. The IRA also killed a guy in Rostrevor, apparently by mistake. The Rag Ball is on in Queen’s. Flour on the streets. The streets are white.

14th March, Saturday

Billy brought me down to the Quayside bar and I met his brothers. There was music upstairs but it turned out we were financially unprepared. Still, we made it to Lavery’s. I met a girl called Louise, from the Short Strand. She fell in love with my accent.

18th March, Wednesday

Twinbrook [G’s] for lunch and photographs for the booklet I’m writing for the NICTP. Then we went to the Glen Road. The caravan was hot and crowded. I get on well with the girls. It started to f*cking snow. Sister Margaret in Unity Flats had photos too. “You don’t support the shootings, do you?” One of their windows had taken a bullet from the Shankill.

19th March, Thursday

“I need shoes, Manny. I got shoes.” [A quote from Runaway Train.] G. had the man in the shoe shop on Castle Street laughing all the time we were in there. We were more or less on a session. The Crown, the Morning Star, the Crown. Behind the words he has a lot to say. A little bespectacled English Jew reminded me of what socialism is all about. He also understands the importance of the ‘asshole factor’ in political movements. Eastern Europe isn’t really socialist. Well, that’s nothing really new. I had accepted too many Stalinist excuses. Sometimes I had even made them up for myself.

In 1969 G. was on a train somewhere in Czechoslovakia, smoking a Cuban cigar, when a goon appeared to tell him to put it out, as the railways minister was in the next compartment and didn’t like it. After attempting to engage the minister in a fraternal socialist debate about the cigar, G. got thrown off the train at the next station.

20th March, Friday

I’m bollocksed this morning after staying up until brightness with Damien. We were down the avenue at four or five in the morning. I was singing rebel songs. He was throwing snowballs. We had to go to the garage to get cigarettes. He told me about a woman in Berlin. The new shoes are a relief, a liberation. When the snow came the condition of the old pair became intolerable.

21st March, Saturday

I go down to Lavery’s and meet Louise again. There’s a party. Up in the flat there’s Patsy, a social worker (she said). Older than me. I just happened to notice you in the pub as well, before the flat. Black hair and a sailor top.

23rd March, Monday

I did not sweat in the caravan this time. There was a meeting about the Glen Road in St. Paul’s GAA club. There was venom but not as much as I expected. I’m used to this. We were drinking in the Glenowen when a newsflash said that a prison officer and two peelers had been killed in Derry. I look up to Jimmy.

25th March, Wednesday

Liam had to go to Dublin for a funeral. I talked to girls on the Glen Road site but I did not distribute many leaflets. Someone’s black eye put me off. I was a bit freaked out but for once my face stayed white. I’m getting cool again. Remember the sun on the Falls. Young women in this city are very nice to me. They are willing to smile and talk. The last one was in Simpson’s supermarket this evening. I’m surprised.

26th March, Thursday

Our booklet was printed. I was tired but I went to the Felons’ Club. Later in Lavery’s I met Patsy again. She remembered everything. Her sister knew everything.

27th March, Friday

The Conference at the Poly. I could get to like being a bureaucrat. I was on the door. The early morning was f*cking bizarre with the ambulance at the flat. Noreen [a lame guest up from the South for the conference] cut her hand.

28th March, Saturday

There is a bunch of middle-class teenage girls beside me on the train. They are something else. The West Brit accents. They must be a hockey team. I had a couple of drinks in the Quayside before I left.

30th March, Monday

The IRA killed a soldier and wounded three others in a bomb attack at Divis Flats. They dropped the devices down.

31st March, Tuesday

People don’t like sitting together on trains or buses. I got into this compartment first and I was watching them pass by in the corridor and outside but now an old guy has come in. It’s raining outside. The walk to Connolly station freshened me up a bit. Liam gave me a few days off after the conference. But I have to come back to the Free State on Thursday. This is a good time to write, before the train gets moving. The train is moving.

I just got back and there is a group of people in the flat and I wish they weren’t. The one thing was that I discovered the proximity of Botanic Station to Wellesley Avenue. Once I had something to eat on the train my mood greatly improved, even though it wasn’t too bad to begin with.

1st April, Wednesday

We had a meeting in the Andytown leisure centre about Travellers being barred. It went well enough but when we asked for Travellers to come with us did you ever feel like you were banging your head against a brick wall? At least we got the barring order lifted.

2nd April, Thursday

Glen Road meeting, twelve o’clock. All the men were down getting their dole. Liam could not go to Scotland because there were dawn RUC raids on Travellers in Belfast and Newry. Greg [a junkie mate of Billy’s] was still zonked in the flat when I got back in the afternoon. He’ll burn the place down.

3rd April, Friday

A Catholic has been killed in Ardoyne. Shot through the door. He was an IRA Volunteer. A UDR soldier is dead too.

I was trying to clarify for myself the summary reason why the British government remains in Ireland. I think it is a case of the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t know. It relates closely to the idea of an acceptable level of violence. Diane Perrons once wrote in an issue of Antipode about the break-up of Britain as a whole. That’s an intriguing idea.

6th April, Monday

The first train. It’s a new morning. Belfast city centre was sealed off. Soldiers and police were crawling all over New Lodge and the Antrim Road. It’s the funeral of Marley in Ardoyne. 

7th April, Tuesday

Marley’s funeral has been put off again. The TV showed British rule.

larrymarley

Larry-Marley-funeral-by-Sean-Allen

I was down in Armagh. Father Murray gave me a traditional earful. Murder etc. Tommy is dead on. A tough nut. His people are welcoming. Armagh is weird, a strange place. Tense and edgy. A night of trouble in Belfast and Derry.

The Pogues and the Dubliners entered the British top ten at no. 8. The Irish Rover. Ronnie Drew never sang as fast before.

8th April, Wednesday

Liam and I attended Larry Marley’s funeral. We walked up and down the length of the Falls. The military and the police had a massive presence. The population responded in suitable numbers. A cup of tea in Conway Mill warmed me up. Liam did not want to be photographed because he lives in East Belfast.

He kept his hood up.

Lavery’s was jammed and when I met Billy at ten to eleven he wanted to go to the Crescent [Glasgow Rangers Supporters Club] on Sandy Row. It was even more crowded. It was dark and a band was playing early on, before a disco. I sat there, motionless, quite content, but not saying anything. I did not care about the girls. 

9th April, Thursday

Liam and I attended Larry Marley’s funeral yesterday. It was cold and spitting and the cortege took hours to come from Ardoyne to Milltown cemetery. The army and the police swamped the Falls. There were at least a hundred Land Rovers, not counting the soldiers and their vehicles. The people turned out, several thousand of them, to pay their respects and show the security forces what they felt, faced by handguns, rifles, sub-machine guns, plastic bullet guns etc. I counted at least fifteen lorries and buses burnt out between Divis and Andersonstown. One, carrying cement, left a wet paste on the ground on the Lower Falls. The fires in the night had bent and broken up the surface of the road. 

The key, or one of them, to international justice is national self-determination. It’s a cultural thing as much as anything. I have more sympathy and understanding when it comes to the Poles now. Or Czechoslovakia. Martin McGuinness told the RUC on Monday night last, We will defeat you in the end. The time will come to explain what is to be done with the Protestants. It is their country too but there must be justice and there can be no peace without it.

Billy had asked, “What’s going to happen to the Protestant people in a United Ireland?” Not a matter of if, but when. “I don’t know. I wish I could say.”

10th April, Friday

Derry. The council committee meeting contained sheer idiots. We had pints with Martin S. He whips timber from the forestry on the Letterkenny side to sell in the city. The pub fire was very hot.

11th April, Saturday

It is Saturday afternoon and I have no money today, which is unfortunate. I won’t starve with bread and soup in the kitchen. I’m just after cleaning up and washing myself. We were at a party last night and I was really stoned, after keeping the car windows closed, but I left the place because violent dickheads were getting out of hand. I would like to go down to Lavery’s tonight. I don’t even care for the pub but I want to see Patsy again. I met her for the first time on 21st March. On Thursday night, upstairs in Lavery’s, I saw her and told Ray and Liam about her. They were with me. I met them in there. Then she came over and the boys were impressed with that. She came back to this flat. It looked quite good. She thought about staying but she took a taxi home with the girl from Turf Lodge who was with her. She’s from the Falls. I wish I had money so I could meet her tonight and bring her back here on her own. Just the two of us, with a carry-out and some cigarettes. She knows I fancy her because I told her. The boys say it is obvious she is interested. I’m looking at the orange bulb in this room and Warren Zevon’s Werewolves of London has just come on. All that remains now is for us to get the physical opportunity. I have only met her three times. We are made for each other.

Just a fiver. That would be enough. I haven’t much time left here. Siouxsie covered The Passenger and I came to like her version. The brass seemed a bit much at first. The thing is to be so close to real success again while not having enough time or money to clinch her. For some reason she gives me shit about the Travellers and then she apologises. I think maybe it’s just a conversation piece. There are circumstances I cannot change and if these mean I won’t be sleeping with her ever, well…

She’s dark and when she smiles I really want her. God I do. She’s older than me, she looks older, but when I called her a woman she said she was a girl. It was exclusive eye-conversation. She seemed a bit uncertain because she was not alone. She was with people she knew. But they were not really interfering. It was heavy ordinance, said Liam. Everybody noticed us. It’s not a bad state to be in after speaking to each other only three times. There is plenty of time. I could do with a night’s passion again.

12th April, Sunday

I had to break down [open] M’s kitchen door for her, so I spent the afternoon there. Billy was asleep in the dark when I got back. Soup and toast. Two reserve constables were shot dead in Portrush last night. The weather was warm today.

13th April, Monday

Liam and I went to Andersonstown News where we met Máirtín Ó Muilleoir, cultural officer of Sinn Féin. 

15th April, Wednesday

Armagh, the trades council AGM. The committee will get off the ground. Liam was happy. I had done my last bit.

I said goodbye to Jimmy. It was half past eleven.

16th April, Thursday

John Gavin’s stories in his trailer got more and more gruesome. They call his place Fort Apache and Woodburn Barracks. Hannah [his wife] is an admirable woman.

We had a farewell party. Patsy left. She had lost interest, if she had any to begin with. I did not mind after a couple more joints and cans. I have theories but I don’t understand. Damien said it’s a different culture.

17th April, Friday

For my last day, Billy brought me over to The Raven [a loyalist club in East Belfast]. I was playing pool against a guy who was in jail for killing three Catholics. I was stoned. Billy gets a fool’s pardon there, for associating with Taigs. There were half a dozen of us, including Skipper [who was going down on drugs charges], and Greg, who is out of hospital. I got the three o’clock train in the sun.

The chap at the pool table had been released on appeal after a supergrass trial. I’d had a quiet word with Billy in the pool room. “We are going to lose this game.”

20th April, Easter Monday

I’m relaxing at home for this week. They could hardly wait for me to be back and safe.

29th April, Wednesday

My class had teamed up for a study visit with our counterparts from the Poly.

I missed the morning train to Belfast. It’s typical. I slept from Dublin to Dundalk on the three o’clock instead. I was bollocksed after running to Connolly. I felt like puking. I went to see Billy first, with cans. Liam called to the People’s College and everybody went to The Rotterdam. He was not impressed with my class.

30th April, Thursday

It rained as we walked across Albert Bridge. We went over to the Short Strand. I walked down to Lavery’s in the rain for a late pint.

1st May, Friday

The Protestants felt ill at ease in Connolly House. I felt the same in UDA headquarters, which was like a chamber of horrors. But then, when John McMichael was giving some of us a lift through the city, I was just chatting to him in the front seat, about Paisley. One for the books.

“Isn’t he like the Grand Old Duke of York?”

“Yeah, he’ll talk about fighting but he won’t do anything to organise it.” 

9th May, Saturday

The conflict has been deliberately cut off from people’s consciousness down here while they at the same time have wished it away like a horror story.

Postscript

22nd December, Tuesday

John McMichael was assassinated in Lisburn. It’s ironic that he was the first person I’ve ‘known’ to be later killed.

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Tales you can take to the bank

Tales you can take to the bank

1711
To reduce the power of the privately-owned Bank of England, a plan was hatched by Robert Harley, the Earl of Oxford, for a group of merchants to assume parts of Britain’s national debt in return for an annual payment of three million pounds for a set period and a monopoly of the trade to the South Seas i.e. South America. The group then assumed the title the South Sea Company. Extravagant notions of the available riches in faraway fields were fostered and the company’s stock flourished until, in early 1720, it offered to take on the entire national debt. The British state’s creditors were encouraged to swap what they were owed for company shares and speculation then carried South Sea stock to ten times its nominal value. Then the chairman and directors sold out, the bubble burst and the stock collapsed. Thousands were ruined.

south-sea-bubble-william-hogarth

Companies of all kinds had been floated to surf on this tidal wave of interest in South Sea stock. They soon got the nickname of Bubbles, the most appropriate description that the popular imagination could invent. Some of them lasted for a week or a fortnight, while others were only around for a day. The most preposterous of all showed the complete madness of the people sucked in. It was started by an unknown adventurer who is definitely a candidate for the title of the unknown soldier of cynicism. His venture was entitled a “company for carrying on an undertaking of great advantage, but nobody to know what it is”. The genius who mounted this bold and successful test of public gullibility merely stated in his prospectus that the required capital was half a million, in five thousand shares of one hundred pounds each, with a required deposit of two pounds per share. Each subscriber, paying his deposit, would be entitled to one hundred pounds per annum per share.

How this enormous profit was to be obtained he did not inform them at that time. Instead he promised that after a month full particulars would be announced and a call made for the remaining ninety-eight pounds of the subscription. The very next morning, at nine o’clock, this entrepreneur opened an office in Cornhill in London. Crowds flocked to his door and when he shut up shop at three o’clock, he found that the deposits had been paid for one thousand of his shares. He was thus, after five hours, the possessor of two thousand pounds. Content with his day’s work, he set off that same evening for the Continent. He was never heard of again.

1715
With the death of Louis XIV, the finances of France were in a bad state but the Duke of Orleans became Regent and this meant everything to a Scottish gambler called John Law who was a friend of the Duke and a man convinced that no country could prosper without a paper currency. In May 1716, a royal edict authorised Law to establish a bank. He made all his banknotes payable at sight and in the coin current at the time they were issued. This was a masterstroke and immediately made his notes more valuable than precious metals. The latter were constantly liable to depreciation by the tampering of the government.

john-law

Law publicly declared at the same time that a banker deserved to be put to death if he issued notes without having sufficient security to answer all demands. It was not long before the trade of the country felt the benefit and branches of his bank were established in several cities. In the meantime, Law started the project that has handed his name down to posterity. He proposed to establish a company that would have the exclusive privilege of trading to the Mississippi river and the province of Louisiana, where the country was supposed to abound in precious metals. This company was set up in August 1717.

It was then that the frenzy of speculation began. Law’s bank had brought about so much economic good that any promises for the future were swallowed but, when the bank became a public institution, the Regent ordered a printing of notes to the amount of a billion livres. Law helped inundate France with this paper money, which, based on no solid foundation, was sure to cause a crash, sooner or later.

Law otherwise devoted his attention to the Mississippi project, the shares of which were rapidly rising in spite of the opposition of Parliament. At least three hundred thousand applications were made for fifty thousand new shares. Every day the value of the old shares rose and new applications became so numerous that it was deemed advisable to create three hundred thousand new shares so the Regent could take advantage of the popular enthusiasm to pay off the national debt.

From the tremendous pressure of the crowds, accidents continually occurred in the narrow rue de Quincampoix where Law lived. A story goes that a hump-backed man who stood in the street made considerable money by lending his hump as a writing surface to the speculators. The great masses of customers and spectators drew all the low life of Paris to the spot and constant riots and disturbances occurred. At nightfall, it was often found necessary to send in a detachment of soldiers to clear the street.

Thus the system continued to flourish until the beginning of 1720. The warnings of the Parliament that this massive creation of paper money would bankrupt the country were disregarded but, despite every effort made to stop its exodus, the stores of precious metals in France continued to be smuggled to England and Holland. The little coin that was left in the country was hoarded until the scarcity became so great that trade could no longer be conducted. An edict then forbade any person to have more than five hundred livres (then the equivalent of twenty pounds sterling) of coin in his or her possession, under threat of a heavy fine, plus confiscation.

It was also forbidden to buy up jewellery, plate and precious stones. Informers were encouraged by the promise of getting half of any amount they might discover.
Lord Stair, the English ambassador, said that it was now impossible to doubt the sincerity of Law’s conversion to Catholicism, as he had established an inquisition after having given ample evidence of his faith in transubstantiation by turning gold into paper.

All payments were then ordered to be made in paper and even more notes were printed – to the tune of more than a billion and a half livres – but nothing now could make the people feel the slightest confidence in something that was not exchangeable for metal. Coin, which the Regent aimed to depreciate, only rose in value on every fresh attempt to reduce it.

The value of shares in the Mississippi stock had also tumbled and few people still believed the tales that had once been told of the immense wealth of that region. A last trick was therefore tried to restore public confidence in the Mississippi project.
A general conscription of all the homeless in Paris was made by order of the government. More than six thousand of the poorest of the population were press-ganged, as if in wartime. These unfortunates were provided with clothes and tools and told they would be shipped off to New Orleans to work in the gold mines. They were then paraded day after day through the streets with their picks and shovels before being sent off in small detachments to the ports to be shipped to America. Two thirds of them never reached their destination but melted into the countryside. There they sold their tools for whatever they could get and returned to their old way of life. In less than three weeks, half of them were back in Paris.

1907
Sometimes cynicism is wrapped up in a man simply knowing his strengths and limitations. Take JP Morgan in the 1907 American financial crisis, sitting alone in a room in his home, smoking cigars, while all the ordinary bankers were huddled in the next room, presumably with ties loosened and pencils perched over their ears. When a servant entered and ventured to ask him if he had a plan, he said, “No.” By way of reassurance, he added that he knew someone would come through the door with the right plan and then, he also knew, he would be the person to know it was the right one. Who knows that much today?

jp-morgan---panic-of-1893

1940
W. C. Fields made The Bank Dick. In this film, Fields plays a drunk named Egbert Sousé who trips a fleeing bank robber and becomes a security guard at the bank as a result. Upon being introduced to his daughter’s boyfriend, Og Oggilby, an official at the bank, Egbert remarks, “Og Oggilby… sounds like a bubble in a bathtub.”

Egbert talks Og into embezzling money from the institution. In order to divert a bank examiner from discovering the theft, Egbert takes him to his favourite bar and asks if “Michael Finn” has been in yet – a signal that the barman, one of the Three Stooges – is to spike the examiner’s drink. During Fields’ career, Hollywood standards demanded that good be rewarded and evil be punished but, in The Bank Dick, Fields’ character lies, cheats and steals and yet at the end is rewarded with wealth and fame.

the-bank-dick

1976
Willie Sutton’s autobiography denied that he’d ever explained why he robbed banks by saying “because that’s where the money is”. Though the apocryphal quotation became known as Sutton’s Law, he dismissed the story but, at the same time, admitted that, had anyone ever asked him, he probably would have said it.

Why did I rob banks? Because I enjoyed it. I loved it. I was more alive when I was inside a bank, robbing it, than at any other time in my life.

Maureen

Maureen

1989

Living in London but in Dublin for a weekend for a quiz show…

13th November, Monday

There were plenty of f*ck-ups in the programme preparations but in the end of the day I pulled off a clean sweep of the show. The unexpected stoppage I caused [by giving two answers to one question] must have helped. With flights having been cancelled due to fog, J. wanted to keep going so we hit Bad Bob’s and Leeson Street again. In a wine bar maybe I fell in love with a blonde called Maureen. She’s from Leitrim and she teaches English to Spaniards. She’s cynical and witty but I got the better of her on Eurovision trivia. She gave up on Paris. Why? “Parisians.”

20th November, Monday

I started as a chain boy on J’s site near Tower Hill. It’s all right. It’s better than labouring. I can cope with heights.

21st November, Tuesday

In a wine bar called Suesy Street, at the end of the night of the quiz, J. and I ran into Maureen, who was sitting on her own at the counter, with her friend in the process of getting off with a guy nearby. Soon he told her that there was something strange about her.

“Maybe it’s because I don’t simper.”

Description: fairly tall; hair clasped up none too carefully; a fine-looking woman without being stunning; a hearty, earthy laugh; slim but solid. In the short time I spent with her, maybe two hours, she impressed me more than any girl I’d met before. “Come on boys, walk me home.” She gave us a cup of tea. I asked if I could see her again, at Christmas.

22nd November, Wednesday

This could prove to be the best job I’ve been on. I can stand the cold, taking measurements. I don’t like using a sledgehammer but it helped me stay warm. Steel work seems more manly than being a donkey.

25th November, Saturday

Up on the steel girders of the seventh floor I sang Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne to myself to help me stay calm. As somebody wrote on site – erectors get you high. There is a rush of adrenaline all right. I went to Harlesden to collect a typewriter. It was too cold to get mugged.

26th November, Sunday

The sun these mornings is dazzling as you feel the cold steel under your arse.

29th November, Wednesday

The docklands: sandy brick in the morning sun and frost, yellowy-brown like a painting. It turned out I was glad to have gone to work. Breakfast sorted me out. Am I getting more used to the cold? The warm office is a sanctuary.

30th November, Thursday

I got paid. It feels calming to have money again. Some of the lads watched a man and woman bonking in an office across the street.

The psychology of steel: fear keeps you careful. I climbed up on the ninth floor this evening, partly to keep in practice and challenge myself to the test. To stay up too long brings on stiffness and that needs to be avoided. On the steel always keep two limbs firmly fixed. It’s pointless looking down. Your world must only be the few feet of space in your immediate vicinity. I tie my glasses around my head. I don’t need my concentration to be upset by the worry that they’ll fall off. After a spell up on the steel and the resultant buzz, the ground can feel unreal. I get flashes of the feelings of newness from when I first came to London. The strange red buses.

1st December, Friday

I was thinking a lot about Maureen. I was freezing. On a foggy evening Tower Bridge and its lights remind me of a Whistler painting.

3rd December, Sunday

“If you f*ck this one up I’ll never speak to you again,” J. said, re Maureen.

4th December, Monday

After work I called the number Maureen gave me and was told she’d been killed two weeks ago when she was knocked down in Killiney. A hit and run. The rest of the night I was waiting to wake up from this unbelievable dream.

5th December, Tuesday

Life is never dull, is it? I collected the rest of the script notes from Rouse. Two silent Japanese girls were making breakfast in the kitchen in Harlesden. They served tea without a word. When I got home I put on Vesti la Giubba and then I cried. It was only the beginning. There is no future with Maureen, because she’s dead. The conversation on the phone with the girl who told me was like something out of a film.

“Could I speak to Maureen please?”
Silence.
“Am, who is this?’
“My name is John Flynn.”
“Am, are you a friend of hers.”
“Yes.”
Pause.
“Where are you calling from?”
“London.”
Silence.
“Am, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Maureen had an accident two weeks ago… she’s dead.”

There I have been, feeling death close at hand every day up on the steel and this unbelievable turn of events happens. I really don’t know how I feel. Kind of numb with the shock. Angel it doesn’t matter who took your life that night. You’re gone but your face will haunt me. It makes everything else look trivial doesn’t it?

I used to think these things don’t happen to me. After all, I was twice hit by cars and walked away both times. Now, it just seems that the way something unforeseen and bizarre often gets between me and women has taken a seriously unfunny turn.

I realize I’m missing the agony of her close friends and relatives. This circumstance is truly bizarre. A lot of the time I can only think in terms of black humour. You win some, you lose some. Passing strangers in the night. Life is never dull, is it? This kind of thing makes everything seem pointless, worthless. Maybe there’s a tarot card for it. An evil eye watching over those around me. Make a grave for the unknown lover. Just think of it, she was already dead when I wrote about her in earlier pages. You in truth were the unknown lover, the Other, maybe you were, to a man who doesn’t want a whole sex at his feet, who never wanted that, but if you can be taken away just like that…

When I heard over the phone I instinctively felt I knew it would happen, like some dream, like I once wrote: lucky to have achieved creative fulfilment and a preparation for death at such an early age, I just missed out on a partner and economic viability. It’s as if my written moans over the years have now come into their own, that I was right all along, as if I understood all along. It’s just beyond belief, it’s mind-boggling that all I should have had of her were those few hours. That she had only a few days to live. It must have been a tearful, very emotional occasion, her funeral. I was told she was never conscious again so she didn’t feel any pain. Here I sit upstairs, writing, drinking, listening to music and crying from time to time. Maybe it’s things like this that make a man of a man. A queer twist of fate. My eyes are stinging from the tears.

6th December, Wednesday

I haven’t cried like that since I was a child. J. described her as like Jim Morrison in a female body. When we met her she went to bed at six to be up by eight.

14th December, Thursday

I got a doctor’s cert around the corner from the flat on North Pole Road. He told me I had the flu. Then he started talking about the IRA (“Why don’t they hang them?”).

Have I yet described the way Maureen used to throw her head back between her shoulders when she was laughing? Or how at first she was stiffening her lips trying not to laugh (her raised eyebrows – ‘Are you speaking to moi?’). Weren’t the first impressions brilliant? By the end of the night I had her attention in the palm of my hand. J. can always vouch for that. He described it as a brilliant performance when we left her place, saying it had never been done to him before, being blown out of the water like that. She was the spark.

She was 23.

Sigmund Freud & the interpretation of everyday life

Sigmund Freud & the interpretation of everyday life

It was the German sociologist Marianne Krüll who analysed Freud’s handling of the Oedipus story in the light of his own family history. In her view it was a creative compromise of the kind sometimes used by children with parental conflicts. Instead of seeking the real source of hostility toward his father, Freud made the Oedipus myth one of the most pervasive parables of intellectual life. Thus, she claimed, he may have stood Oedipus on his ear and a ‘Laius complex’ would have been more accurate.

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In other words, it was Laius, the father, who, because of a prophecy that he would one day be murdered by his son, left the infant Oedipus on a mountaintop. Freud chose to believe that the power of Sophocles’ drama lay in the tragic destiny of the son who, not knowing his real parentage, unwittingly murders his father and marries his mother. Krüll claims it was only Freud’s bias that prevented him from recognizing the guilt of Laius. Nevertheless there remain convincing reasons behind Freud’s interpretation and one of these ironically comes not from The Interpretation of Dreams but from The Psychopathology of Everyday Life.

The strange fact that the [Oedipus] legend finds nothing objectionable in Queen Jocasta’s age seemed to me to fit in well with the conclusion that in being in love with one’s mother one is never concerned with her as she is in the present but with her youthful… image carried over from childhood.”

The Psychopathology of Everyday Life deals mainly with the type of error (parapraxis) which has become the everyday concept of the Freudian slip. Apart from the many vivid examples of slips of the tongue and pen, and of forgetting and bungling, we should be interested too in a comment he makes on the losing of objects of value. He says it may be the offering of a sacrifice to the obscure powers of destiny to which homage is still paid today. This is one explanation of karma: despite logically ridiculing superstitions, often we are unconsciously superstitious and will attract misfortune because we believe deep down we deserve it, for something we have done or failed to do. Another lies in the fact that bad behaviour that earns an advantage in one situation often rebounds in another.

Later in the book he unsurprisingly states that superstition is in large part the expectation of trouble. In this light, Oedipus is trouble. He too is a sacrifice to the obscure powers of destiny; a lost object of value. A Greek tragedy reflects that life is a tragedy. Is it any surprise then that Freud’s favourite cynical joke concerned a brandy drinker who was ordered by his doctor to give it up on the chance that might save his failing hearing? As soon as he did, his hearing improved, but when his doctor hailed him to no effect on the street, months later, he knew he’d gone back on it. In a loud voice, he asked the man why. Solange ich nicht getrunken hab’, hab’ ich gehört; aber alles, was ich gehört, war nicht so gut wie der Branntwein (‘When I didn’t drink, I heard, but nothing I heard was as good as the brandy’).

The Psychopathology of Everyday Life shows us that many absurdities in human interaction are almost miraculously capable of rational explanation but moreover his work also carries the implication that the surreal aspects of existence evoked by slips and superstitions are part of the eternal order of human affairs and therefore comprehensible, at least to a figure like Freud. Given his field of interest, he doubled up for a twentieth-century casting out of spirits.

Assault on Precinct Gombeen

Assault on Precinct Gombeen

February 1984

At the time the strapped Irish government had abolished free student medical cards and our (union) president was cooling with a few more in Dublin’s Mountjoy prison for defying a protest injunction. One of the other martyrs was the eventual talk radio star Joe Duffy, whose photo (above) shows him being dragged out of a hall in Trinity. A professor who liked to see his names in the papers had, in a not-so-progressive outburst, labelled such protesters “subsidised brats” for invading a lecture given by the Taoiseach (prime minister).

As part of the national campaign, three cohabitants were surprisingly keen to fulfil a promise to help occupy the health administration in the Kildare town of Naas. Nevertheless just thirty-one students got on that bus that morning, so my address alone contributed four. That was more than an eighth. The thought crossed more than one mind that if this went badly one could always hitch the fifteen miles back, as many had often passed that way.

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We entered shortly after noon, climbed to the third level and tied ourselves with thin ropes to the legs of desks in the large office space that was all women. We refused to leave when asked by the manager, a man in a grey suit. Soon we had our names taken by the police, who set up a siege around the building, leaving anybody out and nobody in.

The women typed away at their desks once no further disruption was evident. The students then untied the ropes for comfort. At five, the women all left and the management turned off the heating. The numbers inside had by then dropped to seventeen, as anyone who wanted a J1 summer visa to America had split, just in case.

The nearest pub was called the Wolfe Tone and a few brats hanging around on the streets below slipped in there after dark. It had a fire. When the pub heard what was going on, it was all for the revolution. It gave out free sandwiches to anyone who wanted to go across and throw them up on the roof. The windows of the top floor led onto a gravel roof with a large atrium in the middle. Half the republican sandwiches and several of the brown bags of burgers and chips that were bought nearby overshot the gravel and flew into the hole.

Kipping in our coats should have been second nature to us, otherwise, but it was a very cold night inside. Miserable. Cigarettes were in short supply but at least we found a couple of large, industrial rolls of brown paper in the cabinets and then noisily wrapped ourselves in it on the floor.

In the college canteen in the arts block the following lunchtime, the next year’s president made her name by standing on a black table and telling the crowd that seventeen comrades were holding out and needed their support. That news filled a few buses and a couple of hundred turned up in the afternoon. The ropes were let down into the crowd so sleeping bags could be attached. For the law, pushing and shoving at the fringes, this was just taking the piss.

The crowd below couldn’t understand why the heads above suddenly disappeared from the roof’s edge but, up top, cops with batons drawn were pouring through the windows on the far side of the atrium.

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We ran for the nearest office windows (see photo). Back inside, I ducked aside, behind a filing cabinet, but anyone holding a sleeping bag was chased down and battered. The women at the desks were horrified. They stood up and protested and then refused to leave, despite keen Garda encouragement to do so.

Understandably the ladies wanted to know who would mop the walls if the cops were let mop up. The man in the grey suit then got involved and, after everybody calmed down, it was the police who left, eventually. The seventeen remaining then emerged with the staff, to loud cheers. It all seemed heroic and exciting, especially as I had avoided a baton.

A night in Madrid

A night in Madrid

2016

28th December, Wednesday

Puetollano

Those f*cking Marianistas are having a pow-wow in the corridor near my door. I complained to them once. Since then they have stopped shrieking. They probably think their normal talk is cutting me some deal. I came back too early. I’d have liked to stay in the dark Luna bar on the Paseo, with the Eighties music and the old lads in a back corner, playing Ludo for money, but Juana won’t go there, so B. and I had just the one before reverting to the tapas bars.

They’re even shushing each other now and then, outside.

29th December, Thursday

Update: come half past midnight I got dressed and went out again to advise them all that I was heading downstairs to complain. Porqué aqui, fuera mi puerta? Trenta minutos tras medianoche. Ahora tengo que reclamar, con el jefe. Dondé están las habitaciónes? They all sat on the floor in early teenage silence. At the lift I added a head-shaking “Sin respeto” before pushing the ground floor button. I found the night porter. Hay diez Marianistas fuera mi puerta, trenta minutos tras medianoche. Yak yak yak... I made the international hand signal for yakking. He just asked for my room number. That was the end of it.

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B. came with me to Madrid. From my hotel near Atocha we got a taxi to Sol. In trying to get away from the crowds we stumbled upon the royal palace.

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After lunch (back near Atocha) he went off shopping before his train home and I went for a nap. At dusk I got up and walked to the top of Paseo del Prado before turning left onto Gran Vía.

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After a few hundred yards of that I couldn’t stick it anymore and turned back. The anthill was even more teeming. The park down the middle of the Paseo del Prado is nice, though. I was photographing the many fountains and the art gallery after dark.

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Tonight is a night for doing nothing but resting and sleeping before an early start.

30th December, Friday

Another all-Spanish chat with a taxi driver saw me to the airport early but all the cafés down by the departure gates were f*cked up in one way or another – no cards accepted, out of croissants, kitchen closed etc. Luckily the plane wasn’t packed. A mercy.