We all make mistakes but some of us are better at admitting them than others. Certain politicians, for instance, are quite incapable of holding up their hands in public. What goes for the most macho of men, goes doubly so for those in public life. Never show weakness. Never say you’re sorry. Never say: I was wrong.
This might explain why the ridiculous 30kph speed limit along the north and south quays of the city remains in place nearly nine months after it was introduced to a chorus of disapproval. Twelve-pound babies have been easier to deliver than this ill-conceived legislation.
The AA pointed out that it would create dangerous bottlenecks but the brass necks wouldn’t have it. There would be no U-turn because to make one would be to admit that the whole idea was a half-hearted and badly-thought out stab at making Dublin’s roads safer. Delineating the cycle lanes more clearly along the quays would have been a better start.
Only now is a proposed amendment to the limit being formulated. Dublin city councillors will decide in the autumn on whether to raise the limit outside the stretch between Capel Street and O’Connell Bridge. We wait with bated breath (as we sit in stalled traffic).
Sorry seems to be the hardest word. Look at the e-voting machines fiasco. If someone had laughed hard enough at Noel Dempsey when he started promoting them as the future in 2002, he might have stopped flouncing about like some class of Buck Rogers of the ballot box. If someone had told Martin Cullen to cop himself on when he expanded on Dempsey’s minor brainwave, we might not have spent over €50m on them.
Instead – because no-one was man or woman enough to say that this was a ninny-headed idea and that they should be sold off immediately – we are only now looking at offloading them. It has just emerged that the Government might, maybe, perhaps, tentatively have found a buyer for the wretched machines.
You wouldn’t wait eight years to return a too-small pair of shoes to the shop. Why spend €183,000 a year on storing these machines rather than admitting they were completely the wrong fit?
If our bull-headed leaders won’t admit their mistakes, maybe we need to give them a get-out clause. I hereby propose a Silly Ideas Amnesty. For one day only, let all parties, in and out of power, all local authorities and lobbying groups, take the opportunity to retract all the most ridiculous proposals and legislation they’ve made in, say, the past ten years.
The rest of us will agree to turn a blind eye, and never mention the dumb ideas again. I figure there are many proposals made in the heat of a Dail debate or on the promise of a vote or two that could be made to sleep with the fishies and the country would be better for it.
Perhaps Clare County Council could rethink the outrageous new charges that will likely scare motoring tourists from visiting the Cliffs of Moher. Would Energy Minister Eamon Ryan gladly retract his public service obligation levy (ie, jacking up electricity prices for householders) if only we couldn’t witness his embarrassment at being seen to do so?
Maybe the person who thought letting TDs continue to charge for some unvouched expenses might like to think again. Perhaps Mary Harney could go back and knock together the correct heads in the HSE – the ones in the boardrooms, rather than on the frontline – if we’d only look out the window a bit and whistle Dixie.
At the end of Silly Ideas Amnesty Day, we could recreate that special effect in Men in Black. The one where Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones wipe the memories of the humans who see aliens in their midst. We would be none the wiser – but wouldn’t such ignorance be bliss?
Showing posts with label Evening Herald. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Evening Herald. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Take a break
From last Saturday's Evening Herald...By SUSAN DALYTHIS week has been a good one in which to nursing our Celtic Tiger hangovers. The Banks report makes it hard to forget the pickle we’re in and how we got here.
But the sulphurous whiff of greedy bankers is not the only stink lingering on. It turns out that there are other bad smells hanging around the country – like the distinctive odour of a labourforce still working way too hard. (I imagine it smells like a mix of stale sweat, Lynx and crispy chicken baguettes eaten at the desk).
A report from the Chartered Society of Physiotherapy revealed that one in four people are still working through the entire day without taking a break. As a result, says the report, they are left “stressed and physically unwell”.
What in the name of Michael Fingleton are we doing? This isn’t Wall Street and it certainly isn’t 2004 anymore. During the boom years, we were brainwashed into a cycle of work hard-play hard. Lunch is for wimps. Last one out of the office is a rotten egg.
Working overtime and working through breaks was expected in many companies. To refuse was to be a clockwatcher, to mark yourself out as not being a teamplayer. Work-life balance? Only losers worried about that when there was money to be made.
I remember one diligent man I knew nearly having a nervous breakdown because he’d worked eight days straight. He would barely leave his desk to heat up his lunch in the office microwave. On the eighth day, he lost the rag over something silly, face turning red, purple veins bulging out of his neck.
A cool-headed colleague walked past, paused at his desk and said: “John, I can guarantee you one thing. When you die at the age of 55, the MD of this company will not be standing over your grave saying, ‘Wasn’t John great? He never took a lunch break’.”
It made us all laugh and it defused the situation, not least because every word was true. As it turned out, despite all the hard work, all the hours spent sitting in our cars on the M50 instead of at home with our families, the economy went down the tubes anyway.
I understand that the current climate does not make it easy to take a break. With companies slashing staff numbers, remaining employees often end up doing more work for the same, or less, money. Fear makes people feel obliged to be seen as indispensable, even for the time it would take to eat a sandwich away from the computer screen.
I can’t talk. As a self-employed person, I know I work too hard and take too little time off because ultimately, I’m always living in fear of the next day and what it might not bring.
There is a lot of bitterness out there – some of it justified – towards public sector workers and their scheduled breaks, flexi-hours, set lunch times. There is anger when we hear trade unions squabbling with employers and the State over five minutes here and there.
But maybe we’re not angry with civil servants for getting a lunch break, as we are for the thankless, break-less situation many of us find ourselves in.
It’s like tuning into the news headlines from a different planet to hear the French or Italians complaining that the average lunch break in their countries has been cut down to 90 minutes. This week, some workers at the Carlsberg plant in Copenhagen walked off the job because the company decided to limit the drinking of beer to
lunchtime in the staff canteen. Until now, staff had been encouraged to help themselves throughout the working day from fridges full of free Carlsberg left around the brewery.
Free beer restricted to lunch time only? An hour and a half break at midday? Chance would be a fine thing, says you.
There is a middle ground to be found here. Surely employers should see that a rested, energetic workforce is going to be much more productive than one that is worked to the bone and on the scrapheap at 50.
We need to give ourselves a break – in every sense of the word.
FIRST PUBLISHED HERE: http://www.herald.ie/opinion/give-us-a-break-2218358.html
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Respect the Nonna (and Nonno)
My opinion piece in today's Evening Herald based on a very upsetting report about abuse and neglect of the elderly...
THERE is a lovely custom in Italy that the eldest family member at the dinner table gets the choicest cut of meat and the most sauce on their pasta. Everyone else sits on their hands until Nonna and Nonno (Granny and Grandad) have had their fill. Considering how much Italians love their grub, that's a high mark of respect.
This esteem for the elderly struck me everywhere I went on my recent hols to Italy. It is not unusual for grandparents to play an active role in raising their grandchildren, as their own parents did when their families were young. It's a pay-it-forward system. Everyone has a role and a value and a place.
How striking a contrast then to come home and open the papers to a very grim headline. Almost 2,000 cases of alleged abuse of the elderly were forwarded to the HSE last year. Half of these allegations were made against a son or daughter of the alleged victim. We Irish are supposed to have that one thing in common with the Italians -- that we love our mammies. How did it come to this?
The reported complaints make for upsetting reading. The allegations run the gamut of psychological abuse, financial abuse, neglect. In a sickening 14pc of cases, the abuse was reported to be physical.
The true level of elder abuse must surely run deeper and more widespread than this. As with children, we are talking about a section of society that is vulnerable, isolated and increasingly voiceless. The allegations being reported to the HSE are likely to be only the tip of the iceberg because so many are incapable of complaint. Or unwilling, should their abusers happen to be the very people they are dependent on day-to-day.
At what point did the blessing of having our parents and grandparents still alive and participating in family life become a burden rather than a cause for celebration? The onus is on us, the physically able, the financially 'viable', to change how we look at older people.
There is a tendency to afford status to people depending on what they're worth to our economy. Ask any newly-unemployed person how valued they feel. They miss the salary, sure, but they'll often talk about their sense of worthlessness because society doesn't see them as 'contributing'. I fear we secretly feel the same about people in retirement even if they have spent a lifetime diligently paying their taxes.
It's not just an individual attitude towards old folks. It's institutionalised too. How often do you hear of relatives crying out for more support to help invalided parents? How does a family value an older relative when society at large essentially considers them a drain or -- that horrible term -- a 'bed blocker'?
It's not a huge surprise that tensions and resentments will spring up. And abuse, yes, abuse too, although no measure of frustration should ever be an excuse for it.
We just have to do our best to see the real worth of our older generations. We have to afford status to non-monetary things like wisdom and experience.
Many people tell my 90-year-old grandfather that he is lucky to be living with his daughter, my mother. She would say otherwise. She dreads the day she can't sit down in front of the fire with him of an evening. I dread the phone call that I know will surely come. But we'll be happy that we knew what we had when we had it. How many can say as much?
FIRST PUBLISHED HERE: http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-our-elderly-must-be-seen-as-a-blessing-not-a-burden-2212785.html
THERE is a lovely custom in Italy that the eldest family member at the dinner table gets the choicest cut of meat and the most sauce on their pasta. Everyone else sits on their hands until Nonna and Nonno (Granny and Grandad) have had their fill. Considering how much Italians love their grub, that's a high mark of respect.
This esteem for the elderly struck me everywhere I went on my recent hols to Italy. It is not unusual for grandparents to play an active role in raising their grandchildren, as their own parents did when their families were young. It's a pay-it-forward system. Everyone has a role and a value and a place.
How striking a contrast then to come home and open the papers to a very grim headline. Almost 2,000 cases of alleged abuse of the elderly were forwarded to the HSE last year. Half of these allegations were made against a son or daughter of the alleged victim. We Irish are supposed to have that one thing in common with the Italians -- that we love our mammies. How did it come to this?
The reported complaints make for upsetting reading. The allegations run the gamut of psychological abuse, financial abuse, neglect. In a sickening 14pc of cases, the abuse was reported to be physical.
The true level of elder abuse must surely run deeper and more widespread than this. As with children, we are talking about a section of society that is vulnerable, isolated and increasingly voiceless. The allegations being reported to the HSE are likely to be only the tip of the iceberg because so many are incapable of complaint. Or unwilling, should their abusers happen to be the very people they are dependent on day-to-day.
At what point did the blessing of having our parents and grandparents still alive and participating in family life become a burden rather than a cause for celebration? The onus is on us, the physically able, the financially 'viable', to change how we look at older people.
There is a tendency to afford status to people depending on what they're worth to our economy. Ask any newly-unemployed person how valued they feel. They miss the salary, sure, but they'll often talk about their sense of worthlessness because society doesn't see them as 'contributing'. I fear we secretly feel the same about people in retirement even if they have spent a lifetime diligently paying their taxes.
It's not just an individual attitude towards old folks. It's institutionalised too. How often do you hear of relatives crying out for more support to help invalided parents? How does a family value an older relative when society at large essentially considers them a drain or -- that horrible term -- a 'bed blocker'?
It's not a huge surprise that tensions and resentments will spring up. And abuse, yes, abuse too, although no measure of frustration should ever be an excuse for it.
We just have to do our best to see the real worth of our older generations. We have to afford status to non-monetary things like wisdom and experience.
Many people tell my 90-year-old grandfather that he is lucky to be living with his daughter, my mother. She would say otherwise. She dreads the day she can't sit down in front of the fire with him of an evening. I dread the phone call that I know will surely come. But we'll be happy that we knew what we had when we had it. How many can say as much?
FIRST PUBLISHED HERE: http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-our-elderly-must-be-seen-as-a-blessing-not-a-burden-2212785.html
Friday, April 9, 2010
Bye bye Bebo
So long, Bebo. I won't miss you -- maybe now I can get to know my friends again in person. (From yesterday's Evening Herald)
By Susan Daly
Thursday April 08 2010
IT might sound a bit harsh to call a five-year-old a has-been. In the whizzy world of the internet though, half a decade is a long time. Bebo, born in 2005, has reached its sell-by date.
Technology giant AOL paid megabucks -- 850 million of them -- to acquire the social networking website two years ago. Now it has announced that it will be trying to sell its out-of-favour purchase. If all else fails, it will simply shut it down.
Wow. That's pretty brutal.
If Bebo were a boyband that had been jilted by its record label, we'd be bracing ourselves for the pictures of the cute one getting fat and the one with the talent starting to write hits for other, younger, starlets. In technology, as in the pop industry, when you're hot, you're white-hot. When you're not, you're stone-cold. There is no sentimentality and things get old real quickly.
It's so long Hannah Montana and hello Justin Bieber. (If you don't know who that is yet, ask a passing eight-year-old).
It might be worth bringing up the cautionary tale of Bebo the next time someone tells you that you absolutely must get on board the next big thing in technology. Beware anything that relies on mob rule to stay viable. The mob shifts its loyalty elsewhere and you're left alone, the only kid in your virtual playground.
Bebo needed to keep attracting new members. Every year saw a new launch -- Bebo Music, Bebo Books, Bebo Groups -- all promising to add to the experience of being part of the website's following.
Bless them, they tried so hard, and it's not entirely Bebo's fault. It's ours, we the public at www.fickle.com. As soon as something better or newer comes along, we're off.
I'm not pointing fingers at anyone but myself here. I opened a Bebo profile in 2005 when a friend sent an 'invitation' to everyone in her email address book. As long as the site remains open, it's probably still up there, listing my mid-Noughties likes (Britney Spears circa Toxic) and dislikes (White Chicks, the film).
Then the heat moved to MySpace, and so did I. I didn't even manage to get as far as specifying my gender on a profile there before Facebook caught my eye. Now I find myself drifting away from that too. I think the fatal bullet was when my aunt asked if I would be her friend on 'Myface'.
Now it's all about the quick buzz of updating my status 20 times a day on Twitter and instant messaging 'Twitpals'.
I'm enjoying it right now -- I work from home, so to me it's like access to an instant office canteen -- but I notice some of my old 'colleagues' have been checking in less frequently as of late. The novelty has worn off.
We didn't always need this constant change of scenery.
Why is it that for years we were happy enough with the eight-track tape and a clunky Walkman as the cutting-edge way to make music mobile?
Now, if your MP3 player is bigger than your fingernail, you're a Luddite.
It also seems that the easier that communication has become, the more difficult it has been to remain satisfied by it for even the briefest period of time.
Scientists have started to identify a strain of this perennial state of dissatisfaction. They're calling it adult ADHD.
The roots of this syndrome are behavioural. The more we are surrounded by distractions, the more we crave them.
I heard a word this week that made me step away from my netbook. 'Lapglancing': the act of watching TV while simultaneously tapping away at a laptop on your knee.
Remember what the word 'Bebo' actually stands for? 'Blog Early, Blog Often'. Now, isn't that an imperious call to the keyboard? It says something about the imperative, demanding nature of these 'social' sites. It implies that if you're not in, you can't win. And if you're not winning, then by definition, you're a loser.
It should be a comfort to know that these bits of gadgetry are ephemeral.
Bebo was the cool kid yesterday, but an outcast today.
It might remind us that we are lucky enough to still have real, live friends who are pretty much always where we last left them -- at the other end of the phone. (Okay, make the call on your iPhone if you must).
I think I'll invite some pals over for an evening of old-fashioned 'video-sharing', ie: watch a movie together, sitting on the same sofa in the same room.
Some things will never go out of fashion.
FIRST PUBLISHED HERE: http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-so-long-bebo-i-wont-miss-you-maybe-now-i-can-get-to-know-my-friends-again-in-person-2129936.html
By Susan Daly
Thursday April 08 2010
IT might sound a bit harsh to call a five-year-old a has-been. In the whizzy world of the internet though, half a decade is a long time. Bebo, born in 2005, has reached its sell-by date.
Technology giant AOL paid megabucks -- 850 million of them -- to acquire the social networking website two years ago. Now it has announced that it will be trying to sell its out-of-favour purchase. If all else fails, it will simply shut it down.
Wow. That's pretty brutal.
If Bebo were a boyband that had been jilted by its record label, we'd be bracing ourselves for the pictures of the cute one getting fat and the one with the talent starting to write hits for other, younger, starlets. In technology, as in the pop industry, when you're hot, you're white-hot. When you're not, you're stone-cold. There is no sentimentality and things get old real quickly.
It's so long Hannah Montana and hello Justin Bieber. (If you don't know who that is yet, ask a passing eight-year-old).
It might be worth bringing up the cautionary tale of Bebo the next time someone tells you that you absolutely must get on board the next big thing in technology. Beware anything that relies on mob rule to stay viable. The mob shifts its loyalty elsewhere and you're left alone, the only kid in your virtual playground.
Bebo needed to keep attracting new members. Every year saw a new launch -- Bebo Music, Bebo Books, Bebo Groups -- all promising to add to the experience of being part of the website's following.
Bless them, they tried so hard, and it's not entirely Bebo's fault. It's ours, we the public at www.fickle.com. As soon as something better or newer comes along, we're off.
I'm not pointing fingers at anyone but myself here. I opened a Bebo profile in 2005 when a friend sent an 'invitation' to everyone in her email address book. As long as the site remains open, it's probably still up there, listing my mid-Noughties likes (Britney Spears circa Toxic) and dislikes (White Chicks, the film).
Then the heat moved to MySpace, and so did I. I didn't even manage to get as far as specifying my gender on a profile there before Facebook caught my eye. Now I find myself drifting away from that too. I think the fatal bullet was when my aunt asked if I would be her friend on 'Myface'.
Now it's all about the quick buzz of updating my status 20 times a day on Twitter and instant messaging 'Twitpals'.
I'm enjoying it right now -- I work from home, so to me it's like access to an instant office canteen -- but I notice some of my old 'colleagues' have been checking in less frequently as of late. The novelty has worn off.
We didn't always need this constant change of scenery.
Why is it that for years we were happy enough with the eight-track tape and a clunky Walkman as the cutting-edge way to make music mobile?
Now, if your MP3 player is bigger than your fingernail, you're a Luddite.
It also seems that the easier that communication has become, the more difficult it has been to remain satisfied by it for even the briefest period of time.
Scientists have started to identify a strain of this perennial state of dissatisfaction. They're calling it adult ADHD.
The roots of this syndrome are behavioural. The more we are surrounded by distractions, the more we crave them.
I heard a word this week that made me step away from my netbook. 'Lapglancing': the act of watching TV while simultaneously tapping away at a laptop on your knee.
Remember what the word 'Bebo' actually stands for? 'Blog Early, Blog Often'. Now, isn't that an imperious call to the keyboard? It says something about the imperative, demanding nature of these 'social' sites. It implies that if you're not in, you can't win. And if you're not winning, then by definition, you're a loser.
It should be a comfort to know that these bits of gadgetry are ephemeral.
Bebo was the cool kid yesterday, but an outcast today.
It might remind us that we are lucky enough to still have real, live friends who are pretty much always where we last left them -- at the other end of the phone. (Okay, make the call on your iPhone if you must).
I think I'll invite some pals over for an evening of old-fashioned 'video-sharing', ie: watch a movie together, sitting on the same sofa in the same room.
Some things will never go out of fashion.
FIRST PUBLISHED HERE: http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-so-long-bebo-i-wont-miss-you-maybe-now-i-can-get-to-know-my-friends-again-in-person-2129936.html
Monday, March 22, 2010
SOS - Save our soles
From Saturday's Herald...
They're trendy, they're cheap and they've come for your sole -- it's the Attack Of The Killer Shoes!
Suffering for your fashion is one thing. Now we're being told that fake furry Ugg boots can be crippling. They might feel comfy but the cheapo, unsupported versions of the celebs' favourite are supposedly giving wearers a bad case of the flat foot. This, in turn, leads to long-term damage to legs, hips and pelvis.
So while Elle Macpherson, Sienna Miller and Gwyneth Paltrow are safely cushioned in their €170 official Ugg boots, those of us who bought the ten-pairs-a-euro type are in trouble. We sold our soles for affordable fashion.
It must be a very dangerous world out there when even our footwear is out to get us. If it's not fake Uggs, it's too-high heels. Those are the ones, you might remember, that we were told could cause everything from backache to infertility. (So, take them off during sex would be my suggestion there.)
When I was in school -- no, we didn't run barefoot back then, thanks -- the must-haves were those hideous white-soled deck shoes.
The soles were as flat as a pancake that had been run over by a Arctic truck. The laces were for decoration only. Only the deeply uncool would dream of lacing them up and providing some support for their growing feet.
Our teachers hated them because we literally looked down at heel. We loved them because our teachers hated them. The more we're warned off a shoe, the more we desire it.
Clearly, we women are mad. You wouldn't find a man tottering about with his bunions squeezed into a pair of 5ins PVC strappy sandals. Only Victoria Beckham can do that and be applauded for her "bravery".
Check out the footcare range in your local pharmacy. Heel grips, instant-spray blister plasters, gel cushion inserts for placing under the ball of the foot in nosebleed party shoes. The whole section is like a shrine to our silliness. See us as we stagger awkwardly and semi-upright from taxi to nightclub. It's like watching evolution happening in reverse.
But we like our shoes and we'll continue to suffer for them, which makes me think that the Government has missed a trick. They normally love a good old bit of fun fascism so I don't know how they haven't yet clamped down on our footwear fetish. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop: "It's for yer own good, girls".
Expect a State-sponsored Goldilocks of shoes any day now. A guy (it has to be a guy, doesn't it) who will go around checking that no footwear is too high or too low. He will pass a decree that all women should wear shoes that are 'just right'.
We have regulators for just about everything else that might qualify as a vice. Smoking is out -- or, at least, outdoors. With drink, we're all scratching our heads over which one is the one that is too many. Our foodie do-gooders are probably looking to see how New York's proposed ban on restaurant chefs using salt works out.
So maybe we need some sensible brogues with orthopedic insoles to match our hairshirts.
Can I save the Government from wasting money on advertising creatives to come up with a slogan for their new campaign? Let's issue an SOS -- Save Our Soles.
May I also suggest that such a law should be ushered in while the country is still off sweeties and what have you for Lent?
There's nothing like an extra bit of righteous self-denial to hammer a hard message home.
Of course, like all the best bits of Nanny State legislation, it should provoke an underground resistance movement, like the initial smoking 'areas' that some bars tried to get away with.
They were essentially proper rooms, with walls and heating -- but with a hole punched in the roof.
Footwear freedom fighters will be forced to adopt all sorts of shoe subterfuge. Retractable stiletto heels hidden in their slippers. And dayglo laces brightening up those brogues.
They can bring us to heel -- but they can't bring us down.
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-sos-save-our-soles-from-these-killer-shoes-2105919.html
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Just be happy, can't you?
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/sarkozy-and-bruni-have-power-live-in-a-palace-and-are-waited-on-by-servants-when-people-have-it-all-why-cant-they-just-be-happy-2097378.html
By Susan Daly
Friday March 12 2010
IT seems no-one believes in fairy tales these days -- not even those living in one.
Take Nicolas Sarkozy, France's pocket-rocket President. He might be a small man at 5ft 5ins but it would be hard to think of one other single area in which his life comes up short.
He overcame a difficult childhood to become the most powerful man in his country. He lives in a real, actual, gilt-edged palace. His wife doesn't just look good in fancy French knickers: she made a career out of it.
It's like some secret fairy godmother took him aside as a child and said: "Listen kid, I know you weren't exactly hit by the handsome wand, but I swear I'll make it up to you."
All his life is missing now is some magic beans and a few talking bears to make his porridge in the morning. And let's face it, you don't need them when you've got a gardener and a cook stashed away in the Elysee.
So why the whispers of discontent? Why the rumours that he's been having an affair with one of his junior ministers? When you've reached the top, must the only way forward be down?
We've seen too much of this before. I hate to say the 'T' word again in case I wear it out but, okay, Tiger Woods is a prime example. He had the success, the talent, the riches and the beautiful, blonde wife. Now all he's got is a world of pain and middle America praying for his soul.
As for his opposite numbers in the "beautiful game" across the water? Well, it's all gone ugly there too. Some people just don't seem to know when they're well off.
I'm starting to think that not only is youth wasted on the young, but success is wasted on the successful. That the same drive and over-arching ambition that gets them to the point of having it all is also what makes them perpetually dissatisfied with their lot.
That's not to say that anyone ever thought Sarko and Bruni were a match made in heaven. There were a few sniggers behind the hands when they got married after only four months of meeting -- and five months after his previous wife left the marital bed.
If it's any fairy tale, it's a strange, sideways one where the princess kissed the frog and he stayed a frog. Neither is it a fairy tale where the princess stayed in every night embroidering pillowcases for her trousseau and waiting for her prince to come.
In an interview she gave before she married Sarkozy, Bruni said that monogamy bored her. And how. This is the woman who slept with the father of a man who fathered her son. Figure that one out.
So, forged in heaven, no. But sex, power, glamour and beauty are a pretty attractive mix on earth. And Carla looked very cute in her mid-height heels beside her president-on-a-box.
Notoriously sensitive about his height, or lack of it, Sarkozy has been snapped standing on a pedestal to make a speech beside his taller counterparts Gordon Brown and Barack Obama.
At a French factory, only the smallest workers were allowed to stand behind him for the official publicity photographs. He's even been seen standing on tippytoes during a photoshoot with Michelle Obama.
Now it appears that's not the height of his folly.
The thing is, Carla was reported to be in the throes of an affair of her own, with a younger musician. So what's going on here? It could be a hoax -- and there are plenty who never bought into the Bruno-Sarkozy fairy tale. They would readily believe that there won't be a happy ever after.
Or could it be that the pair have agreed amicably to an "open" marriage?
The French are very practical about this kind of thing. They don't generally care if their politicians have lovers or mistresses or second families as long as it doesn't interfere with the job in hand. (Well, the other job in hand). They call one's private affairs 'des jardins secrets' -- literally 'secret gardens' -- where no-one else should trespass.
Perhaps Sarko is not a malcontent sitting up in his ivory Elysee wondering what next to do for fun. Perhaps he and his princess bride have come to some 'arrangement'. If that's the case, then he's not only living the fairytale these days -- he's living the dream.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Can't buy you love
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-our-lucky-little-fighters-are-blessed-with-the-one-thing-money-cant-buy--the-love-of-amazing-parents-2092718.html
From today's Evening Herald
THE greatest accident of birth is that none of us get to choose our parents. Like it or lump it, they are who they are. Some parents love and cherish their offspring; some never take responsibility for them at all. If you're lucky, your folks might muddle along somewhere in the middle.
Then there are the exceptional parents. Those whose children turn out to have extra challenges beyond the basic trauma of being born and having to get to grips with the world. Parents like Angie and Azzedine Benhaffaf from Cork who are proud mum and dad to conjoined twins Hassan and Hussein.
Tiny babies are vulnerable on every level. The Benhaffaf boys have had a bigger battle than most. When their conjoined status was first spotted in the womb, it wasn't expected that they could survive. Now they are three months old and thriving, in part thanks to superb medical care, but also very clearly as a result of their amazing parents.
There hasn't been a set of conjoined twins born to Irish parents in five years. The level of interest in their extraordinary story was always going to be high. Angie and Azzedine -- on top of coping with the very specific needs of their little boys and their worries for their future -- have had to deal with that public spotlight.
How they have dealt with it is a measure of the kind of people they are: and how lucky the twins are to have them as their protectors. Angie revealed how a British tabloid wanted exclusive photo rights to the boys for f80,000. The offer could have been tempting. The boys will need surgery in the near future and their medical costs are soaring.
For the Benhaffafs, their children's dignity was paramount. They would not trade a second of their boys' time for money. Instead, they shared their "great gifts" with the Irish public, allowing all of the media access to their story for free. The whole family -- parents, boys and their big sisters Malika and Iman -- went on the Late Late to show off the gorgeous new arrivals.
"We may be broke but we are morally rich," said Angie of their decision to invite the country to share their joy, rather than sell it piecemeal to the highest bidder. "When the boys look back on it they will be proud we did not accept money for their story," she added.
Even had she never explained her motivation, it would have been clear to anyone who saw the couple on the Late Late Show. They were honest about their concerns for the boys'
health, and the impact on the family as a whole of the new pressures. But what outshone every other emotion in that studio was their tender love for the two tiny mites in Angie's arms.
On one level, the purely physical, those boys have been handed one of the toughest starts in life you could imagine. On every other level, they are blessed.
Most gratifyingly of all, the Benhaffafs have been given what they deliberately never asked for: financial support. Inspired by their devotion, fundraisers around the country have started to fill what has been dubbed 'The Little Fighters' Fund'.
TV chef Clodagh McKenna is just one person who has devoted time and effort to raising money towards the twins' medical expenses: at the weekend, more than 1,000 bikers took part in a charity motorcycle event in their name.
The outpouring of generosity will be helpful when the twins hopefully travel for surgery to separate them later this year. Hopes are high for them -- they do not share any major organs -- but it will be an intricate and tense operation.
But beyond money, Hassan and Hussein have the best support team in the world behind them. Mum and Dad.
Anyone wishing to donate to The Little Fighters' Fund can send a donation to the Permanent TSB branch in Patrick Street, Cork: sort code 99-07-03; a/c no: 16556196
From today's Evening Herald
THE greatest accident of birth is that none of us get to choose our parents. Like it or lump it, they are who they are. Some parents love and cherish their offspring; some never take responsibility for them at all. If you're lucky, your folks might muddle along somewhere in the middle.
Then there are the exceptional parents. Those whose children turn out to have extra challenges beyond the basic trauma of being born and having to get to grips with the world. Parents like Angie and Azzedine Benhaffaf from Cork who are proud mum and dad to conjoined twins Hassan and Hussein.
Tiny babies are vulnerable on every level. The Benhaffaf boys have had a bigger battle than most. When their conjoined status was first spotted in the womb, it wasn't expected that they could survive. Now they are three months old and thriving, in part thanks to superb medical care, but also very clearly as a result of their amazing parents.
There hasn't been a set of conjoined twins born to Irish parents in five years. The level of interest in their extraordinary story was always going to be high. Angie and Azzedine -- on top of coping with the very specific needs of their little boys and their worries for their future -- have had to deal with that public spotlight.
How they have dealt with it is a measure of the kind of people they are: and how lucky the twins are to have them as their protectors. Angie revealed how a British tabloid wanted exclusive photo rights to the boys for f80,000. The offer could have been tempting. The boys will need surgery in the near future and their medical costs are soaring.
For the Benhaffafs, their children's dignity was paramount. They would not trade a second of their boys' time for money. Instead, they shared their "great gifts" with the Irish public, allowing all of the media access to their story for free. The whole family -- parents, boys and their big sisters Malika and Iman -- went on the Late Late to show off the gorgeous new arrivals.
"We may be broke but we are morally rich," said Angie of their decision to invite the country to share their joy, rather than sell it piecemeal to the highest bidder. "When the boys look back on it they will be proud we did not accept money for their story," she added.
Even had she never explained her motivation, it would have been clear to anyone who saw the couple on the Late Late Show. They were honest about their concerns for the boys'
health, and the impact on the family as a whole of the new pressures. But what outshone every other emotion in that studio was their tender love for the two tiny mites in Angie's arms.
On one level, the purely physical, those boys have been handed one of the toughest starts in life you could imagine. On every other level, they are blessed.
Most gratifyingly of all, the Benhaffafs have been given what they deliberately never asked for: financial support. Inspired by their devotion, fundraisers around the country have started to fill what has been dubbed 'The Little Fighters' Fund'.
TV chef Clodagh McKenna is just one person who has devoted time and effort to raising money towards the twins' medical expenses: at the weekend, more than 1,000 bikers took part in a charity motorcycle event in their name.
The outpouring of generosity will be helpful when the twins hopefully travel for surgery to separate them later this year. Hopes are high for them -- they do not share any major organs -- but it will be an intricate and tense operation.
But beyond money, Hassan and Hussein have the best support team in the world behind them. Mum and Dad.
Anyone wishing to donate to The Little Fighters' Fund can send a donation to the Permanent TSB branch in Patrick Street, Cork: sort code 99-07-03; a/c no: 16556196
Monday, March 1, 2010
MILF: Mother-in-law fingerpointing
You can almost hear the crack of mother-in-law jokes from here as Ashley Cole rolls out that old misogynistic chesnut...
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-of-course-the-motherinlaw-got-the-blame-it-couldnt-be-ashley-coles-fault-could-it-2081222.html
JUST when you thought Ashley Cole couldn't get any classier -- he blames the mother-in-law.
Has Ashley resurrected the comedian Les Dawson to do his PR? (Sample Dawson joke: "I can always tell when the mother-in-law's coming to stay: the mice throw themselves on the traps.")
Cheryl's mother Joan moved in with the couple two years ago in the wake of Ashley's first jump from the back page of newspapers to the front. A hairdresser called Aimee insisted she'd scored the England defender and the Cole marriage was thought to be in trouble.
Cheryl stood by her man-child, later telling Vogue magazine that she forgave him because he's "got a young mentality for his age anyway". A very attractive quality in a husband, you'll agree. Nonetheless, they stayed together and part of the reconciliation package was to have Joan fetch up in the spare room to support her daughter.
Now that Ashley finds himself back in hot water, he has lashed out and found an easy target. Like any reliable left-back under pressure, Ashley has decided that attack is the best defence.
Really Ashley, was your nine-bedroom mansion not big enough for the three of you? Could you not get a moment to yourself in any one of the five bathrooms, underground swimming pool area and five-a-side football pitch area? Could you not have avoided the mother-in-law by taking the servants' staircase?
Cheryl got one thing right in her marriage to Mr Cole. He's a little boy trapped in adult-size Premiership pants. How depressingly predictable that he won't take responsibility for the devastation of his marriage.
Then again, isn't that we've been told to expect from some men? Take this other theory being circulated by a 'close friend' of Ashley: Cheryl's successful career had driven a wedge between the couple. She left him to his own devices while she was off filming X Factor or on tour with Girls Aloud. Again, it's not me, it's you.
It all sounds terribly familiar. Remember when David Beckham allegedly nipped to the (Rebecca) Loos while holed up alone in Madrid? Somehow it became Posh's fault for not moving lock, stock and barrel of kids to Spain immediately on her hubby's transfer there.
Ashley's 'friends' imply Cheryl failed her marriage by not being at home 24/7 to keep her husband in line. How very 1950s. I bet she doesn't even own a frilly apron, the slattern.
No doubt they would like it very much if Cheryl made like Posh and joined herself at the hip to her husband as soon as suspicion set in. It's such a bogus accusation to level at poor Cheryl. She was a woman of her own making before she met baby-man Ashley. In fact, it probably did her credibility some temporary damage to stay with him as long as she did.
The problem is that while Cheryl is returning to the rest of us here in the 21st century, the door to the time machine that is being a WAG is still open. After all, the players still want them. A talented boy needs a devoted mummy to come home to (and not someone else's devoted mummy, apparently) and kiss their grazed knees better.
The women are to blame too. By aspiring to the post of WAG as some seem to do, they make themselves accessories to their famous and wealthy boyfriends and husbands.
Luckily for Cheryl she can buy her own diamonds and pay her own bills.
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-of-course-the-motherinlaw-got-the-blame-it-couldnt-be-ashley-coles-fault-could-it-2081222.html
JUST when you thought Ashley Cole couldn't get any classier -- he blames the mother-in-law.
Has Ashley resurrected the comedian Les Dawson to do his PR? (Sample Dawson joke: "I can always tell when the mother-in-law's coming to stay: the mice throw themselves on the traps.")
Cheryl's mother Joan moved in with the couple two years ago in the wake of Ashley's first jump from the back page of newspapers to the front. A hairdresser called Aimee insisted she'd scored the England defender and the Cole marriage was thought to be in trouble.
Cheryl stood by her man-child, later telling Vogue magazine that she forgave him because he's "got a young mentality for his age anyway". A very attractive quality in a husband, you'll agree. Nonetheless, they stayed together and part of the reconciliation package was to have Joan fetch up in the spare room to support her daughter.
Now that Ashley finds himself back in hot water, he has lashed out and found an easy target. Like any reliable left-back under pressure, Ashley has decided that attack is the best defence.
Really Ashley, was your nine-bedroom mansion not big enough for the three of you? Could you not get a moment to yourself in any one of the five bathrooms, underground swimming pool area and five-a-side football pitch area? Could you not have avoided the mother-in-law by taking the servants' staircase?
Cheryl got one thing right in her marriage to Mr Cole. He's a little boy trapped in adult-size Premiership pants. How depressingly predictable that he won't take responsibility for the devastation of his marriage.
Then again, isn't that we've been told to expect from some men? Take this other theory being circulated by a 'close friend' of Ashley: Cheryl's successful career had driven a wedge between the couple. She left him to his own devices while she was off filming X Factor or on tour with Girls Aloud. Again, it's not me, it's you.
It all sounds terribly familiar. Remember when David Beckham allegedly nipped to the (Rebecca) Loos while holed up alone in Madrid? Somehow it became Posh's fault for not moving lock, stock and barrel of kids to Spain immediately on her hubby's transfer there.
Ashley's 'friends' imply Cheryl failed her marriage by not being at home 24/7 to keep her husband in line. How very 1950s. I bet she doesn't even own a frilly apron, the slattern.
No doubt they would like it very much if Cheryl made like Posh and joined herself at the hip to her husband as soon as suspicion set in. It's such a bogus accusation to level at poor Cheryl. She was a woman of her own making before she met baby-man Ashley. In fact, it probably did her credibility some temporary damage to stay with him as long as she did.
The problem is that while Cheryl is returning to the rest of us here in the 21st century, the door to the time machine that is being a WAG is still open. After all, the players still want them. A talented boy needs a devoted mummy to come home to (and not someone else's devoted mummy, apparently) and kiss their grazed knees better.
The women are to blame too. By aspiring to the post of WAG as some seem to do, they make themselves accessories to their famous and wealthy boyfriends and husbands.
Luckily for Cheryl she can buy her own diamonds and pay her own bills.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Cloning Cowell
My op-ed from Saturday's Evening Herald on news that Simon Cowell might be getting hitched at last...
WE knew it – the X-Factor’s Simon Cowell is just a big softie underneath it all. A ‘close pal’ has been telling newspaper reporters that Mr Grumpy has gotten engaged to his artist girlfriend. Not only that, but he is thought to have popped the question on Valentine’s Day during a romantic dinner.
Hold on one candy-coloured moment: dinner a deux, Valentine’s Day, a £250,000 diamond ring? That’s quite the leap from three years ago when Cowell tut-tutted at the “commerciality” of February 14. “I am not conventional,” he said back then. “I don’t do holding hands and cuddling up in front of the TV. I find things like Valentine’s Day ridiculous, being forced to be romantic on a certain day.”
Would you get him – “not conventional”. I bet he had a team of violinists serenading the ‘lucky’ lady, make-up artist Mezghan Husseiny, and I bet he went down on one knee for good measure.
Mind you, he also said repeatedly that he would never, ever get married. This is truly a momentous occasion. Simon Cowell, the man who thinks he’s always right, admits he may have been wrong.
Even if he’d never vowed to stay a bachelor, news of the engagement is surprising. (Not least to ex-girlfriend Terri Seymour, whom he was with for six of the years in which he was banging on about his wedding phobia). Who would ever have thought that Simon Cowell could love someone more than he loves Simon Cowell. If he was an ice-cream, he’d lick himself to death.
Could it be that turning 50 last year is what did it for Simon? His birthday party was like a particularly debauched stag night, complete with half-naked dancing girls, magnums of champagne and baby sharks swimming in tanks in the toilets. There isn’t much to do after a blow-out like that except get married.
A sense of mortality gets to us all at some stage. Something has certainly pierced Cowell’s armour and – oh dear, God – could it be love? Perhaps this is his version of a midlife crisis. He already has the garage full of trophy cars, so it’s no good splashing out on a firebox-red penile extension. He has to find another way to rebel.
Or maybe Cowell is more conventional than he would have us believe. He has said that his biggest fear of getting married had been the cost of getting divorced. What an old romantic. Now he’s talking of being “smitten” (and presumably, he has a good lawyer or seven who knows their way around a prenup).
But here’s the most telling revelation so far. In an upcoming TV interview, he tells Piers Morgan: “I think I need to have little Simons around.” So that’s it. Cowell’s ego demands that it’s time to start producing the future in his own image. Heavens preserve us all.
WE knew it – the X-Factor’s Simon Cowell is just a big softie underneath it all. A ‘close pal’ has been telling newspaper reporters that Mr Grumpy has gotten engaged to his artist girlfriend. Not only that, but he is thought to have popped the question on Valentine’s Day during a romantic dinner.
Hold on one candy-coloured moment: dinner a deux, Valentine’s Day, a £250,000 diamond ring? That’s quite the leap from three years ago when Cowell tut-tutted at the “commerciality” of February 14. “I am not conventional,” he said back then. “I don’t do holding hands and cuddling up in front of the TV. I find things like Valentine’s Day ridiculous, being forced to be romantic on a certain day.”
Would you get him – “not conventional”. I bet he had a team of violinists serenading the ‘lucky’ lady, make-up artist Mezghan Husseiny, and I bet he went down on one knee for good measure.
Mind you, he also said repeatedly that he would never, ever get married. This is truly a momentous occasion. Simon Cowell, the man who thinks he’s always right, admits he may have been wrong.
Even if he’d never vowed to stay a bachelor, news of the engagement is surprising. (Not least to ex-girlfriend Terri Seymour, whom he was with for six of the years in which he was banging on about his wedding phobia). Who would ever have thought that Simon Cowell could love someone more than he loves Simon Cowell. If he was an ice-cream, he’d lick himself to death.
Could it be that turning 50 last year is what did it for Simon? His birthday party was like a particularly debauched stag night, complete with half-naked dancing girls, magnums of champagne and baby sharks swimming in tanks in the toilets. There isn’t much to do after a blow-out like that except get married.
A sense of mortality gets to us all at some stage. Something has certainly pierced Cowell’s armour and – oh dear, God – could it be love? Perhaps this is his version of a midlife crisis. He already has the garage full of trophy cars, so it’s no good splashing out on a firebox-red penile extension. He has to find another way to rebel.
Or maybe Cowell is more conventional than he would have us believe. He has said that his biggest fear of getting married had been the cost of getting divorced. What an old romantic. Now he’s talking of being “smitten” (and presumably, he has a good lawyer or seven who knows their way around a prenup).
But here’s the most telling revelation so far. In an upcoming TV interview, he tells Piers Morgan: “I think I need to have little Simons around.” So that’s it. Cowell’s ego demands that it’s time to start producing the future in his own image. Heavens preserve us all.
Friday, February 19, 2010
He's not the Messiah, Cheryl; he's a very naughty boy
My op-ed in yesterday's Evening Herald about the idiocy of Ashely Cole...
IN the history of lame excuses, it’s as lame as a one-legged duck. According to footballer Ashley Cole, there is a perfectly innocent explanation for why pictures of his wobbly bits were sent from a mobile phone that he owned to the phone of a blonde model.
He forgot he had taken naked pics of himself before he loaned the mobile to a friend who was ‘between phones’. That friend passed it onto another friend. That friend-of-a-friend found the pics, pretended to be Ashley and forwarded them for a larf, innit?
Bloody hell, but Cole is one unlucky fella. If that’s what happened, that’s what happened. Sometimes dogs really do eat homework.
Still and all: who takes naked pictures of themselves when they are alone in their hotel room and saves them on their phone? Cheryl Cole shouldn’t spend too much time worrying about whether to believe her husband’s three-men-and-a-phone explanation. She should just get down to brass tacks and realise that this guy is just too dumb to stay with any longer.
If you are a high-profile young man who has, in the past, been accused of cheating on your equally famous wife, the best policy would surely be to live your life as blamelessly as possible. Taking pics of yourself in the nip and leaving them lying about in a mobile is not clever. It’s sub-stupidity of epic proportions.
Instead of protecting your lovely wife – Britain’s sweetheart, if we are to believe her good press – from any future hurt, you open her up to deep, public humiliation. Cheryl, sweetheart, you can do without him. Don’t believe the lyrics of your own song. Don’t Fight For This Love.
Much has been made of the fact that Cheryl has flown to LA on her own, with a big piece of costume jewellery where her wedding ring should be. It could just be that Ashley is laid up at home with his broken ankle (and wouldn’t it be awful if Cheryl accidentally banged off it with her suitcase on the way out the door.)
But I hope it’s a sign of her intentions. I hope it means she is through with standing by her man.
There is so much to admire about the former Cheryl Tweedy. She dragged herself out of a tough background on a council estate in Newcastle by sheer talent and ambition. By showing her vulnerability and empathy on the X-Factor, she has made herself one of TV’s most popular personalities. She doesn’t deserve to shed any more tears over her husband.
She doesn’t need to stay with him for status or money (John Terry’s wife, do you hear me?) She has made it on her own. She didn’t need to stay with him in 2008 when hairdresser Aimee Walton sold her story to the newspapers. She didn’t need to stay with him when another buxom young lady came forward claiming to have ‘scored’ with the England footballer. She doesn’t need to do it now.
Ashley Cole might well be an innocent party in all this. Cheryl, however, has more to be getting on with than to wait around to find out.
Ashley suffers from the same syndrome as many young Premier League footballers. All they really have is their two right feet. The silly money they earn, and the fame it brings them, can turn their head. Why was Ashley Cole taking pics of his naked glory? If it wasn’t for someone else, it was so he could admire himself. How arrogant is that.
These lads, being constantly told they are the icons of their generation, develop a God complex. They don’t always have the education or the smarts to temper themselves with a bit of modesty.
But do you know what Cheryl – they are not Messiahs. Mostly, they are just very naughty boys.
IN the history of lame excuses, it’s as lame as a one-legged duck. According to footballer Ashley Cole, there is a perfectly innocent explanation for why pictures of his wobbly bits were sent from a mobile phone that he owned to the phone of a blonde model.
He forgot he had taken naked pics of himself before he loaned the mobile to a friend who was ‘between phones’. That friend passed it onto another friend. That friend-of-a-friend found the pics, pretended to be Ashley and forwarded them for a larf, innit?
Bloody hell, but Cole is one unlucky fella. If that’s what happened, that’s what happened. Sometimes dogs really do eat homework.
Still and all: who takes naked pictures of themselves when they are alone in their hotel room and saves them on their phone? Cheryl Cole shouldn’t spend too much time worrying about whether to believe her husband’s three-men-and-a-phone explanation. She should just get down to brass tacks and realise that this guy is just too dumb to stay with any longer.
If you are a high-profile young man who has, in the past, been accused of cheating on your equally famous wife, the best policy would surely be to live your life as blamelessly as possible. Taking pics of yourself in the nip and leaving them lying about in a mobile is not clever. It’s sub-stupidity of epic proportions.
Instead of protecting your lovely wife – Britain’s sweetheart, if we are to believe her good press – from any future hurt, you open her up to deep, public humiliation. Cheryl, sweetheart, you can do without him. Don’t believe the lyrics of your own song. Don’t Fight For This Love.
Much has been made of the fact that Cheryl has flown to LA on her own, with a big piece of costume jewellery where her wedding ring should be. It could just be that Ashley is laid up at home with his broken ankle (and wouldn’t it be awful if Cheryl accidentally banged off it with her suitcase on the way out the door.)
But I hope it’s a sign of her intentions. I hope it means she is through with standing by her man.
There is so much to admire about the former Cheryl Tweedy. She dragged herself out of a tough background on a council estate in Newcastle by sheer talent and ambition. By showing her vulnerability and empathy on the X-Factor, she has made herself one of TV’s most popular personalities. She doesn’t deserve to shed any more tears over her husband.
She doesn’t need to stay with him for status or money (John Terry’s wife, do you hear me?) She has made it on her own. She didn’t need to stay with him in 2008 when hairdresser Aimee Walton sold her story to the newspapers. She didn’t need to stay with him when another buxom young lady came forward claiming to have ‘scored’ with the England footballer. She doesn’t need to do it now.
Ashley Cole might well be an innocent party in all this. Cheryl, however, has more to be getting on with than to wait around to find out.
Ashley suffers from the same syndrome as many young Premier League footballers. All they really have is their two right feet. The silly money they earn, and the fame it brings them, can turn their head. Why was Ashley Cole taking pics of his naked glory? If it wasn’t for someone else, it was so he could admire himself. How arrogant is that.
These lads, being constantly told they are the icons of their generation, develop a God complex. They don’t always have the education or the smarts to temper themselves with a bit of modesty.
But do you know what Cheryl – they are not Messiahs. Mostly, they are just very naughty boys.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
The Terrific Travels of Charlie and George
Charlie Bird and George Lee have been having it tough these past few months - by their own account anyhow. Listening to them whine about life outside Montrose is dispiriting to this journalist who remembers being in awe of them at the ESB Media Awards a decade ago. I was nominated for a colour writing award (and seated at a table with a medical monthly and a agricultural pamphlet, I had a fair idea I shouldn't worry too much about having to make a speech, sit back and enjoy the free dinner). George and Charlie, though, were the real deal and were honoured for their investigative journalism in breaking the NIB tax evasion scandal. Charlie's speech went something along the lines of "We were warned off this story but we are not anybody's typewriters..."
Oh Charlie, what has it come to?
My op-ed in the midweek Herald went a little something like this...
The crèche in RTE is apparently a very fine facility. No doubt it will shortly be taking delivery of a batch of the hotly-tipped children’s bestseller, The Terrific Travels of Charlie and George.
Through the medium of nursery rhyme, this listen-and-learn tome will prepare the offspring of RTE staffers for life within the Montrose family.
“This little boy went to Washington; this boy went to the polls; both little boys went ‘Wah! Wah! Wah!’ – all the way home to D4.”
Don’t bother trying to pre-order Charlie and George at your local bookshop: it has a very limited run and the small print is illegible to anyone outside Donnybrook.
Here’s how the world works for the rest of us: we jack in our jobs to go adventuring, we get a P45. When George Lee decided to run for the Dail so he’d have something to tell the grandkids, he got a guarantee that a job would be still there for him in RTE twelve months later. When Charlie Bird harrumphed that he’d had enough of Washington, he was told to come home early out of the cold.
Why wouldn’t you want to return to an employer like that? The very notion that Lee and Bird are some sort of maverick risk-takers is laughable. RTE all but sewed their mittens onto a piece of string and threaded it through the armholes of their duffle coats before sending them out to play.
They didn’t have to be called in for their dinner. Homesick Charlie has returned over two years early from a four-year post. George spent nine months on the job for Fine Gael. That’s just long enough for him to have kittens over not being treated in the manner to which he had been accustomed.
There is a case to be made for sympathising with Curious George. He looked beyond his role as economics editor at the State broadcaster and thought he could see a different future. (Albeit with RTE standing nervously on the shore, ready to chuck a lifebuoy at him if the waters got choppy).
He couldn’t hack a single winter of discontent. I don’t know if he was being intentionally hilarious when he complained to Pat Kenny on Frontline that he was frustrated that most TDs were “institutionalised” by the comforts and cosiness of life in the Dail. It certainly gave me a laugh. Is there not plenty of opportunity to become institutionalised by the fine renumeration, facilities and jobs-for-life at RTE? I’d be only delighted to be incarcerated in that golden a cage.
There’s no suggestion of a timeout in the sin bin. Lee has been touted for the seat in Washington newly vacated by Bird. In any case, he’ll return to his full salary of around e150,000 which should keep him warm until he gets out of the decontamination zone.
Bird has already laid out his own welcome mat in the documentary about his ill-fated year in the US. “I’ll be back in Dublin, I’ll be walking around and I’ll go back to doing the job I was doing before I left,” he said. Brave little soldier.
Why wouldn’t they expect to be allowed to come home to Mammy Montrose with the minimal of consequences? RTE looks after family, see. That devotion to family saw Charlie Bird miss out on the major US story of last year: the sudden death of Michael Jackson. He was in Dublin at the time, all over the rather more important job of toasting George Lee as he went off to dip his toe into politics.
It still seems scarcely believable that Charlie Bird admitted in public that he couldn’t cope with the Washington job. I don’t need to tell a man who – along with Lee – broke the tax evasion scandal at NIB in the late ’90s that journalism is all about making contacts.
So why did he admit that he essentially felt past the point of being able to do that? More to the point, why did RTE think showcasing his inadequacies in a TV two-parter was a good idea?
A much sterner mother would have said to them both, ‘Climb that tree if you want but if you fall and break both your legs, don’t come running to me.”
The prodigal sons may not know when exactly they are coming back to RTE, or to exactly what role. But no doubt they are looking forward to regaling their wide-eyed colleagues with tales of how awful it is in the world outside Montrose over cups of subsidised tea.
Friday, February 5, 2010
What have the Swedes ever done for us?
From today's Evening Herald
By Susan Daly
Well, that's just charming. The Swedish embassy is pulling out of Ireland - and breaks the news with Valentine's Day looming.
I know we've let ourselves go a bit recently. We're stony broke, heading for obesity and yes, we're still a bit too fond of the drink. We haven't been doing all that well at the Eurovision these past few years -- and God knows the Swedes love a catchy pop hook.
It's a bit cold-hearted though. Have the last 60 years here with us meant nothing to them? Fine. Be like that. See if we care.
What have the Swedish ever done for us anyway? Oh sure, they're not bad at designing stuff. Inconsequential little things like some of the world's sexiest cars (Saab), and some of the safest (Volvo). And so what if the Irish long-haul lorry driver wouldn't dream of hitting the road without his Scania truck? Swedish engineering gets us places in safety and style -- yawn and yawn.
It was much more exciting when we drove clapped-out bangers whose brakes didn't work when it was raining. Or too windy. Or there was an 'r' in the month.
Perhaps the same lorry driver calls home on his sturdy Ericsson mobile phone. He won't get an answer because the wife is off in Ikea, eating a giant plate of meatballs for a fiver. Right shower of rip-off merchants they are.
They stand in the middle of their big fun blue-and-yellow warehouse, look you straight in the eye without blinking and say, "Yes, madam, you can indeed buy that bed, wardrobe, matching lockers and sliding drawer system for €100."
Who do they think they are with their minimalist chic and their clever storage solutions? I rather liked when the awkward space under my stairs was chaotic and cluttered. I don't remember asking anyone to design a set of sleek rolling shelves, handy shoe-organiser and hideaway coal scuttle. My books were perfectly fine on the floor where they were. Bunch of do-gooders.
At least we Irish know how to enjoy ourselves. What contribution has the Swedish nation made to entertainment? Apart from the enduring legacy of the pop perfection that was ABBA, that is.
Sorrows
Irish wedding receptions would be hard pushed to find another floor-filling anthem to replace Dancing Queen. Without ABBA, the broken-hearted would never know the bittersweet pleasure of drowning their sorrows in a bottle of Absolut (Swedish premium) vodka while crying along to The Winner Takes It All.
Alright then: literature. We have Joyce, we have Beckett, we have Bernard Shaw. Yes, I agree it would be a long day doing a straw poll on Grafton Street to find one person who has ever actually finished any of their books. And yes, it was the Swedish who gave international recognition to Heaney, Becketts, Yeats and Shaw with the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Yes, the Swedes came up with those best-selling Scandinavian detective novels we all love to curl up with in bed at night. Yes, the new Stieg Larsson is a rollicking read. Yes, I love the Wallander series on TV at the moment. What's your point?
Okay, kudos for the cultural stuff. But what do they do for fun? We were doing just fine with our repressed sexuality and fear of public semi-nudity before the Swedes came along with their saunas and positive body image, thank you very much.
Now you can't swing a Speedo in a spa here without hitting a group of Irish lads sitting around in a steamy room as shameless as the day they were born. Relaxing together in a calm, amiable environment rather than beating seven shades of cider out of each other at closing time? I blame the Swedes.
At least they're not a very good-looking race are they? Britt Ekland, Greta Garbo, Ingrid Bergman, Victoria Silvstedt -- shockers, the lot of them.
Case closed. The Swedes have done nothing for us. Apart from the cool design, the safer transport, the great novels, music and TV, the Swedehearts and the power to make us all chill out. . .
If we Irish need to stay angry to dull the pain of being abandoned maybe we should focus on the fact that the referee who didn't call Thierry Henry's handball against Ireland was Swedish. It might also explain why the embassy is leaving so suddenly: the threat of war.
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-so-the-swedes-have-withdrawn-their-ambassador-what-have-they-ever-done-for-us-anyway-2050061.html
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Don't let Santa Claus ask Saoirse for her autograph
OSCAR shortlist day brings out the patriot in us all. We love to see an Irish name in the running for an Academy Award. The Sheridans alongside the Scorseses. The Neesons taking on the Nicholsons.
So it was disappointing that Saoirse Ronan was passed over in the Best Actress category yesterday. The supremely talented 15-year-old from Carlow had been tipped for recognition of her performance as a murdered young girl in The Lovely Bones.
I hope she is not too downhearted – but I’m not altogether sorry that she has missed out. That is neither begrudgery nor jealousy speaking. (Although her great success so far does make me wonder what the hell I did with the first 15 years of my life.)
Saoirse, who already had an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress under her belt at 13, has nothing to prove. Since the Lovely Bones, she has shot a movie with Colin Farrell and is about to shoot another with Atonement director Joe Wright. To
say she has a future in film is an understatement.
But the spotlight is an even more intense place for her two years on. She is no longer the child who wore a green dress to the Oscars because she wanted everyone to know she was Irish. At the Dublin premiere of The Lovely Bones last week, she looked every inch the lovely young woman. She wore fabulous Nina Divito high heels and a glittering black dress.
It’s that cusp of teenagehood where she begins to look womanly – but at 15, she is very much still a child. Her parents, Paul and Monica, are protective of her. Under their guidance, Saoirse is unlikely to start drinking the hotel minibar dry or turning into a nightclub-hopper like Lindsay Lohan.
There is, however, only so much Saoirse can be protected from, given the industry she is in. Her friend Sarah Bolger – who starred in Jim Sheridan’s In America as a 10-year-old and whose star is also on the up - has spoken of how she was offered inappropriate scripts when she was still 16. When I interviewed her last year, she explained: “These scripts were coming up for me even two years ago that had stuff in them that would be just a little dodgy.”
And just because she has turned 18, reporters apparently think it’s okay to ask her about sex.
“It's madness,” she said. “This interviewer asked, ‘So who would you like to jump into bed with?’ We had been talking about Jonathan Rhys-Meyers (with whom she stars in The Tudors), so I'm sure he just wanted me to say him.”
Even Saoirse’s acclaimed role in The Lovely Bones could have presented her with a very grown-up dilemma. In the book on which it is based, her character endures a terrible sexual assault before she is killed. Thankfully, the film’s director Peter Jackson decided such graphic detail was not needed for the screen version. As time goes on, will Saoirse confront less understanding directors and producers?
It’s wonderful to see our two lovely girls grow up so beautifully on camera but we can’t forget that they are still fragile teenagers. It’s a tough enough phase of life as it is – without the added pressure of having to cope with adult expectations and pervy interviewers.
We might heed the words of the first real child star, Shirley Temple, and her poignant reminder that fame made her grow up too fast, too soon.
“I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was six,” she once said. “Mother took me to see him in a department store and he asked for my autograph.”
It’s not as salacious as the cautionary tale of Drew Barrymore, the little girl from ET who was drinking at the age of 9, taking cocaine by 11 and in rehab at 13. The moral of their stories are the same though: being thrust into the public eye at a young age hastens the death of innocence.
If missing out on the Oscars carousel for a year gives Saoirse more time to go home and play with her beloved dog Sassie and hang out with her mates, then it will be time well spent.
THIS is the extended version of the op-ed I had published in yesterday's Evening Herald at http://www.herald.ie/opinion/sorry-saoirse-missed-out-but-let-her-be-a-teenager-a-while-2045703.html
So it was disappointing that Saoirse Ronan was passed over in the Best Actress category yesterday. The supremely talented 15-year-old from Carlow had been tipped for recognition of her performance as a murdered young girl in The Lovely Bones.
I hope she is not too downhearted – but I’m not altogether sorry that she has missed out. That is neither begrudgery nor jealousy speaking. (Although her great success so far does make me wonder what the hell I did with the first 15 years of my life.)
Saoirse, who already had an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress under her belt at 13, has nothing to prove. Since the Lovely Bones, she has shot a movie with Colin Farrell and is about to shoot another with Atonement director Joe Wright. To
say she has a future in film is an understatement.
But the spotlight is an even more intense place for her two years on. She is no longer the child who wore a green dress to the Oscars because she wanted everyone to know she was Irish. At the Dublin premiere of The Lovely Bones last week, she looked every inch the lovely young woman. She wore fabulous Nina Divito high heels and a glittering black dress.
It’s that cusp of teenagehood where she begins to look womanly – but at 15, she is very much still a child. Her parents, Paul and Monica, are protective of her. Under their guidance, Saoirse is unlikely to start drinking the hotel minibar dry or turning into a nightclub-hopper like Lindsay Lohan.
There is, however, only so much Saoirse can be protected from, given the industry she is in. Her friend Sarah Bolger – who starred in Jim Sheridan’s In America as a 10-year-old and whose star is also on the up - has spoken of how she was offered inappropriate scripts when she was still 16. When I interviewed her last year, she explained: “These scripts were coming up for me even two years ago that had stuff in them that would be just a little dodgy.”
And just because she has turned 18, reporters apparently think it’s okay to ask her about sex.
“It's madness,” she said. “This interviewer asked, ‘So who would you like to jump into bed with?’ We had been talking about Jonathan Rhys-Meyers (with whom she stars in The Tudors), so I'm sure he just wanted me to say him.”
Even Saoirse’s acclaimed role in The Lovely Bones could have presented her with a very grown-up dilemma. In the book on which it is based, her character endures a terrible sexual assault before she is killed. Thankfully, the film’s director Peter Jackson decided such graphic detail was not needed for the screen version. As time goes on, will Saoirse confront less understanding directors and producers?
It’s wonderful to see our two lovely girls grow up so beautifully on camera but we can’t forget that they are still fragile teenagers. It’s a tough enough phase of life as it is – without the added pressure of having to cope with adult expectations and pervy interviewers.
We might heed the words of the first real child star, Shirley Temple, and her poignant reminder that fame made her grow up too fast, too soon.
“I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was six,” she once said. “Mother took me to see him in a department store and he asked for my autograph.”
It’s not as salacious as the cautionary tale of Drew Barrymore, the little girl from ET who was drinking at the age of 9, taking cocaine by 11 and in rehab at 13. The moral of their stories are the same though: being thrust into the public eye at a young age hastens the death of innocence.
If missing out on the Oscars carousel for a year gives Saoirse more time to go home and play with her beloved dog Sassie and hang out with her mates, then it will be time well spent.
THIS is the extended version of the op-ed I had published in yesterday's Evening Herald at http://www.herald.ie/opinion/sorry-saoirse-missed-out-but-let-her-be-a-teenager-a-while-2045703.html
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
With this toaster, I thee divorce
Debenhams have launched a new service called the Divorce Gift List. How nice of them.
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-with-this-toaster--i-thee-divorce-2021296.html
By Susan Daly
Tuesday January 19 2010
It's clearly a tough time in the retail sector when Debenhams decide it's fine to burrow out a crass new niche: the Divorce Gift List.
Their logic is that when couples break up, they also draw a dividing line down their communal belongings.
Or worse, one partner ends up out on their ear entirely without so much as a can-opener to their name.
The Debenhams gift list is posing a question that only they felt needed to be asked: Just what do you buy the man or woman who has nothing? A store spokesperson said that as well as the basic bed and kitchen basics, they expect microwaves, plasma screen TVs, computer games and non-iron shirts to be popular choices among divorcees.
How sensitive. Congratulations on the breakdown of your marriage. We now expect you to sit slobbering microwaveable ready meals down your idiot-friendly shirt while you numb the loneliness of your life by playing video games on your giant TV. Why not just add, "You sad immature sack," and be done with it?
Is it just me or does it also sounds like a particularly masculine wish list? I don't think divorcee support groups will be delighted by the stereotype that men straight out of a marriage revert to their 20-something selves. It might sound like fun -- but probably not to the man who has lost love, a home and perhaps daily access to his children. A flatscreen TV is scant consolation.
Marital breakdown is a horrible fact of life -- the most recent figures show that one in four married Irish couples are now estranged. That is incredibly sad and there is nothing wrong with the idea of helping a needy friend to start over.
There is also something to be said for anything that helps destigmatise divorce, which is still a relatively new phenomenon here. But a divorce gift list sounds sneakily like a companion to a wedding gift list. Except the gift card reads: "I'm sorry to hear... You didn't dump that loser sooner" or "Ding dong, the witch is gone".
Like those divorce parties that have become popular among such dignified, restrained divorcees like Jordan and Heather Mills, it smacks of a celebration. Don't get me started on how inappropriate that is if children, in particular, are involved. It's a surprise the list doesn't include a special silver-plated kiddies' tissue holder.
Who, by the way, would register for such a gift list? If you're getting divorced, it's safe to assume you got married, too. And if I'm a good enough friend to be sent an invite to your divorce party, I probably shelled out for a wedding present at that happier time too. Isn't that a little -- dare I say it -- greedy?
Debenhams would argue that the list is not an exploitation of the old maxim that where there's muck, there's brass. They might say they are supplying a real demand.
Perhaps -- but there are plenty of other situations where someone might need to assemble the basics of a home. A student starting college away from their parents, for example. So why don't they launch a Home Starter Kit that would cover all eventualities? I think we know the answer to that.
It wouldn't generate the same publicity.
How's this for cynicism: the launch came on the day known as Blue Monday.
It is officially the most depressing day of the year, the point at which many people are hit by post-Christmas financial, emotional and physical stress. Who in Debenhams thought it would be a kind gesture to add a reminder of relationship breakdown to that mix?
It seems they have in fact actually answered their own question. What do you give the person who has nothing? A kick when they're down.
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-with-this-toaster--i-thee-divorce-2021296.html
By Susan Daly
Tuesday January 19 2010
It's clearly a tough time in the retail sector when Debenhams decide it's fine to burrow out a crass new niche: the Divorce Gift List.
Their logic is that when couples break up, they also draw a dividing line down their communal belongings.
Or worse, one partner ends up out on their ear entirely without so much as a can-opener to their name.
The Debenhams gift list is posing a question that only they felt needed to be asked: Just what do you buy the man or woman who has nothing? A store spokesperson said that as well as the basic bed and kitchen basics, they expect microwaves, plasma screen TVs, computer games and non-iron shirts to be popular choices among divorcees.
How sensitive. Congratulations on the breakdown of your marriage. We now expect you to sit slobbering microwaveable ready meals down your idiot-friendly shirt while you numb the loneliness of your life by playing video games on your giant TV. Why not just add, "You sad immature sack," and be done with it?
Is it just me or does it also sounds like a particularly masculine wish list? I don't think divorcee support groups will be delighted by the stereotype that men straight out of a marriage revert to their 20-something selves. It might sound like fun -- but probably not to the man who has lost love, a home and perhaps daily access to his children. A flatscreen TV is scant consolation.
Marital breakdown is a horrible fact of life -- the most recent figures show that one in four married Irish couples are now estranged. That is incredibly sad and there is nothing wrong with the idea of helping a needy friend to start over.
There is also something to be said for anything that helps destigmatise divorce, which is still a relatively new phenomenon here. But a divorce gift list sounds sneakily like a companion to a wedding gift list. Except the gift card reads: "I'm sorry to hear... You didn't dump that loser sooner" or "Ding dong, the witch is gone".
Like those divorce parties that have become popular among such dignified, restrained divorcees like Jordan and Heather Mills, it smacks of a celebration. Don't get me started on how inappropriate that is if children, in particular, are involved. It's a surprise the list doesn't include a special silver-plated kiddies' tissue holder.
Who, by the way, would register for such a gift list? If you're getting divorced, it's safe to assume you got married, too. And if I'm a good enough friend to be sent an invite to your divorce party, I probably shelled out for a wedding present at that happier time too. Isn't that a little -- dare I say it -- greedy?
Debenhams would argue that the list is not an exploitation of the old maxim that where there's muck, there's brass. They might say they are supplying a real demand.
Perhaps -- but there are plenty of other situations where someone might need to assemble the basics of a home. A student starting college away from their parents, for example. So why don't they launch a Home Starter Kit that would cover all eventualities? I think we know the answer to that.
It wouldn't generate the same publicity.
How's this for cynicism: the launch came on the day known as Blue Monday.
It is officially the most depressing day of the year, the point at which many people are hit by post-Christmas financial, emotional and physical stress. Who in Debenhams thought it would be a kind gesture to add a reminder of relationship breakdown to that mix?
It seems they have in fact actually answered their own question. What do you give the person who has nothing? A kick when they're down.
Monday, January 18, 2010
The mad hatter's ball
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-they-really-are-a-bunch-of-mad--hatters-out-in-rte-2018674.html
The whole country was caught on the hop by the floods-snow-floods cycle of hellish weather. But is that any excuse for some of the gear that RTE news reporters have fetched up in for their outside broadcasts?
We know it wasn't quite suit-and-tie weather but some of these lads and lassies looked like they had fallen into a prop box for Tom Crean: Antarctic Explorer on their way out the door to work.
Paul Cunningham's Pakistani pakol hat -- which, frankly, looked like a knitted condom -- was so outstandingly bizarre that it got its own Facebook fan page. He was even seen wearing it at a press briefing with Brian Cowen. Indoors.
Mary Calpin joined in the mad hatters' party with a Bond villain furry number and Paschal Sheehy upped the ante with a frayed camouflage baseball cap stealing the attention from the thaw.
You can't knock the reporters for entertainment value. They were right up there with the poor unfortunate who had his slip on an icy pavement recorded for posterity by RTE news.
It would seem that these standout sartorial moments were down to the reporters themselves. That is to say, no-one in RTE's wardrobe department seems eager to rush forward and claim credit.
But there seems to be more of a concerted effort going on in the brand-flashing department. From the number of fleeces and anoraks bearing the North Face logo, you might think RTE News was sponsored by the brand.
The Berghaus clothing logo got an outing on one of the bulletins briefly this week. In the main, however, it appears that North Face is the label any self-respecting TV journo wants to be wearing in the field. Now unless the outdoor clothing brand has donated a job lot of sample-size fleeces to the RTE newsroom, has it any business getting all this promotion on the national broadcaster?
RTE has extensive guidelines on product placement and sponsorship deals, which it lists clearly on its website. Sponsors who make a "direct or indirect contribution" to a programme, be it through funding or provision of goods or services, are supposed to get a sponsor credit at the beginning or end of the programme to make clear the relationship. I didn't notice any such "Survival clothes by North Face" at the end of the news, did you?
The thing is, if RTE aren't being given free clothes or cash by a brand that they are giving prominence to, they are missing a trick. It's ironic because TV3, a commercial station that knows all about squeezing the last cent out of everything, got a bit of a lash for all the product placement on The Apprentice.
The new Broadcasting Authority of Ireland is currently considering whether RTE, as a public service broadcaster, should be allowed to be as free and easy with certain types of sponsorship as other independent stations are. I don't know if this means they might have to tell their reporters to turn their fleecy little numbers inside out so a non-sponsor brand doesn't show.
Maybe it will herald a return to those school uniform-type RTE anoraks you used to see the regional correspondents sporting at the ploughing championships. But let's hope Paul Cunningham gets to keep his hats.
The whole country was caught on the hop by the floods-snow-floods cycle of hellish weather. But is that any excuse for some of the gear that RTE news reporters have fetched up in for their outside broadcasts?
We know it wasn't quite suit-and-tie weather but some of these lads and lassies looked like they had fallen into a prop box for Tom Crean: Antarctic Explorer on their way out the door to work.
Paul Cunningham's Pakistani pakol hat -- which, frankly, looked like a knitted condom -- was so outstandingly bizarre that it got its own Facebook fan page. He was even seen wearing it at a press briefing with Brian Cowen. Indoors.
Mary Calpin joined in the mad hatters' party with a Bond villain furry number and Paschal Sheehy upped the ante with a frayed camouflage baseball cap stealing the attention from the thaw.
You can't knock the reporters for entertainment value. They were right up there with the poor unfortunate who had his slip on an icy pavement recorded for posterity by RTE news.
It would seem that these standout sartorial moments were down to the reporters themselves. That is to say, no-one in RTE's wardrobe department seems eager to rush forward and claim credit.
But there seems to be more of a concerted effort going on in the brand-flashing department. From the number of fleeces and anoraks bearing the North Face logo, you might think RTE News was sponsored by the brand.
The Berghaus clothing logo got an outing on one of the bulletins briefly this week. In the main, however, it appears that North Face is the label any self-respecting TV journo wants to be wearing in the field. Now unless the outdoor clothing brand has donated a job lot of sample-size fleeces to the RTE newsroom, has it any business getting all this promotion on the national broadcaster?
RTE has extensive guidelines on product placement and sponsorship deals, which it lists clearly on its website. Sponsors who make a "direct or indirect contribution" to a programme, be it through funding or provision of goods or services, are supposed to get a sponsor credit at the beginning or end of the programme to make clear the relationship. I didn't notice any such "Survival clothes by North Face" at the end of the news, did you?
The thing is, if RTE aren't being given free clothes or cash by a brand that they are giving prominence to, they are missing a trick. It's ironic because TV3, a commercial station that knows all about squeezing the last cent out of everything, got a bit of a lash for all the product placement on The Apprentice.
The new Broadcasting Authority of Ireland is currently considering whether RTE, as a public service broadcaster, should be allowed to be as free and easy with certain types of sponsorship as other independent stations are. I don't know if this means they might have to tell their reporters to turn their fleecy little numbers inside out so a non-sponsor brand doesn't show.
Maybe it will herald a return to those school uniform-type RTE anoraks you used to see the regional correspondents sporting at the ploughing championships. But let's hope Paul Cunningham gets to keep his hats.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Refusing Residence
From Thursday's Evening Herald
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-please-save-residence--or-these-braying-champagne-charlies-might-end-up-in-my-friendly-local-boozer-2003195.html
Please save Residence -- or these braying Champagne Charlies might end up in my friendly local boozer
By Susan Daly
Thursday January 07 2010
What a frightful palaver over at Residence. For those without a butler to keep an ear trained for the word on the street, allow me. It seems the private members' club on St Stephen's Green is experiencing some cashflow difficulties.
I know, I know -- what's the world coming to when an establishment which initially charged members a €1,600 annual fee for the privilege of crossing the threshold is forced to 'restructure' its finances? And that didn't include the €250 joining fee.
Clearly any lapsed members have their priorities entirely wrong. Who chooses to keep up with their own mortgage repayments over unlimited access to a haven of exclusivity, sophistication and gilt-edged mirrors? Bleedin' riff-raff.
Of course no one should gloat when any Irish business totters on the precipice of life and death. An examiner has been appointed to Residence but the doors haven't shut yet. For the sake of the 58 staff employed there, it would be churlish not to hope that they find some way of staying open.
The club rules -- keeping the hoi polloi firmly outside with their noses pressed to the window -- are going to have to change if that is to happen. Residence claimed to fill a niche that existed in Dublin for an upmarket members' club that was as luxurious but not as stiff as the old-guard establishments in the area.
The nearby Kildare Street club, for example, once turned down Mary Harney as a member because she was a woman. (She joined when they reversed their ban on the skirts, which was nice of her).
Yet Residence was/is as ruthlessly selective, making cash the must-have credential. How elitist on one hand, and on the other -- how very crass.
The other difficulty of trying to fill a niche is that it can only ever cater to a small number of people.
I'm sure there's a niche market too for smoking jackets for labradoodles, but I wouldn't throw the family silver at the idea.
Focusing on a small number of big spenders means that you risk everything on their loyalty (and solvency).
If it is the case that Residence reduced their annual fees drastically in the past year in an attempt to attract members, then they must have alienated a few of the Champagne Charlies who fancied themselves part of an elite.
You can't be all things to all men. Especially when your USP was to be one thing to a select few of them.
And just who wants to belong to a club that would have members like that? Not as many as Residence presumed, I suppose.
I interviewed someone there last year, not at my insistence I might add. The swag-and-tails decor was very nice if you like that kind of thing, although I'm not sure I'd have blown a few mill on it. As it turned out, the club was the perfect venue to record an interview. Nothing rings out as clearly on a dictaphone as the sound of one's own voice booming around the corners of a near-empty room.
It was actually a bit sad -- the lunch was delicious, but there's not much point in producing the perfect tarte tatin if there's no one there to taste it.
Most bars have trouble getting bums on barstools midweek these days but you'd think that wouldn't be a problem for a club whose members effectively pay their cover charge in advance. If it were me, I'd be living in the lounge 24/7 to get full value for my moolah.
But perhaps I have more sense than cent. For one thing, I refuse to take up Residence in any bar that lets Eamon Dunphy and Eamon Keane commandeer the piano room. Possibly even at the same time. Good heavens -- has the VIP club fallen asleep and woken up in Lillie's circa 2004?
I do have one concern should time be called on Residence's tenure and its brass knobs (on the door, people, on the door) are polished for the final time.
Does that mean the contents of No41 St Stephen's Green will be evacuated into the nearest 'public' houses?
The last thing I want to hear in my friendly local is some hee-haw Henry braying loudly about how it's impossible to get a bellini made with fresh peach pulp in this town.
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/susan-daly-please-save-residence--or-these-braying-champagne-charlies-might-end-up-in-my-friendly-local-boozer-2003195.html
Please save Residence -- or these braying Champagne Charlies might end up in my friendly local boozer
By Susan Daly
Thursday January 07 2010
What a frightful palaver over at Residence. For those without a butler to keep an ear trained for the word on the street, allow me. It seems the private members' club on St Stephen's Green is experiencing some cashflow difficulties.
I know, I know -- what's the world coming to when an establishment which initially charged members a €1,600 annual fee for the privilege of crossing the threshold is forced to 'restructure' its finances? And that didn't include the €250 joining fee.
Clearly any lapsed members have their priorities entirely wrong. Who chooses to keep up with their own mortgage repayments over unlimited access to a haven of exclusivity, sophistication and gilt-edged mirrors? Bleedin' riff-raff.
Of course no one should gloat when any Irish business totters on the precipice of life and death. An examiner has been appointed to Residence but the doors haven't shut yet. For the sake of the 58 staff employed there, it would be churlish not to hope that they find some way of staying open.
The club rules -- keeping the hoi polloi firmly outside with their noses pressed to the window -- are going to have to change if that is to happen. Residence claimed to fill a niche that existed in Dublin for an upmarket members' club that was as luxurious but not as stiff as the old-guard establishments in the area.
The nearby Kildare Street club, for example, once turned down Mary Harney as a member because she was a woman. (She joined when they reversed their ban on the skirts, which was nice of her).
Yet Residence was/is as ruthlessly selective, making cash the must-have credential. How elitist on one hand, and on the other -- how very crass.
The other difficulty of trying to fill a niche is that it can only ever cater to a small number of people.
I'm sure there's a niche market too for smoking jackets for labradoodles, but I wouldn't throw the family silver at the idea.
Focusing on a small number of big spenders means that you risk everything on their loyalty (and solvency).
If it is the case that Residence reduced their annual fees drastically in the past year in an attempt to attract members, then they must have alienated a few of the Champagne Charlies who fancied themselves part of an elite.
You can't be all things to all men. Especially when your USP was to be one thing to a select few of them.
And just who wants to belong to a club that would have members like that? Not as many as Residence presumed, I suppose.
I interviewed someone there last year, not at my insistence I might add. The swag-and-tails decor was very nice if you like that kind of thing, although I'm not sure I'd have blown a few mill on it. As it turned out, the club was the perfect venue to record an interview. Nothing rings out as clearly on a dictaphone as the sound of one's own voice booming around the corners of a near-empty room.
It was actually a bit sad -- the lunch was delicious, but there's not much point in producing the perfect tarte tatin if there's no one there to taste it.
Most bars have trouble getting bums on barstools midweek these days but you'd think that wouldn't be a problem for a club whose members effectively pay their cover charge in advance. If it were me, I'd be living in the lounge 24/7 to get full value for my moolah.
But perhaps I have more sense than cent. For one thing, I refuse to take up Residence in any bar that lets Eamon Dunphy and Eamon Keane commandeer the piano room. Possibly even at the same time. Good heavens -- has the VIP club fallen asleep and woken up in Lillie's circa 2004?
I do have one concern should time be called on Residence's tenure and its brass knobs (on the door, people, on the door) are polished for the final time.
Does that mean the contents of No41 St Stephen's Green will be evacuated into the nearest 'public' houses?
The last thing I want to hear in my friendly local is some hee-haw Henry braying loudly about how it's impossible to get a bellini made with fresh peach pulp in this town.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Pineapple-shaped hole
Jedward may be out of The X Factor but there's hope yet for Sunday night talent-show TV
SWITCH ON: This touching band of home-grown acts is just what we need
What are the chances of next month's Budget stumping up for a Jedward helpline? Not high, I imagine, what with the biblical floods and overstretched welfare system rattling their collection boxes.
Fans of the terrible twins will have to deal with withdrawal symptoms on their own, bolstered perhaps by their appearance at a supermarket opening near you.
To paraphrase Jedward's special rendering of the Ghostbusters ditty: So now who you gonna call?
Luckily, RTE have stepped in to fill the pineapple-shaped hole left by Jedward's X-it from X Factor. Behold, they give us: The All-Ireland Talent Show!
That sounds sarcastic but it is absolutely not meant to be.
While Jedward prepared to make their last contribution to the gaiety of the nation on Sunday night, RTE One were airing the first episode of this season's All-Ireland Talent Show. RTE have cleverly scheduled their show to be over by 7.30pm so it's not in direct competition with the 8pm X Factor kick-off. That would be plain dumb.
And -- whisper it -- it wasn't half bad. I would go so far as to say that the All-Ireland Talent Show is what we need from reality TV right now. It's like the anti-X Factor. (In the same way that Daithi O Se is the anti-Simon Cowell. Who is in turn the anti-Christ. Maybe.)
The X Factor can be tiresome and nasty. Who needs to hear another sub-Mariah poppet with acrylic hair extensions warbling her way through a power ballad? Jedward went from jeers to cheers because they challenged the jaded cynicism of the show. They smiled through the vitriol and abuse.
Maybe two years ago we would have been mortified by them. Look at those eejits making a show of Ireland, we'd have thought. But I guess in the end we admired their mindless good cheer.
On the basis of its first episode, the All-Ireland Talent Show is going to take that perky perspective and run even further with it.
The star of Sunday's show was a middle-aged man whose dream was to win €50,000 grand prize so he might help his children, several of whom have been consigned to the dole by the current economic crisis.
He told his story quietly before unleashing a sweet, soulful voice only slightly vibrating with nerves. Blathnaid Ni Chofaigh and her fellow judges asked why he had waited this long to let his voice be heard.
"I didn't have the confidence," he said, clearly embarrassed by his own modest ambitions.
It was a touching moment but never got to the point of sentimentality. It felt very good indeed to watch people being treated with respect, dignity and sensitivity. Similarly, an incident where Blathnaid welled up was not over-milked. A young woman sang an old tune that reminded Blathnaid of her recently-deceased father. Blathnaid, normally the epitome of the stern mammy, had a little cry, dabbed her eyes and the show went on.
I hope the Talent Show doesn't prove me wrong in future episodes, but it doesn't seem to be going for the usual array of mentally unstable unfortunates that the X Factor likes to showcase in its early auditions.
The scope of its 'variety entertainment' brief helps. Not everyone who comes on it wants to be the next Leona Lewis or Shayne Ward. Which is a blessed relief because if I hear one more take on Eva Cassidy's version of Over the Rainbow I might have to go out and punch some bluebirds.
There are hip-hop dance groups, family acts and trad performers, six-year-old cuties belting out Bon Jovi hits and gentle old men taking a tentative chance. Some might think it's parochial; I think it's quintessentially Irish.
This is our community and now, more than at any other time in the past 20 years, we need to be rooting for each other. Go, team Ireland!
- Susan Daly
From The Evening Herald, http://www.herald.ie/opinion/jedward-may-be-out-of-the-x-factor-but-theres-hope-yet-for-sunday-night-talentshow-tv-1952111.html
SWITCH ON: This touching band of home-grown acts is just what we need
What are the chances of next month's Budget stumping up for a Jedward helpline? Not high, I imagine, what with the biblical floods and overstretched welfare system rattling their collection boxes.
Fans of the terrible twins will have to deal with withdrawal symptoms on their own, bolstered perhaps by their appearance at a supermarket opening near you.
To paraphrase Jedward's special rendering of the Ghostbusters ditty: So now who you gonna call?
Luckily, RTE have stepped in to fill the pineapple-shaped hole left by Jedward's X-it from X Factor. Behold, they give us: The All-Ireland Talent Show!
That sounds sarcastic but it is absolutely not meant to be.
While Jedward prepared to make their last contribution to the gaiety of the nation on Sunday night, RTE One were airing the first episode of this season's All-Ireland Talent Show. RTE have cleverly scheduled their show to be over by 7.30pm so it's not in direct competition with the 8pm X Factor kick-off. That would be plain dumb.
And -- whisper it -- it wasn't half bad. I would go so far as to say that the All-Ireland Talent Show is what we need from reality TV right now. It's like the anti-X Factor. (In the same way that Daithi O Se is the anti-Simon Cowell. Who is in turn the anti-Christ. Maybe.)
The X Factor can be tiresome and nasty. Who needs to hear another sub-Mariah poppet with acrylic hair extensions warbling her way through a power ballad? Jedward went from jeers to cheers because they challenged the jaded cynicism of the show. They smiled through the vitriol and abuse.
Maybe two years ago we would have been mortified by them. Look at those eejits making a show of Ireland, we'd have thought. But I guess in the end we admired their mindless good cheer.
On the basis of its first episode, the All-Ireland Talent Show is going to take that perky perspective and run even further with it.
The star of Sunday's show was a middle-aged man whose dream was to win €50,000 grand prize so he might help his children, several of whom have been consigned to the dole by the current economic crisis.
He told his story quietly before unleashing a sweet, soulful voice only slightly vibrating with nerves. Blathnaid Ni Chofaigh and her fellow judges asked why he had waited this long to let his voice be heard.
"I didn't have the confidence," he said, clearly embarrassed by his own modest ambitions.
It was a touching moment but never got to the point of sentimentality. It felt very good indeed to watch people being treated with respect, dignity and sensitivity. Similarly, an incident where Blathnaid welled up was not over-milked. A young woman sang an old tune that reminded Blathnaid of her recently-deceased father. Blathnaid, normally the epitome of the stern mammy, had a little cry, dabbed her eyes and the show went on.
I hope the Talent Show doesn't prove me wrong in future episodes, but it doesn't seem to be going for the usual array of mentally unstable unfortunates that the X Factor likes to showcase in its early auditions.
The scope of its 'variety entertainment' brief helps. Not everyone who comes on it wants to be the next Leona Lewis or Shayne Ward. Which is a blessed relief because if I hear one more take on Eva Cassidy's version of Over the Rainbow I might have to go out and punch some bluebirds.
There are hip-hop dance groups, family acts and trad performers, six-year-old cuties belting out Bon Jovi hits and gentle old men taking a tentative chance. Some might think it's parochial; I think it's quintessentially Irish.
This is our community and now, more than at any other time in the past 20 years, we need to be rooting for each other. Go, team Ireland!
- Susan Daly
From The Evening Herald, http://www.herald.ie/opinion/jedward-may-be-out-of-the-x-factor-but-theres-hope-yet-for-sunday-night-talentshow-tv-1952111.html
Friday, November 13, 2009
Lucky for some
My Friday the 13th musings in today's Herald...
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/isnt-every-day-friday-the-13th-at-the-moment-1941993.html
Do you feel lucky today? If you're reading this at all, you're doing well. The sky hasn't fallen in, the world hasn't ended and you've managed to get out and buy the paper without walking into an open manhole. Hurrah!
In case you hadn't noticed, it's Friday the 13th -- and this year has been particularly tough for paraskavedekatriaphobics (those with a fear of Friday the 13th). This is our third one this year -- an unholy trinity that only occurs once a decade or so.
It's hard to know exactly when all the hysteria began. The number 13 has been thought unlucky for centuries, sometimes just because it wasn't the perfectly rounded number 12. The Norse believed that if 13 people sat down to dinner together, one would die.
As for Friday: well, that's been getting bad press in the Christian world since the crucifixion of Jesus on Good Friday. (Looks like the Norse were right about 13 people sitting down to supper together, after all). But it's only in the last century or so that the two have combined to give us Friday the 13th, a day that's launched a thousand horror movies.
The funny thing is, Friday the 13th is statistically not all that dangerous. A Dutch study last year found that fewer accidents occur on that date, and there are fewer reports of fire and thefts. Those Dutch are terribly sensible folk. That, or people are so nervous they make a bigger effort to keep themselves out of trouble that day.
In Greece, they think Tuesday the 13th is much more unlucky, so what happens if you're on holiday there today? Does that make you immune from 'the curse'?
Sometimes the biggest danger Friday the 13th brings is fear of the date itself.
In Asian culture the number 4 is considered unlucky and guess what? Research in the US found that more people of Chinese and Japanese heritage died of heart attacks on the fourth of the month than any other. I know none of this rational talk will stop people from randomly looking up today to check for pianos falling out of the sky.
So ask yourself this: What's the worst that can happen today that hasn't happened to us already?
Job losses, home foreclosures, endless rain, Jedward staying on X Factor. Who needs a special day for bad luck?
Forget the 13th bit --aren't Fridays nicer than Mondays? I reminded a friend what day it was. "Oh good!" she said, "I'm sure I'm going to win the Euromillions tonight."
Now that's the kind of attitude that's going to get this country off its knees.
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/isnt-every-day-friday-the-13th-at-the-moment-1941993.html
Do you feel lucky today? If you're reading this at all, you're doing well. The sky hasn't fallen in, the world hasn't ended and you've managed to get out and buy the paper without walking into an open manhole. Hurrah!
In case you hadn't noticed, it's Friday the 13th -- and this year has been particularly tough for paraskavedekatriaphobics (those with a fear of Friday the 13th). This is our third one this year -- an unholy trinity that only occurs once a decade or so.
It's hard to know exactly when all the hysteria began. The number 13 has been thought unlucky for centuries, sometimes just because it wasn't the perfectly rounded number 12. The Norse believed that if 13 people sat down to dinner together, one would die.
As for Friday: well, that's been getting bad press in the Christian world since the crucifixion of Jesus on Good Friday. (Looks like the Norse were right about 13 people sitting down to supper together, after all). But it's only in the last century or so that the two have combined to give us Friday the 13th, a day that's launched a thousand horror movies.
The funny thing is, Friday the 13th is statistically not all that dangerous. A Dutch study last year found that fewer accidents occur on that date, and there are fewer reports of fire and thefts. Those Dutch are terribly sensible folk. That, or people are so nervous they make a bigger effort to keep themselves out of trouble that day.
In Greece, they think Tuesday the 13th is much more unlucky, so what happens if you're on holiday there today? Does that make you immune from 'the curse'?
Sometimes the biggest danger Friday the 13th brings is fear of the date itself.
In Asian culture the number 4 is considered unlucky and guess what? Research in the US found that more people of Chinese and Japanese heritage died of heart attacks on the fourth of the month than any other. I know none of this rational talk will stop people from randomly looking up today to check for pianos falling out of the sky.
So ask yourself this: What's the worst that can happen today that hasn't happened to us already?
Job losses, home foreclosures, endless rain, Jedward staying on X Factor. Who needs a special day for bad luck?
Forget the 13th bit --aren't Fridays nicer than Mondays? I reminded a friend what day it was. "Oh good!" she said, "I'm sure I'm going to win the Euromillions tonight."
Now that's the kind of attitude that's going to get this country off its knees.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Simon Scowl - oh yes he is
So I find these yes/no opinion pairings in news analysis pages a lot of fun to write. Okay, so the X-Factor isn't exactly *hard* news - but it did give me the chance to go head-to-head with Evening Herald TV critic Pat Stacey yesterday.
The topic was : ‘It’s real’: but while the tears and tantrums make for great TV, is any of it real?
I was to argue on the YES side...
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/lsquoitrsquos-realrsquo-but-while-the-tears-and-tantrums-make-for-great-tv-is-any-of-it-real-1938667.html
By Susan Daly
Tuesday November 10 2009
It's easy to presume that there is nothing natural about The X Factor. Jedward's hairstyles, for starters, utterly defy the laws of gravity.
So much of the programme has to be about the glitz, the costumes, the half-naked dancers, the pantomime boos and cheers. This is, after all, the biz we call show.
Everyone's on show -- but that doesn't mean that everything is for show. The judges stand accused of making up their on-screen spats to garner headlines and create drama. What we might forget is that The X Factor is just a day at the office for the likes of Simon Cowell and Dannii Minogue.
Okay, most of us don't go to work in a cocktail dress in a fog of dry ice. But that doesn't mean that what happens on The X Factor is totally unreal -- it's just a heightened form of reality.
The office politics on the show are essentially the same being played out in workplaces across the country. Petty jealousies, bitchy remarks behind the boss's back, style wars between the women: we can all relate to those everyday irritations.
As far as Cheryl Cole was concerned, when Simon Cowell attacked her song choice for her boys Rikki and Lloyd in Diva Week, it was an attack on how she she was doing in her first job away from Girls Aloud. Hers weren't crocodile tears. When Simon likened his female judges to strippers, did they really need an autocue to tell them to be offended? Dannii's brow furrowed in disgust and, let's face it, that's not going to happen on demand.
Even the whole Simon Scowl persona is the real deal: Cowell did not get to where he has in the music business without reminding everyone exactly who's boss.
If Simon is the villain, Louis Walsh often gets accused of playing the pantomime dame.
In his years on The X Factor, he's had a drink thrown over him by Sharon Osbourne, he's been fired and rehired -- all good publicity.
But when he defends himself, he's defending his career. When he accused Cowell of bending the brief of Big Bands Week to suit his own agenda, he had a valid point. (Simon allowed his own charge, Jamie 'Afro' Archer, to sing U2, who are not what you could describe as kings of swing). It is not only the contestants on stage who want to win X Factor, there is a cachet in it for the judges too.
As for the latest row, in which Louis, a music manager for 30 years, slapped down host Dermot O'Dreary with: "You're not a judge, you're a presenter" ... Well, isn't that the hierarchy in workplaces everywhere? Stick to making the tea, young man.
AND this was Pat's big fat NO back at me...
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/lsquocome-off-itrsquo-but-while-the-tears-and-tantrums-make-for-great-tv-is-any-of-it-real-1938712.html
The topic was : ‘It’s real’: but while the tears and tantrums make for great TV, is any of it real?
I was to argue on the YES side...
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/lsquoitrsquos-realrsquo-but-while-the-tears-and-tantrums-make-for-great-tv-is-any-of-it-real-1938667.html
By Susan Daly
Tuesday November 10 2009
It's easy to presume that there is nothing natural about The X Factor. Jedward's hairstyles, for starters, utterly defy the laws of gravity.
So much of the programme has to be about the glitz, the costumes, the half-naked dancers, the pantomime boos and cheers. This is, after all, the biz we call show.
Everyone's on show -- but that doesn't mean that everything is for show. The judges stand accused of making up their on-screen spats to garner headlines and create drama. What we might forget is that The X Factor is just a day at the office for the likes of Simon Cowell and Dannii Minogue.
Okay, most of us don't go to work in a cocktail dress in a fog of dry ice. But that doesn't mean that what happens on The X Factor is totally unreal -- it's just a heightened form of reality.
The office politics on the show are essentially the same being played out in workplaces across the country. Petty jealousies, bitchy remarks behind the boss's back, style wars between the women: we can all relate to those everyday irritations.
As far as Cheryl Cole was concerned, when Simon Cowell attacked her song choice for her boys Rikki and Lloyd in Diva Week, it was an attack on how she she was doing in her first job away from Girls Aloud. Hers weren't crocodile tears. When Simon likened his female judges to strippers, did they really need an autocue to tell them to be offended? Dannii's brow furrowed in disgust and, let's face it, that's not going to happen on demand.
Even the whole Simon Scowl persona is the real deal: Cowell did not get to where he has in the music business without reminding everyone exactly who's boss.
If Simon is the villain, Louis Walsh often gets accused of playing the pantomime dame.
In his years on The X Factor, he's had a drink thrown over him by Sharon Osbourne, he's been fired and rehired -- all good publicity.
But when he defends himself, he's defending his career. When he accused Cowell of bending the brief of Big Bands Week to suit his own agenda, he had a valid point. (Simon allowed his own charge, Jamie 'Afro' Archer, to sing U2, who are not what you could describe as kings of swing). It is not only the contestants on stage who want to win X Factor, there is a cachet in it for the judges too.
As for the latest row, in which Louis, a music manager for 30 years, slapped down host Dermot O'Dreary with: "You're not a judge, you're a presenter" ... Well, isn't that the hierarchy in workplaces everywhere? Stick to making the tea, young man.
AND this was Pat's big fat NO back at me...
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/lsquocome-off-itrsquo-but-while-the-tears-and-tantrums-make-for-great-tv-is-any-of-it-real-1938712.html
Sunday, October 11, 2009
My name IS Susan
Liking - when my work is posted in online papers
Not liking - when they forget to put my name on it
Anyway, this rant IS mine...
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/stress-caused-when-we-too-brought-toilet-roll-to-school-1909602.html
Friday October 09 2009
FOR years I wondered why I could not look the Andrex puppy in the eye.
The choice between two-ply and four-ply would reduce me to a gibbering wreck in the supermarket aisle.
It turns out that I have been suffering from PTS all this time -- Post-Toiletgate Stress -- and I didn't even know it.
I only realised the depth of my trauma when I opened the papers this week and read about the young tykes in a Co Cork national school who have been asked to bring their own toilet roll to school with them.
It all came flooding back to me.
The very same request was made of us in our primary school in the early 1980s. I had a sudden flashback to rolls piled up along the corridor outside the classroom door, a child's name marked in felt-tip across the edge of each one. But try as I might, I can't remember the shame and horror of it all.
Listening to the shocked reaction of parents, politicians and social commentators these past few days over the fate of the kiddies in St John's Girls' NS in Carrigaline, I'm thinking there must surely have been a similar outcry when we got the toilet roll call in the 80s.
After all, as one parent said this week: "This is like something Frank McCourt might have written about growing up in the 1930s."
Think again, lady. This was 50 years on. I must have been scarred for life, mustn't I?
Perhaps I have suppressed it as part of some desperate coping mechanism. So I ring my mother to check if she chained herself to the railings of the Department of Education in the Eighties to protest at the budgetary constraints that doomed her child to carry bog roll to school.
"Ah no," she says, "there wasn't much about it. A few parents grumbled but as I said at the time, at least we're gone from the stage of wiping yourself with a dock leaf."
Hardy woman, my mum.
Far from marching on the school, she sent me off with a warning on the dangers of profligacy.
"I told you not to throw half the roll down the toilet in one go," she says, "And you replied, 'I won't share it neither'."
No wonder we made it out the other side of the Eighties with eight-year-olds espousing that sort of penny-pinching philosophy.
If I remember rightly, we were only too delighted to bring a roll in from home. We hated the old school-supplied stuff that felt like greaseproof paper and was about as useful for the job in hand.
It is understandable that people are upset this week that our school cutbacks have come to this. In the context of the 80s, it didn't seem as shocking to have a headmaster send out a note asking for help in such a delicate area.
Many of our parents' generation could still relate to a time when there were no indoor toilets or bathrooms.
We weren't that far removed from wiping our bottoms with the nearest handful of foliage.
To face into that scenario again 25 years on is a terrible indictment of the country. Children grow up in houses that often have more than one bathroom, often two or three.
Master bedrooms have ensuites, kids have their own toilet. To have to suddenly think about where the next sheet of toilet paper is coming from is a big shock.
It really shows that little has fundamentally changed in the hierarchy of who pays for this country's basic needs.
Around the time my mother was stuffing a roll of Homestead's best into my schoolbag, Charlie Haughey was telling us to tighten our belts in between mouthfuls of foie gras and swigs of fine wine.
Now parents find themselves dipping back into their own pockets again and why?
Because poor government regulation and reckless State spending has flushed our children's trust fund down the toilet
Not liking - when they forget to put my name on it
Anyway, this rant IS mine...
http://www.herald.ie/opinion/stress-caused-when-we-too-brought-toilet-roll-to-school-1909602.html
Friday October 09 2009
FOR years I wondered why I could not look the Andrex puppy in the eye.
The choice between two-ply and four-ply would reduce me to a gibbering wreck in the supermarket aisle.
It turns out that I have been suffering from PTS all this time -- Post-Toiletgate Stress -- and I didn't even know it.
I only realised the depth of my trauma when I opened the papers this week and read about the young tykes in a Co Cork national school who have been asked to bring their own toilet roll to school with them.
It all came flooding back to me.
The very same request was made of us in our primary school in the early 1980s. I had a sudden flashback to rolls piled up along the corridor outside the classroom door, a child's name marked in felt-tip across the edge of each one. But try as I might, I can't remember the shame and horror of it all.
Listening to the shocked reaction of parents, politicians and social commentators these past few days over the fate of the kiddies in St John's Girls' NS in Carrigaline, I'm thinking there must surely have been a similar outcry when we got the toilet roll call in the 80s.
After all, as one parent said this week: "This is like something Frank McCourt might have written about growing up in the 1930s."
Think again, lady. This was 50 years on. I must have been scarred for life, mustn't I?
Perhaps I have suppressed it as part of some desperate coping mechanism. So I ring my mother to check if she chained herself to the railings of the Department of Education in the Eighties to protest at the budgetary constraints that doomed her child to carry bog roll to school.
"Ah no," she says, "there wasn't much about it. A few parents grumbled but as I said at the time, at least we're gone from the stage of wiping yourself with a dock leaf."
Hardy woman, my mum.
Far from marching on the school, she sent me off with a warning on the dangers of profligacy.
"I told you not to throw half the roll down the toilet in one go," she says, "And you replied, 'I won't share it neither'."
No wonder we made it out the other side of the Eighties with eight-year-olds espousing that sort of penny-pinching philosophy.
If I remember rightly, we were only too delighted to bring a roll in from home. We hated the old school-supplied stuff that felt like greaseproof paper and was about as useful for the job in hand.
It is understandable that people are upset this week that our school cutbacks have come to this. In the context of the 80s, it didn't seem as shocking to have a headmaster send out a note asking for help in such a delicate area.
Many of our parents' generation could still relate to a time when there were no indoor toilets or bathrooms.
We weren't that far removed from wiping our bottoms with the nearest handful of foliage.
To face into that scenario again 25 years on is a terrible indictment of the country. Children grow up in houses that often have more than one bathroom, often two or three.
Master bedrooms have ensuites, kids have their own toilet. To have to suddenly think about where the next sheet of toilet paper is coming from is a big shock.
It really shows that little has fundamentally changed in the hierarchy of who pays for this country's basic needs.
Around the time my mother was stuffing a roll of Homestead's best into my schoolbag, Charlie Haughey was telling us to tighten our belts in between mouthfuls of foie gras and swigs of fine wine.
Now parents find themselves dipping back into their own pockets again and why?
Because poor government regulation and reckless State spending has flushed our children's trust fund down the toilet
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