Category Archives: Gods

Excuse, minimise, distract, disacknowledge and deny

Heartsink days like today where I try hard not to react to the cretinous mumblings of David Quinn as I’ve done before, when he meshes antediluvian views of so-called canon law and criminal/civil law. It’s the type of attention seeking the entire ‘persecuted minority’ of Pope lickers crave. People whose inner wires are so trip-switched, they genuinely think the Catholic church is being unnecessarily browbeaten, even when fresh evidence of child rape and autogenetic cover-up are flung on the table. It doesn’t serve much purpose to rant and call him an ‘apologist’, or to scream in sheer frustration when he tennis balls blame back on the state or to say NO, David, NO, this most recent case with school caretaker Michael Ferry is not the first (or last) where those in a position of power deliberately mummify truth, enabling a dangerous pervert to go on and further abuse/destroy/annihilate young lives. It has happened many times before, as we saw with Fr Ivan Payne in the Murphy Report, and other calamitous cases in the Ryan Report, Cloyne and so on and on and on and on. Rape and sexual molestation were “endemic” in Irish Catholic church-run industrial schools, orphanages and bog-standard Irish schools too. And so too is the ritualistic cover-up of these crimes by both the church and its lay ‘fans’. There’s no point ranting about one individual because in truth there’s an entire unpalatable menu of people in Ireland still who are comfortable enough to excuse, minimise, distract, disacknowledge and deny.

Derek Mulligan - endured systematic abuse by Michael Ferry

Last night as I watched the pained expression on Derek Mulligan’s face on TV3’s Midweek I could almost hear the dissenting voices questioning the veracity of his ‘truth’. Growing up you’d always hear disputatious whiny voices sticking up for the local priest or laneway pervert who had ‘a bit of a name’ for dropping the hand. ‘It’s all a bit of a nonsense’, they’d say, dishing up a Shepherd’s Pie and listening to the bells of a hypnotic Angelus in the background. ‘Is that young man Derek not a bit messed up on his own accord?’ Voices we grew up believing were fading into the achromatic past along with teacosies and pictures of Éamon de Valera and Matt Talbot over the fireplace. But foolish us thinking this era has passed! I heard of a man this week who goes to visit “kiddy fiddlers” in jail because he feels they’re “a lonely lot” and not long ago I interviewed a psychotherapist who told me he feels sorry for child molestors more than any other group of people: “Because surely they did not set out to do that kind of thing?” A family I know, the older brother abused his younger brother and sister, a fact that is being cruelly denied by his uber Catholic wife…she prefers to view the abuser as the victim. Poor guy, no-one is talking to him and all the good he’s done over the years and this is how he’s repaid! A very ‘typical’ response. Surely not, surely not, surely not…Very often those who have abused need to aggressively suppress any sign of the truth of the abuse surfacing. They can and do go to great lengths to silence victims and their supporters. In cases of familial abuse this can be especially difficult and destructive.

A few years ago I listened to the deposition of a Ban Garda who alleged when she was in training back in the day they were told of a sex abuse scam involving a phone box on O’Connell Street where lay perverts as well as members of the clergy would ring a local institution and ‘order’ boys to abuse – they were delivered on demand to a makeshift hut set up during road works – and if they came across this in the course of their work, to ignore it. In other words, the authorities knew, the police knew, but fiddling with the mindset of the clergy was not an option, and kids in the institutions were fair game. When I suggested publishing it, the woman was inconsolably horrified and said: “Oh no! They could work out who I am, even all these years later!” She was more concerned with her own reputation in the present tense than any retrospective guilt while at the same time the Editor of the publication I was going to write it for, decided her story was “too outlandish” to be true and wasn’t going to publish it anyway. At a dinner party in Belfast, a blockhead of a guy tried his drunken best to prove that ‘children as sexual beings’ is very much a run-of-the-mill part of our human dark side, in the same way that beastiality is strongly documented since days of the Roman Empire. The argument persisted for a good two hours. In reality it’s one step away from collusion. I’ve heard people label our tell-all eon [where experiences of abuse are openly discussed] ‘boring’. As if to say: ‘OK, they’ve had their say, when are they going to shut up?’ It may not be said shrilly, but it is being said. Minimising is still a going concern in the business of this country. Why are we surprised that child abusers, in all their forms, are culturally exonerated or even at times, protected?

When it comes to rural Ireland and the nod-and-wink culture that still pervades in places like Donegal where the Michael Ferry story broke, an example has to be made, a harsh one at that. Those responsible for allowing Ferry, a ritualistic persistent dangerous child abuser, to go back to work as a caretaker at that Irish language school, should be made to pay the price. There should be criminal charges or even civil ones levelled at them, perhaps the victims could sue on the grounds that they endangered their wellbeing by allowing this serial abuser to go back into a position of trust AFTER he had served a previous conviction for child abuse. An Garda Síochána should initiate an inquiry to explore whether anyone in the force up there played a part in giving Ferry the scope to abuse again and again. They too should face harsh sanctions and be made an example of. It’s time for Irish society to finally shut down forever the culture of the Valley-of-the-Squinting-Windows!

As for the Catholic Church and the whiners who believe its diminishing popularity is part of a bigger conspiracy, maybe a solution would be for it to become more Protestant. To allow its flock to follow their private consciences more, rather than adhere to the dictates of crazy Cardinals and barmy Bishops. This in effect is already happening. Catholics, or at least a majority of them are still believers. However, they’re not slavishly devoted to everything that the Vatican and the hierarchy lay down. They’ll take those loose shavings of their religion that they regard as precious and worth preserving. They ‘ll ignore other aspects they regard as dictatorial or inhumane. Some church leaders like the Archbishop of Dublin, Diarmuid Martin, clearly get this but judging by the behaviour of others such as Bishop John Magee, a significant section of the Catholic hierarchy don’t. Irish Catholics are no longer divinely sheepish in their devotion. Personally I feel the whole lot is a bucket of cack, but have to respect the fact that lovers of talking snakes and ancient ghost stories still deserve a bit of democratic respect. At least they’re starting to question and no longer feel a need to zip the gob regardless. There’s been too many wake-up calls in recent times to allow for a type of Pied Piper blind faith. A la carte believers and the Church must either adopt a new attitude or die slowly not trying.

Saturday Poem #1 – I love drunks

Poetry makes me giddy but sometimes my bum muscles clench in the same wrung manner as a bad Eastenders story plot. Cringe factor heightens when poets with berserk eyes retch feelings onto the page, without any care for how layfolk should attempt to translate. At the same time guesswork of meaning is aerobic for a mind overbrimming with cabbage leaf. Good poetry, for me, is a platter of desserts that keep only the soul fat and the heart floating. You simply can’t go wrong with a shiny new Bloodaxe ensemble or the beautiful crazed utterings of a dead genius like Miroslav Holub. Just a pity that most living poets are brazenly, unabashedly mad and nearly always dreadful company.

I unwittingly fell into a poetry class on the MA in Creative Writing, chosen by mistake as I’d read the course criteria incorrectly (pick two of the following: poetry, prose, playwriting – I read that as ‘pick two subjects’ – when in fact it was pick two classes under the same topic umbrella to specialise in). As a result I did poetry and fiction, learning little from either, but finishing both to the worst of slipshod. Even now it’s hard to fathom what those two maniacal hours of attic neurosis actually entailed. The sheer torture of hauling my billowed boobs and cement hip up five flights of stairs, reading aloud the tutor’s Christmas cards for no apparent reason and being compelled to listen to jingling bells on a random lunatic’s skirt. Even the honeycomb brittle egos of the ‘serious’ poets falling apart when criticised didn’t get to me as much as the complete lack of instruction or learning did. That somehow being so near the curtain in Oz with this ‘revered’ poet who’d made it to a level we’d never lick, was enough of a résumé-adventure in itself. What did it matter if every single poem any of us wrote was construed and metaphrased as just another fold in a big menstrual minge? Even when a [male] classmate wrote a poem about views of Belfast a la whizzing bicycle, the tutor still managed to turn it into a sheela-na-gig blood cake. No difference at all between Dorothy, Scarecrow, Toto or whoever else was sitting on the other side of this soiled drapery. Most of us left none the wiser and twice as disoriented. I raved as if brain-burgled, after every single class. In the end I wrote my ‘project’ in one night and bastardised everything in sight from TV ads to antiquated indexes in out-of-print bird watching books. Not that it made any difference to the marks: in bought MAs nearly everyone ends up in the same passable, plastic category. It’s almost poetic, come to think of it.

Thankfully that naff experience hasn’t turned me off reading poetry or even occasionally, writing it. Last autumn, I sat through a truly delicious course at the Irish Writers’ Centre – taught by Peter Sirr – who recently won the 2011 Michael Hartnett Poetry Award. The course was a wonderful grounder and all-rounder. Peter showed us where and how to source poetic material, blurring boundaries between poetry and prose, the beauty and diabolism of staying with a poem until done. Brief interesting snippets too of poet lives and the conscionable lonely journeys to publication. I was introduced to poets I’d never heard of: Penelope Shuttle, C.P. Cavafy, Jane Hirshfield, Les Murray. “Terrible things happen and people reach for poetry to deal with it,” he told us. Poetry can make sense of horrible events but can also illuminate life’s brief thrills. You can goo the weekly schedule, complete with resources and tips, here. Meanwhile, I thought it’d be a good idea to post a poem on the blog every Saturday. I like this poem by Fay Hart for its elegant no-bullshit simplicity!

I LOVE DRUNKS

by Fay Hart

I love drunks, I always have.

I love guys that laugh,

hairdressers that gossip,

bouncers that scowl and tv presenters

that wear stupid wigs.

And I just love has-been rock stars that

blubber into their bourbon

about some distant drum solo

that I vaguely remember from

Ricky Munch’s bedroom on acid.

I like new young designers

and entrepreneurs

who always wear the right stuff

and have cute chicks with them.

I like big homos who call me

dahling and step back,

shaking their head in admiration.

Miss Thing, one of them once said,

we have just got to get you

your own talk show.

I like somebody’s dad

who spends half the night

trying to pick up girls

his daughter’s age

and the other half crying into his beer

about how his little girl never

calls him anymore.

I love caterwauling women

who take their tops off

just before last call

and shake about the place

like goddesses with bourbon breath.

I love drunks, I always have.

Jesus & his mates think I’m a tart

In yesterday’s Irish Independent rambo-catholic David Quinn sought to portray himself as a martyr for free speech. Whilst he demonised women for seeking the morning after pill in Boots (preferring restraint or chastity!) Quinn also whined to high heaven about being the victim of repressive feminazis on Twitter. Poor Dave! Apparently some had the cheek to define his views on women’s control over their own bodies as ‘medieval’. He also claimed he’d been insulted and called a cunt. He scrambled about in the dark for 40 dazed seconds wondering ‘how we ever got to a point where there’s even a demand for a product like this’. The word demand here of course meaning a desire for sex outside of a committed relationship, such as a deluxe married one. There are no offers of stats accompanying this ancillary demand. Rather, he seems to have taken the product name: ‘Morning After Pill’ to heart, like Head & Shoulders shampoo could mean decapitation to a psycho. Availability of such a product will simply encourage the easily swayed fairer sex to indulge in quick-fix hot rampant park-n-ride humping at a moment’s notice.

The type of woman Dave sees wanting this pill: ‘Young, single women who were out on the tear over the weekend.’ Why don’t you just call them ‘slags’ and be done with it, someone snapped back on Twitter. Women scrambling for this €45 ‘abortifacient’ offering − in David’s comely eyes a kind of preemptive breakfast muffin termination − doesn’t seem to include 30 or 40-something women like me dealing with a burst condom scenario. Sorry Dave, but I do tend to like it a bit frantic and it’s happened twice, or a married woman worried her ordinary pill may not work after a bout of sickness/diarrhoea. And a myriad of other situations where emergency contraception is needed, including in cases of sexual assault. Imagine in the dark old days if such a service was available to women, especially young women who fell pregnant through incest, rape and abuse. And don’t say those scenarios were rare! If there was a morning after pill in 1983, for instance, maybe the young woman who died giving birth in that dreadful desolate place at Granard might never have been put in such a lethal position.

Instead, P for Pill in the Quinn context seems to spell PROMISCUITY to a congregation of tunnel visioners. He refers to pro-contraception folk as ‘moralising anti-moralisers’. It’s an inversion of the truth to portray those on the liberal side of the sexuality debate as the newfound ‘old right’. Such a dishonest move turns all logic and meaning on its head. ‘The problem with your thesis is that you want to legislate for an aspirational society that doesn’t, and may never, exist,’ another twitterer responded. Nor does he mention anywhere in his quickie-porridge-oats analysis, health concerns or issues surrounding the actual taking of the morning after pill. Even that would be a type of progress or perceptibility. He prefers to finger-wag at the female sexual gambol, citing that ‘demand can only be high where there is a high level of self-defeating, self-destructive behaviour’.

I seem to recall similar fears about the potential for mass-hysteria triggered divorces back in 1997 too. And God forbid if we should ever have abortion available in Ireland, we’ll be dashing out to get preggers just for the Nilfisk novelty of it all. While I’m all for the I Believe In Talking Snakes lobby having their divine say, it’s worth remembering that concrete church & state roadblocks obstructing liberalism began to crumble back in the late-1980s, when contraception became more freely available here in all its ambrosial forms. So the marauding tart tanked up on cheap booze and gagging for it without any prior contraception sorted, is tired nugatory nonsense. Coincidentally this change in our society arrived around the same time news broke in the international press of rampantly repressed Irish clergy brutally raping children on an industrial scale. Here’s hoping Boots launch a 2011 Here Cum The Girls campaign, with two for the price of one thrown in for good measure. In the meantime you can read Dave’s latest sermon here − I’m off out to buy some lube and jump on the first cock I see. 

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 This post originally appeared on the Anti Room blog in January 2011. To read the comments click here

Pope on a rope – and other adventures

Have a goo at this wonderful snippet (below) from Stephen Fry where he argues that the Catholic church is not – to put it at its mildest – a force of good in the world. It ain’t new but the topics he covers are timeless. He believes in the Enlightenment, in the eternal adventure of trying to discover moral truth at your own pace. By contrast he sees the church as a benighted outdated institution that’s causing a lot of pain. He also labels it as utterly sex obsessed:

“They say that we, with our permissive society and our rude jokes, are sex obsessed. But no! We have a healthy attitude. We like it. It’s fun, it’s jolly…because it’s a primary impulse, it can be dangerous and dark and difficult. It’s a bit like food in that respect only even more exciting. The only people who are obsessed with food are anorexics or the morbidly obese. That, in erotic terms, is the Catholic church in a nutshell.”

Aside from discussing damnation, original sin, the ‘moral evil’ of homosexuality, the horrors of child rape, how The Ratzinger spread the absurd word that condoms actually help spread AIDS, he also makes reference to how religion has always been implacably opposed to women’s choice in their own bodies and destinies. Let me know what you think. It’s Sunday in the financially corrupt holy nub of Ireland after all…

Some questions I’ve asked myself & now ask you:

What is God? If we’re made in his image, how come we all look different?

Do you believe in talking snakes and women made from snapped-off ribs?

Have you ever had a genuine ’religious’ experience that confounded you?

What would women priests bring to the Catholic religion if Rats & Co. gave the eminent go-ahead?

Is religion extinct as a dodo or salvageable/relevant?

Did the Holy Spirit turn up at your Confirmation?

What age were you before you found out Jesus had siblings?

Was the Billings Method ever explained to you in sex education?

Do you agree/disagree with Aristotle who said: The gods too are fond of a joke?