Every Cow Has a Silver Lining!

It's What's Underneath That Counts! (Not the Udders)

"What is the most common expression in Ireland?"

This was the question which was pose for a competition recently in one of Ireland's most wide-read magazines, Ireland's Own (target demographic: widows/spinsters aged 90 to 130). Although my subscription to the magazine was let lapse once I retired to the Canarias (prohibitive postal charges), when I was work in Ireland back in the 1980s for the Spanish intelligence services, this magazine was essential reading in order to acquire up-to-date information on what the population was thinking, and consequently a week was never go by without it appearing on the top of a pile of documents on my desk, the always gorgeous watercolour painting on its cover stamped with a single word: Urgente.

Even though my reading was for work purpoises and therefore by definition a trial to be endured, I was raised to enjoy pain and suffering, especially those of others, and Ireland's Own was replete with suffering, especially of the Irish people and their saints, all of whom seem to have been killed by the English at Vinegar Hill (which I think is a poetical metaphor for Calvary rather than an actual place). Consequently I came very much to look forward to my rendez-vous with the Irish psyche, an attitude that both enhanced my appreciation for and understanding of the prevalent worldview abroad in the land and also to scale the greasy pole, which is not a reference to Ludmilla the office secretary but to the promotions I secured in my several years in the embassy. When I leave Ireland, it was with much sadness but also a hefty pension as chief of station, and much of that can be placed at the doorstep of Ireland's Own, although, needless to say, I have no such intention of doing so.

I was, however, intrigued by the competition which was run by the magazine recently, if you remember. Since I am now newly back in Ireland, it was strike me that the correct answer to this question would tell me a great deal about how much the country had changed in the years I had been away. I had seen some of and sympathized with the lovely holy pissing Ireland of yore, a simple, pious, bitter, fervently nationalistic Ireland driven by self-hatred, hatred of others, and the love of our lord Jesus and his blessed mother, but it was clear to me that a materialist atheist capitalist conspiracy had insinuated itself into some parts of society, particularly the urban regions, with their cosmopolitanism, ladies living alone, Jews, bookshops, lack of playing fields, and huddled masses (although not huddled Masses, which were still, thankfully, much in evidence down the country). Thus I took it upon myself to utilize this competition question as a springboard for some amateur research, suspecting that the changes which have take place since the arrival and departure of the Celtic Tiger would manifest itself in the answers I was likely to receive.

I therefore was set up my stall in various parts of the city of Dublin and the suburb of Dun Laoghaire where I am now based and asked people the question posed by Ireland's Own. So in order as not to raise their suspicions, I carried on my person a fake Newstalk i.d., a microphone, a portable tape recorder (conveniently, I had one given to me as a birthday present in the 1970s), and sunglasses so I could not be recognized. I set up first my stall outside the swimming baths, sometimes following people in and sometimes following them home afterwards, then outside a GAA club, then also outside the FÁS offices on Baggot Street, then immediately after that outside the Waterloo pub (also on Baggot Street), then outside Harcourt Street police station, inside Harcourt Street police station, and then a ladies' hairdressing salon. And finally back inside Harcourt Street police station. I was able to make from this process a fairly representative sample to extrapolate with (and some nice photos too). The most popular answers I received to Ireland's Own's question, masquerading as Manuel's Own question were (in no particular order):

(1) "Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus." (This was reassuring to hear and also allowed me to engage in some guerrilla praying.)

(2) "If you really loved me, you'd put it in your mouth." (This suggestion was particularly common among ladies.)

(3) "We are where we are." (This was usually said with a sneer.)

(4) "There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet." (A consecutive number of students from the college of F.E. in Ballsbridge said this to me with barely contained laughter, which I took for contempt and proof of the insidious Islamicization of education in Ireland that the Irish Independent is always warning people about.)

(5) "This is the wettest July on record since last July." (I insert here myself the word "July," but respondents actually used every month on the calendar).

(6) "We apologize for the delay to this train, which was caused by a technical difficulty/a lorry hitting a bridge/suicide at Killester."

(7) "What time's your flight?"

and

(8) "We here at Ireland AM have teamed up with [insert the name of any half-empty hotel in the provinces]."


These, I think you must agree, constitute a varied and representative sample of what passes for the commonplace banter of the average Irish interlocutor. Imagine therefore my surprise, having entered all eight of these statements into the competition under different identities but the same address so as not to complicate any prize collection, when the winning entry was announced and it transpired to be the proverb which now makes up the title of this blog post: "Every Cow has a Silver Lining." I was at once taken aback, mystified, and yet also strangely comforted, since it made me realize that the old Ireland that I had so much loved was still intact somewhere out there, somewhere beyond the fleshpots of sin and depravity that make up Dun Laoghaire/Rathdown.

My overseas readers will no doubt be asking, though, what means this saying "Every Cow Has a Silver Lining"? Although not my Spanish readers, who will be familiar with a similar such proverb which we have, "Every Bull Has Gold Inside," which is a clever proverb that plays on the words "Toro," meaning bull, and "Oro," which is the word for gold. This is an old farming expression which tells you of the high esteem and importance in which rural communities hold bulls and their regenerative powers, since a good bull is much more valuable to a farmer than a dozen cows. Some people, mostly foreigners, think that the saying is meant to be taken literally, as a reference to the bull's seed, but bull semen is not gold at all, merely a sort of orangey-beige, as any Spanish child can tell you from school trips. The Spanish saying is therefore nothing more than a metaphor.

In the case of the Irish saying, however, there is some evidence that rural communities still believe that it is literally true that cows have silver linings. This is because of the peculiar history of the Irish dairy economy. Irish farmers, while astute, tight-fisted bastardos, are also very sentimental sons-of-bitches, and since the country gained independence, not a single cow has been slaughtered in the 26 counties. Irish farmers could not bear to see the cows they had become so fond of and intimately affectionate with shot through the skull with a bolt gun. Therefore, all cows were exported "on the hoof" by ferry to England, often under better conditions than Irish men and women (anyone who has taken the overnight boat train from Dublin to Holyhead can testify to this), and then the cows were ritually slaughtered by the English, which is what they are good at. The butchered meat would then be distributed to all three corners of the British Empire, including Ireland, where the populace are notoriously fond of their rump steaks, chitlings, buffalo wings, and Bisto. Of course, by the time the cows are in the butchers' shops in Kilkenny, Castlebar, Carlow, and sometimes Athlone, they are no longer recognizable as the individuals they once were, and what is more, their skin has been removed long ago, kept by the English who use them for their rugs, having FIRST removed the silver lining! This, at least, has been for hundreds of years the Irish farmers' suspicion for how come the cruel, vicious, animal-hating Protestant English were getting so rich while the decent, animal-loving, pious Roman Catholic Irish were still having to pay €5 for a decent tongue sandwich.

It was heartening to think that this traditional worldview is still underneath the surface of the superficial postmodern multicultural communist Ireland of today, even though the casual observer has to peer deeply under the carapace, or the bonnet, depending if they are looking at a car, a ladybird, a small child, or a teenage girl. The competition result proved to me that the shallow mediocrity that some sections of Ireland aspire to adopt as their defining national characteristic has not yet taken hold across the country; somewhere out there the beating heart of the true Ireland persists, throbbing under the surface like an unwanted erection at the aforementioned swimming baths, and since my return to this island has been premised on the belief that conditions have never been riper to restore Ireland to herself, her true pious, disciplined, fascist Roman Catholic self, locating the source of that pulsating flesh would be the sine qua non of success. It must be massaged, cajoled, made stronger and bigger, the way it once was, so that it can rejuvenate and regenerate this once proud, but also very humble, nation.

I have resolved therefore to embark upon a nationwide tour in search of the real true Ireland. I plan to take in every single county and every major townland, village, convent, farm, and bar in my quest. I have already packed my Tupperware box with sandwiches and filled my Thermos flask (with Bisto, of course!), and Miss Whipcream and Jane Bondage have promised to keep an eye on my home in my absence, dealing with post, burst pipes, death threats, unmarked packages that appear on bank statements as "Runnymede Entertainment Enterprises," and the football scores. I have asked them to record for me the Champions League final so that I do not miss Real Madrid beating Manchester United 6-0 at Wembley, but I espect I shall be able to watch it in a field in Fermanagh, hopefully surrounded by cows. With silver linings.

Let us pray.

A Man's Work is Never Done!

Why Book Burning was Invented!

I have never been a great fan of Do-It-Yourself, also known as D.I.Why, both for practical and for ideological reasons. In the first place, it is an attitude which is synomynous with anarchism, exemplified by the punk rocking, fanzines, blogging, and masturbation. It reach its apogee in the late 1970s, when all across Britain and Ireland there was open all these megastores such as Virgin, B&Q, Homebase, Allied Carpet Bombings, Atlantic Homeboy, Home Despot, and, in Ireland, Hoodies. Also on the television were such shows as Home Improvement, Tomorrow's World, Practical Anarchist, Kitchen Impossible, and Upstairs and Downstairs, all of which was intent on turning the men and women of Europe into atheist communist autonomous revolutionaries. Every Sunday, which is God's day, I remind you, men and women with hate in their eyes and dogs in their cars would drive to these suspicious out-of-town meeting places where they would congregate, plot revolution, buy nailguns and grout, and then return to their homes and put honest decent Christian small businessmen out of work. For this was their devious plan, the Why in the D.I.Why: A noxious conspiracy to break the petty bourgeoisie and draw them back into the seething proletarian mass, thereby polarizing society into decent God-fearing wealthy hacienda owners on the one hand, and, on the other hand, the scum. Everybody else.

Out of principle therefore I have never done a proper day's work in my life, choosing instead to employ others, lackeys of some sort or another, to do it for me. I am thereby generating employment, gratuitude, indebtedness, droit de seigneur, and a sense of noblesse oblige which is only proper and fitting and which keeps society stable and moving in the right direction, which is nowhere. I have deliberately avoided learning how to turn taps on and off, change a plug in my bath, how to empty my jacuzzi, how to open the oven (or close it, obviously!), how to exchange lightbulbs, or how to flush a toilet. These are all jobs for someone else. It has therefore been a bit of a wrench to find myself last week standing in my kitchen with, in my hand, a bit of a wrench. And a bit. A drill bit. Which was because I have had the decorators in. Miss Whipcream and Jane Bondage, my old friends who I was mention last week and have found me my new bachelor pad in Dun Laoghaire, have been getting the place "done up" for me, and it is turn out that they are dab hands at all manner of activities that involve screwing, nailing, banging, and plumming. And also teabagging.

My natural manliness was felt a little threatened by this broad knowledge, so in order not to be intiminated by them, I snuck out one of the mornings last week while they were still assembling the lowering apparatus in my bedroom and took a walk down to the Dun Laoghaire public library. I have never been in such a place before, again as a matter of principle. Libraries should be privately owned and books rented out to those willing to pay for them, not communally owned and given to all and sundry, whether they can read or not and who might get God-knows-what ideas out of them. And who-knows-what infections off them. At least with a private library you know whose pubic hairs they are. Neverthenonetheless, I made a member of myself (although I used a pseudoname so as not to leave a record or to be embarrass at a later date for overdue fines and the likes).

I find myself now however in two minds about the value or lack therein of the public library. After I was a member, I then say to the library lady, "Now perhaps you will help me, library lady. I am somewhat retarded in the ability to do the crafts around the house, and therefore I am needing some books that will enable me to feel better about myself, especially in the presents of other sex members." The library lady was just stand there for a minute contemplating me and stroking her moustache, and then she was take my hand and say, "Come with me, dear," and lead me to a shelf where she pull off two books which she give me:






"I think you will find these perfect for your special needs," she said.

I did not want to make her look like a fool in front of all the homeless people and snoring pensioners sitting around us, so I didn't not say anything at the time to dispel her of her mistake. A man must show courtesy and discretion on such an occasion so as not to humiliate a woman until he gets her home, so I just nodded and said thank you to her and then when she had her back turned put the books in a small boy's satchel hanging on the back of a chair. It was already apparent to me that all library staff are morons, probably volunteers left money in a feeble-minded aunt's will and therefore at a loose end and with a desire to confuse the aged, so I therefore ventured further into the library on my own in order to satisfy both my curiosity, which is very small, and my hunger, since they had also a cafe.

After two hours of meandering and doughnut munching, I was finally able to find books of some merit. Thus, even though I would instinctively feel that all public libraries should be burned to the ground, I was also force to ask myself where else in the Greater Dublin area I would be able to find books so perfectly tailored to my needs:


This is just a refresher course for me. Making coffins was part of my training during National Service. Like the SAS, we in Spanish intelligence always know where the bodies are buried. Because we buried them ourselves!


Actually, I took this book for Miss Whipcream, who has a couple of boas. Furry ones. They do not look well at all. They just lie there on the back of her sofa.


I am not disabled, but I do sit around all day doing nothing, so I am figure that clothes for the disabled will not be much different to clothes for the lazy. Mostly tracksuits, pyjamas, and slankets. I do not have much confidence in the contents of this book, however. The cardigan on the cover has buttons on. Who can be arsed doing up buttons?


NOW we are talking! Since part of my agenda is to take Ireland back to the days of the burro, this book will be invaluable in providing tips on feeding, beating, overworking, and insulting donkeys, all part of the traditional rural Irish way of life that disappeared when the Ford plant opened in Cork (2005, I think).

You see now why I am ambiguous about public libraries? They are a source of some of the most treasured and valuable works in the English language, but they are also open to the malodorous hoi polloi. It is very important therefore that they are saved and treated properly, preferably by being bought up by someone who will look after their contents for posterity. I always say that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, so it is better that the rabble have no knowledge whatsoever, and the little knowledge provided by libraries is shared amongst policemen, soldiers, and the secret service and intelligence agencies: the people we want to be dangerous.

Anyway, when I got home, Miss Whipcream and Jane Bondage was fast asleep in my bed with smiles on their faces, and the batteries in my adjustable sander was all dead. I wouldn't not mind, but they had still not erected my pommel horse. Is a big disgrace!

Nazis R Us!

Enough Space for All the Books a Fascist Could Read!!

Being very sensible, over the past fourtnight (which is only actually two weeks: I will never get the stupid English!) I have been very busy organizing my return to my spiritual home, lovely holy pissing Ireland, having heeded the call from End O'Kenny (see last week's post) telling all ageing Nazis, fascists, Falangists, and cetera, that it is safe, just like in that film the Marathon Man (which was recently remade as the Snickers Man; not as good, but with the same strong message: you can't eat a lot of chocolate and espect to get off lightly at the dentist). Safetiness is not my main reason for coming back to Ireland, however. Not at all. No. Is instead because of the new climate that O'Kenny is promising the Irish people of austerity, suffering, poverty, inequality, joblessness, empty shelves, civil war, grazed elbows, holes in pullovers, rubbish haircuts, fly-tipping, water charges, no schools, weak beers, alcoholism, marital strife, and penile servitude. What decent Christian in his own mind could resist the lure of such a scenario?!

There will be much work to be done bringing the Irish peoples back to the proper austere Roman Catholic life to which they have traditionally been devoted until the Celtic Tiger turn their heads, but the circumstances are now propitious (whatever that means) and I am sure that the church hierarchy in Ireland is rubbing its hands and thighs in delight at the opportunity that the financial and social crisises will provide for them to insert themselves back into the lives of the men, women and children across the land. In much the same way that the Big Society idea in the Great Britain really means hoovering up the crumbs traditionally scattered before the proles and instead letting the charities take the strain of separating out the "deserving" from the "undeserving" poor (in my view they all deserve to be poor), so the crisises in Ireland will mean cutting back all the communist features of the state (education, hospitals, care of the elderly, infrastructure) and encouraging instead the major civil institutions, such as the Holy Roman Catholic Church and Hezbollah, to demonstrate their magnaminity and that they don't not bear any grudges against the idiot Irish people who turned their back on God in favour of Mammon during the boom times. The Church knows it full well from history that this is a regular occurrence, and it also knows full well the Parable of the Prodigal Son, which is in the Bible, so I am confident that the Church will happily and selflessly welcome home with open arms all repentant sinners on their hands and knees.

An austere lifestyle is not just good for the soul but also good for the body, of course, and we Falangists pride ourselfs on our self-discipline, our self-denial, our Spartan bearing, our love of suffering (both our own and that of others), and our capacity to endure deprivation. I have, however, deprived myself long enough of the delights of lovely pissing Ireland, stuck as I was in my retirement villa in the Canarias, idly sipping Cardenal Mendoza and watching the topless volleyball on the beach through my binoculars. What kind of life is that for a man? It is shallow, meaningless, and empty. What pleasure there was to be had came thanks to my neighbours the Mengeles, but they now are getting old and withered and are unable to parade or hold a whip as well as they once could. Is therefore good fortune for me that the tide has turn in Ireland. Finally once again this is a place where an ascetic despiser of all things superfluous and luxurious such as I can feel at home.

I have therefore rented out a nice house in Dun Laoghaire, where I was previously once about to move in with my good friends Jane Bondage and Miss Whipcream, two ladies of high breeding what I was use to work with when I was stationed in Ireland with the Spanish intelligence. They was always giving me good-quality details about all the judges and politicians and businessmen visiting their premises. I will be able to renew my close acquaintance with them, and they have been very decent enough to find for me this new bachelor pad



where I am in the process of moving all my comestibles, domestics, cosmetics, and comics. It is not the biggest and most pre-possessing of houses, I know, but it does have a certain je ne sais quoi, a spirit, a geist, if you will. Miss Whipcream tells me that it could do with a larger living room, and Jane says there are some slates missing, but she knows a local chap, Lenny Roofinstall, who will make it look just fabulous. "It will be a triumph," were her precise words.

So I am all boyant and enthused about this return. I have it on good authority that some of my old comrades have already arrived in Dublin and are acclimating very well. I have been already into IKEA to stock up on basics: a chair, a spoon, a hunting knife, a silencer, night-vision goggles, some salmiak, a bottle of schnapps, a bookshelf (see main picture), hiking books, plimsolls, pantyhose, a tourniquet, and an iPad 2. I have downloaded the Bible.

I shall now look forward to reacquainting myself with all my old Irish friends and also resurrecting my old network from the Gladio days. Some of them must still be alive or on the outside. A covert network of ageing fascists will be just the ticket to get the country going again. Or at least to accelerate its headlong charge back to the 1930s. My fervid hope is that once we pick up speed I can push Ireland right back to the 16th century before anyone can put the brakes on. Feudalism might be asking a bit much, escept in Carlow, perhaps, but with a bit of luck we can at least get back to the days of burros and buboes.

If the economists are all correct, and they never are, Ireland is now esperienceing the clam before the storm. They do not mean Jean van Damn Clam, the mussels from Brussells. Rarther, it is a metaphor meaning that everything is locked tight shut like a shell but with the hurricane on the way about to batter it. Like scampi. I shall therefore make haste and reach Ireland by next week. Miss Whipcream says she still has my Wellington boots and long brown mackintosh. I don't think I shall need them, however. I AM the coming storm!