The Lowell Courtney Travel Blog

The Casserole of Time

Typical, isn't it? The silly old fool writes nothing for weeks and then, like London busses, three come along at once. I hesitate, dear reader, to impose upon your patience and forbearance, but bear with me a little longer and I shall try to explain.

The title of this piece is, you will be relieved to hear, not an extended metaphor on life. You know the sort of sermon/homily/headmaster's address which begins: "I have always thought that life is like a stew." Tom Lehrer had the answer to that sort of tripe: "Soon we'll be out amidst the cold world's strife/ Soon we'll be sliding down the razor blade of life." Bullseye, as opposed to other taurean produce.

No, I owe this title to some of the many wonderful women who adorn my life. To Herself, who cooks divinely. To my US pal Mary, whose memory is as selective and eclectic as my own. To my doc's wife Heather, who has given me sage advice and who recently observed that, in the local League for Fine Eccentrics, your humble scribe was the Undiluted Champion. And to a very dear friend who is undergoing a mastectomy tomorrow and for whom only my heart can speak.

In common with many of my vintage, I am beginning to have a little difficulty with words. No, I don't spill my coffee when trying to operate my phone and I have never found much of a problem with expressing emotion, especially when we are losing a soccer game with a minute on the clock. But of late, I have found words queuing up to express themslves in a most undisciplined order.

To wit: I wanted to thank Mrs C for the wonderful stew which awaited my return from yet another freezing afternoon upon the terraces. Of course I wanted to tell her what a tasty casserole she had produced. And all I could compliment her on was the quality of her carousel. At this point, Joni Mitchell fans will get the joke - Herself just looked puzzled and then gave her omniscient, the men in white coats will be here soon smile.

Worse was to follow, for on the very next day, she inquired innocently as to whether I had prepared my ancient car for our next jaunt. "Yes, dear" quoth I,"shovel, torch, rugs - and in view of this inclement weather, I topped up the engine with after shave just this morning." Sounds like? Of course it's anti-freeze but it's got the same number of syllables with the same stress and intonation. Doesn't it?  So now my mind is playing vocabulary charades with me.

The list is increasing exponentially - and what is all the more tragic is that words like "exponentially" are at my linguistic side in a flash but simple objects such as "stock cubes" and "jerry cans" (petrol containers to you guys) are as elusive as Osama bin Laden.

And yet, and yet. The casserole of time may be a misnomer; my once-fabled command of words may be as fleeting as any earthly power but it is far from wasted. It is a reminder that we shall not bestride the earth for long and that whilst we still have whatever personal resources the good Lord has lent us, we must put them to the best possible use.

So, ladies (and gentlemen), here's to you and yours. May the casserole of time be the richest of stews to you all and may you live long to enjoy it to the last drop. Let those who come behind do the dishes and if their washing up liquid isn't as orgasmic as it should be - well, that's their problem.

Up the creek, midwinter

Good day to you again, my readers and fellow sufferers of political ineptitude.

I apologise in part for today's coleric rant (see previous piece) but we are, after all, the Dyspepsia Generation. And there's no earthly point in us complaining about the state of our winter because our snow is but as a piece of cotton lint in comparison to the winter in most of your states. I understand from a casual glance at the NBC bulletins that the white stuff has even reached Florida. Imagine undergoing full body imaging (isn't that what FBI stands for?) just to be a half-frozen snowbird.

Herself and I spent Christmas in our usual hideaway in Fermanagh and, thanks to the horrors of modern technology, I might even be able to put the first ever pic in one of these dispatches. Let us try. Ah well, still beyond my capabilities but I draw comfort from the fact that you light upon this column to read. Gawping you keep for YouTube.

Truly, this is the time of year when things are at their drearest. (Not a typo - just Ulster Scots.)  Outside we have finally staggered to the dizzy climatic heights of 35F; there is a very nasty cold rain landing on the glacial ice sheet which covers my driveway and the sky is a glowering grey. However, for those of you reading this in lands where winter has an even tighter grip, I suggest that you look up Thomas Hardy's "Darkling Thrush".  To me, this has always been the poetic equivalent of a soaring aria and I hope you derive as much improbable solace from it as I do.

And on that theme, I looked out the window on Saturday and was stunned. Our front garden is a 30 yard patch of grass with roses and fuchsia. The normal birdlife is a motley collection of sparrows, thrushes, blackbirds and other ne'er-do-wells hoping to benefit from Mrs C's charity. (Takes one to know one, y'unnerstan.)   But lo and behold, not only were we now hosting a couple of oyster catchers - presumably because the seashore was providing no shellfish - but they had been joined by their even longer beaked cousins, the curlews. Now I don't know if you have ever seen a curlew, but that long curved beak is a thing of extremely frightening efficiency and can winkle out just about anything. Like the Chinese State Press Bureau, one supposes.

And as our neighbours are about to tumble their summer houses and have thoughtfully removed all the windows, the oyster catchers and the curlews now have shelter and I have a beautifully and organically aerated front garden, courtesy of two days frantic pecking by my unexpected guests.  Snowbirds indeed - and a blink of serendipity amidst the gloom.

Never mind the bleak midwinter - a well-shaken cocktail of the human and the divine is a reminder that the seasons will roll round again. And if they don't, they'll find my frozen fingers still attached to the filter at the bottom of the oil tank........

The Heart of the Matter

The current outbreak of humour about the lovelife, times and queer finances of Iris Robinson (Sample: Why is Iris like IKEA – one dodgy screw and the whole cabinet falls apart) are a mere diversion from some core issues.

 

To wit: both London and Dublin recognised in Peter Robinson the one man who might just possibly drag the Calvinist core of the DUP kicking, screaming and psalming into the realisation that cross community government, however unpalatable it may be to tender Presbyterian consciences, is the only game in town for Northern Ireland. “Forward to the past” may be a big hit in paisleyite homes but it’ll never outsell “Back to the future.” Ever.

 

If Robinson falls, the remaining minnows will never be able to deliver the final piece of devolution.  Curious to think of Paisley’s chief strategist as a putative statesman, but cometh the hour etc. And if policing and justice fail, then the whole DUP/Sinn Fein experiment will fall, too.

 

And who’s to say that it isn’t about time?  Not the principle of cross community governance per se, but who would deny that the current crop have long since gone stale, nay rancid.  It is now coming to light that Iris Robinson’s dealings with Fred Fraser, the now conveniently deceased “developer” who covered much of the local government district of Castlereagh (a Robinson fiefdom for many years) in housing extend far further than tapping him for 25K for start up capital for her lover’s business.

 

And our local politicos are rushing to assert that, whilst any investigation – for which read “knifing” – of the Swish Family Robinson is absolutely “essential”, they are keen to ensure that any judicial or public inquiry should not, nay never, extend its smutty, inquisitive remit into other local and national government areas – deep and murky pools from which may emerge, covered in the slime of nods and the grime of winks, a veritable orchestra of whistleblowers.

 

Frankly, I couldn’t give a damn. Nor could a fair percentage of the long-suffering population of Northern Ireland and the equally maligned British taxpayer.  For at the same time as the Iris and Peter show was getting the headlines, a Catholic policeman, a representative of the new, improved Police Service of Northern Ireland, a fluent Irish speaker and GAA player, lost his legs in a booby trap planted under his car.

 

And how was this made possible?  In the week in which the UDA finally decommissioned, fifteen long, weary and frankly unnecessary years after their “ceasefire”, our politicians were once again engaging in the game of brinkmanship was kept them in well-paid jobs for a generation or two. All enabled by the implicit blackmail that if the London and Dublin governments would not listen to their petty bleating, then the men of violence were lurking in the background and they would be much, much harder to handle.

 

And whilst our pols have played one side off against another or gone running to Big Daddy in DC every Paddy’s Day, they have comprehensively blown out the window of opportunity which the ceasefires and the 1998 Agreement created.

 

They have given the dissident republicans time to re-arm and recruit the next generation of gullible youth who believe that killing and dying for a vague concept called “Ireland” is a great and glorious thing. They have prevaricated, thinking only of their own breadbasket and have diluted and poured away the trust of their electorates.

 

No doubt they will all get very upset by this proposition. And there are honourable and hard-working MLAs. I have seen them in action and a good job they try to do. But lest they accuse me and my sort of cynicism, I have also seen MLAs indulging in petty points scoring which would disgrace any kindergarten – and in front of well-travelled overseas guests who were bemused, then puzzled and finally appalled by what they had seen.

 

No, ladies and gentlemen, it is you who have behaved cynically and dishonourably.  It is you who have hidden behind the hard men of all your parties and who have failed to lead but have capitulated to threats.  It is you who have failed to spell out the reality of power. 

 

And the reality is that you and your kind and over 40% of the NI workforce are financed by the Treasury – to the tune of £8 billion last year, I believe.  Now that the international bond markets and the rating agencies have forced some financial steel into the Chancellor’s backbone, one of his first belated cuts might be to look very, very closely at your cosy little world.

 

And he might conclude – he might very well conclude – that you, and the 26 local councils which represent the equivalent of the population of Birmingham, are a luxury without which HMG could well live, especially in these straitened times.

 

And who’s to say that he’d be wrong? Not I, nor my fellow exporters, who are busting a gut to provide, in however little measure, employment and revenue for both parts of Ireland.  You think you have a tough job? You think you are well paid to take abuse? How many of you have had to clear a bar at Saturday night closing or had to deal with the consequent injuries in A&E at 2 am on Sunday morning?

 

What goes round has now come round. To quote Cromwell, appropriately enough to the Rump Parliament:

 

“You have been sat too long here for any good you have been doing. Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!”