The light heart or a dark pint: Happy St Patrick's Day

"The light heart lives long."

(Irish proverb)

St Patrick's Day altar, 2012: All Saints Anglican Church in Patcham, East Sussex.

"The Fiddler's Elbow" in Brighton is ostensibly a decent, die-hard Irish boozer: every year, a local St Patrick's Day parade starts and returns there, and it generally hosts a weekend of Irish music and revelry. Having caught this year's flier (see below), I was quite intent on a Saturday evening of traditional Celtic high-jinks and the odd version of "Fields of Athenry" to sob into my glass of Virgin Mary to.

Having coerced a long suffering friend to go with me, we found that the pub's street party was two heaving beer tents outside the already rammed pub, with the "musical" element being drum and bass music belting out at eardrum-perforation level from a third tent. Apart from the Guinness and the ubiquitous lime-green party top-hats, Dublin and Belfast might just as well have been distant planets. I appreciate it was Saturday night and that this is very much a university town, but I can't be the only Brighton resident who expected to find the town that usually likes to enjoy itself a little too much most weekends a-wearing of the green and a-pogoing with The Pogues on this one weekend of the year?

I can't blame the pub: apparently they did have traditional Irish music playing on Friday evening, and they are patrons to Irish musicians across the year. It's a nice pub. Management were simply catering to your average Saturday night drinking crowd; just as the opposition were doing.

In 1800 there were some forty one inns and taverns in Brighton, equivalent to one inn for every thirty houses. They served the local fishing community upon which the town was founded, newly settled residents and the wealthy visitors and trippers who'd taking a shine to the original English seaside resort. By 2011, there were around fifteen hundred bars and pubs in Brighton and Hove. According to a citywide poll last year, more than sixty percent of the population feel that alcohol has to feature in social activities for them to enjoy themselves. Given Brighton's dark, longstanding reputation for substance abuse, I fond this sad as well as damning.

 I count myself incredibly fortunate that I've never felt I couldn't be merry or relaxed without a glass of something stronger than tea. I actually love the taste of a good white wine, a nice dry sherry or a sweet Tennessee whiskey, but my life isn't empty without it and I wouldn't even estimate that I have a "drink" once a week. I think I've only ever been drunk once in my life; I really didn't like it, or the sickness and fatigue that followed. When I was a bit younger, I could probably drink most of my friends, male and female, under the table and still get up and walk home,  probably giving bi-lingual, accurate directions to tourists on the way. I've always said that after one too many for me, I go into my Kylie routine, suddenly remembering all lyrics and dance routines; two drinks too many would see me harmonising with myself as both Annifrid and Agnetha from Abba. Beyond that, I would just feel sick. And stop.

I see females out and about in Brighton of all shapes, sizes and sensibilities with the skimpiest clothing and the most staggering heels, all still trying to strike a pose, after many bevvies past my Kylie stage. Usually, they're struggling to look sultry whilst sat in the gutter or lying on the pavement. I've sometimes stopped to ask if they're OK as various lads have been circling around them like vultures, only to be shrieked at to **** off and leave them alone to "enjoy" themselves. Of course, just as frequently and possibly almost as vulnerable, I do see lads of all ages from fourteen to four score and ten, crying, puking, urinating or bleeding in the street. Those who've "enjoyed" themselves to the max would seem to be those doing all of the above simultaneously.

If I sound harsh, I'm not without empathy. My own family hasn't been a stranger to addiction: my mother's only brother literally drank his life away and two of her sisters died of alcohol and tobacco related cancers; my father's gentle and kind-hearted nephew, my cousin, died of  heart failure at thirty years of age after drowning his sorrows a little too deeply a little too often. I know that for every person who drinks to remembrance, many drink to forget.

I've often perceived that the romantic but fiery Celtic psyche might lend itself more readily to that dream-catcher-turned-demon-drink. Walking home last night, I didn't see any drunk Irishmen (or women) on St Patrick's own evening. I merely waded through swaggers of smashed students and London day trippers, tripping over their green top-hats and asking what day it was. 

Today, I lamented the lack of St Pat's shindiggery in Brighton this year with an Irish pensioner who frequents my local Sainsbury's for the warmth of the air-conditioning as well as that of the regulars and staff. He told me it was a pitiful St Patrick's when there was no room in any bar for a decent Irishman to fall down. I said I'd missed hearing dozens of versions of "The Irish Rover" and felt cheated out of even one sobbed refrain of "Danny Boy". His reply made me crack a smile: "We have these songs in our hearts. If you know them, you will know them all year round and forever." See, this is why I love the Irishness.

I do feel my St Patrick's weekend was hijacked this year by those wanting to get legless rather than jig, to get wasted en-mass rather than toast a feeling of heritage or togetherness. Ah well. I already have my newly acquired little ukulele and am looking to get my very own Irish drum, a bodrhan, as a belated birthday gift. Next year, I may be inviting selected friends to join me in my parlour for St Pat's tea, tatties and proper Irish drum and bass.

Wherever you've been this St Patrick's Day, whatever you've done and whoever you've done it with I hope it went well and safely and you've the shoes, the shillings and the smile to get you to Easter. 

Slainte.

"May the saddest day of your future be no worse 

Than the happiest day of your past."

"In Ireland the inevitable never happens and the unexpected constantly occurs. "

(John Pentland Mahaffy)

"You Couldn't Have Come At A Better Time"  Luka Bloom

"You've got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was."

"Raglan Road" Van Morison and The Chieftains

"God is good, but never dance in a small boat."

"The Fields of Athenry", wonderfully raucous version by The Dropkick Murphys

"Get on your knees and thank God for your two feet."

St Patrick's Trust

One place definitely open for business as expected, both yesterday and today, was St Patrick's Anglican Church in Hove. Still very much in use as a place of worship, St Pat's has been used as a night shelter for homeless people and addicts since 1985., when the parish priest allowed two rough sleepers to sleep on the floor of the church. More and more homeless people were encouraged to come forward and now over 300,000 bed spaces have been taken up over the years.
In 1987 a dedicated shelter was formed to raise funds as the church space was converted. St Patrick's Trust now offers help and support through the Night Shelter House and also the semi-independent organisation "Move-On Housing". As well as accommodation, the shelter is open from morning till night to offer advice, meals and social activities. The church continues to celebrate daily services.
Yesterday, St Pat's was offering tea, coffee and cakes and helpful literature to all-comers.

StPats-Hove.co.uk

Funny thing, charity...

"As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself and the other for helping others."

(Sam Levenson)

There is a Hebrew word for "charity" which is "tzedakah"; it literally translates as JUSTICE. Yesterday was the 25th anniversary of "Red Nose Day" (RND), the highlight and major appeal day of British charity "Comic Relief". The charity was founded in 1985 by comedian Lenny Henry and scriptwriter Richard Curtis, in response to the famine in Ethiopia. It was launched on Christmas Day, from a refugee camp in Sudan. The charity's maintained aim is to bring about positive, lasting change in the lives of disadvantaged people, investing in work that addresses immediate needs and tackles the root causes of poverty and injustice. It's maintained principle is that every pound donated is spent on charitable projects; all operating costs and salaries are covered by corporate sponsors or any interest earned on collected funds before they're distributed.

RND was launched on 5th February 1988 as a national day of comedy and corporate and personal fundraising. The day traditionally culminates in a BBC telethon. It appears that we need comic, light relief to stem the deluge of heart-breaking films showing life and death in what we too readily refer to as the Third World. More than a quarter of a century after the images of famine on an apocalyptic scale flickered on our screens, accompanied by appropriately emotive pop music, we are still being asked to give. 
Personally, I wish I had a pound for every time I've heard someone moan: "the famine's still there, so giving five, ten, twenty years ago didn't do any good". Today, there other children starving; so many of those featured in previous RND films and documentaries will have died. Hunger is as naturally occurring as greed and lust. You and I will probably "feel" hungry at some point during every day throughout our lives,  yet will have no comprehension of what hunger actually is.
People don't volunteer to be born poor or in disadvantaged, stricken or war-torn regions. Good fortune places us this side of the TV screen. For years, I watched the RND telethon with my Mum. Invariable at some point during the evening we would both be in tears and she would say "Phone now", asking me to also donate on her behalf, from a basic, unsupplemented state pension. It always moved me that Mum, by no means a saint, would give to people in parts of the world she had never learned about in school and couldn't name, even as someone whose own income and expectations seemed so restricted. 

I've made a bit of a song and dance about not being able to have a glass of wine or slice of sticky-toffee cake for my birthday, falling part way through Lent. The blatant truth is that I chose to give up those things, and for a very limited time. With two hands and fresh vegetables to cook with, the want of cake and Pinot Grigio will never kill me. I'm ashamed that I frequently say I'm too broke to go for a meal out, to get the bathroom sorted, to go on holiday; I have no real concept of what it means to be broken.
Of course Comic Relief funds projects "locally" too; with a growing reputation for initiatives responding to and educating against domestic abuse. But as I grow older, the world somehow seems a much smaller place. I find the whole "Charity begins at home" plea tedious and quite despicable. This earth houses us all, but supports some much more comfortably than others. There is only one world, however much we spout about the first, second or third. You don't need to be a God-botherer or a tree-hugger to appreciate the obscenity of any child wasting away for the want of water, rice, mosquito nets or basic medicines; it's irrelevantl where that child was born or who to.
Over the years, Comic Relief has raised well over £750 million; last night's telethon total will add another record breaking £75 million. Obviously we can continue to donate throughout the rest of the year.
I'm not a fan of the "Reality TV" phenomenon: I think it panders to and then feeds off the worst excesses and inadequacies of human nature, turning it as entertainment. Generally, it's cheaply made television which makes celebrities of those who shout the most. Last night, I watched the most raw, damning reality TV of all. A tiny African boy, ironically called Victor, expired on camera. His parents couldn't afford to pay for the morgue, so the local hospital allowed them to lay him in their laundry over-night. Wrapped up on the shelf, he could have been just another bundle of soiled rags. A fiver could have kept him alive: half a pizza, less than a pint of Guinness, a couple of goes on the lottery.

"You will find out that Charity is a heavy burden to carry, heavier than the kettle of soup and the full basket. But you will keep your gentleness and your smile. It is not enough to give soup and bread. This the rich can do. 

It is only for your love alone that the poor will forgive you the bread you give to them." 

(St Vincent de Paul)

www.rednoseday.com

"People Help The People"  Birdy

"While we do our good works let us not forget that the real solution lies in a world in which charity will have become unnecessary." 

( Chinua Achebe)

The Ever Fixed Mark

  

"Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken."

(from Shakespeare's Sonnet 116)

I do not consider myself to be a competitive person: I like to feel that people and situations that are meant for me will not go by me; I find that comforting and also rather aesthetically (or even ascetically!) pleasing. I hope that I've never consciously "competed" for friends, partners or social standing. I clearly don't have the cut-throat attitude apparently currently required in Brighton at the moment to snatch a half decent job from the burgeoning queue! I intensely dislike the paraphernalia attached to going to "the sales"; no overnight sleeping bags then handbags drawn at dawn to battle for bargains, not for me. In fact, only rugby union seems to ignite the lesser-known cussing, shouting, jumping up and down Gigi. We all have our weaknesses.
I know this will make me sound like the biggest eaves-dropper in East Sussex, but yet again I overheard something thought provoking on my journey back from Hampshire the other day. Two tall-haired and teeny-shorted girls in their late teens were loudly discussing their game plans once they disembarked at Brighton, for securing the same boy. These girls were friends, to all intents and purposes, even sharing copious amounts of Red Bull and almost as much lip gloss and eyeliner; war painting each other only to become opponents in battle. I found this dreadfully sad: I wanted to say something to them but I was too scared they would join forces against me and leave me a mess of pulled hair and Rimmel stains.
They were literally egging each other on about tactics to use on this lad, yet each girl was vehement that once one of them was victorious (if not happy and glorious), the loser would immediately hate the boy and become a sworn enemy to the other girl! Beyond the sheer ugliness of this situation, no matter how much macquillage you apply to it, there's also a total breakdown in reason. I let them clatter off the train ahead of me, holding on to each other for support. For all their manufactured preening and glued on bits and pieces, there was something very feral about them: these girls were  born competitors. I mentioned it to a lovely female friend of mine who has a teenage daughter. She said she was aware of an almost innate rivalry in her daughter and her school friends. It seems alien to us now but may well have been prevalent when I was a plaited and pleated convent school girl. Her daughter's favourite song through her recent boyfriend troubles had been "Fight for this Love" by one Cheryl Cole, complete with high-heeled combat dance moves. Ms Cole may well be a role model for not-so little girls after "fighting" for her marriage to her footballer husband in spite of his alleged multiple discretions: thank God she now seems to have chosen a more dignified choreography, walking on with her beautiful head held high and any undoubtedly lucrative kiss-and-tells tightly zipped.

Part of my physiology, not least because I'm trying to be a decent Christian, also means that I don't stop loving those who've hurt or even betrayed me. We've all seen friends we've introduced suddenly finding each others company more stimulating than ours. We may have seen the top marks, awards and even promotions bypass us on the way to someone we simply can't not admire or respect. Heartbreakingly, we may feel a person is the key to our future, assuming the sentiment is shared until we see them in the company of someone else they clearly have a history with. If we truly feel real, unconditional love, romantic or otherwise,  it doesn't swiftly cease because the Happy Ever After isn't forthcoming. I've never understood that "If I can't have you no-one else will" mentality that drives some men to kill their girlfriends and some mothers to sacrifice babies to spite the father.
We humans are largely animals with lip gloss, mobiles, city jobs and laptops who still react to fear, threat or pain with aggression. I understand this and also that many people will therefore view sensitivity, patience and composure simply as weaknesses rather than profoundly concentrated strengths. Many berate the dangers of passivity because the missile-seeking radars (or even just the beer-goggles) have failed to identify constancy, quiescence, acceptance. I have stood up for or even stood in front of people (or causes) I care about before and I know that I will do it again. But defending for love is not the same as aggressing for it. Certainly, I've grown up believing that if you have to compete for attention or affection, it's probably not worth the having. Blood on a prize is never that attractive.
I've included This Mortal Coil's version of Tim Buckley's "Song to the Siren" in this post; personally I feel this is the most hauntingly beautiful version. The song is a conversation between a distraught, lovesick sailor and a siren (or mermaid) who appears to have also fallen in love with him. Early Christian opinion of mythological beings was coloured by the Etymologies of St Isidore of Seville, who described sirens as part virgin and part clawed bird. They were said to have wings and claws because love can fly and wound: of course love hurts, but I prefer to think of the mark of love as an exquisite badge of honour rather than a livid battle scar; Shakespeare's "ever-fixed mark".
Obviously, I have no idea which of the two teenage divas from the beginning of this post managed to get her man, nor if the victory would endure for a night or an entire season. All things considered, I doubt very much that such a battle could have birthed a lifelong union of soul mates. Maybe the boy wasn't remotely interested in either of them, which happens a lot in Brighton, allowing the girls to totter home together with their friendship intact, if not their pride or nail polish. I sincerely hope the evening ended well and safely for all concerned.

For my own part, I really must get my TV and aerial fixed before the start of this year's Tri Nations Rugby Championship: I simply can't be doing all that shouting and air-thumping in public.

"Whit's fur ye'll no go by ye"

(old Scottish proverb, mainly said by my granny and my mother)

"Song to the Siren"  This Mortal Coil  

This Woman's Work: The Visitation

"My soul doth magnify the Lord : and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.

For he hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden"

(The Magnificat,  from The Book of Common Prayer)

Last Thursday was the Feast of The Visitation, when young Mary carrying Christ in her womb went to visit her cousin Elizabeth, who was known to be far beyond child-bearing years. The older woman was aware that she was already carrying her own blessed baby; a son who be known as John the Baptist and would prepare the way of the scriptures for Mary's son. When we were at school, we learned from Luke's gospel that Elizabeth greeted her cousin;"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb"; Mary responded with the beautiful prayer of the Magnificat.

I've been laid low with a chest infection for a couple of weeks now, but I wanted to share, somewhat belatedly, a lovely latter-day sonnet about this meeting between the women, written by the poet, musician and Anglican priest Malcolm Guite. Simply called  "The Visitation", I think it captures the wonder and devoted acceptance of both women and something of their intuitive love and strength. Mary would have been a virgin of about fourteen or fifteen; today, a gymslip mum. There are so many depictions in Marian art highlighting her ethereal beauty and grace, but I always feel those that show her guilelessness and girlishness are incredibly moving. Beyond the sheer enormity of becoming the vessel of God, she would face the gossip and disbelief of friends and strangers alike and would need to trust herself to the care of her betrothed Joseph: he in turn would need all his devotion to defend her honour and faithfulness. Today, Joseph would be pitied on the odious Jeremy Kyle Show. And it's often forgotten that Mary was a child herself, committed to giving birth in disadvantaged circumstances, at a time when death in labour was not exceptional.

Mary, Elizabeth and Joseph are part of a story of feminine strength and wisdom, the eternal parental bond and of unerring faithful love in all it's forms which still resonates. 

"The Visitation"

(Malcolm Guite)

Here is a meeting made of hidden joys

Of lightenings cloistered in a narrow place

From quiet hearts the sudden flame of praise

And in the womb the quickening kick of grace.

Two women on the very edge of things

Unnoticed and unknown to men of power

But in their flesh the hidden Spirit sings

And in their lives the buds of blessing flower.

And Mary stands with all we call ‘too young’,

Elizabeth with all called ‘past their prime’

They sing today for all the great unsung

Women who turned eternity to time

Favoured of heaven, outcast on the earth

Prophets who bring the best in us to birth.

"This Woman's Work"  Kate Bush

"Beat"

"Beat"

My right to be me is unconditional

and proclaims your right to be you:

never haggle for the corner

when belief is at your core.

Your heart cannot be bought

or stayed by bolts and bars;

and while it beats, it should not dance to

a tune it cannot sing.

                                                           Gigi

Dirty Money

On a day when the Royal Bank of Scotland announced that the bank's "losses" had doubled since last year, it also announced that bonuses for it's FatCat bankers would double this year. Maths wasn't my most favourite of subjects at school: but I defy Carol Vordeman to make this add up. The British tax payers own 84% of the RBS, having had no say in whether we wanted to bail them out or not. We continue to have no say in whether or not they should be rewarded for continuing to mess up.

The average bonus this year for RBS FatCats will amount to around £23,000. The current average national wage in the UK is around £23,000. With public servants' pay being frozen year after year and tens of thousands of public service posts already cut, why are we paying Mr Blah de Blah the equivalent of another worker's wage? Yes, I understand that the bonuses will be capped at £2,000 cash, with the rest payable in RBS shares "as a further incentive": this seems even more incestuous. It's also a cover-up, as the the bankers will be able to cash in the bonds as early as June. While the national average wage is still on the tip of my tongue, lets remind ourselves that although the average wage for an investment banker has dropped from £160,000 in 2009, it is still around the £150,000 mark. Take into account (no pun intended) that RBS has sacked 21,000 of it's frontline staff in response to it's losses, and that seems like a very black mark indeed.

Social commentators frequently describe how the unions have held the UK to ransom over the years. At the moment, the British taxpayer is being punished for allowing himself to be mugged and robbed by the big banks.

I'm citing RBS because it's figures are in our faces at the moment. I don't believe it's performance or behaviour differs much from the other large banks. And this isn't a party political rant. The previous government were also known to roll over in moments of fecklessness while the FatCats toyed with them. It cuts deeper than politics: it's a question of morality.