Best of Myles

by Flann O'Brien

  What then is the optimum population of Ireland? Nobody can say. But certain it is that our present population is too low by several millions. To plan so elaborately the material surroundings of the few folk one sees around doesn’t make sense, at least to this most rational tanist. As well erect traffic lights in a grave-yard.

  I admit, however, that it would be a bit … brutal to snatch his plans away from paddy, even if he is holding them upside down. He loves them so much. I hear he’ll be getting into long trousers next year. And after that, please God, Clongowes.

  GOT A RING from the Central Bank the other day—can you come at once, Brennan and the Board want to see you immediately, something terrible has happened …?

  You see? Never a moment to myself (of all people). The daily grind. I must say ‘Central Bank’ is good. Is it not a little bit … undignified to emphasise the ‘cent’ so much? Or can it be a sly hint that they actually have a stock of those mysterious rubies—‘roubles’, one had almost said—red cents? A great vaulted agglomeration of tossers, preserved in sacred trust for the most honourable Irish nation I had the honour to found back there in ’21?

  But this summons, I would not care to ignore it, of course. One never knows, I sighed, put on that rather tattered remnant of my cricketing days—my overcoat—and then wheeled out my decrepit insanitary bicycle. Just as I expected—flat again! There was nothing forehead but the pump, though none better knew than I that the pump itself was punctured and gave a return for only 2 per cent. of the energy put into it. After twenty minutes’ work, involving irreparable damage to the valves (and not those of the tyres, I assure you—but the heart!) I was in position to travel. I managed to get about 500 yards from my house when all the air flew out of the other tyre. It had begun to rain heavily at this time. I had to get down off the bicycle (via the back-step, for I am rather old-fashioned in these matters) and resumed work with the pump in the middle of the downpour. When I had this front tyre reasonably pumped—half an hour of my life had passed by in the meantime—I discovered that the other tyre was again soft. This I remedied, though the palpitations were alarming in the extreme. Another mile’s precarious progress and I discovered that the valve-rubber in the front tyre was rotten. Happily I had a spare, but another half-hour’s ‘pumping’ was involved. During all this interval air was escaping from the back tyre, and after another very brief ride the wheel became completely flat. On this occasion my exertions with the pump were so frenzied that the despicable instrument came away in bits in my moist hands. I was now stranded in the rain. I had begun to walk it when a passing small boy consented to allow me to use his pump for a fee of one shilling. For a second shilling he was prepared to supply labour also. By the time I was again in the saddle, the front tyre had begun to evince an ominous bumpiness. I had savagely made up my mind to continue riding with a flat front tyre when—quite suddenly—the two-shillings-worth of air in my back tyre suddenly ran out of it, making further equitation impossible. My heart palpitations were still violent, the pulse quick, temperature up, respiration irregular and painful. I managed to dismount and rested for some time under a sodden tree. I was on my way to … the Central Bank, mind you. ?Central!

  When I arrived there eventually, wheeling my airless bicycle, I was a much older man. Seventeen attempts to borrow pumps on the way had been fruitless. It is true that one pump was proffered but I had no rubber connexion and it was useless.

  I fear I showed my exhaustion somewhat, though I always try to appear business-like and calm in the presence of subordinates. The Board was solicitous, offered the deepest chair, produced the brandy.

  ‘And now, gentlemen,’ I asked, ‘what can I do for you? What seems to be the trouble?’

  The Chairman opened up.

  ‘We wanted to have your advice on an important matter. Frankly, we are very worried about the danger of inflation. Inflation, if by any chance it should become widespread in this country …’

  I … I … I ask you! (!!!)

  MAGNUM EST veritas et in vino praevalebit! Some things are bitter but if they be true, should they then be suppressed? A thousand times no, nor do I count the cost to purse, fair name or honour, least of all my own. I say this with reluctance but say it I must:

  Last night I was drunk!

  (Sensation.) No, no (makes nervous gestures), do not think I exaggerate, do not whisper that fumes of deadliest spirits were held to my nostrils as I slept. It is absolutely true and I blame nobody but myself. I was simply caught off my guard. There can be no excuses. From myself I demand the high standards I prescribe for others.

  Tell you how it happened. Sitting in my offices last night as Regional Commissioner for the Townships of Geashill and Philipstown Daingean, a servitor enters and hands me a document. You would never—nor did I—guest what it was. A sealed order from the Department of Local Governments … dissolving me! ME! Wellll …!

  Extraordinary sensation. First to go is the head, the whole thing falling away into blobs of yellow liquid running down and messing into the liquefacting chest, then the whole immense superstructure seeping down the decomposing legs to the floor … a … most … frightful business, nothing left of me after three minutes only a big puddle on the floor!

  Happily my secretary rushed in, guessed what had happened and had the presence of mind to get most of me into an empty champagne bottle I had in my desk. Have you ever, reader, looked at the world from inside a bottle? Found yourself laboriously reversing a word like TOUQCILC? Phew! Have you ever, possessing the boast that not once did breath of intoxicating liquor defile your lips, literally found yourself a one-bottleman? Ever had to console yourself with a bitter jest about your ‘bottle-dress’? Ever found what seemed to be your head being hurt by … a cork? As for the curse of bottle-shoulders, is there any use in talking? Here, though, is a hint. The curvature of the bottle causes violent refraction and if you have any fear that my own fate could one day be yours, be counselled by what I say: always carry special spectacles. It pays in the long run!

  Let me continue. My secretary, when leaving to go home, placed me for some reason on the mantelpiece in a rather prominent position but first typed out a little label marked POISON—NOT TO BE TAKEN and stuck it on the bottle. A stupid business, really—whence comes this idea that everybody can read or that those who can always believe what they see? Actually I should have been locked away in the bottom drawer of my desk or put into the big press I have marked ‘MAPS’. What I feared happened, though it could have been worse. After an hour or so a charlady arrived and began to clean the place up, having first put some of my valuable documents in her bin. She was later joined by an unusual character, a chargentleman, apparently her husband. I do not suppose he was three seconds in the room when he was conscious of myself, on the mantelpiece in the bottle. He calls the wife’s attention, then over, whips me down, takes out the cork and begins to sniff at me.

  ‘Portuguese, begob,’ he mutters.

  ‘You’ll put that bottle down that’s what you’ll do,’ the charlady says severely.

  ‘I’ll go bail it’s that Portuguese shandy that carried Harry off around the Christmas,’ the ruffian mutters.

  Next thing … I’m at his head! Phewwww! It seems, however, that I tasted rather worse than he was prepared to endure because he took only a few sips of me, then bashed the cork back in disgust.

  Well, what … an … incredible … experience! I managed to get back next day, but it took me all my time and was a most dangerous business. My sole consolation? That if it was I who was drunk, it was the chargentleman who had the hangover!

  A THING that you might consider when you have time is the wasteful and ‘unscientific’ structure of language. I mean—say in English—the number of simple economically-devised sounds which are not ‘words’ and which have no meaning—while gigantic regiments of letters are assembled to form words which have simple meanings and which take a long time to say or write. An example of the latter—‘valetudinarianism’. As r
egards the former, consider the satisfactory syllable ‘pot’. Substitute any other vowel you like and you get a ‘word’—pat, pet, pit, put. There you have efficiency, economy. Such invention saves everybody’s time; even school-children see there is reason there and are not resentful. But ‘bat’—that is defective in the ‘o’ unless you countenance the slang of vintners in letting you have three of ‘Beaune’ (manufactured from sheeps’ offals in a Tipperary haggard) at 55/6 per knock as a personal favour. You can’t go all the way with ‘get’ without having to be cellulose-american and git a gat. Indeed, the efficient three-letter monosyllable is the exception. ‘Not’ looks good but when you try it out, you find it is, well … not. Fan? No. Fag? No. Tan? Yes, by gob, but rather brewish in its less easy moments. Lag? No. Mad is no use without med. and mod., interesting Trinity baubles. Dog is hopeless. Pan is encouraging, but will not fry your fish.

  There are four-letter combinations like ‘pack’, say, which manage the whole five vowels. ‘Band’ is all right if you recognise the intrusion of German words.

  (Flash-back: ‘Bag’ works in the three-letter group). ‘Fall’ is fine till you try to put it through the machine. So is ‘hell’. ‘Pall’ might be permitted, gratia ‘mell’ and Goldsmith.

  What? Is that so? And pray how many four-letter words can you find?

  ‘Ball’ is another. Still another is … (Frowns heavily, regrets bitterly having started such awful nonsense, stares into blazing ESB radiator in watery-eyed perplexity.) Still another is … mure. There is such a word.

  How about five-letter words? There is one good one—hillo. My dictionary says ‘int. used to hail distant person or to express surprise at meeting. Cf. hallo’. Cf. also hello, hullo and hollo—‘shout; call to hounds’. My whole point is this: You have, say, stamp and stump. Why doesn’t stimp mean something? Take the other two missing words …

  Awful Wife (suddenly): What’s wrong with you?

  Startled Reader: Me? Nothing.

  Wife: You have been staring out of the window and moving your lips.

  Reader: What? Me?

  Wife: Are you saying your prayers?

  Reader (annoyed): I happened to be reading the leading article in today’s paper. (Reads aloud.) Manifestly, it would be folly to underestimate the resources still at the disposal of the High Command and time alone will determine the soundness or otherwise of the strategy adopted in the gigantic issue now being joined …

  Wife (undeceived): You were probably reading that awful man Chaplin or whatever he calls himself. How any person can sit … and read that rubbish is more than I can tell. Did you see my glasses anywhere? And look at the time. Mollie is still out and it’s half ten. I’ve asked you a hundred times to speak to that girl …

  (I’m sorry for you, reader.)

  Begins to mutter. Sorry for you. Far, fur, fir, for—O blast!!!

  FLYING from Lisbon to Foynes the other day, I beguiled (what but?) the time with Hesketh Pearson’s book on Bernard Shaw and a recent copy of Mr Sean O Faolaín’s periodical The Boll. I was interested to see that Shaw has been at his old game of copying other people. In one of his letters (how meticulously composed for publication) he calls somebody a ‘whitemailer’. Who, reader, invented this type of jest? Who patented wintersaults, old ralgia, footkerchiefs and a thousand other jewels? (Not that I mind.)

  A thing occurred to me about this newly formed Shaw Society. I approve of it, the vice-presidency of the concern I would gladly have accepted had not a false shyness deterred the founders from approaching me; guineas three I would have contributed without demur. It appears that the Society has no headquarters. (Notice how pertly ‘footquarters’ bobs up?) I was thinking of getting on to Wylie to have the Society permanently housed at the Shaw Grounds in Ballsbridge. It could be done, mind you, given co-operation and goodwill.

  Pearson’s book on Shaw is not very good. Like the entire breed of biographies, it is too devout. It was precisely this sort of devotional literature, piling mountain-high during Victoria’s reign (all uncover, please) that caused the equally distorted portraits of latter-day debunkers. Biography is the lowest form of letters and is atrophied by the subject’s own censorship, conscious or otherwise. And when one finds (as one does rarely) that a subject is prepared to take the lid completely off and reveal the most humiliating infirmities without a blush, one usually finds that one is dealing with an exhibitionist who delights in adding on fictitious villainies. George Moore was a mild case. ‘Some men kiss and never tell; Moore tells but never kisses.’

  There is nothing of much interest in Mr O Faolain’s issue of The Ball. The only thing that caught my eye was an editorial preamble to an article entitled ‘Why I Am “Church of Ireland”’:

  It is part of the policy of THE BALL to open as many windows as possible on as many lives as possible so that we may form a full and complete picture of this modern Ireland which we are making …

  I discern a certain want of candour in the statement that this is part of the policy of the paper. What are the other parts and why suppress them? Would a ‘full and complete’ statement of policy be embarrassing? Hmmmm. But what I can’t get right at all is this question of the windows. Let us suppose that the ‘lives’ in question are indoor and that the Paul Prys are outside, getting their socks damp in the shrubbery. Surely whatever is to be seen can be seen through one window. But forget even that. Why in heaven’s name must we go about opening windows. The whole point about a window is that you can see in or out when the window is closed. Moreover, it is no joke opening a closed window from outside—though I admit that (even from the inside) a window that is not closed is even harder. And what distinction is implied. I demand, as between ‘full’ and ‘complete’? As to ‘this modern Ireland we are making’, one can only point out (a) that it would be a queer business if it was a medieval … China we are making and anyhow, (b) that we are not making any Ireland. We just live here (the travel ban)—some of us even work here.

  I can almost hear some reader inquiring how I liked flying from Lisbon to Foynes. Well … fair. The weather was pretty bad and I found the journey tiring. I have practically made up my mind that next time I will use an aeroplane. Know any cure for aching arms?

  SOMEBODY SHOULD write a monograph on the use of the word ‘supposed’ in this country. Start listening for it, either in your own mouth or in others’, and you will see that it comprises the sum of the national character, that it is a mystical synthesis of all our habits, hopes and regrets. There is no immediately obvious and neat Irish equivalent, and I opine that the discovery of this word ‘supposed’ may have been a factor in the change over to English. You meet a man you know as you take a walk on the strand at Tramore. ‘Of course I’m not supposed to be here at all,’ he tells you, ‘I’m supposed to be gettin’ orders for th’oul fella in Cork. I’m here for the last week. How long are you staying?’

  The words occur most frequently in connexion with breaches of the law or in circumstances where the gravest catastrophes are imminent. You enter a vast petrol depot. The place is full of refineries, pumps, tanks, a choking vapour fills the air. The man on the spot shows you the wonders and in due course produces his cigarettes and offers you one. ‘Of course I needn’t tell you,’ he comments as he lights up, ‘there’s supposed to be no smoking here.’

  You enter a tavern, meet a friend, invite him to join you in a drink. He accepts. He toasts your health, takes a long sip, and replaces the glass on the counter. He then taps his chest in the region of the heart. ‘As you know,’ he remarks, ‘I’m not supposed to touch this stuff at all.’

  You have been to some very late and boring function. You are going home, you feel you need a drink, you are a gentleman and know nothing whatever about the licensing laws. Naturally you rap at the door of the first pub you see. All is in darkness. The door opens, a head appears, it peeps up the street and then down; next thing you are whisked in.

  ‘We’re supposed to be closed, you know.’

  Kreis
ler is not a great violinist, in the view of the Irish. He is supposed to be one of the greatest violinists in the world. Nor is Irish the national language of Ireland, the Constitution enacted by the people notwithstanding. It’s supposed to be. You are not supposed to use gas during the off-hours. You are not supposed to change the lie of your golf ball to very adjacent, if favourable, terrain when your opponent is not looking. You are not supposed to use electric radiators, nor are you supposed to own a radio set without paying the licence. Not more than eight people are supposed to stand inside a bus. You are aware that your colleague was at the races when he was supposed to be sick, but you’re not supposed to know and certainly you’re not supposed to report such an occurrence. You are not supposed to pay more than the controlled price for rationed commodities. You are not supposed to import uncustomed liquors. You are not supposed to use your wife’s hair-brush on the dog. You are not supposed to use the firm’s telephone for private trunk calls.

  And so on. In no such context does the phrase ‘not supposed’ connote a prohibition. Rather does it indicate the recognition of the existence of a silly taboo which no grown-up person can be expected to take seriously. It is the verbal genuflection of a worshipper who has come to lay violent hands on the image he thus venerates. It is our domestic password in the endemic conspiracy of petty lawlessness.