Is Shane MacGowan Still Alive?

by Tim Bradford

  I did see God once, on a bus between Waterford and Cork. The bus stopped. I looked up and saw a tall thin old man with a long white beard get on. There was something familiar about him and it wasn’t until he had sat down in the seat in front of me that I realised who it was. The Almighty was on his way West. I could see His reflection in the window and admired His immense white beard and kindly, loving eyes. Next to Him was his great stick, for smiting sinners and noisy backpackers. I was quite pleased to be sitting at His right hand (albeit one row back). I thought of the Greek myth of the River Styx, and the boatman taking the dead to the underworld. Perhaps God was taking us to the next life on Bus Éireann.

  How did I know it was God?

  1. He had an immense white beard.

  2. He had kindly, loving eyes.

  3. He had a great stick, for smiting.

  4. He was Very Old.

  5. He wore on his head a flat cap shaped like a halo.

  6. He wore Old-style clothes.

  He didn’t stay long on the bus. After about twenty minutes he took hold of his stick and pulled himself up from his seat and got off at a crossroads.

  Ireland is a mystical country. Things like the grotto don’t seem part of the church but connected to an older tradition of spirits, goddesses, pagan beliefs and faeries (or, of course, out-of-work jockeys) who magically appear and give messages and signs. For some reason, visitations and visions just don’t seem to happen to high-flying city workers or politicians – cities make you more cynical, cut you off from older spirituality, which is tied to the land. Thus it tends to be country folk who see visions, people closer to beliefs in fertility, nature and the seasons, people whose life struggle is thus given some kind of meaning. And it’s very often children. And why do they see Mary? Perhaps it is because of pagan beliefs in fertility goddesses that Ireland is more preoccupied with the nurturing mother figure rather than the central characters of the official religion, Jesus or the boss man, God.

  Maybe Ireland is at heart still a Celtic land, eager for the mysteries of the old religion. Perhaps Catholicism is just a veneer on the surface even after fifteen hundred years, an armour plating of moral correctness. The moving statues are perhaps Catholicism’s way of incorporating the old ghosts and beliefs into the new, in the same way it has done with African deities in the voodoo of Haiti and New Orleans. I am not attracted to its dogma, but I do like the imagery of the Catholic church: icons, beads, figurines, smelly stuff – it feels ancient and alive in a way that sometimes makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. A good use of the ‘dynamics of mysticism’. Catholic churches in Italy have done this to me, until you see the enormous ugly gold Christ statue – then the intellect kicks in and you’re revolted.

  I was brought up in the more restrained and prosaic beliefs and ambitions of the Church of England, administered either by an old wrinkly in what to all intents and purposes was a dress that buttoned up at the front, droning on about the gospels while farmers, lawyers, teachers and sweet-shop owners in stiff collars and their wives in thick coats and wavy hair perfected the glazed-eye snooze and thinking longingly about Sunday dinner; or the trying-so-hard-to-be-trendy-and-get-through-to-the-kids-that-it-hurts, Let’s-Be-Friends-style acoustic guitar blather that tried to ape the majestic joyful spiritual harmony of gospel, Baptist churches, but ended up sounding like what it was – eager new vicar and twenty-something music teacher pretend to be Sonny and Cher while the congregation gets used to the idea of watching minority broadcasting and Open University on a Sunday morning.

  If freedom of choice is the ultimate goal of all human beings (as we are told in our end-of-history market economies) then freedom of religion and the choice of afterlife must be a part of that. If ‘God’ is to survive he has to compete with all the other possible paradises – Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim, Catholic, Baptist, Mormon, Episcopalian, Methodist. And what about the Gods who aren’t so popular nowadays, the Celtic, Egyptian, Greek and Roman deities? Do they still exist in a reduced sort of way or were they victims of market forces, pushed out of business by more modern set-ups?

  If there is a God, why would he try to make us realise that He existed by the device of making statues move? And then not move in a naturalistic, expressive way but by winking, twitching or bleeding (or sneering). There might be a case for saying that he created the universe. But after that, why would he intervene in our affairs? I mean, why would he listen to our daily prayers and make a statue move, then let terrible things happen – wars, famine, Boyzone? A friend of mine told me she once prayed to God for some curtains. She had seen them in a shop and didn’t want them to go so she prayed to God. But when she got to the shop she realised that the curtains she’d been praying for weren’t the best curtains for her after all. There were some much nicer ones. And that was because of God. God showed her that what she wanted wasn’t necessarily what was the best thing for her. It’s a rather limited brief – He can’t stop terrible accidents happening in the world but he can help you buy nice home decoration material.

  It does seem far-fetched, but perhaps no more far-fetched than intellectually accepted ideas like black holes or cosmic string (in fact a lot less far-fetched than the cosmic string thing) or the world being controlled by a race of evil Space Jockeys, perhaps via remote control. OK, so that’s not an intellectually accepted idea. Yet.

  On a perfect evening, with the sun going down, God decided to bathe the southern Irish countryside in a red-lemonade glow. He was everywhere – in pub condom machines, in Roy Keane’s right foot, in Sinead O’Connor’s priestly robes, in the fold of Daniel O’Donnell’s side-parting, in the belly of a singing leprechaun, in the head of a pint of Guinness, in the legs of a Dublin Bay prawn, in the brake pads of a Vauxhall Corsa.

  The Art of the Storyteller

  Blarney, Co. Cork

  Unlike any other of the world’s peoples, the Irish have the skill of being able to talk over each other and still understand what’s going on. It’s like a multi-part harmony. I was brought up to wait until someone had finished speaking before speaking myself (so if one of my family suddenly developed Tourette’s Syndrome and wouldn’t shut up for days, I’d sit there meekly awaiting my turn). This has meant that sometimes I’ve been well and truly struck dumb sitting around a dinner table with Irish friends. There is a tradition of the strong silent type in Ireland, but I’ve never met any.

  Another thing is that Irish people do what your mother always told you not to – they talk to strangers. They haven’t so much kissed the Blarney Stone as slept with it on a ‘no-strings’ basis over several years. Anecdotes turn into yarns which then turn into fully fledged official myths. In 1990 I went with Annie to kiss the Blarney Stone. It’s on top of a castle. You lie on your back and stick your head out over the battlements until you’re nearly upside-down, give the lump of rock a good tonguing then someone pulls you up. The Blarney magic is supposed to last seven years, after which you need a regular top-up, a bit like anti-tetanus booster jabs (except without that painful yet strangely enjoyable ‘stiff’ feeling for a day or so afterwards).

  Before leaving Cork I’d met Theresa’s cousin, Connor, who had come over to her house to saw some logs. We stood staring out over the fields leading into the little valley near their home, saying nothing. Sighing occasionally.

  ‘Tim, have you ever been to Phibsboro? That’s an interesting place there in Dublin. You should go there. Yes.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got time.’

  He reverted to silence and carried on cleaning his tools.

  Connor looks like a figure from a fairy tale. Big, kindly hooded eyes, goblin big nose, red hair, big beard. Connor is a trucker who, when not working his ass off, likes to sit in his chair and hold forth about Country & Western poet Kinky Friedman. My conversations with Connor usually took a pre-ordained route. We’d chat about all kinds of things for the first couple of hours, then he’d put on some Kinky Friedman. Connor’s style is to sit in wide-eyed reverence
and repeat each line of the song, in his lovely lilting Cork/Kerry accent, a fraction of a second after Kinky has sung – the effect of this is that Connor is doing a slightly delayed voice-over. Or an echo chamber in which the echo is Irish. He’ll do this for a while until, suddenly, halfway through a sentence, he’ll stop. His head jerks back, and he’s asleep.

  Kinky: You poked fun at my cowboy shoes.

  Connor: You poked fun at my cowboy shoes.

  Kinky: You said they looked just like big canoes.

  Connor: You said they looked just like big canoes.

  Kinky: Now it’s time for the chosen ones to choose.

  Connor: Now it’s time for the chosen ones to choose.

  Kinky: Before all hell breaks loose.

  Connor: Before all hell breaks loose. Listen to this next bit.

  Kinky: Turn out the lights, honey, turn on the news.

  Connor: Turn out the lights, honey, turn on the news.

  Kinky: God save the Queen and the kangaroos.

  Connor: God save the Queen and the kangaroos.

  Kinky: And what kind of rubbers did Joseph use.

  Connor: Ha ha ha listen to this bit and what kind of rubbers did Joseph use.

  Kinky: Before all hell broke loose.

  Connor: Before all hell broke loose.

  Kinky: Time to resign from the human race.

  Connor: Time to rsgnn fr hmmmmm …

  Kinky: Wipe those tears from your lovely face.

  Connor: Wmmmm mmmmmmmm …

  Kinky: Baby, wave to the man in the ol’ red caboose.

  Connor: Bmmmm …

  Kinky: Before all hell broke loose.

  Connor: Bfffffffzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Kinky: Hell on America!

  Connor: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz …

  Although I felt shite again, it wouldn’t have been too much of a bind to travel around to Blarney to give the old stone another peck. On the radio there was a discussion (there always seems to be a discussion on the radio in Ireland when you’re feeling tired and a bit anti-social) about women who have ‘social affairs’. I tried to concentrate on the road, watching out for hidden tractors, while half listening to the revelations on the airwaves.

  Presenter: (with deep, mellifluously honeyed mid-Atlantic Irish accent) So, Maureen from Tullamore, have you been having a social affair?

  Woman: (high-pitched and shy voice) I have, yes.

  Presenter: Do you want to tell us about it?

  Woman: Well, we meet up every week to go dancing and play cards.

  Presenter: And is that it?

  Woman: Yes.

  Presenter: What does your husband think?

  Woman: He doesn’t mind.

  Presenter: Are you attracted to this man?

  Woman: I am, yes.

  Then a female social-affair guru person comes on and blathers on about Maureen from Tullamore’s case. ‘I think you should talk to your husband more, really get it out in the open,’ she says, or something incredibly brilliant like that.

  Presenter: And we have another caller, Jane from Limerick. Hello Jane.

  Caller 2: Hello, yes. I’d just like to say that I think it’s wrong. I think it’s very wrong.

  Presenter: (mock concern) What do you think is wrong, Jane?

  Caller 2: Well if people are married they should be faithful. I’ve been married to my husband for seventeen years. We’ve had our problems all right, doesn’t everybody. But we’ve stuck at it. Young people these days just run off at the first sign of trouble.

  Presenter: So do you have a ‘special friend’ that you want to tell us about?

  Caller 2: Er, I do actually.

  Presenter: And who’s this on the line? It’s the singing leprechaun calling from a phone box somewhere near Bantry.

  Singing leprechaun:…

  Presenter: Hello, Mr Leprechaun? Are you there?

  Singing leprechaun:…

  Expert guru person: I understand your pain. But you have to open up, let us know how you feel.

  Singing leprechaun: (sings tune to ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’) Dee doo dee doo dee do doooo dee dee doo dee doo dee doooo.

  Expert guru person: I think what you’re saying has touched us all. In some ways, all of us at some time in our lives have felt like that.

  Presenter: Do you feel that this has become a problem for you?

  Singing leprechaun: …

  Presenter: Have you talked to family and friends about this?

  Singing leprechaun: …

  Expert guru person: What do you think your family would say if you told them?

  Singing leprechaun: (sings tune to ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’) Dee doo dee doo dee do doooo dee dee doo dee doo dee doooo.

  Kinky: When I find myself alone in my house and in my head.

  Connor: When I find myself alone in my house and in my head.

  Kinky: And I blow the candles out and I take myself to bed.

  Connor: And I blow the candles out and I take myself to bed.

  Kinky: And I’m old enough to realise, ah, young enough to know.

  Connor: And I’m old enough to realise, ah, young enough to know.

  Kinky: When the Lord closes the door, he opens a little window.

  Connor: When the Lord closes the door, he opens a little window.

  Kinky: When sleep closes my eyes and sends me searching for you.

  Connor: When sleep closes my eyes and sends me searching for you.

  Kinky: And I’m feelin’ blue as the sky without your love to carry me through.

  Connor: And I’m feelin’ blue as the sky without your love to carry me through.

  Kinky: And I’m weak enough to be afraid but strong enough to let it show.

  Connor: And I’m weak enough to be afraid but strong enough to let it show.

  Kinky: When the Lord closes the door, he opens a little window.

  Connor: Wmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmm.

  Kinky: Baby I’m a gypsy boy, I’ll ride the night until.

  Connor: Bbzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Kinky: I come to you like moonlight through your raggle-taggle window sill.

  Connor: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  I stopped to buy a paper. I knew there were a few garages worth checking out in Youghal. At Theresa’s I’d scribbled down the number of a garage so decided to give them a call. The guy on the other end seemed very friendly. How much are you looking for, he said. Oh, around six I said, nonchalantly, looking at my dirty fingernails, smoking a panatella and sipping from a chilled martini. Hmm, it’s not for me. But I know a fellow who could be interested. I’m sure he’d like to take a look at it. He gave me directions and I hung up, then punched the air in delight. Back in the car I sung along in best out-of-tune style to Nik Kershaw horrendous eighties synth rock for a while and the singing leprechaun hummed a more traditional ballad. Then I took a turning back onto the Cork – Waterford road and the garage of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  Kinky: Somethin’s wrong with the Beaver.

  Connor: Somethin’s wrong with the Beaver.

  Kinky: Somethin’s wrong with the Beaver.

  Connor: Smthzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Kinky: Somethin’s wrong with the Beaver.

  Connor: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Kinky: The Beaver I believe-uh is gone.

  Connor: Zzzzzzz zzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Selling a Car in Potato Town

  Youghal

  Youghal is a small town in East Cork about half-way between Waterford and Cork City, consisting of a main street, with thousands of interesting looking pubs, an old town gate and the sea. The town dates back to Celtic times and was an important trading centre for the Vikings and the Normans – by the thirteenth century Youghal had become the second largest port in the British Isles after Bristol. Later it became famous as the home of Sir Walter Raleigh, and its reputation as a town of sensual delights springs from
this time – as well as being the official First Potato Town of Ireland1 (an important accolade); the first tobacco to reach this part of the world was probably smoked in Youghal as well. The town was no doubt full of lads with goatees, full bellies and bad coughs then and little seems to have changed on that score. Fifty years later Oliver Cromwell spent the winter of 1649 there, using it as a base to strike out into the rest of southern Ireland. Rather than a legacy of fags and chips, he left only a stone gate in his name.

  With such a history, it’s a pity that Youghal always seems to be the sort of town that I drive through on the way to somewhere else – either racing through from the ferry to reach the intense pleasures of Cork City, or racing back towards Waterford to stay the night before spending several hours in the bar on the ferry eating crisps and breathing in cigarette smoke. With every other building seemingly a pub, it looks like it should be a party town and is the kind of place that I might go for New Year if I lived in West Waterford. But every time I just head straight on through, saying to myself, ‘I must stop in Youghal some time.’

  The name ‘Youghal’ derives from the old Irish ‘Eochaill’ – meaning ‘Yew wood’. Now it’s you would love to stop there if you weren’t in such a hurry. You’re supposed to pronounce it y’all, as in (puts on big Texan accent) ‘How y’all doin’?’ or, ‘Y’all wanna see mah new pickup truck?’ or even, ‘Y’all gonna like this next number it’s about when ah was a little boy growin’ up on a farm outside Austin on the edge of the Texas hill country. Take it away boys 1–2–3–4.’ You probably get the idea. I still insist on calling it yoogerl, much to the consternation of friends. Getting my teeth around Gaelic words has always proved to be a bit of a problem. I tend to trudge slowly through them like a tractor through a boggy field in November, reading each bit separately rather than observing the whole and thinking about how it should sound. Regretfully, this is (so I’m told) a typical Anglo-Saxon trait.