Peace and Goodwill to all? Oh, yes please!

‘British Expeditionary Force, Friday December 25th, 1914.
My Dear Mater,
This will be the most memorable Christmas I’ve ever spent or likely to spend: since about tea time yesterday I don’t think there’s been a shot fired on either side up to now. Last night turned a very clear frost moonlight night, so soon after dusk we had some decent fires going and had a few carols and songs. The Germans commenced by placing lights all along the edge of their trenches and coming over to us - wishing us a happy Christmas etc ... Some of our chaps went over to their lines. I think they’ve all come back, bar one from ‘E’ Company. They no doubt kept him as a souvenir.
There must be something in the spirit of Christmas as today we are all on top of our trenches running about. ... Just before dinner I had the pleasure of shaking hands with several Germans ... I exchanged one of my balaclavas for a hat. I’ve also got a button off one of their tunics. We also exchanged smokes etc. and had a decent chat. They say they won’t fire tomorrow if we don’t so I suppose we shall get a bit of a holiday - perhaps ... We can hardly believe that we’ve been firing at them ... it all seems so strange. With much love from Boy.’
Strange indeed, how wonderful is the human spirit. We humans have hearts the size of harvest moons. Given the choice of killing indiscriminately or having a meal with friends, the vast majority of us lay down our guns and pick up our knives and forks.
I always find the Christmas Day truce of 1914 exceptionally moving, as for once, a religious festival was used to encourage exactly what it stood for.
As an atheist of Jewish stock, I have always loved the Nativity story. Evidently God was showing in the strongest possible way that social status meant absolutely nothing; that true power lay in the heart, mind and spirit.
All that matters is to be a loving human being; to shake hands with your enemy, love your neighbour and turn the other cheek. Christian ethics are an admirable and glorious collection, never better illustrated than by those good men who lifted themselves clean out of their hellish muddy disease-ridden trenches and played a little footie with the lads from the other side.
Christmas in my house as a child was a big affair. My parents felt it was important for us all to feel a part of the country that had taken us in, and so, in our own way, we assimilated the English culture of Christmas and left out the religion.
We had a tree, which was pagan anyway, and we had presents and decorations. Indeed, on Christmas morning my Dad would crack open a bottle of champagne and declare ‘Happy Christmas!’, and none of us felt any less Jewish. Didn’t we still light the Menorah candles and celebrate Hannukah? Didn’t we eat hot salt beef sandwiches with sweet and sour cucumbers on Christmas Eve night, feeling completely Jewish and comfortable within ourselves?
All wisdom and worthy religious creed is based around acceptance (not tolerance, even though some of you still fail to see the vital difference), but even at this time of year, when true Christians are supposed to be celebrating the arrival of peace on Earth in the shape of their Saviour’s birth, there is begrudgery and prejudice aplenty.
Even though I cannot stand the censorial excesses and puritan overtones of Political Correctness, I’m going to risk being accused of just that when I say that, unlike many of ye, including a fellow and esteemed columnist in this Noble Rag, I actually like that whole “Happy Holidays!” thing.
My colleague, along with many of you, believes that maniacal liberals demand the saying of “Happy Holidays!” so as to avoid offending non-Christian members of society, but they are wrong. No Irish Muslim, Sikh or Jew will be offended by one Christian saying “Happy Christmas!” to another, but there are other festivals that occur at this time of year in each religion. No minority immigrant is going to sit around and wait for an Irish Catholic to wish them a Happy Hannukah or Diwali, so why not cover all the religious bases, spread the love a little and keep everybody happy?
It seems absurd to me that people should get protective over their own religious festivals to the detriment of others. It feels a little like grown-ups who never learned to share their toys as children.
So no, “Happy Holidays!” does not preclude you celebrating your festival: it merely includes all of us who might be celebrating others. I have never felt in any way offended by the sight of somebody gaining wisdom or comfort from their personal religious faith, but I do feel offended when I read in these pages “...well tough luck, why should we worry about offending anybody in this our country...?”
Why? I’ll tell you why! Forgive this atheist Jew for preaching Christianity, but you should worry simply and purely because it is un-Christian to think that way. I have lived in ‘your’ country for 16 years. I love Ireland, the Irish and I even pay my taxes. At what point does this country become my country too? Clearly, never, as far as many of you are concerned, and once again I recall the words that my Dad used to say, when I was but a little boy.
“We are just visitors in this country.” he told me, “One day we may have to move on, like your grandparents did before you were born.”
The sooner the Irish completely accept that Ireland is very slowly growing into more than the mono-ethnic, mono-cultural, mono-theistic state it once was, the more truly Christian the place is going to feel.
How dare any of us become angry over such trifling matters, when we think of the bravery, love, compassion and ultimate sacrifice made by the lad who wrote that letter back in the trenches? A victim of a pointless and disgusting war, he and his equals on both sides found the true spirit of Christmas and made peace.
So please, as you celebrate this most important of feasts, give thanks to your God for all that you have, and try to love the fact that we are all so beautifully different.

How can we live in the moment when Christmas starts in June?

Here we are trying to be good little citizens, keeping our heads down, building up our credit card bills, and generally doing what we are told.
Alongside that we willingly swallow all the hogwash that we are fed about what will make our lives longer and more liveable.
Together with all the traditional 'Don't smoke that fag you smelly toe-rag; get up and exercise more, you lazy piece of snivelling lardass' advice, we also absorb the happy smiley luvvy duvvy New Agey spectrum, which has us putting good things out into the universe (botty burps notwithstanding), washing our hair in tree bark extract (why, pray, are we meant to assume that tree bark is good for hair? On the rare occasions I have encountered tree bark close up, I've never suffered from the urge to rub my head on it.)
and aspiring to that greatest piece of New Age Old Hippy Ancient Eastern wisdom fusion: Being in the moment.
Sarcy remarks apart, I am a great believer of making the most of now. Having failed to decide whether I'm an atheist or a pantheist, I do believe that this life is all we have, and to live in the past, which we can no longer influence, or to live obsessed by the future in such a way as to guarantee a ticket out of here into some kind of everlasting future (see: all organised religion) is to miss the point.
But how the bleedin' hell am I meant to succeed when the society I live in cannot wait to drag me out of the present?
After the night of the 21st June, if one was to be a miserable anal-retentive stickler for statistic, one might say 'Ah now, da nights are drawing in, so they are!'
Equally, one might not, because we are still in the middle of summer, a fact we all realise the moment the nasty black cloud moves away from the sun, and we once more exclaim in empirical ecstasy: 'Wow! That sun is hot!'
On the morning of June 22nd, a few short hours after the longest day had passed, I was waltzing down the Prom when I spotted a large sign outside Leisureland, advertising the arrival of an ice rink for Christmas.
"Coming Soon!" it proudly declared.
As a regular Prom pounder, I will now have to look at this sign every day for the next six months. While I was, I suppose, grateful that they had waited at least a couple of hours past Midsummer's Day to advertise their rink, I could not miss the irony of that 'Coming Soon'.
There is not a single point of the year further from Christmas.
Despite my best efforts to appreciate the 'now', this Tigerish profit-driven greed and madness plunges me each day into a vortex that seeks to send me off to the cold dark days of winter before I've barely touched my summer.
Every year, the achingly dreadful inevitability of this glitzy modern mutation of a noble ancient holiday obscures the majesty of the calm dark season. I used to wish we could just one year transport Christmas to early July, just for the hell of it.
However, having seen a snow flake advertising Christmas in Galway in midsummer, I retract my wish.
Leave Christmas in December, and leave us to enjoy our summer and autumn.
Don't force us to wish our lives away before we can appreciate what is happening around us at this unique moment.

****

As the Arts Festival hits town, some of you might be planning a wee excursion to Connemara to escape the crowds.
Whatever the weather, it is simply impossible to feel let down by the sight of the Maamturks, the Pins, the lakes and the hills of Joyce's Country.
Sadly, however, it's extremely likely that you will enjoy an uneven experience whilst grabbing a bite in the area's pubs.
On a recent Sunday, the Snapper and myself hit the road and headed off towards Letterfrack, stopping for a pint and a toasted sarny in Keane's Pub at Maam, which commands a stunning view back over the valley.
With gentle courtesy, yer man poured me a most excellent pint of Guinness and herself a diet coke. She had a cheese toasty and I, being more of a glutton, splashed out on a ham and cheese.
Although they arrived in that old 1970's-style placcy wrap, both were excellent (the ham in mine was stuffed thick and tasted great), and himself behind the bar kindly produced a range of condiments: mustard, mayo, relish.
Fortified and relaxed, we set off, having parted with the exceptionally reasonable sum of ¤11.00, for both our drinks and toasties. For a while I went uncharacteristically quiet, once again pondering the benefits of life in the country.
Such childish notions were dispelled the next day, when we stopped in Oughterrard for some lunch. We have regularly enjoyed the burger at the Boat Inn, but on this occasion, we both ordered the Club Sandwich ("One without tomato, please." "What was that?" "One without tomato please." "Okay, so that's two club sandwiches, one without tomato?" "Yes, that's right, one without tomato, please!"), which coming with salad garnish and chips, cost ¤8.95.
We waited and we waited, wondering how long it might take to make a sandwich. To amuse ourselves and build up our expectations we once again read the description on the menu, and our hungers grew and grew.
When the two sandwiches arrived (30 minutes after they were ordered) I felt I had been propelled back in time to those dark gastronomic days of early '90's Ireland. The bread was semi-toasted on one side, soggy white and wet on the other. There was neither butter nor mayonnaise holding the sandwich together, and when the cold fatty slices of bacon and chunks of what appeared to be reconstituted chicken breast fell out from their damp bready hosts onto the plate, they looked as forlorn as we felt. Both came with tomato, and neither of us enjoyed any of it. We parted with just under 20 quid for two dud sandwiches, with drinks extra.
Hopefully it was just an off day at the Boat Inn.
In the past we have eaten well there, but the point is, such an apparent lack of consistency in quality and service will neither please our tourists nor encourage them to return.

http://doubledoublevision.blogspot.com

I put rubbish into the neighbour's wheelie bin, yet I am innocent!

Oh lordy lord, I hope the neighbours don't see me!
If there were CCTV cameras around here now, I'd be caught, bang to rights guv'nor.
Should anyone in the vicinity be looking, I'm lifting a bag of rubbish out of my grey bin and dumping it into one of my neighbour's bins, an activity that in the past would certainly have qualified as 'strange behaviour'.
However now, in these days of Pay-By-Weight refuse collection, what I'm doing looks downright criminal.
But I am innocent. Straight as a die, me, your Worshipfulness, cor blimey yes, and vat's va truth.
When we moved into this house back in March of last year, the estate agent who rents it asked if we wanted to switch to the City Bin Company.
My wee brainbox was dealing with the infinite and tedious logistics of moving, so I took refuge in my old pal, the Law of Inertia, which requires that if something is not moving, the probability is that it will not.
Add a dash of 'If It Ain't Broke Don't Fix It', and a healthy post-Thatcherite suspicion of essential public services being loaded onto the scary ship Free Enterprise, and I decided to stick with the Council, at least until the end of the year; see if the City Bin Company was a flash in the pan, or demonstrably unethical.
Where health, housing and education are concerned, I believe that our needs will always be greater than those demanded by the prophet Profit, but equally, monopolies are free to rip us off.(vis:ESB).
So we looked to see if Galway Council had reacted to local market forces by dropping their prices.
The service they supplied was without fault. Galway City was recently given an award for becoming more litter-free, and in my heart I would rather sell them my rubbish than the Shiny Orange Lids of capitalism.
But it only took a short glance at comparative pricing for me to abandon all my grandiose notions, and kiss capitalism right on its puckered red ring.
Like, hey, look at those prices dude! Capitalism rocks! Up with the Orange Lids!
Humans make fantastically fickle customers, and I would have been willing to pay marginally more to stay with the Council, had they applied a tad more psychology to their pricing structure.
They need to raise 'X' amount from each punter, so why not do what the City Bin Company do, and apply that charge exclusively to the grey landfill bin?
By spreading their costs over the three bins, the Council are charging us for recycling, which they forced us to do in the first place.
Fine, I will wash and dry my milk containers and tins, wondering as I watch the warm water and detergent going down the sink how on earth this is saving the planet, but do not make me pay for it.
Spare me the letter from the Council reminding me that recycling is an expensive business. I know it is, but humans as punters are a weird mob at the best of times. Here I am, trying to stay with you, but your prices are higher than the City Bin Company across the board, and your charges are spread over the three bins, and I don't like that.
So nyah.
At which point I pass proceedings over to the Snapper, who calls the City Bin Company and encounters a fluffy huggy salesperson who wants to have our babies.
Three days later, three shiny bins and a Welcome Pack arrive at our house, but I am away, inebriated and unaware.
When I return home I am not in a good state at all. My Christmas was pleasantly quiet, but I made up for it in some style, and know that today there's only a couple of hours of non-sofa life left in me.
Dragging myself down the Prom I force myself to walk and breathe before the inevitably supine fireside snoring marathon starts this afternoon.
Somewhat refreshed as I walk back home, I decide to tackle the new bins. Due to a lack of information, our bins were not emptied after Christmas, so now I have to somehow transfer all the stinky detritus of the holiday season from the Council bins to the Shiny Orange bins.
My pathetic sleep-deprived hungover attempt to walk briskly has produced a sweat upon me, and my head has started to spin. My mouth is dry and dirty and every bone and muscle in my body is dreading the task ahead.
Stumbling now, I lift the lids of our old bins and - oh joy and bliss and yes baby yes rapture!
They are empty! Perchance the City Bin Company are indeed angels from heaven and they have already taken away our old trash and given us a new start.
At the bottom of the old grey bin there lies one small white plastic bag, which I retrieve and place in the new Shiny Orange Bin with the grey lid.
Then, rushing with a tsunami of delight, I swing all the old bins away from the wall to make way for the shiny new oh-so empty bins.
As I turn to face the old bins my eye catches a glaring detail that my addled brain missed before. There, in huge white paint strokes, is the number of the house next door.
Adley, ye feckin' eedjit.
Almost falling over as I spin on my heels, I realise that I am shooting loose with bins that are not my own. I have transgressed from mine own wheelies, and am clearly off my tiny head.
As my heart, spirit and balance sink to the heels of my boots, I lift the lids of the correct bins, and sure they are packed so full it will be a monster task to even fit all that crap into the Shiny Orange bins.
And what with the Pay-By-Weight, I'm damned if I'm going to pay for that white bag I lifted out of my neighbour's bin. We don't even use white bags! How could I have failed to notice that?
So I have to put it back, but that means me standing here, looking dead suspicious, moving a bag from my bin to someone else's.
But you know that I am innocent.
Lost, gone completely bingly-bongly in the head, yes.
But as honest as the day is long.