'Bertie Potter and the Lost Memories of Erin' - a fairytale of Christmas Eve.

Thanks to conormchale.blogspot.com/2011_10_01_archive.html

(This 6th of the 7 colyooms I’m posting this week was first published in December 2002.)
 

It was the night before Christmas, and snow lay all over the fields of Erin. Out in the garden shed, Bertie Potter was shivering in the cold, wondering why oh why he couldn’t sleep inside the na Fianna family house.
There was a terrible curse upon the na Fianna family. Old cousin Charlie had strangled himself on the sleeve of his silk shirt, and Bertie’s father Albert had choked to death on a beef bone. Bertie Potter was sent to live with his nasty Auntie Mary Harniggan, and his horrible Uncle Charlie McCrevil.
Auntie Mary was a huge woman with a short temper, who loved her own children much more than she loved Bertie Potter. She gave Bertie old clothes to wear, and just enough food scraps to keep him alive.
Uncle Charlie was a dirty smelly old man, with bad teeth and too much drink inside him. He went on and on about never having enough money, but Bertie Potter didn’t understand why he couldn’t have any Christmas presents, because he remembered the time when Auntie Mary wanted to buy a bottle of wine in a faraway county. Uncle Charlie suddenly found the money to pay for a private plane for her, which must have cost a pretty penny.
Bertie Potter knew that as soon as he was able, he was going to leave home and live on his own. Somewhere deep inside, he knew he was not the same as them. He felt special, somehow different, but he didn’t yet know why.
Wrapping himself up in his tatty old blanket, Bertie Potter finally drifted off to sleep, but an hour later he woke up with a shock. The door of the shed suddenly crashed open, and two men burst in, falling over each other.
Bertie couldn’t believe his eyes! It was the ghosts of Grandad Eamonn and his Great Uncle Michael, who’d both been dead many a long year. Bertie Potter could smell the drink on them, so he understood how they were able to fight and laugh and hug each other, all at the same time.
“On yer boike, ye pat’et’ic two-faced weasel!” shouted Great Uncle Michael at Grandad Eamonn.
“Never moind my bike, ye great hulkin’ Cork fool, you watch yer back - oh sorry, too late, har har har!” cried Grandad Eamonn, at which the two men fell over, giggling like a couple of teenagers on Buckfast.
Eventually they calmed down, and turned to Bertie Potter, who was sitting with his blanket wrapped around his knees, his eyes bulging with surprise.
“Howya, Bertie Potter!” said Grandad Eamonn. “Sorry to wake ye up, but the time has come for ye to know the truth! Bertie, you are a wizard, and you have a very important job to do!”
Nothing could prepare Bertie Potter for what happened next. Before you could say ‘Ryanair extra charges’, Great Uncle Michael scooped Bertie into his arms, and the two men flew out of the shed, and up high, into the Christmas Eve sky. It felt good, being held by that strong giant of a man, and as they flew over Erin, Great Uncle Michael explained everything to Bertie Potter.
“Look below and see the Erin that your Grandad and I built, after we kicked the English out of the place - ”
“Well, most of the place!” interrupted Grandad Eamonn.
“Oh for god’s sake, wouldja ever get over that!” shouted Great Uncle Michael. “Anyway, Free Erin was the envy of the world. Sure, we weren’t rich, but your Uncle Buck and Auntie Dollares came to visit from far away, and loved us so much, they opened lots of shops and factories here.
"Then Uncle Mark from Germany and Auntie Franc from France sent Erin lots of money, so that we could build new roads and houses, and everything was looking good. Everyone could buy new cars, take holidays, and last Summer, your Uncle Charlie gave everyone free money for their piggy banks.
“But then something terrible happened. Your Auntie and Uncle sent out hundreds of magic brown envelopes, and anyone who opened them fell immediately under a spell. All over Erin, people lost their memories ... and their money.
“Everyone in the Tribunals forgot everything ever!
“The Gardai even forgot what each other looked like!
“Aer Rianta forgot to forget about £5,000 of cigars and brandy that Seamus Brennan never had.
“Mad Cows forgot they had BSE.
“Mothers forgot they had Hepatitis C.
“British soldiers in Derry forgot they shot people on Bloody Sunday.
“Both sides in the North forgot they had promised to make peace.
“The FAI invited everyone in Europe to come and play football here, but forgot that they had no pitches to play on!
“Some people in Erin even forgot that millions of us were once refugees, fleeing persecution and famine, and suddenly started being racist against asylum seekers here.
“Politicians forgot how important medical cards and hospitals and FAS Courses are to the poor. And tonight, there are many very poor children all over Erin who will not wake up to a pile of Christmas presents at the end of their beds.”
After their long flight, Great Uncle Michael and Grandad Eamonn landed on the top of Athlone Cathedral.
“So who am I?” asked Bertie Potter, “And what can I do to help?”
“You are 'The Boy Who Remembered’. It is your destiny to save Erin, Bertie Potter!” exclaimed Great Uncle Michael.
“When you get home, you must cast a powerful magic spell on your Auntie and Uncle, making them prisoners inside the na Fianna house. You must make sure that your evil Auntie Mary and your wicked Uncle Charlie never ever leave that house again. They must never be seen, never have one of their words heard, and never ever send a brown envelope in the post. If you do that, Bertie Potter, you will save your Erin!”
‘I can do it!’ thought brave Bertie Potter to himself, ‘And without those nasty na Fiannas, everyone will have their memories back, and remember the numbers of their Cayman
Island accounts. We’ll all have enough money for a very Merry Christmas!’

Is it the HSE or our own priorities that are upside-down?

Was it in 2001, or 2002? I know I was living in north Mayo, but I forget exactly when it was that I took myself off to the village doctor about the thing in my nose.
Much like the rest of you, I might before leaving the house for an important social engagement just quickly check in the mirror to make sure my nostrils are not sporting any lemon meringue pies. 'Twas on one such voyage of visual exploration that I noticed my left nostril was about 80% blocked by a 'something'.
Hmm, thought I. If my nostril was 80% blocked, maybe I was losing out on 80% of that nostril's ability to draw oxygen.
Like, like, like it might be inhibiting the release my genius, man.
Our village doctor was a charming young Son of the Father Doctor, with time to chat, an acerbic wit and a permanent tan the like of which has rarely been seen north of Castlebar.
Apparently my 'something' was called a 'polyp', and nothing to be worried about. I could have it removed, but equally, he warned I should be aware that no invasive procedure was completely without risk, and one thing sometimes leads to another.
Secretly marvelling at his resisting the urge to go for some crass joke concerning illegal industrial action and pickets, I thanked him for his advice, and agreed that the sensible step would be to see an Ear Nose and Throat specialist; and so my name went onto a waiting list.
(Cue music: )
DUM dum dum de DUM.....
I heard nothing.
(Cut to the beginning of February this year.)
Oooh look, I've got a letter from the HSE.
"We are now in a position to offer you a consultation at a Private Hospital, under the National Treatment Purchase Fund, the cost of which will be covered under the NTPF."
It took me a wee while to spot it, but it somehow made perfect sense that the letter was printed upside down on HSE letterhead.
I wondered if that was the Health Service equivalent of a filing system?
(Scene: HSE staff meeting.)
'Right, lads and lasses, here's the story. The ones we pass on to the Private Sector, right, we write to upside down, right? That way we know what's what, right?'
Calling the freephone number to arrange an appointment for a consultation, I talked with an effusive and lovely woman, who treated me as if I had just saved her baby's life.
"Thanks so much, Charles. You need do nothing. We'll let them know, and they'll let you know. Thanks a million, yes, thanks for calling us."
Why was she so grateful? Bizarre.
A few days later I received another letter from the HSE, and was slightly saddened to read not the time of my new appointment, but rather an almost identical letter to the other, with a few less sentences; oh, and this one was printed the right way up.
Poopers. No appointment, and my HSE filing theory shot to ribbons!
No matter, because the very next day I received yet another letter from the HSE (also printed the right way up: those efficiency drives are clearly really kicking in!). This one told me that my nose had been transferred to a private hospital, which would contact me to arrange an appointment in due course.
That's all right. Although I'd like a professional opinion, my nostril's intake-of-air-to-effort ratio has thankfully improved substantially.
No rush. What's seven years between nostrils?
All of the blather written and spoken about the Irish Health Service can basically be split into two schools of thought.
There are those who believe Mary Harney has an impossible job that nobody else can do; that nobody else wants to do. They believe she is strong, brave and forthright in the face of great adversity.
Others believe she is a megalomaniacal Thatcherite spawn, on a mission to make the health service unworkable, so that, by comparison, the Private Sector looks preferable in every way.
Readers of this colyoom are offered another perspective, which offers you a positive and personal way to wrest yourself from this problem, and become part of the solution.
There are two extremely simple reasons why the Irish Health Service is in such a terrible state.
The first is so self-evident I cannot believe whining politicians are yet to exploit it: there are just not enough taxpaying adults in this country to support a health service as enjoyed in more densely-populated European countries. England has 60+ million people, and Ireland has 4.5. T'ain't rocket science.
The other reason we have such a degraded, under-equipped and under-resourced health service is not the fault of any government. It's your fault, and yours and yours.
Yes, this government is guilty of dumping the responsibility for the nation's health and welfare into their creation, the HSE. Akin to the Exorcist's possessed teenage daughter, the HSE is truly horrific, the unnatural C. Difficile Winter-Vomiting MRSA Ward Closing Cancer Test Mistaking People Dying On Trolleys Love Child of the Progressive Democrats and Fianna Fail.
But governments do not exist to try to mend health services; they want only to win elections.
Each time we have an election, instead of demanding better pay for nurses; better hours for doctors; more beds on wards; more CT and MRI scanners, you vote for the party offering you the fluffy glossy lifestyle of more HDTVs, more PCs and SSIAs. Gimme the shaaany shaaany things and the free money. Hoo hooooh yeh! You have to love that free money from the government!
The great thing about a collective health service is that it is just that: down to us. A national health service cannot and should not be a distant separate entity to our own lives. We cannot decadently spoon the cream of our collective wealth over the yummy scrummy delights of a luxurious consumer society and then expect that our arteries will be scraped clean at the drop of a hat.
Until we take full and active responsibility for our own health, and choose to financially support through higher taxation the places and people we turn to when we need to save our lives, then the mess is of our own making, and whether you see Mary Harney as a political pioneer delivering us from waste and excessive bureaucracy, or a crazed stubborn rodeo rider atop a mad cow of a beast, it makes no difference at all.