Month: May 2016

So we have had another shooting in Dublin and, as tends to happen, we have the politicians jumping up and down with indignation. They spout a lot of nonsense and promise to move mountains to get those responsible brought to account. Garda resources are not a problem. We have come to expect that kind of response now and it goes in one ear and out the other.

Taoiseach Enda Kenny says he has full confidence in Garda Commissioner Nóirín O’Sullivan. The Government is determined to provide any resources requested by Commissioner O’Sullivan with regard to gang-related crime. He says that every effort is being made to bring the perpetrators to justice. He looks straight into the camera and appears very solemn and sincere.

The Minister for Justice, Equality and Law Reform has always maintained that the gardai have adequate resources. She has described the latest murder in Dublin is an “outrageous attack on law and order” and is “unacceptable”. Resources are being made available she said.

When pushed on the matter she will suggest that resources are a matter for the Garda Commissioner. The Garda Commissioner, Noirin O’Sullivan, appears to be happy with the resources she has at her disposal because she never seems to be contradicting the Minister.

The reality is that the lack of resources is a huge issue and policing is in crisis because of it. Nobody in authority seems to want to admit it but the simple fact of the matter is that there are not enough gardai on the streets. So who do we blame?

While some would lay the blame solely at the door of the Minister for Justice, I would argue that they are equally responsible. In fact I would even suggest that the Commissioner might be more responsible given that her understanding of policing should be superior to that of any politician.

Her continued denial that there is a resource issue is remarkable and does nothing to strengthen her credibility. The fact that she has failed spectacularly to stand up to the Minister to demand the extra resources required makes her, at the very least, as responsible as the Minister for Justice.

The lack of recruitment over the last number of years and loss of gardaí during that time has left significant gaps in the force and has resulted in a reduction in low level police activity across the country. The visibility of the ordinary garda on the beat has reduced remarkably in recent years. This has resulted in a loss of intelligence and local knowledge which is the backbone of policing.

After the Regency Hotel shooting, the Government announced the addition of fifty five gardai to a new Dublin armed support unit. These gardai were taken from other areas of frontline policing which created gaps elsewhere resulting in a reduction of effective policing in those areas. It was simply robbing Peter to pay Paul.

The Annual Policing Plan 2015 launched by the Garda Commissioner set out the policing commitments of the service and set the priorities for An Garda Síochána as determined by the Minister for Justice and Equality under Section 20 of the Garda Síochána Act 2005.

The Garda Commissioner stated “I am conscious that the close relationship we enjoy with communities across the country remains critical to our ability to prevent and tackle crime. We do not take this relationship for granted and will work to maintain and develop these strong links. Combining our community engagement and community policing philosophy with a renewed sense of public service and duty will be a priority for the entire organisation in 2015”.

“We will continue to provide all necessary resources to provide high visibility policing to reassure communities,” Ms Fitzgerald said.

These statements ring hollow now in view of the destruction of the effective system of community engagement that once existed in this jurisdiction. The Minister and the Commissioner are quick to point out that the closure of rural garda stations has not undermined policing. In fact they have argued that the rural community will somehow benefit from an improved service because of it.

There are a number of issues at stake here;

The general lack of resources and the shortage of manpower in the specialist units

The ban on recruitment

The new roster system

The closure of the rural garda stations

The dilution of community engagement.

While these are regularly addressed separately by the authorities they are, in fact, all connected. They have resulted in the situation that we now find ourselves in and the fact that murders can now be committed at will in the capital city.

How in the face of this, both the Minister for Justice and the Garda Commissioner can agree that An Garda Siochana is adequately resourced is a mystery to many. They seem to limp along from one incident to the next without any definite plan while at the same time suggesting that everything is under control.

The short term answer to the gangland problem in Dublin is to throw manpower and money at it as happened in Limerick a few years ago. This will mean reducing cover in other areas because the numbers simply aren’t there and that will create issues elsewhere. But that’s the price of incompetence.

The Garda Commissioner has a duty of care to her members and she cannot be excused for failing to stand up to the politicians to demand what is needed to ensure that those members can carry out their duty as safely and as effectively as possible.

 

I went to the dentist recently and that was only because I absolutely had to. The pain was at the stage where I was considering removing the tooth myself. I hated the idea of having to go and I suspect that I’m not alone in my fear. I reckon it goes back to the torture I suffered as a child at the hands of a guy who was not big on sympathy.

Like all kids, I had to make the occasional visit to the dentist. I’m pretty sure that he was trained by Dr. Josef Mengele. For any of you too young to have heard of the esteemed Mengele, he was the guy who performed outrageous experiments on the inhabitants of concentration camps during World War Two. Mengele performed many of these experiments without the use of anaesthetic which is a trick he passed on to my former dentist.

He must have used something but he was obviously trying to spare it. He used to tell me to raise my hand in the air if he was hurting me. The blood drained from my arms and I was blinded by my own tears but the pain continued. I’m sure he used an industrial drill that he had to hold in both hands. One slip and he would have drilled through my tooth and my neck, through the back of the chair and into the next room. Builders used to borrow it to demolish houses.

It was a terrible experience for any child to have to go through and no doubt, that’s where I get my present phobia from. It is however unfounded. I have made regular trips to other dentists during my adult life and while I never look forward to it, the actual experience has never been too bad. The most recent visit was almost a pleasure.

My new best friend and current dentist is a relatively young man. After giving me the anaesthetic he began his work almost immediately. He kept checking that I was ok and he was treating me like a child. I didn’t mind in the least because I know I was acting like one.

It seems that you no longer have to sit in the waiting room to wait for the gum to go numb. This twenty miniute waiting period was often the worst part of the whole experience.

You had to sit there and listen to the sound of the drill and the cries of the current victim. You knew that your turn was coming. You watched as the door opened and some poor young lad staggered out with his hand to his mouth and his cheeks stained with a mixture of tears, blood and pink mouth wash. Then terror struck as you heard your name being called.

Nowadays, as soon as you get the injection, the area concerned goes numb almost immediately. So he started straight away and the rest of the procedure was a breeze leaving me to wonder what all the fuss was about.

Afterwards I was wondering what it is that makes people want to become dentists. Why would anyone want to be in such close proximity to mouths and strange breaths all day long? Also aware that the person in front of you would rather be anywhere else in the world at that particular moment in time.

I suppose there are some people who just know from an early age exactly what kind of career they want. Others are probably influenced by family members and follow on in the same traditions. Then there are those who have no idea what they want to do and try several options until they find something they like. More just just drift into something by chance and decide to stick with it.

I’ve often thought about career guidance and how effective it is. There was definitely none available for me in my time and maybe not a lot has changed because there was very little available for my own children either.

According to a study in the U.K. nearly half a million university students believed they had chosen the wrong course to study. One in three told researchers that knowing what they now know about university they would have chosen a different course.

One of the reasons students cite for their dissatisfaction is that they were not given enough information about their course before they signed on for it saying the information they received was vague or misleading.

I remember a young lad telling me one time that he was unhappy with his business course that he was doing in UCC. He said that he was surprised that there was so much maths involved.

Research by the Economic and Social Research Institute (ESRI) highlighted a need for better support for guidance counsellors in supplying information on the range of careers available.

Career guidance is a very individual thing and usually doesn’t work in a group. There is no point in the whole class learning about what it is like to be a Garda if most of the students are not interested in it. It needs to be one on one if it’s to be done properly.

On a more positive note, the report also showed that the happiest students are those studying medicine and dentistry, where only 14 per cent consider swapping courses. This would suggest that the majority of dentists are happy with their choice of profession and actually go on to enjoy their work.

This is very good news for us because I would much rather expose my mouth to a happy dentist than face an unhappy one who is out to seek revenge on the world because he took the wrong course.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I came across something recently that got me wondering about how sane the world actually is.

Stephen Cavanaugh, a prisoner in the Nebraska State Penitentiary, brought a case against the State because, he claimed, he was being denied the right to fully worship his God. He was being denied access to certain religious items that, he considers, are necessary for him to follow his particular religion while he is behind bars. He argued that as an avid follower of this religion he should be allowed to wear religious clothing and certain pendants.

He also wanted the right to meet other like- minded worshippers for weekly services and classes and he was fighting for the right to receive communion. He wanted the right to wear certain headgear that is considered to be holy to his particular religion and it was his opinion that prison officers violated his rights by denying him his requests.

By now you’re probably thinking that he was right to fight for his beliefs and to be allowed to worship his particular god of choice. But don’t make your mind up just yet.

For Cavanaugh, his choice of religion is The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster and the item of headwear that is so important to the followers is actually a colander or a strainer to you and me.

The central belief is that an invisible and undetectable Flying Spaghetti Monster created the universe. Pirates are revered as the original Pastafarians, this is a combination of Pasta and Rastafarians, and the decline in the number of pirates over the years is the real cause of global warming. This might be of interest to Danny Healy- Rae.

Thankfully a United States District Court judge has ruled that the Flying Spaghetti Monster is not a religion and he agreed with the decision of the prison officers. So Mr. Cavanaugh has to continue to wear a normal hat.

There is a funny side to this little tale but there is also a serious aspect to it. Prison officers have a dangerous job to do and they deal with many characters whose grip on reality is as tenuous as that of Mr. Cavanaugh. They are in close contact with people who generally have no interest in following the rules that the rest of us consider normal.

One of these characters is Anders Breivik who massacred 77 people in Norway’s deadliest ever terror attack in 2011. The majority of Breivik’s victims were children and teenagers as young as 14 and he shot them while shouting: “You are going to die today, Marxists”.

You may be surprised to learn that he has just won part of a lawsuit against the government for “inhuman treatment” while in prison.

Oslo district court judges found his detention violated article three of the European Convention of Human Rights, which relates to “inhuman or degrading” punishment because he is being kept in solitary confinement. The court also ruled that the state will have to pay the prisoner’s legal fees, totalling 331,000 Norwegian Krone (36,000 Euros).

Breivik had complained that the naughty prison authorities would not let him communicate with or receive visits from other right-wing extremists and had left him isolated. It was all so unfair. Government lawyers said that Breivik remains a dangerous inmate who could inspire others to commit similar attacks. But he still won his case.

Strange decisions can happen closer to home too. There was a report in the Irish Examiner recently by Ruaidhri Giblin concerning Perry Wharrie, who was convicted of trying to import €440 million worth of cocaine into Ireland through West Cork in 2007. He and his buddies were caught after they put diesel into a petrol engine on their rib which then broke down and capsized in rough seas and spilled their load into the sea in Dunlough Bay.

Mr. Wharrie had pleaded not guilty but was convicted by a jury and sentenced to thirty years in prison in 2008. This wasn’t his first brush with the law because he was previously sentenced to life imprisonment in England in 1989 for his part in an armed robbery in which an off duty policeman was shot and killed. He was left out on parole in 2006 and a year later, we now know, he was back to his old ways.

Mr. Wharrie has appealed his thirty year sentence to the Court of Criminal Appeal and has had it reduced to seventeen and a half years. Mr. Justice Hunt said that the sentencing judge had made a mistake because he didn’t give any credit to Wharrie for “refraining from giving false evidence at his trial”.

So here we have a serious criminal who gets a life sentence for being part of an armed robbery where an off duty policeman is shot and killed. He gets out on parole and almost immediately gets caught bringing 1.5 tonnes of cocaine into Ireland. He rightfully gets thirty years for that and then Mr. Justice Tony Hunt and his colleagues reduce it to seventeen and a half years because he ‘refrained from giving false evidence at his trial’.

We don’t expect prisoners to be chained to the walls in dungeons and fed on bread and water in this day and age but by the same token they’re in there for a reason and they should not be in a position to be making demands at the expense of the taxpayer.

In some cases it seems we’re not supposed to punish prisoners. Prison officers have to handle them with kid gloves in case they find themselves at the wrong end of a law suit.

If that’s not daft then I’m off to find a strainer and the local branch of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti thingy.

 

 

 

 

I’m getting older. I know this, not only because of the numbers that appear on my birth certificate, but because I’m getting set in my ways. Some might call it getting cranky or odd and maybe they’re right but I don’t care anymore. One of the privileges of getting older is that you can afford not to worry about what other people think of you.

Now I’m serving notice that from here on I am only going to go to places and events that interest me and I’m only going to be with people that I like. I am no longer going to suffer in silence.

The first thing on my new list of banned activities is the crowed, noisy pub. I like an occasional pint. I like a smaller bar where people know each other and I like to be able to have a conversation. I prefer to go for that drink in the afternoon as opposed to late in the evening and two or three pints is enough for me. That might not be everyone’s cup of tea but it’s enough for me.

My worst case scenario is to be in a crowded pub, late in the evening with music blaring and where trying to speak to someone makes you hoarse and gets you covered in spit for your trouble. I despise having to face a scrum every time I want to get a drink. I hate having to run the gauntlet of elbows, shoulders and swinging handbags.

I hate having to barge my way back to my spot and spilling half the drink down my front. I hate being in my little space and having to make myself as small as possible because no matter which way I turn I end up being in somebody’s way and getting battered.

I am no longer going to get stuck in a round. I don’t want to end up having an endurance test with others, drinking more than I want to, drinking faster than I’m normally used to, while at the same time testing the capacity of my bladder to its limits. That’s it, I’ve had enough.

Another tell-tale sign of my disappearing youth is my growing impatience with ignorant drivers. You know the kind. They’re the ones that drive so closely behind you that you can only see their roof rack. The ones that are on the mobile phones and those who drive too quickly in built up areas and everyone that drives without consideration for other people using the same piece of road.

It seems to me that I’m the only one that’s not in a hurry these days. Everyone else seems to be prepared to risk life and limb to get somewhere really important to do something really special when they’re really only going to the shop to buy some toilet rolls.

Litter louts are on my hit list. I drove up to Cork City recently at around 1am to collect some people. As I was passing the turn off for Little Island I saw several discarded cartons of chips and paper cups along the hard shoulder with bits of food scattered all over the road.

Obviously a car load of muppets couldn’t wait until they got to where they were going to dump their rubbish so they just chucked it out the window instead. This is more common than you might think and it is something that is beginning to irritate me more and more as I get older.

Young children running loose in bars are another irritant. I don’t care what time of the day it is, they don’t belong there. If you’re that anxious to have a drink then put your kids into an orphanage or wait until they’re old enough to buy you a pint. I didn’t get to this stage of life after raising a family of my own to have to start taking a part in raising yours in my local pub.

Something else that raises my blood pressure is waiting for the guy who says he will arrive at a certain time to do a job and then he doesn’t show. I have experienced a number of those recently and it baffles me how some of them manage to make any kind of a living if they’re never turning up for work.

Last year I asked a guy to come and look at my windows. He came and had a look and promised to return shortly after. I never saw him again and then I heard that he had gone out of business. About eight weeks ago I asked another guy to come and look at them. He promised me he would call on Thursday and when he didn’t show I contacted him again and he duly arrived on Saturday.

He identified my problem and promised to return on Thursday to put it right. You probably won’t be surprised to hear that I am still waiting for him.

I contacted an engineer about another issue and spent the next few weeks trying to get him to return calls and emails. Eventually he apologised for being out of touch but insisted that he was now back on track and ready for action. He promised he would be back to me within twenty four hours. Surprise, surprise there was no call.

So now you can see why I have decided not to bother what people think of me anymore. I’m going my own way and if you don’t like it then that’s just too bad. If you’ve stayed with me so far I hope you’ve enjoyed the read. If you haven’t, then drop me a line with your complaint and I’ll get back to you. Probably on Thursday.

 

 

 

 

 

We aren’t blessed with an abundance of sunshine over here but that’s ok, we’re used to it. We’ve come to accept our fate. We make the most of the sun when we see it and if we see it for more than two days in a row, we call it a heatwave. Then we talk about that heatwave for the rest of the summer while we shelter from the rain and whatever storm Suzy or Walter has to throw at us.

As the summer wears on we come to the conclusion that it’s not going to be a good year after all. This comes as a complete surprise because Tom the Healer had seen snails out of their shells on the second of May and that’s a sure sign of good weather. Mick the Moron saw a dolphin swimming upside down in April and sure isn’t that a banker for a long hot summer.

Anyway by the end of June the summer clothes are being piled back into the wardrobe while the winter clothes appear again. In actual fact they were there all the time and never went anywhere because Tom the Healer and Mick the Moron are not very trustworthy and all these soothsayers are as accurate as the Four Faced Liar on Shandon Street.

One problem with the occasional sunny day is that it brings out the barbeque pits. Because it’s Ireland, that means lots of drunk people eating food that’s burned on the outside and raw on the inside. Fortified with uncooked food and lots of alcohol, it’s time to put on the music and party into the early hours.

Now, I like to cook outdoors as much as the next guy and when the weather permits, I’m one of the first to set fire to some charcoal. It’s nice to have a few people round, have a few drinks and some grub and sit in the fresh air and have a chat. Then when it starts to hit midnight, it’s time to move indoors and confine the noise to the inside of the four walls.

But not everyone sees it that way. The Irish mind set doesn’t allow for moderation as far as alcohol goes. So the Irish BBQ has to go on all night and most importantly, it must be noisy.

There are always those characters at parties who believe that they have to shout at the top of their voices or they won’t be heard by anyone including those standing right next to them. The more they drink the more they believe that deafness is now an epidemic and everyone has been infected.

In sunnier climates barbeques are a normal part of everyday life. The pits are seldom put indoors because bad weather is rare. It’s no problem organising a barbeque in these places when every day is warm and sunny. You just pick a time, notify your pals and off you go. They generally tend to start early and finish early.

In Ireland it’s a little bit more complicated and requires a qualification in logistics to pull it together. The first thing is to pick a date and that’s not as easy as it sounds. It will involve a study of the long range weather forecast to pick a period when decent weather is possible. Then you can give advance notice to the friends that something might be happening around that time subject to the weather.

Then as the time gets closer you can start to think about picking a specific day but you can’t confirm it with anybody until you get up that morning and have a look at the sky. Then, and only then, can you give the green light and go for it.

So when the day finally dawns, it’s an early start. Get the pit out of the garage. Correction, you must find it first and then you haul it out from under a ton of junk. Clean it and get it ready. Pull out the patio seats, get rid of all the dead spiders, dust them down and lay them out. The chairs I mean, not the spiders. Find the charcoal which is so well hidden that it’s just easier to go to the store and get some more. Get the food and the drinks ready and then wait.

When everyone arrives, you make your little charcoal pyramid and set fire to it. It’s not long until you think you feel a few spots of rain but you pretend not to notice. You sneak a look up to the sky and the clouds seem to be multiplying.

The spots have become a little heavier. Now you can no longer call them spots, they’re fully grown drops, adult ones and lots of them. The guests put on jackets and brave it out for a little while but then move inside.

Somebody hands you an umbrella and you’re cooking with one hand while the other keeps the umbrella over the food. The umbrella is trapping the smoke so you’re half blind. Cooking with one hand and the eyes shut is tricky so some of the meat ends up on the ground.

At this stage you are soaked to the skin and you smell like you’ve spent a week sleeping in a chimney. You bring in the food and everyone tucks in and you pretend that it’s all been a breeze.

So maybe that explains the noisy outdoor parties. You go to so much trouble arranging the damn thing that when it does work you want to stay out all night to make the most of it because there probably won’t be an opportunity to do it again during the entire two weeks of summer.