Month: January 2022

When I was stationed in Cyprus with the United Nations in 2014, I was shown something really interesting in the Buffer Zone. It was little chapel in the area of no-man’s-land that separates the divided island. The Agia Marina Chapel was built in the 12^th Century and is located near the village of Deryneia, in a small valley they say once looked like a piece of Paradise. I think it still does.

You could easily miss this place but its relevance to the community is immense. Underneath it, there is a holy well where sick children were once bathed, hoping to be cured of various illnesses. Outside, next to the chapel, is the ‘palloura’, a thorn bush, which looks more like a small tree than a bush. That’s where pieces of clothing from sick children were hung in the hope they would get better.

I say ‘were’ but that practice still goes on today. Even though the area is controlled by the United Nations and is officially out of bounds to civilians, the locals regularly gain entry to keep up this tradition.

I always admired that tree whenever I passed it and often stopped to look at the pieces of cloth and wondered about the story behind each one. I think it’s a lovely tradition and it’s only recently I discovered we had something similar going on here in Ireland. I don’t know if it still exists but to begin with, we have to back in time to the days of St. Brigid.

The Feast of St. Brigid is celebrated on the 1st. February every year and I have to admit, I knew nothing about her, apart from the cross she’s associated with.

I remember as children in primary school, we were given reeds or rushes or something and we were shown how to make this cross. You know the one I’m talking about. It was a standard bearer in RTE for years and there was a time when every house in the country had one hanging up somewhere within the four walls. They were considered to be a good luck charm just like the horseshoe.

Some people still hang them over the door or elsewhere around the home to bring good luck and also to protect the occupants from fire and hunger. In the old days, the crosses were replaced at the end of the year with new ones and the old ones were burned in the fire. In some cases, people with thatched roofs put their old crosses under the thatch and it was said you could tell the age of the cottage by the number of crosses in the roof.

Apparently, the cross was originally designed by St Brigid as she sat by the sick bed of a dying pagan, it may even have been her father, soothing him with stories about her faith and her unwavering trust in God. While telling the story of Christ on the Cross, she picked up some rushes from the ground and made a cross from them to illustrate her point.

She was a formidable young lady who eventually became the patron saint of babies, blacksmiths, boatmen, cattle farmers, children whose parents are not married, children whose mothers are mistreated by the children’s fathers, dairymaids, dairy workers, fugitives, Ireland, Leinster, mariners, midwives, milkmaids, nuns, poets, the poor, poultry farmers, poultry raisers, printing presses, sailors, scholars, travellers, and watermen. Not a bad CV.

Brigid was born in Dundalk, Co. Louth in 450 AD, to one of Ireland’s first Christians, a woman who had apparently been baptised by Saint Patrick himself. Her father was a wealthy pagan farmer, and she spent her earlier life cooking, cleaning, washing and tending the animals on the farm. She showed signs of generosity, compassion and holiness form a young age and regularly annoyed her father by giving away their food to those in need.

Her father was running out of patience, so as soon as Brigid reached eighteen years of age, he set out to find a husband for her. She had other ideas though and decided she wanted to devote her life to taking care of the poor, sick and elderly instead.

She built a small convent next to an oak tree to begin with, and that eventually grew into a monastery. As her community grew so did her reputation for healing the sick. People came from far and wide in search of a cure. They would often tie a piece of clothing belonging to a sick person to the tree in the hope of securing a miracle and she is reputed to have performed a few which resulted in her ultimately reaching sainthood.

The Feast of St. Brigid was declared in her honour and tradition has it that on that day, people would leave small pieces of cloth or ribbons on their windowsills, so that as St Brigid crossed through the country on the eve of her feast, she would touch them endowing them with special curative properties to ward off illness and pain in both humans and animals. They were kept safely throughout the year and used for healing or incorporated into clothing to offer protection to the wearer.

As word of Saint Brigid’s kindness, generosity and talent for healing spread, the King went to see her. She asked him if he would gift her as much land as her cloak would cover. Laughing at Brigid’s small cloak, the King agreed, but when Brigid’s four sisters took the cloak and began turning in circles with it, it grew and spread in all directions until it covered the whole of Leinster.

That’s where ‘Brat Bride Ort’ (Brigid’s cloak be upon you) comes from. The blessing invokes the protection of Brigid’s cloak. So, for the week that’s in it, Brat Bride Ort.



• 

It looks like we are going to be paying more for our drink. The Government’s minimum alcohol pricing strategy came into force this month which put an end to low-cost wines and cheap slabs of beer. So now there is a minimum price below which alcohol can’t be sold.

Campaigners have said that minimum unit pricing of alcohol will save lives, cut hospitalisations and bring societal benefits as well as savings for the Exchequer. Minister for Health Stephen Donnelly agrees and said the measure is designed to reduce the harm caused by the misuse of alcohol and will delay young people beginning to consume it.

Others suggest this plan could revive the smuggling trade and there is a precedent for that. During the Prohibition era in America in the 1930’s, the Government tried to reduce the consumption of alcohol, but it led to a massive underground operation instead. It introduced the ‘speakeasy’, which operated like our shebeens, and business boomed.

Many argue that alcohol consumption rose to record levels during Prohibition and a rise in hospitalisations from alcohol related illnesses. Alcohol poisoning was common because the hooch produced in hidden stills was frequently tainted with impurities. Many died but some say this wasn’t always accidental either.

Conspiracy theorists accused the Government of deliberately contaminating the pure alcohol that bootleggers needed, by adding kerosene and gasoline to the mix, supposedly to scare people into giving up illegal drinking.

That’s hard to believe, but while reading up on this, I came across a strange tale involving Irishman, Michael Malloy. Originally from Donegal, Malloy made quite a name for himself in New York during Prohibition. He was a homeless alcoholic who survived several attempts to kill him by acquaintances who wanted to claim on his life insurance policy.

They fed him with antifreeze, turpentine, poison, tried to freeze him to death and even ran over him in a car but he survived. His ability to beat death earned him the nickname “Mike the Durable.”

The story began when five conspirators met in a speakeasy in New York City on a cold winter night in 1933. They were down on their luck, like so many others at the time, and looking for a way to make some extra money. One of the men owned the speakeasy which wasn’t making much money and over several rounds of drinks, they came up with a plan.

They would take out an insurance policy on their intended target naming themselves as beneficiaries, then they would kill the victim and collect the cash. One of the men claimed to have done it before and got away with it so they agreed to give it a go. All they needed was a victim. When they saw Michael Malloy passed out from drink at the end of the bar, they knew they had their man.

Malloy lived in New York in the 1920s and 1930s. He was a former firefighter who fell on hard times and ended up doing odd jobs like sweeping alleys and collecting garbage. He was homeless and at night he usually made his way to the speakeasy and drank until he passed out. He often drank himself into oblivion and slept on the floor in the speakeasy. It was on one of those nights while he was unconscious in the corner that the five realised they had their victim.

He was the perfect candidate. He was in his fifties but looked much older because of his lifestyle and they assumed his health couldn’t be good. He was a loner so he wouldn’t be missed by anyone when he was gone either. They devised a simple plan. They would give him an unlimited tab and in no time at all, he would drink himself to death.

Malloy was delighted with his newfound friends and the unlimited credit, and he made full use of it. He drank his loaf off and returned every night for more. He was thriving and when the five conspirators realised the plan wasn’t working fast enough, they upped their game.

They started mixing his drinks with antifreeze. When that had no effect, they tried adding turpentine and rat poison, but he continued drinking as usual. It didn’t knock a feather out of him. They fed him raw oysters soaked in wood alcohol and gave him sandwiches of stale tuna laced with crushed glass and carpet tacks and he devoured the lot. Some said he even put on a little weight.

They decided to try a more direct approach. They waited until he passed out one night, then carried him outside and lay him in the snow. They poured gallons of cold water on his chest and left him there, certain he would freeze to death from the cold. The following night, Molloy appeared back at the speakeasy for his tipple.

For their next attempt, they lay his unconscious body in the street and drove over him in a car. Malloy was carted off to hospital in an ambulance with a few broken bones but no life-threatening injuries. Within three weeks he returned to the bar for more drink.

In desperation, the conspirators made a final attempt. One night after he had passed out, they put a hose in his mouth and connected it to a gas jet. He died within a short time of lobar pneumonia. They had finally succeeded and looked forward to a big pay out, but they never collected a cent.

There were lots of rumours circulating around town and the police got suspicious when they heard stories of “Mike the Durable”. Malloy’s body was exhumed and forensically examined. The cause of death was discovered, and the investigation soon identified the conspirators. One went to prison, while the other four were sent to the electric chair.

• 

On the fifth of December 1979, I entered the Garda College in Templemore, Co. Tipperary, or the Training Centre as it was called then. That was over forty years ago, and I still shiver at the thought of how cold it was in that part of the world. I reckon there are fewer places on this Planet colder than the large open square, also known as the parade ground, in that complex in Wintertime. I should know, I spent enough time marching on it.

Those responsible for training obviously felt that building a resistance to hypothermia was an important aspect in the development of garda recruits. It would certainly explain why the Centre was located in Ireland’s answer to the Arctic Circle. They were very fond of marching too, and maybe they thought the wind chill would encourage us to keep the pace up. Anyway, we did a lot of it in the cold, and we did it without the benefit of hair to keep us warm.

When I walked in the gate on that first day, I had a head of curly hair. Most of the guys – there were no women in our group – had hairstyles representing the style of the time but it wasn’t long before we were all sent to the resident barber. I say barber but I use the term loosely.

He visited the Centre once a week and had a small room near the main gate where he set up his stall. I reckon his electric razor had only one setting but that was ok because one was all he needed. He was a pleasant man, and you could certainly tell him how you wanted your hair cut, but he never gave any indication that he heard the instructions. He did it his way and everybody got the same treatment.

I remember how horrified I was after my first shearing. I even frightened myself when I looked in the mirror. The only consolation was everyone else looked the same. There were lots of pale scalps and shocked expressions wandering around the Centre in a state of disbelief. It wasn’t good for heat retention either, but we got used to it.

For the next thirty-five years I kept my hair short, and I often thought that once I retired, I might allow it to grow again but by then most of it had already fallen out.

The powers-that-be liked to have us out on the square as often as possible. There was so much marching, saluting and standing to attention that I sometimes wondered if we had mistakenly signed on with the Defence Forces and we were actually being prepared to go to the front somewhere. I didn’t fancy my chances against the enemy armed only with a piece of timber and a peaked cap, so I had some concerns.

They must have worried we would tunnel our way out in the dead of night too because they lined us up on the square every morning to check that we were still there. It was like roll call in a prison. While they had us out there, they checked the length of our hair and the state of our uniforms. If we were guilty of any infringement, we had to call to the office of the Top Man for a dressing down.

I remember on one occasion long after I had left Templemore, I returned to the Centre for a course. I had been in the Force for about eight years by then, but we were still expected to parade once a week with the rest of the recruits. Saluting and standing to attention took a bit of getting used to again because it didn’t exist in the real world.   

It was during this time that the Oberfuhrer responsible for the morning inspection decided my hair was too long. There was no point in arguing because these things were never up for discussion. I was ordered to get a haircut and report to the Top Man the next day for absolution.

At 9am the following morning I found myself standing in the hallway outside his office door which was open. There was a line of young recruits behind me waiting for their sentence to be pronounced for their various misdemeanours. I was first up so when my name was called, I walked in casually and greeted the man behind the desk. I didn’t stand to attention or salute for the simple reason I had been out of the system for so long, I wasn’t familiar with the protocol. There was no disrespect intended.

He obviously appreciated that and realised I wasn’t a recruit, so he just smiled and said,” Hair cut is it?” I told him it was, and he just thanked me, and I left again. As I came out a young lad passed me on his way in. He must have been watching me and decided to take the same approach. Something I’m sure he later regretted.

I was walking down the hall when I heard a loud voice shouting, “What’s the first thing you do when you come in here?” He meant entering the office, but the young lad thought he meant entering the Training Centre, so he meekly replied,” Get a haircut sir?” The Top Man shouted in a louder voice, “No, you don’t, you salute!”  I found it hard to keep a straight face.

It was a strange place, full of weird and wonderful people. We often thought some of our instructors had become institutionalised and had lost touch with reality, but they did their best as they prepared us for life on the outside.

Many of those characters are no longer with us but we remember them fondly. Well, most of them anyway.

• 

‘I’m a Celebrity 2021’ was on our TV screens again recently, but instead of spending a few weeks in the heat of the southern hemisphere, the contestants this time were confined to Gwrych Castle in North Wales where the weather wasn’t so pleasant. In fact, it was so bad at one point, that filming was stopped after Storm Arwen damaged the production area and the celebrities had to be relocated.

I would have been delighted with the break in filming If I had been one of those contestants, but I’m never likely to find myself in that situation for a couple of reasons. In the first place I’m not a celebrity but even if we could find a way round that, I wouldn’t last five minutes in there and I’ll tell you why.

I could tolerate the rough conditions, and the hardship and I might even cope with eating some of the critters but as soon as the first rat made an appearance, I’d be off. I can’t stand the sight of them, even from a distance, and the thought of coming into contact with one makes me heave. No amount of money could tempt me to share a space with a rat never mind letting it crawl all over me and I’m not the only one.

There’s a whole bunch of us and we suffer from a thing called Musophobia, an excessive fear and aversion to rats or mice. Mice don’t bother me, but they say that because rats are traditionally linked with dirt, rot, and serious diseases, some people experience repulsion at the sight of them and I’m one of those.

But there’s another reason I could never go near that show. I have a slight touch of claustrophobia, a fear of enclosed spaces which could pose a few problems for the producers. It’s not severe in so far as I don’t mind small rooms or crowds, but I hate being restricted in tight spaces. An MRI scanner is a good example. I’m broad shouldered so when I’m in that thing, my shoulders touch both sides and my nose almost touches the roof. That makes me uncomfortable and having to stay there for twenty minutes doesn’t help either.

It reminds me of a photograph I saw online of a guy assisting with a cave rescue. He was crawling through a space so tight he had to turn his head sideways to fit through. My chest was tightening just looking at the image so I can’t imagine being comfortable in a locked box full of rats on ‘I’m a Celebrity’, so I’ll give it a miss thank you very much.

While reading up on phobias I came across another little nugget that explained why I have little interest in music. I’ve often wondered about that. It’s not that I don’t appreciate a good song or a good singer, because I do, I just can’t be bothered listening. Garth Brooks, U2 or the Rolling Stones could be playing across the road from me, and I wouldn’t leave my recliner.

The only time I ever went to a concert was when Michael Jackson performed at Páirc Uí Chaoimh in 1988 and that was simply because I was on duty in the stadium that day. I usually have the radio on all day when I’m at home or in the car, and it’s always tuned to talk shows. I rarely listen to music, and I don’t have a CD player or a record player. I’m told vinyl is making a comeback which is great for those with record collections, but I don’t have a single record to my name.

I think I’ve always been like this even though, back in the seventies, in my teenage years, I was known to strum a guitar occasionally using the three-chord trick. Singing was a problem though because I never knew the full words of any song and I still don’t. I know a couple of verses at best and probably the chorus of a few more but that’s it. Even if I wanted to learn a few songs I’d struggle because I can’t make out the lyrics most of the time. I couldn’t be bothered either.

If you’d like to watch me squirm, take me to a pub with live music. I realise I’m in the minority and some of my friends think I’m an odd ball. For years I even agreed with them but now I’ve discovered there may be an explanation for this too.

A woman was discussing this issue on the radio. She didn’t have much interest in music either and it turns out it’s not uncommon. There is a medical term for it called specific musical anhedonia.

People with anhedonia, lack the typical emotional responses that most people show when listening to music. The inability to derive pleasure from music can stem from a real neurological condition and new research suggests it is rooted in differences in how the brain’s auditory processing and reward centres are connected.

A person with musical anhedonia can listen to an extremely emotionally charged song and not feel anything at all, even if they show normal emotional responses in every other way. Which basically means it’s not my fault; it’s just the way my brain is wired.

I also came across a blog by Carissa Holmes who wrote about ‘Why Some People Don’t Like Music.’ She talks about musical anhedonia being a brain condition that causes people to feel apathetic toward music, and she says about 3-5% of the population experience it.

See, I’m not such an oddball after all. I’m just basically indifferent to music and it’s not my fault. It’s all down to my auditory processing thingies but fear not, I’m happy to march to my own beat.

• 

Few readers of this column will be aware of the responsibility that rests on my shoulders as a columnist of international renown. Oprah Winfrey could turn a book into a bestseller just by mentioning it on her television show and I know how that feels. Being an influencer is a heavy burden to carry but it doesn’t faze me.

I continue to impart my wisdom and provide guidance to the millions of readers of The Echo around the world who pour over my opinions every week and I won’t let you down – but I nearly did.

When I started writing this column in 2016, I didn’t expect to be still at it six years later, yet here we are. I thought I would run out of things to say, and I have to admit, I nearly did on a few occasions during the various lockdowns. Most of what I write about has to do with the normal everyday things we get up to so when we aren’t doing anything, that creates a problem for me.

I keep up to date with world affairs too though as I offer counsel to world leaders. I’m told EU meetings are often delayed to coincide with the publication of Monday’s Echo to allow politicians the opportunity to absorb my wisdom before making important decisions. So don’t be surprised if you see a copy of The Echo tucked under the arms of the powerful as they make their way around Brussels.

It hasn’t gone to my head though. I can easily mingle with the great unwashed too and often gather material from just talking to ordinary people. A simple chat on the high stool can throw up something interesting which is why Covid-19 didn’t do me any favours. My supply line was cut off. The pandemic is still the main topic of conversation, and we’re all fed up with hearing about it, so I thought it was time for some good news for a change as we enter the new year.

It would be nice to welcome 2022 with some positivity and with that in mind, I consulted Nostradamus to see what’s coming down the tracks for us.

Michel de Nostradame was born in France in 1503. He studied medicine and became a physician, treating plague victims throughout France and Italy. It’s believed he had a psychic awakening during that time and began to practice the occult, making predictions of the future, which he published in The Prophecies. Many people believe his predictions have come true.

I tried reading this book but got totally bogged down because he didn’t make it easy. He avoided plain English, preferring instead to write in riddles or quatrains which are mini poems. One of the reasons for writing that way was to protect himself from persecution from the Catholic Church. They considered prophesying to be the work of the devil, but I think it was only the work of an overactive imagination.

Most of the predictions are so vague and confusing that you could make several interpretations from each one. Take this for example; “Earth shaking fire from the centre of the earth will cause tremors around the New City. Two high rocks will war for a long time, and then Arethusa will redden a new river.” Supporters of Nostradamus say that refers to September 11. The New City is a reference to New York and the two high rocks relate to the twin towers but that’s a bit of a stretch for me.

Another prediction said, “Under the opposite Babylonian climate, Great will be without the outpouring.” This apparently translates to mean a climate war will start during 2022. I have no idea how they came to that conclusion, but his prophesy of World War II is a bit more credible; “Beasts ferocious with hunger will cross the rivers, The greater part of the battlefield will be against Hister. Into a cage of iron will the great one be drawn, When the child of Germany observes nothing.”

I got very excited when I saw another one and developed a new found respect for Nostradamus; “There will be a twin year (2020) from which will arise a queen (corona) who will come from the East (China) to spread a plague (virus) in the darkness of night, on a country with 7 hills (Italy) and will transform the twilight of men into dust (death), to destroy and ruin the world. It will be the end of the world economy as you know it.”

That was brilliant but unfortunately it turned out to be an Internet hoax, not Nostradamus words.

I wasn’t making much progress in my quest for positivity, but I was determined to find some sign of encouragement so in a final desperate bid for inspiration, I turned to the stars. My Pisces horoscope for 2022 tells me “The presence of Saturn in the eleventh house of wealth, profit and ambitions at the beginning of the year will increase your income sources. You will get rid of your debt and work towards accumulating wealth.”

“From April, Saturn will transit in its own sign Aquarius which falls in your twelfth house, which is the house of travel, expenses and foreign journeys. You will live far away from your family with an opportunity to go on a foreign trip during this period.”

“From the middle of April there are signs to be careful about your health. Mid-May will cause an increase in your mental tension and there will be controversies and misunderstandings in the life of lovers.”

That’s almost as confusing as the Nostradamus stuff but as far as I can tell, I’m going to get a few bob, go on a holiday, get sick and fight with the wife. So, nothing new for me in the New Year then.