The Miner Miracle

Back in early September I first came upon the tale of the Chilean Miners in a Sunday newspaper. It detailed their story up to that point, the collapse that confined them to a network of mine shafts and tunnels under the Atacama desert and the precarious state of the mining company that employed them.

The article recounted the details of the various personalities of the people concerned. The difficulties in attempting a rescue that had never been done before. But, even then the mood music was that the Chileans were determined to do something about this.

It invited a piece of reportage a la Gabriel Garcia Marquez. You can almost imagine the description:

It was inevitable. When Mario Sepulveda Espinace heard the rolling thunder and smelt the choking dust it always reminded him of his childhood on his grandfather’s motorcycle and the smell of burning oil. But this time the sound and the smell would give him an entirely different memory. He found the tunnel to the main lift filled with boulders and he knew that the next few days would be interesting to say the least.

I remarked to my wife that some of the men would have difficulty being rescued due to their girth and pointed out that I would likely be in that category if I was stuck in a mine. I also added that spending time underground away from everyone and all the doom and gloom of the world above would indeed have its attractions for me…

But truly aside from the bad taste jokes and there have been plenty, who can imagine what it was like in that mine especially for the first seventeen days, before the drill head broke through into the miners’ chamber and with it the first rays of hope.

Apparently the 33 miners have agreed that what happened in the mine stays in the mine, but inevitably people’s minds have come round to exploring what would have happened had they not been rescued. A number of spectres raise their head, and the hairs on your neck.

Instead, what happened shone like a beacon to the rest of the world. Between them Chilean engineers constructed a rescue pod that looks like something from the Wonderpets children’s TV show. 21 inches wide, the thought of shooting up that claustrophobic channel in such a confined space. But with what the alternative?

The sight of the engineers and rescue teams clustered round a small manhole the size of a sewer head. The image of the Fenix 2 emerging from the channel. And the triumphant step forward of each miner wearing a pair of groovy sunglasses and a hard hat, straight into the waiting embrace of mother, father, son, daughter, mistress and el presidente himself.

My favourite part of this tale is how normal these people are. One guy has some serious explaining to do as both his wife and mistress turned up at the pit head to show their concern. The wife headed home in disgust and annoyance – I can imagine the time spent down the mine trapped will be like heaven compared to explaining that one away. He may even yearn for simpler days than stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Some curmudgeons objected to and sneered at the amount of coverage give this tale in the media. Well for me they should be ashamed of themselves. This is a genuinely good news stories with multiple heroes. It has all the makings of a Hollywood blockbuster. And these guys deserve whatever goodies come their way having been dealt a tough hand by fate. The vagaries of the global mineral market not their concern. But their determination to survive a lesson to all.

No, it may not improve mining conditions in Chile, and people will still die extracting precious metals and ore for the world market (and indeed have done since the rescue). But the events of those 69 days have given one country a new image and a new confidence in the world. They say you judge a society by how they treat their poorest and most vulnerable people. Spending millions to rescue 33 miners is probably the best bargain Chile will ever have.

Mad About Mad Men

Is that a detailed brief or are you just pleased to see me?

Mad Men. Ah yes. Having caught glimpses of it over the last couple of years, I steadfastly ignored it as a series and marked it down as a likely candidate for the boxed set treatment in due course.

In our house instead of watching anything else on television, when a box set appears, we enter a cocoon like state, watching the series night after night until the entire selection of DVDs are viewed.  Earthquakes have happened, tsunami, economic collapses, governments overthrown – we’ve missed them all because of box sets. Fiction is much better than real life.

There are basic groundrules to ensure that if either of us misses an episode. The other isn’t allowed to plough a lone furrow and press on into the series. Other viewing hazards are falling asleep mid episode, children refusing to go to bed, or unexpected visitors. The latter can be quite frustrating for us and puzzling for them. Nice to see you but hurry up and leave!

Anyhow, Mad Men. . . after watching the first few episodes I felt like firing up a fag and mixing myself a quick Tom Collins or whatever it is they drink. The fact that I no longer smoke and rarely drink beside the point. Spirits neat seem the answer to every advertising conundrum.

The series is no doubt faithful to the early sixties in its soundtrack, cultural influences and dress. In its depictions of the Mad Men, they have captured the nuances that many of us will recognise in agency apparacthiks we have dealt with. It is quaint to look at what was considered fashionable then appears like pure tack now, at best the leftovers from a set of Only Fools and Horses.

It is amazing that any work actually appears to get done in what was a golden age for advertising. Consumer spending began to grow and businesses began to appreciate the value of advertising.

Between shagging everything that crosses his path Don Draper manages to fit into his executive life his stunning wife Bets and his children. For her part Bets does nothing but make the dinner and look immaculate. Her discovery on the washing machine was nearly as big a shock for us as it was for her.  Between smoking, drinking and shagging, it was some life.

I was enjoying the programme greatly until the Joan Holloway character appeared and blew the whole thing into another dimension with her sensational pneumatic comic book figure.

The hips, that hair, the chest. And those put downs! Holy Moly, why did I never get to work with a girl like that! Getting up in the morning would never be  a problem again. Like a cross between Jessica Rabbit in looks and Roz from Monsters Inc in her encyclopaedic knowledge of everything that’s going on in the office, Joan is some dame.

Up to series 4 now, it dipped a bit in quality towards the end of series 3 but it’s seriously back on form. Sky+ was made for Mad Men like this.

The Galtee Mountain Boy

And so after Christy Cooney handed over the silverware, and Eoin Kelly delivered his Captain’s Eulogy, Tipp sub and last year’s starting midfielder Pat Kerwick took the mike on the Hogan Steps for a stirring rendition of the Galtee Mountain Boy. “I joined the Flying column in nineteen and sixteen. . .”

Surely this would be the tipping point for the fans to break the levee. . .

But as the ballad unfolded, and Kerwick recounted the exploits of Sean Moylan and Dan Breen, the delirious Tipp fans sat in their seats and listened, or stood cheeks pressed against the plexiglass fence around Hill 16.

I looked with a mixture of bemusement and disappointment at the serried ranks of Stewards in their end of match positions doing their job, and the Tipp supporters penned in. Jesus, if their forefathers had been this pliant the 26 would still be under the jackboot of colonial oppression.

Undeterred, Kerwick kept her lit: “Arrested by Free Staters and Sentenced for to Die. . .”

Still the Stewards held the orange barriers up, the last few streamers floated from the stage managed production. I could feel the glow of self satisfaction from the Ard Comhairle section.

“The men that fought for liberty and died without a sigh, May their cause be ne’er forgotten, said the Galtee Mountain Boy.”

An Iron Maiden tune burst into me head for no reason “I’m not a prisoner, I’m a free man. . .”.

Indeed. Suddenly, there was a peal of thunder and a crack of lightning,  loud as the clash of an ash stick breaking. Dan Breen turned violently in his grave to bellow at Micheal Cusack what the fook was going on.

“I thought this was an Irish Association,” he thundered at the Founder. “If I was up there I wouldn’t be standing behind yon window on the Hill, watching a Tipp man lift Liam with a Corkman watching on.”

“Time’s is all changed Dan,” was all Cusack could muster, as his own successor beamed in pride at the well organised scene below him, health and safety niceties observed, risk assessment boxes ticked and due diligence observed. This after a game in which thirty grown men set about each other with stix. Is the world gone mad or what?

Years ago winning teams used to light up a fag on the Hogan steps. Imagine the difficulties that would have caused, had Noel McGrath decided to spark a Major in celebration.

But, calmness reigned. The Croke Park sward never looked as green after a game. Afterwards the airwaves were jammed with the PTB spin doctors proclaiming what a spectacle the presentation was. It was a spectacle indeed and plenty made a spectacle of themselves with this charade.

And as for The Galtee Mountain Boy, the music in my heart I bore, long after it was heard no more. In fact everything after the final whistle blew was a bit of a bore. Everything before it was the exact opposite.

“Farewell to Tipperary said the Galtee mountain boy.”

Indeed. And off I went home.

Today’s Other List

Pretty much useless things I found on my desk.

  • A capo with a screw missing. It is useless, but I can’t throw it out, for sentimental reasons you see.
  • A small but very likeable ticket stub from Casement Park, from a ticket roll used at the turnstile. Printed by Dun Dealgan Press in Dundalk (where else?), I would guess Ulster Council ordered loads of these years back and are still using up mega supplies. It says c.l.c.g and Comairle Uladh in old script. Not throwing it away either. The number is 03383.
  • A well used rubber.
  • A torch with a flat battery.
  • Two USB drives and a USB wireless connection. Three computer leads of various hues.
  • An iPhone instruction leaflet and some guff about Bose systems.
  • Post-its with things I have written on them that now, I don’t understand.
  • Two photographs of my daughter.
  • €20 and £10 in notes.
  • A guitar tuner. A magnet. A sharpener.
  • Small bottle of Hugo Boss aftershave, must fire some on and see what my wife thinks of that. She bought it after all.
  • A bottle opener from Curley’s Off Licence in Armagh.
  • Two philips screwdrivers.
  • My old University sports centre membership card and my now expired driving licence.
  • Some camogie teamsheets.
  • A cheque for £322.