Palate or Wallet: Butchering the Opposition?

Keep the Horse Outside

The current horsemeat scandal is an issue of food labelling and traceability moreso than bad taste.  The other overriding concern is that the nag on your plate is drugged up on bute or some other substance. We’ve been eating it for years and it hasn’t done any harm.

The episode has created an unrivalled opportunity for local butchers to assert their quality, their independence and their traceability. Ever since BSE when people madder than their cows were feeding them bits of other cows the meat industry has cleaned up its act, so we are told.

I have not consciously eaten horsemeat, although the chances are I have consumed it masquerading as something else. Once as a consented adult I ate a feed of calf brains. There was no masquerade there. It was vile in taste and texture but each to their own.

I enjoy a burger and it appears that a few of the burger emporia I frequent occasionally have been adulterating their produce with a little bit of Dobbin. I haven’t noticed myself moving any faster though not have I had an uncontrollable urge to clear fences.

I don’t share the public outrage, to be honest in general I am fairly sceptical about what I eat. As consumers for example we know little of the domestic conditions of the chicken we consume. Having owned a few hens for while I am also highly sceptical of the freshness of local farm fresh and free range eggs.

We ourselves are to blame. Us the consumers. In the demand for ever cheaper food, we consumers are driving down the price we are prepared to pay for our food. When farmers cannot produce food for the price they are forced to sell to major multiples then there is something wrong. How can you produce milks for a higher price per litre than a large supermarket will give you? It can’t be done.

People cannot expect to pay £1.50 for burgers and expect serious quality. Our wallets, not our palates dictate what we buy in the high street and in the supermarket. There is nothing instrinsically wrong with horsemeat. The French have eaten it for years. They know a hell of a lot more about food and taste than we do. Our palates tend to be dulled from years of bland food.

The lesson is simple. Shop at your local butcher and ask them where they get their meat.

Camogie Sucks the Hind Tit

Agnes O’Farrelly.

Next week the Camogie teams of Rower Inistioge and Castlegar take to the field in Ashbourne Donaghmore to contest the All Ireland Intermediate Club Final. Later that evening Milford of Cork and Killimor of Galway will contest the senior final in Croke Park. The senior game is a precursor to one of the Dublin football matches in the Spring series in which they face Mayo. For the last two years these games have been played as a showpiece double header at Croke Park.

This signifies a downgrading in the importance of the Club Camogie finals which is not good for the sport. The reason for this change I have been told is the costs of opening Croke Park are prohibitive. Shame on whoever has allowed this situation to develop. Surely some accommodation could have been reached?

In 2011 and 2012 both finals were held in Croke Park in early March and were allocated a Sunday all of their own. I know because I was there. There is an irony in that – the two years the intermediate finals were played at Croke Park we won both them. ‘We’ being the Eoghan Rua Camogie squad that I have the enjoyment and privilege of coaching. Arguably I have nothing to argue about.

Those two Sundays in March were among the highlights of those girls’ lives. Indeed our double winning captain Méabh McGoldrick said as much in her post match interview. It was certainly a highlight in mine.

The usual procedure was that the finals were run off in November and that is what we were preparing for back in 2010. I remember clearly when I learned that the 2010 final was being pushed back from November in that calendar year to March 2011. It was a stunning opportunity.

The reason? Solely because Croke Park had become available to club Camogie teams. It was considered a seminal moment in the promotion and status of the game.

The then President Joan O’Flynn said:

“The opportunity is now with four further teams to play in this fantastic stadium. Clubs are the backbone of the Association and play a thriving part in communities all across Ireland. March 6th will bring together families and communities to support their camogie club side. There is a strong pride and interest in the players’ achievement in representing their clubs and county on our finest stage in Croke Park.”

That sentiment applies now as much as it did then. Although it was a prestige target and meant winning a semi final had even more at stake, the repercussions for our club were serious. The new schedule caused untold logistical issues.

The squad had to furlough their training because of the break in matches from October to February. When we resumed training it was in the worst winter in decades, and our girls trained in the worst of weather conditions, snow, frost, temperatures down to minus double figures.

Hiring facilities and lights was a concern. It cost us in excess of £100 a week to hire a pitch with lights at the local rugby club keep our squad in preparation for the semi final, and then the final in Croke Park. That didn’t include food every night at training, other costs of coaches and travel, gear and so on. In total the experience cost around £13,000, all of which was fundraised. It was worth every penny.

This is including the costs for accommodation and travel when our semi final was postponed the morning it was due to be played, wiping out £3000 costs in an instant for an overnight stay we didn’t need and for which we received no recompense.

But the experience for our players could not have a price put upon it. To win in Croke Park is every player’s dream and to do it twice was a serious achievement.

A week or so back I learned that this year’s Intermediate finalists will not get the chance to play in Croker. I couldn’t believe it. Also, the two matches have been decoupled. What was a brilliant day out for Camogie and a celebration of the sport has been diminished and done away with. And why? Apparently the costs of opening Croke Park for these games are prohibitive. Irrespective of the rights and wrongs of that, the question has to be asked when did the Camogie authorities make this decision? Players have been training over the Christmas period and into the New Year because the final was scheduled for Croker. If that was not the case why was the tournament not run off prior to Christmas?

Croke Park may belong to the GAA. The GAA is all of us, we are all part of the same community and part of the same clubs. And in the spirit of integration the players that have qualified for these finals should have been given their day in sun. Not booked ended onto a Saturday night GAA fixture and elbowed out the road to Ashbourne.

Would it not be a suitable gesture from the GAA to ensure that these competitions and the ladies football finals are given their day in the sun in Croker? The girls train just as hard and display the same commitment as their male counterparts.

All I know is that out players were privileged to win their finals in Croke Park. Other girls deserve the same opportunity. It will not take away the gloss of winning but it adds an undeniable glamour.

Instead, Camogie once again sucks the hind tit. So much for integration.

 

 

The Blissful Trough of Decrepitude

Today at Mass, yes indeed Mass, the priest told a salutary tale about respect for our elders, of valuing their contribution, on remembering that if God spares us, we too will one day be old and decrepit. We would wish to be well treated in our aged infirmity would we not? Therefore his tale cautioned, do not make old people eat from a trough and be treated like livestock, a burden on us all lest the same fate befall us when our time comes. Deo Volente. Treat others as you would be treated yourselves. Ponder that.

 

I have always looked forward to the certainty of decrepitude. Being institutionalised in some sort of Fold or old people’s home. I was brought up near one, I found their slow ambling and rambling fascinating these geriatric folks, slowly drifting hither and thither. Sometimes one would escape and there would be a full scale search.

 

There in my Fold, or home, I will get an old man’s pardon for being disruptive, degenerate and dysfunctional. At the minute people just tolerate it, but when I am old (I am already grey) I am looking forward to a bye ball on my many indiscretions.

 

Some things I will not welcome open armed. Incontinence would be a drag, sitting there in the damp stinking waiting for some hag to come and sort me out. ‘That’s the tenth pair of underpants this week’ she would gulder at me. One of my beautiful daughters would of course visit with fresh supplies as a mark of thanks for all I did for them when they were wee. I live in hope I should add.

 

I’m not looking forward to the watery gruel that will pass for food, over-cooked steak and oily spuds. Custard with skin tight as a drum. These are not for me. In my infirmity I want the girls to bring me hampers from the deli on the Prom. Salamis, cheeses, and fig and almond loaf. Perhaps a flagon of fine red wine too to wash along the memories, the sadness and the regret. And also to liberate the sheer happiness I would feel to be there, in the home. Maybe even with a sea view I could never afford when undecrepit.

 

The matron-hag would tear into them for bringing me contraband. ‘It aggravates his condition’ she would roar, my daughters no slouches themselves in the verbal stakes would stick up for me. None of the King Lear nonsense here I tell you, all of them would defend their dad to the death.

 

There is a terrible sadness in the eyes of old people in a home. Blue gleam faded as if left too long in the sun. Bags below filled with tears ready to overflow down wrinkled meandering cheeks, by jowls, to see slowly the future slipping away.

 

I’ll have wrinkly saggy arms, and hands. Chipped nails and stand out veins. My nose will drip, drip, drip and my teeth ache from too much eating. My belly will be flaccid then like an empty pillow case. Ass-saggy and sore-legged I will not speak of any other anatomical details suffice it to say the Gout will be a terrible affliction for a man of my age.

 

And I’ll sit, bent on destruction watching the waves coming in, going out, coming in, going out, the way they always do and always will. Waiting and waiting and just waiting for my turn.

Speechwriting – The Heightening Alleghenies

Of all the pieces of work I am given and of all the assignments I take on, speechwriting is one job that I always enjoy. It is challenging and rewarding.

 

Very many people are uncomfortable with the very thought of speaking in public and if that isn’t terrifying enough, the additional weight of having to say something coherent in a public arena can turn the most confident person into a nervous wreck.

 

I have written speeches for all sorts of events, prize giving ceremonies, graduations, honorary graduation citations, product launches, fundraisers, charity events, awards ceremonies, weddings, you name it. I cannot disclose the names of any clients for whom I write speeches, the fact that someone may have a person like myself to write their remarks can be a matter they don’t like to discuss publicly. To me it is logical, if I can help them express their view in a better way then why have them subject themselves to the trauma. It is a service I provide, I enjoy and I am happy to do.

 

During my time at the University I was involved in graduation speeches at a secondary level. My then boss drafted and crafted the main speech by the Chancellor or Vice Chancellor depending on who was the presiding officer. The one amusing part of this task was his penchant for obscure erudite quotes. He would have to explain to the particular Orator, for example who Primo Levi was in case the attributed quotation used might provoke a question or two. So, the use of quotes has to be managed carefully and pitched to the occasion, the audience and the speaker.

 

In my role at the University I introduced the concept of the student speaker replying formally at graduation on behalf of the student body. I was also responsible for drafting the speech the student speakers delivered. Surprisingly most student valedictorians (as they are known as in the States and elsewhere) did not take up the opportunity to write their own address. A few did but in the main they ran with what we provided. I remember one ceremony where between myself and my boss we had written the entire content of the speeches, the main address, the provost’s remarks, the honorary graduate’s citations, and the valedictorian’s address. The exception was the honorary graduate, and I had spoken to him to give him a steer on what to say. So we even had an input on this. The general public was none the wiser. But that’s the way things were done. And the message was consistent.

 

During my time there and since, I have written numerous addresses. In preparation I will typically find out a bit about the audience, the venue, the time of the speech (after dinner etc), the preferred duration. I will also try to gauge the way in which the person speaks and have in the past listened to a recording of a speaker to understand the way they actually talk before I put pen to paper. I will also have various ideas rattling around in my head, these I write down in a notebook, type into iPhone notes or dictate to myself.

 

When it comes to writing the speech, having let the whole thing ferment and stew for a while, I will sit down and write it in one go, before leaving it overnight to set. The second edit normally involves a fair bit of copy removal, proving Dr Johnson’s maxim:

 

Read over your compositions, and where ever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.’

 

Again in the case of a recent submission, I was required to write to specific time duration and I listened to several recordings of the likely speaker, working out the average number of words he spoke in a minute to establish the word count for the time required.

 

In business, a formal speech may be a central part of the proceedings, whether to raise funds, launch a product or a campaign/initiative. I have written material where the theme is consistent for the entire event so the people involved receive the same message. That backfired at a fundraising function once when one of the organisation’s officials took my carefully drafted words somewhat grudgingly and opened his remarks by saying ‘They told me to read this out’. Which of course he duly did.

 

In terms of famous speeches Dr Martin Luther King’s ‘I Have a Dream’ address delivered at Washington has many lessons for speechwriter and speaker alike. The use of repetition of phrases at the start of sentences and again at the end powerfully reinforces the themes he touches upon. Also the alliteration used for effect. The biblical references and inflection. The use of the Negro spiritual lyric. The combination of sermon and civil rights themes. It is a heady, infectious and overwhelmingly engaging mixture that rewards listening for the full seventeen minutes.

 

That Dr King went off script at the end of the speech was no hardship to him as an experienced and inspirational preacher, but it demonstrates the value of injecting personal passion and experience into an otherwise brilliantly crafted piece of rhetoric.

 

The effects are most noticeable in the rising cadence and repetition as the address reaches its climax:

So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!

Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California!

But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, “Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

It is a supremely inspiring piece and one to which any would be public speaker should listen as an example of the art of Rhetoric. We may not be able to speak like that or indeed write like that, but we can learn from it.

In the teaching of Rhetoric there are five Canons: Invention; Arrangement; Style; Memory; and Delivery.

From my perspective as a writer, I generally have control over the first three of these as often for obvious reasons I won’t even be present when the piece is delivered.

 

For those curious as to the meaning of the five Canons, I will return to this topic if and when the spirits move me.

 

But for now, the end is near, and the fog is rising. Let us go in.