Wednesday, November 2nd, 1966
Mother is already working herself into a ferment of excitement at the thought of the international wrestling competition which is due to take place at the Royal Ballroom, Castlebar, though the date (December 10th) is well over a month away.
She and Frankie have booked front-row tickets for this tawdry event, which will apparently feature Klondyke Bill (40 stone), Orean Bordanelli (28 stone), Hill Billy Coverdale (26 stone) and Milo Marina (26 stone) all battling on stage together: "Over 120 stone in action at once!" as the local advertisement promises.
Mother will not accept my assurance that the "battle" is a complete fiction, with every fall organised, the result pre-ordained and possibly even the groans and grunts rehearsed. "Sure if they were acting", she tells me scornfully, "wouldn't they be in the pictures".
There is no way past to counter sort of demented maternal logic.
Thursday, November 3rd
On my way home from work this evening I bumped into Karl, the Pontoon Anarchist, in O'Rahilly Street. Did I realise, he asked, that crowds were storming the US embassy in Guinea? I had to admit I did not. In support of this faraway demonstration he was carrying a large banner, bearing the legend "Down with Yankee imperialism", and quite predictably, nobody was taking any notice of it or him.
Over a pint in Jordan's later on, I tried to point out to Karl that Yankee imperialism, in the form of returned dollars and dollar-bearers, was easily the most admired ideology in all of Ireland.
Karl then pulled out a yellowed newspaper cutting headlined "Returned Yankees Were Drunk". The Charleston court was apparently told by a guard that he found the defendant lying in a channel drunk, and that a similar charge was made against him and his brother on a previous date: Justice Gilvary - There must be money in that house.
Guard - They are two returned Yankees. It all goes early in the month.
Karl wanted me to see this as evidence of Yankee decadence, but it seemed to me an example of the returned Irish being more Irish than the stay-at-home Irish themselves, and the distinct envy of the latter. Despite his anarchistic beliefs, and his years of living in this country, Karl also clings to the quaint Germanic notion that appearance in court is necessarily a matter of shame. He still has much to learn here.
Friday, November 4th
The weather has been atrocious for the last couple of days, with snow, sleet and hail all over the country. I realise that technically, winter has begun, but this is ridiculous.
Our library is increasingly packed with older people who quite clearly have a great deal less interest in literature than in luxuriating, and often sleeping, in a warm room.
I suggested to Miss Cartwright that we should hang a large "no loitering" sign, but while she was sympathetic, she believes it would be difficult to enforce. How, she asked, could we distinguish the genuine readers from the dreamers, the dawdlers and the draught-evaders?
I can see her point: we can hardly play an occasional recorded shotgun blast over the public address system, much as I would like to. This will require some strategic thinking.
It is a sad irony that while many international libraries presumably have entire departments of people devoted to increasing the numbers using their renowned facilities, a humble Ballina sub-librarian (i.e., me) is instead required to devise means of driving out people who are there under false pretences. What does this say about us as a nation?
Saturday, November 5th
Speaking of our image abroad, the level of success being enjoyed by Dermot O'Brien's truly appalling ditty, The Merry Ploughboy, is quite incredible.
Apparently it has now reached number 42 in the British top 50.
Instead of being ashamed by English people presumably laughing at the notion of Ireland presented in this song, our local paper asks: "Who could ever have imagined, a few weeks ago, that the mass adulation of thousands of fans which is usually associated with long-haired British pop stars would be bestowed on a solid 30-year-old husband and father singing an Irish "rebel" marching song?" Rebel indeed. The only rebellion currently to be seen in this fair land is that of our "merry ploughboys" refusing to push the admirable ploughs their forefathers used, and insisting on false emblems of progress such as new tractors. And "merry", I might point out, means something entirely different in this country to what it does across the water.
Sunday, November 6th
I read that Italy has been struck by freak storms, and that the Palace of the Doges, whatever that may be, is now under water. I trust my penfriend Andrea is nowhere nearby. The increased water levels cannot be good for the foundation levels of his beloved Leaning Tower. At least he will how have some sense of what it is like to live in a miserable, cold and rain-sodden land, which will be useful if he comes to Ireland this summer, as he has promised.
bglacken@irish-times.ie