OUR BIBLICAL thought for the day comes from the Old Testament's second Book of Kings: "Wherefore they arose and fled in the twilight, and left their tents, and their horses, and their asses, even the camp as it was, and fled for their life" (2 Kings 7:7). Comparisons between Fianna Fáil and the ancient Syrians, who in the above passage were fleeing an expected attack from the Hittites, are admittedly tenuous, writes FRANK MCNALLY.
There is no suggestion that the Cowenites were facing violence at this year's Galway Races, never mind fearing for their lives. Even so, the decision to abandon their tents and horses (I understand the plan is to take their asses with them on this occasion) has a momentous, end-of-era feel about it.
No doubt the true biblical significance of the Taoiseach's decision is to distance himself from the increasingly confused Gospel According to St Luke's. Nevertheless, indirectly, he has also added to the feeling of twilight now all around us.
There was always something odd about the annual gathering of so many builders and property developers in a temporary canvas structure, devoid of bricks and mortar. And yet the Galway tent years coincided closely with the long construction boom. Now, it seems, the party really is over.
When the Syrians fled their camp, as Bible scholars will know, a group of lepers entered; and, amazed to find it empty, helped themselves to the food and drink. I know just how they felt. At the Galway Races every year, the lepers (ie the residents of the press tent) used always be invited over to the FF marquee at some point; but only after lunch, so that the diners wouldn't by upset by the sight of us.
And the truth is, the tented inner sanctum never quite lived up to its myth. It wouldn't be empty, as such. But possibly because the FF press office had announced our arrival by ringing a bell and shouting "unclean!", there would always have been a bit of a clear-out. You were left with the feeling, often, of being in the overflow tent at a celebrity wedding, where the really famous people had been contracted to Hellomagazine and were being held under tight security elsewhere.
The nearest I ever got to an illicit thrill in the tent was when PJ Mara would wander over to the journalists, generously sharing the glamour of his life for a few minutes, before dismissing us with an elegant wave and the news that he had to go back to "the important people".
The new Taoiseach is probably right to judge that the €160,000 a year raised by the event was not worth the accompanying notoriety. Then again, his decision may also have been influenced by a bad precedent. As the latest High King of Ireland called Brian, he must surely be conscious of the mistake made by a predecessor, who won a great battle but hung around his tent too long afterwards.
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IT IS certainly impressive, as our man in the RDS noted yesterday, that Bruce Springsteen plays for "more than two-and-a-half hours". And yet even this is an example of the consumer's drastically reduced purchasing power in recent times. Excuse me while I grow all nostalgic here; but I remember when the great man thought nothing of playing for four hours.
It was 1985, and money was scarce. Not for Bruce, obviously. But some of us were so strapped for cash at the time that we heroically ignored the hype preceding his appearance at Slane. Until the afternoon of the concert itself, that is; whereupon our resistance collapsed.
It was a beautiful day. And I remember listening to the wireless - as we called it back then - in a house in deepest south Dublin, when the station went live to Slane for a report on the start of the concert. Sure enough, Springsteen was already on stage - I could hear him in the background. And the effect was electrifying.
It was a bit like St Patrick - a much earlier headline act in Slane - lighting the paschal fire. Bruce was calling me to Meath, and I had to go. So I dropped everything and went: first catching a no.15 bus into the city, then a 19A out to Finglas. And from there, I started hitching.
There were days then when you got one lift all the way to your destination, without even trying. This was one of the other days - when friendly farmers driving beat-up Ford Anglias and in no hurry to get anywhere would bring you from here up to the next turn-off, at which point you had to get your thumb out again.
But I reached the outskirts of Slane in four or five instalments and walked the last mile-and-a-half into the village, which was now shrouded in silence.
Was the concert over? Hell, no. It was just the half-time break. During which, I found a forlorn tout who, having a clearance sale, offloaded his last ticket to me for a fiver - 66 per cent off the recommended retail price.
Thus, having heard the start of Springsteen's Slane concert on a radio in Templeogue, and having made at least six separate vehicular trips in the meantime, I attended the second half of the concert, which lasted the guts of two hours. And the great thing was, I still had money left for food.
But you tell young people that now, and they won't believe you.