Readers may recall the occasional diaries in this column of some years back, recalling life for a young man vaguely approaching adulthood in Ballina (or more specifically, Ardnaree, Ballina, Co Mayo) in the late 1960s. Further unexpurgated extracts begin today and will continue for the next few weeks, reintroducing characters like the intriguing local librarian Miss Cartwright, Jerome the Accountant, the unlovely Maureen, the unlikely students Jimmy and Seanin, Walter the mildly retarded train station porter and sundry others. . .
Thursday, August 22nd, 1966: The Ballina Agricultural Show took place today. Mother has been looking forward to it for weeks. Apart from her high hopes of at last taking first place in the Irel coffee sponge cake competition, she was all agog at the Western People report that the show would have stalls "at which the housewife, for example, might see a particular gadget which will solve a problem for her and thus make her daily chores easier." When I pointed out how patronising this was, she accused me of making things even more difficult for her as a housewife and mother.
I have never knowingly interfered with my mother's kitchen duties. I try to keep out of the kitchen at all times.
Promoted with rising excitement for the past few weeks as a sort of cross between the Mardi Gras, the Munich Beer Festival and the Rio Carnival, the annual agricultural show turned out to be the usual muddy affair involving large tractors, huge farmers slurping tea and pints of Guinness all day while complaining about their lot, and members of the Army Equitation School down from Dublin to show off in front of culchie riff-raff, i.e. the honest burghers of Ballina.
I ask: what has a clear round in a showjumping competition got to do with defending our country in the event of warfare? Should the motto be, "Join the Army and win maximum points in dressage?"
Maureen made some kind of inarticulate excuse when I asked her to accompany me to the jamboree, though I know she thinks the Army riders are, in her own phrase "fekkin' gorgeous". And she has more than once expressed in quite vulgar terms her willingness to take the place of Eddie Macken's horse. I am not altogether surprised then, though I am disappointed, to see her salivating in the stands as the main jumping competition gets under way.
I head off for a free chest Xray, with a rather attractive and buxom nurse congratulating me on having lungs as "clear as gin". I head over to Jordan's, where Jimmy is already ensconced, and we end the evening with a few pints. I am still fed up over Maureen's betrayal.
Friday, August 23rd: Mother is not speaking to anyone today. Once again her Irel coffee sponge was runner-up in yesterday's agricultural show competition to that constructed by her arch-enemy Mrs East. This is the third time running she has been beaten into second place by Mrs East and she is convinced there is underhand business involved.
Mother is only slightly mollified by my brother Frankie winning the seagrass stool-making competition outright (and as she likes to point out, Mrs East's 10-year-old seems to have no craft skills). I worry about Frankie. It is hardly normal for a nine-yearold to be enthusiastic about seagrass stools. There are seven of them littering the house now, creating a serious tripping hazard.
Saturday, August 24th: Ballinrobe notes, as provided by the Western People, include the following news: "Mickey Werlock, the Faun, Ballinrobe, will leave this week for St Pat's College, Kiltegan, Co Wicklow, where he will study for the priesthood. Mickey was treasurer of the Ballinrobe GAA club and a member of the football team."
Poor Mickey. Another decent man, no doubt, lost to the tribe of priests, off to Kiltegan to have his mind beaten flat with psychological rolling pins, to be terminally brainwashed, to be impregnated with dangerous Catholic lore - and worse, to learn how to impart guilt, shame and a deep sense of fatalistic hopelessness to the young people who will eventually fall to his care. Is there no end to this gullibility? When, as a nation, will we learn that sending so many missionaries abroad, diverting happy African pagans from their carefree fulfilling lives of non-stop sex and sun worship, should be a source of the deepest shame rather than of glory? Never, I fear.
I also learn from our local newspaper that among the new ballads competing in the Castlebar Song Contest to be held next month are "Crolly of the Comeraghs" and "The Ould Coat". These from a nation which likes to see itself as modern, progressive and outgoing! In my opinion it is the composers of such excrescences, rather than our young, innocent and misguided missionaries, who should be banished to the heartland of Africa, with luck to be eaten there by eager cannibals who might well savour some white meat for a change.
bglacken@irish-times.ie