Dogs

The Spirit of Ireland

Images from Ireland in the 1920s and 1930s
Taken from The Spirit of Ireland by Lynn Doyle
Published by B.T Batsford Ltd in 1935
Spirit Ireland

‘They cannot love the Irish language without depreciating the English language; and forget that it is paying the Irish people no compliment to prove that eight hundred years they were held down by a nation of nincompoops’

 

A man from Connemara.

A man from Connemara.

'Children of Mary', County Donegal.

‘Children of Mary’, County Donegal.

Eamon De Valera walks with church leaders.

Eamon De Valera walks with church leaders.

Priests at Maynooth.

Priests at Maynooth.

A priest blesses a garda.

A priest blesses a garda.

Going to mass in the west of Ireland..

Going to mass in the west of Ireland..

'Boycott British Goods and Courts' protest in Dublin.

‘Boycott British Goods and Courts’ protest in Dublin.

Horse market at Ballinasloe, County Galway.

Horse market at Ballinasloe, County Galway.

Cattle fair at Cashel, County Tipperary.

Cattle fair at Cashel, County Tipperary.

Sheep fair at Killarney, County Kerry

Sheep fair at Killarney, County Kerry

Nelson's column on O'Connell Street, Dublin

Nelson’s column on O’Connell Street, Dublin

A family on the Blasket Islands.

A family on the Blasket Islands.

An old woman on Great Blasket Island takes a rest.

An old woman on Great Blasket Island takes a rest.

A couple by the fireside in a cottage on Aran.

A couple by the fireside in a cottage on Aran.

Men from the Aran Isles.

Men from the Aran Isles.

People at a hunt gathering.

People at a hunt gathering.

The Westmeath hounds in Mullingar, County Westmeath.

The Westmeath hounds in Mullingar, County Westmeath.

A pack of hounds in Cork.

A pack of hounds in Cork.

An old woman in Cork.

An old woman in Cork.

Girl from Kerry leading a donkey

Girl from Kerry leading a donkey

Donegall Square in Belfast.

Donegall Square in Belfast.

Unionists celebrate the Twelfth of July in Belfast.

Unionists celebrate the Twelfth of July in Belfast.

Royal Avenue in Belfast.

Royal Avenue in Belfast.

The walls of Derry

The walls of Derry

The law courts at Londonderry

The law courts at Londonderry

Village thatcher at work in Fermanagh

Village thatcher at work in Fermanagh

A woman spinning in Donegal.

A woman spinning in Donegal.

Carrying turf at Donegal

Carrying turf at Donegal

Loading turf into a boat.

Loading turf into a boat.

The Claddagh, shortly before they were demolished.

The Claddagh, shortly before they were demolished.

A man from Connemara.

A man from Connemara.

'Tir Agus Teanga' ('Land and Language') meeting in County Galway.

‘Tir Agus Teanga’ (‘Land and Language’) meeting in County Galway.

A shop in Galway

A shop in Galway

Gathering Carrageen at Cashla, County Galway

Gathering Carrageen at Cashla, County Galway

A storyteller at Carna Feis, County Galway.

A storyteller at Carna Feis, County Galway.

An illegal distillery, location unknown.

An illegal distillery, location unknown.

 

A family in a cart.

A family in a cart.

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Paddy on the railroad

 No blacks, some dogs, lots of Irish:

Review of An Irish Navvy, Donall MacAhmlaigh, translated by Valentin Iremonger

Source: http://vulpeslibris.wordpress.com/2009/03/05/no-blacks-some-dogs-lots-of-irish-paddy-on-the-railroad/
IrishNavvy
 

 

In the preface to The Making of the English Working Class, E. P. Thompson apologizes to the Scots and the Welsh for limiting his book to the English, but includes Irish immigrants, devoting twelve pages of the book to `The Irish’, and noting Irish immigration throughout the book. Thompson claims that it is `arguable’ that France lost Europe when it failed to invade Britain in 1797 when Ireland was on the point of rebellion: `the invasion, when it came, was of a different order; it was the invasion of England and Scotland by the Irish poor.’

Donall MacAmhlaigh’s 1964 book, originally published in Irish as Dialann Deorai(Diary of an exile), is one of the minor classics of a later phase of this invasion. MacAmlaigh (`MacOULig’) came from County Galway, a largely Irish speaking county in the West of Ireland, moved to Kilkenny in the South East at fourteen, and later joined the First Battalion of the Irish Army, the Irish-speaking unit stationed in County Galway. After three years of the army, he emigrated to England. An Irish Navvy is his account of six years labouring in the South and midlands. He later settled in Northampton, where he died in 1989 after a lifetime writing and working the sites.

The Irish labour which came to help rebuild Britain after the war was absorbed into, and expanded, an existing culture (take a look at the Guardian’s ethnic map of London to see what I mean), mainly in the areas where the A5, the main road from Holyhead, hits North London. Even now, as you leave Camden Town tube station, you will see a sign for the Irish Centre. The workers brought their regional loyalties with them. Early in the book, MacAmhlaigh describes a fight between a Leitrim man and one Ginger Folan from the Gaelteacht (Irish speaking area) which had been transplanted into County Meath. The Meath man was nervous about the resentment borne by the natives of the county towards the Irish speakers who had been awarded land there.

At the time, MacAmhlaigh was a hospital orderly in Northampton, in the early days of the NHS. On arrival, he learns to get on with Lithuanians, Ukrainians and Italians, discovering that they also have their regional rivalries, finds ale unimpressive, it not standing up well in comparison to porter and considers `devilish stuff called spam’ little better. He is assigned his National Insurance number and a ration book, noting how `wonderfully pleasant’ the staff were, unlike their Irish equivalents.

Eventually, MacAmhlaigh leaves the hospital to take up navvying with Mike Ned, a Curran from Cornomona. They mount the wagon of the contractor and go to Towcester in search of a start. The work is got and our men set to breaking the ground with picks. Things go as well as could be expected until the ganger puts them on the mixer (`Come all you pincher laddies and you long distance men//Don’t ever work for Wimpey, for McAlpine or John Laing.//For they’ll chain you to the mixer and they’ll set you shovelling sand,//And they’ll say good on you Paddy, with your passport in your hand.’). Tricked into carrying the bags of cement, MacAmhlaigh cannot straighten his back the next morning, but fortunately finds himself digging a hole for the day for his three shillings an hour plus bonus.

The book is a collection of stories of work sought and found in hotels, in fields, and on building sites for railways and a US Air Force base at Brize Norton, where our man is sorry to learn that the Texan with whom he has a chat behind a hangar `knows nothing at all about Cowboys or Red Indians’. The work, hard as it is, is still better than staying in Ireland (for comparison, an Irish labourer digging a Tube line in the fifties could make about as much in a night as he would make in a week in Ireland) and MacAmhlaigh and many of his compatriots stay in their huts on remote sites, saving money for a return to Ireland which most of them never make.

Much of the money ends up on the outside walls of the pubs and dancehalls in provincial towns or in the Irish areas of London, Kilburn and Camden, where the youth of whole villages have been transplanted and Irish is as widely spoken as English. The world is that of Patrick Hamilton seen through the bleary gaze of Brendan Behan. Men lodge with, and labour under, gangers by the name of the Bruiser Joyce or Horse Face Toole, sending money home to a small town or a village in rural Ireland. The only Dubliners in the book are those MacAmhlaigh meets on his way through Dublin ferry port: the Irish world in London is a rural one, dependent, like many emigrant communities, on the remittances of migrants. For the children of farms or small towns, London is as far away as Dublin, for practical purposes, and the chances of well-paid work are better. The life, in so far as people can manage it, is small-town life. They attend Mass on a Sunday (even if it means rising early to make work in the railway tunnel), and make a point of fasting on Good Friday. Pleasure is a few pints in the evening and, for MacAmhlaigh, the library: Goodbye, Mr Chips is a favorite.

MacAmhlaigh has an acute eye for detail: compressors in a railway tunnel near Rugby are `as big as ass-carts back home’; when a Teddy Boy singer pours a bottle of milk (yes, milk, not only Ireland has changed in the last fifty years) over his own head, he remembers a woman nearby saying `’e ain’t half being sent’ and records the contempt of his compatriot for the latchico on stage. He finds the English well-dressed compared to the people `back home’; they are tall `and you’d never think from them that they hadn’t had enough to eat for years’, but he will never agree with their view that the drink is an excuse for darts and cribbage where the Irish know `that the drink and the conversation’ were the point.

The worlds MacAmhlaigh describes are long gone for the Irish: even the youngest people he worked with are old now and the Ryanair flight to Knock resembles the Holyhead cattle boat only in its consideration for the comfort of passengers. Where emigrants, Irish or Polish, can now fly home for a weekend, they would once have spent years in England without knowing their younger siblings. The world of the start and the ganger is now the world of the Portugese agricultural labourer, the Chinese cocklepicker and the Filipino nurse. The Irish will soon be back to join them. The signs no longer say `No blacks, no dogs, no Irish’, but they might as well in some places.

  • MacAmhlaigh, Donall, An Irish navvy, 978-1-903464-36-6

On the road again

Just got back from an escape trip, everything OK.

My son who was looking after his dog in my house (dog lives in my house) went home,leaving the dog behind.
That’s family.

Brought back for him 2 Kilos of bacon
He loves it. and you can’t get it here………….
That’s breakfast

Papa, Could you give me your PayPal account Name,Password
My card doesn’t work, then I’ll give it back
That’s children (Big children)

He left my computer all F********* Up, Broke the Mouse (Not a living one)
AdWare,SpyWare
U name it , he did it
Then he scolded me (Me……….) That’s Life

Stop all the clocks,cut off the telefone

  A poem by W.H . Auden

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden has written an unusual response to death in “Stop All the Clocks, Cut Off the Telephone.” The title itself demands that seemingly unreasonable actions be carried out. Why should all the clocks be stopped? Why should the telephone be cut off? The normal events of daily life, such as clocks ticking, telephones ringing, dogs barking, and pianos playing are for some reason not allowed. We do not yet know what this reason is. The imperative verbs in the first three lines of the first stanza are all controlling, forbidding words: ‘stop,’ ‘prevent,’ and ‘silence.’ Only with the first mention of death do the verbs become permitting: ‘bring,’ ‘let,’ ‘put,’ and yet another ‘let.’ A coffin and mourners are both allowed to be present. In fact, the more public happenings that do not ordinarily have anything to do with death must be made undeniably representative of it.

Aeroplanes can make “moaning” noises as they fly, “public doves” must wear black bows as they take wing. Policemen are allowed to “wear black cotton gloves” as they direct traffic.

The less stern, more lenient verbs present with the mention of death suggest that a choice is possible. By giving the normally life-affirming entities a choice to represent death, the speaker is implying that they, or, in the case of the aeroplanes and doves, those who may manipulate them, would do so in the favor of death without a second thought. If they do not choose to, however, they are allowed this breach of expected conduct – it seems as if the speaker does not truly care either way. With a limp, shooing hand movement, the speaker implies that whatever happens to transform itself to represent death can or not; it is in his mind as changed already. Only the normal, private activities of life must be repressed, as the speaker’s grief has presumably interrupted the normalcy of his own life.

 

Calling the deceased man “my North, my South, my East and West” in line 9 implies he was the speaker’s compass; perhaps the speaker’s moral compass, or reason for traveling in any direction with his life. This brings up the question of the speaker’s relationship to the dead man: friend, relative, lover? Whichever the connection, the reader can assume the speaker loved the man dearly. Declaring the dead man “my working week and my Sunday rest” suggests that the latter was the speaker’s entire life, since work and ‘Sunday rest,’ or relaxation/time spent not working, usually comprise the overarching categories of adult life. The following concepts the speaker insists the man embodies, his ‘noon,’ ‘midnight,’ ‘talk,’ and ‘song,’ fall into the more complex realms within ‘rest.’ ‘Noon’ could stand for the playful heat and relaxation commonly associated with noon; ‘midnight’ a solemn, mysterious, bewitched time – the parts of a human relationship that are mysterious and never truly understood. ‘Talk’ implies discussion of serious subjects, whereas ‘song’ suggests merriment and fun. The four terms cover a complex and diverse swathe of human life, suggesting that the dead man was a large part of the speaker’s life.

 

In the last line of the third stanza, the speaker says that he was wrong in thinking “that love would last for ever”. This brings up the possibility that the poem is not about death at all. The speaker could be suggesting that death has ended the love between himself and the man, but could also be insinuating that the entire poem is an exaggerated outpouring of emotions loosed by the end of a relationship.

 

In the last stanza, the heavenly bodies that create noon and midnight are ordered to be destroyed, with the harsh finality of the imperatives in the first three lines of the poem. The most constant bodies that have been around since the birth of man and helped sustain him, as the speaker must feel the ‘deceased’ man has been, must be disposed of. The speaker’s audience is ordered to “pack up the moon,” “dismantle the sun,” “pour away the ocean,” and “sweep up the wood.” In this case, ‘wood’ might stand for the trees of forests, which create oxygen, equally as essential for human survival as the light of the sun and water, and as the speaker feels the dead man was to his continued existence. Even the stars, the last glimmers of hope lighting up the dark, unfathomable sky of human life, must be “put out.”

 

The last line, a depressing assertion that “nothing now can ever come to any good,” reaffirms the possibility that the poem may be about an ended relationship. With a true removed from the speaker’s life in some way, but still alive, he may feel that his life is hopeless until the man is persuaded to enter the relationship again with the speaker. With a true love dead, the man may feel that any chance for happiness and genuine connection with another in his life is dashed for good. Every time he attempts to engage in the daily activities that form the backbone of his life, he will be alone, his true love destroyed like the poem demands of the ocean and stars, and feel hopeless. Auden has taken the universal, inarticulate despair everyone feels when somehow losing a loved one, and successfully articulated it.

Dogs and Football

Saint Vojvodina

Source :http://www.corriere.it/foto-gallery/sport/14_aprile_27/boskov-citazioni-filosofia-humour-rigore-quando-arbitro-fischia-232cc7a4-ce36-11e3-b063-6dd286e8e91c.shtml  (Traductons mine)

Boskov’s Citations

When Perdomo played for Genoa:

If I let my dog loose, my dog dog plays better than him. Then he (rectified slightly) . I don’t say that Perdomo plays like my dog. I say that he can only play at football in the park of my villa with my dog.

Tackle su Perdomo (quando stava al Genoa): «Se io slego il mio cane, lui gioca meglio di Perdomo». Poi una rettifica (si fa per dire): «Io non dire che Perdomo giocare come mio cane. Io dire che lui potere giocare a calcio solo in parco di mia villa con mio cane»

Boskov’s citations. Half philosophy, some good advice,humour and provacation

Boskov e le sue citazioni. Un repertorio sterminato, a metà tra filosofia, racconti di vita, consigli spiccioli, humour e provocazione. Partiamo dalla più celebre, un trattato di pragmatismo kissingeriano non solo calcistico. «Rigore è quando arbitro fischia» (fotogallery di Alessandro Fulloni; twitter @alefulloni)