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Friends of the Field
(by Martha Brassil)
“ Always knew it wouldn’t last, ” said Homer.
“ What do you mean?” asked Kyber.
“ Our freedom. This place used to be our kingdom. We could roam about, pee against the trees, do the things we are
designed to do.”
Kyber peered anxiously around the neighbourhood. This wasn’t good for his nervous system. This constant feeling of being
on edge, this fear of being watched. He hated when Homer became all maudlin. He wanted to talk about the new comer on
the block who by all accounts fancied him but Homer was on his soapbox this evening.
“ You know what happened in America don’t you?”
Kyber had never been to America but then again neither had Homer but god damn it Homer has ways and means of
getting news transported across the Atlantic.
“ No I don’t know what happened in America, “ he grunted.
“ Well once it was made law many people simply got rid of our kind…..they were sent back to the homes and in some cases,
“ Homer lowered his voice “ some poor chaps were never seen again.” Kyber gasped. His fears solidified in his throat
rendering him speechless. Could this be the beginning of the end? He liked it here. He loved his family. He had plenty to eat,
lots of exercise, a bath once a week, trips to the beach. This was his idea of heaven and he didn’t want it to end.
“You have read the signs haven’t you Kyber?”
Kyber couldn’t read. It was one of those things. The letters just scrambled in his brain and meant nothing. However Homer
made a point of reading every sign. He prided himself on being educated and relayed all the details in a sombre voice.
“A fine of 1290 euro, if we are caught doing it”
Kyber shook his head. Where would he get that sort of money?
“ Who would fine us?” he asked. I mean these signs have been here for quite some time and well we are still getting away
with it.”
Homer licked his lips as he was wont to do when had some juicy gossip.
“There have been rumours about committees.”
Committees. The very word conjured up images of austere people sitting around a table discussing his imminent demise.
Homer paused, secretly pleased with his effect on Kyber.
“Yes special committees to oversee the law of the land. And seeing as the law of the land has been passed they have the
power to fine us. “
Kyber hung his head. He would have to think of something. Perhaps Homer would find a way out. As though he read his
mind Homer spoke. He adopted the stance of a true oracle, his head held high as he spoke his words with certainty.
“We are safe Kyber. All we have to do is not to be seen during the day. At night we can go out and nobody will see us.
They will be inside watching the soaps, feeding their children. They won’t even be thinking of us.”
Kyber liked it when Homer became more upbeat and had a plan. Still as they walked back home he couldn’t shake off his
anxious feelings. He kept chewing on the word committees and it conjured up thoughts of an inquisition. Besides he didn’t
like doing it in thedark. All those dancing menacing shadows scared him.
That night he went to sleep. And while Homer dreamt of chasing cats he dreamt of the lady from the poo committee, fining
him. The only answer had to be a poop -a -scoop….now if he could persuade his owner. He knew Homer would laugh.
He had once said poop- a- scoops were not for real dogs, only for sissies. But he didn’t mind being a sissy, not if it got rid of
the dreams. He would only have Homer’s wrath to contend with and he could cope with that.
Just about.
Beyond the track: Disposable Dogs
Darkie’s Pride takes the final bend. There is an expectant hush. On my right a group of men, animated with
adrenaline, punch the air willing their dog to go faster. Bookies shift uneasily on their stands as it looks like the
favourite is coming in to win. Darkie wins by a head. The crowd roars, caught up in the ecstasy of the moment.
Being at the track can be a fun night, a happy night, a family night. However it is hard to reconcile the
bonhomie and bantering with the fate that awaits many greyhounds later. Once the crowds have abated and
the track lights dimmed there is a sadder face to the racing industry. Nobody wants to know what happens to
these dogs.
They are only greyhounds and in the competitive world of greyhound racing they are disposable.
Prior to the emergence of greyhound rescue groups in the late 80’s and 90’s almost all greyhounds used for
racing were killed or worse sent off to an unbearably cruel fate in countries such as Spain. In England
greyhound retirement homes have sprung up in response to their appalling fate.
Sadly here in Ireland there has largely been a laissez- faire approach to greyhounds.
The majority of the dogs here don’t live long enough to reach retirement age. According to the ISPCA 14,000
greyhounds are disposed of every year. These are dogs who have not made the grade as racing dogs or they
are past their best for racing. Other unwanted dogs are sent to Spain where they race in appalling conditions,
with little or no veterinary care. Other misfortunate greyhounds end up being used for vivisection.
One ISPCA worker Marion Fitzgibbon spoke of the horror she witnessed in Spain. In one track injured dogs
raced against each other, animals with open sores and bites, who despite their fate still managed to wag their
tails as she stroked them. These images haunted her for many months afterwards.
Bord na gCon’s laissez faire approach to the welfare of greyhounds is shameful to say the least. Any
organisation who condones the sale of greyhounds to Spain are hardly thinking of the welfare of the animals.
In response to the plight of greyhounds Bord na gCon have set up a retirement trust for greyhounds in Ireland.
Thinking that this was a sanctuary where I could visit the dogs I was sadly disappointed.
This is a scheme run by people like John O’ Carroll who told me that they provide quality accommodation and
homes for 50-70 dogs. This is Bord na gCon’s contribution to greyhounds, a PR stunt giving the impression
they are doing something. This is paid for by the owners themselves as they pay 2% of their winnings to the
retirement fund. The money which amounts to an estimated 100,000 euro is used to house a small percentage
of greyhounds.
The plight of greyhounds will not be forgotten while we have brave hearts such as Bernie Wright and Marion
Fitzgibbon who have worked tirelessly on their behalf. There is also the greyhound sanctuary Avalon funded by
the German Pro Animale group which provides homes for 60 greyhounds. The ISPCA want the government to
intervene and to put forward a bill of rights, as was done in Britain to protect greyhounds. Although the
government earns millions in revenue from dog racing they have so far done nothing. Instead they spend
millions subsidising Bord na gCon.
Greyhounds who do race are retired by the time they are four. Yet a greyhound can live to the ripe age of 16.
Even though they are often seen as lean mean racing machines they do in fact have a gentle and patient
temperament. This has been related by the many people who have greyhounds as pets. Greyhounds make
lovely pets, a fact that has not yet permeated into the Irish consciousness.
In Germany and in the USA greyhounds have been kept as pets for many years, some who are happy to live in
apartments. Greyhounds are clean animals who smell nice. They are elegant and intelligent. They don’t bark a
lot and are easy to train as they are eager to please. They only need two short walks a day and are quite
happy to laze about for the rest of the time. People who have adopted them speak of the gentle nature and
their ability to get along with children.
Greyhounds once the revered pets of Pharaohs deserve the status of a pet. It is not fair to see them as mere
racing machines when they are so much more then that. The lucky few are allowed to wander around the farm
as pets once their racing career is over but this is the exception rather than the rule.
If people make money from greyhounds surely they have a moral responsibility to ensure their greyhounds are
well cared for and are able to spend their retirement in comfort. More funds should be made available for the
welfare of retired greyhounds. There should also be an immediate ban on their export to Spain, Italy and the
Far East.
As Gandhi once said “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be measured by the way its
animals are treated.” It seems in Ireland we have a long, long way to go.
(by Martha Brassil)
Patron Saint
Despite the pungent smell of diesel fumes Sarah made her way onto the multicoloured battered boat. “This
way ladies and gentleman” wheezed a wizened fisherman with a toothless smile. Sarah and the other
rubber clad passengers inhibited by their flippers waddled towards their seats. She felt the biting cold of the
Atlantic biting into areas of exposed flesh but she didn’t care. This was going to be worth it. A silence born
of fatigue and reverence filled the air. Louise said the prayer worked but hadn’t fully explained how. Something
to do with the power of telepathy between a dolphin and a human.
Sarah’s whispered imaginings floated towards the dolphin. “He loves the sound of the boat. Draws him every
time” shouted the fisherman above the drone of the engine. Suddenly the engine spluttered to a stop. One by
one bodies plunged into the Atlantic, eager to swim with Fungi. Sarah swam away from the boat and bobbed
gently in the water, watching, waiting. Fungi jumped gracefully over the crest of the waves. People gasped and
swam towards him. He disappeared and resurfaced just beside Sarah.
For a moment their eyes locked. Tentatively she reached out to touch his satiny surface but he flinched and
once again disappeared. “Be careful” bawled the fisherman, “Fungi’s a wild animal. He doesn’t like to be
touched.” His words fell on deaf ears. Sarah used to pray to St Anthony as a child but she wondered if praying
to a dolphin would be different. “ Hail Fungi Patron Saint of Dingle, make Dean fall truly, madly in love with me.
Amen, ” she mouthed into the salty air. After all the prayer had worked for Louise.
There was no reason why it shouldn’t work for her.
( by Martha Brassil)
Rachael
by Martha Brassil
“Shall we begin?” said Dancer, pen poised. He was eager to record the minutes of today’s meeting. Santa turned around in his mock
leather swivel chair (his accountant’s idea of cost cutting in the North Pole). The chair groaned under his enormous weight.
“My friends”, he began, “Welcome to our annual general meeting.” The raindeers tapped their hooves on the table in response.
“This year for the first time in history there are going to be changes,” said Santa.
Rudolph shifted uneasily in his chair. He didn’t want changes. He wanted order, tradition, the cosiness of sameness.
Santa cleared his throat.
“ It has been brought to my attention that there are no females on the sleigh team.” He paused, feeling the weight of testosterone fury.
“And in the current climate of advanced political correctness it is imperative to include at least one female.”
“ Sorry to interrupt, “ murmured Prancer, “but won’t a female be too distracting for us?”
“Mmm, interesting point,” said Santa.
“ She also won’t be as strong or as dextrous and everyone knows females are useless at directions.
“ Raindeers, raindeers we could come up with all sorts of reasons why a female can’t be with us but I am under pressure to include
one.
“ But Santa, females are only good at cooking, cleaning and looking after kids…..” His voice trailed off under Santa’s disapproving
gaze.
“ One of the team of course will have to step down and I will leave the decision to Rudolph. Good day gentle deers. I will see you
anon.”
Santa left the boardroom.
Rudolph seethed. One of the raindeers had to go but which one when he treasured them all equally? What the hell was Santa thinking
of? Rudolph blamed the feminists and their “ Let’s all be equal policies.” Deluded not very attractive females who because they can’t
get a male decide they have to act like them. Where would they stop? They might want to change the nativity altogether, maybe
replace Jesus with a little Josie. It didn’t bear worth thinking.
Each raindeer blinked nervously as they pulled a straw. Comet drew the short straw. His eyes brimmed with tears. All his life he had
trained for the Christmas global ride. All those hours spent in the gym to be wasted in retirement. He hung his head in disgust.
Rachael sashayed into the boardroom. Rudolph turned towards her. Ah Rachael, he thought to himself. She was unlike some of the
hormone crazed females he knew. Rachael invoked his inner maleness and made him want to protect her, even care for her. If only
all the others were happy with their femininity instead of clamouring for power in his world.
He handed his cup to her. She looked at him in disgust. What had he done?
“Gentle deers I am here to join you for the Christmas global ride. And I have been thinking of a few little interesting touches. How
about us all having red noses? I have a friend who’s a great plastic surgeon. We could all have a nose make over, make us a bit more
colour co-ordinated don’t you think?
Rudolph groaned. Eight deers, one doe, nine red noses. He would no longer be Rudolph the red noses raindeer, no longer special, no
longer the leader of the pack. He stared into the void, hovering on the precipice of deer nutiness. He smiled at her, his gums receding,
his teeth forced into prominence trying to hide his lack of sentiment.
Scotia’s Grave
The equinox moonlights the way in silver patches. The dogs forge ahead, sniffing the night air, oblivious of their
final destination. To our right a stream gurgles and gushes accompanying us on a journey that was hers.
Once upon a time.
Deeper into the catacomb of undergrowth we cross one bridge and then another. The moon buries herself in
clouds, shrouding the landscape. In the space of a moment our world shrinks to the crunching of twigs
underfoot and distant nocturnal sounds that fuel our imaginings.
“ I knew we shouldn’t have come in the dark,” moans Rachael whose ghostly petulant face scans mine for
guidance.
“It’s better in the dark”, I mumble as I take the lead. I want to tell her that only the night would release her secrets
but the words implode in my mouth as I exhale.
Without warning the stream peters out at the foot of Scotia’s resting place.
So this is it,” says Rachael.
She sits down on the grave and hugs her knees to herself. I will her to stay silent.
According to a 600 BC legend, Scotia, wife of the former Milesius and mother of six sons, was killed in battle
with the legendary Tuatha De Danaan on the nearby Slieve Mish mountain.
A single solitary grave from Pagan Ireland. Raw primitive beliefs fed by the purity of imagination, unfettered by
later allegiance to a dead man on a cross. Scotia whose valour and courage matched the great godlike De
Danans was laid to rest in a grave fit for a Queen.
Daughter of an Egyptian Pharaoh, hieroglyphics mark her mound like tomb. We lay on the grave my sister and
I and soak up the ancient energy. Nebulous facts make for fiction and ignite our sense of wonder. Was she
given gifts for her journey? Food perhaps, flowers, precious metals? Intuited by her primitive soul she would go
to the great kingdom in the sky to meet with her beloved. I envy her certainty.
The legend of Scotia enlarged by time slowly becomes part of our consciousness. A woman following her
inner laws to avenge the man she once loved, precious father of her sons. Sons who in time would avenge her
death and become leaders of this Green Isle. Scotia now rests in peace, assured of her lineage, confident of
her place in history.
At Rachael’s instigation we take leave of the sacred site. On the nearby hills, lit by a tapestry of stars I see
sheep kneeling, some genuflecting, their silent figures caught in this vortex of ancient energy. Do they perhaps
sense the gossamer thin veil between this world and the next and are momentarily transfixed?
The name O ‘Sullivan, my mother’s maiden name is allegedly linked to the Milesians. Could it be I owe this life
to Scotia’s brave heart and scattered seeds?
Or perhaps Myths born of magic are embroidered by later generations and the truth, whatever it may be, is still
waiting out there.
(by Martha Brassil)
Them Bones
By Martha Brassil
It was a soft day, which in Ireland roughly translates as being grey and relatively nondescript. Moody clouds threatened from the
horizon but as long as the rain stayed over the Atlantic the day would be perfect for the procession. Nell and Nora didn’t have to
travel far, only out of their shop in fact, to secure an ideal viewing spot.
Nell and Nora were twins born in 1922 at the same time as the birth of the Irish Free State. They had lived in Freshford all their lives,
not by choice but from necessity. Their mother Noreen had died not long after their birth and from a young age they had replaced
her as a carer for their father Michael Murphy. According to local gossip poor Michael was in such a bad way after the death of his
wife that he took refuge in the bottle. Who could blame him what with two daughters to rear all on his own. The poor man deprived
of the comforts of a wife craved a source of solace.
Meanwhile the daughters, who essentially reared themselves once they could walk, spent their lives tending to the needs and whims
of their heartbroken father. Marriage was out of the question as guilt prevented them from leaving the man who depended upon them
for his very survival.
On their fiftieth birthday, Michael, after a night on the booze, was found floating belly up in the river. Such a tragedy, people said, a
fine man, a good and respected man. Everyone expected the sisters to be overwhelmed with the death of their father but it had the
opposite effect. It liberated them.
Having inherited a tidy sum from the parsimonious Michael Nell and Nora decided to invest their money in a grocery shop, that they
would take turns to run. Nell, the elder of the two by five minutes did the morning shift and Nora who was totally allergic to
mornings worked in the afternoon. It was a job that suited them both admirably. Besides having a shop in the village gave them
instant access into the loop of village life and its golden gossip.
Nell told Nora she had to get up early to watch the procession or otherwise she would have to go into Kilkenny later and she would
be crucified by the heavy traffic. At their tender age of eighty-one, traffic was something they usually sought to avoid at all costs.
“Don’t know why you got me up this early Nell,” grumbled Nora, “ I could have stayed in bed for at least another hour.”
“ If we waited any longer the crowds would have come and taken our spot,” muttered Nell under her breath. She had learned for
many years not to cross her twin so early in the morning.
“She’s not even one of the Saints I pray to. I have my own list and she’s certainly not in the top ten”, said Nora.
“That may well be but as she’s the one passing through our village you can put in a special request” suggested Nell.
Nora threw her eyes up to heaven. “Special request, my eye. Who told you that nonsense?”
“Father Dennehy” said Nell lending authority to her suggestion.
With pursed lips Nora looked up at the top of the hill and saw cars and crowds of people descending upon the village.
“Saints preserve us,” said Nell, “they’re coming. I wonder if we have to knell or genuflect as the hearse passes us.” She blessed
herself twice. Nora however was too busy trying to see who was in the car with Father Dennehy to answer her sister.
“Well wouldn’t you know it, look at Pansie Mc Carthy sitting beside Father Dennehy. The funereal look on her face, you’d swear
she was burying a blood relative,” laughed Nora.
The cortege slowly passed their shop and stopped suddenly. For a few moments it seemed as if all activity ceased. People averted
their eyes to the ground, and furiously mouthed their requests to the Blessed Saint. Nora stared in at Pansie whose eyes were
beginning to well up with tears. I know it is not good to think ill of the dead or the living but I so dislike the sanctimonious cow, she
thought and then immediately requested that Saint Theresa helped her with her rheumatism. Nell prayed for the soul of her father and
mother and asked the Saint to let the tax inspector reduce his unreasonable bill for this year.
The hearse headed for the local church where Saint Theresa could be viewed for the next hour. It would give people a chance to
pray to her.
“Mary McGrath told me all this parading about with Saint Theresa’s bones was a PR stunt by the Catholic Church”, said Nora.
“Now Nora you mustn’t speak ill of the dead,” said Nell rather piously.
“What’s wrong with telling the truth as I see it. Although you’d think if Rome wanted a PR agent to attract the youth they’d have
hired someone like Louis Walsh. Sure all he’d have to say is that they’d have to go to mass first if they wanted to be in pop idol.”
Nora cackled at her idea.
Nell miffed at the very suggestion shuffled inside. She wanted to fortify herself with a strong cup of tea laced with a wee drop of
brandy before she started work in the shop. The trouble with Nora was that she always spoke before she had time to think things
through. Still it was a free country so she was entitled to her opinion.
Nora followed her into the kitchen. She cut a thick slice of Barnbrack and spread it with real butter, not the plastic, let’s pretend to
be butter, that her sister used.
“ You do know that the box only contains some of the Saint’s bones, don’t you?” she said in between a large bite.
“And where are the rest of them?” asked Nell incredulously
“In Yugoslavia. She’s doing a world tour so some of the bones go to Ireland and the others go elsewhere.”
“I don’t believe you Nora. You’re only saying these things to upset me and you know I have to look after my blood pressure.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die. You can ask Father Dennehy, ‘cos he told Mary McGrath at confession last week,” retorted Nora.
What was the world coming to, sighed Nell. She wondered how they divided the bones, a leg and an arm for each box and which
one got the head or the torso. She got up a poured a more liberal amount of brandy into her tea. Reality blurred was a lot more
tolerable. Anyhow Saint Theresa wasn’t on her list of saints either. She had a soft spot for the men, saints like Jude and Andrew or
Blessed Martin. Besides Saint Theresa came from Lisieux, somewhere in France and she didn’t like the French, not since her
unsuccessful and only affair with Jean-Phillipe. She had plenty reasons to distrust the French.
She made her way slowly downstairs to greet their first customer of the day. “ Hello Pansie ” she said, “How can I help you? Wasn’t
the procession only out of this world…….”
Tralee
By Jerry Daly
To this simple paper I put my simple pen
'Tis not too easy to decide how to begin
For I wish to write about my dear Tralee
And I'm not too sure where to find the key
I'm writing 'cause I feel it's a place unique
And once discovered one need ne'er again seek
Such are it's qualities that mere words can't describe
And that's the task before me, me a mere scribe
By night or day whether wet or dry
In Tralee I always feel on a high
The air is fresh, the mood is bright
My heart is always gay and light
Though ‘tis far I’ve roved by sea and air
I’ve ne’er found the likes of its atmosphere
In other places I’ve felt old and blue
But here I always feel young and new
Now ‘tis oft I ask why this is so
And I wonder why I’m never low
In life I’ll ne’er leave this blessed sod
Perhaps ‘tis to Tralee that God gave the nod
Why do winds of freshness always blow
And waters of gladness always flow
I’ll never know, the truth to tell
Tralee is the town I love so well.
Kerry Footballers
By Jerry Daly
For glorious grace and grandiose grandeur
For stately sublimity and supreme splendour
The cream of Gaelic sports hallowed hall
Is the excellent exquisite elegance of Kerry Football
Magnificent men with majestic mastery
Ardent artistry is their august armoury
With splendid style and superb skill
Wondrous warriors with worthy will
With polished panache they show the way
Mighty privileged are all who see them play
With dedication and daring they are driven
Their flair and flamboyance give us visions of heaven
No man alive do they ever fear
The word defeat they will not hear
They stride the field with power and vigour
Never can one doubt their valour
Now in Croke Park on All-Ireland day
When the going gets tough and some do pray
With expert endeavour and eager elan
Fierce fires of fervour they do fan
Their brilliance inspires us and fulfils our dreams
It rouses huge cheers and loud delight screams
Beautiful, bonny, brave and bold
Are our heroes who wear Kerry’s green and gold.
Best of The Bestest
By Jerry Daly
When we recall excellence and the crème de la crème
And experts filled tho the very brim
One of the greatest, way ahead of the rest
Was the Thriller Dribbler, the Bold George Best
A man of high intellect, not lacking a pluck
He gave to the game much more than he took
A Gorgeous ‘Red Devil’ not averse to romance
Spectators he often left in a trance
A new meaning he gave to the word magic
His loss to the game it truly was tragic
His breathtaking talent inspired many to poetry
His career all too brief was covered in glory
His mastery of the ball on one could dispute
A magnet it seemed to be to his boot
With courage enormous and pride he was driven
His astounding skill gave us visions of heaven
He could turn and twist like a freshly caught eel
His spellbinding art at times seemed unreal
T’was many the marker he made look like a dud
Ans some he left suffering from twisted blood!
Twist dummy hop, turn dummy, twist skip turn
Go left skip, go right dummy, hop twist return
Turn baffle twist confuse skip dummy confound
Skip go in turn go out dummy hop go round.
In 1968 new heights he attained
As Sir Matt’s precious Euro Cup was gained
Player of the Year in England and Europe too
He wowed and amazed with stupendous deeds new
With a football instinct that amounted to genius
How gloriously he delighted and thrilled us
All tests of supremacy he did pass
Different class, different class, different class
His brilliance inspired us and fulfilled our dreams
It aroused many gasps and loud delight screams
An artiste who attained a newly found Everest
Was the High King of Soccer, the Genius George B
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