Mayo have an All-Ireland ancient curse similar to the Red Sox jinx

Mayo's GAA team and their ongoing curse!

If the Boston Red Sox were to up sticks from Fenway, McHale Park in Castlebar would be an ideal place for them to go. Because, like the Red Sox for so long, the green and red of Mayo is cursed.

Some people believe it to be a literal curse. So the story goes, a priest was so appalled at the last victorious Mayo team's lack of respect for a funeral cortege that he hexed them all real good, and it would only be lifted when that team all took that great '45 in the sky. One of Mayo's surviving medal winners of that time Mick Mulderrig remembers the whole curse incident differently, as well as remembering the Truman Administration. "It's a load of crap", he reckons. In fairness, he has skin in the game.

What is certain though is that Mayo are congenitally incapable of winning any match called a final that doesn't have the words "quarter" or "semi" preceding it. 1996 and 1997 were heartbreakingly close affairs between Meath and Kerry respectively, and judging by the massive scrap that unfolded in '96, nose breaking too. 2006, which I watched in Westport at my friend's house, was not such a close run thing, Kerry making them look like eunuchs in a strip club. In 2012, I watched in Dublin with a lot of my Mayo friends as Donegal beat them, the only time I've willed Mayo to lose. But in fairness, I had skin in that game.

But this year, with me being safely abroad in Manchester and with Mayo facing the Dubs, I figured the mix of facing a team not wearing green and gold married with my absence from the home sod would mark a watershed in Mayo's loveable loser cache. The Irish Club in Chorlton where I watched did too, as green and red bunting at the bar draped above the Guinness and Magners drinkers in green and red jerseys underneath. Every time Dublin scored, a solitary enclave in the corner made any noise at all. When Mayo scored their goals, chairs were knocked dangerously askew.

But alas as the game went on, Mayo's chances of victory vanished like the half time spread of ham sandwiches. Goalkeeper Rob Hennelly, who if he weren't an amateur would have really earned his money out there on Sunday, was the real stand out player on the pitch. That was their trouble.

And so, as another All-Ireland Sunday night at the notoriously lascivious nightclub Copperface Jacks is bereaved of Mayo fans, there is still hope. Because while they don't have Sam Maguire there is one thing Mayo fans always have: next year.

Remembering the radiant Mira and her buzzing modern Facebook shrine

Remembering the radiant Mira Dabit

Facebook often throws up some strange societal phenomena that just were not situations a few years ago. Most of these revolve around a lot of people finding something out all at once. Things like announcing the end of a relationship can be incredibly awkward, and with birthdays your page becomes bombarded with well-wishes and tributes, which is of course a whole lot more pleasant. And so it was when I looked at the Facebook page of my friend Mira Dabit, whose birthday was Wednesday. It was absolutely festooned with messages.

That simple fact, people wishing Mira well on Facebook, shows another of its' peculiarities: Mira died last Christmas. She would have been 28 this year.

The presence of that page serves to both deflect and heighten that awful reality. Several months later and I've not really accepted that she's gone. Not even remotely. Every so often it'll cross my mind and it'll feel like recalling a nightmare, not something that actually happened. The fact her page is, even now, even several months later, constantly, consistently buzzing with interaction exemplifies how absurd the notion of her being gone is. Except, interaction isn't the right word. All the traffic is one way. You see the sort of things people are writing, even now, daily, and you realise it's not a Facebook wall anymore. It's a very modern shrine. The fact Facebook informs me of her birthday is an unwittingly cruel administrative anomaly.

I hadn't seen her in quite a while, and not having seen her in so long made it all the more unbelievable. She was in Washington DC, heavily involved in the Occupy movement there. Part of me still imagines she's still there, and that's the trouble.

DC was her final adventure, but she lived in many places. Conquered, really. She was from Ramallah, in Palestine. She was fiercely proud of that. She wasn't just a political activist but a historian and traditional storyteller. She loved her country in a way that was deeper and more multi-dimensional than anyone I've ever known. All too often patriotism is an ostentatious show of muscle. Hers was that of a passionate soul.

Outside of the Palestine question, (although not much was, for her) she held political views that I can only really call comically strident. She was the revolutionary's revolutionary. She once quoted Stalin at a workshop while on one of her legendary anti-capitalist tirades. In front of dozens of people. But disagreeing with Mira was never an impediment to getting on famously with her. She once teased me about becoming Taoiseach, and when I did she said she'd picket my office every day.

She also loved Derry. She really connected it with its upstart attitude, its culture, its people, and she called it her second home. Derry loved her too. When word spread of her passing there was a massive commemoration service, and people spoke at length about what she meant to them. And while the expressions were different, the sentiment was the same: everybody loved this effervescent,earnest, intense, fearless hell-raising Palestinian girl who felt like she'd be hanging round the Bogside all her life.

And so it continues, on her Facebook page and beyond, both as I speak and by the time you read this. In fact, in nine months, the tributes haven't stopped. I doubt they ever will.

Remembering two giants, Seamus Heaney and David Frost

Seamus Heaney

As I wrote recently, ten years ago I did my Leaving Cert. And while I mentioned many details of the day, one I didn't mention directly was my English exam. My Paper II's progress was eased dramatically by a question that could have been written for me (and I suppose, in a sense, it kind of was) in the poetry section: write a letter to Seamus Heaney outlining why you love his poems. Easy peasy.

My favourite poem then, as now, is Valediction. And it was to this I immediately turned to when I heard the news that he passed away last week. It closes, "You've gone, I am at sea. Until you resume command / Self is in mutiny". 

Self is in mutiny. It's simply put, yet blisteringly evocative. It's Heaney all over. And on Friday, I was a bit lost at sea. It's an odd feeling, to miss someone you never physically knew, and yet I wasn't alone in feeling that.

As news filtered through of Heaney's passing, my news filter was awash with people paying tribute, all of whom invariably posted their favourite poems of his as well. On a medium that's often noted for being shallow or frivolous, for Friday at least Facebook was a Xanadu of verse. It's a mark of Seamus Heaney's talent and influence that he was able to do that, although small wonder. For people of my age, he's one of the big reasons any of us have a favourite poem at all. 

While still reeling from the passing of Heaney, on Sunday I heard yet more sad news: the passing of David Frost. Frost was one of a handful of people that I saw doing something, and how they did it, and knew I wanted to do it too. The range of the programmes he made was stupefying. He could muck about with comedians like the Pythons or Peter Cook, and also have the ear of some of the biggest names in world politics (he supposedly once greeted a former UN Secretary General with the phrase "Boutros Boutros Ghali, always a pleasure!"). He presented shows all over the globe at a time when TV was very much a domestic affair. His shows were responsible for both the classic Class Sketch with John Cleese and the Two Ronnies, and a game-changing interview with Richard Nixon. He even gave Through The Keyhole, a show involving snooping in famous people's houses, an unlikely gravitas. Referring to his habit for frontier-breaking, he joked about potentially doing a show from space, and kept his sense of humour throughout his life even when he was the biggest of shots. He made an impression on the world.

Seamus Heaney and David Frost have both left this world. But while they were here they shaped it with loving craft. I'm very thankful for that.

Bolshy Batfans Bash Ben Affleck as Batman? Relax, it's just a movie

Ben Affleck causes quite a stir with news he'll be the next Batman (Photo: www.theorange.co)

It's a testing time in the world. The west is finally getting itself sorted about Syria, although in a pretty cack-handed fashion. The liberal bona fides of Barack Obama's presidency are dissipating faster than you can say "Chelsea Manning". And Batman fans are losing their marbles over the casting of Ben Affleck as The Pointy-Eared Pippistrelle. That's Batman's nickname, isn't it?

Yeah, they're not happy, these Bat people. In the last week there have been myriad memes, articles, hashtags and even a god-damn petition petition either mocking, pontificating or generally shouting at the rain over Ben Affleck moving to Gotham City. I don't normally say things like this: but it's a only a film. Just a film. And like the 17th Batman movie in the last decade, for that matter. Well, give or take a few.

You'd think if you were to listen to the more serious-headed of the anti-Afflecks, you'd think it was the equivalent of getting Rob Schneider to play Titus Andronicus. How dare they undo the dark genius of Christian Bale and Chris Nolan! Of course, the truth is a lot less precious. At one point, Batman was played by the most obnoxious fighter pilot in a large group of really obnoxious fighter pilots. Even Fr Ted thought he was "a complete bastard".

He was also played by a man who featured in a film that involved multiple versions of himself opposite a woman who hasn't appeared in anything but shampoo ads for years. And at various points, his biggest villains were Matilda's father dressed like he was on the way to a reception at an embassy, Ace Ventura trading Hawaiian shirts for green, and the former Governor of California making ice puns. And the music, dear god, the music! At one stage, the soundtrack was replete with Prince jams, Seal power ballads and orchestral melodrama by U2. Now, granted, all these songs are awesome, but it's hardly Blade Runner intensity is it?

And let's not forget the implicit lunacy in the "legitimate" Batman films. Christian Bale's Batman thinks it's a good idea to save a city by throwing a bomb into some water, like it's a firecracker. And then there's Bane. Surely the pressing need to shout "speak up!" takes the sting out of his menace?

I'm about exasperated with the endless superhero films, hybrids and crossovers these days, but I really hope Affleck does a good job at Batman and silences the po-faced and wrong-headed critics. Although he'll find it hard to top Adam West.

A letter to my teenage self on finishing school, university and what comes next

From the LC forward - looking back on the last ten years

Last Wednesday the Leaving Cert results came out. It was 10 years ago since I got my own, and it got me thinking about a lot of things. I wanted to write about them but it became a bit of a hotch potch I couldn't really make cogent. So I decided to look inwards. And backwards. I decided to write 2003-spec Paddy a letter, outlining ten years worth of thoughts about the Leaving, University and what happens next. 

Dear 2003 Paddy,

Actually, that's a good place to start. A dwindling minority of people still call you Patrick. In ten years time, there will be, like, five people in the world who call you that. Paddy might be more jovial and free-wheeling and generally in-character to you, but a few will persevere with Patrick. You cherish them all.

If the time machine has worked properly, you will be reading this letter on the morning of the 13th August, the day you receive your Leaving Cert. This letter comes to you from ten years hence. I know what you're thinking: "They mastered time travel in 2013?". Well, no. I've actually had to wait several years more to deliver it. I know what you're thinking again: "Why didn't you just write me a letter from then rather than delivering what is functionally an out-of-date letter?". Because screw you, that's why.

Anyway, I have some things to tell you. Today, you will go up to Deele College for the last time as a student. Mr McFadden, who has now sadly passed, will take your results in one hand, the booklet outlining protocol for appeals in the other, and slip your results in the middle page of the booklet to further build the tension. Tension, I fully admit, I am now ruining. He'll make a joke about hoping you're able to count up your results, given your Maths result. You'll smile and breathe a sigh of relief, because you know when Mr McFadden makes a joke at your expense, all is well.

You count up your points, but Mr McGowan plays Vorderman with a calculator, in case Mr McFadden was right. He wasn't, you get an A2. You were right to drop to Ordinary. Higher Maths would have broken you like the Drill Sergeant in Full Metal Jacket. Also, Countdown replaced Vorderman, by the way. Her replacement is way better. You'll see. Also, you will one day see the actual Countdown clock quite regularly in work. Again, you'll see.

You get 435 points, quite a nice cushion for Arts in Galway, the course for which you've long held out for. Yes, Magee in Derry would be much handier, and your guidance counsellor admitted to being depressed when you spurned Law at Trinity. You politely rebuffed proximity to Maw's home cookin' and Mr McGivern's promise of a flourishing practice where you can buy a new Mercedes annually, and decided your heart and mind lay out west. I'm glad you did that, trusting your instinct like that. Make sure you keep doing that.

Some people will express surprise you're not one of those Omni-A grade students. You know different, and aren't fussed. For starters, it doesn't matter a damn once you get to your chosen college anyway, and you know your true talent lies in being able to recount vast tranches of trivia and identify basically any pop record within a second. Besides, you'll get an A1 in English to dine out on for a while.

Anyway, more on today. You'll spend the rest of it feeling like you're two feet above your body, fielding questions from people you haven't heard of since your communion asking how you fared, listening to the local radio and hearing Tanya from Glenties being congratulated by every single bloody member of her family on every show throughout the day. You'll be followed round by the atonal hit of the summer, Lumidee's Never Leave You. You'll be glad and unsurprised to know she never has another. You'll go out tonight at the behest of two girls you know fairly well from theatre school. You're the only boy there in a large group of girls, and the two people who know you knows everyone else. It feels a bit rare. You see a handful of your schoolmates, they're much too hammered to say much. You head up to another bar, but there's a mate of Dad's on the door. You don't dare put him in an awkward position, though you're later told he'd have let you in if you'd said who you are. You're home in time to see the tail end of some Donald Sutherland thriller. A feeling of being vaguely out of the loop, palpable awkwardness around girls, missed chances and a photographic memory for TV: it's basically a very neat microcosm of your whole teenage experience. Don't worry though, Galway is coming.

But while we're on the subject: girls. I won't lie, it's touch and go I'm afraid. Sometimes, it'll feel more like horrified look and go. You're basically King Midas in reverse. Easy to say, but I wouldn't worry much about it. Just don't feel the need to change tack or harden yourself in any way because of past rejection or whatever, you'd be amazed what will happen if you hold the line. That advice applies in general, actually.

Next week, you'll have an unholy kick-bollock-scramble of a week trying with offers, accommodation, fees and god knows. You'll pick your residential area for first year within fifteen minutes of an internet search, preoccupied by expediency and a desire to watch Football Focus. It will be one of the most crucial and brilliant choices you ever make.

Going back to the theatre thing, the whole acting hope doesn't quite work as you planned. A quirk of fate in the first week of college means you'll return to one of your first loves: radio. Your absolute first love, TV, will soon follow. It's much easier to play yourself anyway. And, you might be a bit surprised by this given how it never really featured in your plans, but writing becomes a pretty massive part of your life. So will youth work. Your two year hitch with the Donegal Youth Council ends up lasting a tad longer, let's put it like that.

Basically, you're going spend the next decade doing and seeing some great things, 2003 Paddy. But as you you can see a great many of them you won't expect. Enjoy that uncertainty. Don't worry too much about planning things to the letter, you can't live like that. Life won't let you live like that. It's not always going to a picnic either. There's going to be a lot of rejection, a lot of things falling through, a lot of wondering what the hell you do next, or why you even bother. But through a mix of hard work, luck, pathological enthusiasm and a level of stubbornness that would break whatever instrument you use to measure that, you're also going to have some extraordinary experiences born of insane Deus Ex Machina, half chances, spur-of-the-moment decisions, mad impulses and resolute rainbow chasing. 

You're going to work with some of the biggest names in TV. Most of them will be called Jeremy. In a few years time, there will be a beautiful famine replica ship moored at the docks in Dublin. You will be profoundly seasick off the top of its crow's nest near the Mull of Kintyre. You'll get to travel loads, and for work no less. You'll read a story about a website that got crazy publicity for an article on threesomes, despite being one of the best things to happen in empowering young people ever. You'll be proud to say you helped set it up. You'll get turned down for stuff, but offered something else instead. You'll be bloody glad it worked out as it did. You'll look someone in the eyes and feel utterly, utterly flummoxed. You'll work with young people to the point where you care about Leaving Cert result day every year since your own, because extraordinary people you've worked with closely are going through it. You try and impart whatever knowledge you can, and it's about as rewarding as it gets. 

But for now, get up, get dressed, don't keep mum waiting and get your results. Try and act surprised when you get up there. The Leaving Cert was the means, you won't believe where it ends. 

Remembering Jesse Owens at Hitler's 1936 Berlin Olympics in the shadow of Russia's homophobic laws

Plans to boycott Sochi Olympics due to Russia's laws against gay community

I can't remember at what age he told me, but I remember vividly my father telling me the story of Jesse Owens at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. He told me of Hitler's thoughts on his inherent inability, about his refusal to shake his hand, and how Owens thoroughly sickened him by destroying the competition.

My memory of being told that story was pushed to the front of my mind this week, with Stephen Fry's open letter to UK Prime Minister David Cameron and the International Olympic Committee President. He drew on Jesse's story and how it applies to the situation unfolding for the upcoming Winter Olympics in Sochi. Vladimir Putin's full-on homophobic legislative assault, apart from being inherently malevolent, is causing a fundamental clash with the Olympic spirit. Pressure and publicity is piling up, but to no avail.

This isn't going to be a long blogpost, because it doesn't need to be. I don't need to explain how wrong it is that in this day and age, laws precluding a gay person's right to be are being so brutally curtailed. I shouldn't have to. There are very few cases in life that don't occupy at least one shade of grey, but this is one of them. It's just wrong. An absolute wrong.

Jesse Owens is an inspiration not just for his athletic achievement, but for his defiance and grace. But he should never have been put in the position he was put in. Hitler should never have been allowed to curate the Olympic flame. Neither should Putin. Because if he won't bow to diplomatic pressure, or common sense, or just some common humanity, maybe the economic humiliation of having a world event removed from him will do the trick. It doesn't matter if the athletes won't be affected, or whatever sort of loophole tries to be spun, a statement should be made that anywhere in the world where people are treated like this, the global community will not tolerate it. The Olympic spirit is all-inclusive, all-encompassing, all-encouraging. The Games should reflect and embody that completely, and since that can't happen in Sochi as it stands, it should go somewhere else. Anything else would be wrong. Just wrong.

Men's magazines and music videos are a feminist issue?

Still from Robin Thicke's "Blurred Lines" music video

 
I am a man. I think that goes without saying. But I have no problem in self-identifying as a feminist. In fact, I'm quite proud of it. On a purely logical level, women account for half the population so it's madness that their opinions wouldn't be represented to the same level. And on an instinctive level, it's my considered opinion that women are civilization. If women didn't exist, society would be a populace of PlayStation jockeys foregoing trousers. And if we had more women in cabinets, boards and top offices, maybe the world wouldn't be quite as financially, politically and culturally bare-arsed as we are.

Feminism isn't or shouldn't be a fringe movement any more. In a world where women are under-represented, underpaid and under-appreciated, feminism is a global imperative.

As exemplified by the Twitter page @EverydaySexism, we're a million miles away from not just a non-sexist society but a non-misogynist society too. As summed up by Ireland's pre-eminent drag artist Shirley Temple Bar recently, "Sexism is when you think you'd have done it better cuz you're a man. Misogyny is when you think she messed it up because she's a woman."

Gender roles need to be continuously challenged. Even in 2013, it still feels vaguely novel to have women and girls wanting to be scientists and engineers, and small wonder when you rarely see Meccano or chemistry sets anywhere next to fairy wands and dolls houses in toy shops. A few months ago, I saw myself in a shopping center a set of gender specific festival ponchos. The boys' were black and said "Rock star" on them. The girls' were pink and said "Groupie". That tells you all you need to know.

But over the summer I've noticed I'm sitting at the back of the broad feminist church. A great deal of attention has been focused on Robin Thicke's video for his song Blurred Lines. Well, the song and the video. Personally, I think it's a great song. While the lyrics certainly contain a degree of over-assured swagger, I think that's the point. He's trying to actively win a girl over by, it seems to me, a mix of comic over-confidence and the assertion that her previous man did not understand her or her primal nature they way he does. Date rape, as some have maintained, doesn't really come into it from where I sit.

The video I'm colder on, and find harder to defend. Not because it's sexist as such, but because it's a bit mental. Besides, models in videos are hardly new, Robert Palmer basically came up with the video for Blurred Lines in 1986, he just didn't have them move around, any of his mates there, or sheep. But, and this is a crucial point for me, one of the models in the video didn't seem to mind much, so I don't think I should either.

While Blurred Lines left me neutral as a calling cry for feminism, the recent campaign to get lads mags off the shelves or in "modesty bags" has left me an out-and-out conscientious objector. The lobby group UK Feminista, as part of their Lose The Lads Mags campaign, have claimed that magazines with semi naked ladies on them are "deeply harmful and fuel sexist behaviour which underpins violence against women". I completely disagree.

I may be a feminist, but I'm also a complete moral degenerate. I've long held that society is much too prudish and much too bashful when it comes to sex and portrayals of sex. It's not a problem we have with violence, as a hail of bullets in a film is par for the course, whereas a stray nipple causes all sorts of moral panics. I'm deeply suspicious of people who draw shaky lines around what causes people to do things. I don't think a picture of Kate Upton, a woman who models of her own volition, wearing a bra fuels sexist behaviour across the board anymore than watching Reservoir Dogs encourages ear cutting, or The White Album encourages murder just because Charlie Manson cited the album as an influence. Or those 11:30 Diet Coke ads encourage women to objectify men. Modesty bags sounds much too churchy and buttoned-down for the kind of feminism I subscribe too. It's also reductive, and insulting to individual men.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no apologist for lad culture. I think lad culture is for masculinity what sticking your head between park rails is for exploration. But what would be much better than a headline grabbing crusade would be a deeper look at the factors at play here.

For the most part, sex education comes from television shows after 11pm, with schools floundering in their responsibility. With lack of education comes ignorance, and with ignorance unchallenged comes the problem. We still have a culture where when a woman is attacked or abused, it's still a not uncommon to hear "she must have led him on or provoked him somehow", or something to that pathetic effect. The problem isn't the lack of clothes covering up flesh on display, it's the lack of respect society still has for women, whatever they're wearing. We can put lads mags in modesty bags all we want, but unless we get to the real core reasons of sexism and misogyny, then we're only hiding the problem.