unironedman

IN WHICH WE DIP OUR TOE INTO THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF SHIBBOLETHS, PONDER ON THE POSSIBLE ORIGINS OF THE IRISH MAMMY, AND KEEP TAKING THE TABLETS…

My Mum thinks it’s rather hilarious that I have a regular job at last, after nearly reaching the tender age of sixty. Okay, I’m a few years off sixty. I’m just making a point. She’s cute enough, that one, and as she reads my blog, I need to be careful 🙂

The thing is, I’ve always been doing something. Work, or often a serious hobby masquerading as work, such as the time I tried to become a rockstar. When I was cutting my teeth in a local graphic design agency, that was a full-time gig. After that, I went on to a start-up and did that for a number of stressful but mostly enjoyable years. It gave me peptic ulcers but some great memories. Those hours were very long and especially when our magazine was going to print. Sometimes you would have to pull an all-nighter. That was twenty-five years ago.

After that, I set up my own business as a freelance graphic designer, and about eighteen years ago, I joined the fire service. It is these two jobs that have rather clouded the issue, because I worked out of a home office, and I was on-call with the brigade. This meant I was ‘at home’ a lot, even though I was working. As such (and I don’t suspect my dear family will take offence) but that meant I was considered fair game for lifts here and there, or any number of diversions that meant leaving the desk. And of course, it was not always difficult to prise me away from the office. Or orifice, as I used to lovingly call it.

Dad was particularly good at appearing unannounced and would often stand behind me, clutching a piece of paper which would invariably be another hastily penned letter to the editor of The Irish Times, whilst I finished a phone call to a customer. Good times!

Since leaving the brigade, I did a number of courses, including the EMT one, and then a number of different things to keep the wolf from kicking in the door, including driving bands on tour, doing a few on-site medic gigs for film and ad work, and more recently, painting and decorating. The problem really (apart from the obvious work hiatus when on a course, or recuperating in a back brace from my failed career as a stuntman) is that none of these gigs were particularly stable or regular. And here, I concede my Mum has a point.

Speaking of which, why Mum, and not Mam? Funny you should ask! Without doing even the most basic of research to prove my point, I am now going to explain this like it’s the gospel truth. Here is some background reading if you wish. In dear Old Blighty, your Mother is ‘Mum’. It’s easy to see how that is shortened by children. It’s the first syllable, rounded off and softened with an ‘m’. Father gets similar treatment. The bilabial consonant stuff is all covered by the Wiki link I just posted. You read that, right?

In Ireland, the words for mother and father are máthair and athair. So that ‘uh’ sound you hear in the first syllable of mother has been replaced by an ‘ah’ sound in Irish, and so Irish folk will say Mammy and not Mummy. All good? I mean, it makes sense to me. And if you have a different theory, you better come at me with a PhD in Linguistics. That’s all I’m sayin’!

Of course, like the Rocky Road to Dublin, this all led me down a certain path. The path leads to a road, and that road leads to Shibboleth Town! It’s a fascinating topic, and the Mummy/Mammy example is just your entry level ticket to a whole world of wonderful examples of how language is not just a nation’s identity, but in times of strife, can even get you killed. If you have ever seen Inglorious Basterds, you may recall that famous scene in the French bar where the spy accidentally reveals his true identity to the German officer at the table by ordering three beers with three fingers held aloft, instead of two fingers and a thumb. Well, language has been another tool for outing spies over the years. Of course, your spy may speak your language, but there are always little wrinkles in every tongue that can catch out the unwary.

The title of the blog includes a Danish one, and it means porridge with red berries and cream. Good luck trying to pronounce it. I was in Norway once, at a Viking Festival, and someone was making a speech around the fire after the public had gone home, and being a good European, he was able to do this in about five different languages, including Russian, Swedish and English. When he came to thank the Danish contingent, he said something along the lines of ‘of course, we all know that the Danes don’t really have a language… it’s more like a throat infection…’ to loud cheers (and some boos). I can’t recall the exact words. It had been a long day, and I may have had a few beers. I do recall they played a game called ‘Flaming Arseholes’ later that evening, the rules of which are very simple, but that’s for another day. The other interesting thing of note (though I admit it could just be me) is that I found I could understand basic Danish (is there such a thing?) after a number of beers. I have yet to test this theory on other languages. But I am willing to give it a go.

There are lots of other examples of what essentially became passwords (literally, what password really means; say the correct word, and you may pass). And each language has its own. And if you got one wrong, you might get a bayonet in your belly.

Ireland, not being a renowned warmongering nation, does not appear to have military shibboleths, as far as I can tell, but of course, we do have lots of interesting Gaelic words to trap the unwary visitor. And this works on a parochial level too; there are plenty of towns and villages that have pronunciations that are unique to the dwellers themselves, and you will out yourself instantly as ‘not being from around these parts’ if you get it wrong. (I’m guessing Niall from Donegal knows a few!). Most of the time, as a peaceful nation of rogues, we delight in listening to tourists make an arse of themselves asking how to get a train to Drog-eed-a, but there are exceptions. (Here’s another link for a good list).

On no account, ever, must you say ‘top o’ the mornin’!’ to someone, even in an ironic way. This was actually written on page two of the Proclamation of Independence read by Patrick Pearse on the steps of the GPO in Dublin during the Easter Rising in 1916. Well, actually, that page was lost. I think they ran out of paper in the printer tray. Not sure. It’s not important.

My point is: Karen from Boise, Idaho was in a pub in Leenane searching for long lost cousins and a quick squint at the film locations for John B Keane’s The Field when she thought it would be hilarious to say this to a guy playing the fiddle. Well, the music stopped like a piano player in a wild west saloon and they found the remains of her body in a bog three miles out of the village a year later… *

(You are allowed one ‘soft day, thank God!’ but only one.)

The runs have continued, and I rather surprised myself with two decent runs during the week, One was 10k around the park, on Tuesday evening, and then on Thursday, I managed 12k along the canal and back through the town. Sunday morning was an early start. I drove up to Gary’s in Maynooth and we car-pooled on to Enfield. The plan was to get a run in, and then adjourn somewhere for lunch.

We headed out west along the towpath. This route takes in two of the aqueducts over the Royal Canal. The stretch we were on is part of what is called The Long Level. This is a 32 kilometre length between locks 17 and 18, or Ferran’s and Thomastown. It crosses both the Blackwater and the Boyne, and several roads and a rail line. As such, it is elevated above much of the surrounding countryside. To avoid catastrophic water loss due to a breach in the banks, a lock was built at Ribbontail, even though there is no change in levels. There is another construction closer to Enfield which would allow for a quick dam to put in place for the same reason.

We made it as far as the Boyne Aqueduct where we stopped for a quick break and a gel or a bar, and then headed for home. We stopped briefly at Ribbontail where Gary was able to give me the potted history of the place and how the bridge was built especially for mass-goers following the construction of the canal. There were also tales of skullduggery relating to the Ribbon Men, but I feel that needs a blog post if its own one day.

We made it back to Enfield where we had parked, and kept running through the main street until the watch hit the half-marathon mark in a reasonable 2 hours and 4 minutes, but the café Gary had suggested was very busy so we headed to Kilcock, which is on the way home, and had a tasty brunch in a very nice place called The Rye River Café. I feel their website sells themselves short. The venue is wonderful and deserves top billing. I had the American Breakfast, which was bacon, egg and sausage, but with the addition of fried cubes of potato and pancakes and maple syrup. I figured seeing as we are undoubtedly on a list somewhere to become the next vassal state of the US, I may as well get used to eating their food. No idea what number we are. I think Canada was 51. Then Greenland was 52, as I recall. It’s hard to keep up!

Gary’s challenge this week, set through Garmin, was to clock up 40k. This has been achieved. Of course, the challenge next week goes to 45k. I think I can see a trend! Three of us are in training for this ultra madness in April so miles will have to be put on the clock. There’s no way around it.

My new job is in the local hire shop. Here’s their funky website. It’s rather good, I think. There is a huge amount to learn, but there are certainly very few dull moments. It’s a family business, and the nice tie-in, for me, is that My Dad and the owner got on really well, and the hire centre used to have a premises here on the Mill Lane before they outgrew the unit. Tools from that shop would have been hired to help build my house.

As my Dad was fond of saying, just ‘keep taking the tablets’. 🙂

(The legs pic is a puzzle. You have to guess the Blondie song…)

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* Okay, I may have made this story up…