Last week, one of my almost ten thousand parent WhatsApp groups suddenly lit up in earnest.
My son’s class, mostly ten year olds newly obsessed with rap and Eminem, were lobbying to go see Kneecap in Fairview Park, fresh from Mo Chara’s bizarre terrorism trial in London.
‘It’s not even that late,’ they pleaded. ‘We just want to hear one song.’ Now, much as I support musical exploration, especially when it’s Irish in origin, there’s something about your ten-year-old chanting ‘Get your Brits out’ in a tricolour balaclava that makes you pause for thought.
Still, I’m nothing if not open-minded, so we settled for a more sedate act of rebellion: a long summer evening in Fairview Park with cans of fizzy pop (for the kids) and a few discreet tinnies (for the parents). Kneecap’s backing track hummed and throbbed in the distance while the kids took over the playground and the skate park, making a perfect racket of their own. We stayed out until nearly 10pm on one of those rare Dublin evenings where the sky stays just bright enough to pretend it’s still early. It was heaven.
Even still, the aesthetics of modern Republican irony leave me feeling mildly uncomfortable, and I was conscious that two of our party were lovely English people who have been living here for years. They know the score and are well able for a bit of banter. But part of me found the tricolour masks, Celtic jerseys and provo chants half-sung in jest to be, as the kids themselves would say, problematic.
Frankly, I was proud to be part of the generation responsible for decommissioning The Wolfe Tones and had hoped to see them put their tin whistles beyond use by this stage. Instead, you have youngsters turning up in their droves with their Lankum t-shirts, Palestinian scarves and a list of their top ten cuddly Gerry Adams tweets rekindling the old rebel songs.
It’s not helped by the fact that I’m reading Say Nothing at the moment — not exactly light summer reading, but a sobering tonic to the festival chants and Instagram reels. Patrick Radden Keefe’s outstanding book strips away the slogans and brings you face to face with what really happened during the worst of The Troubles.
Every generation has its own dance with history and finds a way to reimagine and repopulate it. I just hope we’re not letting ourselves forget the horrors of the past in the pursuit of some post-ironic confrontational craic.
Still, there was a great old buzz in Fairview Park and everyone was behaving themselves, so maybe I’m just a cranky old git…
Maximum retraint
You might have noticed World War 3 starting there over the weekend. Yes, our good friends in the US launched airstrikes on Iran’s main nuclear facilities, Natanz, Fordow and Isfahan. American President Trump called it a ‘spectacular success.’ Iran claimed the damage was minor. It’s a significant and troubling escalation.
The attack followed a crescendo of Israeli air raids and some audacious Mossad operations involving drones, sabotage and surgical air raids, some ten years in the planning. In response, Iran fired missiles toward Tel Aviv and Haifa. Tehran has threatened to close the Strait of Hormuz, where a fifth of the world’s oil moves, prompting global oil prices to wobble and the Chinese to worry.
And there was me worrying about getting a ticket for the hurling semi-final.
Ireland’s Department of Foreign Affairs urged ‘maximum restraint,’ with Tánaiste Micheál Martin calling the situation ‘deeply alarming’ and warning of ‘potentially catastrophic consequences for regional and global stability.’
While it’s important for Ireland to make its position known, you’d sometimes wonder if there’s any point. The rule of international law feels increasingly irrelevant to the major players, especially given the genocide unfolding in Gaza.
Seagull of the match
I had the pleasure of attending the Cork v Dublin match in Croker last weekend having made the rather poor decision to skip Limerick v Dublin in the hurling which produced a shock for the ages. Cork acquitted themselves well, and myself and Fachtna had a frustrating day dealing with the ref from the stands, so I’m not surprised John Cleary was feeling a little raw after it.
It seems pushing people in the back is fine for one crowd but not another. Having said that, the Dubs deserved the win in the end and we just seemed to run out of steam. I’ve never played the game in its modern form but the whole ‘handpassing around in front of the defence for half an hour while five forwards walk slowly around inside picking their noses’ is as mysterious to me as the third secret of Fatima.
Indeed, the most captivating action came not from the pitch but from the sky. I counted 67 seagulls hovering over the stadium. 67.
An airborne mutiny, perhaps, protesting the quality of the football or eyeing up the remaining spice bags on Hill 16.
As the game dragged on, I found myself increasingly invested in their aerial patterns, wondering if they operated on some sort of avian rota.
By the time the second half limped to a close, I was half-expecting one of them to get Man of the Match.
Anyway, the semi final of the hurling awaits and a chance to exact some revenge on the Jackeens. Anyone buying or selling a ticket?
