“Election posters remind me of the photographs distributed by Irish country and western showbands in the era of the ballrooms of romance, that cultural desert in Irish popular music between the decline of sean-nós and the arrival of the Saw Doctors.” 
Fr Kevin Hegarty Christians are expected to love everyone. I am sorry but I draw the line at bores. Toleration, yes, well a little, but love is a bridge too far. Shirley Conran once said that life is too short to learn how to stuff a mushroom. I am not sufficiently versed in the ways of high cuisine to know what that entails but I am convinced it is too short to suffer bores.
I have become adept at avoiding the lengthy ministrations of bores. I fear, however, I may be losing my touch. Recently, I have endured my share of mental torture. I have been the victim of what F Scott Fitzgerald called ‘a few veteran bores’.
I met a man who explained to me, in intense detail, why the Mayo senior team (male) have not won the All Ireland since 1951.
I encountered a woman who tried to convince me of the authenticity of the recent ‘apparition’ on the wall of a housing estate in Ballina. So-called heavenly manifestations hit the headlines when the weather is bad, the economy is in recession and tragedies occur.
Watch out. There may soon be a moving statue at a venue near you.
During the gloomy summer of 1985 there was a spate of reports, from around the country, on mobile statues. I remember a wonderful cartoon of a grotto, bereft of its statue, but with a card on the plinth announcing: “Gone for lunch. Back later”.
The biggest nuisance was the man who cornered me to let me know how he tried to tell politicians that the recession was looming but they would not listen. No succinct George Lee he, I though my head would explode as he talked relentlessly and gazed at me with martyr’s eyes.
Give me Leonard Cohen any day. I comforted myself with Woody Allen’s wry aphorism about life: “One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness. The other, to total extinction. Let us hope we have the wisdom to choose correctly”.
That was not the most boring experience of my life but it was close. The palm goes to an event that took place when the priests of my diocese were gathered for a week, some years ago, to discuss pastoral approaches for the 21st century.
On the penultimate night of the course, the facilitator decided we needed a little rest from our labours. He organised a social evening. He encouraged us, a group of male celibates, (well, obviously) to entertain each other by singing, playing music, reciting a poem or telling a joke. Thankfully, we were not expected to dance.
I feared the worst. The nadir of the night occurred when a senior cleric, not previously noted as a contributor to the gaiety of the nation, decided to join in the ‘fun’. He went to his room and returned with a formidable volume, as solidly bound as a German doctoral thesis on the ecology of Translyvania, entitled ‘Jokes Priests Can Tell’, from which he gave a tedious recital. And there are people who fervently believe that ‘Fr Ted’ is merely a farce, untouched by reality.
Now that I am on the topic of boredom, how is the local election campaign for you? I am seriously underwhelmed. All I see are earnest candidates making clichéd promises about services and infrastructure, that, given the perilous state of local government finance, they will not be able to fulfil.
The only statement of the campaign that, so far, has caught my interest came from Tim Quinn, the veteran county councillor, who announced that he is not putting up any posters. Most unusual, as Tim is not known to be a shrinking violet, with a perverse fear of the camera. People, he reckoned, know who he is and are tired of looking at his photograph.
Be afraid Tim. Be very afraid. Your art of self-depreciation may rebound if it causes voters to conclude that they are tired, not only of your photograph, but of you.
He may, however, have a point. What value have election posters in the age of the internet? Are they a manifestation of the American witticism that “politics is showbusiness for ugly people”?
They merely litter the landscape before finding their rightful place in the recycling bin. They provide opportunities for remedial apprentices in the Conor Cosby school of art, to disfigure the smiling faces of candidates.
Election posters remind me of the photographs distributed by Irish country and western showbands in the era of the ballrooms of romance, that cultural desert in Irish popular music between the decline of sean-nós and the arrival of the Saw Doctors. It was a time when, in words of the Frank Kelly song, there were 85,000 country singers in Ireland and they all wanted to sing “low like Charley Pride”.
Speaking of Irish Country music, I suspect we will soon have news of Big Tom’s annual summer tour to the boulevards of broken dreams along the western seaboard. I must tell you my favourite Big Tom story. He was performing in an Irish club in the US. As he droned his way through that dreamy dirge, ‘Gentle Mother’, strumming on two strings of the guitar, an African-American, at the back of the room, wept profusely. An Irishman noted his grief and went over to him; “Look, I can see you are upset. Your poor mother must have died. I know the feeling. My mother died ten years ago and I’m not over it yet”. “No say”, replied the African American, “Ma mom’s fine. It is just that I am a guitar player”.
I’ll stop here, lest I commit the ultimate folly in an article on boredom. I might end up boring you.
Christians are expected to love everyone. I am sorry but I draw the line at bores.
