National anthems are meant to inspire patriotism, not generate confusion. In this piece, I will write about my experience of the latter because I need to unburden myself of the painful memories. Besides, there’s more comedic value in the confusion part.
I learned the words to Ireland’s National Anthem, ‘Amhran na bhFiann’, around the age of nine. Our teacher taught us English lyrics before we learned the Gaelic version. In English, the anthem is called ‘The Soldiers’ Song’. I didn’t have a huge grasp of apostrophe use at that age, so couldn’t tell if ‘The Soldiers’ Song’ was about a group of soldiers or an individual one. I just wish someone had told me the answer was waiting in the first three words of the chorus. (See below).
My school friends and I learned the lyrics to the song’s opening verse, and we were soon singing about singing a soldiers’ song and everything seemed fine. And then it came to the bit where we were ‘impatient for the coming fight.’ This made me uneasy; I was never impatient for a fight in my life. In fact, I only would only shadow box on overcast days.
As we moved on to the chorus – the anthem proper – my unease turned to shock when I discovered the first three words:
‘Soldiers are we…’
‘Soldiers are we’ might be appropriate lyrics for an anthem called ‘The Soldiers’ Song’ but, nonetheless, I now found myself not only singing about a fight I didn’t want but also lying about my occupation as well. I was not a soldier. I wasn’t even in the boy scouts. My classmates didn’t look like military types either. In fact, most of the country would be lying while singing those lyrics. After all, there were only about twenty thousand soldiers in Ireland at the time – and that statistic includes Irish members of the Salvation Army.
I had been told from a young age that I should always tell the truth (unless a woman asked if her dress looked good on her). Saying I was a soldier was a lie, a sin. So every time I sang ‘The Soldiers’ Song’, I would have to include it on my list of sins. Patriotism came at a cost: an extra one Our Father and three Hail Marys at confession. Maybe, in an effort to be truthful, I should have sung ‘Shoulders have we’ instead.
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John. E. McBride (2017)
Moanaghan Man
Sunday 27 August 2017
Sunday 20 August 2017
Reality TV Check
I wonder if reality shows on television have reached their peak in popularity. Viewers must have realised by now that these shows are not giving them a glimpse into lives more exciting than their own. The fact is, reality shows are even duller than a stamp collecting, trainspotting accountant. And I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an actual reality show about stamp collecting, trainspotting accountants. If there is, it would have to be called Jersey Bore.
Reality television is the gift that keeps on giving (annoyance); the participants on real-life shows can go on to become ‘celebrities’ themselves. And get involved with celebrity programmes. As a result, celebrity versions of reality shows are often disappointing – mainly because no one has remembered to invite a proper celebrity. For instance, this year’s Dancing with the Stars in Ireland should have been called Dancing with the Asteroids.
In the interest of science, (and to make this piece a little longer) I am going to imagine that I’m a reality ‘star’ with my own show on television. It needs a title; John’s Not Keeping Up will do. In every episode, I’d get on a bus, do my work, and then come home on a bus. And that’s about as exciting as it would get. To prove the point, not one remarkable work-related event happened to me last week. To be fair, the fact that I was on holiday had something to do with that.
So I don’t think I’ll be asked to do reality TV anytime soon. But that doesn’t mean other Irish people could give it a go. Forget The Real Housewives of Beverley Hills; I want to see The Real Housewives of Ballybunion.
Perhaps these shows will become even more popular. But for me, they can be summed up like this: It’s not so much Big Brother is watching me – it’s I’m not watching Big Brother. Well, I might watch it sometimes. That’s the reality of reality television.
© John E. McBride (2017)
A follow and share would be much appreciated. Thank you.
Reality television is the gift that keeps on giving (annoyance); the participants on real-life shows can go on to become ‘celebrities’ themselves. And get involved with celebrity programmes. As a result, celebrity versions of reality shows are often disappointing – mainly because no one has remembered to invite a proper celebrity. For instance, this year’s Dancing with the Stars in Ireland should have been called Dancing with the Asteroids.
In the interest of science, (and to make this piece a little longer) I am going to imagine that I’m a reality ‘star’ with my own show on television. It needs a title; John’s Not Keeping Up will do. In every episode, I’d get on a bus, do my work, and then come home on a bus. And that’s about as exciting as it would get. To prove the point, not one remarkable work-related event happened to me last week. To be fair, the fact that I was on holiday had something to do with that.
So I don’t think I’ll be asked to do reality TV anytime soon. But that doesn’t mean other Irish people could give it a go. Forget The Real Housewives of Beverley Hills; I want to see The Real Housewives of Ballybunion.
Perhaps these shows will become even more popular. But for me, they can be summed up like this: It’s not so much Big Brother is watching me – it’s I’m not watching Big Brother. Well, I might watch it sometimes. That’s the reality of reality television.
© John E. McBride (2017)
A follow and share would be much appreciated. Thank you.
Sunday 13 August 2017
Above and Beyond
As a tribute to my first teacher, Mrs Anne Callan, who recently passed away, I would like to include the following post. In 2015, I had the huge honour of being asked to write a speech for my former primary school’s 50th-anniversary celebration. (The new school had replaced an older building which had stood since 1888). The following is an edited version of the speech. Sadly, the other teacher mentioned, Mrs Bridget McCole, is also no longer with us. May they rest in peace.
Preparing this has made me realise that I share much in common with the American astronaut, Neil Armstrong. For instance, his first spaceflight took place in the year of my birth. And, less than a year after his small step onto the surface of the Moon, I took a personal giant leap, when, with even smaller steps, I passed through the doors of our school for the first time.
The date was Monday, June 15th, 1970. I know this because I remember my brother talking incessantly about England’s defeat to Germany in the previous evening’s World Cup match. Incidentally, I would go on to marry a cousin of one of the England players who participated in that game in Mexico forty-five years ago. If you find the previous statement incredible, I hope it’s due to the coincidence, and not because someone actually married me.
I met two wonderful women and great teachers, Mrs Anne Callan and Mrs Bridget McCole for the first time that day, and received a warm and genuine welcome from both ladies. As for the building itself, I loved the newness of the place, the big windows, the different coloured chairs in the classroom, and the magical blackboard. A Saturn V space rocket could not have impressed me more.
I do, however, have one unhappy memory from that day, and that was being sick beside Mrs Callan as she was giving a music lesson. As this was the seventies, I was no doubt suffering from an early form of disco fever. For someone who could throw up in front of an entire schoolroom of kids, I was very shy during my initial days at school, but would eventually lose my bashfulness, and contribute my fair share of noise to the ‘Wee Ones’ Room’. To get a sense of what Mrs Callan had to put up with, imagine a youngster with all the decorum of a Sunday Game panellist – then multiply that by twenty. My time at primary school lasted throughout the seventies, and I’d like to give you an insight into Annalitten life during that period.
In the 1970s, the boys at our school followed the style of most young men and took to growing their hair long. I would theorise that our long locks were an act of rebellion against older folk. And barbers. We missed more cuts than Rory McIlroy at the Irish Open. It wasn’t just our hair that set us apart from our predecessors and successors. To say our clothes were distinct is an understatement. We were often seen in flared trousers and loud shirts with collars so large, they would embarrass Harry Hill.
Colours were different too. Yes, colours. I mean, we had blackboards instead of whiteboards, and our football team’s shirts were blue, not red. One year even the grass was a different hue, changing to yellow in 1976 because Ireland didn’t receive its usual above-average share from God’s watering can. This led to pupils in our school actually praying for some rain in Ireland.
That was a summary of the sights of Annalitten in the seventies. The sounds were something else, and the one defining sound was the ‘Annalitten Groan’. An excited groan is the best way I can describe this noise, which would be performed if we knew an answer to a question. Simply putting our hands up was not enough for us. We frequently made the school room sound like a cross between a Wimbledon final and a commercial for laxatives. Looking back, it’s funny how we never realised our chances of being chosen to answer would have increased had we kept our hands down and stayed quiet.
A short-lived craze for boys appeared in the middle of the decade. Bubble gum picture cards of English Football League players were swapped like telephone numbers on a speed dating night. The deals that took place here would impress a modern football agent. Imagine it. Johnny Giles exchanged for Mike Channon, Steve Highway for Colin Bell, or Don Givens for the entire Luton Town squad. Football card swapping would disappear as quickly as Bay City Rollers fans, going to prove that youngsters can be fickle in any era.
Personal memories of this place are too numerous to mention in totality. I will say this: The relatively small events come to the fore as much as the major ones. For instance, I remember reading the school’s set of encyclopaedias as often as I could in order to indulge my passion for the solar system. This interest in the planets led to me being known by the affectionate term ‘Spaceman’ for a few weeks. Told you I had a lot in common with Neil Armstrong.
One of my favourite memories of Mrs McCole is when she taught us the poem ‘Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth. She was always a most knowledgeable and enthusiastic teacher, but, in my opinion, she reached new heights that day. Her love of the subject had me entranced. I have happy memories of Mrs Callan too. Perhaps my favourite is when she gave me my first ‘VG’ mark for a piece of writing I did entitled ‘My Clock’. I regard the moment Mrs Callan awarded me that mark as the start of my writing career, so now you all know who is to blame. Seriously, I will be forever grateful to Mrs Callan.
All through my time here, the Old School stood beside the new one, sending out its own lesson to my subconscious, telling me how fortunate I was to go to a modern, centrally-heated school, to be able to see the local hills and the sky as I learned and to have more study space than the pupils who attended the Old School. To use the words made famous by Bernard of Chartres, Isaac Newton and Noel Gallagher, Neil Armstrong had “[stood] on the shoulders of giants” to reach the moon. We, on the other hand, followed in the footsteps of wee ones. But in their own way, they were giants too.
Many of those wee ones were our family and friends. I must add, I was surprised and delighted to learn that my own late mother and uncle had contributed well-written and interesting articles to the Folklore Commission in the 1930s when they were pupils at Annalitten.
My fellow pupils and I would use the Old School’s facilities for school concerts in 1978 and 1979 – a poignant coming together of the old and the new. I would return to the Old School as a secondary student in the 1980s, to take part in activities like basketball lessons run by the wonderful Pauline Devlin. I also attended a few discos which brought back memories of my primary school days, because my shyness had returned. This time around, asking girls to dance left me tongue-tied. Although I did get the opportunity to step on a few lassies’ toes, I was most usually found standing motionless in the corner, just like when I played Gaelic football on the school field.
While today’s celebration gives us the opportunity to remember and thank all those responsible for both the Old and New School and to remember our past pupils, we must also think of our school’s present and future. Today, in Frank and Fiona McDonnell, we have two fantastic and popular teachers, just like when I was here. Let us hope this standard is maintained in the years to come. To present pupils, I say this: If you’re honest and try your best, you will go far – perhaps to the Moon, like Neil Armstrong.
Which brings me to the last, and the most important link I have with Neil Armstrong. Both he and I were blessed with brilliant, wonderful teachers. Mr Armstrong went above and beyond once. Teachers like Mrs Callan, Mrs McCole, and Frank and Fiona McDonnell go above and beyond every day.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Preparing this has made me realise that I share much in common with the American astronaut, Neil Armstrong. For instance, his first spaceflight took place in the year of my birth. And, less than a year after his small step onto the surface of the Moon, I took a personal giant leap, when, with even smaller steps, I passed through the doors of our school for the first time.
The date was Monday, June 15th, 1970. I know this because I remember my brother talking incessantly about England’s defeat to Germany in the previous evening’s World Cup match. Incidentally, I would go on to marry a cousin of one of the England players who participated in that game in Mexico forty-five years ago. If you find the previous statement incredible, I hope it’s due to the coincidence, and not because someone actually married me.
I met two wonderful women and great teachers, Mrs Anne Callan and Mrs Bridget McCole for the first time that day, and received a warm and genuine welcome from both ladies. As for the building itself, I loved the newness of the place, the big windows, the different coloured chairs in the classroom, and the magical blackboard. A Saturn V space rocket could not have impressed me more.
I do, however, have one unhappy memory from that day, and that was being sick beside Mrs Callan as she was giving a music lesson. As this was the seventies, I was no doubt suffering from an early form of disco fever. For someone who could throw up in front of an entire schoolroom of kids, I was very shy during my initial days at school, but would eventually lose my bashfulness, and contribute my fair share of noise to the ‘Wee Ones’ Room’. To get a sense of what Mrs Callan had to put up with, imagine a youngster with all the decorum of a Sunday Game panellist – then multiply that by twenty. My time at primary school lasted throughout the seventies, and I’d like to give you an insight into Annalitten life during that period.
In the 1970s, the boys at our school followed the style of most young men and took to growing their hair long. I would theorise that our long locks were an act of rebellion against older folk. And barbers. We missed more cuts than Rory McIlroy at the Irish Open. It wasn’t just our hair that set us apart from our predecessors and successors. To say our clothes were distinct is an understatement. We were often seen in flared trousers and loud shirts with collars so large, they would embarrass Harry Hill.
Colours were different too. Yes, colours. I mean, we had blackboards instead of whiteboards, and our football team’s shirts were blue, not red. One year even the grass was a different hue, changing to yellow in 1976 because Ireland didn’t receive its usual above-average share from God’s watering can. This led to pupils in our school actually praying for some rain in Ireland.
That was a summary of the sights of Annalitten in the seventies. The sounds were something else, and the one defining sound was the ‘Annalitten Groan’. An excited groan is the best way I can describe this noise, which would be performed if we knew an answer to a question. Simply putting our hands up was not enough for us. We frequently made the school room sound like a cross between a Wimbledon final and a commercial for laxatives. Looking back, it’s funny how we never realised our chances of being chosen to answer would have increased had we kept our hands down and stayed quiet.
A short-lived craze for boys appeared in the middle of the decade. Bubble gum picture cards of English Football League players were swapped like telephone numbers on a speed dating night. The deals that took place here would impress a modern football agent. Imagine it. Johnny Giles exchanged for Mike Channon, Steve Highway for Colin Bell, or Don Givens for the entire Luton Town squad. Football card swapping would disappear as quickly as Bay City Rollers fans, going to prove that youngsters can be fickle in any era.
Personal memories of this place are too numerous to mention in totality. I will say this: The relatively small events come to the fore as much as the major ones. For instance, I remember reading the school’s set of encyclopaedias as often as I could in order to indulge my passion for the solar system. This interest in the planets led to me being known by the affectionate term ‘Spaceman’ for a few weeks. Told you I had a lot in common with Neil Armstrong.
One of my favourite memories of Mrs McCole is when she taught us the poem ‘Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth. She was always a most knowledgeable and enthusiastic teacher, but, in my opinion, she reached new heights that day. Her love of the subject had me entranced. I have happy memories of Mrs Callan too. Perhaps my favourite is when she gave me my first ‘VG’ mark for a piece of writing I did entitled ‘My Clock’. I regard the moment Mrs Callan awarded me that mark as the start of my writing career, so now you all know who is to blame. Seriously, I will be forever grateful to Mrs Callan.
All through my time here, the Old School stood beside the new one, sending out its own lesson to my subconscious, telling me how fortunate I was to go to a modern, centrally-heated school, to be able to see the local hills and the sky as I learned and to have more study space than the pupils who attended the Old School. To use the words made famous by Bernard of Chartres, Isaac Newton and Noel Gallagher, Neil Armstrong had “[stood] on the shoulders of giants” to reach the moon. We, on the other hand, followed in the footsteps of wee ones. But in their own way, they were giants too.
Many of those wee ones were our family and friends. I must add, I was surprised and delighted to learn that my own late mother and uncle had contributed well-written and interesting articles to the Folklore Commission in the 1930s when they were pupils at Annalitten.
My fellow pupils and I would use the Old School’s facilities for school concerts in 1978 and 1979 – a poignant coming together of the old and the new. I would return to the Old School as a secondary student in the 1980s, to take part in activities like basketball lessons run by the wonderful Pauline Devlin. I also attended a few discos which brought back memories of my primary school days, because my shyness had returned. This time around, asking girls to dance left me tongue-tied. Although I did get the opportunity to step on a few lassies’ toes, I was most usually found standing motionless in the corner, just like when I played Gaelic football on the school field.
While today’s celebration gives us the opportunity to remember and thank all those responsible for both the Old and New School and to remember our past pupils, we must also think of our school’s present and future. Today, in Frank and Fiona McDonnell, we have two fantastic and popular teachers, just like when I was here. Let us hope this standard is maintained in the years to come. To present pupils, I say this: If you’re honest and try your best, you will go far – perhaps to the Moon, like Neil Armstrong.
Which brings me to the last, and the most important link I have with Neil Armstrong. Both he and I were blessed with brilliant, wonderful teachers. Mr Armstrong went above and beyond once. Teachers like Mrs Callan, Mrs McCole, and Frank and Fiona McDonnell go above and beyond every day.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Sunday 6 August 2017
Moanday Motivation
Many people feel down when they go back to work after a weekend or holiday. In this piece, I stress the positives of returning to work. I won’t use any clichés like “At least it gets you out of the house” because a lot of things can get you out of the house – for example, walking the dog, or going out to the ice cream van, or walking the dog while you go out to the ice cream van. (Not recommended).
My strategy to make you feel better about your job will be this: Write about even worse jobs. I apologise if you actually do the work I’m about to mention. If you are, perhaps this blog post might make you want to consider changing career. Or changing the blog posts that you read. (As long as that doesn’t include ‘Moanaghan Man’).
The first horrible job on my list is acting in a laxative commercial. Think about it. The actor didn’t get the role due to his/her dramatic ability; it was because he/she looked constipated. Hardly a skill that’s going to win an Academy Award – unless it’s the award for ‘A career that’s literally going down the pan.’
Another thankless task is delivering mail to the US Secret Service. The problem here arises from the fact that the address of the US Secret Service is, well, secret. Imagine the poor postal worker(s) tasked with delivering a letter to that organisation. They have to knock on every door in the States and inquire if the secret service is located there. I imagine they go alphabetically, so would begin their quest in Alabama. Twenty years later, they’re in Delaware, reached retirement age, and still haven’t found the secret service. And they didn’t even get the consolation of a trip to Hawaii.
If you still want to be on holiday, think about my next terrible job: Pretending to be on holiday. You might think acting or modelling on a beach would be a dream and it is – up to a point. But think about what happens when the time comes to actually go on holiday. Where do you go? You have seen enough glamourous locations so the only thing to do is go home and spend the time looking at afternoon television – and at yourself in adverts in which you pretend to be on holiday. It would make you wish you’d done a laxative commercial instead.
Before you go, I’d like to ask you to please share this piece and follow my blog. Thank you.
© John E. McBride (2017)
My strategy to make you feel better about your job will be this: Write about even worse jobs. I apologise if you actually do the work I’m about to mention. If you are, perhaps this blog post might make you want to consider changing career. Or changing the blog posts that you read. (As long as that doesn’t include ‘Moanaghan Man’).
The first horrible job on my list is acting in a laxative commercial. Think about it. The actor didn’t get the role due to his/her dramatic ability; it was because he/she looked constipated. Hardly a skill that’s going to win an Academy Award – unless it’s the award for ‘A career that’s literally going down the pan.’
Another thankless task is delivering mail to the US Secret Service. The problem here arises from the fact that the address of the US Secret Service is, well, secret. Imagine the poor postal worker(s) tasked with delivering a letter to that organisation. They have to knock on every door in the States and inquire if the secret service is located there. I imagine they go alphabetically, so would begin their quest in Alabama. Twenty years later, they’re in Delaware, reached retirement age, and still haven’t found the secret service. And they didn’t even get the consolation of a trip to Hawaii.
If you still want to be on holiday, think about my next terrible job: Pretending to be on holiday. You might think acting or modelling on a beach would be a dream and it is – up to a point. But think about what happens when the time comes to actually go on holiday. Where do you go? You have seen enough glamourous locations so the only thing to do is go home and spend the time looking at afternoon television – and at yourself in adverts in which you pretend to be on holiday. It would make you wish you’d done a laxative commercial instead.
Before you go, I’d like to ask you to please share this piece and follow my blog. Thank you.
© John E. McBride (2017)
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