Ryanair boss O’Leary gets called nasty names by writer in Northern Irish political journal

"Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone
It’s with O’Leary in the grave”
The above quotation from WB Yeats’ poem September 1913 appears to prove the expression what goes around comes around. Although the poem was written
almost a century ago it could quite easily apply to the present day, but the contemporary O’Leary is not in the grave (although many disgruintled former Ryanair passengers may wish he was) and in fact represents the antithesis of Yeats' misty eyed idealised notion of saints and scholars dancing around a circle of standing stones - ie Ireland’s (if not Europe’s) least popular businessman Michael O’Leary, head honcho at Europe’s least popular airline Ryanair.
Anyway, to get to the point, the latest issue of Fortnight, Northern Ireland’s monthly (not fortnightly, despite the title – a potential goldmine for a raft of Irish jokes) political and cultural journal recently arrived on my door mat courtesy of the Arm’s Belfast correspondent. In it there are articles by our occasional contributor, the very same (or should that be “very sane”?) Phil Larkin on the SDLP and our one-off contributor Andrew Charles on Fianna Fáil moving north (remember folks – you saw them here first!), but what caught my eye was a piece on Ryanair’s top man. John O’Farrell (apparently not the same guy who wrote Things Can Only Get Better: Eighteen Miserable Years in the Life of a Labour Supporter) makes it clear from the start that he’s not terribly fond of Michael O’Leary or the socio-economic sub-culture that he comes from. Drawing on material from Alan Ruddock’s book Michael O’Leary: a Life in Full Flight, (which he is similarly unimpressed by) O’Farrell launches into a structured character assassination of “The Man We Love to Hate with the airline We Still Keep Using” and his ilk

One particular paragraph stands out:
“The uncomfortable feeling that returned to me continually was not the horrible thought that the odd time that I bought 20 Rothmans from Kestral Corner might have sent this horrible vacuous man to his present stratospheric heights, but the noise he makes. It sent me back to The Bailey in the early ‘80s, to that braying racket of wannabe rich kids high-fiveing each other over sloppy pints of ‘Heino’, and reminded me that for all my liberal tolerance there is still a group of people on this Earth that reduce me to an almost genocidal rage. I still think they’re c***s. I know that their identical descendants are still festering the same waterholes and adoring the waggery and brass neck of their hero Michael O’Leary.
There. I said it. I wholeheartedly recommend this book if you want a terrifying vision of the future, of an economy dominated by men with not a shred of decency, an ounce of humanity or a spit of morality.”

I'm no fan of O'Leary either, but the reputation of a man who thrives on being despised can only be strengthened by such a diatribe. Romantic Ireland dead and gone indeed.

On travel writers, comedians and Stuart Maconie

I'm a voracious reader of travel books. There are basically three categories of travel writing. On the one extreme there's the learned erudite works for the discerning reader which really get to grips with the culture and politics of a country, as exemplified by the likes of Dervla Murphy, Paul Theroux or Colin Thubron. On the other extreme there are the whimsical books usually written in tongue-in-cheek style by comedians or other media personalities who embark on a specific task of peculiar proportions such as Tony Hawkes lugging a fridge around Ireland or playing the Moldovans at tennis, or Tim Moore cycling the route of the Tour de France. There's also those who lie somewhere in between, such as Bill Bryson or Michael Palin who do the semi-intellectual stuff, but at the same time you get the impression that they're not taking themselves entirely seriously.

The Independent observes this trend in a brown-nosing and somewhat snooty piece as an additon to its regular Friday book charts round-up:

"For every Pies and Prejudice, in which comedian (sic) Stuart Maconie (above) hangs out in Blackpool and Yorkshire eating fish and chips and geting in touch with his Northern soul, there's a Tony Hawks, trekking around Europe with a fridge/piano/tennis racket; for every Good Pub Guide there's a Tribe. It's a relief when a writer like Michael Palin or Bill Bryson comes along to peer into the world and elucidate the journey with wit and wisdom and no gimmicks. Which is why they're always best-sellers, and why they are national treasures".

Stuart Maconie, a decent writer, despite what's written above may have a smart-arse style which is generally humorous and quite tongue-in-cheek, but to describe him as a "comedian" is stretching it a bit. He's a rock journo by trade, now enjoying the fruits of life as a DJ and prsenter who churns out the odd book, but I suppose he should take the comedian label as a compliment. Unless the Independent writer meant it in a contemptuous sense, as in someone not to be taken seriously. If that's the case then there is a hell of a lot of "comedians" around, including this anonymous Independent journalist.

Stuart Maconie and the nostalgic north

Having recently read Pies and Prejudice, an excellent semi-tongue-in-cheek travelogue-come-socio-cultural treatise on the North of England by BBC radio DJ Stuart Maconie I've just started reading another of his books Cider with Roadies . This book is a sort of semi-autobiogrpahical account of growing up in Wigan in the 1970s and the cultural influences of the time from Northern Soul to Progressive Rock, which later goes on to describe his bizarre experiences as a music journalist.
This particular paragraph gives a flavour of Maconie’s quirky style:

“I went to and from school, learned about the Anti-Corn Law League and Brownian Motion and tried not to get “strapped” by Brother Ring, the most sadistic of the bullying bog-trotters who taught me – or the Christian Brothers to give them their official name. When not thus engaged, I would be watching Fawlty Towers or Ripping Yarns, smoking furtively in a variety of toilets, parks and bus shelters or engaged, equally furtively, in a kind of amiable hand-to-hand contact with a girl from Orrell called Hilary. In an almost comical piece of good luck, Hilary turned out to be a teenage nympho whose dad owned an off-licence, a semi-mythical creature not normally found outside the fantasies of Sid James.”

As a former Christian Brothers boy myself I can relate to this although to be fair they weren’t all like that.
I haven’t finished the book yet, but so far it's a riveting read.

Hammersmith Irish book fair (and some rugby)

Made the trip west today to catch the Irish book fair at Hammersmith. As well as enriching my personal library with a few second hand Flann O'Briens and a Spike Milligan to add to the nascent collection I attended two highly entertaining readings by the writers Billy Keane and Patrick McCabe.

Billy Keane, son of the famous John B. read amusing snippets from his book The Last of the Heroes, a semi-biographical novel of family life in rural Kerry, which went down well with the assembled throng.

As a wearer of many hats - raconteur, wit, publican, columnist, ex-solicitor and Kerryman - Keane seems to have incorporated his experiences into his writings. Of particular note was his observation that the ideal training for a writer is to work behind a bar. That way people tell you things (in some cases depending on the level of alcohol consumed some very intimate details of their personal lives), you hear the local gossip and get to know all sorts of colourful characters. Then you can base the characters in your novels on them. Maybe I should jack in the legal research and get a job at my local.

Being conscious of the time Billy was keen (no pun intended - well, actually, yes it was intended) not to overrun so as to let the punters catch the Ireland v Scotland Six Nations rugby match. He was after all "officially" at Lansdowne Road (not at a book fair in London) to cover the game for his column in the Irish Independent.

Although I am somewhat familar with the writings of both John B. and Fergal Keane, I hadn't seen any of Billy's work. However I was suitably impressed by his readings and impromptu wit that I joined the queue of elderly women to purchase a signed copy of Last of the Heroes.
"Have we met before?" he asked as he signed his best wished on the title page. I have to say I was flattered, but have to think this over for a second. I've certainly never been down Listowel way. Did I offer him condolences at last year's All Ireland final? Had he seen my picture on the site? Maybe he'd stumbled across it by accident when looking on Google for information on the REM sleep patterns of armadillos. "I don't think so", I replied, but I did mention the blog and mooted the possibility of writing a glowing review of the book - so watch this space!

So unlike Peter Canavan and "The Gooch" Cooper, there was no bad blood between the Kerryman and the Tyroneman on this occasion.

Next up was Pat McCabe, author of many novels, two of which - The Butcher Boy and more recently Breakfast on Pluto have been made into films. McCabe displayed his writing skills and his flair for accents, not to mention acting prowess through various readings from his works.

Having scrapped my original plan to catch some of the Australian Film Festival at the Barbican, I made an early exit to a local alehouse for the second half of the rugby match - the one that Billy Keane was supposed to be covering for the Indo. So courtesy of the BBC, I was transported virtually from an overcast Hammersmith to the pissing rain of Lansdowne Road to witness Ireland's hard earned victory in a tense match. Despite Andrew Trimble's valiant attempt to strike a blow for Ulster the game was to remain tryless. So, nice try Andrew - even though it wasn't!
How fitting it was for the last Six Nations match at Lansdowne Road before the action switches to Croke Park next year, that the game should end with Ireland on course for the Triple Crown and possibly the Six Nations title.