Gluaiseacht na nGael

By the grace of God and several accidents of history, I have been borne into the twenty-first century after the birth of the Christ with several tools and sources of betterment. In this day and age the thinker is provided with as many means to his success as his failure, and, should he so desire, he might be able to see beyond the doctrine of randomness and chaos implicit in modern folk psychological discourse. But that in itself is scarcely enough. Allow me to explain.

In this small island of lime and fireside dampness, we have witnessed an over-clichéd renaissance in the last decade and a half. All manner of self-professed authorities have attributed the burgeoning of Ireland's bank balances to all manner of self-possessed activities. But I have absorbed no explanation that I have appreciated - because I do not think that the inspiration of culture has been explicated. The last decade of the last century of the last millenium - thanks to Jack Charlton, Eddie Jordan, Michael Carruth, Roddy Doyle, Jim Sheridan, Riverdance and many more besides - was one of the brightest in popular Irish cultural history, perhaps since the 1880's or 1890's.

In this era though, it might have been seen that the gold had turned foolish when Michelle de Bruin was accused of doping in 1996. It's been downhill since, and though there have been the odd peak or two, we are still very much in the valleys. The decline in the property market, and the early exit of the rugby team from the World Cup are both examples of a flatulent state - all wind and bluster. The shite weather hasn't helped.

See, people generally take their inspiration from context, from the best examples around them - whatever's handy. And in dull ould times, with the winter drawing in, nothing but death and depression on the telly, it can be hard to be inspired. And in these urban days, traffic, stress and mortgages, I wouldn't deny you a neurosis or two. I am not one for pessimism though; this is not a nation used to enduring it long.

No matter how sad things get (and they may well do: can you see Steve Staunton's men rescuing us from the gloom?) there is always the refuge of literature. It might surprise you to find that Irish has the oldest vernacular literature in Europe. We will always have storytellers with tales to regale such delightful technologies as these which I am manipulating with my fingers are terrifically useful in the reinvigoration of the self. Cheer thyself up dear reader!

I am delighted to find, on re-reading these mercifully brief paragraphs, that I have yet a long way to go before I start making sense. I suspect I have potential, but what for? who knew. I am going to suggest to the gods that they let the Christmas be white, and perhaps that a fall in the price of whiskey would be nice too, and in return we delirious Irish will do the world a favour with returning to our humble roots, with less of this crass mammon/croesus stainless steel nonsense, and more blogorrah, begorrah - ooh and a new artist for Ireland! please God.

What will happen next?