Reeling in the year
Is there anything as clichéd as an end of year review? It’s journalism at its laziest, a way of regurgitating old material and passing it off as new. But they’ll all have them this week, you won’t be able to open a paper without being reminding of stuff you already knew, things that happened months ago, things which ceased to be news the first time you read about them. Ordinarily I’d never plumb such depths, I endeavour to discuss the hottest, most trending, topics on a weekly basis.
Alas, I’ve been backed into a corner by editorial deadlines, asked to write this week’s column an entire week in advance. And although my finger is never far from the pulse I am, as of yet, unable to predict the future. What I can do though is ruminate on the past. I can reminisce with the best of them, so why don’t I do that instead? An end of year review? Certainly not. Consider this a walk down memory lane, a cheerful stroll through a tumultuous twelve months, like Reeling in the Years, but in print format.
I’ll be honest with you, I have the memory of a goldfish with Alzheimers, I can no more recall what happened in 2017 than I can the periodic table of elements. But that’s what Google is for. And according to the great oracle of our time, Donald Trump was elected the 45th President of the United States of America on January 20, 2017. That’s right, it’s only been a year. We’ve still got another three years of this cretin, three more years of wibbling rhetoric, turbo tweeting, and tiny-handed gesticulations. Initially I welcomed his victory, choosing to overlook his questionable policies and a moral compass best described as warped.
Oh, to have my time again. The man is an imbecile, and a dangerous one at that. So bad has his first twelve months in office been that I’ve almost become nostalgic for the days of George Dubya, simpler times which, when viewed through a Trumpian prism, seem innocent and playful. The only hope we have is that the Donald ends up overstepping the mark, gets impeached, arrested, imprisoned, anything so we don’t have to listen to his painfully unpresidential orations. Honestly America, sort yourselves out.
One man who put it up to Trump good and proper was our own, now departed, commander-in-chief. At the turn of the year all the talk was of Enda’s resignation and whether he’d be in office long enough to fulfil the annual Paddy’s Day trek to Washington DC. And when we weren’t discussing that, we were asking whether he should go at all, whether An Taoiseach should refuse to visit the White House as a form of protest at Trump’s appointment. But that was never going to happen, the politician that refused a free jolly overseas hasn’t been born yet. However, instead of cosying up beside the new POTUS, Enda went on the offensive, recalling the great Irish emigration of the 1800s and how America welcomed us to its shores. Although he didn’t directly reference Trump’s travel ban on Muslims or his intentions to build a wall to keep the Mexicans, the message from a fiery Enda was clear: Ireland does not condone your actions, and I only came ‘cos I heard there’d be free sandwiches.
Now let us look back on the furore which surrounded the unveiling of one of Limerick’s favourite sons, Mr Terry Wogan. He may have made his name in the UK, but Terry was a proud Limerick man and it seemed fitting that a lifelike statue be commissioned in his honour. However, when it was finally showcased to the public in June the question on most lips was, “Which life is it supposed to be like?” Everyone from Ronaldo’s Dad to William H. Macy were referenced as a confused nation sought to reconcile this bronzed caricature with the man famous for lampooning the Eurovision Song Contest. And then there were the jokes about the microphone in Terry’s hand, which we shan’t indulge right now.
Six months on, I think it’s fair to say that the Wogan statue has become part of the furniture; seagulls use it as a couch, crows as a chaise lounge, and the pigeons, well they just use it as a toilet. Also in June, Leo Varadkar finally ascended to the throne, becoming the first gay man of Indian descent to combine ministerial duties with a career as a novelty-sock wearing blue shirt. At least that’s what I think happened, it was hard to tell amidst all the fanfare. International news outlets were falling over themselves to congratulate us on Leo’s appointment, telling us it was just another sign of how bloody great we were, how liberal-minded and forward-thinking we are. But sure, we didn’t do anything, we certainly didn’t vote him in.
Our new Taoiseach’s first six months in charge have been fair to middling, he successfully avoided dragging us all into an election we didn’t want, and which he nor Fianna Fáil didn’t want by throwing Frances Fitzgerald under a bus (no mean feat given the amount of strikes this year), while somehow retaining the sympathy of his colleagues and the unfortunate Ms Fitzgerald. That aside, his early days have been defined by a bromance with the Canadian Prime Minister and an addiction to running which saw him turn up for work one day in an illuminous vest and shorts. Someone who has no work to turn up to at all anymore is the oft-maligned, much-missed, George Hook. Well, I miss him anyway and, as a soon-to-be journalism graduate, I positively bristle at the notion of a doctor assuming his role on prime-time radio when there’s scores of young qualified presenters desperate for work. But let’s not go there. Instead let’s use Hook’s downfall as a useful segue into one of the most important movements of not just 2017, but of the 21st century.
While I firmly believe that Hook shouldn’t have been sacked, and that he was merely collateral damage in something far beyond his control, I welcome a revolution which has challenged the way we all think about women. When compared to the abhorrence of Harvey Weinstein, Hook’s comments seem small fare, but it all falls under the umbrella of male attitudes towards women, and by coming forward and naming their assailant every woman involved has helped expel certain myths and forced each and every man on this earth to look at themselves and question their own behaviour towards the fairer sex (I’m still allowed say that, right?). Some of the censorship has been harsh, some of it has bordered on the aggressive, but the times they are a changing and a new breed of male is being created.
I sincerely hope that this new breed of male, the Irish version, ends up being better at football than the current lot. To the best of my knowledge none of the Irish football squad have ever acted out of turn when wooing a lady, but it isn’t manners we’re looking for with these lads. Okay, so they did well to reach the play-offs, a memorable win in Cardiff over the unjustifiably cocky Welsh sending us all to Ryanair’s site in search of flights to Russia. But when it came down to it they fell well short, a humbling at the hands of the Danes serving as a massive reality check. Because this isn’t a very good era for Irish football and Martin O’Neill, although an improvement on what came before, isn’t the man to lead us to better things. As to who is, I have no idea I’m afraid.
God, I almost forgot, how could I have let ye go without mentioning the two most talked about topics of the year, the two things which not only dominated 2017 but will dominate most of 2018. Brexit and the Eight Amendment. First off, Brexit. Who would have thought that something seemingly as simple as Britain leaving the EU would turn into the biggest soap opera since Miley did the dirt on Biddy? It really is incessant. Just when you think they’ve discussed every possible ramification, every likely outcome, someone comes up with another angle, another reason to bore the pants off most sane individuals. Yeah, we get it, there’s a whole issue with the North, with the border, with trade deals and so on, just wake us up when it’s over will ye?
The referendum on abortion is far more exciting, but even that’s dragging on a bit now; there’s only so many ways you can align yourself one way or the other before it gets tedious. And yet I know that even just by mentioning here I’ll get at least fourteen hateful emails, a dozen letters, and umpteen angry tweets from an army of people who aren’t even sure what they’re angry about. See ye in 2018.
