One big happy family
It’s only when you leave it that you begin to appreciate home. No sooner have you escaped when you succumb to nostalgia, romanticising the mundane, attaching feelings and emotions to the most humdrum of things. Return journeys become pilgrimages, jaunts down memory lane, desperate attempts to recapture and maintain the purity of your youth – until you overstay your welcome and remember why you left in the first place.
But more than anything, where you come from defines you. That town, village, or city, travels with you wherever you go, a point of reference in every conversation, a form of identification beyond mere paperwork and documentation. You don’t have to travel far either; maybe just a few miles, perhaps from one county to another. All of a sudden, you’re “that bollix from Oola,” “that fecker from Clare,” the butt of all jokes, a stranger in a strange land. Inexplicably enraged, you defend its honour, defend that place you continually deride. Home.
Moving from one part of the country to another is cause enough for this latent patriotism to make itself known. But it’s only when you leave our shores that this deep-held affection manifests entirely. Now you wear your Irishness like a badge of honour, aware of the status it affords you, that we are loved throughout the world. Because we are, aren’t we? At least we think we are. Where once we were Britain’s poor-mouthed, drunkard neighbours, now we’re craic-wielding IT experts, able to work as hard as we play, as intelligent as we are fun.
To be Irish in the 21st century is something to be proud of, we’re moving forward, creating a new persona; we’re global leaders, liberal thinkers, innovators, architects of our own destiny. And yet to some we’re still just a backward race, an inbred crowd of invertebrates, gap-toothed simians with questionable morals. Back in December when long-running US comedy show, Saturday Night Live (SNL), lampooned Aer Lingus with a sketch featuring terrible accents, worse double-entendres, and our own Saoirse Ronan, we sighed wearily, more bemused by its content than any way offended.
That the opening skit was a play on Aer Lingus sounding like a word for oral sex was enough; we knew then that the joke was on them, and our only real disappointment was that Saoirse had let the side down in such crude fashion. But ultimately, no damage was done, Irish American relations were left unharmed.
However, after SNL’s latest videos – created to coincide with St Patrick’s Day – those relations may be under some strain. If you haven’t seen the clips I’m referring to go on to YouTube and type in ‘Irish Dating Show – SNL’ and ‘Cut for Time: St Patrick’s Day – SNL’, and prepare to be amazed – not by the level of wit and satire, but by the perpetuation of harmful stereotypes and overt racism.
Maybe I’m overreacting, maybe I’ve become a snowflake, but shagging your cousin? Being deformed, with “bird bones, soft skull, strawberry nose, tic tac teeth, brown blood, one big toe”? If any other country said this about us, we’d lose the plot. If the English said it, we’d declare war.
I suppose we should be mindful of the context, after all I certainly don’t watch SNL and have no knowledge of what else constitutes humour on the programme. Perhaps they regularly poke fun at black people for having curly hair, Orientals for being small, and Mexicans for their border-hopping exploits. Actually, in the case of that last one, they probably do.
And there is the phenom of the Irish-American to take into consideration here.
Most of these jokes are, I would presume, based upon the writers’ experiences with the ‘Irish’ people they grew up around; US citizens whose family emigrated from here during the 19th century. Perhaps it’s acceptable to deride that subset of our diaspora and not expect any comeback, perhaps our American cousins are used to it, are as browbeaten and put-upon as we once were. But things are different here now.
At the time of writing the ‘Irish Dating Show’ clip is nearing one and half million views – and that’s not taking into consideration those who watched it on television. Either way, it’s a pretty large audience, a large number of people being exposed to the antics of Bill Hader, Kate McKinnon, Aidy Bryant, and Cecily Strong, to the myth that the Irish now, or at any time in their history, chose to ‘keep it in the family’. Granted, very few of those viewers will take what they see seriously, but things like this stay in the psyche; just as we have preconceptions of Americans – which, based on this, are not very positive – so they will form ideas about us, and they will form them based on shows like SNL.
The second clip manages to be, somehow, even less funny than the first and is really only notable for its description of Oscar Wilde as a “stupid Mick” and an ill-judged comment about dying from the flu. The rest is a melange of clichés and banalities, bottom of the barrel stuff delivered with all the enthusiasm of a man who must surely be dying inside. If he’s not, if he believes that what he’s doing represents cutting-edge comedy, then things are even worse than I thought. Things are so bad that we might just have to send over one of our elected officials to tell them what’s what, to dispel these myths and set the record straight.
Sadly, without any elected officials in place, it was left to our Taoiseach to represent the cause, to show America that we’re quite bright and articulate when we want to be. Unfortunately, Leo fluffed his lines, tried a bit of comedy of his own and came unstuck, embarrassed us more than any ailing sketch show could ever manage. But while Mr Varadkar likes to believe he’s a man of the people, that as a gay man of Indian descent he embodies the new Ireland, we are slowly starting to learn that he’s just like all the rest; a self-serving autocrat who has little to no knowledge of what life is really like for Irish people.
No, if we ever wish to subjugate those responsible for these sketches we must rely upon ourselves, upon the thousands of young Irish people who travel outward in search of work, in search of new experiences, in search of life. Not only does Ireland define them but they define Ireland too. And while many of them will be pasty-faced, ginger-haired inebriants, gregarious blackguards who’ll drink their way into trouble from time to time, not one of them will have ever had relations with their cousin or, indeed, any other member of their extended family. Not to the best of their knowledge anyway.
At McDonald’s you get much more
Picture the scene: The Beast from the East is whipping up a storm and people all over Limerick are, as instructed, staying indoors. Desperate for updates, they tune into the late news bulletin. But instead of weather reports they are treated to footage of some yobs in Tallaght decimating their local Lidl branch with a digger.
Most, almost all, viewers are horrified, but one or two are intrigued. A light bulb sparks inside these people’s heads: “I can drive a digger. Limerick has shops.”
A plan is set in motion, a target is identified, a date is set. Now all they need is the vehicle, something big, something powerful, strong enough to break into a McDonald’s. Because that’s their target, that’s the place which they believe will not only contain the most loot, but will also, when push comes to shove, fold like a deck of cards.
A JCB is acquired, a small one, but a JCB nonetheless. One of the would-be thieves has his reservations, “it’s a bit puny looking, like. You sure it’ll manage?” “Be grand,” says the other, the one who’ll be driving. And so, they set out, dreaming of open safes, of bundles and bundles of cash, of free Big Macs and fries, and extra-large Cokes.
As they approach the restaurant, they pick up speed, bouncing along the deserted street, ramping over the pavement, before meeting a grievous end at the store’s entrance. As the dust settles, our two heroes inspect themselves for injuries: “You alright?” “Yeah, you?” “Yeah.” They clamber down from their chariot and enter Maccy D’s. A quick search reveals zero safes, two empty tills, and a poor box containing nothing but coppers. Down but not out, the two decide that the very least they deserve is a free quarter-pounder with cheese.
The fryer is cranked up, the meat placed on the griddle, bun readied, ketchup poured. But wait, there’s no cheese, sure what good is a quarter-pounder without cheese? Annoyed, they abandon the whole plan, JCB and all, and make their way into town. “Supermacs might be open,” says one. “Hopefully,” says the other.
