Is all Marriage Created Equal?


After watching the now stratospheric speech by Panti Bliss in the Abbey theatre I had an uncomfortable feeling. Why was ‘she’ so angry at ‘me’? Why did she repeatedly utter the words ‘I check myself’ almost to the point of complete irritation. Why was I so annoyed?

If you don’t have the patience or interest to read this full piece, no problem; here’s my opinion now. Same sex marriage should be allowed, the laws changed as soon as possible.

If however you are wanting to know why I am bothered to write this, well read on.

The Panti speech was brought about by her alter ego’s (Rory O’Neil) appearance on RTE television. There he was asked about the Iona institute, a confederacy of dunces if ever there was one. The institute is a group based in Ireland who are against gay marriage are keen to uphold the sanctity of tradition. He referred to John Waters(guardian of all things traditional and father to a pop singer’s love child) in Iona as a homophobe and subsequently the broadcaster had to get the chequebook out to appease Waters and the institute.

Now all this publicity was doing very little for any policy changes, except to unfairly fill the coffers of Waters and his cronies. Seeing this, many people took to the streets outside government buildings to protest in a sea of rainbow coloured flags and pink t-shirts.

Inside Leinster House there seems to be an overriding feeling that things have to change and change quickly. Then again only the liberally minded have spoken. It is surely a no brainer right? If two people want to convey their love via marriage what’s the problem? Well yes you would think that but then you would ignore the reality.

It is thought that this law will pass through with much less fuss than last year’s emotive abortion bill, but personally speaking I have my doubts. Like so many C-list celebrities in Ireland, Rory O’Neill and David Norris are charismatic and generate polite applause wherever they go. Both have been responsible for bringing gay issues to the fore time and time again and that is to be admired. Vitally both are extreme attention seeking extroverts; neither of whom faithfully represent the community they wish to serve.

But they’re only human, and if half of Hollywood pretends to fight for human rights in Africa, whilst somehow always managing to keep themselves in the limelight, then good luck to them.

Ultimately if this change in marriage law is to come to pass it will not be because some drag queen’s video went viral. Despite Panti’s plea for the rest of us to take a long hardlook at ourselves we will all walk into the voting station that day and tick a box for yes or no.

image sourced from phillipinenews.com

Ireland likes to think of itself as forward thinking, modern. Those days of Catholic guilt have long since passed. And yet how often do you see a gay couple holding hands in public, either on the streets of Galway, Monaghan or Dublin? Most of us wouldn’t be offended to see it and yet the prevailing mood in the LGBT community is that they feel it is unsafe to do so. Even still we are all pretty certain that this new law will be rubber stamped? Something isn’t right there.

If I was running this campaign I would immediately enlist the help of some people who I can connect to. Everyday people with everyday jobs who don’t call me names because I am taken aback by their cocktail dress, six inch heels and five o clock shadow.

So you’ve gathered by now I am a homophobe. Well if drag queens make me uncomfortable then yes I guess I am. I’ve been called worse. It doesn’t mean that I want things to say the same, that I don’t want to evolve. That I admit I am wrong when I use the words ‘gay’ and ‘faggot’ without thinking.

How do I sleep at night? Well quite easily. In the realm of things calling people names is not that big a deal. Then again I am not in a minority. The last time I was when I lived in Asia for a year and as a white man was called ‘bule’ by the locals. Was that racist? Yes but I wasn’t offended. Aren’t I great?

For people who do get offended by being branded a homophobe well you’ve had it for all of three weeks. Try a lifetime of hurtful abuse, that much Panti Bliss was exactly right about.

Persecution or even the thought of not having your opinons heard is a scary thought. Look at how many people come out to vote nowadays. We don’t care until we’re insulted. And yet if the vote was taken away from us tomorrow there would be an outcry.

A lot of people reckon this referendum will be a nice smokescreen, a chance for the government to gain to some credibility before hitting our wallets with new taxes. Maybe that’s true.

But if there’s anything going on it is that there is just a slight(and long overdue redress) in the balance of what it’s okay to say and not say. The majority of the gay community is fighting back because they are frustrated. As tax paying citizens of this country they want to have the same rights as everyone else. They don’t want to be told what to do in their private lives or that their relationship doesn’t mean as much as a man and woman’s.

On the other side the more traditional point of view, led by zealots from the likes of the Irish Catholic and Iona institute. They will run on the ticket of the nuclear family, mother and father with two kids, the whole bit. They feel that adoption will become some kind of transfer market akin to deadline day on Sky Sports, well that might be interesting to watch.

These two are going to be at loggerheads for the next year and a half until the referendum takes place. Us, the disinterested majority will stand in the middle, some of us mildly entertained others reaching for the remote to change the channel.

And the crazy thing is, we the apathetic many will decide, just by sheer numbers. Can you imagine that, your life being shaped by someone who doesn’t care either way?

A lot of people will only give their opinion on that ballot paper, when it is confidential and quiet to do so.

image from nytimes.com

My parting advice to the reform alliance parties out there is to get prepared. Prepared to bite your tongue and choose your battles wisely. Don’t assume that because you are right that you will win. Do not lower yourself to the dark arts of guilting the public into voting your way. Worse yet don’t play the ‘it doesn’t matter and it won’t affect you’ card, the last thing this nation needs is another excuse not to go down the road to vote.

Learn to appreciate the art of charm, something which always seems to go down well in Ireland for some reason.

I hope you win.

I watched the Panti video one more time whilst writing this. Have to say I began to warm to her.. Maybe I just needed to get used to her.

This post is guest post. For more on guest posts and how to submit pleasefollow this link.

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Hi, my name is Ray and I live in Ireland. I am slowly learning how unfair life is and dealing with it accordingly. Currently I live at home with my parents at the tender age of 32, having decided that success and a nice abode of my own was all too predictable. I presently work as an Intern, which in Ireland means, the same as everywhere else in the western world (no job prospects!). My principle interests include observing soccer players secretly laughing at the rest of us, wrestling with the reality that sometimes you’re better off not trying, wrestling full stop oh and fast food, consummation and critique thereof. I don’t like long walks along the beach, Monday is my favourite day of the week and if there’s an American TV show out there that you love and can’t stop talking about chances are I probably despise you.

Peter Clarke


By Ray Hyland

The first adults you meet in life will forever leave an impression. Family notwithstanding you rely on your teachers and headmasters to guide you along the early roads.

Personally speaking I don’t think Dunboyne realises how lucky they had it. Peter Clarke served the area with great distinction, a place right on the edge of Dublin,for so long rural, growing rapidly as housing estates shot up as quickly as you could build them.

Many dreaded when their class teacher would be occasionally absent,for fear of the principal coming down to take the class for the day. I for one loved the tales of mice running around the skirting boards of the old school and the nuanced pronunciations from the teacher’s copy of Buail Liom. Not to mention the P.E class out in the mucky field,O’Neills footballs flying everywhere but scarcely over the bar.

That school was far from perfect. But while there was always sadness at the end of each summer holiday there was never true dread. Staying on the right side of the tracks just seemed the most sensible course of action when you heard of the legends of meter sticks and canes. In my experience the legends were just that, as mythical as those school plays whereby enthusiastic actors turned up for a production of Tir Na Nog.

There were problem children(your writer included,especially in junior & senior infants) and for them there was the principal’s office; a cologne fragranced mass of papers and a filing cabinet with a long lost typewriter sitting atop of it. Rare was it that you visited this room for anything other than bad news. Thankfully its charms remained a mystery for the most part.

Not unlike that fascinating Mercedes Benz, a cream coloured behemoth with left hand drive. Some lucky boys were even afforded the opportunity to be chauffeured home on occasion, but only if their grey uniform had not withstood the onslaught of a puddle and they faced the day in wet trousers. Mr.Clarke always had a bit of style.

Looking back on it, admittedly with rose tinted specs I’d say they were happy years. Nothing seemed out of reach, everything was possible. The school trips were always a real treat. We had Wexford and a trip to the Heritage Centre in 4th class. Any chance of misbehaviour was quickly culled when we saw we not only had Willie Lyons but also our headmaster to contend with. The train home was class though, crisps,coke and a game of snap.

Going back as a secondary school first year for a ‘visit’ the place seemed much smaller. To be greeted by the silver haired principal was proof that we were now on our way, headed for the real world whether we wanted to or not.

I only saw him a few times in the years after Dunboyne National School. He looked like a man enjoying his retirement. The hair was of course still silver and the smile never seemed far away.

Farewell then sir, I will be thinking of you at the three o’clock bell.

This post is guest post. For more on guest posts and how to submit please follow this link.

20130919-172951.jpg

Hi, my name is Ray and I live in Ireland. I am slowly learning how unfair life is and dealing with it accordingly. Currently I live at home with my parents at the tender age of 32, having decided that success and a nice abode of my own was all too predictable. I presently work as an Intern, which in Ireland means, the same as everywhere else in the western world (no job prospects!). My principle interests include observing soccer players secretly laughing at the rest of us, wrestling with the reality that sometimes you’re better off not trying, wrestling full stop oh and fast food, consummation and critique thereof. I don’t like long walks along the beach, Monday is my favourite day of the week and if there’s an American TV show out there that you love and can’t stop talking about chances are I probably despise you.

70


by Ray Hyland

For as long as I’ve been a resident of dear Dunboyne, there has been a tenuous but definite link back into Dublin City. An artery if you will, which pumps from the heart of the City Centre back to the edge of the old green belt.

I’d guess I’ve been on the 70 bus or one of its variants at least 5000 times since 1985 or ‘86.Probably more actually. I remember all subtle route changes. Did you know its original terminus was just by the Ha’penny Bridge beside an old carpet shop? From there it would wrap around to Liffey Street back onto Lower Abbey Street, pass the old O’Connor’s denim shop ( complete with weird mural that nobody remembers) back onto Capel Street, over Grattan Bridge and back to the still familiar route.

The terminus was pushed around a fair bit after that. The 70 made its home in Middle Abbey Street for a while, near the old Chapter’s book shop, before switching to the Abbey Theatre. It was moved to facilitate the Luas works, whereby it took up residence at the model railway shop on Hawkins Street. Right now it starts at the Burlington Road, hitting Dawson and Suffolk Street before going back onto the quays.

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Image courtesy of Dublin Bus Stuff http://www.dublinbusstuff.com

To live in Dunboyne without a car is much like living in a rural town without your own transport. For a long time, the bus only ran every two hours and sometimes not even then. Weekends especially were(and are) quite frustrating. I used to visit my Gran near NCR and by the time it got there from town, the single decker bus was always full, leaving me to sitting in the old luggage hold by the double doors.

So many times I’ve had to put my faith in this wretched service. The worst was on those busy winter nights when it would already be full by the time it got to Prussia Street. You knew well it was full of fuckers from Castleknock who had just missed the 39.Worse yet, going to school in Blanchardstown for 6 years meant I either had to get the special school bus or the 70 on Wednesday half days.

It improved slightly over time as the single deckers where taken out of commission and a new 270 service was deployed in the late 90s. This was to provide transport to the newly built Blanchardstown centre. Now noisy little yellow red mini buses went up and down the motorway. No matter what ideas you had about yourself, any passenger on these looked a bit ‘special’.

There was never any real novelty value going on the bus. It was good seeing friends or acquaintances on there that might break up the long journey. It was even better to sometimes feign sleep when you saw someone you didn’t to see getting on at the next stop.

A fond memory was the quiet man. He was a lad of maybe 25 and he’d sit down the very back of the top deck and roll himself a lovely joint. He’d have about half of it, never say a word and then offer it to whoever was sitting beside him before he got off at Littlepace. I wonder what became of him.

I finally managed to move out in my early 20s, free now from the grip of those dusty green(then blue) seats. But I still get shudders when I think of all the time wasted waiting around for that bus, or worse yet having my life dictated to by its questionable scheduling.

I never even mentioned the epic adventure that is the 70 Nitelink service or the old 70X that ran from UCD belfield for many years.

Nowadays there’s a train that goes from Dunboyne into the city, though it doesn’t impress me much. It’s a long walk back into the village but I guess it’s better than nothing!

My advice, get a car, or make lots of friends with available couch space in town.

This post is guest post. For more on guest posts and how to submit please follow this link.

20130919-172951.jpg

Hi, my name is Ray and I live in Ireland. I am slowly learning how unfair life is and dealing with it accordingly. Currently I live at home with my parents at the tender age of 32, having decided that success and a nice abode of my own was all too predictable. I presently work as an Intern, which in Ireland means, the same as everywhere else in the western world (no job prospects!). My principle interests include observing soccer players secretly laughing at the rest of us, wrestling with the reality that sometimes you’re better off not trying, wrestling full stop oh and fast food, consummation and critique thereof. I don’t like long walks along the beach, Monday is my favourite day of the week and if there’s an American TV show out there that you love and can’t stop talking about chances are I probably despise you.