Empty vessels
So, it’s finally happened. After months of postulation, prevarication and procrastination, a date has been set. Not an exact date of course, it’s far too soon for that, but a rough estimate nonetheless. Sometime next summer we’ve been told, probably June or July, when the weather is nice and the living is easy. It’ll be a great day, a momentous occasion, an opportunity for the entire nation to come together and share a once in a generation experience. Like when the Pope visited, or when O’Leary popped in that penalty, an unforgettable moment writ large in our history.
But will any of us be alive to see it? Will the country not be engulfed in flames by that point, the hot air generated by the key players having caused it to spontaneously combust? Will those not busy fanning the flames be incapable of going to the polls, a steady stream of rallies, protests and marches having worn their limbs down to bloodied little nubs? And will the few remaining souls, the ones who’ve avoided the heated debates, the shouting matches and the scuffles, just stay at home out of spite, snubbing both pro-lifers and pro-choicers having grown tired of the rhetoric on both sides.
Who knows? But one thing is for certain; you ain’t seen nothing yet.
First and foremost, the confirmation that there will be a referendum on whether to repeal the Eighth Amendment should be recognised as a victory for those who have spent the last five years campaigning for a change to current legislation. In the face of strong, often forceful, opposition, they have remained stoical, focused on their objective and determined to succeed. That’s not to say that this is a defeat for those who oppose them, or to say that I’m taking sides, because heaven forbid I do that, to do so would be to incur the wrath of at least half our readership and possibly burn in hell for eternity depending on your perspective.
However, if you must know, I’ll be voting for women in this country to have full, unfettered access to whatever services they desire. I’ve heard all the arguments, digested all the information, and feel that it’s the most sensible course of action to take. Yet, there won’t be any pride, any of the usual sense of righteousness associated with exercising my rights as a citizen when it comes to casting my vote. Instead, I’ll just hurriedly mark the spot, stuff my ballot paper into the box, and exit the booth, exhaling dramatically for effect as I depart the building. Because if I’m sick and tired of this debate now, in September 2017, I can only imagine what it’s going to be like by the time we all get to have our say.
Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s potentially the most important referendum of our times, a vote which could alter the lives of women in this country forever and eradicate the already waning influence of the Catholic Church. And, by the same token, that it could reaffirm our standing as a conservative, resistant state, further the suffering of many, justify the beliefs of others and lead to another repeated referendum because we got the first one wrong. I know all of that, I’m fully aware of just how seismic an event this is, but that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy the brouhaha surrounding it, the ranting and raving, the sanctimony, the piety and the general unpleasantness.
Already I can hear the bickering, the protesting, “It’s not us, we’re not doing anything. It’s them. They’re to blame.” Like naughty schoolchildren both sides like to declare their innocence, adopting a ‘Who, me?’ countenance as they goad one another behind the teacher’s back. Such has been the fervour of the arguments, the rancour bordering on viciousness, that you have take a step back and remind yourself that these people are discussing the wonder of life, the joy of creation and all that it entails. Not since Roy Keane hung up his boots has such savagery been seen on these shores.
And for what? Yes, those who shout loudest, mass in the greatest numbers, may add a few members to their flock, they may score a few points, gain the moral high ground and move a step closer to their ultimate goal. But even that’s no real victory, as victories go it’s as hollow as they come. Unwanted pregnancies, abortion, adoption, whatever the outcome, it’s a sad state of affairs for all concerned and whatever the result of this referendum there should be no celebration, no bragging rights taken or one-upmanship gained.
Of course, not everyone is like that, there are people, on both sides, capable of reasonable, measured debate, genuinely engaging individuals who can speak with clarity and articulacy on the subject without resorting to clichés and emotional blackmail. Because that’s what’s required here, a bit of decorum. If the last few years have taught us anything it’s that there’s something very unseemly about campaigning for or against the right to terminate an unborn child. Dress it up how you like, but this is not something to shout over the rooftops about. Most protests have been peaceful and dignified, but far too many have taken on lives of their own, becoming more about who can shout the loudest rather than standing up for what you believe in.
And then there are the gimmicks, the attention-seeking stunts masquerading as political statements. Like the hunger striker who took up residence outside the Dáil last week, announcing that he wouldn’t be leaving until the Taoiseach had watched a video on abortion, who then somewhat weakened his cause by admitting he’ll go home every night, presumably to stuff his face with burgers. Or how about the women who donned the red cloaks and white bonnets made famous by The Handmaid’s Tale as they made their own statement outside the same building? Comparing our relatively modernised state with a dystopian society where the few remaining fertile women are treated like commodities to be passed from one merchant to another?
With such idiocy on display is it any wonder people get so irate? Now’s the time to take things a little more seriously, to focus on informing those who are still unsure on exactly what they’ll be voting on, not appealing to the lowest-common denominator, seeking out the media to garner likes and retweets. Because this is about more than giving women in this country access to services which they currently must travel overseas to acquire, or protecting the rights of an unborn child. It’s about educating those most directly affected, the young mothers of tomorrow, the girls who will soon become women for whom this entire debate must sound like the most terrifying thing on earth.
By all means fight for what you believe in, take to the streets, coerce and cajole, but do so with those girls in mind. Yes, think of their future and giving them the right to do what they like with their bodies, but think of their present too, and the mixed messages another nine months of fractious debate will create.
Lead us not into temptation
Okay, so it was grand when they announced the legal limit would be reduced to little more than a sip of cider. It was even okay when they told us that Lidl’s cut-price lager would be no more. And for all our whinging we could deal with the alcohol in supermarkets being hidden in some faraway dungeon in the very bowels of the building. But they’ve gone too far now.
We know they don’t want us to drink, or at least that they want to give the impression they don’t want us to drink, but you can’t stop us from fantasising, from sitting at home of a Tuesday evening, seeing an ad for a frothy beer we’ve never even tasted and saying, “jaysus, I’d love a pint of that now.”
But that’s what they’re trying to do, they’re trying to take the fun out of it completely, ruin it for the vicarious among us who’ve had to give up the ghost but still like to pretend they’d fall off the wagon given half a chance, and take away temptation altogether. As part of the much-vaunted Alcohol Bill which will come into effect this autumn, alcohol advertising will change irrevocably.
Scenes involving people, pubs and, strangely, animals, will no longer be allowed, meaning popular ads like the Guinness’ Christmas one with all the snow and the mirth and the warmth will become obsolete. Instead it’ll just be sad, lonely little pints, sat there by themselves, with no-one drinking them, no-one savouring their hopsy goodness or their headache-inducing premium content. And we’ll be sat there watching them, feeling even sadder, even lonelier, as we quietly sup the five euro can of German ale we procured from a shady backstreet dealer for but a fraction of its recommended retail value.
