Send in the clowns

I was chatting to my mate Danny Cassidy of San Francisco via Brooklyn and Belfast when he referred to Washington’s Bushwhacker brigade as “that helter-skelter crew.” Howdya mean? I enquired, which I sensed was a mistake even before I’d reached the question mark.

“Helter skelter... Áilteoirí scaoilte... Tricksters run amuck,“ he elaborated.

It seems – well, Cassidy says – that “helter skelter” is derived from the Gaelic phrase “Áilteoirí scaoilte,” meaning tricksters run amuck or circus clowns set free. I am assured that confirmation of this is available from O’Donaill’s Irish-English Dictionary (Dublin, 1990) or Dineen’s Foclóir Gaeilge-Béarla (Dublin, 1927).

“Áilteoirí Scaoilte immediately brings to mind the image of a slua of tricksters, jokers and clowns running amuck, tumbling and tripping over one another, in riotous mayhem,” observes Cassidy, reasonably. “The association of the Manson family with the Beatles’ ‘Helter Skelter’ adds the macabre shadow of the evil trickster.

“When we include the Bush-son Family running amuck by the Rivers of Babylon, the potential for evil and chaos magnifies exponentially. If the Bush-Son Family is not stopped soon, the entire world is threatened with the ultimate evil trickster – The Multinational Monster Trickster of War at the crossroads of Ur...

“Bush II is a Yale Skull-and-Bones Born-again Anglo-Zionist Cowboy Clown,” he continues, replenishing breath as he hits his Hell’s Kitchen stride, “Cheney is Greedy The Seedy-CEO Clown. Rummy the Nincompoop the Clown Strategic Genius. Wolfy the Chickenshit Shtarker Clown tough guy who couldn’t fight his way out of a New York Times Pinch Sulzberger cocktail party. Condi the unsexy Candy Striper Clown assassin... Blair as Poodle the Clown. The entire US Media as journalist clowns.

“They are all the same old monsters with new monikers. That’s what ‘helter-skelter’ means... ”
There you go. You learn something new every day. Or at least you should try.
To which I add only, apropos the Bush-Son Family’s lately promised Roadmap to Peace in Palestine: “Helter-skelter have I rode to thee and tidings do I bring” – William Shakespeare (1597, 2 Henry IV, V.III, 98).

I don’t give up easily on people. Some stray from the straight road of revolutionary rectitude, but what the hell. I live in prodigal hopes they’ll find a way home.

So I was delighted to meet an old pal at the Bloody Sunday Inquiry in London the other day, even though I’d heard on the grapevine that he’d fallen in with the wrong crowd and gone respectable. He’d popped along to the Central Hall at Westminster, where Lord Saville has been listening to lies, for a pow-wow with one of the lawyers for the soldiers. Turned out my pal is now something called “Head of Chambers” at this hugely prestigious establishment law firm. My, my, I told him, who’d have believed it? And you such a vibrant revolutionary in the days we galloped down dusty day-dreams together... Still, fair play to you, good to see you and so forth.

But he was in a tizzy of business and said sorry, he had to run. We parted, saying we’d definitely have to meet for a pint one day soon.

I mentioned him afterwards to the lawyer he’d come to talk to. Head of Chambers, eh? Did you know that man was a class of a radical in his younger days? Any sign of a residue from that rowdy era in him now?

Nah, the cheery brief explained. Not any more. Too comfortable, too prosperous, too satisfied with the way things are.

Still, I observed in my soft, accomodating way, I bet deep down he’s still the same firebrand I recall as we huddled from the hooves of the cops’ horses at Grosvenor Square in the summer of ’68.

Some of his old political friends thought that, too, for a time, I was told, with a sad shake of the head. Kept faith when he signed up for private medicine with BUPA. Retained his reputation as a bit of a Red underneath even when he sent his children to private schools. The installation of the wine cellar didn’t entirely drain him of credibility, either. Nor yet the construction of the heated swimming pool.

What did for his credentials as a counter-culturalist in the end was, apparently, the launch of the litigation against the man who’d built the swimming pool for having run a hot-water pipe through the wine-cellar.

No arguing with that. Another one gone. Ah, well.

Win when you’re sinning

If you are groaning from the weight of guilt pressing down on your conscience, get your soul to Strabane for a shining next Saturday. An amnesty on sin has been declared!

The news came on the front page of the Derry Journal. “Clergy in the north west have declared an ‘amnesty’ for sinners in a major new campaign to encourage parishioners to return to confession,” came the sensational announcement. “The novel approach follows a sharp decline in the number of people attending confession in recent years.”

Church sources wanted it known that, “If it’s been more years than you care to remember since your last confession and the thought of confessing your sins fills you with dread, be not afraid.”

Eight parishes in Derry and three in Donegal have joined with Strabane in this unprecedented initiative. “A large number of clergy” has been mobilised and will be standing by in “the confessional rooms” – we only had boxes in my day – at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, and will operate in relays between 10.30am and 10pm.

Explaining the thinking behind the “amnesty”, Fr. Michael Doherty, PP, Melmont, said: “Perhaps there was too much emphasis on (sin) in past days and not enough mention of the mercy of god...

“The message we would have is that God is very forgiving and wants to see people at peace with him and themselves. We would welcome back especially... anybody of any age who feel they have cut themselves off from God in any way, and we would encourage them not to be afraid to come back and find peace of mind.”

The word is out that penances will be ultra-lenient. One chap I was talking to in Sandino’s had it on good authority you’ll get as little as three Hail Marys for murder. A mild admonition for bank robbery and the like. Adulterers can expect absolute discharges.

I do hope the constabulary will be on hand for the traffic chaos.

A few slogans come to mind, which I offer gratis to the promoters.

“Absolution? – Absolutely!”

“Sin – No need to say sorry!”

“Our guarantee – no guilt!”

“If you find a lower penance elsewhere, we’ll refund the difference in extra forgiveness!”

“Hell? No – You won’t go!”

It all somehow reminds me of the edition of Sex And The City, which I never watch, in which Miranda succumbs to the blandishments of that geek guy she had a fling with and got pregnant by and who pleads with her for weeks to have the baby baptised ’cos his mum’s still a Catholic. So she and Carrie visit the priest to discuss what’s on offer. I don’t believe in any of this stuff, she explains, and neither does my friend here, who’s going to be godmother. So could we cut out that In the Name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost stuff? In fact, no mention of God, OK? The priest sighs in agreement.
“I was surprised he went along with us so easily,” remarks Miranda, as the delicious duo sashay sexily home through Central Park. “The way things have been going,” responds Carrie, licking an ice-cream in slurpily provocative style, “the Catholic Church is like a 39-year-old unmarried woman in Manhattan. She’ll settle for what she can get.”