It’s a pleasant morning for Michael and a ride is fancied. So, off on the bicycle pedalling down the road, guided by Hawthorn hedges, past the sweet smell of flowery Elders, on a beautiful June day. Almost tasting the nectural scent from these pretty bright blooms, he is bound to pick up ‘the Field’ and be somewhere by noon. Someone in hospital close to him, must keep up with the good form, and retain that all important faculty of waging on the nags. Hardly able to walk but well able to flutter.
It’s a Sunday, so delivery made and time on his hands, a trip to town seemed like fun plan for the rest of the day.

Eventually he passes a quiet Merrion Road and Leeson Street, and soon ends up on Baggot Street Bridge with a fly in the eye. He clears his weeping cornea and recalls in the past having watery eyes but for other reasons, and going in the opposite direction towards home, at a very different hour, and regularly passing others less practiced in nocturnalism, who were at times also end up on Baggot Street Bridge! But now, flocks of people seemed to be migrating towards the city centre, and reminiscent of his night-clubbing-days, he walks, with that unforgotten swallow instinct to follow the fittest looking birds in order to find the biggest and best party.

Approaching Burgh Quay he notes that many wandering revellers seem quite locked! Arriving soon at a very vibrant O’Connell Street congregation, Michael tires at the Spire and opts to stop. Leaning the bike against a tree, the saddle now provides a fine observation post, so to enjoy the experience of being a human being and not a human doing, he watches the world go by, … literally.

Close by, there is a loudspeaker playing rock and roll, a softer type as opposed to the darker, serpent, dagger, blood and guts type, the genuine heavy end of the metal music spectrum. And next to it, a four legged table and a vibrantly coloured middle-aged African lady quietly orating all things Jesus and the Bible.
Looking in a different direction, and several paces past a chatty bunch of Asian visitors with flashing compacts, stood a pair of ageing middle-eastern chaps in simple black and white, promoting Islam. Another table, a similar assortment of literature, and attracting a similar lack of interest, but without the musical accompaniment. The indifferent passing masses didn’t alter the focus of these dedicated orators and their cause. Then the music becomes diluted with a group who are much more enthusiastic about their beliefs, a loud clapping and chanting, ‘Jail the bankers, jail the bankers’, their message hailing from the doors of the GPO, this crowd are getting their soapbox say.

One here, admits to having an addiction to heroine, and claims to have been caught orchestrating funds dishonestly and illegally… (stealing 400 euros, in other more effective and expletive words) thus getting him jailed. He begs the legitimate question as to why the ‘money addicts’, who have also been caught orchestrating funds dishonestly and illegally, are getting away with it! His addiction atirely socially unsuited? Judge for yourself, but those owl eyed long haired hippies who give the orders from on high seem to be on a different planet and devoid of reality! An immoral place where the highest vaulters are defaulters and where 62% of incarcerations result from fiscal non compliance. A land of judicial milk and honey for some, but a place where others are milked and stung, the only constant is the numbing feeling of being ripped off and stitched up! Another compassionate cryer states his predicament of facing potential eviction as he approaches retirement and yet his ‘primary’ lender can get a titanical six hundred thousand euro parasitic pension, for his approaching retirement. How much guilt on that watch? A vulture capitalist? …thats some fix on any moral scales. Another vext vocalist calls for revolting, revolution and recklessness. Another announces he is getting weaker by the second in his second week of hunger strike; while the next informs the crowd, of at least two hundred, including the pale faced anonymous couple, that we will get a mere 4% of the Corrib oil revenue. As the smell of anger mixes with that of distant saucy frankfurters the excitement continues, and yet some others obviously oblivious to all around, shuffle on by and form their own two lines to buy stamps from behind the pillars, doors, tables and counters of the most beautiful post Office! One wonders why the average working house owner moans about the perhaps one grand annual house tax being introduced, and yet says little about their, on average approx fifty grand share of ‘the guarantee.’ Common sense blinkered rubber stamping! (apologies for Michaels ignorance in exact house tax figures…as he never bought one)

But thank goodness these are ‘fiscal experts’ and very professional at what they do and not just vulgar till robbers. Counting combatants in those institutions which cost us billions, and others their lives. What might we owe if they couldn’t care and were cutting deals to line their own pockets, satisfying an addiction to Memorenow. If Dick Turpin came down today would he say poor accounting, or a fabrication? At least he had the respect for others to wear a mask when he was conducting his ‘business’. Or were he here today in that disguise it might be, chilax man show me the party, or indeed come on boys show me the booty!

Lots of young healthy people, many of them donning masks, pass by as another big party was about to begin. Pride. Gays and lesbians all getting together. Bright things in bright things, laces and whistles and everything you could imagine and more which you couldn’t imagine. All colours under their rainbow. Attractive half-dressed sailors, several of whom could be a he, or a she. Extra-long biker boots, riding crops, shiny ex CIE type inspector caps, and some doing their version of the concubine walk. Boney things in tiny T shirts looking materially compromised. Skirts with so little fabric they need re-naming. Two lads holding hands and giggling, looking doubly light headed, doing their little bits for both booze and bleach revenues. And as three very tough cowboys strut by with supreme confidence, the gravely concerned Lagos leaflet lady must be digging deep from this social rut for conversion methods to her more traditional way of living, giving, sharing and caring. Michael presumes they were tough as he still has his coat on whereas they bore little more than a big Stetson, and a full frontal leather hide pouch for their valuables. Dear oh dear as they seem to jostle, jest, skip and sidewalk along the pavement as if a triptych of young stags frolicking and locking horns. They barely steer clear of her stand thus just avoiding knocking off her laid out gospel goodies. With the advantage of hindsight she must be thinking that flashing outfit was just, two cheeky for her! After throwing her eyes heavenwards she seems to be searching above all for a rational response… her mind then perhaps exorcising in triplicate. Hell raising in this mega ‘re’-session. Perhaps in dust real happiness?

Next Michael spots an entrenched coated mature man with reseeded white hair approaching from across the road, walking and talking in an old brogue. He stops, stoops and looks at her biblical bits on full display, Eyeballing her and attaining her full attention, and sales potential. (her thoughts perhaps.. at last a possible convert?) And then this flourey elder says with an accent recognisable from the distant past, ’Wudja evah turden da feggen shydowen cuzidz denja uz an doon meflip in eddin’. He proceeds to tell the lady he will report her to the guards as he can’t hear the traffic when he’s crossing over. Nigeria may have some 130 dialects and local languages but she had no comprehension of Innerdub, and Michael is too polite to translate, so simply shruggs his shoulders toward her, as she turned around and gently returns the circulars back onto her table.

This carnival is in your face now with a jovial musical crecendo of booming, bumping, thumping, jumping, rumping and humming that belittles everything else. Other stuff seems a mere whispering niceity. The happy hoards pass un-noticing Father Mathew. The apostle of Temperance. Double deckers were full of dancing, wiggling and giggling in moves even the best, and most highly rated, nineties fitness vhs video tapes couldn’t simulate or stimulate. These guys, (?) must be very subtle and super-fit. Moves and jives and pubic expression which older folk might dare to imagine but would only try after copious amounts of cider, which might be begged, borrowed or stolen by two neater litre. If anyone comes in for a real slagging, their ‘get out insurance’ can be to blame it on ‘the drink’. As toddlers, others never grew up with this much vibrant energy around. By comparison from post McQuaidel times, more like a sheep asleep, who had their hair washed by their mothers until the age of 18, and the height of style was not wearing woolly jumpers inside trousers! Money was so; tights were sown when laddered or worn. Michael too, was more placid like those SOS Falun Gong supporters. Several Orientals Squatting in the centre island meditating, mediating, methodically performing polite, slow, well thought out, calm, controlled, cohesive moves of Fung shui. Different in their approach to public expression, having a collective harmony to their moves; of a gentil shared inclusive approach, working together, even with eyes closed and even as the thumping beat on the street passes right beside them. In oriental mantra, and heart monitoring machine level, a contineous hum.

Those slick hot tempoed top deck flashing leading electro-lites of acoustic parturition are the other end of the spectrum when coming to coordinated or castrating moves. Shake, flop, slap, flap, flip and wiggle the jiggle faster and faster. One celebrant at the front is dancing so fast and furious as if a puppy fighting with a large bone or, killing a soft toy by biting and tearing it to death with violent head shakes to the left and… then headshakes to the right. Hopefully he will be ok afterwards, as those jeans do appear to be terribly small. Such moves in drainpipes could give a rodeo champ circulation problems, rubrash or whiplash. He is a ringing endorsement for such lively music and somone most talented at what he does.

Next to go by, the governmental partners. Everyone on this bus seems to be in Labour. These esteemed representatives are more into the wave than the rave, and today more interested in a, rather than the, Party. Well, until the anti-austerity lads spot their bus and see red. Having previously been looking to the north they turn and quickly cross the island and stop the pride parade heading south. They lay on the ground. About where big Jim Larkin is now advertising drugs for sale. Those two white laced runners sitting on his left arm should have been removed hours earlier but does anything ever get done without civil experts having another paid enquiry? Sorry readers but something really alien would have to happen here, like someone take some responsibility and make a, a … well em, decision! Signaling a less historical and more hysterical union in a cycle of peddeling, pushing and running. It takes a while before the Labour leaders retract their open-hand approach to regal waving. Predictably slow to realise the returning gestures from everyone beneath them are less than friendly. Due to the nature of the parade they may be forgiven for thinking those many two fingers are a sign of peace! As scuffles break out with several of the labour aides, some of the original advertising gets ripped off the sides of the bus and fear of a busting up or fisting fight between these two camps could become a reality.

An innocent looking student looking on in Uggs… pushed to the ground… her camera dented. A tall, gentil unshaven man, in lip-stick, long dress and a wig… roughly dragged… his ego dented, then a pair of chaps full of dutch courage have brokeback from the front line and this seaswell of anger may not be contained. Would there be a breach in the defence at the spike? Sirens going off in all directions. This means a ten minute delay. Plenty long enough to read Sean O’ Caseys words on Larkins’ stand …’trumpet-tongued of resistance to wrong, discontent with leering poverty, and defiance of any power strutting out to stand in the way of their march onward’. A vertual, and virtual standstill. Those gardai are brilliant. Positioning some female ban guard officers at the coalface meant only the most brave, or foolish, would dare contemplate giving a knuckle sandwich. Providing a safety barrier was imperative. ‘Une cordon bleu’ in French letters. A laudable ‘shame on you, shame on you’, commenced again. A different dual purpose collective crowd chant might have been a consideration, …’Cover up, Cover up’! as so few politicians have straight humility nowadays. They appear little more than well paid buffers between reality and aspiration, a big act of balancing opposite oppinion. The protesters seem to be given their time to vent their dismay in this June which is only correct, and a smart move and not to treat them like goadable sheep… as others might. After several social minutes, all move back to their party positions and all egos return intact. Everything, including the luas train delays, now back on track. On goes the bonding onto the bus and on goes the bonding around the bus.

The parade continues straight heading towards O’Connell bridge. Crowds flood over the river Liffey being led by the flagging standard set by that cosmotic sextant, raving, waving bone rattling flip-flop flapping jolly Roger, with a little tailwind. Alas no sign of some of those quieter few squatting on silently so I presume even their levels of inner concentration and patience have been negatively tested. Perhaps we are harvesting fruits from the days of being fed up with synthetic male and female hormones in meat, originally eartagged for cattle. Sandwiches could have been sexed at purchase, in case you hoped for cow but got bull, all depending on what mood. We grew up when the ‘doof’ business spelt backwards made a killing and some ended up with a ‘boom’ backwards. My how we have changed since then! Scientific proof will never yea it or neigh it as that would mean using a scales of common sense.

A retired twenty two stone plus, bright two-tone trousered American converses with a skinney much duller twenties too stoned local. Quality Scottish check squaring beside thick Dublin khaki resembling centre mass digested beer from a green tin… his boozy breakfast…”Wudya lizzen bud, oi didden say yizza ana rakki headman. Eyes zed yizza rekkin me headman, ann now yizza rekkin me whole. Me whole life”. Then the response, “ Oh shur, shur man, I ged it Meehail you wanna pull on my leg to get some craic, bless, and be shur you have a nice day also feller.” Whether you feel like a queen in this hive of activity or just want to drone on, look positively at little things ahead and not at the little things’ behind. Then a thick, haired European sitting in his dirty waiste lumber jacket on a pavment outside a newsagent, having finished a large take out coffee in a paper cup gets moved on by two young Gardai on their bike. Michael had just made a contribution… a small bail out of sorts, and asks the young officers if his action compromised their jobs, and where will Mr Budapess Yesyes be guided to. “There is nothing wrong with being charitable but no one wants these people anywhere near ATM’s or Churches. There is nowhere he can be sent to, but its against the law to beg for money, and we have to move him on.” This graceful distain for poor society.

Returning to a bachelors’ walk, Michael enjoyed, and is genuinely enthused after those minutes of contemporary Ireland and realises how he is such an old fuddy duddy. He feels their opposite… socially shackeled, adhering to institutionalisation…… confined and compelled to conformity, though perhaps in brief… he did rather feel like a foreigner! But wonders if sometime in the future, perhaps after he reaches 50, or even scores four times with twenty plus, whether anyone will have time for an old peddler, when perhaps O’Connell street might be lined with Cryogenic clinics or walk in Euthanasia bars. Somewhat mesmerised by this mono-polised Ireland, it’s far from ideal but he welcomes the healthy diversity of everything worldly and knows we will all have a most diverse, vibrant and interesting future and must embrass it, like it or not. And if we are leading on the top or surviving at the bottom, a tiny part of him does still beg the question as to whether we have at long last socially, and spiritually found full confidence in self expression, in a most modern, eclectic, pleuralist way? Or are we honestly at every single level, completely and utterly lost? …….