Confirmation

Around this time 23 years ago I was preparing for what, at the time was one of the biggest occasions of my life. Eleven year old Jayhaitch was studying hard in anticipation of what was ‘the greatest gift’ he would ever receive. I was getting ready for my Confirmation.

As a member of the Catholic Church it is a rite of passage for everyone around the age of 11 or 12 to receive the Sacrament of Confirmation in order to solidify their bond with God and the Catholic Church. It was a very serious thing and the pre adolescent me thought it was a huge responsibility and great honour at the same time. Mostly because I was told that it was.

Months and months of preparation were involved. My classmates and I had to go into school 30 minutes early everyday for extra religious education. We read various passages of the bible. We learned new hymns for the ceremony and made posters and decorations for the church. Each morning we were taught something different to prepare us for the upcoming event.

The promise of a stronger connection with our God was offered, as long as we were willing to accept him and live by his teachings. Excitement coursed through me as the day got closer. It was all we could talk about in class.

Everybody got a brand new outfit. I got a grey leather jacket, dark slacks, a white pinstripe shirt and, something I was really proud of at the time, a skinny leather grey tie. I got a fancy flat top haircut which involved me using hair mousse for the first time. I looked fantastic. I imagine how Kate Middleton felt before the wedding was something similar to what I was experiencing.

All this was of course for the showing me off to family and friends who, because they were so impressed at what a handsome little catholic I was, would give me a card with money inside it. Each of my friends had plans for what they were going to do with their ‘confo money.’ Some were getting BMX’s, others a Commodore 64. I think I bought a basketball.

One part of the ceremony was The Pledge. A promise made before God that you will not drink alcohol until you are 18. In years gone by it had to be made in public but by the time I made my confirmation it was a secret pledge so you could choose to make it or not. Planning to take it, I spent the day before drinking 6 cans of Club Shandy (all 0.05% volume of alcohol and legal to sell to minors) so I wouldn’t miss on booze. I believe I broke the pledge five times...which in fairness for an Irish teenager is not bad.

Then there was the actual confirmation. With my sponsor, my Godmother Ann, leading me up to the altar, the archbishop asked what name I was taking. I chose the confirmation name Peter, mostly because he lobbed off the soldier’s ear in the Garden of Gethsemane (which by the way has inspired way more works of art than an act of violence should.) Then he confirmed me, John Patrick Peter, as a member of the church and I went off to live my life as a good catholic.

Or rather, I didn’t. I write this piece as a way of confirming myself an atheist. Not one of those religion bashing, smug, condescending ones. If you believe in god I won’t judge you. In the same way, I expect to not be considered evil because I don’t share your way of thinking. And I promise I won’t try and covert you if you afford me the same respect. For me, it just doesn’t make any logical sense.

So, on the 30th of April 2011 I, John Holohan, taking the name Beer Belly Jarvis, wish to confirm my Atheism. I pledge that I will get drunk at least twice in the next seven days and my outfit for this special occasion is flip flops, green shorts, a Mr. Grumpy T-shirt and a grey hoodie.

If anyone wishes to send me cards with money in them send me a private email and I will forward you my address.

Chronicle

I’m finding writing a bit of a chore at the moment. There is a lack of complete ideas bouncing around in my beautiful head (yes...beautiful.) I’ve got a couple of strands that if I can pull them together might work but until then, I’ll just have to keep plugging away.

As Pablo Picasso said, “When inspiration comes, I want it to find me working.” How about that for a quote? I don’t just do John Cusack and Father Ted you know.

So with a lack of anything better to talk to you about, I’ll tell you about something I did this week. No, wait...it might be interesting.

On Tuesday, I met up with a new friend (that’s not the interesting part.) Feeling a little unimaginative and not really wanting to ‘just go to the pub’ I charged her with the responsibility of deciding where we would go. This was a mistake as not knowing my destination was incredibly irritating. I like surprises, when I’m doing the surprising. The other way around is just cruel. With a nervous anxiety I boarded the LUAS while she mocked my control freak ways.

I never considered myself a controlling person, but seeing the words on paper does make me seem a bit anal retentive. By the way, isn’t Anal Retentive just the best expression (to say, not to be, obviously.)

Arriving at our stop we disembarked the tram and crossed the Liffey into Temple Bar. Temple Bar isn’t my favourite place in the world so my trepidation was multiplying quicker than Carole Voderman but as we passed some of the more obnoxious bars I started to relax. On seeing an enormous queue of people I realised this was our destination. We were off to Milk and Cookies.

Milk and Cookies is a story telling evening in Exchange Dublin, in Temple Bar. Every second Tuesday of the month an assortment of people converges to share stories they have picked up on their journey through life. Ranging from haunted tales of a teacher’s first job to anecdotes about childhood guilt for cursing out parents, it would be impossible not hear something that didn’t entertain or amuse.

The people who organise it do it for the love of stories rather than money, the lack of a cover charge being proof of that. They also provide tasty baked goods and delicious non alcoholic beverages free of charge. There is a donation jar or merchandise available to buy if you wish to contribute to funding the very worthwhile event.

It was my first time attending and I have to say I loved it. It’s cramped and kind of uncomfortable with not enough seating for the 100 people they let in, but that just added to the sense of unity. Everyone was there to enjoy themselves, support the people who offered to share their story.

The story tellers all had wonderful yarns to weave, some autobiographical and some traditional, some touching and some outright bonkers. Anyone can sign up on the night if they wish to regale a captive audience. Not everyone was a polished performer, but each was treated with the same respect and adoration by the grateful audience.

I will definitely go back. Maybe next time I might share a story. I doubt it would be up to standard of the ones I heard the other night, but I think they would be ok with that.

Coincidentally I met one of the organisers the next day when I was in Galway with Fighting Words. She was volunteering with Cúirt despite having a seriously sprained ankle. In a time when money is tight and entertainment and culture is probably the first thing to go from people’s budgets it’s great to know that good people are trying to do good things.

Maternal

Deadlines are not something that I am used to or very good at. I’ve always taken them as more of a rough estimate than anything concrete but this post is a little different. With roughly three and a half hours left until Mothers day is over I need to get this done and posted in order for it to be relevant.

Obviously Mothers Day is another bogus holiday invented by the card companies in order to get us to part with our cash. Unfortunately only the most cynical of person could argue that it’s not well deserved. Yes folks, Mummy’s are brilliant.

Considering that I have devoted blogs and posts in praise of how people like Jarvis Cocker, John Cusack or George Carlin have affected my life it’s probably only fair that I give my Mother a bit of shout out.

The best thing about my Mum? It might be her endurance. She has put up with living with up to 5 smelly men and an occasionally cranky younger female for the last 36 years. She cooked, cleaned, stitched and washed our dirty underwear. She changed our nappies, wiped our noses, put plasters on our knees and told us not to pick at the scabs.

Doctors, teachers, dentists, she has dealt with them all. It wasn’t easy. Life wasn’t. I’d be lying if I said she never get frustrated or angry. She did and when she did we knew all about it. But she kept doing it.

It probably has more to do with her heart than willpower in fairness. Despite all our faults she loves us and would do pretty much anything for us. I’ve often seen her go without so we could get something we wanted. We are her flock and as far as she was concerned her job was to tend it. Like Little Bo Peep from Crumlin.

Even now, as a thirty something year old grown man, I doubt I could be described as a great son. I don’t ring every day, when I do I don’t tell her things. I can’t imagine that she is delighted that her eldest child is living his dream as a penniless writer working part time in a ‘Japanese Lifestyle Store,’ without kids, relationship or home to call his own. I can just hear her bragging in the bingo hall about all the PP boxes I sold last week.

I worry that I let her down. I don’t regularly go to (extended) family functions when all the cousins might. I wonder if she is hurt by that. When I went to college back in 96 I was supposed to be going to make something of my life. I might have let her and my dad down on that one.

Yet she never gives me a hard time for it. I know she worries about me but she respects that I’m man (or idiot) enough to make my own decisions. The only time she gets annoyed with me is when I don’t do things that would make my life easier. Like fill in forms or chase up the people dealing with said forms.

She never makes a fuss.  Everything she does is low key and for other people. I know if (when) she reads this she’ll be embarrassed first and then annoyed with me. I might not tell her about it.

My mum might be special, but I know I’m not. Lots of people have brilliant mothers. As far as you are concerned yours is the best mum in the world. And you are right to. So this post is dedicated to all the mothers out there;

• The mum’s who take their son to piano lessons on Saturday morning because they want their kid to have some culture.
• The Mammy’s who are raising beautiful daughters on their own because....well basically because daddy is a responsibility shirking arsehole.
• The Ma who to me, is still my little sister, but has two fantastic, happy kids.
• The Mum that I always knew would be a fantastic, even if her boyfriend was my best drinking buddy and as such a bit of a worry.
• The mothers who have to work harder because their amazing son hasn’t always been healthy.
• The mammies who brought my closest friends and family into the world.
• My close friends and family who have brought children into the world.
• The mom’s who are no longer with us but are missed a little more today

But most of all, its dedicated to my mother. I did bring her down a gift earlier today. I timed it well because she was able to make me breakfast. What? She likes to do it! Surely that was the best Mothers day gift I could give her?