Big Sky

Life, eh? What is it all about?

You go through school and the laughter that goes with it. For that was what your school was all about, for you and your kindred spirits anyway. Pure Laughter. It wasn’t about Maths, it wasn’t about English or God forbid, the waste of time that was Irish. Laughter ruled the day. Whether it was Stephen O’Byrne wiping his dog shit filled shoes on the saddle of the biggest fucker in school’s bike or just laughing about the fact he had the nerve to do it. You laughed at the bloke who was mad into Nirvana at fourteen and laughed even more when his hero blew his brains out thus making that stooge’s argument redundant. “I Hate Myself And I Want To Die”?. Off you pop,sun-shee-eye-nah.

You and your mates just missed Oasis round Benildus way. You and your mates did wear the three stripe ‘get-up’ and were roundly derided for it, I might add. For it was 1993. It truly was a shite time to be a football loving, secret music enthusiast teenager. Two more years and you’d have been Gods!
Oh how they laughed at the 1970’s around then. Hand on your heart, you cannot see a comeback for the shellsuit or ‘Grunge’. Noddy Holder and his mirrored hat had more of a chance of gracing our retinas surely?

The time comes for you to collect your Leaving Certificate results and you do what it says on the tin and you leave. Nobody really prepares you for the ‘what the fuck am I going to do with my life?’ moment we all face. Your life is in the hands of a faceless nameless ‘examiner’. Fuck it, life will be alright.
You get your results. You go on the piss. You get your CAO form back. Who gives a fuck really?
You’re young. You’re too young to make massive life choices. Gerry Ryan says so. Gerry would never lie or do something stupid would he? Believe in the words of your elders. That’s what you’re told.

Off you go to college or an apprenticeship or whatever life has dealt you. You do your best, for that is all you can do. Live up to your ability. It is all that’s asked of you.

You get somewhere eventually, you start earning a few ‘bob’. You get a bit cocky down in the pub some nights, thinking you’re the bollocks. You come crashing down to Earth on a Christmas Eve when some fucker that was in your class in school says he’s a millionaire. “But he was an idiot!” you protest to yourself whilst trying to piss the blue block out of the the plughole. And then you go outside and pretend to be his mate. You’ve sold your soul.
You’re the idiot now. Like Ralph from The Fast Show.

Things pick up. You meet the girl you were always meant to be with. The rest were just a training session. Love hits you right between the eyes.
You get married. You spent a fucking fortune on the wedding. Living up to the stereotype cast upon you. You have to do it. Felt the pressure didn’t you?
You both would have happily got married in a skip in Rhyl but no, you had to impress. Still, it was the best day of your life and it was worth every penny. Worth it to see the smiles on the guests faces. And most importantly, the smile on your beautiful bride. Every little girl dreams of her wedding. You hope she achieved all her dreams. You hope she did.

A year or so later you are blessed with this little blinking being that looks a bit like you, a bit like your wife and a lot like your Nan. All wrinkly and pink.“I’m your Dad!” you stutter through the tears.You hold her in your left arm and try to take a photo of her to send to your loved ones. They’re all expectant and all joyous. The feeling is indescribable. A nurse comes in and snaps you out of your fuzziness. “This is how you change a nappy, this is how you dress her”. “Say again?”. You are too blown away by the wonder to take notice. The nurse doesn’t give a fuck, it’s her job. It’s up to you. The feeling of responsibility. The feeling of not leaving this little breathing fragile creature alone takes you over.
You both bring this little creation home. Friends, family visit. It’s a magical time.

It gets tough. Not sleeping much are you? The feeds and the cathartic feeling of making up bottles or ‘bah-bahs’ as you are want to call them can’t make up for the lack of sleep. But still, everything is alright. You’re making the mortgage payments and the car payments and every other motherfucking payment you’ve engaged in. Living the dream. Fantastic.

And then things take a turn for the worse. Not sickness. Not real suffering, Thank God.
You have your health after all but you end up sailing upon the Great Redundant Sea. No hope. No nothing.
You’ve done a thirteen year stint in the one company and suddenly you have nothing. You feel like shit. You could’ve had it all. You did for a while. Didn’t appreciate it did you? Wish you could have saved didn’t you? All very well after the horse has bolted. You’ve always been a idiot deep down. The ‘Lads’ always told you so. Start believing it.

Down, down deeper and down you slide. You don’t want to start relating to Status Quo lyrics but inevitably you do. It’s the final straw. You might as well be a cooper and have songs written about you. But eventually you snap out of it. And one bright sunshine morning you realise that your future lies outside of the country of your birth.
A country riddled with corruption, parochialism, narrow-mindedness and banality. You complain about it but nobody listens.
Oh sure, it’s fine to moan to Joe Duffy about how hard done by you’ve been, but who is standing up and making themselves heard?....Nobody. That’s who.

You end up thinking about ‘what ifs?’.
What if the Irish of today were sat in coffee shops in 1916? “Hey Fionn! There’s a goy shooting over there!”, ”Fock it. Lets get another Latte!”.
The ‘much-lauded’ Wolfe Tones repertoire would be redundant wouldn’t it? .
We all remember all that ‘Ole Ole’ 80s/early 90s ‘proud to be Irish’ nonsense don’t we? Where are you now? Why aren’t you burning down Leinster House? Being comfortable and settled is no excuse anymore is it? Where has the passion gone? .... Ireland is full of bullshit and bluster.

Fast forward to now. You despair of this country and although your hand has been forced , you decide to leave. Leaving behind family and friends. Leaving behind a country that can talk the hind legs off a donkey, but when it has that donkey in such a state, won’t take a gun and put it down.

In spite of the anger and the despair and the fear of leaving all you know, you take a walk with your kid through the fields high above the city you grew up in and you look down at the sodium glow of the streets and the houses and all the dramas contained within and your two year old daughter lies down in the grass and says “ Daddy, look at the sky” .And you realize that it’s that simple.