“Ireland is the best place to live in the world, according to a “quality of life” assessment by Economist magazine. The country’s combination of increasing wealth and traditional values gives it the conditions most likely to make its people happy, the survey found.
Ireland was followed by Switzerland, Norway and Luxembourg. All but one of the top 10 were European countries.”
Well, that’s OK then. I’ve been to all the countries in question several times, but the nice thing about Ireland being the best country is that it’s nearer than the others, and I don’t actually need my passport to get there. That’s not the only reason why this news filled me with a childish delight.
My first visit to Ireland was to Dublin in 1992, when I took part in a weekend festival of street performers, which included everyone from buskers to clowns to balancing acts to extraordinary Venezuelan theatrical troops. I took along my guitar, dressed up a little bit more than normal, grabbed a pitch in Grafton Street, and sang and played to the busy Saturday crowds.
In those days, Ireland wasn’t the lush and plush wealthy tiger-economy EU-saturated land it is now. It still had a measure of real poverty in pockets right in the centre; there were roads unmade, unlit, and the grand 21st century national infrastructural schemes were all on the drawing board. So, I was immensely pleased to note that my battered hat was chinking regularly with coins, and while I flatter myself that I’m a passably decent singer, I could warble like a nightingale in wealthy but mean London, and I’d still be short of a few bob to buy dinner. Come 4pm, I was thrilled to bits with the warm reception, the atmosphere, the chats, and the takings, and so I took myself off to Bewley’s Cafe and Tea Rooms. Stood in line, coffee and a bun and a sit down were in order, and I was totally converted when, at the point of paying, the girl on the till, recognising that I was one these street performer fellas, waved me through with a smile.
The following day, nursing a particularly fine hangover, I worked out that I’d made all the money I needed to make over the weekend in one day, so, with a something like a sense of religious duty, I determined to pay Dublin back for the fine compliment I had received. I got hold of the girlfriends make-up (she was in a theatrical trio who performed comedy routines with bicycles) and slapped an horrendous amount of gunk upon my face. Spotty trousers, large boots, an oversized coat - what could I be except a bona-fide clown.
And clown I did, all day, in rain and shine. I needed no money, and so I was free as a bird to make a mockery of anyone and anything, and myself most of all.
The day was a whirlwind of one mad idea cascading into another, with the whole of relaxed Dublin my playground. High points: following a young soldier down the street, chest puffed out, swaggering - whenever he caught sight of giggling civvies, he’d look about to see why, and every time, I was a picture of nonchalant innocence, absolutely engrossed in some extraordinarily minor detail.
Spending time with a couple of lovely old women in St Stephen’s Green, chatting them both up as if they were 19 year olds. How lovely to make a woman of 72 blush for all the right reasons.
Best of all, convincing a very precocious 13 year old that I had just sold him my highly attractive and athletic girlfriend - as an investment! - for a tenner. He was fine about it, until I explained to him that once a month, women had certain requirements, and if he was keeping her captive, as he intended to do, he’d have to make the trip to the chemist himself, to attend to her feminine needs. It was wonderful to watch his cocksure adulthood dissolve in utter confusion to the huge mirth of the group of friends to whom he had been boasting of his excellent purchase.
Now, the spirit of where I live in North London is much formed by the Irish - Holloway Road, Islington, not the worst place to be, but not the best - but it’s home - and yet, since I first travelled to Ireland, it’s always felt like home to me just the same.
Right then, I hope that’s sentimental enough for you, and I sign off this first blog post with a quick roll-call from my personal pantheon of influences: Sam Beckett, Spike Milligan, Flann O’Brien. If ever I have trouble dreaming, these are the doctors I turn to.
Dean.
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