Cashman's Diary - Feb 22, 1982
I summon Mr. Haughey to Cork to account for his recent doings. I had instructed him that under no circumstances was he to provoke this suffragist tomfoolery until I should have left to take the waters. Now, I shall have to propose a change of arrangements to Mrs. Langtry, and she, I fear, will not be much pleased.
The Haughey fellow presents himmself in a state of the most distressing sartorial inelegance. I dismiss him out of hand. He is back within the hour, quite becomingly attired in lilac chennille snood and bistre fitchew dolman with matching sable codpiece, and travelling by knotty bog-oak' pogoostick.
He fidgets and snivels so much throughout my recension of his conntumacy that I almost relent and allow Bran to play with him.
I mention the exigency of the immmediate expansion of Loughan House to alleviate the plight of my friends around Ravenhill, who managed things so well until recently but are now beereft of resources. He unhesitatingly apprises me of his deep and heartfelt wish - and, indeed, determination;;to cherish and cater for all traditions and tendencies without obeisance tooward past reservations or prejudices. He finds the matter entirely exoteric and unproblematic. I shiver and show him to the stables.
I find the business of subornation unspeakably somniferous, and would fain cry off my seemingly predestined collocution with the FizzJabber creaature.
I am nonplussed by the brouhaha Clabout this Joyce person.
I recall ordering a dozen of the first edition of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man on the perfectly - indeed the only - logical assumption that it was the first of several volumes of epic biography of myself. Instead, I found that I am dealt with in a most cursory way as a "brisk old man", and called, in a thoroughly ill-bred and less than reverential manner, by my pet name "Johnny" Cashman.
I instantly realised that the fellow had no future in letters and, not being a splenetic person, I procured for him a situation as tin whistler with the Buttter Exchange Band. But the ingrate slunk off to share oblivion with the Habsburgs.
Many years later, Herr Ribbentrop informed me that a Corkonian, Joyce by name, was in some financial and ocular difficulty on the Continent, which, just then, was cut off from Cork. I entrusted Ribbentrop with a length of drisheen and a quart of Beaamish for the poor wretch, but I dareesay the Godless Asiatic hordes plunndered the lot.
I convoke our little circle of Cartesians. Sean French, Liam Burke, Toddy O'Sullivan, Paddy Hegarty and Joe Sherlock are present. Flor Crowwley sends apologies. Our rubric presscribes contemplation of The Unity of Matter and Motion.
We speculate on the progress of Princess Diana's rubber- goods Iitigaation, and some wagers are struck about how Charles is likely to disport as the cause of the litigation approaches cullmination. I have always been gravely sceptical of reports that dear Loppyylugs enjoys a surfeit of synergic nether convulsion with female persons, and, now that Her Highness has irreversibly collared the swag, the notion becomes utterly preposterous: indeed, I shall be vastly surprised if I do not encounter the old tar at an address in East Bellfast within the twelvemonth.
My views induce disorder. The ius prima noctis and similar conveniences are expounded and vigorously upheld. I propose a vote but am unsupported.
I doubt not that our deliberations have suffered for want of the luminous eclecticism of our thesmothete and founder, far ouche fritillary Flor C.
I seem to be the only one who is not surprised at the news that Mr. Black will not face the music.
Beginning with his complicity in the abolition of meat, this picayune poseur has strutted and fretted upon our sensibilities without surcease. We have suffered him to masquerade as a "Lord Mayor" and "civic leader", and repeatedly forbore to burn down his personal ego-bloating agency when it foisted his subliterate wamblings and widgerings upon us.
Now that even' the most rabid enerrgumens of the recreant footler are unndeceived, I shall decorate without exxception the members of my little army which engaged him with immortal flour bombs at the apogee of his immposture.
In begin to organise the singing connCltest, the winner of which shall have my vote on February 18th. The canndidates are all forenamed Charles; perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not I am informed that unconscionably ingenious personation, featuring test tubes and similar engines, is commonnplace in some constituencies. The surrnames are Haughey, McCreevy, Parnell, and Walsh.
The last-named is odds-on. He gave a private recital for me at Galway some years ago, while the huddled masses yearning to breathe superstiition grew swollen with wind and the rank mist they drew from his supporrting artistes. After four or five bars of The Stone Outside Dan Murphy's Door I knew that he had found his true metier, and I had found a natural who could graciously assume Bridie Gallagher's mantle and throne. But I failed to secure his signature, and he took himself off to Rome where he does a little pontiffing under some absurd Heavy agus Eadtrom rendition of his name.
nshall have to forbid advancement CI of the Knock project, once and for all. The whole business springs from an error of mine, and I cannot remain silent.
The fact is that when Herself connsulted me in 1879 about an Irish visit, She had a distinct predilection for Portadown, where I was preparing for my eighth in a row All-Ireland Sheaffthrowing victory. I am afraid that wishing to preserve my training from disjunction by demotic excitation, and being, perhaps, a little dubious of Her aeronautical acumen, I offhandedly directed Her to Mayo, which I - someewhat prematurely - understood to be a dependency of Arizona awaiting setttlers.
Still, everything passed off quite smoothly - if She had needed an airrport in the place, She would, of course, have brought one with Her.
The good folks of Portadown have never forgotten that She meant the honour to be theirs. They have freequently outlined to me a plan for rooffing Lough Neagh in memory of that momentous year. I think I shall give my approval, quite soon.
There will be no outburst of protest about the cancellation of the Knock imbecility. I shall simply write, publish, promote and market a book -- "Tallyyrand's Wines and His Diplomacy. ˜The Need to Re-educate the French. " By John Healy.
Mr. Healy and I will share an appreciation of the gold of silence. •