Saturday, April 30, 2011
Thought for the day.
We are, each of us, the centre of our own universe. Therefore, we can never be, by definition, the centre of anyone else's.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
CAAEPAP
You know, I've been kinda a British English fan my whole life, but, hey, now I've decided to do a one-eighty and inaugurate a group called The Campaign for the Adoption of American English for the Purposes of Annoying People. It's just the humor I'm in.
If you wanna join this group, all you gotta do is use American spelling, grammar and vocabulary in at least one post or email a week, and put "This [post / mail] is proudly sponsored by CAAEPAP" in a small font, color blue, at the bottom. It's kinda tough to get into the swing of it at first, but all it takes is a little practise folks.
You may hate the idea but, know what, I could care less. Let's see if this dog will hunt, and how many people we can piss off.
This post is proudly sponsored by CAAEPAP.
If you wanna join this group, all you gotta do is use American spelling, grammar and vocabulary in at least one post or email a week, and put "This [post / mail] is proudly sponsored by CAAEPAP" in a small font, color blue, at the bottom. It's kinda tough to get into the swing of it at first, but all it takes is a little practise folks.
You may hate the idea but, know what, I could care less. Let's see if this dog will hunt, and how many people we can piss off.
This post is proudly sponsored by CAAEPAP.
Monday, April 18, 2011
What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?
A couple of years ago, one Saturday afternoon, I was bored and decided to create a quiz on Facebook.
For years, I'd had the phrase "What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?" rattling around in my head. I heard it from a Cavan girl I shared a house with in London half a lifetime ago. It was something her dad, or uncle used to say - and he pronounced 'eejit' as 'ee-get'. Very Cavan. I love the Cavan accent, having spent several years in boarding school, and much of my childhood on my grandparents' farm up there, so the phrase stayed with me.
In any case, I thought that if it were taken as an actual question, rather than a rhetorical insult, it could make for a funny quiz. After a few hours of effort, during which I managed to make myself laugh out loud many times - always a good sign when you're writing comedy - I had the thing done.
I put it up onto Facebook, obsessed over it for a few days, then forgot all about it. A few weeks later I remembered it and when I checked, it had over three thousand 'Likes.' Checking now, the figure is at 3,984. So it must have a made a few other people laugh too.
I decided, before it goes missing on Facebook, I'd preserve it here.
The questions and possible answers are first, followed by the possible results, and the picture associated with each:
What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?
Find out what sort of a gobshite you'd be if you grew up in Ireland - or what class of a shitehawk you should be if you actually did!
1. How do you pronounce 'idiot'?
3. Where would you spend Christmas?
4. What's a 'Wheel?'
5. What's a dump valve?
6. Do you like the English?
7. What's the definition of 'class'?
8. What does "Quar'n" mean?
9. What's a 'turn?'
10. Cad is ainm duit?
For years, I'd had the phrase "What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?" rattling around in my head. I heard it from a Cavan girl I shared a house with in London half a lifetime ago. It was something her dad, or uncle used to say - and he pronounced 'eejit' as 'ee-get'. Very Cavan. I love the Cavan accent, having spent several years in boarding school, and much of my childhood on my grandparents' farm up there, so the phrase stayed with me.
In any case, I thought that if it were taken as an actual question, rather than a rhetorical insult, it could make for a funny quiz. After a few hours of effort, during which I managed to make myself laugh out loud many times - always a good sign when you're writing comedy - I had the thing done.
I put it up onto Facebook, obsessed over it for a few days, then forgot all about it. A few weeks later I remembered it and when I checked, it had over three thousand 'Likes.' Checking now, the figure is at 3,984. So it must have a made a few other people laugh too.
I decided, before it goes missing on Facebook, I'd preserve it here.
The questions and possible answers are first, followed by the possible results, and the picture associated with each:
What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?
Find out what sort of a gobshite you'd be if you grew up in Ireland - or what class of a shitehawk you should be if you actually did!
1. How do you pronounce 'idiot'?
- Eeejish
- Ee-jut
- Eeee-jitt
- Langer!
- Eejit
- Eee-get
2. Do you support a British soccer team?
- Soccer? G'way to feck! If it doesnt involve swinging a big lump of a tree around like a homicidal corn-reaper, I'm not interested.
- I'm too busy organising marches and pogroms to bother with that sorta shite!
- I do in me arse!
- Feckin' girl's game! GAA all the way! Yahoo!
- I'm more into Rugby, actually, like.
- Yeah, and I regularly have heated arguments in the pub with supporters of other teams.
- In traffic trying to get home from shopping in Dublin.
- I dunno. The Seychelles this year, maybe.
- Behind the curtains, in fear for me life!
- How much would I have to spend?
- At home, like.
- In the local, if it were open.
4. What's a 'Wheel?'
- Something my Skyline has four of and my Evo X also has four of.
- Something my Ford has four of.
- Something my Honda Civic has four of.
- Something my Massey Ferguson has four of.
- A stupid gobshite.
- Something my SUV has four of.
- I'm not sure; but I bet it was invented by someone from my home county.
- An utterly pointless addition to my Nissan Micra's engine.
- A yoke on the back of the jacks.
- A very useful addition to the twin-turbos on my Jap import.
- Jaysus, I dunno. Something they put on a beer tap?
- I'm not sure, but I think my 4x4 has one.
- It depends on whether there's an English person within earshot or not.
- I do in me hole! Hate the feckers - although that's only because I've been told I should hate them.
- They're not to be trusted.
- I couldn't care less. They're inferior to us in every way, anyway.
- Sure, I mean like, yeah - why not?
- Fluffy Saxon bastards! It pains my breast to think of Eire's fertile sloping mantle being trodden underfoot for 800 years.
- An important social distinction by which you measure yourself against your peers.
- Jonathan Rhys-Meyers
- Something you forego to go into town and hang around Grafton Street.
- I wouldn't have a clue.
- Cristiano Ronaldo.
- Anything that's feckin' brilliant!
- It's a vegetarian meat-substitute.
- Jaysus, I haven't a clue. Is it something you spread on the land?
- No idea. Some bog-trotter code word for something?
- 'Very' - as in "You're quar'n tick!' (You are a person of low intelligence.)
- Something we say when we're copying the Wicklow accent.
- It's a feckin' stupid expression, the likes of which we'd never use around here.
- A bend in the road.
- Something you serve soup in.
- A stroll around your property.
- A bend in the beautiful river that flows through my county town.
- A nasty shock.
- A song by the band 'Travis.'
10. Cad is ainm duit?
- Wha? Feck off with yer Irish, ya spa!
- Leath-uair tar éis a deich.
- No - only red diesel.
- Sorry - I don't speak bog.
- What's that there, now?
- ... Ó Murchu is ainm dom!
And that was it. Ten questions scientifically designed to tell you which part of the country you were from - or should be from. These were the answers:
You're A Feckin' Wicklow Goatsucker
You're A Feckin' 'Cute' Cork Hoo'er
Yer From Wee Northern Ireland
You're A Fockin' D4 Head
You're A Mean Feckin' Cavan Basthard.
You're A Feckin' Wexford Yellowbelly!
Sunday, April 17, 2011
A is for ...
I'm becoming increasingly annoyed at bad parents who use convenient psychological labels to excuse away the fact they've instilled no discipline or boundaries in their children.
So why don't you come clean, and rather than saying that your children have ADHD or Autism or Asperger's, just admit that your remiss parenting skills have turned your children into Assholes.
So why don't you come clean, and rather than saying that your children have ADHD or Autism or Asperger's, just admit that your remiss parenting skills have turned your children into Assholes.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
ISH Magazine Article
This is an article I wrote for ISH (Irish Scene and Heard) Magazine, back in 2003.
A Volatile Mix
Michael Synnott maintains that music and politics don’t always go together like hand and glove.
Let’s try a little thought experiment. Picture yourself sitting in your living room, flicking through the satellite TV music channels. Got the image? OK, now imagine you stumble across a live gig by your favourite band. Result! You settle back in your chair, crank up the volume and rock out.
Now picture yourself listlessly surfing through the other channels. Through some horrid twist of fate you happen across Prime Minister’s Question Time or the televised coverage of the Dáil sessions. What do you do? Well, if you’re anything like me, you switch channels as quickly as your tired surfing-thumb will allow and thank your lucky stars you didn’t see anything that might have polluted your delicate artistic mind.
Now, how did these two scenarios make you feel? Again, if you’re anything like me the answers are ‘elated’ and ‘detached’, respectively. Music and politics: subjects at opposite ends of the social spectrum, diametrically opposed belief systems, freedom versus control, lifestyles never to be mixed. Or are they?
As long as there has been political intrigue, there has been music supporting, condemning or ridiculing it. But how do we feel about musicians crossing the boundary from entertainer to politician, or at least to political commentator? After all, the politicians rarely cross the line in the opposite direction, with the exception of Bill Clinton, who was an aficionado of ‘oral sax’ and numerous Irish politicians who, judging by their characters, have never been averse to twanging out the occasional solo tune on the ol’ one-string banjo.
Here’s another thought experiment: think of as many outspoken musical artists as you can. Off you go. Done? OK, even without knowing your age and political views, I bet I can name at least two of those you came up with:
Bob Dylan, Eminem, Joan Baez, Zach de la Rocha, Frank Zappa, Madonna, Bono, The Wolfe Tones, Stiff Little Fingers, Ice-T, The Dixie Chicks, John Lennon, errmm …. Well, there are shitloads more, but you get the idea. Now, let’s take two of these people, Bono and Eminem, and do a little compare and contrast.
Ask twenty U2 fans how they feel about Bono’s outspoken political views and lyrics and you’ll probably get half of them saying he’s a champion of the people and the other half saying they wish he wouldn’t bother and that he should get on with the business of making rock music. Ask twenty Eminem fans the same question and, notwithstanding the obvious demographic differences, most, if not all, of them will say ‘Yeah, he’s bang on.’
So what’s the difference here? Those of us who saw ‘Self Aid’ in 1986 remember the shock, embarrassment and disdain we felt as U2 played ‘Maggie’s Farm’ and Bono fell around the stage, using his microphone lead as a tourniquet as he mimed the act of shooting a syringe full of smack into his arm. ‘He’s lost the plot’, we said, and we prematurely predicted his demise as an Irish rock icon. Yet, we now watch Marshall Mathers lurching around the stage like a demented Quasimodo, spitting vitriol at a world he hates yet has to live in, and we nod our heads in approval—at the message if not the music. What’s going on here?
It’s an honesty thing. We understand someone like Marshall Mathers, for whom politics and the message are his entire raison d’être. He burst onto the scene with an in-your-face delivery and a lyric sheet that reads like the court transcript of a pub argument, and he was political from the get-go. We scoff at the likes of U2, who came from privileged backgrounds and seemed to jump on the political bandwagon to sell a few records. I know it’s a harsh judgement, and anyone who has listened to ‘Boy’ will know that Bono’s political sensibilities were present in his art from the outset, but nonetheless, it is the prevailing attitude. We seem to be mentally categorising politically-outspoken musical artists depending on their backgrounds and adjusting our tolerance levels accordingly. To reinforce this point, go back to your mental list of outspoken musical artists and divide them into ‘always political’ and ‘occasionally political’ camps. You’ll be surprised how your attitude to the members of each differs.
Not since Vietnam have people been more divided politically than they were over the Second Gulf War, or the recent illegal invasion of Iraq, depending on your viewpoint. The fair-weather politicos in the music industry came out of the woodwork like cockroaches, and it became, quite frankly, boring.
“Just so you know, we’re ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas.” So said Natalie Maines, proud Texan and member of The Dixie Chicks, at a concert in London during the invasion. She recanted after stations boycotted their records and 76% of listeners to Atlanta station KICKS 101.5 said they would return their Dixie Chicks CDs if they could. Hmm… ten-out-of-ten for effort, Love, but you certainly won’t make a successful politician with this propensity towards career-destroying public comments.
On the other hand, System of a Down got out in the streets, joined an anti-war protest and released the song “Boom!”—a sensible approach to protest, I have to say. Zach del la Rocha of Rage against the Machine and his ilk, totally vindicated, looked on quietly, shaking their heads and saying ‘I told you so.’
But what happens when politics encroaches on music? The most memorable example of recent times is the infamous PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center), founded by Tipper Gore in reaction to hearing the lyrics to Prince’s “Darling Nikki”, from the album Purple Rain which she had bought for her 12-year-old daughter Karenna. The PMRC claimed that ‘virgin minds’ were being poisoned by “hidden messages and backward masking” but quite how the notion of a sexually self-assured woman ‘masturbating with a magazine’ would poison the mind of any 12-year-old remains a mystery. The PMRC, or ‘The Washington Wives’—so called because their husbands were prominent politicians—appeared before the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science and Transportation on September 19, 1985 with a list of outrageous demands designed to censor the music industry. Every time you see that ‘Parental Advisory’ sticker on an album or wonder why Kerrang TV has specific late-night slots for certain videos, you can thank Tipper Gore and the PMRC. Protecting children or the most blatant contravention of the First Amendment ever seen? The jury’s still out.
But the PMRC didn’t get it all its own way. Frank Zappa and Dee Snider vigorously defended free speech and Zappa famously declared, “Censorship here would be like using decapitation to deal with dandruff.” He went on to warn that censorship “opens the door to an endless parade of moral quality-control programs based on Things Certain Christians Don’t Like. What if the next bunch of Washington Wives demands a large yellow ‘J’ on material written or performed by Jews?”
Now, these are the kinds of musicians we need in politics. Unfortunately, the good guys like Frank and Sonny Bono seem to die off prematurely.
Where does that leave us? Well, in exactly the same place we came in: there will always be politics in music and there will always be musicians in politics. It’s our duty to support those who deserve to be there and to ridicule those who don’t.
2003-12-16
A Volatile Mix
Michael Synnott maintains that music and politics don’t always go together like hand and glove.
Let’s try a little thought experiment. Picture yourself sitting in your living room, flicking through the satellite TV music channels. Got the image? OK, now imagine you stumble across a live gig by your favourite band. Result! You settle back in your chair, crank up the volume and rock out.
Now picture yourself listlessly surfing through the other channels. Through some horrid twist of fate you happen across Prime Minister’s Question Time or the televised coverage of the Dáil sessions. What do you do? Well, if you’re anything like me, you switch channels as quickly as your tired surfing-thumb will allow and thank your lucky stars you didn’t see anything that might have polluted your delicate artistic mind.
Now, how did these two scenarios make you feel? Again, if you’re anything like me the answers are ‘elated’ and ‘detached’, respectively. Music and politics: subjects at opposite ends of the social spectrum, diametrically opposed belief systems, freedom versus control, lifestyles never to be mixed. Or are they?
As long as there has been political intrigue, there has been music supporting, condemning or ridiculing it. But how do we feel about musicians crossing the boundary from entertainer to politician, or at least to political commentator? After all, the politicians rarely cross the line in the opposite direction, with the exception of Bill Clinton, who was an aficionado of ‘oral sax’ and numerous Irish politicians who, judging by their characters, have never been averse to twanging out the occasional solo tune on the ol’ one-string banjo.
Here’s another thought experiment: think of as many outspoken musical artists as you can. Off you go. Done? OK, even without knowing your age and political views, I bet I can name at least two of those you came up with:
Bob Dylan, Eminem, Joan Baez, Zach de la Rocha, Frank Zappa, Madonna, Bono, The Wolfe Tones, Stiff Little Fingers, Ice-T, The Dixie Chicks, John Lennon, errmm …. Well, there are shitloads more, but you get the idea. Now, let’s take two of these people, Bono and Eminem, and do a little compare and contrast.
Ask twenty U2 fans how they feel about Bono’s outspoken political views and lyrics and you’ll probably get half of them saying he’s a champion of the people and the other half saying they wish he wouldn’t bother and that he should get on with the business of making rock music. Ask twenty Eminem fans the same question and, notwithstanding the obvious demographic differences, most, if not all, of them will say ‘Yeah, he’s bang on.’
So what’s the difference here? Those of us who saw ‘Self Aid’ in 1986 remember the shock, embarrassment and disdain we felt as U2 played ‘Maggie’s Farm’ and Bono fell around the stage, using his microphone lead as a tourniquet as he mimed the act of shooting a syringe full of smack into his arm. ‘He’s lost the plot’, we said, and we prematurely predicted his demise as an Irish rock icon. Yet, we now watch Marshall Mathers lurching around the stage like a demented Quasimodo, spitting vitriol at a world he hates yet has to live in, and we nod our heads in approval—at the message if not the music. What’s going on here?
It’s an honesty thing. We understand someone like Marshall Mathers, for whom politics and the message are his entire raison d’être. He burst onto the scene with an in-your-face delivery and a lyric sheet that reads like the court transcript of a pub argument, and he was political from the get-go. We scoff at the likes of U2, who came from privileged backgrounds and seemed to jump on the political bandwagon to sell a few records. I know it’s a harsh judgement, and anyone who has listened to ‘Boy’ will know that Bono’s political sensibilities were present in his art from the outset, but nonetheless, it is the prevailing attitude. We seem to be mentally categorising politically-outspoken musical artists depending on their backgrounds and adjusting our tolerance levels accordingly. To reinforce this point, go back to your mental list of outspoken musical artists and divide them into ‘always political’ and ‘occasionally political’ camps. You’ll be surprised how your attitude to the members of each differs.
Not since Vietnam have people been more divided politically than they were over the Second Gulf War, or the recent illegal invasion of Iraq, depending on your viewpoint. The fair-weather politicos in the music industry came out of the woodwork like cockroaches, and it became, quite frankly, boring.
“Just so you know, we’re ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas.” So said Natalie Maines, proud Texan and member of The Dixie Chicks, at a concert in London during the invasion. She recanted after stations boycotted their records and 76% of listeners to Atlanta station KICKS 101.5 said they would return their Dixie Chicks CDs if they could. Hmm… ten-out-of-ten for effort, Love, but you certainly won’t make a successful politician with this propensity towards career-destroying public comments.
On the other hand, System of a Down got out in the streets, joined an anti-war protest and released the song “Boom!”—a sensible approach to protest, I have to say. Zach del la Rocha of Rage against the Machine and his ilk, totally vindicated, looked on quietly, shaking their heads and saying ‘I told you so.’
But what happens when politics encroaches on music? The most memorable example of recent times is the infamous PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center), founded by Tipper Gore in reaction to hearing the lyrics to Prince’s “Darling Nikki”, from the album Purple Rain which she had bought for her 12-year-old daughter Karenna. The PMRC claimed that ‘virgin minds’ were being poisoned by “hidden messages and backward masking” but quite how the notion of a sexually self-assured woman ‘masturbating with a magazine’ would poison the mind of any 12-year-old remains a mystery. The PMRC, or ‘The Washington Wives’—so called because their husbands were prominent politicians—appeared before the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science and Transportation on September 19, 1985 with a list of outrageous demands designed to censor the music industry. Every time you see that ‘Parental Advisory’ sticker on an album or wonder why Kerrang TV has specific late-night slots for certain videos, you can thank Tipper Gore and the PMRC. Protecting children or the most blatant contravention of the First Amendment ever seen? The jury’s still out.
But the PMRC didn’t get it all its own way. Frank Zappa and Dee Snider vigorously defended free speech and Zappa famously declared, “Censorship here would be like using decapitation to deal with dandruff.” He went on to warn that censorship “opens the door to an endless parade of moral quality-control programs based on Things Certain Christians Don’t Like. What if the next bunch of Washington Wives demands a large yellow ‘J’ on material written or performed by Jews?”
Now, these are the kinds of musicians we need in politics. Unfortunately, the good guys like Frank and Sonny Bono seem to die off prematurely.
Where does that leave us? Well, in exactly the same place we came in: there will always be politics in music and there will always be musicians in politics. It’s our duty to support those who deserve to be there and to ridicule those who don’t.
2003-12-16
The opening chapter of Part II of my forthcoming older children's book 'Tír'
GPS Ground Control Station, Diego Garcia, Indian Ocean.
“Master Sergeant, there goes another one!” shouted Airman Taylor.
In the dim control room, the glow of the computer screen threw deep shadows across his face.
The Master Sergeant’s head snapped up from his console.
“Report.”
Taylor looked frightened.
“Another satellite has disappeared, Sir.”
The Master Sergeant crossed to Taylor’s station and peered over his shoulder. Taking in the information on the display, he picked up the phone handset beside Taylor’s keyboard and punched in a number.
“This is Steinmetz at Diego Garcia. We’ve lost signal from three GPS birds in the past fifteen minutes. We’re running … hold on.”
Taylor was gesturing to the screen and holding up four fingers. Steinmetz raised his eyebrows and Taylor nodded.
“Make that four; all four satellites in orbit-plane C have gone dark. We’re running diagnostics now, but the degradation of accuracy and intel from other ground stations is consistent with shutdown of four birds.”
The voice on the other end spoke briefly.
“No sir, we have no idea. Terrorist action is not presumed at this time.”
Again, Steinmetz listened.
“No sir, they could not be shut down by a foreign power. We encrypt all the tasking commands. It would have to be done from within our own control systems.”
The voice barked down the phone again then rang off.
Over the next two hours, ground-control stations around the world monitored the failure of every satellite in the GPS system.
The world felt the effect immediately. Airline pilots and ships’ steersmen reported failures in navigation systems. Cellular networks that relied on timing signals from the GPS system collapsed. NATO countries went on high alert and the United States went to DEFCON Three.
The assumption was that the satellites had shut down. It did not occur to anyone they were physically gone. They presumed such a thing was impossible.
They presumed wrong.
Goddard Space Flight Centre, Greenbelt, Maryland, USA.
The ground controllers of the Hubble Space Telescope were the first to see the strange craft. When the first GPS satellites had gone offline, the US Air Force had requested the telescope be re-tasked to look in the direction of the failed birds.
Dr James King and a few colleagues were huddled around a cluster of computer monitors, examining the area of space where they expected the GPS satellites to be. A US Air Force Major stood behind them.
“Wait a minute,” said someone. “What’s that?”
There was an object near one of the GPS satellites. It might have been an optical glitch until it shifted slightly and glinted in reflected earthlight. King zoomed the telescope in for a closer look.
It was a spacecraft.
From a distance, it looked like a dark metal disc with gold strips traversing it. They zoomed closer until the craft filled the screen. At first, the image was blurred, then the computers finished their sharpening algorithms and revealed the craft in exquisite detail.
“No freaking way!” said one of the observers.
The Major pushed between two civilian scientists and leaned into the screen. As finer images of the craft arrived, the particulars of its construction became clear. None of them could believe what they were seeing.
“Is that … wood?” asked the Major.
The craft was constructed of huge planks of timber, treated until pitch black, and overlapping like a clinker-built rowboat. The planks must have come from trees that were in excess of five-hundred metres tall, and the designers had curved and shaped the planks to make a perfect wheel-shaped craft. Along the fascia of every third plank was a strip of bronze embossed with geometric patterns.
“This is incredible! Look at those symbols,” said Dr King. “They’re all Celtic. That’s a triskelion, and that’s a triquetra.
“I don’t know what we’re seeing here,” said one of King’s associates, “but I doubt the Irish are sending up flying saucers made of wood – or any other spacecraft for that matter.”
A snicker went round the group. The Major cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Dr King. King’s eyes flicked back and forth, his mind racing.
“Well, this is a trick,” said King. “It has to be. Someone’s playing an elaborate practical joke on us.”
The Major bristled.
“Our GPS systems are offline, and we have a bogey parked in the same orbit as our satellites – I don’t see any joke here, Doctor.”
“With respect Major, that’s not what I’m saying. This can’t be real. A wooden spacecraft is not viable, so it’s more likely someone is interlacing these images into the video feed from Hubble.”
“Yeah? And how do you explain the GPS failures?”
They were arguing amongst themselves when the Major got his answer.
“What the hell is that?” said King, pointing at the screen.
A bubble of energy appeared at the edge of the craft, at first indistinct and almost hidden by King’s finger on the screen. The Major slapped his hand out of the way. In seconds, the bubble elongated and flattened out into a shimmering vertical disc. It looked like a thin film of soapy water in a child’s bubble-blowing loop. The disc moved away from the craft towards the nearest GPS satellite, growing all the time. It intercepted the satellite and scrubbed across it like a cosmic eraser. The satellite and the shimmering disc winked out of existence.
The Major strode away and reached for a telephone.
“Did anyone else just see that?” asked King.
Everyone had, but no one could believe it.
And then things got stranger.
As they watched, many portals opened in the edge of the craft, and from each opening protruded a long pole with a flattened blade on the end. Energy fields arced and danced around the blades. In perfect synchronisation, the poles started an elliptical rowing motion. After a brief pause, the craft rowed away smoothly away toward the next satellite.
“Master Sergeant, there goes another one!” shouted Airman Taylor.
In the dim control room, the glow of the computer screen threw deep shadows across his face.
The Master Sergeant’s head snapped up from his console.
“Report.”
Taylor looked frightened.
“Another satellite has disappeared, Sir.”
The Master Sergeant crossed to Taylor’s station and peered over his shoulder. Taking in the information on the display, he picked up the phone handset beside Taylor’s keyboard and punched in a number.
“This is Steinmetz at Diego Garcia. We’ve lost signal from three GPS birds in the past fifteen minutes. We’re running … hold on.”
Taylor was gesturing to the screen and holding up four fingers. Steinmetz raised his eyebrows and Taylor nodded.
“Make that four; all four satellites in orbit-plane C have gone dark. We’re running diagnostics now, but the degradation of accuracy and intel from other ground stations is consistent with shutdown of four birds.”
The voice on the other end spoke briefly.
“No sir, we have no idea. Terrorist action is not presumed at this time.”
Again, Steinmetz listened.
“No sir, they could not be shut down by a foreign power. We encrypt all the tasking commands. It would have to be done from within our own control systems.”
The voice barked down the phone again then rang off.
Over the next two hours, ground-control stations around the world monitored the failure of every satellite in the GPS system.
The world felt the effect immediately. Airline pilots and ships’ steersmen reported failures in navigation systems. Cellular networks that relied on timing signals from the GPS system collapsed. NATO countries went on high alert and the United States went to DEFCON Three.
The assumption was that the satellites had shut down. It did not occur to anyone they were physically gone. They presumed such a thing was impossible.
They presumed wrong.
Goddard Space Flight Centre, Greenbelt, Maryland, USA.
The ground controllers of the Hubble Space Telescope were the first to see the strange craft. When the first GPS satellites had gone offline, the US Air Force had requested the telescope be re-tasked to look in the direction of the failed birds.
Dr James King and a few colleagues were huddled around a cluster of computer monitors, examining the area of space where they expected the GPS satellites to be. A US Air Force Major stood behind them.
“Wait a minute,” said someone. “What’s that?”
There was an object near one of the GPS satellites. It might have been an optical glitch until it shifted slightly and glinted in reflected earthlight. King zoomed the telescope in for a closer look.
It was a spacecraft.
From a distance, it looked like a dark metal disc with gold strips traversing it. They zoomed closer until the craft filled the screen. At first, the image was blurred, then the computers finished their sharpening algorithms and revealed the craft in exquisite detail.
“No freaking way!” said one of the observers.
The Major pushed between two civilian scientists and leaned into the screen. As finer images of the craft arrived, the particulars of its construction became clear. None of them could believe what they were seeing.
“Is that … wood?” asked the Major.
The craft was constructed of huge planks of timber, treated until pitch black, and overlapping like a clinker-built rowboat. The planks must have come from trees that were in excess of five-hundred metres tall, and the designers had curved and shaped the planks to make a perfect wheel-shaped craft. Along the fascia of every third plank was a strip of bronze embossed with geometric patterns.
“This is incredible! Look at those symbols,” said Dr King. “They’re all Celtic. That’s a triskelion, and that’s a triquetra.
“I don’t know what we’re seeing here,” said one of King’s associates, “but I doubt the Irish are sending up flying saucers made of wood – or any other spacecraft for that matter.”
A snicker went round the group. The Major cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Dr King. King’s eyes flicked back and forth, his mind racing.
“Well, this is a trick,” said King. “It has to be. Someone’s playing an elaborate practical joke on us.”
The Major bristled.
“Our GPS systems are offline, and we have a bogey parked in the same orbit as our satellites – I don’t see any joke here, Doctor.”
“With respect Major, that’s not what I’m saying. This can’t be real. A wooden spacecraft is not viable, so it’s more likely someone is interlacing these images into the video feed from Hubble.”
“Yeah? And how do you explain the GPS failures?”
They were arguing amongst themselves when the Major got his answer.
“What the hell is that?” said King, pointing at the screen.
A bubble of energy appeared at the edge of the craft, at first indistinct and almost hidden by King’s finger on the screen. The Major slapped his hand out of the way. In seconds, the bubble elongated and flattened out into a shimmering vertical disc. It looked like a thin film of soapy water in a child’s bubble-blowing loop. The disc moved away from the craft towards the nearest GPS satellite, growing all the time. It intercepted the satellite and scrubbed across it like a cosmic eraser. The satellite and the shimmering disc winked out of existence.
The Major strode away and reached for a telephone.
“Did anyone else just see that?” asked King.
Everyone had, but no one could believe it.
And then things got stranger.
As they watched, many portals opened in the edge of the craft, and from each opening protruded a long pole with a flattened blade on the end. Energy fields arced and danced around the blades. In perfect synchronisation, the poles started an elliptical rowing motion. After a brief pause, the craft rowed away smoothly away toward the next satellite.
A poem that forms part of a puzzle, from my forthcoming older children's book 'Tír'
Against the sable backdrop of the night,
The starry actors glide across the stage.
In jewelled costumes sewn with threads of light,
They read their parts, then turn tomorrow’s page.
The earthly audience watches from the dust,
As cosmic players tread Forever’s boards.
Our bearing on our travels we entrust,
To these bejewelled heroes of the Gods.
The Hunter leads the lambent stellar ranks;
His faithful Dogs attending his foray.
His hunting grounds are Danu’s fertile banks;
The Unicorn and Hare his timeless prey.
The Hunter tempers Man’s conceited traits,
And teaches him the limit of his worth.
And Man in turn has sought to emulate,
The august Hunter’s works on artless Earth.
And thus on Earth the Hunter can be found,
In structures placed to emulate his form.
Where Vikings and St Patrick came aground,
The Hunter’s shape conceals a secret door.
Prone, he spans the village like a plan,
From which the ancient builders drew their schemes.
They plotted out his measure on the land,
And placed their covert lodges at his limbs.
Three hallowed houses sit along his belt.
His sword affords a haven from the seas.
His shoulders rest up high along the hills.
His head is where they hid the secret keys.
Above a lofty crag, a Regal keep
surmounts a grotto hid by time and tide,
wherein the keys are placed to then reveal
the secret door that’s hidden Saiph inside.
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