{"id":750,"date":"2009-10-16T14:20:37","date_gmt":"2009-10-16T14:20:37","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/?p=750"},"modified":"2014-05-29T13:34:23","modified_gmt":"2014-05-29T12:34:23","slug":"the-nicknames-of-ill-fame","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/2009\/10\/16\/the-nicknames-of-ill-fame\/","title":{"rendered":"The Nicknames of Ill-Fame"},"content":{"rendered":"

In contemporary Ireland, when one beer-sponsored festival has barely ended than another begins, to the extent that one is barely aware of their existence, it is easy to remember that these things used to be a big deal. While a Heineken Green Energy or a Murphy’s Comedy Festival will barely merit a mention in the “What’s On” round-up, there was a time when festivals would be endlessly trailed in advance, covered breathlessly while in progress and recorded for posterity.<\/p>\n

\"millennium\"<\/p>\n

The daddy of all these was the Galway 500 festival of 1984, the 500th anniversary<\/a> of the granting of a town charter in 1484. Cork, of course, couldn\u2019t let this pass, and the following year we were treated to Cork 800. Then silence. But the pride of the capital was undoubtedly stung. It was one thing to let Galway have a bit of a jamboree. But Dublin was damned if Cork was going to be allowed to hog the limelight. And so, in 1988, Dublin went for the Grand. The futuristic-sounding Millennium left behind many artefacts; milk bottles, dust-bins, a 50p piece, but none was as long-lasting or as corrosive to the national spirit as the tradition of the humorous rhyming nickname. <\/p>\n

\"Mill\"<\/p>\n

When Eamonn O\u2019Doherty\u2019s (actually quite attractive) sculpture \u201cAnna Livia<\/em>\u201d was installed in a fountain in O\u2019Connell St. it pleased someone to give her the nickname \u201cthe Floozie in the Jacuzzi\u201d. Really, it wasn\u2019t a bad joke. She was entirely unclad, and there was <\/em>something not-quite-right about the fountain in which she reclined. Upon hearing the nick-name, one suddenly realised what it was: yes, she looked like she was sitting in a Jacuzzi. A small joke, not in the league of Myles’ “Tomb of the unknown gurrier\u201d but not bad. Alas, it was held up to be a jewel of “Dub wit”. <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Then, the deluge. Two women sitting on a bench with their shopping? \u201cThe hags with the bags\u201d. Molly Malone, wheeling her wheel-barrow, through streets broad and narrow? \u201cThe tart with the cart\u201d. A former colleague of mine, a Dubliner of many generation\u2019s standing, would go into a rage when such nicknames were mentioned. Patronising \u201cDublin Character\u201d nonsense, he\u2019d spit, condescending pseudo-working-class guff from the same sort of people who brought us Ould Mr. Brennan. But worse was to come. <\/p>\n

\"spire\"<\/p>\n

Nothing much happened in the way of Dublin public art for a while. When the money started rolling in, and Dublin Corporation resumed their always-dubious beautification of the city, it was decided by our media (\u201cThe hacks with the facts\u201d? No, of course not) that every new work must, must<\/em>, be given a rhyming nickname, however tenuous or tortured its logic. It often seemed that no sooner was the artist\u2019s impression of a proposed piece made available, than the press were racking their brains and their rhyming dictionaries for a nickname, to be used by themselves and absolutely nobody else. The Millennium Clock? \u201cThe Time in the Slime\u201d. Because the Liffey is dirty. And it\u2019s a clock, like. Gas. The Millennium Spire? “The Stiletto in the Ghetto”. Because it\u2019s on the northside, see? <\/p>\n

\"Wilde\"<\/p>\n

Clearly, taste was no consideration here, or at least not one that ranked above getting a rhyme. Why else would a statue of Oscar Wilde, a genuine genius, a proper, no-messing, actual Great Man, be called \u201cThe Fag on the Crag\u201d. \u201cThe Fag\u201d: someone decided that he was somehow qualified to dismiss one of the greatest minds the world, let alone Ireland, has ever known as \u201cthe Fag\u201d. Not that the nicknames were ever claimed by those using them. Despite never being used by the citizenry, they were always presented as the coinage of the simple but charming Dublin people. Though in fact entirely journalistic creations, the pretense was maintained that our correspondent was only reporting to us what was said by \u201cone wag\u201d, or \u201ca local wit\u201d. A cartoon vision of a jolly, ballad-singing, “Arthur”-swilling rare-oul-timer springs to mind.<\/p>\n

\"hags\"<\/p>\n

The nadir was reached some weeks ago, when Orna Mulcahy (of whom more later) wrote her column <\/a>about the Dublin Bike scheme<\/a>. Ms. Mulcahy has an almost autistic-savant talent for parodying her own class, a talent which I suspect she remains unaware of. Having let us know that she decided to start cycling only after she saw it in a Woody Allen film<\/em>, she sallies forth, with the customary attribution to \u201cone Dublin wit\u201d, with \u201cThe Yokes on the Spokes\u201d. Let us remember that we\u2019re not dealing with art here. These are bicycles. We all know what a bike looks like. The potential for a joke about the appearance of an item so familiar to us is close to nil. We know too, that bikes have spokes. But even here, humour may achieved. These bikes, they are the what with the spokes? The yokes? Seriously? Ms. Mulcahy is telling us only that bicycles are things that have spokes and expecting a laugh, just because it rhymes? That is the kind of thing that can get a journalist a nickname*.<\/p>\n

*Suggestions for which are gratefully received in the comments<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"In contemporary Ireland, when one beer-sponsored festival has barely ended than another begins, to the extent that one is barely aware of their existence, it is easy to remember that these things used to be a big deal. While a Heineken Green Energy or a Murphy’s Comedy Festival will barely merit a mention in the “What’s On” round-up, there was a time when festivals would be endlessly trailed in advance, covered breathlessly while in progress and recorded for posterity. The daddy of all these was the Galway 500 festival of 1984, the 500th anniversary of the granting of a town charter in 1484. Cork, of course, couldn\u2019t let this pass, and the following year we were treated to Cork 800. Then silence. But the pride of the capital was undoubtedly stung. It was one thing to let Galway have a bit of a jamboree. But Dublin was damned if Cork was going to be allowed to hog the limelight. And so, in 1988, Dublin went for the Grand. The futuristic-sounding Millennium left behind many artefacts; milk bottles, dust-bins, a 50p piece, but none was as long-lasting or as corrosive to the national spirit as the tradition of the humorous rhyming nickname. When Eamonn O\u2019Doherty\u2019s (actually quite attractive) sculpture \u201cAnna Livia\u201d was installed in a fountain in O\u2019Connell St. it pleased someone to give her the nickname \u201cthe Floozie in the Jacuzzi\u201d. Really, it wasn\u2019t a bad joke. She was entirely unclad, and there was something not-quite-right about the fountain in which she reclined. Upon hearing the nick-name, one suddenly realised what it was: yes, she looked like she was sitting in a Jacuzzi. A small joke, not in the league of Myles’ “Tomb of the unknown gurrier\u201d but not bad. Alas, it was held up to be a jewel of “Dub wit”. Then, the deluge. Two women sitting on a bench with their shopping? \u201cThe hags with the bags\u201d. Molly Malone, wheeling her wheel-barrow, through streets broad and narrow? \u201cThe tart with the cart\u201d. A former colleague of mine, a Dubliner of many generation\u2019s standing, would go into a rage when such nicknames were mentioned. Patronising \u201cDublin Character\u201d nonsense, he\u2019d spit, condescending pseudo-working-class guff from the same sort of people who brought us Ould Mr. Brennan. But worse was to come. Nothing much happened in the way of Dublin public art for a while. When the money started rolling in, […]","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-750","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-general"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/750","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=750"}],"version-history":[{"count":19,"href":"https:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/750\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1639,"href":"https:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/750\/revisions\/1639"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=750"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=750"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.tuppenceworth.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=750"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}