The work sometimes runs smoothly on the screen. The Excel on one side and the Powerpoint on the other. Check data, copy it to a new worksheet, combine it with other data, represent it in a graphic, copy the graphic into the presentation. Examine its meaning. Write a comment about it. Move on. The time passes and the work is done. It’s tiring, concentrating. I might go to the gym. I might prepare some pottery for a workshop, I might make a coffee or a sandwich. I might check my emails. I might browse my Facebook. I might get punched in the gut, hit between the eyes, overwhelmed with the implications of an article, or a poem, or a video, or an image. My work is interrupted, my concentration blown. It has the right of place. It says what I feel. It takes me up and drops me down. To have that power through communication is awe inspiring.
Three days into the yoga, and after three 90 minute classes, the tendons have eased and the core has strengthened and the movements are more fluid, the pauses less collapsed, more pensive, and the practice has become a routine so sorts. In the shade of Kranti Yoga’s Massive stage, with its multi-coloured curtains and striped canopy, along with 30 other drop-ins, most of whom come every day, I have found a place where my body is finally listening to my mind, if not my heart, and vice versa.
That’s also three mornings of banana pancakes on the veranda of our hut, followed by an hour of digestion and the guilt-ridden process of catching up on emails and the news from RTE, then the yoga session, which would be so much better at 7.30 or 8am before the breakfast and the consciousness, then a swim in the luke-warm surf and an hour to dry off in the baking mid-day heat, before a snack lunch or a pot of coffee. We choose one of two cafes because of the staff and their sympatico approach to us. One serves an exceptional lemon and mint blended drink full of ice, and the other a cafetiere of good strong coffee, and both have good wifi. Then we consider an hour walking in the sun, either the length of the two beaches or around a block of back roads, away from the sun and the people, and then perhaps another swim, followed by showers and two hours’ siesta. That brings us to twilight and quickly darkness in the room, and time to spray the deet and step into the dark street, with its small booths of local clothing and trinkets, the money exchange shops offering sub-standard rates, and the ice cream stand that lacks all the appeal of ice-cream in the west, then onto the beach again to sit in candlelight and admire Sirius, dominating the sky, and to listen to the rhythm of the water slapping and lapping, in an infinite repetition. The kites are circling, and there are fruit bats as big as them, stretching their wings and settting off to feed. A beer or two, and we’re ready for a plate of fish or tandoori chicken or curried vegetables, before our final stroll back to the huts, then to bed in the dark box with its tiled floor, rush matting walls, ineffective ceiling fan and double bed covered in an effective mosquito net, for an hour of reading on the computer, a novel of no consequence but well written. There’s another frog in the toilet, as still as a turd but ready to jump at the first sign of urine. At this moment I can be glad I’m not a sitter…
Another day passes without plans or decisions or conflict or clock-watching tension or creative endevour. Another day of complete relaxation which brings us to an equilibrium rarely experienced in our lives at home. It is a re-charging process which reaches down into the core, refills cells which may lie dessiccated for months or years, and yet it cannot last, because once we feel replete, we need to begin to move forward, to create, to want again. I love the equilibrium, but I love the see-saw of normal life more.
Lying in the sun on the Caribbean beach it’s hard to imagine the streets of Udaipur, with their bustle and relative poverty, though this too was a tourist’s paradise. Goa is peopled by British sun-seekers and yoga aficionados choosing between Kundalini and Ashtanga based on their suppleness and ability to perform their practice in the 35 degree heat. The beach at Patnem, to the far south of the province is chosen by older people and yoga-seekers as the most peaceful and laid-back of about twenty resorts. Talking to a builder from Billericay, who pays his brickies £180 a day in the post-Brexit building bubble, it seems that in one resort he stayed, there were a load of Russian tourists and in another, a continuous moon party for the Club 18-30 crowd. This must be where most of the 250 Tourist Police are based. He and his two mates had made a last minute decision to come to India and as a consequence, he bemoaned the NHS queue for injections and his £550 bill for private services. He’d booked them all into a hotel, run by a Brit in North Goa for new year’s eve, at great expense, paid in full and found when they got there that it had been closed for three years and that they would have to take the last three beds in an eight bedded dormitory in the only hostel in the town which had space. They were also fined £15 each on the spot for riding hired scooters without helmets. The policeman had apparently been wearing copious amounts of gold jewelry, and had not proffered a receipt.
Beside our sunbeds, outside the Solida Del Sol cafe, which is sandwiched between Namaste Homestay and Nirvana Lodge, two French Canadian tourists lounged for their last few days before taking the two flights to Delhi and then the 14 hour connection to Toronto. He was heavy-set and tattooed, with nipple rings in both nipples. She was not, as far as I could see either tattooed or pierced. They had booked to see India, expecting to travel the length and breadth of the this massive continent of a land, but had been so phased by their arrival into Delhi – nothing changes there then – they had promptly stepped into a travel agent and hired a driver for a 12 day to tour Rajasthan. They’d had a great trip, much like our own, but in more comfort.
The Kranti yoga centre consists of two huge ‘stages’ made of stone slabs, protected from the sun by huge canopies, and each surrounded by a series of perhaps 20-30 huts, in which retreating yoga-seekers stay for the three or five or more day retreats. There is no catering, so each must either fast (which is possible, looking at many of them) or go to Namaste or Nirvana or even brave Round Cube, where ambient music and lemon mint tea is order of the day. They have hammocks outside their huts, and there is plenty of saffron cloth draped around the place. My drop-in class is not till 10.15 each morning, which is a shame as the morning muesli with fruit, curd and honey is hard to resist, but also hard to perform three legged dog after. The yogis bring their own clean mats and I choose a very soiled but perfectly serviceable one from the centre. A sari-clad administrator (and definitely not a yogi) collects our 200 Rupee fees (€3), but as there are about 25 westerners dropping in, that’s a healthy income for the centre for the 90 minutes with Sally, the young black London yoga teacher who strides among us and describes the poses in English rather than using their proper names. What type of yoga are we performing? I’m fairly sure it isn’t pure Ashtanga, as I’m still alive to describe the experience, so it is really a mish-mash of Hatha and Kundalini and some Vinyasa thrown in. While we go through the practice, a stray dog stands in front of us on the raised stage and watches. Each establishment has its own dogs. They lie on the beach in front, or wander within the compounds, looking for scraps. I saw the Round Cube stray sit beside a customer as she ate her lunch, refusing dry toast scraps, but happily eating them once buttered. At night, they become tandoori experts, choosing between tables and selecting them on the basis of the occupants’ generosity, and maybe their menu choices, taking scraps. They are fiercely territorial and never eat from next door’s customers without a riotous and noisy dog-fight. Last time we were on the sunbeds outside Solida Del Sol, two cows wandered onto the beach and began to eat our clothing. They are not so territorial it seems.
Goa is truly European in everything except the menus, and even then, the majority of places offer fries instead of rice or naan, and tandoori chicken tikka is probably the number one dish. The question which keeps raising its ugly head is whether what is here is really good for anyone. Is it benefiting anyone but the few wealthy local owners, and should one really only partake of the authentic Indian experience on a trip to India, rather than funding this Eastern version of the Costa Del Sol? What’s the authentic India now though? To live it, you just have to buy a Chinese mobile – preferably taking several hundred selfies with it every day, drive a Royal Enfield motorbike and learn enough Hindi to hold conversations with the locals and the tourists simultaneously, to ensure that your cut in someone else’s offering is protected when you sell the tourists a manageable version of the India they fear.
The city is sprawling, vibrant and overwhelming. No more than Ajmer and less than Jaipur but still blanketed in smog and echoing to the call to prayer from its many minarets, and its bustling streets are even more full of animals than people, who flow like rivers through the excrement and rubbish and dust, on foot, and scooters, and bicycles and in tuktuks, and cars or camel pulled carts, always trying to get somewhere without regard for order. Tethered goats rummage in plastic bags for fruit skins, and bullocks wander aimlessly searching for greenery which doesn’t exist here. The packs of street dogs are fighting or sleeping or feeding their pups, and thousands of people are crowding and milling and selling and joking and begging, and their children are calling us with ‘hallo’ and ‘namaste’ for rupees, or ask for selfies, and ‘what country?’ to find out who these aliens are who are crazy enough to wander between them. Rats in families or hords beneath the pathways with their open sewers are trying to make some impression on the river of shit they live in and off.
The King’s Retreat guest house, in the shadow of the towering fort, is a strange combination of backpacker’s dive and Moroccan Riad, and would be no retreat for a king in any state of exile. It has a roof terrace restaurant which sells pizzas delivered from the cafe next door and which seem to have some exotic appeal to the hip Indian boys that come to smoke from the hookah and drink the Kingfisher. Sold in cans, it is billed separately, as the place is clearly not licensed. And the Kings Retreat is overseen by the Mehrangarh Fort, an immense hilltop sandstone edifice containing all the comforts the 17th century could offer the Maharajas, and all the privacy their wives and daughters in Purdah required, as they sat behind intricately carved stone latticework windows, observing their men in audience with his highness. The audio tour is narrated by an Indian acadamic with 1950’s Queens English and pride to match.
By the main gate is a plaque of hands sculpted in the stone wall, painted red. Each hand was carved for a maharani whose husband had died. As the funeral procession passed the plaque, she would impress her palm to the wall, making a print of henna, and in prayer, with her procession of bearers and maidservants and elephants, she would be led to the maharaja’s pyre, to sit silently as she was engulfed by the flames to be burned alive in an act of Sati. There are 30 hands in the plaque, and apparently, the last was added in 1847, though for each maharani this commemorates, how many ordinary Hindu women were burned alive, and for how long after the practice was outlawed in 1827?
Across town is Umaid Bhawan Palace, the Last royal palace for the surviving maharaja, with its 347 rooms full of opulent art deco furniture and pre-Raphaelite style paintings by a Polish emigre who escaped WW2 to serve the Man with a Rolls Royce which had an elephant motif on its bonnet. The palace is now a hotel, not the King’s retreat, and B&B is just 45,000 rupees a night (€630)…
It’s a city of contrasts and inequities.
I’m feeling strangely unexcited by the prospect of a dinner-dance new year celebration in this brash over-rated, impersonal and over-priced hotel in Jaipur. It was obligatory and by local standards, exorbitant. For the 6,000 Rupees we had to pay, you could buy 20,000 bunches of bananas, 30,000 litres of bottled water, 12 days full time tuktuk transport with driver… or, more reasonably, feed a local family well for two months. We could have cancelled the hotel, which would have meant finding somewhere at the last minute, but avoiding the roof terrace drinks and Bollywood dress code and the pounding drum-n-bass disco. But then how else could we discover what the Jaipurian middle-class is doing? Since we last set foot in India, two years ago, prices don’t seem to have shot up, but the ratio of taxis to tuktuks and of tuktuks to rickshaws, of motorbikes to bicycles, has risen. The air is even more full of fumes, the streets even more congested with mayhem, but perhaps fewer kids are running barefoot in the excrement. The piles of smoking rubbish are topped with rummaging piglets, goats, skinny dogs and scrawny cows, but not humans. Tens of thousands of Indian youths clambered over the Amber Fort to get their selfies, and the selfie-stick sellers outnumbered the trinket-vendors two to one. The camera-phone is top of everyone’s list this year, and the only shops in town are banksor mobile phone shops. Did these tourists want to know about the fort? I was investigating the Turkish bathhouse which some eighteenth century Maharajah had had carved from marble and overheard one selfie-taker comment to his friend that it must be a tomb. The sign on the door was carved in marble, in English and Hindi, but tombs and baths can be easily mistaken, I guess.
The visceral pleasure of being part of the melee in the streets still outweighs the revulsion at their open sewers or the abject poverty which is still here. It’s thrilling, and it’s exhausting, but at every corner, it’s new. Everyone here is trying everything they can to better themselves and their standards, even though they clearly scramble over one another in the process.
The same guru who is now a TV star in the UK, after reading the palm of Jan Leeming, saw Val for ten minutes in his small office at the back of the jeweler’s shop his family runs, once we’d bought something in the shop. He pulled no punches apparently. Saw everything he could not have known, hit several nails on their heads. Foretold possible futures, gave advice on work she might take time to carry out on her chakras, and recommended the use of a semi-precious stone in the mantra. I’m glad I didn’t ask for a consultation, though he didn’t need me there to know who I am. He knows someone in Cork too. An infamous Head Shop operator I used to know. Small world, I hear.
I read today that Facebook values each user at $20 per year. That may be a figure for US users, but it will do for now. The $20 is dwarfed by our value to Google, which makes about six times as much ad revenue from its users, so perhaps we average $120 per year on Google. If you search for information on something expensive (like a rare drug for your life-threatening disease) then your value to Google jumps enormously, as they sell your details to the vendors and you get deluged with ads for rare drugs.
So for Facebook, there are 1,600,000,000 users worldwide – one in six people on earth. That’s 1.6 billion people’s personality profiles, demography, geography, habits, personal history and preferences divided into the amount of advertising revenue generated, I guess. Each person is, of course, only targeted with a tiny proportion of all the advertising FB carries – after all, why would I want to see ads right wing political organisations in America, for instance? That means our value can be split among those advertisers whose suggested posts and FB Ads clutter up our news feed. When I advertise my small business, I pay about 30-40 cents per click through to my site, and as little as about 0.01 cents per ‘impression’ – the chance to put my promotion in front of someone on their screen, albeit for the moment it takes for them to scroll past it. My moment of exposure takes place during each user’s half-hour a day spent wading thought the poo that occupies most of FB – those fatuous videos and viral platitudes. Viral refers to infectious spreading…
So, about 30 minutes per day of each person’s attention. But I assume that $20 is annual, so we’re each effectively earning 10.9 cents per hour for Facebook and in return we’re getting lots of garbage interspersed with personally useful, sometimes valuable, insights and connections. Would you pay 5.5 cents per day to use Facebook if you didn’t EVER have your personal information stored, or used to sell you things? If the average number of searches I make on Google is 10 per day, then I’m worth 3.2 cents per search to them in ad revenue. Assuming they alter the results of every search I make, based on who wants to advertise to me, then for that 3.2 cents, I’m getting distortions to the ‘truth’ of what’s available on and through the internet. My searches and your searches using the same search criteria produce different results. Would you pay 3.2 cents per search to have the results untainted? Do you really want to see the same world I see?
So let’s say we all agree that paying for the internet is better than being controlled by it. Can you reverse what has become established as a currency? Your identity in exchange for free access to a substitute for personal interaction, free access to some parody of reality? Would you switch if you could? After all, it’s only a matter of them offering you a choice – the advertising model or the subscription model – micro-bill me for ‘pay-as-you-go’ truth or spoon-feed me the bigoted pap for free.
Hang on. This blog is not personal interaction – it’s a diatribe spouted in the privacy of my own head. But once I press ‘publish’, it’s linked to my social media, and FB and Twitter lead people to read it, and those people might comment, and so it becomes a social, not to say personal, interaction of sorts. I have communicated with my Friends (not to say friends) for a fee which I haven’t paid in cash but in identity exploitation. Let’s say the extract of this blog post is read by 100 Friends on their news feeds – that being a proportion of everyone who links to me – the rest either skip over it, or more likely don’t go onto FB at the right time of day to have it in the top eighteen inches of stuff they’re prepared to wade through in their 30 minutes. Now suppose I boost this post, so that I am buying the exposure to a much larger audience of people whose thinking I want to influence. Maybe they’re undecided voters in an election, or political extremists in their closets waiting for guidance. Do the algorithms vet my intentions and assess my advertising worth? Do they apply their own ‘political weighting’ to the import of my message? I’m going to sway voters towards a regime that supports low corporate tax rates. I’m going to engage sufferers from expensive diseases to follow my blog – now that’s going viral! My value to FB and Google might go up so much that they’re prepared to give me free exposure, rather than me having to pay for it… hang on, that’s what they’re already doing in listing ‘top stories’ over ‘most recent’ stories on peoples’ walls, and in manipulating the Google rankings.
Maybe I’ll de-couple from this technology and write hand-written letters which I’ll post to my friends (not to say Friends) and that will generate revenue for An Post which will ensure that the postman keeps his job and spends his hard-earned in the economy and his income taxes will underwrite the Irish infrastructure, and An Post will make profits which will attract corporation taxes within the country, rather than in the cloud which Google and FB occupy. Maybe I will re-gain my identity control. Maybe not.
Apropos my application for Irish citizenship, I was delighted to get a letter today saying that I’m being put into the second stage of processing. If it were a sausage factory, I’d be getting ready for the pig’s gut jacket about now. My case is to be submitted to the minister, once all enquiries are complete and all required documentation is received, after which, if I’m not a reject chipolata, it will take up to 6 months to complete… but:
It begs the question “What is ‘good character’ in this case?” If I were the minister, whose back must be against the wall over the limited number of Syrian refugee children Ireland is taking in, and potentially how few of those twenty-somethings who emigrated in the last 5 years are in a position to return to gainful employment, I’d have some pre-defined criteria. I’d also have a suitable algorithm to apply to the candidate’s Facebook history to vet their social behaviour, but that’s another story. The criteria he/she might use could include:
- What has your economic contribution been to the Irish State in the last 16 years?
- Income tax paid (as opposed to tax due on un-declared earnings)
- Vat paid on purchases (as opposed to cash in hand payments to builders)
- Capital gains on property sold
- Stamp duties on property purchased
- Indirect economic benefits you have brought to the State eg:
- Business initiatives helping other businesses to generate more wealth
- Tourism initiatives bringing inward expenditure, which could be offset against overseas holiday-taking which undermines Ireland’s tourism industry.
- Community initiatives encouraging spending in the community by others, with its concomitant Vat generation
- Voluntary work which saved the government money (eg running school bazaars so that the State didn’t need to pay for running repairs on the school)
- What, if anything, have you done in the last 16 years which might cast doubt on your standing in the community? This might include a list of sub-categories eg –
- Acts of gross indecency in a public place (eg peeing against a pub wall)
- Traffic offences (eg parking really badly in the centre of a village or town)
- Acts of violence (drunken brawling, wife beating)
- Gossip-mongering (after mass, before mass, during mass)
- Racist comments against Irish people (presumably they wouldn’t worry about your views any other racial group)
- Being the object of ridicule as a foreigner, excluded from full involvement in the community (eg becoming a County Councillor) and therefor belittled to a point of ineffective contribution.
- What positive influence have you had on the quality of Irish society in the last 16 years? This is a more qualitative assessment which might be achieved by scoring the individual out of 10 on each aspect and looking for them to exceed a threshold score:
- Being a moral extemporiser and evangelist, preferably in favour of Catholicism rather than C of I, but maybe double points for Catholicism
- Being a good Finnian – not to say Fenian or Plastic Paddy. This might include actively supporting Irish teams in rugby and soccer. It might also include GAA, but that’s probably a step too far.
- Being a creative leader and inspiration through art, music, ballet (?)
- Having a great recitation or song you can pull out at Christmas – must have Irish origins
- Making people laugh away their daily woes (preferably so they laugh with you rather than at you)
- Making an effort to learn Irish words and phrases, but not using them in a Plastic Paddy kind of way to show off to (other) foreigners just how Oirish you’ve become.
- Turning a blind eye to corruption and anti-social behaviour by prominent members of the Irish community (Irish ones that is) with the comment “sure, isn’t he/she a bit of a cute whore.”
- Reporting corruption and anti-social behaviour by (other) foreigners.
I think I can feel a book coming on! Please submit your contributions.
I wake, and step out into the cool winter air of dawn, and the day is ahead, with its to-ings and fro-ings. Its potential is based on my sense of place in it. I judge my intention to engage or to stand off and watch. For me, this is something that happens momentarily. Shall I feel the day or shall I act it? Will I be buffeted by its pressures and expectations or will I drive through it, choosing a route, seeking a destination? Does it have purpose and structure, or will it drift and eddy? These are tentative questions, not fatalistic fears about the way the world will treat me. You know there are enough of these stacking up. You know how we are dragged by infinite planetary gravitational forces. We’re becoming lunatics under their influence. They are national, global, geopolitical, socio-economic, moral and cognitive, but also insidious, subliminal, irrational and nightmarish. Too much of our time is taken up with holding our orbit in space.
In the morning light, as the sun rises, streaks of vermilion and cerise cut through the slate clouds. It feels like something piercing the amniotic protection, though what would I know about that? The fug lifts on my day. The rays of light disperse through the prism of my wakefulness, colouring the choices.
If feelings have forms, this one is perhaps a sphere with an indent, perhaps it is a partially deflated ball, one that the dog chewed and some air escaped, so that she could hold it in her mouth. Its surface is smooth, but not like vinyl or polypropylene, more like skin. The feeling is warm, not quite blood temperature. It is spongey, rather than encrusted. Liquid-filled. The day ahead reflates it, the sun hardens its surface. The oozing bite-marks form scabs, the ball cools and it is ready to be played, kicked, driven forward.
I’d been browsing online for a high pressure hose system for days. A Christmas gift for a cleanaholic in the family…
I’d been through to a couple of retailers which offered online sales, and asked for prices on the Karcher K140. It was going to be €199 for the basic machine and I really wanted the extension for upstairs windows. I began to notice ads appearing in my Facebook page for Karchers, and for Nilfisk options, but the prices all tended to be higher than I’d first seen on Amazon. No surprises there. I’ve been getting targeted advertising based on my browsing history for a while.
Then I started getting ads for the Karcher K180, which said that I’d need the bigger machine for my bigger property, and that most of my neighbours in Kinsale had the bigger machine. Amazon wanted €250 for the K180, and I didn’t want to pay that much, but as I spent more time looking at the prices for this bigger machine, I stopped getting ads for the K140, and all the main online retailers’ prices on the K180 seemed to go up. Christmas delivery dates were running out and I was getting desperate. Prices kept rising…
Personalised pricing, or price discrimination has begun. We’re getting allocated a price based on our address and demography, and that price is going up or down based on our ability to walk away, or our impatience to buy. Mac users get given higher prices than PC users, and depending on their browsing history, they will be deemed more or less desperate to buy. Outrageous! But hang on, last time I was in Marrakech, in the Souk, I was no more than amused when I refused to buy a rug and walked away, that the shop keeper followed me and offered me a lower price, but when I just had to have that beautiful chess set which had been carved by the little boy with no arms, using his bare feet, the price was non-negotiable.
I’ve heard that soon the technology will sense our emotional state and prices will be adjusted accordingly. The more impatiently you browse, the more the price goes up. Time to start playing online poker, I think.
“Balderdash”, I hear you cry. Surely the price is the price? Surely we’re not becoming part of an Orwellian nightmare where commerce robs from the rich and gives to the poor? Or is it a Marxist utopian dream we’re having?
In Finland, speeding ticket prices are linked to income. Time for a more integrated and open system where “From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs” is applied electronically to equalise social injustice – the fair distribution of wealth. So if I want to buy the Karcher K180, because I live in a fuck-off house, but Joe, who lives in the council estate down the road, in a small terraced house, also wants the K180, because he wants one over on his neighbours, who should pay more for the same machine? Does his mobile phone report on his motives and the fact that his is a ‘luxury’ purchase, while my needs dictate the bigger machine and in my case it is a necessity? Can the algorithms weigh wealth against greed? Can they choose who deserves what? Not yet. But remember, the number one objective of ALL commercial organisations is to maximise return on investment for shareholders.
Your mobile phone has sweat detection sensors, which measure galvanic skin responses to stress or excitement, it can pick up your heartbeat, has motion detectors which can probably tell how often you go to the toilet. As you move around a shop, the phone identifies where you stop, and for how long. The wifi connected packaging on the merchandise (which is already built into high value items) in front of you also reports when it is moved, picked up and examined, and if you keep fiddling with the new sandwich toaster on special offer, and it is something which is also for sale in another shop within the mall, why not offer a ‘special price’ just for you, using a personalised digital display? The advertising boxes which show digital ads in the mall already change depending on the time of day and whether it’s about time you fancied a pizza. In fact, the mobile phone can even detect stomach noises if you’re hungry, apparently, and matching them to your normal feeding patterns and shopping habits would allow the ad to be that perfect pizza you drool over in the takeaway. Why wouldn’t the ads be personalised to suit your own preferences as you pass the ad box? Only that there are some ‘legislative hurdles’ about data privacy to get over, apparently. Uber’s algorithms can tell how low the battery is on your phone, and therefore how desperate you might be to book that cab before your phone dies. They have evidence that people will pay a higher price for the cab in such circumstances…
So do we just wake up and smell the brand of coffee we like? Can we learn to play poker against an algorithm? I think not. So, first rule is leave your mobile phone at home in a lead-lined box when you go shopping, and every so often, buy something you don’t want, or perhaps do someone else’s shopping.
Thanks to Arwa Mahdawi in The Guardian for poking my unending fascination…
OK, so in the early 2000s, I thought I would take up Irish citizenship on political grounds because Tony Blair took Britain into Iraq and I felt ashamed to be British. I got hold of the forms from the post office and only stumbled when I found that the Government required copies of my 1984 divorce papers, which I didn’t have. I could probably have applied again for them but I didn’t. So then about 14 years later, Britain did something equally shaming, in voting Brexit, and I decided to try again for Irish citizenship. In the intervening years, the forms had become pdf’s and the requirement for the old divorce papers had been dropped. The fee for applying (with or without success) had gone up to €175 and the fee for success had become €950. Since there are 250,000 UK passport holders living in Ireland apparently, this could potentially underwrite half the costs of the latest public sector pay rises.
So, besides the 17 page application form, I supplied: Copies of my own and Val’s long form birth certs and marriage certificate, certified by a solicitor, Three separate proofs of my address for each of the last 5 years (bills etc), two passport photos, certified by the solicitor, my own passport original, Val’s original passport, three months’ bank statements from all my bank accounts, An affidavit that I now hold one of the new Public Services Cards (a form of chipped ID introduced into Ireland recently), and a bankers draft for €175 (no other form of payment accepted).
All that done, I have since been asked to dig out three years of bank statements, showing my name and address on them. This might sound straight forward, but since internet banking came in, one can only download 15 months of statements (and these don’t have my name and address on). The branch apparently keeps these on file, but I am informed that I will need to have them stamped and a letter provided by the bank that I live at this address.
So I have to ask on what basis all this is needed. I have lived in Ireland for sixteen years and been married to an Irish citizen for 28 years. I’m eligible for citizenship on both counts. I have proved both to be true. I have paid taxes in Ireland for 16 years, spent my hard-earned and taxed income in the state and generated employment for others. I estimate my financial contribution to the state to be in excess of €500,000 in that time, excluding stamp duties and fees on the purchase and sale of two properties.
But Irish citizenship is a privilege not a right, it says on the website. I wonder if the vast number of Brits now looking to apply have made it unattractive for the Government to rubber stamp applications…
Since I started the process, I have become addended to the idea on an emotional level, though it began as a practical one, to do with access in Europe. I am disgusted by the Brexiteers, the racist rhetoric, the myopic decision based on ignorance and miss-information which led to such widespread suffering and economic doom, and potentially to the disintegration of the EU, something I hold dear. If I should fail because of some bureaucratice anomaly, such as the lack of an address, it will hurt I think.