Turning Point by John Francis Kinsella
On Tuesday, September 16, it was the turn of the American insurance giant AIG, bailed out with an eighty five billion dollar rescue package from the Federal Reserve. On Wednesday, in the UK, pushed by its prime minister, Gordon Brown, Lloyds TSB announced its takeover plan for HBOS.
On a more modestly human scale, as the world was struggling to come to terms with first ever planetary financial crisis, Pat O’Connelly was enjoying the glow of success; his book had made it into the top ten in New York and London and was being translated for European markets. His bank account, already comfortably lined, was looking even better. The fall in property prices meant little to him, he had no debts and his homes in Paris, San Francisco remained unchanged; that is in terms of bricks and mortar, in spite of the fall in market values. They were not less better, a fact which bore O’Connelly a message.
Over the last months, attending promotional literary events, book signings and media interviews, he had ignored the crisis creeping up on the world at large. What woke him up to events was the appearance on the streets of Paris of strange message bearers preaching Lyndon LaRouche’s word on how to save the world from a conspiracy led by George Soros, Nancy Pelosi and their man Barack Obama. Then when Ireland guaranteed all bank deposits that O’Connelly concluded something must be wrong.
For most of his adult life he had glossed over his Irish roots, though without denying them. He had had difficulty in swallowing the insistent hype about the Celtic Tiger, suspecting that there would be an unhappy ending, as often happened in Irish stories. Deep down O’Connelly had a conservative soul and knew fortunes could not be built on make-believe.
Abruptly the age of credulity came to an end after a decade of pretence, belief in a never-never world akin to the cargo cult of New Guinea. Instead of gifts being parachuted from the sky by a benevolent god, unbelievably easy credit, based on the fictitious value of ordinary family homes, was strewn willy-nilly to naïve consumers. In Ireland like in the UK, the Blairite brave new world turned out to be a sham; millions of ordinary people had been led to believe they could mimic the lifestyles of Hollywood soap stars, urged by politicians into the belief that positive thinking and equity withdrawal were the sure paths to material and individual happiness. The values of their, often very modest, homes now looked like a pipe dream.
O’Connelly had on occasions worried about his excess cash reserves; he had resisted advice to invest in stocks and bonds, the values of which always seemed intangible. To him bricks and mortar were real assets, tangible assets especially if they were debt free, providing the kind of personal comfort and lifestyle he appreciated.
It was time to rediscover his roots, perhaps there was a story to tell about Ireland’s moment of glory, but first he should spend some time in Dublin, perhaps even find a nice home; he had read it was the right moment to pick a place up at a knockdown price.
On a whim he looked up the Irish Times Homes Internet edition clicking the ‘Homes’ page property adds. Most presented rather cold, conventional and dreary bourgeois homes. It seemed as though his good idea had fallen flat. He was about to sign off when he was attracted by the photo of a modern architect designed house, its garden sloping down to the banks of a river, it was the Liffey, a name that brought back memories of the Dublin he had known as a young boy going with his grandfather to the All-Ireland hurling final in Croke Park Stadium. He checked on Google Maps and saw the house was in West Dublin, near to Phoenix Park, about three miles from O’Connell Street, the heart of the city.
He clicked on the photos and the more he looked at them the more the house appealed to him. As to the price it was not difficult to imagine the owner’s quandary, it was a fine looking house and secondly it was really the worst possible time to sell.
The site was that of a property agent: Owen Reilly Property Consultants. O’Connelly did not beat about the bush with mails; he checked their phone number and called Dublin immediately. Then reminding himself it was not good to be in a hurry, he beat around the bush, talking of vague plans and showing no more than a mild interest in that particular property, finally letting himself be coaxed into a visit for the following week.
It was years since he had visited Dublin and decided a few days break would do him good especially as his obligations with book sellers and the reading public were beginning to ease off. He called Laura and she agreed at once, though it was not as if she was getting away from Irish things, she was in charge of events at the Irish Cultural Centre in Paris.
They arrived in Dublin late Thursday evening and took a taxi to the Conrad on Earlsfort Terrace at the south corner of St Stephen’s Green.
‘We have a saying,’ their garrulous taxi driver told them, ‘When America sneezes, England catches a cold — and by the time it gets to Ireland it’s pneumonia.’
They laughed and encouraged he continued, ‘It’s the euro that’s caused house prices to rise — inflation and all that — we’ll soon be like Iceland if it continues.’
‘You really think so?’
‘To be sure, the country’s going to the dogs, prices are still over the hill, but that’s the government’s doing,’ the driver said. ‘They’ve reduced taxes on company and personal income and slapped them on VAT.’
It was too late to visit the city and after a light diner and a drink in the bar they called it a day.
Their appointment was at Owen Reilly’s real estate offices situated in a bright new office building in the Dublin Docklands area overlooking the Liffey, about a mile from their hotel. They were in luck the weather was announced as dry and fine, though there was a little wind. After a good Irish breakfast they decided to take in the Dublin air and walk over to Forbes Quay, where they were met by Dermot O’Toole a modern, positive, young Irishman.
It was eleven when the headed out of the city centre towards Phoenix Park. The traffic was fairly light and the drive took just fifteen minutes, a positive point Laura remarked softly to O’Connelly. The house was exactly as the photos had portrayed it and in an almost perfect autumn setting.
O’Toole left them little breathing space as he vaunted the quality of the recently built house, the neighbourhood and the proximity to the city centre. When it came to a question of price he told them that the owner might consider an offer in view of the fact the market had slowed down a little. As far as O’Connelly was concerned that wasn’t the word — if the newspapers were right the market was as dead as the Dodo. No ordinarily intelligent person would burden himself with such a house and a mortgage, if he could get one, in the present economic conditions.
Freeing themselves for a brief moment from the salesman’s spiel they walked down to the small jetty. The house was just what O’Connelly had in mind, in addition the furniture came with it and no work was required. Laura agreed. Deciding to play down their interest they told O’Toole they would think it over.
They were driven back to the city and dropped off nearby Forbes Quay after declining O’Toole’s insistent offers to visits to other available properties. A typical Dublin chill had crept into the air as they strolled along the quay and they decided on their afternoon programme: first lunch at the Pen Club, then a visit to the Francis Bacon studio.
That evening they set out on a tour of Dublin’s famous pubs and after one too many glasses of Guinness and Irish Whisky they decided the house was a buy and staggered back to the hotel laughing with Laura singing Hodnett’s song made famous by the Dubliners, the words she knew by heart:
Well, if you've got a wing-o,
Take her up to Ring-o
Where the waxies sing-o all the day;
If you've had your fill of porter, And you can't go any further
Give your man the order: "Back to the Quay!"
And take her up to Monto, Monto, Monto
Take her up to Monto, lan-ge- roo,
To you!
Have you heard of Buckshot Forster,
The dirty old impostor
Took a mot and lost her, up the Furry Glen.
&nb
sp; He first put on his bowler
And buttoned up his trousers,
Then whistled for a growler and he said, "My man!"
Take me up to Monto, Monto, Monto
Take me up to Monto, lan-ge- roo,
To you!
You've seen the Dublin Fusiliers,
The dirty old bamboozeleers,
De Wet'll kill them chiselers, one, two, three.
Marching from the Linen Hall
There's one for every cannonball,
And Vicky's going to send them all, o'er the sea.
But first go up to Monto, Monto, Monto
March them up to Monto, lan-ge- roo,
To you!
When Carey told on Skin-the-goat,
O'Donnell caught him on the boat
He wished he'd never been afloat, the dirty skite.
It wasn't very sensible
To tell on the Invincibles
They stand up for their principles, day and night.
And you'll find them all in Monto, Monto, Monto
Standing up in Monto, lan-ge- roo,
To you!
Now when the Tsar of Russia
And the King of Prussia
Landed in the Phoenix in a big balloon,
They asked the police band
To play "The Wearin' of the Green"
But the buggers from the depot didn't know the tune.
So they both went up to Monto, Monto, Monto
Scarpered up to Monto, lan-ge- roo,
To you!
The Queen she came to call on us,
She wanted to see all of us
I'm glad she didn't fall on us, she's eighteen stone.
"Mister Me Lord Mayor," says she,
"Is this all you've got to show me?"
"Why, no ma'am there's some more to see, Póg mo thóin!"
And he took her up Monto, Monto, Monto
He set her up in Monto, lan-ge- roo,
For you!
It was O’Toole who moved first. The next morning he called O’Connelly on his cell. As a good salesman he had sensed his customers’ interest and had spoken with the owner, a certain Liam Clancy who was more than open to an offer. They agreed to meet again and Sunday lunch time they shook hands on a cash deal: €1,425,000 including the furniture and agents fees.
Hendaye
On a more modestly human scale, as the world was struggling to come to terms with first ever planetary financial crisis, Pat O’Connelly was enjoying the glow of success; his book had made it into the top ten in New York and London and was being translated for European markets. His bank account, already comfortably lined, was looking even better. The fall in property prices meant little to him, he had no debts and his homes in Paris, San Francisco remained unchanged; that is in terms of bricks and mortar, in spite of the fall in market values. They were not less better, a fact which bore O’Connelly a message.
Over the last months, attending promotional literary events, book signings and media interviews, he had ignored the crisis creeping up on the world at large. What woke him up to events was the appearance on the streets of Paris of strange message bearers preaching Lyndon LaRouche’s word on how to save the world from a conspiracy led by George Soros, Nancy Pelosi and their man Barack Obama. Then when Ireland guaranteed all bank deposits that O’Connelly concluded something must be wrong.
For most of his adult life he had glossed over his Irish roots, though without denying them. He had had difficulty in swallowing the insistent hype about the Celtic Tiger, suspecting that there would be an unhappy ending, as often happened in Irish stories. Deep down O’Connelly had a conservative soul and knew fortunes could not be built on make-believe.
Abruptly the age of credulity came to an end after a decade of pretence, belief in a never-never world akin to the cargo cult of New Guinea. Instead of gifts being parachuted from the sky by a benevolent god, unbelievably easy credit, based on the fictitious value of ordinary family homes, was strewn willy-nilly to naïve consumers. In Ireland like in the UK, the Blairite brave new world turned out to be a sham; millions of ordinary people had been led to believe they could mimic the lifestyles of Hollywood soap stars, urged by politicians into the belief that positive thinking and equity withdrawal were the sure paths to material and individual happiness. The values of their, often very modest, homes now looked like a pipe dream.
O’Connelly had on occasions worried about his excess cash reserves; he had resisted advice to invest in stocks and bonds, the values of which always seemed intangible. To him bricks and mortar were real assets, tangible assets especially if they were debt free, providing the kind of personal comfort and lifestyle he appreciated.
It was time to rediscover his roots, perhaps there was a story to tell about Ireland’s moment of glory, but first he should spend some time in Dublin, perhaps even find a nice home; he had read it was the right moment to pick a place up at a knockdown price.
On a whim he looked up the Irish Times Homes Internet edition clicking the ‘Homes’ page property adds. Most presented rather cold, conventional and dreary bourgeois homes. It seemed as though his good idea had fallen flat. He was about to sign off when he was attracted by the photo of a modern architect designed house, its garden sloping down to the banks of a river, it was the Liffey, a name that brought back memories of the Dublin he had known as a young boy going with his grandfather to the All-Ireland hurling final in Croke Park Stadium. He checked on Google Maps and saw the house was in West Dublin, near to Phoenix Park, about three miles from O’Connell Street, the heart of the city.
He clicked on the photos and the more he looked at them the more the house appealed to him. As to the price it was not difficult to imagine the owner’s quandary, it was a fine looking house and secondly it was really the worst possible time to sell.
The site was that of a property agent: Owen Reilly Property Consultants. O’Connelly did not beat about the bush with mails; he checked their phone number and called Dublin immediately. Then reminding himself it was not good to be in a hurry, he beat around the bush, talking of vague plans and showing no more than a mild interest in that particular property, finally letting himself be coaxed into a visit for the following week.
It was years since he had visited Dublin and decided a few days break would do him good especially as his obligations with book sellers and the reading public were beginning to ease off. He called Laura and she agreed at once, though it was not as if she was getting away from Irish things, she was in charge of events at the Irish Cultural Centre in Paris.
They arrived in Dublin late Thursday evening and took a taxi to the Conrad on Earlsfort Terrace at the south corner of St Stephen’s Green.
‘We have a saying,’ their garrulous taxi driver told them, ‘When America sneezes, England catches a cold — and by the time it gets to Ireland it’s pneumonia.’
They laughed and encouraged he continued, ‘It’s the euro that’s caused house prices to rise — inflation and all that — we’ll soon be like Iceland if it continues.’
‘You really think so?’
‘To be sure, the country’s going to the dogs, prices are still over the hill, but that’s the government’s doing,’ the driver said. ‘They’ve reduced taxes on company and personal income and slapped them on VAT.’
It was too late to visit the city and after a light diner and a drink in the bar they called it a day.
Their appointment was at Owen Reilly’s real estate offices situated in a bright new office building in the Dublin Docklands area overlooking the Liffey, about a mile from their hotel. They were in luck the weather was announced as dry and fine, though there was a little wind. After a good Irish breakfast they decided to take in the Dublin air and walk over to Forbes Quay, where they were met by Dermot O’Toole a modern, positive, young Irishman.
It was eleven when the headed out of the city centre towards Phoenix Park. The traffic was fairly light and the drive took just fifteen minutes, a positive point Laura remarked softly to O’Connelly. The house was exactly as the photos had portrayed it and in an almost perfect autumn setting.
O’Toole left them little breathing space as he vaunted the quality of the recently built house, the neighbourhood and the proximity to the city centre. When it came to a question of price he told them that the owner might consider an offer in view of the fact the market had slowed down a little. As far as O’Connelly was concerned that wasn’t the word — if the newspapers were right the market was as dead as the Dodo. No ordinarily intelligent person would burden himself with such a house and a mortgage, if he could get one, in the present economic conditions.
Freeing themselves for a brief moment from the salesman’s spiel they walked down to the small jetty. The house was just what O’Connelly had in mind, in addition the furniture came with it and no work was required. Laura agreed. Deciding to play down their interest they told O’Toole they would think it over.
They were driven back to the city and dropped off nearby Forbes Quay after declining O’Toole’s insistent offers to visits to other available properties. A typical Dublin chill had crept into the air as they strolled along the quay and they decided on their afternoon programme: first lunch at the Pen Club, then a visit to the Francis Bacon studio.
That evening they set out on a tour of Dublin’s famous pubs and after one too many glasses of Guinness and Irish Whisky they decided the house was a buy and staggered back to the hotel laughing with Laura singing Hodnett’s song made famous by the Dubliners, the words she knew by heart:
Well, if you've got a wing-o,
Take her up to Ring-o
Where the waxies sing-o all the day;
If you've had your fill of porter, And you can't go any further
Give your man the order: "Back to the Quay!"
And take her up to Monto, Monto, Monto
Take her up to Monto, lan-ge- roo,
To you!
Have you heard of Buckshot Forster,
The dirty old impostor
Took a mot and lost her, up the Furry Glen.
&nb
And buttoned up his trousers,
Then whistled for a growler and he said, "My man!"
Take me up to Monto, Monto, Monto
Take me up to Monto, lan-ge- roo,
To you!
You've seen the Dublin Fusiliers,
The dirty old bamboozeleers,
De Wet'll kill them chiselers, one, two, three.
Marching from the Linen Hall
There's one for every cannonball,
And Vicky's going to send them all, o'er the sea.
But first go up to Monto, Monto, Monto
March them up to Monto, lan-ge- roo,
To you!
When Carey told on Skin-the-goat,
O'Donnell caught him on the boat
He wished he'd never been afloat, the dirty skite.
It wasn't very sensible
To tell on the Invincibles
They stand up for their principles, day and night.
And you'll find them all in Monto, Monto, Monto
Standing up in Monto, lan-ge- roo,
To you!
Now when the Tsar of Russia
And the King of Prussia
Landed in the Phoenix in a big balloon,
They asked the police band
To play "The Wearin' of the Green"
But the buggers from the depot didn't know the tune.
So they both went up to Monto, Monto, Monto
Scarpered up to Monto, lan-ge- roo,
To you!
The Queen she came to call on us,
She wanted to see all of us
I'm glad she didn't fall on us, she's eighteen stone.
"Mister Me Lord Mayor," says she,
"Is this all you've got to show me?"
"Why, no ma'am there's some more to see, Póg mo thóin!"
And he took her up Monto, Monto, Monto
He set her up in Monto, lan-ge- roo,
For you!
It was O’Toole who moved first. The next morning he called O’Connelly on his cell. As a good salesman he had sensed his customers’ interest and had spoken with the owner, a certain Liam Clancy who was more than open to an offer. They agreed to meet again and Sunday lunch time they shook hands on a cash deal: €1,425,000 including the furniture and agents fees.
Hendaye