No point in complaining

Maybe it was more evident before the arrival of the Celtic Tiger, but there is something in the Irish psyche that inclines us not to try to change things. Maybe clearer said, we are great for giving out but we never seem to direct our complaint, anger or annoyance where it is most effective.

We can go off and have a meal somewhere and then give out about it to our friends and neighbours. Why not have a word with the chef or owner? The same can be said about what we think of the doctor or priest. We can kill them with our words but it’s always to someone else. Maybe it has something to do with a belief deep inside us that we feel that our complaints will not be taken seriously.

I think I have come up with a reason why we feel our complaints will get us nowhere. It’s the weather, stupid.

Complain all we like but everything and nothing we say about the weather will have absolutely no effect on how the weather behaves.

It’s been the wettest June in years and certainly July can’t be far behind. We can say and do all we like but our words will do nothing to change the weather.

Although I read somewhere recently that the Chinese have developed some sort of gadget that should it rain during the Olympics they will shoot this stuff into the clouds and it will displace them and hey presto it’s back to blue skies. It sounds great and why can’t our Government talk to the Chinese prime minister and buy some of the stuff from him?

I have to tell you I am bone sick of this weather and it is relentless.

On Monday July 28 I had planned to drive my motorbike from West Kerry to Dublin. Since the close of the secondary school I have been trying to get to Dublin on my bike on a dry Monday. Not a chance. But the Saturday and Sunday before July 28 it looked good, so good even that it was swimming weather. But the weather forecasters smelt a rat. The fool that I am, I was inclined to dismiss the meteorological experts. In fact I was so certain it was going to be fine that I actually decided on a slimmed-down wardrobe for the days in Dublin!

Woke up before 08.00 on Monday to hear that now all too familiar sound on my roof. It was lashing rain. It was dark and all I could say was one expletive – silently of course.
I waited and waited like a fool, thinking it might stop. In thunderous rain I drove the motorbike to Tralee for an appointment but under no circumstances could I have gone to Dublin on it. The escapade had to be aborted. So plan B goes into place.

Sometime shortly after lunch the rain fades out but it remains miserable and down at Castle strand it was something akin to a November day. Still, it had stopped raining but it was now too late to go on the bike.

I buy one of those special offer €16.00 rail tickets to Dublin, which are available Monday to Thursday on specific trains. And off I go on the 19.15 rail service to Dublin.

The train arrives in Dublin at 23.05, ten minutes ahead of schedule. I walk over to the bicycle shed at Heuston Station, unlock my bike, affix bicycle clips and secure bag on the carrier. Just as I place my left foot on the pedal, what happens? It begins to rain. There was a deluge and it went on and on.

I later discover that it had been a scorcher in Dublin. But the moment I put my foot on the bicycle pedal, the rains arrive in the capital city. And another sort-of-silent expletive.
It’s bad enough staying put and taking pot luck but when you move from place to place and the rain follows you, then you really must have a problem.

Mr Cowen, please talk to Wen Jiabo. The Chinese might sell you that stuff they have designed for the Olympics at a knock-down price after the games.

So what the hell’s the point in giving out? See, all our shouting and complaining is not going to change the flow of one drop of rain.