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Ar Do Gcapall

On Yer Horse

Let's take a break from the archaeological themes for a moment. Irish people, as a general rule, don't particularly like new progress or change of any sort. Being rather on the conservative side leads to some interesting ways of accepting new objects thrust into the public eye. Dubliners and modern sculpture go together like Fred Astaire and Uma Thurman, or Haughey and Boland, or apples and oranges, i.e. they don't period. So when a new sculpture was being set up in the heart of O'Connell Street, Dublin to represent Anna Livia, the Patron Saint of Liffey swimmers (you'd need a patron saint or two to swim across that river), the general populace couldn't pass up the opportunity of rechristening her. Because she reclined in a submarine like object with water flowing over her shoulders, Dubliners came up with the best solution, THE FLOOSIE IN THE JACUZZI.Well it struck.

The architects livid at this affront to their wondrous 'object d' art', quickly went on a sculpture redeeming exercise and constructed another 'object d'art' at the foot of a repedestrianised Grafton Street. This time sweet Molly Malone was commemorated in Bronze, or some such class of metal. Molly, of song fame, was caught frozen wheeling her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow, with a very bosomy, low cut cleavage. Dubliners ,undetered by this affront to their senses, retorted, THE TART WITH THE CART, in reply.

Livid, yet again, and this time tearing the hair out of their heads by the roots, our architects came up with another sculpture to depict normal everyday life, sans bosomy cleavage. This time it was a pair of old ladies sitting on a park bench after doing some heavy shopping. "Why that's an easy one", exclaimed Dubliners, the architects held their breaths as they collectively devoured 10mg valium tablets. Its, wait for it, THE HAGS WITH THE BAGS, easy wasn't it. Some architects were known to quit the profession and join the Hari Christnas on O'Connell bridge in protest.Others were seen openly weeping around Temple Bar.

But recently I've come across a new product of the architects exile from Dublin, in Co. Sligo, just South of Boyle in the NW, see picture below.

You can't miss it, perched up on a ridge on the N4 road. People exclaim "Pray tell, what lies on yonder hill?". Dubliners however, say, "Jasus, what the bleedin' hell is that yoke, I'll have to take a closer gander(look)?" Closer look below.

It represents a Celtic Chieftain, "oh yeah, says who?" It says so on the plaque at the base. A recent addition to the countryside. You can gain access to it and a small car park overlooking a lough. I went up for a gander, and as I stood there drinking the last dregs of my Taylor Keith, red lemonade, I said the magic rechristening words all Dubliners love, "I hereby pronounce you, from this day forth, eh lets see(sprinkling some drops of red lemonade on the site), I know THE CELT IN HIS PELT", easy wasn't it. Who am I to break with tradition. Oh, All right, there is some class of a metal negligee strewn around his shoulders or some such anorak device ,see below.

But believe me, he's as naked as the day he was welded to the spot. Riveting isn't it. Do I hear the sound of architects fainting in the background?