Conor Lovett in Gare St Lazare Players Ireland's Moby Dick by Herman Melville. Photo Credit: Ros Kavanagh

It’s a fish tale. And it’s a great one. It’s epic, without special effects, save for some atmospheric fiddle playing.  It’s a one-man show, but not in the familiar sense of an actor proving his mastery by inhabiting a bunch of characters with varied voices, accents and postures. This “Moby Dick”, from the Gare St. Lazare Players Ireland, just feels like an old man in a pub has been coaxed by its patrons to tell his survival story one more time for the newcomers.

Conor Lovett’s performance is startling in the power of its simplicity. Melville’s words are completely convincing as his own rambling train of thought. His man called Ishmael is humbled, but still schoolmasterly. He’s comfortable in the spotlight, humorous in his phrasing and savvy in his choice of detail, but so cerebral as to be easily sidetracked. His struggle is to communicate some very real, terrifying events that happened on the outside of the mind into which he is so deeply burrowed.

Fans of the novel—particularly those of us who have been prodded to deliver detailed glosses of this tome—will miss many cherished details. I missed:

 “Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.”

I missed the sermon from the whaling chapel, the great descriptions of Stubb, Flask, Tashtego, Daggoo and Fedallah, the mystery of Pip’s transformation after falling overboard, the sinister account of the “Whiteness of the Whale” and  I missed“the great shroud of the sea,” rolling on “as it rolled five thousand years ago.”

This version has no agenda to push on the nature of the search for Truth. It’s just the story: a gloomy intellectual with an exotic companion, set sail on a whaling expedition and find it hijacked by an irresistibly charismatic captain on an unalterable quest to kill one whale in particular.

There’s no question that this enough material to make for a story great enough to lodge in one’s memory and haunt one’s dreams.  It’s a rare pleasure to hear it told so simply, with Melville’s language married to an Irishman’s dramatic sensibilities.

“Moby Dick” plays through November 12 at the Jackie Liebergott Blackbox in ArtEmerson‘s Paramount Center“

xposure

An Irish farmer who had given pop princess Rihanna permission to film her new music video shut down production after taking a glance at RiRi’s wardrobe.

“I thought it was inappropriate. I requested them to stop and they did,” Alan Graham, 61, told the BBC. “I had my conversation with Rihanna and I hope she understands where I’m coming from. We shook hands.”

Rihanna was wearing a red bandana bikini during the shoot.

The farmer admitted that he didn’t know Rihanna was such a sex symbol when he granted permission for her to film on his land in Bangor, County Down. He literally drove over in a tractor and put a stop to the filming.

Shooting for her single “We Found Love” resumed later at a different location.

“I wish no ill will against Rihanna and her friends,” Graham said. “Perhaps they could acquaint themselves with a greater God.”

DUBLIN — Scroll back to 2004.

Little Ireland was in its pomp. Delirious on the heady fumes of an emerging property boom, the focus was squarely on party politics and our portly economy. The Fianna Fáil star was its brightest, wowing the world with flash statistics about growth and unemployment. The frenzy to clamber aboard the gravy train was so great that our political servants didn’t even notice that the Irish presidency was up for grabs.

But don’t they know it now?

Yes, now that the money has dried up and Dáil Éireann has become the political equivalent of an Irish famine workhouse, the stately grounds of Áras an Uachtaráin are starting to looking a whole lot more appealing. Hard luck on the Áras though. It did well enough under Mary McAleese — a barrister and professor from Belfast who had a long-standing interest in the presidency and a respectable moral agenda for the duration of its term.

McAleese has done a lot to help engineer peace in Northern Ireland and her role in Queen Elizabeth II’s recent historic visit will be considered one of the finest achievements in the story Irish political and diplomatic affairs. She’s a tough act to follow when you look at it like that and the changing list of likely candidates is far from inspiring. It’s a drab arrangement of spent political journeymen and the battle for nomination has been, at times, so desperate and controversial that the seat of the presidency has already been cheapened by it.

Fine Gael’s Gay Mitchell, a man with all personality and charm of wet cardboard, decided to grace Irish public life again after skipping off to Europe in 2004 to do what? We’re not really sure. Right now it looks to be a two-horse race between Mitchell and Labour’s wispy-haired poet, Michael D. Higgins. It’s not the most exciting shortlist.

The nation seems to be in a state of utter deflation after a ruthless character assassination that saw popular senator David Norris shunted away from the ballot paper. Norris, a human rights veteran, was a sure bet for the Áras and his probable election wouldn’t have hurt our reputation for being a socially progressive country any more than Mary Robinson’s election did back in1990. Alas for Norris, it would appear that to be a gay politician in Ireland is to be a de facto pedophile. Never mind his sparkling record in the senate, his enthusiasm and conviction for a system that many have lost faith in, and his honest criticisms of the neutered function of the Seanad (senate).

No. This man is gay. We must dig deeper. There is surely some speck of dirt, some error in judgement, that we can sink his ship with.

Gay Mitchell described abortion as a ‘holocaust’ and bemoaned the reality of Irish women “sneaking off” to have abortions in the UK. He wrote a letter of clemency for convicted murderer and anti-abortionist Rev. Paul Hill, who is on death row in the US. But David Norris’ plea for leniency for a former partner who’d had consensual sex with a Palestinian minor (statutory rape) was a most grievous offense and for many of his antagonists, this 14-year-old piece of paper was all the proof they needed that he was some kind of sexual predator. It’s a bit of a flimsy argument in a country that, over the years, has become a veritable petri dish for colonies of shady politicians and robed pedophiles.

The wheels came off Norris’ campaign and he was forced to step down eventually. Since then, the election race has descended into anarchy and farce. Instead of looking for people who have the credentials to do the job, various ‘personalities’ have been put forward. Fianna Fáil, pushing hard to restore its blackened reputation after 15 years of economic misconduct, saw in the avuncular broadcaster Gay Byrne—now 77—a handy route back onto the political ladder. Byrne was almost physically inserted into Phoenix Park by politicians and media alike before he eventually took himself out of the equation.

The celebrity vacuum was quickly filled by recently retired sports commentator and former schoolteacher Mícheál Ó Muircheartaigh who, at the time of writing this, was still mulling it over. Michael Sheen—yes, that’s President Bartlett from The West Wing—recently said “thanks but no”. So who’s next? Daniel Day-Lewis? Pierce Brosnan? Is it too soon to ask Saoirse Ronan? Brenda Gleeson gave a speech of presidential quality at College Green some months back. Maybe he should do it? While we’re at it, why don’t we just rename it Celebrity President 2011 and let people vote by phone or text via a 1550 number?

To be President of Ireland is to be the face of the country. The most obvious mission for the next President must be to repair the damage done to our reputation by years of fiscal stupidity, but the scramble for Áras an Uachtaráin is beginning to have a negative effect.

Seven years ago, this public office was overlooked—even belittled—by the country’s salivating politicos and McAleese walked through to her second term uncontested.

But desperate times call for desperate measures and things sure are desperate now. With any luck, the mostly inoffensive Michael D. will take it and the Irish public can just cast this embarrassing circus out of the national psyche and move on.

CORK, Ireland — It’s summer in Ireland (or what constitutes summer in Ireland) and it has roused our irrepressible instinct for superstition. For all our desire to become one of the smart economies, we are still ultra superstitious. We flail about the streets to avoid stepping on cracks or under ladders. The sight of a flock of magpies triggers frantic bouts of counting (one for sorrow, two for joy, and so on). Umbrellas left open indoors is an antecedent to hysteria. We don’t even talk about shattered mirrors.

Having recently rolled through the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, our minds are now secretly ticking forward to July 15: St. Swithin’s Day. We know nothing about this Swithin character except that if it rains on the date named in his honor, we are, essentially, fooked. The saying goes that if it rains on St. Swithin’s Day, we’re doomed to another 40 days of rain. Weather is a serious matter to Irish people and it occupies a space of utter mysticism in our minds. We all know the kind of monsoon event that Irish summers can be and we believe, deep down, that low pressure and all its symptoms are the result of some portentous force having a laugh at our expense. Be honest, you blame Rihanna for summer 2007. I know I do. Swithin’s Day looms as large on our horizon as Budget Day, and every fine day between now and then will be ruthlessly enjoyed.

About a month ago the country was overcome with a week’s worth of sunshine. Boyfriend and I stared at Evelyn Cusack’s smiling face as she waved her arm over the multitude of cartoon suns that hovered across the map of Ireland. That was all it took.

A few photons of light energy breaking through the clouds set in motion a form of migration to rival that of the Antarctic penguins and the red crabs of Christmas Island.

It is a phenomenon that we all participate in. Tartan-patterned flasks that have been passed from one attic to another for generations are unearthed and dusted off. Bread is buttered, filled, and foiled. Wardrobes are plundered in search of swimwear that has not been worn for years. Rugs and towels are rolled up. Cars are loaded as though in preparation for the apocalypse. And then, following a comprehensive check-list, there is a hemorrhaging of people from our urban centers to our blue-flag coastlines. For me, it was Garretstown in west Cork, but the routine is the same everywhere.

The second the handbrake is yanked, you stumble from the car, ninja-stripping across the car park in a frantic clamber for your own square of sand. It is as though you have discovered and claimed el mundo nuevo. You drop your cooler box, your backpacks, your rugs, your newspaper—everything except the bucket and spade that you secretly, desperately, wanted to bring but couldn’t. Now that you have cordoned off your own zone, you begin the process of factoring up. It’s not really that you’re pale in that cool Scandinavian way and you want to preserve it. In fact, you’re more… grey in that malnourished Irish way, but you still can’t ignore the internal “you’ll get skin cancer” caveat that your parents barked at you as a kid. And anyway, nothing says summer quite like the scent of UVA protection and a stranger’s second-hand cigarette smoke (which is inescapable on blustery Irish beaches).

You sit down on to your rug with all the grace of a subsiding structure and wait out the obligatory 30 minutes for your skin to absorb the sun cream. To pass the time, you whip out the newspaper. Supplements, crosswords, and Sudokus were invented for just such an event. There is no free wifi here. No means for your devices. This is a time for the wholesome art of reading, of informing yourself on national and international issues that you feign to understand, and for some slightly academic entertainment.

You open the first page and the whole thing lifts like a kite into the air. From that moment, you engage in a ferocious wrestling competition with your broadsheet publication (tabloids are less susceptible to breezes, and in any case, are no great loss). You haul its wilting pages back and pin it down to the rug with your body. This is an improvement but it still does not permit page turning and the sand is now blowing into your eyes. You content yourself with the cover page even though you read that part in the car on the journey over. You glimpse the upper right corners of subsequent pages, grasping a word here or there, headers, page numbers. Fascinating stuff. You stick at it mindlessly for a while until you estimate that you are, probably, UVA’d.

Buoyed by the warmth of the sun, you rise to your feet and march towards the water. It could be childhood memories or it could be sunstroke, but either way you have shrugged off those adolescent insecurities that once had you creeping awkwardly, surreptitiously to water’s edge. You know you are not perfect. No amount of recessionary jogging, Junior C championship training, or mechanical erosion has been able to shift that stubborn cellulite. Your legs are bruised and potholed after last week’s league encounter with that beast of a corner-back, but you don’t care. Your blindingly white skin is crying out for vitamin D, having been deprived of it for the best part of a decade. The water is inexplicably appealing, as though its salty tang is calling to the fish buried deep in your evolved genes. However, this is as far as the allure goes.

Your body nearly spasms when it laps coldly around your ankles and it takes every fiber of muscle to swallow back a whimper. You lurch forward a step or two, perhaps even hallucinate icebergs on the horizon. The gentle swell of water that washes a little further up your legs towards your knees is confirmation. That’s deep enough thanks. This is the Atlantic Ocean after all and I think I’ve been brave enough for one day. You retreat quickly, stumble back to the rug, and grab a towel to stave off frostbite. You might engage in some very athletic bat-ball, flinging yourself lithely across the unforgiving terrain, grunting with the effort and the feel of those sea-shells biting into your feet. After some competitive rallying and your body temperature now normalizing, the time comes to plunder the cooler box.

Those ham sandwiches, naturally salted with some rogue sand, are ever so tasty after your exploits at sea. The rice crispie cakes too. It all goes down a treat with some tea from a tartan patterned flask. You tackle the dog-eared edge of your side of the rug, weigh it down with a nice stone-formation, and lie back. You sling Boyfriend’s t-shirt over your face as reprieve from the glare of the sun and nod off for a short while, twitching softly at the occasional nose-diving fly. It is 19 degrees Celsius, which is pretty perfect for our delicate Irish blood. Any lower and you’ll be reaching for the fleece you bought for 20 cent in Penney’s; higher, you might actually pass out.

You rest your eyes for an hour or so, then gather up your belongings and trudge back to the car. Your hair is suitably wind-swept. You have a salt line on your shins and sand between your toes. You feel the right amount of plantar fasciitis underfoot — just enough to know you have spent the day in flip-flops.

It was, perhaps, not the success you had hoped for, yet you leave with the proof of the coast in your bones. You join the queue of traffic and begin the slow process of transfusing the cities again. Tomorrow you might need to wear a scarf and come July 15, you may need to purchase a boat, but today was as good as any. Yes, the summer is here.

DUBLIN — It was a little dicey, let’s be honest. In terms of his reputation for sincerity and passion, President Obama’s pinched stopover in Ireland ran a serious risk of dipping into the murky realms of tokenism. It was such a short trip, particularly compared to Queen Elizabeth’s comprehensive four-day sojourn last week, that people here might well have been justified in thinking it was no more than a means of killing time while Air Force One refuelled. Iceland’s volcanic hoopla, by now becoming an annual affair, didn’t help. The threat of ash grounding flights for long spells, as it is did last year, forced them to move on to the UK a little sooner than planned and cut short an already brief jaunt on Irish soil.

My personal concerns that Obama’s visit was merely an inconvenient part of a larger European check-list were not dispelled by his first televised words at a press conference in Farmleigh House after a 30-minute meeting with Taoiseach Enda Kenny.

Barack—or Barry as we now affectionately call him—has somewhat spoiled us in the past with sweeping elegant orations, and so maybe this raised expectation was agitating my Irish inferiority complex, because it was a little difficult to interpret his uncertain, even vague words as anything other than indifference and perhaps boredom with the struggles of a nation as small as ours. Analysts watching the press conference thought he seemed jet-lagged and rambling. Obama and Kenny spoke imprecisely about the established necessity to shore up the country’s finances and rebuild the economy. The question of ECB interest rates, and being at the mercy of European bigwigs was not explicitly addressed.

On a cluttered list of presidential priorities that includes issues like the ailing American economy, an upcoming election campaign, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, global warming, and other slightly more important matters, Ireland must have seemed like a fairly minor player. A young child, tugging almost unnoticeably at the coat-tails of this suited and charming man.

As he left Farmleigh, Kenny hastily thrust a hurley into his arms—the ash-carved stick used by players of the uniquely Irish sport of Hurling. The hashed gesture was recovered by a quick photo opportunity of him swinging the hurley with the words, “If Congress don’t behave…”

Ice broken, he carried on.

On the cards was a visit to Moneygall in County Offaly, the birthplace of Obama’s 150-year-old Irish connection, Falmouth Kearney. With a population of less than 300, it could have been an embarrassing affair for us. This was arguably a chance to show off what we are good at it and lift that stereotype of pokey Irish villages surrounded by green fields and a few sheep. Yet there we were, watching him sup the black stuff in Ollie Hayes’s pub. In fairness to him, he knocked back half a pint of it and remarked that it tasted a lot better in Ireland than the US. With Michelle and their newly discovered distant cousin Henry Healy, they spent a whopping 45 minutes greeting the 5,000-strong mob that had turned out in Moneygall to meet him. The coterie of black-clothed men with earpieces looked stressed and frazzled by the proximity of the grasping crowd and the Obamas’ enthusiasm to shake, hug, and talk, but the socialising went down without a hitch.

George Dubya he ain’t.

Obama is liked in Ireland not because of any Irish connection, but because of his ostensibly more ethical agenda. Where Clinton, Palin, and McCain all spoke out about Iran and who they would invade next—as if war was some kind of presidential rite of passage—Obama eased away from the neo-colonial foreign policy that has tarnished America’s mandate around the world. He spoke of forging peace through negotiation, not through sheer military might, an idea that resounds brightly through the Irish psyche. His principles have made him far more palatable to Ireland than his predecessor, and all this made the histrionics of the hovering clench-jawed security guards seem amusing. This is Moneygall lads. Take it easy.

After pressing the flesh in Offaly, they were flown back to Dublin where 60,000 people had gathered for a rally in College Green, just outside the front gates of Trinity College. The waiting crowds were treated to readings and performances by some our best exports—among them Daniel Day-Lewis and Brendan Gleeson. An emotional Gleeson, in particular, gave a speech so rousing and inspirational that he was close to usurping Obama. He warmed the crowd up nicely and stirred the hunger for the strong words of leadership. Kenny, himself surprisingly demonstrative, introduced Obama eventually.

Up to the podium he stepped and embarked on a 25-minute speech that surged through the 60,000 onlookers. It was a clarion-call that seemed to lift the whole country out of the doldrums of this crippling recession—and with a bit of added stand-up, it safely winched his brief visit out of the jaws of saccharine obligation.

“Hello Ireland. My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall Obamas. And I’ve come home to find the apostrophe that we lost somewhere along the way.”

In a humorous nudge back to the Correspondents’ Dinner back in April, and the stubborn but laughable conspiracy theories about his nationality, he thanked the genealogists who first traced his heritage back to Ireland saying, “It turns out people take a lot of interest in you when you’re running for President. They look into your past, they check out your place of birth. Things like that. Now, I do wish someone had provided this evidence earlier because it would’ve come in handy back when I was first running in my home town of Chicago… Not many people knew me, they couldn’t even pronounce my name. I told them it was a Gaelic name. They didn’t believe me… I bet those (St. Patrick’s Day parade) organisers are watching TV today and feeling kind of bad.”

With the audience now limbered up with humour and ready to cheer, he reminded listeners of Ireland and America’s shared struggle for freedom from oppression, of the political and philosophical friendship between abolitionist Frederick Douglass and Daniel O’Connell, and the influential role each nation has played in the other’s evolution.

In what might well have been a stab to win over some of the 40 million Irish Americans, he invoked the inspiring popularity of the Kennedy dynasty to great effect and emphasised the unique part the Irish diaspora had played in moulding the US.

“Never has a nation so small inspired so much in another. Irish signatures are on our founding documents. Irish blood was spilled on our battlefields. Irish sweat built our great cities. So you can say there’s always been a little bit of green behind the red, white, and blue.”

Analysts have expressed doubt that the visit, though a resounding success here, will do all that much to boost his numbers at home.

The unspoken bind was of the status of the undocumented Irish in America. It’s still a thorny issue. With immigrants dying at the Mexican border it’s becoming increasingly difficult for American politicians to advocate for the Irish diaspora. Even though the case for the undocumented Irish is somewhat more complex, treating one ethnic group more favourably than others is sure to undermine his election campaign and hurt his reputation as a champion for minority groups.

A roaring success in Ireland then, but only time will tell what it buys him in 2012.

CORK, Ireland — It was a surreal week in many respects. When Queen Elizabeth’s BAE 146 Whisperjet touched down in the Casement Aerodrome in Baldonnel, the nation seemed to take in one long, measured breath. For four days thereafter, the weight of history made everything else shrink into insignificance. We scarcely blinked at the thought of Obama’s forthcoming stopover. We forgot about debt, jobs, policies. The IMF told us we were on track and making progress, and we even landed a few blows in the ongoing corporate tax spat with Sarkozy. But much of this fell to the wayside while we sat glued to our televisions and watched a small 85-year-old woman and her 90-year-old husband disembark, smile, greet. She made headlines — made history — with her emerald green attire and that familiar, delicate wave.

Geographically, Ireland is as close as forty miles to the UK, but for all that has happened between the two over the centuries, she might as well have been taking her first steps on the moon. Time has moved on. There are now a great deal more Irish people whose experience of the countries’ troubled relationship is confined primarily to history books, a few Hollywood movies, and half-hour montages from RTÉ’s popular historical series Reeling in the Years.

The days and weeks leading up to her visit raised few heads, bar the usual grumbles from republicans. Or at least, I personally wasn’t paying too much attention. However, the sight of her plane descending from grey skies stirred up the significance of the occasion. The first monarch to visit the Republic of Ireland. The first to even touch Irish soil in a century. I wondered what it must have be like for her as she came down those steps. It must have been strange to have access (and be welcome) to so many parts of the world, and yet to be unspokenly denied by her nearest nation and the echo of war.

And maybe stranger still for the door to finally open in her 85th year.

Although Ireland and the UK now enjoy a harmonious relationship and lucrative trade deals, no corners were cut when it came to security. The week preceding her arrival was a string of nervy reports of viable devices and coded IRA threats. The euro equivalent of $42 million was spent on ensuring her safety and stamping out possible attacks from dissident republican groups. There were violent protests from a handful of dissenters on Dorset Street, just a few hundred metres from O’Connell Street and Parnell Square, but police in riot gear held them off comfortably. Controversially, Sinn Féin declined to participate in the visit that was described by party leader Gerry Adams as “premature”. He and others opted instead to “celebrate republicanism” by releasing 1,000 black balloons to coincide with the Queen’s excursion to the Garden of Remembrance. Inside, however, she laid a wreath at the sculpture of the Children of Lir and bowed her head noticeably, paying her respects to the soldiers who had fought British crown forces for the sake of Irish independence. It was a poignant acknowledgment of Ireland’s sovereignty and bestowed respect upon those who had died fighting for it. In light of this, republican demonstrations seemed weak and fussy, even self-defeating.

She followed an exhaustive, if sterile, tour of Ireland’s historical sites, planting trees, visiting Áras an Uachtaráin, The Book of Kells, the Guinness Storehouse, Government Buildings, Croke Park, and Islandbridge (a memorial garden dedicated to the 50,000 Irish soldiers who fought and died for Britain in World War I.)

A state dinner was held in Dublin castle where, to her credit, she met and greeted 160 guests—a feat at any age, let alone at 85. There had been plenty speculation about her scheduled speech. The matter of whether there would be an apology made many headlines in the UK and around the world, but despite reports to the contrary, the Irish people neither expected nor demanded an apology. This visit was never intended to act as some sort of confessional for years of colonial fallout.

Britain’s is a constitutional monarchy and it has not operated in a political capacity in decades. She is the head of state, an ambassador, and not a general or a strategist. It was never the Queen’s responsibility to apologise for The Troubles. The mood of the event was one of reconciliation as a means of moving on from the past, and her words were fashioned around this more optimistic notion.

In an unexpected gesture, she opened with Irish.

“A Uachtaráin agus a chairde”.

President, friends.

Those cúpla focail, perfectly enunciated, will most likely live longer in people’s memories than anything else the Queen said or did. She spoke of the anguish the conflict had wrought and accepted that mistakes had been made by all throughout the two nations’ tetchy story.

“To all those who have suffered as a consequence of our troubled past, I extend my sincere thoughts and deep sympathies. With the benefit of historical hindsight, we can all see things which we would have done differently or not at all.”

She honoured President Mary McAleese, who had originally invited the Queen as early as 1998, shortly after the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, and her meditative words garnered a five-minute standing ovation from a room full of diplomats, politicians, and poets.

From Dublin, she moved south, passing through Kildare and Tipperary before arriving in Cork where the sun made a rare appearance. In contrast to Dublin, where security efforts had resulted in large exclusion zones and mostly empty streets, the Queen was met by a crowd of 30,000 in the rebel city and here she embarked on an impromptu meet-and-greet with the some of the people who had lined Grand Parade to see her. With the help of blue skies, the occasion turned into something of a festival experience, and the crowds were treated to live music performances and food fairs throughout the city’s temporarily pedestrianised streets.

Her short two-hour stop in Cork saw her visit the famed English Market, a beautifully restored 18th-century indoor food emporium, where local traders described her as gracious and warm. She was given a less traditional insight into modern Irish culture when she was brought to the Tyndall Institute, UCC’s state-of-the-art research facility. She was given a brief overview of the work being done at Tyndall before meeting Hassan and Hussein Benhaffaf—conjoined twins who were born in Cork and separated successfully by surgeons at Great Ormond Street Hospital in London.

Ireland has hosted Clinton, Bush, and today Obama, but this was a state visit like no other. To say it was packed with symbolism is now a redundant statement. The phrase was beaten into the realms of cliché by media mallets over the last few of days. But it was symbolic. As her plane lifted off from the blacktop at Cork airport, we reflected on the week that had passed and there was a sense of relief and accomplishment. I think, more than anything, we surprised ourselves. Where previous generations might have spurned her, might have wished for more sinister outcomes, we surprised ourselves with an unexpected anxiety for her safety and an eagerness for her presence. For a long time, every official interaction between Ireland and the UK seemed only to highlight our differences and fuel the resentment, but May 17th marked a turning point where the sole wish was to cast off history’s deadwood and to reconstruct using the things that we have in common.

“These ties of family, friendship, and affection are our most precious resource. They are a reminder that we have much to do together to build a future for our grandchildren. The kind of future our grandparents could only dream of.”

CORK, Ireland — There have been tentative suggestions in Ireland recently that relations with the UK are at an all-time high. Despite the efforts of dissident groups, the people of Northern Ireland have worn a remarkably durable united front in their vocal support for peace. But sometimes it’s tricky to walk away from the past—even when you’re 3,000 miles away from it.

Boston College is on the ropes this week after the US attorney general (at the behest of the P.S.N.I Serious Crime Branch) issued a subpoena for confidential archived interviews with former IRA and loyalist members. The interviews had been conducted 10 years ago as part of an oral history project on the conflict in Northern Ireland.

The interviews contain more than 50 personal accounts from individuals who had been involved on both sides of The Troubles. The project was directed by author and former Irish Times and Sunday Tribune journalist, Ed Moloney. Mr. Moloney has since published a book (and subsequent film documentary) entitled Voices from the Grave which is based on interviews with ex-IRA member Brendan ‘The Dark’ Hughes who died in 2008, and former UVF prisoner and politician David Ervine, who died in 2007.

Former IRA member Anthony McIntyre interviewed Hughes and other IRA dissidents, including Dolours Price, who was convicted and imprisoned for her role in the bombing of The Old Bailey criminal court in London in 1973. Meanwhile, loyalist Wilson McArthur interviewed the unionist participants.

In particular, the PSNI are interested in alleged comments made my Hughes and Price in the interviews which suggest that prominent Irish politician and Sinn Féin party leader Gerry Adams oversaw an IRA unit that was responsible for kidnappings and disappearances in the 1970s, most notably that of Jean McConville. Hughes and Price were both close allies of Adams until an ideological falling-out some years ago. The allegations could have enormous implications for Belfast-born Adams who recently resigned his seat in Westminster in order to run for election in the Dáil in the Republic’s recent general election. Although Mr. Adams has continually denied being a member of the IRA, his involvement in the organisation has long been presupposed by the media and general public.

There are other implications however. The revelations thought to be contained in the interviews were disclosed on the condition that the material would not be released in the lifetime of the participants. Indeed, in a promotional clip of Ed Moloney’s Voices From the Grave documentary, you can hear this pledge of secrecy in a conversation between McIntyre and Hughes:

“Do you have a problem with committing all this to secret tapes to be used only after you have died?”

“I don’t have a problem with that. If I did have a problem with that I wouldn’t be sitting here talking into the microphone. And I think a lot of the stuff I’m saying here, I’m saying it in trust, because I have a trust in you. And I have never, ever, ever, admitted to being a member of the IRA. Never. I’ve just done it here.”

There are clear questions as to how this subpoena might threaten the safety of all those who contributed to the oral history project. While Hughes and others have since passed away, there are many still who are alive and whose wellbeing might now be at risk.

In addition to this problem, the case could potentially undermine the entire academic field of oral history. Speaking to The New York Times, Mary Marshall Clark, director of Columbia University’s Oral History Research Office, described the situation as “our worst-case scenario.”

Blast spoke with Dr. Rob Perks, the director of Oral Histories at the British Library about the case and the stance it holds on this turn of events.

“The British Library will, wherever possible, seek not to disclose restricted confidential oral history interviews,” he said. The comment demonstrates the reluctance of those involved in oral history undertakings to betray the privacy the field needs to function, but his words came with a caveat.

“Such obligations of confidentiality may be overridden by certain legal requirements. Disclosure of confidential material to meet a legal requirement may be mandatory, and beyond the Library’s reasonable control.”

Should the subpoena be successful, project director Ed Moloney has not ruled out the radical move of destroying the tapes as a protective measure, although he stressed that it would be an option of last resort.

CORK, Ireland — For more than a decade, a shady troika of bankers, developers and government ministers stood watching the simmering cauldron of the Irish economy, and stirred it very deliberately. So, when Lehman Brothers filed for bankruptcy in 2008, it shuddered across the Atlantic and knocked the rickety legs from under our economy, proving the saying that when America sneezes, Ireland catches a cold. Maybe it’s a little dramatic to say this, but watching the news reports of the country’s downfall over the last three years has been a bit like watching the collapse of the World Trade Center in slow-mo. You’re stunned, you know it’s bad, you know it’s going to happen. You watch the whole thing crash and there’s nothing you can do about it: Unemployment. Downgraded credit ratings. Nationalizations. Guarantees. Loans from the European Central Bank. Scramble budgets. And then, after all that, the International Monetary Fund steps in with $120 billion to bail us out. Bang. Rock bottom—we hope.

Ireland's standardized unemployment rate by percentage. (Source: Eurostat, via European Central Bank Statistical Data Warehouse)

The nation seems to be holding its breath today while a stress test of the banking system is undertaken. The way it’s being covered in the media makes it seem like the sort of thing that could yet transform every depositor into Jane and Michael Banks demanding their tuppence. The whole thing has been such an exhausting marathon of twists, turns and revelations that many of the nasty by-products of financial ruin have gone under the radar.

With so much talk of the numbers, cuts and taxes, you start to forget what it means in human terms. You forget that a slashed health budget means fewer beds or fewer nurses. You forget that unemployment means emigration. After three years of a bruising recession, you’re so frazzled by the terminology and the growing number of zeros that we owe to Germany that you simply don’t have the wherewithal to remember why you’re doing what you’re doing.

Given that this is the nation’s third time sending large swarms of Irish people packing, you could say we’re getting used to it now. Granted, it’s not as acute now as it was during the Great Famine of 1845, which resulted in 2.1 million people leaving the country by 1855, according to the Irish Times. But the statistics now are about to equal the bleak era of the 1980s, a decade that saw an 18 percent unemployment rate by 1989 and the exodus of 500,000 people, according to the Irish Times. In 2010, 65,000 people left the country, compared to 70,600 in 1989. And now, with Eurostat data reporting unemployment at 15 percent, the Economic Social Research Institute predicts a net outflow of 50,000 more people over the next year. Year-for-year across the decades, that figure puts us just about on-course to repeat our statistical feats.

We’re getting used to it now, reverting to the “Paddy Irish” type, I suppose. “Poor but happy,” some people like to say, as if economic success were a suit that never really fit and we are now returning to the familiar rags of our national upbringing. But I’m not buying it. I untangle the mess of earphone and Webcam wires, and yawn off the tiredness of the idle day. What am I doing again? Why am I doing it?

Ah, yes. With the help of three albums’ worth of Iron and Wine, I’m whiling away the five-hour time difference between Ireland and D.C. My best friend is interning there. She commutes, I type. Maybe we both hum along to “Southern Anthem” and whittle the clock down. A narrow window of opportunity in the 3,000-mile distance is about to make itself available; that rare time when she is not working and I am not sleeping or vice versa. This is the stuff that gets lost. I’m not so desperate that this recession is making me lonely. But with most of my friends more likely to be making a living in Uganda than Ireland, I have to admit that it’s getting a little barren and boring for me here. I feel like I’m the only one left. I don’t laugh anymore when I see the “Will the last graduate left in Ireland please turn off the light” Facebook page pop up on my news feed. I admit, I’m not the most gregarious of individuals and this probably hasn’t helped my case. In Ireland, shyness and sobriety do not a social network make.

Nevertheless, I feel slightly robbed. We were the first generation of Irish people who grew up with the warm and unwavering promise that we would never have to leave. And so we grew up, unprepared, only to get smacked mid-degree with a hefty layer cake of governmental corruption, incompetence and economic failure.

This is not a whinge for the country’s 20-somethings. We know it could be a lot worse. We know we could be 30-something, unemployed, with a rake of kids and a sub-prime mortgage. Or worse still, employed and footing the lengthy bill. And we know that emigration in 2011 is not the sobering and unglamorous affair that it was in the ‘80s. It’s not busloads of pasty Irish whelps queuing forlornly for boats to Holyhead, North Wales or flights to Boston’s Logan Airport. We arrive on foreign shores pre-Fitch’d and almost tanned enough to blend in. We’re globalised enough to shut our eyes, ride it out, and label it a bit of “craic.” Still, it goes against the grain to leave your home. My friend summed it up succinctly when she said, “You know, I always knew I would have to travel to pursue my ambitions. But I hate that it wasn’t on my own terms.” And right she is. There is a severe enough distinction between leaving your home and being evicted from it because you can’t pay the rent—and no amount of Abercrombie sweaters or bottles of St. Tropez can stifle that particular sting.

And so, here we are; bleary eyed and more tired for our age than we would truly like to admit. I look at my watch. The narrow window of opportunity opens and through Google Voice I converse with my friend for nearly two hours. We laugh about friends and sex. And then we talk about jobs. How is the internship going? What do things look like at home? Who is where? They’re in Seattle, Vancouver, Sydney, London. Certainly not Ireland. We lament the situation we have been shoehorned into.

The choices for emerging graduates are stark. You can stay and fill out the long application forms for social welfare payments and paper the streets with your resumé in the hope that something sticks. Or you can leave. Because the biggest problem is not the lack of jobs (although it’s hardly a reason to celebrate), it’s the lack of anything. Last September, I moved to Manhattan to do a three-month unpaid internship. It was an incredible experience and I gained so much from it, both professionally and personally. But the sheer insanity of borrowing money to work for nothing epitomises the sort of outlandish rabbit-hole that the Irish people have been pushed into.

And that’s why people are emigrating. Not only is it nigh on impossible to get a salaried job, it’s also impossible to get work experience or internships. Facing a future of meagre state payments and the slow rot of their academic skills, graduates turn instead to visa applications. They uproot their whole lives just to feel what it might be like to have a career. I read New York Times articles about 28-year-old law students who are “stuck” doing yet another internship, and I envy them. There is no such innovation on this side of the pond.

You could’ve knocked out George Foreman with the accumulated volume of newspaper reports and television programmes that have gleefully attacked the government and senior bank officials since this crisis began. I wouldn’t for one moment relent in pointing the finger at those gluttonous fat-cats who landed us in this endless mess, but there is a distinct failure of industry too, particularly in the media.

Let’s not forget that during the property boom, most national newspapers in Ireland fed into the fever pitch with large property supplements. And now that it has gone bust and they are busy playing the blame game, they are happy to ignore the thousands of graduates who come knocking on the door seeking not jobs, just the opportunity to learn and contribute. Here I am, the case in point, more likely to write for a publication located 3,000 miles away than I am to write for one located just three miles away. Ireland’s small publishing industry makes no effort to accommodate the youth that might yet keep it going. There are swathes of state and semi-state bodies that largely seem to snub our language students at a time when their skills might be most advantageous, especially when you consider how much we must parlay with Sarkozy, Merkel, et al. And what about those pharma companies who have had to make staff redundant to reduce their costs? Wouldn’t they benefit from a couple of chemical engineering interns? We score poorly in mathematics compared to our European colleagues. Is there an opportunity there for some unemployed graduates with the requisite qualification? Do we give our artists a strong network? A forum for aspiring writers? No.

And I’m not convinced by the new coalition’s guff about reinventing Ireland and creating opportunities for young people. They, too, are so entranced by the debt clock that the billions of euros that were invested in education are continuing to trickle steadily out of the country. Implementing some sort of short-term stopgap is simply not on the top of anyone’s list. It’s ironic because when national debt is weighing in at the euro equivalent of nearly $140 billion in such a small country, or about $31,000 per citizen, it seems like you might want to hang on to as many people as possible to help shoulder the deficit in the long term. Right?

Stage, film and television actor Shay Duffin, known among moviegoers for his roles in Raging Bull and Titanic, died on Thursday at UCLA Medical Center from complications related to heart surgery. He was 79.

Mr. Duffin was born in Dublin and wowed American and Canadian crowds for years with his one-man shows: “Brendan Behan” and “The Importance of Being Irish.”

He also toured with a stage production of James Joyce’s “The Dead.”

Mr. Duffin played the bartender in “The Departed,” and he had roles in “Raging Bull,” “Titanic” and “Beowulf.”

According to California Artists Radio Theatre, Mr. Duffin’s final performance was on March 17, during which he sang and acted in a production of "Hyacinth Halvey," by Irish playwright, Lady Augusta Gregory.

Duffin leaves four daughters Laura, Linda, Ruth and Susan. Funeral arrangements have not been announced.

The next leap year, in real life of course, is arriving in 2012. But tomorrow Amy Adams and Matthew Goode will pop on movie theater screens all over the country starring in the latest romantic comedy "Leap Year." It took a real leap of faith to sit through this movie and not be completely moved to indignation. Maybe that’s what they had in mind when they named it, and the fact that the 97 minutes felt more like a year. Yes there was some cute humor, and plenty of Irish jokes to go around, but the plot was most definitely not strong enough to make this a must see. The only salvation were the countless breathtaking aerial shots of Ireland, and dishy Goode’s enchanting accent.

It’s a romantic comedy, a genre of which I happen to big a fan of (don’t judge me) but it just didn’t move me. Written by Deborah Kaplan and Harry Elfont and directed by Anand Tucker, the plot line is incredibly simple. Anna, Miss Adams, and Jeremy (Adam Scott) have been dating for four years and are the perfect Boston couple. They are sophisticatedly dressed at all times, he is a cardiologist and she is an apartment stager, setting up spaces for real estate agents to help them move properties, and they frequent the fanciest restaurants and have fabulous friends. And they have a total of zero chemistry. They never kiss on the mouth, their hugs are stiff and awkward and they discuss their life together as a business deal rather than a relationship.

On the eve of Jeremy’s departure for a cardiology conference in Dublin, he takes Anna to a "special" dinner after they meet with the board of the exclusive (and semi-fictional) Davenport Apartment complex. She is expecting a proposal, but what she receives are beautiful diamond earrings. Which she of course is dissatisfied with, since having someone to love and a lucrative job and a seemingly fabulous lifestyle all around aren’t enough for Anna the perfectionist. She remembers what her father, played by John Lithgow, has just said that same day about an old Irish tradition, how on February 29 women propose to men in Ireland. Anna frantically decides to surprise Jeremy in Dublin and pop the old question a la her Grandma Jan which her father alleges is the way she got married.

So Anna embarks on a journey which proves to be a testament to not only her determination and perseverance to do anything to get married, but also her complete and utter incompetence as an independent woman. She takes a plane, a car, a bus, attempts a train ride and walks significant distances in 5-inch ankle strap camel Mary Jane’s. The shenanigans are endless — what with Irish hooligans playing on her doe-eyed optimism and trust as they steal her Louis Vuitton suitcase, and her idiocy in attempting to plug in her Blackberry charger into a European outlet. It’s as if feminism never even happened. She was completely helpless in almost every way and it was truly distracting for me. I felt exasperated for her as I predicted each mishap before it even happened. The only thing I liked during her travels was Goode’s feisty Irish character Declan who agrees to accompany Anna on her journey since he is overdue on rent for his bar the rustic Caragh in Dingle, Ireland literally washes up. He adds humor and a lightness that her performance is lacking and is laughter is infectious. He’s adorable and I mean really, who can resist an Irish accent (I certainly can’t).

As leap day approaches, uptight Anna becomes more and more frustrated as times seems to be flying by and they are barely making it from Southwest Ireland to Dublin. Along the way, Declan slowly grows on her and they find a middle-ground of getting along that is closely similar to friendship. That of course quickly metamorphose into an ill-timed romantic interest sparked when they accidentally crash a wedding in the most scenic spot I’ve ever laid eyes on overlooking a huge valley and lake.

Declan finally gets Anna to Dublin, but the real question is will she or won’t she propose, or are we in for a twist? I guess you’ll have to check it out to find out. On a happy note "It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia’s" Kaitlin Olson added a very minor but brief bit of fresh air with her ridiculous facial expressions and dry humor. It’s just too bad her role as Boston best friend to Anna was so small.

Leap Year is a pretty reasonable date movie for those of you still dating as Valentine’s Day, that abysmal candy-company created holiday, approaches. But it’s up to you, take a leap of faith. Or don’t.

LONDON — Senator Edward Kennedy, the widely celebrated political figure who filled the role of Massachusetts senator for four decades, will be remembered forever in his family’s native Ireland.

The youngest brother of President John F. Kennedy, Ted was part of an exceptionally powerful American family. His death in August of brain cancer marked the end of a dazzling political career. President Barack Obama stated that Kennedy’s death signified the ”passing of an extraordinary leader.”

Entering 2010, plans for a state of the art memorial and visitors center in Ted’s honor are coming into fruition in Ireland. The late Kennedy, will be memorialized in his ancestral home of Dunganstown, near the town of New Ross in County Wexford, from where the family forefathers emigrated in the early 19th century.

The memorial is projected to cost 1.5 million euros ($2.2 million).

Ireland-based Kennedy family descendant, Patrick Grennan, hopes that this project will attract more American and international visitors to the town with a population of under 8,000.

The memorial and visitor center promises to be a most respectful method in which to honor and educate people on the life of Ted Kennedy.

It’s been a while a since audience members have seen Jim Sturgess headline a film. The talented British actor caught the world’s attention a few years back as the character of Jude in the Golden Globe nominated feature, “Across the Universe” a Beatles inspired musical by director Julie Taymor, which showcased his vocal chops in taking on some of the most iconic songs in rock.

But a lot has happened between the days of singing “All You Need Is Love” to the gritty streets of Belfast where Sturgess returns as the lead in “Fifty Dead Men Walking” a political drama inspired by true events and based on the life of IRA informant Martin McGartland.

The film directed by Kari Skogland takes a look into the conflicts within Northern Ireland during the 1980s, illustrating the lengths the IRA and British Intelligence ventured in seizing control. Meanwhile Sturgess captivates audiences with his intense performance as the conflicted Martin McGartland.

The actor spoke with Blast about his experience making the film as well as insight into what motivated him to pursue the role.

“I was completely pulled into the story,” Sturgess said. “I wasn’t sure whether this guy was going to die or not. Then I found out this is based on a real person, and it made it that more compelling.” The man he portrays, Martin McGartland, continues to be a source of controversy — a fact of which he is well aware. “And the thing about the character, you know, for some he’s a hero, and to others he’s the lowest of the low. I mean, he’s this real person who isn’t out to save the planet or anything,” he said. “He’s not even sure if he’s doing the right thing or not.”

Sturgess said spending time in Belfast helped him prep for the role. “I was really fortunate to spend a lot of time in the city where it takes place, talk to ex-IRA members, and Special Crimes. It helped a lot in developing the role.”

The film’s major catalyst occurs when Martin is caught by the police for selling stolen items, which begs the question whether Sturgess himself ever went through his own youthful rebellion. “Well, I did some naughty things, didn’t pay attention in school sometimes, stuff like that,” he said, “but nothing enough to get recruited for the IRA.” He laughed at the thought of it, and it’s this sort of candid response where you can’t help but see how he can charm an audience.

Sturgess said his motives for taking a role are not necessarily based on big or small budgets. It’s all about good work. “I don’t think it matters how big or small (the budget,) as long as it’s a good script.”

When asked who he would love to work with in the future both again or for the very first time, he said, “That’s hard to answer, there’s so many people, I can’t really pick some. I’d love to work with Kari (Skogland) again. Then there are people like Tilda Swinton and Daniel Day-Lewis, people like that.”

Certainly, he can also add “Dead Men” co-star Ben Kingsley to the list. “At first when I met him, I was nervous — kind of felt like I was shaking in my boots, you know? It was really great to work with him. He’s the best,” Sturgess said.

Sturgess said he doesn’t pay much mind to buzz, reviews and awards gossip. “I can’t really think of it. You work hard, and try to do the best. If it happens, okay, but I don’t really think about it” he said.

But don’t let nonchalance fool you. The busy actor continues to work good and hard despite his current schedule, “It’s chaotic, but it’s a good kind of chaos” he said. Sturgess’ next major project is the horror film, “Heartless” which co-stars Harry Potter alumni Clƒ©mence Poƒ©sy (Fleur Delacour) and Timothy Spall (Peter Pettigrew).

I am loathe to discount any female director who has the tenacity to direct an action picture. The mere fact that Kari Skogland managed to get this little film financed (piecemeal, through about seven different production companies) is a testament to her sheer cajones. But just the fact that Skogland’s feat is impressive, does not mean her film is.

“Fifty Dead Men Walking,” a film that’s supremely loosely-based on a young punk in Belfast who becomes an informer for the British government during the Troubles, is deeply flawed.

The young punk in question is Martin (Jim Sturgess) who leaves his job selling stolen goods to the Catholic side of town, and becomes a British spy against the IRA. Sturgess shows a bit more acting prowess than usual. He’s got the appropriate amount of wiry energy and attention deficit you’d expect from a young man out of his depth.

However, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: if your name is not Paul Greengrass, stay away from hand-held cameras. Skogland utilizes them quite a bit for the chaotic action scenes, but “Bloody Sunday,” this movie ain’t. The brutal terrorism scenes have significant energy, but it’s not directed or clearly defined. The beauty of Greengrass’ films is that no matter how messy the scene gets you still know exactly know what you’re looking at.

Problems abound, the plot is hastily sketched and badly steered, and most of the characters we’re supposed to care about are so broadly drawn it’s impossible to relate to them. The talented Natalie Press as Martin’s girlfriend carries the traditional actress’ burden of saying things like “When you leave, I don’t know if you’re coming back.” And Rose McGowan is completely wasted as IRA intelligence expert Grace. Besides tossing her fluorescent red hair and seducing us with her wild colleen ways, she really doesn’t seem capable of anything much, much less brokering intricate deals with Iranian arms dealers.

Where Skogland’s movie really shines are the moments between Martin and Fergus. It’s established that Fergus has no relationship with his son, while Martin has no father, and as Fergus sends him deeper and deeper into enemy territory, he paradoxically becomes more and more protective of him. In one of the few humanizing scenes in the film, the two share a cup of Irished-up coffee while keeping vigil over Martin’s new baby.

As a person who spent quite a bit of time in Northern Ireland, it was certainly nice to see a genuine and loving portrait of Belfast. There is a pretty overdone sex scene on top of the Europa Hotel, but though Skogland may not have the golden touch with action scenes, she generally has a wonderful eye for places; Belfast’s gritty, war-like personality shines through in “Fifty Dead Men.” It’s just a shame the plot couldn’t shine in the same way.

Throngs of green-clad people. Pints of black or green-dyed brew. Plates of steaming corned beef and cabbage. These images have become synonymous with St. Patrick’s Day around the world. It started as an annual feast in honor of Ireland’s patron saint, St. Patrick. Legend has it that the Christian missionary drove all of the snakes from Ireland, and taught the native Irish about the Holy Trinity. While not an official holiday in the United States, almost every major city has events. Chicago, for example, dyes the Chicago River green each year, and New York City has a large annual parade.

In downtown Boston, where the city has celebrated St. Patrick’s Day since the mid-1700′s, Blast’s John Forrester gathered together a small group for an evening of Irish cuisine and beer. Beginning with pints of Guinness as Shepherd’s Pie was being prepared, the five guests sampled various Stout-based concoctions.

Guinness, by far Ireland’s most commercially successful beer, is often mixed with other types of beer and liqueurs. Both in the U.S. and in Ireland, the most common example is the “black and tan,” or “half and half — one part stout and one part lager or ale, such as Harp and Bass. Another popular mix was the “black fog” — a few splashes of Chambord, a Black Current flavored liqueur, and Guinness.

Overall, the crowd-pleaser seemed to be the Black and Gold half Stout and half alcoholic cider, such as Magner’s or Strongbow. There are, of course, countless other concoctions that will allow you to go beyond the standard pint of green-dyed Budweiser or traditional Guinness this holiday, so strap on that shamrock, throw on a green t-shirt, and start your own St. Patrick’s Day tradition this year.

“Craic” is an Irish term for a light-hearted evening filled with good food, drinks, music and laughter. While there are many ways to celebrate the holiday breweries, bars and restaurants are all known to have events–try inviting some friends over for an intimate night of Irish food and drinks this St. Patrick’s day. Instead of the stereotypical corned beef, hash and green beer, here’s a unique dish from the land of Erin that is sure to help bring a bit of craic to your St. Patrick’s Day party.

The Blast Shepherd’s Pie

Serves 5-6

2 to 2 1/2 pounds potatoes, such as russet, peeled and cubed
3 tablespoons sour cream
1 cup milk
Salt and black pepper
extra-virgin olive oil

1 11.5 fl. Oz. bottle of Guinness Draught Stout
2 pounds ground beef

1 clove garlic
2 medium-sized carrots
1 large onion
2 1/2 tablespoons salted butter
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/2 cup chicken broth
2 heavy dashes of Worcestershire sauce
1 cup frozen peas
1 teaspoon paprika or cayenne pepper

Hot sauce (optional)

Prep Work: Chop carrots, onions and garlic. Peel potatoes and cut into 1 to ¾ inch cubes.

Begin by boiling the potatoes with generous dashes of salt while you warm a skillet on another burner to cook the beef. While the potatoes cook, add a small amount of olive oil to the pan and the chopped garlic. When the garlic begins to smell fragrant, add the ground beef and cook for a few minutes. As the meat begins to turn brown, add salt, pepper and a third of the Guinness bottle. If so desired, add a dash or two of hot sauce as well. Once the beef is browned throughout, add carrots and onions, and stir often.

Keep an eye on the potatoes; when they’re tender, drain the water. Add milk and sour cream, and mash until mostly smooth. Once they’re at the desired consistency, cover and set aside.

To make the gravy, use another burner on medium heat and melt butter in a small skillet. Once the butter is liquefied, add flour, chicken broth, salt and pepper, and the remaining 2/3 of the Guinness. As you’re making the gravy, preheat the broiler on a high setting. Stir constantly so that the gravy does not melt, and no lumps of flour remain. Let it thicken as it cooks for a minute or two, and then add to the meat and vegetables. Lastly, add peas to the meat.

Take out a rectangular baking pan with 3 to 4 inch sides, and fill with meat and vegetables. Cover bottom of pan evenly and then spread potatoes over the meat, forming a top layer. Sprinkle fine layer of paprika or cayenne over the top.

Place the pan away from the heat source in the broiler and cook until top layer of potatoes are browned.