IF YOU want to get to know your children better, spend three days in a budget hotel room with them in London. I know, I can afford better, but we love the hotel’s location, and as we spent virtually no time in the room, it suits us fine.
And don’t get me wrong, we’d a great time. But, my son never shuts up, and I discovered my daughter has a wicked streak of sarcasm.
I admit some responsibility, in so far as my desire to expose them to the best London has to offer by the way of museums may have been somewhat over-done. I’ve finally learned that you can take a child to a museum but you can’t make them think.
My children usually love museums, but taking in both the Imperial War Museum and British Museum in two days was probably a bit much for an eight and 10-year-old. I sneaked the attached photo of my son as he lost the will to live during our visit to the British Museum. I was just finishing explaining to him why the Elgin Marbles were the rightful property of Greece and should be repatriated immediately, when I realised he’d slid down the wall in boredom.
It was during our visit to the Imperial War Museum the next day that I experienced my daughter’s wicked and well-developed streak of sarcasm. I’d dragged them up to a corridor which housed unusual historical artefacts. I was fascinated by one particular exhibit, namely a metal barrel discovered after the war, which had been buried in the garden of Hitler’s Alpine home, the Berghoff. The description said the barrel had been filled with documents, the details of which had never been made public.
With much excitement I pointed out to my daughter the possible ramifications of such a secret when she delivered her coup de grâce. With fake joy, she started jumping up and down, clapping her hands, and shouting, "Oh, thank you Daddy, thank you for showing me the barrel". I looked round for support from my wife only to find both her and my son creased in laugher. My pomposity completely punctured, even I cracked a smile.
Before you rush off to inform social services of my child cruelty, we did attend the musical Matilda while there. My children have become something of old hands at theatrical shows in London, having already seen Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Wicked in the West End.
I’m sure some of you will be horrified to learn we didn’t attend London’s St Patrick’s Day parade while over; I’ve a dislike of all parades and avoid them both at home and abroad. I hate all the Paddywhackery, with the silly Paddy hats, the green pints of beer, and I don’t need a fake ginger beard as I’ve one of my own, thank you very much.
Not there was much chance of us feeling like the only Irish in London as we’d picked the weekend the Irish rugby team won the Grand Slam. For once, on St Patrick’s Day in London, the vast majority of drunks were Irish lawyers and doctors rather than drunk Irish needing the services of lawyers and doctors.
I know that sounds somewhat snobby, but facts are facts. When’s the last time you read of rugby supporters engaged in riots, throwing canapés at each other? I played the sport for a few years as a teenager and coming from a GAA background, was astounded at how well everyone behaved. No fist fights among players, except that one time I lamped a big guy for high-tackling me. My manager gave me a stern talking to, explaining that wasn’t the way rugby was played, saying it was always better to talk than fight.
I played both rugby and Gaelic in the late 70s and while the GAA had lifted its rule 27 banning the playing of ‘outside’ sports in 1971, it was still frowned upon to do so.
It was an issue only once, when I played against a well-known west Belfast GAA team and mistakenly wore my rugby boots. This was spotted by the guy I was marking, who demanded I leave the pitch or remove my boots. I refused to leave the pitch but agreed to remove the boots if he’d allow me to deposit them up his a**e. No more was said and I was glad I’d remembered the words of my rugby coach; it’s better to talk.
