My shame for infecting my country with an ‘invasive species.’
I am only a rung or two away from being plunged into a riff of remorse for how I betrayed my country. ‘The country that I love’, to use the words of both Teresa May and Liz Truss, when they got caught out. I have done Ireland more harm than the two of them together did to Britain. Worse still; I sold out my country for the 30 pieces of silver, when I imported an invasive species into Ireland. I am torn asunder with terrible guilt – apart from the bit about taking the money, of course.
Ireland has been polluted with invasive species on and off for hundreds of years. An invasive species is generally an animal or a plant brought into the country from another region of the world. The first thing to remember is that it doesn’t belong in Ireland (hold that thought, please) and it takes hold and does harm. Japanese knotweed is a prime example. It can be brought in by ship, in the water, on the wheels of a vehicle, accidental release – but most often by people. I brought my scourge in a suitcase – not dreaming for a moment that it would take off out of control and Ireland would never be the same again.
It takes only a few fragments of Japanese Knotweed for it to take off, set off new growths and spread widely. Invasive species interfere with the balance of our natural habitats. It was similar with my traitorism – as you will see.
But first, another example of an invasive species which was brought into Ireland for ornamental purposes is the giant hogweed. This disgusting weed, massed along the roadsides, was imported by the gentry to plant around their ponds. They brought in the grey squirrel around the same time; an awful act which has practically decimated our native red squirrel.
See what I mean?
Anyway, I too sold out my country when I imported line-dancing from America in 1994 … probably a more damaging invasive species than all of the above combined. Let us start at the beginning …
Along with my much-missed friend, Joe Bardon, we attended the World Cup in America that year. Idling around New York, we rambled into where good music was emanating from. The dance floor was crowded, but ‘look, they’re all doing the same thing’, copped Joe. This was my introduction to line-dancing in a venue called ‘Denim and Diamonds.’
I had recently expanded the Squash & Leisure Centre to include a new function room and all sorts of dancing and aerobic classes. ‘This might work’, I thought to myself – and it did. I brought home video instruction cassettes, gave them to our gym instructors – and off she took. We were first in Ireland – but after three months it had spread faster than the hogweed and the country was polluted beyond redemption.
In three months, 11 classes a week, 30-odd in each class, at £3 a head … I made more money than three years mining in Canada!
By then, everyone was claiming to be ‘first’. My problem is that I’m too straight … that was my chance to keep my head down, say nothing – and let them at it! A fitness instructor working for us, did a runner with some of our tapes. Lo and behold she was soon being interviewed on local radio … telling my story … and how SHE discovered line-dancing in ‘Denim and Diamonds!!’ I should have phoned in and congratulated her; and nobody might ever have known about my Judas Jaunt!
But now, the chickens have come home to roost and an unfortunate poor scrut can’t do an old-time waltze, a quick-step or a fox-trot on the dance floor. Same as with the hogweed, which only took up a corner of a field to begin with, line-dancers who infiltrated the dance-halls, used to only commandeer a corner of the dance floor. Then it was quarter, then it was half – until it reached the point now, where Volodymyr Zelensky has a better chance of breaking through the Russian front, than has a couple of native species dancers getting past a line dance.
Line-dancers don’t dance with each other and all the steps are the same; whether it be ‘Boulovogue’ or ‘Bad moon Rising’; ‘1 .. 2 .. 3 .. 4 ..HUP, 1 .. 2 ..3 ..4’. Nobody smiles; line dancers don’t look at each other; don’t look happy … in fact, they don’t ‘look’ period. A glazed expression and a determination to hold the pack together is the modus operand of your average line dancer.
The gentry never apologised for bringing in the grey squirrel. I wish to place on the record my unqualified and sincere apology for inflicting the invasive species that is line-dancing into my country … ‘the country that I love!’
Come back ‘Siege of Ennis’ … all is forgiven!
Don’t Forget
It’s a mistake to try to judge a man’s horsepower by the size of his exhaust.
