IMELDA MAY IS one of those people who always makes me smile. I love everything about this woman I don’t know from Adam but who I’ve convinced myself would be my new best friend if we ever met. Her voice, of course. Her music. Her quiff. Her steady hand with the liquid eyeliner. The effortless way she channels 1950s rockabilly chick while remaining a charmer who, when she opens her mouth, could be from nowhere else except the Liberties in Dublin.
I’m also very fond of the streak of blonde that decorates her otherwise dark hair – a look that could, on other less stylish people, stray dangerously into skunk territory.
By rights I should be fed up with her by now. You know the story. Original, talented individual bursts on to the popular culture landscape, half of the country falls in love with her, and then a year later we’ve moved on to the next new thing. Hasn’t happened to me yet. I actually think that, if we could clone her and send delegations of Imelda Mays off to Brussels for chats with Barrosa and Merkel, she might even be able to use her charm to get us out of this mess. Imelda May for taoiseach. Oh. Too late. President May?
Anyway, as far as I am concerned, there’s no such thing as too much Imelda – so I am glad I keep spotting her on bus shelters all over town. In the posters she is standing there in yet another incredible polka-dot dress asking me to “Give It Up” for Trócaire. She is an ambassador for the charity’s supplementary initiative to the Trócaire boxes of yore.
The boxes are still there – the IMF can’t apparently take them away from us – but where, in the past, we were asked to fast for 24 hours, Trócaire is now asking us to give something (anything) up for 24 hours on March 4th.
It’s an interesting concept. Especially in a country where many have had to give up so much already. Houses. Cars. Jobs. Sundried tomatoes. In the age of austerity, life seems to be one long, enforced bout of giving up and, inevitably, giving out. We’ve been filling out a detailed budget plan in our house. Everything from money spent on shoelaces to birthday presents is being scrutinised. There are haircuts on haircuts. Discussions about growing herbs instead of paying €2 for a packet. We’re expecting a bumper crop of rhubarb this summer so no more overpriced desserts, it’s home-made crumble all the way, not that I’m complaining about that. We’ve also given up foreign holidays. Our big summer holiday this year is going to be centred around July 12th in Portadown. There will be picnics on Drumcree hill and days out watching the Orange bands. Who needs a villa in Portugal and sunshine on tap anyway?
I decide to give Give It Up for Trócaire a go. When you are giving things up of your own free will – the mobile phone, the Twitter, the TV – the giving up becomes less of a struggle and more of a celebration, especially when you are raising money for people who have nothing much material of their own to give up.
As ever, I turn to our celebrity figureheads for inspiration. Boxer Katie Taylor is giving up watching boxing videos, which by all accounts is going to be hard for her. GAA player Paul Canty is giving up polishing the Sam Maguire cup. Although, thinking about it, this one seems a bit of a cop-out. Is the Sam Maguire even in his house? Will this commitment not to do housework really require any restraint from the Cork footballing captain? We should be told.
Now, personally, I think if you give up something for 24 hours, it should be a challenge. Imelda, for example, is giving up her quiff – which is much like asking Jedward to give up hairspray or jumping or indecipherable tweets.
Appointing myself temporary giving up tsar, I have a few suggestions for prominent Irish people: Vincent Browne to give up snorting and asking awkward questions for a day. David McWilliams to give up being right all the time. Enda Kenny to give up punching the air. Micheál Martin to give up rewriting recent history. Bob Charles from Fair City to give up evil. My esteemed colleague Ross O’Carroll-Kelly to give up looking in the mirror.
I’m still undecided myself. “You could give up nagging,” says my boyfriend, unhelpfully, as we pass yet another Imelda May bus shelter.
“I said challenging, not impossible,” I reply.
“Navel gazing?” he smirks. He’s banned from making any more suggestions. I am now opening it up to the floor.
For more information on Give It Up, go to trocaire.ie.