The Last Straw / Frank McNally: In post-Catholic Ireland, as it's called, the role once served by the confession box is now played by the bring centre. The bring centre is a collection of boxes, more or less.
The only thing missing, vis-a-vis the confessional experience, is the element of privacy that, depending on church acoustics, confession boxes offer(ed).
The parallels are striking. You arrive at the bring centre feeling guilty and embarrassed, usually after a period spent reflecting on the commandments (fifth: thou shalt not buy fruit or vegetables in a pre-packed tray) and mentally ticking off the ones you've broken. Then there's that cathartic moment when you enter the Church of Sustainable Waste Management and enunciate your evil deeds.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," you think, or words to that effect. "It's been three months since my last visit, and since then, apparently, I've consumed the contents of 26 green bottles, 14 clear glass ones, and - Oh my God! - 52 aluminium cans. But then again, there was the christening party in November, and we had a few visitors in over Christmas, so maybe it's not as bad as it looks."
Canned beer consumption seems to be the biggest sin in this church, because they make you push the tins individually through a creepy, bristle-covered aperture (as Father Dougal would say: "What's that all about, Ted?"), so you have to wash your hands afterwards.
But the bring centre has its compensations. Unless your kids have been hitting the Calpol again, or you have a religious weakness for beers brewed by monks, chances are you'll have very little to put in the brown bin. You can secretly pity the sinners who arrive with a whole box of brown bottles, as you move on to the cardboard crate and the used-battery container.
The Minister for the Environment was on radio during the week discussing the annual waste management report and he said that - I'm paraphrasing - Irish people were fundamentally good, if given the chance. I like to imagine Dick Roche sitting in the recycling bins, nodding gently (in between ducking bottles) and saying my sins are forgiven, before sliding the shutter closed. There's no penance at the bring centre, unfortunately. But you re-emerge into the fresh air feeling shiny and full of grace, and promising never to sin again, although deep down you know it's an unachievable ideal.
EVEN IN POST- Catholic Ireland, there are still high levels of belief in things we can't see. I'm thinking of the flu virus. The first officially recorded case of flu in Ireland this winter was reported only last Saturday. But I know several normally-rational people who insist that the runny nose they had in November was flu-related. They'd be offended if you suggested otherwise.
Of course, it's possible their cases escaped detection by official agencies. It's possible that if cross-examined, they might be able to tick all the right boxes for flu symptoms (sudden onset, fever, muscle soreness, exhaustion). Maybe they self-medicated and it was them you saw at the bring centre with all the brown bottles.
I've played football with lads who'd blame a slightly sub-par performance on the grounds that they had flu yesterday. What can you do, except smile sympathetically? Nobody likes to think it was just the common cold they experienced, whatever the scientific evidence, and you don't like to intrude on personal belief systems.
IN POST-NATIONALIST Ireland, you don't hear the ballad Only Our Rivers Run Free much any more. But for those of us who grew up singing it, the news that the Irish economy is now the world's third freest, behind Hong Kong and Singapore, has added resonance. Sure, there are different ideas about what constitutes freedom (some people think it's just another word for nothing left to lose), and the free economies list is compiled by a US "Reaganomic" think-tank. Even so, the pre-post-nationalist bit of me still cheers when we make the top five of anything.
A country is more than its economy, obviously. But material well-being does increase feelings of liberty. It's hard to imagine Mickey McConnell's song being written in contemporary Ireland, where even the Luas is threatening to run free, because they didn't mix the track cement properly. The first verse of the ballad is a kind of checklist:
When apples still grow in November/
When blossoms still bloom from each tree/
When leaves are still green in December/
It's then that our land will be free.
Again, I'm not sure if it's cause for celebration, but it strikes me that all the items on that list are now achievable, thanks to global warming. Hell, where I live, the snowdrops are out already.