Every year in Kerry there is a controversial tradition where they catch a majestic beast and put him on a platform for all to see. Some think that it’s cruel that this exquisite creature is forced to conform to the whims of man. But look at him there in his little tuxedo. Doesn’t he seem happy out surrounded by all those Roses?
The Rose of Tralee festival is back after a two-year gap and Dáithí Ó Sé is at the helm once more. There’s been plague and war, and yet the Rose of Tralee persists. It’s never going to end. In the far future the last human will gasp their final breath while watching a rusty robot in a sash compete against a sentient mushroom. The mushroom will tell a charming story about the part of its mycorrhizal network that hails from Killarney. The robot will sing a Dua Lipa song.
These child conscripts represent the future of the festival. The rosebud’s job is to lurk by the Rose’s ear as she experiences the acclaim of the people. “Remember you are mortal,” she whispers, and the Rose is humbled
The festival started in 1957 when a bunch of wily Kerry businessmen got together to contrive an alternative to more traditional Kerry moneymaking wheezes — piracy, tipping visitors upside down so that coins fall out of their pockets (still popular), yank-charming.
In the end, they settled on a beauty pageant and told the other counties to send paragons of Irish womanhood to be judged according to vague specifications outlined in an old folk tale and song. Nobody said: “Hmm, this sounds sketchy.” Everyone just went with it.
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The story was about the scion of a landowning family who falls in love with a consumptive servant girl. Being an Irish version of the ideal woman, Mary, the Rose of Tralee, is dead by the end of the story. This explains a lot. It gives the whole festival a vague Wicker Man vibe. And, in fairness, the harvests have been good.
The refrain of the song The Rose of Tralee also adds mystery to the judging process. “‘Twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning, that made me love Mary, The Rose of Tralee” isn’t the most scientific of prescriptions. There have been debates over the years about what this “truth in her eyes ever dawning” refers to. Is it a slow realisation that this is all life has to offer before a slow decline into old age and death? Maybe. Is it conjunctivitis? Possibly. Is it second-wave feminism? It depends on the decade, to be honest, but usually not.
Anyway, this is why the Roses cross the border to Kerry every year. There they parade through the streets of Tralee wearing sashes like Orangemen and waving their hands in a strange circular fashion that suggests they have wrist joints like Lego mini-figures.
Each Rose gets an entourage. Firstly, there are the “rosebuds”. These child conscripts represent the future of the festival. The rosebud’s job is to lurk by the Rose’s ear as she experiences the acclaim of the people. “Remember you are mortal,” she whispers, and the Rose is humbled.
Dáithí is skilled in the ways of Rose murmuring. Each Rose comes onstage and he lures contributions from them with soothing sounds and mesmerising hands gestures
There are also mysterious handlers called “chaperones”. They encourage reversion to the mean of demure womanhood at all times, lest anyone be overtaken by “notions”. Due to the presence of chaperones, Roses will always insist that they are having a lovely time and that all the other Roses are lovely. It’s like a hostage video.
Each Rose also gets an “escort” by which, sadly, they do not mean the kind from Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo. An escort is an adult man who has been sent there by his desperate mother in the hope he can be passed on to a new generation of female caretaker. The message is clear: you may be a scientist working for Cern or a senior manager at Goldman Sachs, but you’ll not be above martyring yourself for Ireland’s large adult sons.
Eventually the competition starts. Dáithí is skilled in the ways of Rose murmuring. Each Rose comes onstage and he lures contributions from them with soothing sounds and mesmerising hands gestures. The talents displayed are each more surprising than the last — jigs, raps, sentimental stories, flimflam, the ole razzle dazzle. The whole thing goes like this:
“My great grandparents left Ireland to escape famine and persecution.” Polite applause. “I have two doctorates and am a senior researcher at Johns Hopkins Hospital where I am working on a cure for cancer.” No applause because this doesn’t sound like it’s about us and how great we are. “I have visited my ancestral home of Birr and find it charming, and not a ‘cultureless hole’ as a local journalist erroneously reported I said.” Huge applause. “My escort is called Podge. He thinks pasta is ‘fancy’ and bright colours gives him sunburn. In my home city he would literally die. I only understand every fifth word he says.” Podge chortles and goes puce. “Now I’m going to play the spoons quite badly.”
“Good girl yourself,” says the nation in unison. We can’t stop ourselves.
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At each exhibition of talent, Dáithí emits a deep purr of satisfaction and expands and contracts like a tribble. “Ah, look at his happy little face,” we all say.
After all the Roses have appeared, the judges — Mary Kennedy, Maxi, Dick and Twink, the tattoo of Marty Whelan, Fungi the dolphin — choose a winner. It’s almost always the one you least remember. Her face is a vague and pleasant oval. Her words are like gentle atmospheric noise. She leaves no trace. I suspect most of the winners end up as stealthy secret service operatives. The Rose is presented with a crown and some vouchers before being whisked off to assassinate some South American politician.
It’s big with the diaspora and as a nation we like to keep our hands deep in the diaspora’s pockets at all times (without actually giving them a vote or a passport). They love this sort of guff
The Rose of Tralee is still very popular in Ireland. This is despite the fact we have now taken our place among the nations of the Earth and intellectuals say we have embraced modernity. Here’s why:
- The escorts would be dead within a year without it. Their parents are heartbroken with them, the big lumps.
- It completes Dáithí Ó Sé. His existence implies the existence of something like the Rose of Tralee. Without it, Dáithí is a puzzling conundrum for philosophers.
- Kerry has something on the rest of the country. There’s a safe deep in the bowels of Tralee and there’s a compromising photo of the whole nation in there. Every year The Irish Times sends a crack team to try and retrieve it, but they always twig we’ve been to Dublin. It’s something to do with our ears.
- It’s big with the diaspora and as a nation we like to keep our hands deep in the diaspora’s pockets at all times (without actually giving them a vote or a passport). They love this sort of guff.
- We can repeal the Eighth Amendment and enjoy gently regressive, whimsical bullshit, for we are a complicated people.
- There’s been a 60-year gas leak.
The Rose of Tralee is on RTÉ One at 8pm on Monday and Tuesday
