I haven't seen the programme at the time of writing. But, according to the Sunday Times (Oct 17th), an RTE documentary shown on Thursday was likely to cause a "furious row" by claiming that the founder of the Blueshirts, Gen Eoin O'Duffy, once had a gay relationship with the actor, Micheal Mac Liammoir.
I'm not too worried about this issue, personally. But what does annoy me - and furious wouldn't be too strong a word for it - was this quote in the article from an unnamed "prominent" historian: ". . . it [the evidence] is not very compelling. O'Duffy never married, but he strikes me as an unlikely candidate to be Mac Liammoir's lover. He had a strong Monaghan accent, for example . . ."
I've heard of snobbery; but speaking as someone with a mild Monaghan accent, this is outrageous. The assumption that a sophisticate such as Mac Liammoir , who was openly an actor (and gay, as well) would have nothing to do with a rough-edged drumlin farmer is bad enough. But the tacit suggestion that, somehow, a person with a Monaghan accent couldn't possibly be homosexual strikes me as Dublin elitism at its worst.
Admittedly, I'm not aware of a recorded case of there being a gay person from Monaghan. The area's literature is notoriously silent on the subject; and, although the county now has - for example - a recognised Romanian minority, you'd search in vain in the local papers for any gay community news. But dammit, there's no reason Monaghan shouldn't have a homosexual population like everywhere else.
As I say, I'm not particularly concerned about the matter of Gen O'Duffy's sexuality. But I note that the Sunday Times also quotes historians saying that the rumour about him has to be seen in the context of the post-Civil War period, with all its bitterness. And this is a fair point.
I also happen to come from a long line of Fianna Fail activists (I came out about this a couple of years ago, after the tabloids started digging. It was difficult at first, but my friends have been very understanding. I can't tell you what a relief it is to be able to talk about it). And to be honest, the Mac Liammoir
story sounds like something our people would have made up back in the 1930s, around election time.
I can just imagine the comments: "I hear fascism isn't the only thing that boy's flirted with . . ." But I also note that another source in the article says the rumour arose from such things as the two men being seen leaving the theatre together. Well, if I know the electorate as well as I think I do, the suggestion that O'Duffy was a regular theatre-goer would have done him the most damage.
ANYWAY, the article, combined with the onset of autumn, reminds me of something that happened not long after I came to Dublin. It was the same time of the year as this; and the October air persuaded me, as it still tries to do annually, that I should enrol for an evening class of some kind.
I could draw a bit, but we'd never had art in our school (I think the brothers feared it might interfere with our sexuality); so I enrolled for a course called "Drawing from Life" with - I swear to God - no conception of what this implied. And I still blush to remember the moment I walked into the room the first night and realised there was a naked woman - a very naked woman - in the centre of it.
Outwardly, I retained something like poise; but figuratively-speaking, my jaw dropped through the floor, and the floor beneath that, before damaging pipes in the basement. To make matters worse, people were standing at easels, not sitting behind desks as I expected. And they were all using soft, forgiving materials like charcoal or brushes, whereas I'd brought a pencil so sharp it could have been used for eye surgery.
I recovered from this early embarrassment, though, and soon came to enjoy the course. I learned from the tutor to see the models as abstract forms, geometric arrangements of light and shade; although I have to admit the female geometric arrangements were always more artistically-challenging, if you know what I mean.
The models were usually female, and the women invariably robed quickly and left when the session was over. But they weren't all women. And one night, when we were about finished, this young male-type model got dressed and came over to examine my work. That would have been an uncomfortable situation in itself, all things considered; but when I realised that the guy wanted to, well, get to know me better, the situation quickly became tense.
I suppose I should have been flattered - I had a strong Monaghan accent at the time. But I wasn't then the easy cosmopolitan-type that I am today, effortlessly at home in every social situation. And, to be honest, I found myself hoping the hole in the floor my jaw had made a few months earlier would rise up and swallow me. Still, I didn't want to embarrass him (not a big risk, probably, given that we're talking about someone who could make relaxed conversation in front of a badly drawn nude portrait of himself). And walking to the bus-stop - he was going in the same direction - I racked me brains for a polite rebuff to any proposal that might arise; which, when it did, was the suggestion that we have a pint in a bar that I happened to know was one of the few in the city not owned by people with Cavan accents.
Fortunately, an elegant escape route arrived at that very moment, in the form of CIE. "I'd love to," I said, "but some other time, maybe - there's my bus." And I ran across the road, and jumped on as it pulled away. The bus was going to Tallaght and, at the time, I lived in Drumcondra. But other than that, I thought I handled a difficult situation well.
fmcnal@irish-times.ie
