What Goes Around: Fifty Years of The Third Policeman

Details below of an event that will be of interest to Joyceans – and which is being led by one of the seminar’s own – do please go along if you can make it; free and bookable via the eventbrite link at the bottom.

What Goes Around: Fifty Years of The Third Policeman

Tuesday 16th May 2017
Waterstone’s, Gower Street
2017 marks the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of Flann O’Brien’s remarkable novel The Third Policeman. This workshop explores the bizarre landscape and weird science of Flann O’Brien’s masterpiece, and considers its significance in Irish and world literary history. The workshop, which forms part of Arts Week 2017, will be led by Tobias Harris, a postgraduate researcher into Flann O’Brien’s work who is based in the Department of English & Humanities at Birkbeck.
To book your free place at this event, click here:


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Seminar, 21 April – ‘Aeolus’, 888-926

On the 21st of April, we covered an entire page (on the Gabler scale). Among matters unearthed and discussed:

Mr O’Madden Burke continues with the cod Elizabethan (does Lenehan bring this out in him?) and our thoughts turned naturally to Blackadder. We noted the unusual use of ‘grateful’, the awkward use of ‘metaphorically speaking’, as well as the Joycean play on ‘Ye’ with its capital ‘Y’ (which really ought to be a þ).

Lenehan switches the play on to the language of the debating society. Does anyone actually say ‘ay’ or ‘no’ in response here? The ‘boosingshed’ (Ezra Pound’s spelling also) Lenehan casts his vote for is Mooney’s; Stephen would not want him to name The Ship at this point, where Mulligan and Haines await him in vain, though it is only a little further from the Freeman’s offices than Mooney’s.

Lenehan is giving an uncharacteristic display of physical boldness in leading the way here. The “strong waters” – aqua fortis – presumably means whiskey: this is the language of licensing law (‘Spirituous Liquors or Strong Waters’). The double negatives are neat in conveying that Lenehan and the rest will not not be partaking, though there is verbiage too: “By no manner of means.”

O’Madden Burke here makes use of the kind of common knowledge of Shakespeare that contrasts with Stephen’s earlier meditations, though “ally” strikes an odd note (Macbeth was hardly an ally of Macduff’s) – the quotation is clearly out of context.

A “chip of the old block” may look odd now, but was the form this saying originally took. The OED suggests the one form succeeded the other some time during the first few decades of the twentieth century – might Joyce be using the form that had fallen out of fashion at the time of writing? In heading off for a drink, Stephen is indeed following in his father’s footsteps at this point. The “clapping” was “slapping” in The Little Review and in the 1922 Ulysses. For all Lenehan is leading, Crawford’s “Let us go” has him take up the role of Moses at this point (though go he doesn’t, immediately).

The keys are a little reminder of Bloom, as well as being the keys to Crawford’s desk drawer, locked at line 460 and placed in a sidepocket at line 585. The typesheets are Mr Deasy’s letter, about which Myles Crawford, having forgotten all about it and for all his reassurances here, could hardly care less, as the subsequent headline flags up.

“LET US HOPE”: O’Molloy is sceptical that the letter will ever be published, which led us to wondering why Deasy would want it published in the Evening Telegraph in the first place. Given the author, the Irish Times would make more sense; given the subject matter, the Irish Homestead more sense still – this is Stephen’s errand, of course, but why does Stephen care? The decision is made clear in ‘Eumaeus’, but at what point during the day does Stephen decide he’s not going to be returning to work for Deasy?

O’Molloy speaks to Stephen as an equal here, but is pursuing his own purposes also (seeking work, presumably), as is noted by MacHugh in ushering Stephen away. The professor is still eager to have Stephen’s response to John F Taylor’s speech – “That is fine, isn’t it?” – but he won’t get it, now or subsequently, in any direct form.

The “prophetic vision” MacHugh rehearses is of the passing away of the “Kingdoms of this world”, Troy in the past tense (“Fuit Ilium!“) and so on. “The masters of the Mediterranean” who are “fellaheen today” may be Trojans, Egyptians, Greeks, even Phoenicians, but the inheritors of that title in 1904 – and for some time prior to that, courtesy of Nelson and others – were the British, as MacHugh no doubt intends for Stephen to understand.

In its resemblance to dramatis personae or the credits for a film, “first newsboy” had us wondering: is this MacHugh’s “urchin” from before (lines 394-95), or simply the first barefoot (“pattering”) newsboy out of the building with the racing special? Newsboys are being released here like the winds from Aeolus’s bag.

“Dublin”: in The Little Review, this word stood on its own, “I have much, much to learn” being added subsequently. With this little moment of self-reflection, we come to the opening of Stephen’s own “vision”, the narrating of which will occupy the remainder of the episode. Is this a narrative he is coming up with on the spot, or has he rehearsed it previously (like the Shakespeare theory of ‘Scylla’)? The professor, “skipping” to catch up, will hear it in its entirety, Crawford only part of it.

“DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN” – what Stephen has to learn – is followed immediately by “Dubliners” – the title of a book arising out of such knowledge (we did note that a narrative beginning “Two Dublin vestals . . . elderly and pious” would fit the title of ‘The Sisters’ rather better than the actual start of that story).

That the two ladies have “lived” in Fumbally’s lane all these years does not mean that they were born there. That MacHugh does not know where Fumbally’s lane is marks a significant distinction between what he knows and what Stephen knows: the latter is going to be leading from this point onwards.

We will resume at line 927 – “Damp night reeking of hungry dough” – on the 12th of May.


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Seminar, 3 March – ‘Aeolus’, 871-888


We were, dare I say, pretty pleased with ourselves by the end of Friday’s meeting, having covered a significant chunk of ‘Aeolus’, 871 – 88.

  • We spent a long time considering the ‘headline’, ‘Ominous — for him’. Who is he? Presumably Taylor, rather than Moses. We thought about the filmic, maybe even slapstick aspect of this heading, and about Joyce’s interest in film more generally throughout the novel.
  • ‘Not without regret’, we noted, is a far milder expression than ‘with regret’. The reference to the promised land switches the focus back to Moses, from Taylor, but nonetheless the line does apply to Taylor. We noted that ‘The Land of Promise’ was a 1913 play by Somerset Maugham, and wondered if there was a longer literary heritage behind this term, which Joyce returns to in the Wake (442.13), in an allusion to St Brendan’s travels there. We noted the anachronism of not entering the land of promise – if it’s an allusion to Irish independence – as this hadn’t, obviously, happened at the time of the original speech, nor 1904, nor by the time of Joyce writing ‘Aeolus’. Parnell was also on our minds here.
  • Lenehan returns! We enjoyed his unexpectedly strong pun – to expectorate is to cough up phlegm – displaying a wit not always recognised (there is much work still to be done on Lenehan, we decided). We did suggest, though, that the hyphen before ‘demise’ was perhaps unnecessary. This quickness is followed by quite a harsh put-down – ‘great future behind him’ – a phrase that though familiar still to us today, may have had a certain currency at this time (alluding to the Professor’s illness isn’t the most tactful of gestures, either). The comment taps into one of the central themes of the episode, of promise unfulfilled, which applies to all the characters, not just Taylor.
  • At this point, the barefooted newsboys return. They add some noise and activity to an otherwise quiet and still passage. They also remind readers that the episode takes place in the newspaper office; they resituate the chapter. Is the use of the word ‘troop’, and its spelling, a little strange here? Their appearance also lightens the (often) heavy tone of the episode. Youth!
  • We’re back in Stephen’s mind with ‘Gone with the wind’, a line from the fin-de-siècle poet Ernest Dowson. Stephen dwells on what happens to oratory itself – it goes with the wind, if not written down – which again brings us back to the newspaper office, papers being another form of something that can be quite transient yet have great effect (as the ‘throwaway’ illustrates). It’s also a kind of silent contradiction of the professor.
  • The four winds quite obviously refer to the four provinces of Ireland; ‘howled and scattered’ caught our attention. If a sound (here, a message) is ‘scattered’, does it lose its efficacy (‘dead noise’)? Or does it help the message disseminate? If something is scattered, can it provide salvation? We noted that this line was an addition – much of this passage was expanded, post-Little Review. The image of being ‘sheltered’ by a voice is unambiguously positive, situating O’Connell as a protector; again, this description was added.
  • In his reference to ‘akasic records’, Stephen picks up again the theosophistic thread of the episode; we noted the links between this movement and the independence movement, especially across India and Ireland. We considered Stephen’s thoughts about theosophy: though he doesn’t seem to be a huge fan of it generally, here he seems quite neutral about it – or maybe ironic? Finally, we noted that Stephen, again, is taking the train of thought in a direction not alluded to by anyone else.
  • He suddenly remembers he has money; the difference in tone between his weighty, intellectual interior monologue and his jocular hurrying-up of a trip to the pub is stark. Is his use of ‘gentlemen’, is he being polite and generous, or euphemistic (‘Gentlemen of the Press’) and ironic? The tone is gregarious, and we noted that Stephen is too often pigeon holed by readers as a miser: like Lenehan, he can be upbeat and, again like Lenehan, quite rude in undercutting the Professor. We noted the idiom of the sentence which, after some discussion, we decided was in the style of the Royal University debating society, rather than a parliamentary house.
  • We finished the meeting with the surprisingly complex Mr. O’Madden Burke’s statement: ‘You take my breath away. It is not perchance a French compliment?’. We couldn’t quite agree on the meaning of the first sentence – ‘the cheek of your suggestion!’? or ‘I was about to say that’? – while we agreed that a French compliment is a backhanded one. Again, after some discussion, we agreed that O’Madden Burke – as another character carried over from Dubliners, like Lenehan – probably needs more work.

We begin again on the amended date of April 21st, not 7th, at ‘Tis the hour, methinks’ (U 7.888). 






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April and May Seminars

Due to the unavailability of one or both chairs on the existing dates, we’ve had to move the seminars for April and May. These will now take place on:

Friday the 21st of April, 18.00-20.00, Room 246

Friday the 12th of May, 18.00-20.00, Room 243

Sorry for any inconvenience caused, but I hope people can make these new dates.

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Seminar, 3 February 2017 – ‘Aeolus’, 845-870

On Friday 3rd February – one day, and 135 years, after Joyce’s birthday – we continued with ‘Aeolus’, reading from 7.845 (‘Why will you jews not accept our culture’) to 7.870 (‘enjoying a silence’).

  • The seminar began with a discussion of the British/Egyptian, Irish/Jewish parallels in the speech, with us thinking about their historic and contemporary resonances. This allowed us to uncover some of the ironies of the passage – ‘our’ language, English by the internal logic of the speech, surely has been adopted by the Irish. As for ‘our culture’, we paused to think about how Andrew Gibson’s work, for example, might shed light on how far Ireland did/not accept English culture. This issue of acceptance, rather than tolerance, also seems quite loaded, and we paused to think about this tension between the performance or assimilation of values.
  • How accurate is this speech? We reflected that, arguably, there were no cities in Ireland until they were founded by settlers, but that this is true, to some extent, for many civilisations. ‘Hives’ has an especially classical touch – we thought of Aeneas’ impression of the hives of activity when he landed in Carthage. The mention of galley boats caused us to pause for an especially long time, thinking about how, exactly, the rowers would have been placed in the boats. Interestingly, the OED cites this sentence in its definition of ‘quadrireme’. We also wondered about the use of deliberate archaisms, here and throughout the speech, a chain of thought precipitated by Joyce’s use of these technical boating terms, ‘merchandise’, and ‘known globe’ (which originally read ‘world’). This whole passage, according to Gilbert, demonstrates ‘incrementum’ – the piling up of detail for rhetorical effect.
  • The final sentence, again, invites us to question its accuracy. An ‘agelong’ history isn’t quite as impressive as it might sound at first; Ireland at this time had a British polity (state); ‘a priesthood’, rather than ‘clergy’ doesn’t quite sound right. Details such as these led us to wonder how far this speech really works – is it meant to cohere as a piece of rhetoric? Does Joyce expect us to find these flaws? Here we disagreed: some suggested enough of the speech works; some that it draws attention precisely to how it doesn’t work.
  • Why, exactly, does Stephen think of Moses here, and how does this thought process develop? We discussed again the statue of Moses, and Freud’s interpretation of it, and the three different parts (‘stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone’).
  • The speech continues and again invites a listener to consider its internal logic. The ’local and obscure idol’ would be Jehovah; but who are the ‘gods’ of the current day? Here we noted the difference in Joyce’s version, compared to Casement’s. Surely the Irish would not be in ‘awe’ of the English. The image of thunder suggests British power and strength, especially over the seas, but also vulnerability. ‘Daylabourer’, however, does transpose neatly onto the present day.
  • The ‘dumb belch’ of the professor marks a wonderful pricking of the inflated rhetoric of the speech, revealing something quite pathetic. We thought about how this hungry Irish professor personified some of the tensions laid out in the speech, and of the political significance of Irish hunger.
  • From this bodily intervention, back to the speech. We traced the different houses of bondage in Joyce – such as Bloom’s use of the term in ‘Ithaca’ – against the many rooms of the kingdom of heaven. We continued to wonder about Joyce’s spin – ‘amid lightnings’ – and the difference between Joyce’s and Casement’s version of the speech. Or, in this instance, their similarity: Casement’s also includes the line ‘the language of the outlaw’. We reflected on the contradiction of the ‘law’ being graven (not engraved, curiously) in the ‘language of the outlaw’, recalling Harry Levin’s comment that the Wake was written in the language of the outlaw. [Abby Bender contributed a short piece to the JJQ on this phrase in 2007.]
  • ‘Enjoying a silence’ obviously brings to mind that key Joycean triptych of ‘silence, exile and cunning’. We thought about silent languages (written ones, ones read silently) and the significance of silence for the languages mentioned or alluded to in the above speech.

We begin again on Friday 3rd March at 7.118, ‘Ominous – for him!’ – but hopefully, not for us.

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Seminar, 6 January 2017 – ‘Aeolus’, 823-844

In our first seminar of the new year, we didn’t cover quite as much as we might have done, but then again, we did have a rather unusual guest speaker, addressing the 6th of January 2017 from the 27th of November 1924 by way of YouTube.

  • We detected something Homeric in MacHugh’s description of how Taylor “rose to reply”.  In forewarning his listeners of the possibility of imperfect recall – “as well as I can bring them to mind” – MacHugh stacks the odds against himself, in just the way he has stacked them against the sick and embattled Taylor previously.
  • The head is now firm where previously it was bent – show time; MacHugh is preparing to perform. We admired the internal rhyming of “Witless shellfish” – ‘witless’ in opposition to “bethought” – as they swim in the “gross lenses” and wondered about the extent to which the third-person narration is coloured by Stephen’s thoughts here (echoes of ‘Proteus’ at this point, perhaps).
  • We listened to the recording of Joyce’s reading of this passage, picking up on the changes he made in the act of reading it – Sylvia Beach testifies to his determination to read from Taylor’s speech (or his own version of that speech): would the thirty original recordings, made for family and friends, remind some of these that Joyce had recited the speech at other times and in other places? Was this a party piece of some sort? We also looked at Yeats’s version of the speech from Reveries over Childhood and Youth.*
  • If Yeats’s Taylor started ‘badly’, Joyce/MacHugh’s launches straight in, from the formal opening (which ladies would have been present?) to the greatness of his “admiration“, where the opposite is presumably implied. As it is with “far away” and “remote” in time – Taylor is “transported” and simultaneously transports: the “youth of Ireland” become the “youthful Moses” and “my learned friend” becomes “some highpriest” (a ‘professor’ in Casement’s account of the speech). We also considered, in relation to ‘transported’, metempsychosis and actual transportation.
  • MacHugh’s listeners are clearly gripped, but there is irony in the lovely image of the “smokes” which is shown up by Stephen’s quotation. “And let our crooked smokes“, which will reappear at the end of ‘Scylla and Charybdis’, marks a moment of rapprochement with the colonial power in Cymbeline which is the direct opposite of the intransigence which Taylor was trying to instil in his audience.
  • “Noble words coming. Look out”: Stephen is guarding himself against having his “blood wooed” again, as it was with Seymour Bushe’s speech earlier. James Joyce may have been present when John F. Taylor delivered this speech, but Stephen Dedalus obviously was not. In “Could you try your hand at it yourself?” we detected not only a response to Myles Crawford (“You can do it”) but also a Bloomian quality (in reading Matcham’s Masterstroke at the end of ‘Calypso’, for instance).
  • With “like haughtiness and like pride” Taylor is no longer making any pretence about his lack of admiration, as he prepares his assault on Fitzgibbon’s speech through the language and rhythms of the King James Bible. Taylor is about to do rather more than recap Fitzgibbon’s speech, transporting and transfiguring that as well.
  • “FROM THE FATHERS”: as a Father of the Church, St Augustine’s words seem to rise unbidden to Stephen’s mind here – where the quotation from Shakespeare is more conscious, perhaps – so accounting for his exasperation. Enforcing and interpreting the law of the fathers is very much the role of the high priest.

This blog has been somewhat delayed and I’m handing over to Helen at this point, whose February blog will appear almost immediately with information on the date of the actual next seminar (March). Feel a little transported myself now.

* W. B. Yeats, Reveries over Childhood and Youth (New York: Macmillan, 1916), pp. 115-116:

One constant caller looked at me with much hostility, John F. Taylor, an obscure great orator. The other day in Dublin I overheard a man murmuring to another one of his speeches as I might some Elizabethan lyric that is in my very bones. It was delivered at some Dublin debate, some College society perhaps. The Lord Chancellor had spoken with balanced unemotional sentences now self-complacent, now in derision. Taylor began hesitating and stopping for words, but after speaking very badly for a little, straightened his figure and spoke as out of a dream: “I am carried to another age, a nobler court, and another Lord Chancellor is speaking. I am at the court of the first Pharaoh.” Thereupon he put into the mouth of that Egyptian all his audience had listened to, but now it was spoken to the children of Israel. “If you have any spirituality as you boast, why not use our great empire to spread it through the world, why still cling to that beggarly nationality of yours? what are its history and its works weighed with those of Egypt.” Then his voice changed and sank: “I see a man at the edge of the crowd; he is standing listening there, but he will not obey;” and then with his voice rising to a cry, “had he obeyed he would never have come down the mountain carrying in his arms the tables of the Law in the language of the outlaw.”

(Roy Foster’s biography establishes that the hostility between Yeats and Taylor was attributable in part to the fact that Taylor was almost as obsessed with Maud Gonne as Yeats was.)

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Seminar, 2 December 2016 – ‘Aeolus’, 784-822

On the 2nd of December, we rattled through an abnormally large chunk of ‘Aeolus’, moving from line 784, or thereabouts – 785, really – to line 822. Any aspirants out there, coveting the title of slowest reading group in the world, would be well advised not to go looking for any longterm trends in this surprising turn of speed.

  • According to Gifford, the “yankee interviewer” was identified by Richard Kain as Cornelius Weygandt and the interview with Russell – moved from 1902 to 1904 – appeared in his Irish Plays and Playwrights of 1913. But did it appear in print at any point earlier than that? The idea that Joyce would have brought up “planes of consciousness” as a topic of conversation seems farfetched; nor does the interview actually suggest this, nor do most of the other accounts of Joyce’s first meeting with Russell suggest the men discussed anything aside from literary matters.
  • After all, this whole digression of O’Molloy’s revolves around the idea that Stephen, like Joyce, was merely feigning an interest in theosophy. In which context, the leg-pulling would very likely have been something of which Magennis would have disapproved. We found the word “morale” confusing – nor was the OED of much assistance here – though we inferred it meant something like moral in this instance  (‘Magennis’ became ‘More Guinness’ as ‘morale’ became ‘more ale’ . . . and then we pursued this no further).
  • “Speaking about me”: We found it near impossible to decide here whether Stephen is genuinely flustered or whether this piece of interior monologue is expressing a form of self-mockery. The age-old (for us) question of sequence and simultaneity arose at this point: is Stephen thinking this immediately after O’Molloy says the words which seem to trigger it, so that the thoughts are being thought during the rest of O’Molloy’s speech, synchronous with it though appearing after it? It would seem so.
  • Refusing the cigarettecase (O’Molloy’s), MacHugh attempts to take the conversation back to the cigarettecase owner’s remarks about Bushe (we noted that the Professor is about to say rather more than just the “one thing”). John F. Taylor – another figure uniting journalism and the law – gave his speech to the College Historical Society, Trinity’s debating society, on the 24th of October 1901. Joyce was in attendance, as was Roger Casement, whose pamphlet ‘The Language of the Outlaw’ Joyce drew upon to assist his own memories of Taylor’s speech.
  • The unnamed essay debated by Taylor and Gerald Fitzgibbon may not have been Douglas Hyde’s ‘The Necessity for De-Anglicising Ireland’ – hardly “an” essay – but it would surely have been influenced by it, we thought. In the light of which, “new for those days” strikes an odd note here: Hyde’s essay dates from 1892, a year before the Gaelic League was founded.
  • MacHugh attempts to draw in Myles Crawford once again; O’Molloy then tries to change the subject again almost immediately afterwards – more rumour –  only for the re-engaged Crawford to steer it back in MacHugh’s direction (“Go on. Well?”). That said, the gossip is indeed juicy, that Fitzgibbon will sit with Tim Healy on Trinity College’s estates commission, the body responding to the repercussions for TCD and its landholdings of the Wyndham Land Purchase Act of 1903, the central pillar of Constructive Unionism.
  • We discussed “sweet thing” for a while: the seat on the estates commission may itself be a sweet thing, but Crawford, we assumed, must be implying something about a sexual predilection of Fitzgibbon’s also. Either way, the words, unwittingly or not, deliver a picture of Tim Healy “in a child’s frock” – a scurrilous image that may not have displeased Joyce, whatever was intended by it (Gifford’s suggestion, for instance, is that Healy is here the faux naif prude in relation to Parnell’s fall).
  • MacHugh builds up Fitzgibbon in a polished period of his own, drawing on language both biblical (“vials of his wrath”) and Shakespearean (“proud man’s contumely” – “pouring”, remembering line 750, unheard by MacHugh, also brings us back to Hamlet). The “chastened diction” – an addition made after publication in The Little Review – suggests that Fitzgibbon speaks more in sorrow than in anger, against a movement then new (well, sort of). The “We” is noteworthy also, used by MacHugh elsewhere in the same spirit . . . but who here actually speaks any Irish?
  • MacHugh’s own oratory is clearly energising him, making him “eager to be on”. The “outspanned hand” touches the top of each leg of the wearer’s spectacles, we thought (thus ‘outspanned’, which itself appears to be a new word here, unrecorded by the OED any earlier than this). Does the hand tremble due to some form of stagefright, nervousness, or is MacHugh in some way becoming here the ailing Taylor? A “new focus” achieved, he presses on.
  • “IMPROMPTU” sets up the idea of Taylor’s speech being unrehearsed, but “ferial” might also fit, since no amount of dictionary trawling could help us out with anything that seemed to work. Can MacHugh really be being jovial here? In the sense of a weekday on which no festival is celebrated, what tone might this be? Unsurprisingly, we kept getting waylaid by ‘feral’ instead, though that’s clearly no better.
  • Having set up Fitzgibbon as an oratorical Goliath, MacHugh proceeds to Davidify Taylor, stacking the odds against him as he approaches from his sickbed. The logic of MacHugh’s belief that the speech could not have been prepared because there was “not even one” (emphasis) shorthandwriter present eluded us. Would shorthandwriters normally have attended the university debating society? What about Joyce’s own memory here?
  • The “growth of shaggy beard” opposes the unshaven, Mosaic and Irish Taylor to the patrician, Roman Fitzgibbon. The “loose white silk” (a nod at the bar) encircles the throat of a man who “looked (though he was not) a dying man”: we appreciated what looks an awful lot like stagecraft here, whether intended by Taylor at the time, or a product of MacHugh’s account in the here and now (though presumably neither would want his own sincerity or veracity questioned).
  • Here occurs something we thought really was a “False lull. Something quite ordinary” (l. 761). MacHugh is checking to make sure that O’Molloy and Stephen are listening – the double “at once” is striking – but it is also as if he is deliberately enfeebling himself here, so as better to take on the part of John F. Taylor. The double use of “seeking” is also striking, though it is presumably his memory that he is searching, as we scan his “unglazed” (unstarched and old) collar and his dirty and receding hair.

MacHugh is now ready and so are we. We will resume on the 6th of January at line 823 “When Fitzgibbon’s speech had ended” and will no doubt be hearing from the man himself, at or near the start of the session. Until then, a very merry holiday season to one and all.

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