Telling tales on the country town snitch
Fiona O’Connell
PEOPLE often joke about the village idiot. And certainly there are gombeens galore in all communities. Though to paraphrase Swift’s observation on satire, we are likely to discover them everywhere except in the mirror.
However, dangerous eejits are more prevalent, but no laughing matter. For every country town has its resident snitch.
These modern day followers of “the valley of the squinting windows” must yearn for the era when religious orders ran this country and ratting was rife. Prattling to the parish priest about which neighbour was enjoying extramarital nookie or had a bun in the oven out of wedlock was a popular pastime for these self-appointed paragons of propriety.
Snitching was still being encouraged as standard practice when I was in national school — with the ‘good’ girl put in charge of supervising the rest of the class when the teacher left the room. She would happily tell on those of us who misbehaved, smiling piously as we were punished.
That was when children were supposed to be seen and not heard — a practice that today’s squealers have adopted to become equally subtle. For these sanctimonious stalkers of their fellow citizens have tailored their technique to the changing times, being champions of the confidential phone line and treacherous tip-off.
Perhaps our history has made us hostile towards those who involve the authorities.
But snitching is a world away from whistleblowing. As the shameful saga of Sergeant Maurice McCabe shows, it takes courage and character to expose corruption. The dire consequences for those who do will hardly encourage others to speak up.
As it is, we often tell ourselves that tolerance stops us reporting abuse of people and animals. When what we call being ‘cool’ is in fact cowardice, for we fear disapproval and our popularity plummeting so we become pariahs.
Whereas grassing on others doesn’t take guts, for those who do so are usually advocates of anonymity. A snitch is the two-faced fellow who admires your new shed the same day he phones the council to inquire about its planning permission. Sometimes they fit the stereotype of retired busybodies with too much time on their holier than thou hands to mind everyone else’s business.
Bolstered by a convenient belief that they are doing their civic duty and armed with an aggressive attitude of self-righteousness, they patrol their community on the lookout for those who aren’t strictly keeping to the letter of the law, instead of its spirit. They seek out the pettiest of misdeeds.
Perhaps the spirit of Christmas might encourage these goody two shoes to acknowledge that spite often spurs them on. Before pondering that proverb about people who live in glasshouses.
Because if someone throws stones that smashes their windows, will witnesses care enough to tell?