Chaos and Cacophony from a Jumped-Up Country Boy

Monday, November 28, 2005

The Joys of House Hunting

I'm in a perpetual state of motion, always looking for somewhere else to live. Always for the same reason. Living with filthy, filthy bastards. Currently holed up with three yokels from Cavan who have plumbed new depths in the 'wallowing in their own slovenliness' category of wrecking your housemate's head. Yes, I am a neurotic scoundrel obsessed with cleanliness. But over the years, I've found myself reaching compromises with others, only for them to break their side of the bargain.

So I'm on the move again, never tiring of the road. And in my quest for a new place to park my arse, I've picked up on a few universal truths. Here goes...

1. Easy going means lazy and untidy

2. House is owner-occupied means Welcome to Beslan, wipe your shoes when coming or going and hand me over your soul you worthless cu**t

3. All mod cons means a microwave that has never been cleaned and a small, incontinent terrier called Alan

4. On street parking means sell your car matey, you're fucked.

5. Close to town means Navan town.

And so on. Well it's back on to the harsh unforgiving streets for me. if anyone knows of anyone looking for a musical, mouthy, yet charmingly endearing 24yr old who likes dusting and tantric sex as a flatmate, please tell them that Royston is homeless. Give what you can

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Older By The Minute

Turned 24 yesterday. It was actually the first birthday I've had in 6 years where I've been happy with my life. Now if I can write either a prizewinning novel or a witty limerick for use on toilet walls, I'll be laughing. Thanks to A. for all my lovely prezzies, I'M GOING TO DOVES!!!! I suggest that everyone reading this blog follows suit, a great live act, they'll be rocking out the Olympia on Wednesday 22 December.

Top Ten Novels
1. John McGahern - The Barracks
2. Dostoevsky - Crime and Punishment
3.Balzac - Lost Illusions
4.Hemingway - The Sun Also Rises
5.Flann O'Brien - The Third Policeman
6.Irvine Welsh - Trainspotting
7.Harper Lee - To Kill A Mockingbird
8.Edna O'Brien - Girls in Their Married Bliss
9.A.J. Cronin - Beyond This Place
10. Edith Nesbit - The Railway Children


Follow suit please!

Oh yeah, check out seethru.co.uk for hilarious quizzes. I almost choked on my coffee doing the 'Are You Crazy?' One

Thursday, November 10, 2005

FreezeFrame(dc)

I used to love the Frames. I fondly remember heading off with a school friend to the Town Hall theatre in Galway in 1998 to see them play. We needed wheels but knew neither parent would have been happy letting us drive up and down from Mayo on a cold December night. So we told them we were going to the cinema and off we went, Easy Rider all the way. It was a risk. But we felt we had no choice. As seventeen year old outcasts in the west of Ireland, where reading was frowned upon almost as much as 'blow-ins,' songs like Fitzcarraldo spoke to our souls. We had no choice. And how we cried tears of joy as the passion of Glen et al reverberated through the venue like some possessed demon caught between redemption and damnation. Love at first sight.

Back then, I used to pore over Hot Press hoping for interviews, profiles, a few words from the Gospel according to Outspan. It was not to be. I now see this as an excellent thing, for every time the poor man opens his mouth, a little part of me hitherto devoted to his quest to succeed succumbs to hatred and contempt. On Pet Sounds last night, when asked would he be influenced by bands like the Arcade Fire, Glen professed his own emancipation from the passions of youth, stating that he's looking for something deeper in his work.

This from a man who still invokes rejection and the pain of lost love as his principle lyrical them. This while referring to a band who have just released an album so evocative, so meaningful and so beautiful that it transcends the realm of music into the domain of immortal art. The man is nearly forty, and he still acts like a fucking child. I now realise why so many hated while i persevered. I failed to realise that the Imbecile had no clothes.

I know this may seem a bit OTT but there's nothing more painful that divorcing yourself from childhood heroes who have become tossers in your eyes.

Have to meet my supervisor today for feedback on Chapter 1. If he slates me I'm quitting academia and goin' fishin'.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Mumbo-Jumbo and Shite Films

This blog has been inspired by AHD.

I've had just about enough of horrible, horrible filmic diarrhea masquerading as 'Art-house.' Case in point, Broken Flowers. What a load of meaningless, self-indulgent rubbish. And that's just the title.

I saw it coming. Reviews of Lost in Translation emphasised - quite justifiably - the performance of Bill Murray as the guiding light of the film (while I disagree, considering the cinematography and absolutely flawless soundtrack to be the real heroes of the tale, I knew what the critics meant), applauding his knowing melancholia, and the understated magic of his portrayal of a Hollywood washout who realises his best days are well behind him and the worst is yet to come. I KNEW that this would make Murray lazy. And I knew that eventually I'd be vindicated.

Broken Flowers is heralded as evidence of Bill Murray taking deadpan to a new level. I believe it is evidence that Jim Jarmusch is a prick. No plot, no story, no characters of ANY substance, and certainly no empathy. Easily the worst film I've seen in years. And I've seen Final Destination 2. Do not waste your time, money and pompous sensibilities on this film.

Re-reading Francis Wheen's excellent 'How Mumbo-Jumbo Conquered the World.' We're living in an age where, if one desires to be a best-selling author, all one needs to do is release a mocking diatrible against George Bush, which is a bit like slagging off a baby for being immobile; simple, but pointless. Wheen on the other hand, is just so witty, intelligent and thorough that his evidence reinforces his convictions and even makes you think that we can change. My head tells me we can't. My heart yearns otherwise

We Ain't Goin' to the Town.....

Edinburgh is a great city and I'm concerned that not enough people know this. Spent last week there with A.,where we had a wonderful time eating battered mars bars - share one with someone before, or in the case of those of you who will try and hog one all for yourselves, while, you die - acting on impulse and keeping a keen eye out for ghostly presences. Edinburgh strikes me as a city that decided one bleak December day in 1649, as a collective urban unit, that enough was enough and, it would evolve no further structurally. I know, I know the nude glass cages are swinging up around Leith with about as much character as Ryan Tubridy, but the inner city is a crumbling yet hauntingly inspiring monument to leaving things as they are.

And why not? Very few parts of Dublin possess as much character as the Cowgate or the Grassmarket, parts of the city where you would not be the least surprised if a trio of filthy bag ladies straight off the pages of an eighteenth century novel, two front teeth between them, began throwing rotten apples at you while cackling furiously. And the Vaults, oh the Vaults. Anyone that is perturbed by the lack of daylight must surely note the warmth of Edinburgh's bowels. We were treated to a highly evocative and immensely entertaining tour by an American whose Blackadder-esque accent very nearly had me convinced. Alas, the plains of Minnesota are as hard to disguise as an Elephant in a public square. If you choose Edinburgh, choose Mercat, for all your touring needs. Hopefully though, you won't be joined, as we were, by any English tourists whose answer to lively debate is to fart theatrically at the tour guide!

For drinks, few pubs rival the olde worlde charm of the World's End pub, situated where the world did indeed end for the poorer citizens of the old town for many generations - Edinburgh was walled, and countless poor souls never ever scaled it.

All in all, an excellent sojourn in austere, patrician Edinburgh. That said, it really is who you chart the landscape with that really counts. Thanks to A. for all the gluttony and laughter:)