Bastards

Wham Bam Thank You Sam. The street corner was never a lonelier place. Tears stained the swelling cheeks. Bitter words emanating from the tender, split lip. Anger challenged by resignation. The blows returning one by one, tempered by the loss of breath. Headlocks and warlocks. The grim, saddening reality that the soul and the body had been scarred. The glare of the streetlight failed to emerge victorious over the darkness streeling from within. Three into one would never go.

Thanks to K, S, and most of all A, for being there.



Band of the Year: The Arcade Fire, by a country mile. Honorable nod to Franz Ferdinand, Bell X 1, and of course, Transit!

Album of the Year: Funeral

Song of the Year: Rebellion (Lies)

Performance of the Year: Interpol at Oxegen

Villians of the Year: The Frames for becoming what they've become, Bono (not since Stalin walked away with the honors in 1942 has there been a more inappropriate Person of the Year), Mary Kenny, John Banville for dissing television.

Ultimate Soulless Corporate Bile Should Never Have Returned from the Trenches to Destroy The Fabric of Society Award: Who else but James Blunt

Book of the Year: The Rooms by Declan Lynch.

Most Important Time of the Year: 1.30am, April 1st. This old fool has enjoyed every minute since.

And on that enigmatic note(!), Royston bids adieu to Blogland for 2005. It's been one hell of a carousel. Enjoy the mince pies.

Adios to Artane

House Sharing is a curious station; tomorrow I leave Artane, and that probably means I'll never see the three guys I'm living with ever again. Not that any tears will be shed - I've often got more conversation out of the seagulls on Dalkey Island, and I'm way too neurotic and clean for the boyos, who operate a clinically effective regime of slovenly indifference. But the ease with which we move in and out of the spheres of others, and vice versa, can be hard on the soul. I suppose when the fleeting nature of life and its many relationships is brought to bear upon you so tangibly, you begin to question the impact you have on other people's lives. Does anyone care whether you live or die, or more pointedly, can anyone really care?

From personal to universal. The Constant Gardener is my film of the year. Weeks ago we all got quite irate at Mr. Jarmusch's latest mound of shite, Broken Flowers, and I think it would be fair to state that anyone who has seen it to this point still mourns those two now-priceless hours we wasted on said tripe, that are lost forever. Main problem; terribly boring, pointless film passing itself of as serious art. Solution; The Constant Gardener. We all are familiar with the subject matter by now; evil pharmaceutical company killing babies in Africa, backed up by reams of diplomats who carefully balance the hypocritical morality and quest for happiness in their personal lives with the nihilism of their cynical exploits in the real world. Beautiful wife embarks on mission to uncover the ostensibly evil deeds of the company, and dies in the process. Husband seeks answers. However, the message is delivered with such humanity and powerful acting, and, as in City of God, with characteristic cinematographic majesty, that its resonance will stay with you long after. Kudos to Herr Mereilles.