No No No No NO!

RTE Radio 1 has decided to drop The Mystery Train.

I've been sitting at the computer screen, staring incomprehensibly, forlorn and bitter, for the last ten minutes trying to type that last sentence.

Ann Leddy, the new head honcho in Radio Centre, has stated that she was dedicated to a radical approach to revamping the ailing station.

Radical: The Mystery Train, the most explorative, experimental, wide-ranging aural journey currently available on this island. John Kelly thinks nothing of following up 'Sally McLennane' by the Pogues with a haunting number from Ladysmith Black Mambazo. A true music lover, he believed in reaching out to all of us who yearned for a qualitative approach, and never ever succumbed to the temptation of whoring himself out to the advertisers by adopting a more MOR approach. Like Tom 'Angular' Dunne.

Not Radical: Giving His Holiness Joe Duffy another fifteen minutes to poison our ears every day, while leaving Sean O'Rourke's untouchable News at One at a mere 45 minutes. Bringing Derek Mooney in for Rattlebag. DITCHING THE FUCKING MYSTERY TRAIN.

The bastards. The bad, bad bastards. I would understand this move if it was carried out by a commercial station. But every year, the licence revenues roll into Montrose like an avalanche of carte blanche, and this is supposed to allow them the freedom to pursue quality over mediocrity. You would think this would mean less 'salt-of-the-earth' shite from the listeners on Duffy's 'Fifth Estate' and more John Kelly. You would be gravely fucking mistaken.

I'm absolutely devastated, and anyone who considers themselves to be discerning musikos should understand. The Mystery Train was a place we could all go and feel comfortable in the knowledge that at least 1 and a half hours each day were safe from banality. Not anymore. How do I start a petition?

A year or two ago, I remember reading about a guy in England refusing to pay the TV licence because he disagreed, as a British citizen, with the direction his national broadcaster was heading in. Time to follow suit.

Blaine Talkin'

I've always considered David Blaine to be a bit of a talentless shite. But this interview with the Guardian has convinced me that there might be something in his 'masterly activity' approach to our hyperactive, celebrity-dominated world; especially now that SuperSimianSimpleton (SSS) Jade Goody now has TWO shows on television.

Perhaps she might be encouraged to hold her breath...indefinitely?

Agony

'Arsenal come surging forward now, in what will surely be their last attack. A good ball by Dixon, headed down by Smith to Thomas, Michael Thomas bursting through, THOMAS........Right at the end! An unbelievable climax to the league season!'

To a lifelong Liverpool supporter, I'm sure Martin Tyler's words will be familiar to a certain blogger, who no doubt was as devastated by the events that were being described as I was elated. Liverpool v Arsenal, Anfield, 5 May 1989, the ninety-second minute of the final game of an exhilarating season. Arsenal had to win by 2 goals to prevent Liverpool from becoming the first team in history to claim a second Double. And they did. Oh how they did. The beginning of a lifelong love affair.

I had started supporting Arsenal that season, enticed by David O'Leary's weekly column in the Sunday World. O'Leary was to become my hero, and i cried endless tears as he cradled the FA Cup descending the hallowed steps of Wembley after his 722nd and final appearance in 1993. The names tumble back to me...Rocastle, Marwood, Winterburn, Limpar, Jensen, Smith, Wrighty. However, as much as I loved/obsessed about, the Gunners, I always resented their staid, restricted manner of play. And how I laughed when they sacked Graham. Success during his tenure was hopelessly qualified by dour, unimaginative football.

Then Arsenal signed Bergkamp. Liverpool signed Collymore. Stan scored a belter on his debut. Dennis flattered to deceive for quite a while. But goals came, and so did success. Wenger joined the club and took football to a new level. Gone were the days of one nil wins, and sometimes, when Vieira et al hit fifth gear, even the most rabid opposition would applaud at the beauty of it all. When Tony Adams scored Arsenal's fourth at Highbury against Everton in '98 to secure the title with five games to play, the tears sprang forth once more.

Ljunberg, Keown, Pires, Lehmann, Cole..............Henry. Little remains to be said about The Invincibles. A feat that will probably never be matched. The rebuilding would start soon after as the old guard began to crumble. '05-'06 was always going to be difficult. Quelle surprise then, that they would reach the Champions League final.

I'm gutted. For the first eighteen minutes we had a classic on our hands. Henry will wake up screaming for some time to come over the squandered opportunity in the second minute. Then came the fall. Poor Lehmann. I honestly believe the right course of action was to play advantage, allow the goal, and give the 'keeper a yellow card. This would have been totally in line with the laws of the game. Alas no; both teams were robbed, Barca more than Arsenal it must be said.

The referee was abysmal. As were Wenger's substitutions. Pires should have been left on the pitch and one could only feel sorry for the forlorn figure that lay slumped, alone on the sub's bench. But Wenger generally knows what he is doing; with Pires set to leave for Villareal, leaving Hleb - the obvious candidate for replacement solely due to inexperience- on the pitch might be construed as a vote of confidence in the future. Nonetheless, it was a stupid fucking call at a crucial moment.

And Flamini for Fabregas? Suicide. Bergkamp should have been introduced for Hleb, Cesc could have played deeper. Arsenal had valiantly continued to attack - a point that surely must be acknowledged and respected - and it had stood them in good stead. To play it safe at such a crucial moment in the game was a surprising call from such an attacking manager. And it probably cost Arsenal their greatest moment in history. Nevertheless, it would be unsporting not to concede that the better team won.

Henry or Ronaldhino? On the basis of this performace, the Frenchman gets the nod. Both left their scoring boots at home, but Henry had greater poise, and posed a greater attacking threat. Ronaldhino largely fucked about with the ball, and Toure marshalled him out of the game. Henry or Eto'o? The latter by a street. Larsson deserves a mention too.

I hope Henry stays, for the Premiership as much as for Arsenal. I think there are great things to come for this ridiculously young side, but they need their leader. They also need

- Another goalscorer - Adebayor might come into his own
- A new Vieira - Diaby?
- Cover at the back!

But next season is crucial, and Henry, who has had his best year to date, will hopefully realise that Arsenal made him, and he continues to make Arsenal. He will never be as important in any other side.

We all have our causes. Religion never really did it for me. But sports enthusiasts can often be just as militant as Jesus F.C. fans, and I can't understand how anyone can manage to smile this morning as the heavens shit all over London N5. And me. That said, the Gunners can be proud that, throughout a season of change and uncertainty, they lifted many, many hearts.

The Return of Royston

Hey everybody, it's been too long. Gave a paper at the UCDTCD Postgraduate Conference (which must not be confused with the UCDUCD Postgraduate Conference), ran a 10k race in the Phoenix Park, wrote my first 10,000 + chapter of my thesis - which felt particularly good, I've always thought that remaining intellectually consistent for that long was well beyond my faculties - learned Celtic fingerstyle guitar, went to Belfast to see Dylan Moran at work, and also managed to fit in some of the most unprecedentedly apocalyptic hangovers ever to colonize a man's head.

Oh and I bought an apartment. Yeah, I know.

The ramifications have only began to trouble my self-conscious over the last few days - delayed reactions are something of a specialty Chez Royston - and it's been tough. The final catch-cries of youth will always be painful. I'm an old person now, with and old person's agenda; the ascent up the greasy property ladder and the acquirement of faux-chic habitual trappings from Argos and such places. I've substituted blind drunk for venetian blinds.

I only began to enjoy my youth about two years ago. And part of me feels that the days of youth are coming to a close. Which is shite. On the other hand, everything else in my life is better than it ever has been (especially my bond with my Belfast Road Buddy!!), so maybe my embittered musings are redolent of the human need for 'otherness' in life; we can't enjoy the good without believing that we're continuously on the receiving end of some terrible fate. I don't know. While it saddens me that I've merely substituted the slavery of landlordism for the tyranny of 'house-talk' - characterized in general my dull minds and small, small cocks - and interest rates, I realise I'm not alone. And that, in having parents that helped out so generously, and a girlfriend that makes even the hard things easy, I'm one of the luckier ones. And the apartment won't be built for another six months or so, which gives my youth a deserved stay of execution!

Perhaps another root of my discontent is that there have been no good films released in what has seemed like at least a century and a half. Come on Hollywood! Incidentally, am I incredibly cynical to associate the timing of the birth of the Cruise/Holmes mutant celebrity-car-crash-to-be with the chronological proximity of the release of MI3? And am I a beacon of reason for knowing that the film bombed because EVERYONE thinks Cruise is a wanker?

On a final note, I have been invigilating in UCD over the last week and a half. I think invigilating gets a bad rap. Good money, an opportune moment to observe humanity at work, new friends and generally at least a bit of drama (in 2004 a student decked me!). And if you're really crafty, you can get a bit of study done too; just print out your notes, or photocopy an article and stick it on top of the extra rough work sheets you're carrying around.

And fuck John Clarke.

Currently Reading: Ireland and Empire by Stephen Howe. Assessing the various attempts by ideologues, academics and crackpot Shinnerfucks to ascribe to modern Irish society the epithets 'postcolonial' or 'neocolonial' or both. Excellent but heavy going. More anon. Also still trawling through McGahern as part of my 'I'm so upset he's dead' vigil.

Currently Listening; Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Wilco (thanks Karl), Pierre Bensusan, The Kills, Bert Jansch