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