Urban Ramblings

Crushed...And Then Some

2007-06-22T23:38:00.000Z

He's gone. After a prolonged ego-waltz that eventually became as boring as it was drawn out, Henry has left Arsenal. And in doing so, he has broken hearts. Many, many hearts. On levels that I've yet to explore.

It's been a while since I posted, but this has crushed me. Any adult with any degree of education, in my opinion, will eventually become a cynic. Yet what makes the veil of cynicism all the more dignified is the occasional ray of hope and light that we allow to shine through. And for most of this century, Henry was a ray of elegant beauty and honour that I clung to however the winds of life blew. The pace, the vision, the sheer single-minded arrogance of a lion with a gazelle in his sights. The embarrasment he visited on Jamie Carragher on more than one occasion is probably enough to damn him for all eternity. Beauty, nay art, encapsulated in 6ft2 of Gallic genius. For almost a decade, he led us all on a merry sporting dance. And now he's taking it on tour. To Barcelona. Where his ego will mingle with many others.

When I look at a brilliant painting, like Hopper's Nighthawks, or listen to something as awe inspiring as Closing Time by Leonard Cohen, I'm struck by the achievement of perfection, of wholeness. I felt exactly the same last January when Henry began and ended a move against Blackburn that transcended the muddy Lancastrian awfulness of Jack Walker's dirty steelwork funded stadium and ascended to the vaunted platform of high art. Swaggering down the left flank, mesmerising the Blackburn defence, he swapped inch-perfect passes with Fabregas and sailed the ball past a helpless Brad Freidel from an angle that had the mathematicians reaching for their theodolites. It blew me away. Like his goal against United at Highbury. Like his hat-trick against Inter Milan. Like 99% of his 226 goals for the Gunners. Henry was an artist who splattered the canvas with works of genius that will be talked about in a hundred year's time. And he will continue to prosper wherever he goes. Part of me wishes him well in his future endeavours.

But most of me wonders where the famed Henry loyalty has gone. After the rigmarole of last year, it is a devastating blow that it was all figure skating, it was all an elongated flamenco manoeuvre. Like the cutest maiden at the crossroads in 1940s Ireland, after rejecting even the most ardous admirer again and again, Henry eventually showed his true colours; the colours of a cold, merciless, reptilian siren, ready willing and able to sell himself to the highest bidder. And that sickens me.

Of course Dein leaving had an impact. Of course he was disconcerted at the lack of silverware. But what of loyalty? What of his self-appointed role as the Good Shepherd, leading Arsenal's tender spring lambs through the dark night of transition that benighted Wenger and his team this season? All horseshit. I'm weary enough to see the Premiership, and indeed world football for what it is; a power-hungry, ego-fuelled corporate behemoth that takes no prisoners and treats the loyal fan with the same disdain afforded to a ten dollar Malaysian ladyboy by a Japanese businessman. But deep down, I honestly believed Henry to be different. But he wasn't. And he isn't. And that, my dear reader, is very troubling.

Yes, these are the ravings of a wizened old hag who's lost her favourite piece of jewellery. Yes there isn't an iota of objectivity in the words that have preceded these. Henry left because he knows Arsenal won't be a force for at least another season. But by his leaving, he has put Wenger's project on hold. Fabregas will now have one eye on the exit. Gallas will become even more disinterested. And who are we left with? Adebayor. The man who has made a name for himself as a calamity in front of goal, with a first touch that makes David fucking Connolly snigger. And crucially, the only team, Reading and Man U aside, hewn out of a desire to play football as it should be played, i.e., Brazil circa 1970, will become the laughing stock of Britain once more, a force once to be reckoned with, but now nothing but an interesting side show that can knock lumps out of Wigan but can only watch in silence as Bolton continue to know lumps out of them. While this is a terrible day for Gooners, its as bad a day for anyone who loves football on these here isles.

Fuck him. Why couldn't he have just stayed put?

Loss of a Great Man

2007-01-09T10:28:00.000Z

"Equality is equality is equality. If we refuse any human being the entitlement to equality, we deny ourselves proper equality. It is either for everyone or for no one".

RIP David Ervine.

Amid all the posturing, self-serving political tit-for-tat that accompanies the northern peace process, Ervine always stood out for me as a guy that was prepared to sacrifice a lot for a progressive approach to the problems of his corner of the world. He was genuinely contrite about his terrorist past - a past that, given he lost a good friend to an IRA bombing campaign, could be understood if not condoned - and worked hard to bring about a semblance of unity in a province poisoned by prejudice and hatred.

It was a tragedy that he was taken so young. More on an extraordinary human being here.

Books, Old and New!

2006-08-22T09:57:00.000Z

Some day I'll compile a complete list of all the vague Black Books references contained on this site. The number will probably resemble a mobile telephone number.

Anyways, having been tagged by surfing queen Aunty Helpful Dictator, Here is a rundown on some of the most important books in my life.

One Book That Changed Your Life.

The Dalkey Archive by Flann O'Brien. The beginning of two things; my lifelong obsession with Dublin and its peculiarities, and my desire to write. Neither have abated with age. Not the great man's best book by any stretch of the imagination - Karl and I will be very, very old and grey before we reach agreement on that question - but unquestionably my favourite. In many ways it made me who I am today. And it's very very funny.

One Book You've Read More than Once

On the Road by Jack Kerouac. The bible of the hobo soul. The older you get the more you long to be the sixteen year old that read it and that made a solemn promise to himself never to settle down. Ah, the folly of youth! Personally I'm not the best at re-reading books, but I do think it's a good idea.

One Book That You Would Want On A Desert Island

Ulysses. Never, ever will I tire of the challenges that it throws at us. If I could bring two, probably Crime and Punishment or Lost Illusions, the latter being a very similar book to the former except without much redemption for the protagonist. Great book though.

One Book That Made Me Laugh

The Third Policeman by Flann O'Brien. Raw comedy smothered in darkness. Some parts are so funny it's just plain wrong. It kind of bugs me that Lost is linked in many people's head with this book. For me, the comparison is like comparing the streets of Haussmann's Paris with the dogshit that can be found on it's pedestrian walkways

One Book That Made Me Cry

No book has ever made me cry. Many books have made my stomach churn - Maribou Stork Nightmares by Irvine Welch, Poor Souls by Joseph Connolly, Exodus by Leon Uris, while Lost Illusions made me collapse in a melancholy heap of despair. But no tears. I did cry as a child while watching Boxer being taken off to the knackers yard in the animated version of Animal Farm. Does that count?

One Book You Stayed Up All Night To Finish

The Barracks by John McGahern. When people think of existential Irish writers, Beckett always gets the nod. But McGaherns early work is rich in the tradition, questioning the subjectivity of human experience and churning at the mediocrity and sadness of it all. Great Book.

One Book That Took You Too Long To Read

Anything by Hemingway. Always worth it but always takes forever.

One Book You Are Currently Reading

Candide by Voltaire. The opening passage must have inspired the Four Yorkshiremen in Monty Python Such a catalogue of disasters!

I tag Shane. Every other blogger I know has already been tagged.

Outdated but Fun

2006-08-22T09:46:00.000Z

While trawling the web looking for articles by Con Houlihan, I came across this gem of a site. It's a little old, but some of the ranting is so funny that at work yesterday and old women asked me what was wrong. The reason? My face was lost in a monsoon of tears. I haven't laughed so hard in years. I think it was Hatebomb #1 that finally caused the floodgates to open. Also good are the reviews of Hogans and especially Brogans. For anyone that's lived in Dublin, the characters are well drawn and the analysis in places is spot on. Flann O'Brien fans won't be disappointed, particularly with the review of Buskers. Please check it out

Nice to see you, to see you Nice

2006-08-22T09:04:00.000Z

It's good to be back. Spent July in South America with A. and most of August feeling maudlin. What a continent. We were there for nearly a month and even then only sampled but a tiny glimpse of this awesome carnival of humanity and nature trapped in an endless tango with each other. I'm not really down with going into intense detail regarding holidays, but here are a few tips based on my own experiences south of the equator.

1. Eat lots and lots of steak. It's cheap and does things to your pallet that really, really should be against the law. The wrongly-beefed up(geddit??) Irish steak can go and fuck rrrrrrrrrrrright off. Had 9 in my 8 first days in Argentina, after which I apparently rolled around in bed approximating the actions of someone having a stroke mumbling 'No more steak, no more steak'. Am seeking help.

2. Learn to Tango. The exuberance of Riverdance delivered in a sleazy, arrogant dockside container. If Tom Waits was a dance, he would be a Tango; the dance of lost souls and tawny whores.

3. Bring your own music. Aside from attending a German folk festival - had me begging for the Hoff - the music in South America is possibly the worst I've ever experienced. Think Ricky Martin jammin' with the Gypsy Kings. Not a pretty sight.

4. GO TO RIO; Undoubtedly the most captivating city in the world. It's an urban carousel wrapped around a rainforest, protected by proud, incredible hills and worshipped by golden beaches and the beautiful people that fill them. And go to a match in the Maracana. I have an article appearing soon in the Mayo News on said subject which I'll link to when it's published. Truly unforgettable.

5. Read the Buenos Aires Quintet by Manuel Vasquez Montalban and Futebol; The Brazilian Way of Life by Alex Bellos. Ideal pals for those night long buses. Also read At-Swim Two Birds again, Bound for Glory by Woodie Guthrie - if you ever want words to resemble the wispy freedom of the wind tumbling through your hair, then this is the book for you - and The Pavilion on the Links, a wonderfully atmospheric novella by Robert Louis Stevenson. To re-cap, bring lots of books, you'll be travelling over huge distances. And finally........

6. Go to Iguazu Falls. You'll know why when you get there.

In my absence, the obvious occurred. Inconsolable Royston lovers, incredulous that their leader would vanish into the murky tropics, organised themselves into a charming cult.
Based in Glasgow - I visited there a few years ago and delivered an inspiring performance from a soapbox on George Square that marked the beginning of a close relationship with the city, and my inevitable veneration - the cult is gaining in popularity and rightly so. Although I distance myself from the more extreme elements within the sect, in particular those bent on flaggelation, I must admit that I am touched that my views and spiritual candour have finally been recognised. And just for the record, despite the setback of someone having published in my area of historical investigation, research is proceeding apace. Rapture will come. You have been warned!!

Ouch

2006-06-16T08:15:00.000Z

Last August, as I embarked upon the second year of my thesis, I bumped into a fairly high-flying academic in the archive where we were both at work. He or she asked me what I was doing. I told her and was encouraged to 'keep up the good work'. This made Royston very happy, and he skipped off to tell all his friends.

I've just finished reading said academic's latest blockbuster. What is his/her last chapter, of roughly 100 pages, about?

a) The evolution of warts
b) A history of screaming (ten pounds to the lucky reader who guesses where this is stolen from)
c) Exactly what I told his/her I was doing last August

Ten months work down the drain. I'm screwed from a number of angles. Firstly, even if I go ahead with my research - I think I might be able to take a different approach with the material - my work, which is completely and unconditionally my own - it will look derivative. It might also be construed as plagiarism. Secondly, as this academic is a member of my department, I can't rip his/her findings to shreds because I won't be allowed to viva. Politics. Thirdly, if I go back to square one, I probably won't finish my thesis till approximately 2009.

I'm not the first person that this has happened to. I've heard horror stories of supervisors stealing entire research projects just as the student was about to publish. And I'm not even pissed off that I was beaten to it (although it is fairly gut-wrenching as the last 3 chapters are the only ones I've ever written that I'm proud of, and the last ten months have been prolific. Any budding academic reading this will now how bouts of industry might only actually come along once in a lifetime in this game) because that happens all the time too.

What does piss me off is that an established academic would willingly let me walk down a dark alley, that they would even encourage me to do so, while knowing that there was no way out. I've just wasted almost a year of my life because he/she hadn't the decency to steer me away from such a fruitless path.

Life sucks, doesn't it?

The Great National Bastard? (RIP)

2006-06-13T11:04:00.000Z

As I write the Angelus bell is ringing. Somehow fitting as I attempt to eulogise a life without parallel.

A few years back, the former Minister for Health and Supreme Court Judge, Thomas O'Higgins, passed away. O'Higgins was notable for two events; the establishment of the VHI in 1957 and a Supreme Court decision that upheld the illegality of homosexual relationships in 1982. Neither of these moments would have found favour with me had I been alive at the time, and I said so in numerous conversations with friend and foe alike, questioning the fawning adulation afforded to him by editorials in the national media. I was berated for criticising the dead before the warmth had left his veins. Many friends who I've known and loved for years were appalled that I could be so cold.

This morning I announced the death of Charles Haughey to a number of colleagues in the tea-station. Aroused from their World Cup musings, they laughed and hollered. Their response to the passing of another human being reminded me of John Cleese's eulogy at the funeral of his dear friend, Graham Chapman; 'Good riddance to him, the free-loading bastard, I hope he burns'. Unfortunately the savage irony present on that occasion made no appearance in the tea-station this morning.

Never has a man evinced such a mixed reaction. I can easily imagine staunch FFers on their knees today, shrouded in melancholy and grief, mourning the passing of great man. I can imagine other FFers dancing reels and jigs at the temporal demise of the man who tore their party's unity to shreds. I can imagine Garret being genuinely disappointed at the loss of his adversary, accompanying his sadness with an elongated sigh that the great legislator eventually failed to realise anything other than a flawed pedigree. I can imagine Mara laughing at memories of his master's acerbic wit on the backroads of Ireland as Haughey courted the Cumainn. I can imagine students and righteous indignants howling and hoping that his last hours were more painful than the cold winters visited upon O.A.P.s in the early eighties as the fuel allowance was cut. I can imagine more than a few nod and wink merchants leaned against fences across the land revelling in the romance of it all, the undeniable reality that their man never suffered for being a cute hoor, and neither would they. Most of all, I embrace a vision of Brian Lenihan, perched on a silver cloud, delighted that his partner in crime is coming home, brimming with aphorisms that he's been saving up since his own death, redolent of his wit the day Charlie retired from politics. Surveying the pandemonium that was playing itself out within the party, Lenihan jibed, 'Look at them, they haven't a clue what do to! The bland leading the bland!'

Haughey was a brilliant legislator. Free Travel for Over 65s. The Succession Act. While his tax exemptions for artists allow greedy bastards like U2 to avoid putting something back into the society that created them, it also allows marginal artists to scrape by, thus enriching our society. The favours for the bloodstock industry, while less easily defended, prevented that industry's collapse; we need only to look to what happened in France when incentives were withdrawn as evidence that treating Magner et al favourably was on the money. Furthermore, his presence in government in the sixties with O'Malley and Lenihan represented a changing of the guard and a new, proactive approach to the problems of the day. One can only wonder what he might have achieved if the Arms Trial - on which I am no expert, so I will refrain from comment - hadn't cut his career short.

And then there was the dark side. Fine living while the country starved. A man dressed in Charvet suits while pensioners wrapped themselves in moth-ridden blankets. Island life while his own native island ejaculated its children to the furthest reaches of the globe. And his relationship to Ben Dunne.

I find it difficult to become irate when commenting on those payments. Did Charles Haughey create corruption in Irish life, or did corruption in Irish life create Charles Haughey? His dedication to the country in the early years of his career cannot be denied. As time passed, he became corrupted by the allure of power. Which one of us doesn't. We tend to look at Haughey now and see a distant murky past that has been left behind along with emigration and bosco. That murky past lives on in three words. The Galway Races.

My main criticisms of his tenure relate to his clenched fist approach to the corridors of power. In 1981, he informed the country that it needed to rationalise. He subsequently awarded a MASSIVE pay rise to a bloated public sector that had bled the country dry throughout the late seventies. It was an act of wanton political cowardice. As was his sacking of Lenihan - although the latter was more understandable; it was what the party wanted, and what Lenihan himself wouuld have done had the roles been reversed. But the eighties are littered with events that compromised the onward march of Irish society, motivated by short-term political gain, and the man at the centre of it all was Charles Haughey.

But such is politics. And such intrigue did not begin or end with the Squire of Kinsealy. You have the IFSC. You have Government Buildings, one of Dublin's most awesome architectural sights. You have DIT and Limerick as modern universities, at the forefront of global research. And you have the Bert, who was blooded by Charlie.

A mixed legacy. Undoubtedly. But in many ways, a brilliant one.

When Haughey bid adieu to Leinster House in 1992, the scent of Shakespearean tragedy hung in the air. On this momentous day, the words of the bard ring true once more.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;

Hi Diddle-de-dee, a journo's life for me

2006-06-02T08:47:00.000Z

I've always wanted to be a journalist. A lenghty career on Fleet Street - or Tara Street as it soon shall be - followed by an eponymous novel documenting life in Ireland at our moment in time has always been the dream. But I've continuously found it hard to get started. Especially since I wasted my years at college being involved in something I shouldn't have been in involved in.

To remedy this, I entered a sports writing competition ran by my local paper. The winner was to be given a regular job and the freedom to graze his cattle on the town green. Well, not quite. Only Bono has been granted this privilege. My interest was nourished by the fact that Tom Humphries, Ireland's second greatest living sports hack, was one of the judges.

I didn't win. But I did come second. They'll publish my article on June 14th. For most readers, this is trivial, a minor triumph in a local rag. But for me, this is huge. Huger than huge. Words won't suffice.

Here it is.

SPORT AND MEANING

In the Beginning there was the Word, and the Word became God. And God created Man, who then created Sport. In retribution, disgusted that Creation had thought of it before Him, God created Luck. And therein lies the key to Manchester United’s victory in the 1999 European Cup Final.

The English social commentator Francis Wheen, analysing the exaggerated orgy of national mourning that accompanied the death of Princess Diana in 1997, concluded that the only rational explanation was humanity’s desire to belong to something greater than itself. The British people had been deprived of the means of communicating with each other through the sustained atomisation of their society. Eager to connect with their neighbours and to invest in sumptuous social capital, they flocked to each other’s garden fences and grieved in unity.

Sport is one of the principal alembics within which community, an ideal that has lost some of its currency through the modernisation of Irish society, might be distilled once more. The traditional bulwarks of shared identity – Church, one-eyed nationalism, Gay Byrne – have either disintegrated or disappeared. Yet while Catholicism still seeks to address the fundamentals of modern living, nationalism has, to some extent and not before time, given way to a more multicultural social model, and Gaybo contents himself with sporadic televised jaunts down memory lane, thousands of us still congregate, week in week out, at sporting venues across the land to participate in glorious athletic communion. And so it was that a crowd of us tumbled along to Parnell Park last weekend, where down-and-out Dublin took high-fliers Mayo on a whistle-stop tour of the National League Division 1a dance floor.

The rain was wild, and the climate far from mild, as we rushed down from Elm Mount Road to Dublin’s home ground, the impressive floodlights towering over sullen Donnycarney Church luring us ever onwards. Late as usual, we arrived just as the teams were taking to the pitch, and the presence among the visitors’ convoy of Ciarán McDonald was duly, gleefully noted. He wasn’t togged out, but that day would inevitably come. Anticipation rising.

Eyes fixed on Mickey Moran, the man who had breathed new life into our county team. His trawl through the vast reservoir of eager talent that lay dormant across the Plain of the Yew had bore sumptuous fruit, and a new wave of optimism spread through the county that always dares to hope.

For those of us who live away from home, ensconced in this ever-enlarging capital, another away tie against the Dubs, following on from last years Round One stormer, was a great blessing as our pilgrimage was shortened considerably. The floodlit sheen of the venue belied the uncertainty of the playing surface, which had in recent times endured torrents unheard of since the era of plagues and locusts. As we stood – had we any choice on the terrace? – for Amhrán na bhFiann, the importance to the scattered Diaspora of events like these began once more to dawn upon our brows. Glances traded with old school pals. Knowing winks and awkward nods. Friends long forgotten emerging from the woodwork of the past to remind you of who you were, nay, who you are. The impressive crowd populated by many émigrés whose knowledge of the sport might be deemed questionable. It mattered not; they were there to feel part of something. To belong.
The ball was thrown in, and the visitors slid into a two point lead, with Austin O’Malley chalking up the first score, followed by a cool brace from the fresher, Alan Durcan. The signs were comforting for Mayo. Alas signs in Ireland never really paint the full picture. The surface contained all the certainties of a glacial summit, and Dublin closed their opponents down in a determined manner that gave rise to an indefinable, yet ultimately recognisable anxiety. Benighted since the early promise shown against Tyrone by charges of indifference and anonymity, they finally took charge of their own destiny.

The goal, in the end, came quickly. Mark Vaughan, reminiscent of Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, stole in between Higgins and Nallen to win the ball and begin a move that ended in rapture for the Dubs. Tomás Quinn ploughed the ball past John Healy, and the terrace erupted in a flow of navy and blue. Psychologically, the weight of the blow was tangible. A boisterous but apocalyptically cynical Mayo ‘fan’ behind us, bedecked in waves of green and red, cried “Game Over”, and promptly stormed off into the angry night. Such are the passions that these occasions excite.

No sooner had we rallied around the rationale that all was not lost, than our hopes were sullied once more. Dublin were awarded, or depending on your perspective gifted, a penalty. We steadied ourselves by sagely noting that penalties in Gaelic Football are notoriously difficult to convert. No such luck. Mossy drilled the ball home, and Dublin led by 2-2 to 0-3.

Behind the Mayo goal the chant rang out, ‘Come on you Boys in Blue, Come on you Boys in Blue’. We pinched ourselves, thinking for a moment that we had been wondrously transported to Stamford Bridge. The purists pursed their lips; we did not follow suit. Unsporting jeers and boos aside, the revelry added more than it took away from the occasion, and provided a stark contrast to our own fears and sense of self-pity.

Despite a Mayo rally late in the first half which narrowed the gap to three points at the interval, Paul Claffey’s half-time talk harnessed his men steadfastly to their task and they proceeded to tear through Mayo’s listless ranks. The visitors scored just one goal and four points to Dublin’s more assured tally of two goals and six. When Alan Brogan pounced to exploit a late backline error and scored Dublin’s final goal, it was all over bar the shouting. And oh how the faithful roared. Redemption was sought and assured.

Analysis? Dublin wanted it more. The dogs in the street had that for us as we descended once more onto Collins Avenue. All the hoary old clichés. The better team won out on the day. On top of them all, Mayo sorely missed Ronan McGarrity in the middle of the park, where they were duly annihilated, and of the senior players who did tog out, James Nallen and David Heaney were uncharacteristically guilty of prolific errors. Put simply, it was a bad day at the office. It seemed on this night the Dubs’ desire was greater.
It has been a wonderful league campaign – an institution that is rising like a phoenix from the ashes of irrelevance that plagued it in the past – so far for Mayo. From the euphoria of Round One, where the Kingdom finally witnessed a coup d’etat, to the drudgery of the contests with Fermanagh and Cork, the byword was regeneration. John Maughan’s era brought sustained success, but ultimate stumbles at the final hurdle. Mickey Moran’s task is to bring this talented team of gallant volunteers across the finish line. The result in Parnell Park was indeed a setback, but the Connacht Championship is still two months away. What’s more, it’s still all to play for in the NFL. Tyrone won’t be too worried. Then again, neither will Mayo.

As we walked out onto the Malahide Road and turned away from the ground, we were lost in thought. No floodlights guided us to our destination now, but the glow in our souls prevailed even in the wake of this most convincing and upsetting of losses. For over an hour, each of us had belonged to something greater than the sum of our parts, Dub and culchie alike. We were the faithful, concelebrants at an evangelical, ecumenical altar, where fortune favoured the brave, but also shone upon all who showed up. Our lives are so busy, and often so detached from our upbringing and those we cherish, that events such as these are solid gold. It was, as it always is, a privilege to witness these brave warriors do battle for their counties and for nothing else. There is a lesson in there somewhere. Sport enlivens and enriches national culture from the bottom up, from the under-10s kitted out each Saturday in Maypark, Burrishoole, Louisburgh, Portmarnock, to name but a few, through Derval O’Rourke hurdling towards History in Moscow, to the referee’s final whistle in the death-knell of September. It is to be cherished with the intensity the parent feels for the child, because it is ours. It is our heritage.

The West’s Awake. Even in Dublin 5.

No No No No NO!

2006-05-26T09:08:00.000Z

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'

2006-05-26T09:00:00.000Z

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

2006-05-18T09:33:00.000Z

'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

2006-05-16T13:08:00.000Z

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

It's a Sad World

2006-04-07T11:05:00.000Z

Has anyone else seen the RaboDirect ad that's asking people what they're going to do with their SSIA's? One of the suggestions is a new pair of boobs.

Does anyone else find this utterly tragic?

2007 will be a difficult year for Royston,as he is one of the thirteen people who hasn't subscribed to the Free Money Scheme, which will guide Fianna Fáil into a significant extension of their parliamentary junta. Oh well, no new boobs for me.

Sorry for light blogging of late, I've been busy trying to conquer the world and grieve for McGahern.

Death of A Gentleman

2006-03-30T14:14:00.000Z

R.I.P. John McGahern. His writings moved me more than words can express, making sense of ancient grievances and breathing lyrical life into the dusty realm of Irish literature. He will be sadly missed. More anon.

The Cartoon Thieves

2006-03-14T12:32:00.000Z

Last August, myself and my significant other embarked on a whirlwind, unplanned tour of this fair isle. Originally, a (former) friend had promised me the keys to her parent's holiday home in Dingle, where we would recuperate after a manic summer. However, despite repeated assurances to the contrary, the day arrived and ex-friend wasn't answering her phone. Confronting her at work, I affected a 'how could you possibly fuck me over like this' stance, while she chose the 'I honestly thought it was next weekend, and I've lost my phone' path. Suspicious, I took my phone out and proceeded to call hers. The concomitant slatiness of her pallor confirmed my worst supsicions before i heard a familiar ringtone - hers - she had been lying all along. I never found out why and we haven't spoken since. No apology. No cottage.

I digress. Crestfallen, we resolved to make the best of a bad situation, and headed off with little intention but to remain alive for the weekend. We took in Tralee, bereft of the fun and frolics one might associate with the Rose of Tralee, which was being held that weekend, and had a tasty chinese meal prepared and served by the speedy gonzalez of the waitering world. On to Dingle, and the Blaskets, where I berated a long-since deceased Peig Sayers for ruining the lives of innumerable leaving cert students with her drab portrayal of island life. We had pizza in a funky wine bar and stole a poetry book which neither of us have ever read, and partook in a session with a one-dimensional lunatic accordion player and a drunken navvy who could affect the sound of a flute...with his bare hands. Our day trip to Killarney was hijacked by two hitchikers, with whom we drank far too much in a pub outside Killorglin while waxing lyrical on the vacuity of the modelling world. I also had my first run on our trip - 2 miles up and down a threatening hill drenched in summer rays. It would be reasonable to suggest that I hold our wonderful excursion in the highest regard, and the love that had been born months beforehand flourished and grew to an almost unimaginable level.

But we weren't through. Onward to Galway, where we bunked with Sean and Karen, old dear friends. At a loss as to how to pass one lazy evening, we took a chance on this band. And they blew us away. I had never been more impressed than I was by their electic mix of rockabilly and euphoria. Their craftsmanship was unprecedented in my experience. For months I plundered the interweb, seeking morsels of info on their present shenanigans. I found none...until today. On Monday 20 March, The Cartoon Thieves, in all their resplendent, indifferent glory, play Voodoo. I cannot say enough about these guys, they are absolutely fantastic, and I guarantee they won't disappoint. Go along, it won't cost an arm...or a leg.

Now to add my two cents...

2006-03-03T11:48:00.000Z

Where were you when the Dublin riots broke out? I was happily tucking into Frank McNally's column in Saturday's Times, safely aboard the 12.40 to Westport. As the train skulked through the lazy, cold spring sunshine, I received a text from my younger brother. It read 'Dublin is burning'. I was reminded of the late Bill Hicks, who suffered a similar fate when the admittedly more serious carnage broke out in L.A.

Like Small Ball of Anger,I was too busy thinking about the whole thing to blog about it any sooner. I'd spent the previous week complaining that little of interest ever happened in Dublin, so the irony was not lost on me as i sat on a train while disaffected urban types and republican cranks ripped the main thoroughfare to shreds.

Excellent witness statements can be found here, here, here and here. As for the response it has evoked, well, it's clear that the condemnations of the establishment have been motivated broadly by two different considerations; one, the unflinching desire to smear the shinners in any way possible ahead of the 90th anniversary commemoration of 1916, and the wish to avoid a discussion surrounding the underlying cause of the bulk of the rioting; the poorly-articulated grievances of an urban underclass. Clad in the jerseys of clubs from the imperial atrium that they loathe so much, who wished to vent their anger at a state and media that they feel cares so little about them.

It is difficult to feel any sympathy towards these louts, especially when they were all bedecked in far more expensive clothes than most of us can afford. And it would be inaccurate to ascribe to the mob anything but an epithet of thuggery. As for republican grievance, I'm with Karl on the level of hating said one-eyed beast with a venom normally reserved for reactionaries like Joe Duffy and Ray D'Arcy.

The march was a bad idea. I see no reason why an organisation that was to spread the idea to 'Love Ulster' needs to promulgate such a message down here. Surely they have far more pressing business at home. Until the people of Northern Ireland get their collective shit together, there's no point trying to spread the positive word. Because it doesn't exist.

In the other hand, I'm disappointed that we couldn't turn the other cheek. I don't believe Orangemen marching down O'Connell Street is an incitement to violence. At least it shouldn't be. They pose no threat to us. And yes, they're bigots. But do we not want Unionists to do business with the Shinners, who want nothing less than the abolition of the northern statelet, in politics and government? Surely if we do, we must accept the right of wreck-the-head Nordies to march here. Furthermore, it must be stated that the Orange Order, like the G.A.A. and the Catholic Church, is an All-Ireland institution.

The march was an excuse for those who feel left behind, rightly or wrongly, by the agressive economic expansion of the last ten years. I thoroughly condemn the wrong-headed violence and the intellectual emptiness of their actions. Nevertheless, I find their reaction interesting. This was the first urban riot in the history of the state, a poorly-organised but extremely passionate attack on the power of the centre. Irony of Ironies, by hijacking a protest organised by nationalism against unionism to vent the anger of a disaffected minority against the organs of state power, did these scumbag rioters unwittingly write the first words of a new chapter in the history of our society?

A tentative thesis, yes, but one that certainly merits further discussion.

On a personal level, as I watched coverage of the riot later that evening, it saddened me to see the city in flames. I love Dublin deeply, words failing to convey my connection with its nooks and crannies. When I lived in Rathgar, I would walk to town on a Saturday to peruse the second hand bookshops and perhaps busk if it wasn't too cold, and as I crossed Portobello bridge, vibrant with its elegant swans and the drone of those sitting on the lock further down at the barge, I would feel the city rise through me, its urban beat pulsating through my body and welcoming me home. Now, I live in Drumcondra and on my route to town I pass through the modern-day tenements, the loins of Saturday's riots. And I fucking hate them for hurting the city that means everything to me.*

*I know this is a selfish view, but I believe the events of the 25th of March had a personal relevance for us all, as citizens of Dublin and I would welcome those sentiments from you all.

Those Crazy Situationists

2006-02-24T13:27:00.000Z

Thanks to a certain Dumb Riffer for his lively paper on Modernism in the Streets. Delivered with characteristic bravado and intellectual force, the boy Whitney proved that these events can be as entertaining as they are informative. Furthermore, his musings on the conflict between youth and the establishment, radicalism and authority have particular relevance for contemporary Belfield. To that end, I propose a re-reading of his paper in Astra Hall, to all of our vice-presidents, fittingly tied up by the entrails of our great leader Big Brother Brady. Well, maybe not. Great paper though

Come In Michael Dwyer Your Time Is Up

2006-02-24T13:16:00.000Z

I choked when he lauded 'The Trouble With Sex', I looked the other way when he applauded Irish films simply because they were Irish, but I can't stand idly by and ignore his review of Broken Flowers on DVD, published here in full as a vindication of my long-held view that Mr. Dwyer has the critical sensibilities of a blind Sherpa mountain guide isolated from peers and social evolution by the forces of nature. Except for Dywer, subsitute 'the fact that he is a silly twat' in the place of 'forces of nature'.

'Jarmusch applies his trademark sensitivity, humanity and idiosyncratic humour to a touching road movie in which a confirmed bachelor (Murray at his most impassive - or useless, depending on the soundness of your judgement) revisits former lovers when he learns he has a 19-year-old son. It becomes a melancholy journey through his past (or for the viewer, a painful journey through a woeful pile of cellushite) as he seeks out the son and discovers a great deal about himself'.

Is this the same film I saw? All Murray seemed to learn was that the lazier the role, the easier the money, and all I learned on this voyage of self-discovery was something I should have already known. Jarmusch is a moron. And so is Michael Dwyer. Guilt through association

Heheheh

2006-02-17T12:24:00.000Z

Today's word: Celebritard. Found halfway through a highly amusing article on Pete Doherty - SBoA you must check this out - posted by these highly entertaining gentlemen. Originally from Hecklerspray. Great Site.

To Own or not to Own?

2006-02-16T13:29:00.000Z

Recently, as friends, enemies and casual well-wishers alike have began to penetrate our intimate conversations with problematic phrases like "It's only for 35 years", "Once I have the lodgers in place, it'll all be plain sailing" and "If I cut down on unnecessaries such as food, shower gel and a second pair of mocassins, I won't even feel the payments coming out of my bank account", my thoughts have naturally turned to the perilous topic of home ownership. It's all the rage nowadays, especially among, well, everyone. Trading up or trading down, this property craze has us all acting like clowns and it is PARALYZING mature conversations. Oh how I yearn for the days when all we talked about was the meaning of Smiths songs, and sartorial elegance was confined to wandering around your rustic, leaky bedsit in nowt but a moth-ridden bedrobe, simultaneously fashioning the remnants of your spartan food cupboard into something vaguely edible and looking for bits of hash on the unfortunately brown carpet. Now hoodies have been replaced by Woodies and "I got a good deal" refers to the porcelain tea set idling in the kitchen in preparation for a visit from Aunty Mabel.

So to buy or not to buy? Is it really worth all the hassle? The principle reason for pitching the wigwam is that people are sick of throwing dead money away every week, especially to a landlord that complacently refuses to fix the broken kitchen. But surely this dead money has its uses. Once you've paid your rent, your responsibility for the property and its infinite perils is spirited away. You don't need to worry about leaks, cracks, carpets, or cookers. It's all somebody else's problem. On the other hand, when the deeds reside in your bureau by the telephone in the porch, well, all is changed utterly. And as for dead money, a friend recently pointed out to me that it would be 21 years before his mortgage payments covered the price of the house and the interest owed to the bank in equal measure. Concomitantly, we realise once again that the banks are the biggest fuckers of all on this dizzying carousel.

So it's a path fraught with intrepid danger. And with significant cost, regardless of whether you continue to be buggered by your landlord or enslaved by this state's eminent financial institutions. I'll leave the last word(s) to my favourite wordsmith, the inimitable Dylan Moran.

"If you rent, you spoon feed your future to an insatiable landlord; if you buy, you spend all day rehearsing pleas to the bailiffs. You have to pay lawyers, life insurers, the council, service charges and the wandering minstrel house buyers triangle band. There's rent, street tax and all the money you need for Windowlene. It's all impossible, but you have to do it."

Wahey!

2006-02-13T13:45:00.000Z

Having spent the weekend crippled by migraine, I found myself a thoroughly spent force this morning. You can imagine, then, my total and utter horror at finding out that Wikipedia is down.

How to Procrastinate??

Well, thanks to dear old Caddy, a void is filled. Here are my "7 Things".

1. Seven Things I Must Do Before I Die

1. Kill James Blunt
2. Cut an album
3. Write wickedly funny satire that will make people wonder "Myles who??"
4. Learn the mysteries of the four-hand-reel
5. Find a useful channel for my vast reserves of anger and contempt
6. Commit to a career.
7. Convince Ireland that Ray D'Arcy is not really a great fella. He is, in actual fact, a shite.
8. Destroy Fine Gael
9. Present Questions and Answers and side with the small man while simultanaeously paddling John Bowman and reciting the Magnificat
10. Convince people whose hair is clearly greying, but who have lashed on the Just for Men, but seek to cunningly disguise this fact by leaving just a hint of their natural colour around the temples, that they're fooling NOBODY!!

2. Seven Things I Cannot Do

1. Forgive
2. Forget
3. Repent
4. Repeal
5.Revise
6. Revere
7. Revoke

3. Seven Things That Attract Me To A City

1. Its history
2. Its cafés and bookshops
3. Its music scene
4. Its walkability
5. Its people
6. Its cuisine
7. How much fun it is to simply "be" there

4. Seven Things I Say

1. Bono is a dick
2. Ah come on
3. Die Blunt Die!
4. Decidedly shambolic
5. I thoroughly concur
6. It's not a complaint, merely an observation
7. Don't make me laugh...bitterly (stolen from the great Dylan Moran

5. Seven Books I Like

1. The Lord of the Rings
2. Down and Out in Paris and London
3. Lost Illusions by Balzac
4. Round Ireland With A Fridge
5. The Barracks
6. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
7. More Than A Game (Con Houlihan selection)

6. Seven Movies That I Loved

1. The Motorcycle Diaries
2. The Edukators
3. Almost Famous
4. O Brother Where Art Thou
5. High Fidelity
6. Fellowship of the Ring
7. Traffic

7. Seven People To Tag

1. Shane
2. Karl
3. Dav
4. My Blogless Better Half!
5. Small Ball of Anger
6. Brophicus Maximus
7. Aunty Helpful Dictator

I know most of you have already been tagged, but i don't care. There are no rules here. Mwuhahahaha.

Top of the League, Mary

2006-02-10T14:24:00.000Z

I have been quite belittling of Mary Hanafin recently, and I don't think I have been too out of order. However, on the issue of School League tables, one might argue that she has proven herself a worthy enough Minister for Education. In response to Damien Kiberd's criticism of the proposed scheme - the parameters were limited, limp, insipid and anodyne - and Olywn Enrights nonsensical rumblings about how Fine Gael would have the same scheme, only better - enough already! - Hanafin sold her scheme quite well. It would take the emphasis away from the narrow parameter of Leaving Cert results and would grade schools more on the grounds of facilities, accessibility, extra-curricular achievements etc. While these indicators of the quality of a school have in-built snob-value-systems too, it is difficult to argue that this new, expanded scheme is no improvement on the old system.

Kiberd, however, did make a very good point. If school league tables were extended to assess the improvement of a student from 1st to 6th year, we would then be making progress. On the other hand, his suggestion was characteristically vague and would, no doubt be extremely difficult to implement.

It is interesting to note that almost the entire Questions and Answers audience disagreed with school league tables alone. This near-universal unanimity was broken only by the tiring catch-caws of the odd sniping parent, wondering 'how he could know what was best for his child'. This is the type of guttersnipe that has his eight year old daughter enrolled in Yoga through French without ever wondering how to nourish a love of enlightenment within her that might last a lifetime, and worries about cultural change robbing his offspring of their childhood without ever making the profound realisation that he might be doing it himself all on his own.

The debate raised the interesting and important issue of the media setting the public agenda. Bowman stated explicitly, regardless of the implications for parents, children and teachers, that "You can't stop the media publishing school league tables". In fairness, we can't really expect John to care, especially as his own sprogs were schooled in Sandford Park, one of Dublin's premier private schools. He was reprimanded by a former ASTI General Secretary - herself critical of this drive for information which, she alleged, was being fuelled by a very small band of middle-class parents - when he said "Education Correspondents will tell you nothing exercises parents more than school league tables," to which she tellingly replied "No, John, nothing exercises education correspondents more than school league tables!" This, if nothing else, suggests that the newspaper men need watching in this area. Next September, when the latest batch of feeder schools are announced, check the education pages for analysis of funding and our low OECD rating....

Britain is now getting rid of school league tables on account of the MASSIVE damage they have inflicted upon an already-beinighted education system. We ourselves are about to embark on even more comprehensive grading of our schools than is already in place.

We made the same mistake with Ballymun.

Is It All Really Worth It?

2006-02-10T14:14:00.000Z

Today's Irish Times carries a picture of a young Lebanese Muslim Shia child beating himself with a razor - A RAZOR! - during a religious ceremony in Nabatiyeh, South Lebanon yesterday.

Has anyone else seen this photo? The child's face is drenched with his own blood, drawn from the self-inflicted scars that cover his scalp. His eyes stare vacantly at the camera, his mouth is open wide as he wields his razor over his head.

The poor, poor child. No religious ceremony, image or tradition can justify what he is doing to himself. It is barbarous. Absolutely barbarous.

To those who might criticize me for being disrespectful towards Islamic culture, I ask this one simple question; if you were aware that this was happening as part of a Catholic ceremony/protest in Drumcondra, Rathfarnham, Mullingar, Castlebar, or any Irish town, can you honestly say that you wouldn't be outraged?

It's a bad world. And as always, it's the kids that are caught bang in the fucking middle

Bono Fide Bastards

2006-02-10T14:04:00.000Z

God I hate them. Six Grammies this year. 21 in all. And no one knows who Sons and Daughters are. Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own was awarded song of the year. How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb got the Best Album gong. The starving children in Africa must be delighted. I wonder are they listening to U2 pathetically parodying ther earlier form on their custom signed I-Pods. Oh wait, Bono gave his last one to George Bush.

Bah. Humbug.

Three Cheers for Ireland!

2006-02-09T16:01:00.000Z

Finally a good news story. The European Commission yesterday urged all members of the Union to follow Ireland's example and remove restrictions on the movement of workers from Eastern Europe. That's gas isn't it? Our little corrupt, gombeen state leading the way on such an important issue?
FG and Labour have done irreparable damage to their electoral chances on this issue, and this crank believes that we could be witnessing a Road to Damascus moment. However incompetent the present incumbents are, they are a great deal better than the alternative - and I state this as Mayoman with no party affiliations WHATSOEVER, who would benefit greatly in having two fellow county men in the hot seats. The country on the other hand...

I rarely get to say this, but..........I'm with McDowell on this one, who said that the Commission Report showed that the Labour Party's reference to the introduction of work permits was "politically wrong and economically purposeless". Amen

From todays Irish Times (How do you make the copyright symbol?)

Royston Repents

2006-02-09T15:34:00.000Z

Sorry for

1. The sluggish reply to topics on Q and A this week. I know its Thursday and I know I have no life. But these issues are important ones and I'm intent on covering them. Also I've been sick.

2. The lack of light-hearted stuff of late. It's a cruel cruel world out there!

Tommorrow: Strippers and Teachers

Debate Over Muslim Caricature

2006-02-09T15:21:00.000Z

I'm not going to add my two cents here, as I have already done so here. Dav is covering this debate quite well and I would urge you to check out his views on the matter, and the views of our resident politics/media sage, Caddicus. What I will do is give a brief run-down of the the conflicting ideas propounded by the panel on Questions and Answers on Monday night.

Damien Kiberd: "We should not compromise hard-won freedoms. The cartoons are unedifying but that's the flip-side of free speech".

Finola Meredith: Too gratuitous (not here, the cartoons)

David Norris: Human life is more sacred than any image, however regrettable the images might be, and, as such, the radical Islamic response is outrageous.

And finally, Mary Hanafin actually said this, I'm not making it up, I heard it with my own tired ears...

"Anything that causes offence should not be published"

Welcome to the Thirties!

My own personal view is that Muslims have every right to be offended by the images, but those who have embraced violence as a result of the offence caused have no right to be so fucking militant about it. But they were, and they are, so it's a a problem that cannot be avoided.

And I completely agree with the argument that media nourishment of the issue was a cynical attempt to hijack the issue to increase circulation. Typical. And wrong

Ownership of 1916

2006-02-09T12:38:00.000Z

Mary Hanafin is a "great fan of the Proclamation". She said so herself on Questions and Answers on Monday night. The Minister of Education, or CEO of MurderMachine.Com if you like, commended the progressiveness of the document, and pointed out that 1916 belongs to us all, as part of our heritage. This was peculiar given that the 75th anniversary celebrations of the Rising in 1991 were extremely low-key. Heritage, like commemoration it appears, is a very flexible friend.

The question of ownership of 1916 is not one that has taken quietly to the bed, even after the greater part of a century. Its commemoration in 1991 was subdued because of the physical force element of the Rising, which was perceived by elements within the still-active Provisional IRA as bestowing legitimacy on any armed struggle that confronted the imperial might of the British. The legacy of the Rising was, therefore, tainted, and consequently ignored by the political establishment. The media chose to follow suit. The rancorous debate surrounding the issue is catalogued in Revising the Rising, a collection of essays dealing with the ins and outs of one of Irish History's most contested issues.

The rancour has not died down, and the debate on Q and A highlighted this reality. Hanafin's remarks were typically generic and did not address the underlying motivation behind Fianna Fáil's race to the bottom of the commemoration barrel, i.e., to head the Shinners off at the pass. Her reading of the situation was hotly contested by the always entertaining but perpetually blundering David Norris, who questioned the wisdom behind commemorating an event so shrouded in the concept of 'blood sacrifice', Pearse's wonderful euphenism for shepherding the boys of St. Enda's through cleansing ritual of sacrificing their internal organs on the battlefield to purge Hibernia of its former tragedies. Knock-out stuff.

The real legacy of 1916 is this. The promises made, however honorable and high-minded, ushered in a generation of politicians so bereft of imagination and a sense of civic duty that the "august destiny" promised in the Proclamation had much more of the cold, dark November night about it; censorship, conservatism, religious orthodoxy and an horrendous, explicit contempt for the less prosperous elements of society. The celtic, catholic mysticism inherent in the document contributed to the alienation of the North, which was clearly highlight by Finola Meredith on Q and A, who, a northerner herself, felt outside the parameters of the debate.

This is not to blame the leaders of the Rising for what came in the aftermath. But it is to highlight how their contemporaries, hiding behind the progressiveness of the Proclamation, proceeded to enforce the exact opposite kind of society that was promised by Pearse's words. This political dishonesty is still rampant today; every time a Fianna Fáiler opens his/her mouth, an angel in heaven dies.

That we haven't come so far as we may like to think was borne out by the tenor of the debate, which receded gradually from a simple question asked by an audience member into an an impassioned, narrow, sniping debate.

As for commemorating the event, I'll leave the last word to Finola Meredith, who, as a northerner should probably feel even more betrayed by the unkept promises of 1916 - the political establishment turned avoiding the issue of partition into a fine art for over fifty years. In response to Bertie's pledge to hold a military parade, she questioned this show of armed "might".

"By all means let's have remembrance, but remembrance in a nuanced way. Not by parading military might up and down O'Connell Street while the conflict in the North is unresolved"*

*I'm paraphrasing here, but it's extremely close to what she actually said.

Bollox Bollox Bollox

2006-02-08T13:11:00.000Z

Have just deleted an entire post about ownership of 1916. Bollox. And I don't have time to retype it. Tomorrow's posts will also deal with School League Tables, The Stringfellows debate and why Questions and Answers should have David Norris every week.

Also, I ran a 5 mile race on Sunday. In 38 minutes. I'm still high from it!

Tough One

2006-02-06T11:11:00.000Z

Family Guy or South Park? This has been bugging me all weekend

Bush-els of Nonsense

2006-02-02T13:46:00.000Z

"In a time of testing, we cannot find security by abandoning our commitments and retreating within our borders. If we were to leave these attackers alone, they would not leave us alone. They would simply move the battlefield to our own shores. There is no peace in retreat. And there is no honour in retreat."

I don't feel the need to retaliate verbally against this sanctimonious drivvel. But y'all feel free to do so.

No Sleaze in Our Area!

2006-02-02T12:51:00.000Z

Big shout out to Vera Brady, who stood 'shivering in the cold outside Stringfellows' at its grand opening last night, waving placards and forecasting doom.

"This used to be a safe place", she roared, "Now I'll be living next door to a strip club. Men coming out of there will be all hyped up. How do we know if women will be safe?"

1. Parnell Street is, and probably always be, a shithole. It is one of the least appealing areas of Dublin, notable only for the UGC cinema - I'll be cold in my grave before I acknowledge it as 'cineworld' - and the delicious pork sausages sold in Aldi, a top-end foot retail outlet...Stringfellows is not even making a bad situation worse. It couldn't possibly have gotten any worse than it already was.

2. The terrifying image of testosterone-fuelled alpha males tumbling out on the streets after a lap-dance and ravaging the local squaws because they want the real thing is frankly laughable. This doesn't happen outside Lapellos on Dame Street, which, incidentally, is a far more scurrilous establishment, so why should it happen outside Stringfellows?

I can't bring myself to believe that Vera Brady is actually a real person. But the above quotation, and the one that follows, is from the Irish Times and is part of a report by Carl O'Brien, an eminently serious journalist who usually covers the Childrens' Court. As a parting shot, our crusading hero blamed "the dancing laws that go back to 1935...That was for Irish dancing. There's none of that going on in here".

You couldn't make it up. I passed Stringfellows last night on my way to the Cobblestone for a trad session. Vera Brady was not alone. These people have far, FAR too much time on their hands.

And it wasn't cold enough to cause a person to shiver. It was, in fact, quite mild!

I should point out that I'm no great advocate of strip clubs, I simply don't think their particulary harmful, especially ones like Stringfellows, which maintain a high media profile and are, as such, more accountable than places like Lapellos. The behaviour of some club owners towards their staff is deplorable and wrong. But I fear this was not the motive behind the protests last night. It was the frenzied braying of conservative yahoos, the natural successors to the honorable citizens who assaulted pro-choice campaigners in 1983 and were the architects of a moral climate that saw children born out of wedlock legally recognized as second class citizens until the 1970s. And I have no time for them.

Kenny's Heroes

2006-02-01T11:33:00.000Z

From 'Dáil Sketch' by Frank McNally

'A huffy Fine Gael leader demanded an apology for Brian Lenihan's suggestion that his party was "racist" in raising the issue (of early childcare payments to migrant workers). And while Mr Ahern accepted it was not, he said that if the Government had excluded migrants, "I'd have been called the biggest racist in this house".
Irish emigrants in the EU had benefited for decades from similar arrangements and there was no use "groaning and moaning now" because the situation had been reversed, he said.'

Copyright The Irish Times

Good point by Bertie. But why did he accept that FG was not being racist in raising the issue. The cost to the exchequer will be minimal, including migrants in the scheme is not only fair play, it is an acknowledgement of EU law, and in raising the issue on Questions and Answers, Mad Cow McGuinness nourished her thinly veiled attack on sustained immigration with the inference that concern on this point among the voters of middle Ireland was steadily increasing.

How is this not racism?

And another salient point. Why is the media, in its silent complicity, not bringing the Opposition to book over this??

Silk Purse, Sow's Ear

2006-01-31T16:14:00.000Z

It is utterly reprehensible that certain politicians, backed up to the hilt by elements within the media, are doing their level best to play the race card in the run up to next year's election. That bile-inducing, poorly-disguised fascist, Mairead McGuinness is the latest inevitable fellow traveller on the racist bandwagon. On Questions and Answers last night, she tried to cause a furore regarding the news that Cowen's one-off 1000 euro payment to parents of under-sixes would extend to Irish parents of children who resided abroad.

Big. Deal.

Ignoring the reality that this is COMPLETELY in line with EU law and practice, our crusading militia-miss from the midlands bemoaned the cost to the exchequer, arguing that this measure, brought in to lift the burden off parents crippled by creche costs was not achieving its objective, i.e., bringing down creche costs in Ireland.

To play the race card under the guise of budgetary considerations - considered negligible by those in the know, as it happens - is not simply wrongheaded. It is sick. McGuinness, while denying explicitly that she was analyzing the issue from a racial perspective, qualified her inferences with the telling line, '...but it must be said that there is a growing concern on the ground regarding immigration'.

I would like to state, and I hope I'm not alone here, that I am fully aware of the implications of our comparatively lax immigration laws. I am prepared for the reality that, when jobs get scarce, we will all have to compete with those who have arrived over the last few years, and in many cases, we will lose.

Welcome to the real world.

The behaviour of the Opposition on this issue is symptomatic of a political movement starved of new ideas, dynamic figures and justifying its existence as a workable alternative on the pathetic, narrow grounds that it's better than another five years of those other fuckers. I'm beginning to believe that, for all their tangible faults, FF and the PDs are streets ahead of McGuinness and her braindead ilk.

I can't believe I just wrote that last sentence. But let's be realistic here. Bertie, McDowell, Cowen, Harney and Hanafin vs Kenny, Rabbitte, Bruton, that rabid bitch Olivia Mitchel and Liz McManus.

Who would you take home to meet the parents?

Stones of Influence

2006-01-31T14:43:00.000Z

Listened to Pet Sounds last night, which played the top 10 most influential British albums of all times. There was something for everyone. Blur for the indie kids. The Smiths for the lyricists. The Stone Roses for the melodies. The Sex Pistols for pretty much everyone. The Arctic Monkeys for those who don't understand the word 'influential'.

I should state, at this juncture, that this is not a slight upon the Arctic Monkeys, whose music is growing on me at a frightening pace. However, to refer to them at this early stage as 'influential' says more about the world we now live in than it could ever say about the band itself.

No Bowie!

I was shocked.

So in response, I would like to know who you, my three and a half readers believe to be

a. The most influential British band of all time
b. The most influential Irish band of all time
c. The most influential band of all time.

a. Out of a group of The Smiths, The Sex Pistols, Joy Division, The Who, The Kinks, The Beatles and David Bowie, I am going to say.......The Sex Pistols. Not really a fan myself, but 'Anarchy in the UK' changed the music landscape in a way that no other album did before or since. It attached balls to melody and people rocked out like it was 1979. Personally, The Smiths would be my greatest British influence.

b. My Bloody Valentine. Personally, toss up between Horslips and Planxty

c. A very tough one, personally and objectively. But I'll have to go for the Velvet Underground, over Led Zeppelin, The Pixies, The Beatles and The Stones

Let the debate begin!!

Blunt as a BreadKnife

2006-01-31T14:17:00.000Z

Watching telly in the comforting glow of my gas fireside last night, I felt a great urge to consult my thesaurus. The first word I sought to explore was 'insipid'. Alas, there was no entry. I ventured subsequently towards 'bland'. Here is what I found:

'Insipid, flavourless, mild, dull, boring, uninspired, uninspiring, unoriginal, unexciting, tedious, nondescript, trite, vapid, mediocre, humdrum, weak'.

Fitting and all as many of these epithets were, none conspired to meet the requirements of what I was watching. I chanced upon 'dangerous'.

'Perilous, unsafe, hazardous, precarious, unsound, alarming, ruthless, nasty, treacherous'.

Here I found myself getting close to the source. In a desperate attempt to find the words I was looking for that would mirror my sentiments as I watched RTE 2 between 11.30 and 12.30. After searching high up and low down, I found them under a particularly fitting word.

'Edgeless, candid, forthright, bluff, tactless, rude, abrupt, insensitive, weak'.

What was the word?

The word was Blunt. James Blunt. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.

James Blunt assaulted my television screen with his hopelessly awful blend of cat-cries and aural sodomy for nearly 25 minutes. Friends of mine have remonstrated with me over my sustained attacks on his music, his views and his haircut. 'He's harmless they say'.(Innocuous, non-toxic, mild, non-irritant, inoffensive, unoffending, innocent, blameless, gentle).

James Blunt is none of those things. He is evil. He is Satanic. He is vile. (nasty, unpleasant, disagreeable, obnoxious, odious, repulsive, repellent, repugnant, sickening, monstrous.) He has plumbed new depths. When someone like John Kelly, an ardent champion of all things alternative, indulges this bastard child of the mainstream, you know the rules have changed. There are many out there who believe this sucking blunt to be out there at the cutting edge of singer-songwriting. After a year in which we have been blessed with one of the most hauntingly brilliant albums of the last decade, the average punter on the street will generally respond to queries about Funeral by retorting, 'Arcade who'? while plugging in their Ipod headphones to listen to 'You're Beautiful'.

Something is rotten in the State of Music.

So, in order to strike back, please tune in to Other Voices on 15th Feb. After witnessing Horslips (ground-breaking, playful, insightful, accomplished, visionary, epic, melodic, life-affirming, influential, great, brilliant, exceptional etc etc etc) play their first electric set in 25 years, cast your vote to bring them back for the final episode of the series, and to keep Blunt away from young ears. It's the only way they'll learn.

Craw-ling out to Daddy Leviathan

2006-01-26T14:17:00.000Z

Immigration is the latest issue to come under the spotlight of Leviathan, with a debate to be held in Crawdaddy on Feb 2nd. Hosted by the everyone's favourite barely tolerable but keenly incisive overgrown schoolboy, David McWilliams, it promises to be a lively evening. More info here

The Irish Family a la the Bert

2006-01-25T09:47:00.000Z

"The reality is that the traditional family based on marriage has presented great benefits to our society. It has given social stability and, in general, it has provided a most favourable context in which to rear our children".

So did emigration, to those enabled to stay behind. Fuck the Constitution

Quotation from Irish Times. Our great leader was responding to the decision of the All-Party Oireachtas Committee not to broaden the constitutional definition of the family to include unmarried couples. Hurrah for Modern Ireland.

Never Mind the Cassocks

2006-01-24T14:07:00.000Z

I see Fr Vincent Twomey, professor of moral theology in Maynooth is flying the flag of compassion again, stating in no uncertain terms that Catholics cannot vote for same-sex unions.

'To ask a Catholic politician or citizen to vote for civil unions is to ask them to give public recognition to acts which the church has always taught are, objectively speaking(my italics), gravely sinful, since they constitute a misuse of our God-given sexuality'.

Sometimes there just isn't enough vomit in the world, is there?

Migration Debate For The Birds

2006-01-24T13:33:00.000Z

And the award for THE most awful blog title ever goes to.....

The immigration issue is a thorny one, and the return of the question of work permits to the civil and political arena clouds the matter even further. I was quite struck by the coverage afforded by the Irish Times yesterday of TNS polls that highlighted a latent suspicion among respondents that immigration should be restricted, now that Irish society has accumulated a sufficient underclass to do the jobs that we now believe ourselves to be above. The island of saints and scholars and gombeens and greed.

This alarmist tendency that pervades coverage of the issue is not new. When the first wave of immigrants began to arrive in the mid- to late nineties, the papers accomodated a deluge of scaremongering and rhetoric to the effect that our traditional value system was being eroded by an army of lawless Nigerians and Romanians (oblivious to the explicit reality that this sorely-bereaved set of values had already been jostling with O'Leary in the grave for quite some time). Now, in the wake of the Irish Ferries dispute, the citizens of this fair country are considered ripe for a 'balanced' debate regarding immigration once again by the media. Hence The Time's front page, sensationalist analysis of a society quaking in its boots at the loss of jobs to non-nationals.

Pat Rabbite's advocacy of the reintroduction of work permits is extremely curious until one considers his love affair with fellow Mayo man Enda Kenny. In a reverse of the FF/PD relationship, Fine Gael seem to set the terms of their relationship with Labour rather than vice versa. The PD's are robustly opposing the scheme, while FF lumbers along as always, mumbling and guffawing and generally acting like yahoos at the Church door on a Saturday night.

The work permit system in its initial phase did not work because it bound the immigrant to his employer. Anyone who has worked for a bar owner/builder/restauranteur/list goes on and on will know where that path ends up; grotesque, indefensible exploitation. However, it is also clear that affairs as they stand are far from perfect - as Ross O'Carroll Kelly is wont to say, I'm talking Gama - and there can be little doubt that non-nationals willing to work for less will ever be offered more.

As for them taking Irish jobs, ask any Irish person their opinion on the free market and the invariable response will be posited a few miles away from the Charles River. Our entire welfare is based upon the rituals of nihilistic worship at the breast of nio-liberal economics, albeit backed up by a complicit state. Now that its tentacles are tickling our own chins, we're not so keen that an absence of regulation is the way forward. Furthermore, from a corporate perspective, the introduction of a fair-minded work permit scheme that would enhance rather than restrict the fortunes of immigrant workers would drive countless industries out of business in a matter of months. Stand up the hospitality industry.

But that won't happen. Because regardless of who is in power, or who writes the news, the over-riding agenda will be to preserve our own hides. This will inevitably mean either the preservation of the status quo which discriminates against new arrivals, or the reintroduction of work permits, which will keep the darkies in their place.

How far we've come.

As the above will suggest, I'm not an expert in this area and my opinions are quite jumbled, so comments are eagerly courted

Some Suggestions

2006-01-24T13:15:00.000Z

For those of you with anything more than a passing interest in media analysis, check out Dav's Blog. The boy dun gud.

And if you're interested in Irish society, you'll be interested in The Pope's Children by David McWilliams, which i read over Christmas and meant to tell you all about. For the record, I hate McWilliams. I hate the way he talks, walks, chews and sneers. Essentially he is passable as a slightly less repulsive Kevin Myers. But his book is a useful indicator of where we've come from, what we're at, and who we're going to be. If you can manage to bear his incessant social labelling - from the faintly amusing 'Kells Angels' to the plain-shite 'Breakfast Roll Man' his book will provide the reader with a landscape of modern Ireland within which one can frolic, ponder, worry, and question at will. Available on all good liberal coffee tables in Ranelagh and environs.

Regal Delights

2006-01-20T14:22:00.000Z

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

Absolutely loved this!

Attended Chomsky's lecture again last night. He waxed lyrical on the subject of the nuclear threat posed to the world by America's aggressive rejection of arms control. Again, the questions at the end were served with a side salad of simpering adulation. At least Mark Little of Prime Time gave him a good grilling last night.

Challenging Chomsky?

2006-01-18T10:23:00.000Z

Happy New Year Everybody.
The last few weeks have been spent at a blistering pace, tempered by a trip to London - highly stimulating but monetarily prohibitive - heavy drinking and new year's resolutions, most of which have already either been broken or reneged upon. High on this year's list is to achieve something in the realm of music. Any potential collaborators out there?

Had the pleasure of attending Noam Chomsky's talk in O'Reilly Hall, UCD yesterday. Surveying the plush surroundings before our hero took to the stage, I could not but be struck by the irony of five lines of reserved seats. Chomsky is an unrelenting Democrat, surely this overtly elitist manouevre would grate upon his crusading activist soul?

The talk was highly entertaining, anecdotally informative and generally well-constructed and well-received. That said, Chomsky told me very little I didn't already know. However, my heart was indeed stirred by his response to Thomas Kador's question regarding the creeping totalitarian attempts to stifle public protests in the West. Kador asked was there anything we ourselves could do to pull a King Canute and stem the tide. Chomsky's response is still ringing in my ears, and serves as an excellent starting point for anyone trying to take on the system. Simple but highly efficient.

Ignore Them.

I nearly leapt to my feet to explode with rapturous applause.

I have, however, one unsettling observation to make. Out of all the questions offered to Chomsky, who had spoken at length about rejecting conventional wisdom regarding the exigencies of geo-political conflict, no one offered him a challenging question. No one put it to him that his own views might be as problematic in practice as those of the neoliberals are in theory. But this is more a slight upon ourselves, and serves to reinforce the image of Chomsky as the Cheerleader of the Left. It would have been nice if even one of us had the courage to take the Chom on. Personal ignorance regarding the subject matter prevented me from asking a question. But surely someone like Vincent Brown or Sean O'Rourke, two veteran broadcasters known for their deadly incisiveness, could have tabled something that might have at least shook the man on the podium? Alas no. O'Rourke was anonymous, while Brown tottered about taking candid photos and acting like a besotted groupie who had at last neared his idol.

Perhaps the problem with challenging Chomsky is that his views, to any thoughtful person, are not controversial, but highly rational. The United States is a highly volatile influence upon the world. Its actions are hypocritical, even immoral. It's promotion of democracy and freedom finds its nearest rival in the Sunday Independent's promotion of the integrity of the press. Both forces achieve the exact opposite effect of that stated, which, conveniently, is the effect desired by both forces in the first place.

So why is the world the way it is? Why can't we all just get along? Chomsky did awaken within me a very salient point; the timespan of change. If we really wish to make a difference, a national day of protest is but the beginning. The civil rights movement did not begin with Rosa Parks or Martin Luther King, nor did it end with the legislation drafted by the Johnson administration. The worldwide national day of protest in 2003 was a good beginning in terms of changing public perception of the war in Iraq. Another is mooted for March 18th of this year. I urge you all to be there.

Bastards

2005-12-21T11:21:00.000Z

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

2005-12-02T12:58:00.000Z

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.

The Joys of House Hunting

2005-11-28T15:58:00.000Z

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

Older By The Minute

2005-11-17T13:31:00.000Z

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

FreezeFrame(dc)

2005-11-10T13:08:00.000Z

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'.

Mumbo-Jumbo and Shite Films

2005-11-09T16:54:00.000Z

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.....

2005-11-09T16:38:00.000Z

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:)

Procrastinate Or Be Damned

2005-10-26T18:21:00.000Z

Academia. The inert musings of the privileged young - and not so young - minds of society. A veritable fairground of intellectuals engaged in research that they alone, and sometimes not even they, can make sense of. Ah it's good to be back.

Despite repeated attempts at fucking about, I managed to get my teeth into my first chapter today, which deals with the foundation of the Irish Catholic Social Welfare Bureau in 1942, a Bureau brought into being to deal with the plight of emigration. The results varied but the religious egomania never swayed. While it is easy - oh so easy - to be critical of the stilted morality and plain simplemindedness of some of those involved - certain members of the clergy, when pressed on solving the issue, call to mind the episode of Father Ted where Dougal is stuck on the milkfloat and one of the crack team of priesteens trying to help suggests, as a practical means of avoiding disaster the saying of another mass! - it remains a simple, unstated fact that the men in dog-collars were the only ones trying to help emigrants as they went off on their not so merry way, and the outrageous abrogation of responsibility on the part of the state may, to some extent inform the crisis of 1951, where the Church simply blocked the Mother-and-Child Scheme.

Fascinating stuff.

Anyways, one of my favourite ways of avoiding study is top tens. Today's top ten is a very obvious one, albums(Have been listening quite a bit to Dave Fanning of late.)
Here's mine, and I'd love to have all of yours. No Greatest Hits albums please!

1. Planxty - After the Break
2. Kila - Tóg é go Bog É
3. The Pogues - Rum Sodomy and the Lash
4. The Stunning - Paradise in the Picturehouse
5. The Velvet Underground - Nico
6. The Pixies - Doolittle
7. Interpol - Turn on the Bright Lights
8. Led Zeppelin III
9. St Germain - Tourist
10.Blur - Parklife

Cool Runnings

2005-10-20T18:38:00.000Z

First of all, apologies for deleting the blog with all of your comments about the Brady Bunch. I do sympathize with those unfortunate students who are at the coalface as the changes are implemented, alas this must be a necessary evil. Modularisation is the way forward methinks. At any route, as Stephen pointed out, there can be very little wrong with undergraduate medical students being allowed to take a course in sociology. It might, for example, broaden their...nah, fuck it, I won't go there! However, it is nice to see that debate on this topic can be civil; the academic divas are behaving like children, so it's nice to see the children behaving with dignity.

Anyways, I've started running. Those who have known me in any context over the last few years will be picking themselves up off the floor as they read this, because my lifestyle has, at times, been perhaps less than prudent.(And the award for greatest understatement since mata harney said the health service 'had its problems' goes to...). Over-indulgence was the byword for as long as I can remember and this came to a head with my joining a folk band in November 2004. New depths of notoriety and wicked decadence were plumbed as we embarked upon a journey that can only be described as hallucinogenic. Fun but hallucinogenic. Collapsing after a gig in April forced me to consider my options; Carry on and die, or get my shit together. I opted for the latter.

So out went the heavy intake of everything - well, except booze, but even that has been curbed to some extent- and I'm now off the fags for nearly seven months. Two months ago I headed off on a run around Dingle in Kerry and I haven't looked back. Today I ran for five miles for the first time. Apart from the searing pain in my right leg, I've never felt better.

The point of all this is that, while harping on about the dire state of our national psyche for as long as I remember, it has only dawned on me recently that I was, perhaps, one of the most ardent proponents of the fuck yourself up now, think later philosophy that pervades Ireland, and perhaps the world, today. I think we all do it. I think we all stroke our chins and talk about the booze culture, and the sadness inherent in this crazy spiral of consumerism and mass gluttony we've got caught up in, without ever stopping to ask ourselves, are we adding to, or subtracting from, the problem?

This isn't a Road to Damascus moment, and I'm not trying to play the 'I've seen the light, My life is perfect now' card. I don't believe in any of that. What I am saying is that life is more interesting when you're taking care of yourself. We all strain to find some niche of individualism that we can inhabit, in order to make our existence worthwhile. If you ask me - and yes, I'm aware that no-one has! - try this for individuality...Don't spend your life fucking yourself up!!

What got me thinking about this is the advent of a new book on Irish shelves, as of last week, Declan Lynch's The Rooms. Any of you that are not familiar with his work, especially if you have any sort of passing interest in where were at as a society, are sorely missing out. I buy the Sunday Independent every week. I'm not proud of it. In fact, I hate the paper with a passion I usually reserve for taxi drivers and McFly. But I buy it. Because Declan writes for it. And the man is a genius. Check him out. The book, incidentally is about recovering from alcoholism. I haven't read it yet, but if I know Declan, I know it'll be as profound as it is funny.

Finally, have been listening this week to a CD an old flatmate gave me, The Best of the Last Word wit Bill Cullin. I'm wondering are there any fans of this comic work of art out there? For the uninitiated, Renault boss Bill Cullen, of Penny Apples fame, was subjected to the most riotous parody by Tom Dunne and Stuart Carolan for about a year on The Last Word on Today FM while the Dunph was still in the hot seat. I will gladly burn this collection for anyone who is interested, as it is the funniest take-off EVER. I hope I'm not alone.

I'll leave you with a really, really bad joke that cracked me up when I heard it last weekend. Later Dudes

Two Protestant Ducks are walking anxiously down the Falls Road after dark.
One of the Ducks says 'Quack.'
The other responds,'I'm goin as quack as I can.'

Easily the worst joke I've ever heard. I nearly died laughing

World Wars and New Horizons

2005-10-07T14:18:00.000Z

To celebrate the release of the new Franz Ferdinand album - who knew a song about performing oral sex could be almost as enjoyable as oral sex itself?? - I've been reading up on my WWI history. I thoroughly recommend Richard Vinen's 'A History of Fragments' for a general analysis of the 20th century, which places as much, if not more emphasis on social matters as it does on the crucial, but overwhelmingly over-treated domain of politics and diplomacy. We know there was a lot of fighting. We know states battled with each other for global supremacy and we know that communism as it was practiced didn't really work out. But what was life like? How much did the development of the atom bomb actually impact upon the average slack-jawed peasant yokel beating his children in rural Slovakia? Vinen answers this and many other questions with gusto and aplomb. Check him out.

One of his main points is that the awfulness of post-1914 Europe is generally overstated because many writers at the time yearned nostalgically for the certainties - and prosperity - of the first decade of the century. This view, however, was propagated by those who lost the most, the rentier bourgeoisie and, truth be told, for most citizens of the third mall from the sun, life was little worse in 1918 than it had been in 1914.

I mention this because it kind of has an interesting contemporary paralell. The 'Bradyization' of UCD is being lambasted by student and scholar alike, and speaking to many people, one is left with an apocalyptic vision of a university that has abandoned its students and betrayed its staff.

Bollox. UCD has NEVER cared about its students, and it never will, and to hark back to the pre-Brady era as some enlightened, compassionate nirvana whereby all students were allowed to suckle at the teat of wisdom and comfort is as foolish as thinking that a fairyland existed in early 20th Century Europe for anyone outside Virginia Woolf's circle of friends and family. Why does it feel like opposition to Horizons is largely coming from Arts students who don't want Christmas exams, and wizened academics, growing fatter and lazier with each passing moment, who wish to be left alone in their ivory towers to exploit the third level system for their own narrow aims?

Incidentally, I'm not a Brady cheerleader. I think he's a tosser. I just don't really believe he's any more of a tosser than Art is or was.

Sorry for the rant, just sick of people complaining about how awful life is. It isn't!

It's been too long, old blogger friends

2005-09-27T14:45:00.000Z

Greetings to my three readers. It's been far too long since I updated this site, largely because my free unlimited web access was spirited away from me when i handed in my chips with services. I now reside once more in a manky, overgrown, dead-hooker infested ditch that runs along the edge of the information superhighway. So apologies for my absence.

My concept album idea is still alive, it's heart beating softly but constantly, but it will be months before the crop can be harvested. Thanks to all who contributed their thoughts, and as soon as I manage to pen lyrics that can describe what it's like to roar your county on as they spread across the hallowed terrain that is croker, while stuck in traffic at the red cow interchange, dreaming of O'Connell bridge at sunset, but thankful that your not being mowed off your bicycle by a rabid sligo driver trying to get west on a Friday evening, I'll let you know!

So back to lovely UCD to try and get an M.Litt written by August. A tall order, but a fair one, then bye bye to academia forever.

Oh and one final note before i finish. I wish to draw attention to the vulgar and grossly unsporting manner in which 'Look behind you, he's got a Knife' assumed victory over the 'Rossport Five' in a recent table quiz which was sometimes bitter, often tense, but never anything less than riveting. Upon losing a tie break, our courageous heroes, on temporary release from Mussolini McDowell's torture chamber, applauded their vaunted opponents, who proceeded to taint their sweet victory with mocking laughter and gross oneupmanship. For shame Caddy, Aunty and SBoA. You have given further credence to the widely held belief that bloggers are sad, small individuals who really need to get out more!!!!

Mostly listening to:
Arcade Fire
66e(Dublin band influenced - perhaps too much - by Radiohead)
Amelie soundtrack
St Germain
The Chalets - Not since Weezer went just like buddy holly has a band been so much fun
Planxty...Their music will never ever age.

Reading
McGahern, That they may face the rising sun. A budding singer/songwriter once said of Dylan that listening to his songs made him feel like the only option remaining was to sell his own typewriter and head to south america to open up a bar. McGahern, with his almost supernatural ability to describe his own corner of the world, has the same effect on me. I defy anyone to cite a more eloquent writer in Ireland today.

Later dudes!

A Brand New Concept

2005-07-14T10:31:00.000Z

For a city that has witnessed such rapid, sweeping changes in recent times, it is remarkable that no concept albums about life in Dublin have surfaced. What makes this sad reality even more surprising is that both media and perpetual hangers on are never done alerting us to the healthy band and singer-songwriter scene that makes this place such a cool place to be musically.
bollox. Sure, Damien Dempsey has had a go with his two albums, and he is certainly to be applauded. But firstly these albums deal broadly with Irish society, and are also quite vague. The essence is there, but rarely when listening to 'Seize the Day' does one find a familiar, knowing smile creeping on to one's face, the kind of smile that relates to life in a city that infuriates and intrigues as much as it delights and inspires. The Velvet Underground gave us 'Nico' which provides a deliciously sordid aural backdrop to seventies New York. The Clash documented an angry, disaffected London underground. Brel regaled us with his wonderful Parisian overtures. In the past, Dublin had the Radiators, who blessed us all with 'Ghosttown' and, to be fair, both Lizzy and the Rats also did their bit. but what about brash, chaotic, crazy confident, wanker-ridden, priest-hating, wife-swapping Dublin??
the point of all this is that, as someone who has been here for the last five crucial years, im feeling an urge to write a concept album about dear old anna livia. I will probably fail miserably. but that hasn't stopped me in the past. What i want from my two loyal readers are suggestions, themes, images, ideas.

They can be angry, like the fury of being caught on a 19a trundling up georges' st at 5.30p.m. on a wednesday evening, when the rain is cunningly creeping through the leaks in the shoddy bus, and the crushing reality thunders down upon you; the week is only half over.

They can be curious; when will the people of this good city realise that the process of complaining about the cost of living here while simutanaeously frequenting overpriced, life-sucking shitholes like the Turks Head and Q-Bar contains both the questions and the answers relating to why Dublin is so expensive.

Or they can be happy and joyous; pint bottles on the canal at the barge pub, with the sun enveloping you and the one you love, caressing you both and consolidating the mutual feeling between you both that things will only get better when you wake up beside each other the following morning; drinking wine in marlay park on an august evening, surrounded by friends as the lights above you, from carrickmines and beyond over kippure begin to flicker and wink down at you; the feeling as you stroll up parliament street after dark, surrounded by throngs of manic socialites that you are at the very CENTRE of the universe.

You get the message. Dublin; what it means to you. Come on, you know you wanna share it with Royston

Arcadian Rhythms - Synonymous with the Development of Sliced Bread

2005-06-30T10:45:00.000Z

Sorry bout the lack of posts of late. A wearying mix of family stuff, too many gigs and the death of the inimitable Richard Whiteley has kept me from my beloved blog. Also I've been hatching plans for my imminent return to academia; inertia, meaninglessness, forlorn self-pity...and that's just the planning process. But the wonderful Arcade Fire have kept me in high spirits. You'll love them. I promise. Now go check them out or I'll be round yours pronto

Fintan Connolly....The Hooker with the Heart of Gold

2005-06-16T13:04:00.000Z

Contemporary Irish life is crying out for films dealing with the complexity of modern relationships and the massive changes that have transpired over the past 15 or so years. Unfortunately, this yawning chasm of awfulness simply doesn’t cut it. Set in noughties Dublin, it features some excellent cinematography, and makes great use of both the brilliant, orchestral light that so brings Dublin to life and the new yuppie breeding ground that is the IFSC. However, while Tokyo gave us Lost in Translation and Paris gave us After Sunset, Dublin has given us a film that even the most ardent mother could not be proud of. Looser than a Moore Street traders tongue, and about as charming as the murky Liffey waters upon which the story is set, it fails to either shed light on the intricacies of the human condition or excite knowing glances between lovestruck couples looking for a mirror of their own situation. Our bumbling hero Conor (Aiden Gillen reminds one of Colin Farrell sans looks, charm or talent, and acts like a moody adolescent throughout, while his femme fatale, the haughty, well-to-do Michelle (Renee Waldron) delivers one excellent line – having been made aware of her boss’s cruel intentions, she retorts, ‘I’ve got a boyfriend and his name’s FUCK OFF!’ Priceless – and spends the rest of the film indulging in the most hilarious attempts at on-screen lovemaking since Angeline Ball got her kit off in Bloom. The characters toy with your sanity. The storyline seems like a pointless, sickening collage of mind-numbing small talk interspersed with terrible terrible sex scenes and the dialogue…not since Ted and Dougal entertained Father Stone has there been such stilted awkwardness. While on one hand, Fintan Connolly should be commended for trying his best, one is reminded of Sean Connery’s immortal line to Nicholas Cage in The Rock…’Your best? Huh. Losers always whine about their best. Winners go home and fuck the Prom Queen.’ Set your standards a little higher Fintan and show us what you’re made of!!

hmmmmm...

2005-06-13T16:54:00.000Z

I've generally taken the 'heal the world' utterings of Bono and his ilk with a large pinch of salt. In fact, if I was pressed on the issue, I would generally refer to him as a sickeningly reprehensible c**t seeking - quite successfully I must admite - a gilt-edged berth in the history books. Now I'm not so sure.
This deal that is being struck between the members of G8 and the world's major lending institutions - and for world's major lending institutions read evil, life-sucking suited bastards that make Dick Cheney seem like Barney the Dinosaur - could go a long way towards tackling global poverty. The BBC says so. I generally fall in line with the Beeb. But still I'm sceptical.
Gestures made by the Wealthy West towards a Third World crippled by our crapulence and greed are generally just that - gestures. The type you make when you see a funeral passsing before you. You assume a solemn, sympathetic guise, but you don't REALLY care because the person is unknown to you. We tend to rejoice when deals such as this one are mooted, because we feel like our men in suits are making the world a better place. I am no expert in this area, but I did do pass maths for two years, and to me, 40 billion dollars seems like very little when you consider that total economic activity in this fair isle, i.e., one of the smallest small cogs in the western wheel, amounted to twice that.
I imagine this deal reaching the public domain was not in any way harmed by the involvement of Bono, Geldof et al. So I will withold my venom and follow proceedings. If my best suspicions are validated, then it will be off to Killiney for some playful Bono badgering. If not, well I'll be forced to eat my cape.

Rules for Happy Living

2005-06-09T11:37:00.000Z

Heard this on FM 104 this morning, really cheered me up. Apparently the immortal John Peel had his own version which he recited to the crowd at Glastonbury a couple of years ago, if anyone has the words for that, let me know! Later dudes!

The Straw and The Camel's Back

2005-06-08T18:02:00.000Z

Check out www.christiangallery.com(sorry bout lack of link, computer being v bold today.). The only question is, what emotion does this inspire more within you: fear...or pity??

Weezer-Licking Good

2005-06-08T16:14:00.000Z

Once upon a time there was a boy. This boy loved music. One day in 1994, the boy was given a tape by a friend. He listened to the tape, and he liked what he heard. The songs were about guys called Jonas, teenagers going just like buddy holly, cleaning up, finding jesus, going on holidays...lots of fun stuff. The boy wondered who the band was. The band was Weezer.
Time passed. The boy grew into a student, and after much revelry, he headed on a J1 visa to New York. Having got there, he found out, much to his delight, that Weezer would play a concert while he was there. The boy missed that concert. His best friend's evil girlfriend laid claim to his ticket. There was nothing he could do.
More time passed. The boy never really got over the disappointment of missing Rivers and the boys in action. Until now. Because last night, Weezer came to Ireland. The boy went along. And the boy LOVED what he saw.
To be honest, I don't really listen to Weezer much anymore. I don't really need to. Their songs are wedded to my soul. You can know a good song by how infrequently you have to listen to it. Last night, en route to Vicar Street, listening to the blue album for the first time in over a year, it struck me that throughout that year, I had constantly been humming each and every song...over and over an over. That is the sign of great music.
Their sound was awesome. Not once did they venture out of kilter with each other. And the new songs, especially 'We Are All On Drugs' can square up to any songs on any other Weezer album. My only criticism is that they didn't play either 'Keep Fishin' or 'Holiday.' But beggars can't be choosers.
I find myself going to less and less rock gigs. Time and money always seem to get in the way. But I'm glad I went to Vicar Street last night. I'd been waiting to see my heroes for years. And they didn't let me down. Thanks Rivers, Brian, Scott and Patrick. You brought tears to my eyes. Long live Weezer

'Dear daddy, I write you in spite of fears of silence.
You cleaned up, found jesus, things are good also I hear.
This bottle of stevens awakens ancient feelings...
Like father, step-father...
The sone is drowning in the flood! yeah yeah-yeah yeah-yeah!' Say it Ain't So

Hangin' with Tinkerbell

2005-05-18T12:11:00.000Z

I LOVE Disney films. I hate the Corporation, but how can you argue with such classics as Bedknobs and Broomsticks, Aladdin, Mary Poppins - Dick Van Dyke was, and is, a total legend - and of course, The Jungle Book? Anyway, the point of all this is the QuizFarm.com :: Which Disney Character is your Alter Ego? test over at QuizFarm Apparently Peter Pan is mine, but snapping at his feet was The Beast. Oh yeah! Check out this site, it's a wonderful waste of time and resources.

Who Am I??

2005-05-18T10:26:00.000Z

Took a test today. Considering I'm in my early twenties, and nowt makes much sense, I broadly agree with the result, although the fact that I scored 50% on Fundamentalism was a bit of a kick in the teeth. Also, I'd consider myself more Sartre than Derrida. I think it was the lolling decadence of the Paris crew in the sixties that did it for me. Go Gaulois!

You scored as Postmodernist. Postmodernism is the belief in complete open interpretation. You see the universe as a collection of information with varying ways of putting it together. There is no absolute truth for you; even the most hardened facts are open to interpretation. Meaning relies on context and even the language you use to describe things should be subject to analysis

The Passing of the Baton

2005-05-16T13:26:00.000Z

Music fills a lot of voids for me. As Jimmy Rabbitte (Robert Arkins) so eloquently put it in The Commitments, 'It grabs ya by the balls and lifts you above the shite.' For me, it just represents a very friendly home where I feel both welcome and honoured, and rarely am i as happy as when I'm toting any of my instruments.
While Irish music remains my staple aural diet, I love many types of music, particularly blues and jazz, and, after a few g &t's, nothing beats a good ri-rá's Friday Night funk-fest. But it matters not what type of tune does it for you. There are only two things to bear in mind
1. Music is subjective. There is no such thing as bad music. That doesn't mean I don't hate certain songs and bands - Keane spring immediately to mind for me - but it drives me nuts when certain hoods insist on enlightening me as to what constitutes good and bad music. Go and learn an instrument lads, and stop pontificating!
2. Music is egalitarian, and is all around us. Everyone can enjoy music in some shape or form, and its performance and appreciation should be nourished and encouraged in schools, towns, broken homes and lonely valleys.

Anyway, the point of all this is that a Musical Baton has been passed on to me by the irrepressible Stephen Brophy. So, here, for the first time ever is a not-brief-at-all synopsis of the songs and singers that rock my world...

Amount of Albums in My Collection: 322, or 17.4 Gb for all the nerds out there!

Last CD I Bought: Prés de Paris by Pierre Bensusan. This guy is amazing. Check out his website here. Never has a guitar sounded so finger-pickin good! (Incidentally, he was 17 when this album was made.)

Song Playing Right Now 'Sally Brown' by Planxty. Perhaps the best harmonies ever found in a folk song.

Ten Songs That Mean a Lot to Me:

1. 'The Blacksmith' by Planxty. Old Irish song meets bulgarian folk rythms to close out the most influential Irish album of all time. Planxty invented alternative Irish music. We have much to thank them for. The 5/4 piece at the end is otherworldly in its magnificence.
2. 'The Ballad of Little Musgrave' by Planxty. My all-time favourite band. This song is an epic. And the pipes, oh the pipes.
3. 'Lullaby of London' by the Pogues. My first favourite band. This song is a kick in the balls to anyone who considers Shane McGowan to be nothing but a talentless, rabble-rousing drunk. This song is nothing short of poetry, drenched in one of most sensitive, beautiful melodies ever written...'May the wind that blows from haunted graves never bring you misery, May they all sleep tight down in hell tonight of wherever they may be.
4. 'The Sun is Burning' by Luke Kelly. The greatest singer Ireland has ever, or probably will ever, produce. This is Kelly at his best; the protest singer, strong and impassioned. This song brings tears to my eyes. Famine and pestilence to George Murphy for disgracing the good man's memory.
5. 'Never Tire of the Road' by Andy Irvine. My greatest hero. This song is a tribute to Andy's idol, Woodie Guthrie. Some day I hope to be able to do something similar for the man who has taught me more musically than any book ever could.
6. 'As the Crow Flies' by Rory Gallagher. The master at his very best.
7. 'Bron-Y-Aur-Stomp' by Led Zeppelin. Folk and Rock collide in a raucous, playful orgy of foot-stomping brilliance.
8. 'The Reel in the Flickering Light' by Christy Moore. I think our entire understanding of the world around us is shaped by childhood, and we spend our lives trying to get back to that level of freedom and innocence. The child in me loves this song and the images in plants in my soul.
9. 'All These Things That I Have Done' by the Killers. Brilliant. Anthemic. Orchestral. If only Brandon Flowers wasn't such a tosser.
10. 'Femme Fatale' by The Velvet Underground. Nico was a femme fatale. She made Reed and Cale hate each other. What a Clown. But what a tune. Captured perfectly the essence of what the V.U. was all about; the dark side of life conveyed with haunting beauty and searing harmonies.

Just shy of the top ten are 'After All' by the Frank and Walters, 'I Heard it Through the Grapevine' by Marvin Gaye and 'Hurt' by Johnny Cash. Oh and 'Just like Honey' by the Jesus and Mary Chain.

My Favourite Bands

1. Planxty
2. The Pogues
3. The Stunning
4. The Velvet Underground
5. Lunasa
6. Led Zeppelin
7. The Frames
8. Interpol
9. The Killers
10. Kila

My Favourite Solo Artists

1. Andy Irvine
2. Martin Hayes
3. Rory Gallagher
4. Tom Waits

I now pass this Musical Baton on to Shane, perhaps the greatest musical bigot in the world. Fear not, friends, i know he will take this as a compliment. Comments, as always, are invited

Asbos of Bother

2005-05-16T10:53:00.000Z

Anti-Social behaviour. Hmmm. Problematic, catch-all term for dilemma thrown up by the inequalities of modern society which lead to 'youths' wearing hoodies and throwing bricks through windows while puking on their grannies.

Fine Gael. Mmmmm. Assortment of empty political vessels, drifting aimlessly accross the sea of legislative wilderness, both feeding and responding to the fears of people who rely FAR too much on the Evening Herald to tell them what is really going on.

Hmmmm.

People are afraid. They are terrified of 'evil' forces that they perceive to be all around them. The papers report 'killing sprees' and widespread criminality. The people buy security cameras. And guard dogs. And guns. Tills throughout the land sing with buoyancy.

The people who are afraid generally have the most to lose; Fine houses, fancy cars and beige sweaters. These people largely listen to classical music which, shock horror, retails at a far lower price than the angry rap/death metal music so enjoyed by those they are afraid of. I know this is a sweeping generalisation...but you know what I'm getting at.

The beige brigade are afraid. Of course they're afraid. Having monopolised everything worth monopolising, they have hidden behind their imposing gates and walls, venturing out only to further plunder a society that they have no time for, and, through their friends in the media and the halls of political discourse, they inform the rest of humanity that their lifestyle is to be sought after, even though they know that their own opulent standard of living is largely off limits to almost everyone but themselves and their offspring.

The dudes in hoodies are angry. Society tells them to take their hoods down. Society tells them in no uncertain terms that they are a shower of malevolent cunts who are ruining modern Ireland's feel-good buzz and diluting the smugness that has come with comfortable living. And while these angry, disaffected people are small in number now, these fantastically snot-nosed, POINTLESS anti-social behaviour orders - coming, incidentally, at a time when the crime rate in Ireland is FALLING - will only add to their number. Because by getting tough on people who have little choice but to reject the mores of a society that wishes they would all go away, you will only strengthen their resolve.

Let's cut to the chase. Crime will never cease. Cars will be stolen, as will phones, plasma tv's and even people. But the answer, Benito McMussoliniDowell, is not to level the size nines at the most disaffected members of our society. The answer is simple, but it will never happen. Stop, in the name of God, stop defining yourself by what you own, what you drive, how much designer make-up you can get on your fat, ugly face. Stop preserving a level of prosperity that doesn't even make you happy. Face up to the fact that you can never fully insulate yourself from this cruel cruel world...because the more you try to, the more likely it will be that the next brick thrown will come through your window.

P.S. Do you know what I think constitutes anti-social behaviour? J.P. McManus's new gaff, which was given massive coverage by Tony 'I made my money canning beans and now I'm a Philanthropist O'Reilly's Indocircus while one of his companies sacked 400 people. 50,000 square feet, roughly 25 times the size of a normal residence. Twenty million euro. For pity's sake, spend 2 million, build a smaller house, save the environment and give the rest to the homeless. That, at least, would be a start.

'Individuals have taken over common land by ruse or violence, declaring themselves its owners; they have established by law that it will always be theirs, and that the right to property will become the foundation of the social constitution; which is to say that it will come before and, if need be, absorb all human rights, even that to life, if it has the ill fortune to find itself in conflict with the privilege of a small number.'

August Blanqui, Who Makes The Soup Should Eat It

Transit - The Band (and the Van) of the Future!

2005-05-04T15:16:00.000Z

You know a band is on the right road when it is difficult to pigeonhole their sound and say 'they're rippin off the killers/velvet underground/ etc etc etc. Transit have managed to avoid simply regurgitating the brilliance of the past by creating a sound that is as refreshing as it is unique. We here at Urban Ramblings urge you all to go see them support up-and-coming rockers T.K.O. on Friday 13th in Whelans. Admission is eight euro; considering a McFly CD will set you back almost three times that amount, to call this a steal would be an understatement. You will rock to the beat of 'City Shadows.' You will revel in the anthemic coolness of 'Call me Red.' So go along. Tell them I sent you. You won't be disappointed.

The Bright New Minds of Tomorrow

2005-04-28T12:37:00.000Z

Almost forgot, heartiest congratulations to my M.A. class who all graduate today; Dave, Una, Mary, Aaron, Clare, Stephen, Eamon and honorary 20th Century Irish visiting academic from the planet Gork, Damien Shane, whose blog you can check out here. Alas I wont be joining them on the podium, and I shall look forward to being slated for having less letters after my name than they have. These bright young minds were ever-present throughout the best year of my life, and for that I am forever indebted to them. In their honour...I love pink!!

Reclaim The Letters Page

2005-04-28T10:15:00.002Z

Below you'll find a letter entitled 'Reclaiming' The Streets' which was published in yesterday's Irish Times. We here at Urban Ramblings are currently tracking this man down, with a view towards having him spayed. Read on.

'Madam - I see that the capital's citizens are about to be subject to needless disruption once again on foot of this risible 'Reclaim The Streets' rubbish.
Even the title is arrant nonsense. What exactly are these people trying to achieve, other than inconveniencing the rest of the populace, for some nebulous reason best known to themselves? The term 'street' stems from Latin, meaning 'paved road' and is defined by the Encarta Internet Dictionary as 'part of the road between sidewalks' and 'used by vehicles' Therefore, given that streets, by definition, were always designed with the express purpose of conveying vehicular traffic from A to B, how exactly does one go about reclaiming something that one never had any claim to to begin with?'

I've been troubled since reading this regarding what exactly antagonizes me the most about the gimp of this ginnet. It could be any one of the following:

1. Reclaim the Streets is held on the May Bank Holiday. Considering most people are off work and the city is generally emptier than a usual day, how exactly is this inconveniencing the 'populace'?

2. The writer's tone; He clearly enjoys playing the lawyer, but his argument is fallacious. He bases his claim that protesters have no right to reclaim something that never belong to them in the first place is based on Encarta's definition of a street!! Now, I'm no fan of the law, but if you're going to dabble in it, and use lofty terms such as 'populace' surely your complaints should be based on a more solid legal foundation, like eh, the Constitution, or better yet, where Joe Duffy stands on the issue?

3. Perceiving a street to be solely for allowing vehicular access between A and B is precisely what drives(!) the movement onwards. Reclaim the Streets is a response to the abominable level of traffic that chokes our city. It is about giving the streets, which Urban Ramblings defines as societal highways belonging to each and every inhabitant and tourist, back to the 'populace.' And if we are talking about inconvencing citizens, how about having a go at the thousands, no, tens of thousands of lazy bastard punters who drive to the city centre every day from Donnybrook, Rathmines and Ranelagh, to name but a few suburbs that are within easy walking distance of the streets that we are trying to reclaim.

4. Dublin has come on leaps and bounds in many respects since I arrived here five years ago. After creating a decidedly commendable replica of Beirut, the Corpo is finally coming up trumps and giving us a city that may, just may, be able to hold its head up high with other European capitals. But the entire ambience is devastated by the absurd amount of traffic in the city centre. Reclaim the Streets seeks to create spaces that allow the Arts to flourish, while families play and lovers frolic without being poisoned by pointless car fumes. It represents an attempt, if you like, to breathe new life into the decaying lungs of urban life.

5. What bothers me most of all, though, about this writer's intolerance and bigotry - he's from Kenilworth Park, incidentally, and probably drives to work. I'd also venture as far as to say that he's not particularly popular at parties - is that his argument is commonplace. Reclaim the Streets occurs once a year, just once, and exudes a carefree, ebullient celebration of human life in a city that has come to value convenience more than citizenship. It hardly impinges upon the public psyche, except when the guards decide to beat the shit out of the most vociferous of the protesters, and yet the greatest emotion aroused within most Irish people when confronted with this genuine attempt to make the city a better place for everyone is derision. This town drags me down. So please, go along on Monday and give support to the campaign. A vibrant city centre would benefit us all, as anyone who has visited Covent Garden in London, or the Tuileries Gardens in Paris will know. Reclaim the Streets! And if you're at a party and you meet someone from Kenilworth Road who is boring the life out of you, let us know. We have ways of dealing with his type.

'Only after the last tree has been cut down
Only after the last river has been poisoned,
Only after the last fish has been caught,
Only then will you find that money cannot be eaten.'
Indian Proverb.

Eggs Benedict

2005-04-26T11:03:00.000Z

The Pope. The Hype. The Cheers. The Jeers. Well, like it or not, Papa Ratzi is here to stay. It's ironic that a man hitherto noted solely for possessing all the tolerance and understanding of a Moral Majoritarian at a Pro-Choice rally is now identifying himself with the forces of love and compassion. At any rate, I am not particularly interested in passing judgement on the man himself; there are already more than enough punters vociferously getting their point across. In fact, between myself and yourself, the only real feeling aroused within me when I heard the news was self-pity. Weeks ago I had noticed that the rabid German with the deep-set eyes was an outsider at 20/1. The reckless gambler that dwells within me began to toss and turn, and I began to consider my options. However, having lost a nice sum on the Irish National, I decided against such folly.
I learned of the new Pope's assumption of power without ever having to be told. It was a Wednesday afternoon. The Cardinals were in conclave. I was standing outside Easons. The rain was coming down in bucketfuls, and I was waiting for someone who was to arrive at 5.45. Hearing church bells, I figured that my date was late. Checking my watch, I saw that it was actually 5.40 and that I was early. Then it dawned on me. We had a new pontiff. I knew at that moment that I was out of pocket. I knew it was Ratzinger. The reckless gambler awoke with a start and was not amused. And neither was I.
As I have stated, there has been much pontificating - huh huh - on the pros and cons of Catholicism Inc's new corporate C.E.O. But there has been very little talk about 'God.' This to me is the nub of the issue. The Roman Church, and indeed all Christian Churches, seem to be predicated on a narrow, unthinking spirituality which presents the adherent with an unhealthy image of a paternalistic deity. This eternal being has little to do with either love or lasting happiness. Fear and prejudice, on the other hand, generally loom large. Over the last few weeks, the media have saturated us with religious imagery and coverage of massive crowds engaging in riotuous celebration. What exactly are they celebrating? I ask this question not to belittle or to sneer, but I do wonder what exactly the election of a new pope can bring to people's lives.
Another thing that struck me during the events of the last few weeks was the omnipotence of technology. Photos of the Popemobile crawling through crowds of delirious Catholics were characterized by a veritable orchestra of digital cameras, phones and camcorders being waved at the new man of the moment. The first world grows more and more affluent, yet the signs are not on its citizens. In order to find meaning, or substance, in this life, hundreds of thousands gathered in Rome to celebrate the ascendancy of a new pontiff that can only give a vague, inherently problematic promise of happiness in the afterlife. The frenzy of these people, directed towards a man who publicly, publicly contends that homosexuals, whose sexuality has been scientifically proven to be natural, are inherently evil creatures, might have even the most cynical of observers convinced that they are onto something in the quest for happiness. I have but one concern; If Catholicism leads to spiritual fulfilment, why all the flashy technology? Why all the fancy clothes? Have you ever stopped and thought that the most materialistic people in society generally also believe in a spiritual afterlife devoid of possessions?! Stop trying to fill the hole people! Just learn to laugh at the hilarity of the human condition and stop worshipping the false gods of consumerism and catholicism. You'll feel better.

Coincidentally, I've been asked to monitor a funeral today at work. The use of incense has no place in a House of God...and fire alarms. Maybe I'll finally see what all the fuss is about.

Also, thanks to Stephen and Karl who have posted a link to this blog on their own sites. Next time we meet, I'll buy the peanuts.

"How should we know? We should not question! Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks."
Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises (Delivered not without irony)

Your Days of Plenty are Numbered!!!

2005-04-25T17:41:00.000Z

When a film not only entertains and intrigues viewers, but also informs and affects their perspective on life, it passes from the cluttered corridor of decent flicks into the realm of greatness. Hans Weingartner's The Edukators is such a film. The threat always looms over leftie productions that the dialogue will lapse into pointless sermonizing and inevitably lose the casual viewer to the demons of indifference and contempt. But this is doctrine with a difference. It explores, questions and highlights both the nuances and the anomalies of idealistic socialism and the cancer it tries to cure, while also delivering a powerful and at times touching discourse on love's vaunted role in the human condition. Daniel Bruhl excels in the lead role as the brooding anti-establishmentarian brought out of his shell by the beautiful but debt-haunted Jule (Julia Jentsch). Jan (Bruhl) and Jule's boyfriend Peter (Stipe Erceg) are anarcho-situational terrorists who simply break into the houses of wealthy fellow citizens, 'rearrange' the furniture and leave haunting messages. Their aim is to awaken within these vulgar materialists both fear and insecurity, as they believe that the rich in society dominate the masses through the inculcation of fear. A taste of their own medicine, if you like. It works. However, while Peter is in Barcelona, Jan decides to let Jule in on the scene. She decides she would like to 'edukate' the man who has ruined her life; a seriously rich businessman whose Mercedes she crashed into while uninsured. However, all goes horribly wrong when they are caught in the act, and forced to kidnap the fat cat. The three heroes retreat to the mountains with their hostage - who turns out to be of socialist vintage himself - and during their time together a discourse prevails between the eager youngsters intent on changing the world and the child of '68, who has been there, done that, bought the t-shirt...and burned the fucking thing. Much fat is chewed. And Jeff Buckley gets an airing too. Halleluiah!
The film asks some hard questions of idealists who get older and plump for the widescreen telly instead of the May Day rally. The advent of children in one's life, it seems, dilutes the desire for a different approach. All is sacrificed in the name of protecting your little ones from the horrible world you once sought to change. If the radical left is to evolve and provide some credible answers to the morons who say there is no other way, this problem has to be comprehensively tackled. Every generation has its task.
Because the challenge remains to convert those who have accepted the capitalist way of doing things. I'm no challenge for the left. I agree with socialist principles. It's those who believe that happiness must be attained through fumbling in the greasy till, every person who honestly believes that the new leather suite, or the right brandy glass will lead to fulfilment, who provide the real challenge to those seeking change. Not the elite, or wishy washy sympathizers like me. Our minds are already made up. Let's start gnawing away at the billions in between. The Edukators represents a good base from which to proceed, mainly because it is extremely funny and quirky and presents socialism from a human perspective as opposed to the archetypal image of the trundling statist behemoth that dominates public perception of the left. Ten out of ten to Mr. Weingartner, the man with with vision...and the sense of humour. Now go and see this film. Tell them I sent you.

"Don't let them ever fool you,
Or take you by surprise.
The Dirty smell of the politician
And the man with the greed in his eyes
One big union, that's our plan
And the IWW's your only man
The flames of discontent we'll fan
For the cause that never dies."

Andy Irvine Never Tire of the Road

The Evil Weed

2005-04-22T08:35:00.000Z

Three weeks off the smokes today. Feel like I'm being strangled with a rusty guitar string over a period of months. Not a particularly consumer-friendly means of introducing myself into this hitherto unfamiliar world of blogs and people I don't know, but the nature of the task in hand means that all else is darkness. I'm sure all fellow quitters can empathize.
Giving up the fags is the toughest challenge facing every smoker. And it's about far, far more than simply not smoking. It's about abstaining from doing so after twelve pints, when lighting up seems like the forbidden ice that will complete the social cake, instantly turning you into James Dean, razor-sharp in the company of your fellow man and irresistable to every lady. It's about strength in the face of weakness: nothing exudes comfort, respite and light at the end of the tunnel more than a cigarette, just as nothing succeeds so well in turning the smoker into a shadow of their former selves more than the thousands of hideous coffin nails that will inevitably follow that one single, solitary, beautiful drag.
But, funnily and perhaps sadly enough, its about saying sayonara to one of your oldest friends, a friend that added to the mischief of childhood days, that followed you through the minefield of adolescence, never once mocking or judging.
Most importantly of all though, its about life, and living it. Smoking cripples every alcove of your being, physically and emotionally, and the dependence it inculcates within you makes everything harder. Even smoking. Rarely will you see a non-smoker almost bonelessly slumped upon the couch with the effortless ease and nonchalance of the throaty forty-a-day soldier. A decisive break must be made.

But onward to brighter things. The weekend is waiting in the corridor, impatiently waiting for us all to finish work so we can bask in each other's collective glow. Mountains will be climbed, fat will be chewed, and music will be played. For any Irish readers, Andy Irvine, late of Sweeney's Men, Planxty, Paul Brady and De Dannan, embarked last night upon a tour of the country with Patrick Street a 'Superstars of Irish Music' troupe that gets together from time to time to dazzle us with their heady mix of flighty reels and rollicking songs. Check them out! And now for the quote of the day, from Balzac. Slán for now.

'He who intends to dominate the times he lives in is entitled to take all and risk all, for all that is belongs to him.' (Lost Illusions).