Shankill Butchers

I was at a gig by The Decemberists last Saturday night in Vicar Street.

For those of you who may not know The Decemberists, they are an American band, who are well known for their unique approach to lyrics - taking their themes from things like Japanese Folktales, Shakespeare, old Irish legends (The Tain), and most particularly any type of Victoriana. So it's not unusual to hear tales of murder, rape, robbery, abduction, poverty, death and tales from the high seas or the seedy docks. You'll hear words like "saber," "knickers," "pistol," "chimbley," "mariner," "roustabout," and "boyo" being sung as if they are words we all use every day, and somehow they are able to sing about their grim macabre themes in their folky way and have the effect of being unexpectedly charming and uplifting.

On Saturday they did a song called "Shankill Butchers" from their most recent album. It was beautifully and seductively sung; a dark lullaby you could readily imagine a rag-clad mother putting her child to sleep with in a modest and smoky cottage in some vague past safely distant from the present.

What has me freaked out about the song (however much I may love it artistically), is that it is not set in a remote place or past. Some of the Shankill Butchers who were convicted of 19 horrific murders - and thought to be responsible for more than 30 - are out of prison and living in Northern Ireland as I write. The first verse of the song goes:

The Shankill butchers ride tonight
You better shut your windows tight
They're sharpening their cleavers and their knives
And taking all their whisky by the pint
Cause everybody knows
If you dont mind your mother's words
A wicked wind will blow
Your ribbons from your curls
Everybody moan everybody shake
The Shankill Butchers wanna catch (/cut?) you awake


[View a live recording of the song HERE]

It is unclear whether Colin Meloy sings "catch you awake" or "cut you awake." The Shankill Butchers generally abducted people around midnight when the streets were relatively deserted, and generally subjected them to unthinkable torture. If the lyric is the latter, it conjures up images of the fate of one of the Shankill Butchers early victims, Tom Madden, who was hanged upside down from a beam and skinned alive. According to the Ulster-Scots Online Community website, pathologists recorded that 147 separate incisions were made.

There are people alive now who have images of this horror indelibly etched on their memories. For this reason alone, the theme of the song borders on the offensive, but I won't go so far as to say that that border has been crossed. Either way, I am probably not qualified to judge, but what I will say is that I cannot remember a song that has had more of a provocative and chilling impact on me.

You probably think you know enough english to express yourself...

... but as a personal favour, I would appreciate it if you were describing a thump or a clatter to use the word "pergaddus". Cheers. If you doubt that it is a word, I think you should do what every civilised person does when they are unsure of something: google it!

Two Snerts

Man: It says on the menu that they have "snert." What do you reckon that is?

Woman: I've no idea, was that what the receptionist said this morning? Did she say they found a snert under one of the beds or something? I really don't know, why don't you ask the waiter?

Man: Well I wouldn't like to look ignorant in front of the waiter… hmmm… maybe I can trick him into telling me!

Dutch Waiter: Shallo, wud choos like to ordersh?

Man: Yes, can you tell me about your snert please?

Dutch Waiter: You are acshually very lucky bashtards today. Do yous knows dish? We havsh de besht snert in Amshterdam!

Man: Sorry, did you say a nose-dish? For the snert?

Woman: *whispering* Are you supposed to snort the snert?

Dutch Waiter: Shorry what ish dish you shay?

Man: Oh that's ok, so the snert is fresh then, yes?

Dutch Waiter: No! It ish yeshterday's snert of coursh! We do it right in dish playsh. We sherve today's snert tomorrow. It ish mushier, yesh?

Man: Um… yes, yes, that is what I meant of course. Tell me, how big is the snert?

Woman: Maybe you can have the side-snert if you're not too hungry dear?

Man: There's a side-snert?

Dutch Waiter: "You want de snert on de shide? Ish unusual buts…

Man: Very funny, dearest. How about we share a snert?

Dutch Waiter: Share snert? It ish mushy, but dish might be meshy. Hows about two shmall snerts for yoush?

Man: Well yes, that's sounds…

Woman: I don't think that's exactly my 'cup of snert' dear.

Dutch Waiter: It ish very good snert, I put my own special shpicey shausage in every snert.

Man: Did you hear that dear? He'll put his spicey sausage in your snert – now there's a service!

Woman: Careful dear, or this might be the last snert you'll ever have.

Dutch Waiter: We make de snert very firmish and it ish nice and shalty. You cansh take away de snert if you want it for de shkating.

Man: And would you recommend something to drink with the snert?

Dutch Waiter: Yesh, if are indoorsh? Grolsch maybe?

Man: Yes ok, I'll have some of that with one snert please.

Dutch Waiter: Tanka Shir, and for de ladysh?

Woman: What kind of soup do have?

Dutch Waiter: Today, it ish just de shoop made wit de peash.

Woman: Oh, pea soup?

Dutch Waiter: Yesh, wit shum of de shausage and bacon in it.

Woman: That sounds nice, I'll have some of that please, thank you.

Man: You know, actually I'm not so hungry really, maybe I'll just have the soup too.

Dutch Waiter: Ok shir. No problemsh…two snerts for yous!

[Addendum: "Snert" appears to have a specific meaning in internet chatroom language, that I was hitherto unaware of. I am glad to report that I have never been called a snert, nor have I come across any snerts. I gather from what I hear that plenty of you lot have suffered snerts of many varieties, so if you haven't come across the term, I hope now you'll appreciate having a name to call these snerts - just make sure they don't think you're talking about Dutch Pea Soup when you do it!]

Bail Me Out

For some reason I feel like publicising my most recent arse-up.

Today was my first exam for this barrister-at-law professional qualification program-dealy I'm in now, and the only consolation I can think of regarding the inexplicable putting of my foot in my own mouth was that I was wearing 2-week old swanky leather shoes at the time and so it didn't taste as bad as it might have if I'd just worn my 2-year old skanky canvas runners ('runners' being Irish for 'trainers' for those of you west of the pond)

The way the exam works is that you are given papers for the case of a person who is about to be sent for trial, and after a frantically short period of time you are called to make an application to secure bail for the accused despite objections made by the arresting garda (a 'garda' being an Irish police officer/cop/pig (joking!!)/etc.). The judge is a huge widescreen tv. Seriosly. You make your applications into what is essentially a digital mirror, except that everything you do is backwards, and then the examiners go through the application by watching it on playback - taking meticulous note of every nervous twitch, each absent-minded hair-touching, every erm, every uhhhh, and of course, every occasion proceedings are halted so that Counsel may shove his foot in his mouth as hard he can - you know, pernickity things like that.

You see at the bail stage, it isn't known how compelling the evidence against the accused is, and so it would be foolish (and even professionally negligent, and depending on the accused, perhaps life-threatening) to say something like "the accused intends to rely on self-defence," as you are essentially making an admission of at least mitigated guilt on his behalf.

So armed with that little nugget of indispensable wisdom, I went in and gave a pretty good bail application (which essentially involves ass-licking the judge and delivering a verbose and sesquipedalian sob-story with a little sprinkle of legal precedents and legislative directions to make it look like you know what you are talking about)...well it was 'pretty good' with the exception that when I going down through my list of important things to say, something felt, I don't know, a little brief about it, and since my mouth wasn't ready to stop moving and since my ears were enjoying the sound of my own voice ever so much, I just went on ahead and threw in a lil something from the never-ever-ever-mention list. Sure, why not, eh?

So in short, I probably blew it. Arse.

Still, on the up-side, I look pretty dashing today in my three-piece suit so I suppose that's something. As I walk passed people in the street, the hospital (where I am 'working' today), or the cafe, today, they may think, "my, that pretentious git must be important and impressive," but little do they know that this pretentious git, despite his apparent poise and dignity, still has the taste of left-shoe in his mouth.

And I've a feeling that in this career, it's a taste I'll have to get used to.

Love an Orange Bastard

The "Love Ulster March" eh? Why wouldn't ya love Ulster? It's great. I went to Donegal on holiday once. Loved it. Had I known there was a march on I would have gone along to recommend it as a holiday destination and so forth. I must make sure to stay informed and go to the Love Lanzarote March when it comes up. Does anyone know when that is?

To be serious for a moment, we don't need to be having marches about how lovely Ulster is. If anything there's too many people loving Ulster. So many in fact that there already isn't enough Ulster to go around. Have you been following this? There's so many people who love Ulster that for years now they haven't wanted to share it. And what happened was that they threatened and intimidated each other and sometimes blew each other up just so they could have the place all for the themselves. While you may not have known this, the organisers certainly did, because the original name of the march was actually "Love Ulster, but I can't stand the neighbours" and for brevity they ended up just calling it the "Love Ulster March". So they really should've known better than to draw attention yet again to its loveliness.

Unfortunately not everyone was supposed to march. It was only the people who not only loved Ulster but also loved that nice old lady who has her face on the money in some parts of Ulster. Now it strikes me as obvious that if anyone loved Ulster, it was those people because despite the fact that some of the neighbours disliked them so much that they engaged in threats and acts of violence; they didn't sell up and move somewhere else. I think that that's what I might have done, but I suppose I don't love Ulster as much as them.

So I'm not so sure a Love Ulster March was necessary. Of course they Love Ulster. But having said that, marches and parades and things are not always done for the sake of making a statement. Sometimes it's worth just celebrating stuff. Like the way we celebrate St. Patrick's Day because we think it's great not having to put up with wiggly snakes anymore (apart from the ones in the zoo). So I suppose that's ok.

For those of you who don't read the news, the love Ulster March didn't go ahead in the end because of a miscommunication as a result of which some people mistakenly believed it was "Re-live the 1916 Rising Day". They thought that the nice people coming down the road were representing the first arrivals of whoever it was we were fighting against back then, then the whole thing got out of hand and in the end neither celebration took place.

That said, there will be a celebration in a couple of months of the 1916 Rising on O'Connell Street (which is looking decidedly tatty at the moment - someone should've warned the Ulster-Lovers what a jock it was in before they arrived) so maybe when that's organised (and they sort O'Connell Street out)they'll let the Love Ulster people come along and join in as well - since their day got all messed up at the weekend. Besides, the 1916 Rising was very much about loving Ulster as well, wasn't it? It was about loving the whole country - even Leitrim. But I think we'll have to have some kind of rule about throwing stuff and nicking the right-foot display-shoes from Footlocker. That's just silly.

And well actually, now that I'm suggesting a few small changes, can we be a little nicer to Charlie Bird as well? There's a perfectly rational explanation: as an international correspondent he spends time in all sorts of climates and this can change the colour of his skin a little bit from time to time. This is no reason to call him an "Orange Bastard" let alone roughing him up and ruining a perfectly nice jacket. Come on now - can't we all just love Charlie, love Ulster, love Lanzarote, love Footlocker, love wheelbarrows and all get along?

Bustop Bust-op

Something has to be said. Everyone is thinking it. And everyone thinks it's in their own head and is trying to tell themselves that it hasn't really happened. Except me. I'm willing to admit that it has happened, and I'm willing to speak out. They air-brushed her left breast to try to get us to go to their event and we all know it deep down. FAS have a number of versions of the campaign showing the girl throwing a paper airplane to promote their Career Opportuntitties event this month, and while all of them show her to be an ample girl, the shot they have put in the bustop ads is nothing short of outrageous!
I went to their website to see if I could get the picture from it but alas I could not. They have a different full body shot as per the billboards (above left) and a version of the bustop picture with the particular protrusion cut off (above right).!
So for those of you who are not from Ireland and haven't seen the ad, I've just drawn the outline of the young lady's figure from mammary memory mammary for you to give you an idea of it and I'm pretty sure no-one who has seen it will accuse me of exaggeration.

I'm sorry. It had to be said.

The Morning After The Five Years Before

So this was the first (and I know he won't take exception if I say, "hopefully last...") Valentine's Day I spent with Quasi-Mojo. I strongly suspect he had somewhere else he could have been, but I appreciated his company, and his erratic behaviour didn't irk me like it has been known to on other occasions.

He talked in that blunt and succinct way that he has, about how Valentine's Day works in his community. He described it as an unpredictable but frequent affair (there's no particular day) in which a female goes into heat and the males fight with each other to determine who will get to buy the roses, chocolates, and a few scented candles from Marks&Spencers. A good Valentine's Day is when you win, a bad Valentine's Day is when you lose, and a satisfactory Valentine's Day is one in which you woke up that day itching for a fight anyway and it was a good excuse to go ape-shit.

He was saying that he often got in fights that he knew he was going to lose just for the thrill of the affair at which point he said, "...so I know where you're coming from Horse... well I always do, you're transparent... but now you know you're just a little bit like a little monkey..." I interject to tell you that he was referring to a vain (in every sense of the word) attempt by me to get a date for the evening and also that at this point he attempted, mid-speech, to give me what is known the world over as a 'nipple cripple' but missed by about a half an inch (but it was the thought that counts), and said, "...much as it pains me to inflict it." You may think I was lying when I said it earlier, but seriously - it didn't annoy me at all. My mood was contemplative but upbeat, and i've found personally that while Buddhists prefer the silent path of contemplation, it is neither the only, nor always the best path.

We went over my valentine history which spans 6 years, in differing levels of detail. I was surprised that he had any patience to listen to it, let alone encourage it as he did. I was interested in the end in what a motley picture transpired. It has been a very mixed-bag and admittedly the evidence suggests that the holiday is one to which I am (albeit with reluctance on a philosophical level) perhaps incurably subscribed.

Year 1:
Quasi-Mojo seemed to recall as if he were there, the first Valentine's Day I considered a romantic gesture of the 'be-my-valentine' variety and how I spent the morning in the fever of indecision about my simple plan to show up at the work-place of the object of my obsessions (and I'm pretty sure that is the right word) and present her with a rose. I could have done so discretely enough as she worked in retail, and it is a nice little gesture, which might have worked well, but I was concerned about blushing and looking very awkward and so realised that I really only had two options: to do it in a furry animal costume or to not do it at all. Suffice it to say that I didn't see any costumes I liked.

Year 2:
Somehow, by the following year, this awkward, anxious, weird, weird boy had managed to gain some sanity and confidence, and through some stellar luck, was very happily in a relationship. I was very taken by the really big, deep-coloured long-stem roses and how much better they were than smaller or scrawnier incarnations, and once I saw them, thought that nothing else would do. Unfortunately I couldn't afford a dozen, so I bought six and passed them off smoothly as one for every month we had been seeing each other.

Year 3:
My next Valentines was a first date with a girl who I had met in a bar in my poetry days, whom I had hooked up with on the previous Wednesday in a haze of drunken bizarreness but whom I had had my on for two weeks or so. Despite it being our first date, I did bring along some tokens of the holiday which were very warmly received, one of which was a big red candle with a fridge-magnet of jesus skillfully embedded in the front of it. I forget why now, but I know it made sense at the time and think it may have related to the fact that she said I looked like jesus.

Year 4:
All in, a head-f**k year in my romantic life. I was technically single and Valentine's day had left me with a sense that I should get on out and start dating. Which I did: briefly and unsuccessfully.

Year 5:
My lady, who was on a wooking tour of Ireland and Europe for a few months at the time, was flying in from Paris that day and was only going to be in Dublin for less than a week, so I skipped off work to go meet her at the airport. I had arranged a short-term lease on an apartment so that we could spend the whole week together, filled the fridge with lots of goodies, and so far as I recall, cooked that evening.

This Year:
Skipped class, beers with an imaginary monkey, followed by this blog.

I don't write looking for sympathy. I've had, as these things go, a pretty good innings. I wasn't in the least bit mopey about Valentine's Day, but it did, and I have to admit, surprisingly so, give me cause to reflect on V-Ds (oops - very bad abbreviation) Valentine's Days past and contemplate upping the romantic ante. Any excuse to skip class is of course also always welcomed.

Happy Feckin Valentine's Day

From Buckley and Quasi-Mojo

The reason I like this poem

The reason I like the following poem is that it strikes me as the kind of thing that a person at the kind of dinner-party I wish I were invited to (but never will/should be) might say that would initially amuse and delight me on an objective level, but subsequently on a subjective level tempt me to revile and slander the person who said it because "they are the real murderer:"

The reason I like
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Is that her name.
Sounds like a basketball
Falling downstairs.

The reason I like
Walt Whitman
Is that his name
Sounds like
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Falling Downstairs.

("The reason I like" by David Mamet)

Hey, why is all the heat on me now? You know i didn't do it, Columbo... Throw me a friggin bone here... You think just because you put on a white tux you're one of THEM?

Tell them it was Mamet! Tell them it was Mamet!

When I look back on it now...

I honestly can't remember a single reason why I thought he looked better without the beard:

"Stuck to You (The Science Song)" by Josh Ritter

Here's a cute and clever little song which I had the great pleasure of hearing live once, but unforgivably and embarrassingly could not bring to mind with any clarity over coffee today. Try not to let it make you cry:

Well there's one thing, mama
I think you should know
It is not love that makes the flowers grow
But a complex electron-transfer process known as photosynthesis when
Chlorophyll reacts with the light of day
But since you're gone, the light has gone away

And there's one more thing, mama
I think that you'll find
It is not love that makes the stars shine
But the spontaneous combustion of superheated supercondensed gases in a process known as fusion that creates new elements when the time is
Ripe, but since you're gone, stars don't shine so bright

Oh, there's another thing mamma
I think i should confide
It is not love that will turn the tide
But the net difference in the gravitational pole between the earth and the moon
As it is acted out upon the waves
But since you're gone i feel washed away

I could have been a mathematician
Studied rockets for a living
Would have worked out better in the end
But to get more specific
I rigged every law of physics
To bring you back to me again

And there's one last thing, i tell you if i can
It is not love that makes a non-stick frying pan
But a top secret trademark conglomerated, most likely carcinogenic, polyyrethanic compound spread in a microthin layer over a negatively charged alloy of aluminium, copper, iron, lead, vhs, fyi, apple pie, uh, fbi,
And some other elements too
But since you're gone
I wish i'd stuck to you

Metro Metro Man

I will probably never be a metrosexual. And don't get me wrong, I will continue to aspire in small and ineffectual ways as I have always done, but to be honest it's just not going to happen.

The thought occurred to me this morning after I had applied some E45 moisturiser, some vaseline lip therapy, passed on the brylcream (because it smelled funky being a coule of months old as it is) and as I looked at my not un-stylish but old and largely january-sales / birthday&Christmas-present clothes - or what I could see of them through my vandalised mirror - thinking I could use a haircut and wondering where I left my scissors. And in all the cuffuffle of getting out to work with that considerable beauty regime as well as considerable flu-y symptoms, I forgot to deodourise.

(Anyone know what gets permanent marker off glass by the way? I've tried nothing and... [well, you all know the gag])

So it seems the will is there, but class and the attention to detail just isn't. While I will be the second or third to admit my vanity and propensity to self-indulgence('first' being a little too hot off the mark to be honest), such things have been sadly knocked down the list of priorities in the life that has transpired for 'Better-luck-next-time' Buckles.

I use bottom of the range skin-products, charity shops would reject most of my clothes, I cut my own hair, I use a product which assures me that it is both a shampoo and a shower gel (which I also use as soap and shaving foam), and deodourant, despite it being on my list of essentials, can sometimes fall through the net. And yet I put delicately manicured (in sofar as one can without an emory board) hand on heart and say that I take pride in my appearance.

I imagine that the trouble is that I have neither the cash nor the time, and that if I work-out and do weights and get all buff, I won't be able to afford new clothes that fit; but to a certain extent it may be that I rarely ask women out on dates, and I get little encouragement or inspiration from my pathologically single and slovenly friends (there being perhaps one or two minor exceptions in the latter category) in these matters.

While I'm on the subject of looking one's best for dress-to-impress reasons, it has been put to me by a female of the species (most of whom are born with a natural inclination to self-beautify) that a lot of women do not dress up to impress others but in fact they do it "for themselves". And this is quite a common statement on such matters. I saw in a number of boob-job documentaries, that women were coached to say that they wanted cosmetic surgery "for themselves," and not to impress anyone else.

I will believe such a statement when a woman shows me, in all honesty, the new high-heels, g-string, cocktail dress and lipstick she got for eating beans on toast and watching 'Neighbours' when nobody's home.

Anyway, I'd like to think I'll get in gear when I've loadsamoney to buy all the fancy 'boysmetics,'(Hmmm... I should probably patent that word before someone makes a mint from it - meh!) I like, but the truth is I won't. I'll be too old, and possibly too fat and married and stressed.

Will money and power still be sexy in 10 years time, or am I going to need a plan 'B'?

Addendum:

I just came across the following image, and I'm now doubting that I even know what a so-called metro-sexual is

I'm pretty sure that twelve yeses or more will make you a basket case, a closet case, a deeply contemptible individual, and most likely all three.

Why go to the nightclub at all? Why not let your imaginary wife go in your stead while you bench-press your children in your gender-sensitive livingroom and gucci shoes? Or better still: try to be less of a twat?

Too Long A Sacrifice

I have written at least twice before (here & in more detail: here) on the type of evening where everything starts off very tame and civilised and steadily (but stealthily however) descends into the kind of ill-behaviour that would cause you to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself... were it not all so damn hilarious. I think a new word is required for this feeling with which a large majority of us must surely be acquainted, and my humble suggestion is "hilarishame".

So I had one such evening on Sunday night (yes, a further mockery of my recent extolling of the virtues of abstinence), and while I could happily write a long account of it, one of the peculiar qualities of hilarishame is that no-one who was not present in the run up to it could possibly understand or appreciate why the first half of the word is there.

So let me write about something else. Let me write about an evening I went out with the full intention of getting utterly plastered, which is a horse of a different colour altogether (as the Wizard of Oz's doorman is wont to say). One of the defining aspects of the night were certain impromtu recitals from the amphitheatre of the civic offices in the early hours; and one of the 'pieces' was a joint effort at a 'bakery' re-working of the thrid verse of the W.B Yeats' poem 'Easter 1916.' The origins of this particular idea, incidentally, being best consigned to the realm of the unspoken at this juncture.

Suffice it say by way of pre-emptive explanation that far from what you are about to read representing a belittling of Ireland's national heroes, it (for my part anyway) should reflect (if it indeed reflects anything at all) three things:
1) a mixed opinion that I have about Yeats which is not all that dissimilar to his own mixed feelings about the objects of the poem in question,
2) my love of baked products and baked-product accompaniments.
3) that it is as true now as it ever was that too long a sacrifice can make a scone of the heart.

So for what it is worth, this is one possible draft of a joint-effort act of literary sacrilege:

Easter 1916 by W.B. Yeast

Too long a baking
Can make a scone of the tart
Oh when may it be iced?
That is the baker's part, our part
To simmer upon a low flame
As a mother spoils her child
When she at last has buns
Or bread that is bun-styled.
What is it but a profiterole?
No, no, not dessert but bread
Was it un-kneaded bread afterall?
For England may eat cake
For all that is done (in the oven) and said
We know their cream; enough
To know they had cream on brown bread
And what if an excess of dough
Bewildered them till they fried?
I'll serve it hot as dessert
Johnson, Mooney and O'Brien,
Jacob and Kipling,
Now, and when time to eat,
Wherever cream is poured,
Are churned: churned utterly
A spreadable butter is born


...And for those of you who might be unaware of the original (which I can and will recite off by heart as it happens because I really do think it is an excellent poem), here it is for comparison:


.......................................Easter 1916 by W.B. Yeats

.......................................Too long a sacrifice
.......................................Can make a stone of the heart.
.......................................O when may it suffice?
.......................................That is Heaven's part, our part
.......................................To murmur name upon name,
.......................................As a mother names her child
.......................................When sleep at last has come
.......................................On limbs that had run wild.
.......................................What is it but nightfall?
.......................................No, no, not night but death;
.......................................Was it needless death after all?
.......................................For England may keep faith
.......................................For all that is done and said.
.......................................We know their dream; enough
.......................................To know they dreamed and are dead;
.......................................And what if excess of love
.......................................Bewildered them till they died?
.......................................I write it out in a verse --
.......................................MacDonagh and MacBride
.......................................And Connolly and pearse
.......................................Now and in time to be,
.......................................Wherever green is worn,
.......................................Are changed, changed utterly:
.......................................A terrible beauty is born.

Googley Wonkology

I'm a big fan of the film "Charlie and Chocolate Factory".
In the earlier version there are many great scenes, one of which involves wallpaper that has pictures of fruit which when licked, tasted like the fruit depicted. I was very much taken by this idea as a child, so much so that any time I was in someone's house who had fruit wallpaper, I could not resist giving it a surreptitious lick (and this picture suggests I'm not the only one - how great is google for this stuff??)

Anyway, just after as this scene ends, Wonka says to Veruka Salt, "We are the music-makers, we are the dreamers of dreams." It sounded like a quote to me so I googled it and it turns out this is where it comes from:

0de
by Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]

We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities.
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion art empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample in empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth.
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

...which I think is pretty cool

Predictably Unrefined Thoughts on NYRs

Every year a lot of talk goes around about New Year's Resolutions. Personally, I 've always felt that NYRs are philosophically unsatisfying - even if you do 'succeed'. Largely this is because I've never been one to place confidence in trickery when it comes to changing your own behaviour. I reckon that if you don't like something about your behaviour, you are doing yourself damage by putting off doing anything about it until January. And generally I think that big decisions are possible and that it's healthy to just grab yourself by the shirt-collars every so often, get in your own face and tell yourself to stop being such a wussy - and mean it. The more spontaneous the hour, the day and the month: the better.

Bad habits, as we all know, come from brain-monkeys. The older I get, the more foolish, unruly, and slovenly the monkeys in my mind have become. And increasingly the monkey-tamer is becoming laisez-faire in his role and perhaps even a little simian in his own outlook. So much so, I must now admit that often he seeks to cajole rather than spank the monkeys into coming round to his way of thinking; and if that isn't bad enough his goals become weaker every year. I know that this is not a universal tendency, but I think it transpired in my own case because I had too strict a monkey-tamer in my younger years, and now, as he feels guilty about the harsh regime he employed, it is easy for the monkeys to take advantage. Whatever the reason, I now find myself riddled with intellectual monkey-business and I do hope (and it's purely coincidentally the beginning of January) to have my monkey-tamer walk in a brisk and healthy manner somewhere between the extremes in the future.

Despite this, I did not engage in any NYRing this year. I maintained my lifelong repugnance for the convention. But while I refused to be pressurised by the furrowed brow of my calendar, I did take on something similar. It was a sort of belated mini-NYR: a booze-free week (this week) undertaken in solidarity with a brave NYR-man who is impressively giving up both drinking and smoking for all of January and replacing the two with jogging and reading. Initially I thought that doing both was a step too far - that it might drive the monkeys crazy and they'd tear up the joint. In fact part of me still has this fear, but then I concluded that his monkey-tamer probably did some kind of deal and convinced the monkeys it would be worth it for the kudos. The kudos, that is, as well as the €100 that his mates bet he couldn't do it, and the greatest nicotine & alcohol binge of all time come February 1st. Beware though my friend, monkeys are not always creatures of their word. Vigilance!

But what do I and my monkeys get out of this act of solidarity-based abstinence you may well ask? Well, I get the usual benefits. Let me tell you how it has been so far: my head is clear, my energy levels are high, and I could really bloody use a drink. God I love alcohol.






Do not intoxicate this man

New Year, New Post

This blog is so rubbish these days, I'm left with two options: either delete the whole thing completely (the sad fate of the impulsively charming "maximum load") or post more often. For the moment I'm going with the latter.

I've enjoyed being asked over the past few years by people who don't know me all that well, the question, "How are you ringing in the new year?" I usually answer somewhat sarcastically (one of the reasons I'm single no doubt), something along the lines of "With a very big bell." And then go on to describe with some faux modesty how I ring bells in Christchurch Cathedral.

(That's me with the solemn look of concentration and floppy hair)

So while others hollar, yell and scramble for someone to grope, I, with a band of silent campanologists, have my sweaty hands gripped around a rope, with some intensity of concentration, while the muffled roars of New Year revellers invade the belfry.

This year, there was a party in my flat which conveniently for me is beside the Cathedral so I forwent the post-ringing inebriation in the belfry and returned to a rather surprising spontaneous applause from some very tipsy friends at the flat and to one of the best parties (for me) that we've had since we moved in there.

New Year's Eve had sucked (to use an increasingly popular americanism) my whole life up to the age of 21. But the last 5 have beeen somewhere between palpable and really fun (which is a huge improvement). The common features have been alcohol and good health, but the specifics have been in this order: being in love at 21, then bell-ringing for the following 3 years was a nice way to spend the evening and this year's New Year's Party was just downright smashin.

At quite a few parties we've had at the flat, I've been cajoled into hoola-hooping as a drunken party-piece. I've generally been reluctant but intoxicated enough to do it, but this time I actually agreed with some enthusiasm and really hammed it up, which was a bit odd because I was pretty sober, having come so late to the party.

My friend Jenny got a nice picture of said party-piece, which I'm pretty happy to share with you as it makes me look more proficient at the hoola than is actually the case. Oh yeah, I'm straight by the way, and incidentally that's not my hat... but worryingly I wish it was.

Happy New Year anyway folks, I hope you were all braver than I was when it came to resolutions. I bottled (literally) and didn't go through with my plan to give up drinking for a month.

Blog in progress

So given my current inability to report any of the staggeringly interesting things that are happening in my life at the moment, for fear that you would get so jealous that you would self-destruct, I hope in the alternative to make an executions blog over the next few days/weeks/months.

I've started it, but blogger lost a huge swathe of stuff on me (I refuse to accept any blame for this myself) and I will not be able to complete it until my rage subsides. Estimates as to when this will be, vary.

See the new blog here

Peace out (and in)

Speaking of Death...

Hey Kids,

So as I mentioned in my previous and brief entry, I've been pretty busy.

To bring you all up to speed, for the month of September I was busy firstly putting together my famous execution tour, and secondly carousing with a female pole.

Then in October - prior to waking up immobilised from the shoulders up last Wednesday week - I was working one full-time job, one part-time job, attending 12 hours of lectures a week, drinking, and trying to maintain (without success) some sanity and social life.

Since the death of my blog has been a topic of conversation of late, and since we are coming up to Halloween (and since also if I don't write this I'm bound to write exaggerated and sympathy-seeking reports of my recent illness), I am going to give you some little snippets of information about hanging in Dublin City (and at Gallows Hill in Kilmainham specifically), in keeping with this developing theme.

I will probably come back tomorrow and give you a lot of other stuff as well, so I hope to bejeesus you likes yer hangings.


CRIME AND CAPITAL PUNISHMENT IN DUBLIN CITY

Between 199 and 244 were hanged in Dublin between 1780 and 1795
- a rate of approx 12 to 15 a year.
In 1785 alone, there were 33 hangings.

The City's population was 180,000 then and is as many as 1,470,000 now: 8 times as many.

Based on the population ratios this would suggest that in modern Dublin city one could suggest that at per year, approximately 120 people would be executed every year.



SITES OF EXECUTION:

City: Stephen’s Green, and Newgate Prison;
County: Gallows hill, Kilmainham commons (near grand canal bridge).

In the 18th century, most hangings in the city took place in St. Stephen’s Green, though there were a number of local gallows around the city and county which were also used.


HANGINGS IN STEPHEN’S GREEN:

Hangings in Stephen’s Green generally comprised of a procession in a cart to the hanging tree. The friends and families of the condemned would run alongside the carriage and the rope from the hanging tree would be attached to their neck while still in the carriage. Then the carriage would be driven away and the person would be left dangling from the tree.

This practice ceased to be used in January 1783 when hangings were relocated Newgate prison on Green Street, and Gallows hill here in Kilmainham.


VIOLENCE AND CRIME IN DUBLIN CITY:

Between 1780 and 1795 there were 390 homocides reported in Dublin city
and county – An average of 24 deaths per year:
189 murders
82 Suicides
34 manslaughter
34 infanticides
9 dueling deaths
42 unknown or other cause.

Of these 308 homicides for which the victim was not the culprit aswell,
only 17 were considered solved
and 27 people were hanged as a result (4 of them women, one of them a priest)

Other crimes:
3,600 robberies and burglaries.
53 rapes (7 resulting in death)
2 people were hanged for rape in this period, one a man and one a woman. The woman was hanged for the rape of a 10-year-old girl.
337 Assaults
158 riots
22 forcible enlistments

PUNISHMENTS REFLECTED THE VIOLENCE OF THE TIME
· prison,
· transportation
· whippings,
· pillories
· branding
· hanging
· strangulation and burning to death at the stake (for women)

o Also note acts of vigilantism: such as ‘ducking’


EXAMPLES OF WHIPPING

In May 1787 George Dalton was whpped from Kilmainham to Mount Brown for 'secreting himself in the shop of Laurence Hynes'.

Another interesting one was Ann Codd who was found guilty of stealing a child's clothes and was, with seeming appropriateness, stripped and whipped from the chapel in St. Sepulchre to Back Lane.


HANGING AND THE DROP PLATFORM:

Despite the fact that the hanging drop platform or trap door in hangings are associated with the developments in the Victorian period, it was introduced to Dublin (and likely it was its first use in the whole country) here at Gallows hill, in January 1783,

(it having been first used at Tyburn in 1760 to hang a peer of the house of Lords named Lawrence Shirley the Fourth Earl of Ferrers for murder) and shortly after at Newgate Prison .

It was intended to break the necks of prisoners but it seems it failed as often as it worked.
As I will explain later, this would have been down to the noose and the length of drop used



SUSPENSION HANGING:

Patrick Lynch
Just two weeks prior to the hanging platform being introduced to Ireland, here at Gallows hill, another alternative to the older St. Stephen’s Green system of hanging from a tree experimented with at Newgate.

Patrick Lynch was hanged on the 4th of January 1783 at Newgate with an experimental hoist system which was to be used for the first and last time on that occasion.

The noose was placed around his neck on the steps of the prison at ground level with the rope attached to a mechanical apparatus on the first level.
He was then hoisted high into the air and the body swung from 12.00pm until 4.00pm.

Thousands crowded in to see this spectacle and many adjoining streets remained impassable all day.

The hanging attracted wide criticism, and it seems that quite apart from the failure of the system to break the prisoner’s neck and the slow death that resulted, the height of the prisoner above the street and the fact that the body was up there for 4 hours made it particularly unpalatable.

(He was convicted under the ‘Chalking Act’ of 1778, when he shot a man he was robbing in the face. Under this legislation, the body of a person who killed or maimed with intent to do so would be given to the surgeons for dissection or anatomization.)

Then on Saturday the 18th of January on 1783 a triple hanging for burglary was performed on Gallows Hill demonstrating the drop platform and the prisoners were said to have died “much easier” than Lynch did.
As a result a similar system with an iron platform was installed in Newgate in March.

5 months after the introduction of this platform, the youngest prisoner believed to be hanged in this period in Dublin was executed at the age of 14. He was a very slight boy convicted of robbery named John Short.


KILMAINHAM'S "GALLOWS HILL" EXECUTIONS:



108 executed: between January 1783 and April 1795

· 93 Property Offences
(theft, burglary, robbery, 4 women)
· 9 Murders
(under the Murder Act of 1752, the sentence was carried out within 48 hours of the verdict and the body would be dissected)
· 1 Assault
· 1 Arson
(Mary Purfield, 1783, burned instead of hanged)
· 4 unkown.
· 108 total

One woman in 1783 who was found guilty of arson was burned at the stake at Gallows hill. Another woman was burned at a stake for murder in St. Stephen’s Green the following year.



HANGING AND QUARTERING

Nicholas Fagan was hanged and quartered for murder on January 14th 1786
(this was common, as was beheading, and public dissection for murderers was obligatory by act of parliament, 1752)



GIBBETING

Robert Jameson was hanged and gibbeted on March 14th 1786.
Gibbeting was a process which dated back to the 14th century whereby the body of the hanged the prisoner would be
stripped, dipped into molten pitch or tar and when it had cooled, placed into an iron cage that surrounded the head, torso and upper legs.
The cage was riveted together and then suspended. In this case it was on a tall wooden beam.
The intention was to leave the body as a grim reminder of the punishment for such a crime. It could stay on the gibbet for a year or so until it rotted away or was eaten by birds etc

Someone chopped down Jameson's gibbet a week later and a gaoler of the old Kilmainham Jail, re-erected it. Then 2 weeks later it was again chopped down,
the beam was thrown in the Liffey, the irons removed from the body and it was buried in a shallow grave somewhere here on Gallows hill.

1834. Hanging in chains or gibbet irons after death was finally abolished after James Cook was hanged and gibbeted for murder.




OLDEST EXECUTED

The oldest individual to be hanged at Gallows HIll was 80 year-old Peter Rigney, executed 25th of January 1785 for stealing the fat of some sheep in Ballynadrun.
The sheep were alive at the time.


INNOCENT EXECUTED:

March 20th 1784, Hugh Feeney and John Murphy, who both protested their innocence, were hanged at Gallows Hill for burglary just minutes before news that they had been granted a reprieve by the Lord Lieutenant as evidence suggesting their innocence had come to light.
The pair were immediately cut down but all efforts to revive them failed.

Four months later on July 24th, 1784, 3 men were hanged for a robbery having
“in the most solemn manner declared their innocence” prior to their executions.
Just over a year later a gang who were to be hanged for another burglary admitted that they were responsible for that crime.

Under an almost identical set of circumstances, it transpired that 3 men hanged in January of 1785 were also innocent.

Interestingly, those who admitted to being the real culprits were part of an exceptional quintuple hanging and what happened when the executioner pulled the lever was by Walker's Hibernian Magazine in June 1785, said to be…

"...distressing to every person capable of feeling for the misfortune of their fellow creatures. In about a minute after the 5 unhappy criminals were turned off, the temporary gallows fell down, and on its re-erection, it was found necessary to suffer three of the unhappy wretches to remain half strangled on the ground until the other two underwent the sentence of law, when they in turn were tied up and executed."


SURVIVING THE GALLOWS.

There are several recorded instances of revival in this Country during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. One of the most famous is that of John Smith, hanged at Tyburn on Christmas Eve 1705. Having been turned off the back of the cart, he dangled for fifteen minutes until the crowd began to shout "reprieve" whereupon he was cut down and taken to a nearby house where he soon recovered.
He was asked what it had felt like to be hanged and this is what he told his rescuers:
"When I was turned off I was, for some time, sensible of very great pain occasioned by the weight of my body and felt my spirits in strange commotion, violently pressing upwards. Having forced their way to my head I saw a great blaze or glaring light that seemed to go out of my eyes in a flash and then I lost all sense of pain. After I was cut down, I began to come to myself and the blood and spirits forcing themselves into their former channels put me by a prickling or shooting into such intolerable pain that I could have wished those hanged who had cut me down."

16 year old William Duell was hanged, along with four others, at Tyburn on the 24th of November 1740. He had been convicted of raping and murdering Sarah Griffin and was therefore to be anatomised after execution. He was taken to Surgeon’s Hall, where it was noticed that he was showing signs of life. He was revived and returned to Newgate later that day. The authorities decided to reprieve him and his sentence was commuted to transportation.

An Iranian man identified only as Niazali, was hanged in February 1996 for 20 minutes, but survived after the victim's relatives pardoned him.
He told the Iranian daily newspaper "Kayhan" what it had felt like.
"That first second lasted like a thousand years. I felt my arms and legs jerking out of control. Up on the gallows in the dark, I was trying to fill my lungs with air, but they were crumpled up like plastic bags,"



OPINIONS ON ALTERNATIVES TO HANGING

Freemans Journal of October 1787 reports:

"Wilde who was hanged yesterday at Kilmainham for stopping and molesting Mr. Gunning with intent to rob him, made at the place of execution ample confession of the many enormities he had committed and declared that if the blunderbuss had gone off he would certainly have shot the person he attacked.
"When cut down a number of fellows laid hold of the body and carried it without a coffin or any other covering along the Circular Road where they several times attempted to restore him to life by rubbing his limbs and trying every other method of sagacity could suggest.
"If the police persist in their exertions, there is not a doubt but the roads leading to this city will soon be cleared of the number of villains who for some time infested them and committed their depradations on the public."

Letter of October 1781 to the Hibernian Journal

Will frequent executions contribute to their purpose? Experience shows the contrary. Their Frequency renders them familiar; and the mob seems no more affected with this solemn scene, than a puppet show.
A terror is lessened. Villainy increase, and necessity for execution is augmented by their multiplicity…
I am serious in proposing castration for the men whenever they commit a crime…
Intemperate lust is the most frequent cause of such crimes, and what more adequate a punishment? ‘Tis an operation not without a suitable degree of pain, sometimes danger, and perhaps the New Gaol would tremble more at the approach of such an execution… The body relishes pleasure and enjoyment, and is the only object of their concern. The soul – they know nothing of it…
Should a Capital C be marked on each cheek, their contemptible infamous Punishment would be known to every one they meet.
“A Magistrate”

Letter to Hibernian Journal in June 1787:

[I]f in this age means could be devised by trying experiments upon our fellow creatures, who are become so hostile to society, as to be made by the laws of their country shocking examples of public justice; by amputating the limb of one man, and replacing it with the limb amputated from another; as the unhappy creatures are dead in law, good may result from evil, by the legislative tolerating to make experiments upon them, with a promise of a free pardon… I am sure men and women of the same description in Ireland, would be better pleased to be given while alive for surgical improvements, the law concurring and granting a pardon should the experiment succeed.. I will suppose government favouring the experiment, two operators with their assistants and apparatus apply the tourniquets upon the left or right thighs of two men or women, or a man and a woman if their limbs are proportioned, they are with two long bladed catlings to plunge the points seven inches below the parts, the limbs are to be taken off in oblique directions, upwards, forwards, downwards, until the points penetrate the bones, they are to revolve the points round the skin, bringing the heels, the parts, the point, first entered making neat circular flaps converging from the edges round the bones, the points the catlings revolved,; they are with small pliers to draw the mouths of the crural arteries together, giving the pliers to their assistants, while they unite them by the glovers suture, uniting the rest of the great blood vessels in a similar manner… the patients [convicts] will be thrown into violent convulsions,; but these should not prevent them [surgeons] from persisting in the experiment… The bones and muscles not uniting, the nerves and veins not inosculating, the flaps growing flabby and mortifying, and discharging a foetid ichor absorbing in the mass, contaminating the blood and juices, the patients growing hectic and convulsed, under these melancholy circumstances, it will be a pleasing reflection to them, that their lives are prolonged for offering up prayers to the Almighty Redeemer, that their mal-practice are expiated for transgressing the law; and that by fervent in spirit, they may expect eternal salvation. Although many lives may be lost in the attainment, they will be more than sufficiently compensated by the high advantage resulting to our fleets and armies.
Signed, “Heister.”

The last hanging at Gallows Hill prior to the construction of the New Kilmainham Gaol was a double hanging of two brothers named Connolly who were convicted of stealing a cow.

Buckley's Birthday Party

So I had a pretty great time at my birthday party and a whole pile of smashin (both literaly and figuratively) people came (both literaly and the other kind of literaly).

The most salient as well as salacious details can be found here

Says it all really.

Inadequate Apology

Unfortunately the closest words to 'blog' that have been occupying my mind of late have been 'slog' and 'grog'.

I'm busy busy busy at work, and am at the moment trying to devote as much time as possible to a special Heritage Week evening tour of the jail that will be devoted entirely to the history of execution in the place, which is, let me tell you, considerable. The tour will go through six sites of execution (and discuss two other local ones where the jail's prisoners met their end), a number of methods including various varieties of hanging, death by firing squad and burning at the stake. It should cover everything from the history, processes and characters; to the philosophy and the social effects of execution in Kilmainham gaol and generally. It's on the 9th of September and it's free, but you do need a ticket, so get in touch if you want to come to this gruesome (and well-researched) spectacle.

I've been also pretty sick lately since Kiva's cocktail party - the cocktail delights of which seemed to have had a straw-camel's-back-breaking effect on one of my teeth which reduced me to a whimpering, pathetic and swollen sight for an entire week thanks to some ineffectual emergency dental appointments. Less said about that the better, I think.

Finally I've been partying. The biggest episode of which was my four-day sober bender in the UK. Damn antibiotics. Great time though.

Well anyway, I just thought I'd explain my conspicuous absence from the blog-world. I should probably warn you that the next significant blog here will probably be all about hanging - so keep on checking obsessively for that one!

Spontaneous Nocturnal Biblical Criticism

I often have peculiar thoughts just before I go to bed, and when they are not sexual, it's not unusual for them to be biblical.

It occurred to me as incredible that anyone ever (myself included) entertained the idea that God's creation of woman was an afterthought, when he had already made all the animals in the world already and made them with their attaching reproductive organs which bear striking similarities to our own [insert 'horse-joke' here].

Why wasn't the idea of making a woman not so glaringly obvious to him in the light of this fact?

With that, I went to sleep.

My Secret Protégés

I don’t have any younger siblings so there is no-one I can truly say I’ve watched grow up, but I have a few younger cousins whose births I remember (one of whom I also remember seeing being breast-fed when I was about seven, which was such a striking image to me at the time, it has faded little over the years) and whose development I took an interest in as I grew up myself. I did this with some sense that my worldly wisdom was sufficiently more mature than theirs to be valuable to them, and not so much older so as to be parental, inaccessible, or irrelevant.

There were two who I was particularly interested in who are now 16 and 18, one from either side of my family. Both are the eldest in their families and I liked the idea of being a surrogate big brother to them as I never had the little brother I had wanted. One of the great perks of this soi-disant role was that it was very much a part-time job as I didn’t see either of them very often, I never had to row with them for any reason like real big brother’s have to do (yes, it’s obligatory), and the best part of it all was that though they served the function of being my surrogate little brothers, my corresponding role only existed in my head and so I was never called upon to do anything of any responsibility.

That said, I was given the job of baby-sitting one of them once and was never given the job again as I was far too permissive a guardian. I cut a deal that was based on the premise that it was fine to stay up many hours beyond ordinary bed-time so long as his mother didn’t find out about it. Of course she did though – my first practical illustration of how the law about entering contracts with minors is very sensible for all concerned.

Anyway, both of these guys are very intelligent. The fact they are both smarter than me became obvious to me at a very early age. I remember being acutely aware of this not only in their general behaviour, but in their extra-ordinary vocabulary (for their ages) and have distinct memories of each of them exposing me to words I hadn’t heard before; namely, “carnivore” and “solicitor” (two words I still use interchangeably as I have not grasped the essence of either yet).

I went for a couple of pints with the older cuz last week and it would be difficult for me to exaggerate how brilliant I think this guy is. Having seen him grow up, it seemed like a great celebration for me that my surrogate little brother is now officially adult, and technically a member of my peer group – however much he eclipses me in intelligence.

I have to admit that I did feel old talking to him and found it difficult to keep my sage and worldly pronouncements to myself – being entirely inappropriate as they are now that we are on an equivocal level. But interestingly, I also felt that I wasn’t at all as well-rounded or mature at 18 years of age as he is now, and when we parted company I began to recall all the stammering social awkwardness of my late teens that my young cousin seems to be by-passing with the greatest ease, filled as he is with confidence and exuberance, tinctured liberally with healthy amounts of cynicism and humour.

It’s great to think that I have future years of us being buddies to look forward to, and it’s also good that he’s turned out in a way that I can be proud of him; but while I will always have the benefit of a few extra years, very much gone are the days when I thought I had a world of things to teach my young cousin. From what I can tell, he has it all wrapped up.

I wonder if the younger one, who has two years of education to catch up to his fellow surrogate, will be quite so impressive. I suppose it’s all good for me either way. It means I can either be just as proud of him, and hope he still likes me, or else I can continue in my subtle benevolence and encourage his flourishing – a job I expect I would delight in.

Some reflections on the bombings in London

It seems like there is no good way to describe a terrorist attack. We seem to self-consciously fail to find the appropriate words. We talk about the date it happened and make vague references to "events" or "attacks". This was the case with New York, and I find myself following similar conventions when I struggle to find the phrase I want, when I want to speak of the bombings in London. I can't quite put my finger on why people are so reluctant to refer directly to what happened. It was a bombing, so let's call it a bombing - however scary that word is.

The difficulty of finding appropriate words was put into particular focus as I tried to go about doing my job - which is essentially finding the right words to describe violence in Irish history. I became acutely aware in the wake of the bombings of the great impact that words have. Every day I talk about the violent reactions that Irish men and women made to the injustices our nation suffered under successive British Administrations over a considerable breadth of time, and while it is in a reasonably distant past, it still has a legacy which is connected with terrorist activity. Activity that I have been exposed to many times in my life in various ways.

I suppose the most disturbing exposure I got to the 'troubles' was when I was in a bomb scare in the London underground in 1992 as a twelve year old boy. I was separated from my father in the crush. It was utterly terrifying. I threw-up my dinner later that night and bizarrely I suppressed the memories of the scare so that I didn't think or talk of it at all until a couple of years later when my Dad reminded me of that day and it all came flooding back.

At times some tourists to the prison where I work think that what I am giving them is the IRA 'line' when it is far closer to the truth to say that I am merely giving them the history of prison and the only reason that this isn't quite the truth either is that I am well aware that there are significant gaps in my reading on Irish history. But hey, cut me a little slack here - there is a bloody lot of it!

I talk about the pre-cilil-war revolutionaries of my nation with pride and admiration. Many of them gave their lives clear-sightedly to change the course of history and I am well aware that their acts of violence ultimately partially produced its desired outcome. I think I would also say that they were not only fair and just, but necessary. Irish people suffered terribly under British administration. Today I passed by the statutes of James Connolly and Robert Emmet, in the course of my day and I saluted them both and thanked them both under my breath for what they did and what they stood and died for. The bombing of London reminded me of the bombing in London that was carried out by the IRA who would also look to these figures with similar admiration, but I think I can say with confidence that these two Irish revolutionaries (my favourite two) would never have advocated taking the conflict from Irish soil and bringing it Britain in the way that the IRA did in the 1980s and 1990s

That said, it seems obvious enough that the bombing of the Baltic Exchange in London's Finacial District (to mention the most significant one), was a major catalyst to the British Government making a concerted effort on the peace process where countless bombs and acts of violence in Belfast left them largely unmoved and politically uninspired.

Of course I would never condone a terrorist attack for any reason and I would only condone violence in the most compelling circumstances, but I do find it difficult not to check myself for hypocracy when I am outraged by terrorist attacks while it is my job to honour and commemorate the men and women who are a clear link to the acts of terrorism that have occurred in recent times. Taking a broad view though, it is difficult to come up with any real moral position. The Unionists and the British hardly have clean hands.

But to return to the new terrorists in London. They are called extremists and evil. They bombed London to make their voice heard. What I find disturbing is that after the bombings, after the destruction of the world trade centre in 2001, I still can't hear their voices. This is considerably different to the IRA bombings. What are they saying, what is their agenda, and what exactly do they want? And why are western governments not asking these questions?

It seems highly hypocritical to me to speak of the 'war on terror'. We don't want wars and violence begets violence. Eagerness to go to war in the past is most likely one of the main causes of the phenomenon of terrorism. What we need, to state the obvious, is an end to violence - but we don't know how to achieve this. Clamping down on the free-movement of individuals; holding people in constant suspiscion, and over-spending on security measures seem to us like a far more achievable 'solution'. We need a little creativity.

Corpus Christi "May" Ball 2005

Corpus By Night:


Diarmuid has been such a legend as the catalyst to my having some ecstatically enjoyable weekends in Cambridge over the past year or two, and the Corpus Christi May Ball (in June) I went to last weekend was just superb from start to finish (however brief it was because the necessity for me to return to scrape a living to pay for my flash new pad). Hard though it is to conceive, somehow I managed to enjoy the trip even more than the last one. What can I say except, "Cheers mate!"

The warm-up to the ball included a picnic of some home-cooked specialities on which I gorged myself to a point of near bursting due to their relentless deliciousness; was an event that was conducted inside due to inclement weather. Diarmuid is staying in a pretty incredible flat which is shaped like the bridge of the Millenium Falcon so the view from inside his room is like this:


(only it's a squirrel in a pretty garden instead of a loose cannon in outer space).

The weather, according to the BBC forecast, was sunny and 30 degrees; however it bore all the visible signs of heavy rain from the helm of the Diarmuidian Falcon. Consequently I brought my umbrella to the ball, an incident which was to lead to the worst most inappropriate words I've ever thoughtlessly uttered.

To cut to this (anti-)lascivious part of the story: the ball which contained all kinds of delightful novelties, also included a speed-dating event (which turned to be a great service to me - current anecdote excepted). Now as I spe(e)d-dated along, my umbrella was conspicuously protruding from the inside pocket of my rubbish second-hand ill-fitting tux which caused one of my dates to ask on my arrival (on behalf of herself and her friend who I was in fact double-speed-dating due to the glut of women at the event) whether I had an umbrella in my pocket or whether I was just happy to see them. What happened next was perhaps the worst most unsalvagable and inappropriate comment that has ever stopped a nice opportunity for banter dead in its tracks in the history of conversation (seriously - I defy you to come up with something worse). I said... "No, it's an umbrella alright... I'm just what you're looking for ladies: a man who can guarantee to keep you dry all night!"

Ouch. I still wince thinking about it. You should have seen their faces (*shudder*).

Things did pick up however when I came crashing back into the event with some fresh alcoholic lubrication (ahem...) and met something of a stunner whose company was immediately captivating. Though intrigued, I felt a little flustered at this stage I have to admit, and I thought I was coming across as kind of manic and weird. So flustered I was, that I didn't move on to my final date and utterly fecked up Dan who had the misfortune of sitting next to me, by attempting to hog this girl in an unforgivable contravention of the rules. God, I'm a jerk sometimes.

Anyway, there must have been something endeering about my drooling drunken dishevelled demeanour as she did indeed deign to dance and discourse with me despite my d-related alliterations and general oddity. And ultimately, she was to be a main highlight of my evening.

The main act (in my opinion) was a Michael Jackson impersonator whose impressiveness I'd find difficult to over-emphasise. He was the MJ of the circa "Dirty Diana" phase and so was pretty versatile and convincing. Watching him had the effect of making me dance like a man who has been attacked by a swarm of bees and it also really made me feel like I had a new insight into the real MJ which brought about a sense of empathy in me for the guy that was a million miles from what I was feeling while listening to the Arviso (sp?) evidence on those reconstructions a few weeks back. Here's a picture of the guy; the likeness is incredibly striking:



It has got to be an impossible task to try retain some sanity when your artistic expression has such an impact on your audience. It's really not at all surprising that people like Elvis and Jacko (in their own way) got overtaken by their own brilliance. It must have been practically unavoidable. I reckon it was the 'off the wall' and 'bad' periods that must have done Jackson in and not his childhood as he often says - how could anyone cope with that kind of adulation? Well, I better figure it out soon anyway - I'm getting increasingly popular every day; arf, arf (despite lame "jokes" like that)!

The main differences between this and the Trinity Ball were as follows:

1. There was free food and booze all night at Corpus.
2. I saw no-one passing out from intoxication and being taken out on a stretcher.
3. It never took too long to find missing friends.
4. I saw no-one having sex.
5. I didn't use a 'potaloo'.
6. I didn't have to queue for more than 2 minutes for anything... not even a date.
7. The survivors photo (what a great idea this is!)

Admittedly the line-ups at my Alma Mater are much more impressive, but I reckon that's about the only thing that Trinners has going for it.

Anyway, the whole affair was an absolute delight, perhaps it was a shame that quasi-mojo didn't come along like he did last time - but he probably would have been grouchy anyway, as he doesn't have the stomach for travelling. I of course broke my new 3.30am rule by a number of hours, and I did indeed get drenched in ale despite my resolution to avoid coming home wearing fluids.

Diarmuid is coming to Dublin this weekend - and the best I can offer him in return for this great weekend is a Tofu Rogan Josh and a side-salad. Hmmm... maybe I should try rustle up a little desert too. You think?

The All-Nighter

While some of the greatest minds of our time continue their endeavours to understand the punch-line of the nacho cheese joke, and while others contemplate what a convincing and insightful forgery my recent (and forged, did I say forged enough times?) confession was, I will share with you what thoughts I can muster about the all-nighter I just 'pulled' (that being the verb usually associated with this phenomenon that is unfamiliar to me usually) in the immediate aftermath of it.

I went out last night with a man I will pseudonymously refer to as "Jordie le Forge," (as he is known both for his counterfeit confessions and for spending much of his time in outer space) in effort to not so much 'resurrect' as just good-old-first-time-ever 'erect' (though now that I think of it, this is a an exceedingly poor choice of phrase) the lost art of going out on the pull.

Now given that you know I was out all night tonight, you might think that we took to this operation like the proverbial ducks and their water (not the 'off-the-back' metaphor - the other one) but for those of you who know us, or our reputations which preceed us, a little better, you can pat yourself on the back (as perhaps some kind of supine simile is appropriate recompense after my prior rejection of the image) as you were entirely correct and we didn't score.

We did however talk to 'chicks' (technical term) twice. The first instance was when I was obstructing a toilet-returnee's access to her seat, and the second was when some girls asked us to watch their stuff while they went out for a smoke. So the evening was not without its successes.

You might ask yourself how such an uneventful evening continued somehow until I finally found my bed at half ten in the morning, and if you come up with any plausible reasons, you might send them my way, as personally, I'm still struggling to understand it myself.

We did meet up with some other folks: Tinseltown, and Hydro-Lithium; and i am going to lay the blame for the bulk of the madness at their proverbial doors, even though I still can't remember exactly what happened except for some hoola-hooping, some rolling down the hills on the lawns of the civic offices and some getting moved-on by security guards after I passed out on said lawn sometime around seven in the morning. They initially thought that I was a wine-drinker as I had a bottle opener protruding from my trousers but when I told them that I only drink a half glass with dinner, they seemed to warm to me and thankfully did not give me the hiding that they customarily reserve for the winos of Dublin city.

I feel like shit by the way.

It is my solemn vow not to be quite so ridiculous, unbridled or chaste in my party-antics as I have been since the end of exams and to come home to my bed from now on at a reasonable hour (I'm setting it at 3:30) with a minimum of bodily (and other) fluids staining my clothes and without a drunken a posse to wake and harrass my flatmate who will no doubt meet (sp?) out the wino-beating i narrowly escaped this morning on his return from work for all the racket that we caused. Furthermore I also promise not to italicise random words with such reckless abandon.

Deal?

Deal.

Putting the "Party" in "Dinner"

I fear the following blog may come at a bad time, as I am currently riding out (no pun intended) some scurrilous rumours about my sexual preferences. But nonetheless, I'll carry on regardless and make a stand for the many hetros who are trying to undo some of the misguided notions of what constitutes manly behaviour.

I like to have people over for food.

I've noted there are significant differences between 'dinners' and 'dinner-parties,' and for what it's worth to you, I'm about to annunciate the differences. I'm not saying that this topic is of any great significance to your lives or that they are even hard (though they are fast) rules, all I'm saying is that one day, knowing the difference may just save your life. No biggy.

The Notice
If you're coming to eat at my flat and I've given you more than a day's notice, this is an early warning sign that it might be more of a d-p event. This does not apply if I've offered to feed you because we are both going the same place later that evening or if you are a charity case (that means you 'tinseltown').

The 'Guests'
If you are going to a dinner-party, you cease to become my mate, my family-member or my acquaintance. You should now consider yourself, 'my guest'. A good indication that you have just attained 'guest' status is that you have been made aware that other people who you may not necessarily even like very much (but usually this not the case) will also be in attendance. Generally, I like to bring three people together when I'm cooking and this is largely for selfish reasons. Firstly it means that the conversation will be more buoyant and is more likely to float pleasantly (moreso than it usually would with two) through my many absences as I dash to and from the kitchen and it is easy for me to jump on into my return with the goodies without capsising the whole thing. Also, it's easier for three people to acquiesce to being waited on, you'll notice it generally makes two people feel uncomfortable. All that said, I did have a successful mini-dinner-party there last week, as it comprised of a very conversationally adept couple who didn't mind being waited on, and they were well-familiar with the concept and had even gone to the trouble of nicking parent's wine for the occasion (and proper order too).

More than three guests would cause me problems: I don't have enough seats for a start, conversation would probably fragment and damn it, there's only so much one man can be expected to cook in all fairness.

The Food
When you come to a dinner-party you get a starter and desert. Also I will be refusing all offers of help with preparation. I am now completely in control of your eating experience (despite what the sounds of crashing pots and cursing you may hear coming from the kitchen may suggest). Also, it seems I'll invariably break out smoked salmon and a selection of dips at the d-p. This feature of the scenario dictates that one "Maxload(of rubbish)" is for the foreseeable future excluded from the list of possible 'guests,' as dips are his most treacherous foe, though I can also think of more immediate reasons for some coldness of shoulder on my part.

The Drinks
For reasons unknown, it is now wine and not beer (or miwadi for that matter). Also, it's good if the guest brings it.

The Entertainment
As above, it is now background music and not television. Nothing too challenging, but something a little emotional like Jeff Buckley or M Ward goes down nicely.

The Conversation
Little needs to be said on this matter, it is (or should be) common knowledge. In fact it is this aspect of the subject that has me writing a (largely dull, I'll grant you) blog about this very subject, but now my meanderings should perk up a little as I recount as best I can (I only got the gist as I was in the bashing about the kitchen for most of the gag), the finest relevant comedy-aside I have ever heard at a dinner-party (mini-d-p though it was).

One of the dips I served was Nacho Cheese. This fact prompted the following story:

"Two Irish guys had just moved to L.A. One of them came back to the flat to be greeted by his proud friend who announced that he had just brought home a slab of that famous nacho cheese that you always hear Americans talking about. The guy asks his mate where he got it and why he thinks it's nacho cheese because it looks to him like a piece of Cheddar. The response was that he found it just sitting on the pavement and he knows it's nacho cheese because as he was walking off with it, some guy yelled after him, "Hey you, that's nacho cheese! That's nacho cheese!""

I've been laughing at that since Saturday night.

For reasons of energy and finance, I am only in a position to entertain every couple of weeks or so, but I hope to get around to everyone who would be suited to such a soiree by the end of the summer. It's something I really enjoy doing (apart from the dishes obviously) but I have to admit that there while dinner-parties can be thrown with some success by a hetrosexual man, there's still something about the phrase dinner-party that sound irredeemably camp. Does anyone know any straighter terms for such an event?

M Ward: All Mouth.

I came home after a day of relentless toiling at the "gaol" (old English spelling of "prison," pronounced the same way) on Tuesday and could not not rouse myself from the living room floor to go to the trouble of cooking anything.

The job and the recently-instituted jogging regime, seemed to have used up everything in the Buckley-tank and I was feeling put-upon to be going out for the evening but the parts of me which held the remnants of the man that was once yours truly, were very much looking forward to seeing and hearing the man who was gracefully adding weight to my eyelids as I lay on the floor listening to his CD, all-the-while fearing that his subtle brand of music-making would if anything encourage my system to wind down for the night if I finally did manage to get in gear and make it to the gig.

M Ward is to me, a musician of the most touching and brilliant talent, and so when I went to feast on his genius and beauty (as my dinner was only an unsatisfying bowl of soup in the end), I expected not to be joined by the small crowd of about 80 people (by my count) as I was, but by a vast numbers of devoted fans in a massive venue that was sold out in minutes and left sad hopefuls outside its doors. I couldn't get over the fact that I was standing so close to this guy and I took a special pleasure in convincing myself that when a spotlight shone in my face on one of the few occasions that he looked directly out to the crowd, that he had seen my adoring mug. Yes, M Ward had seen, not remembered or noted nor was he even conscious of this glance, but had indeed laid eyes on my face: a connection, I remember thinking at the time, I would most likely take an unspoken pleasure in while listening to his music in the future. It was weird for me to think that (and weirder still to say it) because I never thought that I indulged myself in the cult of celebrity in my life generally, and would be a little embarrassed about it philosophically I suppose.

M Ward is one of those performers who is all music and no frills. It was difficult to see his face under his baseball cap apart from occasional moments where he tilted his head right back to check on the audience, so the focus at all times during the concert was his prominent, expressive and seemingly disembodied mouth. As the lights on the stage left little else visible, all eyes were on this source of the voice. A voice that seems to vibrate at the same frequency as the human heart, if you'll forgive a gushing metaphor, from a confirmed fan.

After the gig (which I was everything I could have hoped for), I was saying a few hellos and goodbyes and happened to notice that the guy sheepishly standing behind me on his own at the bar was only bloody M Ward himself! God, what a joy it was to be able to go up, say hi and shake the hand of this legend (a happy gesture which was to be repeated some 2 more times (the shaking of hands that is): a detail only a pathetic and incurable fan would include in such a story). We chatted for a bit about Portland Oregon, and just generally shot the breeze as they say. He signed an album for me and I left that bar one very campy happer... though a little dazed after this encounter and not knowing quite what I wanted to do with myself.

I did what any sensible Irishman would do. I went for a pint. "One pint" I thought: one quiet pint before bed would round off the evening just nicely. I went to a little place in templebar where they play live music, bumped into a guy I knew from a party a while back, became infected by his contagious enthusiasm and before I knew it, it was five in the morning, I had drunk my own body-weight in alcohol and was obliviously crashing around my flat, slamming doors, banging pots and singing "build me up buttercup" as my flatmate silently cursed me from the discomfort his bed and the rude awakening he had received as a result of my excessive, spontaneous and thoroughly satisfying night of partying.

Meeting two highly entertaining Americans who had been on my tour of Kilmainham Gaol, (& I spotted them, not vice-versa, interestingly) was a highlight of the evening and they were generous and foolish enough to join me in attending an under-populated party in Rathmines (on foot, bless us) where wine was drunk and efforts were made to understand how piles of loose hair in a room dedicated solely to their collection were going to constitute 'art.' Needless to say, we were more successful in achieving the former; philistines that we are.

I also owe them thanks for the fun I had on Friday night when they hired me as an escort through the (subjectively speaking) best restaurants, pubs and clubs of Dublin city on a salary of food and booze: a most most welcomed and enjoyable form of remuneration; unnecessary though it was, as the evening was entirely my pleasure. So thanks a lot and safe home folks.

Sorry I'm Late

Ok, so we're sneaking up on a month now since I last posted anything, and I realise that in the blog-world this essentially means that I am de facto deceased and will have to rebuild by empire from scratch... and boy am I itchy!

I would love to be blogging lots, but to start with something of a pessimistic tone, I'm not sure there'll be very regular postings from me over the next little while as I have poor access to technology at present. But I'll cerainly try not to let it go over 3 weeks if I can help it. Ok?

So what did I promise you again? Yes, it was, "On marriage, on a new flat, on a fun job, on new piercings and miscellaneouos happenings."

Let's go then.

On marriage
Yes there was a big ol' marriage in my family and a mighty event it was. This was back on the 7th of May, and I was all dolled up in finery for the event as I was a groomsman. I was essentially there to fulfill a primarily aesthetic role as my responsibilities were few. As it was not my wedding, I'm not quite so inclined to go into it in any "she-wore-he-said-they-drank" kind of detail, I suppose the reason I thought I might give it a mention in this little forum was that it changed a long-standing opinion I had on the merits of a marriage ceremony.

I still wouldn't have any plans to be married in a Catholic (or any other Christian) Church, but I have developed a new-found respect and admiration for the institution of marriage (as they say). It's a very, significant and symbolic event and I think that inviting a whole heap of people from your best mates to your Aunty Nora, adds a weight to the occassion which allows it to swell to the Jabba the Hutt proportions that is only fitting (or rather bursting at the seams) for such an event.

Departing somewhat from the current metaphor, we all looked pretty darned attractive on the day which also seems to be a matter of great concern at such an event and I shudder to think of what the final bill for fitting out the family (particularly the women) was. Praise the Sweet Lord Jesus (fiuratively speaking) that I didn't have to pay it!

And staying on the financial aspect of things, it's a good job I'm likely to be another 6 or 7 years from marriage myself at least, as my parents won't have two pennies to rub together for quite some time. And nor will I for that matter, being the ne'er-do-well perpetual student that I am. But before I finally leave this little topic, let me advise anyone who has to go to a wedding in the future and is, like I was, not all that au fait with the requirements, I have for you the following advice: get a date. Any date. Buy one if you have to. "Where's the girlfriend James?" was a question I had grown tired of before it was even asked once, and it is the amount of times that I was asked this question that I will blame on the fact that I passed out on a plate of wedding cake (note the latter part of this story didn't actually happen - but seriously, you need a date or you won't hear the end of it).

On a New Flat
I'm now living in a duplex apartment with a very nice view of this place and right outside my door is the only surviving gate in the old city wall which dates to 1270 or so and looks like this. It's a really picturesque location in short and I can also see the liffey and the four courts from my balconies. It's a very comfortable place, plenty of room to have a few monkeys and friends over, and now that I have got a hoola-hoop, I can also treat any visitors to the place to a show. The show still needs a little work, I have to admit; I can't seem to hoola-hoop without doing a porn-face, and in the wrong outfit, it just doesn't work.

On a fun job
So I had 3 days between finishing my exams and starting my job, which is in Kilmainham Gaol, and involves me taking tours of between 40 and 55 people around an old prison where many irish nationalists and republicans were imprisoned and some executed. It also held poor Irish kraturs who were arrested for stealing and begging and murdering and stuff, about 4,000 of whom were ultimately sent to Australia and New Zealand, and a smaller number hung from the gallows.

I do enjoy the work but had a tough first week as I had a man collapse on my tour when I had a claustrophobic on the tour to take care of and the batteries in my walkie-talkie had died. I also had an incident with a woman walking onto a grated walkway with stiletto heels with predictible results, but thankfully she wasn't hurt. In general it's also a bit stressful trying to remember all the history and to deal with it eloquently, succinctly and accurately at a volume that is just shy of screaming and would perhaps be best described with a word like 'hollaring' or 'bellowing'.

On New Piercings
Don't have any yet, but will probably get the top of me ear done when the pay-cheques start coming.

Miscellaneous Happenings
Come now, surely surely surely this blog is long enough without going and asking me to talk about miscellaneous happenings as well isn't it? No? Well, I'll tell yis what, here's what Buckley didn't particularly enjoy in May: exams, and here's what Buckley is particularly looking forward to in the month of June: M. Ward Concert on tuesday, and the Corpus Christi College Ball in Cambridge on the 24th.

Apart from that it's all work drink work

Nothing to see here folks

Well, nothing except the old stuff: which is many ways timeless, but in many more ways just plain old 'old.'

It's unlikely that I'll do anything between now and the 27th of May due to my examinams so I thought I'd give all of you (impressively it's about a dozen now which is kind of cool - and thank you very much for your patronage by the way) fair notice of this sad fact.

Well take care my dear ones, and I shall return before you know it (as you will no doubt have forgotten to check until long after I'm 'back').

All the best,

Buckles & Monkey (who still hasn't learned to type and so cannot take the proverbial blogging baton as of yet)

Hair-D'oh: A Personal History

Apart from my first hairdresser, Larry, I've always had bad luck with hair dressers and through an inter-relating and dynamic combination of their negligence and my reluctance to trust them with my head, I have more often than not have had mediocre-looking to bad hair.

As a child I got my hair cut by Larry. He was old-school. He had no pump on the chair so when I came in he put a wooden board across the arm-rests of the adult's chair and I sat on that so that my head reached he height of the mirror. I don't remember anything regarding the quality of his hair-dressing, but then I wasn't a particularly vain child, and I was so cute besides that if anything, bad hair was just going to make me look cuter. What I do remember is that he was able to make honking noises come from my nose and also make screaming/laughing noises come from hair. The latter sounds quite scary but he always assured me that my hair was laughing when it gets cut and not screaming and that they really liked being cut because it tickles. One of a handful of the my fondest memories of my childhood is of myself pinching my own nose and wondering why it only honked when he did it. (And on a related note, I also remember trying to take my teeth out instead of leaving them in my mouth so that I could brush them: "Like Daddy does").

Later on I then I got my hair cut in a hairdressers where the staff were all glamorous (i.e. big hair, fake tan, sticky-red lipstick), short-skirted busty women who called everyone by pet-names. I would not be surprised to find out that it was in fact a brothel and now that I think of it, it may not be a bad idea to ask around. I remember two particularly troubling incidents from this place. One was having the tip of my ear clipped off and the other was having to have my hair re-washed mid-cut as it had been bled on when the hairdresser gashed her own hand with a scissors. My mother was with me on both of these occasions, and being Irish, we paid for the haircut both times, made no fuss and did not sue.

For many years I got a standard military-style cut which was done mostly with an intimidatingly loud and rather dull electric razor for a nominal fee by the Artane Boys Band where I spent at least 10 hours of every week; an experience from which I get deja-vu everytime I see films or documentaries about children during World War II.

After that, I went to a hair dressers called 'heads-you-win'. I was about 18 at this stage and had grown my hair quite long; on the one hand because I didn't like the hairdressers and on the other because I had never been allowed grow it, and my lengthy locks would remind me of my new independence. I thought that there was something appropriate in the suggestion of risk-taking in the name 'heads-you-win' as a lot of people felt a bit funny about going in there as the previous owner had arranged to have the houses of his elderly clients burgled while they were getting their hair done or when they told him they'd be at their bingo, and some vigilantes who were thought locally to be from the IRA went in to the hairdressers and shot him dead. They did a nice cut, though at times it was a little feminine - difficult to avoid when you have long hair and somewhat adrogenous features as I particularly did back then. This place was the least offensive of all the hairdressers I used to frequent.

I thought I had found the answer to all my hair-related woes in Templebar when I was in college, and it treated my well though it was a tad more expensive than what I was used to (not that I'm surprised given the dives I used to go to) until one day in February 2004 when I was gashed across the back of the neck with a razor. That bloody hurt. There's a photo of the gash somewhere but as I don't have a scanner, sadly it will not appear on this website. Actually, second thoughts, nobody wants to see that, do they? They were apologetic enough and gave me free haircut and vouchers for 4 more free cuts, which I was pretty content to accept but understandably reluctant to return to their premises at all with. That day marked the beginning of my renewed hair-growing, and as you can see from the pics around my website, it did get fairly long.

This next paragraph is going to be all about my vanity and how I'm annoyed that I don't have the girly hair I was just getting so fond of anymore (just to warn you):

As there is a wedding a-coming up, I decided that I would go upmarket for my haircut and decided to go to Toni+Guy (with their world-wide reputation) and resigned myself to the fact that this was going to be three times the price of the most expensive haircut I've ever had in my life. As it turned out it was just too-much 'cut' and really not enough 'hair' which was not as per agreement. While I still had a long-ish fringe, essentially all the rest was gone. I didn't really have any opportunity to notice that too much hair was being cut off as the... God this paragraph is getting boring. In short, I decided to talk to the manager about what happened to my head and somewhat unexpectedly she gave me my money back without any hesitation. I expect that it was that so few people actually complain in Ireland. Particularly men. Particularly men about hair.

My main complaint was that my hair was no longer long, and yet was too long to be short per se and so what I had was unacceptably shlong hair. I did manage to keep myself together during this complaining process and not either cry or laugh or rant or grimace; and I still can't decide which would most appropriate. Complaining about hair is really weird. Inviting competing opinions on how you look is not something that sits with me very well on a philosophical level. But it was kind of funny when I agreed with the manager that I was still a handsome man and that the cut did look fine, but it was simply not what I had asked for, and I didn't like it. I also pointed out that my opinion on the matter was now irrelevant as I was no longer an individual anyway but a wedding-prop that must be up to a certain aesthetic standard. It didn't become a particularly adversarial conversation at any point.

In the end I decided to ask them to go ahead and just cut it short - which they did. They were nice enough about the whole thing I have to say, and the manager did say she would 'take care of me' if I came in again for a trim when I was growing my hair out again, but essentially what has happened is that after putting up with having really messy hair for a year so that it would eventually be long and lovely, The longness and loveliness was snatched away just as it was about to come good.

Furthermore, no-one at Toni+Guy made my nose honk like a horn nor did they make my hair laugh. I think I'll go back to letting the Quasi-Mojo cut my hair: he's the only person I've known since Larry to make body-parts squeak and honk like they should.

On Loving Your Monkey

I haven't been talking very much lately about Quasi-Mojo (indeed given that the site was named after him, I've really given him a proverbial 'short shrift' quite unforgivably since the start) and perhaps there will be more on our misadventures in future posts; but in the absence of any great glut of quasi-mojo stories, I'd like to make some reference to a couple of stories that my attention was indirectly drawn to by a fellow blogger during my perusal of the blogosphere.

I've been pretty intimate with my monkey, and I'm aware that some people think that this is a bit weird. At times I have believed them and tried to supress our bond but now I have found a new and purer conviction that it is entirely natural as I have discovered (as you will discover now) that I am at least not the only person in the world who loves their monkey in a way that others consider less than wholesome.

Consider my friend Namita who lives happily with her monkey-son in India:


Monkey-Momma 

The full story is here on BBC.

Now admittedly I am as conservative as the next person about how long a 'son' should be breastfed for, and the figure of 5 years does look a little suspicious to me. I consulted Quasi-Mojo on the matter and he told me that this would be unlikely to happen in a natural as opposed to surrogate mother/monkey relationship, and that it probably persists on a more (shudder) sexual, than nutritional level. I'd also like to emphasise that I have no such relationship with my monkey (ours being more fraternal in nature) but the overall point I'd like to leave you with today is that freak though I am, I am neither the only one nor am I the biggest one.

It appears that interest among the ape-community in human mammaries is not confined to this monkey and the conclusion by one exPERT that a gorilla wants to see nipples has caused what will no doubt be a costly cufuffle (tweak here for the full story)

An excerpt from the story reads, "...Patterson would interpret hand movements by Koko as a demand to see exposed human nipples. She warned Alperin and Keller [who have since been fired] that their employment with the foundation would suffer, the suit says, if they "did not indulge Koko's nipple fetish.""

Hmmm. I wonder if they were men would the evil zoo-people have made them get boob-jobs to keep the gorilla happy?

Quasi-Mojo agrees that female breasts are aesthetically pleasing to him, but he also pointed out that a lava lamp would generally keep his attention longer.

Q-M isn't exactly computer savvy but I suppose if anyone out there thinks they have a set that could rival a lava lamp, you could send it to me via email and I'll pass it on and let you know.

"On your own head..."

Despite the fact that my law exams are looming, I am still accepting invitations for partying, thrill seeking, bungee-jumping, unnecessary cosmetic surgery, and lunch from inconsiderate friends who (being aware that my powers to exercise my will and refuse such invites are always zero) should try and live their whacky extreme lives without me during these tense months.

I accepted two such invitations last weekend and though I knew my time could be more productively spent in study, and as such though the phrase ‘on your own head be it,’ may have passed through my increasingly over-burdened mind, I had no inkling of how shudderingly apt such a phrase would prove to be to the consequences of these fraught attempts to cling on to something resembling a social life.

Friday was a birthday party in the most agreeable surroundings of the Morrison (lah-di-dah ) Hotel and was an occasion which was so much fun, that even the disaster of wearing a similar shirt to the man who will one day be known as Jones CJ (for the non-legal among you, that stands for ‘Court Jester’ by the way), did not detract in any significant way from the delightfulness of my evening.

In fact I wasn’t even that put out to find that on returning to my patient bike with its gazelle-like grace, that some drunkard had decided to use it as a urinal, directing the subject matter of his (one presumes it was a male of the species) self-relief to the centre of my helmet. I merely got on with things as one does, wiped down my bike a little and decided to cycle home sans helmet, leaving it dangling from my handlebars in the wind like the publicly-displayed soiled sheets more common to the generation of Huckleberry Finn and his ilk.

Saturday’s main event was a stag party that started early in the afternoon (/hangover) with some drinks and some music because the honored stag is the lead singer-songwriter/guitarist in a rock band. It was an event which was to make me feel with more pointed sadness than ever before that I spent my youth in a military marching band for delinquents and orphans playing the clarinet and not rocking out in a rotating foursome tortured by personality clashes and artistic differences, singing Nirvana covers with squeaky high-pitched unbroken voices. But well, I've made my bed (with military precision) and now I'll just have to try and deny that it's a clarinet under the covers and maintain I'm just happy to see you.

Compounding the shame of my wasted childhood and resulting lack of a socially acceptable party-piece, was a feint, but no doubt ever-present, odour which may have been as much in my head as emanating from it; but nonetheless had every reason to be there. For you see Laurel and Hardy were not comedians. No, no, they told it like it was. People really do forget that their helmet has been drunkenly pee-ed on when they are late for a stag party, and the beery pee really does have a tendency to gather in a pool between the main helmet-bit and the plastic cover around it, and the laws of physics do allow for the beery pee to remain where it is until the helmet is on one’s head only then to trickle down the left side of one’s face in a graphic reminder that while you may from time to time think you’re number one, you are mistaken. The number one is in fact laughing its way through your girly long hair and all the way down to your chin.

Now, I can make it a double-truth when, if my exam results are less-than-impressive and my parents ask why I didn’t perform like they expected I would, I can look them straight in the eyes and say, “Mum, Dad, I thought you would have figured it out by now given the hours I keep, but you haven't and I can’t hide it from you any longer: I'M JUST A PISS-HEAD.”

MTV: HIV, FYI

What I’ve come to expect from MTV ‘UK & Ireland,’ as it is nominally known, is American pimping, raiding, smashing stuff, self-inflicted pain, cosmetic surgery, blurred-out nipples, conspicuous and ridiculous wealth, Paris Hilton’s nauseating arrogance, incessant ads for telephone ring-tones, the obligatory Irish ‘howaya’ guy, aberrations of the word ‘news’, and variations on all of the above.

So I was taken a little by surprise to see an understated program that involved some normal (and not ‘TV-normal’) Americans sitting around answering questions in succession about how HIV has impacted on their lives.

There was no presenter and there were no tears. There were no statements of defiance. There was no self-indulgent condemnation about how ignorantly people treat them on learning of their infection. There was no soppy Oprah music or montages of these people in their beautiful homes or having blood tests or playing frisbee with their children. There was no passionate desire to educate the youth of America. No sponsored walks. No celebrity-sponsored funds. No admonition of political or church leaders. There was no talk of cures or plans for the future or bright-sides, or how broken family relationships were mended in the light of the tragedy. They were just given very simple questions and they answered them in turn, and occasionally asked each other to clarify or talk a bit more about a part of their of their story. Answers were short and to the point. It was distinctly (by what I am given to understand) un-American and (certainly) un-MTV.

Coincidentally, I got the results of some tests this week that were taken as a matter of procedure and I was found to be HIV and Hepatitis C negative. I had never seriously thought that the results would be any different, and I had no plans to go and get tested on my own initiative (to be honest I wouldn’t know where to start) but it was not unthinkable that they could have been.

I’ve done foolish things. Even despite that, I’ve had a lot of injections over the years, and I work in an Emergency Department that sees its fair share of Dublin’s lowest down-and-outs and drug addicts. I mean like I say, chances of having picked up a virus were highly remote but it was still reassuring to see it written down on an official letter, and in a way I can’t really fully account for, it felt very good to get the result. But interestingly, it doesn’t ‘put my mind at ease’ on the contrary it puts my mind on alert. I take the risk more seriously now, even though I still resent being assaulted by all the shock-tactic ads about it when I use a college toilet that makes me feel on the one hand like I’m not having as much sex as everybody else, and on the other that having sex would be the most terrifying ordeal I could put myself through.

Trying to make sex scary like that is not particularly helpful in my opinion. Treating your partner as a highly infectious conduit of lethal germs is not really the way we want to be going, I don’t think. Incidentally, there are also ads which use the ‘fear’ of pregnancy as an inducement to get people to rubber-up, which I think is a pretty thoughtless addition to the already discernible stigma that can attach to unplanned pregnancy. It’s also entirely unnecessary. Everyone knows what condoms are for – a simple reminder would suffice in my opinion. On that note, I know what I’d choose if I were offered a choice of a serious venereal disease and a child. An unexpected pregnancy is a biggy alright, but its one of the better bad things that could happen to a person.

Legal footnote:

Contraceptives became legal in Ireland (though very restrictively so) after the case of McGee V Attorney General in 1974 which was the result of Mrs. McGee having her spermicidal jelly seized by customs officers. I’m not certain what the legal situation was with condoms, but from reading of Walsh J’s Supreme Court judgment, it appears that there was a blanket ban on all forms of contraception up to that point when it was found inconsistent with the right to (particularly marital) privacy guaranteed by the constitution. Norris V Attorney General in 1977 (high court) and 1984 (supreme court) almost succeeded in the repeal of criminal laws against consensual anal sex, on the same logic, but his appeal failed as it was held that the legislature was entitled to limit the exercise that right on the grounds (inter alia) of the Christian nature of the nation and the fact that it would be injurious to the institution of marriage and public health. In 1989, the courts were finally obliged by the European Court of Human Rights, to repeal the law.

The Kylie Blog

I made no secret of the great excitement with which I received the news that I was to get a free ticket (thank you, thank you, thank you) to the Kylie Minogue, ‘Showgirl – The Greatest Hits Tour’ Concert and, despite being acutely aware of the odium that such a scenario was likely to attract from the majority (and I think it turned out to be overwhelming majority) of my (not even principally male) peers, I went ahead unabashed and unashamed, made my feelings and intentions widely known, only to be pleasantly surprised that largely the type of reaction with which my statements were met was in fact even more vituperative than I ever expected or hoped.

You see, I seem to quite enjoy people feeling a certain abhorrence to me from time to time, but what I enjoy even more, is occasions like this when I can put my hand on my heart (as Kylie herself has told us to do) and know that I can't be convinced that I am not (at least nearly) entirely correct. But the real real pleasure is changing the minds of others (though I openly admit that this has not happened yet and is unlikely to happen with this blog - but hey, it's worth a try) and opening their eyes to the fact that all along they have always, and always will, LOVE KYLIE MINOGUE.

There is a lot of Kylie-hate out there. And it’s hilarious! But more to the point, it’s misguided and wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Furthermore, I believe Kylie-haters are in denial because they are afraid to face up to the truth. Not merely the truth about Kylie, but the truth about life.

I love Kylie in every way imaginable (that doesn’t involve buying any of her records or merchandise, or for a long time approving of her catchy, sweet and romantic duet with Jason Donovan (‘Especially for you’) - for personal reasons). And because I’m such a self-assured (and perhaps in some ways naively cocky) man, I’m not going to be brow-beaten by the opinions of otherwise reasonable people with good taste and average or greater intelligence.

But perhaps I should explain the genesis of my deep and unshakable love. As a very young child, I was exposed to what remains for me, Kylie’s most important work. Songs like: ‘I should be so lucky,’ ‘Put your hand on your heart’ and the less successful but heart-rending, ‘Je ne sais pas pour quoi’ and of course, ‘Locomotion’. These four songs combine to depict the purest most perplexing emotions that face young people in their romantic and social lives. ‘I should be so lucky’ begins the journey of romance as we all do, in the realm of fantasy and idealism, unaware of how unattractive and unlikely to succeed in romance that we are. ‘Put your hand on your heart (and tell me that we’re through)’ continues this theme of dashed hopes of happiness by depicting that moment when the person you devoted yourself to manages to transform your great love to a temporary but unforgettable hate of self, other (this one lasts longer) and the entire world (except for chocolate). We then come to the clincher with ‘Je ne sais pas pour quoi’: the inevitable realization that you are powerless against your foolhardy misguided affections, that the person who dumped you and cheated on you is your slim but only chance at anything resembling happiness and you are so confused and bewildered that there’s nothing left for you to do but to suck it up and resort to speaking French. ‘Locomotion’ is actually a song about escapism where you try to not think about what a shambles your entire life is (“A dance that’s so easy to do, it even makes you happy
when you’re feeling blue”) and the peer pressure that lead you there against your better judgment (I know you’ll get to like it if you give it a chance now(c’mon baby do the loco-motion)). Now all this may very well have a cheesey pop coating, but it’s it got a raw emotional centre. As a six or seven year old boy, what Kylie had done for me was to express my unconscious fears and foreshadow the romantic tragedy I was most likely to face in my future in a way that was… well, as the song goes, ‘as easy as learning you’re ‘a,’ ‘b,’ ‘c’s.

So I think that alot of people just don't expressly appreciate Kylie because they are afraid to face up to these harsh life lessons. But I also must confess that yes, even I doubted her at times.

Perhaps the main reason (among many) I felt a strong repulsion to ‘Especially for you’, was that it seemed anathema to Kylie’s otherwise consistent message and betrayed the depth of her perception about the phenomenon love in her other hits. But last Saturday night, I realized that the actually does follow in the sequence of disappointment and denial, shows how we pick ourselves up and go ahead and willfully make the same mistakes all over again. It also leaves us with the unforgettable warning that if we are not careful, we could end up with Jason Donovan. Why couldn't I see this before? I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Kylie.

Admittedly her newer stuff doesn’t excite me as much as the old stuff (I was positively ecstatic about the burlesque version of Locomotion and actually nearly jumped out of my seat when ‘I should be so lucky’ just burst out of nowhere – though admittedly part of me couldn’t but help think that there was something wrong with seeing a crowd moshing to this song), but I think it’s all pretty good shit, and would be among my favourite musical catalysts that have lead to my attempting to dance in the drunken uncoordinated jerky way I like to do sometimes when I forget that while I’ll not remember it in the morning, it’s a horrific sight that’s etched on everyone else’s minds forever. Well, ok, maybe the new stuff does excite me, but just not quite to the same philosophical depth as the old stuff.

Anyway, there were 7 discernible themes to the show which I will term as follows:

1. Showgirl (high class)
2. Freaky 80s
3. The Ballet sequence
4. What goes on in the hunky (pick a sport) team’s dressing room (the female fantasy + shower scene)
5. Kylie over (well ‘in’ more so than ‘over’) the moon
6. Showgirl (burlesque house ala Folies Bergere)
7. The encore

Abandoning all efforts to sound straight (which were admittedly slight to begin with), it has to be said that the male dancers were far more impressive than the female dancers in every respect. They used their feathers with much more grace in the opening sequence, one guy stole the entire show in the ballet sequence, and (from a purely objective non-sexual-preference point of view) the dressing room sequence was much sexier than the Burlesque house.

Though Kylie did do bits from her famous duets (not the Robbie Williams one interestingly), none of her partners cameod, and though ‘In Denial’ with Neil Tennant from the Pet Shop Boys, fitted perfectly in the ballet sequence, ‘Where The Wild Roses Grow’ (duet with Nick Cave) appeared (albeit briefly) rather unexpectedly and disconcertedly in the Boy’s Dressing Room bit. Classic song though. Now I didn’t realistically think that any of them would, but it’s nice to hope that they might. What I can be thankful for though is that Donovan didn’t show up, but what is a little disconcerting is that he is now doing with his career what I hope to one day do in mine: pretend to be a lawyer.

What is kinda funny about Kylie’s songs in general is that I think we all know more of them than we would reaslise or ever admit to knowing (& liking?). First of all, I’m pretty sure most of my anti-Kylie readers will recognise all (or vice versa: all will know most) of the following lyrics from 8 Kylie songs and what’s more, see if you don’t know (despite yourself) what the next few words are:

1. ’cause baby when I heard you/ For the first time I knew/ We were…
2. Slow down and dance with me/ Yeah, slow/ Skip a beat…
3. I just can’t get you out of my head/ Boy your…
4. It’s in your eyes/ I can tell what your thinking/ My heart is sinking too/ It’s no surprise/ I’ve been watching you lately…
5. I’m dreaming/ You fell in love with me/ Like I’m in love with you/But…
6. Everybody’s doin’ a brand new dance now…
7. You kiss me, I’m falling/ It’s your name I’m calling/ You touch me, I want you…
8. I’m breakin’ it down/ I’m not the same

Go on, try and tell me that there isn't a little Kylie in all of us... that not even a little bit of you doesn’t love Kylie... that she's not spinning around in your VERY SOUL!

0.01%

The sun came out in Dublin, and to celebrate I had 3 lunches (followed by ice-cream) and flitted the day away swinging from social-branch to social-branch in the company of a series of people who I like to call friends (being the body of individuals who have not managed to renounce me by emigration or restraining order) and did not do so much as a pinch of work.

However, it was after my audacious slackery that things really became interesting. I arrived home in the evening to find that Pops was home, tending to his bonsai trees (Mr.-Miagui-style) and was entirely ignoring the racket that was being kicked up on the roof of the shed as Quasi-Mojo chopped and round-housed at magpies that were trying to eat the bread thereon (Karate-Kid-style).

We soon decided (myself and Pops) to take a walk along the seafront and find a place to have a bit of dinner. Against my better judgment I invited the monkey, but thankfully he shrugged with annoyance and said “Yoga?” indicating that this was what he considered his current activity to be, and that I was distinctly inconsiderate for interrupting.

[Pause narrative to mention interesting almost Seinfeld-esque (?) moment we had not far from the house as follows]

Pops: Oh hang on, I better go to the cash machine to pick up a few bob.
Buckley (Jnr.): Oh me too… I’m bobless.
Pops: ‘Bobless’ eh?
Buckley: Yeah, Bob is alright, but sometimes I just need a bit of ‘me’ time, you know? …but then again… I suppose… [Buckley struggles]
Pops: Yeah, after all… he is your uncle! [Oh there it is!]

[Moment concluded]

It’s rare enough for a father and son to just go out and have dinner together of an evening and devote, what was at the time planned to be, two hours to one another’s company. But today, was a rare and special day, and two hours actually became six – coffee and night-caps all in.

Now even though one may have a very good relationship with one’s Pop, I’m sure most agreeable sons would still feel that they nonetheless rarely ‘really talk’ (as they say) with their father. I feel this way anyway, and I wholeheartedly believe that there are very very good reasons for this to be the case 99.99% of the time. This evening however proved itself to be within the infinitesimal remainder.

I can’t begin to describe how great this was for me, so I suppose I’ll just start in the middle. I somehow ended up discussing with him the essentials of my entire love-life for the past four years; barely pausing to remind myself that this was, after all, my father (who was married at my age, and whose loins I would not long after be the fruit of) that I was talking to. I told him about girlfriends he never knew I had, and ones he did know I had but didn’t care much for and said as much. I spoke with candour about what each relationship had meant to me, how my reasoning, approach and expectations had developed and matured and at times blew up in my face. I even surprised myself, and among other things, realised how grateful I was for everything I had learned from my first experiences love – painful though they (inevitably) were. He asked questions with a genuine interest, understanding and insight that I wouldn’t have even expected from my closest contemporaries. Let me tell you folks, this might make a dull read, but it was BIG STUFF.

We spoke for the first time about that dark time I referred to in a recent blog (not that he reads this thing – that reference was for your benefit) and he spoke about how he thought I was done-for too (emotional dimensions were skirted over to keep the momentum of conversation going; breaking-down over dinner is just rude, you know?). He told me that thing that every son thinks he is passively aware of but wouldn’t for a second admit he’s at all concerned about either way, but is touched to hear nonetheless: the simple, unelucidated, no-frame-of-reference-necessary-or-possible fact that he’s proud of me.

And there’s more. He told me about things that were going on in his life when I was growing up that I had never understood or appreciated at the time. I’ve never had such an insight into the man. It felt really good. We were communicating as equals. No-one held anything back. If this were the wonder years and I were Fred Savage, a line something like “At that moment we either stopped being father and son, or suddenly became more father and son than we ever were,” would have been suspiciously ignored by the characters as the camera pulled out and the shot fades into the dark night.

Now you may have come to expect more from Buckley than such mush when you log into this blog, and if this the case, for your despondency I’m afraid I offer no apology or redress but I will thank you for sticking with me thus far. Much as I didn’t realise it until recently, there’s more of ‘me’ in this blog than I had appreciated, and what you have just read, my friends and neighbours, for what it is worth, is (give or take) what happened me today.

…And I’m glad to share it with you.

Declassified

A number of years ago, there was a short phase where I lived a sleepless peculiar life that was essentially a reaction to some general disgruntlements and vulnerabilities mixed with the specific displeasures of breaking up with my first girlfriend, being so ill that at one point I thought I was going to die, and not being able to go to class as a result of receiving some hate-mail and threats of physical violence from a (very big) guy whose affections I had rebuffed. What I did during this time (apart from learn how to ring church bells) was hang out with a pretty eccentric group (many of whom had been to prison) who recited poetry and got shit-faced a couple of nights a week.

I came across some of the stuff I wrote during this period that seems so novel and unrelated to me now, that I feel like I can declassify some of it without much embarrassment as I feel so detached from the weirdo (/genius) who wrote it.

The first poem I wrote for my fellow-misfits was about my feelings on the break-up and is a poem that makes such little sense it's ridiculous. Much as I would love to put this poem up as I think it's *very* funny, I have too much respect now for the girl in question to risk her reading the poem with even a tincture of offence. But I will tell you that it was called:

"A poetic failure, that lacks insight, creativity and competency/A poem about something that bore a passing resemblance to Love."

It wasn't the only dark free-verse I wrote, but for the moment I'll focus on some of the lighter rhymier stuff I wrote and maybe a few works-in-progress that never actually got progressed. Consider this one:

The Spoils of Woo-er
Open-mouthed and motionless like the patient crocodile.
I strike my pose
And hope she goes for wooden guys who smile.

A toothy grin, A modest plan to catch a young gazelle,
A doe-eyed girl,
For whom I'd nearly take my chance to tell
How much I'd like to kiss her lips, and be kissed back as well,
And play with her
All drunk with mirth - as laughter casts a spell


Ah to gaze into her eyes and find the depth of deepest seas,
To stroke her face
with all grace of early autumn breeze.

And how divine to be held close and breath her soft brown hair
My very soul,
A new born foal made innocent and fair.

Oh now she's coming over, I have too think of something charming...
But before I can, she says, "Young man, your smile is quite disarming.
I'd talk to you from what I see, but not from what I hear:
I've been made wise you womanise and then you disappear!"

Oh no I say, you've got it wrong.
You can't take me to task
This is my plight:
I'm too polite.
I kiss the girls who ask!

But you're nothing like those other girls your friends told you I’ve bitten.
Without a doubt
Please, no, hear me out, with you I'm really smitten.

Just hear this poem that rhymes so well it's sweeter than an...um... orange?
This poetic fruit,
I give to you to... eh

Well, this is why I shouldn't talk.
I turn out sounding heinous,
What I should do,
Is just show you the love I feel between us.

There she goes across the room, and out of my life forever.
Rhyming "heinous" with "love between us"?
That wasn't very clever.

And so ends a typical night and I go home alone.
But I'm at peace because, at least,
It makes a funny poem.

And here's another one I liked:

Branded Insomniac
I slept in last Kentuky-Friday Chicken
Because I was up chocolate TursDaytona night
Kilowatching television over a midnight megabyte.
Some nights I can of coca-cola sleep
And it's not even Worther's Original trying.
So I relax my cell-phone the couch,
Potato the golf-course of my life,
And thin-crusted-pizzabout the modern world sandwich I live.

Here's where it begins to get quite weird folks, so those of you of a tasteful disposition, please navigate away from this page now. I remember writing this on a train... not that that's important:

The Should(e)n'tist

I hate going to the should(e)n'tist.
The extractions are always so sore.
Extractions are bad but fillings are worse;
That dull steady pain when she bores.

In fact I have a few small unpolished and unfinished ones like that. I never got to the bottom of these ones for example:

I'm the itch you cannot scratch,
Squeaky door without a latch
The big white egg you'll never hatch
The hole too big to patch

I'm the pebble in your shoe,
I'm the never-ending queue,
I'm the dirt that sticks to you,
And makes smell like baby-poo.

Thinking of the things I said,
Set a riot in your head,
Made your face turn roaring red
You wish that you were dead.

But I keep talking in your ear,
And where you go I'm always near
Telling you the thing to fear,
Is coming up the rear

I'm the ticking of the clock,
I'm the multicoloured sock
I'm the crowing of the cock
I static-electric shock

Or this little one that was inspired by Oprah:

Spiritual Side (Salad)
Our spiritual side is worth addressing.
The dressing on mine is a Caesar.

This one I neither titled, finished nor ever attempted to recite in public (with bloody good reason as you will see), and in fact is the poetic equivalent of amidst asking you to look at my back acne which you reluctantly agreed to, going that step to far and showing you a wart on my perineum for your opinion. The metaphor is apt in that I am a little disturbed by it, however not enough to go to a professional about it, and can't imagine how it developed in the first place. Good job I'm not shy like that.

The shapely bar of slippery soap
Nestles in my hands.
Careful now, I need to cope
With what slippery soap demands I do.

The shapely bar of slippery soap
Begs a soft caress,
My tender touch becomes a grope,
Can't grasp the soapiness of you.

The shapely bar of slippery soap
Tries to slip away,
And so I now attach a rope
So slippery soap will stay with me.

The shapely bar of slippery soap,
So innocent and pure,
The answer to my prayers I hope,
This slippery soap is sure to be.

The shapely bar of slippery soap
Washes away all sin.
No need now for Holy Popes,
A precious trophy-win, I'd say.

The shapely bar of slippery soap
Gets smaller every use,
I couldn't bear to kill it so
Perhaps I'll open the noose - some day.

The shapely bar of slippery soap
Then vanished from my scope.
Of the shapely bar of slippery soap
Nothing but the rope remains.

Oh shapely bar of slippery soap
To where could you elope?
Could a bar of slippery soap
Run with antelope on planes?

Or Is the bar of slippery soap
With hippies smoking dope?
Can a bar of slippery soap
Ski down the icy slopes?
The shapely bar of slippery soap
Is living dreams I hope.

It's not that all my poetry was so random or slap-stick and rhymed to within an inch of it's life like that stuff, and so I submit to the jury the following:

Threshold

The moment between awake and asleep
A dream that might come true.

Its eyes as a child begins to weep
A single-knotted shoe.

The breath you take before you speak
"I'm still in love with you."


Rose Garden Promise

Evening Dew's kiss is on my lips.
Silence whispers in Gardens' scented breath.
Touch asks if the sleeping rose is her cheek
And Sadness answers yes.
So promising and so closed
And so beautiful and cold.
Yes.


Sleeping Beauty

Sleeping beauty is the most disarming.
Long breaths receive the world in hazy innocence
And calm heat shapes a womb-like aura
As sacred as silence.
At rest we are all children.

This was how I found her
And with Actaeon's regret brought her world into mine.
Expecting a primal scream, but a far cry from this,
As she wakes
She seeks my embrace.

She welcomes my cold cheek
Like a long-dreamt-of first rain.
I take my place
And find it is I who am born again.

However sometimes I subjected these poor x-cons to some unabashed piss-taking like the following poem in which I chimed a bell once after every time I said the word 'Buddha:'

My mobile phone is the Buddha.

My mobile phone is the Buddha
It meditates all day.
It listens to the universe,
And lives the eight-fold way

My mobile phone is the Buddha.

My mobile phone is the Buddha.
Enlightened it knows all,
It knows how many friends I have
And why they never call.

My mobile phone is the Buddha.

My mobile phone is the Buddha.
It has right thought and speech,
I always keep it with me
To learn what it can teach.

My mobile phone is the Buddha.

My mobile phone is the Buddha.
It's teachings are of dharma.
So when my credit's running low
I know it's just my karma.

My mobile phone is the Buddha.

My mobile phone is the Buddha.
It helps me to progress,
It communicates from beyond the stars
By using SMS.

My mobile phone is the Buddha.

My mobile phone is the Buddha
It meditates all day.
It listens to the universe,
And lives the eight-fold way

My mobile phone is the Buddha.

You're probably wondering why the hell I'm still churning this stuff out at you, but I'm thinking I might as well be hung for a sheep as a failed revolution... which leads me to this patriotic little fella done in the couplet style as is is the custom for such odes:

Remembering Emmet

Take a walk in St. Steven's Green
Where Jerome O' Connor's muse is seen
With a tragic hero's flare
And dactyl faeces in his hair.

And see the sorrow in his eyes
Confounded by the passers-by,
His left hand clenching anger's cry
His right hand open, asking, why?

He stands alone so we'll remember
How he stood in that September.
In Green street courthouse charged with treason
Now he’s tried by every season.

He stands defying indignity
As in eighteen-hundred-and-three;
Heaped on then with prejudice
And heaped on now by pigeon's shit.

But somewhere close his blood still flows
And from it seeds of justice grow
And try as you may you will never stem it
So remember.
Remember Robert Emmet.

And for those of you who are utterly utterly bored, I close with a poem which was originally called "Exactly 500 words on the importance of knowing your audience." I mentioned this title to a dear old friend of mine named Erin who suggested that 499 words would be better. I concurred and left out the last one.

499 Words:
On the Importance of Knowing your Audience
Your life is rich.
Everyone around you revels in your tantalising bodilyness.
Not the girl across the table who thinks your boyfriend should be hers,
Or the guy whose smile you ignored, who’s blushing for internal voyeurs.
He is a strange boy, and I'll grant you,
Does have an ill-fitting body and an unattractive haircut -
But his skin is perfectly clear,
Though you, like everyone else here,
Imagine acne on his otherwise featureless face.

If I may digress,
Being an aspiring poet,
He compares you to the feeling of an itchy rectum,
But thinks again recalling that every single one of his previous 19 ass and ass-related metaphors have been ill-received.
Rather if he were granted his wish to discard his annoying ability to hear, see and hypothetically touch and taste you,
By the genie in this microphone,
And could only perceive you through his sense of smell,
His life would be a little more pleasant
because the only remaining evidence of your persistent ignorance
Would be the mysterious yet comforting scent of the perfume you wear. He'll make it rhyme later. Digression aside.

His life is rich.
Everyone around him watches and listens to him as much as they can.
Not the alpha male drinking Bulmers with ice
Or the one fourth in line making sure this Mr. Big knows she's watching.
She ignores him just like you do.
But the difference is,
When she ignores him, he imagines himself wearing nothing but her leather boots and her short black skirt.
His hands on the cold marble counter while the nails of her right hand dig between his shoulder blades to steady herself as she spanks him with a rainbow trout -
Or whichever fish she chooses.
Like I said he is a strange boy,
But despite his peculiarly personal misconceptions about this woman,
The following is unmistakable


Her life is rich,
Everyone around her has something to say about the way she makes them feel,
Not the guy whose "feelings," should remain securely inside his skull,
Because unlike the surrounding epidermis, they are anything but unblemished,
Or those people over there who stole her table and are laughing every time she looks over.
It’s only a table gordon.
They’ve never been here before and are never coming back,
Next week is salsa dancing but that won't last long.
The man in the corner with enough money for one pint who’s making it last all night, might have thought to himself,
Their life is rich,
Everyone around them is jealous of the fun they’re having.
But he didn't. Not tonight.

Like him, we'll stand up and declare the richness in our lives
Or perhaps share a fantasy of richness composed in the midst of the begrudgingly dull.
In the end there's no difference. I have no point to make.
I just wonder if you'll believe me when I stand before the yous, hims, hers, thems and uses, guessing you can tell which is which,
And say my life is ____

Suicide and Parasuicide in Ireland

You all know how I spent the money I made over the last six months (as frugally as a young man of my circumstances and disposition would), but as well as eeking out an existence on the financial fruits of my work, I have also benefited from the facts I have learned in the course of my documentation of cases of parasuicide, which will contribute to a national report of the phenomenon as documented in 2004 that will be published toward the end of this year.

I would like you too to benefit from a few statistics about this very common phenomenon by sharing a few simple statistics with you on the matter which I imagine you will find informative at the least.

Though the term parasuicide does include suicide attempts, it also encompasses any act of self-harm for which an attendance at an Emergency Service (as opposed to a GP) is required, and can include some attempts at self-harm which were prevented by intervention by others. The WHO has divided methods of suicide and self-harm into 22 specific methods (5 of which are different types of overdoses and which collectively made up almost three quarters of suicide attempts in Ireland in 2003).

In Ireland, approximately one in every one hundred people who attend Accident and Emergency Departments are there explicitly because they have deliberately harmed themselves. These people come from deprived areas 4 times more often than affluent areas; present between the hours of 8pm and 4am, half of the time; and are noted to have consumed alcohol 42.6% of the time. In the hospital where I was gathering information on the subject, they had an average over 18 cases a week in 2004.

When people hear the term suicide, they often think of it as a phenomenon affecting young men. And while men have been 4.2 times more likely to die by suicide than women in Ireland in the past five years, placing the statistics of parasuicide next to this figure gives a far more rounded picture of the phenomenon. For every male suicide in 2003 there were approximately 13 male episodes of parasuicide, but for every female suicide there are 76 parasuicide episodes. It is women who are in the majority when it comes to parasuicidal behavior, and they remain in the majority when actual suicide numbers are integrated.

Of the numbers of known hanging and drowning attempts in 2003, 73% of them were made by men and they died 50.5% of the time as a result; and of the 27% who were female, only 25% died as a result. While one or other of drowning or hanging represented the method used in 74.3% of actual suicides in men, it was only chosen by women in 58.6% of cases; with drowning, hanging and drug overdoses being used with almost equal frequency at around 29% each.

Of all parasuicide episodes recorded in 2003, the methods of hanging or drowning were 6.5% of all male cases, and a mere 2.6% of all female cases. The overwhelmingly frequent method in both sexes was overdose, and it represented 64% of male parasuicide cases and almost 80% of female cases (with women representing 57.4% of all parasuicide cases).

From these figures a prima facie reason for the preponderance of males in acts of suicide in Ireland seems to be the methods they more often chose to employ: hanging and drowning. This is coupled with the fact that they are also more likely to succeed with these methods. As I did my research this year I was struck by how often parasuicide patients expressed their relief to be alive after a serious suicide attempt and it is saddening to consider how many young men who died by suicide would have said the same, had they had survived.

Enjoy

For those of you who have seen the episode of the office where they have to figure out how to get the farmer, the goat, the fox, and the grain across the river... unfortunately this will require just as much introduction. But I would like to mention in passing two of Gareth's classic comments on the matter: "Why would a farmer have a fox? A fox is the farmer's greatest enemy." And in response to the answer to his question that the farmer doesn't have a wife to help him as he is gay, "Well he shouldn't be let near animals then..." is such genius that I can't believe that the makers of this puzzle didn't bear it in mind when they came up with the idea that thieves beat up everyone except the police and that Father's karate-chop their daughters when the mother isn't about and the mother does likewise to the sons when the father isn't abouot (presumably as he's busy beating the daughters). Frankly, given what these people do to their own children, I shudder to think what they would do to animals, and i'm not even sure they are farmers... but I digress.

Anyway, it's four in the morning so any typos or general crapness in my writing should be excused for this reason (for previous writing of a similar standard, I bviously have no excuse). Basically the rules are as follows:

To start click on the big blue circle on the right.
To move the people click on them.
To move the raft click on the pole by the river.

Only 2 persons on the raft at a time:
The father can not stay with any of the daughters without their mother
The mother can not stay with any of the sons without their father
The thief (striped shirt) can not stay with any family member if the Policeman is not there
And most importantly...
Only the Father, the Mother and the Policeman know how to operate the raft

I did this in just under 20 minutes after a beer at lunchtime today.

Do it now!

For Fuyu's Sake

cnv00001
Originally uploaded by jbuckley.

Generally if you call my house these days, you will find it lacking a certain Buckley: me. If you are looking for said 'certain Buckley,'(a) I'm sure I already gave you that money, and (b)whichever family member answers the phone will take a message and eventually pass it on to me in the form of stating your probable gender and roughly the week you called. I'm generally 'out' for at least 12 and usually 14 hours of any given day and as a result (though you wouldn't think it to look at my lithe physique) I eat out.

I am writing this blog today for two reasons: (a) Diarmuid sent me this picture of a 'familiar personage' in the place I eat out in most often and it's a good excuse to post it; and (b) I invited a friend of mine here yesterday, informing him that they happily continue their lunch menu until 5.30 and you can get a good meal for a tenner or so. His response shook me hard. I was informed that his food budget for a week is €35. I reflected on the matter and decided that mine was probably about €100 or more (include booze-money and this figure becomes positively disconcerting). Over a year, this amounts to over 4 full time weeks of work in salary terms in the difference. I always thought that I ate out mostly because of work but now it appears I work mostly to eat out.

Figures like that are a little stingy I don't mind telling you. As I collect myself in defiance of these startling statistics, I think the best I can come up with is: "Well at least I don't smoke... and I can quit whenever I want."

... But the truth is, I know I can't. While there's breath in my lungs and soy sauce in my veins, there will always be one more Bento Box that I promise is my last.

Minimumload

Minimumload
Originally uploaded by jbuckley.

In honour of Max's comment, here's a little more toilet humour - which only seems to be funny because its authors were so deadly serious.

The picture was recently taken by the lovely Tess, and depicts the door of a toilet on a train (I shit you not) we took to Galway.

Who on earth (or trains) calls them 'solids' by the way?

Drinking Habits of the Irish Male

I imagine it's a cultural phenomenon. It seems to happen with such regularity to so many of my peers that one can only surmise that it's all part of the shamrocking, gig-doing, do-gigging, sing-songing, song-singing, literary, rare-littering, fiddle-playing, play-fiddling, hey diddle diddle of being male and Irish and in your twenties (however many of them you've had).

The way it works is as follows: during your evening lecture /otherwise productive day, you think about a string of loosely related issues which may include among others:

* All the work that needs doing tomorrow
* How you really need some good sleep
* How pinstripe only looks good on some men and not others
* How you have't been doing much study lately and really oughta knuckle down
* How being hard-working and disciplined is actually very rewarding
* How your finances are looking kinda shaky at the moment
* How that blonde girl is wearing much more makeup than usual and may have a date tonight
*How you don't need to have a drink just because you're in the pub and everyone's drinking
* How you may concede and buy one drink to be sociable but you'll home in bed by 11.
* How things were different before when you used to go out drinkin with youthful exuberance and recklessness and all that has changed now... which is good.

Then what happens generally is that on the way to the pub you think that you're really tired and would prefer to go home but you decide to go and make a perfunctory appearance; say hello, make with some small talk and politely excuse yourself. Shortly after that you realise that if you move from horizontal to vertical, you're quite likely to throw-up some of the 5 pints of stout, the shot of sambuca and the burger you had before you ended up on your mate's sofa at 3 in the morning. Then you come to a few hours later and sluggishly start to wonder if the rain-mud-stains from the friendly (but all too exerting) little wrestle you had on the way home is that visible and whether anyone will especially notice that you're coming into work late, smelling of booze, and wearing yesterday's shirt... again.

Yet I regard myself as one of the more sensible people I know. Seriously.




Fig 1.1

The drinking Irish Male in his natural habitat. Figure 1.1 captures a rare occassion in which the creature is engaged in loftier intellectual pursuits than puns relating to the reproductive organs and practicises of the species. The author is the right-hand specimen (though is himself left handed - so I suppose he's in fact the left-handed right hand specimen). Note that they most often fail to attract the female of the species to thier ritual.


On mornings like this i have to jump start my head a little so that I can concentrate on my work. Writing this helps, but another thing is that I read anything that's written anywhere to exercise my eyes. On the toilet seat in my office (well beside the office - that'd be a bit gross - also would give 'office cubicle' a new slant... anyway) it says the following:

Customer Notice
Clean this product using hot soapy water. If disinfectant is required, a plain, unscented bleach may be added to the water.
Any other cleaning mediums could result in chemical attack.

A threat of a chemical attack over toilet cleansers? Who knew we imported toilet seats from the US?

Yes, that's the joke.

(Sorry)

Splatters

. 
I'm really not very good at this picture posting business. So apologies for amaturism.

(I've got a picture I want to put on my profile as well. If anyone knows how to do that I'd appreciate a little advice)

Anyway, that's not dandruff, it's snow.
As for all that brown I'm covered in... yeah, you're prbably right about that.

Sick, sick monkey

I know (because you told me) that many of you have been wondering why I haven't been blogging lately, and I'm also sure that all of you have pretty much given up on the idea that I would ever update it after checking-in day after day to find that yet again all that was to be had was last Christmas' 'Jesus-is-your-buddy' philosophy and jokes from christmas crackers.

Well here it comes folks: the excuse and the new blog rolled into one. The reason I haven't been blogging is that Quasi-mojo was afflicted with a rather nutty and inconvenient illness. The leading theory is that the whole messy business was probably set off by a latent allergy to Russel Sprouts, who is our neighbour who makes a living harvesting brussel sprouts and who presumably handled the sprouts that quasi-mojo ate at christmas, causing this unfortunate reaction. This theory is not based on medical information but on Quasi-Mojo's paranoia that was enduced (ok I'll be honest - supplemented) by his unfortunate illness. In the abscence of alternate theories (barring the 'medical' one - phhh!) however, we are going to run with it - despite the fact, might i add that we have received plenary summonses regarding this matter on a civil charge of defamation. I am confident however that Sprouts will be laughed out of court as (though his claim is legitimate) he has a ridiculous name that bears a striking likeness to the vegetables he harvests, and he lives in the belly of a wooden horse which he claims is not a premises because it is a gift to the Trojans in honour of Zeus that they just haven't picked up yet, and further that the only premises on the land (as far as the the Occupiers' Liability Act 1995 is concerned) is his horse, 'Bellerophon'.

He'll also most likely wear flip-flops to court and swear to the judge that they're 'thongs'... but I digress...

Quasi-Mojo apparently woke up on New Year's Eve (so the story goes - I've never actually seen him sleep) with a peculiar condition which is one or other of 'Acatalepsy' or 'Scatalepsy' (neither of which should be mixed up with 'Catalepsy' which is adifferent thing altogether), and is most likely both. He says it felt like being extraordinarily hungry, like being at the height of sexual excitement and like feeling a real urgent need to spend a penny/to go potty/to take a leak/to dump a load/to show the turtle's head/to clear the pipes... [I interjected at this point to indicate that I had indeed got the message].

Now you might think that the above hunry/randy/poopy description is some kind of metaphor for a feeling he had which was primarily 'psychiatric' in the medical understanding of the word, but in fact, it was a pretty literal description. My understanding (from empirical epistemology) is that the condition made him obsessively want to 'go' all the time and that this created some addictive either narcotic-style or sexual euphoric/orgasmic sensation. Now I can't answer the 'chicken' or 'egg' question regarding this desire to soil and the pleasure it illicited, and largely this is because quasi-mojo ate the chicken, the egg, their relationship, and the whole question as to its relevance. In fact he ate pretty much everything except the corporeal products of his 'condition.'

Folks, he was a duracell bunny of eating, pooping and writhing in pleasure. Everywhere from one point on everything within a radius of there and anywhere on the outer fringes of everything, got some description of love-poo splattering. It was a very greeny type of substance, smooth to the touch initially, hardening over a few hours into the consistency of soda bread and thankfully odourless as is in the nature of all things Q-M. At first he avoided any and all (if there's a difference) attempts at intervention because he was so rapt by sensations of pleasure and paranoia, but finally it became apparent that (as jesus once said - or such is my belief) that it is possible to have too much of a good thing.

On the issue of treating the condition, though its origins were unkown, it turned out there was a cure that had been stumbled across by accident in 1542. I was initially dubious about it because it required so much hands-on activity by me, but well being the good mate I am (and seeing how I wasn't all that willing to live perpetually in a world where what possessions I had, had one of too fates: to be eaten or soiled by a sick monkey) I rolled up my sleeves and did what i had to do to make him better. It wasn't esay and he didn't always thank me for it but he was a good monkey (mostly) and accepted that it was all for his own good.

Apricot yogurt and vaseline had to be administered at regular intervals to his out-hole and in-hole respectively. No that is not a typo. He had to eat vaseline (as the quack said) to calm and moisten the humours that have become inflamed and to make microscopic belly gremlins become dislodged from his intenstine wall. And the yogurt was 'applied' to make defacation less arousing. I was less strict with this latter imperitive for both our sakes. On a two-hourly basis I also had to engage the monkey in sufficient physical exertion to make him sweat, then sponge him down, then expose him to a current of cold air. Initially I was trying to just blow on him and for the twin reasons of his finding my 'blowing-face' too hilarious and that the act itself was pretty tiring and made me feel a bit dizzy, I invested in an electric fan. After we experimented for quite a while as to what form of sweat-enducement would be most fun, we settled eventually on trampoline-wrestling but this had the slimy (but not always or necessarily unpleasant) aspect of the vicissitudes of increasingly vaseliny-and-yogurty poo continuing to emerge (bear in mind it neither smells or has any chemical affect on humans so it's not much grosser than say, coleslaw or mud wrestling). In the early evening then I had to give him a tranquiliser shot which I liked to do with a blow-pipe and a dart as it made things a bit more interesting. Sometimes he'd pretend to be King-Kong when I was doing this and his impersonation is about as good as you would expect (bit 'fish in a barrel' really for a monkey) but it was still kinda funny.

He wasn't really right again until up to a few days ago, and all in the whole affair was pretty traumatic for all concerned. I was grateful that he was good enough to help clear up the mess but i think he just enjoyed using the sand-blaster and wasn't really helping for helping's sake. Somehow in the interim I managed to get two law essays done which was good, and was also able to party a little bit because he generally slept from early evening.

Putting the unfortunateness of whole medical emergency aside, it really was a good month for bonding and I really think I learned a lot about myself and the kind of guy I am or can be. Yes, in an unexpected way I'm quite grateful for the moments of trauma that came out of the whole affair as i think i derived some good insight about myself and about Quasi-Mojo - but I won't harp on the moral of the story thing too much or even make it too eloquent because at the end of the day I am not, nor will I ever be (to the best of my knowledge), Gerry Springer.

Quasi-Mojo would like me to thank those of you who sent cards and flowers both of which he gratefully ate and he would also like to apologise to those of you who lost items of sentimental and monetary value to his compulsive appetite during his sickness. To those of you who were upset or offended by the poo, he suggests that it's only a bit of crap, we all do it, and you should get over yourselves.

December 25th

I suppose most of you got out of bed on Christmas morning at a leisurely hour and lazed about the place in your bedclothes (or the clothes you wore to bed if there is a difference as I suspect there is), and stamped on your Christmas morning in various other ways, the indelible mark of idleness.

Spare a thought then for your unfortunate blogger, who was duty-bound to get up and cycle in the frost and first falling snow of the winter (as he hummed that most appropriate Bing Crosby Christmas song… ‘Frosty the Snowman’…), across the city to ring the bells of what was once the pride of Irish Catholicism: the Protestant Cathedral of Christchurch.

I did this somewhat weak and weary in the bleak December (ah distinctly I remember etc.), for I had been up very late the evening before to ring those very same bells to call folk to a midnight mass, and perhaps also to awaken the children in the locality, and restart their desperate eye-lid clenching efforts to sleep for Santa who would bestow the good and/or sleeping children of the world with presents to make up for his own lousy up-bringing, the loss of his childhood due to premature pop-stardom, and his dissatisfaction at being black (or is that some other wacko who only comes out once a year that I’m thinking of?).

On a whim, I went into the service for once, and found it to be pretty Christmassy, but not especially Christian. As a footnote that will have to appear in the main body (as my asides generally do with the help of these very facilitating parentheses as I am not technologically advance enough to pull the footnote thing off), I’d like to say that I will not be apologising for bitching about Christianity on the principal grounds that Saints Peter and Paul regularly did so all the time according the New Testament (man that testament is getting old) and they were both martyred brutally and grotesquely (if there’s a difference which this time I suspect there is not) which is, as you know, a clear sign of their great holiness and divine favour – not like Judas who fell and hit his head one of his ill-gotten rocks, which as you also know, is a clear sign of God’s disfavour [end of inappropriately long in-text footnote]. I say that the service was not especially Christian, as it was lacking any real sharing of love or affection – which according to the text of the mass, is what this Jebus is all about. Take that very solemn, “Take this all of you…” bit. That’s absolutely brilliant! He’s is essentially saying that his life is being sacrificed for nothing more than encouraging people to just sit down together and to share their food with one another. He is saying if you want to remember me, celebrate. Have a larf. Eat some bread. Have a little vino. I couldn’t help but think that some of Christianity’s (in general) policies of solemnity and standing, and silence and draughty churches or somewhat at odds at his ‘have-a-relax, let’s-all-be-mates’ attitude (don’t correct me on this by the way – I have a degree in theology and I’m not afraid to use it… to inflict paper cuts). We should probably all wear more sandals and one-piece dresses more often as well – maybe take the donkey to work instead of the bus the odd day – you know, just to be holy and stuff.

So the point is, in case you lost it, which I’m sure you didn’t was that I was a bit tired getting up in the morning – that’s worth writing a blog about, right?

So anyway. Christmas. Thanks to those of you who saw fit to put me on their spam ‘Happy Christmas’ text list, and you’re welcome all of you who got personalized but only marginally more sincere text message from yours somewhat-truly.

I thought that I was returning to my childhood by hand-making my (3) Christmas Cards this year but I didn’t expect that my mother would make the reminiscence all too complete by not realizing that she was looking at the picture of a snowman the wrong way up and saying it was ‘very nice’. They should have sent me to art classes instead. I mean who ever made a career out of ‘music’ anyway.

FYI, this year’s crackers read:

Q: How do you make gold soup?
A: With 24 carrots.

Q: Where do rabbits learn to fly helicopters?
A: The hare-force.

Q: What kind of bow can you not tie?
A: A rainbow.

Smart-ass comments:
1. I expect it would still be more orange than gold and what’s a recipe doing here, I thought they were supposed to be jokes.
2. Bet that’s funded by the CIA against a common enemy: Elmer Fudd (who looks a lot like Michael Gorbecov (sp?) now that I think of it. Is the 'I' still for 'intelligence'?).
3. Doesn’t it usually only become a bow once you tie it? And on a related note, what do you usually have before it becomes a bow? An unbow? A pre-bow?

Vocational Trainig

Continuing my recent spate of incopmetence [sic], I lost my ID card in the hospital yesterday.

The interim solutions that one has to employ when this happens are twofold.

The first is that one loiters outside the builing waiting to sneak in when someone else opens the door. This security breach is so common that little remarks are paid. It's still irritating and embarassing though - particularly when one's monkey compounds the issue by taking one's wallet (and 'the piss') and tries to swipe everything in it from credit cards to five-year-old condoms in an effort to get the door open or does 'brass monkey' impressions to emphasise that it's pretty cold outside and not so nice to be standing around.

The second is to broach a security guard inside the Emergency Department so that one can get up to one's new shiney office (away from the smell of mixed and various emergency secretions, emanations and ablutions) through another magic door.

This is an opportunity to see in action, how Irish professionalism and culture is being promulgated to the great benefit of some inward immigrants. You see, we have here a number of new and young eastern european security staff as well as a few long-standing irish staff. If you ask the older Irish guy to swipe you through somewhere, while he does so, he'll probably say something like: "Wha? Sure yo don't work here a' rall you don't. Never saw ya before inmebleedin life! Well yer an awlful ol' gobshite losin yer card arencha? I don't get paid enough to be dealin wi' feckin eejits like ya. Now go'on an get routa me hair and do some bleedin work - what time dja call this anyway?"

Now some of the newer staff have picked up on the hospital's sound security policies very quickly, though their english/dublin still needs a little work so you get something like: " You do not work here. No? I joke. You sure? You are a stupid. You know this? I joke."

I like what they've done with the genre and I think I'll go to the new guys in future.

Rollercoasters and Bungy Jumps

A feeling of sadness that is unrelated to any discernable external influence is a very confusing feeling. Naturally also, it feels a bit sad.

My acquaintance with the phenomenon known, diagnosed and perhaps often misdiagnosed, as depression; is related entirely to my job documenting parasuicides, of which an abundance are medicated for this intangible incorporeal condition.

Sometimes, and I would suggest this purely anecdotally – ‘most often’ – sadness is actually sadness and is not depression by the OED definition. People on anti-depressants might not be depressed but actually, shock-horror-and-whoda-thunkit sad. Good, old-fashioned, life failed to meet my expectations and now I’m sad, sadness.

My mate, Healy, has a solution for this. It’s ‘have a laugh’. Fair play my friend.

Now a man with my many reasons to be happy, as well as my readily experiential happiness, really has no business talking about the subject of unhappiness. I, with thanks to Healy and many good-natured friends like him, have many and regular opportunities to enjoy life and ‘have a laugh’, and this does indeed make me happy, thank you very much.

Much like the ‘insomnia’ that in only a very tenuous way links to the actual definition of the word that I spoke of in my last blog, I had a little draught of depression (depression of the sad-without-reason variety you understand) on Saturday afternoon, and as I’ve said, a feeling of sadness that is unrelated to any discernable external influence is a very confusing feeling and naturally also, it feels a bit sad.

I found a peculiar (but perhaps to some rather obvious) cure to this unreasonable emotion later in the day. The cure to the unreasonable emotion was simply a reasonable one. I suddenly realized that in an effort to curb the departing cufufflement of the person I was in the pub with earlier in the day, I had actually been cufuffled myself, and had left the most purely sentimentally valuable item I have in the pub. Now, three hours later, I was predicting I had lost the scarf that was so dear to me as it represented such tender emotions to me as it was for me, a scarf that had knitted into it, the love I had for its knitter, the sadness of my belief that she had let me down terribly, and most importantly of all, the hours of effort it took to knit that scarf that to me was a warmly-received apology and near-recompense for the heart-breaking disappointment I had previously felt.

All the way into town on the bus I nauseously contemplated its irreplaceability. You should have seen me blush and take to my heals when the girl who was thankfully sitting on it in the pub, laughed incredulously when I spontaneously declared, “Thank god. That’s such a relief. Thank you so much…” and smelled it like it was an enormous wad of cash to a successful criminal mastermind. I had also thought on the bus that I would probably part with more than €100 to get that scarf back. I asked myself how high I would bid, if I had to – in this bizarre affection-testing scenario. I know only too well that I spent much more for the sake of the knitter, knowing also that I would not ever do so again.

In the end, my paying of a reward came in a random act of grateful kindness at the bus-stop outside the pub, in which I paid for a taxi for myself and a teenage girl who was getting battered and soaked by the wind and cold rain.

But the point of the story is this: it was a little lesson for me in how real emotions, however distressing, are therapeutic and healthy in a way that such intangible emotions such as a bout of inexplicable sadness are not. But the real clincher is that it gave me a corporeal experience of what I had only appreciated theoretically before: that when a person who is suffering emotionally takes out a blade and cuts their own flesh, this, however misguided or ill-advised, can be an act of therapy and not necessarily an act of destruction.

In the middle of the... I go walking in the...

It occurred to me as I was trying to decide whether I wanted to write about a couple of strange insomniac hours, or the events surrounding my purchase of a baguette today; that my blog is essentially frivolous.

Then it occurred to me that this thought itself was something of a folly, so here’s a bit about what I got up to at 2am last Tuesday, and a bit about the guy in the SPAR on Grafton street:

I usually sleep. On Monday-into-Tuesday night I had the unexpected and unmistakable sensation of consciousness. Now we could go into the ins-and-outs of what was keeping me up, but this is (if you can believe it) less important than the up-ness itself, and it comes down to dull physiological rather than juicy psychological influences anyway.

I was reluctant to engage that effective sleep aid that boys learn (and utilize to great effect – some, I believe, to a quite a degree of artistry) at some stage in their puberty. And so I considered other options and thought that some water would help. So I went down stairs with my lucky pint glass to obtain a portion (well, a pint to be exact) of said liquid. At the sink, I noticed that I hadn’t put my bike in the shed as it had been locked when I arrived etc… so I went out anyway, scantily clad as I was, and was very surprised that it was such a mild evening given that this is January and Ireland, and me – with my sinewy but ever-so-attractive (but much under-appreciated) body.

So I had a bit of a walkabout, paid a visit to the chin-up pole, did a few chin-ups, reacquainted myself with the garden bench and that type of thing before finally realizing that if I were seen I would no doubt be sent for psychological assessment. Of course I would explain the physiological factors in all their dullness then, given that they would now be of immense and persuasive importance, but perhaps it would alas be by then too late.

Being out in the garden in the middle of the night reminded me of the first of two times in my life (and they happened within a few days of each other) when I went sleep-walking. In the autumn of 2000, I woke up out in the rain naked (and if truth be told somewhat aroused). True story. Kinda scary. Interesting experience.

Then I retired to my room (lest there be confusion, not in 2000 – though that’s what I did then as well – I mean on Mon/Tues) and listened to an M Ward CD and it was just ahhhh. Lovely. I also wrote a letter to someone who lives very far away, and by the end of the album I was then quite satisfied that I had lulled my body into the requisite relaxation, hydration and fatigue to invite imminent sleep, and also deciding that I had quite enjoyed my insomnia and it’d be a nice affliction to have once every couple of months – if it could be handled so gently. I still couldn’t sleep though, so it’s a good job* there was a plan B to hand*.

Well enough of that! Moving hastily along…

[Those of you who have lives or sense should probably stop reading now. The rest is just about a peculiar sandwich vendor]

I’ve been going to SPAR on Grafton Street for salmon baguettes lately. I don't know of anywhere else you can get salmon Baguettes for 3 euro something.

When I went yesterday, there was this dude who I've seen there, but hadn't ordered a sambo from before. He was washing something and was visibly annoyed that I had come in. We stood then making prolonged eye-contact with one another. I was waiting for the perfunctory invitation of a "What can I get ya?" as one does. It was not forthcoming so I just piped up to bring the staring to a conclusion.

He asked me how much I usually pay for this sandwich, and I thought, "Oh-oh, there goes the cheap salmon sandwiches," but said, "blah blah blah." He told me that because i interrupted him, today it would cost 4.50. I laughed. He said he wasn't joking. I nodded with a furrowed brow, wondering if I should take a confrontational or a jovial tone. At which point he informed me that he was joking and told me that he had been trying to make people angry all day. I enquired after his success. He said it wasn't good, and that vegetarians were particularly hard to piss off. He just didn't seem to have that natural sense of PR that the rest of us have picked up by osmosis. I turned down the opportunity to tell him that he was lacking in this area as he was kind of scaring me at this point. I expect he'll be manager by next week.

The whole thing made me so uncomfortable I didn't ask for cheese. And that my friends, is the gratedest God edam traged(der)y of the whole story.

Novelty Hand-Shakes

Do you know anyone (men usually) who do sophisticated hand shakes that include inter alia (as they say in legalese) grabbing your thumb in their fist, sliding your palms off one another and doing the finger-click-point thing?

Down with that sort of thing.

Now maybe I'm a tad officious in my demeanor, and this makes me dull and conservative; but this aside, I know how I like my hand-shakes, and I'd appreciate a little consideration.

What's particularly ironic about this trend is that the guys who do it, seem to be the very manly-types who would have called me 'gay' and roughed me up or somesuch when in my pre-teens I played patty-cake with my sister or whatever other pig-tailed young lady happened to be available.

Now despite the fact that I still pretty much remember all the rhymes and actions, I've left 'patty-cake' back in 1990 (or '94 - whatever). You guys need to follow my lead.

Granted it may be argued that this type of hand-shake connotes a long standing friendship or a desire for one, but if anyone I knew for a long time suggested (especially when I were in my twenties!) that we compose a fancy hand-shake, I'd tell them that they really what they needed was just either a little more lovin, or a little more beer.

Also, while it may be considered in the alternative, an appropriate substitution for the maneuver that men find so difficult to perform with one another colloquially known as hug. I say rubbish. Even a half hug or a firm but meaningful grabbing of the shoulder or bicep gets the point across, and requires a lot less dexterity than all this finger-trickery; and has so much more dignity besides.

Up with this sort of thing.

Of course q-mojo ignores the whole issue relating to reticence about sexuality or personal space and shows his affection by, grooming monkey-style, grabbing, kissing and sometimes grinding.

The rest of us have not quite (more irony - isn't irony just magic?) evolved to this point yet.

Bloody Heck (or 'Coag-u-later' - it's tough when you have two equally lame titles)

A few months ago I donated my blood (well, as much as I could spare) for the sake of some important hospital-type research-thingy which was to establish blood-something average-whatsits (and to an equivalent extent for the sake of a free sandwich).

Then last Wednesday night I got a phone call from the National Centre for Hereditary Coagulation Disorders (to whom james-juice or a james-juice report had been passed by the original researchers – whoever they are) telling me that my blood indicated some ‘abnormalities’ and that they would 'advise' me to give a sample to be re-screened the following morning (they don’t believe in ‘letting the grass grow under em,’ as my dear mum might say); which I did – but there were no sandwiches this time. The sandwiches the frist time were crap anyway, so I actually didn't mind this so much.

They took quite a bit of blood (which strikes as a bit of mean thing to do to someone whom they suspect has a bleeding disorder), said that I would have to come in the following week for a fancier platelet test as well; and of course reassured me that I had little cause for concern until the full results are back… unless I cut myself any way seriously – in which case I should go ONLY to St. James’ Hospital and inform the staff that the 24-hour on-call NCHCD doctor should be called IMMEDIATELY.

Bloody Heck.

Now this is the kind of thing that could keep a fella up at night, so it’s a good job I respond to anything at all taxing by having a bit of nap. I’m not really a panicker, and like the nice medi-vampires say, I've little to worry about... yet. Also, I don't seem to have the symptoms they reckon I should have in any great abundance. So this isn't so much intended as a sympathy-evoking blog, but now that I've started I can see that it doesn't make much of a read on any level at all really unless you like stories about free sandwiches or if you didn't know how to spell coagulation.

I feel kind sleepy right now actually. I’ve been in the sigh-brary all bore-ning trying to study constitutional law; the most interesting fact I derived from which was that according to the English version of the 1937 constitution, the President has to be at least 35 years old, but according to the Irish version (which takes precedence despite the fact that it itself was supposed to be an accurate translation of the original English text) there is a typo which says that a candidate needs have to have completed their 35th year. Personally, I think both are about 30 years shy (one moreso than the other obviously)of what the actual figure should be. It’s the kind of job that’d suit an active retiree. I can’t imagine why anyone younger would want to spend their time cutting ribbons, smiling perfunctorily, and being paraded and shunted around like the winner of a beautiful baby competition… though I do like lollipops… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad being a baby after all… oh wait… what was I?... zzz zzz zzz zzz.

Little things

I liked that monologue by the sea by Ethan Hawke (sp?) in that film, Reality Bites. That reminds me of a joke. Meh.

So it's a monologue about how he ellicits pleasure and comfort from the world despite the shitness of his life, by focusing on little things.

My life isn't shit. Generally it's quite good. But the odd day I find a reason to be sad and as it's not a nice feeling, i look for distraction and comfort.

When my phone is about to receive a message, the picture flickers beforehand and it reminds me of how a quintessential clairvoyant's eyes go just as she's about to receive a communication.

Today I was really hoping that my blinking phone, was about to bring me a message of comfort: that my mate was free and would meet me for a pint.

He was, and he did.

If he hadn't been, I'd have tried to take pleasure in my little simile; my blinky phone with its ethereal messages.

Then i probably would have tried someone else.

Absomootly (L)awful

If you are the kind of person who relishes the seamy details, consider the following (otherwise just skip to my tale of ineptitude)

Court of Criminal Appeal DPP V Samantha

Samanta has been married to Edgar for Seven years. Over the last three years, Edgar has taken to going out drinking of an evening and coming back late at night the worse for drink. Samantha frequently scolds him when he returns and tells him she will leave him if he does not mend his ways. Edgar has a violent temper and, on some occasions, has hit Samantha forcefully. On other occasions, Edgar has forced Samantha to engage in sexual intercourse with him despite her protests.

Samantha has recently sought help from a Counsellor who advised her to leave Edgar and move into a hostel for battered wives. The next time Edgar came home drunk he staggered into the bedroom and Samantha told him she was leaving him the next day whereupon Edgar punched out at her several times, breaking her teeth, cutting her lip and badly bruising her. Eventually, Edgar went to sleep on the bed with Samantha sobbing in the corner of the room. Several hours later, in the early hours and while Edgar was still asleep in a drunken stupor, Samantha went to the tool shed in the garden and took out a large hammer. She returned to the bedroom and hit Edgar several times about the head, killing him. She then calmly called the police and said, “ You had better come quickly – I have just murdered my husband.”

Samantha was arrested and questioned the next day. She made a statement to the police. She explained that she could not take anymore and that she had told the counsellor that she would kill Edgar if he ever hurt her again. Samantha was charged with murder and, despite her plea of provocation, was found guilty of murder in the Central Criminal Court on a majority verdict. She is appealing against that verdict on the basis that the judge should have left her plea of provocation to the jury. The judge had not allowed the defence to be put to the jury because of the cooling off period of some hours.

Note for Participants:
Samantha is the Appellant
DPP Is the Respondent.

So in this matter, I was arguing as counsel for the DPP (who is the Irish equivalent of the DA for those of you who are either American or whose only legal knowledge comes from American television).

In Ireland you most often refer to the judge as ‘My Lord’ at the beginning of a sentence (that would be in the literary sense); ‘Your Lordship,’ in the middle of a sentence (again literary), and at all times during and after your sentence (in the penal sense) as ‘That head-up-your-own-ass mother f-er.’

Quasi-Mojo was some help in my preparing for my mock-trial (we call it a moot which is basically the noise that the animal who has one owl parent and one bovine parent makes while it is dropping big stinky pats from a great height) he licked my leather shoes till they were nice and shiny. I really appreciate that (though he’s been licking a lot of leather recently and I think he may actually have a ‘problem’). What I didn’t appreciate so much his attempt at being reassuring by using the tactic that had previously worked so well when I was in a stand-up comedy competition, which basically consisted of him dressing up in a dress, putting on a Carrie’s mother (i.e. Mickey Mouse) voice and repeating the line, “They’re all gonna lafatchoo,” over and over again.

My basic argument (again I’d advise skipping this bit) was to be as follows:

As a preliminary matter, by way of definition of terms, and to point out the only area of convergence between me friend and I.

It is conceded that that the defence of provocation can be successful even though a culpable mens rea may be present in the actions of the accused.

This is on the understandable basis that the mens rea element in the act has its origin in the provocation itself.

More significantly, it is not argued that the appellant would have attacked her husband in the manner she did were it not for his criminally culpable behaviour.

Despite this concession to the appellant’s circumstances however,
Counsel for the appellant is incorrect in making a legal defence of provocation because the facts of this case do not suggest that the actions of the appellant amounted to provocation in the legal sense.

The grounds for appeal are contested by relying
• firstly on the current definitions in case law on the defence of provocation, and
• secondly on the threshold of evidence that is required to allow the question to go to the jury.

The defence was clearly defined in

The people at the suit of the Director of prosecutions respondant V Keith Kelly, Appellant, reported in Volume 2 of the Irish Reports 2000, page 1 which I would like to open with your lordship’s permission.


Page 11, the third sentence of the Second last paragraph beginning: “It will not be sufficient…”

In this passage the elements of provocation are laid out after it is emphasised that one’s propensity to be provoked is irrelevant to the defence of provocation.

It says that
• 1. The reaction cannot be tinged by calculation
• 2. It must come suddenly and before there has been time for passions to cool
• 3. That loss of self-control must be total

On the first point
That the reaction cannot be tinged by calculation

The background evidence to the incident suggests:

• Firstly, the appellant did not bring the continuing assaults against her over the preceding 3 years to the attention of the gardai.

• Also, She refused even to take refuge in a hostel as recommended by her counselor

• But most culpably, she told this professional, her preferred solution which was that she murder her husband the next time he hurts her –this is particularly significant since it seemed most certain that he would given that his violence was a regular occurrence.


ON THE SECOND POINT
That It must come suddenly and before there has been time for passions to cool

• Despite the fact that the deceased did assault the appellant,
• There is a temporal disparity of several hours between this assault which the appellant now attempts to rely on as a provocation, and the attack she made on him as he slept later that night.

ON THE THIRD POINT
That loss of self-control must be total

• There is no evidence of a total loss of self control as the defendant had to be the master of her senses to go to the garden shed to retrieve a hammer and then to use it on the deceased while he slept.
• Though this much is convincing enough, Compounding it, is the evidence of her calm when she reported the crime.

The passage reads:

It will not be sufficient for the defence to show merely that the accused lost his temper or merely that he was easily provoked or merely that he was drunk though all of these may be factors in the situation. The loss of self-control must be total and the reaction must come suddenly and before there has been time for passions to cool. The reaction cannot be tinged by calculation and must be genuine in the sense that the accused did not deliberately set up the situation which he now invokes as provocation. To justify the plea of provocation there must be a sudden unforeseen,
onset of passion which, for the moment, totally deprives the accused of his self-control."


It is thus clear that there was a weight of contradictory evidence against a defence of provocation in this matter, as weighed against negligible submissions affirming the defence, if there were any.

It is conceded of course that in assessing whether or not the evidence for provocation is credible, this is a matter for the jury and not for the trial judge.

This is only the case however, if there is prima facie evidence of provocation. This issue arose in the matter of

The people at the suit of the Director of prosecutions V Steven Davis in the court of criminal appeal, reported in Volume 2 of the Irish Law Reports Monthly 2001 at page 65. which I would like to open with your lordship’s permission.

I would like to draw the court’s attention in this judgment to the final paragraph on page 75. Beginning with the second sentence on the second line starting with the words, “We entirely accept…”

In this passage, the criteria for allowing the question of provocation to go to a jury are enunciated and it is stated
• not merely that some of the elements of provocation must be possible from the evidence
• but in fact that all the elements be present.
• Furthermore, it is held that it may not be merely a vague possibility but must in fact be ‘an issue of substance’

The passage reads:

We entirely accept that the burden on the Defendant is not a heavy one but it necessarily involves being able to point to evidence of some sort suggesting the presence of all the elements of provocation. Provocation is not an issue which will automatically go to the jury simply because the defence is invoked. The burden which rests with the accused is to produce or indicate evidence suggesting the presence of the various elements of the defence.

As I have already outlined, the facts in this matter seem to contradict, not merely some of the elements of the defence of provoation in this matter, but in fact all of them, and it was a substantial possibility of the latter that was required of the learned trial judge to allow the issue to go to the jury.

In the event, the issue was not allowed to go to jury on the grounds of there being a ‘cooling off’ period, and this entirely correct in law as this is certainly an element which is necessary for the defence and for the issue to be considered by the jury.

It is also submitted in the alternative however that there were also other grounds on which the question would have rendered the same verdict.

And is submitted as a second alternative that even if the trial judge had allowed the question to go before the jury, they could not have found the definition to be applicable and so no injustice was done to the appellant in this defence not being considered by the jury

But in reality, I didn’t actually get to do any of it, apart from some reference to the minutely important argument quoted in the Davis case.

What happened was that my opponent (who you bizarrely always have to refer to as your ‘friend’), focused his argument entirely on the admissibility of psychiatric evaluations of women suffering from ‘battered woman syndrome.’ So I thought I’d begin my speech with some words on the inadmissibility of psychiatric evidence to the particular defence of provocation as it is a defence which excludes both the concepts of diminished responsibility and criminal insanity, being based entirely on a loss of self-control that is caused spontaneously by some outward act of…well, provocation – d’uh. The judge had some difficulty with the concept (refer to correct formal address in the penal sense above) which caused critical dallying on the point.

So these (albeit sophisticated) imprudent ramblings on my part, took me entirely off the point and as I said, left me with about 30 seconds to mention some shite about Davis.

Then my ffffffffffrrrrrrr… my fffffffrrrrrrr… my… the other guy, quoted a passage from Davis thus ‘schoolin me in ma own crib,’ as they say in legal circles… now. So in my surrebuttal (funny if you look this up in the OED it says ‘another word for SURREBUTTER – which leads me to suggest that what I was doing here was – apologies in advance – a ‘I can’t believe it’s not surrebutter’), I decided that I would also quote a quote a forthright passage from Davis, however when I looked down at the quote I had before me, I saw it was from Kelly, so having not opened the case of kelly in my submission because I didn’t have time, I rifled through my notes and just rehashed the shlop from Davis that I’d already (badly) done.

So I messed up royally, and apparently, since the ’37constitution, the prerogative was abolished (that’s a law-joke by the way, but you know what isn’t funny? Yes, you’re right – law-jokes).

On they upside, they didn’t all laugh at me. They just flinched with vicarious pain.

So it’s nice to know that even the cocky primate messes up sometimes, and Quasi-Mojo was wrong about the ‘lafatchoo’ thing as well (what can I say? An oldy but a goldy).

Patty’s Prosopography

Patty, a pooning and party-loving paragon of pansexuality (and a putative poontang); has a penchant for polygamous and plenteous pair-bond. Indeed, her propensity is so potent; one would posit that a periodical of Patty’s paramours would, perforce, be so paginal; as to practically render a perusal of it perdurable – even with a provisory preclusion of pseudoepigrapha and paralipomena!

Proficient and persistent in her pursuit; Patty has persuaded a preponderance of people from the pusillanimous, procrastinatory and pantywaisted to the perfidious, prognathous and puissant (not to mention the perfectly papabile polyglots and politically prominent (paralipsis noted)) to partake in her pleasurable pastime.

Presently however, Patty feels peculiarly perfunctory and finds potential partners to be pedestrian and pabulum; pronouncing pouchong, paddymelon (or provolone) with pumpernickel and playing Pac-man with puerility, to be preferable proprioceptives to her previously prevailing prurience.

Anything but a proponent of the proactive promulagation of paralogical prognostication, Patty never pondered the permanence of her predicament – proposing in the place of pessimism that her pappy pep had probably not permanently perished.

But pitifully, Patty is not precisely perspicacious, and her provocatively picaresque personality, parallel with Patty’s person, poodle peacefully but persistently and ever-precariously toward purgatory; and despite her profuse promiscuity, precluding even primogenital progeny. Providentially, however the passions of Peter, the pall-bearer of the purlieu, are particularly pursuant to the posthumous. What a propitious portent for Patty!

Preliminary/Piddling P-glossary:

Pabulum: bland or insipid intellectual fare, entertainment, etc.

Pac-Man: an electronic computer game in which a player attempts to guide a voracious, blob-shaped character through a maze while eluding attacks from opposing images which it may in turn devour. It is also the name of the bob-shaped character itself. – ORIGIN 1980s: Pac, probably a respelling of PACK (from the character’s action of ‘packing away’ (i.e. eating) obstacles in its path) + MAN

Paddymelon: variant spelling of PADEMELON.

Paginal: of or relating to pages of a book or periodical

Pair-bond: (of an animal or person) form a close relationship through courtship and sexual activity with one other animal or person.

Pansexual: not limited or inhibited in sexual choice with regard to gender or activity. A person who is sexually inclusive in this way.

Pantywaist: A feeble or effeminate person

Pap: a woman’s breast or nipple

Papabile: worthy of being eligible to be pope

Pappy: of the nature of pap

Paralipomena: things omitted from a work and added as a supplement.

Paralipsis: the device of giving emphasis by professing to say little or nothing of a subject.

Paralogical: of or relating to a form of reasoning that does not conform to the rules of logic

Perdurable: enduring continuously; imperishable

Perfidious: deceitful and untrustworthy

Perforce: used to express necessity or inevitability

Perfunctory: (of an action or gesture) carried out with a minimum of effort or reflection.

Perspicacious: having a ready insight into and understanding of things

Polyglot: knowing or using several languages

Poodle: move or travel in a leisurely manner

Poon: dress in such a way as to attract attention, typically with sexual success in view

Poontang: A woman or women regarded solely in terms of potential sexual gratification.

Pouchong: a kind of china tea made by fermenting the withered leaves only briefly, typically scented with rose petals

Prognothous: having a projecting lower jaw or chin.

Proprioseptive: relating to stimuli that are produced and perceived within an organism.

Prosopography: a description of a person’s appearance, personality, social and family connections, career, etc., or a collection of such descriptions

Prurient: having or encouraging an excessive interest in sexual matters

Puissant: having great power or influence.

Pumpernickel: dark, dense German bread made from coarsely ground wholemeal rye.

Pusillanimous: showing a lack of courage or determination.

Putative: generally considered to be

Girls Tickle

To Helena's Heinous Halloween Hellaboloo, I wore a dress. The kind of stripy dress an eight year old girl might wear. It had a big orange lollipop suck to it. The kind of lollipop an eight year old girl might have. It showed off my chest hair wonderfully. The kind of chest hair... nevermind. What really set the costume off was the meat cleaver in my head and the blood running down my face and neck and chest. With any luck there will be a photo forthcoming.

On our arrival, max (the scariest person at this little hellaboloo) and I joined the small and sober party in the main room wherein we sat and politely made some small talk with a Nazi, as the the wolf of little-red-riding-hood fame stared vacantly at us from across the room (the pair looking as if little red was more likely to eat him alive than vice versa). It was decided between us that this was just like the waiting room in Betelgeuse (sp?) whereupon, just like in the film, in which you say his name and he appears, well, he only bloody well walked in the door didn't he?

Had I known that all it would have taken to get back in the dating-saddle(as it were) was to dress up like a half-butchered little girl with a beard and hairy chest I would have done it ages ago. But nobody told me - except the monkey of course, and for obvious reasons I thought he was 'yanking my crank.' HOwever, that's exactly what has happened. Finally.


Quasi-Mojo dressed up as a politician for halloween this year but i didn't see much of him because he thought he'd go the whole hog and spent much of his time doing cocaine with prostitutes in a hotel where his bill was being picked up by a well-wishing land-developer.

Last weekend, just to mention briefly, was great because among other things (or inter alia as they say in latin) Kerry came from Portland and now I know what a 'tossed salad,' a 'dirty sanchez,' and 'cleaveland steamer' are. Not empirically however - thank the sweet lord jesus. It was also a weekend in which life, love and friendship was officially elevated above sensible economics by lots of people to great effect.

Happy Birthdays respectively to Jo & Oz & Pam.

Lawing it up

So I’ve been lawing it up now for about three weeks and so far things are going pretty well apart from my over-exerting myself in trying to navigate the complex matter of ingratiating oneself to ones peers (of which I have so far 122 and counting), and under-exerting myself on the matter of remembering law. Read I can do. Remembering. That’s the problem – so far I’m at about 50%. I can remember that Miller was the guy who set a house on fire with a cigarette when he was asleep and on waking thought he’d solve this oopsy by just going back to sleep in the next room. And then there was poor Pittwood. Guilty of manslaughter as his job was to lower the rail at the level crossing. But so much was on his mind that day that he just didn’t. As to why these little stories are important - the true legal gravity of the cases, and the years in which they happened and where they are reported, all that other important stuff… well I dunno.

That said, some cases are so bizarre that you’re really not going to have any trouble. Like this one in which a man named Quick [1973] , a psychiatric nurse, and a diabetic, under the encouragement of a helpful fellow employee named Paddison, a bottle of whiskey and some rum; attacked a patient in the hospital in which he was working. It seems that a troph of judges in such cases (and in general) is to either naively or obsequiously lay out the matter in a manner that no truly sane person would. Consider the following report:

The defendants were both employed at Farleigh Mental Hospital, Flax Bourton, Somerset. Quick was a charge nurse, Paddison a state enrolled nurse. At the trial it was not disputed that at about 4 p.m. on December 27, 1971, one Green, a paraplegic spastic patient unable to walk, was sitting in Rosemount Ward at the hospital, watching television. Quick was on duty; Paddison had gone off duty at 2 p.m. but was still present in the ward. Half an hour later, Green had sustained two black eyes, a fractured nose, a split lip which required three stitches, and bruising of his arm and shoulders. There was undisputed medical evidence that these injuries could not have been self-inflicted.

This was after the guys admitted their guilt, but naturally before subsequent the legal wrangling began in which Quick suggested that he was an automaton thanks to insulin and whiskey. Maybe that’s what happened to the borg. Maybe Jean luc Picard could’ve solved the whole first contact thing a lot quicker by bringing along a few sugar cubes? That said, I haven’t actually seen the film, so for all I know that’s exactly what happened.

As for my ability to talk to the pretty girls in my class, that has much improved. I should however be aware of the dating-statute-of-limitations that is present in such scenarios, and strike while the date of accrual of causation is still within the informal limits. My mother says I’ve become more noticeably litigious-minded in these past few weeks. Personally I don’t see it.

As I write this blog, I am awaiting the departure of my flight to Cork where I will meet the heads of the research that I am doing in the hospital.

Now, as I continue this blog, I am back from Cork four days. It was like flying inside a bumble bee.

Kerry is in Dublin now, minus her baggage and now as I write this blog, I await a call from the airport to tell me that they have it, or that it was jetisoned (sp?) over the Atlantic Ocean.

Last night I had a dream that I was a horse (corporeally) riding up a river toward either a sunrise or a sunset and had some kind of female celestial being on my back speaking into my ear. This is either a sign that my soul is in pretty good shape, or that I don't have long left on the planet. Fingers crossed for the former. Yes?

Haven't seen much of the monkey lately, but I get the impression he's doing pretty ok.

Take care folks,

Buckley.

Photos by Diarmuid, 4th Sept (early hours), Templebar, Dublin City I

Rob and Me. Happiest night this year (in which I didn't score). 

Photos by Diarmuid, 4th Sept (early hours), Templebar, Dublin City II

This picture captures the previously unappreciated (by me) beauty of the moment before I offered a man a lollipop because he seemed dispondant... and I had been drinking... and I was celebrating my birthday.  

Your prodigal blogger returns.

Well dear readers (if have any left), I have been leaving you to fend for yourselves of late, and thank you Jo and Kerry for nudging me encouragingly to a blogging rebirth.

The outcome of my little conversation with Quasi-Mojo was ultimately his making alternate arrangements and leaving me (much as I did you dear readers) to my own devices. The device in question was an electric blanket, which I have been utilizing to compensate for the absence of Q-M’s body-heat these past 10 days or whatever it has been. So it turns out that life does not mirror Hollywood, and sometimes, what looks like a plot, really doesn’t develop and becomes something like a vignette that should have been left on the cutting-room floor. Whudathunkit?

So lately, apart from working in the Emergency Department (and hopefully I'll have something interesting to say about hat at a later date), I have been known to attend the Honorable Society of Kings Inns. So now, I am a mild-mannered researcher by day for two days a week, and ill-mannered student by day, for the rest of the week but at night… I am Law-Man… A superhero who has the ability to dress pretentiously, take notes on his laptop (while everyone else scribbles frantically and resents the insidious hum of said laptop), talk to his middle-aged classmates, and avoid the attractive young female class mates as if he has the super-powers of invisibility and girl-repellant, and be able to tell you what Article 15.5 of the 1937 Constitution of Ireland is… as if by magic…

So I’m pretty busy.

I’m pretty happy with how the course is going so far to be honest. It is a godsend to have a buddy in the class – and I couldn’t ask for a better one than Nathan (as the 1981 Sale of Goods Act does not extend to asking God to replace your friends – no really he’s been smashin). My class mates, on the whole, seem like a pretty good bunch though you’re always bound to get a few weirdos in a class on 122. And despite my seeming inoculation against speaking to the young ladies, there is one incapacitatingly attractive girl in the class who I have every intention of discreetly making the acquaintance of (hopefully she likes men who stutter and sweat and blush and maintain eye-contact for record-breaking lengths of time – and she’s bound to – what woman doesn’t? Right?).

“So Buckley or whatever you’re calling yourself now,” I hear you say, “Why is it that all you seem to talk about these days is your abysmal singleness and pursuit your of love - emotional & physical?”

Well, rhetorical inquisitor, that’s because I’m abysmally single and in pursuit of love.

“Touche.”

It went something like this:

Q-M: So how's the love-life horse?

Me: Yeah, we really haven't been talking much lately have we?

Q-M: You're right. It's funny how you can share a bed with someone,
follow them about a lot of the time, poop in their sock drawer, and never really talk isn't it?

Me: Oh monkey man, not on my socks again we...

Q-M: Easy, easy, there's no poop in your drawer - I meant it metaphorically.

Me: Metaphorically?

Q-M: Obviously.

Me: Fine. So you want to talk?

Q-M: No... listen moreso.

Me: About my love-life?

Q-M: Well I do have that attention-span issue so i didn't want to ask you anything too complicated that might absent-mindedly lead to my pooping in your drawer.

Me: So long as we're still talking metaphorical drawers you can poop where you like. Why are we saying "poop" today?

[Q-M shrugs monkey-style]
Q-M: Meh.

Me: Ok, well my friend, my love-life - and i'll keep it brief, bearing my drawers in mind. You might say I have a love-of-life moreso than a love-life in the sense I'm sure you mean...

Q-M: Spare me. Horse I'm thinking of all kinds of new reasons to pay a visit to that sock-drawer.

Me: Ok. I'm talking. I'm talking...um...well, there's my prolonged eye-contact with women who work in cafes and shopping centres - I even branched out to pretty strangers in the street. That seems to be going well... and a girl in a bar told me I reminded her of Jesus, but that 'God's gift' gag I tried needs a little work.

Q-M: Agreed.

Me: Why do you ask?

Q-M: I need the bed next week - I was checking out my chances of you finding somewhere else to 'sleep.' All going well I could have used it and you'd have been none the wiser.

Me: What on earth made you think I was going to, well, you know, score?

Q-M: I'm working on something.

Me: WHAT?

Q-M: Yeah don't get too excited, it may not come together. Like I say, I need the bed. You know, thought a win-win would be nice.

Me: And so you're 'working on something?'

Q-M: Magician's secrets are a lot like monkey business.

Me: What? Immoral or illegal?

Q-M: Watch this space Horse. Watch this space.

Part of me is thinking 'this space' is the sock drawer. Nonetheless, one of the bizarrest conversations I've ever had with that particular monkey and my experience advises me that I should treat his weirder comments with some seriousness and his serious comments with some disregard. The difficulty is in telling these categories apart - which is an art I still haven't mastered.

Hara-kiri

Bright Eyes said something in one of his songs along the lines of: “The job that just keeps making you want to sleep, is keeping you up at night.”

Some nights, like last night, I find this happens. I have a TV in my room, which wasn’t my idea, but I cant’ seem to get rid of it as it is attached to a wall-bracket which would just look wrong if it didn’t have a TV on it. It’s an impossible situation. I’ve thought long and hard about it and I can’t think of a solution to this problem in fact I think so long and hard about it that I often have to watch TV to take my mind off it.

Now on the surface, it might seem like it is one of those MTV specials that show celebrity nipples (God that was a good show. Did anyone record it?). Or like last night, some novelty like “teenage kicks” which I found very annoyingly watchable (as I just wanted to sleep) that keeps me up at night, but it’s not. And it’s not thinking about a way to get rid of my TV that keeps me up either. It’s the prospect that all I’ll have to do after I close my eyes is to get on my bike (perhaps in the rain) and go to work.

It’s not worrying about the work I do, and it’s not the stress of the work I do. It’s a deep sadness and disappointment about the crap that populates the minds of my immediate colleagues in the civil/public service that I find myself a part of. Crap that comes gushing out of their mouths and unrelentingly through my aural canals and into my sensitive lovely brain. Now some of it is the kind of junk that makes you leave your equanimity at the door and laugh with superiority at its ignorance, but most of it is bitching about other people, treating one’s own inflexibility as a virtue (sometimes referred to as obstructionism), subtle and not-so-subtle bullying and coercion, and outright greed and unprofessionalism. And all of this is done loudly and all day.

And yes, to be honest, it has driven me to television. Late-night television. The lowest of all forms. (Apart from mid-morning television of course)

Still, I only have two weeks left before I find myself in altogether different scenario and then I’ll have no excuses (I mean different excuses).

I just hope I’m not hooked.

Hooray for Max and his new job.

Buckley.

Rain Cometh

It has started.
I got a feeling in my proverbial bones that the rain was coming as I was leaving the house. I happened to glimpse my pops’ big green poncho from the camping trips of my childhood last night and in the absence of a raincoat that fits, thought that this little retro number might just do the trick if the bone-rain-predictometer proved accurate. I bounded up the stairs, as I am wont to do, (even in work, where others trudge up stairs because they are paid by the hour, I bound up to and at times three steps a time. I was in a drunken tuxedo-clad stair-leaping contest in Cambridge with Diarmuid actually. I’d forgotten that until yesterday when I got the pictures from that weekend developed. But I digress.) I retrieved the poncho and went on my way – stuffing it into an already bulging squash-bag.

And then it started. It’ll rain now for about six months. In my head, if not in reality. Such is the life of a cyclist – ever sensitive to and discomforted by changes in weather and prone to exaggeration about it. As I went to produce this piece of camping appareil (itself tent-like), to keep my nice crumpled linen jacket from wetness, I realised why my bag had felt so heavy. Quasi-mojo was riding pillion. Sitting on my bag, hands clasped around my protruding squash-racket.

“It has started,” he said.
“Hmmm. Yes. I know. Poncho time?”
“This is neither the time – which is 1987 – nor the place – Mexico.”

Picture the scene.
It’s a combat green plastic poncho with a hood. Hood first. 10 year-old helmet on second. Quasi-Mojo is shrieking with laugher. Already, my poncho is billowing. I see it has buttons that one presumes clasp to something to make this item more manageable, but in the rain and the wind and the shrieking laughter, I just can’t figure it out. I take some of the poncho in each hand sit on another bit and trust that if the monkey isn’t tucked in, that he’ll find a dry spot somewhere. He’s resourceful like that. I couldn’t see a damn thing with the hood obstructing part of my view and the poncho hindering any sight of anything behind me. It was terrible terrible idea and a raincoat must be bought. As well as these practical matters, I looked like an idiot. And worse: a green idiot. A hooded, helmeted, green billowing idiot… on a flashy bike… that was invisible under the billowing idiocy of it all.

And I still got wet.

Ego-Injections

So this blog is going to be about the goo (e-goo) that I have been squirting in large doses and variant forms into feel-good bubbles that rise to the surface in search of some better metaphor to elucidate the things i've done which are making me feel quite inflated in importance and strangely paranoid.

I suppose the first thing was my big birthday outing, which took advantage of a seasonal lull in social events and a relatively large network of border-line alcoholic acquaintances (many of whom 'brung someone') to create quite a significantly sized celebration. This (and especially a drunken crowd slurring 'Happy Birthday To You') leaves one struggling to try not to enjoy the attention. So in short my birthday made me feel quite undeservedly popular.

Also making me feel a bit unlike myself, (but quite cocky nonetheless) are my recent purchases. I've just ordered a pretty flashy laptop computer that has more features than I could ever use or understand. I've never owned one before - so it's a pretty big novelty. Especially also since it plays DVDs and I've never had a DVD player and especially especially especially that I'll have a rucksack version of the carrier case which I think you'll agree is pretty shit cool (but yes, admittedly but not as cool as Kerry's bag). Also, today I am going to buy a shiney new bike. The first since I made my confirmation (Irish drinking-initiation ceremony) in 1992. This died this year and I've been since using its wheels on half a bike i found coming home from a pub late one night in April. My new bike is one that has quick-release everything so you have to make it into some kind of bike-version of an oragami swan everytime you want to lock it up. You pay extra for that. What a world. So both of these things make me feel giddy and somehow like a more accomplished and more excellent person - such is the customary effect of status symbols. It's a strangely vacuous, illusory feeling.

I am mildly concerned I am committing some act of Hubris. That's greek you know. But I've also balanced out my karma by buying stuff for other people (and that's Indian). My parents are going to get a nice big fat anniversary present, and I'm flying a superstar (my highest commendation)of a person from London to Dublin. Now that I have no money left, I feel a small sense of relief that I won't be able to buy any more shiney stuff that'll make me paraniod about losing.

Tonight I recite poetry in front of lots of people. It's poetry about prisoners and Irish Republican heroes - which allows to steal from their glory in order to honour them. My guy is Robert Emmet. He has no head. Mine is getting fatter as the days wear on. I will of course keep you posted on the wrath of the Gods which is no doubt on its way.

Go on. I dare ya.

The following register on the Buckley hard-to-spell-ometer.
I dare you to give me your answers.

1.(a)Squirl.........(b)Squirrel........(c)Squirell......
2.(a)Ferret.........(b)Ferrett.........(c)Ferett........
3.(a)Circumfrence...(b)Circumference...(c)Circumfrense..
4.(a)Minuscule......(b)Miniscule.......(c)Minniscule....
5.(a)Responsible....(b)Resposable......(c)Responcible...
6.(a)Haras..........(b)Harrass.........(c)Harass........
7.(a)Brocoli........(b)Broccolli.......(c)Broccoli......

An Open Letter to 'Sure' (Draft)

Dear Sure,
As a prepubescent, and indeed, a fully-fledged acne-d and awkward pubescent lad, I always enjoyed your female-Indiana-Jones-style sexy adverts. So much so, that my earliest dreams inspired by my maturing body and novel hormones, often contained women with a white swish on their otherwise sultry-brown skin thanks to your advertising campaign. Ultimately and perhaps incidentally though, I must admit the fantasy you supplied was supplanted by a blonde 'I-dream-of-genie' figure as it made women seem more maternal and inviting, and less intimidating and sweaty (which was what I was looking for at the time - at the moment, the way I am now, you'd almost certainly win on the fantasy stakes - if that's any consolation). Also and certainly incidentally, the motif lead me astray for a number of years as far as the correct way to apply deodourant is concerned. I thought it was sprayed on one's back with a stensil (sp?).

I am writing today specifically in relation to a product of yours for men which has not received comparable marketing to the products I so fondly forget the names of from the late eighties and early nineties. I have also forgotten the name of this product, not only due to lack of advertising which I suspect wouldn't work anyway, but also due to the similarity and predictability of such names (and the fact that I don't want to look like a metro-sexual by remembering it, though I know if i had any money I would probably be one). However, I'm pretty confident that it had the words active and plus in the title.

It's a deodourant cream (the first I've ever tried - spoiling myself for my birthday etc.) that requires 'two clicks' per application and offers twenty-four hour protection. First of all, I would like to say that I smelled my right arm-pit (presuming that my left smelled somewhat similar and not bothering to check) twenty-four hours after I first applied the cream as per your instructions and am happy to report that I still smelled quite talcy - consistent with my initial diagnosis. However it was at this point where things began to get decidedly sticky. I am refering to my arm-pit hair. I was curious to find that your deodourising cream is also a hair-styler. And yes, this was 24 hours later! This reminded me of a short-running advertisement of yours (I think) in which a man fell off a cliff and grabbed onto a branch on the way down only to make an acquaintance a short time later in a woman (one presumes single) who suffered the same fate. The point of the scenario was ostensibly the line, "Sure. It won't let you down". Would I be right in thinking that these people actually had applied your product to their hands and were glued to the branches and I have misinterpreted yet another of your adverts?

I checked your product again (taking careful note to ignore the name of it) and found that no reference was made to this feature. You might consider marketing your product a little better. I also noted that it took quite alot of extra soap to clean this gunk (no offence intended by my use of the term) off - which raises a number of issues:

1. Do you offer any reimbursment for this extra cleansing?
2. Is there a cleanser you particularly recommend? Peroxide perhaps?
3. Do you recommend I remove it at all - since it may continue to make my pits smell nice if i don't.
4. If for some reason I neglected to wash the gunk off and was planning on going out and mixing in polite society, how much should I reapply. The same again? A half-dose? Not at all?
5. If I shaved my arm-pits would this improve or disimprove the efficacy of your product and/or would it run a risk of sticking my arms to myself as per a tyrannasaurus (sp?) rex impression?
6.If I accidentally click three times instead of two and produce too much gunk, what is the pocedure for rectifying this scenario from a health and safety perspective.


Furthermore, your instructions suggest that your product be applied to the arm-pits only. Is this because your product may glue clothing to my body? And is there another product that you would reccommend for my hair that would style it and make my hair smell as good as your product?

You also suggest that it should not be applied to painted surfaces. Does this apply to ink? If I were writing a love-letter to someone who would appreciate man-smell on my correspondence, should i refrain from rubbing the paper in my arm pits as I usually do?

What difficulties do you envisage arising were a monkey to use/eat your product?

Awaiting your response eagerly,
Thanking you in advance,
Yours etc.

24-ness

My answer to the question, "Do you feel old?," is no.

I feel young, I feel strong, I feel happy.

I'm this guy

Question

If you heat coleslaw in a pan, does it become a satisfying carrot and cabbage omlette?

I'm sure anyone with a bare fridge and a healthy imagination has considered this - so if someone out there had more courage than me and went through with it, could you let me know how it was please? And did you serve coleslaw with it?

And for the rest of you, I'll leave you to ponder which is weirder: coleslaw omlettes or coleslaw wrestling.

*Please note that the above link has been known to cause disturbance. Only click on the coleslaw wrestling link if you want to see coleslaw wrestling *

And I think to myself, what wonderful Wednesday.

Yesterday was just a great day.

Like Jack Osbourne once said to Kelly once when she derided him for getting excited about McRibs, "It's the little things in life that make a difference Kelly."

My first task of the day was to kill four hours in work in the morning. During this time, bets were placed on the squash game. I found an advocate in the office who placed two bets on my victory on the basis the impenetratable logic : "Ah, you can't beat the youth." "Foolish old man," I thought to myself with derision. I didn't bet on myself as I thought I would lose and didn't bet on my opponent because that really lacks dignity - something I struggle to maintain at the best of times (oh I'm so modest!).

I could bring some dramatic description to how the game went: the ups, the downs, the spectacular recoveries, the trick shots, the close-calls, the stench of man-sweat and blood - but let's just skip to the bottom line. I won. Boo-yah. In your face. Like my tie? Do ya? Do ya? (If that needs explanation click here)

I did feel a little uneasy about winning in retrospect(which I'll be honest I did literally by the proverbial skin of my teeth - before you ask, no I don't have any genetic mutation that causes my teeth to grow skin), but when the words of the foolish old man came echoing back to me in the final and deciding game and I thought about how his two euro were on the line for me, I realised that this was bigger than me - and he might buy me a danish with his winnings. He didn't though.

After the game I crawled to Dame Street and got a bit of lunch with Jenny which was very nice, and managed to cajole her into hanging about until Healy showed up. At this point he took up the cojoling baton and managed to get us (as well as two acquaintances of mine we happened upon - fair playt'im) into the pub for a couple of pints. Also very nice.

Pint number three came at the invitation of Conor just as I was about to go home with a nice big veggie burger in my belly and quite glad am I that I did not as it led to my having the pleasure of the company of two very beautiful French-women for a copule of hours. There's something very satisfying for a man about sharing the company of appreciable women. When I say that I don't mean to state an obvious or much-parodied/charicatured sexual issue, but rather that it brings a sense of well-being (all things going well) that emphasises one's manhood (don't snigger - that's not what I meant) and evokes emotions of the most healthy and paternal/masculine variety.
Ok I'm struggling to make any sense on this issue - so I will cease and desist. Suffice it to say I enjoyed their company and had a very nice day, all day, yesterday.

Vanity, thy name is Vanity

Some of my acquaintances are getting vain in their old (though still comparitively young really) age and I now count myself amoung them. Look at me closely the next time we meet (if I know you) and you will notice (if you have not already) that I have white strands in my facial hair. I'm growing my hair long at the moment as well, but recently some people have planted seeds of doubt as to the merit of this in my mind. I think I look fine though.

Squish Squash

I have a work colleague who derides my tie on what was a near-daily basis. At first I thought he just didn't like me, was being a deliberate dick and I resented the daily insults. Then I began to think he actually was quite fond of me but couldn't think of anything of a non-tie-slagging nature to say to me being a all-too-manly man (and no doubt feels intimidated by my
edumacation or whatever - well not so much intimidated by as annoyed with / contemptuous of) - but naturally I still didn't appreciate these repetative insults.

Somehow, perhaps in an absence of anything else to say, or perhaps in a spontaneous upsurge of a competitive spirit that sought to get one up on this guy, I challenged him to a game of squash two weeks ago. It's a sport that he takes very seriously, and which I happen (parp parp parp - there goes my own trumpet) to be quite good at (though he doesn't know this). And I suppose I thought that it would either break down the barrier between us (i.e. ameliorate his being such a dick to me) or give me an opportunity to trounce him and get sweet sweet revenge.

It has since got around the department that the challenge has been made and the general consensus is that everyone would like to see me beat him (the more convincingly the better) so that they can take the piss out of him for getting beaten by the scrawny bearded little freak (they call me that affectionately).

Now there are two things. Fristly, since the challenge (and the game is going to happen next Wednesday) he has been very very nice to me - even yesterday when I wore a snoopy tie he said nothing about it. A snoopy tie! I was begging for it! It's like he just wanted me to be nice to him or to acknowledge him or something. Secondly, I don't really care if I lose but everyone would give him a serious ribbing if he loses - which I know despite his bravado he would take quite badly.

So now for the sake of this guy continuing to be nice to me and allowing him the glory that's so important to him - I'm planning to lose the match. That way we will both have our respective areas of expertese which will eliminate the need to take the piss out of me for being what he perceives as pretentious and la-di-da (obviously he would use neither term) because he's beaten me in squash and has proved his worth - or my not-all-that-ness.

Then there is a possibility that I might try my best and still lose anyway - which would be good. But then I wouldn't feel like such a big man - oh wait, I'm a small man. Sorry. I forget.

Still, I think this peculiar scenario is working out quite well and I think this is a most novel and subtle solution to a problem of work-place bullying - even if I am unsure if I knew what I was doing when I did it.

And frankly yes - yes I am very proud of myself.

Watch the comments box for the update.

*This account is paraphrased from an email I sent and as such, it should be noted, is not fresh. But in my egoism, I think it is interesting; and in my laziness, was not willing to write a brand new account of it*

Return to The Middle Way

Is it irony? I'm too hung over (well, honestly, the drunkenness hasn't quite worn off yet - my tongue is still numb - but I expect I'll feel the full effects shortly) to tell.

After writing yesterday's 'Wholesome Day' Blog, I spent the evening (approx 9pm to 3:30am) drinking our national elixir and despite it's traditional reputation for it's medicinal effects - I hold it (and Max L's bad grammer) responsible for:

(a) the malfunctioning of my you've-had-enough-ometer
(b) the dissolution of my sense of work-commitment
(c) the worst, worst 'dancing' ever (ever) (apologies to dance partner - you also sucked though)
(d) knocking over a huge pile of books and not remembering anything about it.
(d) spending too much money
(e) arriving into work fifty minutes late
(f) arriving into work drunk (Yes - I'm ashamed of myself)
(g) writing '(d)' twice

But for everything else I take full responsibility myself.

So I think a lesson has been learned here, and I propose not to pendulum between extremes of behaviour but to find some middle way where an adequate amount of misbehaviour (so-called) is overtly welcomed in my routine as an innoculation against more serious bouts of madness. Deal? Deal.

Oh - loko that I'm becoming lucid. Here comes the headache...

A Wholesome Day

Yesterday I went to work on the bus like a normal person because it was too wet for even me to take my life in my hands (or rather put it in the hands - and feet - of motorists) and cycle like I usually do. I sat beside another normal person and tried not to look like I don't ride the bus all the time. I think I pulled it off, but Quasi-Mojo stuck right out because he kept saying things like "My God I can't breath in here, these people are probably contagious" while pulling extra-hard on his cigarette like it would filter the air or something. He also rang the bell rythmically to keep himself calm - which I believe is not in keeping with usual bus-etiquette. Laughing is also against bus ettiquette I noticed. The person next to me was listening to a radio show that was in danger of making him laugh and he was suppressing it for all he was worth shaking in his seat, looking out the window trying to hold his breath, squeezing his lips together. Sad thing is - for all that effort - I could still tell he was laughing! Still it was better than my last trip on the bus with the famous "conrazulations" incident.

Anyway, I had, as I suggest from my title, quite a wholesome day: perhaps the most wholesome in recent history. I did a good day's work and then went straight to the gym to play squash. I went home to find my dinner in the oven (I love my mommy) and spent the rest of the evening reading the Irish Times and a book about the Law of Tort, before retiring to bed at a reasonable hour.

My day did not include any drinking, any watching of television, any eating of sweets, any random text-messaging, any regretting being single or not sleeping enough.

I hope it never happens again.

Reverse Psycho-ology

Sometimes someone (i don't know who) who showers in my house leaves the shower curtain pulled across and I always (God I wish I were joking) imagine that there's someone behind it with a big knife who's just about to jump out and kill/stab me.

So I pull it back just a little bit and look in first before I pull the curtain fully back. Every time. Honestly.

She bought me an orchid

She bought me an orchid and smashed my dishes
and left me a note by the clock.
I touched it and day-dreamed of last night's kisses,
eating dinner straight from the wok.

My love was blinkered - not blind per se,
When fantasies filled my hours
Had I written it then the verse would say
She bought me lovely flowers.

She bought me an orchid and smashed my dishes
and left me a note by the clock.
I touched it and day-dreamed of last night's kisses,
eating dinner straight from the wok.

Who needs crockery anyway?

Monkey on your back

People use the phrase "monkey on my back" (admittedly not very much but nonetheless they do) to signify someone irritating. "Why is this?" You may well ask.

Well from personal experience, I can tell you a few things that are not merely a little irritating to the uninitiated.

First there is the weight of the creature, which is worsened by it's propensity to bounce when it is on any moving craft. Then there is the fact that when a monkey is on your back it changes it's normal mode of conversation (if it has one) to a mode that consists mostly of kicking and slapping. When it is not kicking or slapping because it has nothing to say for itself, it will continue to bounce nonetheless and will turn its attention to goodies that can be found on its steed's scalp and in its orifices. Despite what you might think, the nostrils are not immune from these investigations. That leads us to the surprising coarseness of a monkeys fingers and the not unsurprising smell which is pretty bad anyway and is made worse if it is smoking a cigarette. Not that this is the case with Q-M because interestingly, I can never smell anything from his cigarettes - but if you're a non-smoker, and you find a smoking monkey on your back, it's something you should be prepared for. But I digress, the combination of the weight and the coarse fingers left a rash on my forehead (which he was using as balance) after the trip down to the video shop on Sunday. Quasi-Mojo said yogurt would clear that right up and I agreed, but in his opinion I was "unbelievably and unforgivably clumsy" as I missed my forehead every time I attempted to self-medicate, and lost the whole carton down my mouth.

The thing is though, one gets used to having a monkey on one's back and being the messed-up, neurotic creatures that humans are, we get confoundedly attached to this sort of thing. Besides, walking down the street, hand-in-hand with a monkey just looks silly. But anyway, the rashes, the neck-strain, the slapping, the nit-picking and everything else are things I'd actually miss. I don't think I chose this though. I think it works like a disease. It's possible to get infected with a certain type of behaviour, and then there's little you can do to extricate from this disease of the heart. In many ways, it's my own fault. I didn't wear a crash-helmet. And I've seen this phenomenon in my romantic relationships too. Some people say, Oh I love her despite x,y,z (all bad things) but honestly sometimes I really think, bullfaeces, if she wasn't x-ing, y-ing and z-ing so much you would be entirely disinterested. Well, it seems (lately anyway) that I miss the erratic unreasonable girl and the attentive accommodating girl moves me little. Interesting. Confusing. Ridiculous.

I now declare the floor open as to the moral of the story.

Voiding Rheume at Speed.

When spitting from one's bike at speed there are but two options in my opinion. The first is to spit to the side in which case pedestrians, traffic or one's own shoulder run the risk of bieng loogied. The second is to spit to the front. It is possible to spit directly onto the ground in this way but there is nothing quite so satisfying as spitting dirctly onto your tyre causing the spit to ricochet forward onto the ground with impressive speed and efficiency. It's like getting the ball on a pin-ball machine to fly up the super-duper-chute or some such equivalent - I'm sure you know the feeling - smashing something that's far away with a catapult is also simimlar - unless you've just hit the patio door or a treasured garden gnome. Be warned however, for if you miss the tyre your spit might just land on the inner rim of the wheel and this causes the spit to be propelled back toward you. It's never nice to have something gooey in your crotch is it? Is it? Hmmm. Anyway, in exceptional circumstances, where the product has a high viscosity (if my understanding o fthe word is correct) it may even hit you much higher up. I remember in my earlier teens I spat in my own eye on the way to band (as it known to everyone who went to 'band' - in the USA they'd call it 'band practice' because they like big words but interestingly, not unusual spellings).

For advice on puking from the windows of taxis, consult my colleauge Mr. David Healy, who is contactable through myself, or Fingal County Council.

No Blog Today

I'm not sure what I want to talk about today.

Maybe I could say something to do with how i feel irritation to see someone using a superfluous amount of handtowels or napkins - which is a shame because I see it so often.

I could talk about young children and how when they piont to things they angle their hands horizontally while adults angle them vertically. That's intersting - however breif.

Or on a personal note, there's the inexplicable tiredness of today and yesterday that saw me get out of bed in the former instance, slump from sitting on my stairs to lie down for a while on the landing, and in the latter to sit on the edge of the bath and rest my head on the sink clutching a toothbrush i hadn't yet brought myself to use. It even resulted in my getting a video (Lost in Translation - It was good while I lasted) after work last night because I didn't want to read but I had to switch it off and go to bed before it ended - even though I thought it was very much worth watching.

I could even make room for a few lines of how I just about manage to mask feelings that are descending daily toward contempt and loathing for someone I am in the presence of for about thirty hours a week, but I am ultimately unconcerned by this - its a normal aspect of the working environment.

I find the vignettes from the Children's Court that appear in the Irish Times very interesting and there haven't been any this week.

I bought a red apple for a change and it was too hard to eat.

None of these things seem fit for blogs really and even if they are jumbled up together they just read like ramblings of a drunk or a hangoveree or an insomniac or depressed individual. I'd like to think that I'm none of the above. We all have moments.

So there will no blog today - just an admission that inspiration is proving elusive and a window (that needs cleaning) inside my temporarily sluggish little head.

Now you can comment anonymously!

I've been trying to tinker around with the blog a bit to make it better but the best I've come up with so far is that now anyone who wants to talk smack about me (or anything) on this site can do so without fear of me tracking them down and shaking their hand in the street... eh... like a dog... a well-trained one.

At the moment I have more fingers than readers - but nonetheless, make yourselves known! Anonymously? Well no - sign it... or not... or whatever. What you do is click on the little thing that says "Comments" at the bottom-right of the blog and then libel yourself all the way to court! It's great!

At the moment I'm trying to teach Quasi-Mojo to use a keyboard - which he finds difficult - or rather he finds easy because he just uses his fists - but what i mean is I find it difficult to read which I suppose is a slightly different issue. His spelling isn't the best either, but feck it. He says he'll try and write something for you all soon if we get the time.

Dave Lynch is a superstar by the way (no favouritism intended I know he's not the only one out there - really though someone had to say it).

And so this is Christmas...

...and what have you done?

Sorry didn't mean to spook you there. Relax. It's not Christmas.

It might as well be though (ever noticed how that phrase makes no grammatical sense?)- the weather is cold, I'm looking at my bank statements and wondering why I don't have more money, and I'm also thinking about my New Year's Resolutions.

Now that I have been accepted to the Honorable Society of King's Inns, I'll be a busy little bunny with lots to do, whose often known to look at his watch and soliloquy about his lateness for his date. I probably won't have a date though - I'll just be late for work (assuming employment) or class.

Hmmm. My feelings about my prospective busy-ness (and business) are somewhat mixed.

So my 'new year' is going to look very different from my 'old year.' And like God, I will probably look on my creation and see that it is 'good'. And also like God, I will see that it's not entirely flawless and actually a fairly tricky business.

But I'm quite happy that my plans are beginning to come together and I'll soon be out of this place.

BTW, just because I'm having a little yuletide moment, it doesn't mean (as some people thought) that you can ask for presents.

As for the weekend

I very pleasently had the excuse of playing tour-guide to thank for among other things, the company of an engaging, effervescent, (and a long list of other compliments besides) woman from Hong-Kong and a visit to the IMMA - both of which are rare treasures to me (with the latter being almost entirely my own fault unfortunately).What this leads me to muse on here for public consumption are two things:

Firstly, I would like to recommend all and sundry - excepting those who are suffering emotionally (particularly depression) - to visit the exhibits of Sophie Calle and Margherita Manzelli in the Irish Museum of Modern Art. I've been impressed, intrigued and disgusted by art many times, but so far as I remember, I haven't had anything run amock in my head and confound me like the paintings by Manzelli. I wouldn't be telling you much by describing what they look like, so i will say rather that they have this strange familiarity about them like they are from a dream one forgot one had. And utterly shocking for reasons I can't quite understand. Even if I do count up the weird things about them that account for the powerful effect they have, it still does nothing to shed light on how such devices appealed to the mind of the artist. It's really exceptional. As for Calle, her stuff isn't at all as mysterious - one knows exactly why and how it illicits the reaction it does. Neither I nor my adopted tourist for the day could actually 'do' all of the exhibit - which is either a detracting aspect of her work or a sign that we are lightweights and need to do some arty bulking-up (yes- the latter is most likely). Well worth a visit though.

So secondly; so-called 'Irish' Culture. To be honest, I was embarrassed (and noticabley so) by what I saw in terms of Irish Song and Dance. I would compare it to someone judging 'Irish Food' by what they were given on their flight over or something like that. One difference though is that there is no hype when you get your unopenable bag of peanuts and your fizzy drink that's as much aluminium can as it is beverage. In contrast (and now I have to adit it was a weak metaphor to begin with), what I saw in the city centre yesterday was so proud of it's contrivance that I had flashbacks to Vegas - where I will say with my hand on my heart you will see something closer to Irish song and dance than I did in 'The Bridge' and the 'Arlington Hotel' on Saturday. Sadly - and very very sadly though - there is little in the way of alternative.

Hmmm. I'm ranting like a retiree. Enough. Think I've got the bones of what will be an overly wordy (yes it is possible) letter to the editor of the Irish Times in that paragraph.

Mares

Last night I had disturbing dreams. A friend I've known from the age of five was so deeply upset with me that he resorted to abuse and harrassment. This was not all. There was plenty more besides. But the morning rush and the extra-experiential nature of dreams conspire to fuzz-up the memory. Quite apart from the slight stomach upset of the weekends festivities - which I'm happy to report were considerable - related issues were also on my mind. The dynamics of friendship are not only complex. They are ever-changing.

It's interesting how one person or image can take the place of another or a number of others in a dream. The actions of the friend in this dream were not his. They were another's, but still I have been concerned over the last week that we had an unnecessary and needlessly exaggerated difference of opinion very late one night and I don't want him to resent it. Perhaps there was little call for that particular tangent but there won't be any harm done. After eighteen years of friendship I perhaps shouldn't be too concerned but naturally contientiousness cannot but be an ingredient in any such long-lasting association.

Quasi-Mojo doesn't believe in 'freindship' - only in 'friends'. Well, more accurately, he says he doesn't know what it means or involves. I think an exact quote would be: "Horse, it's about rules. The thing about it is that everyone makes up their own rules. You've got two things rampant in the consensus: you got bad rules, and you got people changing and breaking their own rules. Keep it simple. With me, what you see is what you get: my friendship is long and hairy and it flaps about. It fluctuates with my mood - I use it for love, but then again it might just pee on you - and everyone knows what they're likely to get from it. With me there is no friendship - there's the people whose bits you can see to be worth paying attention to and who don't mind looking at yours, and then there's everyone else." At this point, he stroked his friendship reassuringly and as he turned away gave me a funny look and said, "Why d'you think I call you horse?"

I've always been impressed when Q-M decides to venture a metaphor - but often rather than make a concept clearer, it just gets hazier, and most often that's actually the point. Somehow I derive some reassurance nonetheless - and if nothing else he makes me laugh.

In a more inexplicable dream, I went back to the Artane Boys Band to look around. The experience made me cry uncontrolably (if there is any other kind). And that one I really don't understand.

I on You

A girl with pink and black hair often crosses from D’olier street to College Green/Pearse Street with a gracefully equine (or so it seems to me - not everyone admires how horses walk like I do) gait at approximately 8:55 am on a weekday. I know this empirically thanks to the coupled phenomena of traffic lights and a routine. I also know that a woman of unmissably large frame who invariably wears black, rides her big (also black) bicycle with a basket on the front, down Lord Edward Street closer to 9:00 at least most weekdays. I also happen to know that she is on her way to the fifth floor of Trinity College Usher Library and that she plans on 'sshhh-ing' anyone who plans on communicating verbally while she’s up there. Furthermore, if such communications are not ceased (by sshhh-ing) I also know that she will (and has before) contact a security person because they can be more persuasive with their keys that rattle and their clunky shoes.

One of the interesting things for me about my awareness of certain aspects of the routines of these (to name but two) individuals, is that were I to speak to them, I'm quite sure that neither would say they have ever laid eyes on me (insofar as they could remember anyway) - and in the latter case, I'd have to say I'm quite happy to keep it that way.

Have you ever walked up to someone and said, "I've been seeing you around so often, I thought I'd come and say hello," and have them respond as if you had just landed from outerspace and greeted them in Klingon? I know someone told me that this happened to them but I can't remember who it was - which leads us to suppose that they are not very instantly striking or engaging and it's not much wonder that this sad story is their's.

So think about that (how does being didactic suit me?). There are people watching and thinking about you and you don't know they exist. Maybe a man, maybe a woman, maybe even a monkey...

Monkey Business

I went to eat in an Italian restaurant tonight with Quasi-Mojo. I had some food and some wine and he didn't order anything. He sat, he smoked, and he took a not-uncommon jab at my lifestyle. I thought what he had to say was interesting, though I'm not really in a position to address it as I can neither entirely refute his logic nor embrace his point of view. I don't think he wanted an answer from me anyway. The conversation went like this:

"I'll buy you something if you like" I said,
"I know you would," he replied. "I've been thinking about that for a while."
"What? You're playing it cryptic tonight?"
"Not at all. Let me ask you this: why would you buy me something?"
"Because you are my friend, I like you and I have the money, and I wouldn't mind giving it to you if you wanted something. This isn't being cryptic?"
"I'm good company?"
"Yes."
"I'm good company when I have something, and I'm bad company when I don't. Isn't that what you mean?"
"Well, I'd be more comfortable if you had something maybe, but I don't see..."
"I know that. But I had to make you admit that."
"I don't know where you're going with this Quasi-Mojo. Do you have a point?"
"You know I do Horse. Sad thing is, you know what it is but you won't address it."
"Well I don't know... fine... help me out here."
"You make money and you spend money because you are afraid. You are afraid to 'plumb the depths' as they say, of your experience. You fear being without. My being without reminds you and it scares you. As you said yourself, it makes you uncomfortable."
"I was just being..."
"No. sorry. I shouldn't let you come in here. Let me go on. Living my life of non-productivity and the poverty that leads to allows me to really feel who I am and what my needs are. You are too afraid to make that experiment and you secretly envy my doing it. You intend to live a life where you produce enough wealth to allow yourself to fulfill needs that you don't even know you have. You will work and acquire to meet the needs you've convinced yourself you have, while concertedly refusing to find out what your needs are. And - and this is a big 'and' - in an extravagent show of ignorance and irony you 'sympathise' with and are 'generous' to, the friends that actually have more than you. More courage. More knowledge. Less money. You envy them. You don't empathise with them and you are not generous toward them. You are trying to sabotage their pursuit because if they are more like you, you won't think about what you are missing, and if you can 'help' them, then you have justified your own misguided path to yourself. Think about it. The fit hits the shan. Who freaks out? The guy who has nothing to lose? Or the guy with the house on the hill? And it's not just the money that'll make you weak. Working for the man? No choice when to work or not to? Who owns your time? Who owns your life?"
"Listen, my defences are low tonight. But you're obviously missing something. "Who owns my time?" Who owns this salmon! The king of the swingers wanted to be like Mogli? Why wasn't it the other way around?"
"Is that a serious question?"
"Would I be happy being like you? Are you even happy being you?"
"Are you happy to know me?"
"Yes, but..."
"Do you love me?"
"Well..."
"Are you going to finish that salmon?"
"No. Go on. Take it."
"I'm glad we had this talk Horse. I feel better. I think we both feel better. I'm going to the can. Monkey business."

Victim Impact Report.

When I’m not doing whatever it is I do, my hobby is to ring the bells of Christchurch Cathedral, Dublin. Quasi-Mojo usually hangs around outside if he comes along. The push factors of the belfry are that, on a practical level, the stone staircase to the belfry makes him uneasy (it’s “dark and itchy” apparently); and on a philosophical level, he thinks it’s unwise to institutionalise neuroses. The pull factors of the area outside that, on a practical level, there are things to clime on; and on a philosophical level, there’s a pussy-cat in the grounds with whom he has a special relationship (these two reasons are actually one and the same, as they say, and I note the misuse of the terms ‘practical’ and ‘philosophical’).

After rehearsal last night I went over to the pub for a couple of Cydona’s and some socialising even though I was a little tired and something in me just wanted to go home and have a nice bath. I caught up with Quasi-Mojo as I was walking back to where I had parked. He was leaning from the top of the fence smoking what was no-doubt a post-coital cigarette, and before I even got close to him, he yelled to me.

“It’s a treacherous world Horse! It’s a treacherous, sordid, and confounding planet. The seediest I’ve ever visited.”
“It could be worse my friend,” I responded, “tell me what’s happened. Did you break-up?”
He jumped down to walk with me.
“Hmm. Patronising, insensitive and unbecoming.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right Quasi-Mojo. Please accept my apology as I accept your admonishment, but something untoward has happened I presume. Pray tell comrade.”
“Well I’ve had some time to consider how to break it to you, and this is what I’ve come up with. It’s a Limerick.

I don’t like the way Buckley smells,
And a hunch-back could ring better bells.
You get on my nerves,
But you didn’t deserve
To get the back wheel of your bike with the new block that cost you forty five euro last week, nicked while you were across the road drinking two Cydonas and thinking you’d like to be in bed.”

“Aw crap. Seriously?”
“Yeah seriously, you really didn’t deserve it. Crappy ringing tonight by the way. How are we going to get home now?”

I got the bus to the scene of the crime today and brought with me an old wheel. I shared the journey with about twenty-five Spanish teens who made the journey quite uncomfortable for the rest of us who were vying for space, standing in the aisles trying to avoid the idiot with the bicycle wheel. As they stampeded off the bus one of them stopped in front of me (delaying her colleagues), put out her hand and said, “Conrazulasions.” Having allowed my surprise and reluctance to engage with her to register, I extended my bike-filth fingers to shake her hand and she said, “You are the only man in Dublin!” I didn’t respond verbally but did get visibly embarrassed. Some lady apologised to me on her behalf, and as I went to find a seat a guy said to me, “You should get off with her mate.” I did respond to that, but it was so mumbled that it won’t have made any sense to anyone.

When I got the wheel on the bike I shared an accomplished nod with Quasi-Mojo - not knowing but secretly feeling that it wasn’t going to work very well (which it hasn’t done). He jumped up on my back wrapping his arms around my neck and gleefully shouted, “Conrazulasions!”

Tram, Glam and Ham.

Last night I attended ‘An evening with Janet Street-Porter,’ with Jenny in the very lush Newman House on St. Stephen’s Green. Quasi-Mojo declined to be my plus one at the event. I'm sure he would have enjoyed nicking handbags, humping legs, dipping himself in the ice buckets and that kind of thing, but he just didn't go for it. In fact he dismissed it summarily with a brush of his hand, a look of disgust and the words, "So base. So rude."

Outside there was quite a cufuffle as people gathered to hop on board the very first public outings of the flashy new LUAS Tram. Like the event we attended, it was without charge and involved a lot of sitting around and wondering what everyone else was doing there. Both events would have had a similar exclusive feel that was tinctured only by the presence of certain conspicuous nobodies who are blatantly untalented at savoring a privileged position - and might i add, such shortcomings are not at all always a bad thing.

In many ways, the whole occasion was an opportunity to reflect on such issues of status and how it is won. Obviously we gain or lose status by the opinions of others, and in many ways it is not by merely achieving our own goals that we receive status, but - and this is particularly the case in the broad phenomenon known as 'the media' - by achieving the goals that other people have but can't meet themselves. So opinions are powerful. Janet Street-Porter (as she stated herself) "made a career out of having an opinion on everything." But what's so great about JSP's opinion? I suppose the answer is not in it qualitively but quantitively i.e. the fact that so many people heard it.

As was evident from the lame questions at the end; the fact that few people talked to her at the ensuing champagne reception (no strawberries or cheese: lousy penny-pinchers); and the very obvious reality of her being 25 years older than the average age of the audience; JSP was not up there because she was liked or even becasue she was that interesting, but because she could act as some excuse for up-and-coming-whatevers to come and shmoose and look pretty and influence some useful people. Only trouble was it seems, that no-one of any 'use' was actually there. Still, people looked pretty and there was free champagne.

Janet did say some things that were interesting (if not contemptible to jealous people like me). When discussing which medium she favours (radio,tv,print) she said that it was difficult to say because just like men, they all come with chips. This initially confusing metaphor became a little clearer as she went on. She meant gambling chips. She described how these chips are gradually lost and then they have nothing and it's time to go looking for some other chip-holder. She's been married four times. What a refreshing attitude!

I've found that if you wave at LUAS drivers, they wave back. I hope I'm not the only person who's going to do this, but I fear that if everyone waves there may be some anti-waving legislation passed by those lovely people we elected to government who look after our best interests.

Flexi-time, did you ever know?

On Monday I was in work by nine and I felt so damn good having slept so damn well that a bag of liquorice allsorts spilled out on the road struck me as a work of art and I took in the sight with all the delight of a child with a bag of sweets. The weather was mild, the streets were dry, and I was about as full as I can be of life on a Monday morning. Ah sleep. It really does a body good.

Predictably I've abused my new-found friend and have tapped into my sleep/happy-reserves over Monday and Tuesday nights coming in shy of the oft-recommended eight hours thanks to my delight in going out for a social drinky most week nights. I would have offended my aforementioned new friend more gravely were it not for the services of my old pal flexi-time who not only doesn't mind getting stood up, positively relishes it!

"Flexi-time, today I praise and thank you. Not only am I still in relavtive favour with sleep, I also managed to take a little break on the way to work this morning while I waited for the rain to subside. Frankly, you're only smashin. If only you weren't so friendly with work. That work is so damn boring and time-consuming! Well I know you guys go way back and I'm only using work for money so in many ways you have the moral upper hand, but....but....but....oh I can't criticise you. You're wonderful. The very wind beneath my...eh...shoes. Did you ever know that you're my hero? "

"What do you mean you thought you were my hero? No, Quasi-Mojo, you're not. You're a naughty stinky monkey. Don't look at me like that. You know what you did..."

Croquet in Cambridge (law-di-daw)

Myself and Quasi-Mojo took a trip to Cambridge, England this weekend to visit Diarmuid, play Croquet, and soak up a little of the life we'd like to have (and probably could have were we just a little more adventurous and willing to do the research to make it happen - which so far we're not).

Q-M rode for free as neither Ryanair, National Rail, nor Taxi Drivers charge extra for imaginary monkeys. Nonetheless, Quasi-Mojo declared loudly and repeatedly on our flight that he was not going to pay for his seat as he shared it with a six-year-old boy who kicked, grabbed, and otherwise molested him as if he were "some kind of unthunking gunk." He finds it difficult to express himself sensibly when he's bemuddled. I wouldn't have expected it, but he's actually a nervous flyer and does sit down for take-off and landing - not sure what he got up to during the flight as I was asleep but he usually finds some entertainment (the fewer questions asked the better) with the crew.

I was surprised to find myself enjoying croquet so much. It's quite a clever game and requires a fair bit of skill and finesse, but it happily proved to be both friendly to novices and cruel to more experienced players. Throw in pims, bad-losers, trash-talk, strawberries and cream, and more sandwiches than you can shake a croquet mallet at; and you've got yourself a very fun day indeed.

The formal dinner was attended with mixed degrees of formality from the expensive tuxedos (not that there are any cheap ones) with fancy cuff-links and shiny shoes to the post-fancy, perhaps even meta-fancy (or some other kind of ultra-modern-fancy that defies the usual coherence of lanuage for the sake of hyperbolae) which consits of something like ripped jeans with a tuxedo jacket. I also saw one guy in a skirt/kilt that I think was made from a shawl with a hat pin in it; very Jude Law (or equivalent) indeed! Personally the only innovations I made to the norm was wearing what was an entirely second-hand ill-fitting tux (bar the bow-tie which was new and fitted rather nicely thank you very much), the cuffs of which were linked with safety pins thanks to the 'you-always-forget-something factor' which unfortunately could hardly be mistaken for the deliberate fasion vrais-pas (?) mentioned earlier. From what I could see, the women were more traditionally clad - which I appreciated because I get confused rather easily. Hmmm. Well let's not turn this into a 'Hello' column. Moving along...


Very much like my last visit to Cambridge, it was the experience of the people I had the privilege to speak to and hang-out with that I valued most. I find Diarmuid's associates very interesting and receptive and surprisingly mute on their areas of research. Naturally,in the spirit of politeness and genuine curiosity, I did ask a lot of the time but it is generally something that isn't really considered socially important. This may have worked in my favour when one way or another it became suggested (possibly by me but that's beside the point) that I was an orphan, a juvenile delinquant or both as a result of my contact with bon jovi (I promise this stroy makes sense - it would just take too long to explain), but a stronger pssibility is that it was a sufficient deviation from the Cambridge norm to leave me looking quite sketchy and undesirable indeed. Funnily, my only regret is attempting to salvage some dignity and clarify the rumour. This attempt was poorly executed, and Quasi-Mojo mocked me at length for attempting it as it betrayed a certain soft-spot I was politely consealing as one usually does, and led to Quasi-Mojo continually doing kissy faces and conspicuously caressing a certain individual in an attempt to embarrass me. Thankfully I've become accustomed to his ways and talented at ignoring him when necessary.

Well let's not lose sight of the important things. Everyone in Cambridge is just delgihtful and I was taught a new word: defenestrate. The meaning of this word essentially is to summarise the cumbersome description, 'to throw out of a window'. Quasi-Mojo also learned something new: that he can stick paper with a (now patented) mixture of his own bodily secretions.

Didn't go punting in the end but a fine time was had by all.

Quasi-Mojo's response

Q-M was idly reclining on the reception desk as I was writing the last blog. He stuck his head over the monitor to read what I was doing. I can't imagine how he can read upside down so well and at such close proximity. Where do you learn a skill like that?

Anyway he went back to recling on the counter beside the door and recited the following in soliloquy

I don’t know how many
Syllables there are so
Why don’t you just shut...

At this point he demonstrably (if you know what I mean) extended his right hand and closed over the door.

Quite poetic I thought.

A little Haiku Help

Is it seventeen
Syllables in a Haiku?
I can’t remember now.

Sitting in a pleasant breeze
The work phone keeps ringing
It all comes to me.

Then there is silence and
Stillness takes the breeze
There's nothing left to say.

A few notes on my second job since Q-M showed up again.

There can be a culture in a legal practice of everything being of great urgency and importance. This was certainly the mind-set I was endevouring to cultivate in the firm I was working in because I felt that a high level of professionalism was owed to our clients.

Ideally, staff in a legal firm should also be well paid because they work so damn hard. But this is rarely the case for the less experienced administrative staff members like myself who literally get paid peanuts. I might have been able to abide poor pay for the sake of experience were it not for two things: firstly Quasi-Mojo pottered around all day inconsiderately eating the very peanuts I was working so hard to earn (he likes to throw them high up in the air and catch them in his mouth - but when he misses - approx 40% of the time - he leaves them scattered about the place so that he can do a protracted ant-eater impression when he has a good number), and secondly I really didn't get on with my boss.

I suppose a lot of legal people treat others in terms of maximising their own financial return from them. Their self-respect is entirely based on driving hard bargains and screwing people. Interestingly, they actually feel like it's their duty and not merely their entitlement. It's amazing to watch. I'm still incredulous.

Anyway, in the workplace it manifests in excessive demands, tantrums, and pathological buck-passing. My guy was kinda funny peculiar. He had (and you'll be forgiven for thinking this is a joke or an exaggeration) no concept of the alphabet and had chosen (yes chosen!) an albhabetic filing system. This necessitated my going into his office to pull files from his shelves any/every time he needed one. In the beginning I didn't really question this - it seemed like a plausible story - but then he started giving out because he couldn't find the files I had pulled for him and LEFT ON HIS DESK! So he suggested that I email him to tell him when the file he is looking for is on his desk. Then he just couldn't find anything - I'd hear his blissfully obnoxious voice over the telecom: "I'm missing my cheque-book/keys/brain/whatever."

When stuff went really really missing it was hilarious. I kept a meticulously ordered office and so looking for stuff was just a matter of my glancing into my office. This infuriated him and he would always insist I lok in my office when the only logical possibility would be that it was in his. Quasi-Mojo was really funny one day this was going on and he helped by doing his thinking then having-an-idea face and then investigating everyone's nosrils and ear cavities.

He was also pretty great at doing a boss impression. For some reason he associated this guy with a rhinosorous (sp?) and would roll up a piece of headed paper (as it's more expensive and the boss hated to waste it) and make it into a rhino nose. He'd scrunch up his face and shrink his neck and get all angry and charge at things. But he also did a very good boss-on-telephone impression that I found very witty - especially when he did it while squatting on the boss's head. He's such a good friend (if i can call him that). It was a shame I was so busy and had to ignore him most of the time but it's great to look back on it now and it did make my days seem a little less intense. But if i'm honest, i didn't (and still don't at times) approve of Quasi-Mojo's irreverent attitude.

When I left that job for one that paid more and didn't require me to do much work (unfortunately), the guy wouldn't give me my P45 which would usually mean that I'd have to pay emergency tax. But as it happened, I didn't have to pay that much over the odds. I knew that he was doing it out of spite and malevolence but I didn't want him to sit around and not know for sure whether or not I knew why he was refusing to issue the document. I suppose I wanted some way to allow him to reflect (on some level) on the fact that he was being a big meany and to explore his justifications by confronting the issue. Convincing him to send the damn form was not the issue as I knew he would not issue it until the Revenue Commissioners contacted him and I had already reported the matter to them. I'd like to blame the monkey but it really didn't have anything to do with him.

After a number of phonecalls to his office (he refused to speak with me each time) we had the following email exchange - read into it what you will:


Dear XXX,
As you know, I have been on to your office a number of times enquiring about my P45 and am obliged to pay emergency tax on my earnings until after I receive it.

You can appreciate that this is a great inconvenience to me and I
would ask you to attend to this matter; give me an indication as to when it will be done; or indicate why you did not want to attend to this hereto.

Yours sincerely,

With the greatest respet James, there are matters which have kept me out of the office and I must say I didn't appreciate any harrassment from yourself in relation to the matter.

I am under no obligation to explain anything to you in relation to the matter.

The matter will be attended to on my return to the office.

XXX,
Let me just say briefly that it certainly was not my intention to make you
feel harassed as a result of my contacting you but I did wish to stress the importance of the matter and am glad that you are attending to it now.

Regards,

James I'm not obliged to make an explanation to you as to why this matter
wasn't dealt with.



I could explain my perspective on the psychology of this exchange at length, but I'd rather leave it to yourself(ves). Let it be what it is - however dubious my own role may seem at first glance.

I still haven't written anything about when Q-M showed up again. Sorry I'll get round to it eventually.

Fast Forward: Things I hear at work that make me smile

I work in an environment where I feel like (to butcher a biblical metaphor) my light has been man-handled (well, woman-handled moreso)under a bushel. I'm particularly powerless/unmotivated to do anything about this as I am a temporary employee and I'll be leaving in September. Any attempt to burst forth from said bushel or even set it alight from the inside would not be very productive. Quasi-Mojo usually cheers me up with his miming and his particularly distinctive version of yoga of which the main feature is the release of gas from his rectum. I believe the louder the release the greater the health benefits.

Anyway, I am also kept amused, even though I feel quite mean/weird in the process, by one of my colleagues' use and misuse of the English language. She has a penchant for adapting idioms and many of her adaptions are just delightful. Unfortunately I should have taken closer note, but here's a few that spring to mind that I heard over the last week or two:

"I'm sick to my back eyes with this..."
"I'll be losing money hand over heels here"
To me when some clever retort was made to me: "Cheeky is as cheeky does eh?" I asked what this meant but she declined to explain it.
"She sends me this form and expects me to make heads or tails of it."
"God. If they'd brains they'd be intelligent!"
"She was kicking mad"
"She's having a Mickey over there"
Refering to a middle-man type situation: "That's just putting a piggy in the middle of the process."


I'll write some others if they come back to me. The other fun thing she does is instead of using the past tense with 'should' she uses the present. So it's "That's not what you shudda doin'," and "I should have gettin those ages ago," and "You should've hearing what he's after saying to me," and that kind of thing. Magic.

I actually wouldn't have taken much notice of it if Quasi-Mojo hadn't taken to stopping what ever he was doing and clapped his hands while hopping from foot to foot every time he heard something unusual.

For legal reasons the above account should be filed under fiction.

I'll say more about Quasi-Mojo's reappearence in later posts.

For now,

Adieu

And then what happened?

I love to generalise when I'm explaining myself. It seems to make everything I say sound almost inevitable. Case in point:

Everyone has blanks in their lives. I could display what I have for you because I do have shrapnel: dismembered memories with drips of emotion and insight oozing out and drying up, but why bother? They've served their purpose, and I don't need to keep them. They can clutter a place so easily. I'll just mention them in passing if I find they are close to hand and worth talking about.

Quasi-mojo came to school with me when I was five but he stopped coming quite early on because he found it difficult to keep my attention and he found the whole affair so utterly distasteful. He said it took all the pleasure out of scratching himself, and that scratching himself was one of very few pleasures that he had.

He scratched himself a lot actually. In fact scratching himself was one of only two things that I've ever seen him do with his right hand: with it he held a cigarette and scrathed his considerable and prominent genitalia. It's always surprised me that the phrase 'himself' or herself refers so readily in our language to the activities involving genitalia but it surprised me even more that Quasi-mojo followed the convention. His left hand mostly gesticulated or interacted with the orifaces of his face and posterior.

So without saying too much about what we got up to before he left (I'll come back to it now and again later) I didn't see Quasi-mojo again until I finished my schooling. I remained in education until the age of twenty two and then I took a trip. I kept an account of this trip for friends and family; twelve chapters in all. Of course I'm about to say, "...and then we met again," but if you have an interest in that account before we continue our story, the twelve blogs from September to November 2003 consist of the very same. I called it a travelogue (as in a 'catalogue of travel' as opposed to a 'travel log' per se - not that there's an awful lot of difference)

When I met Quasi-mojo, the Monkey

Many children of many cultures share their beds with special furry friends and they largely agree that such friends make the finest, loving and most understanding of bedfellows. There comes a time however, when despite the love and understanding (displayed most often in terms of the availability of cuddles in the former case and being unpeturbed by bodily fluids in the latter case) these furry friends become redundant and, though it be harsh it also be true, are evicted.

I expect we are all somewhat au fait with the phenomenon. One way or the other, this is my story: I had a number of such friends as a child but unlike my peers, mine were either abducted, intimidated or otherwise convinced to leave. I don't know exactly what happened and I don't think I ever will (or want to), but one Spring morning when I was four I woke up without them and found by what I expected was no coincidence, a monkey casually squatting in profile on my bottom-right bedpost. He was smoking an odourless cigarette and turned his head to look at me as he inhaled.

If I'm honest, I hadn't yet noticed that my furry friends were gone, but I understood his meaning right away when he spoke: "We all need friends Horse, but no-one needs friends like those." In that wonderfully direct and beautiful way we all have at that age my response was to ask "Are you my friend Mojo?" He cocked his head back and laughed. Well, I say it was a laugh, it was at least comparable to a laugh except that it was a noise which also registered displeasure and repulsion. He looked at me intently but I didn't think there was any Malice in it. His response insofar as I can recall and from what I know now of how he goes on, was something like: "Now listen Horse, you are in many ways not a horse but you're close enough for me to call you Horse. I'll do you the courtesy of not calling you Boy or that other thing - like you wouldn't call me Monkey - but I think you even know already that I ain't mojo enough to be Mojo. I mean at my very best - and I'm proud of it I add- I'm only ever going to be Quasi-mojo."

Well you were a child once. You don't need me to tell you the name stuck.

An unfinished blog

My love-affair with a refrigerator named Jess started even before

Travelogue Final Chapter: Dublin, Ireland

Dear Readers,

I began with jet-lag and I am ending with jet-lag. This has been the longest gap between chapters. Some two weeks I think. My apologies. It wasn't that i didn't have internet access it was that events were such that I was confounded and didn't know what to say. So much happened... and yet so little. The trip from San Fran to LA was pretty crazy. We made a diversion to Santa Cruz on the way which lasted far too long - purely on account of great charm of the person we were going to meet there: A rich model who studies psychology and fancied Robert (Yes, a female model!). Leaving Santa Cruz was the most dangerous leg of the journey we undertook (minus Dave - soon to be on his way by train to meet
me in Portland Oregon) because it was late at night, the fog had fallen, and we were on a twisting hair-pinned road that had real elk/deer-things running on it and no street lights. To cut the story short, we made it in the very nick of time for me to fly to Portland (thanks Rob) and Robert didn't score because someone's granny died.

In POrtland Oregon, two very unexpected things happened - firstly Gabrielle had an unprompted complete change of heart, regretted the break-up at the beginning of our trip and said she was still very much in love. So I gave it a second chance. The other unexpected thing was also of a romantic nature: Dave and Kerry (improv comedienne, told you before, stayed with her in POrtland the first time, we like her etc.) shared a mutual appreciation of the beauty and goodness of the other, and oh, oh it was so romantic and wonderful. I wholeheartedly approved because they're both just fabulous.

Myself and Dave both extended our stays in Portland for the sake of our love-lives and for me, it meant that my trip to NY was cut short to six very fun hours with Erin, (which was sad - but you have to do what you have to do) and spent whatever money I had left booking the new flight. I did however honour my promise to go to Cole in Louisianna, where I had the most striking American
experience of the trip. Summarily, the highlights of it were shooting fire-arms, horse-riding, sailing on the bayou, eating alligator, and meeting the smallest dog I've ever seen - and of course it was great to see Cole again.
Cole is the second person I claim to have matched-maked (with the lovely Sharon, FYI) in the last month. Unfortunately this coupling was also of residents of opposite sides of the atlantic ocean so sadly it also was cut short. What a peculiar speciality I have.

There is alot more I could say about all four places, but I'm eager to cut to the confessional. The end of my trip was so different to the road trip that it hardly seems to be part of it. So a word about each, the road trip: great; the emotional trip: tough.

And now for the outlook. Firstly, I have a deeper knowledge of, and a fluctuating mixture of respect, admiration, and affection for my travel-companions... sorry it's too late for me to think of a gag to sneak in there. I think my friendship with the pair is now well-secured. Secondly then, a reflection on the reason i went to America in the first place: the girl. What can I say? What's appropriate to say? I'm sad about what has happened and I
can't really brush over that. Here I am back in Ireland, with my original expedition seeming to have failed in a most tantalising way - a profession of love and commitment five weeks and a lot of heartache too late. It feels like time and money have run out. What's in the future? No really tell me - that wasn't a rhetorical question.

I graduate Monday - so that should be fun. Y'all know how much i like to dress
up.

Thanks for reading I hope to be in touch with you all soon.

James.

Travelogue Chapter 11: San Fransisco, California,USA

Dear Readers

We aw now in Collyfawnia (as the new governer of this sunny state might say).

The drive up to San Francisco was really very beautiful and we stopped in two small towns that none of you will ever have heard of: Bishop and Wesley. The drive was quite disconcerting though because, while road-kill was a phenomenon that occurred in some abundance on our trip, we saw evidence of far more serious
collisions on the Californian interstates than anywhere else. There weren't enough remains to see exactly what the animal was but the blood splatters were enormous. Those of who how might under-estimate the seriousness of such an event, please see attached jpg [aw crap there's no attachment: it was a deer in a windscreen - scary stuff].

San Francisco itself provides traffic hazards of a very different variety: hills like you wouldn't believe (I still can't get over them myself) and *very* expensive and/or treacherous parking. Myself and Rob ended up abandoning the car on the far west of the city near Golden Gate Park (for the initiated) and undertook an odyssey of some scale trying to get back across the city by public
transport on a Sunday night. The crazies were out in abundance, and were unavoidable given the overcrowdng of the buses at this hour, but luckily we escaped with our money, lives, and innocence.

Last night we went out hustling pool with Jeremy (who I met through Ryan Portland). That was a lot of fun. Jeremy seems to be a very 'good' driver, but being unused to the hilly terrain, and indeed travelling through narrow streets at high-speed in general, I came very close to losing my dinner on quite a few
occasions. This morning, myself and Rob hauled our ailing bodies out of bed at the ungodly hour of eleven to catch our boat to Alcatraz and very thankfully our stomachs withstood the boatride over (rob was perhaps the more likely would-be thrower-upper, if I might descend to one-upmanship for a moment). It was a worthwhle journey, and while its an interesting place, the history pretty insignificant: it's a prison on an island and that's about it. There weren't very many prisoners there and few of them were of any real historical importance. The one thing that is of some historical interest, the events surrounding the Native American Reservation that was there in the sixties, wasn't even mentioned on the tour. The best thing about Alcatraz is the view it gives of San Francisco - which is amazing. It was a really clear day and the city and the bridges looked great.

Tonight will probably be a quiet one, starting the treck to LA in the morning.

If anyone has any requests for books fro city lights, get the in immediately, I'll be checking my mail at about 6pm (tues) irish time.

Oh and the stuff about bums and queers in San Fran... believe the hype.

James.

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Travelogue Chapter 10: Barstow, California, USA

Dear Readers,

My nipples are pert (but everything else has receeded). Somehow in the Californian heat of Barstow, there exists a motel pool with a temperature just shy of freezing. Enough Said.

The weather has been pretty sweet since Flagstaff. From there We went to Boulder City, Nevada, and then to Las Vegas for two sleepless nights. Boulder City was my first experience of the desert heat. I think it was weirdest there (or maybe I've just become accustomed). The air felt like you were breathing in the rejected air from a vacuum cleaner or like you were walking around in a reasonably inocuous but none-the-less ever-present fart-cloud.

Perhaps, for a city like Vegas, one should start with something like: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," but alas it's already been done. Vegas is a wonderland to the happy and a suicidal nightmare to the sad - and either way extraordinarily expensive. The 'free' booze of the Casinos and the universally available cheap food for which Vegas is for many most fondly remermbered had dried up by our arrival. Maybe we're out of season, maybe that's just not how it's done anymore. That said, I had the most amazing Buffet in the Bellagio - the only thing that could possibly spoil such an excuisite meal would be one's own gluttany - and I pushed it as close to the edge of
exploding all over the room as I could. I also had the pleasure of the company of five delighful young women at the buffet who were impressively as much martyrs to self-gorging as I was: a bunch of fellow fourth-year-trinitarians who were J1-ing this summer. It was great to meet them Vegas was (at times) a lot of fun.

I'd like to dwell a little on the ills of Vegas, but I really can't decide what the most confounding aspects of this extraordianry living circus are. I'll talk about it in greater detail in person I think, but to draw a quick analogy - imagine feeling like that caterpillar that has to keep secreting goo so that the swarm (or whatever) of ants won't consume it: that's Vegas if you just add lights and people constantly offering flyers for strippers and hookers - throw in a few zombies for good measure too. We left having had no more than four or five hours sleep for the nights we spent there - and are probably not quite recovered.

I feel like I should have more to say, perhaps if Vegas wasnt' so Vegas I would have. Now when I think about it, the novelty I can remember quite clearly is getting static shock from just about everything I touched.

Hmmm.

James.

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Travelogue Chapter 9: Flagstaff, Arizona, USA

Dear Readers,

Those of you who are still reading these emails and not deleting them immediately upon their arrival - I commend you. It is a feat of endurance that is easily more impressive than a three-thousand mile roadtrip with flatulent travelling companions. And to those of you who have long since given up - well you're not reading this are you? So nevermind.

In 'Maloney's' of Albequerque, they serve beer in litre-glasses. Like I don't feel like a mini-me enough of the time already? Still, though my puny arms could barely manage to get these herculian goblets to my lips, I persevered and succeeded... if success is measured by the severity of one's hangover. It wasn't just the beer actually. A woman who worked there also gave me a cocktail (called a punany - whatever that is ;-p), which though it was nice, was a flavour I could still taste approximately twenty-four hours later. The people we met there were fun and it was one of the most enjoyable nights out I've had so far.

From Albequerque we somehow managed to stumble out of bed in time for checkout and travel over 300 miles through the incredibly beautiful countryside of New Mexico and Arizona. The horizons were just amazing and sometimes were 360 degrees. I've never seen anything like it. The skies are so beautiful, and change dramatically as you pan around we could even see it raining in places miles and miles away. I really liked New Mexico. We didn't get to Santa Fe, but I find myself thinking to myself: "next time..." I definitely think I'll be back again.

We are now in Flagstaff, Arizona. Heading off to Boulder City tommorow on the way to Vegas. We went for a swim this morning in the outdoor (that's right!) pool - and it was really lovely. It's hard to believe that it's so warm and nice here when it couldn't be anything but cold and dark in Ireland. Or is there an unseasonal heatwave? I've actually been swimming quite a bit on he holiday - we've booked into places with pools every second or third night. It's been quite necessary as a counterbalance to the effects of greasey (over-)eating and spending so much time in the car.

Oh, and just in case my travels might possibly help some future tourist to America: here's a phenomenon you need to watch for. Most often, your toast will be buttered for you but the buttered side will be down. (I've put my heart in danger of immidiate seizure on more than one occasion as a result of this - luckily it has continued to beat despite the stress I've put it under). On a second butter-related issue, it's generally white and not yellow. On pancakes it will be in on top in a spherical scoop. Like icecream. It's not icecream. I know that now.

From Arizona University, wearing my winter shorts and sandals,
Adieu.

James.

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Travelogue Chapter 8: Albequerque, New Mexico, USA

Dear Readers,

Ok. It's now Thursday and about a thousand miles later. We've made it out of Missouri with a brief excursion across a corner of Kansas, through Oklahoma, across Texas, and into Albequerque, New Mexico. Phew.

By Monday night we had made it to Tulsa Oklahoma. AS for what happened in Tulsa, I can't remember a single thing. Tuesday was at the edge of Oklahoma in a little place called Elk city. On the way there, we went into what alleged to be the largest McDonalds in the 'free world' - 'Free world,' because there's a bigger one in Beijing. It was about the size of every other McDonalds I have
ever been in. Despite the fact that the building itself was quite large, it's capacity was comparable to the one on O'Connell Street. So I was profoundly unimpressed by its size, but what was kinda good was that it is loccated not beside the interstate but over it, and a statue of the famous Cherokee Will ('I never met a man I didn't like')Rogers (lasooing) is in the car park - because this is where he was from. Exciting stuff.

In Elk City, we went to a Karaoke night, and honestly, by the fifth song, I was still surprised that yet another person was singing a Country song. It's easy to forget where you are when you go from the discomfort of a car to a Holiday Inn that looks much like the last one. The lyrics of all the songs were gloriusly grim - from "I was drunk the day mother got out of rison" to "Papa loved Mama, and Mama loved men... now Mama's in the Graveyard and Papa's in the Pen." I was going to do "Indepedent Women," but I realised it wouldn't go down to well with the truckers just in the nick of time.

On the way through Texas we went to Groom to see a 150 foot metal crucifix and stayed for the biggest lunch I have ever eaten in my entire life (it also has a 'famous' leaning water tower (i.e. it's broken) - and despite what the signs said, I wouldn't exactly describe this as an 'attraction'). As for the rest of
Texas that we saw, well, yeah, it's pretty big... and we almost hit a low-flying owl... and it rained... and well that's about it.

So now we're in New Mexico, I've had green chile soup - so yes, I have lived. It was pretty hot. Albequerque is pretty big and it seems like a very nice place so we're going to stay here tonight as well. The chances of Dave getting a haircut today are higher than they have ever been on this trip. I still refuse to shave.

We're not going to make the wedding in Vegas, but we're going there anyway to meet some more Irish people - which should be fun because being in excusivley male company in confined spaces for long periods, while I'll not say it hasn't been fun, is of limited appeal.

Feeling zonked and honky-tonked,

James.

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Travelogue Chapter 7: Carthage, Missouri, USA

Dear readers,

We are fast approaching a It's-Monday-it-must-be-Missouri type scenario. All the Gas-stations, motels and Wendy's diners (home of the traditional-style hamburger) are merging into one - giving my unconscious mind the impression that we are driving around in circles all day and not actually going anywhere.

WE have made some fun stops since my last chapter though. We made it to the aforementioned Catsup bottle just outside St. Louis (Missouri) but were disappointed to find that the bottle itself was only about 50 feet tall. Rob spoke for us all when he said, "Well it's kinda big... I suppose." We were expecting a 170 foot bottle but actually, it's raised on a very high platform
which accounts for the rest of its height (See attached picture).

WE also stayed in the University town of Rolla where we drank a lot of beer but didn't talk to anyone except our barmaid and the woman who asked Dave for an ashtray. We're really going to have to step up our womanising if we're going to pull off this epic twenty-something's road-trip rite of passage type thing with
any dignity.

Having woken up hungover getting harrasssed out of the motel (the dingiest yet - holes in the sink, rubber sheets on the beds) first thing in the morning, we went forty miles out of our way because Rob kept singing the words "Meramec Caves" to the tune of "If you'll be my bodyguard" - which somehow made going there seem like a good idea. Fourteen dollars a piece and more stalagmite jokes than you ever need to hear later, we'd seen the cave lit in every conceivable color to make them seem interesting, and had sat listening to Katie Smith sing "God bless America" while they projected an American flag onto some 75 million year-old natural formations.TAcky though it was, and cynical as I am, I have to admit I felt a warmth somewhere in the cockles at the last encore. It was either admiration or indigestion from the Denny's breakfast we'd had in the early hours of that morning on our way back to the pub. AS a true American might say, I guess we'll never know.

Apart from a fifties-style Steak n' Shake, Springfield Missouri blows. It does, however, offer an oppurtunity to sing what one can remember of the 'Springfield Springfield' song from the Simpsons though (an indulgence gladly but poorly fulfilled by myself and Dave).

We're now sixty miles outside Springfield in a place called Carthage on the old Route sixty-six. Clark Gable stayed in the motel we'll probably stay in tonight. We came here because 'Road-Trip America' said it was a town like the one in the 'Back to the Future' films, and Rob sang the theme-tune until we agreed to go. This is the system that seems to work best for us.

We've now clocked-up about 1500 miles.

James.

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Travelogue Chapter 6: Evansville, Indiana, USA.

Dear Reders,

From Indiana, Pennsilvania, (in which we left screeching tyre marks in an attempt to flee Scott's motel before they discovered Dave broke the toilet) we've made our way, driving directly into the sun - d'oh, to the state of Indiana. What town in Indiana I hear you ask? WEll what else could it be but... yes that's right folks... Evansville.

Having been disappointed to find that a trip to a house shaped like a shoe in Halem, Pennsilvania was impractical, our first leg took us to nowhere other than truckstops and the unexpected luxury of a RAmada hotel in Ohio, which was (bizarrely) cheaper than anywhere we had stayed so far. We then went on down to Cincinnati (known variously as 'porkopolis' and 'queen city')in the hope of seeing something (having seen nothing in the previous 24 hours) and were overcome by the startling dullness, and yes i'd even stretch to say ugliness, of this famous city. So we went to Kentucky for breakfast. Once there we went to 'Gunsmith Guns' to (possibly) buy a rifle - and didn't. Funny, in the pawnshops even, you can pick all kinds of weaponry from precision bows to
revolvers to rifles. Nice place. I'd recommend trying the grits if you ever go - but only because I wasn't actually brave enough to do so myself.

Determined to see something, we made a circuitous journey through the old-time town of Madison (where we had milkshakes that make you swell - literally) and utilised a fortune telling scales which costs one cent. I am 130 pounds, and can sway many people but meet my match in the opposite sex. I think that means I'm a tranny - I dunno. We only really went through Madison, Indianna (ok confession time - I forgot what state that was in and had to irritate everyone by asking. But now it's certain - yes it was Indiana) to get to Louisville (pronounced Loo - avil), Kentucky which is the home of if not the biggest baseball bat in the world, the biggest i think I'm ever going to see. This place was also alleged to have a fountain that shoots water 375 feet in the
air every fifteen minutes, but according to a homeless man it has been out of action since 1989. But that's ok because we'd done it. We saw something.

Later today, we'll be on the famous route sixty-six, and personally, my vote is a detour to Collinsville, Illinois the 'condiment capital of the world' where they have the biggest catsup bottle in the world. Don't ask - I don't know why - but perhaps it's because there's only so many interstate Wendy's a
person can take before they can only be satisfied by over-sized everyday items.

Thanks for the news flashes from the real world - keep them coming,

Onward and sideward,

James.

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Travelogue Chapter 5: Indiana, Pennsilvania, USA (or 'What did Chapter 4 ever do for me?')

Dear Readers,

The madness. To those of you I owe replies - my apologies. I have been restricted to trians planes and automobiles and have not had much opportunity to be on the information superhighway. I'll see what I can do now - if I don't get back to you be asurred i wanted to and will try over the next few days.

I'm currently squeezed into a half-sized chair in the children's area of the library in a little town called Indiana, Pennsilvania. I left Portland on MOnday morning in a drunken, but decidedly satisfied haze. Once again I owe great thanks to Ryan and Jeremy and Kerry and Renne for helping bid fairwell to
POrtland in style with a pretty wild night and Ryan most specifically for dragging himself out of bed after what can't have been more than five hours sleep to drive me to the airport. I'd tell you all a little bit about that night but well... nevermind. Topping the thank you list is kerry who put up with me all week, and really lifted my spirits, and kept me entertained and happy at what otherwise would have been a very very difficult time. Kerry, you can expect a pretty hat (or two) in the post over the next while, you've probably seen the hat you loaned me already on the head of a Portland vagrant, and I can only give you my apologies and a promise of recompense.

So, I made it to New YOrk via Denver Collorado (where people actuallly wear cowboy outfits who are not going to fancy dress parties). It was the most spectacular flight I have ever been on in my whole life - and thankfully I managed to keep down my breakfast. I had only time to get into a NY taxi, see the Chrysler building and stay the night with Sarah in Manhatten (thanx :-)). And hit the road with Dave and Rob. A 380-mile drive got us to Indiana Pennsilvania to visit the lovely (I assume - haven't met her yet) Michael (don't correct my spelling that is her name even though it is not usually associated with the fairer (I use the term loosely) gender) - an old flame of Dave's - and over the next two weeks we're making our to vegas for a wedding! Oh, don't put those two facts together, they're not the happy couple (but hey anything could happen) - rob's uncle is tying the knot (having loosened a few of his previous ones it seems) and we're trying to make the wedding.

This has been a very factual nuts and bolts chapter it seems, just briefly I'll mention the ways in which Rob's 'value-for-money' ethic makes me happy. We got the cheapest rental deal available within a hundred mile radius of New YOrk city by taking a train journey to the little town of South Amboy, New Jersey -
where he somehow successfully stood his ground and refused to pay the extra levvy for being under twenty five, but did concede under some peer pressure to getting the collision insurance. We arrived (minus Dave who had 'other arrangements') at the HOliday Inn at one in the morning and Rob managed to get fifteen dollars knocked off the bill - and had an night-cap cigarette from the couple of hundred he bought from some native Americans because they don't have to pay the duty on them (being under their own law) and can sell them a lot cheaper. NOw anyone else who wakes up about seventeen minutes before the latest time for check-out (as we did) might panic, but under rob's exceptional organisational skills we managed to take full advantage of facilites and squeeze in a morning swim and a shower before we checked-out.

Well, the children are starting to freak me out - I think they want me to playwith them. I don't know - a lot of them look sticky. Sorry for the rush.

Signing off,
James.

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