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