Monday, February 05, 2007

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.

Friday, February 02, 2007

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!

Thursday, February 01, 2007

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!]

Sunday, February 26, 2006

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?

Thursday, February 16, 2006

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.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Happy Feckin Valentine's Day



From Buckley and Quasi-Mojo

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

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!

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

When I look back on it now...


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

Monday, January 30, 2006

"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

Thursday, January 26, 2006

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?

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

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.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

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

Thursday, January 05, 2006

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.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

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)

Thursday, October 27, 2005

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.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

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!

Saturday, July 16, 2005

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.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

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.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

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.

Monday, June 27, 2005

Corpus Christi "May" Ball 2005

Corpus By Night:
Corpus

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:

Diarmuidian Falcon
(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:

Jacko

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?

Friday, June 17, 2005

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.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

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?

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

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.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

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

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

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)

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

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.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

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 Posted by Hello

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.