Harmony Rocket

Of the extraordinary...

2009-10-15T00:36:50Z

Have a look at this if you have half an hour to devote to the extraordinary.

The clip lasts half an hour, and it's the fourth - and most jawdropping - in a series of four. It's Richard Burton demonstrating what a true star, what a truly impressive figure, is. I suppose we've forgotten. So have a look, and if you do have the surplus hour and a half then just go for it.

Tender is the night/ Lying by your side...

2009-06-29T00:57:01Z

So hello, and oh dear. I've got that 'change the world' feeling again; doubt I'll be to bed tonight. Blur at Glastonbury - at a distance of a few hundred miles - were a lesson in melodic savagery and one of the most emotional performances I've ever seen by any band.

For the past few weeks I've been happy enough that they were just reclaiming what's rightfully theirs - they'd very nearly been forgotten as both pop beasts and leftfield innovators. I was just excited to see people remembering the broadness and quality of their work and pay their respects accordingly. Plus I get to hear favourite songs again. Those sentiments took a back seat when I put on the BBC for "just one song," not wanting to ruin setlists and surprises on myself. Then Al said "are you going to be the man who turns that off?" and I let it run. The first thing I saw was Graham Coxon on the floor during 'Beetlebum'. Sold.

Just as 'Tender' closed my brother sent me a message that said "My god, that was beautiful."

So we watched on and on and I wasn't the man who turned it off and on Friday it will be time to see them. I hope this feeling lasts; I've missed it - not just Blur...

Person 1: What's that noise?
Person 2: I get that too, that kind of whirring sound?
Person 1: But what is it?
Person 2: Beats me.
Person 1: It's quite familiar, isn't it?
Person 2: It sounds almost like... but surely not.
Person 1: No, go on.
Person 2: Well, not eagerness really... more a kind of...
Person 1: I think you're right, actually... that's...
All: That sounds like enthusiasm!

***
"Everybody is becoming like ... " - he pauses - "a Stasi agent, constantly observing himself or his friends." -Ralf Hutter of Kraftwerk on social networking

***

The other night, for a few split seconds, I joined the National Grid. This was very stupid. One wire pulled another wire out of an electrical switch. The circuit breakers went. I reset them. Fifteen minutes later I saw the wire that had caused the outage, said something ditsy like "oh a wire, oh boy oh boy!" and picked up the snake-like thing as if it were a piece of lego.

Electricty: "Bzzzzz."

Ruraidh: "Aaaaargh!"

Have you ever been electrocuted? It was strangely more and less terrifying than I'd imagined it would be - and given the number and quality of my electrical repairs, it was bound to happen soon. I supposed one fell to the floor and had a heart attack. This didn't happen, thankfully. Instead I shouted and spent the rest of the night with my hand in my mouth having never felt so timid. I've still got two vampire-like pockmarks in my left index finger from where the wires struck.

Bzzzz.

***

So Old Man Ballard has gone one step closer to mapping the psychogeography of the skies. Old news now, I'm afraid. Full coverage here and here.

JG Ballard, along with Joe Strummer and a few other assorted prophets and naysayers, made my life very awkward indeed. I've a funny feeling that things would have been very much more straightforward if it weren't for hearing certain bands or reading certain books. Ballard's dystopian fiction must be at the top of the list. These things gave me a world view and a set of attitudes which time and time again have made me my own worst enemy. I'm not sorry though.

The first book of his I read was probably The Atrocity Exhibition, the second Crash, and by the time I got to the cruelly underrated The Kindness of Women the damage had been done. I particularly liked his way of surprising me - a line about wanting to fly nuclear bombers carrying "pieces of the sun" lingers.

I won't prattle on, with one exception: some time after his wife died he met Claire, his partner until his death. They had a bust-up in the late '70s and didn't speak for five years. "Then out of the blue I rang him because I had seen a car going down the road that reminded me of his. He just said, I was waiting for you to ring' and from then on we got back together." I think that's pretty wonderful and in some strange way quite unexpected.

***

For a while there was a pigeon nesting in the bushes outside my window; it was there for over a month. Every few days it would rotate by 90 degrees, but did little else. I fed it. then the eggs hatched and there are at least two chicks, little messers, almost full size now... it seems that I've already paved over my country origins by referring to the chick as the 'small pigeons' and the mother as the 'main pigeon'.

***

Also, in recent times I saw a grouse run in the front gate and across the lawn into the long grass out the back. It ran, it didn't fly. Cartoon arms flapping up and down; a funny bird. My application to become one of British Sea Power is surely strengthened.

Despite what one may think, this story is not insignificant. I just want to know where he was going.

***

Lambchop: Hawley of America (note to self: check chronology - possible pigeon/egg situation).

***

And that's where I leave things tonight, to the wondrous sound of my ears ringing because of a gig I didn't attend. No matter. Big news on the way, I feel. If nothing else I've just written the word 'enthusiasm' without any qualifying negative, and that is a rare achievement in these times. Onwards.

With Love and Napalm...

2009-04-19T18:45:06Z

JG Ballard, 1930-2009

Fifteen feet of pure white snow...

2009-02-02T19:10:21Z

Flakes falling from the sky - my favourite. But is there anything original to be said on the subject of snow?

Not much.

Here's a story. When I was ten years old there were two options at lunchtime: attempt to play football or attempt to gossip about Home and Away. I didn't know much about either, but threw my lot in with the football anyway. This involved religiously avoiding the ball either because I didn't know what to do with it or because I was too fat to catch up with play.

The situation couldn't really be taken too seriously anyway: run more than a few paces and you'd fall into a big pothole; our pitch was like the Somme. The rules were interpreted according to the whims of the toughest player on the field, which led to abuse on a comical level. Penalty re-takes were frequent: on the right team your penalty was taken until it was scored. On the wrong team your penalty was re-taken until it was missed. For some reason everyone other than me could take this seriously.

Every now and then a past pupil, Brian, would hop the wall and join in. He was about twenty and had a motorbike. Whatever team he joined seemed for some reason to automatically win, and after a while it was realised that the only evenly matched game he could play was on his own, with a goalkeeper, against 15 of us. He still won regularly, even if all 15 of us lined up in the goalmouth. This, however, simply induced him to kick the ball against our defences as hard as possible. Thighs were bruised and testicles were threatened, a situation far from ideal.

Other strategies included a slick passing game in which he was denied possession at all times. This failed due not to our lack of passing prowess, but the poor playing conditions. It always bobbled, I swear. And sadly the Roman Centurion Tortoise formation has never quite caught the imagination of football tacticians, but don't say we weren't innovative. I still harbour hopes that it will appear in the Premiership within my lifetime.

Childhood was snowy. Whether it came down lightly or heavily, it would always stick around - west Wicklow is a dismally cold place when it wants to be, which is most of the time. This occasion was the first time we had been allowed out for lunch after the winter's snow, which had become ice and was therefore deemed unsafe to play on. For days we stayed in watching the greatest toy in the world dissolve before our eyes. By the time we had been freed it was almost too late.

I needed a snowball. Alice had one. She was going to throw it at Grainne, which would have been a waste because she would have missed. This was the last snowball of the winter and it deserved a higher purpose. I bought it off her for 10p. She didn't really want to throw it at Grainne because they were best friends, but she had the snowball and there really wasn't anything else she could think to do with it.

And what a snowball! This was solid ice, with lovely bits of mud and pebble in it. It was a vicious bastard of an ice-grenade and not only was there no defence, there was no retaliation. Unless your opponent remembered the assault a good 11 months later there could be no reply because there was no more snow. And remembering was completely out of the question. Hitting someone with this yolk guaranteed certain victory; name your price.

So why not use it to guarantee certain victory on the football field? It didn't take long for an opportunity to arise. The game was finely poised, probably something in the order of 20-all. I waited until what was going to be the last play before the bell went. Right on cue, Brian went on an epic solo run from one goal to the other, neutralising the opposition with use of a rugby-style hand-off. I stepped back to allow him past and fired the hateful thing right in his face at point blank range.

I still have this freeze-frame image of the look of unbelieving pain displayed on his face. It was like 'The Scream' had Edvard Munch been brought up in a shack on a bog reading the Farmers' Journal aloud to his sheepdog. I might as well have hit the fucker with a rock. He shouted in torture and booted the ball forcefully, defeating our 'keeper and winning the match. And he kept running, his hands raised to his face, and leapt the wall and rode off without saying goodbye. The bell rang. Nobody moved. They just stood there contemplating the weirdness that had just happened in front of their eyes.

It was just as difficult for me to know what to think. On one side of the argument, I had contributed everything I possibly could in the absence of knowing how to dribble, tackle, pass or indeed play football. But be that as it may, I had failed. The toughest player walked over to me, and a binding judgement on the matter was inevitable.

"Eh... that was really low."

Mabye I should have gone for Home And Away.

***

This weekend I read that Stanley Kubrick, while finishing his 2001: A Space Odyssey, attempted to arrange insurance with Lloyds of London to cover the possibility that Martians would soon be discovered, thus scuppering the appeal of the film.

In light of this I don't think I should ever feel the need to apologise for being paranoid or neurotic. We already have a winner.

I wish you could swim/ Like dolphins can swim...

2008-11-07T20:08:59Z

My options, the way I see them.

1. Ignore this journal
2. Tell it about everything that has happened in recent times - ridiculous highs and soap-operatic lows
3. Make a mockery of this journal with ill-judged attempts at satire
4. Close this journal, pout and walk away and perhaps have a bath and watch Newsnight
5. Post a photograph of something weird

The malady lingers on...

2008-07-29T23:08:21Z

"The Tories had their own meeting between Obama and David Cameron, at which the senator was overheard congratulating Cameron on 'all your success'. The two spent 20 minutes chatting about juggling fatherhood and politics and discussing Afghanistan and the economy. Cameron gave him a box of CDs including albums by The Smiths, Radiohead and Lily Allen."

-The Observer, Sunday 27 July

Nuclear Month...

2008-07-02T13:12:04Z

According to the Digital Guilt Indicator it is ten weeks since I've written here. Ten stupifying weeks which, after a while (simple sum, but I'm not up for counting) drifted into what is now known as Nuclear Month.

Nuclear Month makes infamous New York Times plagiarist Jayson Blair look like a competent journalist and confers the authority of Newsnight on the afternoon cartoons. Crimes of ineptitude against journalism, and a deadline fast approaching. These are rotten times.

So now that my mind's been done over Clockwork Orange-style and my heart's sore too there's always The Weirdness to fall back on and I'm grateful.

One final thing: My Bloody Valentine last week went and did it, and did it properly too. The sledgehammer of noise, the Holocaust Section and the sheer skill of it all. By now they've made thousands of people speak and act like Vietnam veterans. You don't know what it's like unless you've been there, man - and so on.

Enough of all that though. And now for The Weirdness.

***
Prisons Bulge as Wine Supplies Decline

Vilarica supplies have hit an all-time low according to reports emerging from local supermarkets.

The €4.99 Chilean wine, fondly known as "the sensitive man's Bavaria" by devotees, has enjoyed giddying popularity in recent years ever since its endorsement by the Parliament Street Militia.

"The black market for Vilarica is unprecedented - we are seeing raids on supply lorries and bottles being smuggled out in guitar cases and under velvet dresses. We've had to lay off one member of staff already.

"Our wholesalers are posting armed guards on each case of wine. This will inevitably push the price above the €5 mark. Where will it end?", a spokesman for the supermarket said.

According to local folklore, Vilarica was discovered when Militia leader Ruraidh Confusion O'Dubious found that it enhanced his driving skills, especially at immense speeds.

"The white is carefully suited to a rear-wheel-drive machine - a bicycle, for example, or a Ford Escort, but really anything nimble and a bit tail-happy.

"The red is a great all-rounder. I've enjoyed astonshing results powersliding a double-decker or a ferry while merry on the red", O'Dubious revealed in a rare 2006 interview.

The Militia's enthusiasm for the wine is not shared by the wider wine establishment, however. The Daily Braindead's wine critic Toby McMoron described the white variety as "urine fermented in a coke bottle under a radiator in a young offenders' prison", while the red was "surely the blood of a rampant paedophile infused with walnut".

In response, Mililia member Alain du Noir later stated that "this is exactly what I mean. Exactly. Exactly what I mean. You know? Exactly what I mean. McMoron must be some kind of idiot. To the barricades!"

Defence Minister Trigger Jones has placed the army on high alert for this week's delivery, expected to arrive by US Marine helicopter. Each bottle has been tagged with a revised version of the satellite-traceable bug which claimed the life of last week's defence minister.

Minister Paul Sloth-Heinkel died when his illegally-acquired bottle of 2005 Vilarica exploded on his way back from a secret rendezvous. His state funeral was ill-attended.

'We need to find the time to daydream and be bored, and to see that, too, as a part of our creativity. We need, as it were, to find the time to waste time without worrying about the consequences.' -Adam Philips

The encyclopedia is saved...

2008-04-22T19:25:19Z

Plenty to report and plenty of work to do in this final week of university ever (where have we heard that before?). Much better to spend the time writing fake encyclopedia entries, wouldn't you say? Uncyclopedia. There's an idea. Not my work, that, but perhaps I'll fix what's not broken in weeks to come. Or at least correct the grammar.

Also, micronations are great. Over and out.

***

Ruraidh occurred late in 1983.

Early career:

Raised in the hills by a unit of loved eccentrics, nothing happened for a long time, and when they did they were forgotten on account of an archive blaze which claimed the lives of three. Also, he was learning to speak. Ruraidh gained early employment as a designer of flags, nominated for a coveted Tricolore award in 1989 and walking away with the outright prize in 1992.

He privately attributed his success to the fall of communism and proliferation of breakaway former Soviet republics, which made a sellers' market of the international flag design trade.

Turning his back on Vexillology, Ruraidh spent the years 1993-1996 mining granite in the hills of west Wicklow, witnessing at first hand the Great Milk Truck Catastrophe of 1994 which attracted cats of the county in an influx of gold rush proportions.

Other achievements of this period include the world's first scientific study of the complex relationship between Mary Quant and the then-unknown Osama Bin Laden; devising a new method of organising bees without risk, and scoring a goal and a point against the hated Valleymount in the car park as the victorious GAA team of 1995 romped their way towards fame on the big boys' pitch.

Tallaght years: 1996-2002

Moving his academic studies to the suburban Dublin concentration camp of Tallaght (and then to the yuppie ghetto of Templeogue) reputedly caused a decline in his productivity and mental health.

A furtive attempt to redesign the question mark proved a misjudgement when the local bishop denounced him from the pulpit. Imprisoned on the 65 bus, Ruraidh set about cracking the 'Leaving Certificate' dilemma first described by Sophocles, with generally positive results. Accepted to study history at Trinity College, Ruraidh chose to mark the occasion by antagonising a parking meter - which displayed a surprising level of comprehension for an inanimate object by publishing a stinging denunciation in the letters page of The Irish Times.

According to newspaper records and enemy intercepts, Ruraidh's first attempt to play popular music came in 1999 with the acquisition of a bass guitar, progressing to rhythm guitar in unguarded moments. Officially recognised by UNESCO as the world's worst musician six years later, Ruraidh once spent an epic unbroken 61-hour stretch attempting to master the A minor chord, a ritual he repeats on every musical occasion to this date and the subject of many Youtube parodies.

City life and yet more controversy: 2002-present

Ruraidh's move to the bright lights of Dublin City, in June of 2002, was marred by his savage beating at the hands of online encyclopedia vigilantes. Making a full recovery with the help of Leo Burdock's fish and chips and a piece of software which capitalised on his earlier research by sending a swarm of hyperintelligent bees after his assailants, he then turned his mind towards revolution.

Ruraidh was responsible for the creation of the Parliament Street Militia, provisional government of the Parliament Street Commune - a micronation, the name of which changes regularly. He also badly edits the micronation's only newspaper, the Parliament Street Chronicle, and presents the Vilarica Sauvignon Blanc Award For Ignorance In The Face Of Stupidity In The Face Of Idiocy (often referred to as the World Championship of Wicklow) at an annual gala.

He continues to live in town with two reprobates and a big map like what they have in that film 'Battle of Britain' except there's Rolos to represent enemy fighters instead of swastikas and the whole sorry affair is prone to rearrangement by a volatile cat. They get their sandbags from the Oriental Emporium up the road.

His first ever media interview, on 21 April 2008, ended without response when the interviewer began by asking "have you got nothing better to do with your time?" and the aggrieved subject walked out, tripping over the tape recorder cable on his way out the door.

Goodbye, Bertie Ahern.

2008-04-02T11:35:58Z

Goodbye, Bertie Ahern.

If you had wanted to eradicate homelessness and poverty, you could have.

If you had wanted to iron out the social problems that arose from Ireland having been in the 1800s until the 1960s and in the 1960s until the 1990s, you could have.

If you had wanted to guide your country towards instinctively supporting the less fortunate in society, you could have.

If you had wanted to eradicate the corruptable and favour-driven 'stroke' politics of the elite, you could have.

You wanted to help Northern Ireland towards peace. And you did.

If you had wanted to provide public services as anything other than an afterthought or a grudging and empty gesture, you could have.

If you'd had any vision of how your country might fix its problems in times of rare plenty; if you'd had any dream other than one stolen from a Reaganite economics textbook; if you'd had any belief in the power of your own personal political and social ideals in bringing real progress and real happiness to one and all... then you could have.

But all political careers end in failure, and as the Man of the People walks away under a cloud of mistrust then we are are left with the feeling that the opportunities of the past 15 years have now been missed for the last time.

Goodbye, Bertie Ahern.

Kiss me, I'm Irish...

2008-03-18T05:48:56Z

"You fat motherfuckin' bastard. You're a fat motherfuckin' bastard. You fat bastard. You're fat! You fat fucker. Fuck you, you fat cunt. You cunt. You fat cunt. Cunt."

It's St. Patrick's Night and the Irish are 'celebrating' on Parliament Street below. The above is verbatim, and resulted (unsurprisingly) in fists.

Emigration, anyone? Genocide, maybe? Sleep, perhaps.

'Night all.

Mutually Assured Destruction...

2008-03-10T23:33:23Z

"There will be a time to murder and create" -TS Eliot

It takes me a long time to write in this fucker at the best of times. For weeks I'd been feeling deeply unpleasant, so angry and frustrated that I wanted to kick something or simply give up. I'm not used to that kind of anger and fatalism. There seemed to be no way of releasing it. Guilty of overthinking. Own worst enemy.

So I went to London for a weekend and felt even worse. Then I felt better.

It's nice to be reminded that I still have a heart; that's the strange positive of having felt like a disaster area. What happens next remains to be seen (I'm oddly optimistic), but I suppose the inevitable mass murder will have to wait awhile.

Trouble is, it takes so long to write anything meaningful that I'm not really prepared to waste a few weeks' non-thoughts and bitterness, so here are some from recent times - edited with due respect to public decency. Embarrassing paragraphs diluted somewhat. The sound of sharpening knives removed from the mix.

(Also, whoever gave Glen Hansard that Oscar had malice in their hearts. This slight will not be forgotten.)

***

February/bedtime/every time is bedtime/dealt the death blow... yet again.

"This is a bitter and cruel defeat" -Hunter S. Thompson

Time for some late-night sabre rattling.

Someone once wrote of Mercury Rev that they sounded like the best of Walt Disney's theme tunes played through a vacuum cleaner.

I can relate to that. There are times, particularly going to sleep, when it feels like 100 TVs in the same room, all tuned to different stations and turned up full. Ever get that?

You get soppy romance drowned out by ultraviolence clashing with a grainy noir and it's all a mess.

***

How people seem to be growing up. On Saturday afternoon I spoke to an old friend; long time since we've spoken and the first thing mentioned was that she now has a two year-old kid. Later, I was party to a conversation about how another dear friend is considering starting a family. And just as that concluded a text message arrived to announce a third friend's engagement.

It's funny how those happy events can come across so sadly. My hair is going grey. I'm counting down the days before I voluntarily have a conversation about pensions.

All this business worries me, and it's very hard to explain without sounding like wishing unhappiness upon loved ones. It all seems like a headlong scramble to become 35, po-faced and unable to live and feel.

***

A few weeks ago, British Sea Power became the first band to enter the top ten album charts with a song referring to the Pope's fight for the Nazi cause. (I feel comfortable casting an assumption here - correct me if I'm wrong).

Come on, Allons-y let's go,
You can always just say no.
To the anti-aircraft crew,
The boys from the Hitler Youth.

Silk and cyanide,
Six weeks left alive.
Metal, skull and bone,
You think you know but you don't.

Lord, if this isn't the year of the Sea Power then surely there is no hope. There they were on Later with Jools Holland last Friday night, using every trick in the book to make people think and smile. They remind me of early, alcoholic Blur: why play songs standing still when you can play them falling off a balcony?

And while you're at it, why not invite the London Bulgarian Choir along for the ride?

Their Dublin show last month was a masterclass in bedlam, laughing in the face of such modernities as venue insurance, liability, security and common sense. An enormous-sounding band playing loudly in a dingy hole of a pub and making every note and every motion count.

***

L. Ron Hubbard had a Mellotron.

***

I think I would be a better journalist if I was not so pathologically afraid of hassling people on the telephone, if I didn't hate others so dejectedly and if I didn't keep an enemies list.

George Orwell was way better than me. Way better.

But I suppose he was better than most people, and certainly would not have struggled if asked to write two paltry news articles for a deadline off in the distant future. No. He would have adjusted his braces and hacked up some phlegm and just got on with it, really. And he wouldn't have made a hash of it, oh no.

My first copy of the Journalist arrived today, the NUJ magazine. This does not mean that I am a journalist, though the postman was convinced by my press pass the other day and in his eyes I am nothing if not a professional.

It's hard to be a professional when you hear some of the stories circulating our class regarding the very depths one is directed to sink to in pursuit of The Story. Ringing complete strangers and asking them if they are family-wreckers, for example.

There has to be some middle ground between monk and parasite. How to find it, though. How?

***

Why on earth didn't someone just sit down with me and say:

"Listen. We've been friends for a while now and I'm going to give you a leg up. I know you've got Low and it means a lot to you. And I also remember you watching yer man do 'Life on Mars' on the BBC at Glastonbury in 2000. And Dad used to play 'Let's Dance' every now and then. And you liked all of that, but you could have so much more.

"You really need to try Station to Station or "Heroes" soon. They're made for you. They have that creepy East German vibe you love. "The European canon is here". What the fuck does that mean? You'll ask that repeatedly. There's this track, 'V2 Schneider'... it will forever change how you view the bass guitar. 'TVC-15': If every song sounded like that then there'd be nothing to complain about.

"When you're crying out for more, say a week later or so, treat yourself to some of the old glam albums... It won't really matter which one first. Hunky Dory, probably. By now you'll be so far sold on the Berlin years that you'll accept anything. In time, you will want to dye your hair red and pretend you're from outer space. And if your friends love you, they will encourage you.

"Every single musical experience of your life has been stalked by David Bowie, and now it's time."

***

So there. Now that was a lot less painless than I thought it would be...

Oftentimes I close by writing quasi-funny news reports. Here's one that was actually published on a mainstream news website recently. Can I just ask: did someone get paid to write this? The dignity of labour...

Simpson struggles to pay valet
25/02/2008 - 11:15:57

Jessica Simpson was left red-faced after struggling to find enough money to pay a parking valet in Hollywood.

The star was dining with friends, including celebrity hair stylist Ken Paves, in posh eaterie Katsuya on Thursday when she was caught short of cash.

After getting into a waiting car, a grinning Simpson searched in her handbag for over two minutes, before eventually finding a pile of notes and handing them to Paves, who was driving the vehicle.

Paves handed over the money to the waiting valet, who was eventually rewarded with the crumpled wad of cash.

***

Saying doesn't make it so. Over and out.

Merciful Hour...

2008-02-19T12:46:56Z

Things I cannot do on account of the fact that I have an eye ulcer:

-Go to college for a week
-Use a computer for more than a few minutes
-Watch TV
-Read a newspaper, or anything
-Write
-Describe Kebabgate, the latest scandal to hit this cursed household

Things I can do on account of the fact that I have an eye ulcer:

-Feel exceedingly uncomfortable
-Give people the evil eye
-Whinge a lot. (See above)
-Retreat and listen to Roxy Music and ABC
-Wonder why on earth I can't just catch the flu like I usually do
-Eat the kebab

harmonyrocket @ 2007-12-16T01:06:00

2007-12-16T01:15:05Z

Massively early in the morning, or so it feels, but when the first thing you think of upon hopping into bed is of smashing every piece of crockery in the house, matters of sleep become more difficult. The other night I strangely dreamt of Cathy Davey. Tonight, less fantastic.

***

   On a recent afternoon I brought my boots to the cobblers to be repaired.

   A few years ago my beloved but senseless cat was put to sleep. The vet was a definition of sympathy: “I'm sorry, it's for the best. It's the humane thing to do. You'd only prolong his misery”.

   If only shoe repairmen had the empathy of that vet...

   So I went in and asked this cobbler to fix my beloved boots.

   “Bin”.

Now... the thing is, if either of my folks were going into hospital for examination of a potentially fatal itchy eyebrow and the doctor came out of the consultation room and said 'grave', I'd be very upset.

Such insensitivity is heartbreaking.

***

   The other day, I was listening to a lecture given by veteran US reporter Seymour Hersh for Amnesty International at Trinity College. This is the same gig that Noam Chomsky did last year, to some fanfare. RTE have the whole thing streamed. It should, could or might be here if the link is still alive.

    Anyway, there I was minding my own business listening to robust criticism of neoconservatism and US foreign policy when something odd happened with my connection and the following line was repeated, in stuck record style, until I reset everything:

“What we have, with this president, is the most radical president we've ever had. He's absolutely unguided..."

   I heard this at least 25 times. It was more than psychedelic. According to one of my lecturers, since 9/11 the number of US foreign correspondents has shrunk by 30%. Here, we are told, is a nation turning in on itself.

***

   There's nothing wrong with turning in on oneself, to a point at least... unless you're a country, of course. With lots of nuclear weapons and the likes. Then it's just stupid.

   I'm not a superpower, but it's a shame I can't turn in on myself a bit. The bookshelves are bulging. Biographies and the like. Woodward and Bernstein saying “read me”. Fiction is being given no attention and will probably hitch its skirts and run off on me. Run off with the guitar and talk about what a shame it all is.

   Well, darlings, it's just that I have to work late on this special project. My boss is a slave driver. I've been promised a huge bonus. You understand. It will all be over soon enough, then we'll take a fortnight touring France. Just you and me.

   Don't be like that...

***

   Anything of interest to report tonight? Bits and pieces. I take my hat off to the absolute gentleman, known in these parts, who brought my party a bottle of 16 year-old Bushmills vintage whiskey a few weeks ago. There was just enough in it to give everyone a measure. It was a superb whiskey, finest kind, best of the century. Made the night. Haughey was in power when it was distilled. Memorable.

   I underline the names 'Dublin Bus' (see below exception) and 'St. James's Hospital' in my enemies list. I'll let Ryanair off the hook a little, but let this be the last time. Onto the Wall of Champions go Camera Obscura, Bushmills vintage whiskey and the bus I got up to the northside this morning which was empty, gave me a free ride due to a broken ticket machine and let me off at the front door. Unprecedented. They join the likes of Lewis Hamilton, Joanna Lumley and Johnny Marr in being shining examples of everything that is great about the world.

   Most of the time I'm hassling people into talking into a microphone or notepad, which makes me feel awkward, foolish and like I'm chancing my arm. It's my favourite time of year but I barely notice it. This afternoon I played guitar but it was the first time in weeks.

   College is situated on a road which has more 'Out of Service' buses than any other in the western world. This is on account of the bus depot nearby. There's a nice Christmas tree outside the campus restaurant, but they only turn the lights on when it gets dark. Which is all well and good, but food stops at 2:30 so the number of people who actually see the lights is in the double figures and pretty much confined to those who know the shortcut for the bus stop. There is no-one around beyond 6pm.

***

   I had a birthday, but it's a touchy subject.

***

Some fun.

“Coffee-less Shops 'Are Not Shops'-Council”

   A shop is not a shop unless it has a coffee dock, Dublin City Council has ruled.

   This latest resolution effectively closes all retail outlets until they dedicate at least 30 per cent of their floor space to serving unaffordable beverages with nonsensical names.

   A spokeswoman for the Council said that people were “sick of filthy consumers populating run-down record shops, bookshops and charity shops without doing the honest thing and flinging their money away on a drug that turns them into the non-penal, consumer equivalent of a Florida chain gang. Feeling alive and having one's own identity is a privilege, not a right.”

   Dublin Chamber of Commerce president Charmless McBland welcomed the move. “The idea that ordinary people might buy a new shirt or pair of trousers in peace is no longer socially acceptable. It died with the 1980s, when our country was in the economic dark ages of high taxes and high emigration.

   “Look at it this way: the less room for books and records, the better. Now those filthy hippies will have no way of avoiding hyper-loud mortgage gossip emanating from nauseating old battleaxes squandering their wages in the café.

   “The sooner every shop in the city is swallowed by cafés the better. Think about it: Barneys Café-comma-HMV. The economy would jump up a gear”.

   The global trend of shops sidelining their regular business in favour of selling overpriced pothole-water to impressionable puppets has grown in recent years, but this is believed to be the first time any local authority has turned it into law.

   Last year the Catholic Church got in on the act, linking up with sandwich giant O'Brien's in a multi-million euro deal. Instead of the Blood of Christ, customers are now offered the Mocha of Christ, and the Body of Christ has become the Double-Chocolate Smarties Cookie of Christ.

   Even cafés have changed with the times: the most modern now have coffee docks within the café proper, so that tired customers can sip a luxurious coffee while drinking the coffee they bought on that morning's shopping trip.

   So far, seven people have died of laughing and three people have died of crying, according to a Health Services Executive representative.

   Calls to the Parliament Street Militia were not immediately returned tonight as the group is 'out righting wrongs'.

***

"No-one Injured In Bicycle Saddle Beating"

   Number 22 was brought to a standstill last week when a drunken loon flew out of control and attacked his brother with a bicycle saddle, repeatedly saying things like “a fight, is it?” and “I'll fight you, you fucker!”.

   It is understood that no-one has any memory of the incident, which certainly did not occur around 3am during a birthday party, and did not involve one gentleman flopping into his brother's room and threatening everyone for no good reason.

   Blows were not exchanged, and the pair did not fall about the floor laughing at the stupidity of the situation.

   Sources say that after the vicious attack the brother didn't grab the saddle from his assailant and start hitting him in the crook of the elbow, causing two days' pain.

   When the brother returned later having forgotten his keys or his wallet or something, his vanquished counterpart was not found curled up on the stairs writhing in pain.

***

There was a fantastic BBC radio documentary on Kraftwerk, including a brilliant anecdote told by my my mate Johnny Marr. But they only keep those online for so long, and it may be too late to give a link.

So that is all for now. Back to the crockery.

harmonyrocket @ 2007-10-19T13:49:00

2007-10-19T12:53:02Z

Ambitions:

- Buy and restore a clapped out Volkswagen Karmann Ghia (coupe, not cabriolet)

- Be accused, in broadsheet print, of "running a personal fiefdom"

- Wreck Dublin Bus

***

"It was a sobering experience" -Lindsay Lohan on rehab

***

Last Night I Dreamt... I met Johnny Marr.

And then I did.

***

Greetings, believe it or not, from the O'Reilly Library.

Yes, it's actually called The O'Reilly Library and yes, it is nice here. It's at least bearable in most places I've been, and because I'm a postgrad I can ignore all the undergraduates who just swan around using 'like' for every second word and saying 'bee-boh' like it's a one-word psalm.

Maybe it is a psalm. I don't really care, but I am grateful that idiots on the northside are less annoying than idiots on the southside. They don't think it's some form of overcast California up here. That much is reassuring.

There are still some towerblocks in Ballymun looking over things. Detestable shitholes, and if ever the journalism students need reminding of the need for social justice, however vaguely termed, all they have to do is look out the window.

My course is interesting, although Research Methods and Media Law are threatening to break my heart for various reasons. Radio is fascinating, despite the fact that I haven't listened to the radio this decade. I like the width of its audience and I like the technology. Our computer lab is well-appointed and I might bring in my guitar one day for messing with Pro Tools. Or not, for that matter.

News Reporting makes one ask where, exactly, the news comes from. Garda Press Office, as it transpires. I'm not sure how good a crime reporter I'll make. It is patently obvious from my reporting style that I haven't read anything other than The Irish Times for a very long time. "Make it snappier!" Poor news article. You're entertainment now.

News Editing is another monster - it's one thing writing an article, but it's a completely different matter putting it on a page and writing headlines and captions. Again, I'm not very good at it. You have twelve characters for the first line and eight characters for the second line. You can't go over the limit. Now write a two line headline summarising an incredibly complex speech, and do it in two minutes.

Ah god.

***

My mate Johnny Marr and I (like the sound of that) spoke of black Jaguar guitars, William Burroughs and his assertion that I look like Rowland S. Howard from The Birthday Party.

Now, I think that's amazing. I think I'll add that to the list. The list:

David Walliams

Rufus Wainwright

The singer from Reuben

Howlin' Pelle Almquist

A fuckin' faggot

Blixa Bargeld

Rowland S. Howard

Some more besides

Trouble is, I look like none of them. Except, well... no.

***

Back to newspapers - The Irish Times has digitised every issue back to 1859 and it's a beautiful, beautiful work. Trouble is, it's unlikely to be freely available to anyone who doesn't have a decent library behind them. Pity.

It's a joy to go through the thing. Yesterday I looked up the death of Ayrton Senna, Dave Fanning slagging the shite out of the Manic Street Preachers and also realised that I could have saved about 150 hours' dissertation work if I'd had this two years ago. I wouldn't mind having those hours back. Sin a bhfuil.

***

And speaking of the Irish language, I'd recommend Kings to anyone; it's still in the cinema just about. Colm Meaney and chums down and out in immigrant London and drinking like loons while clinging to their old tongue. Light entertainment it ain't.

Control is superb. But then again, I don't think anyone involved in the film would ever get work again if they'd got it wrong...

***

Thoughts? Too busy, really. A few evenings ago I spent hours cutting articles out of newspapers abandoned left, right and centre across room and flat. Some time in the future I'll need to know about obscure Fine Gael politicians or the situation in Luxembourg (has there ever been a situation in Luxembourg?). Maybe I should get a filing cabinet. Are people allowed to own filing cabinets these days, or is it a case for the Digital Police?

I'm pretty much too busy to be bitter or nasty to anyone, which is greatly disappointing and surely can't last. I'd love to put the boot in on quite a few people (Lindsay Lohan and their ilk? See above) for being complete embarrassments to everything, but they're perfectly capable of self-incrimination so that takes care of itself. Also: I wish I didn't care.

***

Let's try something new here.

Parliament Street Chronicle?

“Local Snipe Meets Guitar God Among Men”

Embattled amateur guitarist Ruraidh Kanchelskis O'Dubious was “proud, humbled and thoroughly overshadowed” to meet former Smiths hero Johnny Marr, a jury has heard.

O'Dubious, 23, is facing charges of meeting Marr, shaking his hand, being called 'mate' and looking gruesome in a photograph. The Director of Public Prosecutions has agreed to drop the more serious charges of dreaming about the guitar legend on a 5-storey throne and believing that ' Suffer Little Children' is The Smiths' best song, citing lack of evidence.

The incidents are alleged to have taken place in Trinity College over two weeks ago, and arose partly from a security mix-up which allowed O'Dubious and his accomplice to be given free beer.

In his first day in the witness box, O'Dubious made an impassioned speech to the oratorial standards of Robert Emmet, John F. Kennedy and Boris Johnson, in which he described Marr as “the Mohammed Ali of British alternative music” and how trying to play 'Still Ill' makes him feel like a failure and a disappointment and that even though he “can play the notes, they just don't sound the same”.

Bailiffs had to bring the defendant a hamburger after he tearfully broke down, repeating that they “just don't sound the same” for 25 minutes in a breathless rapture.

O'Dubious's speech resumes tomorrow, and is expected to take three days, following which he will begin giving his evidence. The trial may last upwards of three weeks.

Gardaí are still seeking a 5'9” man wearing a hat, white Smiths t-shirt and black jacket in connection to the above allegations and further inquiries that a Dublin 4 stereotype and local hero was called a “fuckin' cunt” out loud. He was last seen heading in the direction of the Luas, and is described as 'extremely poetic'.

A spokesman for Morrissey declined to comment on the case as it was before the courts.

Disturbances On Parliament Street Claim Seven Lives

Seven people have died and 34 injured after claims that celebrity culture is a legitimate and worthwhile component of our cultural tapestry and that “it wouldn't be everywhere if there wasn't a demand for it”.

This provoked a furious response from the Parliament Street Militia, which went around the place cracking heads and generally fucking the place up a bit, attacking people with oompa-loompa orange faces and indiscriminately mowing fuckers down left, right and centre with a whiskey-powered bouncy dog that jumps high into the air and squashes and bites anything that looks like it's having too much fun.

Militia sources have dubbed the new wonder weapon “the Yorkshire Terrier” and say that the area has been wired to detect yuppie and faux-yuppie speech, boorishness, ignorance, over-confidence and state-of-yourselves-ness, and are in a position to dispatch the Terrier within seconds.

In an impassioned rant, the militia's leader blamed everything for the situation and came up with several clever puns about the country “going to the dogs”, referring to his new weapon.

The disturbances began immediately after the leader accidentally read a tabloid newspaper discarded by a painter while waiting for the elevator.

Parliament Street Chronicle Faces Bankruptcy

Directors of the Parliament Street Chronicle meet officials from the Companies' Office and Revenue Commissioners later today in a bid to explain how a new company with no income, no capital, no assets and no expenditure is facing a debt of €534,000.

A spokesman for the Chronicle, who declined to be named, hinted strongly that “creative alcoholism” was one defence the editor would employ, and that the publication's loyal readership – the editor – had nothing to worry about.

Local rivals the Parliament Street Bastards greeted the news warmly before their office was set upon by an over-excited dog.

***

Parting shot?

Nah.

harmonyrocket @ 2007-09-23T18:03:00

2007-09-23T17:27:23Z

    Northern girls love gravy.

***

    Summer results:

Electric Picnic League, 2007 Season

Phil Hartnoll's Ideal Condition 2-0 Ruraidh
Manic Street Preachers 2-1 Ruraidh
The Good, The Bad And The Queen 2-0 Ruraidh
The Jimmy Cake    1-1 Ruraidh
The Undertones 3-0 Ruraidh
Ladytron 2-1 Ruraidh
Brontosaurus Chorus 50-0 Ruraidh
Jarvis Cocker 3-0 Ruraidh
Spiritualized Acoustic Mainline 4-2 Ruraidh
The Jesus And Mary Chain 1-0 Ruraidh
Bat For Lashes 2-0 Ruraidh
Sons And Daughters 1-0 Ruraidh
The Fall    3-1 Ruraidh
Serena-Maneesh    0-2 Ruraidh
Sonic Youth 0-2 Ruraidh
Primal Scream 2-2 Ruraidh

Glastonbury Cup, 2007 Season

Neck 1-1 Ruraidh
Seasick Steve 1-0 Ruraidh
Bloc Party 1-2 Ruraidh
Modest Mouse (feat. Johnny Marr)    2-1 Ruraidh
Bright Eyes 1-1 Ruraidh
Super Furry Animals 2-1 Ruraidh
Rufus Wainwright 2-0 Ruraidh
Arcade Fire 2-0 Ruraidh
Spiritualized Acoustic Mainline 3-0 Ruraidh
Brakes2-0 Ruraidh
The Long Blondes 2-1 Ruraidh
Dirty Pretty Things 1-3 Ruraidh
Lily Allen 2-0 Ruraidh
Paul Weller 1-1 Ruraidh
Editors 1-2 Ruraidh
Madness 3-3 Ruraidh
Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly 0-2 Ruraidh
The Rakes 0-3 Ruraidh
Dame Shirley Bassey 3-0 Ruraidh
Manic Street Preachers 3-1 Ruraidh
Kaiser Chiefs 1-4 Ruraidh
The Who 4-0 Ruraidh

    Off-season friendlies to be played: Richard Hawley vs. Ruraidh, Manic Street Preachers vs. Ruraidh. Bookies are no longer accepting bets on either fixture.

***

    We now know:
    Phil Lynott once kicked the shit out of my uncle.

***

    Electric Picnic was full of drugs wankers. I was taught that phrase by a gent who was on MDMA, but it didn't particularly show and I thank him for that. He was worried that it would make him behave like what seemed like the great majority of punters all weekend: completely out of their faces and interfering with others' good times. Like banging a tambourine during Spiritualized, talking loudly over each-and-every band and showing sod all interest in taking in some decent music. It all seemed completely unnecessary: everything's in place to have a hell of a good time. Why pile so much booze and drugs on top of it all?

    The worst was probably the aggravation I got on Friday night just because I was wearing a decent shirt. A shell of a drugged up moron came up to me making friendly conversation at first, before aggressively asking if I was gay, or “some kind of faggot”. There aren't many witty come-backs against that kind of behaviour, so I told him to fuck off - at which point he became friendly again. Two sentences later it turned nasty once more. And so on, and so forth. Take all the drugs you want, alcohol included. I just don't like being interfered with by numbed-out zombies. Nor do I understand how a festival with such a lefty identity of Amnesty International and Fair Trade stalls attracts a drug element dependent, in the hazy background, on guns, exploitation and impoverishing the vulnerable. That's a rotten hypocrisy. But I suppose it's OK if you're middle class.

    Idiots aside, the weekend was a blast – the only other drawback was the poor sound, which did its best to ruin decent sets by all but the most stripped-down of bands. Ladytron was a particular mess. Yet all the bands I wanted to see delivered, as per the results above. The company all weekend was top-class. The drive down, in Ciaran's warhorse of an Opel, was pure entertainment and the camping aspect was a walk in the park compared to Glastonbury. There was plenty of messing, most notably playing 'Motorcycle Emptiness' on a piano in a fake western saloon with a Alan, Ariel and Jodie. Four-person piano. Came up with a theme song for messin' too, at some point. More on that some other time though. Going to turn it into an unofficial national anthem. Top weekend. Sadly, a wasp named Bollocksface stung me as I was sitting about minding my own business on my return to Dublin. Druggy stupid wasp.

    Let's hope for My Bloody Valentine and Blur to headline next year, eh? The former isn't beyond all possibility, I reckon. The latter? Maybe music isn't as doomed as I think it is, with Coxon back on board. British Sea Power too. And the Brontosaurus Chorus, who played this year and are a band apart. They should headline too. Why on earth not?

***

    I was just about to write about Glastonbury, since I haven't actually written about the festival despite it occurring nearly three months ago. Three months. That's terrifying... What's needed is a lengthy post of thoughts and photographs which have fallen between the stools, and – in the spirit of starting again (see below) – a new reason for this journal being.

***

    Without being particularly glib about the whole thing, this week signified the end of an era – for better or for worse. Tonight I go to see Richard Hawley (I am considering making a commitment on mentioning Richard Hawley in every future post on this journal, just to see how long I can keep it going). Tomorrow morning I head up to the northside to begin a course in journalism. The northside is a big deal for a lot of people. Not really me; my office is there. But I'm still going to bring my passport and, of course, arm myself formidably.

    In a way, it's all a bit of a surprise. The interview was in May; and I buggered it up severely, being late, sleepless and clueless. Feelings are quite mixed on the whole affair – on the one hand, it will get me writing and give me a qualification that people will take very seriously (remember Hunter S. Thompson going on about how he was “a Doctor of Journalism, goddammit”? It's not quite a doctorate, and in any case his doctorate was a bit of a cod).

    The other side of the coin is that – firstly - I'll still not be a rock star in a year's time, and – secondly - that I don't want to be in Dublin at the moment. Interesting people are fleeing it like it is a charity collector on a busy shopping street. Its middle classes eat children and its lower classes mug them. Its musicians bore them. It is often difficult to get beyond the front door, so thick is the human soup, and stars in other cities are blinking more brightly. Nightlife is completely unappealing. Venues are too loud for conversation and too cramped for dancing. Just sit there wondering why you're not having a good time.

    Maybe training as a journalist will give me the evidence I need to bring the whole thing down.

    Yeah.

    If one likes this college, it's in Drumcondra. If not, it's in Ballymun. If you're somewhat neutral, or otherwise mature, it's in Glasnevin. Expect this three-way dynamic to feature prominently in my life from tomorrow onwards.

***

    Life in the flat seems to revolve around screaming at the rugby in outrage and watching Pete Townshend rock it up at the Isle of Wight. The former I mostly couldn't care for, but the latter is really doing it. Next weekend the Parliament Street Film Club meets to watch my favourite film 2001: A Space Odyssey. The last time I saw it was in the Irish Film Centre, when it was a Centre, with my dad on 27 December 2001. There was snow about the place and no-one on the roads. There were five people in the theatre, including us. A couple down the back, us in the middle and a guy with lanky hair and a huge parka sitting down the front in the very middle just staring up at the screen in dazed wonderment.

***

    Wrote a song. It's class.

Red Sky at Night: Shepherd's Delight...

2007-08-15T02:30:48Z

It is dark and the sirens are blaring all around, but the room is airtight and Hopewell's record of Alamo-like refuge, The Curved Glass, drowns out the rest of the noise. It is very dark.

Things are a wholesale mess right now – fiercely unhappy. I say this not to up my status in the self-pity stakes, but to ask for some patience while re-adjustment runs its course. I'm happy enough to talk about it, but not here of course. Some general headings would be: impending college, familial trials, the perpetual lack of a band and continuing artistic ineptitude of course... but most importantly, the departure from Dublin of too many interesting and intelligent people who provided good conversation, exciting times and warm friendship. This in particular hurts.

So if I'm not myself, the picture is a little fuzzy or I'm disgracing myself even more than usual, know there's a reason. But we move on, I hope. Shush now.

What I really want to know is exactly how many people, nationally and globally, are hospitalised every year by kicking something in blind frustration. A door, wall or radiator probably feature prominently, but I'm sure cars and... perhaps plate glass too... must be up there. Kicking something really dangerous like a sword or maybe a tiger would be particularly embarrassing, I think it's a perfectly human reaction under certain circumstances.

I nearly booted the bus the other day. I could see it happening, played out like a trailer for a movie ten seconds before I actually acted on it. Just standing there with an unflattering scowl on my face, and then bam! Broken ankle. And then again on the bus a few minutes later, broken toes.

***

After The Curved Glass, This Sporting Life will be on TV and according to the guide it is both an 'acclaimed drama' and a 'classic of British cinema'. It is also about rugby, and hopefully it won't be so much about rugby that I'll have to go to bed.

***

I am completely at war with music these days, but still have time to recommend Richard Hawley's new song 'Tonight the Streets Are Ours' to anyone who cares. It sounds like a ghost from the '50s haunting a Protools studio. Matt Munro could be singing over it.

Let's see now...

“Those people, they got nothing in their souls/

And they make our TVs blind us/

From our vision and our goals”

Yes, I like that quite a bit.

***

We are now in the closing stages of renovating my grandfolks' old house somewhere in the Terenure/Templeogue/Kimmage Bermuda triangle. It is a house of many stories; my grandfolk were wonderful people who collected others' tales and lived full enough lives to leave their own. I can't tell them here, but one – the so-called 'Guns of Wainsfort' episode – makes me very much wish I could.

The place has been empty since 2002 unless you count a bunch of lazy, disrespectful and clueless students which I certainly don't. The old personalities have moved on, though a wise cat seemed to know the score when I spoke to her tonight. The neighbours also have long memories, but the grass does not. It used to be finely tuned, with dandelions routinely attacked, but now is just green bits struggling in a soil as dry as gravy granules.

It is a treasure hunt. I found £3 (that's £3, not €3) behind a sofa, and also two tricolours are in the kitty although I might just burn them if I feel like pissing people off - which I do. Unparalleled bounty. The Papal flag in our front room was plundered in a similar conquest some time ago. I have a pocketful of New Zealand currency for when I'm next in Wellington. There's a stack of 78 rpm records and maintenance manuals for both a Morris Minor and Ford Prefect, neither of which are any use but both of which I will value. Soon enough there will be no more of this house – of mucking about in the coal shed, of sugar sandwiches, of the funeral procession pausing outside and of hearing news that my sister was born, late one night as orange street light and the sound of motorcycles invaded through the windows and the walls.

Before moving when I was 18, I'd only ever spent three nights in the city and once the place is stripped of holy pictures and the walls are fully painted then it will be up to a new family to make their own stories; fill the place with new life to orange street light and the sound of motorcycles once more. In the front room there's an old table; on its surface you can still read the 'Dear Santa' impression of my mother's pen as she wrote her annual letter to Father Christmas. New children will use that table for the same purpose and, sadness aside, it's hard to argue against that.

***

Johnny Marr is to be seen on the cover of The Word magazine holding my guitar, except his has leaves on it and he plays it like a demon whereas mine has flowers on it and I play it like a cabbage.

***

Shut up. The film's starting.

Oh good, it's in black and white.

Pennard Hill Pun Competition...

2007-06-27T21:47:51Z

Glastonbury Festival:
We Built This City On Cider And Mud / Fear And Loathing In Lost Vagueness

Some people still turn up to see the Manic Street Preachers. This young gent was one of them. I like this photo so much I've no desire to rob its colour. I hope he remembers every moment.

Alarm...

2007-06-19T01:32:19Z

Just when I think I've lost it entirely, I find the SS guarding the Olympia.

The SS?

Yes indeed. The Schutzstaffel. Gathered on Dame Street. Not the Wermacht, you understand. The SS.

Pictures to follow, indeed. But for now... thankfully, I'm off to Glastonbury before I convince myself I've lost it altogether.

Of course, I could return and the SS could be still on Dame Street. In fact I would expect nothing less of the SS. If they're on top of their game. They haven't been for at least 60 years, of course...

These are increasingly confusing times. What does it mean? What on earth does it mean? Let's consider. Until the festival begins and ends, at least.

And then what?

1812 Underture...

2007-06-05T23:33:44Z

This evening in If I Had A Considerable Caché Of Weapons And Ammunition we reflect upon the distracting qualities of travel, the calming rage of Nick Cave and the nature of the word 'impetus'; all by inference. We also – somehow – avoid the temptation of publishing a grudge list of those whom we would put to the sword, if only because we really, really wanted to use the phrase 'put to the sword'.

We? We. My advisor Jonathan Benn is to my right, and he will be conducting matters while I tackle a mug of tea and busy myself by talking to a swivel chair; discussing marital fidelity and so on and so forth...

***

Jonathan Benn Writes:

In my immediate field of vision I can see (abridged list):

Five guitars

Three amplifiers

Two computers

A soldering iron

Five badges

A half-empty bottle of Parker ink

'Performance' starring Mick Jagger, taped off the telly a fortnight ago

Nineteen plastic roses, colours assorted

A pair of boots

One empty bottle of Benylin

One photograph of Gilles Villeneuve (1950-1982)

The first draft of a grudge list

List of language fads to be violently opposed ('like' and 'oh my god' underlined repeatedly)

Assorted other lists

Co-ordinative list of lists

Two spent lightbulbs

The soundtrack to 2001: A Space Odyssey and 'Ride of the Valkyries' by Richard Wagner

Three sacks of shorn hedge

120,000kg of Iron

One amused teadrinker

***

My analysis of the situation is as follows: despite the undeniably fractured personalities behind this nonsense, the raw materials of uproar are close to hand; this room is in essence self-contained and it will not be long before all of the above are combined into a radical stew of headscratching wildness.

***

Interviewer: You mentioned “headscratching wildness” in your analysis... can you explain what you mean by that?

Benn: Ever since the days of baked beans and brandy I've regretted not clarifying my intentions, putting the manhole brigade on notice as it were, and by “headscratching wildness” I am sure I might have instead said “glacé cherries of aggression and religious fulfilment” and that particular confusion would have been avoided. Sometimes words flood the bottleneck of my comprehension. My mind is a simple place at times.

Interviewer: How did the cherries come about?

Benn: Well, Glacé Cherries of Aggression and Religious Fulfilment had its origins in a research paper myself and Mr. Rocket prepared for the Nonsense Convention, held in Zagreb... mmm, it must have been around 1973 or -4. Back then, young impetuous deviants as we were, we hadn't even realised the full implications of the Almonds, Raisins and Sultanas Protocol which had been agreed at the previous year's meeting, but we just cracked on with it regardless! We got lucky with Project Sennacherib – as it was called at that stage - and indeed one of the proudest moments of our careers was when Arthur C. Clarke called us from Sri Lanka in congratulation. But very soon, in fact immediately after the celebrations, we knew we had to get back to work or be left behind.

Interviewer: Where does Jeffrey Archer come into the picture?

Benn: The whole Archer thing has been completely exaggerated.

Interviewer: He would probably claim otherwise...

Benn: Well he would, wouldn't he?

Interviewer: At the time, the BBC...

Benn: The Archer chapter was very difficult. Even now I find it tricky to talk about, yet alone explain...

Interviewer: We can move on if...

Benn: No, no. It's about time the record were set straight. Rocket has a lot of trouble even talking to me about it, and really it's something we'd rather forget about... so if we can't even agree on what happened, no wonder there's such confusion. But the best way I can explain it is that when we got back to the bunker one evening there was a white horse in our hall. “Very Twin Peaks” says Rocket, but we knew we were in trouble when the blasted thing started reciting chapters of Jeffrey Archer novels! Back in the pre-Google days, of course, we had no idea what these words were at all. No way of finding out what this crap was. It was only by chance, when our military advisor came by for some tea and light munitions targetry, that we found out. “That's bloomin' Cain and Abel, that is!” he said, but that was old Bertrand for you. It's good to laugh about it now... but I assure you things got worse before they ever began to get better.

Interviewer: Where did it end?

Benn: Stephen Fry bailed us out.

***

We could either continue in this vein or watch The Last of the Mohicans.

***

Interviewer: Fast forward a bit to 1986, when you hanged a statue of Christ by the neck from a noose...

Benn: Strictly off the record, and as brash as we have been about the whole thing, there were and still are very mixed feelings about that. In the end I think we just went ahead with it because we always had the get-out clause that we were just updating the traditional crucifixion and so Christ's suffering would gain a whole new relevance which Christians might embrace rather than react against. But the subtext, of course, was that we had both lost some very dear friends to suicide and that comparing their suffering with the crucifixion was.... personally... very problematic, even before you got into the predictable media outcry. That's why we changed it to Christ – it was originally the Virgin Mary we were going to hang, this symbol of purity and goodness. But changing it meant we could detach ourselves from our friends' suffering and perhaps protect their memories that bit better.

Interviewer: Do you regret that?

Benn: No, I think we made the correct choice in the end. Remember, this was Thatcher's Britain and Haughey-era Ireland; Christian fundamentalism was on the rise in Reagan's USA and really I think we would have done ourselves no favours by being so stubborn. We would have been made underground heroes or cult kings but we've said from day one that mainstream relevance was the aim, and by hanging Christ rather than Mary we managed to destroy an increment of what we hate without destroying ourselves in the process. I look back on those times and... they were, in terms of our private lives, not the happiest I suppose. But we were on top of our game in every other respect.

Interviewer: You've always been very protective of your private lives.

Benn: You need to be when you're in our business. Tabloid comment has been scathing at times, particularly in my own case. Rocket is more elusive, of course, but he never experienced the lows I did. When you're arrested in Covent Garden at 5 in the morning, twirling two red ribbons above your head and exposing a tuna baguette to an undercover police detective... God, that was a low-point. You really do find out who your friends are. In all the uproar over that whole business, I can just remember my brother ringing me first thing that Monday telling me that the Sun had bugged their family Spaniel and that a full transcript was going to be on the front page that day. Sure enough, there it was: a woof-by-woof account of Roderic's day. Being walked, drinking water, relieving himself... I got to the paragraph where he hid a bone under the dining room table and I just couldn't read any more. That was when I decided to seek help.

Interviewer: There have been good times too, though...

Benn: Oh yes, of course. Really it is a cliché, but I am very, very privileged to be able to do the work I do. Being able to work with tarmac and with leaves and clouds and things... I really am so lucky. There are showbiz moments, but it's when I'm in the lab with pieces of twine and good quality red carpet... I feel like I'm creating dreams, and all the parties and stories and legends just don't compare to the joy of turning an off-cut of bathroom linoleum into a mass-murdering piece of weaponry. I can tell you though – and you can quote me on this! - that Rocket has slept with Nancy Sinatra.

Interviewer: Jonathan Benn, you've been a very insightful guest.

Benn: The pleasure's mine.

***

The road outside is a heaving roar all day; if the window is open you cannot hear and if it is closed you cannot breath. You. Over in the corner. Cannot breath. Not me, not even 'one' cannot breath. I don't need to. You do.

What a beautiful night with headphones on and window just about ventilating. Looking out my window I can see that in the IFSC offices, which mainly houses banking and so on, they leave their lights on overnight. But in Liberty Hall, the trade union headquarters, they turn their lights off.

***

A change of personnel (what a superb word, 'personnel') and I'll steer this back towards its rightful course awhile. A list, perhaps:

May: Manic Street Preachers/Brett Anderson/Cambridge/London/Does Anyone Fancy A Chocolate Digestive?

June: Glastonbury/Dentist/Opticians/The Seemingly Unavoidable/Does Anyone Fancy A Chocolate Digestive?

July: Kalashnikovia/Does Anyone Fancy A Chocolate Digestive?

If anyone fancies a chocolate digestive, you may find one here:

Ah dear... someone intervene before it's all too late.

The Silent Majority has spoken...

2007-05-29T01:00:49Z

“I just can't fuckin' believe it... five more years before there's any chance of civil partnership between me and my life partner...” - A. Friend

“FIVE MORE YEARS! FIVE MORE YEARS!” -Cyprian Brady's campaign team

“I will be in the bar/

With my head on the bar” -Morrissey

Cons, in brief: the electoral death of Joe Higgins, Catherine Murphy, Eric Byrne, Richard Boyd Barrett, Dan Boyle, Cathy Daly; the loss of one Labour seat and the failure to make any inroads whatsoever; the failure of the Greens to make hay while the Climate Change sun shines; 1920s style electoral status quo in Wicklow; the sad and perhaps unlikely recognition that this country is far more conservative than I am; the thought that an immense number of young people must have voted to keep things the way they are; the following quivering realisation: why won't the world conform to the high expectations which our education has led us to believe in?

Pros, in brief: the groundshaking curtailment of Michael McDowell's career of fear before my very eyes in the RDS count centre on Friday; celebrations thereof; the loss of the Progressive Democrats' Leader, Deputy Leader, Party President, Justice minister, junior minister, six members of parliament - and a number of Senators to follow – in one fell swoop; the free bar, the job-well-done in Ahern's backyard; the empowering achievement of Total Coverage, the gliding home at 6am in full knowledge that we may have lost the war to an embarrassing extent but what a way to win the fucking battle.

The possession of an airplane ticket out of this rotten mess, which I use in a number of hours' time.

“So tonight, to you, the great silent majority of my fellow Americans, I ask for your support...” -Richard Nixon

Total Coverage...

2007-05-23T23:01:43Z

Total Coverage... and the time has finally come.

We in the Parliamenthaus are on an election footing. This means obsessive devourment of every available piece of printed matter, web-based content, news bulletin, excited conversation. The late Hunter S. Thompson, in his unique style, reveled in the democratic process by compulsively recording every esoteric nuance of the US presidential campaigns he covered, picking up on individual details and extrapolating them to national importance. In his later years he would fax every lunatic thought and whim to those closer involved than him. His manic, primal enthusiasm is crystal-clear throughout his imaginative writing on current affairs; his feral pursuit of the news junkie's fix is admirable. It is this spirit that we rekindle and cultivate for just a few more days – the deranged, quasi-religious blind faith that the progressive ideal must lurk somewhere in these times of mass delusion and that the common decency of man may someday, if the circumstances are right, remember and enact the impulse to advocate a better life for all. By the end of the weekend we may have a new government.

And even if we don't, this is the kind of hope that has often seemed so remote in 2002 when the bastards bought that election with a wheelbarrowful of the most selfish of priorities and began to shove yet more grotesque nouveau-riche exploitation, neo-liberal moral evasions and social Victoriana down our weary throats. I hope these years are remembered for what they were: a conservative conspiracy to protect one's position at all costs; an anti-youth, anti-poor and top-down politics where if the government actually did help anyone it was only to keep them quiet.

I narrowly avoided writing the government's obituary there. That would be an unforgivable mistake, given that right-wing parties are seeking re-election in a conservative country; the lesson to be remembered at all times is: don't write the bastards off. Unless the economy sours, the incumbent usually wins. The point is that finally, after all this waiting, here is the chance.

And given how heartfelt the subject is... I'm furious with myself for actually doing so little about it. Last time around, I was studying for my Leaving Cert – how different life was then. This time, I suppose I should be out and about, knocking on doors and asking the 40% or so who won't bother voting to do the right thing, especially when so many of those are young people like us, being pissed upon from above and seemingly content about the situation.

I haven't knocked on a single door, of course, nor handed out any leaflets. This is partly because I don't have a party, and partly because I'm a lazy sod who thinks in terms of action and acts in terms of thinking. I know which way I'm voting, and that will have to do for the time being. It's battle stations. Just so long as I don't have to do anything.

***

I've never really been sick before, wisdom teeth and twice-yearly flu aside. But about six weeks ago my left leg was afflicted by an aggressive and chance infection; it shut down my life for about three weeks. The causes were so mundane as to be insulting: just something that happens to hairy fuckers like me from time to time. Not only could I barely walk, and not only were doctors and hospitals involved, but the €150 or so of antibiotics took their toll even more than my aggrieved leg did. I've never felt so wiped out. One evening I spread all the pills out on the desk and took a photograph; they nearly covered the desk – and then I realised that wasn't even counting the ones I'd already taken. About twelve a day, for two weeks. Very little sleep. Completely detached existence. I can remember very little from those weeks because the pills went through my body and my mind like a bottle of bleach. For those weeks, I'd just lie about repeating yet another Hunter S. Thompson phrase, at varying tones and pitches: the possibility of physical and mental collapse is now very real.

How the body can turn on itself.

***

I don't often get to the cinema, but it pleases me to report that The Lives of Others is unmissable. It's the perfect antidote to the Ostalgie of my previous post – nostalgia for the former communist eastern Europe, though the word usually refers only to East Germany. Soviet Chic, then. The Good Bye Lenin factor.

The Lives of Others follows Gerd Wiesler, an obsessive and intensely idealistic Stasi surveillance officer as he observes every minutiae of East Berlin playwright Georg Dreyman's life. The theme here is the conflicting ideal: Wiesler has short-circuited his sense of humanity in service of the state he so unerringly supports. Dreyman is beginning to realise that the ideal which he too supported is becoming increasingly corrupted; he makes the mistake of believing in a different future and so falls gradually into the clutches of the secret police.

There's one scene that sticks in my mind: Wiesler returns home after a long day invading people's privacy and cooks dinner. He lives in solitude, and seems to like it. Dinner consists of very miserable rice with some red stuff squirted over it from a tube. That minute fact made me very angry. It summed up the bleakness of those years in a very subtle but very deliberate way, perhaps confronting the viewer with a contrast between his/her modern and possibly bourgeois life and asking a myriad of questions besides. All over a bowl of rice, it seems to me. The scene screams loneliness, tragedy, confusion and a very slight, ghostlike polemic used by the director all throughout.

It's not without its flaws, but The Lives of Others works because the audience becomes just as engrossed as its main protagonist does. The setting is inspirational: Berlin, in its glory and its shame. There's one scene where Dreyman holds a party for fellow members of the intelligentsia and I can remember wishing I could have been there very briefly: clothes, décor, conversation topics that I've never encountered at any party I've ever been to. Magnificent, save for the daggers in everyone's backs. Frustrating, because you know the ideal, see it crumbling and know how it dies. It's a beautiful work. See it, and do let me know what you think. Europe, you have ghosts in your skies.

***

I liked that film most because it made me feel; forced me into deciphering strands of feeling and coming to a conclusion. Feeling can be a rare emotion in these times, I find. Last week I sleepwalked through a trip to Cambridge and London for the beloved Manic Street Preachers and Brett Anderson respectively. Both shows were superb – I'm so starved for decent live music that they could only be superb. And there were plenty of stories and anecdotes and friendships collected along the way. Like an already-legendary and highly esoteric conversation with James Dean Bradfield, or the funniest bus driver I've ever met, or... some cold warmth I'd rather leave out entirely.

What should be left in and what should be left out? In general? I'm wondering why I write in this thing, and whether people actually read this thing, and what I like reading in other people's things. I'm not sure on any count. I shouldn't write about music because there's the compulsion to insult and alienate too many people; I have very few positive insights to impart and very few good words to say about those who do have positive views. Politics has the same effect at times, but I'm more comfortable with that subject since it holds such an evangelical influence on my life; a clearer sense of right and wrong.

If I used this journal to be honest all the time... would I have any friends left?

Much of my life is a mixed bag at present: abject boredom, which lends itself to no writing matter, and a few special things which can't be written of nor shared. What lies in between? Can I really be contemplating delineating my views on the Formula One World Championship? Should I write about Tony Blair? Maybe I should write to him.

Oh well.

We are rapidly approaching the end of a year of immense promise and total failure in this darkened room. Numbness is the hallmark of these months. The sobriety of reality outside is magnesium-bright.

***

But things are looking up, on paper at least. There is a full programme of Summer events in the works. It even consists of plenty of music, kicking off next week with a London visit (1994-2007, full circle lest-we-forget), followed by Glastonbury, some surprises in July, Electric Picnic later. And, of course, I will be raising my flag above Fort Vicklov on Friday, gluing myself to the television in relentless pursuit of cliché and soundbyte, seeing which of the two presenters - John Bowman or Brian Dobson - hyperventilates first and generally baying for electoral blood into the early hours of Saturday morning.

Baying for blood. What's the comparison? The World Cup final mixed with a particularly gruesome boxing match, I suppose. Finish him!

Well... let's hope Thursday finishes him, and particularly that Thursday finishes the 19^th Century gargoyles of the Progressive Democrats; finishes them in a way that the phrase “left wing” can no longer be bandied about as an insult and finishes them so comprehensively that they'll either have to admit to the need for social investment or fuck off back to their barrister practises once and for all. If not, then it's another five years of a 'greed is good' discourse which glorifies the selfish and condemns those not born the right way.

Hopes and reality aren't strictly in line at this emotional moment. But light a candle nonetheless.

Miss Ljubljana...

2007-04-12T02:18:38Z

Living as I do at the very edge of Europe - between America and the least European of the Union's countries - and coming from the hills where 'Europe' is a joke of a concept unless farming subsidies are in question, it is often very difficult to feel European in this place. Most readers here are from Ireland or the UK and will understand what I mean instantly. Despite immigration and despite everything positive and negative that the EU has brought this island and the one next to it, they feel completely different to the continent. They always will. I don't identify with Ireland any more than I do with a county, city or village. I've studied too much history to give blanket approval to any state or place. Very often I don't like this state or this place; very often I dislike them because of how the government operates, how the music scene conducts itself and how scumbags seem to roam with immunity. They are pet hates. But I carve out just enough of an alternative to remain; my reasons to do so are strong no matter how depressing the idea is.

Charging down an Autostrada guzzling prosciutto ham in the back of an old Skoda on the way from Venice to deepest darkest Slovenia does wonders for one's European identity though. These are days of such lethargy that success is measured by whether or not I get out of bed before noon on off-days, or whether or not I have the energy to watch a film after work on work days. Even the fact that I'm writing this here report seems like a stunning victory in the face of what passes for my average day. My fault, of course, and ample illustration of why ten days in an unknown land with an indecipherable language calming my mind and great company every minute of the way was just what was needed. This was the good life – eating and drinking like a lord, being looked after for every minute of every day, having the space to forget the bad and consider the good.

In Cold War days, this part of the world was considered dangerous. For example, one of the more laughable episodes in Irish history saw the Archbishop of Dublin try to prevent a visit by the Yugoslav football team because they were heathen atheist Communist scum. He failed, and in a victory for Marx, Stalin and the Gulag they walloped us 4-1 at Dalymount Park – leading directly to the eventual downfall of Catholicism and western civilisation I am sure. Europe east of Germany and Italy must have seemed much like the Libyas, Irans, Iraqs and North Koreas of our own age – deeply suspicious and completely incompatible with Western ways.

Indeed, that's pretty much the only context I had for understanding the place – danger. Names, mainly: alongside Iraq, Somalia, Ethiopia and Belfast from 1990s horror news reports I remember places like Zagreb, Belgrade, Dubrovnik, Bosnia, Kosovo, Sarajevo, Serbia and Srebrenica but could not identify them on a map, nor say precisely what evil happened there. Ghostly names. Milosovic, Karadzic. 'Eithnic Cleansing'. My favourite song of all time was written about the wars here – fascism and genocide in Europe once more, but who has the will to stop it?

Slovenia saw very little of that horrible business: their war with the Yugoslav National Army lasted ten days or so and they were well on their way towards stability by the time Milosovic wrote his own chapter in the annals of European atrocity. This is not the kind of place a rubbishy Sunday newspaper feature defines in terms of how cheap an automatic rifle costs 'on the street'. Slovenia, its people and its capital Ljubljana seem to me to be one part Slavic, one part Italian and one part Germanic in culture – though in unequal measure. This is unsurprising, given that for much of its existence it has been under the kosh. My first evening there was a sleepy wonder: a balmy climate and the slurred speech of others sifting through my ears. A location that suggested mystery. An atmosphere of total calm.

Ryanair took me to an uber-modern shed outside Venice via the vastness of the Alps; the Skoda and its heroic crew met me and we spent a few hours in what seems to be the most unique city in the world. No cars. Boats, you see. Canals and bridges at every point and the place bustling with tourists and the noise of centuries. After a while the mind becomes overloaded and you have to move on. We drove to Trieste, where Joyce wrote Ulysses and devised a blueprint for the Irish European in exile. The Trieste of his age, I assume, didn't have garish '70s concrete industry nor huge apartment blocks. There is an old town there, but we stuck to the highways suspended high in the sky and went across the border to Piran, a small medieval Slovene coastal village, for sunset and fried squid before striking tiredly for the capital.

Some fine work on the part of a lady to whom Ciaran refers as Ana Kalashnikov (who needs no introduction to many reading this) landed us an apartment in Ljubljana for the ten days. It was straight from the set of Good Bye Lenin, a relic. It had belonged to a slightly dotty old woman who passed away three years ago – the flat hadn't changed much in a long time; the gas had been shut off as she had been considered a risk to herself. The whole place, built in 1972, bore hallmarks of a bygone ideal – a high rise above its own food market, supermarket, post office, bank and bar. The hallway had a CCTV camera which was wired into the cable TV system – we could watch people coming and going, most memorably the Jehovah's Witnesses who visited us on our second day. The left-wing heritage of this district, Moste, was proclaimed by the name of the local sports club (Partisan Moste) and by the proximity of both Proletarian Street and 1 May Street. In tiles near the staircase of the building's lobby spelled the word Zaklonisce, with an arrow pointing downstairs: this way to the bomb shelter.

In addition to the socialist apartment, I assumed the identity of one Peter Zargi for socialist student discount purposes. Peter, it happens, is the mainstay of a great little band called Grimmski. They can be found on Myspace and are well worth investigation on the basis of a gig we saw in Orto Bar, a venue which reminded me of how oppressive Dublin nightlife is when their security told me to put my coat in the cloakroom. I detest that kind of nonsense. How and ever, Comrade Peter's student card unlocked a threatened world whereby the student is entitled to one cheap hot meal a day, often at a good restaurant. These Europeans really know how to live, and food quickly became an important theme of the entire sortie.

Perhaps the first adventure beyond the door of the flat was to a music hall – I was absolutely delighted to be away from Dublin for St. Patrick's Day, a scumbag fest if ever there was one. Instead, we took in a traditional Irish music recital in Ljubljana. Local classical musicians belted out the classics, though they sounded worryingly sober. The dancing school laid on impressive Irish dancing. A tenor hit us with 'The Wild Rover' as if he were Frank Patterson. I learned later, however, that he is 100% Slovene. After that, we went to a former army base called Metelkova, now the centre of alternative/youth/squat culture and, of course, under threat from the authorities who dislike the idea of cheap booze, food, unregulated dancing and bloody good times. The whole place is an inspiration: the modern concept of progress with which we are familiar with dictates that it should be bulldozed and have apartments built over it, perhaps a convenience store or gourmet yuppie café... in fact, why not a tapas bar? But it's hung on for dear life thus far. There are a few different venues there and all manner of friendly and eccentric characters too.

Another excursion was to Lake Bled, a picturesque resort bathed in a pale blue foggy light and surrounded by what were described to me as 'proper mountains, unlike your Wicklow ones'. That didn't help matters much, but the cake served there, a specialty of the region, smoothed things over greatly. In addition to cake, there is a church on a small island in the middle of the already-small lake, overlooked by Marshal Tito's holiday palace. The island is accessed by punt and the whole experience is as peaceful as can be – mist hanging in the air, what is by reputation one of the greenest and most lush spots in the country carried the atmosphere of a Hollywood film's opening battle scene just before the armies rose for breakfast... calm, reflective, pale.

After that, the good times are a lot more difficult to describe: you know why you'd go to Paris, London, Berlin or New York. But why Ljubljana? We travelled to the Postojna Caves, south-west of the city. They have a strange eel-like creature there which they call Proteus or the Human Fish – it has hands and no pigment in its skin, the creepy fucker. When you see what looks like a falcon in the trees of this region, chances are it will indeed be a falcon and not a hawk or a crow acting above its station. They have bona-fide falcons here; they mean business too. We took in a play – Patti Diphuse, brought to the stage by three fine musicians. They tell the story of a porn queen; despite the obvious language barrier there's no mistaking a clarinet or a saw played so skilfully. Mainly, we exploited the low cost of living. I highly recommend Bosnian food, actually: sausage, bread, cheese. Sounds simple, but executed brilliantly. And just as well too: wandering a narrow street one evening - a few doors down from where an ancient poster urging workers to work hard, train hard at sports and become the ideal worker-citizens hung in an antiques shop window - was what seemed to be a standard take-away. Except its name (and purpose) was Horse Burger.

One other thing that has entered my consciousness, and in a similarly repulsive way, is Turbo-folk. Now there's a word. Turbo-folk, as testified by the numerous channels devoted to it on our TV, involves taking traditional music – usually based around the accordion – and updating it with bass and even computerised elements while staring directly at the camera as if lobotomised. In most parts of the world it would be regarded as suicidal for any young person to attempt such an uncool stunt (it plays like a scene from a Slavic Father Ted), but it seems to be a way of life in the Balkans. The Montenegrins are worst for it. It plays round-the-clock on those cursed channels. But then again these are countries who have made a star out of the buxom singer wife of a dead war criminal who keeps an arsenal in her vast estate. Her name is Ceca. She performed two sold-out shows during my stay. Sponsored by Durex, in point of fact. There is only one redeeming aspect of all this nonsense: I can't understand a single word of it.

Just as firearms are not sold openly on the streets, nor are ancient Trabants to be seen driving them. I didn't encounter a single one, though the Yugo makes a fairly regular appearance and one or two Ladas still cling to the road. The Renault 4, which in Ireland was last used to drop me to school every morning in the late '80s, still rules the roost in Piran. The Renault 5, known imaginatively as 'Le Car' in France and won by my grandad in a boxing club lottery circa 1985, also maintains a presence. Tourists of the Cold War, as with most aspects of Slovenia, need to dig a lot deeper to find relics of what is euphemistically referred to as 'the former regime'. Culture shock is to be found in other respects: getting change from a fiver while paying for a round of drinks, for example. Heavier drinking is very much a warning sign with me: it's no answer to anything. But you can easily and totally annihilate oneself in Slovenia; my baggage got loaded up with fierce spirits: 'Fjodor' for the brother, 'Gorbachev' for Brian and some nameless terror known as 'Canadian Special Old' for my personal use. Guinness is the most expensive beer, but is quite popular; in one Irish bar a signed photograph of the incomparable Ronnie Drew briefly reminded me of home. Elsewhere, the familiar illuminated logo clings to the outer walls of bars everywhere. People are trusted to drink in the open here. Only a few do. A Saturday night stroll in Ljubljana is calm and safe. Perhaps too calm, but then I wasn't complaining.

It snowed, which fitted in much better with how I imagined the place to be. Bucketed down. Took a few hours to begin sticking, but eventually overwhelmed the skepticism of the wet ground, to my delight. It rarely snows at home any more, and perhaps one year in five does it snow us in... I remember digging the jeep out of a ditch trying to get to a concert in Dublin one time. But here it snows properly and is a way of life during wintertime. All those barmy winter sports they show on Eurosport during the dark months carry real weight here. Ski Jumping, for example. Slovenia is proud to possess the largest ski jumping (or ski flying, to make the distinction) venue in the world; the finale to the world championships took place while I was there. The attraction of the sport is obvious – you go to a remote ramp half way up a frozen mountain, get irresponsibly drunk, and watch Norwegian metal guitarists attempt a scientific proof of who is the most metal of them all.

Warmer pursuits are to be had too. I took in a presentation on Kerouac and Burroughs at the university – impressively enough, it was conducted entirely through English and came up to a decent standard. The lecturer of that course is a living legend of sorts – she was in gothy electro-rock band towards the end of the '90s and put out two records of real quality, touring quite a bit and seemingly inspiring everyone she came into contact with, from Beat literature through the Manic Street Preachers and beyond. If rock stardom doesn't happen, that seems a very dignified alternative. For some reason, Arts faculties often seem to draw the short straw in terms of dodgy '70s concrete buildings; here was just the same as home except in one notable respect: after the lecture starts, the doors are automatically locked and the latecomer has to embarrass him or herself by knocking and pleading for admittance.

One evening I was in a gay bar named K4, drinking blueberry schnapps and generally minding my own business (picture the scene) when the whole place was infested by the traveling University of Warwick Rugby Club. We had seen them about town earlier in the evening – drinking outside an English pub as we went for Mexican food across the road, and again in Preseren Square where they behaved like a stag party in Temple Bar. They wore their rugby shirts, names and numbers printed on the back. At K4 we took modest bets on what would happen when these lads finally realised they were in a gay bar. When the penny dropped, chaos of sorts did ensue – most of them left in semi-disgust, but the five or so who remained started doing push-ups and stretching exercise on the fast-emptying dance floor. This was deeply embarrassing, and wholly predictable. One seemed hell-bent on snogging a lesbian at all costs, but failed. There was much removal of shirts and overplayed smacking of backsides with them. Others practiced rugby set-pieces to the strains of such rugby anthems as 'I Will Survive' and Madonna's back catalogue. A few days later we noticed that they had signed the visitors' book of Ljubljana Castle in a way that gives them no credit at all. Slovene people don't seem to lower themselves in this way. Living in the epicentre of such behaviour, I can only consider that a good thing.

Indeed, it is the strange moments that make a trip like this, and perhaps the strangest moment of all was when having dinner with a family that had no English whatsoever. This was in Kranj, one of the most dead places I have ever been. Hardly anyone on the streets; plenty of graffiti but no sign of anyone who might have sprayed it. U2 featured on some – a hangover from the aforementioned mid-'90s violence, I expect. Dead Kennedys are mentioned on most walls bearing writing. But perhaps the oddest slogan was written in both English and Cyrillic (that weird Russian script, you know?) Serbo-Croat in a train station: it said, bilingually, “Slovenia: Storm Over Europe”. Elsewhere in Kranj, one apartment block seemed to possess an array of Orwellian loudspeakers – we never did establish what they were for. Perhaps they were air-raid sirens. Do they still work?

What a perplexing place. But back to dinner: before soup, my Irish credentials having been established, cans of Guinness were produced – as was a Dubliners album. The surreality continued after our meal when the old man entertained us with his accordion (none of your Turbo-folk shite) and ebullient songs of drinking and fighting the Nazis.

Proper bloody order, too.

Another evening I helped a middle aged civil servant with her English lessons for an hour. Trying to make conversation, I asked what the first place she ever went abroad was. She said Greece. I thought it would have been some place closer. But then she said “that doesn't count Austria, Italy, Serbia, Croatia and Bosnia though”. Indeed.

It was over far too soon, as these things always are. In a foul mood on the bus from the airport I overheard two oul' wans nattering on about one of their sons' weddings: “He tried to hire Aslan to play the weddin' but it would have worked out costin' us 60 euros for every guest they invited. Dem friends dat couple has isn't worth the money if you axe me. Bleedin' rip-off, especially given the state of his fiancee, the dirt-bird”.

If you don't know who Aslan are, consider yourself privileged. Otherwise, just welcome me home and console me a little please. Because personally I'd rather the turbo-folk.

***

I can't report many plans for the future. At some point I might become a journalist or a diplomat, but I really don't want to mention either. A foray into the dangerous world of home liquor production, or perhaps brewing, has been mooted but that's a secret too. Otherwise I end this business on its usual pessimistic note, with the exception of reporting a few more short-term travel plans to gigs in Cambridge, London and – twelve years after I first saw it on TV – Worthy Farm, at long last.

In the meantime I revert to songs sung by Pavarotti, Matt Munro, and a recording of partisan anthems by the Nasa Partizanska Pesem, who make their music in order to remind people how they beat the fascists and warn against letting their successors in the back door as is happening worldwide. At a flea market I got a small Yugoslav flag pennant. It hangs next to the Papal flag. The paradox interests me. I miss the sound of trains in a calm city night. I miss switching my phone off and spending ten days without touching a computer. I miss feeling so happy in such close company. Strangely, I particularly miss the sensation of having a bomb shelter in my basement.

Some day a world-changing album will be recorded in one. Perhaps as the outside world is changing too.

“Stop sending people to kill me. If you don't stop sending killers, I will send one to Moscow, and I won't have to send a second one” -Marshal Tito to Stalin

Slovenske Železnice

2007-04-05T00:56:53Z

Greetings from Yugoslavia

Sketches From The Urban Wilderness...

2007-02-05T23:46:21Z

What?

Perhaps it would reduce this cruel backlog of nothing-is-happening-but-there's-plenty-to-say if I employed a list, some choice devotion to brevity or attempt thereof, and Scott Walker/Jack Nitzsche/doo wop-assisted midnightia.

Graduation: November now, tuxedo worn, hair conservative but large punk safety pin on gown, Doc Martens (shiny) and bracelets fly the flag. Relief and excitement and pride, flu a nefarious presence, unholy row at night's end.

Health: Farewell wisdom teeth. General anaesthetic a medically approved exception to an anti-drug ethic; sanity and corporeal integrity tested to a new personal limit in the wake. Pain, confusion a constant.

Nightlife: Like a particularly messy computer game but rarely played. Many fights, much uproar – keep your eyes on the street and you never know what you might find. My kingdom for a bit of fucking glamour.

Birthday and Party: A forgettable hi-jack by outside elements of botched masculinity. What a wholesale embarrassment. Still sipping at the fountain of this anger.

Funny Story: Many. One night a small dog appeared on our balcony. Ages taken to establish why. Fondly remembered.

Christmas: Instant. Presence of Mountainy Men at mass decreases year-in-year-out (the old order changeth).

Artistic Situation: State of dedicated bluffing. Musical ineptitude not helped by lack of outside inspiration and external limitations (city, climate, “hell is other people”). Bitterness blistering my skin. Personnel in hiding. What price ambition? Literary shortcomings harder to explain; resurrection of laptop Maschine by this Dr. Frankenstein a positive development in the quest for a new and purer channel of fucked up nonsense.

Funny Story (Reprise): I bought a biography of Joe Strummer from the IRA last month.

Recent Achievements In Full: Read Ulysses, had photograph published in Irish Times Book of the Year. Ends.

Recommendations for the Cultivated Public: Said Joe Strummer biography (Chris Salewicz), Dublin Film Festival (Strummer documentary to the fore), Jarvis Cocker album and recent Pulp re-releases, the primacy of second-hand everything in the urban battlefield, Richard Hawley Uber Alles In Excelsis Deo – Amen.

Insert Diatribe Here: Resisted in the interests of brevity. There is an endless list of things and people aggravating me at present. Something to be said for Samurai self-discipline. Heightened consciousness of lack of personal achievement; in this issue I'm waiting to see if some other swine casts the first stone.

General Outlook: Mixed. See below.

Elucidate – Positives: Near full functionality regarding Parliamentstudio. Room full of books and music to support. Position in Parliamenthaus secure within reason. No short-term disasters.

Elucidate – Negatives: Further education deadlines yet another reminder of failure. Labour market tries my patience. Limits of Parliamentstudio, pen, paper remain untested. Shortcomings of the self/city/country/everyone/everywhere shortcomings. That nagging sense of general disaffection. Some people just are artists. Who can I pay to have some of that?

Requirements, Apart From Those Suggested By The Above: Military-issue sandbags, barbed wire, air-raid sirens (variety pack if available). Muzzle.

Closing Prayer: “Lord, deliver us from absolutely everything”.

Please Close On An Optimistic Note For A Bloody Change: Take delight in confusion. These dark evenings are nice while they last. Soon we will be overrun.

Eh?

harmonyrocket @ 2006-09-20T23:13:00

2006-09-20T22:56:28Z

There is a point on the Bayeux Tapestry where Hailey’s Comet appears above the heads of King Harold and the Anglo-Saxons, right in the upper margin of the 900-odd year old embroidery, and this could mean only one thing in the medieval world. As things transpired, Harold and his friends were soon to be routed at Hastings by the Normans; the comet’s prophecy fulfilled. Their faces told the real story here: we’re fucked.

And that’s exactly the image that sprung into my mind as soon as my own battle commenced… Christ, it’s months ago now. Let’s persist a moment though, for the record if nothing else. That first exam paper was a piece of extreme cynicism and misanthropy so savage that I’ve done my level best to forget it. With two to go, the game was quite clearly up – when last I wrote I had written only in oblique terms of archaic warfare, and here were I and a few classmates, dealt the same bad hand as Harold received that day. It was too cruel – four years, and undone by the very first move of the campaign. As predicted, the second paper could only be insultingly mild, the damage already done. By the final day of the exams, a moment I had relished because it gave me the opportunity to judge this country and its popular culture under some stamp of officialdom, it was hard to mind as much as I once did.

I still wrote feverish gibberish, and often brilliant gibberish at that. But towards the final few minutes I heard the secret door in the Exam Hall click open, and a shadowy figure darkened its frame. I had long expected this visit with some level of fear, but nodded my acknowledgement and indicated that I would be ready in a few minutes. This was The Rest Of My Life, just before schedule, and when I had completed my attempt to illustrate exactly why Paul Durcan’s poetry knows far more than anything Yeats ever wrote, it was time to leave. Amidst the badly affected happiness of a roomful of now-former students, I asked The Rest Of My Life not to fix the handcuffs too tightly, and we left towards that bitterly unwelcome future with an uncertain sense of satisfaction that at least I’d done my best.

There was in fact one plan left to put into action that day; a somewhat desperate piece of strategy that just about worked. Tradition was not to be avoided, and The Rest Of My Life could not deny me the time-honoured annual duty at the Pavillion Bar. The ‘Pav’ (groan…), like its parent city, is a reprehensible place unless you ignore nearby yuppies, but I was distracted: The Rest Of My Life turned out to be an incurable bowsie, and I plied him with whiskey and Benilyn while I stuck to red lemonade until I could lead him by the handcuffs across the cricket pitch and towards Front Arch. I didn’t know what to do, but a suggestion was offered the moment he kept insulting my haircut and the fact that I was not yet earning €60,000 as a banker, didn’t own any investment properties, and was not yet fluent in Coffee. “No future for me? No future for you!” I yelled, kicking him deeply in the ribs, the sound of breaking bones accentuated by the steel of my toe-caps. The handcuffs made it awkward, but somehow I landed another against his temple and the threat passed. I dragged the body through Front Square and a scumbag honourably lent me the hacksaw he had been using to steal a mountain bike. Freed from my future – I can only assume momentarily – I returned to the Parliamenthaus and awaited word.

Word came in a dark pinstripe double-vented three-button jacket a few weeks later. By that time I had finally resigned myself to the ‘average’ tag I detest so much, thanking that hazardous first exam… and yet as soon as I saw the list go up I knew otherwise. There my name was, close to the top and all out of war metaphors. They gave me a first, and I’m actually proud of it. The significance? I’ve exhausted bragging rights at this stage, and now have something to show for those four years. That’s all, really. But it’s more than enough. There are still some regrets, but the most major – that I didn’t work hard enough – has been averted. The Rest Of My Life is waiting in the corner with a timid look in his blackened eyes. I don’t think he’ll try anything soon.

***
“Hiding from the sun/
Waiting for the night to come” –Blur, ‘Tender’

And what since then? And is it that time already? The past few months have touched upon Brighton, London, Cardiff, the Slovenian Secret Service, Nicky Wire, creative malaise, the failure of the Parliamenthaus’s most important life support systems, some demonic nights out, work, big plans, the inability to realise them, mundanities and wonders. It was lucky, I thought, that I possessed an intricate guide to the post-university apocalypse in the form of After the War: 72 Pages of Strategy, Ambition and Nonsense by my good self. Among other measures it recommended going to see The Importance of Being Earnest at the Abbey, reading Truth and Beauty: the Story of Pulp by Mark Sturdy in anticipation of the reissued albums (they’re excellent, and the book’s doing the rounds so if you want a read you need only ask), or sitting in Blessington Street Basin with some chips and free time (Blessington Street is on the northside. It’s nowhere near Blessington). Listening to The Clash constantly was observed, and Richard Hawley was the prescribed method of grounding oneself.

But of course it didn’t quite work, and I could have done without the sun holding me back constantly. It’s September now, and the weather has a familiar snap to it once more. I wrote and wrote about exams, but studentdom returns to university as I type… and I am not. Has there been anything contemporary in this entry thus far? I can’t find it. It’s been a long time. What once were certainties now seem obsolete.

Let’s meander towards the present month now. There’s a real air of technological progress about the Parliamenthaus these days – for the first time ever, I have the internet on my desk… and this is the de facto first transmission of the Parliament Street Broadcasting Service. It follows an unbelievably ridiculous tale of bureaucracy, ineptitude and latterday fascism dating from early May. How on earth can it take that long, in the centre of the capital city of one of the five most prosperous countries in the entire world, to get a serviceable internet connection? I’ve always hated telecom companies, whether it be for their mind-numbing advertising or their supposed right, in the interest of the national economy, to vandalise the landscape with grotesque masts. I hate them even more now. If you’re looking for an example of big business working against the common good, the Irish telecommunications industry seems textbook.

I wonder if I should be that upset the whole affair has taken so long. Since connection, all my time and personality seem to have fallen into the proverbial recycle bin. Or skip. In another instance of supposed progress, we now have digital TV. This means sport. The brother likes his sport. I only resort to it when there is no interesting common avenue of conversation to pursue, a trick I learned in work when staring at one’s feet is impolite. “Might as well mention the football…” so if I do in your company, that generally means I’m bored and autopilot has kicked in. There’s more at play here though: Laura, my beloved flatmate these past four years, is moving out and away to Glasgow to study. Taking her room, from this weekend onwards, will be Brian. He’s a schoolfriend of several years’ standing, is a rising comedian, and is several percent more blokey than I. A strict division of responsibility has been drafted: the brother will deal with all sports other than motor sport, blues and jazz, and most of the drinking and causing chaos. If this is observed I should come to no harm.

And there’s yet another way technology is enslaving or enabling me in this installment. I’m harassing the postman on a daily basis, waiting for him to deliver several paycheques’ worth of powerful computer, musical keyboard, associated gadgetry, and advanced software. (Power. Control. Statistics. Specifications. Next I will be talking about the football). This is all in the name of finding a way of recording and creating music without being zapped by electrical static from an 8-track recorder that I have a very uneasy relationship with. It will also enable me to bring mellotrons and other synthesized strings into play, will replace the unfriendly old drum machine, and will facilitate a complete reappraisal of my attitude towards the guitar. It’ll still be there. But it will do different things.

In fact, I would be happy if it did anything. And here’s where I am, despite promises to the contrary, going to mention the football. It happened back in Wicklow a few weeks ago, in our version of the Stadium of Light, the Stadium of Shite – our back garden, then – and represents a keep-fit effort gone wrong. I was in goals. I used to keep goal long ago. The brother cracked a vicious shot, and I heard his murmur of delight the moment he made contact. It was a powerful shot, and there seemed to be no stopping it. About waist level, moving about in the air, searing through the sky. That’s when I dived and palmed it to safety before flopping on the grass, hearing another gasp of amazement from the would-be striker, and feeling very happy with myself. Alas. A few shots later and the ball bounced off my finger in idiotic fashion. The doctor put it in a splint the other day. It’s my left hand too. Johnny Marrisms have been postponed. Lessons have been learned.

I read a lot of science fiction as a kid – the real stuff, Isaac Asimov and Robert Silverberg. Arthur C Clarke was my favourite, and he would love the Parliament Street Broadcasting Service, a little gizmo that sends and receives signals from the internet without wire. Telepathy will be known within our lifetime. It’s a very simple concept. All that needs to be done is for brainwaves to control existing computer programmes, in the way voice recognition software attempts to do already. But silently. Then it will just be a question of opening up MSN and thinking instead of typing. In twenty years time I envisage black eyes unless I can learn to think the best of strangers. I can see it now. Walking past Whelans late at night the way I sometimes do. Spying some Topshopped swine in a Ramones t-shirt who thinks he’s in The Strokes. ‘You’re a cunt’, I think, not realizing the telepathy has been left on.

Game over.

***
            “One Richard Hawley/
            There’s only one Richard Hawley/
            One Richard Hawley/
            There’s only one Richard Hawley!”

Electric Picnic, then. And for once there’s very little that’s negative to report, once we discount the pillheads and scenesters. It was a fantastic weekend. I think New Order took it, despite the awful sound front of house. Mogwai and Pet Shop Boys were both fantastic, for very different reasons. Gang of Four were outstanding, a much-needed shock. Honourable mention goes to Graham Coxon for the loudest, rockingest set of the weekend. And there is only one Richard Hawley. He and his songs are old-fashioned strips of human mahogany that sound so out of step that they comfort and calm immediately. Beautiful. Last year I did a football-score breakdown of each band, and I really liked that because it suggests the give-and take, convince-me-if-you-can attitude necessary. I'm not going to do that this time around. Maybe later. But there's been far too much football in this instalment altready, I am well aware.

***

I don’t want to write too much about this either… No, I won’t, because you can predict exactly what I think of it and you will probably share the opinion too. In recent weeks MCD, the concert promoters with an overwhelming market share in Ireland and an interest in Mean Fiddler elsewhere, have received what must be their first sustained negative press over their organization of the scumfest Oxegen festival and attempts to silence criticism thereof. This is important. I don’t think anyone likes MCD, but photographers, writers and bands depend on them in order to get anywhere at all. Negative comment is a rarity. That’s why articles like this, and several like it in recent weeks, are a surprise. Of the Dublin contingent whom I know read this word-coffin of a journal, no-one is unaffected. I can’t think what can be done. But I suppose writing about it and spreading as much information as possible helps; it’s made for the internet in fact. Pass it on.

***

Interviewer: Some critics said your album was the same song repeated, just with different lyrics. Is this album more varied?
Hilary Woods: Yeah…
Mark Greaney [who has come in to pick at the food]: What do you mean yeah? This is where you’re meant to tell them to fuck off!

Another topic I don’t want to spend much time on is JJ72, other than to say they’re long gone now and were hated by most. I never thought that was particularly fair, especially when Smashing Pumpkins types in school would refer to Greaney’s ‘whiney’ voice, or others would brand them pretentious for writing songs about books they’ve read. I always loved that. They used words like ‘epiphany’. More bands should write of epiphanies. People very often get what they deserve, as the saying goes... In this case it seems to be the diluted, bland mess of today’s Snow Patrol. I’m waiting for The Thrills’ latest visit to California to yield anything of any depth or material whatsoever. Or The Frames’ ‘emotional’ two sets at Electric Picnic. In a (positive) review of the Humanzi album last month, the NME brilliantly described Dublin as "the yawnfullest musical city in the UK", namechecking said Thrills and also The Chalets. That quotation is interesting on any number of levels, not least the political. But Jesus… I’d better stop there. I’m only sorry I didn’t have time to make my ‘Hang Glen Hansard’ t-shirt in time for yonder festival. That really would have been an epiphany.

***

And yet more Irish-centric ranting below, I’m afraid. It has its touches of universality in places. Like the British Labour Party tearing itself to sad little patches last week. I only noticed the severity of the situation when the brother returned after a week in Poland. I told him as much news as I could remember… snippets of disinterested gossip, mainly. And then, mid-sentence: “Did you hear? Harney resigned! Michael McDowell is now Deputy Prime Minister!”. He looked like he’d been baseball-batted, the poor boy. The simile is useful: Michael McDowell is a right-wing firebrand whose tenure as Justice minister is and was distinguished, in my view, by a complete misunderstanding of the reality of social problems because he is a rugby-school pig who has never encountered them. Apart from when his son was mugged a while back. (History fiends will note that his grandfather Eoin MacNeill called off the Easter Rising, but it happened anyway). He seems to take an amount of pleasure in baiting the supposed left, meaning anyone who suggests investing in drug rehabilitation, using the proceeds of economic prosperity to ensure a decent quality of life for all, or ensuring there’s an environment worth speaking of come the next generation. I was most disgusted when he had a pop at “these people who go on anti-Bush marches” and frequent “the Indymedia website”… and the interviewer didn’t even notice. So it’s hard to believe it took me so long to realise the full implications of last week, the longest “long time in politics” for some time now. I hate rugby.

***

In this cranky vein, I should do the honourable thing by signing off and dragging matters away from narrow insular ranting by recommending the impressive Is It Just Me Or Is Everything Shit? By Alan McArthur and Steve Lowe. Those two gents manage a far more sustained and comprehensive assault on modern life than this ignored journal ever could. Take the following encyclopedic entry on Hare Krishnas, for example:

            “Hare, hare Krishna
            Hare hare
            Hare bollocks
            Bollocks
            Bollocks Krishna
            Hare bollocks
            Bollocks hare
            (REPEAT)”

This one on Tony Blair, meanwhile, is pretty accurate:

“7. The invention of ‘New’ Labour. Or, to put it another way, Old Liberal. You have to wonder why Blair joined the Labour Party, considering he hates it so much. Shame he wasn’t around for the Whigs’ heyday – now there was a party for do-good lawyers who didn’t want to change the world much. In fact, it was to avoid voting for them that people started the Labour Party. Now they’re saddled with this great bastard. It takes a special kind of chutzpah to call this progress.”

So what have we learned at the end of this overlong whinge? We’ve brought a new meaning to the term finger-fucked (as a friend noted semi-necessarily), played an exciting game of Musical Sore Loser, and – on reflection – the world seems to be a very scary, embittering place. Is it just me?

All change in this house. Let’s swing it towards positivity at the very last moment, if we can: I was very much minding my business on or about or passing along Arran Quay over the weekend; it was 7:30 on Sunday morning and I was on my own shuffling along staring at the ground where useful things can be found… and there was a skip outside licensed premises and in it was the most incredible… I found a… I found…

What did I find?