Blog Awards '05:
The Drunken Reflections of an Impaired Observer

I wasn't feeling up to writing this post on Thursday (guess why), I was too lazy on Friday and I was away on Saturday. Firstly I must say that, although no actual awards were presented, I had harboured ambitions of picking up the coveted gong for Most Derogatory References to Dublin Bus in a Blog. Or, alternatively, the award for Most Unnecessary Use of Wordplay in a Blog. Or just the plain old Most Sarcastic Blog award. But no. The DITMAJ blogging community, in its wisdom, decided that no such recognition would be granted. Fine. I don't mind. Not a bit.

Here are some hazy recollections of the evening.
Being caught in the crossfire of a Simpsons quote-athon (I couldn't compete); making fun of a drunken interloper;having a dickie-bow forcibly attached to my neck;doing a very poor impersonation of Seán Connery (see dickie-bow);Jameson, Smithwick's, sambuca; meaning to remove the dickie-bow and forgetting (see Jameson, Smithwick's and sambuca); a bag of undercooked, oversalted chips; tongues loosened by drink(saying no more about that); dancing (to songs I like);dancing (to songs I don't);having a good time.

Fine feature on Prime Time last night about how Robert Mugabe and his Monstrous Raving Loony Party are quite literally destroying Zimbabwe. In the way of these things, it was shocking, but not very surprising stuff (state-engineered famine, dispossession, clampdown on the press, ban on foreign NGOs).

Here's a link to a not-entirely serious Robert Mugabe website.

If Boy George and Crony Blair were actually serious about promoting democracy, instead of just pretending they are, they'd be supporting opposition movements in places like Zimbabwe.

In the next general election, I will vote for any political party that solemnly pledges to ban Enya's music from the airwaves indefinitely. Curse her ethereal warbling.

Claptrap

You know that brief awkward silence when you're at a gig and a song has just finished, or at least you think it has ( fake song-endings are funny; some people always clap. The smugness of the hardcore/saddo fans, who've held their applause, is almost palpable) . There's a moment before anyone has started to applaud when it's within the realms of possibility that no one will actually applaud at all because nobody wants to be the first person to clap. Someone has to be the first person to applaud. This can be a little awkward. At a recent concert, I was the first person to applaud on two occasions. I just had to break the silence. For about a second I was the lone idiot clapping away while cooler people waited for others to join in before they too expressed their appreciation manually.

Clapping properly whilst holding a pint is also hard. In fact, it's well-nigh on impossible to show your appreciation for the band whilst simultaneously safeguarding your drink. You can clap wholeheartedly and spray everyone with your beer, or you can refrain from applause and keep your drink within the snug confines of its glass.

There is an alternative, though. Apologies to my Zen readers, but this is called:

The sound of one hand clapping

Sorry, but there is such a thing. Simply flick your fingers against your palm in rapid, successive motions. It's not a very loud sound, granted, but it's a noble compromise between the basic human need to connect with others and the even more basic need not to spill your beer.

John Bull(shit)

Reading Tom Humphries' column in the Times today (about how he hopes England don't win the World Cup but fears they might), I was struck by how wildly partisan a piece of a writing it was. It's plain that he dislikes the England football team and sensible, mature folk will ask: why the anti-Brits hang-up when it comes to football?

And what of the Irish nation at large? We really ought to be more grown-up about our nationhood, more self-confident in our national identity. We shouldn't define who we are by our anti-Britishness. It's 83 years since we got our independence. We should have got over it by now.
But...

I still really, really hope England don't win the World Cup.
Nah, screw it, I hope they don't win a game.

It's the crowing, you see. The boastful rhetoric of the English press, the hubris before they enter every major tournament, the 'SHOCK, HORROR' amazement when they don't bring the trophy home. Fleet Street's expectations are so over-inflated they're bound to burst in the faces of those filling them with hot air. But it's the same every time, 'boo hoo we used to run the world, now we're just a peripheral European country so we expect to dominate on the sports field like we used to dominate other countries politically'. This is the subtext, the assumption that England should be top dogs every time. It doesn't work like that, boys.

And 1966. Have you heard? Kenneth Wolsthenholme ('they think it's all over; it is now'), Geoff Hurst, 'Jules Rimet still gleaming'. ENGLAND WON THE WORLD CUP IN 1966. DID YOU KNOW? OH, IT WAS SPLENDID, OLD BOY. AND WE'LL NEVER LET YOU FORGET IT. EVER.

Imagine if they won it again. God help us. It'd be carnage. No one would be spared the bloody smugness, the boastful editorials, the ' World Cup heroes ' who were formerly just footballers with names not preceded by the statement that they won a medal representing Eng-er-land.

Please, please God let them be beaten 4-0 by Trinidad and Tobago.

Technology frightens me. This may stem from being exposed to ‘Transformers’ cartoons at a crucial stage in my childhood development. I spent a good portion of my formative years fearfully wondering if commonplace household items such as bread bins and table lamps were, in fact, (cue vocoder voice) ‘robots in disguise’.

The inner workings of my mobile phone’s predictive text function are a mystery to me. Not the good kind of mystery, mind.

Every time I want to send a message like this…

Do you fancy going for a pint?

…the text predictor first suggests the word shot and then the word riot. As I understand it (or at least wish to, for the purposes of the joke I’m about to make), this suggests these words are more commonly used than the options which appear later (ie. the word pint).

Now, which of these sentences is the average beer-drinking phone-owner more likely to be composing:

1. Do you fancy meeting at 8 for a riot? / Do you fancy meeting at 8 for a pint?
2. Wanna get shot this evening?/ Wanna get pint this evening?
3. How about a few shots of the black stuff? / How about a few pints of the black stuff?

Assuming you are not…

1. A baseball-bat wielding anarchist planning a fun-filled evening of civil disorder
2. A pathological masochist
3. Some kind of pixie-type creature who consumes beer from shot glasses

…it’s safe to say the word you’re seeking is pint.

Sad to say, some technician in some Nokia factory somewhere clearly has very different priorities to the Irish beer-drinking phone-owner.

I’ll bet you’re damn glad you read this. Aren’t you?

Re: Bush sending cards that say ‘Happy Holidays’ rather than ‘Happy Christmas’.

I find it difficult to see what is offensive about the words ‘Happy Christmas’. Consider the etymology of the word; Christ’s festival. The reason that December 25th is a public holiday is that it is the date on which the birth of Christ is celebrated by Christians. Dec. 25th is a public holiday in the US, irrespective of peoples’ beliefs, or lack thereof. Would it be better if only practising Christians were given a day off and all others had to work? And if a person does not celebrate Christmas, why send them a card at all?

I googled some sites that sell Ramadan greeting cards but I couldn’t find any that say ‘happy holidays, non-believer’(they say things like ‘Allah’s Blessings be with you’). I wonder if non-Muslims living in Islamic countries receive cards from the government that say ‘happy holidays’ during Ramadan celebrations? Or non-Jews from the Israeli state during Hannukah?

I did find a Christmas/Hannukah dual purpose card, which is a little bizarre, if touchingly pluralist.

Political correctness is, for the most part, a good thing. It is fine and proper that sexist/racist/homophobic etc language is condemned. However, it can suck the life out of language too. On a linguistic level I like the word Christmas. It’s evocative of a particular season. Happy holidays, to my ear, is bland and generic.

There’s a lot of scary stuff happening in the world:

Arnie deciding whether a man should live or die (would you want the Terminator deciding your fate? A little inauspicious that)
People getting sick
Kids being abused
Donald Rumsfeld talking. About anything at all

Not Christmas cards.

Shorthand blog:
Following on from Genevieve's Bosco competition (ie. blatantly ripping off her idea;sorry), a special prize to the first class member who can translate the mysterious shapes above into English. The author reserves the right to change the terms of the contest at short notice, or, quite frankly, to renege on his commitment to giving a prize.

"Journalism is literature in a hurry"
Matthew Arnold

Too right. No time to blog.













"My sideburns are splendid!"
Ibid

Gig Review: Mark Eitzel, Whelan's, 7th December (and what happened after the show)

You haven't seen self-deprecating 'til you've seen a Mark Eitzel concert. Eitzel is a great performer, but he's an unreliable guitarist. He makes mistakes. He makes jokes about making mistakes. Last night he threw coins into the audience as atonement for every screwed-up chord change. He did it 3 or 4 times. Then he threw coins on to the stage and told the audience to just pick them up themselves. Then he threw notes, a ten and a five. The last song he sang before the encore closed with the words 'I hope the worst is over'. With Eitzel, it's hard to tell if this was unintentional or sardonic.

His music is pretty stark, but he does the odd pop song, after a fashion. I'm not going to describe his music because I can't be bothered and I have complete editorial control over this blog, a privilege I really rather enjoy having. He was, and still is, in a San Francisco band called American Music Club, who had/have influences ranging from punk to folk to jazz (Past & present tense used because they split up 10 years ago but recently reformed. Sorry, why would you care about that detail?This complete editorial freedom thing will be my undoing)

His lyrics are mordant and heartbreaking and sometimes funny. He sings like his heart is rending in two right there on stage.The man could croon 'Simply having a wonderful Christmas time' and make it sound like a graveside lament.

We went for a drink after the gig, Justin(of justintonra.blogsot.com fame) and Julie and I. Some drunken asshole did his utmost to provoke us into fighting him. He sat at our table uninvited and made obnoxious interjections into our conversation. He carried a small notebook and a tiny pen (perhaps he was a journalist finally driven over the edge by his thankless, insecure, poorly paid job.No, I'm not feeling optimistic today). When he finally left us he dramatically flung his tiny pen on to the table in an act of something or other (defiance?anger?mindlessness?Option 3, I think). He swept away into the night to be an irritating prick somewhere else. Except that he'd forgotten his bag. He slouched back to the table half a minute after his theatrical departure, eyes fixed on the floor, and picked it up. Karma? Who knows?

I was early for the nitelink, so I took a walk along the river. There was a thick blanket of fog along the quays. Lights shimmered on the black water; the orange streetlamps, the white lights illuminating the bridges, the alternating red and green of traffic lights. It was a lovely scene. It's interesting how many people are still up at 1.45 a.m. There were lots of lights on in the apartments along the Liffey. I wondered what the people in those rooms were doing; reading, arguing with lovers, making love, drinking, working, playing marathon games of trivial pursuit , surfing the net, eating, talking on the phone, writing, having a party, watching tv, washing the dishes, smoking joints, flossing.... it was interesting to speculate what was happening in those illuminated rooms near 2 o'clock on a Wednesday morning. People have different schedules.

This entry has been longer and more circuitous than I'd intended it to be. If you're still reading, thanks. Now go and get some fresh air.

It has come to my attention that a cartoonish portrait of myself has appeared on another class member's blog. I can only respond in kind.

Bertie's spelling misstakes

I had a conversation, or rather a pub debate, with a friend over the weekend about the Irish Times lampooning Bertie for his failure to spell the words 'gover(n)ment' and 'sympat(h)ies' correctly in his message of condolence on the death of George Best. It went something like this.

Me: I think it's a joke that the Taoiseach can't spell government. I mean, it's a word that features fairly prominently in his job description, for God's sake. And he must read it 50 times a day in the papers.
My friend: Well, eye think it was a cheep shot. It's not the bee all and end all if ewe can't spell dat well.
Me: But he deals in the business of words as a politician. Surely it's important.
My friend: A.A Gill is dyslexic. He doesn't actually right his colm in the Sunday Times. He dictates it all every weak and he's still a grate righter.
Me: I don't think Bertie is dyslexic, though. He's just a crap speller.
My friend: There are udder forms of intelligence, dough. There are udder weighs of expressing yourself. Ewe can here him speak and he gets his pint across.

Fair enough. On the one hand, it was a cheap shot. On the other, it's good to laugh at our political leaders (They must spend enough time laughing at us."Oh, My God! They voted me in! Again!!Even after last time!!" Cue hysterical mirth for next five years) . People have died for the right to laugh at their political leaders. They've died for democracy and this is a component of democracy.

However, there is a touch of sneering in this attitude to Ahern. He's not a southside boy who went to a private school (unlike a fair chunk of the Times' readership). He's not from that elite we call 'Dublin 4' (even though it's a state of mind rather than a postcode). He has a Northside accent, he likes his GAA, his soccer, his pints; he plays on this, it's part of his everyman image. But he is a working class boy made good, whatever you think of his performance (not much, in my case). It wouldn't be ok to laugh at his accent if he was an immigrant but it's ok cos he's just a Northsider.

P.s. My friend is a perfectly good speller. That was just a cheep shot too.

Idea for television programme: political panel discussion show in which politicians, academics, business people, trade unionists, journalists etc etc. answer questions posed by outraged/disenfranchised/occasionally deranged audience members. Dickie-bow wearing gentleman chairs the discussion. The programme would be called:

Politics Tonight With Stella Artois

Participants must imbibe several pints of the programme sponsor's brew prior to recording. This would give the show the feel of that much-loved forum for political discussion: the pub debate. Outlandish, Stella-fuelled viewpoints that do not conform to politically correct modes would be expressed. Politicians might give a few straight answers (ok, that's stretching it) . Since the programme would be one long ad for the magical,personality-transforming qualities of Belgium's finest 5% brew, there would be no worries on the finance score.

Even if the debate is boring, the night will almost certainly culminate with some level of fisticuffs, a frequent by-product of the consumption of Stella. Tell me you wouldn't watch Questions and Answers if there was a real possibility of John Bowman headbutting Martin Cullen. Admit it, we've all wanted to do it at one time or another.

Another version of this show would involve the consumption of Buckfast, but it would probably only be suitable for transmission after midnight on one of the trashier satellite channels.

Hark! Hear the sound of lengthy adjectives being readied. Of withering scorn and gushing praise. Of similes. Always the similes (A sounds like B playing C fronted by D). Or A sounds like B. On speed (always on speed;provides extra rock 'n' roll cachet,implies author has personal experience of amphetamines). It can only mean one thing. There is music journalism afoot.

Gig Review: Tift Merritt, Whelan's, 29th November

They had the tables out in Whelan's; a sure sign ticket sales haven't been great. We took our seats, like the old people you see at gigs we're fast becoming. The support band walked on, to the kind of muted reception support bands usually get. More correctly it was a support duo, called The Have Nots. They were excellent. They played acoustic guitars and sang sweet, sad country duets (I like country music. IMPORTANT DISTINCTION: There are two kinds of country music: the horrible soulless crap that embodies all that is market-driven and, yes, evil, and the good stuff) . While they played some people talked at the bar, as people are wont to do during support sets. A woman in front of us was not impressed. Her method of conveying this to the talkers was to turn her head 90 degrees and frown through the dark at them. It didn't work. Then she got up and told them to shut up. They shut up. This part of the gig to was also notable for being the first time I have seen a performer bite a portion of his nail off on stage in full view of the audience ( I made that sound like they're always doing it secretly, didn't I?). All guitarists, even terrible ones like myself, know how cumbersome over-long nails can be. It had to be done, I suppose.

Tift (I know, I've never heard it before either) came out to polite applause and the odd restrained whoop. How to describe her music. Well, firstly, she's got a voice that's sweet but gritty too. Like honey on sandpaper. Or something. In fact, she has a voice like a seraph (see? I didn't say 'angel'. Thesauruses were a wonderful invention; I'll bet the dictionary people were bricking it when the Roget boys got in on the synonym game).

She plays gospel-influenced, folkish, countryish, sometimes quiet, sometimes loud songs. Good songs. At one point she unplugged her guitar and sang without amplification('to remove what's between us'. Nice touch) . Her voice really is stunning; perhaps the best live vocal I've ever heard. She remarked on how quiet the audience initially was. People were whooping after songs after a while (and during them by the end). That'll be the drink.

Tift played an encore. People cheered. Then we went home.