How the media works

You may want to go n check Le Dessoutitreur:

http://dessoutitreur.blogspot.com/2011_06_01_archive.html

Credible News

Credible News (c). For an alternative world view. Now available at http://credibleheadlines.blogspot.com/2011_03_01_archive.html

gratuitous Loig 7 plug, after all

Keeping it in the family...





Check out Loig 7 San 's graphic blo(i)g at
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Excluuuusive!

Very early draft of X-crpt from
"Radiohead -A Modest Zeitgeist Capharnaum Smorgasbord"
under construction (finishing line set to the 30th of April 2010).

A rather personal re-intepretation of the Oxford crooners' opus; in fact an excuse to recap what happened to the UK in the 90s, mainly with regards to the likes of (the neither right nor honorable) Tony Blair; the Internet; the mass media dumbing down culture; 24/7 news cycle, etc. -oh, and their music as well.

Presentation for the bit underneath: every chapter will be introduced by a -er, alternative- staging of one of their lyrics. Now read on...


Start of chapter on "Pablo Honey"
----------------------------------------------

If it's true that everyone can play guitar as some fuckwit or another once pretended, surely it's even truer that everyone can play the drums. Ah yes, drummers... the butt of every joke. By then Deco had heard them all: who likes to hang around with musicians? Drummers. What's the difference between a drum machine and a drummer? You only have to tell a drum machine once. Who's got three legs and a -Etc. But this time he had gone too far. Oh aye your man had gone too far: giving him the big "I am" once too many, always posing for photos at the centre of the band and exiling Deco to the usually cropped end, always hogging (hugging?) the limelight -the stickman was getting mightily cheesed off (and "cheesed" was not the word he had in mind). No, enough was enough and tonight he had a plan, tonight would see his vindication. Ha! Deco chuckled to himself as he imagined the show-off's discomfiture at being upstaged by his drummer!
Enter the band, start the show. So far so good: your man was at it, down on his knees, quiff all a quiver, emoting every effing note like there's not enough Mariah Carey wannabes every weekend on that X Factor/Pop Idol yoke. Suddenly Deco just stopped. He just stopped beating the bejaysus out of his pigskin and waited. Slightly thrown, the guitaring bipeds carried for a few bars, exchanging panicky looks. They carried on for a few bars and then they stopped. All eyes on your man! The big moment had arrived.
Your man continued to flaff about meanwhile, resisting the impulse to acknowledge the slight mishap in progress and maybe -just maybe- check behind him what the flying fck might be going on here. Eventually he cut an end to his carry-on and turned round to glare at Deco like "What the Dickens you playin' at boyo!!!" But Deco kept very quiet, oh yes very quiet; Zen-like, almost. Making sure your man was taking in the disastrousnessicity of the situation, your man stepped out from behind his drums and walked up to your man. Your man took up your man's mike and, enunciating perfectly, looked him in the eye. Explained he:

"I want you to notice / When I'm not around".

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Reading Festival 009

THESE IMPORTANT YEARS

Having taken a sabbatical from all things human and musical for the last three years or so, I knew next to nothing of 99% of the bands playing this year -or, to speak like a English person, "thish year"- and so the festival provided the perfect occasion to catch up with what's going on. Or down. Or up too.
As is usually my wont, I spent more time down the tent than watching the main stage: less crowd and much better sound quality. In fact, a number of my most treasured Reading experiences will have taken place in the tent (most memorably Leatherface, and Dubwar, Underworld, the Wedding Present, Dubstar etc.) Unsurprisingly, the issue of the main stage sound will pop up time and again downbelow.

FRIEND, YOU'VE GOT TO FALL

Tendency of the season: dayglo face paint. Lots of youth were walking around with orange or pink stripes crayoned onto their faces. Many girls also sported sparkly starry make-up around the eyes -very cute. Probably pioneered by Florence outta the Whatevers or Little Boots.

ICE COLD ICE
YOU LEFT ME STANDING IN THE RAIN

Rain -like hope in life- was mercifully episodic; the sun shone most of the weekend.

Talking of tradition, whatever happened to the old Reading Fest competition for the most offensive t-shirt? What happened to the "John Peel Is A C*nt", "Hate Hate Hate", "Find 'em F*ck 'em and Flee" (an Ice-T title), "Ars*nal FC", "Anal C*nt" or "this man" (arrow to the left) "likes c*ck" tops of yore? Gone. Disappeared. Unless you count "pennies for whores" as something to be tut-tutted in which case you really should write for The Independent. This being said, I did see a youth sporting a magnificent hand-painted orange "AIDS" on his forehead -the cheeky rascal!! Also spotted: a girly with "Kev's bitch" on her forehead -lucky Kevin. The usual "it's not gonna suck itself", "The Man" (arrow up) "The Legend" (arrow down). The M*n*c Street Pr**ch*rs.

Battle of the t-shirts: no clear winner here (surprisingly few FaithNoMore in fact); quite a number of Radioheads. Here are some of the best I spotted:
The Stranglers; Kansas; "Pull the trigger bitch"; "Lost 8 kilos in two weeks -bloody sniffer dog."
Tellingly, a number of sweatshirts celebrating the graduation of some school or another "Class of 09"; Flight of the Conchords;
but the best one had to be Olympique Lyonnais as sported by a dashing 50something inbetweener who may well be half-robotic by now but who stills remembers whence he once came. And where l'OL leads, others follow. Saturday being footy day, a number of revellers took to sporting their team's colour, most notably United: the 18 times English / twice world / four times European champions were in action that day. (Which reminds me: I didn't get to hear the final scores, does anyone know who they beat that afternoon? huh?)
I enjoyed the sight of lads dressed a giant hamburgers. (And superheroes, but that's less fun -there is a costume shop nearby).

People buy cameraphones not to take pictures of others but of themselves.


-Saw a bit of The Living End, all the way from Australia (like "hooway the loods on the toon, moote!!" or something): blimey, they can't half play can they! The guitarist reminded me of Josh Homme embarking on a ten minute solo a few years back. (By da way, someone else who is a sh*t-hot guitarist: ....Wyclef Jean. Word.) Oh yeah, something-I-learnt-at-Reading: apparently, Josh Homme was going out with Cristina Martinez which begs the question: has she divorced from Jon Spencer then??

No bird in the sky, young lady with "I heart c*ck" on the leg -promises promises...
Fish and chips for seven quid; 5,50 ten meters further down. A pint of beer? 3,85.

-The View Aka The Scottish Arctic Monkeys (you caennae understand a wee word the soft shite was saying). That bunch of 16 yr olds are supposed to hail from Dundee right? So you won't hear a bad word against them from me, bless their cotton socks. (Still eh, your man's got craep ta'ts oh aye.)

-Was awaiting Glasvegas with loiguesque trepidation (i.e. world weary boredom as opposed to the usual existential despair) and... they were ok. Ranging from pretty good to excellent but then we tend to approve of bequiffed men in black so we do. The singer the spitting image of a young Joe Strummer with surprising ripped biceps (fancy that, he dropped the leather jacket in favour of a sleeveless T midway through :-)) One thing though, the Mo Truckeresque drumming might get a bit grating after a while (your woman made Meg White sound like Kamen/Copeland/Katche).

-The Horrr'rs. They were OK I s'pose. Disappointed with regards to their half excellent recent album.

NO RESERVATIONS

-Caught two songs by Ian Brown. Ten years later, the man is still off tune.

-Five minutes of Florence and the Machines: had seen five minutes of hers at Glasto' and hadn't exactly been convinced. I am still not. (Banal drivel that makes the Kaiser Chiefs come across as Captain Beefheart or am I missing the point one more time?)

-Little Boots. Now I have a lot of respect for anyone able to play any instrument -let alone several at the same time- but when I see the OTT reviews about miss Boots... ??? The stuff I heard was good, sure, but nothing outstanding per se; it also appears that she has an army of songwriters behind her. Anyway, what about her gig: it - was - thrilling. All the pop kids -especially female- were singing along and going mental like a robot from 1984, real heartwarming stuff. Her frankly banal cover of Moroder's "Love Kills" was hailed as a masterpiece and her yoke about "take you home tonight - make you feel alright" (check the lyrics man! that's genius that.) was met with nothing less than rapture. Uplifting stuff, smiles all to here all round.

-Jamie T. Featuring right before FaithNoMan's great return, I had predicted that he would suffer, faced with a "less than captive" audience (we remember Uncle Nick facing a barrage of "Nir-va-na Nir-va-na Nir-va-na!!"). ...How wrong was I!
First of all, I had never even heard of that guy/girl's existence, so once again (see opening remark), I was totally open-minded about he/she had to offer. Then I got told that he was not a hundred miles away from The Streets -not the most promising of premises- and "very popular with students". Now there's nothing wrong with students writes Loig: it is thanks to them that you can drink heavily subsidised beer while pretending to be a visiting foreign professor. ...Or so I've been told. Anyway, on came your man and the place heated up ten degrees instantly: massive ovation before he even opened his mouth. Absolutely brilliant atmosphere with the kids chanting along every song from beginning to end -really impressive. The material itself I couldn't quite judge (the kids were singing so loudly!) but it sounded okayish I guess: echoes of Billy Bragg and Carter USM maybe. Not too sure about the ciggie planted inside the ear (inside the ear); had never seen that before, not even with confirmed cancerologists like Uncle Nick or Barack Obama.


Their eyes flicker, they agree intermittently to anything you say and then they go "no offence mate but there's some place I've goddago".

-And on to FaithNoMore. How different the vibe was! I had a quick look at the NME review the next day and it was -like- ecstatic blahblahblah but I'm afraid I will beg to differ: it was nowhere near the one for "local" acts such as Jamie T, Little Boots or Florence. The Americans did their best to batter us into submission but... I found it no more than satisfying. Very professional (i.e. well rehearsed), as I felt with other American acts as diverse as Susan Vega, RedHotChiliPeppers or even Fugazi: n.e.a.t. stuff. Listening to your man haranguing the crowd, I would have been ready to bet that he would offer the same quips to the Leeds audience the next day. (Did you ever hear the story about someone going to see Patti Smith in concert and being amazed by Patti's profound one-liners; your woman decides there and then to follow P. S. on tour ...and every night is subjected to the exact same pearls of wisdom in the exact same order.) Listing-wise, they did everything: "easy", "be aggressive", "midnight cowboy", "caffeine", "be aggressive", "from out of nowhere", the silky sexy one off "King etc.", "be aggressive", "land of sunshine", "last cup of sorrow", "be aggressive", "I started a joke", etc.
As expected, they peppered their midsong breaks with wacky cover versions. I remembered them doing "Twin Peaks" and Portishead back in the days, this time it was.... "Eastenders" (ROTFLOL!!!!!1 etc.) and twice too. Mike Patton -still an impressive vocalist- seems to have developed a limp, Roddy is a Gay.

COULD YOU BE THE ONE

-The 'Ctics. Was after watching Glasvegas so missed half of it. Well it was... good to be sure, but I sensed a certain lack of warmth from yr man. Every now and then, he would slur: "Hey... (pause) Reading. 'You still with ooz?" which didn't quite ooze enthusiasm, gay abandon and reciprocated love. (Was he a wee bit inebriated, by the way?) Some of the new songs were quite gorgeous and I have no doubt that the new album will be another masterpiece, once again different from the previous one, once again surprisingly mature for such a young man. Some great extended versions of old favourites ("fluo ado") which is always a bonus, I mean: what's the point of reciprocating the album note perfect on stage? The punters might as well stay home and play the record in the comfort of their bedroom right? Right. (And that will also spare the said punter the pleasure of being stuck next to a fatarse rabbitting her mouth off for the duration of a gig -nuff said.) ....Wasn't too enamoured with his new long hair though, makes our Alex look a bit scruffy purses his lips Loig.

SHE FLOATED AWAY

-Fall Out Boy: now I may have missed the boat entirely but, in my mind's eye, Fall Out Boy was some kind of L.A.M.T.V. U. S. F.M. safe mainstream glitzy shit (the guy is with Jessica Simpson/Nikki Hilton or some such luminary) ...turns out they are massive. Massive with the Reading Festival crowd: hundreds of people moshing about and singing along etc. Huh. I have an album somewhere ...maybe I should try to locate it again. Dreadful sound though: gusts of winds constantly swinging it from side to side.

-The Kaiser Chiefs came on to the sound of Dire Straits "Money For Nothing". Sadly, they then switched off the intro tape and started playing themselves.

-Moving on to the Prodigy. Another genuinely massive band, another dreadful sound: the crowd was chanting "turn it up, turn it up" but, really, there's not much that could be done due to the swirling wind. Nodding his hairy head appreciatively to the Proge backstage was... Dave Grohl in person. (Did the Grohlster put in a cameo for the encore? I wasn't there anymore.)

-Placebo did their Placebo thing. "Here is a Buddhist song..." -eight minutes of yelping proto indie F.M. glitter workout follows.

-Another band which I had never heard of and which went down like a storm: the Macchabes (is that a play on French words? "les macabés" means "les morts"). Jangly guitar singalong teenage manic pop thrill -really, The Wedding Present and The Woodentops should sue for royalties.

-Had been recommended this one: Friendly Fires. Who said middle class white boys can't funk? Inverted racists inverted snobs that's who. The FfffffFires funked like mad and here the inevitable reference to Talking Heads will rear its 80s head. Great craic, part XCVIIIIIII. The Observer calls them "the band of the summer".

Sunday: popped in at the start of the afternoon then went back home after a while: there is only so much twenty year olds you can take in before feeling clinically depressed. Besides I had to catch up with the rest of this highly amusing Japanese movie which I was after watching; it's called "C*cktoppers" -sorry, "ClockStoppers"- in which your man comes up with a way of "freezing" people around him -with hilaaaarious consequences as he reassembles their limbs in compromising positions and has his evil beastly way with unaware nymphets, oh I guess you had to be there, the subtleties may be lost in translation like -great craic all the same.

-Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Bloc Party and Radiohead all in one go: my attention was, er, somewhat focussed elsewhere so I may not have been completely receptive... Great stuff all of them let's say.
Karen O seemed determined to show off the most hideous clothes known to man; she pretty much succeeded. Her band was surprisingly dance oriented -must remember to check their latest stuff (having stopped at the album featuring "Maps").
Kele-Block has grown some fairly tasty biceps. "Tommy Yorke has just turend up backstage and he looks like he means business!"
True to the reputation f*cken bores endow him with ("oh Radiohead they're so miserab'le blah blah blah po faced politckalcorekness gone mad Lily Allen Gazza top birds -enjoy!- Becks Posh she's so ugly holiday at Naya Apia lapdancing clubs "Hello" magazine poor Diana did you catch "Hollyoaks" lass night?") Thom phroved himself to bhe a rhight lhittle schamp: cf. his cheeky wink at the camera magnified a hundred thousand times on the big screens. Crazy Yorke dance moves too man!
What else: I received a glass full of Cologne on the side of the head during the gig lobbed from behind which was -like- hilaaarious: I was almost knocked out, some got into my eye and then I stank to high heaven. (PS: Huge facial scar this morning.)

And you know you have to savour every second of this precious moment, commit it to memory and seal it there cos' it will never happen again.

TURN IT AROUND

S'leb S'pot! No back rub by Sarah "St-Eti*nne" Bracknell this time: didn't really see anyone in the guest area apart from Jack Penate (reader's voice: -who he? Exactly.), Simon Price (didn't know that f*ckw*nk still lived), and your man from that yoke. The universally acknowledged "King Of Pop" (TM) remained sadly elusive, even though he should be in the area shouldn't he?(I hear he's about to embark on a series of 50 dates in one month in London.)


In short (LOL!!!!!1 etc.).
We are liking:
-girls' noses
-fit lads with no top on (but they have to be fit eh)
-"The National Anthem"-Radiohead ("je suis parti seul, completement seul")/ "There There" (I took the glass off her hands as I sensed the lads were about to thrash about and she was able to cope with the mosh)
-the ability to pop back home every now and then
-the news of Oasis's demise. (Not that it makes any difference though: the Dickhead Brothers are bound to release more stuff under N.E. other name.)
-overhearing Dutch girlj chat yeah -like... totally gelig!
-the tw*t from K*iser Chi*fs attempting to climb on the side of the stage all of three feet. And getting stuck there.
-FNM and Radiohead t-shirts -very street
-the crackdown on ticket touts scumbags
-The Go! Team (who didn't play)
-Husker Du (idem)
-Faithless (bis repetita); when oh when will we have Rammstein: perfect Sunday night headliner
-being able to stick to my 20 Pound a day budget (cue: I ate a lot of chips)

YOU CAN LIVE AT HOME NOW

Enough for now. Next instalment:
the Oscars with 'Strickland next year -sorry, nexht year- for "Katalin Varga" as best foreign filum. "Katalin Varga" is out worldwide on the 9th of October.
The great thing about writing this kind of stuff is that nobody reads it til the end so you can afford to let rip or open up, noone will notice: god this is all so pointless. Thanks to Uma for the use of her bandwidth.

The Thing (chaps 1 to 19)

"You Know Yourself" (a Dub' chicklit yoke) by Uma O'Gil



"Another victory for investigative journalism!"-Lily Monaghan
"I simply couldn't put it down!"-Tara Palmer-Tetherington "(but then I never picked it up)"
"I have respect for broadsheet journalists because they haven't succumbed to degrading themselves, to writing pidgin English with all these terrible colloquialisms, the phrasing of which is just, like, embarrassing" - Peaches Geldof (11 January 2009 in The Observer)



Please note: any character or place mentioned in this book is entirely imaginary; any resemblance with a living or dead person or a genuine place would be entirely accidental and a fecking stroke of genius by the author's feverish imagination.


--------------------------------------------------------

Foreword: A short Anglo-Irish lexicon of love.


After my conferences, during airflights, or simply standing in line for a toilet stall, people flock up to me and ask. They say: "Oh Uma Uma Uma so nice to see you mwwwwuah -looking good babe looking hot!-, love your shoes too –very street!, Uma may I just say this: how much I absolutely adooored your last opus -read it in two tabs of acid- but, say... pray tell, I didn't quite get all the lingo like. In fact I couldn't make sense of any expression your (naturally so expertly sketched and wonderfully rounded) characters use.
Like "AMG" yeah -WTF is that supposed to mean?! "Your man" -how dare you cast aspersions on me fella and where do you know him from in the first place?!! "That yoke" -what yoke, that's crazy talk that, it don't make no thudding sense?!!!
They then usually proceed to emit doubts as to how realistic the descriptions are (do I even know the town I'm talking about? huh??), offer better one-liners, pick holes in the excuse of a plot, rewrite the third act and the middle eight, suggest a guitar solo and a car chase in the middle, pass strongly worded judgement on the masterful resolution, cackle about how they nicked their copy off the shelf at the hospital waiting room and leave loudly promising never to bother reading the sequel to Bridget's adventures now that's she shacked up with her dreamboat.

While sighing a -er...- sigh of relief that once more, they've got my baby confused with inferior competition, I still can't help wondering whether adding a lexicon is not such a bad idea after all... The thing is, I not only love my audience me (mmwwwuah back to yous!), but I may well want to pacify and nurture them if I want to see them again the day I run out of royalties and have to spin out an exploitative spin-off to this little yarn.
So there it is esteemed readers, your guide to Lily's crazy linguistic world! Exhaustive, authoritative and nicked straight off the Net, it will be of great help to these readers who've never set foot in Dublin like this author –er…, unlike this author I mean yeah? unlike this author (ahem).

OK then…



-"Absolutely" = "yes". I once explained that "absolutely" was the new "actually". Talking of which...
-"Actually". I postulated somewhere by "actually" reveals a deep-seated anxiety on the speaker's part: it seems like everyone is nowadays desperate to be believed and therefore engages in some sort of escalating mania for redundancy.
-Alliance Francaise = French cultural centre offering "the best coffee in Dublin" according to Irvine Welsh who used to take lessons there. Haunting place of various luminaries.
-"AMG" = "AhMyGahd". Possible variation by squares: "Oh. My. God. (you won't believe who I've just seen etc.)"
-“Aul’ wan” = old woman.
-"Away with the fairies" = to be a bird brain, to be mad.
-“Back in the land of the living” = back in Dublin …usually from the countryside.
-Ballyfermot = Dublin area like Kilmainham, Donnybrook, Crumlin, Tallaght, Clondalkin...
-"Bertie" = the godfather. Irish Prime Minister Bertie Ahern.
-"The black stuff" = Guinness.
-Bold = naughty. ““Oh Ramon, but you are being awfully bold here”, whimpered Lucinda, aglow with embarrassment and not a little shiver of excitement.”
-"Bollix" = bollocks. The legend that is Roy Keane once famously invited his then national manager to "stick it up (his) bollix!", an anatomically inventive feat if there ever was one.
-"The Brits" = the subjects of Her Britannic Majesty.
-“(by) the Bono!” = (taking a sacred name in vain) interjection denoting either pleasure or displeasure. Refers to Bono Vox (aka Paul Hewson), rock singer with U2 at night, cigar smoker / future President of Ireland (25/1 as I type) / ideal Pope / perennial Nobel Peace Prize nominee / hotelier by day.
-"Brutal" = not brutal per se but terrible, serious, hardcore.
-"Celtic Tiger" = that probably unique period in Irish history of financial prominence. No actual tiger is involved.
-Charlie Haughey = eighties Prime Minister whose, er, colourful personality and -cough cough- flamboyant finances did not meet with everybody's approval. The so-called “father of the Celtic Tiger", abolished taxes for artists and granted free transport to pensioners.
-“C’m here till I tell ya” = an invitation to come forth, the speaker being in a talkative mood.
-“Craic” = fun; the essence of which is often the vexed subject of many an opening address, namely “What’s the craic?!”
-Croker = Croke Park, one of the biggest stadiums in the whole of Europe, home of GAA and -until 2007- forbidden to "Anglo" sports such as soccer and rugby after the 1920 massacre.
-"(a) Culchie" = derogatory term meaning someone from outside Dublin. In the interest of balance, one must also mention the reverse insult aimed at Dubliners: "the Jackeens".
-“Cute” = clever. “See this Loig7, he’s awfully cute!”
-“Dear” = expensive.
-“Deco” = short for Declan. Guy who usually goes out with a girl named Sinead (-hey, some of my very best friends are called Deco!)
-"D 4" = postcode to the posh part of Dublin (as are Dun Laoghaire and Blackrock).
-"The Dail" = the Parliament.
-"Deadly" = great (appreciative).
-"Dub" = Dubliner (name and adjective); the salt of the earth; fecking useless at GAA since the eighties.
-Eamon Dunphy = ex-footballer turned media pundit never in lack of an opinion or ten. "Rabble-rouser" and "unmissable" are two adequate adjectives to describe Eamon Dunphy.
-"Eejit" = idiot.
-“(to) Feak” = to kiss, to snog –one step short of to fuck.
-"A filum" = a film.
-FAI = Football Association of Ireland. Organism that appointed Stan “Steve” Staunton manager of the national team.
-"Fair play to you" = well done, good for you.
-"Fecking" (and also "focken", but this one is infinitely more brutal) = clever roundabout way not to utter another interjection whose correct spelling I'll leave to your imagination.
-"Fella" = boyfriend.
-“(to) Fret” = to worry.
-"Frog's Legs" = a potent supersweet cocktail of dubious colour aimed at young ladies in quest of a good time. Cf. also a "screaming orgasm", "sex on the beach" etc. -yous get the general idea.
-GAA = a man's game (in fact, several); All-Ireland Gaelic games involve for instance batting a ball -and sometimes an opponent- with a great fecking wooden spoon.
-"Gas ticket" = somebody fun, providing joy and a good laugh. “Baby Aibhin is such a gas ticket”, exclaimed her mum “-it’s like having a new telly!”
-“Gaybo” = the venerable Gay Byrne, lifelong host of “The Late Late Show” and amateur motorcyclist.
-"Gedda out of the park!" = you are having a laugh, my dear boy/girl.
-“Gee” = lady’s part (rude).
-The George = gay drinking establishment. Hosts jazz sessions on Sunday afternoons (no, this is not a euphemism for something else).
-“(to) Give out” = to moan, whine, and generally let it all out for a refreshing frank and open.
-Gerry Ryan = inexplicable presence on the radio.
Moving on to
-“Gobshite” = idiot.
-“Good for the goose” = susceptible of sexual conduct as in “Hey dude here comes Aoife -ay caramba!- do you reckon she’s good for the goose?”
-"Good luck!" = goodbye!
-"Good man yourself!" = well done!
-"Goodbye!" = good luck! ...only joking ;-)
-"Grand" = that which is good, fine, and even great.
-Grainne Seoilge = the gods’ gift to TV viewers; Bambi faced newsreader blessed with a peachy complexion and capped with perfect teeth.
And, oh, what an unfortunate juxtaposition we have here with the next term:
-“Ham shanking” = the practice of self-pollution.
-Haughey = see Charlie Haughey.
-“Holiers” = holidays.
-George Hook = mountain of a man who doesn’t half-like pontificating on rugby and presents various programs. Blessed with a sandpapering voice which, once heard, is never forgotten. Everybody loves George Hook.
-"GSOH" = "Going Soft Or Homo" as in "Hey dude, ripped the remake of "Cannibal Holocaust" last night, the one made with children and fluffy little kittens. Huh. Didn't exactly enjoy it, must be GSOH."
-“Hoor” = alarmingly affectionate accolade …made up after the word “whore”. “See (insert your name of choice) –what a cute little hoor!”
-"How's she cutting?" = how do you do. Cf. also "How's she hanging?", "What's the story (bud')!!", "Ah there you are".
-“Howsa.” = how do you do, what’s up bitches?
-"(((((hug)))))" = sending good wishes to someone over the World Wide Web. IMHO, men just love to receive such messages -and talk about getting them to write one themselves!
-"IMHO" = "In My Humble Orifice" -I mean opinion! In My Humble Opinion!
-“It’s all good” = probably appreciative judgement.
-"Jaysus" = Jesus.
-Sinead Jennings = Olympian athlete and trainee nurse from county Donegal who does her country proud.
-Joanne Cantwell = beguiling TV presenter with a little side-smile, a studiously repressed glitter in the eye and an accent that would melt butter at twenty paces.
-"Kecks" = trousers.
-"(we) Know how to enjoy ourselves" = we get piss*d a lot.
-"Know-what-I-mean" = like "actually" and "like", a mandatory part of any Dubliner sentence.
-Liffey = river which, as the saying goes, separates civilisation from the wilderness (please note I am not saying which side’s which).
-“(the) Lights are on but there’s nobody home” = someone not much endowed with powers of reflection. A footballer maybe, or a model?
-"Like." ...Yous may just have heard it uttered occasionally by da-yout-of-today. Pillar of any sentence, never used as a term of comparison. Makes for a nice glottal stop at the end of any proposition like.
-"Like I said" = as I said (Americanism).
-Lillie’s Bordello = select hang-out de rigiour for bad boy types like Colin Farrell or Enya. …Would also benefit from the patronage of wild wacky and wonderful novelists (cough cough).
-LOL = "lots of laughs" or "laughing out loud"; expression of amusement used by texters.
-LOLnot = "laughing out loud -not"; expression of distinct non amusement used by texters.
-"LUAS" = the circular electric tramway.
-“Ma” = Mum.
-"Me" = my. Unless when it means "me".
-M50 = parking space masquerading as circular motorway.
-“Morto” = mortified. “Dude, Eimear gave me the evil eye for whatever reason and I was like, morto!”
-“Mot” = girlfriend.
-Munter = a young lady not blessed with good looks.
-“Muppet” = idiot.
-“Myself” = more often than not, me. An extraordinary amount of people don’t seem to know the difference between “myself” (reflexive) and “me” (accusative) and one gets to see sentences such as “he looked at myself” in newspapers.
-"The NLI" = the National Library of Ireland -fair play to the NLI!
-“Nice little ride” = young person whose pleasing appearance and overall genial demeanour elicit thoughts of a sexual nature. Good in the sack. “Check out Aoife dude, she looks like a nice little ride know-what-I-mean!”
-“Noddies” = female breasts. As in “Gee dude, check the noddies on that little ride! Wouldn’t kick her out of bed if she farted!”
-"NOF" = "Not Office Friendly"; clearly someone who doesn't like offices ...probably someone who prefers working on his/her own. A freelancer.
-"The North Side" = the half of Dublin, a town cut in two by the Liffey river, which is generally considered to be more working-class. This being said, personalities such as Bertie Ahern and The Bono In Person are native Northsiders.
-(Senator) David Norris = flamboyant –well, gay- representative, human rights activist, Joyce scholar and radio personality whose main historic legacy will have been the decriminalisation of homosexuality in the Republic of Ireland.
-"Now then." Warning before any course of action, usually stated when the person sits down.
-"Off The Rails" = the, like, most totally awesome show on the telly which Lily should -by rights!- be fronting (even though it's not very good) instead of that old ******* of ****** ****** ***.
-“On me todd” = on my own.
-"OPW" = Office of Public Works.
-“Pal” = mate.
-Panti Hose = superlative drag-queen (at least seven feet tall) who would have dear-old-Oscar running for the hills. She traditionally hosts the highlight of Dublin’s social calendar: the election of “alternative miss Ireland”.
-Pat Kenny = inexplicable presence on the radio and the television.
-"Plastic Paddy" = accusation levelled at celtic brethren residing abroad daring to be proud of their heritage. The likes of the Pogues, James Joyce or Sinead O'Connor must have all been labelled "plastic Paddies" at some stage.
-Podge and Rodge = foul-mouthed TV puppets beloved of children of all ages. “Talk to me sack!”
-“Poxy” = that which is of inferior quality. Shite.
-“Pulling the devil by the tail” = to be in top form.
-"Rashers" = meat-based product beloved of non-vegetarians.
-(the) Roses of Tralee = talent show for young Celtic ladies selected the world over, the alpha and omega of Irishness. This here chronicler is still waiting for a commission to get there and write the definitive account of it. Takes place in Tralee.
-"ROFL" = Retching On the Floor, Legless -or for the less poetically inclined, Rolling On the Floor Laughing.
-"RTE" = Radio Television Eireann; you could say that the BBC is the UK's RTE.
-"Sambo" = a sandwich. Ouch! Now here is a local expression that would travel badly. The "o" suffix is often used for spoken abbreviations.
-“Scratcher” = bed.
-“(a) Scoby” = some stuff, dat ting.
-Scouldy = rather lacking in cleanliness, one might say. Fecking shite like.
-“Shaking hands with the unemployed” = the act of micturating. “Splashing one’s boots.”
-"a Skanger" = derogatory description of a disreputable young person usually dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a baseball cap.
-"(to) Slag someone" = to slag them off.
"The South Side" = the more opulent and touristic half of Dublin.
-“Spanner” = politically incorrect questioning of someone’s mental ability. Yet another idiot.
-Sprog = a wee little bairn, oh aye. (an infant, not always legitimate)
-"Spuds" = potatoes. The main course of "breakfast" "tea" and "supper" along with MEAT of course (cf. rashers).
-Steaming = intoxicated with alcoholic beverages.
-(a) Straightener = a "hair of the dog" drink ...or a punch administered to the face, the choice is yours.
-"(to be) Sucking diesel" = to be on a roll.
-“Talk-to-Joe” = popular radio program (real name “Liveline”) hosted by Joe Duffy, a man whose voice makes Eamon Dunphy sound like Enya. Ideal for the days when your local newsagent has run out of copies of “The Sun”.
-“Talk to me brown!” = (extremely vulgar) indication of a lack of interest for someone’s forthcoming opinion.
-"(go) Take a long walk off a short pier!" = an invitation to off eff.
-“Tea” = lunch. And tea.
-TCD = Trinity College Dublin.
-TD = Teachta Dala (member of Parliament).
-Temple Bar = drinking district for foreign tourists. Site of cultural institutions such as the IFI (Irish Film Institute), the National Photographic Archive, the Olympia theatre, as well as the organic market (yum!) on Saturdays.
-“Thanks a million” = thank you (no smaller amount will do).
-"That yoke" = anything, really. Anything.
-"The man himself" = your man.
-"To be perfectly honest wid cha" = a Dubliner's start to any sentence.
-"Toodleeoh!" = goodbye.
-"Trinners" = Trinity College for short.
-UCD = University College Dublin.
-UK, the = mysterious neighbouring country less economically advanced whence revellers (male and female) arrive every weekend to drink in Temple Bar.
-"Up the Dubs!" = local exhortation aimed at encouraging the GAA team to go and actually win some fecking thing after twenty-odd years of frustration.
-U2 = popular beat combo.
-VPL = visible panty line. "AMG, "whale tails" are like so last year's VPLs!"
-Louis Walsh = pop music manager responsible for Johnny Logan, “The X Factor”, Westlife, Boyzone and Girls Aloud …and it is sometimes claimed that Aleister Crowley was “the world’s most evil man”!
-"(do you want to) Wake up with a crowd around you?" = do you want to have a go big man? huh? do you? An invitation to engage in fisticuffs and get properly out knocked.
-“(to) Wreck someone’s bonce” = to get on someone’s top bollix, to do their head in.
-XXX = signatory "love and kisses" sign-off. Or, alternatively, hardcore porn.
-"Young Wan" = young woman.
-"Your man" = anyone really, anyone -except your actual man. Who is being talked about, the man on the street, etc..



All expressions personally penned by Uma o'Gil (all rights reserved, oh aye).


---------------- Prologue (Funeral Of The Season) ---------------

-Moira: "And off we go now to Victoria Gardens for a very special live coverage of this week's Social Funeral brought to you by Carterouge Casinos -"Gambling is fun with Carterouge Casinos"- and to present this program Ladies 'n Gentlemen who better than please be upstanding for here he comes your host the man himself may I give you in person Derek Whelan! ... Over to you Derek."
-Derek: "Moira."
-Moira: "Derek."
-Derek: "Moira.
For yes indeeeeed -and a very good afternoon to yous all- this is Derek Whelan speaking, 'hope you're feeling grand -myself am smashing super, thanks for asking!-, Derek Whelan on the mike then welcoming yous to this week's Social Funeral "The Biiiiig One" as we find ourselves peering through the gate at the gooooorgeous summer residence of TV celebrity Madleen "Mads" Koszak. We are gathered here today at this very place to pay tribute to mark the passing of her latest husband -or should I say ex-latest husband, ha ha- property developer Dermot McFergus. Dermot, you may recall, is best remembered for giving Dublin a decisive hand -and a finger as well!- onto the ladder to its world class status ah yes by razing to the ground its unsightly tower blocks (tss tss!) and building instead these deliiightful McFergus Stables Co. Inc. Ltd. which are a credit to our great horse-racing nation." (breathes) "As well as the "Liffey Riviera" golf course of course -for it was he, the man behind the brains for the "Liffey Riviera"!! Out-stan-ding simply out-stan-ding such is your man's legacy:
he was unafraid, it was incredible.
You know -I'll tell you some'- people come up to me in the street -they come from all walks of life too- they tell me: "Derek, I was born here right? I grow up here... maybe forty years, forty-five at the max (I'm only thirty-nine OK?), I grew up here... and I'll tell you what now pal: it's like a different place today, thanks to good Mr. McFergus!!" And yes indeed a different place it most certainly is... Why, myself in person have spent many a happy hour shooting, er, shots onto the almond Riviera green: bull's eye! straight into the hole! trebles all round! But enough about me, let us come together and -for today off all days -and in a very real sense, for the last one literally-- it's all about Dermot: we don't come here just to celebrate him but to bury him.
So now he is gone, quite literally he's yesterday's... how truly sad. And now my friends, now we're mourning him, today our collective efforts are resting him to the ground where he will belong -amen to that! I don't mind telling yous, friends, back here in our van stationed outside Mads' s mansion, there's not a dry eye in the house -fortunately Derek Whelan is on the case -oh yes we sure are- and yous my friends -yous- are in for a special treat hell yeah, as we'll cover every single minute starting from the first second of our Dermot's special last day, I'll tell yous what truly: what a treat we have in store for you! So unhook the phone, loosen up the belt, grab a pizza for reinforcement, and don't you dare go anywhere for the next two hours -don't even think of nodding off! No toilet break allowed -think clever, recycle your bottle of soda!! No, butseriously, don't go anywhere and you won't miss a minute of the ceremony! Dermot McFergus's Big Funeral! It's on TTE -and we've got it live!
(little jingle)
The action, the reactions, the full Monty, comment by yours truly, it's all happening -and it's about to kick off right-about-now! Just look who's here who's decided to join us, the stars are out en force to celebrate Dermot's passing -surely you'll want to know, surely you want to tell your colleagues tomorrow around the cookie jar: who has answered the call? who will be missing? and what oh what will they be wearing? Well we're just about to find out!!!!!1LOLXXX
As soon as we get the live feed, we'll even throw in the actual sermon delivered by Father De Visis -no less! My ears on the ground already tell me that it will mainly consist of Revelations 23.69.123 "and ye shall beget that which is humble unto ye forthwith yea God so there here endeth Ezebaiah's seed", ingenuously mixed with some excerpts from Dermot's very own "Autobiography" (his third one that is, available in all good shops or if not at Clondalkin's library): Dermot McFergus-"Myself". Who would have thought eh? Rags to riches... rashers to oil rigs... -and yet the most sinceeere devotion to Our Lord the Saviour -that was our Dermot all right! Blessed be the man evermore as millions of Dubs already cross themselves at the mere mention of his name and the slightest of sights of his stables!!! but first..., first let's hand over to Moira for a quick recap of the forthcoming proceedings -don't know about yourselves folks, but I myself can hardly wait!
Moira."
-Moira: "Derek."
-Derek: "Over to you."
-Moira "Over to me.
Right, for those of yous who've only joined us, we are now bringing yous the premium coverage of Dermot McFergus' s very own funeral. For Dermot McFergus was not just a renowned renovator of that great city of Dublin -and a brilliant mind at that-, he was also a devout Catholic. An industry baron, a builder, and yet a humble believer. His family has therefore insisted on a proper religious ceremony with all the trimmings and gold tassel which we will share with you lot in as much as the Parish will let us film. This will constitute the first part of today's events.
We'll then cross over to the burial grounds themselves in order to bring yous the actual laying down to earth -all the way down- thanks to our exclusive Camcopter for a better view of the action, followed by the reactions of sampled well-wishers. We then hope to be able to talk to Mads herself for some precious quality time: what must go through her mind at this moment in time, how will she cope without multimillionaire Dermot's loving presence, and what are her plans for her future alongside her adopted male model of a son? All this and much more ...in some moments' time.
We will then conclude our coverage with a quick voxpop of the man on the street as to what the passing of Dermot McFergus exactly means to him. (This may be shortened though for technical reasons -and whether we can find anyone speaking English.) But first with your friendly hosts for this prestigious event. To help us along the proceedings of what promises to be the funeral of the season so far, let's go straight to our very own Shoe Correspondent Belinda Savage sitting alongside Derek. Belinda."
-Belinda: "Moira."
-Moira: "Belinda. Afternoon-to-you and how-are-you-keeping."
-Belinda: "I'm doing grand thank you Moira. Shoe Expert actually if you don't mind ...not all of us can be -whatchallit- "Haircut Specialist", see."
-Moira: "Huh, that's right, not everyone can tell the difference between a Paris Cumblast highlights and a Colm Bald Iroquois can one. Which I guess doesn't matter when one is required to describe people from a distance right?"
-Belinda: "Right."
-Moira: "For sure."
-Belinda: "For real."
And this is why you are in the studio and I am the one in the filmomobile at this moment in time -End of. This point of detail having been clarified for the benefit of our lovely viewers, we can turn our thoughts to today's exciting occasion, to what is already being billed as the Funeral of the season. Forget the "Santa Amorosa"'s duelling stars' crisscross acid bath and electrified toilet seat double demise, Linda McMac's little boy drowning or even little old miss Brady being gunned down to shit this, my friends, this is tipped to be the one to look out for! Who will be there, who's wearing what, what generous sponsors have they conveyed to the occasion -everything you're dying to know (especially the lowdown on the deep and dirty) will be revealed.
With me today to mark this occasion, I am very honoured to have alongside me a superduper host who needs no introduction. (Groan, ten bucks say she's about to introduce him!) He is the man of a hundred openings, a thousand cocktails, a million infospecials on footballers' arrests: Mr. Derek Whelan!! And may I just say, Derek, what an absolute honour it is to be literally sitting in your actual company on a day like this like."
-Derek: "Why thank you kindly Belinda, good girl yourself, that's rrrright!, for indeed it is only little old me on the mike ...as Moira already told our lovely audience a moment ago."
-Belinda: "And aren't they lovely -Hello audience, we love you big whoo-ooh! LOL!!"
-Derek: "Now then now then, let's not get carried away Belinda, for we have serious business at hand..."
-Belinda: "Indeed we have Derek, indeed we have, for we are presently passing the mourning of er, our host today. Dergal McFergus."
-Derek: "Dermot. And so, like I was after saying, the stars are out en force today to celebrate -nay: to commiserate- all the biggest names in the country, they done us proud, they have a heart of gold -and we've got them all for yous exclusively! My my my, let's get started already if we haven't... who can I spot out there with my little eye if it isn't sex symbol Fran Cosgrave -the man in person! Accompanied by flamboyant designer Keith Drugby ("flamboyant": know what I mean here? Nudge nudge wink wink!); here we can see, also, heiress to Duffy Sausages mizz Susan Duffy, fresh from her well-deserved vacation in the Maldives. And then TV funnyman Baz the Boz (usually seen sparring on our channel with equally hilarious Jonathan Woss and Chrissy Moyles); TV soap diva Cillian Brandon; maneater shoe expert Tina McNamara (still in search of a catch-phrase); suave Keith Duffy -looking very relaxed in a casual cashmere polo if I may say so; role model for the children Deco Byrne (he plays inside left-back for Shelbourne Rovers that's who), and many many more oh what a turn-up!"
-Belinda: "Many many more for sure -talking of Derek, isn't it Claudie McBride I see out there chatting to Father Debifis?"
-Derek: "Tis indeed Belinda (well spotted our kid) 'tis Claudie McBride, Rob Duffy's girlfriend herself, resplendent in her salmon tracksuit from his hat-trick last weekend -and don't forget the hat! Our Claudie sports a er, deep green hat thingy with gold chains whipping her forehead -very street. Right now, she's deep in talk with Father De Bisis so we can't sadly call out to her and ask her how Rob is doing. Aw shucks, how so very touching... Claudie certainly looks like she's able to hold her own isn't our Claudie, check the way she's blowing breeze into the holy man's face with not a care in the world!"
-Belinda: "Isn't she she is. Could it be -and I'm vocalising aloud here- could it be she's more than a pair of double D reinforced? I would love to know what Robbie has to say about her conversation though, ah these muscular hairy legs and gigantic feet... -but enough about her, he's not too bad either. Who else are we told is in attendance today...: oh yes, camp champ Brian "Big Brother" Dowling; Daddy's daughter Peaches Dullup -the very one who adds her signature to these distressing shopping-lists of claptrap writes these fascinating and well-informed columns for "The Indo" as only a sassy 12 year old could; Tessa Turlington-Thawthorpe enjoying a joke with DJ Crassman; ex-Justice Minister Malcolm McDowell; diminutive jockey Jock McFerguson; still no sign of any black person; convicted murderer sensation Willo Byrne -ah the power of a new haircut!"
-Derek: "A new haircut for one -and a good aul' hankies-out TV confession exclusive for two! Indeed, lest we forget, Willo's "My Bad" was the second highest rating on prime-time national cable TV for the evening last week -beat that, Seamus Heaney! Anyway so here he is, all cried out, enjoying a joke with topless model Lisa Burlington-Thornley -who by the way, is not displaying her magnificent breasts today since -she tells us via this morning's LUAS paper- "noone offered to cough up" and at this stage I really must say, I say, that surely we have to rightfully curse whichever swine it is who refused to give her her due and let her entertain us in the manner we've been accustomed to! ...Is what I says."
-Belinda: "Spot on Derek. Good point well made."
-Derek: "But seriously Belinda you tell me: tell our viewers what is the point of a topped-up topless model? Huh? Has this world gone simply mad? It'd be like a soccer player uprooted from his pitch! a member of the opposite sex sober!"
-Belinda: "Or trying to understand an American filum plot when you haven't seen its trailer! What is the point!"
-Derek: "What is the point! Well I ask you then"
-Belinda: "?? Well I don't know Derek, I'm not too sure...???"
-Derek: "That's right: we just can't tell! It is not on! Oh I don't know Belinda, it seems to me, seems to me like what we're experiencing here is a total lack of respect for our celebrated tarts -let's break it down for the masses: let me ask you this yous all: how do you expect our small country to compete with the big boys out there and develop our very own Anna Nicole Smith ...when we have to suffer this flagrant attack of monetary correctness? Eh??"
-Belinda: "I'm fecked if I know the answer to that! I must admit, you got me here, Derek. You are so right though: surely in this-day-n-age, our children could do with some positive role models don't they? So, like, to deprive a page three girl of her natural beauty -that's like nothing short of well mean innit! LOLnot right mean! I hear you good Derek, your game is strong here: if I get you right, we want to ask: what kind of an example is this setting? It's like robbing our children of them future!"
-Derek: "Like totally, Belinda, like totally -and it drives me fumes! So there she is, is our Lizzie, fannying about like la-di-dah, see me guzzling the Cointreau, see me nibbling these tiny weenie rashers canapés -having a gay old time have we?! And then look at them just look at them: two of the most famous breasts in the Republic: still covered up at this stage of the game -that is brutal is what!"
-Belinda: "Too right you are! You tell 'em Dezz!"
-Derek: "Oh well mustn't grumble -and it's Derek to you there's a good lass-, I suppose we'll have to make do with plastic surgery disaster Marta Gronbowicz then. And there she is, hanging round by the poolside bar -point that camera at her will you! Marta is currently displaying her fifth nose job -this month, it is modelled after "a playful young cub" we are told. And very nice it is too."
-Belinda: "That's right Derek, earlier thish year I can exclusively reveal that Marta went for a "cheekbone readjustment procedure" in order to resemble Natalia (?) Kinski. Or so she thought." (Laughs.) "As we all know, she ended up looking like a housewife after your man's team has lost on penalties!"
-Derek (laughing): "Oh how we laughed indeed, but even that was nothing compared to her earlier attempt to beat the world record of beehive stung lips! Oh happy days!"
-Belinda: "Happy days indeed Derek, I still get wet thinking about it... half-hours upon half-hours of infotainment footage! Classic!"
-Derek: "Good old Marta eh... still officially 33 after all these years, top girl..."
-Belinda: "She'll outlive us all Derek, she'll outlive us all..."
-Derek: "If she makes it to the next round though. Which reminds me of our super offer: throughout the whole of this program, we have an exciting competition for your good selves to enjoy!"
-Belinda: "Indeed we have oh lucky yous! An exciting competition, should be a good one! But tell us more Derek, quick quick!"
-Derek: "Right then here comes. Pay attention. In association with Blurp Insurance -"Blurp Insurance, the power to"-, TTE offers you the opportunity to spend a romantic evening at l'Escriteuuur Restaurant in Ballybollix Creek with a full meal for two"
-Belinda: "Fancy!?!"
-Derek: "a whole full meal (wine not included) on the week night of your choice and all you have to do to win yourself this fabulous prize is... tell us the name of the town that which's been so wonderfully revitalised by the departed (Dermot McFergus that is). Is it... Limerick? Dublin? or Timbuktu? Get your answer at the number which should be appearing on your screen, low-call tariff applies if local. Best luck yourselves, and don't forget Blurp Insurance -"the power to".
Sometimes fun is the hardest thing to bear.
"But who is it I can now see with my little eye -no, not that one you filthy mind ha ha- enjoying a stroll with socially pitiable dyslexic Martin Connolly? Could it be Paula Brummingham the famed temptress? Rrrrr, Paula you femme fatale you!! But noooo... I'm not so sure now... ah maybe not on second thought. Huh. Could it be Tallaght transvestite Dickless Tracey then? Hmmmm neither... (godfeckindammit) -now saddle me on a pushbike with a groceries bag marked "KwikSave" and drop me in the NorthSide for all to see, but I'm afraid I can't actually recognise the young lady presently fannying about next to the society sanctioned Connolly! ...!!!... Cripes how annoying. ...Any idea Belinda?"
-Belinda: "Dear me Derek, you're putting me on a hot spot here, cos' feck me in a hole if I can tell. Now then let's see... Is not wild child Lara Trompton-Mewsley is it? No. She's not kicking any waitress. Or maybe sizzling rehab breakout Saskia Cahill? No neither is: can't see no dangling joint in evidence. Like boo yo! Total LOLnot! Well I.. surely it couldn't be... surely not an unknown?!" (horrified gasp)
-Derek: "Ah don't be being silly now Bels, this is a sombre occasion here -I'll tell you what though, we'll leave it at that and pretend that I myself 've been left floundering for once. ... Only joking: I'm sure one of our inside people out there working the staff will be able to find out from the riffraff the name of the intruder. Capisce? There's a fiver in the offing."
-Belinda: "What an inspired suggestion Derek! Like, totally fresh! But you know what Derek? I'm thinking. I've just realised: there is no way Blondie here can be a downclass: if she actually managed to get in in the first place she must be, like, you know, worth it? -if she managed it like yeah?"
-Derek: "By George you're right Bels lass! The very least she must have got up to to gain admission must have been to -ooh I don't know myself- sleep with half the security. A-ha! Have we got a sexscandal on our hands or what?! Just fancy that, friends and viewers: a steamy sordid sexscandal in this day of all days! Eros and tornadoes! Could this be for real??"
-Belinda: "Oooh I am shivering all over! But who on Earth could be so sexmad and determined? Who could be so outrageous? Who who who?? That is like so totally!"
-Derek: "Couldn't agree more with you Belinda ...especially since I entertained the thought myself -but obviously I couldn't say too much could I. Now we at TTE have a mission to uphold, standards to maintain. Our valued viewers know us -that's why they grant us the honour of their custom. And they know that we don't want to be pushing the envelope off the table in this day of all days, they know that we can't be fanning the flames -our viewers' probity is a credit to us. So there you see Belinda, it turns out there's a bit of shenanigan going on at McDermot mansion, a bit of "how's your father" that sort of carry-on. Well we'll take note. That's what we'll do, we'll just take note. Whose business is it anyway and all these sorts of things.
...Still we at TTE, we take our mission very serious, very serious indeed. And at this case in point, I think you will agree Belinda"
-Belinda: "I agree Derek"
-Derek: "Hang on sweetie I'm not finished -I think you will agree that our viewers need to be informed don't they. They need to be told of what's what is going on; like what it is that is actually going on within these walls; what is there that they're kept in the dark about from by with the other channels; who the hell is this woman; what sordid details did she get up to; when will this typical hysterical feministic political correctness ever end and on and on and on -Wouldn't you say I have a point here?"
-Belinda: "Oh absolutely Derek. Like totally."
-Derek: "Why thank you little lady. So what I'm saying here, what I'm saying here is this: let's our reason keep for once, and let's for the sake of the argument replace the matter in its proper context shall we? to be known namely as such:" (pause) "if this foxy peroxide blonde is currently squeezing the vinegar strokes out our very own dyslexic Marty -as is totally her right in a free country-, then who knows what else is going on out there -underneath our own noses! It is our responsibility -nay, our duty- to inform on such matters -and that's out of respect for our audience."
-Belinda: "Absolutely Derek, we're duty bounded." (Deep sigh, let it pass. Can't be seen visibly twitching, let's pretend I haven't heard that last bit.) "Oh but isn't that... the man himself, leading his famous castrated panda pet up the garden path?"
-Derek: "Who's that?"
-Belinda: "The scourge of celebrities!! Baz Guhrnam?!??!! What's he doing here, I would of thought that he was banned!*"
* Bernard "Baz" Guhrnam, born 04/28/71 in Melbourne (Australia), founder of the "Capit'all" paparazzi photo agency. Guhrnam first came to prominence with his aggressive chasing of celebrity pictures. He is credited with inventing the "snatch-it" genre through his own notorious celebrity magazine/website "Snatch", specializing in stolen pictures of harassed celebrities, often taken in highly personal circumstances (including on the toilet), on the grounds that celebrities are by definition public property. Another notorious feature of these publications consisted in engineering scuffles with the celebrities deliberately provoked by a "Snatch" employee. Although highly criticised, his magazine enjoyed continued and spectacular commercial success; it grew in aggression and scope (targeting politicians as well as athletes and artists) in spite of -or thanks to- high profile court cases. "Snatch" spawned "Puss" and "Chick", similar kinds of publications devoted to celebrities' offspring -often as young as a few days old. Its success inspired a wave of derivative and often anonymous publications/websites that in turn fell foul of the law, leading to drastic legal changes in the UK. Guhrnam's death (31/13/07), although officially attributed to drug-related causes, has been the subject of controversy in its own right with his estate and conspiracy websites claiming he had been the subject of foul play.
-Derek: "Ah but there you see Bels, the man Baz is a celebrity in his own right truth be told: why, he sells millions, he's got every right! -Besides, and I should like to imagine, better have him on your side than on your back right? (cough cough). These mavericks eh... lovable rogues they are! See Belinda, Mads inviting him is probably a highly clever move as a matter of fact, she may want to keep herself in the self-proclaimed King Of Yellow Slebreporting's good books, makes sense to me -surely he won't be biting her by the proverbial hand? Fair play to her then!"
-Belinda: "Fair play to you! I'm not convinced though... ah well what do I know, it's not like, say for the sake, I got snapped sharing a man's toilet is it? Only kidding. I like his pink DocMartens though; I think they're quite sexy actually. Talking of invites," (giggling silly) "and maybe I shouldn't mention this but... funny that but I don't see Michael O'Leary or Heather McCartney nowhere... Could it be they didn't get an invite? Who would have thinked?!"
-Derek (giggling himself): "Oh but you're a terrible girl Belinda Savage now then now then, don't be pushing it will you -let's not go there!"
-Belinda: "No let's not go there."
-Derek: "Let's not go there. Phew... Oh my oh my... Michael O' Leary eh... (!!!) But you know what though Belinda, with all this commotion I almost got thinking, I have to point out there's only one thing..."
-Belinda: "Yes Derek what is it?"
-Derek: "Well actually, believe it or not, ...we still haven't caught a glimpse of the widow herself!"
-Belinda: "Ohmygod you are so right you are so right, I nearly forgotten about our Mads! Mads!! Like helllo whatever already -she's our one and only?!?!! Where must she be right now? Is she ready yet? I wonder what must go through her mind at this stage of the game obviously she must be utterly devastated! Huh, what must she be thinking right now you reckon Derek? "Let's get this show on the road" or something huh?"
Get ready to switch to camera 3 on the signal...
-Derek: "And just as we mention Mads, look but who's making her entrance right now... None other but, talk about perfect timing!"
You heard the man...
-Derek: "Looking -I have to say- absolutely fabulous, here comes the widow walking up the garden path... As much as we can make out, she looking every inch the perfect A-lister that she is; class eh, you can't buy it!"
-Belinda: "Mads is wearing a Jimy Chou hand-knit woolly dress, with a Donna Coran pecari hide handbag, a Bukkake handkerchief up her left sleeve, and two Rothko double-laced no-heels flat shoes."
-Derek: "I say Belinda, how impressive, don't be showing off now!"
-Belinda: "...or so my cards tell me. Dunnit."
-Derek: "(cough cough) I'm sure you're right here, I'm sure you're right. On the money, it's where we like to be at TTE! We of course hope to be able to corner Mads later on and get her very first reaction to her impressions -some hell of an exclusive not to be missed I dare say! But for the moment, for the moment she's only doing the rounds getting expressions of sympathy from her invited well-wishers. And have we got a surprise for yous dear viewers: for we've managed to get ourselves a lip-reader in order to decipher these!!"
-Belinda: "No?!>??"
-Derek: "Yes!!!"
-Belinda "Far out Derek! Fair play to us!!?!"
-Derek: "heh heh indeed, we ain't half pleased at TTE, for we are right on the ball here at "Social Funeral" make no mistake, no expenses cut for us oh no, no corner shaved when it comes to informing our lovely viewers. One-nil to TTE!! Now then. Hello lip-reader, welcome to the program, and your name is...?"
-Gassarian: "Gassarian."
-Derek: "?? Gassarian that's..." (laughing) "doesn't sound quite Irish does it? I take it you weren't born within the walls of Rathmines were you now?"
-Gassarian: "Actually Derek I've been living here for the last twenty years. My parents emigrated from"
-Derek: "OK OK I'm sure they were right so -Gossarian... what can you tell us the reception guests are, er, telling each other?"
-Gassarian: "Well. Now let me see....... Hmm.... hmm... right..., hmm... OK. This gentleman here, with the red feather boa on his green suit"
-Belinda: "I think you'll find that's TV funnyman Damian if you want to know. ...I think he's quite sexy actually."
-Gassarian: "Right then, TVfunnyman Damian, well he was after saying just now to Madleen "I'm very sorry for your loss.""
-Derek: "Did he?"
-Gassarian: "He did, and he's just repeated himself now, "oh yes, very sorry for your loss"; he's now adding "all my sympathies go to you and your family.""
-Belinda: "Really? Not even a quick joke?"
-Gassarian: "None that I can see. Maybe you would like to hear what Madleen replied?"
-Derek: "By all means Grossarian, you go ahead."
-Gassarian: "She said "why, thank you kindly Damo.""
-Belinda: "Huh that's just sh"
-Derek: "(fan)TAStic! That's just fantastic! Isn't it amazing dear viewers is it not? to be able to penetrate the intimacy of your favourite stars, like just I said: that's fantastic! Utterly wonderful -like yous were all here with us. With them, that is. Why thank you, Grozarian, any more exciting revelation? What's the word on the catwalk of mourning? Do tell do tell, we are all ears!"
-Gassarian: "Right er....... Miss Koszak is now saying to the 40-something lady in the leather tutu "how lovely to see you... how wonderful. Glad you could rake it -rake it?"
-Derek: "Fantastic! Isn't it fantastic dear viewers? Such humility, such grace -she is just like that is our Mads, a right trooper she is, man of the people as it were, with a kind word for everyone and a nice gesture for each -my oh my, it's like she's down on their level! Magic. No wonder she got voted "the nicest person in the whole world" at a recent weekly "McDermotCulcha" awards -she's simply class."
-Belinda: "She's the people's Personality she is!!"
-Derek: "Amen to that! Well I don't know about you Belinda, but I myself I do like her -I think she's ace"
-Belinda: "Too fecking right you are!!!"
-Derek: "Ah yes that's me opinion and I'll stick by it. In these sad days of no manners -no manners and crass vulgarity-, Mads "Madleen" Koszak stands out like a beacon of light and we could do worse than take example on her so there. But back to the revelations, tell us oh tell us er... Rozarian (??), what 'she saying right now what she saying? Our viewers can hardly wait! In our teleobjective we can see her deep in converse with the Bishop, what 'she telling him right now? Myself am dying to know!"
-Gassarian: "Well Derek she is er...... couldn't quite catch the start of her sentence sadly but... something about getting it (?) over and done with double quick, she's already late, needs to dash off to Sky TV for a"
-Derek: "Thank you Gozarian that will be all, I think the last thing we need right now is we don't want to delve too much into Mads's private grief at this difficult moment in her life as it happens things can be quite painful and I guess I suppose you need to respect that Zarian and show a little respect if you don't mind you peeping tom for who is after all -and as Belinda so gracefully put it- the People's favourite so."
...
-Gassarian: "Er sure... sure, unquestionably, I didn't mean to"
-Derek: "Thankyou. Thankyou that will be all. And I think that, actually as chance has it, we'll have to take a break now -but stay with us, we'll be right back- as it's time for the news headline. Don't switch over, plenty more to come where these came from. But first... the news headlines with Clio Hartbyrne. Clio."
-Clio: "Thank you Derek.
*****
"The news headlines at fifteen past on TTE. In an announcement made less than 24 hours ago set to rock the music world to its very foundations, it has been suggested that the Spice Girls might reform for a "greatest tits" tour. When asked about the possibility of having the most respected group since the Beatles perform the likes of "Lovin' you Lovin' me", "Let's Go Shopping" and "Wham Bam Moo" in Dublin anytime soon, a spokesman for their bank was understandably coy and refused to elaborate, hinting at every clear chance of this taking place in the possible future. / It's official: Anna Nicole Smith will be buried next to her son. The pneumatic super -super- supermodel who recently sensationally died will be buried next to her son, a judge has decided. More on this, and the judge's actual name, exclusively in our news bulletin at three. / "Officially Sexiest 63-going-on-65 Woman In The World" Helen Mirren battles it out with Dame Judi over drama Bafta this evening in London. Helen Mirren is hotly tipped to beat the old crow. / Manchester United are preparing for the first leg of their semi-quarter finals of the HMV McDonald's MasterCard Euro Championship DeLuxe against Sporting Katowice -the "Mighty Reds" are said to be feeling reasonably confident. However, manager Alex Ferguson has stressed the need to "take each game as they come" and "show their opponents respect". / Saint Mary Joseph Orphanage childabuse sexscandal: priests deny any involvement in the alleged rape and abuse and molestation and sexual exploitation and assault and mistreatment of hundreds of mentally ill patients over a period of fifty years. An open inquiry has been urged for the delectation of the general public, all the details of the case to follow. / The weather this morning: generally sunny with frequent showers, early frost might be expected at some stage. Night to fall later. / Last night's Lottery numbers: 0, 6, 9, 33, 64, 75, 89. No winner has been declared yet.
All that coming up in just some moments' time, but first very quickly, the rest of the news headlines: "the world in 30 seconds":
The Iraq fuckup. Following Saddam's hanging, President W has declared himself "very happy"" (excerpt from a press conference by the President of the United States of America: "I am very happy.") "Our political commentator Sean Doherty will commentate on what W's comment can possibly mean; UK Prime Minister Tony, for one, didn't lose time in commending President W's optimism for the future of Iraq (excerpt from UK's Tony Blair's press conference: "and I say this onto you I want to make this very clear of this there can be no doubt no doubt whatsoever from every fibre of my heart this is the people's Prime Minister speaking that we've always been very clear on that and we need to send a strong message a clear signal for in a very real sense and this I desperately believe -this is what it's all about.") / Stem cells debate: thebushadministration has forbid the use of stem cells in medical research and (Bush government for FUCK's sake! I never knew civil servants could be so influential!!) has warned scientists the world over about their possible involvement in this godless technology. It will not be tolerated. / Inflation at an all-time high in Ireland: after the 0.2 % barrier over the course of the last six months was reached, the Opposition has accused the government of "driving this country to the dogs" and is calling for early elections. / Earthquake strikes in India: thousands feared dead, millions homeless. / And finally, global warming controversy: global warming has been hotly denied by some sources.
More on the Saint Mary Joseph Orphanage childabuse sexscandal and the rest of the news -at three o'clock. Moira."
*****
-Moira: "Thank you Clio. And that was the news headlines at two thirty. We can now return to our main feature, the Social Funeral of the week, with our special commentator Derek Whelan ...as well as our exclusive reporter Belinda Savage who is presiding over this wreck. Well as long as every sleb in the country is not B-planning out of this Social Special...! T'would be a shame to miss out on such top-notch A-listers now wouldn't it? Then again, I guess our great leaders know what they're doing right? I mean, it's not like the upstairs room would call on someone who couldn't even tell the name of Wazza's current toy boy on last week's "TV Will Eat Itself" gameshow would they?"
-Belinda: "Ooh-er get 'er!! -just because that one escaped me momentarously big fecking deal! And where were you, Moira, during that seminal moment when Naomi in person slipped on the catwalk and nearly stumbled eh? Do remind us who was on hand to report on that ha!"
-Moira: "Well I... funny you should mention that, ginger roots, because I actually, I have Nams on in my "Haute Couture Against Racism Exposé Special" next month missy! She happens to be one of my very best friends she is, we go way back, you sugarcheeks. Oops. Sorry -Didn't mean to let your oral specialty out of the bag."
-Derek: "Ladies ladies, I say, do be stopping it! Right now!! ...or else I might just start to enjoy it! Hmm right, heh heh -this is all part of an act viewers, didn't you know? This is all a bit of panto! Our Bels and Minnie here -they get on great like a schoolbus on fire in real life they do -isn't that right ladies?"
Except they don't say that do they; they say "who is at this present moment in time reporting from Victoria Garden where a very old man is being buried. Over to you Derek."
-Derek: "Much obliged Moira."
-Moira: "Good man yourself."
-Derek: "And so we continue our coverage of the Koszak funeral -or rather her husband's- I was just after remarking Belinda -and I don't mean to come across all sanctimonious or level-headed, me- how utterly dignified everyone has been behaving throughout the ceremony: not a word higher than the other, not a cough, not even a discreet fart during the sermon -quite impressive, really. Why, some would say our hosts look like they've been bodytrained and PR'd for the occasion!"
-Belinda: "That's right Derek, and it would seem our mourners have been rehearsed big time -then again, this is already the sixth Social Funeral of the season so I guess they're getting the hang of it by now at this stage of the game."
These two can't stand the smell of each other, they've been at the Chief Ed's throat and kecks for days in order to get this gig! Belinda may be as light-headed as Ozzie beer but she ain't no mug when it comes to enhancing her profile oh no: got the work done on old Jessie dinnt she! and see her now, fannying about on prime-time crap -result! The bint will go places. (If only for five minutes though.) As for Derek, God have mercy on us with this sad clown. Only last week he managed to get himself caught with the make-up queen. The moron's not even gay, he's just trying to make himself look interesting, he knows the game is up for him and is dying to make it through to the central pages while he still may -sadly for him, even these bottom feeders aren't biting.
-Derek: "Which reminds me Belinda, this global warming lark... I'm not saying anything here right? but come to think of it, I seem to remember distinctly, growing up as a bright lad all of these years ago -go on girl, you're supposed to jump in and protest that it wasn't so long ago ha ha- well anyway, growing up as one does on the farm, I remember how summers used to be quite warm actually. Quite warm indeed... Now I'm not suggesting anything here mind, just basic facts of personal remembrance. But there you go. Global warming they claim? Just moving on."
-Belinda: "Absolutely. Absolutely I would have to reinforce with you here Derek, it's like there would be periods like, really warm right? and then like totally cold!"
-Derek: "These would be called seasons Belinda. But never mind -now look who's here! Who could it be who's making his grand entrance -even if a slightly late, not?- in the villa's built-in church, if none other than rebel chef Jean-Baptiiiste DeLaRue the man himself! Accompanied by the lovely Anastacia, Anastacia (sic) who exclusively revealed to us last week how it felt to be left outside of love (the poor thing got a cold is what). Jean-Baptiste DeLaRue then... who clearly couldn't find the time to comb his rebel hair, see him Belinda: his trademark half-quiff: all over the place!"
-Belinda: "I find it quite sexy actually."
-Derek: "...Right. At this stage of the game -I'll tell you what Belinda-, I feel a bit cheeky here, I feel almost tempted to bring in Moira, Moira are you here? are you receiving? Could you define for us -in your own "professional expertise" heh heh- the current style of Jean-Baptiste's rebel hair? How would you call it?"
-Moira: "Derek."
-Derek: "Moira."
-Moira: "Derek, well 'seems to me, our Jean-Bapt' here is opting for a, er, new strand of rebel hair in accordance with his status as a rebel super-chef, low on constricting structural bouffant, high on impetuosity and innovation. Hints of nonchalonce, shades of creativity -this is a man in a hurry, and not one for conventions. Typically Gallic I'd say."
-Derek: "Blimey. "Impetuosity yet nonchalonce" -isn't that spot-on though dear viewers? Why you're on fire today Moira you really are, dead on the money! I don't mind telling you, in all modesty: even I couldn't have put it any better meself! ...Would you, Belinda?"
-Belinda: "!?!?? Like yes! absolutely! -absolutely I wouldn't have, no; absolutely not, oh yeah!"
Hello hello, what's going on here? Fifteen - love by the sound of it, new set of balls for your man!
-Derek: "You know what Belinda, that just reminded me: you know Jean-Baptiiiiste's smash-hit programme -on TTE naturally- "Chef Challenge Ultimate" -you know the one yes? well I was once asked to take part in it, you remember?"
-Belinda: "Er... 'course I do, and you were great you were"
-Derek: "it was last year for charidee: the "Children In Need All-Day" TTE special featuring little old me and a whole bunch of celebrities -what happened is, we were asked to take up the Jean-Baptiste Challenge Ultimate. What we had to do is, we had to help prepare a meal for Northside children in tracksuit bottoms no less! Jean-Baptiste himself was involved, guiding us through the kitchen in his chequered pantaloons and rebel hair... Well I don't mind telling you Bels: it was simply the harshest hour of my life it was! Absolute nightmare!! That day alone I learnt so much from life and -quite frankly-, I now take my hat off to any chef who can rustle up a meal in a kitchen. Art form and no mistake."
-Belinda: "How right you are Derek, like totally. Jean-Bapt is quite sexy actually."
.......... And what about Clio, come a long way has our Clio. Only five years ago she is planning to produce some conscience raising features that will make your man sit up and take notice she tells me over coffee; she wants to uncover and expose, outVeronica Guerin Veronica Guerin (minus the lead in the head, mind!) -and here she is, five years later, reading the news headlines, employed to inject enthusiasm into that crap. Well I suppose at the end of the day someone has to, it's all in the presentation, all in the whipping up -fair fucks to her if she's able to make it sound right! "Your man goes into rehab -great! / Your man checks out -fab!" ...it's all in the whipping up all right. No fade out, just a straight cut: "...and so I suppose, in a very real sense, wouldn't it be fair to say that Dermot, like, revolutionised the Dublin skyline?"
-Whoever: "Oh absolutely Derek, like totally. And I would even add that, without him, Dublin wouldn't be what it is today now, what with his contribution you know? Oh yes, how many times did I myself remark on it! I grow up in the city... I see it change way beyond recognition! It's like this Derek, every day I drive up to my gallery on Leeson St. -we're doing grand, thank you- I reflect on these changing times we're going through... I take stock. In fact, what our sadly missed Dermot actually done here, is that he's taken stock himself of these changing times that are evolving ...and he's effected them, in his own way. He's gone, like, unashamedly proactive about it and he's pushed the envelope rrrrright off the table -with outstanding results I think we'll all agree! A full 21 holes golf course by the Liffey I mean... who would have thought of it yeah?"
In his own way, Derek's a pro and a half: see him milk this small beer for hours, truly the man has got no shame. Some people are like that though: silver tongue stylists, piss artists of the highest order. They take to freestyling as dogs take to vomit, it comes to them naturally and they lap it up til we run out of tape.
-Derek: "You are so right here I mean: a golf course smack in the heart of Dublin -what an inspired idea!"
And so on and so forth. Stand-by for the church bit, this is about time.
-Derek: "...this is "not technically legal" -it's not certainly not Kosher either ha ha!- but we've managed to stick a mike inside the church earlier on last night, and we should be able to catch yous some juicy bits from Father De Bisis's eulogy: what do you think of that eh!!! The holy man himself in his own words! .......If our technos can be bothered to turn it up a bit that is... Aaaah there you go, I know you can barely contain yourself Belinda, that's Father De Bisis speaking, let's hear him:
"Tremble ye not oh humble man but get rejoicing! Rejoice I tells you! Hear our voice, take our heed, share with us in this hour of grief, grief but also celebration, oh yes indeed. Celebrate reprobates! Clasp them to your bosom and give them a big sloppy kiss! As the Angel said unto the Prophet as He opened a crate of milk: aye up, slave of Israel! for thy day wilt come, the day of all days before the following night, and ye shalt endeavour to beget Jerezaiah, who begat Ishmael, who begat Rachel, who begat Elsinior, who begat Barack, who sowed the seed upon the salt -and he saw that it was good: yyyyyyessss! shouted he and lo! another ten storeys were to be raised so said I, and by Gomorrah if the council did not approve of this daring throw of the dice initially but I was determined to prove them wrong, and wrong did I prove them. Mediocre bureaucrats that they were, penpushers in thermal underwear turned inside out on alternate days, they lacked vision so they did: they couldn't see the potential shopping-mall for the trees. So what I actually done is, I had a very civil chat in private with Charlie -and the deal was accepted. Alleluia! Glory be! Up the Du'bs and no mistake! To be perfectly honest with you and I don't mind telling you this, at this pivotal switch in my destiny change, I remember lividly -vividly too- getting down on my knees right there right then on Charlie's very own carpet and thanking the Good Lord. Thanking the Good Lord for verily He giveth, and He giveth again to those that are truly deserving I correctly observed. It all came clear to me in a flash, like a veritable thunderbolt from the heavens, I felt the power that these dusty bureaucrats could never see in their infinite wisdom -Pah! Verily blessed be the daring ones, for they tread upon where the road is long, long and not yet properly equipped with adequate advertising facilities. That moment I remember. That moment I remember so well. Down on me knees I was, with all these hallowed quotes going through my bowed head and I knew -I KNEW- that the good fight was on my side and that Our Lord, in His infinite mercy, would prevail upon this Earth and in particular in the semi-derelict quayside portion of D 8. It was an opportunity too good to be overlooked, and so it came to pass -amen!"
Goes on for quite a while. And then some.
"...for what does he tell us, in his "Epigram To The Employees To Be Read On Sunday Next October The Fifth"? What does our brother Dermot tell us here? He says. "Let he cast the first stone" is what! Let the mason cast the first stone! (Ontop a properly prepared foundation, one third Sandycove sand, two third good hard Fenian concrete.) Let the glass blower blow! Blow down all obstacles, for these times they're a changing they are! Let nothing stand in the way of progress, hell no! Out with the forces of reaction, out out out! Vade retro ye parasitic legislatic onanistic pen-pushers, step down ye hear me, step down and make way: let Dublin rise at long last, rise up and anew!"
-Audience: "Hear hear! Bring the noise! Jerusalem here we come! Where's me jumper?"
-Priest: "This great city of potential unparalleled infrastructural renovation... this half-Eden of emerald stone defiantly set in the shadow of godless unionism... this... Ireland!!"
-Audience: "Keanooo, there's only one Keano, there's only one Keano"
-Priest: "Ireland, standing shoulder to shoulder! Ring hosanna ring, chim chim chimeney, bang the bell ding-a-ling! For the future is upon us and we couldn't be more merrier! Oh no we couldn't, even if we went and listened to Daniel O'Donnell himself! For -praise be to brother Dermot- we have seen the future yet oh yes we have, we have faced it down, we have taken its measurements ...and we have razed it to the ground! Alleluia! That's right, raised it to the ground!!"
-Audience: "Far out, man! Happy days! Onwards Christian soldiers into the valley of death! Take me to the bridge! Take me to the bridge! Anyone got any Vera?" (Crowd cheers; cheer dies down.)
*****
I must have drifted off for a while for when I come to, where do I find ourselves than in a cemetery! Looks like we've moved on then.; must have switched on the automatic... For how long, I can't tell. After a while, pre-digested phrases just wash over and no longer hit the target, inane small chat pours in through the ears and doesn't register anymore. Hypnotised. We fall in a cathodic trance only to snap out of it during the increased volume ad breaks -or "take a leak" breaks to give them their proper name. Anyway. I could think of worse places to wake up to than here: ... lovely bunch of flowers, they are. Delicate branches gently sway in the breeze, birds chirp about unconcerned -that'd make a smashing spot for a picnic, that. Hmm... But let's as they say rejoin our commentators:
Belinda: "...literally be costing up to twelve thousand so my sources tell me, it features three rows of blood-free diamonds, 'specially sewn onto it by child labour -that way, it gets more finely knitted like. Clever huh?"
Derek: "Fascinating. Who would have thought?"
Belinda: "And that's nothing compared to what me sister given me for my guest spot at the February fashion awards next Saturday -thought I might mention it like..."
Derek: "By all means Belinda, the mike is yours."
Belinda: "Cool! The fact of the matter is though, it's not proper presenting like, what I’ll be doing is..."
The pin-up du jour prances about oh so casually, making sure her right leg rests extended somewhat in front of her supporting one, which in turn pushes her bum outward and forces her to bend forward her barely-covered meagre bust (flash photography may be in employ at this point, yes). The desiccated religious mantis parades her latest toy boy to the throng of cameras the lovely Bernadette Egan -heiress to the Egan canned food dynasty- takes a leisurely stroll with her protégé interior designer Philip Murgoyne round the patio; here we can see them, admiring the chrysanthemums. How utterly delightful Derek, how peacesome." Some bozo shows off his logo splattered top and thinks we haven't noticed; not to be outdone, some clearly thirsty halfwit waves a recognisably shaped bottle of carbonated sugar soda at the camera, the same 30 centilitres bottle he's been holding up for the last two hours under the sun. Years ago, a joke circulated about a forthcoming "opponent" of Mike Tyson; it was claimed that the designated punch-bag would be carrying advertising ...on the sole of his boots. The expected knock-out later, it turned out to be anything but a joke. The thing is, Coca-Cola expressly commissioned a weirdly shaped bottle so as to differentiate their product from a hundred others. And did it work! "Posh "Vicky" Beckham, looking stunning in her safety net bikini, engrossed in conversation with Liam Gallagher; charming Glenda Gibbon, fresh from breaking up with hunky GAA star Dara Mahooney, imparting important news to a Polish waitress," Why did we allow this to happen? When did we let our guard down? Gradual compromissions, careless acceptance, 'must have snaked its way through the back-door that shite has... -talking of:
-Belinda: "Absolutely Derek, couldn't put it any better meself but I would say this to Mads though: (deep breath) at this cruel hour and this moment in time, chips may seem to be down and it's like there's no light at the end of the tunnel obviously she must feel utterly devastated right? But Mads would do well to remember that it's what Dermot would have wanted yeah? and at the end of the day, at the end of the day when a door closes a window opens y'know? It's like me nan always says: if God would have wanted us to wallow in sorrow He wouldn't have graced us with that wonderful and totally unique Irish tradition of a proper wake so fair plays to herself is what I says!!" (permission to exhale)
zzzzz...
..."in association with Blurp Insurance -"Blurp Insurance, the power to"- and the question was: tell us the name of the town that which been so wonderfully revitalised by our dearly departed, good old Dub' Dermot. Is it... Limerick? Dublin? or Timbuktu? Couldn't be any simpler!"
Cut from the announcer, close-up on the junkie clotheshorse, don't be shy Deco, no fear to overdo the contrast on her Botox -that complexion would withstand a nuclear attack! "...wonderful occasion, so many emotions going through my head, I don't know where to start I'm literally speechless... is what he would have wanted, I'm so touched by all these expressions of grief like, overwhelmed really ....them spontaneous messages of support from, as a matter of fact, everyday peeple like, from your man on the street who -and I suppose in a sense- in his own way got equally touched by Dermot's vision. Literally." "Your man on the street" -nice touch here! Clever reminder. Why of course pal, this exercise in self-promotion has a participative dimension! It sure appeals to those on the other side of the camera: it includes them on every possible level -especially the proverbial one in the gutter jerking off at the stars. Which reminds me, we have yet to hear your man's considered opinion haven't we? Me very curious. "Weather permitting" naturally. Right-so, 'good thing unemployed actors are aplenty, says I for no particular reason...
Anyway.
"...turns out apparently she was Marty's wife. How unimaginative of him if you ask me... Then again, being Martin's other half, with him being dyslexic and all, I guess that counts as an achievement."
-Belinda: "Absolutely!"
Prepare for the ads link-up, remind the monkey in his tuxedo, close-up on the airhead. Then hand-over to more time filler. That's right, these starched automats have behaved impeccably throughout that painful yet life-affirming occasion excruciating back-slapping wankfest; indeed they were conscious the eyes of the world were on them their PR PA agent were recording them. Uh huh, for sure they were a credit to their brands and sponsors and dynasties and various assorted mafias under any other name, not too sure this was one we'll never forget though, well it most assuredly won't be one that will stay in our collective memories for a very long time, absolutely Derek a very long time indeed: the sad clown's makeweight seems to have forgotten the golden rule for this kind of charade... namely that death is inevitable. As surely as one of these rich brands will squeeze out a baby at some stage ("It's a miracle! And so-and-so exclusively reveals to us: "I am the luckiest man in the world! Mammy is doing fine, yes."), they will also shed an elderly -or even better, a not so elderly- member ("tragedy strikes as whoever loses his/her battle against some deadly disease"). Tic, toc / up, down -and so the wheel keeps turning, the story's writing itself: see yous all soon enough at another of these little dos! Primetime assured, setting may vary. With the same reconstructed faces, the same predigested platitudes -Is what the public wants, right?
"...and may I just say what an honour it has actually been to spending it with you, an absolute pleasure. Literally."


























"Here we go!"

Chapter 1
---------------------------------------------- Days Of Thunder --------------------------------------------------------
Soundtrack: Spacemen 3 “Big City, Bright Lights”



"De la puta madre, cabron!"

Café-en-Seine on a Friday night and the tension is brutal. Myself and G. have just gained entrance and are assessing the situation. We scope the premises/promises without making it too obvious. Discretion is everything: determination mustn't show like neon light on your forehead -that would so look desperate, and looking desperate is totally unbecoming. It sends all the wrong signals, the way I see it you might as well don a blouse from Penneys and be done with it -no no, we can't be having that! Personally, I like to think of myself as slightly more clued up. Oh yes. Call me deluded but I wanna be taken seriously, me (-Georgie's automatic response: "you are deluded"). So what we're actually doing here G. and I, is... stopping by; passing through; dropping in for a quiet drink. A quiet drink at Café-en-Seine on a Friday night.
Any suggestion of this emporium being anything less than a Rollex haven is like totally wide of the mark.

So scope we do.
To be fair, not much really stands out from up here at the threshold. Not much sets the pulse alight. Just your run-of-the-mill polo with jeans wearers. (Even worse: jacket with jeans! And stubble too.)
But we're in the place is the main thing (we made it!), and we can now advance in friendly territory. Glance to the left, glance to the right, proceed. We elbow our way through the throng as efficiently as ladies' elbowing will allow (i.e. not an awful lot). The multi fragrant assault course doesn't give in so easily -we soldier on regardless and hope for the best.
Take the dive...

The Babel of voices that passes as the Celtic Tiger's soundtrack beckons: I can distinguish affected English-from-England, French, Spanish, German, Louditalian, Eastern European (that would be mainly from the staff) and, at long last, some good old Dub tones gravely discussing rugby. That would be men I reckon. Men are just funny: like yeah, it's Satday night in Dublin, why don't we all go down Café-En-Seine and... discuss rugby there? Perfect place for that. Let's get our collective heads together and see what happens. And who knows, who knows, maybe after a bucketful, these guys might come up with the right answer, the very one that's been bugging their players and eluding their coach -of course!
I take it they're Leinster fans. Leinster are (is?) the "local" team as it were, the club de rigiour for any self-respecting D 4 type. Mainly -and that much I know- it is the club of Ireland's official number one sex-symbol: Brian "O'Driscoll" Drico. The Bod himself. Your man is sometimes seen about town, but not by myself as yet (sigh). Right now, I'm only scounting in Café-en-Seine, this swanky queer old "drinking emporium" on Dawson Street that would give any French brothel a run for its money.
...Not that I would be familiar with French brothels though.

"To be perfectly honest wit you, another couple of these deals like, and I'll be good to retire in Dubai my good man! Aaah, playing golf all day by the sea -bring it on!"
"Really?"
"Really. All the indicators are go, the feeling is on -all I need now is a few more deals you know? and then...happy days! We are currently working on a new securitisation package -just watch this space!"

Georgina and I are shimmying our way cool as you like ...in fact with just about as much nonchalance as a bottle of Lambrusco (Georgie's treat) and two Topical Reef (mine) already down our gullet enables us to. To be perfectly honest, we feel pretty grand already! It's just the rest of that lot who don't seem to respond adequately, why don't they back off already yeah? Let's put it this way: our valiant efforts are not exactly met with unqualified success on the exploring front. We haven't made much progress in the, oh, five minutes that we got here and now me bladder's playing up. Blame it on the sudden heat, the human steam, the general din... something brutal. Exaggerated laughter comes at us from all directions, after-shaves assault my nose, the place is heaving and so could I any time soon. Clearly, two packs of sea salt/mature paprika crisps and a low-fat prawn sambo are nowhere near enough nourishment for a growing girl like myself!

To take my mind off from the ghost of a surge in my abdominal region, I decide to apply my -naturally legendary- sagacity to our whereabouts: what's the story here then?

Well, pretty much what could be expected at-this-stage-of-the-game...
Revellers come and revellers go, leaving only personal whiffs behind. Look here I'm not saying that the smoking ban was wrong but... I'd have to say that, ever since, odours that were once masked are no longer hidden ...like B.O. for example (ewww, gag). This I can confirm right now: someone to my right's made an effort (I recognise Cedarwood Sunrise by Jean-Hubert de D. -top drawer!) and then, just as pungently, someone on my left hasn't (made an effort): the shower is clearly optional in his flat! (his flat I take it not hers ...can't be a hers can it??)

"I could spend hours listening to you... when I'm with you babe, I don't know why but I feel so relaxed, at long last I can be myself..."
"Oh you handsome swine, how could I resist you..."
"The index is up, the prospects hot -it's all good, know what I mean!"

What else have we got here...:
someone's been let loose with her other half's card at Brown Thomas: top to bottom brand new, as if freshly liberated from its various packagings -you can even make out the creases;
a thirty-something is going for the "golfer casual" look despite not being fifty yet;
a cute waiter waltzes by, holding aloft a full tray that so must weigh at least a ton; does so as if it were the easiest thing in the world too. Your man sniffily arrows his way through the circle jerk of rugger bugger fans and merges back into the fray at the other end. The circle in question instantly reseals itself, like the sports fans are terrified of another outside party encroaching upon their safety zone.

As I negotiate my way past your basic rococo pillar crowned by an understated Greek statue made of kaleidoscopic ceramic supporting a crystal vase overflowing with cascading vines, I lose my footing for a second. I bend down to readjust the heel strap what - do - I - spot?
A pair of Blahniks -the brand itself! A pair of Blahniks under a parade of legs hardly covered by an excuse of a miniskirt -dear me, that young lady above is not leaving much to the imagination is she? Standing up, I sneak a look and almost gasp at the fakeness of the face: my word, a load of work has been going into these diagonal cheekbones and fulsome lips! Just check the flawless skin -why, some would call it foldless they would... like super-tight yeah? Like lifted up almost as high as her knickers. In fact I feel for her, really I do: the would-be minx must be about 40, 40 going on 25, at least she's not going down without a fight I have to respect that -"fair play to her!" is what says I.

(Of The Varied Uses Of "fair play to you", A Little Vocabulary Lesson:
-"And a very good morning to you Philomena, you look radiant! Any news on the grand-child front?"
-"I have indeed: Clauda gave birth to a baby boy this morning!"
-"How wonderful! Fair play to her!"

-"Hey there Deco, how's she cookin bud'? But hey, what's da?? What's with da leg pal?
-"Howsa. He'h, could be better to be honest wid cha! See dat: I broke me leg falling off da scratcher!"
-"Holy shite! Fair play to you pal!")

But back to the real world: back on the manpath.

With me lagging behind, Georgie has got herself ahead -she is a determined one that one, always has been. Georgie got once described as "Sex And The City" Samantha meets Sharon Stone in "Basic Instinct" with less patience. She is not known for her pussyfooting she is -but then that's in the nature of her work, goes down with the territory: her game is to try and get rich old farts to part with their money in exchange for stamp sized squares of canvas splattered with scribbles that look nothing like a bleeding horse. More power to you sister!
Here we touch upon one of the great age-old strategies: the choice of a Best Mate.

Now a Best Mate is not chosen lightly, this is not a matter left to chance; I'd say to select a Best Mate is to make a conscious decision that may very well determine your entire sexual destiny for the next ten years (do we keep friends longer than ten? I have yet to find out). Get the proper one and you will be in with as many chances as everyone else in the great pool of life, get the wrong one and you will be doomed from the start. The Best Mate requirements go something like this:
yous must have lots in common (so that yous can have repeated conversations); yous must be able to understand each other instantly (well, d'oh!); and 'last of all, she must get your jokes. If yous don't speak the same language you're fecked. As a double act on a mission, yous will have to develop your own private code, establish your set of references (like what type of fellow each of yous would go for ...and what type of fellow each of yous don't even wan't to be breathed on by), hone your methods of approach and killing, and finally decide on what signals to exchange when you want to get the hell out.
The main thing is though, you want to choose someone in your own league. Like major main thing yeah.
A Best Mate paraded for the whole world to see is like a reflection of how you picture yourself, she is a self-projection of an imagined double and says: "Hey everybody, this is how I rate myself, what class I belong to, what category I associate with; approach us/me only if you feel yourself can aspire to that." With that in mind, you'd better go for a decent looking alter ego then!
...But not too decent looking, mind.
How exactly should be what is essentially your lovelife support look like? Well, like I said, you want to get someone someone close (but not clingy), someone grateful for the honour of your consideration (but not to the point of feeling in your debt) -and someone slightly less attractive than you (but not too much). Of all factors, the attractiveness is of tremendous importance: what you don't want is 'be upstaged, that'd be the last thing! No no, what you do want is, you know, stand out in comparison (pay attention to her size and figure). ...Don't want to be blowing me own trumpet but I like to think I stand my own next to Georgie.

Talking of which, just as I play catch-up with her, looks like our Georgie's hit the jackpot: by amazing chance, she's found herself wedged right between two chests. Two chests belonging to a pair of dreamboats in silver suits queuing at the bar. She's a clever girl like that is our Georgie. If she had just wandered oh, all of a yard down to her right, she would have deffo got closer to the Purveyor Of Happiness (aka. your man behind the bar) but no. No, she somehow seems to prefer it here, at this crowded spot of all places. Not that she's actually paying attention to the two Ralph Laurens (bloody hell, must have been at least five minutes since her last name-check, was starting to worry!) surrounding her, she is markedly lost in contemplation of her mobile. I don't know, must be some mighty SMS to hold her attention like this, I've never known her to be so focussed on a metal box when cornered by two such fine specimens of hunkitude...
Me, I just observe; I certainly pass no judgement on my girl here.
After a suitable period of no more than a minute, G. looks up from her phone and discovers the abovementioned dreamboats.
"Oh. And a very good evening to yous too I... I was just miles away -Hey, what's this? Your tie, is it pure silk? really?? Can I touch it?"
A picture of innocence she is. A baby lamb awakened by dewy drops, out on its first trot.


-----------------------------"And what did you say your name was?"------------------------


Two Screaming Orgasms later -as suggested by the lads naturally ("No no I'm not messin' I swear, it's a genuine drink yes, yes it is! A cocktail like: dead sweet it is, dead sweet, drinks like milk you'll see! The lay-dees luuuve it! Here, have one for yourself and your friend, you'll see!")- we move on to tequila shots. For some reason, the two bar-room show-offs seem dead intent on forcing that revolting stuff down our throats. G.'s playing along, I'm playing along. Sometimes I'm that easy, I just go with the flow. Not too sure about the tequila though... it's a proven killer that, an expressway to the gutter. Need to keep your wits about, Lily -at least what's left of them.

G.'s being worked on by the tallest of the two, some jumped-up tweet working in finance (naturally); I have inherited the brown haired one. Didn't quite catch his name, Quentin Gavin Kevin or somethin'. Also the financial type. Flashed me his card, even (like this is the place for business cards!) (wanted to show off his company's name that's what!) (...like I would know my Deloiter from my Juventis!) (hmmm, right). Perfectly charming he is, in his rapacious sort of way. If you like predatorial, that is.
Your man is at pains to assure me what a nice guy he truly is, despite working for this apparently ruthless money making machine of a company. Little does he suspect: I have already forgotten its name. ...And his as well, in fact!
"They're all a bunch of bleeding spanners" he authoritatively informs me. "Bunch of technonerds glued to their screens all day all night, Dow Jones junkies -no sense of fun they have, no fun to be around, don't know how to enjoy themselves -unlike ourselves, right?" Good thing that -unlike them- he at least didn't sell out oh no didn't sell out; a proud Irishman, he still knows-how-to-enjoy-himself (I love it when people say that). ...Then he goes on for a while about golf. These five or ten minutes he goes on about golf -I'm losing sense of time here- are five or ten minutes I'll never get back. Golf, I ax you! From what comes through, the poor thing has got a handicap -surely he should have it seen to by a specialist I suggest? Your man spits out his beer. Like, what? what have I said? Whatshisface is in stitches and won't explain. Ah well whatever, suit yourself.

"The genius of golf is that... shot of tequila anyone? (...) it's Lemon Brothers for me and no mistake! (...) me besht mate Gerry Ryan, he... (...) jetting over whenever I can, y'know... -five thousand Watt! (...) Obi Wan Kenobi, Yabba the cunt -and then me toes started to fall off! Here, have another one -did I tell you about the time I went hunting in the Czechoslovakian Republic and ended up shooting a bear?"

Men, you have to show some interest in them, prod them a tiny bit, ask them about themselves... and off they go!
"My brilliant position my lethal vroom vroom my flat screen plasma TV my videogame console my own flat my 100 meters times (fifteen years ago that is) my "Star Wars" toys in pristine condition my exciting holidays in the Third World where I went "traveling" (note: "traveling") my five thousand quid watch my sore tummy my Daddy didn't love me my laptop my DVD player my funky alarm clock my skateboard my dick -maybe you would like to see them? Starting with the last item."
Just nod at regular intervals, flutter your eyelashes as you're supposed to, widen your eyes in an incredulous (hence impressed) manner and grunt a supportive "aha?" every thirty seconds. Don't forget to breathe though: (this is one area where) they may last for some time. You may also want to slightly tilt your head to one side so as to give the impression that you are actually enraptured by their blatherings. Most importantly don't interrupt them, let them drag out their tales of derring-do until their well-rehearsed conclusion.
For crying out loud, let the poor dears feel good about themselves.

"And then -bang!- the monster was dead! Not ten feet away from me! (Make it twenty, tops.)
Phew, don't know about yourself, but this is thirsty work! Could do with another one meself -you want one yourself? Huh? You answer?"

The truth is, he probably doesn't remember my name either.

"Right you are then young lady! Another Sex On The Beach! Heh heh heh!"

Impressive how packed the place still is at this time... packed as in something brutal, something oppressive: like I couldn't possibly escape if I wanted to -how the hell did we all manage to fit in in the first place? What time did we arrive again now when was it? Straight from home didn't we? First port of call it was... and we're still here. Didn't I originally suggest we move on to the other one up the road after a while? After a while... must be gone past eleven now for sure, even midnight -have they got a late license here? must have a late license, it's definitely gone past midnight now, I wonder what time it is, where's me mobile
And then the needle jumps off the record.
-"Listen, you couldn't give me your friend's number by any chance? I know 'sounds a bit bold but..."
STOP (needle falling off a record -check with the sound depmt)

--------------------------"Girl, Interrupted"------------------


Stop I am not having that. Stop I want to get off. If there exists such a thing as Words Of Doom, "you couldn't give me your friend's number?" surely ranks high in the "wwwham!" category -No feckin' way am I giving the berk "my friend's number"! No chance of that!! Has the gobshite lost all of his mind?? Is it what booze does to him? He couldn't have gone about it in a more cack-handed manner if he had tried -I'm simply not having that. No not again. Talk about blowing it! Blew it big time he did. No way Jose, don't you be leading me down the garden path round the begonias past the waterfall only to suddenly declare yourself interested in Georgie, that just won't work! Bang out of order that is! I am so shocked could slap him in the face right here and now.
The thing is, I don't even blame poor old Georgie for that -Georgie, she's like the sister I never had. She's me best mate she is and this guy is... a nobody. Total nobody. Having made her move for the other prick, she's certainly unaware of the situation down this end. She's made her choice like, and if she looks this way at times, it's only to check on me to see if I'm alright, not at that clown: that knobhead doesn't even exist in her eyes! The deluded fool, how can he even imagine he's in with a chance?? Makes my blood boil that does! Propped up by beer, he'd like to think so but... I'm ready to bet she wouldn't even recognise him if he were stood on a pedestal in the centre of Market Square tomorrow!

"You couldn't give me your friend's number by any chance?"

Sure I could... but I ain't gonna.
Who's now playing Best Mate to whom here? This wasn't in the script! Who's being the one once more running errands for her mate, who's the one being leaned on, who's the one being earmarked for servability?? (and when I say servability, I don't even know if such a word exists, huh) -well that's not me for sure! I ain't no mug! I never signed up for that, who does the tosser thinks I am? The "good girl yourself, well done" he'll tap on the head on his way out? What exactly does he imagine's going on here? What does it say on me forehead? is it printed "designated driver", "good to go as second option" is it? Well he can stick it up right his bollix!! I didn't come here tonight to take that shite! What an insult... what an outrage -purple I am! I am Lily feckin' Monaghan I'll have you know! You know -from the radio!
These callous words, what he's just said, Jaysus it's like he thinks my role here is to play Best Mate to Georgina -when it was supposed to be the other way round!

I am fuming. I am fuming and yet, somewhere deep inside I have to admit this has been happening quite a lot recently if I am frank (do I want to be frank?), well then let's see... just how many times now... not sure I really want to keep accounts but... there was that time we went to the Premiere of the Girls Aloud movie -"they're a revelation" according to the press kit and Jonathan Ross- and she locked herself in the disabled toilet with your man I had my eye on (groan)... and then there was the time we went to this horse's awards at the RDS (horses, I ax you!) and the landed gentry were all over her like a bad rash -I waited ages in the car for her to finish... and then there was -oh that's enough now, don't really want to list all my failures do I- besides I'm sloshed: poor little me am in a very vulnerable state oh yes, need some gentle loving and tender care at this moment in time, not a psy session.
Huh.
Meanwhile, the gobshite is still waiting. I can glimpse him from the corner of my eye, pretending not to; suave as you like, he's standing there, rinsing his mouth with more Guinness. Well he may be up for a long wait says I!
Once, twice, I'd say I would probably try to ignore them as a mere occurrence like -fair play to Georgie and all!-, but three or four times in a row... this is definitely getting worrying.
Whatever happened to me? What subtle shift in pulling dynamics turned me into this Second Option? Have I irrevocably lost ground on Georgie? Is that the new script and I'm condemned from now one to play second fiddle? Oh the proverbial bridesmaid, the dancing aunt at the wedding... All sorts of questions -disturbingly all along the same line- race through my confused brain and I don't like the answers I come up with. Don't like them one single bit.

"You 'alright there? you alright luv'? Huh?"

I'm fecking not no, so why don't you SOD OFF insensitive berk! Crawl back to Temple Bar if you're not able to recognise true class when you see it! True class and... lovely personality and... great sense of humour and... impeccable manners and-awww sod it, amoutovhere!



--------------------------"Saturday Night In The City Of The Dead"---------------------------------------


I push my way out as I pushed my way in, negotiate the door almost on my own, and finally eject onto the pavement. A hundred eyes (at the very least) assess my grand exit and are clearly not impressed. I am studied, judged and instantly dismissed. The eyes return to the object of their affection: the doorman.
Now you can say what you want about Dublin -that it's often filthy, endowed with a nasty weather, honotoriously expensive, home to The Bono, under-equipped with parking lots, boasting accents nearly impossible to understand without the help of a dozen Guinness down your neck, invaded by English stag nights every weekend, cold, not Barcelona, inordinately proud of the literary geniuses it had no qualms forsaking at the time of their various peccadilloes- but one thing is sure: its watering holes are in no danger of ever going bankrupt.
There are queues outside the smoking areas (once known as "doors") thick as the ones inside by the bar or at the rip-off ATM ("Polite notice to our friendly clientele: this machine will take a standard 10% percentage of your transaction to account for administrative costs; thank you"). Makes you feel really wanted does it: you exit the place, ten people are clamouring to replace you inside. "Me me me, Sir!" they beg like pupils to a teacher except what is actually the case here is that they are fully grown (?) adults touting themselves to a monobrowed monolith dressed in black. And you can bet your man has already selected whose piece of skirt will be allowed in next. Suckers!
...Ah well I guess that's probably my current mood speaking here -bitter, moi? H'a! You must think I swam up the Liffey if you imagine my recent little disagreement with the aftershaver's affected me in any way! ...In any way...

Anyway off we are then. Let the eejit deal with Georgina direct for all I care! Let him grovel to the genuine object of his attention, let him go through his godawful holiday -sorry "travel"- stories once more. Oh, and actually yeah?, let him take it to the alpha male if he dares, let's see the devious little creep go and step on his best pal's turf -call that being upfront eh? call that being brave, going round your mate's back? His kind makes me sick.

Nah this was definitely not supposed to happen, this wasn't on the cards last time I checked. Back a few hours ago in my gaff, meeting up with Georgie after a hard week's work, everything had seemed so simple, it was all so easy... a fail-proof scheme like: things falling into place and bodies onto beds, all we'd have to do was tart up a bit and swing by a couple of pubs! No biggie, done and dusted by the stroke of twelve! Oh yes, myself and my girl were dead up for it, we had sure earned our time on the town and Dublin was ours -well get yourself a bottle of COP ON missy! Everything always looks easy when you plan it with a bottle of Bacardi.

Looks like it won't be this time then... Like it wasn't last weekend either. And the other weekend before. Three times in a row then, three times I got my thumb out and went to the trouble of tarting myself up -and what for? To hear "you couldn't give me your friend's number by any chance"... Oh the pain, the embarrassment... the public walk out of the place on my own, and then the lonely taxiride home awaiting. "Only losers take the bus" they sang.
What a waste eh, what a bleeding shambles. A waste of my life and no mistake.

"...and like I said if we build on these projected figures, the market's up for another hell of a ride -another twenty percent guaranteed!"
"Enough already man enough: you're wrecking me bonce! I don't know who the hell you think you 'talkin to but I ain't biting! I ain't buying any of your poxy flats OK? "
"Now then, you don't want to walk all the way back so...? Hop in right now!"
"I have an idea lads: let's drive across the river -let's go torture a skanger"
"Chillax -we ain't in Baghdad!"
"Huh!? Where did she go? Did anyone see that bird I was after talking to right now? She said she was off to get a light but she ain't here??"
"Ya bleeding cabbage -look the top bollix on dat munter!"
"Hmm, looks like a Billy no mates -think I should have a go?"
"Allons-y!"

Shuffle shuffle slouch.
Something's going on here and even in my present state I'm aware of it, I can recognise defeat when it hits me straight in the face. Oh yes my brains may be splashing about in my skull in a more than passable impression of the Katrina cyclone, I can recognise defeat. I am not completely stupid me, something's going on and maybe I should do something about it...(?) I've been thoroughly blown out tonight and it's no good pretending otherwise; it ain't Georgie's fault -she's only looking after number one- it ain't Georgie's fault so it has be be mine. Has to be mine (three times in a row!). I dunno, musht have lost my magic touch or somethin', may have put on a stone or... (no I haven't). The cheek of it! "You couldn't give me your friend's number by any chance?" Well whatever it was, looks like I been found out, looks like I been found wanting.
I've been found crying at 2 a.m. in the back of a taxi.

"Ah don't worry love, he must be a very silly man" offers the driver from his side of the partition. He checks me out in his rear view mirror, all concern and professional experience. Like a barman or a hairdresser. Like a true urban social worker. Your man thoroughly checks me out all the way down. Doing the Friday Saturday night shifts have clearly taught him, the old pro knows his stuff and surveys the damage -no no, I'm not going to be sick in the back of his cab ("Added cleaning expense: Eighty Euro").
"Surely it can't be that bad..." Take the next one right. "You want to take a deep breath darling... Whatever it is, this is not the end of the world, you'll see, you'll bounce back"

Am I condemned to shag taxi drivers every Friday night?






chapter 2
------------------------------------------------------ I am --------------------------------------------



OK OK let's just forget about last night. Let's erase it from my memory like it never happened. It didn't happen. See? Already forgotten, all gone! Nothing happened last night -and certainly not on a backseat in a back alley (ahem). Herself has blanked it out of her memory and sent it straight into the recycle bin (Ping!). Some things in life are like the exclusive property of night-time, their memory not allowed to be resurrected in the harsh light of day.
Or at least this is what I wish.
I wish things were that easy to cast out like you make up your mind yeah? and then -bingo!- any problem is resolved instantly. You decide on something and that something complies, end of story.
Sadly it's one thing to take a resolution, and it's quite another to force your body to obey.

As things stand, my throbbing head is having none of it and is not -repeat not- playing ball. Quite the contrary. It is very much making a stand and resolutely opposes any attempt of mine to concentrate on anything. It is stamping its metaphorical feet all over my cranium as it records distress signals sent from all parts of my body: skin, stomach, legs, bowels, the whole shebang.
To describe my state, I am cold and I am feverish; I am unquestionably awake and yet I am not able to form a coherent thought; I am already shaky and I haven't got up yet. I dare not imagine how it will feel like when, in about a million years' time, I will take a deep breath and get up; when I'll cling to the wall all the way to the bathroom. Pretty nightmarish I should expect. This million years will come soon enough though. Oh Solpadine Paracetamol miracle work a -please someone combine these words into a coherent sentence!
What I need is:
A) a bath,
B) orange juice,
and C) a lot of rest to recover from, er, sleeping actually.
This is just for starters. Then I'll get myself some more rest and more painkillers and plenty-of-liquids. Of the soft variety, goes without saying ...good thing I have some OJ in the fridge. A terrible thought crosses my mind: didn't we use it all last night to mix with the vodka? Did we? Didn't we finish it with the vodka? I can't remember. Don't want to remember. Please no no no no sweet mother of God say it ain't so, say we didn't indulge in that one, Georgie's favourite (although this seems likely). Vodka OJ -the simple thought of ingurgitating alcohol acts as the decider and before I know it, I'm flying out of bed straight to the nearest sink.

(...)
Let's not dwell there.
(...)

Suffice to say that, ten minutes later, I feel strangely revigorated, in fact I feel like reborn! Out of breath and kinda dizzy -but reborn the same. Phew. I drag my sorry arse to the bathroom and run myself a bath -'think I'll go easy on the salts this time, we don't want no outlandish fragrance in this current state; I down a large glass of water and two miracle pills for good measure. And now let's wait.
I have hardly stepped into the tub that the phone rings. Bloody typical.
Against my better judgement, I expose myself to the cold and tiptoe back to fetch it: could-be-important, could be work related... Of course it isn't (work related): it's only my best friend until last night.

-"Hey there!" trills Georgina's voice "How you keeping today? Made it back alright?"
-"Wow wow not so loud babe not so loud, please no shout..." I ease myself back into the warmth "Do you know what time this is?"
Her voice drops an octave.
-"Oh I see... I see someone's having a difficult morning have they? Well since you wanna know it's actually... half-past one already, so it's not technically morning anymore. So how d'you feel Lily? How's the head right now?"
Georgie's great, she always can tell.
-"The head's not too good to be perfectly honest with you; the rest is not feeling too bright either..."
-"I see... Bugger. You just got up? Oh. Don't tell me I woke you up by any chance?"
-"No no I was er, already up, I've been up and about for quite a while now... am in the bath in fact, y'know, soaking up water like..."
-"I see. Fair play to you like -enjoy! Well I just wanted to check on you like, since you left so suddenly last night and then you wouldn't answer your phone, was wondering..."
-"No no, everything's normal down here, just the the usual: the headache the shakes the sweats... the shivering the bad tummy... like death warmed up yeah? Nothing special then. I, er, felt suddenly crackered last night, felt out of it you know? Just wanted to go home..."
-"Right you are..."
When Georgie says "right you are" in that tone of voice, you know it's everything but right. She doesn't sound too convinced, the damn girl can always tell.
"If you say so..." Pause "You sure you alright then?"
-"Yep. Absolutely. I'm just dandy, gimme a couple of hours and I'll be grand, I just need to soak for a while and I'll be grand. But first I need to take it easy now"
-"Right you are! You go and do that"
-"Listen, l promise to ask you about your night later -I'm sure you scored- but not right now. Just not right now -me head is killing me, something tasty"
-"Ah poor Lily, I'll let you rest then ...if you say so. You go ahead and do just that; you veg out for an hour in your bath and you resurface like a shrivelled prune OK? Then you call me yeah? You gizzus a bell when you feel better, don't hesitate."
-"Sure thing will do. Bye now. Bye bye bye"
-"Yep"

Exhausted, I switch off the bleeding thing. Now that was an ordeal! Well intentioned as she is, Georgie can be such an absolute pain in the butt sometime ("Sometimes, you're always the same"). The problem is, right now I'm in no mood for questioning. Oh no, I'm not ready to face the world just yet, either physically or mentally. Right now what I wanna do is just switch off the phone like so... (Click!) and then let go; chill and recharge, "off" goes the switch.
I close my eyes, I close my eyes and then I let myself sink to the bottom of the tub.

(...)

When I come to, the water has gone distinctly lukewarm and I have no choice but to get out. Get out get dressed -I take a deep breath and hope for the best (brrrr... I so hate the cold!!!!) I shiver all the way to my fluffy bathrobe then I remember to lower the blind (oops). Must say I feel much better now and am even feeling the pangs of hunger: the growls emanating from my stomach are getting harder to ignore. I descend upon the fridge -and nope, for once it's not empty: we'll have none of that cliché here thank you very much- and remember about Georgie... yeah yeah, will give her a bell later.
I fit everything that I can find between two slices of bread and try to remember when I last had a bite... Would have been sometime in the afternoon, these crisps and sandwich ...unless I sacrificed to the student ritual and had me on a kebab on the way back, which would be highly unlikely. For one, I would have reeked of lamb all over my hair fingers and clothes (ewww); second, I'm no longer a student. Not for an eternity of four or five years (hurrah!).

Ah yes these student years... happy days indeed. I vaguely recall their highlights and they are all more unpredictable than the other: the greedy landlord, the chips and Pro-Plus diet, the auld beans on toast, the cheap cider, the leaking tap, the defective burner, the silly haircuts, the Third World headgear, the Snakebite at the disco, the subsidised bar at the Union (and true centre of our world back then), the crazy jinks such as stealing traffic cones on the way back (not me of course, not me -I left it to those abiding by the Rules Of Student Behaviour), discovering traffic cones the next morning stuck in the toilet. Was it gas eh... And then burning incense sticks, wearing a keffieh in support of the Palestinians, pretending to enjoy "jungle" aciiiiid faceless techno bollix, denouncing this and marching in favour of that, counting our change fallen down the back of a sofa, getting an eighth off "Nick the Greek". And then there was these passionate debates (usually set in the Union bar) as to how best set the world to rights, these crushes for foreign exchange students (they always seem to have everything we don't), these midnight snacks, and then the Klimmt or Monet posters on the wall -fellows, of course, had to have different tastes: they would put up "Betty Blue", a tasteful black and white one of Mohammed Ali when he was still called Cassius Clay -or else that tennis player scratching her arse. (Yes yes…wake me up when there is something new, eh.) Great craic all round. I like to imagine I got over that stage though, at least on the culinary front: herself wants some proper FOOD now, no more fish fingers for the love of God!!

The financial front's a different kettle of fish though.
I haven't made much progress here, to be honest; I am still stuck in a rut with a massive loan to pay off. But I suppose I can't complain. In the great scheme of things, it's not like I didn't expect it, everyone's on the same boat, and at-the-end-of-the-day I definitely wanted to get that degree. Needed it if I wanted to follow my vocation and make it on my own: journalism at Trinity College it was then. Well the way I reckoned, might as well go for the cream de la cream. "Graduated at TCD", that will look dead good on your CV, and this is what the muppets look for don't they: the big name references, the seal of substantial indebtedness. You could be the most talented at this or that, you could shoot verses out of your arse like nobody's business, if you can't boast of a prestigious background employers won't give your CV a second glance. (Do I have any mustard left? I love mustard me!) And so I did. I did my time at the Anglos' bastion and duly collected my degree.
The graduation ceremony was a right scream.
I mean, it's not every day that you share a spliff with your old man at the Trinners' ball in full view of everyone and nobody dares touch him -instead, they queued up to get his autograph! Oh what a night...

Anyway. That hurdle dealt with, then it was up to me. It was up to me to get my thumb out and go on the scene hunting for jobs -I was desperate to get one by myself. Anything but a leg-up and "a word in your ear, old sport" from me old wan like rich kids get! I'm not like that. Myself and Da we're not exactly starving, but I wouldn't say we're "rich" (and even less so by today's Celtic Tiger standards), I would hate being considered a rich kid who's had it all on a plate. No chance of that! If I look at my flat and my cute little car, I'm happy to think that I earned it. I paid for it (at least in part eh). That's my own name on the mortgage and not me Da's.

Jobs. Well there's always jobs like, they're in the air, either waiting to get snatched or be created, what one has to do is get off the sofa and go out there, hunt them down. Do the leg work: hassle, insist, seduce, (threaten), pitch, show off, boast, (bribe), suggest, (put out). Pester your man (who's always "out of the office right now" when you call), turn up unannounced, present the radios and magazines and PR agencies with demos of yours, demos and propositions, sketches, synopsis (synopsises??), already done interviews, already drafted reviews, plans, reports, tips -with anything really. Show them the beef. What you have to do is get in there and claim the spots before someone else does. Spot the niche -create it if you have to. There really is no end of subjects out there that will appeal to The Great Public: TDs caught at the races instead of being at work? Drunken GAA players? Celebrity children? Soap stars' political opinions? Foreign workers holding three jobs? The Truth Behind Hen Nights? Monkey tennis? Anything goes in this day 'n age.

I draw the line at photos though; I don't wanna be turning into a paparazzi (shouldn't it be "paparazzo"?). I may make a point of attending all sorts of functions and shaking hands with the great and the good but I won't snap me, I won't catch unawares; it'd be so cheap and -like- totally beneath me. Paparazzi, declares Lily, are bottom feeders and come up with such distatesful "stories":
"Oh look, here's Gaybo relieving himself on a comatose tramp!*", "Guess who I spotted freshly shaved and in a clean shirt browsing through Marks and Spencer's yesterday? Geldof himself!**", "Say "cheese" to the camera Colin, you're on the wrong side of the Liffey!"
No no no, not me I won't... you need standards in life; you need like, dignity right?
So I made a conscious decision not to play that game and won't stoop to that level; I have no wish to stab people in the back, least of all my potential contacts, least of all those who matter. If anything that would be suicidal: you betray someone's confidence, you're burnt for life. No, what you wanna do is play the social game: frequent these parties, attend these public events, nod in time with the rest of the audience, remain awake during the speeches, smile when you're talked to, bear these tedious tedious conversations (feeling familiar yet?), exchange phone numbers, scoop up the leftovers from the finger food buffets. You wanna be recognised is what, you wanna be trusted -in a word, you want to be welcomed into the fold. Once you've ascended to the status of the welcome face, you will get re-invited, it's the old foot in the door thing. So since I wanted to carve myself a niche, I needed first to gain the confidence of these people. Not just anybody in fact, but especially two kinds of people: those in the business, and those in the media proper; that is to say the brains behind the camera, and the pretty faces in front. I just wanted to put myself about like, I wanted to make a name for myself,

and not just be JohnnyRay Maddixx's daughter.


(bottom of the page: "*The author would like to make clear that there are no serious suggestions of Mr. Gay Byrne ever urinating on a homeless person.")
("**The author would like to make clear that there are no serious suggestions of ever seeing Mr. "Sir" Bob Geldof with an unslept in shirt.")

--------------------------------"Poor old JohnnyRay" (The JohnnyRay story)--------------------------------

------------------------
Interlude:
Car-crash scene around the corner, woman turns up:
"What's the stooory here?"
-Witness: "There's been an accident, see. These two knackers were after racing for the light: bang! Straight on!""
-Woman: "Aaah serve them right like the whole lot of them -what were these bollix thinking racing in the street!!"
-Witness: "There was a baby in one of the cars."
-Woman, signing herself: "Ah Jaysus love 'em!"

----------------------

Weekend at Hampton's, Tuesday at Crumlin. Today's Saturday and I suppose I really ought to go and see Dad like; I suppose I should. Not that it's strictly necessary then again, I might as well. Under the usual pretence -"just a fleeting visit, I was driving by"-, I reckon it's about time I go check up on him yeah -and on the house to be honest. Bring him some fruit, pick up the dishes that will have been piling up on the sofa (wash them while I'm at it), air out the living room -perform the minimum health and safety requirements! By now we both know the score: dutiful daughter breezes in (first stage), emits cry of horror (she gets into character), finally slaps on the marigolds (the show gets on the road). In my experience, there are always half-finished cans in the fridge that need chucking out before the master of the house succumbs to botulism. Cans, TV diners, bottles, milk turned into yoghurt, all-purpose hankies (yuuuuck). I also need to keep an eye on the bills situation -the living legend's not too hot on settling our various invoices- ...and then I'll probably end up taking the vacuum cleaner out of its permanent residence (that is to say, gathering dust itself under the stairs).
But mostly, I like to check that my genitor didn't pass out in his back garden five days ago and has now been eaten by a pack of dogs from the neighbourhood. In-this-day-n-age where perfect strangers supposedly "share" communal spaces, one regularly comes across these distressing stories in the paper:

"Imagine the emergency services' surprise yesterday as they discovered Mr. P*** S*****, a quiet pensioner of (whatever) years of age, residing at 83 Old K******** V*****, in a state of nearly complete mummification! The deceased, a WW2 hero / a widower / a retired postman, kept-himself-to-himself, never a fart higher than the other, and (yadda yadda yadda) nobody noticed nuffink. The State coroner concluded that Mr. S**** must have been dead for at least six months (not counting bank holidays). When contacted, his neighbours refused to make any comment.
The gruesome discovery was only made possible thanks to Mr. S*****'s landlord, who had got increasingly concerned: indeed, "that useless waste of investment space" Mr. S***** had failed to respond to any of his rent reminders -hence the intervention by the authorities. Luckily, the landlord saw the funny side of the incident and explained that that he had never liked Mr. S***** anyway."

Hopefully things will never get so desperate with Dad. For one thing he owns his house. Oh and he is not is exactly discreet, not the shrinking violet type is he! Me old man was a rock and roller, you see, and don't yous kids of today be forgetting it!

Introducing Eamon Monaghan, better known as JohnnyRay Maddixx, lead singer with ColdHeat. ColdHeat was a "new wave" musical ensemble from Dublin (Republic of Ireland) in the mid-eighties to early-nineties. "New Wave": cf. "Punk": cf. "Rock Music": cf. "Ways Of Annoying Your Parents" (or, in my case, your daughter). The thing is, I can't get much perspective on the ColdHeat experience, I'm the last one to judge really, having been bathed in it since my earliest age -in fact, I may even have been conceived to the sound of their tunes (ewwww!) I suppose, at the end of the day, they were very much a product of their time. Understandably I've always known them like inside out, and it's hard to pass judgement on how good they were really were. "Kewl", they certainly were though, for quite a while (about ten years yeah?).
Now they would probably sound very silly. They would probably look very embarrassing too. The thought of seeing me Da in "understated" make-up, jumping about half-naked on a stage, getting all dramatic about shite and stuff well... well that's a pretty sobering thought. To be fair, when I was but a nipper, that was great craic that ...but I am no longer a nipper. The eighties are long gone.
Not for everyone though: "JohnnyRay" still has a lot to say about the eighties.

"I can't stand these little upstarts, these little thieves -whatcha call them again: Snackpatrol, that's the ones!- they stole everything from us, everything! It's like this Interpol yeah, these Killers -who do they think they're fooling?? The repetitive riff, the rising middle-eight, the tight black jeans, the half-fringe, the black and white moody portraits -been there, done it! Twenty years before too!! Myself and Gavin, what we should do really, is not hand out chocolate gongs at these awards but focken' sue them!"
I know the drill by now. I am not even getting involved. Been there, heard it, tried to answer before. I now usually keep shtum, stoic.
"Like with their stage presence yeah? What stage presence I asks you?? You see these so-called frontmen -they don't even try nothing!! Liam Gallagher for crying out loud -what has he ever done onstage? Stood??? I remember, lemme tell you, when ourself used go down at the end of our set, we didn't feckin' slide down to the ground like a lah-di-da leaf blown off a window sill -we collapsed! Make it dramatic like! Play it hard! Get the roadies worried -or at least your audience who haven't seen your act the night before! Nick Cave, James Brown -your man used to take off his boots after his gigs yeah? and they'd be be filled with blood from both his knees! Now THAT's what I'm talkin' about!"

The eighties, and not just the eighties; his ever informed opinions soon became the bane of my life. A reasonably successful rockstar (if only for a dozen years), JohnnyRay never quite mastered the art of returning to "civilian life". Where is the official "Game Over" sign? Who decides that writing abilities are all dried up? Eventually dropped by the record company -"despite still selling more than The Fall"-, JohnnyRay's been raging ever since. Against that record company ("clueless bean counters"), successive new genres ("Baggy? Don't make me laugh! A feckin' fad and mark my words: noone will remember Bleurgh in five years' time!"), Charlie Haughey ("I met the man -he would take the eye out of your head and come back for the other one!"), the machine ("Poxy coffee machine! Can't get a proper cap a Old Joe these days!"), and more generally against the mundane tedium of everyday life. I guess it's not easy coming back down to earth.
Well that must have been in the mid-nineties really, when he "resigned" himself to his new lot -herself being the privileged audience for each and every one of his paternal ranting. Now I love me Da to bits but... already at a very early age I knew that I would have to move out if I wanted to preserve my sanity.

...You can only take so much ranting, right?

And so I did. I flew the nest, opting for more sedate student digs (!), creating a safe distance between myself and the perpetual storm. Leaving the Maddixx shadow, I was able to claim a life for myself, I was no longer "JohnnyRay's daughter". I took back our actual name (Monaghan) and did away with my cringing official moniker: "Lily" I wasn't originally christened as oh no, that's only my actual second name,
...my first name is Pandora.
Pandora is the title of a song by Scottish band the Cocteau Twins. Me dad just loooved the Cocteau Twins: "the sound of dying galaxies! the alpha and omega of ephemeral effervescinence! another dimension altogether manifesting itself to us lesser mortals!" I obviously didn't know better at the time, took me some years to realise. Hmm, probably about the time I started attending school eh... Then again I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, "Pandora" is not the worst that one can get, it's not as bad as some others. ...One can always find worse. No disrespect here but I'm thinking of "Zowie" (Bowie), "Moon Unit" (Zappa), "Dweezil" (Zappa again), "Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen" (yes, Zappa), "Astrella Celeste" (Donovan), "Bluebell Madonna" (Halliwell), "Sage Moonblood" (Stallone), "Rayn Lee Amethyst" (Ryan), "Nakoa-Wolf Manakauapo Namakaeha Momoa" (Bonet), "Seraphina" (Affleck-Garner), "Bronx Mowgli" (Simpson), and of course "Peaches Honeyblossom" and "Fifi Trixibell" (Geldof).
I'm not envious of "Pilot Inspektor" (Lee) and "Moxie CrimeFighter" (Jillette) either.

I moved out of the house then, determined to pursue my studies in peace. Now whether I managed to keep my sanity is for other people to judge -Georgie may not consulted on that!

Mum... what about Mum? ....... We haven't seen her for twenty-odd years. (Twenty-two and six months to be precise.) (Funny how precise I can be on that subject). The devoted number one fan of ColdHeat took off one summer morning with the drummer of The Nothing (who were themselves off to tour America) and hasn't been back since. True to form, the drummer in question was one of Dad's best pals, having shared a few line-ups before going on to form their own separate bands. Yes they had played together and had shared a lot ...but that included a li'l bit more than Dad had suspected.
In any case, from what was later reported (not least in the considerate and well meaning popular press), Mum's new relationship turned out to be short-lived; many twists and turns later, she ended up in New Zealand where she's been living since, earning her keep as an aromatherapist or some such thing. Massages... "alternative therapy"... yoga... -the full menu is easy to imagine: incense sticks; posters of dolphins and acupuncture bodymaps; audiotapes of ocean waves; meditation optional.
To this day, the subject of drummers hardly ever comes up chez Monaghan.

Dad "hadn't quite" expected Mum's sudden departure; in fact, it could be said that it "took him by surprise". I am led to understand that a number of expletives were uttered around our quarters during that period of time. He was then engaged in grandiose schemes to conquer the world and "light it the ColdHeat way" as one of the tour programmes' least bombastic slogans promised. My various adoptive uncles from the band filled me in many moons later: at first, "Marino's Merchant of Anguish" didn't know how to react; this sure wasn't part of his big plan! Out of nowhere, the "Dub Dandy" found himself lumped with a baffled little bundle who simply would not listen to the kind of reason easily expanded by a Marshal amp and a big fat joint. What would he do? Some kind of solution had to be found and quickly too.
The old ones are always the best: I was dispatched to spend "some time" at me old nan's.

For the next few years ColdHeat went on its merry way of torch songs, apocalyptic anthems and ozone unfriendly smoke machines. Then it didn't. The band gradually wound down with the passing of fads and as it did so, a funny thing happened in the other direction -things have a strange way of intersecting... As his career hit the skids, the Great Leader looked after me increasingly more closely, then a bit more, and a bit more, and pretty much ended up raising me on his own full-time. Aged nine or ten, I moved back into our house: me and me Da together again against the world! Those were pretty gas days to be sure, and we went on this grand adventure is how he would put it.
Eventful it certainly was.

Dad's omelettes were a constant source of surprise, a true journey into culinary discovery: what would I uncover inside them this time? What residue from which package? A piece of shell maybe? An unfrozen onion? A whole nut? Or his lighter? "'Ah don't be fretting now, 'makes it more crunchy!" your man would claim with an admirably straight face.
And school uniforms, ah yes school uniforms: when ironed under Dad's direction, they would rearrange themselves in stunningly original ways ...none of them originally intended by their manufacturers. What about homework? "The North" history would be helpfully illustrated by comparative blasts of Stiff Little Fingers and The Undertones ("-Alternative Ulster" you see? Alternative? Opposing points of view! Hang on hang on, let me play you "Barbed Wire Kisses"!")

I can't possibly let him down now.

Twas a grand aul' time to be sure: in our own Monaghan way it was the best of times, it was the worst of etc.. At first my friends used to be jealous: a rockstar for a dad!?!! Beats having an estate agent or investment banker, so they felt at the time. Parents would foster their kids upon me in order to secure an invitation to my birthday parties which were the stuff of legend, what with proper celebs in attendance (usually most of the band), sure to get smashed as the evening would wear on. Who knew? Maybe Gerry Ryan In Person would put in an appearance! (He never did -JohnnyRay would have set the dogs on him!) The school play itself would turn into this massive shenanigans designed to lure the big star onstage for the show.
Then, like I said, public taste changed. Things -pretty much as thermodynamic laws had foretold, although maybe in a different perspective- cooled down.
Gradually but undeniably, the ColdHeat aura became something of the past, and "gas times" turned to"memories" turned to "good old days" turned to "oh, them..." turned to "what name you say?". In my own small way, I was the first in line to feel the effects: Dad would turn up at the school gates more often; Dad wouldn't smell as bad as he used to coming back from a "session" -what kind of session even now I wouldn't want to ask-; Dad would devote more time to me. His name and mine would not get murmured so much behind my back, and I got a welcome break from the insincere and the fake. With time my friends became real ones. As "JohnnyRay" endured his descent into relative obscurity, I was allowed to escape his golden halo and come into my own, I was allowed to become myself. A kid amongst others, Lily-full-stop rather than Lily-daughter-of. Over the years JohnnyRay didn't get recognised so easily when waiting for me at the school gate, and over the years he just became "Lily's dad".

Here is a terribIe confession, but I secretly enjoyed it.

I had lost me Ma, and now I had me Da to myself. Sure, the randy old goat would regularly go and shack up with a bimbo or two, but his dalliances never lasted long and I suspect he had become very weary of women, very weary indeed. Deep inside, I knew that I had my dad back, my dad to myself, and that there was no chance of losing him ever again. Obviously I couldn't demonstrate my joy too much though, I could see that he had been hurt and was upset at the turn of popular taste. As years went by, I could see that his bizarre way of living, which actually I had always known and which I had taken for granted, was slipping away from him, slipping away from us. But there he was, increasingly often at home, and looking after me.

And now "JohnnyRay" is history. He no longer goes by that name ...or much. To his Polish postman he's Mr. Monaghan. To his Chinese neighbours he's an argumentative pain in the arse.

And JohnnyRay says:
"Kids nowadays, they don't know their history! And that's the problem with this generation, lemme tell you frank: kids have no respect for their elders, no respect whatsoever! Feck all! Like they may know their Fergal Sharkey right? cos' he's the one be singing the tune to that "Pimp your Teletubbies" yoke -but the gobaloons won't have even heard of The Undertones! "

I... suppose he's right. And JohnnyRay says some more:
"See them youts of today yeah? See them messin' in the streets, pissin' about and what have you, they like to dye their hair every colour under the sun and wear it spiky right? Well I for one don't have a problem with that myself, I think it's grand! Fair play to the little gobshites and all! But -come 'ere til I tell you- but let me ask you one thing, let me ask you right in the eye, who was it again who was the first 'be doing that over twenty years ago and got beat in the street eh? eh??"

JohnnyRay has a lot to say.

One thing the aul' man does not want to confront though, is the existence of the bin tax and the purpose of the recyclabe bin, of which he is often reminded by the council ("Dear Mr./Mrs./Unspecified Monaghan, further to our previous communications -please note the plural-..."). It's a running battle -and I'm often the one who has to tackle it and write the apologetic replies ("My elderly father misspoke himself, he certainly didn't mean to write what incredibly happened to be sent to your services by mistake")
Your man may no longer go by his stage name but that doesn't mean "JohnnyRay"'s dead. JohnnyRay's still very much present ...in the old house at least. Tubes of ColdHeat posters take up half of the attic, broken guitars are ingeniously recycled to prop up the coffee table, and memorabilia of all sorts pile up behind armchairs, spilling over piles of limited edition singles dating back to a time when something called "vinyl" existed.

What truly transformed Dad's life though ...was the arrival of Internet.

With the advent of the Net, a brand new lease of life got handed to him on a plate, it was like a door opening. Sure, a bit of a creaky door at first, and one that wouldn't open very wide or very fast... but a door nevertheless. A portal onto the world at large and into ColdHeat's legacy, a rebirth for the ageing has-been, a way of short-circuiting any label's contract straight through to the fans. Past the initial mistrust of the whole thing ("How do I know it's not filming me now the way I see inside it?" "Why oh why do I have to go to "Start" when I actually want to turn it off?") and the cursing at the incomprehensibility of it ("What do you mean "illegal manoeuvre" ya useless piece a crap???"), Dad soon got to grips with it. After all, he had handled wah-wah pedals, mixing desks and drum machines (yes, drum machines: funny how he switched to them with time) for a decade. The clever fox, he realised how he could benefit from the damn invention -he too could come up trumps! (The only thing is, every other band was at it too, every Tom Dick and Harry.)
Having made sure he had legal control over the ColdHeat name, JohnnyRay went on to contact a couple of "techno nerds" (that is to say two fifteen year olds). Before I knew it, the four-eyed kids had built him a top drawer website and your man found himself at the helm of his own official webthing.

-"Lilyyyy come 'ere darling, come 'ere til I show you what I 'just done! I'm pretty chuffed with it there I must say"
-"Er can it wait? I'm in the middle of something"
-"No no it's great I swear! You'll love it, you'll see"
-"But Daaad, I'm working right now I can't"
-"Come over 'ere right this moment!! Your bleedin' homework can wait its bleedin' turn!!"

The site dealt with everything relating to the band: selling the piling up memorabilia; keeping contact with fans; posting advantageous photos of I-wonder-who; putting his -obviously unbiased- side of the story; tracking down pirate recordings; boosting sales of reissues; slagging rivals, and on and on. I always suspected linking up with groupies too. Now, being a girl I'm not supposed to notice these things like, and being his daughter I obviously don't want to pry but, checking the site's forum myself as I occasionally do, it seems to me that some topics I came across are fairly one-track minded ...know whorra mean like? In particular, fair play to a certain regular poster bearing the moniker "DCD" -hoping his bold postings work out for him! Suffice to say this guy did catch my attention on several occasions, sounding as he did like one spectacularly well-informed stud oh yes -no JCL he but ITK big time! (ITK means "in the know" I like to show off and explain, and is the opposite of the "Johnny Come Lately" JCL) (oh, IMHO LOL!!!!!1 naturally) But like I said, I don't want to pry.


I wonder if he's at it right now... if he's once more rewriting his own history. Still can't quite make up my mind though, should I go pay him a visit or not... I force another glass of water down my throat and wonder some more. I probably shouldn't drive in my present state anyway, what with the alcohol still in my blood.
It's a weekend afternoon and I don't have a clue as to what to do.




---------------------------------------Things I have seen...-----------------------------------------------------



-a Japanese tourist cleaning up after Mr. and Mrs. Tracksuit who -true to character- had dropped their usual Mcfood boxes in the street not three yards away from a trashcan.
-the Liffey not brown.
-people swimming in the Liffey -in full bodysuit though- for the traditional autumn challenge.
-kids on horseback in the streets, and with no saddle.
-a cavalcade of limousines ferrying a foreign head of state about, racing through red lights thanks to a couple of motorcycles in full flashy blue light fashion.
-our finance minister (and next Taoiseach?) queueing up, carrying his own tray, and eating like everyone else at the National Gallery canteen (he drank from a can of Fanta).
-our defence minister walking to work in the morning, swinging his attache-case about like a chippy second-former.
-not one, not two, but three hen nights coming to blows in Temple Bar, "Learner" signs and torn off hair extensions flying about to the cheers of the male assembly.
-a handicapped person's wheelchair bearing advertising on its back (the boys told me of a certain tub of lard once selected to "fight" Mike Tyson who sported advertising ...on the sole of his boots).
-Neil Hannon off the Divine Comedy stopping outside a convenience store to check his bill, one resolutely non ironic eyebrow raised.
-Phil Oakley off The Human League walking past me in the street, looking every inch like a rock god; your seven feet man was dressed from head to toe in leather.
-people walking down the street with giant pints of Guinness for hats
-people stealing bin tags under cover of night (no, this is not about JohnnyRay).
-more Che Guevara / Ramones / Liverpool / Nike / Brazil / Quik(sic)Silver tops that I care to remember.
-a wall-sized promotional flag of Kylie draped all the way down the side of the hamburger joint opposite the George -er..., asks naive Lily, who was the famously small-bottomed one's record company trying to target here?
-at least three chippies boasting the title of the official "best in the country".
-flip-flops in the street, in all types of weather (could anyone mistake a street with their bathroom? apparently some people do).
-people paying up at a supermarket counter without bothering to unglue themselves from their mobile.
-people eating Chinese take-aways out of their cartons at bus stops.
-outgoing ladettes casually informing typical males in public houses that they happen to be celebrating their birthday that very night -with predictable consequences (fair play to them!) ...only to shamelessly repeat the trick the following week, and in the same drinking emporium too (such is the level of tourist turn-over).
-Scottish soccer female supporters -well they have to be Scottish right? Since this is a Glaswegian club we are talking about-, drunk as skunks, relieving themselves in the street itself between parked cars.
-Our Colin (that's Farrell to yous) favourably commenting on Eric Cantona to an amused Cate Blanchett right in the middle of Dame Lane (er... did I actually see that or was it in the movie biopic of "Veronica Guerin"?) -apparently "he's da focken King loike!"
-hives of exclamation marks addicted Italian students smoking the street out as they congregate outside the doorway of any one of these private language skewls, their rucksacks covered in felt tipped graffiti ("Pace! The Doors! Nickelback! Andrea 4ever!").
-fellas being refused free promotional PepsiCoke drink types handed out in the street on account of the -naturally "revolutionary"- new formula having been developed for girls and girls only -needless to say, they took it in with typical good grace!
-free chocolate bars being offered in Grafton Street, free ice cream cones being offered in Grafton Street, free soda drinks being offered in Grafton Street, free apples and plain yoghurt being offered around the corner in a government-sponsored drive to combat obesity.
-Nick Cave getting into a conversation in a pub with someone mistaking him for Nicolas ("Nick") Cage. Nick Cave opting not to disappoint your man and playing along, regaling him with high tales of derring-do and debauchery on these crazy crazy filum shoots oh yeah.
-radioactive looking men leaving suntan parlours -even the little misses you see parading in the niteclubs would stare.
-a rather impulsive and downright amateurish pickpocket snatching a handbag in the busiest Dub street (|Dame Street) at rush hour and running away straight into a dead-end. A dead-end that hosts a Garda station.
-all four seasons within a day.

...all of this but I still haven't seen my future yet.

Which reminds me of this well-thumbed quote regarding The Bono as told by Boy George. Some people may have heard The Bono giving out about how much "he stiiiiill hasn't found what he's looking for"; replies famously non-sexual George: "maybe he (meaning The Bono) should look behind him who's sitting on the drum stool!"






chapter 3
----------------------------Grabbing the Tiger by its tail-----------------------



Monday. Must hurry, am in a rush: I have to meet Sean, who's editor at The Herald. One of many editors there, he is in charge of a vaguely defined pitch that could be situated somewhere between Social Affairs and Social Calendar (note the word "social" here). Of course his official remit is much more serious sounding on paper -this is The Standard we're talking about, the old lesson givers have to make it sound like your man is carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders! Ah yes, his position must be presented as nothing less than a sinecure in the great tradition of investigative journalism. Sure thing. I noted long time ago that there's nothing any organisation likes more than high faluting c.r.a.p. when defining itself: all these "mission statements", all these business cards blowing away in the wind...
Yes, The Herald doesn't half like to take itself seriously. Which suits Sean down to a T as his designated topics fall right into the stiff upper lip category. We're talking obviously crucial matters here, involving the kind of men (always men) who pretty much sleep in their suits -if they ever take time to sleep at all-; men who count exclusively in units of "little brown envelopes" -except "obviously and let's make it clear" they never do-; men who never smile if they're not billed to. The words they use are as obscure as they are well known: "the conjuncture being as it stands and the fact of the matter is, our tried and trusted knowledge-management system is critical if we want to deliver a content-driven result from a proactive angle, each and every one of our stake holders expect nothing less than proven success factors: we HAVE to strategise our user interface functions. Now, in our fully integrated, fully diversified business at the cutting edge of our warm and caring environment, I'm gonna throw a figure in the ballpark here: the take-home message is that critically, you have to look at the bigger picture and think outside the box -meet the challenge, people! This is a window of opportunity here, not a level playing field!". Why yes of course.
Even if I haven't got a clue what they actually mean.

"As things stand right now", I happen to have been made privy to a certain little something dead exciting about Sean's actual mission... heh heh!
The word not on the street is that the hour of reckoning has come: the oft lampooned broadsheet has finally decided to tackle its sales nosedive and has been conducting a study of the competition. It has looked at its rivals, it has looked back at itself, and -lo- it saw that it was crap. It probably downed a large glass of whisky at that stage, went on a nicotine funk for a few days, maybe even hired a good old Consultant to draw a conclusion -and decided to adapt. Hell for leather! Diplomatically put, the Herald is about to "take a leaf" off the Stando, the Indo and the Journo. This leaf -or even leaves- will translate as including a Polish supplement for our new socially active guests-residents and launching a "peepul" magazine of its own. That your paper is preparing to diversify is obviously their own business (fair play to them!); ...that it should branch out into quarters so close to my interests, now that is becoming a personal concern: all aboard!

From what I hear, Sean will soon be presiding over an expanded "entertainment slash s'lebs slash serious money slash A2 demographics" Saturday supplement. How do I know that? I know that from Keira who's dating Noel who's going to the same gym as Michael who is "very close" (hee hee) to Damon D. who shares a flat with Ciara O'S. who's deputising for Sean. ...Let it not be said that I don't have my spies me. Anyway, in a town like ours, everybody knows each other. Remember the Kevin Bacon network game? Well adapt it to society and there you have it: statistically, we're only supposed to be no more than six persons away from anyone else in the world, yep, six persons away! ...Make it four in Dublin.
-Joe Duffy and Enya? Joe Duffy works at RTE with Gerry Ryan who probably tips his binman once a year for Christmas, the same binman who may very well service our true queen of pop.
-Shane McGowan and Sinead O'Connor? Shane ventured once or twice in London, England where he appeared on TV in the same programme as the by then late Nusrat Fateh Ali Kahn whose voice was featured on "Natural Born Killers" by Oliver Stone who made a film about Fidel Castro in Cuba near Jamaica where Sinead recorded an album.
-Gerry Adams and Bertie Ahern? Ivana Bacik and Eddie Hobbs? The Bono and Larry Mullen? Podge and Rodge? The possibilities are endless, and the result always the same.

So the Oldo is about to take a frank dive into sleb territory, at long last it's going in... After having totally tipped its haughty tut-tutting toes into it for so long (tip top!), the venerable one's finally moving in with the times / with The Times -He'h! Fair play to the Posho like! Then again, they're not complete novices, they did indulge every now and then I seem to remember -but that was just to stay on the topical side when a suitable story broke, nothing remotely radical that I can recall, nothing out of the Dubordinary. They only got off their high horse on occasion, like when there was a story impossible to ignore, like when there would be a true legend strutting about town such as, let's see...
Actually it is a good question: who would count as their A-list, who would have been featured so far? Chances are, there must be a select few...

Naturally they would have mentioned The Bono and his various good causes...; maybe Colin Farrell... definitely Noel Stapleton; the ballets hosted by our glamorous Minister for Justice Malcolm McDowell; the inexplicable Glenda Gilson; the ubiquitous media commentator and cheerful prophet of doom David McNeil ("The house market's gonna burst! I tell yous it's gonna burst! I guarantee it will!...OK it hasn't yet, still not this month ...and not this month... or this year yet... OK or even next year then but -but one day it will! I swears it wills! The market's gonna burst! And then in no way -no way whatsoever- will yous hear me say "I told you so" oh no not me! -My book (only E 19.99 + VAT) is available at all good newsagents");
I can imagine the quality rag would have also featured the increasingly frequent misadventures of that airline's boss, you know the one ("I made me own millions myself me! All by myself! So da government can feckin' stuff its feckin' regulations! He don't care for business does Bertie, he don't care for growth -his government's so uncompetitive! Bleedin' disgrace if you ask me. And the European Union eh... the European Union. They can SOD OFF too while we're at it! Let me ask you this: who do they think they are? Eh?? What have they ever done for us? Deir bleeding security checks at airports... they're so unfair! Unfair on the travellers that is: I only care for dem, me.") And on and on*.
Mentions would have been made as well of the latest acquisitions and counter acquisitions by these new local heroes of ours tada! drum roll...: the construction magnates
("OK: you buy me The Shelbourne and I'll buy you St-Stephen's Green, is that a deal?
-Call that a deal?? Who you think you're talking to boyo? Who's the one selling the Liffey in bottles as mineral water to American tourists here? You... or me?
-OK OK, so what about... what about I throw in the Dail's gate security code and the thirtieth of April?
-Riiiight that might just about clinch it but then... but then -hear me out here- I'll throw in Balyfermot Central's golf course, Rosanna Davidson, and ...and in exchange let's say I get the Jackie Yeats's "Waterlilies", the Abrakadabra kebab chain, and the new airport terminal!
-Not without the Jackie Skelly gyms you don't!
-I see... you wanna play hard ball wid me's that it? Well well well... Chew this over laddie: how about your champion greyhound Kiki, a trip down memory lane for two, and a couple of cranes to boot -how's that sound?
-That sounds hmm... like I might be tempted here... Could you arrange a signed photo by Pat Kenny The Man Himself? And two Southside T.Ds.?
-Deal!
-Plus an audience with Joanne Cantwell.
-Don't push it now pal, I'd have to consult with me lawyers on that one!").
All of these I remember having been covered to some extent -although not maybe in these precise terms-, but the rag never went much further; it never really took the measure of our new affluent society and its attending new s'leb culture.

And this is where myself can be of help.

More than of help too if I'm being honest: in fact this is the kind of opportunity I've been waiting for ever since I set out on this course, the kind of position that I have been, er, positioning myself for all these years: the not too serious yet not too glitzy angle that would suit me; the balancing act between presenting and representing that I could make mine; the hard to define yet undeniable pitch that I could occupy no bother. Especially here in Dublin.
Dublin is the place for New Money. Just check the cars down by the bay, the shops in the centre. With the advent of this new moneyed class, you can't cruise the scene anymore without tripping over some flashy function hosted by bored trophy wives who simply need to show off their social activism. This social activism of theirs, it is simply crying out to be praised, it is dying to get properly recognised! Here should be the new haven for the likes of "Tatler Magazine", "Vanity Fair", "Vogue", Popbitch or even MTV Europe: in this Celtic Tiger yoke of ours! Here we famously have millionaires everywhere (even though most of these fortunes are property related -see Mr. McNeil for further explanations), hordes of refugee artists strangely grateful for a port of call ("Look, I'm not saying Haughey was right but..."), and a statistically young population with normal aspirational tendencies.
How could this cocktail not be intoxicating?

You go get a cup of coffee, you bump into Irvine Welsh! ("H*re, b*nny l*d, ah w**ld l*ke ae foockin' c*p ae c*ffee if y** pl**se y* wee foockin' cunt, th*nk y**!") You take the dog or the boyfriend for a walk, you pass by David Bowie -sans fedora- coming to visit his mate The Bono! You settle down for a quiet splash dash Viking tour, you find yourself surrounded by the REM boys! ("Shiny Happy McPeople") True as me name's Lilly, it's nonstop glamour around here: the Hollywood stars, they want to follow in the footsteps of US Presidents -they're all Irish! Mel Gibson, Matthew Broderick and SJP, JFK, W and his dad, Ronald Reagan, Gerry Ford, Mischa Barton, Lindsay Lohan, Matt Dillon, Woody Allen (maybe not Woody Allen), Mia Farrow, Ryan O'Neal, Rose McGowan, Anne Hathaway, Ben Affleck, Brendan Fraser, Colm "Star Trek" Meany, Mel Gibson again etc. etc. etc.. I even read somewhere that we can rightfully reclaim Saint Audrey Hepburn. If that's not a massive palmares!
Daniel Day Lewis running the marathon, Shane McGowan being wheeled about by his long suffering Victoria, George Lucas taking pictures of Trinity's architecture, oh and what about the time I saw Louis Walsh by the jewellers' lane (with a lovely fella, must have been his son)... Top drawer stuff and no mistake.
What with our national banks standing their ground and not allowing foreign competitors like Lloyds or Barclays (kerching!); what with Trinners's summer balls and graduation carry-ons; what with dear old Enya herself (next album rumoured to be released around the start of December) -to be sure, what a glorious fecking place this has become!

"To be in Ireland / with my love / in the summer of (insert date as appropriate)."

------------------------------- Shaking It About -----------------------------------------------


So here I am then, tarting myself up for a chin wag with Sean. Y'know, a cupacoffee like, and nothing more, it's what friends do, right? They meet for coffee. They chew the fat. ('Bit of blusher -not too much-, easy on the lipstick... in fact forget the lipstick. Or maybe just a quick touch up after all, 'couple of licks, no more than that, nothing too bright... nothing too obvious.) After all, I haven't seen him... for quite a while now. Sean and I we go... we go way back. At least a year. (Nothing too direct, not the "going out" combo, anything but the "warpath". Classy but subtle, that is the vibe. Understated -we're going for the understated here. The almost nonexistent yet studiedly constructed look of the woman who doesn't want to impress, who doesn't need to impress: the woman who says "hey there fellows, I am at ease with myself "-very casuel chic.) It's only natural we should meet up from time to time. (Let it be known I am at ease with myself.)
Sean and I met a few times before, thanks to Ciara thanks to Damon thanks to Michael -whom I knew from some place or another (did I ever go out with him? OMG 'think I did!...Hmm. Moving on swiftly).

Sean is a gas ticket, he's a good oul' skin alright, except he can get stressed at times: he has a bit of a short fuse. Started losing his hair early (he's now in his thirties) -whether that was a cause or an effect can't possibly be asked; from what I gather, guys losing their hair, that's like their version of ourselves and cellulite: a big conversational No-No if there is one.
Forever checking his watch, Sean always gives the impression that he is late for a meeting. Busy bee, tight ship to run-I'd say he's quite adept at shop-talk himself:
"Just the other day, I was after talking to Sir Doctor Lord Tony O'Reilly, I was saying: at this moment in time -if we want to be honest about it- one has to think outside the box if you ask me, we have to be trying 'n push the envelope, this synergy is content streamlining make no mistake, the three Cs -consistency concentration and commitment- are an integral part of our overall goal and this is why any potential merger is bound to be going to benefit shareholder value by creating value driven content, I'm thinking big here: I'm thinking blue-skying it exponentially."
"And what did he say to that?"
"Not much. I'd say he was pretty convinced."
Maybe Sean wants to impress his employers too much; maybe he's doing too much coke.

Which reminds me of a good one courtesy of Mssrs Farrell and Gleason. This football commentator who famously complained "you can't get good coke in Dublin" ...he was probably being glib; or maybe he didn't know where to look.
...Drug dealers are usually good people to go and ask.
(Boom boom -"In Bruges" is out now and it's complete gas.)

I remember the time Sean and I met at the IFI, it was at some... dreary retrospective of a Japanese director -Mizubishi or some name like that-, some high faluting function sponsored by RTE and the "quality broadsheet" (hee hee) The Indo. Just like myself, Sean was less than overwhelmed by "The Life Of (That Wretched Woman's Name)".
What - a - drag that yoke was.

To start with, we're talking black and white filum here. Yes. That put me right in the mood. But I gave it a chance I did, I suspended judgement... The suspension didn't last long. So here was your woman right? Otaku or something, and she's sacrificing herself in the name of some... quaint aul' code of honour that had already made a right bollix of her godforsaken existence (her main squeeze having been executed in the first five minutes like), and she's getting all martyrical and saintly and what not -something brutal. Suffering in the name of.
I can't be having that! I can't be going along with that charade! Me, what I would say would be:
"Woh-oh, calm your jets here missy, you cannot be serious! Why you taking all that aggro ya bleedin cabbage? Eh? Why d'you give in to that sad bunch when you can see they're as mean as a fiddler's bitch the whole lot o'them! You've got it all arse about face love! Don't let that sorry lot grind you down sister, get yourself a bottle of cop on and tell'em to stick it up their (untranslatable)"
That'd be her told. Right and proper. Joking aside, I'm watching this, I'm watching this poor woman being taken to the cleaners and I'm thinking: why on earth should she give up on happiness, why take it lying down (literally) and ask for more? The way I saw it, auld Uhuru had it all wrong! When all she had to to was turn round and go:
"Well feck that for a game of soldiers! Yous can all take your edicts and stuff'em up your pipe!" (or Japanese equivalent) "I'm off to Tokyo or New York me! Tool and die, Fear and Trembling, the have and the have-nots -yer avin’ a larf if you think I'm gonna put up with any more of that nonsense! Class division is for skewl kids doing maths! I ain't buying no more! Yous bunch of skangers killed me fella, yous can go hang yourselves! I'm gonna get me me good coat and off I go, up up and away! Game over! Let 'em eat lotus leaves, this lady here ain't for turning! I've paid me dues feck you very much, and now it's sayonara from me / Philadelphia here we come! Yee-haw!! "

...But maybe I wasn't in the mood. Maybe I didn't quite "get it".
Huh. Well I'll grant the purists that: I never pretended to be high culchured me, never pretended to know all about faraway lands and be much of a cunning linguist (cough cough, moving on swiftly part two).

Anyway, neither did Sean -"get it" that is. More fidgety than a bag of kittens attacked by fleas, he was audibly struggling to repress his yawns at ten paces inside the theatre. Your man was totally gagging for an espresso so he was; and as he was, so was I... Yawn on the left, yawn on the right -funny how it spreads faster than a jar of jam smashed up on your carpet! (Not only that but as a matter of fact, scientists recently "discovered" that yawning also spreads to dogs. They conducted this experiment right? where researchers would yawn while looking at their pets... Surprise! The dogs themselves soon followed suit. Research money well spent says I!) Anyway our eyes met as the both of us started squinting towards the door. Ten seconds later we didn't need to squint no more.
And this is how we properly met, sharing in our sense of incomprehension, sympathising over a cup of Joe. I remember telling him
"We should probably be ashamed of displaying such cultural ignorance"
-"Should we feck!" replied he, with what can only be described as admirable frankness.

Which brings us to today. Now, if I could get Sean to be as candid as that time at the IFI, that would make things dead simple. And if Mr. Grump could for once be in a good mood, that would make for a day well spent, very well spent indeed... (sez she, metaphorically already patting herself on the back.)
Here comes the tricky part though:
I am not actually supposed to know about this editorial revamp, it's all very much internal affairs territory on the hush hush all complicated handshakes code names and tapped noses. Which is dead understandable: I mean, it wouldn't look good if I just barged in, size five first (OK, seven), and let Sean know that his paper's internal decisions are an open secret! How would this reflect on its respectability? Nobody likes to be taken lightly, let alone for granted. Besides, like all good journalists, I need to protect my sources; I can't possibly expose them to potential retribution should their indiscretions be revealed (should their leak be leaked like). If I spilled the beans to Sean, how would this reflect on the company he keeps? Not favourably I suspect ...not favourably at all: heads might roll. So my best option is to play it dumb, play it blind, and keep my aces up my sleeves. To all intents and purposes, I need to be "my usual self": the happy-go-lucky cheeky-but-nice Lily the innocent.

What we'll be having is just an informal cup-o-coffee then, a simple catching up session; I'm just reminding him of my existence that's all, like acquaintances do from time to time (bis repetita), nothing hairy, no agenda here, a simple case of blather time... (Methinks the Lady doth protest too much)
Oh, and maybe -just maybe-, also remind him of my contacts book; my deliiightful social diary pieces for The Dubliner; my spot on Toledo 101; my acquaintance with Sean Moncrieff; my entries, courses and impeccable table manners; my eagle eye and barbed pen. "Have laptop, will travel". I'm no air-head me, I can be counted on. In life you need to have principles, and I certainly have mine, these stand to scrutiny. Like for instance...: always be dependable, never turn down an invitation or an assignment, always be timely. These I must try to impress upon him, if I can manage to get a word in and bend his ear.

I'm weighing this up, I am remembering that -and of course time passes. I catch a glimpse of the time on my funky watch: we're supposed to meet in less than thirty minutes! Feck me sideways with a rusty spanner if I'm not running late already! Typical just typical. On this day of all days!
My two licks of make-up will do just fine, I gather my keys, grab a jacket (and the peg comes off with it, will fix it another time), and off we go. Rather than drive, I decide on hailing a cab -hopefully the bugger will be faster than my clapped car.

This one isn't.

Your man must think I came off the ferry in Dun Laoghere: he winds his way through them picturesque aul' streets and points out the scenery to me: "Look it, a tree! This is where our famous author James Joyce sat down to write his poems, long long time ago; he is dead famous, you know -do you want me to sing you one of his songs?" Grrreat, when all I want is to get there ASAP. A to B OK N-uff? Clearly no, QED. I am raging in the back of my cab, I can't believe it! But it's sod's law in action here: the one time I'm late, the only time in at least a week, that will be the precise time I hail Bozo the clown's taxi. "And this is where our very own poetry Nobel Prize Samuel Beckett used to play football as a nipper, right against this wall. Do you like football miss? What do you think of Liverpool's chances this season?
And that's before we hit the bleeding road works.
How could I have forgotten them, the blessed Office of Pubic Works (-Office of Pubic Works? Concentrate Lily!). Road works means diversions, diversions mean going round rather than straight ahead -I start to feel like I could get there faster by myself! My fingers start drumming. ....... I don't want to sound paranoid on top of it but it seems to me... (takes on a deep breath, then a matter-of-factly voice) ...aren't there an awful lot of learner drivers about? It's like a "L" plate festival out there! Actually I'm not / there are: I read somewhere that something like twenty percent of driving licenses in Dublin are registered as "provisional". Which makes it one car in five; I rest my case.

In the end, we do get there (I dare not check the actual time). I sigh a, er, sigh of relief and switch on my engaging personality, select my chatty / honest to God mode. At long last the operation is under way, and this is cheerful Lily taking over now, no negative thought allowed. Are we ready to go into battle? A quick spray of Snowy Aurora and yes we are.




*The author may want to come clean here. To-be-perfectly-honest-wid-chas, we may have been a wee bit away with the fairies when we came up with this wacky character: just imagine, an airline boss railing against security checks at airports?!!??
Uma must be getting a bit dotty with old age...


--------------------"Whey hey hey, the devil's in town"-----------------------------



The place I selected to meet up / with / at is the Bewley's Cafe; it's a short stroll away from the Herald headquarters so that your man won't feel kept too far away from his precious office's revolting door (-"revolting door"? You’re on a roll today!). Why, should he get too antsy about taking time off, he's only got a couple of roads and beggars to cross to get back to his safe haven; so just admire the attention here eh... there's no such thing as a detail.
I also reckoned that if the place is good enough for sommities like Marian Finucane in person, then it should be good enough for me (sez she, struggling to fit her head inside a XXL beret) -end of intro.

Nowadays' s Bewls is 90 percent patronised by tourists, all baseball caps on indoors, bulging "fanny packs" and "Can you beliiiieve the price? Told you we should have gone to KFC Thelma!" But who cares about the dorks: the place is, before all, an institution, an integral part of Dublin's heritage. Oh aye: stained glass windows and brass railings; cutesy little uniforms on the waiters; monogrammed merchandising on sale by the door.
I am by the door. I take a quick check of my funky watch and am amazed to discover that I'm only technically one minute late, which with regards to my gender's prerogatives ought to qualify as me being officially early. I look around the place past the ubiquitous backpacks, past the baseball caps worn indoors, and there he is, already seated at the back looking pained, checking his phone messages. That's Sean alright.

-"Con I help youuu?" growls a waitress as I breeze in
and indeed she may: I order a cup of lemon tea (for me) as well as an espresso (for him).

-"Hey Sean, how you keeping?"
Your man looks up.
-"Ah Lily, ah here you are... just a second .... Nah, noone worth." He clicks his phone shut. "I've only just arrived myself. What you having?"
-"Already done, espresso on its way to you; I reckoned you'd be in a rush."
-"H'a! Always am you know me, always am. So what's the story? Long time no see"
-"Ah you know yourself, busy busy busy up to me eyeballs, always on the run I am, with one function to attend here and another to cover there -you do know I'm doing a bit of reporting for The Dubliner sometimes? Not just for the radio"
-"Ah yes the radio... Sometimes I manage to catch you on Oh-One-Oh. Very entertaining. Great craic. Unlike the rest of the programme though, that's like way more serious right? your man ain't half taking himself seriously is he..."
Indeed he's not.
The beverages arrive -minus napkins.
The waitress is told to go get some.
"But I seldom catch you to be honest, seldom have the time you see... or the attention, with all that's going on, 'bunch of muppets..."
He takes a sip.
"Feckin thing's too hot."
-"Yeah well I guess... must be constant madness manning a paper 24/7 right? I'd love that kind of stress though: keeps me on my toes, that sort of thing. ...But yeah I guess it mustn't be fun every day... Some days must be manic right? Busier than others when you have a deadline or something"
-"Certainly are, certainly are, 'specially when "a certain party" is mentioned" (does little rabbit ears in the air) "you must measure every word you'll print about them or these dirty skangers will come after you and take you to court! The old intimidation... Mind you, they're all as bad as each other -I just don't trust them! In this business you godda stay dead sharp"
-"Too right! So much aggro... you wanna deal with a less stressful subject is what, something more fun maybe" in chime I... a propos of nothing.
-"Too right I do!"

I let the matter float for a while, and scoop around. Wish I could find someone amusing to point out, someone colourful in the crowd... but depressingly there's noone standing out, noone different. Everyone looks pretty much as you would expect, nobody makes an effort to dress up anymore; they're dressed as if they were after pottering about the house on a Sunday morning in their slippers... Tracksuits, tracksuits everywhere, grey's clearly the new "in" colour.; otherwise Guinness shop bags ...and baseball caps worn indoors.

Sean looks slightly preoccupied. Even more preoccupied than usual, which really should say it all (but then of course, I know nuffink). He hesitates then hazards a half-finished comment:
"There might be some change ahead though..."
-"Some change?" up pick I, ever the attentive and considerate listener
-"Yeah well, some possible change of direction, something we're working on... it's a bit early to tell..."
Evasive, like.
-"Huh. Well I hope it's something good whatever it is, you look like you could do with a bit of cheering up"
-"Sure could"
-"I take it it's the paper we're talking about, everything OK with you otherwise?"
-"Oh yeah, everything fine, the usual..." By the Bono, is the man playing hard ball or what? What will it take him to come off with it??
"It's just that damn O'Leary, always on my back... but things will get better, they'll get better. Once we get our project underway -Miss! Miss? Can I have a glass of water? Still water yes, no no ice."
Now then. Should be allowed to pick up on that shouldn't I?
-"Well... 'seems to me once you get that... project of yours off the ground, you will feel so much better, you'll find yourself flying: don't worry too much, there's always an element of stress to every big decision we make in life ...whatever these are." Take that! Getting into position!
-"Hmm. You're probably right. Not that I actually worry about myself though. I'll manage just fine -I always do- it's just the whole... concept that is... the whole shebang and the various eejits associated... the constant meetings like, when we have to go over what's already been agreed on again and again and again oh you have no idea: bo-ring!"
Me I say nothing ("I have no idea"), I let him simmer for a while; surely he'll be able to add two and two at some stage?
"Actually." a flash of inspiration like, straight out of nowhere, registers in his eyes "Tell you what, there might be something in it for you though..."
Eyebrows shoot up, tea sipping operation is put on hold.
-"Oh yeah?"
That's seriously good acting from the girl Monaghan that -Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley pretending to kiss as husband and wife should get in touch to book lessons.
-"Yeah, just occurred to me and why not... Huh. Huh, can't say too much at this stage, can't promise you anything but....... need to think about it though, need to-Miss, Miss? Can I get another espresso? Right away, there's a good girl."
-"Well I... Let me know when things get clearer down your end then, I'd be curious to know more, ...if I can be of help somehow..."
But Sean doesn't answer that: his second espresso has arrived and he's tasting it.
-"Berk! Too hot again. Boiling. Is there such thing as Ice Espresso I wonder... would be a great invention wouldn't it?"
Watch me laugh with him, oh the idea of it! Just where does he get them?
-"Sure would be, for people who love coffee as much as you do."

Time -as it usually does- passes,
Sean goes back to enjoying his cup of concentrated caffeine. Right now, he doesn't seem to want to pursue the matter. I hesitate to push the subject any further then, can't possibly appear to be exerting any pressure on your man, that wouldn't be clever -Sean is not exactly the kind of guy who appreciates being pushed around, least of all by nosy wimmin. Our boy's got his sense of self-respect after all, which I suppose we have to respect like. He's got his pride. When he's good and ready, he'll make his offer.

-"Yeah well... I'll let you know about that yoke then, when I'm given the go-ahead to do so; but as things stand at this moment in time... why not. Why not is all I can say. I'd say there is potential. There is potential for you in there; I think I might be in a position to work something out for you."
-"Grand, that's grand, don't hesitate -I am all ears! When you're good and ready and have checked with your man, you know how to get in touch, by all means gizzas a bell; I'm only working part-time as it were, I have plenty of time to spare if that's convenient..."
-"Message received. Will do." Sean checks his watch. "Need to go back to the office now, 'sbeen at least ten minutes."
-"Sure thing."
-"Can you get the bill, would you mind?"
-"Not at all, not a problem."
-"Thanks a million / good girl yourself / need to fly now" he gets up "I'll keep you posted ...whenever is possible. Goddago, it was good to see you Lily, you mind yourself now!"
And he extricates himself off his chair, manoeuvres round the adjoining backpacks. A little wave and your man is off.

Now I'm not one to blow me own trumpet me, but I daresay we have just made some serious inroads here so we have! Only massive! Lily Monaghan you cheeky rascal, you'll get places one day...
I raise an imaginary toast to my possible future and set down my cup instantly: my tea's gone cold.


-------------------------------------


As I make my way out of Bewls, the drizzle is still coming down gently. Its soft cascade cleans up the paving stones and polishes them, reaching where this morning's pressure hoses couldn't get at. The discarded crisps packets glitter in the half-light, and the potato wedges boxes start floating down gently towards the gutters. The gutters from which mouths a shimmering mist rises, almost spectral. It reaches a couple of feet -the mist, that is- ...and gracefully blends into the exhausts fumes of Nassau Street. Everything falling into place.
Through the carpet of tiny drops, the angels ontop the whatsitcalled church at the corner beam at the shoppers-by. Glowing with the reflection of the sun on the carpark scaffoldings, they give them their blessing (the angels: to the shoppers-by -let's get our priorities correct shall we?) "Go forth yee of credit cards aplenty, go forth and consume..." they appear to be saying, right finger virtuously raised in the smoke. Here is a cheese shop, here is a jeweller; this is what Grafton Street is for.

I am not working for the rest of the day -tomorrow's a different story- but I have to be on duty tonight: a function to attend at the National Library. Egg heads pontificating about things and stuff, with an occasional reference to dat and de udder thing -count me in then! I am a literal sucker for such get-togethers me; maaarvellous social occasions they are: you can meet tons and sometimes even -even!- learn a thing or two.
And so, fresh from my latest strategic move in this never ending game of social chess, I prepare to head back home: my "evening wear" cupboard's waiting for me. Actually feel like treating myself to a killer thread tonight yippee! Oh yes let's, and let's make sure that this day's good work is crowned by an even better evening -optimism's the way forward!






chapter 4

-----------------------An Evening At The National Library------------------------------------------------
"I could spend hours listening to you..."------------------------------------------------------------




Pat pat my hair. I take my seat, put my bag down and think of switching my mobile off.
Now then. I take a breather and scan the scene. Surprise surprise, I can spot the usual suspects: we Irish folks are divils for reading!
Literary types with carefully casual scarves are busy acquainting themselves with the NLI programme's most minute details ("Oh look it, there's a conference on the use of split infinitives to come on the 23rd by! Happy days!"); scholarly characters ignore the surrounding chit-chat and touch up their spectacles every other second; dusty elbowed collectors reconfigure the order of their books in their jute bags. Stephen Rea, true to character, creeps in unobtrusively and crouches down to a cheap seat; you would be forgiven for thinking he's a carpenter interested in plinths, inconspicuous as he is.
There is a Spanish looking lady with a fabulous hat -she belatedly takes it off after everyone has presumably noticed it; an egg-head in a polka dot tie and striped shirt combination represses a yawn -and fails at that; technicians double-check the sound equipment (the old "one two two, one two GERONIMO!!!!"); they glance at their watch -could it be the big man is running late?; what must be colleagues seated at opposite ends of the room indulge in J-Lo-style nose frowns of recognition and exchange little hand waves along the lines of "Oh here you are / How lovely to see you too / Can't speak right now, care for a glass later? / Sorry, don't understand -care to meet later for a drink? / OK, meet you for a drink there!"; a goatee sporting balding gentleman attempts to cross his legs and renounces as he just about kicks an elderly lady off her seat; he apologises profusely and they agree that the place is cramped ("Ah but you see, McCabe's a popular writer he is, I'd say he must sell in the thousands, the thousands! It's not like when we had that Finnish poet who writes epigrams in ancient Irish -I don't know if you were here?- there was plenty of space then, plenty of space; and what a fascinating evening it was too!")
A couple of students bring down the age average and whip out minirecorders (is this allowed?); a tacky Sam Beckett tucks himself into his vintage jacket and consults "The Guardian" as much as elbow room will allow him -i.e. not much. He folds it back with a dignified frown. The clock is ticking; the sound technician looks expectantly towards the door,

and then my eyes come to rest upon an absolute hunk.
What - on - Earth if we haven't got Johnny Depp in the building.

Or at least a Johnny Depp lookalike, that'll do me grand: with half-long raven black hair, cheekbones to cut yourself on, and a slight bohemian-yet-distinguished look about him.
What is he doing here, has he taken the wrong turn for Lillie's Bordello? Mediterranean looking rather than weedy, sitting up straight rather than slouching in a cardigan, the man definitely stands out in the literary assembly. He's like the proverbial sore thumb! By all rights, he shouldn't belong here, he should be at a rock concert or something -correction: he should be the rock concert! The thing is, he does look slightly baffled, as if aware of this. As if aware oh his otherness, he sticks to his own. Doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't even scan around, and -most hurtingly for the blue rinse brigade that constitute his neighbours- ignores everyone in the audience. Obviously on his own -maybe foreign? ...Or just short-sighted. In any case, our own "Johnny Depp" stares ahead like he's deadly absorbed in the stage flower pot. Must be the patient type.
Hard as I try, our eyes don't meet; I bore my gaze into his profile ("come on come on, look up this way, gizzus a look ya big girl's blouse, don't be afraid") ...but he won't budge. No sign of acknowledgement, no hint of awareness, how can anyone resist such willpower? This is not fair!

Before I am able to fully debate the merits of life, movement occurs at the periphery and the room falls silent.

The National Library director strides in, preceding Paddy McCabe and his interviewer. He (the host) climbs onto the makeshift podium and invites him (the guest) to join him there. The third man consults his notes and joins the party. The latter two sit themselves comfortably under the spotlight and help themselves to a glass of water. The soundman climbs up to adjust their microphones. Silence ripples through the rows, the start has never been so close...

The NLI Director combs his moustache rapidly and puts away his comb in his pocket. He begins by welcoming everyone to this edition of "Library Late" -so far so good. He then half-turns towards the two seated figures on the podium and confidently states that the guest of tonight needs no introduction ...which he proceeds to deliver. "Paddy McCabe was born blah blah blah, first published etc., came to fame with yadda yadda -and there he is with us tonight". Big round of applause for your man.

The next hour or so passes fairly fast, entertaining as McCabe is. The RTE journalist feigns to enquire about his earlier work (which he's obviously re-read before tonight's assignment), gently probes into his writing discipline (morning or night? write or type? whisky or beer? the Beatles or the Stones?), and generally leads him to recount amusing anecdotes, most of them relating to the recent adaptation of "Breakfast On Pluto" onto the big screen (the filum came out last week).
"And I suppose... in a way... it could it be said... given your very pronounced style, would you agree that... what did you have in mind when you wrote... were you drunk of what? obviously, you must have been very flattered by the success of "The Butcher Boy"...any chance of an autograph for me old Mah, she's like your biggest fan" (No no, hang on, cross the last one out!)
Before you know it, the interview is coming to an end and we face the moment dreaded by every skewl-kid:
"Right, and now I think we're running out of time -how fast time flew, oh my goodness!-, we have just about five minutes left for questions from the floor; does anyone have any question for our guest tonight? ... Huh? anyone? .......... now don't be shy..."
Finally someone raises her hand ("What advice would you give to an aspiring writer? Do you know any good agent?"). As soon as the ice is broken, someone else does, and someone else -and here we go. Twenty more minutes of questioning ensue ("What is the subtext of your obsession with sex? Aren't you, like, a total pervert? Do you remember me, we met ten years ago? Have you heard the one with the bishop and the rabbi? Why aren't you funny anymore? So who dunnit at the end, I didn't quite get it? Do you really get paid for writing such rubbish? How much? Me ma says I've got a lovely handwriting, do you think I should become a writer such like yourself? Aren't Gardai getting younger every year? Sorry, is this the National Museum or the National Library?") when I, for one, can't wait to go investigate.
Who the big hunk is of course.

Thirty minutes behind schedule, the little lit' shindig eventually comes to an end and the Library bigwig grabs the mike back to thank us all again. Why, thank you. Before the National Library staff unlock the doors and let us out, he informs us of the next event and invites us for a not undeserved glass of wine upstairs. His intervention serves as a double signal in two directions:
-on one hand, a gaggle of fans swarm onto the bemused writer to get their copies of his books signed ("Here here, I 'got 'em all pal, all of your books! I read 'em all too -I swears-, they're in me bag, wait wait, forgot to take the price tag off, ah there you are: can you sign 'em to "me buddy Deco" that'd be massive!")
-on the other, a substantial crowd rush to the cafe to claim their complimentary glass of plonk and low-fat cream cheese canape. There won't be many left for everyone!

I try to hover between the two groups, keeping an eye on you-know-who, playing by ear, and finally let myself be dragged away by the receding flow to which the almost aforementioned belongs. The café it is then! (Although I can't drink tonight since I am driving.)
By the time I arrive there (no more than three minutes at the max), half of the booze has gone. People in berets hold lofty conversations in between refilling their glasses while a photographer snaps the various personalities in attendance (what about "the lovely Lily Monaghan off Radio 101, yesterday" eh?). I scan the room and snake my way through the throng; I make sure to salute the few faces I recognise: one should always strive to get remembered; I work the room; I even engage in light banter with I can't even remember who. No sign of our Johnny (internal sigh)... Well that was a bit of a wasted opportunity wasn't it? Another one bites the dust more like! Entertaining evening for sure, pleasant interview for certain... but a bit of an anticlimax in the end. Your man is gone!
OK.
So be it, then.

Never mind. At least I will have shown my nose and worked on my contacts. I try one last time without making it too obvious and work the room some more. "Sashay, and glide, back straight, head high, and one, and two" -nothing doing. Already gone. Maybe he got bored? Maybe he had a bus to catch? Maybe -even maybe- there is a goddamn match on the telly and he had to go watch it! Oh well, whatever, feck it.

"How enchanting oh yes, a truly delightful evening indeed, that's right, an absolute gentleman -and so well spoken too, who would have thought! Oh yes, a wild imagination, completely wild! a true original to be sure... Pardon? The toilets are this way yes... Maaarvellous yes, and so entertaining too, can you believe how fast time flew? Yes yes, I am aware he uses profane language -he's very bold. Takes the Lord's name in vain does he? Ah well, you know with these artists, they're very bold they are, I was just after remarking and in a sense -in a very real sense-, could we even say it's their prerogative or? After all, they're a right colourful bunch to be sure! Half of what they write is just to fill up the page anyway! They may just have a vague initial idea and then they... pad it out is what they do -No no, I don't work here but yes, I know where the toilets are: on your left, then your right, down the corridor -you're very welcome. Now then. Am afraid I must dash though, lovely talking to you, toodleoo cheerio! Until next time, absolutely!"

Not a moment too soon I take my leave as graciously as possible and proceed to repair to the Lilymobile; I'm fairly peeved. Hopefully it won't have got clamped these wardens can be an absolute pain don't get me started now that would put the icing on the cake keys keys, where are my keys... never at hand when you need them... deffo need to get a better handbag and no mistake, one with more pockets, one more practical like -and I don't care if it will look less "feminine"! When oh when oh when will they come up with a bag fitted with a little lamp inside: like you click it open yeah? and it lights up inside! Alleluia! Ah but no, that would be too simple right? Much too simple!
So here I am, lost in my thoughts, foraging through the damn thing, moving mountains inside in search of the fecking keys, next time I'll get a Marc Jacobs tot-when who do I crash into but the man himself:
"Vvvvvlam"!

On me backside.


--------------------"A Against All Odds / AA Walk Through The Fire" ------------------------------


I wasn't paying attention, I didn't see him -I crashed right into him.
How could have I spotted him though: your man is dressed in black and it's nighttime. A) Dressed in black + B) at nighttime = C) a lethal combination. And then -what the hell?- he must have justst ood there, standing still on the porch (?!??) what for, I do not know -in any case the result is: here I am, head over heels, with my bag's precious contents strewn all over the place -perfect! And the hair I had so savantly spent all of five minutes assembling into some would-be style? The hair is gone now, it's gone wilder than a German girl's underarm. ...Oh what a sight I must offer, talk about making an entrance!
Fighting curls off my eyes, I raise myself cool as you like -or so I try. The truth is, I'm slightly stunned and my brain hasn't quite caught up with the rest of my body: it felt like hitting a wall. "Vlam". And yet the hunk here hardly flinched.


-"Are you all right?" A heavily accented voice shakes me out of my commotion. My god he is foreign! I knew it!!
He takes my hand and steadies me.
"I am sorry, I didn't seee you: I was searching for my enlighter, couldn't find it."
His enliwhat?
"...Are you OK then? ..... Oh you can't talk? Maybe you can't..." He looks at me with concern, and then adds very slowly: "Do - you - speak - En-gliiish?"

What a most impertinent question to ask -oi, this is my patch here so it is! This is me turf like! My ancestors were starved for this and don't you forget it-but what am I saying here?!? What am I on about??!>?? Lily get a grip!
"-Er yes no, I'm grand, I didn't see you either, after standing in the dark -please excuse me"

Undignified as one can be, I then bend down -no, crouch -no, bend down- to chase after my various possessions. "Johnny", to his credit, shows some concern ...in his own way:
-"Do you want me to hand you?"
-"Come again??"
-"A hand, do you want me to give you a hand?"
Oh, that! Right...
-"Thanks a million, but 'think I'll manage"

Do I want him to sift through the intimate contents of my precious of life companions? Do I feck! Hands off you big brute! You've already done enough damage! I gather my things in a hurry, stuff them inside. There.
And of course here are my car keys.
Right. Back to business.

As I finish shoving bits and pieces into my bag, I hear him remark
-"Ah, here it is!"
"Click!" / "Whoosh!" I look up to find him lighting himself a fag with his "enlighter"; so everything's sorted then. I grab my hair up and try to stick it behind my ears. (Must look a mess!) (He certainly doesn't.)
Cool as can be, Johnny takes a contended drag. "Pfffffff...."
"You alright then, you find your thiings?"
-"I have yes, thank you. 'Just hope I haven't lost anything!" (like left my diary on a bench, dropped my diaphragm in the begonias, that sort of thing)
-"Good... good." approves he.
Johnny takes another drag and studies me.
"So you come to the Library yes? You come to the interview?"
-"That's right, I did" -Hang on, are we turning the tables here or what? Am I being questioned? I must look really stupid to him then, like someone out of their depths or, if he's wondering what I am after doing here! This is definitely not happening is it? What a carry-on! First there was the grand entrance, and now I'm so making an impression (not)!
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out; steady..., ready..., need to recover Lily old girl, need to save the situation and get back on track fast; this is your big chance, maybe your one and only, no matter how bad it's started.
Here we go then.


-"And what brings you here, to the National Library?" (asks she, all sugar and spice)
-"Well, you know. Ireland. Irish art... culture. I like it, it's er... very interesting!" gestures he expansively.
Why, you be too kind mister!
-"'You a fan of Paddy McCabe?"
-"Who?"
-"Paddy McCabe, you know... tonight's guest?"
-"Ah no, haven't read any of this stuff. Not yet. But I understand he, er, did something to do with "The Butcher Boy" -I've seen the film. It's very good."
Ah yes, the modern "I haven't read the novel but I've seen the film" syndrome... It's everywhere you go though, so let's not hold it against him. After all, I haven't read "Doctor Zhivago" either.
-"That's right, he wrote the original novel, and then years later Neil Jordan adapted it into a film."
-"Right!" Magnificent. Your man agrees with me, as if I have merely confirmed what he's just explained. "That's the one."
-"Huh-uh indeed... Ahem, and what Irish writer did you have in mind, what particular aspect of Irish culture are you interested in?"
-"What writer? Oh; you know. ... Oscar Wilde, James Joyce. The usual."
-"They're a bit... that's a long time ago if I may say so. There's been plenty more since, no?"
-"Of course! Certainly! Lots of them I am sure, and all very, er, interesting: the Irish are great, you know"
(No shit Sherlock.)
"they always come up with new artists. A bit like the French at the football, ha!"
And the astute commentator laughs at his insightful observation, dead chuffed with himself. To be honest, I am starting to wonder if I made the right choice, staying out on the stairs freezing my tits off for the benefit of sharing an as yet unoffered fag with the big hunk.
"But seriously" he catches himself "seriously, you guys are great; really you are. You are passionated..., lyrical..., inventive -I like that; I like a lot. You have lots of imagination! Imagination and talent. That's good, that, to be inventive. Imaginative."
(Huh. Certainly is.)
"Ah yes the Irish... A great nation I am thinking for such a small country. ...And of course we are both hated by the Engliiish ha ha ha!"
Right. That's it. I'm on the brink on jingling my car keys when, suddenly, your Gallic Vincent Browne comes up with a startling reference:
"Do you know Flanno Brien?"
-"Eh?"
-"Flanno Brien, do you know him? "The Third Policeman"?"
If I expected that!
-"Why... sure... Read it 'long time ago but... do you know him? Have you read it?"
-"Of course I have ! It's geeeenius! Brilliant! It's so weiiird -I loved it!! Seriously interesting stuff no? The guy was an alcoholic."
I am not quite able to see the relevance of this last sentence to the previous ones, but maybe this is a French thing: le art of non-sequiturs.
Still, I am intrigued.
-"And where did you get to hear about him? I mean, he's not a household name or something... More of a hidden treasure, a local celebrity..."
-"Lost."
-"??"
-"The TV series "Lost". You know it? They were alleged that "The Third Policeman" was like the key to the series. The key like... the explanation, you see." And he lifts his right (left?) eyebrow in a knowing way -by Asterix, have I landed myself an "X Files" nut?!
-"Ah yes, I see... Yes yes, I have certainly heard of "Lost" -always sounded more of a bloke thing though, to be honest; never watched it myself then, I am afraid."
-"Ah." he looks almost bothered "So anyway, I geut an exemplary of "The Third Policeman" ...and I loved it. Loved it! And then I moved to his other stuffs. Very original."
You could say that again; maybe there is some spark behind that pretty face after all, something going on between these ears... After all, Flann O'Brien's a bit of an acquired taste, he's not the easiest of reads one could think of. Better not ask him if he read it in the original.
Meanwhile, the Frenchman's finished his cigarette and has lit up another. I don't even know his name.
-"Excuse me but... I don't even know your name. I am Lily, and you are...?"
-"Mathieu. Of course." he adds somewhat inexplicably and bows down to kiss me on the cheek. Correction: on both cheeks. Just like that! Past the shock, I have to smile: very French, I have to say.
-"Ahem... right..." Not the most unpleasant of feelings...
-"And how're you doing ...Lily?" he enquires "How is life etc.?" (Arm in full flourish fashion, cigarette sparks everywhere.)
-"Life is grand, thank you -How about yours?"
-"Oh you know... just here for a while. Make a bit of money, discover Ireland, all these sorts of things. Life, quoi."
-"And have you discovered much of Ireland yet? Has it met up with your expectations?"
-"Well. As a matter of fact, not a lot yet. Very dirty. I think that Dublin is very dirty you know. In the streets, everywhere... It is a shame, really, because I think that some buildings can be very pretty you know? Very... dramatiiique, a bit like in "Dracula" -did you know that "Dracula" was written by a Deublineur?"
I knew that, and Bram Stocker even lived in this very street.
-"No I didn't; how fascinating!"
-"Yes it is -all very dramatique then. Very romantic too" he adds with an exaggerated wink. "But anyway. As you would say -Lily?-, it's all a long time ago, and the time is now!" throws he his fag in the air.
I look, aghast. But then he catches it, and in one movement grinds it into the sand pit.
"I think we should go back in now, there may be some of the wine left. Not that it is in fact good but..." he visibly gulps "...life is to be enjoyed, and there is nothing wrong with more of the wine!"

Before I know it, he's hooked my arm into his and is tugging me along back inside.
"Ah the National Library, great architecture! Check out these, er... columns -aren't they great?"

Of course by the time we get back in there, more of the booze has gone. Half of the hangers-on have equally departed, and the staff has started cleaning up. McCabe is still in though, conferring in a corner with Neil Jordan and Stephen Rea. A group of groupies compare their signed copies suspiciously ("Mine is more readable like, and he signed it to me own name -fact!").

Mathieu helps himself to two glasses of wine, one white, one red, and turns towards me:
"What's your weapon of cheuice? Or red or white?"
Before I have time to reply, he reveals exclusively: "Me I don't care, everything's good!"
And so I can choose then: white, very original. (Can only allow myself a half-glass though; mustn't forget.)
I point out Neil Jordan to Mathieu and once again, before I have time to draw breath, he charges forward. Charges in there to shake the director by the hand is an apt description of his demonstration of effusion. "I loved "The Company Of Woolf"!" he declares "Very original." And, just as suddenly, he turns back to rejoin me.
"That Niles Jordan... looks like a good guy. Me, I approve."

By now, the chamber music trio's starting to look fed up and flags down a bit ...until one of them launches into a bit of a jazz impro’. The other two stare at him for a heartbeat and decide to follow suit. The temperatures instantly jumps five degrees.

-"Do you dance?" asks a suddenly mischievous Mathieu. Must be the wine -a cheap date, he would make!
-"Er no not here, I don't think so and anyway..."
-"Keum on, it will be fun! You need some fun in life!"
And he moves for my waist, as if offering to embrace me -hold it there, this is now going too fast surely, what's going on tonight?? One minute I blow it big time and land on my arse, the next he's offering me a spin!
-"Er Mathieu, I'm really not sure this is the right place for..."
-"Ah don't worry, don't make this head! -I was only kidding! Ha ha ha ha!!"
And just as suddenly: relief. I say, keeping up with him is becoming something of a rollercoaster ride!
-"Oh. Er... yes of course, you were being facetious -Ha! I knew it all along"
-"Of course" Valentino concurs "I was only kidding...:
there's some wine left."
And he proceeds to help himself to what's left of a bottle. Suddenly it all makes sense. Oh silly me: there's some wine left, where was my sense of priority!
"Aaahhhhh...." Big Gallic sigh of satisfaction; or is it approval? Turns out it's not:
"You know what, this wine is really disgusting... Probably the temperature. Wine shouldn't be serviced atop a certain temperature you know? It's very bad for the... taste. The taste of the wine. And his body." Emphatic gesture at this point to mime some kind of shape.
By the look of it, wine should be shaped like a ball. Or maybe a brick.
"This is a big mistake you see ...or in the other direction as well."
-"The other direction?"
-"The other direction yes. You know: if it's too cold. Alcohol should be cool, right? But wine mustn't. It mustn’t be ice. ...Actually is not so simple, huh."
Our oenologiiique expert lays down his glass to make his point more forcefully. Points at my untouched glass.
"Sure yes it can, with the case of the white wine. That can be serviced cool -you know: cold. OK then, with that case sure -but just with the white wine then..."
The expert grabs his glass back and drains it. Helps himself to more "disgusting wine" and in the process empties the last bottle.
"...certainly not with the red wine."

I still haven't touched my glass, and I don't think I will touch it.
I look around to make a quick assessment of the situation. By now, the cardboard plates and bottles have been taken away and most of the dedicated literature lovers have long departed. The former chamber music trio are looking at each other increasingly frequently

and the dreaded feel of The End Of The Party is making itself impossible to ignore.

Oh the horror. The indignity. How could I have possibly got caught? Me of all people! When I know my etiquette, when I know that it's one of Society's greatest unwritten edicts: never stick til the end of any function, never be outstaying your welcome. Always make sure you are noticed taking your leave in a regretful and dignified manner when the party is in full swing; don't hang about like a wino desperate to suck up other people's dregs. And yet, and yet, here I still am, staring at TEOTP right in the face. Any second now and the janitor will "ask us to leave", will sweep us out with the rubbish bags! Will they ring a bell like?
"Ding ding ding ding, time, lady and gentlemen, time! Haven't yous got a home to go to? Out out out -NOW!! And when I say "lady" eh... "lady" me backside! Carrying on with scruffy foreigners! Thinks she's a cream puff and everyone wants a bite! Feckin' disgraceful if you ask me -I'll tell you wot though, under aul' Dev' you wouldn't of seen this kind of shameful carry-on shameful and downright wanton bring back National Service is what I says the National Service but does anyone listen to me eh does anyone ever listen grumble grumble grumble rock of ages the proof of the pudding at this moment in time gedda out the garden grumble grumble mumble help ma boab it's political correctness gone mad gone mad is what two peas in a pod one law for us one law for them but talk to me sack that's right the yout of today who do they think they are mumble mumble and you could always leave your front door open blah blah 'feel like chicken tonight"
Inside, I am in bits. Not that it seems to bother our own Johnny D.. As far as I can see, he remains blissfully unaware of my predicament. Your man finally catches up.

-"Right! Now let's we go?"
-"I think we should, yes..."
-"Is getting late yes -Keum on let's go!"

I keum on and off we go. And I immediately wonder ...but where?
And who exactly? Myself and him or... myself-and-him?
What does he mean, what does he have in mind? Does this mean he's taking me for granted? Does he have a trip straight to the sack in mind? Well I am not that kind of girl Mister, I am not at your beck and call!
Or maybe I should be...
Should I, really?
Of course I'm not!
By then again...
On another day, in another mindframe, I would have surely been up for it but... but I no longer want to fall in the old trap do I, I am not going to roll over and just... let him take charge am I?! These days are gone and this charade has got to stop! I was very clear about it the other day. Like I am not going to be stumbling by accident and grasp his arm for firm support; then I am not going to cling to him for safety reasons and let him escort me to my car just in case; and I am certainly not going to suggest that maybe we could go somewhere for a last drink, what does he think? and then remember that I have a bottle of something at my flat by an amazing coincidence. I know the score too well -I don't want to fall back to the old routine.
Mustn't do that.
Mustn't do that, gorgeous as he may be and -by the Bono!- is he gorgeous! To be honest, with him is a case of gasp / faint / swoon / gasp again, feast your eyes on that! What a sight for sore eyes the bastard is! I hardly dare grab an eyeful lest I should stare; better not stare then, no no no no, keep your eyes ahead Lily, keep your head about. Eyes ahead, head about, eyes ahead, head about -shouldn't be too difficult to remember? If I don't want to compound my case by, say, walk into a doorframe or something ...especially given my track record tonight (which -ouch- had nearly slipped my mind!). Like I say, I can't allow myself to slip again; can't continue giving myself away so easily. Not anymore, is what I vowed.
...

This is such a shame (internal sigh), such bad timing.
I find myself thinking the actual words "this can't be happening, not now!" oh but happening it is, and most definitely at this moment. Now that I have made my resolutions and desperately need to abide by them. Need to abide by them if I want to keep my self-respect. Right now I may feel all antsy, I may feel hot may feel bothered, but I know this: I know this is the hour of reckoning, this the big test. If I let myself get carried away and give in to the beefcake as every fecking inch of my body is urging me to...
then I won't have learnt a single thing about life, and I'll be back to the old square one, the usual cycle of elation-then-depression. I will be as utterly clueless as I was right up to that second when the other jerk asked me for G.'s number. Do I want that? Do I really want to get shafted again?

I Shall Not Get Swayed Again. Try to turn it into a mantra: I Shall Not Get Jerked About So Easy Again.

What is happening now, I realise, is nothing less than the ideal Friday-nite-on-the-pull case scenario of old ...except I have decided to move on I have. I have promised myself to get some dead right COP ON: this is so unfair! Life is so cruel! A certain Someone up there is definitely playing a prank on me, He be having a laugh!
Except I want to keep my head about, and will make sure to resist The Temptation. This is me, new model Lily version Mature2.O, and I am studiously keeping my eyes fixed right ahead on the stairs. I am hardly noticing your man's athletic jump -oh no- and I, for one, am definitely not catching a glimpse of his perfectly shaped butt. No way.
We pass the threshold, exit the building, and cross the gate. We now find ourselves in the street. The weather is overcast, unsettled, nippy, but with the prospect of sudden improvement. Either that or a possible wash-out beckons.

My car is parked by 'Stephen's Green (is on our left) and I don't know which way Mathieu's going (could it be left again?). I still don't know what's on his mind. I come to a complete stop and turn his way; I now face him. Like all urbane and perfect manners.
-"Right I'll... I shall be off now. ... You off as well I presume?"
-"Yeah sure, I must go too" (scanning the street around)
-"OK then so... it was a pleasure meeting you Mathieu; I take it you can find your way back home? ...Will you manage?"
-"Oh yeah I can. No problem I know my way."
And the bastard actually makes good on his promise and prepares to scatter away! See him zip up his jacket and check his whereabouts; he turns towards the right... the right towards Nassau Street and not the left.
-"Oh; oh well then... then have a good evening Mathieu and a safe trip home! (...wherever your bleedin' house is...) I, I suppose you will want to come back for more of these literary evenings ...won't you? ...being interested in Irish culture and all..."
-"Oh yeah, oh yes for sure, Irish culture it's so... interesting. Interesting culture. Depends. Depends in fact, I'll see. Maybe. I go now -Good night!"


And the heartless sod just turns his back on me and he walks off. I find myself standing there with one hand poised in the air -he just walks off. What is he playing at? Is this an act? Is he giving me the old "go on, catch up with me if you want me" signal? I just stand there, perplexed and getting cold, as your man decisively stomps off with not a care in the world. Dropping no hint of only pretending to do so -hell no, he is off and no faking! He is off and clearly doesn't expect to be called back. Does the ruffian not know his classics!! Or maybe these are only my classics, did I watch too many movies? Here's how the old carry-on goes:

Boy walks girl back to her home after party. Boy and girl share awkward pause at the front gate. Boy and girl exchange ice melting looks but can only offer demure farewells. Boy walks off, girl calls after him: "Roy!" Boy turns back, expectantly. Pause. Girl flutters eyelashes and, kinda blushing, lets off modest "Roy, I just wanted to say... I had a wonderful time tonight." Girl probably lets herself in at this stage. Boy walks away with triumphant smile and big hard-on.

But this is not the case here, oh no this is not what Mathieu's playing at -he's simply off! The boy is gone! He's outtahere up and away on his merry way! And me I'm left behind, I'm left to check on his fast fading silhouette, feeling the complete pillock. "Well goodnight then..." Ever the imaginative kind, I try to think, I try to understand, I look for excuses on his behalf: maybe the man has got to get up early tomorrow, maybe he's gagging to go to the gents.
Maybe he doesn't care.
Maybe he doesn't care, and that's just it -who knows! Maybe that's it: no explanation required, no need to put on airs. The way I see it -but obviously that's my antiquated code of honour speaking-, he could have at least pretended something, explained whatever... but that is not to be; maybe it's not in his nature. He's gottago -he goes. Straight to the point, end of.
And a terrible doubt starts creeping up the usual route (i.e. the back of my frail mind): could it be I got it completely wrong throughout and indeed the man don't care? He didn't take any actual notice of me, maybe I was just a temporary distraction... For all I know, I may have been just a prop to his ego, an easy audience for his musings and rantings -wine temperature me backside!- a mere excuse to help himself to more glasses -and a laughing stock to boot. A right tit I made of myself I did, what with my legs thrashing about up in the air! Huh. Could it be I got so distracted by his heavenly looks that I told myself stories and grew them legs? Maybe he was just being friendly, cheeky, or even compassionate (no no, don't be uttering the words "feeling sorry for me" -too late!). Maybe he just wanted to humour me after my little misadventure.
Hmm... perplexed is where I'm at.

In retrospect, I am at least proud of one damn thing:
I'm proud I stuck to my guns and resisted my natural instinct like. Good thing I didn't actually offer him a lift let alone make a move! Oh to imagine if I had made my filthy filthy sweaty intentions clear, that would have nailed my coffin right in his eyes. Yes... good thing I somehow retained the presence of mind not to make an ever bigger fool of myself tonight, thanks to my newly puritan resolutions. "Don't give 'em an inch." So I was right then! I was spot on to decide to play it cool and no longer rush in like the Lily of old! Imagine if I had gone ahead and then he had told me to take a long walk off a short pier... in his unique way no doubt:

-Lily: "Come 'ere big boy!"
-Mathieu: "Beut! Beut what is zis? Heu? I don't understand!"
-Lily: "Show us what you 'got loverman!" (evil laugh)
-Mathieu: "You -get leust!!"
-Lily: "In a jiffy I will but first... you drop them pants!"
-Mathieu: "Let me alone, you deurty woman -off hands! I said: off hands!!"
-Lily: "Oh my! 'Ello 'ello, what have we got here? Let me help you with that..."
-Mathieu: "Maman! Maman! This trooly-amazing-yet-neut-my-type (for seum inexplicable reason) saucy minx is afteur my beudy! I request repatriation, allo allo EuropAssistance? Can you please up pick me, this is urgent, this is getting very urgent, quick quick quick SNEEEEEZE too late! Aaaaahhhh... Reugered and out! (I think I want to sleep now; I sleep.) ").

The shame of it! The shame and even the embarrassment. I couldn't risk that, not anymore; not twice in a week. For we are a sensitive creature so we are, sensitive and highly susceptible. We can't be risking more heartbreaks at this rate, oh no.
....Shame it should be about such a handsome bastard.



The weather is predictable to uncertain, thrilling to humdrum. It's one half drizzle, one half sun, one half smog, with possible gales of laughter and episodes of high pressure all the way to the next NLI evening.






chapter 5
-----------------------------------------------"Stone The Crows" -------------------------------------------





"Fackin' ell mate if I ain't already bladdered!"
-"Must be all that Guinness you ligged at their brewery ya muppet! I did tell you to go easy dinn' I!"
-"Yeah yeah whatever... -was well worth it though was it!"
-"Too fackin' right it was! Now THAT, my son, is the kind of museum I can well tolerate! If all culcha was always that sweet, we'd be sorted! Now fill your boots son: game of two halves! Set your stall early, we jus' getting started here, Dublin is ours -back of the net!"

Brooding my way back to the car, I get suddenly awakened by two more foreign voices. The two characters are some distance behind me but the cold clean air carries their exchange.

"Now check this joint mate... what do you think? Looks a bit of alright does it?"
-"Sure looks decent... a bit poncey though... Check out the wallpaper and the penguins serving: I ain't feel it!"
-"Whatcha on about you ain't "feel it" ya big pikey? It's just a fackin' boozer! It'll do the job! "Buswell's" eh... well eat my goal Mr. Buswell, we're gain' in! Bunch of arse -we'll show 'em who's who! Bring a bit of class an' all, now stop moaning and get in there!"
-"Alright alright! Just gizzas a sec' will ya -need to take a leak... aaaah that's better..."

They are behind me and for some reason I don't fancy turning round to take a look.

Now the thing is, I sort of recognise their voice I know this accent, heard it before: theirs is the one you hear every weekend in the heart of Temple Bar, reverberating on the windows of Fitzsimons and echoing through kebab shops; it's usually multiplied a dozen times and invariably male. ...It's also always liberally adorned with expletives -"I'll tell you wot", these visitors to our shore, you hear them from a distance! They usually ask A) where this "Guinness factory" is and B) where they can "watch the football". Now when you tell them that it's best enjoyed at Croke Park in a passionate crowd of ninety thousand souls, they have a tendency to go all uncomprehending and quite annoyed: "No no I mean like, football yeah? The real one you know! Not some kind of... folkloric game -no offense mate- but praper football yeah? Foot - Ball!" The volume usually increases as they ar-ti-cu-late for the benefit of the native -It's always great craic winding them up.
Not that these guys would realise they're being teased. They roam the streets, ten at a time, gloriously convinced of their invincibility and boasting of their unique attribute: their license to paaarty -Fair play to them, like.
These two are a case in point: they're "up for it". Lots of supping has audibly already got done and they want more. The only thing not quite right here is the fact this ain't Thursday or Friday night (when their lot usually turns up), this is the start of a working week for crying out loud! Did they get lost behind? Do they want to make a full six days of it? I just don't know. I just can't tell. Right now, I sort of have someone else very much on my mind and these two gentlemen don't exactly hold any interest for me. Would Mathieu ever behave like that? Would he speak to his pals like so? Most surely not; I simply refuse to believe it. After all he's a... literature lover, in his own right; he's a cultural adventurer, not a tourist; he's a... -oh I don't know, I don't know him enough to tell.

"Blahdy 'ell mate, lost your marbles or wot? You're avin’ a larf! This is a fackin' street here! You fackin' chav, you can't hold it for five minutes can ya?"
-"Gizzas a break will ya... what's the big deal here? Who gives a fack?"
-"Who gives a fack? I fackin' do! I give a fack! I can't take you nowhere can I?! Ya fackin' chav, embarrassing me in public"
-"You wot? Who you callin' a chav??"
-"I'll tell you wot, I ain't copping for you if you get done by the rozzers!"
-"Who you callin' a chav?"
-"Eh? It's YOU I am calling' a chav you pikey cahnt! You deaf as well??"
-"Eh? What's your problem mate? You wanna a slap? You wanna a piece of me, 'sthat it?"
-"A piece of you? A piece of you? You watch your marf my son or I'll fackin' ave you you hear?"
-"Oh yeah?"
-"Oh yeah!"
-"Well cahm' on then, let's fackin' ave it ya fackin' ponce, you 'ave a go if you're so tough"

I am not sure I want to stick around too long -even in this most respectable of respectable streets. Who would have thought that the seat of our national Parliament and State ministries would attract such unsavoury alcoholics? Eh? Yikes! The temptation of turning round and checking what's going on is dead unbearable though. The two characters are probably clashing antlers by now or else stripping to their waist, chasing each other around a lamppost.

-"Oh yeah?"
-"Hell yeah!"
-"Make me then!"
-"You make me!"

In fact, the saddest thing about it is... their behaviour fails to surprise me. It fails to surprise me entirely. This is like, so predictable -as opposed to the wacky Frenchman earlier. It's the old story isn't it? Fellows get lashed, fellows lash out. Sooo predictable. These two behind me clearly operate under this weird set of rules usually found around football stadiums or in soaps like "EastEnders".

"EastEnders"!!

This is it! That's the one! This is what they reminded me of all along, the attitude and all -Isn't there a pair of baldies in that programme, always giving out and slagging everyone? I'm pretty sure there is, in any case this is what our duo's voices sounded like. Still sound like in fact.

-"Blimey, you 'got some fackin' lip for a Spuds fan ain'cha? Don't think I won't will I!"
-"OK then, let the dog see the rabbit, you 'ave a go! I ain't got all day!"

"EastEnders" eh...
Now I like "EastEnders" as much as the next man (i.e. not much) ...but it's surely not a patch on the aul' "Fair City"! No contest here! Where is the picturesque and quirky charm? The milk of human kindness in all of its wonderousness? The pregnant pauses at the end of every episode? You answer that, Sherlock Holmes!
I wonder which one came first... (may need to look this up) "EastEnders" or "Fair City"? Grew up with "Fairs" me. It's part of my cultural heritage, alongside "Father Ted", Boyzone or Gaybo on "The Late Late Show". I guess if you were to pick the brains of your man on the street, most folks would call "EastEnders" a pale copy ...if there was anything pale about it that is; for the truth is, I don't actually remember any greenery in "EE", I don't recall any swan populated central park, I don't see one single bridge glistening in the golden sunshine there... Do they have parks in that mysterious "EastEnd"? Nobody knows. Do they celebrate Assumption? No idea either. That mythical place seems to be immune from any geographical or historical consideration. One thing is sure though, it's always pub-time in "EastEnders".

Another thing that always bugged me about it is the characters' lingo -they're worse than Cork! Worse than Limerick! Now call me thick as two planks, but I only understand half of what they're saying. Listening to them, it's almost as if the characters had developed a language of their own... a micro-culture!
I don't get it.
Try as I might, I don't recognise their slang, I am baffled. It's like, when they greet each other, I don't hear them go "how's she cooking?", "how 'you keeping?" or "what's the craic?". What's going on here? Not even a poxy "what's the story bud?" to embellish the day -I be dreaming!?! Manners eh, manners don't seem to rule in that queer Albert Square! (And where's this Albert Square to start with -is it the one in Drumcondra?? Another mystery.) Truly I wonder. Whenever I come across an episode, I hear them jabber, jabber away, "blah blah blah", and not once -not once- do I hear them address my concerns or echo my mind ...it's almost like we've got nothing in common. Where are our lovely turns of phrase "I'll tell you a story about Johnny McGory", "she'll be apples" or "I'd say you danced at your mother's wedding" huh? Whatever happened to "do you want to wake up with a crowd round ya?", "my moongoose stole my penguin", "the face of that and the price of fish" or just "that's beyond the Pale"? In fact, have these people even heard of the Pale?? Oh yes it's a mystery and no mistake. A right riddle. Why don't they thank each other "a million"? What's wrong with a polite "fair play to you?"
And what do they go on about in the first place? What they actually go on about I don't get either: it's like a different kettle of fish altogether. All they seem to be doing is argue over a pint -and not even one of the black stuff! How queer, how dead queer... As true as I'm riding a bicycle, these people appear to have drifted off from normal language and grown their own subculture; it's like they have sprouted their own codes and stick by them with no consideration -no consideration whatsoever- for their fellow viewers. I'd say they inhabit a parallel universe, a queer auld landscape... it's all dead spooky. Huh. A right gas ticket they may be -hearing them constantly giving out about whatever and their mother-, but they sure don't make much sense to me!
Every time I switch on, it goes something like this:


Baldie with tattoos all over the place: "Oi! Geezer! Whass gain' on? Cahm' ere!"
Other baldie: "You wot? Whazzthat you want? Want some? Huh? Huh? Whatcha sayin'?"
First baldie: "Oi! Ain't meant nuffin', dinn'I"
Second: "Dunnit."
First baldie: "Aincha!"
Second: "Watchit!"
First one: "Tell you wot tho: less go dahrn the pub!"
Second: "Too fackin' right I will! Watch me!"
Builder: "Blahdy 'ell mate... Can't have a bo''le of wa'er in peace these days or wot! I luv' me old Mum dunn I, godda problem with that?"
Smoking lady coming out of launderette: "Oi! You yes you! That's no praper way talk to your bruvver! Show some fackin' res-peck will ya! Fat cahnt. (I'll tell you wot, some people round 'ere, they ain't half taking liberties dunn' they...)"
Red faced publican on a fag break: "Ah leave it aht now! Knock it on thee 'ead son! He ain't worf it!"
Passing Jamaican: "Gotcha! Wicked! They juss' aving a larf ain't they?"
Lady eating chips and jellied eels in the caf', smoking: "Kids messin' about innit?"
Old lady selling DVDs out of a suitcase: "Sure wasn't like that in them days, when Reggie 'n Ronnie woz around..."
Up pops young man in tracksuit and trainers: "Never 'urt but their ahrn!"
Car dealer round the corner: "Luved their muvver"
Old lady: "and you could leave yer door open at night -take the Queen Muvver ya cahnt: Gawd bless 'er! Deserved every penny she got!"
Unemployed single mother: "And luv'd 'er drink dinnshe! Such character wonnsha!"
Alcoholic bum: "Always 'ad a smile for everyone, even a wave..."
Fat man slaps hand on Scotsman's shoulder: "You're nicked, sunshine!"
Wife beater: "Cripes! The rozzers! It's a fair cop."
Fat man takes hand off cautiously, surveys it and wipes it on his trousers.
Unidentified character: "Top of the morning, to be sure"
Paper boy in flatcap: "I luv' West 'Am dunn'I: Who are ya? Who are ya?"
Asian street trader: "Cor, blimey"
Jamaican: "Strike a light, guv"
Asian street trader: "...if that bird ain't a right piece of skirt aincha?"
Young woman -for it is she- passing by, pushing a pram: "Oi! You watch yer mahrth! Show some manners wantcha? We 'got some fackin' kids liss'nin' avn I!"
Jamaican, laughing: "Ha ha, you is just been told my son!"
Credible gay character, passing by on his -sorry: 'is- way to The Bucket Of Blood: "Aincha! Too fackin' right me old china!"
Man in tinted shades, sheepskin: "Me old mo'or for sale, picture of 'ealth: twin engine, chrome plated plates, drives like a beauty -yars for a donkey! Cam' on! I'm slashing me own throat 'ere!"
Unemployed barber: "Is all you 'got? Ain't got nuffin' else?"
Man in tinted shades: "Whazzat you is after? This is Lahrndahrn Tahrn 'ere son: I 'got it all! Luverly jubberly! Genuine Champers -bottled in Barking! Gold rings, gold medallions, gold knackledasters -three for a fiiiver!"
Fat man in suit: "Lemme 'ave a butcher's first, need to see a man abaht a dawg"
Kid with earrings: "Sorted!"
Smoking grandmother: "Ssssafe."
Indian grocerer: "Stone the crows aincha dunnit innit Sid James me old mugger watchit Babs Windsor you slaaag blimey knahck me dahrn geezer bird cahnt too fackin right wonncha!"

Gentle narrator employed to give the moral of the story at the end of each episode: "I say... why don't we all less go dahrn the pub!"

Ah yes, they inhabit a strange world in "EastEnders"... a strange world with arcane topics of conversation. It's true though, have you noticed? This Albert Square yoke, it's a dead weird place uninterested with what goes on, for instance you never hear its regulars discuss the latest financial oddities of our very own Bertie -he must be loving it there, being given a break from these pesky financial auditors! The Old Vic... surely the only pub where the regulars don't seem any bothered by the new Civil War debate (namely: did Roy Keane walk out on his country or did he not?), the oasis of sanity where the very existence of Glenda Gilson has gone unnoticed! Truly we are baffled.


Finally, I can't resist the temptation anymore. Lost in my thoughts, I kinda lost track of the mini-drama being enacted right behind me. What are they up to? Methinks their tone of voice has changed somewhat... Feeling dead spontaneous, I take the chance of turning round and checking what's going on like.

-"Ya fackin' wanker, how could ya ever doubt me? You're my best friend!"
-"No YOU're my best friend!"
-"No YOU're my besht friend -hic!"
-"I lahrv you man, ya big wanker!"
-"Ah fack that shit, cam 'ere n gizzas a hug! Less go get wrecked!"
-"Too right we will ya big pikey!"
-"Less go get wre-you WOT? Who you callin' pikey??"








chapter 6
-----------------------"At the end of the day, tomorrow is another day"-----------------------------------




Tuesday afternoon and I'm struggling on air. I've embarked on a rambling anecdote which did work so well when rehearsed earlier in the kitchen though -it's now going nowhere. I bring it to a close. "...You would think I would have learned by then -but then you would be wrong!" So is supposed to go the punchline, fishing for audience Schadenfreude. Audience Schadenfreude: the propensity of you and I to cackle triumphantly at the slightest misfortune happening to anyone in the media or perceived to be in a position of power. When I go rabbiting on in the box, I'm very happy to let my audience take a (non lethal) shot at me. That's fair enough, in the nature of the game. The cunning plan is to just play it up, crank it up a bit, and treat My Listeners to a quick giggle at my expense: "hark at the bleeding eejit! girl must be up with the fairies, no brains on her!" and all that sort of harmless thing. (...As long as it remains harmless.)
Shame I made a right hash of it today.

I go "but then you would..." / unfortunate pause due to incoming sneeze / sneeze / and then "Be wrong." Er... haven't I just insulted my audience here? I stutter and splutter, repeat the punchline like everyone's dreaded uncle at a banquet table usually does, and then manage to mispronounce at least three names in the next five minutes. One could argue that things could be going better.

Normally I don't see myself as a struggler me, like I'm never stuck for ideas. Sure, I tend to talk too fast at times, I "fire off my lines as if my life depended on it" in the words of my drama teacher, but I've corrected myself with practice. Sometime I even remember to breathe in inbetween words. Mainly I've got great imagination (so Georgie tells me on a regular basis), as well as a bit of a mouth on me (concurred my successive teachers). This, I suppose, has to be my professional calling card: you wanna work in radio, you must be able to talk the legs off a donkey right?

Speaking from the seasoned vantage point of my, oh, couple of years on the job, I have established this much: the eventuality of running out of subjects is not much likely to happen. You could say that again. (And so I will: "the eventuality of running out of subjects is not much likely to happen". There.) Plans B, plans C -there are always failsafe topics at the ready.


-------------------------------------- Romans ---------------------------------------


Let's say I would be feeling uninspired on the day, like I've been over-indulging on TV dross and my brain has turned to mush, I can't be arsed to tackle the burning issues of the day -this is where the classics come in handy, the good old chestnuts. They're both repetitive -you can serve them up time and time again- and timeless -they are not necessarily linked to actuality.
Actually, I can think of yet another category of surethings which are just as handy: the cyclicals. (But more of that later.) (...Maybe.)
Now the beauty of these subjects is, all you have to do is mention them to your interviewees and... off they go like there's no tomorrow. You can come back to turn the tape over when it's run out. Some pretty solid red flags they make, you just need to wave them in people's faces: I call them "Romans" -Romans as in the "what have the Romans ever done for us" spiel.
Try this for size. "The Brits... (teasing pause here) ...what have they ever done for us?"
Your man usually tries to be sensible here, he doesn't want to go for the easy option ("Not a fecking thing now that's for sure!"), he doesn't want to let the side down too visibly. I put him on the spot and -very commendably- he will rack his brains instead, wondering what the bleeding hell they must have bequeathed us... surely there must be something (apart from Jack Charlton)! Trinity College? Popularity abroad? Exporting whatshisname, that pansy on Channel Four?
Innocent-eyed as hell, me I just wait. Your man usually scratches his head at this juncture. Look him finally coming up with all sorts of brilliant answers, listing improvements brought about by the historical occupation and all that shite which I didn't need to wikilook up beforehand.
Which is like pretty cool, getting people to do your work on your behalf.

Either that, or go straight for the when-oh-when will rhetorical questions ever end hand wringing topic. This is equally, if not probably more entertaining. "Women... (the good old pause here) ...do you think they wear too much make-up?" That kind of loaded question. This one's a good example actually: one would be surprised as to which gender is the most scathing regarding make-up amount and skirt length. You'd be surprised as to who will define "acceptable" and try to draw a sensible line ...as opposed to who will just lash out at (invariably younger) "slappers". And here we go: "The young-generation-of-today, they don't appear to have any standards! Now I remember when WE used to go out drinking, we knew when to stop!" and so on and so forth.

But then knee-jerk rejection is actually understandable; easy as it may be to dismiss, it does have its justifications. Everybody thinks they are the one who wears just the right amount of face-paint -and in such an understated way too! (The criminally underrated art of make-up being about appearing not to wear any of course). Everybody is painfully aware of their own standards of decency by which they try to operate and so -"you see"- it has to be the others who are letting the side down, the others who are either getting it wrong or overdoing it -That is to say, when the bleeding slags / when the good-for-nothings don't simply ignore any notion of common sense or basic modesty whatsoever! "Oh aye, in me days things were very different, very different indeed..."
Of course they were.
I'm mentioning make-up, but I could also bring up Jordan. (Jordan, née Katie Price, originating from across the pond.) Like, trick question here: which gender will turn out to be the least unmortified by the existence of that breathing painful-looking pair of balloons on two legs who -with nothing more to distinguish herself by- has managed to command the front pages of the English press for the last dozen years or so? The answer is...: not necessarily the most obvious suspect. Here's food for thought, here's a great topic of conversation.
(And what about the proclaimed role model of our "generation" eh... Sarah Jessica Parker walks into a bar. Bartender goes: "why the long face?"
I so apologise.
Moving on swiftly.
I love you SJP I honestly do!)

Finally if I'm really desperate for topics and pressed for time, I can always resort to the Disguised Overkill. I'd have to be pretty stumped for ideas that day and all but hey, when I am -very occasionnally- I don't think twice, I go: "oh what the hell, think I'll just bypass the brain and go straight for the jugular -enjoy!!" Here is a selection:
"Politicians -who they think they are? Do you think they are special? Should they be given special treatment? In your judgement, do you think they deserve special treatment?"
"Traffic wardens eh... -shouldn't they be better employed catching criminals?"
"All these millions of people dying of hunger in the Third World and we have this huge" (surreptitiously intended pun here) "obesity problem in Western Europe ...isn't that shocking?"
"The Queen of England... isn't it time she came to Ireland on a State visit? What do you think?"
This one is an all-time favourite with right-wing loudmouths, it is so wrong on so many levels it's shere genius: Political-Correctness-Gone-Mad: "How do you feel about these schools in (insert name that can't be checked) who want to ban Christmas this year for fear of offending non-Christian pupils?"
"Heard about the European Community" (just to add a further layer -it has actually become the European Union for fifteen fecking years now) "they want to ban bendy bananas / they want to force circus acrobats to wear safety hats in keeping with the new Health and Safety regulations?"
Oh yes, there is a lot of old junk to be recycled if one knows where to look.

And that's even before the "cyclicals".
The basic principle behind the "cyclicals" is simplicity itself: it's the recognition of the socially established landmarks timing our lives ("-Eh?") or if you prefer: what regular events happen every year. You start with New Year resolutions, and then move on from there. In no particular order, we have plenty to choose from for our little bulletins:
-the officially most depressing day of the year January the 5th
-the shocking discovery that, three weeks on, the attendance of New Year recruits to gyms is collapsing
-much chin stroking and finger wagging after the quarterly publication of various official statistics such as personal debt figures and road fatalities numbers
-the sitting of Leaving Certs exams throughout the land (i.e. the usual advice to the nervous young wans)
-the publication of Leaving Certs results and the attending condemnation of the drunken mayhem ensuing
-Saint-Patrick's Day, the inevitable warnings against public drunkenness followed by consternation at the nighttime vandalism
-the arrival of spring (hurrah!)
-the arrival of summer (hurrah!)
-the official end of the summer and the countdown towards the end of the year (don't days shorten eh?)
-Mother's Day
-Father's Day
-Nan's Day
-Doris Day
-Easter
-Passover
-First communions
-the wildly (widely?) awaited Christmas office parties; how to avoid or -as the case may be- report gross personal misconduct wink wink
-Christmas and its shameless commercialism (there's always a Grinch on hand to solemnly declare in the mike that "this year, that's it, (he) won't be celebrating it")
-Valentine's Day and its shameless commercialism -but then no fellow out there would risk ignoring it
-Bloom's Day (who ever read "Ulysses" in full frankly?) and its shameless commercialism
-the Roses of Tralee, their vanished innocent kitsh and their shameless commercialism
-the sales, and their shameless etc.
-the Easter Rising
-the end of WW2 (to which Ireland didn't take part)
-the start of the GAA season; the rising excitement (mainly in the Dub' media) at the Dubs mounting a credible challenge for the title this year ("I can feel it! This Is The Year! Up the Du'bs! Up Colm Meany! Gedda da park ya bunch of bleedin' culch'ies, bring back the grand aul' years!" etc.)
-the deflation at the Dubs' defeat
-the GAA final
-the Six Nations of rugby, and how-outstanding-yet-unlucky-with-injury "Drico" seems to be (the main thing is that we beat you-know-who again though)
-the FA Cup Final, featuring these well-known Irish teams Manchester United, Arsenal or Liverpool
-the summer music festivals, their line-ups and the cheeky advice meted out to revellers preparing to undergo the experience
-the presentation of this summer's uniformly American megabudget blockbuster sequels
-that one day in the year apart from Christmas when alcohol is scandalously not on sale
-the mad Irish horse race festival over the water in Cheltenham
-the failure of the Irish soccer team to qualify for a forthcoming tournament ("to be honest with you, we're a small country")
-the Eurovision song contest, and why we should win really
-the Eurovision song contest, and how the "new" Eastern European countries have ruined it for everybody
-the election of "Alternative Miss Ireland" and what it says about our new more tolerant mores
-the release of the new U2 album, its importance for the national psyche and prominence on the world stage
and so on and so forth. Like I said, simplicity itself! Pick an agenda, any agenda, leaf through the holidays marked and select which ones you want to recycle the usual old bollix on -job done, boxed off!

Ah yes, there is a lot to be said about recycling old chestnuts ...right?

Anyway, this is not what happened today though; today I tried to be clever. I went off the script, went for originality -and now I am pretty much up the proverbial creek with no paddle. Luckily I'm nearing the end of my ordeal and my allocated time is coming to a merciful end. Enough with anecdotes sez she, enough with original material! Sometimes one shouldn't try to be too clever.
Marina's helping me though; Marina's on my side. She is the programme's co-presenter and is dutifully emitting the little snorts of appreciation and exclamations of surprise befitting my edifying diatribe ("Fancy that! / Well I never! / Good girl yourself!") I owe Marina big time.
I owe her even more in comparison to a certain someone who is staying quiet -very quiet indeed-, throughout the course of my ordeal.
That someone is Timothy O'Arnlan.

Timothy is the main host of the show and he's usually billed as "the voice of reason". He is the "voice of reason" on many a subject that surely -or at least the way I see it- would rather do with a bit of levity over more "insightful analysis", "learned assessments" and other "informed comments" -chillax, for a change! Take it down a peg or two! Life doesn't have to be a tragedy!
In his early thirties, born of an English mammy, Timothy was suitably educated at Oxford and Trinity, with the result being that his accent floats somewhere between the two institutions. His sense of humour being just as informal, I guess you could call him a barrel of laughs. Not. Timothy mans the show from five to seven and has never been known to get his timing wrong. When he gives you a five minute slot to fill, he means five minutes of airtime, not a "let's wing it / three minutes will do" half-arsed shot at it. Timothy's so anal.
Your man has a brain and he knows how to use it. He can discourse on politics; economics; politics; stock market scams; aaaarts of the highest calibre (i.e. not the fun ones); politics; the impending burst of the Irish building bubble (been going on about it for at least two years already, we are getting soooo concerned); cricket; politics; literature with a capital "l" as opposed to LUAS passtime material; politics; Europe; history; and I suppose "Sex And The City". ...If our guide to modern living were ever to be brought up in a discussion on "sexual politics" or "consumerist frenzy". He's a staunch (some would say stale) exponent of televising Dail debates as if this would serve any purpose and is clearly not long for this vulgar medium. Television beckons, and thankfully of the late schedule variety.
You could say I am not his biggest fan.

Not that he's particularly unpleasant to the eye. Six feet something, Timothy has obviously benefitted from a complete education that has taken in tennis and rugby as well as Classics and Politics. "Men's sauna en corpore sano" ("a healthy mind in a healthy body"), he once boasted in a rare outburst of personal opening up (well, his idea of opening up: over a herbal tea). His square jaw is permanently clenched, his brow furrowed, and his steely gaze carries way past you into a no doubt infinitely less trivial future. A future that has to be made of alineas, amendments and Motions To The House -like I said, he a fun guy and no mistake! His serious demeanour precedes him, but only shortly ahead of his pectorals. Finally, he's not someone to be trifled with one would suspect.
So what am I doing on his programme, some souls might ask -not least myself sometimes... Well this is precisely the point: I've been drafted in to lighten up the tone a bit, I'm here to provide welcome relief from his litanies of "probing questions" and "senior civil servants grillings", I am the breath of fresh air me, I am the episodic ray of light.
So is Marina, to a lesser extent: her sugar-sweet tones are brought to contribution for -arguably- the two single most important topics of information on a radio station: the weather, and the traffic reports. She has such a soothing voice has Marina. Velveteen diction. You would almost look forward to hearing her announce hail stones the size of tennis balls for rush-hour on the M 50, how truly wonderful they would be, if Marina commented on them.
So she is presently doing her best to support me -and God love her for that! She is playing along -an integral part of team work one would have thought- ....unlike the aforementioned certain someone at the other side of the octagonal table: he's audibly not playing ball! (Note to oneself: can one audibly not do something? Huh. I am visibly not thinking so.) I dare not look up, don't want to get even more flustered than strictly (un)necessary; don't want to meet his steely gaze, don't want to spot the clenching of his jaw. Ah sweet Jaysus, that bleeding O'Arnlan man he's wrecking me bonce he is, what must he be thinking eh? What must be going through this square head of his? I'd rather not imagine -and this is precisely why I can't help doing so!

Mr. Lah-di-dah "I tuck me shirt in me", must be something along the lines of "Goodness gracious me, what on earth is this birdbrain playing at? Why oh why am I keeping her on? Blast! This is frightfully embarrassing, what! How dreadfully impudent! I say - will she ever be done with it and let me get on with this fascinating exposé of industrial malpractice over which I burned the midnight oil last night? Will she ever! Aha I must admit, I'm not entirely half-displeased with that little scathing indictment of corporate inequity I concocted oh no! To put it mildly, the uncouth ruffians won't have seen it coming -they will regret ever coming across the path of my investigations oh yes! ... But my oh my, isn't the ghastly creature still hogging the microphone? Isn't she about to overrun her allotment? I can't possibly have that! Nay nay nay! This would be in clear contravention to her contract! Oh the indignity -for shame! How much airplay is left presently and shall I have the usual cucumber sandwiches for tea anon? Cucumber "sambos" al fresco, hmmmm... how very tempting. Or maybe shall I indulge in a daring touch of cheddar and apple to quench the old appetite? I must say: I am rather tempted oh yes, topped with a dash of parsley and indigenous rashers. Hmm....parsley on rashers... how awfully naughty of me, with the old cup of Old Grey -but but! Is the blasted creature still vocalising over there?"

I battle to keep his fantasized musings off my radar and don't exactly succeed. Hard as I try to ignore him, I am aware of his commanding presence (the old the more you try something, the more etc.). The fact of the matter is, it's not just an audio thing, but also a question of temperature. Unsurprisingly, I always choose to sit by the radiator -your man sits on the opposite side. And the result is? Our Timothy radiates coldness. When displeased (as is clearly the case right now), he can bring the temperature down more efficiently than an open window.
"...and this is what will save your bacon further down the line! Guaranteed!"
Metaphors are mixed, dog's breakfast is served, but "t"s are eventually crossed and we - are - done. It's all good! Whoo ooh! The triumphant tone at the end is anything but faked. Rubicon faced, drippy haired and smelling worse than a packed football stadium, I finally emerge from my trial.
Marina lets off an appreciative "Fair play to yourself like, a-men to that!" -I love Marina, did I mention I love Marina?- Timothy emits a grunt half an octave higher than his normal tone of voice (his idea of approval):
"Well that was... surely encouraging to be sure -Another tale of despondency, fight-back and survival in the jungle of D4 courtesy of our Lifestyle Correspondent Lily Monaghan. Thank you Lily.
We'll take a short break now, and then it will be time for the news headline; you're listening to O'Arnlan on One-Oh-One. The time has gone 27 past seventeen."




------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




chapter 7
5 things going well







chapter 8

--------------------------A Night At The Opera, Part Two
or "I don't know why, but when I am with you I feel I can relax and be myself..."------------------




At long last Tuesday arrives and with it, the prospect of another simply fascinating evening at the National Library. Culture -I'm lovin' it! Can't get enough of it, me (part two, bis repetita). For sure, there's nothing like a bit of goddamm intelligence in this crude world as well as -whatcha call it?- oh yes, class. So let's hear if for more books to be discussed by bright people, the kind who wear their glasses either hanging around their neck on these cute little chains or propped up on their forehead -never on their nose though. The kind of people in fact, who only seem to use "eyeglasses" to bite on the frame pensively when pondering a big question. A big question which they surely spell with a capital "b" and capital "q".
Questions such as: "whereto from here?", "can I get Seamus Heaney to write me an approving blurb for my next novel?", "am I condemned to repeat myself?", "is grief soluble in bile?", "is the semi-colon intrinsically female and if I use it does that make me gay?", "how come Jordan's autobio get more coverage than me?", "can we bring back State religious censorship so that I can sound controversial and sell shitloads?", "shouldn't have Brendan Behan looked after his health and kept well away from the demon drink?", "can royalties be redeemed against a free appearance on Top Of The Pops next to Samantha Mumba?", "******* ** ****** is such a bombastic blathering bollix merchant, why does he/she gets invited for tea with the Queen and not me??", "who wrote Shakespeare's works?", "who wants the world?", "what's the story?", "what's for me tea?".
Culchured folks, then.
But-seriously. Writers, scholars, innellectuals -these are the kind Herself not so secretly aspires to feel part of like... A bit of recognition wouldn't go amiss sometime, it's nice to be nice alright -but it's even nicer when folks are nice to you know what I mean! Like I wouldn't mind being taken seriously in life and for my work too -as opposed to be paid attention to for being JohnnyRay's daughter. I want to be recognised for my own achievements me! And I humbly think this is as commendable a goal as the current one of wanting to rake it in. (...If only I knew how to rake it in the first place I might even have a choice!)
To the traditional NLI Q and A it is then: the good old "Library Late"! I like me Library Late me, wouldn't miss it for anything in the world. Especially er... whoever's on tonight, whochallhim (or her), he's like totally great! (Or she.) A right gas ticket they are -I swear I've got their name on the tip on me tongue...

Oh OK, who am I kidding here?

Sure sure, the reasons why I'm going are that I always enjoy hearing from established writers how they made it (I might as well keep an eye out -or is it an ear?- for a tip or two) and also this is a chance as good as any to meet folks in the business (see me work the room for contacts, I'm in my element!) but on top of that... on top of that, tonight's "Library Late" also presents the one chance of maybe catching up with a certain big hunk, who knows...? Who knows indeed. Your man might just turn up. He might just do that -given there's free booze in the offing.
Well here's hoping, is all I can say. I'm just blue-skying this projected end-result taking it one game at a time. Let's see what happens.
Now I don't want to fall back into the old cycle, I don't want to set myself up for a fall. Sometimes I almost feel like what's happening to me, it's like someone's playing a prank! I'm kinda being messed about and what goes up (usually my hopes) must come down (that will be my mood).
At the same time I have to go and find out for myself (suck it and see, know what I mean), I have to try and check if he'll be there yeah? If one didn't believe in serendipity, possibility or just sheer bleeding luck, life would be very boring, very boring indeed. Life ain't mathematics says I! It's not as simple as two and two are four -hell no, two and two can be a whole variety of results, it's much much worse: life is more complicated, more infuriating, more enchanting, more mesmerising, more jaw-dropping, more heart-breaking, more exciting and tons more mores -in a word, it's full of surprises. True as I'm riding this bike, you've got to factor in the element of chance like, you can't legistate on anything or anyone, nothing's ever simple. And what I say simple I could say logical. Logical + Men = interrogation mark. As goes the old question: "what goes on within the dark continent of men's minds?" Huh? Answer that and you'd be ruling the Earth! No no, logic is very overrrated; it is nothing but an act of faith. Like, how could I ever have expected to bump into this total h.u.n.k. at a little literary shindig? It's one of these things, it was a miracle.
So by the same token -and here Lily gets all dispassionate (is that the right word?)- if I never could have expected to meet Mr. Sex On Legs last time around, I can't realistically expect to meet him again this time.
We'll just have to see.
It won't be no big deal if he doesn't turn up, that won't be no skin off my... arm it won't.
After all, I did promise myself that I wouldn't get too hung up about anyone again and so I won't. Not for me to lose (much) sleep over someone who, at the end of the day, I only met (slobbered over) so briefly, he's just some vague (horny) memory of a (dead hot) man whose (feckin' buff) silhouette long faded away; to be perfectly honest, I hardly spared him a thought these last thirteen days and twenty-two hours! So no, let's not get too worked up about it and let's just take it as it comes, I am not fifteen anymore and I can't honestly say I'll be too fussed about it at the end of the day -end of.

I light a cigarette on an impulse and catch myself taking it to my lips -What da, I don't even smoke?!? (officially, that is) What possessed me to fish out the old emergency pack from the back of the sofa? Calm down Lily calm down, keep it together will you! Don't you remember what a fool you made of yourself the last time around? Do you seriously expect him to have been much impressed with your stunt work? Eh? I'd say he must have been criiiiinging at the bleeding eejit and he probably wanted to be polite. He played up to the gallery is all. (Wouldn't mind crashing into his midriff again though). All that happened (the wine, the teasing, the sweet nothings), it may have just been his way of getting out of the initial embarrassment and over the situation; to be fair, everyone knows what to think about these French guys -they're serial flirts, it's like second nature to them alongside fighting bulls and throwing donkeys off churchtops (oh hang on, that's supposed to be Spaniards isn't it) so...
Ah well! Better not start assuming anything; better not start expecting. This is how tonight will go: I am going to the NLI as a lover of the fine art of pen pushing first and foremost. Now should a Gallic Johnny Depp lookalike happen to turn up, so much the better -but that would only be a bonus.

...I check myself in the mirror and decide to change back into that little red dress.


---------------------------



I climb up some stairs and then climb down some others. I enter, advance, pause briefly and resume (my entrance). I adorn the register with my signature and proceed. I am approaching the inner circle, the sacred oratorical area.
I retrace my steps to spell out my name (Is that girl making trouble or what? What is she saying here: that my handwriting's crap? Huh??). But then I instantly recover my cool and gratify the usher with a smile. I even wave lightly ("toodleeoh!") and proceed towards the sacred oratorical area part two. I am now in control. In fact, I am exceedingly well behaved oh yes: see me all yous good folks how I deport myself with grace, elegance and restraint. I haven't even kicked over a flower pot yet.
Arriving at my destination, I do not rush to claim a seat in a blind panic to be left out of the fun and games, I do not scour my surroundings in terror of turning into a old maid (-Eh? where did that come from??), instead I take my place in the auditorium, all demure and creased skirt. I think of Daniel O'Donnell and keep my eyes down. Ever the consummate diplomat, I exchange pleasantries with my immediate neighbours ("Lahvely evening isn't it / oh yes, last time was simply maaarvelous / no, the toilets are upstairs, first door on the left past the cloakroom"). I make a point of consulting my program. I consult. Now then, who's on tonight? Oh yes, her...... Grrrreat. We're in for a barrel of laughs to be sure: the alcoholic father, the delinquent youth, the petty thieving, the redemption through writing -the whole works. Good thing that I shall not pass judgement and condemn without first hearing what your woman has to say for herself. In fact, I shall not betray any emotion whatsoever, such is my resolve to be on me best behaviour and not get in any way distracted by any base carnal temptation. OK? OK.
And so my eyes remain firmly fixed on the makeshift podium. When I say I fix, I fix alright! Me eyes are getting sore, like. They start to feckin' hurt! Blinded by the dazzling target, I ignore the chit-chat pervading from my immediate vicinity: apparently "Deirdre's got herself into an almighty pickle again. Can't trust these cowboy plumbers can you?" I concentrate so hard on the spotlit, er, spot lit ahead that my eyes definitely start to water. Too much light, I have no choice but to look away. And so logically, it's only natural that my eyes should seek refuge in the more welcoming haven of the unlit audience. I rest my eyes. Is what I do: I rest my eyes.

...

Ah that's better; semi-darkness is so frightfully gentler is it not. So -like- comforting and stuff.
Fluttering here and there like a gallivanting butterfly, my hitherto blinded eyes survey the assembly, nonchalantly resting upon bigger shapes and gaily skip from left to right, right to left, left to right again just in case, hovering upon the venerable assembled heads like an undecided sniper on a mission. Venerable they certainly are: the average age is way above mine, I'm glad to note; it's also at least 75% ladies. Chit chat, chit chat ...and what a dreadfully pleasant crowd we have here, delightful, simply delightful -we be scaling the heights of academia tonight! My trained eyes recognise a number of studious faces: h'ah! if it isn't professor MacSomething -we met last time... and h'eh! this must be whochacallhim, trying to decipher his programme notes in the dark from above his bifocal glasses; perfect gentleman he is ...if only he could sort out his comb-over, that is so seventies, and shave off his remaining tufts of hair once and for all; that'd do him a world of good. ...Mind that he doesn't start growing one of these goatee things though, baldies tend to do that in order to compensate.
So here we are, then. My eyes fly from wise old face to wise old face with the felicitous pang of recognition.

Except they encounter no Mathieu shaped figure.

Nobody stands out, no head towers over the others. Hard as I look -and I like to think I look pretty hard- no six feet something participant has deposed himself onto our crummy plastic seats, I would have spotted him. Nope, no such luck here; I can only see the usual bookworms and four-eyed brigade :-((. Try, try again. As much as my head can discreetly turn, I still can't spot him -don't you wish sometime you could do a Linda "The Exorcist" Blair 360 degrees scope! (The look on my neighbours' faces would be worth the price of admission alone!)

Then again, whispers the natural optimist in me, since I can't see behind ...then I can't actually say I have checked out the entire room yet have I? So (pretty much like the knowledge that every book -especially some- are bound to end at some stage) there may still be hope! For all I know, your man may be sitting behind me (!?*!!**!), or quite simply maybe he has yet to turn up (in that case he'd better bloody hurry!).
I grant myself this second chance, and decide not turn round to check what's what. I am a connoisseur (sic) of the fine literirary art and will instead devote my full attention to what goes on ahead OK? OK.

And so I concentrate, I listen. I appreciate, I empathise. I go through all the motions expected of us in the audience, and enjoy this truly fascinating interview. What an edifying tale of courage and abnegation, what a timely reminder of what makes our human nature so truly admirable (sic). When reminded for ten minutes going on thirty of the author's dreadful dreadful childhood, I go all gooey and my heart certainly goes out to her (how exactly did they beat her again? them goddamm nuns). I sympathise. I share in her plight. I pity the poor thing. I spare a thought and take some stock. I put myself in her shoes. I cross my legs nervously. I observe four minutes of silence for her rotten childhood (sweet Jaysus gizzus some strength here, I'm nearly dying!) oh yes I do. I really feel for your woman out there who's now just minting it thanks to her soberly narrated autobio. The journalist is doing a first class job of playing up to her and the audience provides all the "ohs" and the "ahs" required -at the right times too! Wouldn't it be gas if we actually laughed at the death of her pussy and gasped at her attempt to write! That'd sure would shake it up a bit. (Which reminds me: I once noticed how white people tend to miss on the beats, this is particularly noticeable when you play them hip-hop, they clap out of time -and then don't ask them to dance ha ha). Anyway er -like I was saying, I studiously listen to her story. The RTE MC is now giving her the "salvation through typewriter" treatment: how she started a diary and -lo!-a writer was born! Miss Smartypants concurs with his presentation. The audience concurs with miss Smartypants.

No wonder he didn't turn up, he must have heard about her spiel somehow. But how? Through the programme of course, through the programme! Her act was all there, clearly announced: her edifying life story shtick, her heart-warming tale of courage and abnegation from rags to designer rags. The boy can read, no wonder he stayed well away!
Meanwhile the host on his "fatboy" rocking chair is asking Miss Holes-In-Socks to read us an excerpt from her book. I'm losing the will to live.
...

Fast forward ten minutes (at my watch) or an hour (at my reckoning). Not an eternity too soon, the reading comes to an end. My neighbour and I thoroughly agree: wasn't it delightful, simply deliiiightful? And she enunciates proper too for a culchie! The interviewer thanks us all and calls an end to the proceedings. Hurrah! I grab my belongings and stand up; I don't imagine I'll stay behind very long this time. One quick look around and I make for the door. Will put up an appearance at the cafeteria and that'll be it; salute the acquaintances, like; show me frowny face.
The corridor feels like a procession and I decide to make the most of it. Let's be a good sport shall we, no need to make it worse and pile on more misery by suffering every second of the (long) way out. Sweet Natured Lily decides to engage the old dear next to her in a conversation.

-"So how did you like it?" I ask innocently enough "Did you enjoy this evening?"
-"Enjoy it? Gedda out of the park! That was terrible that was -all that moaning and self-pity, giving out about her own parents I ask you! The shamelessness of it! I'd be scarlet me! Crying all the way to the bank more like!"
-"??"
-"But we shouldn't wonder should we, we shouldn't be surprised... everyone's at it nowadays, the world and his granny. Isn't it terrible what they do though? Isn't it just terrible. It's the Misery Memoirs, you know -that's what pays off! Not the romances, not the crime thrillers, not even the cook books -it's the warts and all, the lamentations, the "heart-warming tale" of squalid childhood -what a load of rank old bollix if you ask me my child!"
Incredulous, I nearly choke on my Minto.
But the little lady is nowhere near finished oh no, now she's sucking Diesel.
"Did you know that this genre -the Misery Memoirs as I call them- is the most profitable genre in bookshops? That's right! This is the genuine article, the true best seller it is -move over Roddy Doyle!"
-"I er, didn't know that no... I would have assumed that... surely this so-called "chick-lit" genre would be way in front..."
-"Poppycock my dear! Sentimental novels have nothing on that genre! Nothing. They're nowhere near I tell you. If you want to sell, you know what to do: lay it on! Open the floodgates! Scratch at your scabs! Remember the saintly Peig? Remember "Angela's fecking Ashes"? Well there you are. On the best-seller list for the next ten years he was."
I digest this in silence for the next five minutes, i.e. the next ten meters.
-"So I take it that... you weren't much impressed with this evening then?"
-"Oh you'd be wrong here Miss, you'd be wrong. I'd say that for our latest saint: impressed, I certainly was. She certainly knows how to handle herself in front a microphone she does ...and even write -I read her book you see; I actually read it. From cover to cover too. Utterly revolting."
A flash of inspiration crosses my confused mind.
-"Forgive me for asking: you wouldn't happen to be a writer yourself, Ma'am?"
She instantly mellows.
-"Well I... I sometimes dabble 'tis true... I have been known to put pen to paper..."
The penny drops! No need to ask, don't do it Lily just don't do it:
-"I see. And then you never got published, right?"
Except I am mature enough not to voice that question.
-"How wonderful, I always admire people who have the dedication, the patience... You must be very patient aren't you?"
-"Well I... I do my best, is all we can hope for in this day and age er..."
The rest of the trip goes smoothly.



--------------------------------------- "Oh Ramon", whimpered she, "take me in your muscular arms and gather me to your hairy chest!" -----------------------------------------------------



Back in the cafeteria. As I said, I don't think I'll hang around too long.
Or will I...
As I cross the threshold, who do I spot busy by the bar but you-know-who -your man must have just turned up?! Or maybe he was seated behind me against the wall? In which case, he must have made a dash for the apres-match cos' there's no way I would have missed his imposing silhouette ahead in the never-ending corridor!
It's a mystery alright.
In any case, he appears to be lost in a conversation -translation: he doesn't see me- as he appears to be educating the Polish waitress about wine. He's holding a glass for inspection and declaiming something, left hand dangerously slashing the air ...I have a rough idea what it may be about. To her credit, she stands to attention and doesn't seem to mind. Until she can no longer ignore the queue of thirsty readers and excuses herself. Mathieu downs his drink in one and grabs another one; he will probably turn around next and this is when I make my move.

-"So what did you say you were writing about?"
The old grump has gone all sweetness and light.
-"Oh well you know... historical anecdotes, our cultural heritage... Dublin has got a lot to be proud of you know?"
-"I'm sure that's the case."
-"Take the Easter Rising -I don't know if you're familiar with the name?- well"
But before I have the privilege of being treated to a history lesson -the Easter Rising, who would have thinked!- I see the lady's eyes widen. What da? A hand incongruously taps me on my shoulder.
-"Hey" a voice brusquely interrupts our own engrossing conversation.
The lady has stopped mid-sentence and is staring at something -or someone- some distance above my shoulder. She's like, totally enrapt. How most extremely queer, I do declare! Do I turn round and confront the impertinent intruder, do I check who the devil is here, eh? Well, do I?
You bet I do.
Except like, casually; acting all surprised, like I wonder who on earth this could be and who could possibly be so rude as to butt in and...

Mathieu!?!

Dear me, what a surprise!
-"Dear me, what a surprise!"
-"Hey how aaare you?" He hands me a glass. The lady with whom I was supposedly having a conversation still hasn't moved.
-"I'm grand thank you. But listen er, let me introduce you to er, we were... This is Mathieu -he is French- and here is Mrs...?"
-"De Valera. Sinead Aibhin De Valera."
Eh??
-"Right, er, Mathieu, this is Mrs De Valera."
The old fox doesn't miss a trick. He passes me his glass (-why, er, sure, go right ahead!) and takes the lady's hand, which he brings to his lips.
-"Nice to meeet you."
She is too stunned to speak. He air kisses her hand and then has to ruin it:
"The thing is, you mustn't actually kiss you mustn't. It's all in ze gesture you know? A bit of apparented class."
Mrs. De Valera's hand is still hanging in mid-air; she finally takes it down and by the bye closes her mouth.
-".... Hmm and I think I'll problyleave youyoungpeoples alone erright Iater..."
She takes a step back and then spots the bar; she heads for the bar.

Mathieu clicks his tongue loudly ("Click!"): he is clearly enjoying his glass and I wonder how many he's had already. That young man certainly seems to want to enjoy himself like it's going out of fashion, can I blame him? The truth be told, tonight he is looking fairly sensational, all effortlessly cool, clean shaved and back-combed, but I'd better keep my apreciation to myself -must remember not to stand there gawking at him with my mouth open.

-"Nice lady I like her. Very classy." comments he "Click!"
-"She certainly is, isn't she? A great book lover too and er... so what are you doing here? How lovely to see you I mean, how 'you keeping? Funny but I don't remember seeing you earlier at the talk -am I mistaken?"
-"Ah yes, the talk. Oh yes I went there. For a brief time. It was very, er, interesting I think but I needed a smoke you know? I had to live early."
-"Pardon me?"
-"I had to go for a smoke, you know a smoke? a cigarette outside of the building? Inside is not peussible."
Oh yes, leave -leave of course.
-"Oh yes, yes of course. Naturally, and so you left early I understand. ... Feeling better now?"
-"Not bad, not bad at all -I am super, me- although I could have another one soon -ha! But anyway. Anyway and you?"
-"Me? If I'd like one? I don't really smoke you know... Not officially."
-"Not officially?"
-"Well... not regularly that is, maybe once in a while, like for a special occasion..."
-"And this is not a special occasion?"
Wow, hold it right here! What does he mean by that? I dare not hope.
-"Er, I'm not quite sure..."
-"Keum on, get on your coat" -What?? I heard that one before! ...although not in that word order. "We go for a smoke. But first..." Your Lothario turns round and checks on the bar "...I get a glass."

And so he does. Stomps back with two actually. Aw, how considerate, how thoughtful of him -even though I've hardly touched mine yet!
"Thought I get two, I said them one was for you -ha!"
Rrrright.
Now the good thing about him carrying these glasses is that, this time, he won't grab me by the arm, which I suppose is an improvement on other day: I am following at my own pace, and out of my own will (...as it were). Off we go then; to the freezing cold we repair.

-"So ...Lily." he offers after of course first lighting up "What's the tale then, or the stooory as you would say? You like literature huh? You are a fan? I see you come to all these... literature evenings, you must like it then?"
Well. As a matter of fact big boy, not all of them, no; like for instance tonight I probably wouldn't have bothered, were it not for the possibility of meeting a certain Frenchman...
-"Well; well I suppose I attend a number of them for sure, but not every one of them. Let's just say that some are more attractive propositions than others..."
-"Uh-oh; I agree. Some stuff is better than others. Sure. Me I like to experience you know? I like to explore."
Explore...?
The old hands are in full flow now.
"You know: Irish culture, Irish people, how they er... present their literature -like tonight yes?-, how they er... hold up parties, like this one with his amusing orchestra and his freezed cheese canapés -this is great! I love it!! Very civilised."
Why, thank you Mister you are too kind.
-"You don't have the same sort of party in France? I don't believe it, surely you must have social events of your own, something similar... where are you from exactly in France?"
-"Paree of course!" he replies triumphantly "ville de nos amours!" Looking suddenly concerned for my sanity, Mathieu grabs my shoulder. "But yes of course we have parties in Paris, and bigger ones! with better wine! but here you see... this is different. This is er... something else now let me think..." (I let him think) "Here... this is not what I normally know. So this is good yes, is something new."
I suppose this is as close to an approval as it will ever get.
-"Well that's a... one way of looking at things I guess. You sound really open-minded, that is so commendable."
-"Thank you thank you, I try to be. But I mean it, you know, if you go somewhere... you will want to discover that place right?"
For sure! and then almost seamlessly
"Do you drive? Do you have places you recommend, anywhere nice to discover? Huh?"
Well I... is he asking me to become his guide? I have to catch my breath here. Now this prospect is not without its charm, I can certainly think of worse ways to spend some time than to gaze at his profile... need to think about it though, can't possibly jump at the suggestion, you shameless hussy.
-"As a matter of fact I do yes. I drive. As for lovely places to visit well... I would imagine you must have seen them all by now... or most of them ...haven't you yet?"
Reflection, as has been often documented, requires inspiring smoke in your lungs: he takes a long drag.
"As a matter of fact no. No. But hey how can I say that ("no") if I haven't seem them? Eh? I don't know!" he concludes in mock dramatic fashion, throwing his arms up in the air.
I'm not quite sure I follow his logic but we share a laugh the same; I realise that I can't help patting my hair.
-"Well I... I suppose that in that case then, maybe I can be of assistance here... maybe I can show you around, somewhere...? Depending... sometime..."
-"That will be great!" bellows he like an American tourist "That is terribeul!" (he probably means terrific) "What great idea Lily -you're a geeenius!"
Am I?
-"Oh no, not at all, I suppose it's only natural after all, helping each other like..."
-"Of course you must tell me when you're possible, I don't want to disturb you in your work right? By the way..." (his eyebrows shoot up higher than Colin Farrell in Amsterdam) "you didn't tell me about your work, what you do..."
-"Well I... Since you ask, I"
-"I'll tell you what", he tells me what, "you tell me inside yes? It's so focking cold here! -And we can get a glass there too." Back to his impetuous self, France Upon Liffey's answer to Johnny Depp grabs me by the arm and just about drags me inside. Talk about being swept off your feet!
"Ah the cold... I can't stand! This is so unfair, to smoke outside! What about my human rights huh? In France we can smoke everywhere! The restau, the toilet, the ciné -this is great!"
Your man suddenly puts the brake on and stops us on the threshold of the cafeteria:
"Wait!"
He cradles my arm inside his ceremoniously and then enters majestically.
"Better."
"Me and my lovely Irish friend."
I blush. The sudden heat, must be the sudden heat!
"...who hasn't told me about her work. I am curious to know."





chapter 9

---------------"Much to her consternation, Lucinda felt her nipples harden"---------------------------




(Are they at it yet?)
I am currently driving through the streets of Dublin and the time being somewhere between half-nine and half-four, we are actually moving. Not too far away, seated on my left is Mathieu. He is seated about twenty inches away i.e. within groping snogging petting kissing distance but -hmm- I need to keep my concentration. I need to concentrate on my driving and remember to keep all tempting thoughts away: only look ahead Lily! It's a Road Safety issue no less, and I'm doing my damnedest best to comply.
Sadly it would appear that my efforts are not entirely met with success.

It's been three times we've met already and, for a Frenchman, he still hasn't made a move. Sure he may have played it up at the Library and even made a big show of pretending to take me for a spin ...but technically he still hasn't tried anything on (need to hold my steering wheel steady and not let my hands wander by accident). Equally sure is the fact that both times he didn't fail to kiss me goodbye on the cheeks ...but he didn't stray inbetween in the middle. (I'd better pay attention to the traffic lights, heaven forbid I ignored one, what would it look like!) In short your man hasn't -er- put "his animal magnetism" to work yet. And so we're just... driving around then, a simple stranger in a foreign land -albeit a fecking handsome one at that- being shown the sights by an innocent native, only too happy to help (...with his zipper anytime he feels like it).

-"So how is your journalism going?" he enquires "What an exciting life it must be to, er... journalise -ha! Butseriously, how're you doing? Are you always writing? Interviewing? Critiquing? Huh?"
-"Well I... it's not that simple you see, we're not talking full time regular basis here, even though I'm doing my best to get as many assignments as possible... I don't hold a regular position like; journalism is not a nine-to-five job"
"-I see. Not full-time then... With me too: with this videogame supporting, I don't work nine-to-five. But I like it: it's so flexibeul! Sure, there are times you meust be at the office, you meust do the work and answer all these er... stupid demands from stupid gameurs -some of them don't even know how to on switch their console!- but... but it's like you then, is not a full-time job. More flexibeul. ...I like to be flexibeul, are you?"
Cough cough, you don't want to know big boy, be careful what you wish for!
-"Ahem well I... I guess I can be... depending on what context though..."
I let this one float between the seats and continue
"As far as work is concerned, sure, the prospect is appealing; the reality is a different kettle of fish though -sometime a bit more job security would be nice..."
We're nearly there. I cross the bridge by Heuston Station and then take left. What I had in mind is not very original but given the temporary sunny weather, I thought we could risk it. ...Bit of greenery, like. Bucolic mood, back to nature and all that shite (bishop Casey and his lovechild to pop up from behind the bushes and bless us with garlands).
-"Ah yes security... but it's for later security, is the kind of steuff when you're thirty and want to setteul down. Are you thirty Lily?"
(Beg your pardon??)
"No you're not so... no need to panic yet. Is no large deal."
I am not sure I really want to start discussing my age and steer our conversation back to the subject of our little outing; our current situation gives me the perfect excuse.
-"Actually we're nearly there... what I wanted to show you. And here it is: Phoenix Park. The biggest park in Europe."
-"The biggest, really? What about Hyde Park?"
-"Bigger than Hyde Park. It's the biggest park in Europe, home to our President and the zoo -not that these two are actually related" (little joke here -falls flat on its face) "...it was also the stage of the Pope's visit to Ireland twenty odd years ago."
Mathieu falls silent.
"You'll see you'll see, you will like it. It's very quiet, and dead classy -look there's a big obelisk there."
-"Oh yes an obelix ...as in "Asterix" ha ha!"
That's right, just like in "Asterix".
This is proving to be hard work; I kill my speed like a right little citizen and prepare to ditch the car to take a walk.
"-This is a place, lots of people come here for a stroll you see, when they want to get away from the town or chill out a bit, it's very romantic... -very peaceful I mean, very peaceful. Children can play... athletes can jog... you can picnic..."
-"and people take out their dogs."
-"(?) Yes they do ...in a manner of speaking."
-"Deugshit, I think it's disgusting. It's one of the weurst things in France, it's everywhere!"
-"Well I... I wouldn't know... I guess."
I find a parking space easy, don't even need to engage in fancy manoeuvres -this is definitely turning into my lucky day oh yeah.
"Come now, let's go and stretch our legs... get some fresh air..."


Mathieu seems less than impressed; he checks the sky with definite mistrust. The heavens, "at this moment in time", are a pale shade of silver blue and the sun is playing hide and seek -mainly seek- with the Guinness brewery clouds. Still, no sign of rain threatens the horizon. The atmosphere is generally still, settled. The temperature hovers somewhere between six and eight, gust of wind depending. The general feeling is of an early March going on mid-September going on lazy April going on nostalgic October late afternoon -in short, positively torrid for Dublin.
People in tracksuit munch their way behind their panting dog, the odd car passes by at ten miles an hour, pensioners sunk on benches reflect on long faded feelings. Not much noise filters from the surrounding city, you could almost imagine yourself in the countryside.
Mr and Mrs tracksuit are now arguing about who's gonna clean up after the dog, phalanges of cyclists cruise by in tight lycra, red squirrels dash up the trees.

-"You're sure it's not going to rain? I hate the rain."
-"Oh no it won't, I actually checked the weather forecast, honest!"
(And I did, too. We certainly don't want to tempt fate and risk more embarrassment do we!)
-"OK then," he relaxes "I trust you."
And, as if to confirm his new found faith, he takes this opportunity to grab my arm. To be perfectly honest, I was rather trying to engineer this move, that's how devious I am. But play it cool I must eh, and I play it all surprised, I go:
-"Oh. How sweet, how... French!" -and I add a little laugh.


A recent study highlit some fascinating facts about the sexual politics of laughter. Yep, "the sexual politics of laughter" (sic). Now most people would probably imagine there's nothing to it, they may believe that it's all dead simple... but they'd be wrong. Laughing's just like everything else: there are dimensions to it, and hidden significations. It's a dead complicated world out there, and men and women don't laugh the same way.
To start with, the study revealed that we laugh far more often than men, and why is that so? Because men, primarily, laugh in response to a joke. Like do'h!, did we really need a study to tell us that? Well actually... what is says here is that fellows are simple creatures: they hear foonny -they be laughing. Now as for us ladies... well, the fair sex use laughing in a very different perspective, like totally less logical or simplistic. We have a far less obvious reason for laughing. The boffins recorded tons of chit-chats and this is what they discovered: we laugh in response to all sorts of exchanges or situations; all sorts as in: regardless of the actual humour in the other person's conversation -we laugh at anything really! Whether it be about the weather, Bertie's anoraks, our other half's beer belly, "hello", "goodbye", Posh Spice's attempts to sing, little children, would-be grown-up fathers, bad hair days, the weather, falling down the stairs, Deirdre chopping off her fingers in the kitchen, Glenda Gilson, pompous old farts, nippers being sick, men's obsession with pig bladder kickers, funerals, repossessions, even Gerry Ryan. And we do this for a very different reason than as a mark of appreciation of humour... when we laugh, we do it as a mark of bonding. Bonding between ourselves and that other person. As we laugh, we make a show of being on the same wavelength as the other person ("are you with me?") and of keeping up with the conversation ("I am with you"). It's called the phatic function, and don't ask me to pronounce it after three drinks.
Personally I find it more worthwhile and -literally- much more social.

And so I add a little laugh to the proceedings. "Smile, and the world smiles with you". From wondering about the heavens one minute, Mathieu breaks into a smile the next:
-"You're in a good mood... That's great. You're always in a good mood no?"
-"Depends... some occasions are more pleasant than others" squeal I unashamedly with the prerequisite subtle-yet-unmissable sideway glance at him -the next move is: go all demure and lower your eyes, don't visually engage him again: that'll drive him mad.
"...and you, you in a good mood or still worried about the rain?"
-"Ah. Who cares about the rain!" your man states superbly, his right arm springing into theatrical action as if to summon the heavens as his witness; only my hanging on to his left one prevents him from going for the full heroic defiance stance -steady-oh here, stay with me!
"...when you have a lovely lady for the company."
Gulp. Hey that was nice... wouldn't mind hearing more of the same...
But Mathieu chooses to stay silent for a full five seconds and doesn't follow up as some people here might wish he did.
"So this is Phoenix Park eh... Do you come here often?" I can't believe he used these words! Such touching innocence! "For a walk maybe? you do jogging?"
-"Actually not as often as I wish I could no..." (I haven't made a sweaty spectacle of myself for months!) "I can't always find the time you see, 'much as I would love to... This place is so peaceful don't you think? Much more so than Saint-Stephen's Green -huh; you must have been to Saint-Stephen's Green yes? That's the big park at the end of Grafton Street: so central, so crowded... with all these couples rolling on the grass"
(Dammit. Where did that come from?)
-"Ah yes, ze couples, peopeul, peopeul everywhere... they're annoying yes? when you're on your own"
Gulp (again). Silence. Silence would be the best option at this juncture. What do I have to add here, ya big pillock? Isn't the situation sufficiently clear by now? Is he waiting for me to jump on him or what?
But he untangles himself from my desperate hold and searches through his pockets.
"Scuse me, my cigarettes..."
The sly fecker shoots me a sideway glance: "Only kidding."
He rearranges his arm and in one swift move embraces me in a circular manoeuvre which turns my waist round and pulls me towards him.
"So. Mademoiselle Lily." he fixes me
Before I remember the French words for "I say. How dreadfully impertinent. And what exactly do you think you're doing here, monsieur?", I submit to his seamless move and let him kiss me.

The thing is, I could never have remembered these words.




--------------------------------"What time is space?"-------------------



And here we are, snogging like a couple of fifteen year olds under the staircase behind the bicycle shed at recess, except we're still very much standing, right by the side of a passing road ("vvvvvvVROOMmm honk! honk!"). I personally couldn't care less and never want to let go. Finally he does and breaks away, a sly smile on his cheeky face. The man readjusts his parka.
"Well well well..."
I must be right flustered.
-"I never thought you would... I was starting to wonder..."
Mathieu touches my cheek; he pushes away a curl and caresses my face.
-"Well don't wander anymore, Mathieu is here and now"
-"Right you certainly are... You must think I'm such an easy girl, I don't normally do this sort of thing you know"
-"I'm sure you don't!" laughs the big heartless brute "And I'm always right. You are... very emotioning: you are ever blushing! Blush blush blush when you're looking me -and by the way, you didn't concentrate on the road when you drive! I was afraid we have an accident!"
Oh. Thanks a million.
Really? Surely I'm not that transparent ...am I?
In any case if I was blushing before, I must be crimson by now!
"You drive left, you look certainly right -but not at me, look at the other cars!"
He laughs some more and gathers me in his powerful arms. The big hunk towers over me and I disappear inside his embrace, engulfed within his trademark parka (is it Cape North? Is it Penneys?); I hold onto him tightly.
"Miss Lily my driver!" he teases me "Lily the wheel terror!"
I look up and he takes it as a signal to kiss me some more. We are still standing by the side of a road.

...

An eternity later, I tell myself to calm down a bit and come back to earth. We are both getting breathless and I, for one, need to recover my senses, I need to gather my thoughts if I don't want to lose them altogether.

Blissed out is how I feel!
In seventh heaven! Even higher!!
Held tight in his manly embrace, I got ssswept off me feet by his powerful grasp! Gasp! Swoon! His irresistible aura blitzing away my frail womanly defences, my powers of reason abandoned me and I surrendered! Why, Heaven took pity on me and directed him into my humble path: vulnerable as a newborn lamb, sensitive as a violet shrinking under the affront of a dew drop, I succumbed to his powerful enthralling all-conquering intoxicating virility and lost all powers of resistance, I fell to pieces ...I am now but a fallen woman so I am! My fragile heart blown to smithereens, my senses overloaded with ecstatic sparks, I have tasted the elixir of divinity and -for shame- now I want more!! Oh but oh where will this end??
My thoughts have just... scattered away in the raging wind an eternity of luxuriant voluptuousness ago, atomised by the whirlwind of overpowering assaults on my virginal modesty. The delicate onion that passed as my heart has seen all of its petals reduced to cinders by the power of his virile gaze!
Oh, and he tried to cop a feel or two, too. Don't imagine I haven't noticed. Before you could say "that Sinead Jennings lass... she ain't half of an athlete for a Donegal girl is she?" your man had already engaged in the age-old sweater groping battle! Why you bold Frenchman! You're very bold! He tries somewhere, I stop him dead; he advances elsewhere, I concede him that spot; he tries again, I think about it. All very timid in the great scheme of things, and yet utterly enthralling. We're still standing in the middle of a street though, it's not as if we're enjoying the privacy of a bedroom and I'm not too comfortable with it.

No sooner do I re-engage my brains that I start to wonder. I have to ask myself the question: what now then? What is he up for next? What are we supposed to move on to wonders she, avoiding the unavoidable answer. Being the designated driver here, I suppose I ought to take charge of the proceedings -the logistics; should I suggest we repair to somewhere more private? Or shouldn't it be his move to make, in the traditional cat-and-mouse game? For yes indeed, we have presently embarked on our very own chess-game and it's early doors yet in this match of two halves. Am I ready to toll the dice? Will he want to rise to the net? Now I don't want to appear too brazen, I'm not that kind of girl and so I'm not too sure I really ought to jump him on our first snog. Besides, what of these virtuous resolutions not so long ago? Like I need to show a bit more maturity and all... methinks we have a bit of a dilemma looming up here! Let's just see what he suggests next.

But things have a habit of not being simple.
"...So?" he just offers.
I opt to snog a little more, just to play for time. Cherubic angels weep in celestial harmony, blissful rainbows encircle us etc. -more snogging comes to a pause. I still haven't decided as to which conduct to take.
"What do you want to do now?" he fixes me, all self-confident smile and cherry pulped lips. And, lo! the ball was in my court and mother Temptation saw that it was good. Sister Modesty saw that it was not.
-"Well er... " (cough) "I think I ought to drive you back now... let's just call it a day, yeah? Let's not get carried away here, I'll just drive you back for now and... we'll have to get together again soon, is that OK with you?"
Ding! And sister Modesty's just smashed an ace here. Dammit I didn't actually mean to say that, it just came out, it was like we suddenly went into automatic spinster mode and here I am, already telling him to back off!?! !?><>!?*!!>!*!!!! Hmm, have I just been too impulsive...
Feck it! I can't track back now! Let's just play it safe and err on the side of caution...
"Actually there was something else I wanted to show you around here, there's a pub right down the road: they have hundreds of different whiskies and beers, I thought you of all people might be curious..."
-"O... K..." he articulates, but he can't fail to repress a wee bit of mouth pursing; my very own Romeo is trying not to do his little disappointed face aaahhh bless...
"Sounds er... interesting this pub but are you sure? about er..." there is an unmistakable glitter in his eyes; could it be he would be more curious about something else altogether?
-"I am quite sure."
Good girl yourself! Whatshisface Timothy would be so proud of you, Georgina considerably less so.

Hand in hand, we walk back to the car, me feeling oddly pleased with myself, him feeling probably hornier than a raging bull. I'm like pulling the divil by the tail and swinging round me head! Yyyyyes, I have bagged me a hunk and n(nnnnnnn)o, I haven't made a fool of myself in the process -in fact, I've got him hooked ! It's almost as if I've been taking lessons from Georgina herself: "How To Get Big Dumb Males Wrapped Around Your Little Finger", ten years of practice may be about to finally pay off!
In fact, the catch is even more enjoyable: what with the promise of "more" to come... doesn't he look the sporty type eh... I wonder what he's got in store for me... don't they say the wait makes up for half the fun! Oh yes, I can't imagine what moving to second third and fourth base will be like hee hee... I am feeling quite giddy right now. Actually, I'm almost starting to wonder whether I shouldn't dump the car altogether and partake of the whiskies (is this really wise Lily?) ...it's been some time already since my last session and after all my presence is not required at the studio before four at the earliest tomorrow. What could possibly go wrong?



---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



Thursday half-past four and I'm nearing the end of my little skit. Introducing Lily, the intrepid Dub dizzy investigator: all subjects covered, as long as they raise a smile from those stuck on the M50. The atmosphere in the studio is easy-going verging on sunny, everything's going smoothly and we are sucking diesel. Or maybe that's just my recently rose-tinted glasses speaking, since they have definitely been carrying me throughout the day.
Here is what's going on.
After much reflexion (i.e. as I brushed my teeth in the car on me way to work) I eventually decided not to pull up any tree today and just stay on the safe side this time (translation: couldn't possibly face the whole shebang). Oh no, today is not the day when I beat elocution records, today's not the day to draw attention to myself do we...
given that I am still drunk from last night.

Whisky whisky whisky; nightcap. Another whisky for good measure. So basically, (as I uncurled my eyelashes at the red light and sprayed a generous cloud of Aurora for the consideration of my coworkers), I came up with this ace idea: what about... let's recycle this old piece I recorded waaaay back four days ago? Let's just play it! Suck it and see, yeah? It will be per-fect: the kind of chestnut beloved of poo-pooing listeners, the no-brainer guaranteed to keep them distracted until they reach the tollbridge:
namely, The Strange Rise Of Street Pyjamas. Yes.
You see, Your Lilyness has informants all over town who keep a weather eye out on my behalf, and one of my spies -OK, favourite hairdressers- alerted me some time ago onto this daring new fashion he'd heard about ("Com 'ere till I tell ya!"). You know hairdressers: they are the true providers of quality news.
"Now then, who you saying you saw smoking 'round the back of The George? But, but, I thought he was a married man!? Oh yes, I heard that La Costa Borracha can be real dear this time of year: how much you say a Frog's Legs costs over there? Get out o' that garden! What you wanna wear is nothing at all luv: go al fresco, whale tails are so 2003!"
Now here's what your man told me: there's this like new craze developing around Thomas / James Street. 'Parently gangs of girlies have taken to hang around on street corners cockteasing the usual good-for-nothings, getting patsies to buy them ciggies and furiously texting each other wearing nothing else but their PJs. Yikes.

I just had to go and investigate.

Safely accompanied by Big Gay Gerry, I drove up there and asked around. Soon enough I got to meet with the big fish: I was introduced to the fearsome Leanne and Lauren. Ah Leanne and Lauren... "Born Irish under a lucky star, native Dubs by the grace of God", they're about twenty-seven years of age between the both of them, the veritable salt of the earth. A series of put-downs offered ("Who you tink you are? Pish Spice??") and fags extorted later, the deadly duo agreed to hear me out ("Helluu there, and how duu you duu? I am from the radio in Donnybrook -Greater Dublin, yes?- and we would be mouust interested to hear about your experience as semi-feral street urchins..."). Then they smoked themselves furious for a second, nodded their collective pony-tails in unison and of course jumped at the idea of getting their assorted rantings and ravings recorded by someone from da meejah.
This shouldn't come as a surprise: the whole world and his granny do. How I see it, everybody out there has an anecdote to tell, a talent or another, an experience worth recounting, or maybe just a chip on their shoulder -everybody without exception. Why, everybody has their own lifestory to start with, right? Surely that's worth telling...: what we hoped for, what we tried to achieve, what we imagined life would be like fifteen years down the line; how our dreams were dashed and the boys in gym never gave us a look. What we would do to Brian O'Driscoll/Grainne Seoige (delete as applicable) if we ever found ourselves five minutes alone with them, what we truly think of this year's budget balance-sheet. What should be done if we were in charge of the Irish football/rugby team instead of the current useless lump at the helm whoever he (she?) is, what simple steps could be taken to tackle child obesity (don't feckin' feed 'em!), whether Westlife were better with Bryan in it. Like I say, subjects are aplenty.
Subjects are aplenty and, more fundamentally, everybody has lots to say for themselves, this is what I passionately believe. Everybody has been blessed with a mouth to shoot themselves in the foot for (think Sinead O'Connor) oh yes, and especially around here ("athbhliain faoi shéan is faoi mhaise dhuit"). Maybe people once witnessed mischief, maybe they've been through some shenanigan themselves, maybe they have simply rubbed shoulders with the good and the notorious -well, all of this surely bears telling; all this is of interest to a radio slash magazine reporter. I'm constantly amazed -and I don't mean just by the existence of Jane Goody- by the richness of experiences out there: if only you care to scratch beneath the surface, you'll be impressed by what you can dig out! All manners of jaw-dropping tales, all sorts of epic feats, and they're right here, underneath your very nose!
Everywhere you look you'll find them: gas tickets at every station, nutters let loose on the streets, armchair warriors in full flow in every pub. Misunderstood geniuses, crackpot inventors, piss artists, wind-up merchants, punk survivors, acid casualties, conspiracy theorists, tourist magnets, "X Factor" wannabes, football anoraks, prophets of doom, silver tongue maniacs, sons of kings, professional bulshitters from Blarney, hypochondriacs, petty thieves, megalomaniacs, raving lunatics, day-dreamers, sex addicts, religious headcases, scammers, bullied children, refugees, occasional prostitutes, ex-child prodigees, closet cases, ambulance staff, would-be Colin Farrells etc..
This is why I believe we should lend our mikes to more people. Give them an opportunity to switch the old mouth on and they'll repay you. People like Leanne and Lauren relish being given an ear: they want to get heard for once, they want to get r.e.s.p.e.c.t. -and rightly so too: why should it always be the same ones on the air? Why are the already famous the only ones who get broadcast treatment? Now I for one love my s'lebs alright don't get me wrong, but I also accept that there is more to life: sad as this is, Ireland's not all about Ronan Keating, Boy George and Sir Terry Wogan! It's not all cheeky smiles, impeccable dress sense and effortless glamour oh no, there's more in store at street level oh yes.
At the end of the day, I suppose I am a big fan of people that's what I am; bottom line, that's what it comes down to. People are our greatest resources, here in Ireland. Now while it's true that I may not always have enough time to devote to them -sometimes I'm kinda busy you know?-, when I do listen to your man on the street, he cracks me up! He always comes up with the goods. A sense of wonder, that's what drives me; I like to think I still get excited about stuff and things. The way I see it: the day you lose it, you might as well press the "off" button.

So off we went, myself and Gerry, aul' Thomas Street; we went on a mission and captured it, right here on tape, the thoughts and wisdom of the fearsome Lauren and Leanne telling it like it is to a grateful nation, spreading the word on their proud attempt to reclaim the street as their personal turf and very own catwalk. After all, it does belong to demselves just as much it belongs to dem stinky cars.
...Now I should probably add that Phat Paul the sound engineer spent the best part of two hours "cleaning up" their plea. Two hours ...for their eventual 10 (ten) minutes slot. He had to rearrange entire sentences into broadcastable segments, beeping it here and there whenever not possible otherwise -what a carry-on! But the result was top drawers, we felt; Paul and I loved it so much that I promised myself to keep it up my sleeve for a special occasion. Today is it then.
Give it away now!

So dis is deir focken territorry and dey have to focken make it deirs, are yous wid me? (we are wid cha, luv') Who should dey dress up for like -knowworrahmean-, why should dey care like, when noone out dere cares about dem? It's alright for some -fair play to dem like!- but not everyone can afford lethal puffa Ill Figure jackets, Puma trainers and genuine Dubs jerseys!
I'm listening to Leanne (or is it Lauren) and I'm thinking... indeed most people don't, they don't suspect your existence when you happen to live twenty minutes away from the D4 shop-window. Tourists wouldn't have a clue about your working class life, until/unless you ended up on a front page ("Sobbing Shelagh Serial Stab Attack!: read all about it -with exclusive pictures- on page 3, 4 and 5, all the grisly details"), they wouldn't suspect the existence of suburbs. What they are told in their pocket guides to see they watch; as for the rest... the 900.000 or so residing outside the glittery zone, they don't register on the radar! The myriads of Leannes and Laurens out there are not booked on the Celtic Tiger express, they're just trying to get a jant.
Now the human mind is an infuriating bugger -and an inventive one at that: it doesn't always take everything on the chin, it sometimes takes stock and decides to fight back. Forsaken lives have a knack for making themselves noticed in all sorts of ways not necessarily described in guide books...

Meanwhile, the D2 dress code under discussion is revealing unsuspected nuances: the mighty Lauren and Leanne are now detailing the hidden dimensions of PJ streetwear, cos' it ain't as simple as dat oh no ("-Lemme talk, it's me turn now!"). These young ladies are anything but undiscriminating, in fact they are very particular about their tastes (should that comes as a surprise?). Temptresses in their own right, they know how to play it, and when to play it. Like dey wouldn't wear deir everyday Penneys to go out in -dey'd get morrdered! Dey would get a right slagging from all dese skangers and udder haters! Wouldn't be seen in public in dem actual PJs knowworrahmean! No no, dey like go for silky stuff if can be done, mad silky blouses dat feel nice, lethal printed tops. Proper branded stuff like Tommy ill Figure, YSL from da market, Le Cock Sportif (arf arf!), UGG boots. Stuff dat feels nice.

Soon enough, my little interview is coming to an end and I conclude with a few cheeky yet respectful yet amused yet safely moralising comments. These girls are cute and make no bones about it. They already know what's what and nobody better be messing with them. Marina is on hand for a supportive little laugh and even Timothy appears mildly approving -there's a relief. Mustn't get carried away though, mustn't draw attention to myself now and ruin it with an intoxicated cri-du-coeur! I need to play it safe now. Let your man take over the mike and -by all means- don't breathe too hard in his direction.

-Timothy: "Why thank you Lily, that was our Lifestyle Correspondent Lily Monaghan reporting on the forefront of clothing liberation -the time is now... sixteen forty-nine; you're listening to O'Arnlan on One-Oh-One."

Job's oxo! Another one boxed off! I could punch the air, pleased as I am to have got away with it. I'm, like, so cute and they won't even know... Now if they had actually placed me on the spot and put me to contribution live on air!?! (Gulp.) I dread to imagine. "And a very good, er, whish day are we again? afternoon to youse out there yeah? This is Lily shp- shp- -hips!- speaking (ouch me sore head, is killing me somethin' brutal) so huh -where was I again? Ah don't feel too well, to be perfeckly -hips!- honesht widchas ah think I should lie down yeah?") Thanks The Bono that they haven't! No they haven't. Eamondunphisis has been avoided and noone's any wiser; I gather my things and I take off with a spring in my step.

-"Anything you should tell us Lily?" whispers Marina as I pass her by. She bends towards me as I skip by gaily. Oh but she's a clever fox is our Marina, perceptive and all -she should be working on the news. But I just wink at her and carry on. Me I'm just walking on sunshine, no time to talk! (Or more precisely, I'd better not.) Timothy in the opposite corner must have glimpsed our little exchange: busy as he is leading the show, he still half-lifts an impeccable eyebrow and then raises his hand. The impudence of it, I asks you! Does the bore mean that we ladies are being too loud for his fecking show?! I'm like, so not impressed.
It's only when I reach the door that I realise I am still wearing something.
I still have my headphones on.
My head is violently jerked backwards -zzzzing!- and as I take flight, I crash into a filing cabinet, bringing down a pile of newspapers on me -what was this cabinet doing here in the first place eh!?!
Timothy doesn't bat an eyelid and concludes
"and the sound that you've just heard was of our reporter Lily Monaghan reporting on the wearing of non extensible headphones cables."






chapter 10
----------------------------"How to find true love and happiness in the present day"---------------------


Soundtrack: "There's Something Going On"-Lambchop and... action!
Insert at this stage a big sweeping Failte-approved panorama featuring the usual Dublin sightseeing suspects to set the mood.
By the way, word of advice: when you send a 2nd team monkey to can them, make sure that he film them on a non-raining day! It may also be a good idea to check with OPW beforehand ...so that the shoot doesn't coincide with a date when they just happen to encase the various monuments in scaffoldings for renovation or dig up the streets! You think I'm joking? Remember every time you go on holiday somewhere!
-Worst comes to worst, rely on stock shots: RTE must have shedloads of tracking shots. Fiddle the contrast if you have to, crank up the colours, do whatever but make the place look appealing OK? This is a bleeding cheerful scene yeah?
Off we go.


"Walking on sunshine..." It's now two weeks I'm seeing "M." and it's like I've never felt better! It is that good: I go get my groceries right? and I hardly notice the chuggers anymore! Then I go to the cashpoint yeah? and I hardly mind your man with the screwdriver either! Hardly registers. Ah yes, what became an obstacle course in recent years has now gone back to being a simple stroll through The Greatest City In The World. ..."The Greatest City In The World" being a catch-phrase of one of our competitors who shall remain nameless ...or so I've been told, since I certainly don't listen to them! If 102 FM imagine they can count on me for doing their publicity the cheeky feckers have got another thing coming! I'm a one station girl me ...and that would be the station which employs me for the time being. Anyhoo, this is how the whole scene feels to me right now: the vibe, the general mood, the food in restaurants, the M50, the broken heel I've been meaning to get repaired for yonks, even the weather -it's all good! It could be raining cats and dogs for all I care -I hardly notice anymore! Instead I go: "huh, it can only get better in a moment or two then", and when it does (usually like, two or three days later), I'm simply dead chuffed to see the sun! Alleluia! All it takes is a bit of sunshine ...and you feel right lifted!! (didn't that blowdried bunch used to warble "You lift me uuuup"? I think they did).
Happiness is not so difficult to achieve after all: there are recipes to it. It's just like everything else really, it's a question of getting it right: take a spot of sunshine then, throw in a Matt Dillon flick, add some "cinema parking space" (i.e. right in front of your house with no parallel shenanigan), mix with some Snowy Aurora pour femme, stir with a regular stint on "The Clothes Show", finish with a manicure voucher courtesy of your mate who is too busy to go herself (-thanks G!).
Top with chocolate. Now chocolate is an age-old shortcut to happiness: it releases endorphins in the brain or some such yoke. Running does that too -but then you'd have to run. Dancing. Now dancing is much more gas, preferably to a ssstonking monster beat and a two-note tune a la "I Believe In You", "Push The Button", "Baby Hit Me One More Time", "Enjoy The Silence" or "Like A Prayer". Something subtle this way.
Or just smiling. Yes, the very act of smiling: apparently this tricks the brain into thinking that everything's hunky dory and -lo!- you actually feel better. It's as simple as that! Mother Nature at her best. Isn't it wonderful eh... Who would have thought, after all these centuries of technological progress and chemical innovations such as Valium / Tranxene / Prozac / Ecstasy / Frog's Legs, who would have thought that the simple act of smiling is more efficient! Smiling, it's what Mas try to get their babies to do as soon as possible. The young wan's first smile... and the whole house lights up, the whole family is reconciled (momentarily forgetting about the little bastard's unknown father)!

How else does happiness manifest itself? In lots of ways, admittedly.

A pair of shoes that actually keeps the water out is a good one, highlights that don't wash out after two showers is another, no extra pounds on the hips is a winner. I've got this theory, see: past a few decades on this planet, half of the population start checking each other for signs of receding hairlines, and the other half keep an eye on their sisters' backsides for the first hint of cellulite ...life can be cruel like that. She who can resist the havoc of time the longest is the winner. But not for me no, oh not for me just yet! I'm still in a position to gloat thank you very much, still in super shape with plenty of time on my side -at least ten more years is what I reckon. The clock may be ticking, but (so to speak) not yet yeah? Ah yes I do declare, Scarlett O'Hara style, that I will never go to fat and that's final. (Obviously I have no way of knowing how my genitrix turned out in the long run, but) if the aul' man himself can be taken as a physical barometer, my genes should still hold firm in my forties. A reasonable set of hips it is then.
Failing that, a sugar daddy with an open account at Brown Thomas will do.
Materialistic, moi? I just go with the flow! Only twenty years ago, people were queueing up outside the American embassy in Donnybrook to emigrate... I feel no shame in embracing the here and now.

Ah yes, I feel giddy alright. I type my little bulletins with renewed gusto, I barely notice the O'Arnlan sneers, and Mathieu and I fuck like champions.
Past the awkward first snog, it didn't take long for my new Romeo to demonstrate his ardour. He came round "for tea" one afternoon and by the time we did finish our scones, "we had become much better acquainted" oh yes. We got even better acquainted the next evening, after suffering two perfunctory hours at a cinema just to keep appearances. Nowadays we don't even bother pretending to go for a meal or a movie, we make up for lost time.
If I think about it, I must have seen him about... five or six times these last three weeks, and he's been good as gold. A bit bold at times maybe, but this I can understand: what with himself being gorgeous and French and all... the bleeding rascal probably takes female appreciation for granted, 'must think he's God's answer to women or something! And he's got a mouth on him too. Like the other day we were driving down that road and of course he notices it, he exclaims:
"Hey, that's Beaver Row!"
Me, all sugar and spice:
-"A-ha... and?"
-"Let's gooo there!"
-"Why's that?"
-"It's Beaver Row -there must be a zo-oh for animals!"
...Sometimes I am not entirely convinced by how poor his English genuinely is. "Yer not as green as you're cabbage looking..."


-------------------------"Interlude!"--------------------------------------


Henry Street. Two security guards at the entrance of a shopping mall were complaining about their supervisor:
-First uniform: "...and your man took the bleeding head off me for being 10 mins late, the focken bollix!"
-Second uniform: "Yeah I know pal, he ate the shite outta Gerry for the same thing, ate the focken shite outta him he did" (pauses, looks for emphasis) "-literally!"


----------------------------"Mesdames et Messieurs, le DJ Sash est de retour"----------------------


We arrive at the Alliaaaaance (or so it is pronounced, Mathieu assures me). Situated on Kildare Street corner, I've walked past it hundreds of times. Hundreds of times I have marvelled at the gargoyles on its columns: deadly they are! Pure Gothic wackiness! Horned little fellas chasing after rabbits and stuff, garlands of stone, fig leaves or whatever -the works.
Talking of which, a group of youths have congregated under the queer old columns. They have engaged in this new Irish health and safety ritual which consists of freezing one's tits / balls off (delete as applicable) in order to smoke on the porch.
Mathieu recognises them:
"Hey this is my mates... Laurent, Frédéric -they from the Alliaaance."
He goes over to them.
"...Ca va?" casual as can be
(pause)
-"....Ca va" they reply, brief to the point of conciseness
(pause)
-"Ouai ouai, ca va moi..."
(another pause)
(the two bearded youths consider their ciggy gravely)
Mathieu turns towards me:
"Listen, why don't you go in for a cup of the coffee -it's the best in town!- and I have a cigarette with vem yeah? Won't be a minute, you don't mind"
'Course I don't. How natural to invite me here and then leave me to my own devices while you're having a fag with your mates I mean, it's not as if you came all the way to Ireland to hang around the French centre with your French buddies?
Eh?
Oh.

Although in a way, this is actually handy: it gives me an opportunity to indulge in that other modern tradition and check-my-messages. How many since the last time I checked? What's G. up to? Shall I give her a call? What's the time? Shouldn't I get a new phone? One with a better camera? A slimmer one? One that would receive emails? What's that called again? Oh yes, a Blueberry.
The usual concerns, like.

I settle down and enjoy my cuppa. Nice. The café on the ground floor is decorated with modern paintings (by a French artist? do they have any since Picasso? Maybe I should check) and -surprise of all surprises- no music is playing. No - music - is - playing. That's it, so this is what struck me when I arrived: the actual silence. The literal calm. Who would have thought, what with their colourful nationals, that this would turn out to be a place where you can
A) sit down and relax and
B) rest without being treated to the delights of Oasis, Robbie Williams, Marayah Carey or Jennifer "her love costs nothing" Lopez. This is almost unnerving. ... Silence. (Of course this is a radio person speaking!) ... Think about it yeah? Of all the places you find yourself in during the course of a day, where exactly can you still enjoy a bit of silence? Where was your last time?


I remember the time I took this shuttle train from Heathrow Airport: sweet Jaysus and Mary, gizzus a break sometime! Hardly do I settle me sorry bum down that on comes your man over the PA, all dulcet tones and Queen's English, to remind us every five minutes of this security announcement (we can't smoke or light a fire inside the carriage, really?) and then he offers us this lethal piece of advice (we need to be looking after our luggage -who would have thought!). I let it sink, I'm thinking now is my chance to catch some shut-eye time -but he is not finished! Oh no! The message then switches to "public relations" bollix, hyping up the place -where we originally chose to fly to, remember?- to high heaven. Ah yes, I remember the moment well, this is when I discovered that England is -in fact- ace. Well strike me down with a feather duster! England, I learnt that day, has "so much to offer" no shit Sherlock, what with being "rich in its diversity as well as traditions" ah bless 'er cotton socks, a place "where casual -yet enchanting-, understated -yet jaw-dropping- vitality" offers a "bewildering array of intoxicating -yet Health And Safety friendly- activities guaranteed to provide fun for the entire family -as well as, naturally, for our esteemed unmarried loser probably gay visitors oh yes" yadda yadda yadda -all duly noted. I enjoy the next thirty seconds... and of course a stream of simply vital ads (eat carbon fibers, go splash out on sixty inch TV plasma, insure yourself against insurance etc.) is then unleashed in our surely anything but jetlagged ears: I was crackered! And I remember thinking how the Guantanamo Bay wardens would approve! Great minds think alike, the whole world over.
Of course what do I get on the way back? More of the same, with added craic. I catch for once the bus from Dublin airport and... sounds like they have copped on: I get on board, they blast me with "Welcome to Dublin" -and me thinking I had landed in the Bahamas! Groan...
Silence it is then -or at least a spot of quiet... I, like, so appreciate.
So. What messages have we got then?


Confession time: I have never actually been to the Alliance, walked past it hundreds of times, but never stepped in. Must have been the forbidding porch, the gothic gargoyles... didn't know what to expect in truth, wasn't sure if I'd like it. Accordion muzak? Expensive perfume dispensers? Posters for seaside house letting? Three hundred and sixty five types of cheeses? Red wine. Surely they would have big cobweb covered bottles of red wine on offer, that goes with the territory. Sure, I often wondered what they sell in there.. would they have Guinness at the bar? Probably not; anthologies of suicided poets more like!
They might also have DVDs of their own films; their, like, trademark psychologiiique thrillers, where nothing much happens for two hours ...except that the women will take their clothes off while spouting deep philosophical nonsense. Musicwise, the place might have CDs: stirring anthems covered by fatale femmes with a filter-less ciggie screwed to their lips, designed to inspire professional strikers to take to the streets (lyrics like, I don't know, "Come on weaklings / It's been two weeks and twenty love-makings / Since we have been marching(s?) / Come on Baby light my fire / And then throw my cigarette onto the Gare / Never leave a tip in a restaurant / Have a quick wash in a torrent" ...something like that).
Or the joint may just be offering food. I'd say three course meals on a napkin; three course meals you can actually enjoy plus cheese and wine -red wine and perfume.

And fashion.
I was a-wondering... surely this Alliance yoke would be about fashion too? If it's supposed to reflect the national industry and all, the French being reputed for their high couture and lah-di-dah scarves, surely this would be the opportunity to show off no? Now here was room to exercise my imagination, let's see: would the waitresses swan about in little black Dior numbers? in knock me down Yves-Saint-Laurent ensembles? ...or just your standard Jean-Paul Gaultier ten inch conical bra? Today would be the day to find out.
...
Turns out it's not the case; how most disappointing (Lily does her little face)! Why, there is no cocktail dress in sight, nor bare back chemisier... no rah-rah skirt... no bolero... -not even a Givenchy scarf casually untied around a pearl necklace! Nope, I see no lopsided beret in here, nor any Breton striped sweater either. Everyone is pretty much dressed in the modern uniform that rules the streets outside: i.e. in black. Black's so slimming isn't it, so functional. ...So fecking anonymous. Ah Jaysus, I crash back to Euuurth and order a cup of tea.

So...
so this is where ze creme de le creme come to sip black coffee and natter about stuff eh... So far so atmosphériiiique; Lisa Simpson herself might approve.
As so eloquently requested, I have let the Males to themselves. Boys will be boys, they clearly have to do their Man thing and smoke as they're meant to, probably discussing the footy last night. Ah yes, the inevitable footy and what else, now let's just see... Let's have a guess shall we: how does the male mind usually work -and the French one at that? What exactly goes on through this dark continent? Does it have feelings as such? Is it capable of empathy? Is it imbued with logic? Or in a word: what does it concern itself with?
Apart from its own self of course.
Now then let's see... and this could provide for a little mag' piece too, let's multitask...

I savour my Earl Grey and suggestions come flooding in.


Fellows: what do they care for? Cars; formula one; motorbikes; mopeds; their first pushbike; computers; laptops (aren't they same thingie?); mobile phones; cameras on mobile phones; porn on mobile phones; porn on the Net; porn on TV (or lack of); revolting videos; horror movies; serial killers; martial arts; bouncers; gangsters; going to the gym and getting, like, really fit but really fit yeah; aftershaves; deodorants; taking a shower sometime; goatees versus sideburns; boxer shorts versus Y-fronts; shirt worn with jeans: tucked in or not?; big "vroom vroom" cars; footy; who would win in a fight between a lion and an elephant / Muhammad Ali and Arnold Schwarzenegger / the Lamborghini Treble V Maestro Berluscono and the jet fighter A-555 with reverse thrust antiaerial / Madonna and Hillary Clinton / Mary Harney and Hillary Clinton / Tony Soprano and Hillary Clinton; footy; getting sozzled but (I) mean like, right dead legless yeah; getting stoned; kebabs; burgers; scrapping in the street; being sick in the street; Bill Clinton the ultimate lovable rogue; all politicians being corrupt leeches; why everyone else is so stupid; their boss being a bleedin' eejit (they probably use some other terms); telling it like it is cos' they can't stand hypocrites and they, for one, always tell it to people's face rather than go behind their backs; existential philosophy; red wine with meat; garlic; frog's legs: medium or rare?; the genius of Jerry Lewis; beer; getting lashed; getting lashed more than anyone else ever managed; Gauloises versus Gitanes; other people losing their hair; that film star's open secret wink wink; footy; fast cars; Gérard Dipardiou; Shasha Distel; Maurice Chevalier; Eric Cantona; Joan of Arc; général de Gaulle; Hercule Poirot; footy; ...girls -ohmygod I hope he's not discussing me!

All of a sudden I start to worry, a cold sweat of concern pearls all over me (iiiitch!). I feel tempted to sneak out and eavesdrop on them... My basic French may not be up to scratch but at least I ought to be able to recognise my name should it get mentioned right?
I have another idea. I climb onto the sofa, peek outside the window, and who do I spot? The three amigos, each of them engaged in studious smoking. Nobody appears to do any talking. They just... stand there with their legs apart, fully erect, asserting their right to hog the stairway (the rows of elderly Japanese tourists will just have to step down from the kerb onto the road to progress past them yeah). They concentrate on their smoking. Very existentialiste, that -I am starting to understand about the oft-mentionned lack of productivity in France. These boys are for real. They take their drag with an intense air of inspired rumination, then one of them is seen to mumble a short something and they all stub their fags out. A clear case of "OK, time to go back to work" methinks ("OK, le temps aller a la travail"?). They disappear from view as they make their way inside. Quick! I peel myself off the window and dive back onto my seat.

And just about knock my cup of tea off the table. In the last second I pick it up (scalding my fingers in the process) and it doesn't fall crashing onto the lino.
Nobody has spotted me.


...........


I have now immersed myself into my mobile and -sweet Jaysus!- haven't spotted your man making his big entrance; what a nonchalant girlfriend I make, eh... Almost like I couldn't care less. The first indication I get of his presence is the sound of his delightful greeting:
"Hey."
Surprised and charmed in equal measure, herself raised her eyes. The dashing hunk towered over here, firmly camped on his strong legs.
-"Oh. Oh here you are... And how was the ciggie, I mean how were your friends? Everyone good?"
His turn to look surprised.
-"Is everyone good? Well of course my friends they're good -that's why they are my friends!"
To be fair, one can't argue with that logic. I almost flounder here.
-"What I meant to say is, er, how they're keeping, doing well er, you know..."
-"I suppose. I guess. Whatever -hey, you want a crrroissant with your tea? Huh? A nice French croissant -it's made with butter, it's great!"
Er... do I really? is this a good idea...? Butter I'm not too sure about... I hesitate and he chooses for me.
"I tell you what, I go get one and you taste it -if you don't like, I finish it! Simple!"

Triumphantly, your man takes off in the direction of the food counter. The food counter where -I can't fail to have noticed already- a lovely Asian looking girl is presently serving.
Your man falls into a conversation with the lovely Asian looking girl.
Now, from my vantage point (where I am sitting), I can't make out their words -let alone grasp what they're saying-, but I sure can recognise the overall rhythm. "Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah-blah". Its sing-song ups-and-downs leave me in no doubt: she's also French. Language's a queer aul' thing isn't it? The way it rolls off the tongue, it's primarily a rhythm, it's a cadence. Think of Japanese or Italian or Arabic or African -if you hear some spoken down the road, you will instantly recognise the provenance of the speaker, maybe even his nationality; somehow you'll be able to guess, and this simply courtesy of the music it makes. Thanks to its delivery.
This naturally applies to French from a distance. French as being currently spoken by your fella (?) in deep conversation with a right little ride.
I toy with the escapist idea of giving a quick one to Georgina (what's the craic? are we winning yet?) and then I remember I just sent her a message. Hmm. I sip me tea. These two over there seem to take an inordinate amount of time for carrying out the monetary transaction associated with the purchase of a fecking cup of coffee with crrroissant methinks. I may resort to a theatrical faint in order to attract Mathieu's attention.
Eventually, the hunter and gatherer returns.

"She was from Paris!" he explains triumphantly
-"Hmm... who was?"
-"That girl selling the food" he points, somewhat unnecessarily "She's from Paris."
-"Ah."
-"That's great, I'm not alone!"
-"Oh."
-"What I mean is, Laurent... Frédéric... they're from Toulouse -Toulouse!- Is called the "pink city" in France hee hee! Toulouse yes...? -that's not Paris!"
-"Indeed it's not."
-"It's -er...- interesting you see, we don't have the same reference me and Laurent and Frédéric: they're from Toulouse -and they speak wiz an accent."
-"Do they?"
-"Oh yes, very funny! A Toulouse one."
You don't say, no flies on you pal!
Mathieu displays a sudden sixth sense as he changes subjects. Changes it to me, advisedly.
"But anyway. Whatever! How are you then? What's the steury? ..."Beud"?"
I just have to laugh: the whippersnapper's getting to grips with the lingo! Oh but you're very cute sometime Mister...
-"'Story is... not-a-lot to be honest. I was after wondering about how I can keep you away from your friends for five minutes that's all ...and finally have you all to myself, ah yes I am selfish like that!" cooed she as she daringly took hold of his manly hairy hand and pressed it to her delicate cheek. Mathieu visibly flinches -well at least he doesn't actually push me off.
-"Ah er, it's not like that hmm... is not easy..."
And he clams up.

Awkward moment here -was I too bold? Looks like I must have been... Men, eh! Commitmentophobes and shrinking violets when it suits them! Economic with demonstrations of feelings, huh. Right then, I shall not add comment to injury; I pretend not to notice and make a point of biting into his crrroissant: ah yes, it's certainly rich isn't it, I can certainly feel the butter permeating the pastry... yum. See? I'm dicing with extra pounds for you. Straight on the hips! ...Not to mention the cholesterol.

Time elapses.

-"So what 'you been up to lately in this daunting land of ours? Discovered any new artist recently? Huh? Been to the Clarence Hotel yet?"
His face brightens up
-"Yes I did, I stole toilet paper there!"
Choke, I nearly do.
"I will sell it on eBay you know? "U2's hotel's toilet paper"! Nobody has yet deun it, I checked. It's a brilliant idea! Genius!! And it didn't cost me nothing -this is brilliant! In fact -I was thinking- there must be other places for souvenirs, yes? You go zere, you take them -and then you sell to the Japanese!"
-"Well that, er, certainly is a constructive way of looking at a nation's heritage..."
-"E-xa-ctly: you have to be constreuctive! You have to play the -how you say in English?- entwepweneur when you can! Neuthing wrong with vat!"
-"I suppose so... As long as you don't go 'round parks chiselling noses off statues..."
My tea is getting cold.
But Mathieu's only getting started; he devours the rest of my croissant.
-"I need to think about it yes... Is a brilliant idea, but I need to develeup it more seriously. In fact, there is peutential zere... Make it pay you see, while I'm in the place: as long as I'm in Dublin. Maybe I should collect autographs, that kind of thing... do you know any member of U2? any celebrity?"

Whoha Nelly! Cool your jets here! I more than hesitate: don't want to mention Dad. First need to think about it, I'm not too sure about the side-effects... The prospect of introducing this extra dimension into our budding relationship doesn't appeal to me; I want to be appreciated for who I am me -not "what"! In any case Mathieu wouldn't have heard of JohnnyRay, he is too young... He's not the type. "Wrist slash anthems"? I don't think so. "Gaelic glum glam"? Not for this fellow.

-"Well er, I'm afraid I'm not too close to The Edge or Bono no..." ('Course I met them! ...And I was taller than the preachy busybody too -talking of whom, please someone elect him pope and let's get done with it already!) "but I am sure that, with a bit of patience, you are bound to bump into someone famous... I hear Irvine Welsh resides in town... and Seamus Heaney... TV presenter Lorraine Keane... senator David Norris, Brian O'Driscoll, Noel Stapleton, Emer Callan.... Who else? You have Sinead O'Connor of course... Ronnie Drew..."
-"Ronnie who? Ah whatever -they're not big stars! I need big names me, I want big stars! You know, U2. Van Meurisson. Or Tony Cascarino the footballer: he is the one who played for Marseille yes?" -here Mathieu makes some rather disturbing "ssshhhhhhh" sound- "but he was good: the basteurd beat us! Someone proper famous then!"
-"Ah yes I see... Well maybe you could pay the Irish football federation a visit -they should be easy to find in the yellow pages I guess- and ask for an introduction to that mister Cascarino... Who knows?"
-"That's an idea..." Our Romeo looks all pensive... He's clearly thinking up a plan.


Somewhere to our right a group of fifty-somethings turn up, all of them women. The noise level instantly goes up in the room. Audibly Irish, they chat excitedly about "the lesson" and form an orderly queue for a cappa -mature students, presumably. (But learning what? French? Philosophy? Filter-less smoking? Wine tasting? Cheese making? Cooking? Dress making? Blue movie structuralist critique? The mind boggles, the possibilities are endless.) They come prepared with satchels, handbags, handkerchiefs and umbrellas. They're all well dressed but still no Dior scarf in sight (internal sigh). Islands of loners engrossed in their newspapers at their tables ignore them sniffily; could it be they don't belong to the same crowd... The papers they read are all Irish though ("Ten percent growth in the last five months -Opposition Denounces Taoiseach's "Inefficiency" / "Heresy! Pope Lambasts "Harry Potter" / "Shetland Skirt Glenda's A Sight For Sore Eyes!"). In fact, as far as I can hear, there's noone French here.

Loverboy is still lost in his thoughts.
He finally perks up.
"OK, we go!"
And so we do.




chapter 11
-- Just how many times will Jack Bauer live "the most dangerous 24 hours of his life"?---



Just how many times will Jack Bauer live "the most dangerous 24 hours of his life"!




chapter 12
---------------------------------"-There's a storm coming in...
-I know." -----------------------------------------------------------




Thursday evening in the House Of Lily and there's not an awful lot happening. I am reduced to checking the TV programme: will it be "CSI" the original (set in Las Vegas) or "CSI Miami" the spin-off (set in Miami)? I see they now have "CSI New York" (set in New York), what next I wonder: "CSI Balbriggan"?? (set in... -you fill in the blank!) This is clearly getting out of hand; talk about poverty of imagination, decline in programming... new TV guidelines are here for all to see:

recycle / rehash / remake.

Any day of the week, you can switch on the box and are guaranteed to come across "The Simpsons", "Friends", "Scrubs", "Sex And The City". Maybe "Frasier" ...and "Holby City". "Fair City" too. Oh, and "Home And Away" "Neighbours" "Emmerdale" "Eastenders" "Doctor Who" "Faulty Towers" "My Name Is Earl" "Cosby" "Countdown" "Men And Motors" "The 6 O'Clock News" "The National Weather" "This Programme Is Sponsored By" "The National Lottery" "But First A Word From Our Sponsors" ...and a classic episode of "Father Ted". Yikes! If you don't know them all by heart by now, chances are you must be pretty thick. Correction: pretty thick ...or a touch senile. Not that I wish to imply that most programming -especially daytime- is lovingly assembled with our senior citizens in mind but.
To-be-perfectly-honest-widcha, this is getting sooo lame now, like mind-numbing, fecking tiresome, singularly less than inspiring -it's like you're caught in some cathodic "Groundhog Day" where every day's entertainment is the same! Television has become this visual wallpaper like: straight in one ear ...and out of the other. Except with eyes naturally, except with eyes.

Not that I can even pick on that in my program, and here's the rub: I can't be giving out and launching an attack as incisive as it is well-informed against TV crapness on air, cos' this would probably come across all wrong. I suppose some would call it hypocritical since I could be described as belonging to the "meejah" circus myself. The media criticising itself (themselves?), that'd be too weird, that'd be schizophrenic like!
People don't go for that, oh no they don't. In my experience, our beloved Listeners Out There are not known for showing an awful lot of compassion and understanding -they ask for blood is what they do! They're brutal like that! So if I were to air out my dissatisfaction, I can easily imagine what they would say, they'd be replying: if (I) don't like it so much, what don't (I) do something about it myself? What don't (I) go talk to (my) cronies direct or take a long walk off a short pier? And they might have a point here, they might be on the money ...no matter that I only appear on radio or in print and don't exactly have the ear of RTE's Director General, seen from a distance (that will be the audience), any caste looks homogenous (that will be "the meejah").
So I'd better walk on eggs on that one and keep my thoughts to myself.
(Reader's voice: if only!)
(Lily's voice: I haven't heard that.)

Besides I don't want to burn my bridges, that's probably my main concern if I want to be honest: we don't want to be burning our bridges -not before we have a chance to cross them first! Please please pease someone give me a slot presenting the local news -even those from the North Side- and I'll, like, do you proud!! I promise to sit up straight and do the little nose frown at regular intervals to indicate disapproval at our dissolute yout' of today and our non-Euro counting cousins from across the water. I won't scour me papers in a panic (where's me story? where's me story gone again?) and I will hold me mike dead straight -in a non-phallic way too- with the station logo clearly visible. I won't even twitch whenever I have to mention Gerry Ryan!
But that day hasn't arrived yet no it hasn't and so, at this famous moment-in-time, for a presenter to criticise others, well I don't think that would be a very clever career choice... Put it this way, that would be slightly ill-judged... You rub potential employers the wrong way, funny how they tend to have a long memory about it five years down the line! I can easily imagine Little Black Books and files on known troublemakers... troublemakers that is to say big mouths: people with a sprinkling of enduring critical sense and a modicum of personality. Troublemakers alright. "Tally-ho", shoot the messenger!"
Not the best of ideas then.
Sure, if I were to do a piece on it for a mag, I could try to make my criticism constructive and expand, substantiate, contend, posit, argue -mouth off til I'm blue in the face! Oh aye, I could go all reasonable about it and provide examples, offer suggestions, even lighten the tone with hilarious one-liners -none of the opposite party would appreciate shit.
For the truth is, nobody ever recognises "constructive" when they're being discussed, they never do. I know that already. In-this-day-and-age, everybody's feeling protective and battens down the hatches under the slightest of attacks, which I suppose is understandable. The world's gone dog-eat-dog and any corporation in a position of power such as the mighty mighty TV has to protect its interests.
...Still think the programs've gone shite though.

Time, as it tends to do, passes.
There, it's passed.

In the end I pick up the remote and just zap around idly. Brain firmly turned off for maximum enjoyment. Hello hello, what's this hullabaloo? All manners of furniture exploding, glass being smashed all over the place, guns with mad red laser beams, cheesy synthesiser music and lethal neon lights: 80s stuff, it has to be.
"If you want to live, come with me!":
I have come across "Terminator".
"Terminator" eh? I once enjoyed it ...the first four or five times I saw it ("I vill be back", "Gott im Himmel! I suttenly got a haircut in ze mittle of a scene but noboty vill notice ha ha!"). Oh well, why not... TV viewing works on the principle of surrender.
It's the Sarah Connor character really, that's what clinches it for me; not the you-know-who monolith for sure! I think it was mad Camille Paglia (spell?) who famously defined him as a "a mountain of peanuts trapped in a giant condom" or something (LOL)! Sounds about right! But no no, it's got to be good old' Sarah Connor who would appeal to me here, she your standard Friday nite hopeful complete with white "fuck me boots", glass of Frog's Legs and tragic perm, good old Sarah who will of course end up being the one kicking your man's shiny metal arse hard -that's my girl. Once a babe in the noisy nightclubs woods, eventually a gladiator sassy as hell and tougher than nails -"any resemblance with a possibly living babe being entirely coincidental" (LOL mk 2).

In fact my favourite part of "Terminator" is actually its last scene: the very last exchange between its characters. Approximate screentime? less than ten seconds. Here goes our Sarah, out on her way to the desert mountains yonder, she pulls over at some rickety service station. Out comes your old fogy (denim dungarees, Boyzone cap, greasy hand cloth and all that jazz) who proceeds to fill her up -her pick-up that is, not our Sarah. He probably spits on the dirt for good measure, as skangers do when they're called "hillbillies" on the other side of the Atlantic. Looks at the sky... and then he goes:
"Huh. There's a storm coming in."
Yikes! What-happens-next?
-"I know" says our Sarah, and pulls away. Drives off to confront the incoming future and stuff. The End.
Like, totally ominous and massively prophetic yous all hear me! Symbolic as hell! I always love that bit me, I think it's cool. It always gets to me when she goes "I know", all thoughtful and dead hard -go Sarah go! You get tooled up for that fecking storm and all! You go get 'em! I could almost punch the air in front of my little screen.

But then of course, "Terminator"'s not exactly the touchy-feely type I need right now ...it's not exactly the vibe I had in mind.
Hard as I try, I just can't warm to it tonight, the feeling's not there. I don't feel it, it doesn't push the right buttons, it's not the aul' OhMyGod choc box out let's dim the lights spread out on the sofa unhook the phone and bring out the hankies trip is it. It's not "Untamed Heart" ...it's just boy's stuff. Boy's stuff or "man's stuff" if we want to be, like, respectful of / and non-offensive towards / these sensitive creatures, easily vexed that they are.
Boy stuff it is then.

But what exactly is "boy stuff"?

This is a good question and I thank myself for having asked it. Boy's stuff let's see...
Boy's stuff is subtlety in motion (you think you spotted a hint of subtlety? it's already gone). It's what we have to sit through whenever we acquiesce to a "night out". Boy's stuff is simple: it features big guns; fast cars; faster cars; scantily clad babes; door bursting fights; window bursting fights; big guns; chases involving all sorts of vehicles (the more the better); big guns; totally unexpected traitors (word in your ear: it's always the fat one in the group!); easily recognisable baddies (this time your man will be sexually suspect or have an English accent) (these two being anything but mutually exclusive hee hee); smoking like it's going out of fashion; big guns; cliff-hangers every fifteen minutes (i.e. in time for an ad break on US TV); fruit carts happening to cross the streets with predictable consequences, glass panes in their tow, ruined local tradesman hilariously shaking his fist to prop up the rear; drinks bought at bars where change is never required; hotel rooms that switch their lights off by themselves when their occupants leave them; parking spaces at the perfect spot; no parking meters; big guns; lots of shouting ("may contain profane language -rated PG"); sweat soaked vests; furrowed brows, clenched jaws, curt replies; arsenal depleting shoot-outs. But mostly big guns, fellas seem to get wet about them so they do.
Phew! All in all, that makes for an awful lot of testosterone sloshing about methinks ...could it be some people are desperate to prove something? Huh?
(And don't forget big guns!)

Well that ain't for me. I can't get down with it, for tonight I long for something a bit softer, I need my saccharine fix me. I am presently beached on my empty bed considering lighting up, and I could do with a bit of silly drool-out like...
I switch "Terminator" off.

It's funny how things have a tendency to make you crave their opposite. Now he's done it, the "Terminator" git has certainly put me right in the mood -right in the mood for a dash of the old weepy that is.
Long sigh, I could do with a bit of "approved for all audiences" right now... leave the "wham bam" behind and slap on the old rose tinted glasses... chillax for a change... let it all out -anything wrong with that? I don't think so, everybody's allowed to go softy sometime, I can't be saving the world every day can I. So let's indulge ourselves and remember a world without pyrotechnics and gratuitous shower scenes... let's leave the toys to their boys ("and next we move on to this ten Gardai cars high-speed chase in progress on the M50 -JoAnne Cantwell aboard our ChopperMobile, what can you tell us about this chase? Has any gunfire been exchanged yet? Is the man on the tractor showing any sign of surrendering ? Is there at least any fruit-cart in its vicinity?"). I can't be arsed with that carry-on anymore.
Now what is needed to get in the mood? Well, the old tricks are always best: like spreading gelatine on the lens, bringing out the soft focus, and please please please someone slow down the show! Ah yes, there's a good one: to achieve suitable "softy" status, what is deffo needed is a goddamm break from that current mania: fast editing. I ain't on Ritalin me! I don't want to chase after no seizure! MTV 24/7, I want to ask: who can take it? I know I can't! The way I see it, fast editing's a daytime groove -it works like when you're at the gym and the TV's cranked up to Hi NRG Disco: that hits the spot! But not at night, oh not at night -gizzus a break sometime yeah? What I'm saying here is, let's slow it down for once, let's recognise people are tired after a day's work, let's have some -well then let's see...- some never ending, deliciously cringing, travelling along a beach. You know the score: blue sky, green sea, seafront without any Shell logo, swaying palm trees -the works. Let's treat ourselves to something, like, totally gooey with saxophone on the soundtrack. And Lily adds: any filum that features The Cranberries, Texas or Annie Lennox on its soundtrack is sending a strong message: this is going to be quality, hell yeah! Visualise it ......... now that's better. The beach effect I call it, neither the sea nor the earth, neither the ground nor the sky, a zone of transition... nice. A beach is where Jodie Foster finally makes contact in, er, "Contact"; a beach is where that nice young man David Charvet in his red speedos saves damsels in distress (in, ahem, "Baywatch"!); a beach is the ultimate escape guilty pleasure. While we're at it, why don't we go for the overkill, let's rattle them off, all the old tricks: let's throw a sunset into the mix, let's have our tough guy go pick flowers, let's introduce an orphan little girl (maybe on a prairie), let's have non bone-crushing horses galloping around, let's indulge in a totally necessary to the plot ten minute close-up of George Clooney shaving but most of all: let's - take - our - time. Why not open a nice bottle of white wine? I go get myself one.

Of course, the choice of drink itself matters greatly. Guys and girls don't drink alike. Oh no, we neither drink the same nor the same way: like imagine a sister drinking pints in a pub? What would she be thinking?!?! Inconceivable, yeah. No chance in hell. The usual onscreen three-legged die-hards though, you can bet your mate's money that they will try to outdrink each other. And in every fecking bar scene too (yawwwwn). Red flag ahoy, it goes something like this: your man arrives in town, he naturally gets down to the nearest saloon. The following dialogue usually takes place:
Grinning unshaved native: "Well well well, who we've got ourselves tonight!" (circles around your man slowly, checks his butt in a non homoerotic way) "yee don't look like you're from around these parts stranger... huh?" (slams his fist on the bar, beckons the barman over) "See me gringo, I can polish a whole shot of tequila no bother! And another one! And another one! Easy peasy! Think you can match me? Huh? Now look here: no hands! See? Bet you can't do that eh? No hands!"
Blam! Falls head first onto the spittoon. No teeth!
-but enough about "The Quiet Man".

Cos' now I'm gone.
Now I'm indulging myself (someone has to!).
I get into fantasy mode, I replay the old classics in my silly head. Sprawled out on my bed, I visualise the usual scene, the one with shitloads of meaningful silence inbetween lines yeah?, the one where your two protagonists ogle each other up silly yet dare not dare -sweet Jaysus how daft can these two be! That will be the scene midway through where the two eejits desperately blather on about bollix and shite while making sure to exchange apparently trivial remarks (you bet) that even -even!- a football fan would gasp at and flag as terminally creaky under the weight of significance. That scene -you mark my words- is guaranteed in every self-respecting filum. In fact, that's what makes cinema great. That's what makes us slap our armchair in frustration and want to see more, want to know how it will end. Oh how we cringe when these two just won't voice precisely what they ought to voice! :-(((( I usually have a go at my telly at that point: Have you no eyes ya big turnip?! Haven't you heard what she's just said?!? Kiss him, stupid! Don't let her go! ...But of course
a) she won't do so
and b) in half of the cases, he ends up doing just that. :-((((( mk.2

... If only they ever listened to me!



-----------------"I miss you more than I knew" ----------------


Let's face it: pretty much like the Nolan sisters, I am now in the mood. But in the mood for a right auld weepie.

"Weepies, In Defence Of", or "another great essay made up on the fly by Lily Monaghan". Warning: may contain gross exaggerations and even complete misinterpretations ...but where would the fun be without these? If there's one thing Dad ever showed me, it's to never hold back when coming up with a theory: you might as well make it entertaining right? Make it outrageous, make it over the top ...since probably noone, let alone yourself, will remember it in five minutes' time (ah the beauty of pub / oral culture!) and so, putting my thinking cap on, I need to ax myself... how exactly would I define weepies and explain their appeal? Isn't it time to reappraise them or simply praise them? Why do they matter? What are they all about?
I lick my imaginary pencil.
It is simple, really: to start with, there are two kinds of weepies -or "romances", as they are called by these egg-heads out there who pretend not to read, watch, or listen to them:

The happy ending ones,
and the "not happy" ending ones.

So far so simple. Here we have a clear distinction, based on opposition -first hurdle cleared! Now, both genres are valid in their own right; it just depends on what you're looking for on the night. Like do you fancy a transfer of affection, or are you in the grip of self-pity? Do you want to cling to the idea(l) of l.o.v.e., its saving grace and -coincidentally- its associated material security? ...or you can't help scratching at your own scabs and want to pull on the already strained heart strings? The choice is yours, and there's plenty of filums about to assuage your mood. At the end of the day, I'd say the decision's a hormonal thing -and that's something men don't understand.

Let's start sunny side up.

In the blue corner, we have... let's see, mainly comedies. Innocent stuff like “Sleepless In Seattle”, “While You Were Sleeping”, "When Harry Met Sally" -in a word, Meg Ryan territory. Kooky Sandra Bullock. Wacky Steve Martin. Regulars also include the likes of Kathleen Turner Lindsay Lohan Sarah Jessica Parker Hughie Grant Richard Curtis Barbra Cartland Maeve Binchy Marian Keyes Colin Filth Freddy Prinze Malcolm McDowell etc.. Musicals fit in nicely here, amongst these comedies: "Dirty Sleazy Sexy Dancing", "Mamma Mia", "Grease", "Ten Things I Hate About You", "She's All That", "Clueless" / "Emma" (same thing), "Sense And Sensibility", "Room With A View", "The Truth About Cats And Dogs" / "Roxanne". Now "Roxanne" is an interesting case actually: its producers made no bones about reversing the original ending -that would be the "Cyrano de Bergerac' one- and have, instead, your man with the nose actually end up with Daryl "Roxanne" Hannah ...rather than beating himself up silly for the rest of his life on his own. Which I reckon is a lethal idea: "And they lived happily ever after" aaah.... Just watch for their offspring though!
What else have we got in the happy category? ...
"Mermaids" I dig big time for some reason (Cher, Bob Hopkins, young Winona), "While You Were Sleeping", "Evelyn" (did I dream or doesn't Gaybo the man himself make a cameo?), "Children Of A Lesser God", "Pretty Woman" of course, "Maid In Manhattan" / "The Wedding Planner" with Jennifer Lopez, "Pretty In Pink" (aka "Molly Sells Out", too fecking right!), "Scrooge", "Shall We Dance (Or Just Gape At Richard Gere)?", "Sleeping With The Enemy", the supersultry "Out Of Sight", "Shakespeare In Love" (I think...?; it's been some time), "The Whale And The Squid" (not quite sure which category), "The Graduate" (talk about open endings!),"Three Colours Red", "Trust", cutie "Waitress", "Chungkin Express" (why oh why do I never meet Gardai like that?), "Sex Lies And Videotapes", "Wings Of Desire", "Run Lola Run", "Parenthood", "Shirley Valentine", "Respiro" (and its fantastic setting + music), "Love Actually", not "Four Weddings And A Funeral" because it's shite, "As Good As It Gets", "Pay It Forward" (that Helen Hunt again), "On A Golden Pond", "Lantana" (g'day mate!), "The Little House On The Prairie", "Northern Exposure" in a way, "Sex And The City", "Moonlighting", "Cheers", "Frasier", "Crash" in a way, the old classic "The Four Daughters Of Dr. March", "The Princess Diaries" with Anne Hathaway's amazingly cute nose, "The Long Way Home" (a Chinese flick), "Babel" (also in the "sort of" category) etc. etc. etc..
Oh and "It's A Wonderful Life".
Bring them all on, says I.

Now clearly these ones count as happy endings; in most instances, a case of she gets her man / he gets her woman -everyone's a winner!
The other case is less romantic and more social: in that scenario, we have been treated to the story of a misanthrope, some eccentric of a sort of another, who once was at daggers' ends with the world, blinded by his madness, and is now miraculously redeemed -halleluia! His lesson well learnt, the ex-scrooge eventually makes up for his past folly and usually gives his blessing to his daughter's wedding -back to case one, some souls might say.
No matter what the details are, the main thing is we can switch off the box feeling dead chuffed: "All is well that ends well", there is still hope in the old Valley Of Tears! A to the B to the C: a successful happy ender will make you feel good and generous by the end.
...This is virtuous shite we're talking about here.

And then we have the other genre.
Clue: everything can only get worse.

Namely, the tragedies... In the red corner we have the other case scenario, the one in which your toast always falls on the buttered side. Where cats never fall on their legs.
Unrequited crushes impossible loves selfless sacrifices tragic deaths fatal mistakes secret addictions class conflicts incurable diseases unwanted pregnancies follies of war marital betrayals estranged families faces like slapped arses Stephen Rae huge noses maths teachers with facial scars impotent husbands corsets rain on your wedding day religious edicts shame on the whole family and more of the same. Violins and hubris -the (water)works.
Quite a few gay stories here, interestingly ...as if that lot could only belong to the tragic section.
In fact, I seem to remember it was a bit of an unwritten law in the fifties that the evillesbian simply had to commit suicide at the end of every filum she appeared in (where of course she would try to corrupt the virginal heroine)(and fail). How times have changed eh!
Eh?

Anyway plenty 'titles spring up to mind:

"Against All Odds", "Ghost", "Slouching Tiger and Hidden Dragoon" (personal favourite here), "Streets Of Philadelphia", "Death In Venice", "Leaving Las Vegas", "A Very Long Engagement" (could somehow belong to the other category), "Truly Madly Deeply", the classic of classics "Romeo And Juliet", "Brokeback Mountain" (Heath Ledger, showing such promise...), "Magnolia" (...kindof), "The Umbrellas Of Cherbourg", "The Great Gatsby", "The Go-Between", "Atonement", "Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence", "Solaris" (open to discussion this one: I'm not quite sure I "get" the ending), "Cyrano de Bergerac" (the original), "Happy Together" (Chinese gay couple travels to Argentina. Breaks up there. The end.), "Edward Scissorhands", "Breaking The Waves" (featuring what is possibly the most compelling and nigh on unbearable performance by an actress ever), "Forever Young", "Lost In Translation", "My Own Private Idaho" / "Running On Empty" (River Phoenix!), "Captain Corelli's Mandolin", "The End Of The Affair", the inevitable "Brief Encounter".

Now I'm sucking Diesel! No sweat doing me head trying to remember titles, the buggers keep coming in! And a certain cute Da I know would add, nonchalant as hell, "pretty much like the Spice Girls in a Concorde, they're flying thick and fast!" (Boom boom.)

What about "The English Patient", "Titanic", "Out Of Africa", "The Bridges Of Madison County", "Somewhere In Time", "Becoming Jane", "Three Colours Blue" (kindof), "In The Mood For Love" (forsure), "Paris Texas", "Far From Heaven" (Poor old Julianne eh? Just how unlucky can one be! Why, she gets it in the neck almost as often as Laura Linney she does!), "Mystic River", "Amores Perros", "Talk To Her" / "All About My Mother" / "The Flower Of My Secret" by we-know-who (arguably the greatest director of our time so says I), "21 Grams", "The Kiss Of The Spider Woman" (William Hurt, lethal actor -didn't get the career he sure deserved), "The Son's Room", "Giant", "Rebel Without A Cause, James Dean Without The Infamy Of Ever Growing Old", "Love Actually", "American Beauty", still not "Four Weddings And A Funeral" because it's shite, "The French Lieutenant's Woman", "Doctor Zhivago", "The Last Tycoon" (DeNiro's haunting wail at the end in his deserted studio), "The Woman Next Door", etc. etc. etc..
The last episode of "Northern Exposure". The harrowing filum version of "Twin Peaks".

Going over that list, an obvious remark springs to mind.
Funny that, but there seems to be far more sad weepies than happy ones! Obviously my top-of-the-head is anything but scientific but... it's precisely what appears to be the case: if I think of weepies, the number of hanky material far outweigh the feelgood ones -could it be that misery sells better? Or maybe it's just me, maybe I'm being in a funny mood tonight, hormones all over the place, no choc at hand and what have you; maybe I can only recall maudlin stuff... Huh.
...Or maybe what I'm doing here is reassure myself that mine is not the worst situation on earth (Lily does her little face).

Anyway, now that's what I call weepies! All of them masterpieces -albeit of a kind-, all of them lethal tear-jerkers! Why, you were to sit through any of them proper, you would go through an entire box of service station hankies! (These jokers are notoriously thin.) Then again, you would also feel drained afterwise, you would feel good, better about yourself... purified, cream crackered, stupefied, taken for a ride and back -in fact you would feel like you had gone for a couple of rounds with the fairies on a rollercoaster ride while being hit on the head with a "Guide To Good Manners For Catholic Maidens" and mainlining on saccharine!
...This, all things considered, may not be the poxiest prospect on offer in this damn world.

Especially if I am to compare with some other filums that I could name like the male oriented ones which, when they end, leave you feeling like a coiled spring, all tensed up, ready to go log on and run over some prostitutes. (Which is what that "Grand Theft Auto" yoke is about, right? It offers blokes the opportunity to run over prostitutes... Gee, swell.)
Now if we take our own weepies, they have a slightly higher calling they have, they fulfill a much nobler function! And not just a personal one the way I see it, they have a social role to play too. Don't know if it qualifies as a fully fledged "duty", but it certainly matters in the grand scheme of things though, it certainly plays its part in this -and here Lily gets all fancy wordy- oft spoke of mysterious maze we call Society...

Weepies, you see, they are our friends.
They may even be, in some cases, the only friends we have. Weepies speak to us, and they speak about us.

Women cheated on, kids physically abused, troubled teenagers who feel unloved, all of them diffident souls in search of comfort and salvation: characters we can relate to, people like you and me -hopefully you rather than me, eh! Gay men forever equivocating; philosophical Chinese warriors stoically carrying their secret love to their grave; cheesy saxophones solos; all manners of Bible thumping and general love forbidding.
Cinema has this magical ability to, like, leave echoes and ripples behind after the movie itself has gone: iconic moments imprint themselves on our minds and we recall them during harsh times. We recall them when for example we're at loose ends at home on a Thursday night. ...Like the sight of a twenty-five year old Jeff Bridges with his shirt off under the Mexican sun. Or Winona Ryder growing up in public; George Clooney's grey temples and baby eyelashes; loners in desolate towns wondering what it would be like to have a life; Christian Slater nursing his baboon heart; country girls balling up their meager wardrobe and heading up for the big town at the crack of dawn; Dustin Hoffman's teenage indecision -all sorts of guilty pleasures that inexplicably speak to us.
Bridget Jones pours herself a glass of Chardonnay and sucks her thumb.
Weepies don't do things by half, they tickle our secrets, flatter our nostalgia, shine a hard light on our conscience and short-cut straight through reason -they act as catalysts. They probably say a lot about ourselves and I'm not too sure I really want to analyse my own "moments", what they mean to me and why I can't let go of them...
But then again, it's not as if I am obsessed by one single scene -thanks god, that'd be so psycho!-, I can actually recall so many of them now, these seductive buggers! Huh, I guess that past a certain age, after you've watched your thousandth soap or film, you've built yourself a pretty decent slushbank! Moments moments... those who have marked me big time, I can almost replay them by heart.
Like the ending of a particular series (why, Carrie, whyyyyy?), or like the proper start of an impossible love story between George Clooney and Jennifer Lopez ("Out Of Sight"). Or hearing that goddam Jesus And Mary Chain-"Just Like Honey" at the end of "Lost In Translation" -and what exactly does Bill Murray whisper in Scarlett's ear? A-ha! Some clever clog with too much time on his hand and lethal gear actually unscrambled the 64,000 Euro question and posted it on the aul' YouTube (need to look it up again!). And then I remember slain Patrick Swayzee -he of "nobody puts Baby in the corner"'s eternal fame- unable to communicate with his grieving Demi Moore of a wife. I remember that gangster wife going mental during a wake ("The Funeral" or something), crying out about how she once had dreams of her own and what had become of her life; I remember feelings of alienation and dreams of escapes of my own. I remember Matt Dillon's eyebrows, I remember Richard Gere in a white uniform, I remember Brian Eno's "By This River" on the soundtrack of "The Son's Room" and "Y Tu Mama Tambien" in the same year,
I can still hear ex-child prodigy William H. Macey ("I used to be smart, I used to be smart -and now I'm just stupid") wail on the shoulder of the sympathetic cop ("I really do have love to give -and I don't know where to put it!"), I remember River Phoenix.
And then crippled little Audrey "Amelie" Tautou standing up to the Army establishment to reclaim her fiancé from the dead; the deaf Japanese girl attending her first disco; Brad Pitt's cute spider wrinkles around his eyes; Daisy in "The Great Gatsby" going on about silk shirts rather than confront the issue; Laura Linney sacrificing herself for the sake of her brother; Jeff Bridges sacrificing himself for the sake of Rachel Ward -many people sacrificing themselves, for crying out loud! At least we also have that Almodovar devil in activity, the only director I can think of who can turn heart-breaking situations into laugh-out loud scenes without so much as breaking a sweat. Where does he get his insights into women's secret sorrows? How does he always come up trumps with defiant tactics as to how soldier on? The man is scary.

The fact that Clark Gable doesn't wear a vest under his shirt in "It Happened One Night" had a disastrous effect on the sale of vests that year in America. In fact, more recently, Chardonnay too blamed Bridget Jones for their slump in sales!

Ah yes... all these moments, they are priceless; they truly are what cinema is all about. You have your Juliette Binoche going up to confront her deceased husband's mistress -and discovering that the girl is pregnant (!!!); you have the Japanese officer, under cover of night, sneaking off to collect a curl of Bowie's golden hair; you have flawed teenthrob James Spader breaking down when the camera turns back on him: "This isn’t supposed to happen. I’ve spent nine years structuring my life so this didn’t happen”. And then I could mention the German angel opting for a life of human vulnerability with his loved one over lonely immortality, I could mention many more.
Family rivalry; schoolgirl crushes; binge drinking; messy break-ups; one false move; slippery roads; stolen glances; class division; River Phoenix.

Sometimes, what makes a weepie good hinges on one single detail, one original kink which attracts your attention; ...what ruins it works pretty much the same way. Get it wrong and the whole shebang crumbles, the puzzle pieces won't fall into place. Like I'm thinking about the adaptation of "Captain Corelli's Thingie", who did they cast again? Nicolas Cage. Nicolas Cage, chief cook and bottle washer! Oh what vintage gas his Italian accent was -me sides are still split! One would have never guessed he is actually of Italian origin himself (he is a Coppola)! ...But there we had it, the bestest massive weepie publishing sensation of the nineties... instantly self-combusting before our ears: "Hey belllla bellla, it's me again, Corelli, remember me si? Outstanding! Well, bella, after I eatah la pizza, you hear me playah the mandolina for your eyes only si si... Ma... che? You don't wanna eat-ah pasta again? Si? No? Ah shaddap your face!" Something brutal. Something totally. It was so bad I could have cried, and not even the best scenery in the Mediterranean, not even the perfect casting of John Hurt could save the day: Arrivederci Corelli, send in the clowns!

Sometimes, trivia is not taken as seriously as it should be.

I am thinking about these movies -and by extension these novels and these songs-, and I really feel that they are unfairly looked down upon. ("Ah do we really need another chick-flick now? No way when we can have "Rambo IV" and "Indiana Jones, 65" to choose from!") This is a shame really, because that lot actually makes me feel, it inspires me all sorts and fuels my imagination, it stokes my -how you call it- creative fire. It hits the parts that the old nine-to-five can't reach. Clearly I'm not the only one: how many weeks did "Titanic" play to packed theatres again? How many millions of novels did Barbra Cartland sell? Ever spotted what people read on the Luas? Surely these facts should be recognised and this genre celebrated. Politickos want lucrative industries? Well here's one right here! Weepies are like, massive in every sense! They sell because they mean something. Success doesn't happen by chance, it does because it resonates with an audience. Because it engages with its viewers and readers. It does so, I would maintain, even more profoundly and profitably than another genre: the one we get rammed down our throats by our other halves whenever we let them loose with the telecommand. "A Modest Proposal: Of The Seriously Underrated Importance Of Romances -Known As Weepies" -that's what I'm talking about. What I would say is this yeah?: there is a point to "weepies", a massive social point that your basic "wham bam bang bang" boy stuff misses altogether -and that's called empathy. Empathy, meaning that you care for your characters. Weepies allow you to relate and all, to feel for someone, and reading/watching them, you can put yourself in their worn-out shoes on account of them being not so different from yourself.

This... is precisely where your boy stuff differs dramatically.

Where weepies engage you, boys' filums only aim at impressing you. Where weepies seduce you, action movies pummel you into submission. This is my big idea on the subject. This is what I would suggest: female oriented films are profoundly democratic, conceived so as to include us all in their experience; male targeted action movies are basically elitist stuff. Yes, elitist. The premise of an action movie is that one hero -"and only one"- will get to win in the end. You know the trailer already, you heard the mantra a thousand times yourself: "It was a time when blah blah blah (nasty evil beckons, baddies are on the rise -that sort of thing)" Cue flashing lights, deafening cymbals, faces raised in anguish, women mothers pick bloody kids off the street and gather them to their women breasts "and one man -Only One Man- can defeat them!" (the baddies that is, not the women -although sometime it's hard to tell) Enter muscle Mary, music gets even louder, bleeding announcer goes on to show you how exactly it will happen, and we've been told the whole story. Me, I just yawn.

The political undertone of an action movie always seems to promote the idea of inequality, hailing as principle the specialness of its hero (specialness... is that a word? Bah, it will do! Men out there so won't bother to look it up in a diktionarry). How is that so? Very simple: nobody else is allowed to win at the end but your man. The winner takes all.
Only it can't appear to be that crass or that simple.
In all things social, we need to -er- abuse ourselves, we need to embellish. Confronted with inconvenient truths, we need a bit of make-believe. So what do your screenwriters do? They tone down the bleeding obvious they set about masking the... (hmm, dare I resort to big words here? Ah might as well! OK let's go:) inherent fascism, yep they mask the inherent fascism by making the hero's personal victory look like it's beneficial to the community and shared by all. Are yous with me, are yous with me? Now hold on to your bonnet cos' we are getting real, get this: the story here is, action movie screenplays reproduce a certain political theory, and that's the one held by the Thatchers and Reagans of this world, that's the one called "trickle down economics": we are led to believe that the hero's personal glory will somehow be shared by all and everyone.
Like d'uh!
I have yet to see that happening!

What does actually happen, to be honest? You can't absorb hours upon hours of movie plots without picking up a few recurring themes, a few patterns, and here is how stories usually end. There goes your ultimate winner, he's dead knackered, can hardly stand up, been up all night or maybe just ninety minutes vanquishing the dragon or what have you, he's just destroyed half of the German army single-handedly like Clint in "Where Eagles Dare" and now it's time for his pay-off: happy days! Your man has now got his hands on the treasure and nabbed himself that Elle McPherson lass... For sure he's gonna share them!?! Both Elle and the jackpot! Oh aye, watch him hand over the princess and the combination to Bill Gates's safe to the bunch of feckwits who, until he arrived, didn't stand up to the now vanquished tyrant! Why of course he'll be treating the rest of the kingdom something massive, of course he will! Every subject of the kingdom, every Tom Dick and Harry -even Finbar the alkie town bum, even Deco the scaldy skanger- please have a go gentlemen, me missus's a right little ride! After all, she's a princess (or a studio contracted pneumatic blonde) oh and while you're at it, do help yourself to my treasure, you deserve it!
Gedda out of the garden!! Where did you ever see that happen??
Since when were winners ever generous? Any study shows that those who give the most always are the poorest -not least little Ireland herself: always is one of the biggest contributors to charities! It may be time to tell what's what and get ourselves a bottle of cop feckin' on! Action movies are anything but interested in redistributing wealth -h'a! In fact I would say this, I can easily imagine what Americans, for example, would make of it if a politician was mad enough to use such words! Tee hee, your man would probably be called a Communist!?!?
...Butseriously.
But seriously.

It's not just the final objective that is seriously questionable in boy movies, it's also the reason why, well... the hero's actually the hero.
And I think I've nailed it now, I think I've just figured out what so often jarred, what so often left me unmoved as I had to endure, stoic as feck, yet another wham-bam kill-kill boy flick, why of course...it has to be! The point I was after making about being able to empathise with your romance/chicklit protagonist, it got me thinking and... surely we have to ask the never asked:

Why exactly should we care about your standard male hero?

Why should I care about someone who doesn't need my concern?

Let's dig a little here. It's not by chance that the heroes get to win at the end of their adventures: it is because they were always meant to do so.
More often than not, "heroic heroes" (note the tautology here) have been blessed from the start. They already have that special gift, the one that will single them out from their competitors and ensure their eventual triumph so really the question ought to be: where's the contest? Who gives?
Maybe they can drive fast ("SpeedRacer"), maybe they can punch hard ("Rocky"), maybe they can wave about their joystick real good ("StarWars"), maybe they have been earmarked by the gods or Marlon Brando -same difference- ("Hercules", "Superman"); maybe they can even shoot a beer can off at more than three paces ("Shooter", any western you care to mention), etcetera etcetera -the main thing is, the common denominator here, is that they're not like you -and they're certainly not like me. Happy ending is guaranteed for them.
Heroes prevail because they are heroes from the start.

If I were (was?) trying to be cute for a second, I would also point out that they are heroes because of the casting. The casting pretty much already tells you all you need to know before the film starts: you know who to expect to do what when. Like when was the last time you saw Bruce Willis deciding midway through to, after all, "ah jus' forget it" and flop back onto his sofa in his slippers and trackies to watch "Countdown"? Was the issue of his choice ever in doubt? I rest my case. Indeed, just look at your Arnold Schwarzeneggers, Sly Stallones, John-Claude Van Dammes, Charles Bronsons, Woody Allens and co: they've got muscles; chances are they're gonna put them to good effect! (In fact, I seem to remember that it was part of Charles Bronson's contract he had to appear topless in all his films ...so as to show his cast-iron physique!)

Oh sure, heroes must be seen to overcome various difficulties on their way to the climax -these ninety minutes, they have to be filled somehow! So we suspend our disbelief patiently and watch them negotiate token obstacles, encounter temporary difficulties like maybe they'll take a beating on the way (they often do); maybe they will get shot (the shoulder seems to be a popular spot for that); maybe they'll even have to pass as a woman (ooh, risquééé!) ...but we already know and I suspect the actor does as well (am I right or am I right?). The biggest joke is of course to have your man on the verge of complete defeat right at the end -yikes! Could it be he's actually made a hash of it and it's all gone belly-up? Will your man not save the galaxy but in fact get pulverised to shit by the Moronator and Bollixatrix? Once again, I don't think so. Pretty much like Gwen Stefani for the last five years, the final triumph is never in doubt -the hero has to win.

In comparison, weepies don't guarantee you a happy end, it's more like a fifty-fifty chance with them: for every "Pretty Woman" you have a "Brief Encounter", for every fairy tale you have a tear-jerker. With weepies, it's either a case of poor little whoever gets swept off her feet by Prince Charming (and lucky lucky Doris Day gets her hands on, er..., stud Rock Hudson) or it's another bleeding fable about doomed love, impossible happiness, and the kind of carry-on that usually features Julianne Moore and a church in the background (oh Julianne, lighten up already sometime yeah?). "Love Actually", with its half-dozen storylines that did Georgie's head in the two first times round, cleverly offers both: happy endings (for Hughie Grant, with customary mop-top at the ready), and sad endings (who else but the ever fab' Laura Linney, who gets yet another kick in the face -she should team up with Julianne sometime, maybe these two would stand a better chance).

The question is... which genre am I belonging to?






chapter 13
---------------------it's raining frogs (No no, it's not about "Magnolia"!) -----------------------------------





The phone rings ("riiiing!"), it's Georgina. Now here's someone who always cheers me up.

-"Hey babe, it's me"
-"I know. Can read your name hee hee. So what's the story in town? What's up? Everything good widcha?"
-"Oh notalot notalot, not much happening (he he!), same old same old ...except maybe something in fact, 'just had to tell you, turns out I may actually have a bit of news..."
-"A bit of news? Go on tell us. But first things first: news for me, or news for you?"
-"News for me."
-"OK go on. Is something good, or is something bad?"
-"Is something good."
-"Massive, go on! I am all ears, could do with some meself."
Georgie goes all coy now; she wants to play with me.
-"It's actually quite early days yet... don't know if I should..."
-"Ah come on and cut the crap will ya, don't act so mysterious with me -you wouldn't have called me otherwise would you? So. How you keepin', what's been happening in your crazy world?"
-"OK OK. Sure I'll tell you but... but like I said, it's early days yet. In fact may have got carried away already. Anyway, here's the story. ... Well fancy that missy, but it deffo looks like you're not the only one, looks like we've both struck it lucky......"
-"...Yes? ...Tell us more?"
-"(Hee hee) Just that I've pulled big time! Total cheesecake -you would not beliiiieve. Think I'm in lurv."
-"Good girl yourself, how fabulous! How did this ever happen then? Don't keep us in suspenders -I want to hear all the embarrassing details!"
-"H'a! Oh you're so cute sometime you are missy! Well. Oh. My. Eyes. First of all I godda tell you -and you won't believe it- but he turns out to be just like your fella: he's a Frenchman!"
-"A Frenchman? Another one?? What's going on in this city?? And there was me, thinking that we were being "swamped by the Poles" last time I read the headlines! Is it the Frenchies' turn to crawl out of the woodwork now? Just where do all they come from all of a sudden?"
-"Er... from France presumably."
-"E'h! Now you don't get cheeky on me missy. You know what I mean. Anyhoo -fair play to yourself! And what's the lucky man's name?"
-"Well I'm not quite sure actually, he told me his mates call him Nicolas after his favourite footballer but yawwwwn big time here, you know me with footballers eh? wasn't exactly clear who's that supposed to be. Nicolas it is then -or rather "Nicko" if you please, to respect his majesty's wishes"
-"If that makes him happy, I suppose... So what does he look like exactly, that hunk of yours? What's he doing around here, how did you two meet, yous up to anything this weekend?"
-"Hang on hang on, not so fast! Let me recap. Met him at the Shelbourne actually"
-"Shelbourne! Gedda o'here!"
-" Oh but I did! The Shelbourne Hotel if you don't mind! Anyway what happened is, I got me arse down there the other night, there was a function organised by the Waits girl herself -the old trout was supposedly fronting a campaign against something or another. Funny that, but I thought she was supposed to be "terrified of appearing in public ever again" after her "stalker nightmare" remember? As commented upon by the Indo's Chief Editor over three whole columns plus colour photo hee hee ...or was it last month's story?"
-"Oh but Georgina Develin you're a terrible woman so you are! As a matter of fact, I think this month our Gloria is "showing her caring side" by "highlighting compassion for the less privileged amongst us" ...in D4 or thereabouts."
-"Oh yeah. Fair play to her says I. Anyway. This campaign yoke: perfect excuse to parade a throw of wannabes -you know the kind, "aspiring models" and other anorexic coke-heads UV rayed to crisp- well... who says aspiring models I am thinking says agency snappers says rich bastards in attendance."
-"Good thinking there, that's my girl!"
-"Right back atcha. So, like, read about it in this throwaway rag, decided there and then to get down to it and slutted meself up something suitable -nice and classy though: not the time for flat shoe long sleeve or VPL, more like wonderbra's big night out -you know my little black number yeah?"
-"Which one? The one you wore at the Groland embassy?"
-"No no, the one I wore at the monthly awards for "The Most Popular Homemade Soap On Terrestrial Television During Daytime" last month"
-"Oh yeah I remember, at the Sugar club it was -and what a grand night it was too ...if you like beer that is- that will be the one with the straps then -why, did you wear that?"
-"Hell no! Went for some class I did, went for the cream coloured ensemble that the dork got me for me birthday"
-"Dead nice! You go get 'em girl!"
-"Too right I did! We need to knock the bastards dead while we can, right?"
-"Right you are again -now carry on"
-"Now where was I? oh yeah! went for the cream coloured number then, touch of "Orgasm Number Five", generous splash of "Quivering Heights" and off we go! Got meself there on time: not too visibly late and certainly nowhere near early. Well.
Well it was just like what you would imagine: bull's eye on the saddo front! Great craic it was to see them all, with their polka dot tie and their striped shirt and their tongue out: "I say... Would you care for a cup of champagne miss?" and "Nice weather for this time of year what, wouldn't you agree?" and then "Goodness gracious me, didn't we meet before, you know, at that horse show thingy last summer at the RDS?" Might not come as a complete surprise to you but this miss here certainly cared for a cup of bubbly yessir!"
-"More power to you sister!"
-"You're very welcome. Quickly passed on the horsey people though, 'give me the creeps they do -let me ask you, let me ask you this while on the subject: have you actually ever met an actual jockey? Have you?? I have. They're about four feet high, five at the max. They sneeze a lot. Smell funny. I say gedda of the garden yeah! Out out out!! As for their owners... brrrr! Anyway. Back to Gloria."
-"Back to Gloria. How was she then? Did she manage alright? Managed to speak with her mouth while breathing at the same time? I get worried for her sometime, you know"
-"Who isn't? (or rather, who is?) Well don't fret no more Lily, our Gloria did grand. Grand I tell you: there she was, admitted in the Shelbourne, there she was alright standing on her two legs ...along with Lorraine Keane."
-"Along with Lorraine Keane!"
-"I know! Couldn't quite believe it myself! I was in the same room as The Lozza Herself - and what a star she was! Proper A-lister! She looked even thinner than on the box -and you know what they say about the camera adding ten pounds on you. Joking aside, she looked terrific. Simply glowing. ...Seems to have grown breasts (ahem)."
-"I see. Just for the night."
-"Just for the occasion."
-"Fair play to our Lorraine! Well one thing is sure, these two must have been campaigning dead hard ...on behalf of whatever it was."
-"Oh sure they were. Every time I checked they were totally buzzing, Lorraine ladylike as one can be, Gloria dealing with the canapés. ...Well they were certainly drawing a lot of attention from the assembled gentlemen -I mean, drawing attention to the burning issue of the day of course"
-"Of course. Most commendable. There's so many of them though"
-"There's so many -and all of them requiring our utmost vigilance too"
-"Too right sister! We have to send a strong signal and a clear message!"
-"Thanks God for Gloria coming to the rescue!"
-"Gloria and Lorraine too! Whoo-ooh!"
-"Shouldn't we do like some synchronised air punching at his stage over the phone?"
-"We most certainly can: go Glenda go! on the count of three: one... two..."
-"...three: yay!! Job boxed off, the world's saved -Too bad I didn't quite get what it was exactly the Waits one was supposed to prattle on about because -now sit yourself still- this is actually (and much much more importantly) the moment when I first - laid - my - eyes - on - him.
On your man in person."
-"Oh yeah that's right! What about your man by the way? Go on go on now, get to it already, tell me all!"
-"Heh heh, not so fast missy not so fast, need to build my suspense first. ...... There, done. Suspense built. So there I was, right? getting bored to death by this -hang on, did I say "boned"? Ewwww no chance of that!- there I was then, getting bored to death by this property developer who goes on and on and on about Dubai: Dubai this, Dubai that, 'parently it hosts the biggest concentration of cranes in the whole world -like, fascinating yeah? me ovaries are tingling!-, and he's thinking of diversifying into non-residential and he's got tons of property there -not all of them "entirely built" though- and -talking of which, hey, come to think of it (I swear I didn't see this one coming in a month of Sundays) would I like maybe to go and visit his site sometime? for a short vacation like, huh? do some sight-seeing?"
-"Sight-seeing in a construction site"
-"Exactly. Now let me ask you. Let me ask you this Lily: do I look like the kind of girl who gives a flying feck about Dubai? Do I?"
-"No."
-"That's right I don't! So there I am, just about surviving that bleedin' eejit, when who do I clock but the Waits girl straight ahead positively squiiiinting at something -or could it be someone?- somewhere behind me. And I'm thinking. I'm thinking, Gloria's clearly contracted to pretend holding a conversation with this big cheese she's with and she can't move, she can't shake him off. She can't make her move, but there's deffo something going on right behind me that she can't take her eyes off.
You know me, I get concerned about Gloria's peace of mind so I turn round 'see if I can help, right? and there - he - is, glass of bubbly at the ready: the hunk to end all hunks, after offering it to an old trout in a hideous frock. Gentleman-like as they come: smoooooth. Can't begin to tell you how dead impressed she was, the old dear must have wet herself right there and then!"
-"The highlight of her evening to be sure. Hope she went on to contribute to the cause as her way of giving thanks ...whatever it was again. So let me guess what happens next yeah, let me guess: you licked your eyebrows, dropped the bore dead, and you jumped on the hunk before Gloria could."
-"Pretty much so (do you know me or what?). Dumped my own bleating eejit cold and got up to your man -cool as you like yeah?- and asked him about his invitation. It - always - works! Either they ain't got one either and we can both have a right laugh about it, or they turn out to be connected, and suddenly you find yourself making the acquaintance of, say, Louis Walsh's son or something"
-"Louis Walsh's son indeed..."
-"Or Gerry Ryan's for that matter, or one of the Bono's brothers"
-"Cle-ver."
-"Why thank you babes, I like to think so too. I remember that time -you were away doing some studying or something- I meet this queer looking fellow yeah?, and he's like blowing smoke from all orifices -that was before the ban of course-, he's wearing these scaldy clothes like he hasn't got a clue about matching colours: green with blue and yellow and red and whatever, striped shirt tweed jacket or is it the other way round can't remember, creases all over the place -in short, a sight for bored eyes he was! So I go up to him -cool as you like, always- and I go: "Oh good evening, you're very welcome to our little occasion, I am Georgina Develin and you must be...? Let me guess: you on the bride side?"
Turns out to be our beloved Amo! The man himself!!"
-"Well I never!"
-"I kid you not, would never have recognised him myself, the RTE live commentary legend, your sweet-tongued pundit in person! Must have got dressed in a hurry that day... and in the dark -Amo Dunphy looking a mess, who would have thought eh..."
-"Who would have thought indeed... (and good thing you've just told us you know nothing about footy cos' your anecdote would have made sense otherwise!) But what about your man again? What about "Nicolas"? Get back on track will you!"
-"OK OK getting to it, I'm getting to it already yeah! You know what luv'? Sometime, Lily Monaghan, you're always the same... So. So we're like at the introduction stage, all prim and proper, nothing bold yet, no quick in-and-out in the laundry cupboard, and he's telling me that he was just after walking by like, saw the light on from the outside and... just had to go check out what's going on here! Like I believe him of course. Cheeky monkey. Then he tells me he's actually working for the French embassy."
-"A-ha. This explains that."
-"Might just indeed. His job is something to do with cultural partnership, exhibitions, seminars, exchanges, the usual crap about Joyce and Beckett living in Paris -nothing new under the sun then. 'Parently there is this French writer too, he's dead famous, 's been living outside Dublin for quite a while now... he's like scandalous. Controversial. Writes some naughty stuff."
-"Writes some naughty stuff? Can't see who it can be... French writer you say.....huh. 'Only living French writer I can think of is the author of "Captain Corelli" so nope, can't be him -on the other hand I can see where this could be leading to..."
-"And so did I so did I, so I ask him, I ask: oh yeah, and what kind of naught stuff? To call his bluff like, but in a classy way yeah? me being all prim and proper y'know"
-"I know"
-"Well, before I know it, he starts telling me exactly what! Telling me in detail too, getting all fruity about it. He looks me in the eye and starts telling me about that book of his yeah, where you have this guy right?, comes up with the perfect idea to tackle Third World poverty and Western boredom, what he does yeah, what he does he sets up these international brothels on the islands are you with me?, the islands where rich Westerners go on holiday to shag local Africans or Asians or what have you and the result is, the result is locals don't starve anymore and Europeans get their kicks -everyone's a winner!"
-"Well that's a... that's a solution of sorts, I suppose"
-"Local Africans local Africans -and what about local honest good old Irish girls I'm thinking! So I ask him. I ask: what's wrong with Irish girls? Has he tried one yet? Was the experience so awful that he no longer wants to have anything to do with them?"
-"Who has? The character from that novel or Nicolas?"
-"The character of course, meaning Nicolas! Guess what: he has -Nicolas, that is-, he doesn't mind telling me, and then he gives me this big wink like she was a right old slapper"
-"Charming."
-"Charming or telling it like it is, more like. Well I 'been pushing in that direction to be honest, I can't say I wasn't looking for a clear indication of his style -all the while remaining prim and proper of course."
-"Goes without saying. But what's with Gloria? Is she out of the picture yet? Or does she butt in with her size 14 and have a go?"
-"A-ha, funny you should mention Gloria. As I get down to converse with your man -"Come in to check what's going on inside, really? How most amusing" "Lovely weather for this time of year what, wouldn't you say?" and "Is this a gun I feel in your pocket you dirty Frenchman?", I find myself sort of steering him towards the bar for some reason"
-"How natural; you must have been thirsty"
-"I was desperately thirsty."
-"Carry on."
-"He doesn't seem to protest too much and we like, we partake of a few beverages, you know -mainly alcoholic, I seem to note- and then I suggest maybe we could go out for a smoke; outside that is... far from that crowd of envious bitches. Guess what? Your man turns out to be a smoker -well he is French after all-: perfect! And off we go. As for Gloria? Blown away, brown bread, nowhere to be seen any more."
-"Poor old Gloria."
-"Poor old Gloria. Pity, really: she looked so fetching in her polyester red dress and green carnation. Blue eyeshadow and leather sandals."
-"Ah yes, she's never been the same since she split up with your man is she; lost her reason for living I guess ...or for appearing in the papers. Anyway. Bully for you."
-"One nil to Georgie!"
-"Happy days to yourself!"
-"Happy days or... happy night indeed!"
-"Hap -happy night indeed?? What 'you saying here Georgie? Let me hear this right: so you went for a smoke -then what? what happened next? Did you exchange numbers -did you... did you close the deal?"
Georgie does her funny voice again.
-"You could say we did..."
-"Did you? really?"
-"Cough cough, I did. Back at my pad, didn't have much time on the night: he had to go and get ready for the next day or something, he couldn't stay"
(Do they ever! I think to myself)
"So I had to give him something to remember me by like ... which I was very happy to provide. And he certainly will. Remember me and all"
-"Ohmygod! Did you really? And has he called you since??"
-"He has, he has. Been good as gold. Said he would call and call he did, the very next day. That is to say yesterday. Oh yes, I have high hopes for this young man. We have made plans to meet up tomorrow."



Poor old Gloria... Sometimes I feel we're being too harsh on her; I mean, she's not that old really...
But that's the thing: it's got nothing to do with her actually, let alone with her real age. G. and I started calling everyone "an old trout" way back when in our teens. Aged thirteen, you see someone who is sixteen -that makes a world of difference! And when I say sixteen, what about twenty! They, like, belong to another planet, they know so much more, it's like you and them don't share the same nature anymore: you're just a little squirt, all pigtails and black spots, and here they are, so confident, so self-assured, towering over you, revelling in their majority. No question in your mind that your elders have passed the tests. They probably smoke, they're allowed to drink ...and of course you can only think of the one subject, the one landmark setter. When you're a kid, everyone ahead of you has done It.
We were thirteen or thereabouts. And then it was our turn to turn sixteen... eighteen... twenty. When you're twenty, someone twenty-five is "mature", someone thirty is an "old fart". That's just the way it is; as life goes on, your personal landmarks keep getting pushed back.
Poor old Gloria may be just twenty-five, or twenty-eight -or even only twenty-three!-, us two bitches still need to hold her back somehow. We need to keep her at bay, distance ourselves any petty which way we can find.
...And I haven't even got started on her likely cellulite. That will be for another episode :-).






--------------------------------------------"I See A Bad Moon Rising"---------------------------------------



(Need to work on that -develop maybe? Nah, that should do!)
And here they are, Lily Monaghan's very own Words Of Doom:

-First one which gets my goat: "It's alright for some!", offered in a faux casual tone by your man who clearly doesn't resent other people going on the holiday that they have saved for all year long or splashing money that they have earned. See them, how witty they are! "It's alright for some" eh... Witty as opposed to short-sighted or proper small-minded -well lemmetellyou, designated office busybody, this is precisely the kind of curtain twitching expression that gets right into my little black book!

-"Why are you looking so pleased with yourself?" is another mystery of a question, surely the logical reply being "Er... and why shouldn't the other person be (i.e. looking pleased with themselves) if they are in luck?" If they are in luck or, more generally, if they have anything to rejoice about at all -fair play to them is what I say! In fact, looking pleased with oneself is generally a clear indicator of good fortune; I wouldn't have thought it takes a genius to work that one out. It appears I was wrong.
An expression to be lumped in with the previous one: jealousy is so unbecoming.

-"Cheer up luv', it might never happen!" Now then. Let's take a deep breath shall we? ..... in / out, in / out -ah that's better. The classic of classics: "Cheer up luv', it might never happen"... Whoever first came up with that baffling expression blatantly doesn't get it: like, hellllo already!, am I flogging a dead horse here or what?!? That it might never happen is precisely the point!?!! No need to waste any more time on this, let's just move on.

-Here's a good one: "Says he's gonna leave her" aka the married man syndrome, the two-timer's waiting game. Why of course he will! (leave his wife, that is), right right, we believe him we do... Actually the saddest thing here is, there is often one person who does believe him -and will do so for up to years on end. She doesn't deserve our sniggering. Talk is cheap, mister loverat!

-"I think maybe we should spend less time together..." Less time as in not one minute more if they can help it! Freeeeze as you hear the fateful words creep down the phone line, usually followed by what is called a pregnant pause. Spend less time together eh... sure thing. You have to admire the attempt at tact though, appreciate the understatement; newcomers at the game might even fall for it: "Less time? er... sure, why not? If that's better for you; how inconsiderate of me, of course, now I realise how busy you are, is so understandable, I probably should apologise for taking so much of your time already sweetypie. And how long did you have in mind like? is it OK if I call in tomorrow instead of tonight? Huh? Huh? Eh? Allo? Allo? ...Anybody out there?"

-"Penny for your thoughts..." Less explicitly loaded than some other Words Of Doom, but just as dangerous. Lily's advice is simple: never answer that. You will either reveal wondering what's left for tea tonight or what awful B. O. he exhales today. Either way it won't be the desired reply. So why not go for the easy option: "Why, I was just thinking about you Buttercheeks!"

-"I was going to tell you!" -except that he didn't. This is a standard protestation, based on an empty promise which can never be disproved. Variants include these case-scenarios: "Right right about that ahem... maybe I should have told you before, I did mean to, about the time I spent inside / about the glamour photos / about the kids, it was such a long time ago and all / I was only messin' sadly they didn't get the joke / ah you know yourself, know-what-I-mean?" (no I don't) "a bit of fun y'know?" (no I still don't) "See I was young and needed the money / I didn't think that you would mind; I was coming to this I swear, meant to tell you and then... it just... it just slipped me mind! Funny that eh?"
Eh.

-"This(h) year, I'm gonna get really fit, right? That's it, I'm gonna join me a gym and lose these extra pounds oh yes." ... Tumbleweed rolls by... Any comment really needed here?

And finally (but there's bound to be plenty more out there to be sure):

-"It's not you, it's me." -No it isn't: it really is me -i.e. "you"- not you -i.e. "me"-. Here again, should you happen to feel magnanimous (or sloshed enough) to be able to suppress the gasp of horror, you could reflect on the words used. You could recognise the damage limitation exercise at work here, you could appreciate the attempt at self-incrimination being offered. ...I suppose you could. But all the same, it fecking is "me" not "you", I'm the one being dumped here and for a reason that's interestingly been brought up only to be denied: I have been judged, and I have been deemed unworthy. Not up to His Highness's standards, my self-esteem has just been blown to smithereens -"it's not you, it's me" my backside!



---------------------"Ladies and gentlemen... Fugazi!"--------------------------------


Tuesday night and -very probably against my better judgement- His Hotness and I are off to see a band. Earlier during the afternoon, I got a phonecall from an excited Mathieu:
"Hey Lily Lily, I have tickets for tonight! You wannna come!"
Tickets, tickets for what? It's not GAA day, is there a filum premiere in town? I would have heard... Is Kylie or Coldplay about? What's the story here?
-"Er -hello first and thanks a bunch but... what kind of tickets exactly?"
-"It's for a concert of keurse, to see a band: they are -er- super interesting, yes they are great!"
Rock bands, rock bands, now cool your jets for a second Romeo: am I really in the mood for that in the first place, do I really want to go out today of all days? (Can't exactly get too specific here, PMT TMI QED and all...) I feel distinctly underwhelmed at the prospect.
Mathieu must have sensed my reluctance:
-"Keum on now Lily, oh you meust come -I have two tickets!"
Hmm. Well. What's the big rush about?
-"Now who are they first? who is playing?"
-"Er they are called... Fugazi. Fugazi and aneuther one called the Jesus Lizaaar'"
(Fugawhat??)
-"Are they Japanese?"
-"No no they're OK: they are American."
Rrrright. Well I... I'm really not sure about that to be honest... Today I need me rest more like! If you ask(ed) me, what I really fancy tonight is me water bottle... Can I get out of this? What if I suggested Georgie instead? Heh heh! What if I offered she take my place?
-"Hmm not too sure, and where's it at?"
-"Heuh?"
-"Where are they playing? It's not too far away is it, it's not like Slane Castle or something?" (clutching at last straws here: of course it wouldn't be there -I would have heard of some such gig)
-"No no it's at... Will Ann, it's at Will Ann."
Damn! Just ten minutes from here then (fourty during rush-hour).
-"Well I'm very flattered that you thought of me when you went to get these tickets Mathieu but"
-"Oh no, I didn't get the tickets in fact"
-"Eh?"
-"I didn't get these tickets, Laurent and Fédéric did."
Who??
-"Who?"
-"You knoooow: Laurent and Frédéric -You met them at the Alliance!"
Ah yes, the smoking beardos.
-"Ah yes, your gentlemen librarian friends"
-"The Toulousains. Well -ha ha ha listen to this- what happened yeah? what happened, they were -er- really excited about this concert, they leuuuuve that band you know? and today they see that they can't go! They bought the tickets and they can't go!!"
-"Oh dear. How unfortunate."
-"Yes that's really bad! They bought the tickets for this band they super love and now they can't do it!"
-"Do what?"
-"Do it -go to the concert!!"
-"Ah yes they can't "make it" and so, presumably, great friend that you are, up you stepped and offered to buy their tickets..."
-"No no no way, I got the tickets for neuthing, you meust be joking!" (all triumphant, I can almost feel the radiance of his joy heating up my phone)
-"Oh. Great. Bully for you."
-"So now we have to go, we will enjeuy it: it's free!"
-"Sure"
And then I automatically replied "sure".
As soon as it escaped me, I wanted to bite my lip but, oops, too late!
-"Perfect, so you're keuming with me then, we go and we have free fun -you must pick me up when we go there: I don't know where this Will Ann room is"
(well here is one thought: you could google it up and then you would locate Whelan in less than a second sweetypie)

Having thus committed myself, I made sure that these two bands were at least worth the drive and came highly recommended:
Dixit Mathieu: "Oh yes they're great, they're very interesting -er no, I've never seem them"
Dixit JohnnyRay (whom I spoke to later): "Never heard of them. Another bunch of wannabes."

and now I'm on my way to the old Whelan's with a positively effervescent dreamboat by my side. Your man seems particularly proud of how he got hold of these highly coveted tickets for zilch:
"You know, everyone wants to see them -everyone-: they are big stars! A bit like Chris de Borg! Fred was telling me -he was disgusted-, he bought the tickets three months ago the day they came on sale and the next day, guess what, they were all gone! (the tickets of keurse) Ha ha ha ha, super! That is so -er- interesting -when I will tell it to my friends in Paree, they will be so jealous!
From what I'm understanding, the Jesus Lizaaar' and Fugazi, they are very punk, very punk -but with interesting ideas you know, very artistic: Laurent says they are intellectueul -I approve, yes I approve, I like bands that are very different from other bands"
-"Uh huh"
-"Yes yes very different, for example in the way they play the guitar. The guitar and also the bass guitar. And dreums. Laurent says they play the dreums very differently. Very exciting, Laurent says."
-"Right you are."

Right now, if there's anything I'm really excited about that would be the prospect of actually finding a parking space. Anywhere will do frankly! Bunch of bleeding motorists who nick them all especially when I need one! I mean, it's not as if we have a wide range on offer have we... I am thinking of going all the way up to the club and then we'll have to walk back all the way down Wexford Street, can't think of any other way, anywhere else is a no-go. The fact of the matter is, the number of cars in Dublin is said to have multiplied three-fold in the last twenty years. The width of the streets on the other hand...
"They are a very artistic band, with lots of good melodies" on goes Mathieu
"Yes yes, they are very good -everybody wants to see them so..."
I refrain from telling Mathieu that Whelan's and The Village are not exactly the biggest venues in the world and in fact cater for a specialised clientele. This is where "indie" bands come to ply their trade for their passionate followers. They sweat hard and give it a good go ...and then they see the light as, one fine day, they move on to record the theme tume for a hit movie or a jingle for a TV ad. Kerching! They're made. If his band were any big, they wouldn't be toiling away here, they'd be playing The Ambassador, the RDS or even The Point. And then for those who make it to the top of the world, they "do" Slane Castle like your Madonna, your Bruce Springsteen or of course U2. But we don't want to pour cold over our cherub's enthusiasm do we, just look at his little cheeks glowing with excitement! He's all ready to go so he is. Well since I am getting him his little treat, I do expect him to return the favour some other day; I wonder how and where we'll get some "quality time" just him and me...

I eventually find a place near a pub -there's a few in the area- and we walk back a hundred blocks. "Are we there soon? Are we there soon? Quick quick or we will miss the start!"
We make it to the venue: a group of reprobates huddle together outside for a smoke -they are in luck, it hasn't rained in the last half-hour. Mathieu has obviously grilled a few already and in we get direct.

...I must have come here back in the days; either Whelan's or The Village... Who did we see here, me and Georgie? Jaysus if it wasn't The Sultans Of Ping "FC"! "Where's me jumper, where's me jumper etc.". In fact that night, I must have been wearing a dead cool rah-rah skirt and Georgie was going through her Sade period with head tilting earrings. The student audience -to which I belonged for my sins- were "fired up to their bollocks" in my chaperone's own words and the Cork man onstage was not having any of it; as much as I can remember (i.e. not an awful lot: "snakebite" has a lot to answer for), things got a little bit messy near the end as much cracking of skulls got inflicted on various participants...
Anyway, that was a long time ago when we knew how to have fun (about six years ago then) and surely the Sultans don't exist anymore: imagine them living on the same song for their whole career! As I darken this doorway once more, I expect tonight's artiiiiistes to be very different. "Very artistiiiiques". Photos of various rabble rousers who played here adorn the walls: Sparklehorse, Smog, Nada Surf, Daisy Chainsaw, New Model Army, the What -shame on me but I don't recognise a single name.

We cross the sacred threshold and enter the venue proper. A literal wall of sweat hits me smack in the face: sssSMMMAck -what in the name of?!? What's going on here, is this a sauna?? Helllllo there already! Even though we're like early and the gig hasn't started yet, it appears that the very-punk-yet-artistiiiques Fugazi fans have already turned up in numbers and they are in high -like very high know what I mean- spirits. Dead up for it and ready to rumble as I can see. As I can see and smell it too (ewwww!). I am impressed: could it be that tonight's bands are actually for real? Do they, like, "shift units"? Can I expect these American punkers to pop up on the next Christmas edition of "The Late Late Show" and then "HotPress" will write that -y'know- they were so much better before they started? Are they as good as Nickelback? I am ready to get convinced.

One thing that does not convince me though is the general clotheswear on show tonight.
...How depressingly pedestrian.
Whatever happened to punks? Aren't this bunch supposed to be that type? Couldn't their fans, like, get their thumbs out? I for one am sooo not impressed. Where are the electrocuted box of nails hairstyles? the safety pin held tops a la Liz Hurley? the swastika-like logoed t-shirts such as the one sported by "Becks"? the mad colours on their barnet, eyebrows and nostril hairs? the piercings through the piercings? For crying out loud, Mathieu himself is more daring in his parka and Converse trainers! This being said, I can spot a few Marilyn Manson characters holding court on their own in their corner. They are so loud I instantly know they're italian.
I also spot a few dilated pupils in attendance and that won't be because of the light (wink wink); some fellows have been very bold indeed... More generally, the overall feeling is of massive excitement -there is some kind of mad energy flowing through the place: everyone seems on edge like they are ready to explode. Like they are waiting at the doors of Brown Thomas for the annual sales, that kind of vibe.

...Which starts to worry me slightly. I mean, the venue is already packed to the rafters, tight as a monkey's nuts, and tonight's eagerly awaited headliners haven't even started. This here audience is already making its presence felt for sure: not for them to go for a stylish late entrance of the kind Georgie and I like to indulge in when we socialise (feel the disapproving looks on us, oh what gas!); like I said everyone here seems already well up for it and now the question is: when will it actually kick off? These Lizards'd better hurry up.
Mathieu and I elbow our way to the queue for the bar. The queue in question appears to be actually starting some distance from it -bouncers barricaded with their back to the barrels only let certified drunks through.

Which reminds me of that deadly story about The P*gues back in the days. As our greatest exports from London prepared to go on tour at the height of their popularity, they came up with a lethal plan. They decided not to ask for a huge amount of dosh upfront to play the various venues. Rookie promoters couldn't believe their good luck: why, they could feature a dead successful band for a very reasonable price! Happy days!! The P*gues got booked solid in no time and the promoters rubbed their hands dry at the prospect of making a killing. ...Until they surveyed the damage the day after.
In the terms and conditions of their appearance -for their "rider"-, the mischievous miscreants are alleged to have inserted a clause stipulating that they were to have "unlimited access to the bar facilities all night" ...and that they could let in their "mates" too.
Cue half of the Irish population in every town visited getting sloshed for free. Pity the Student Union promoters! The P*gues had to find other venues for their next tour.

Obviously I can't drink since I'm driving; I have the feeling that Mathieu will be quite happy to drink for two though. He certainly tries his damned best to get served. Stranded in the middle of the maelstrom, he imperiously waves a five Euro note at the girl behind the bar. His cunning move is sadly met with utter indifference -oh the indignity! I hesitate to tell him: maybe he hasn't noticed the five or six people in line before him; maybe he doesn't know that a Fiver won't get him much change around here...
Anyway, while the culturel explorer resigns himself to suffer his fate and queue just like the rest of us this side of the Channel, I decide to make my way towards the stage. An inch further, I stop -that's my way done alright. Loud yelps erupt in the rowdy crowd: a very pretty girl dressed from head to toe in denim, no more than eighteen, has emerged from the side and steps up to the mike; she is armed with a guitar. Yelps increase in volume ("Bring it on! In the hole! Come on! Up the Du'bs!"). She defiantly switches her instrument on: mandatory larsen follows ("Hey there, d'you need some help luv'?"). She turns red and turns it down. A bassist and a drummer, not much older, join her onstage. With an accent sounding unmistakingly Dub to me, the first act introduces herself -can't catch her name- and mumbles something about what a great honour it is to be sharing a stage with blah blah blah. If we don't have ourselves a good old Dub on stage, who would have thought! Is she "the Jesus Lizard"?
"Who's she?" I ask my neighbour.
"That's Leanne Harte that is!" replies he, indignantly.
Why yes of course! Leanne Harte... (???) It looks like she's wearing one of these heavy metal belts with studs and tings: they sparkle under the spotlights -very snazzy. This coupled with her denim attire -very "oldskul" says the fashion expert.
Without further ado, the little squirl strikes a power chord and here we go. Rock out like yeah!!! Kewl!!! Whatever-it-is greaseballs like to say!!! Fringe firmly down on her nose, our Leanne starts torturing her instrument like there's no tomorrow. Hmm ...she is quite loud notes Lily. I start to regret not bringing earplugs, the kind I used to wear when me own Da was doing his thing and I was watching him from the safety of my pram, utterly perplexed. But anyway. Our girl unleashes some serious shit out there: her intricate riffs up and down the guitar neck duel with the booming bass lines as your man behind the drums proves himself no slouch either -damn can she handle her guitar! I wonder if she, like, ever gets a manucure or if that would interfere with her playing... I watch her for another tick or two and then scope around the place. I realise something: the miss seems to be attracting a lot of attention from the male portion of the crowd. Grown men, plastic glass of beer in hand, study her intently. I'd say the average age is quite high here: stationed before the stage is a bunch of late twenty-somethings, rock fans with receding hairlines and bald spots showing from behind.
Young Leanne mistreats her guitar some more.

I remember reading about these girl bands, back in Japan, in one of these quality mags -must have been in "Heat", "Hello", "OK", "Closer" or "The Indo"- like there is this whole industry down there, totally devoted to creating pop idols on a regular basis -eat your heart out, Simon Cowell! Nubiles on a conveyor belt is the idea. These girlies, no more than 14 years of age or even younger, are regularly selected by record companies to "form their own pop band" -yeah right!- and "live the dream". So far so good. What they're really used for though, is to front plastic bands and mime hit singles cooked up for them by teams of songwriters. And off they go, little soldiers for the music/video industry, they fulfil their mission, exist for a few years ...and then are retired for younger models. And the thing is, the article was saying, the thing is if you go to their concerts, you will hardly find any similarly aged girlie in the audience (watching them do their elaborate dance routines and super rehearsed miming) oh no: the front rows, they will be overtaken by middle-aged men equipped with an army of superduper cameras, intently snapping each and every gesture the little mitts make and every position they take. Standing as they are below the stage, so the story goes, what these men are mainly interested in is... every accidental (or not) flashing of their panties.
Like ewwwwwww. You wouldn't see that around here!

A handful of songs storm by, and our very own Dub little soldier finishes her set; she exits the stage under much woolf-whistling and hand-clapping. "My, er, album is, er, available at the back... fourtenEurosthankyous".

Stage hands hurry about and prepare the, er, stage for the next act. They sport pony tails on their head and utility belts on their belly. I know their kind -they're usually called "Spidy" for their spiderweb tattoo on the neck and like to draw peckers in darkness with their flash-lamps. Which reminds me: Mathieu still hasn't reappeared from his drink gathering mission (I could do with a coke me, I am melting).
If that were any possible, the atmosphere about the place has turned even more electric: there is an undeniable sense of expectation in the air and I note that a new age range is taking position in front of the stage. More athletic type ruffians with lethal crew cuts push through with not a care in the world and pierce the throng, heading straight for the front. For the "mashed-pit" (I know my terminology me!). Caught in the melee, I can't extricate myself from the group I am stuck with and get all buoyed about -in fact I am literally swept off my feet! The tide carries me about and I have no choice but to follow -do I not like that! I can't even turn round and look for Mathieu. For all I know, he may still be queueing at the bar.

"No ham shanking if yer kippin' in me scratcher d'you hear?"
"but he was miiiiiiles offside!"
"Why ya big spanner, I would have torn the skanger a new one I would have!"
"Right boys, I'm off to shake hands with the unemployed -buzz me when it starts yeah?"
"and I was like so "huh" yeah? -I didn't know whether to shit or get a haircut!?"
"Ma che cosa dice??"

I am desperately trying to swim against the tide here. Where is Mathieu? Why oh why did I ever choose to move closer to the stage, what possessed me? Really I should have known better! It's not like I can enjoy any more backstage pass, I have no protection from the great unwashed!

"Yeah I 'seen them like... ten years ago man -they ripped the place apart! They were bodies flying all over place, much breaking of bones and shit -your man himself knocked himself out! Ah happy days..."
"I paid the full wack: thirty bleeding Euro!"
"Got it for free"
"Seriously though, a 'tache can soak up to ten percent of your beer -surely that doesn't make economic sense"
"That's nothing dude: I used to snort E's up me brown!"
"Next time you see Ciara, check out the noddies on her, man -d'you reckon she's good for the goose?"
"I feaked your wan last night, man -and she wasn't worth the two Euro!"
"Ah she's a cute little hoor alright -hope she passed you her hepatitis!"
"I'd have to say man, I don't have much truck with that bollix: no man is an island me brown! That's because man is a human being like, and an island is a marine based geological event know worramean?"
"One-bagger or two-bagger?"
"Two-bagger man, I ren as soon as me spuds were done!"

Slowly but surely, I manage to slide backwards between the packed bodies:
"'scuse me, 'scuse me sorry, coming through, 'scuse me!"
At last I spot Mathieu, he's safely perched on top of the stairs, one plastic beer in hand. He is obviously looking for me but since I am not exactly the tallest in this largely male crowd, he can't see me. Funny enough, he made the right choice when he stayed behind and went for the bar, staying above the fray. As the crow flies, he is about two seconds away from me; in the present circumstance, ten more minutes of assault course crawling.
"'Scuse me, 'scuse me"
-"Hey little lady... and where you think you're going?"
Big bloke. No hair. Dressed black on black.
-"(?!?) This way!" ------->
-"Not so fast not so fast, we've only just met -besides, you can't go through here: see?"
It's jam-packed solid. Nothing moving.
"Why d'you wanna go anyway? The Lizard are about to come on"
-"I... it's a bit too mental for me you know, I don't feel too well"
-"Right you are it's focken mental -it's an honour to see Fugazi and the Lizard! Just you wait til Dave Yeow comes on, he's dead hardcore"
-"Dave Who?"
-"Dave Yeow -he's the singer"
-"OK"
-"So you're up for a bit of "Wheelchair Epidemic" then?"
-"Wheelchair what??"
-""Wheelchair Epi"-right. I see. Tell me now little lady, you don't know much about The Jesus Lizard do you?"
-"Nope."
-"Or Fugazi?"
-"Nope."
-"I see... well I suggest you brace yourself love, you might want to"

At that moment a huge roar erupts behind me. (Behind me, that is to say ahead of the opposite forward. If I were to turn round again. And face up against my back as it were.) The second band are clearly/audibly making their entrance -quick quick, let's try to escape! As people surge forward, they create a vacum effect in their wake and that suits me fine: see me get sucked in further away from the stage. Yyyyyyyyyyes: one more push and I'll be safe.
"Driiiiing, driiiing, bong!" Somewhere behind me, the musicians test their guitars. Their guitars respond.
"One two two, one two!" It's now the turn of the Ronan Keating character.
One more push, one more push and I am there... On any day, all I would have to do is open my mouth and Mathieu would hear me. He would hear me perfect.
"One two two one two -just you wait motherfucker"
I slide an arm between two bodies and insert my right shoulder; next step is my head, I need to be brave and grab my chance by the balls: dare I risk my head through the opening? I feel like a baby emerging... I slip a leg through, I'm now technically one half way there...
"Alright ladiesngenlemen, we are"
-"Com' on you focker now com' on!!"
-"the Jesus Lizard and we're very pleased to (something?) with you tonight"
-"Com' on ya bunch a pussies!!"
-"and we're ONE TA THREE FOUR"

All hell breaks loose and I swear to God if one half of my body -the one stuck between two people- doesn't get literally lifted up in the air! wwwwwaaaoowwwww! The other one, meanwhile, remains very much on its -er- foot as I struggle to maintain balance. And then it gets worse. Before I know it, the mass to which one half of me belongs surges forward and I am dragged (or should it be pulled?) backwards (or should it be forwards?) into the fray. One leg up, one leg down. My right side sandwiched between these brutes, my left side dragged on the ground. I am desperately trying to get some leverage somewhere in the midst of all this.
"Hey, hey -wait! Wait!! Hold it there fellows! Hold it th"
But the young braves get into the ring and start pumping their fists in the air (like-they-just-don't-care).
"Excuuuuse me!"
A bit of shuffling ensues -hey, no groping!- and I finally manage to extricate myself. Well, extricate my-half-self that is. I am still facing the wrong way though, and from my perspective, I can see glasses of beer gracefully tracing through the air all the way from the bar area -waste of a fiver, that. Steam is literally rising from people's heads.
"I'LL CALM DOWN!!" your man bellows behind me "I'LL CALM DOWN!!" By the sound of the infernal racket going on, he doesn't seem to stand much of a chance of doing that. "But I'm still shaking!" I still haven't had an opportunity to see what these lizards look like, I remember.
What they sound like, though, is... quite distinctive in its own way. It could be described as -how shall I put it?- the sound of falling down the stairs falling down the stairs -with guitars out of tune. I don't know what the hell these guys are on -booze, speed, fire, stage- but it sure isn't the money: they are all over the place! Bang, bong, boom, crash, speak squeak creak, meaow -I can't make heads or tails of what's going on here! It's like when your thirteen year old boyfriend wants to demonstrate his newly acquired guitar technique and you have to go along with it! It's like that time when you brought home "Twin Peaks" instead of "Twins"! It's like going for a glass of water in the middle of the night and crashing in on your father getting "entertained" by a groupie down on her knees! It's like listening to your nana at your first communion after she's had a sherry too many and a signed photo from John Paul II!
It is not a pleasant experience.
What do I do? What do I do? My first priority has to be to actually stay in one piece: some fierce pogoing is going on all around me. Being "petite" by nature -some would even say short-arsed- I'm like dead exposed to the flailing elbows. "Hey guys! Watch it!" I get hit in the back of my head and I have no choice but to turn around.

And this is when I see that David "Yo!" fellow.

Sweet lamb a Jaysus! Whatever happened to humanity! I am not even going to describe let alone quibble his sense of dress -your man hasn't any. What strikes me first is his general appearance. The front-man could reasonably be described as some kind of purple faced grunting gargoyle with receding hair all over the shop, sweating from every pore and squealing like a hoarse pig stuck on a roast. ...He hasn't even bothered putting on a shirt. What's wrong with wearing a shirt? Is that too much to ask? Isn't it how people evolved, when one fine day they decided to leave their cave and put on clothes? Isn't it how we differentiate and recognise each other? ("Here is a tidy fellow wrapped up in a cashmere scarf / here is a Decko.") ...Helllo already, isn't it how Brown Thomas makes a living?!!
That small evolutionary detail has obviously escaped this gentleman's attention altogether. In fact, the beastly "singer" -and I use the term generously here- seems to be presently preoccupied with keeping his torn trousers up. Ewww my word, he doesn't even appear to be wearing any Calvin Klein underneath his jeans!
"Squeeeeal squeeeeeal, motherfucker, squeeeeal, one two one two!"
The music stops for a micro-second and then the chaos resumes. "Broaaaaaaagh, bang, crash wallop woof woof!" As the cymbals joyfully drown out the conjoined harmony of the guitar and the bass currently pummeled, your man comes up with the brilliant idea of hurling himself head first into the crowd: "wwwwWAOOOOOOwww!" The crowd, to their credit, do not make way and actually receive him enthusiastically. (Wouldn't it be gas if they all moved away and he crashed? Surely this must have been known to happen yeah?) Your man, now held aloft by a sea of tattooed arms, squeals and grunts and roars and squeals some more: "wwwWWWHEYYYYYY!" -Chris "de Borg" this ain't. The frontfellow twists and turns and starts surfing above the assembled heads (why, David? why??), a forest of arms directing him about; I get the feeling that this is part of the show, part of their routine. In fact, he's not the only crowd surfer in attendance, two or three more converge from the periphery of my eyes. At least these guys are not supposed to be singing.
"May-be (something something really fast) boilermaker, may-be (something something really fast again) boilermaker woooAAAAARGGGGGHHHH!"
I think we've actually moved on to a new song but I'm not too sure... Meanwhile, the surfers have met in the middle and are now exchanging bumps as males do. More grunting and squealing ensues.
"Hey man have you been rubbin' your knob hey man have you (unintelligible) gimme the mike back motherfucker"
I am getting it from all directions now, all manners of body parts are flying about: elbows, arms, backs, knees... everyone's gone epileptic. To think that I fancied a quiet night in eh... Brave young males around me engage in some kind of wardance and I'm stuck in the middle of the traffic. Left right left right, I've become a human top, spinning around but not exactly in the way Kylie had in mind.
"(Grunt) baby baby baby" -what is so genius about that?- "(unintelligible) dancing naked gurls wwwHHEEYYYYyy!! Bark, bark, yeaaahhh you (something) to meeee (grunt) the best paaarts -I've got your number motherfucker: bang!!"
I fear retribution is in the air -literally- as some leg flies over me and a body plunges head first under the forest of arms. Big cheer all around. More candidates for the meet and greet progress over my head. So far, so unhurt: some biffo behind me with a charming t-shirt reading "Hips Lips Tits Power!!!" acts as a human shield against the rolling waves. He's like a personal sumo fellow, arching his back against the tide and I desperately shelter under his sweaty manboobs. Like ewwww once more.

Somewhere above our heads, your man concludes one of his incomprehensible assaults on melody with a satisfied "aaaaahhhh" -the droning larsen that subsides in my ear probably counts as the end to the "song". This brings us ten seconds of temporary respite.
I'm sorry but, back in the days when a certain Dub new wave legend was after performing, things were much simpler: your singer was stationed on his stage... and not on his audience's heads. There was like a clear line in the sand, and everyone knew where they were supposed to be and that was:
1) the audience on one side,
and 2) the band on the other -full stop.
H'a! you certainly didn't see punters bum in the air spiralling to the ground like this guy did! ...Somehow I can't imagine JohnnyRay In Person taking very kindly to anyone coming over and crashing his personal space, pilfering his mike mid-rant! No no no no, the Bard of Blanchardstown wouldn't have dug that one bit! He wouldn't have gone for a wander down the mashed pit either, and put himself at the mercy of his listeners' tired arms -talking of which I wonder whether more, er, emergency landings are likely to happen tonight. The answer is very probably.
"Mumble mumble mumble been a wonderful audience mumble SQUEEEAL HERE COMES DUDLEY!!"
The apocalypse resumes. Boom boom cymbals bass grumble shriek guitar and all that jazz. I am almost getting used to this nonsense by now: it's like these guys took a perfectly legitimate song with a guitar riff, a bass line and a coherent rhythm -know what I mean?- and then went out of their way to destructure it to hell and here we go: let's detune the guitar ("boiiiing!"), let's bash the bass ("Brommm!") -why don't yous just keep it simple?? Yous' starting to wreck me bonce here! Stop start stop start, guitar shrill -I think it's meant to be a "riff"- stop again, bass heavier than yo mama's arse: another sonic outrage is on its way. Meanwhile and more urgently, my man-shelter is wilting under the relentlesss pressure and we are inexorably pushed onwards. I can't possibly grip his love handles and so I have to go with the flow, I have no choice. Zzzzzzip go my feet sliding on the floor, if only I could hear them but this is pure speculation, given the mad mayhem reigning. "Boom boom boom bong" go the bass and drums, Jaysus is this one a heavy number! With the resumption of the hostilities, your man has taken to climb over people's heads again -in fact I wonder when I last saw him on stage- and he's being carried back over here.

He is being carried back over here.

That can't be good for me. I realise, to my absolute horror, that as I get dragged/pushed ahead, I appear to be heading straight in his direction! Oh no no no, please by the Bono, please say it ain't so! But calling on the holy one is of no use and, before-I-know-it (part five or ten), the grunting gnome towers over me, all sweat and manhandled parts (don't even want to imagine who's been holding what, let's not go there)! Ewwwwwww, his flabby torso's over my hair and he's dripping all over me!! That's a double shampoo and a tetanus shot for me first thing in the morning that is! I close my eyes and try to be brave:
sweet Mary mother of our Lord, should you hear me above the noise, I promise to be a good girl from now on! No more "Dawson Creek" / "O.C." TV marathon! No more going to the gym for the only purpose of scanning round! No more slagging badly dressed oafs!
Finally I can't help it, curiosity gets the better of me and I look up: I soon regret my decision.
Your man is hanging over me, his limbs somewhat stretched out in five different directions. The beast fixes me right in the eye for a full half-second and snarls: "That woman was crazy..." Well, thanks a bunch mister, you're not too sound yourself! And then, just as his right leg swings over his left shoulder, he adds "-she's the mistress of a man who's crazy too" and on this note, he rolls away. He is waved over to a lucky lucky spectator and our moment passes. "Touched by the hand of God" we were not -dripped over by the spawn of Satan more like! And then Mary shines a light on me.
Not only does the deranged stunt man drift away ("that's right Dudley wwwweyyYYYyyy"), most of the crowd follows him and -alleluia!- I see an opening. There is hope in the stampede. The fans are so busy pressing after your man on his suspended journey that they leave themselves exposed at the back and suddenly I am presented with an opportunity to escape. I don't think twice and dash for it.
In one second flat, I slide out of the throng and slink away to the back; I take shelter by the stairs leading up to the bar area. Your man is now raging impotently -does he miss me already?- and roars something about "HERE COMES DUDLEY!! HERE COMES DUDLEY!!!". Who the feck that Dudley fellow is I have no idea.


I treat myself to a long sigh ("siiiiiiiigh"). I survey the damage: no pocket got torn off, no button's gone missing. Next to me, two cool dudes sip foreign beer from a bottle and pass comment on the proceedings:
-Dude number one: "Yaaaah, pretty lethal like... if you wanna know my opinion, he's da shit, man. Dead rapa."
-Dude number two: "True for you man, true for you, although he was pretty ripped last time 'round as well, that would have been oh... about five or six years ago like -your man was out of his box"
And I go: huh, is that so? Well fellows, if I were the glory hunting type, I could just turn around and tell yous to your face, cool as you like, that I... actually smell of Him.
-Dude number one continues: "Yeah yeah so I heard, it's all good man it's all good... Then again, that was only at a local reception for the new TD mind -you should see him in action at the Dail when he's up for it and tearing Enda a new one"
-Dude number two: "Oh no question man: our Bertie never disappoints for sure!"

I catch my breath and consider maybe calling an end to tonight's funs and games. I become aware of the fact that the ringing in my ear is now uniform, which I take to indicate no more start-and-stop "song" is currently in progress, and indeed
"Thangyouladiesngenlemen, been a smashin' audience (mumble mumble mumble) Fugazi!" rings out whence I escaped. Huge cheers all round.
Oh blast, I forgot there's more to come!! Do I really want to hang around for that Chinese band or something?

As the Ride Us Lizard wind up their set and depart (maybe picking up their clothes in the process?) the crowd disperses, leaving only casualties with limbs facing the wrong way on the dance floor. Where could the warriors now migrate to? That's right, they all flow back as one towards the bar -towards where I presently am (gulp!!). I desperately look for Mathieu and cling to the handrail -better luck juggling with soap bars! I get pegged back ten yards by the incoming traffic like I'm made of daffodils. In fact, I'm not even extended the courtesy of a basic "sorry love but get the feck outta me way", I just get (once more) carried away like I don't exist -Jaysus are these boys in need of a gargle or what! ...They certainly smell like they are.
And still no sign of Mathieu... I start to wonder. Could he be lying under the pile of bodies being carted away by the ginger hunchback to get dumped in the gutter outside? Somehow I doubt he is... Can't imagine him, being so stylish, Parisian and well-heeled, getting into the free for all and general punch-up that passes as dancing round here. ...Maybe he stayed safely put at the bar throughout? H'ey! The clever clog would have had it to himself! ... But he doesn't appear to have -oh there he is! He must have got caught in the swirl: I can see him (looking all sheepish) against the opposite wall. Must have tipped his toe he has, and then got himself projected at the periphery or something... poor little lamb, holding on to his (its) wall. He's no more than thirty feet away and yet he's out of reach -he might as well be in County Donegal for what it's worth! What's that? He doesn't look too proud right now ...and I think I can see why: the front of his jacket looks all shiny, like it's splashed up ...looks like he has emptied his drink in a way he didn't bargain for (waste of a good beer part two). How must he feel now, does he regret coming? Well you wanted punk, you got it. ...Poor babe in the woods. Surrounded by all these big mad brutes ("To be perfectly honest widcha, I thought they were OK they were, ...I 'seen them much worse at the Garage").

No point in shouting, I am reduced to waving frantically in order to catch his attention -finally he sees me. He brightens up ("and his smile lit up the whole room", copyright miss Gussywet). Attempting to talk here is useless and so I whip out my mobile. A frowning brow of troubled susceptibility, the separated cherub looks at me uncomprehendingly. Do I detect a nascent tear at the delicate commissure of his doe eyes? Fear not, my angel face -everything's gonna be just fine! I wave my mobile at the silly billy, he looks at me like a cow stuck in the bog. I brandish it like an American TV game-show winner getting a voucher for a buffet meal at PizzaHut and finally, OK, he does get it: he whips out his. I'll show you mine if you show yours like, except with added crystal satellite scobies.
I get down to texting him.

-"hey there - loox like we r separated!! can only txt!!"
Five seconds later, he receives it and replies
-"i know"
-"ah well 2 bad - how did u njoy show?"
-"yes"
O...K... and?
-"u were rite: was certainly difrent from usual ;-)"
-"yes"
-"got drggd in2 middl ov crowd n held teh man imselfLOL!!!"
-"cool"
-"yr boyz bit loud tho - bit bold"
...
"now actualy am not 2 sure i will stay 4 fugazi tho :-o
feelin bit tired 2 b honest"
...
"u wanna stay?"
-"sure"
...
-"ok then - i think ill go home tho: fever + long day 2moz :-(((
will u b ok 2 stay on yr won?"
-"of course"
-"ok then u hav fun yeah? - thanx 4 ticket n xperience -njoy!!!!"
...a full ten seconds later
-"ok"

I blow him a kiss through the air -men just love that- and zip up my jacket. Right. Now I must try to fight my way out. Fortunately, the general movement seems to be directed inwards -these people are clearly mad on seeing that Thailandese band or what- and so the surge works in my favour. I take a deep breath, hope for the best, and I furrow my way out. Yyyyyyyyes! Fresh air, big city. Dublin has never felt so reassuring or wholesome.






chapter 14
----------------------------------------"I'm not like the other guys"--------------------------



"Driving on nine...". On my way to cover this record convention at the Point. I reckoned -who knows?- that this might make for a fun subject in my next bulletin or for a written piece, and so I grabbed my faithful Japanese digital recording thingie (Japanese? it's gotta be Japanese: you press the red button -clic!- and it does the work for you -magic!). In a way I'm on the event for work purposes ...but I'm also a bit curious on a personal level. Like will I find anything by ColdHeat? Is Dad's band dead forgotten by now? Have all of their records ended up in carboot sales ("Only three Euro each, three for a tenner")? Or will there be a hardcore nostalgic collector who's been hoarding memorabilia by him... Huh. This we shall see. Am getting worried about Dad sometime, frozen in his own little capsule. That would make for a nice surprise if I could get someone to talk in my machine about what ColdHeat still means to them.

I have a quick brainwave: could Mathieu be interested? He who likes to waffle about art and drags me to "artistic punk" free-for-alls, I'll give him a quick phonecall. Not that we're supposed to meet today, we made vague plans after the other night but... I reach his answerphone. Himself is "not available right now"; herself leaves (him) a brief message. Shame. Mind you, he's probably working at this hour. Shockingly enough, he does do work once in a while my little maniac. Answering urgent queries from French gamers at his call-centre place; queries such as how to beat "utility orbs/orgs" (?!!???) and collect bonus points and advising them on how to restart their videogame ("Have you checked the connections? Can you switch it off and switch it on again?") -in a word, telling them how to enjoy their life.
He works in shifts. It's basically a 24/7 service ("Allo, Mathieu speaking, how can I help you?"), what with callers calling from all around the world -mind these tasty phone-bills!- ("yes... yes... aha, I see... yes...") and logging on to their toybox any time of day and especially of night ("Right, hmmm -Have you pressed the "on" button? Is the red light on yet?"). Never saw the appeal meself but there you go -men certainly do. ("Sir Sir, can I ask you not to raise your voice -it's not my fault if your Light-Sabre Of Justice does not reach down to your evil garden gnomes.") I guess fiddling with your joystick for hours on end presents a certain che-ne-sais-quoi to your standard male: Laura Croft, was it? The famous pillager of Third World treasures, adept of tight jodhpurs and knee-high boots? No, really, I fail to see what could possibly appeal to these gamers.

Now then... what if that game were to be adapted to our beautiful country.. where would our Laura strike? What could possibly be of interest to her around here? Anything worth stealing? ... I'm fecked if I can think of an answer! Any valuable artefact at all? ... A weather-beaten Celtic cross? A tractor blessed by the Pope himself? Pat Kenny's wig? A-ha I've got it! She would probably storm the National Museum she would -and nick the auld bogmen! Leaving aside the fact that the poor buggers got half-dismembered by these pesky combine harvesters, no doubt these mummies must be worth a fortune in their own right; I can well imagine her sticking them in the living room of her mansion, like right by the chimney alongside her collection of Etruscan vases, fragments of the Berlin Wall and Arab straps. What do you give to the girl who's got it all? A man size lamppost fossilised in bog, that's what.
...Never was too sure of what she actually does for a living though, she's not an archaeologist like Indiana Jones is she? She's not a librarian. Anyway I very much doubt the thrills she would encounter here would beat her usual fare. Maybe she could venture over to the North Side? Maybe she could fall into the Liffey? And while in there, almost die an agonising death, slowly -but it would have to be proper slowly yeah- sinking into the shifting sands of the scouldy smelling low-tide mud: I can picture all your fanboys out there, frantically manhandling their scobies trying to pull her out, desperately looking for a rotund portion of her physique to grab her by... Maybe her hair?
Or maybe her boobs.


Traffic is surprisingly fluid this morning, despite now being within the dreaded time-zone of seven a.m. to seven p.m.: surely this is Dublin's rush hour! Like, choc-a-block bumper-to-bumper face-pulling at your neighbour carry-on and traffic-light windshield washer territory -or so I would have thought... But bizarrely enough, we are actually moving: we're actually moving forward!?! With a bit of luck, I might even make it before the market closes their doors. To be fair, the Point is not that far; once you've gone past the size zero statues on the quay you're almost there.
I'm almost there.

Introducing the Point. And what a fine piece of architecture it is to be sure! Like er... all square or oblong, rather. Like an airplane repair hangar, like a disused station ...like a barn. I am trying to remember the last time I came down here, must have been aeons ago; now then, when would have that been? ..... Sometime before Bertie, before the millennium, before the Jean-Paul Gautier conical bra. Before my graduation, before that night with the ski instructor, maybe even before the first series of "Friends" -ages ago and no mistake then. Almost before I was born! Depeche Mode played here in the last couple of years but I missed them (damn). I know that the EuroVision carry-on used to take place here (back in the days when we were, like doing the bizz yeah), I think to my horror:
it must have been a Boyzone gig!
Yikes. But I was young then, was very very young (gulp). Boyzone eh... how did these clowns ever manage to get away with it? Seen through the cold eye of time, it is a mystery. Oh but they did, they certainly did: massive, giant, galactical they were! And we were crazy for them we were, couldn't get enough of them, me and millions of every girl. Shrieking ourselves silly, covering our walls with posters of the Duffy man (!!><>?!!>??!!!????), well feck me sideways with a rusty spanner if this ain't called hysteria, what must have gone through our collective minds?!? ...Like I say it's all a mystery; oh yes, puberty has a lot to answer for!

(Then at long last we eventually grew up proper -and went for Westlife.)

Proper happy days these were... Footloose and carefree like. With the benefit of hindsight, life reveals itself to be soooo different from what it felt at the time, it takes on unsuspected dimensions. Like if I want to think about it now, I can only come to this conclusion: who would have got me the ticket for that gig but JohnnyRay himself! JohnnyRay it must have been, the famous punk and Goth icon. He would have been the one. Yep, I can only assume that he would have been the one to go ferret around for these precious tickets -they were golddust! and then, of course, he was the one 'took me here himself. The famous punk and all it must have meant for him at the time. But then the way I saw then, the only way I could see it, it was just myself and me Da ("Now don't let go of me hand you hear?"). He took me to the gig himself -and how it must have hurt! His ears, his standards, his faith with public taste and the rock business. If I do a quick calculation, that would have been around the time his star was going on the wane.
Now that's what I call a Da.
Probably bought me the t-shirt as well. The t-shirt, bandanna, badges, sweets, soda and a balloon.

Depeche Mode recently played here but I missed them. Bad thing / good thing? On one hand, it would have been a less embarrassing badge of honour.
On the other I would never have recalled that precious moment.


Anyway here I am again then, fourteen odd years later. The Point, here we come (back)! A quick flash of my journo card and (I have to pay the entrance fee) (CROSSED OUT FONT HERE) we are inside the joint. I am confronted by the daunting sight of rows upon rows of record stalls and my first reaction is... where have all the girls gone? As far as I can see, it's only men out there, either inspecting what's on offer or selling their wares. In truth, I could probably count the girls present on the fingers of one hand. The living ones that is: life-size cut-outs of babes in vein-tight lycra don't count (here you have your standard Madonnas Pinks Pussycats Enyas J-Los etc.). Yep, it's all male male male, fanboys venturing out of their bedrooms, on the look-out for that one item, that one curio which they don't own yet, which they may not even know about, but which will make their life complete.
Like that seven inch single with a cigarette hole drilled through the sleeve by the bass player maybe, or else that vinyl dyed pink, that cover fitted with light nodules flashing in the dark, that album perfumed with synthetic strawberries, that CD whose inner photo got vandalised by a subversive graffiti artist, that limited edition which opens thanks to a classy flies zipper, that fold-out sleeve, that LP with the A-side and B-side labels inverted by mistake at the factory, that disc left whole with no hole pierced through!
Anything goes, really.

Like I said, the sight's quite daunting. There's so many, I don't know where to start! So much so that I would almost be tempted to forget about my initial idea and just go with the flow, drift through the rows, vaguely browsing through the thousands of cut prices and special offers. (Amazing how many prices happen to be "slashed" eh...) Is there any classification at work here? After a wee while, I kinda make out the thematic divisions: like some sellers are only specialised in the sixties, The Beatles or whatever. Once again, the unsuspected variety of divisions and subdivisions takes me by surprise. Fill your boots! when you can have:
live bootlegs; videoed TV appearances; "Dr. Who"; punk era; vinyl only; singles; eight-track cassettes; "shoegazing" (?); t-shirts and memorabilia; autographs; limited editions of one sort of another; "baggy"(??); programs; backstage passes; Japanese releases of European/American albums complete with their funny squiggling; "grindcore" and "mash-ups"(???); personal fanclub relics; musicals; "leaked" master-tapes from the studios; "jungle", "speedcore", "two-tone", "ragga" (surely a spelling mistake), "Bollywood"; white labels (What can this mean? I go investigate and -it turns out the labels are white. Like du'h! Not the most convenient though is it?); Elvis; tour posters and key-rings; heavy metal (cue: an excuse for cranking up to eleven some godawful racket from men in make-up and poodle haircut. Oh - mine - ears: must be their skintight kecks that cause them to squeal so high); box-sets; "industrial"; homemade; discontinued and deleted; second-hand bargains which, frankly, look like they belong to a carboot sale; country and western; nothing classical; TV tie-ins (wanna hear our very own version of "Do They Know It's Christmas Time" again? Or what about that fun-filled anthem for the Ireland soccer team of some pre-historic eighties' world cup? Well look no further. ...I will.); movie soundtracks; VHS rental tapes from bankrupt video-shops; eighties and "post-punk" -Bingo! That's gotta be the one, that's more like it!


I approach the stand in question with no small amount of trepidation. Will they have anything from ColdHeat will they? Will they at least have heard of them? Plastic pockets wallpaper a partition offering to our attention a lovingly selected array of lurid sleeves, all of them competing for the most attention grabbing title:
"City Baby Attacked By Rats!", "Punk's Not Dead!", "Sid Vicious Was Innocent!", "The Ungovernable Force", "The Unacceptable Face Of Freedom", "Destroy She Said", "Lesson One: Misanthropy", "Plein Les Couilles!" (?? photo of a bull's genitals here), "Pissed And Proud!", "Banned From The Pubs!", "Too Drunk To Fuck", "Bring On The Nubiles", "It Takes A Nation To Hold Us Back!", "Apocalypse 91 The Empire Strikes Black!", "Welcome To The Terrordome", "I'm So Bored With The USA", "Songs About F*cking", "If You Don't Want To Fuck Me Then Fuck Off", "Nazi Punks Fuck Off", "Fuck Like An Animal", "Fuck Da Police", "Fuck The Mods!", my personal favourite "The F*ckin' C*nts Treat Us Like Pr*cks" (sic), "Touch Me I'm Sick", "Plastic Surgery Disasters", "I Wanna Marry a Tubeway Disaster", "Holiday In Cambodia", "Smash It Up!", "Kill The Poor!", "Kill Your Friends!", "Kill Your Television!", "The Fisherman's Blues", "Cop Killer", "Bloodsports For All!", "Friendly As A Hand Grenade", "Machine Gun Etiquette", "Shot From Both Sides", "Pretty Hate Machine", "Atrocity Exhibition", "Tube Stations Of The Cross", "Pictures Of Starving Children Sell Records", "Let's Lynch The Landlord!", "I Don't Want To Know If You Are Lonely", "The Queen Is Dead", "Friendly Fascism" (mercifully subtitled "This Is Not A Fascist Record" though -ah), "This Is Not A Love Song", "Go Wild In The Country!", "The Sky's Gone Out!", "Final Solution", "Baby's Turned Blue!", and finally "If I Die I Die".
Phew, that's me told.

And check out the band names too, they're quite tasty: the Screaming Blue Messiahs, the Stranglers, Screaming Jesus, Play Dead, Dead Can Dance, Dead Kennedys, the Dead Boys, the Death Cult, Death (do I detect a common thread here?), Discharge, Crass, Conflict, Cannibal Corpse, the Circle Jerks, the Crucifucks, Crispy Ambulance, Theatre Of Hate, Handsome Dick And The Dictators, And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of The Dead, Sick Of It All, Poison The Well, Public Enemy, Niggas With Attitude, Nuclear Assault, Napalm Death, Extreme Noise Terror, Killdozer, Kill Yourself, the Killers, the Kills, Bomb Disneyland, Bomb Everything, the Brian Jonestown Massacre, a Million Dead Cops, Cop Shoot Cop, Bodycount, Scratch Acid, Unsane, Damaged, Pulp (as in "beaten to a"?), Pissed Jeans, Bathtub Shitter, the Damned, the London SS, the Violent Femmes, the Homosexuals, the Epileptics, Treponem Pal, Daisy Chainsaw, Bark Psychosis, Suicide, Suicidal Tendencies, Time To Die, The It Will Hurt But You Will Like It, Blood Everywhere, Virgin Mega Whore, Gaye (sic) Bikers On Acid, Sheep On Drugs, Foreheads In A Fishtank, Machine Gun Fellatio, the Butthole Surfers, Anal C*nt, Pansy Division, Nine Inch Males, Gay For Johnny Depp, RainyDayFuckParade, Fuckeaters, Holy Fuck, Fuck -all of them surely charming.

Of course each and every one of them, as far as I can see, "boys bands". Not a single girlie in sight, not even an ironic snapshot medallion of the Bewitched twins (God love 'em, what are they up to these days I wonder?), that's right, it's all a bunch of hairy backs on parade. Scowling, frowning, mugging, showing off as they cross their arms well tight (this pushes your tiny weenie biceps up and makes them look bigger: re-sult! ...just like with breasts for us then. Clever eh? Ah well, never let it be said that there's nothing to be learnt from bad soaps and unimaginative photoshoots). The usual look on their faces is of intense irritation and imminent confrontation like someone's borrowed their PlayStation without asking. I also note that some of the fellows have a tendency to rest a hand on their groin, even slipping it casually under their belt as one does. There's some serious camera outstaring going on here.
Looking at those, I get almost well scared I do. And I wonder, I just wonder: what exactly are they trying to tell us here with all this posturing? Huh? Could it be that they're well 'ard? That they're up for it? Are they, like, challenging us to wake up with the crowd 'round us? "If you don't want to fuck me you can fuck off", that's fighting talk where myself and Georgie -especially Georgie- come from! Hmm... if so they are -well 'ard and all-, why then are they so desperate to convince us of the fact? Genuinely big men don't need to boast; only wannabes play up. I would have thought we all get the message loud and clear thanks a million. All that testosterone pumping, Jaysus, it must get to their heads after a while! Can they manage to walk at all? And when they get on stage, when they finally get to perform -do they still grab their crotch? Surely one has to fear for them, juiced up as they portray themselves to be.
Ah well, fair play to them I guess, boys will be boys etc....

I spot the stall's brand tag: apparently he/it is called "DeathFun". "We're from Hamburg and we're rocking!" promises he (or they). I know someone who so gonna like that! I step up to the stand. Your man Deatho sports blonde highlights in his post-apocalyptic barnet (short on the sides, spikes on top, mullet type fringe); being not too familiar with current Goth chic, I can't comment, but I take this to be his statement of fun over the aul' Reaper...
Forty-something, towering over six feet, he appears to still be in possession of all his teeth. Leather trousers. Earrings in both ears and a cheerful "Sonic Youth Expressway To Y'r Skull" t-shirt complete his look; no doubt about it, the dude's For Real. I may be in luck here.

"Hello there, how you 'keeping?"
-"Hel-lo to you, and good afternoon too. May I be of assiiistance?"
-"Right er, maybe you can, well it's a bit, I was wondering if you... -actually I'm kinda looking for one band in particular you know? What happened is, they had their day for a wee while in the eighties and then they er... Well no longer. Anyway, they're an Irish band yeah? from the eighties? and I was wondering if you would have heard of them..."
-"A-ha an Iriiish group, from ze eighties, well let me see... I am thinking, I am thinking yes...: you must presently refer to ze Virgin Pruuunes ah yes: zey were quite big. Well were as big as zeir relatively limited following-market-share would allow of course ha ha!"
-"Er no, it's not the Prunes"
-"It's not ze Pruuunes?? Ach zen, let's consider, let's consider yes...: could it be ze Undertones zen, or maybe ze Stiff Little Fingers -alzough technically zeese do not from ze Irish Republic itself originate, but from ze Norzern territory still legally occupied by Great Britain ah yes!"
-"No no, it's not them either, I know their"
He stops me midflow, looking almost insulted
-"God in ze sky! Don't tell me you are matter-of-factly to U2 referring -you wouldn't be talking about U2 yes? No?"
-"No no, good heaven I'm not -I know U2, thank you. No I am thinking of another crowd altogether, a different kettle of fish and no mistake: they were kinda more edgy like, more theatrical, and easily better"
-"Eferyone is easily better zan U2!" he cuts me off peremptorily -and probably to his great danger in this part of the world I should think
-"Ha! Hmm well... -easily better in their days that is- and they were called... ColdHeat. ColdHeat. Would you have heard of them by any chance? ColdHeat, huh? Maybe would you have anything by them here? by any chance? I'm just curious..."
-"ColdHeat? You presently mean "ze high priests of Dub' doom"? JohnnyRay Maddixx "ze seer of Saint-James sadness" and "Prophet of Parnell Street"? A-ha, of course I do know zem, possibly must I have some of their releases in my cold-wave section, zey were seriously decadent in zeir timeperiod I am remembering!"
-"Wow, really? So you know them?? Did you like them?"
Your man starts foraging through his stock.
-"I am not suuure really, don't remember zem much as a matter of audio remembrance: after all, zat is a large amount of time now I am thinking ah yes... ..... I am thinking zey alright were yes, most certainly; zey were soootably competent in zeir own style, given ze accepted timely genre parameters."
He spots my disappointment. Reacts quickly.
"God in ze sky! My commenting right now doesn't mean zat zey bad were! Technically have I not zat said: self-understandably apply we all our own criteria to our taste preferences yes? Hey, at the start of the night I am more of a Husker Du man myself, therefore."
He goes back to rummaging through his stuff. I have no idea who this Husker Du is: could it be a genre? a label? a Nordic death metaller? Obviously it carries some kind of signification which escapes me altogether... maybe some kind of opposition a la Southsider versus Northsider, "Carrie Bradshaw romantic" versus "Samantha slag"...
"Ah no, unfortunately looks it like you not in ze luuuck are young lady, I so sincerely apologise yes, I am prettily sure -and when I'm sure zat means I am right- zat I a couple of their albums left had, but it appears zat zey gone are (ach schloch)! Most likely sold, I would logically conclude. I so sincerely apologise."
-"Ah what a shame, that's just too bad, that would have been so... huh I wonder, mind you: could it be maybe they're in a different section?"
-"In a different section? Certainly not! No probable chance of zat young lady!! Ze ColdHeat albums belong to ze Cold-Wave section and nowhere else! Not in ze Noufeau-Romantic section, not in ze New-Wafe Pop section -and certainly not in ze Post-Punk section, zis wouldn't be correct!"
-"Sorry sorry, my bad, I didn't mean to er... doubt your memory or challenge your classification! I'm sure you're right, I guess if we can't find them here well, well it must mean that they've been sold"
-"Zat would be ze logical conclusion yes. If you want young lady, I could out check it, I have everything on logged in my inventory, all transactions, all stock, won't take a minute"
-"No no that's grand, don't you put yourself out on my behalf, I was only wondering is all..."
Deatho silences me with one hand and types with the other on his whatchallit.
-"A-ha and zere we are...: indeed have zey been sold, at 10 hours 45 and 10 hours 47 morning time -presuuumably to ze identical customer"
-"Ah that's brilliant then, I'm glad to hear! So people still be buying them, that's great that is... Say, if I may ask, you seem to know an awful lot about them don't you..."
-"Ah well, not really about zem precisely I must be frank, it is just zat... -you understand- zey originate in the eighties and so therefore..."
Your man gets all apologetic, Deatho addresses me an almost sad smile.
-"I see. The eighties seem to mean an awful lot to you..."
-"Zey were magic!! Total fancy, super creative! I have my nose full with these dumb heads who always claim zat ze eighties crap were! Ach!! It's so easy zat decade to ridicule if you up bring ze likes of Kajagoogoo, Duran Duran, A Flock Of Seagulls, David Hasselhof, Culture Club, Trio, Bon Jovi, Toto, ze Thompson Twins -who cares about zese clowns?? In life you have to up look, not down look! Ze eighties saw the rise of ze Cocteau Twins! Ze Young Gods! Joy Division! Husker Du! Sonic Youth! Big Black! Dinosaur Jr! Bauhaus! Killing Joke! Ze Birthday Party yeah? Siouxsie! Ze Cure! Public Enemy! And so forth and so further: what about Talk Talk eh? what about ze Smiths, Japaaan, Ultrafox, Depeche Mode, New Orter, Einsturzende Neubauten, Kas Produkt, Deutsche Amerikanische Freundshaft, Nina Hagen, ze Ex, Negazione, Fugazi and millions more!"
He gets all agitated, I sympathise with his anguish. I refrain from telling him Herself grew up listening to Culture Club and Duran Duran though (AMG John Taylor!!!!!!!1XXXLOL), instead I offer a
-"I was born in the eighties..."
-"How wonderful! Fair pay to you! (is what you say here yess?) Except you must have up grown in ze nineties zen -terrible decade ach ze nineties... yes I'm thinking, terrible terrible tss... By zen had all ze inventivity gone, ze innovations, ze clothes' and haircuts' fun... all gone!"
He goes all quiet for a while. ... I almost grieve for your man. But not for long.
"So you were lookiiing for some ColdHeat zen? How heart warming... It's nice zat people zeir childhood remember when zey up grow... A-ha! If you want -I'm thinking now-, if you want, can I my contacts call yeah? and search for zeir albums? I am sure I could some locate, zen I could zem post-send to you yes?"
-"Good man yourself! But no, no thanks, really there is no need to go to such lengths"
-"Oh but not at all not at all, zis can most probably be arranged ah yes"
-"No no you see, I've got them all at home that is... -Well, my old man has that is. I just wanted to know like -I was curious- ...see if anyone still cared?"
-"Oh, oh but I care -lots of people care! Zere is a huuuge care-bidding-market for ze eighties zere is, just like wiz ze sefenties in fact ...and ze sixties. ...Ach pig dog! I guess in ten years' time will people about zese awful nineties nostalgic be and so on -it's a cycle, you see? Zat's how it works: what comes around goes back around, through ze nostalgia-caring-factor."
-"Oh it sure does... nostalgia eh..."
-"Zat's right, zat is correct: ze human-emotion-nostalgia-determinating-factor yes. ... Now since you interested are yes?, I'll tell you something though, I'll tell you what I heard, about ze JohnnyRay"
-"Oh yeah? What have you heard then?"
-"I am remembering now, zere was zis article, some time ago in zis fanzine...what did it say again? ... Ah yes: it said ze JohnnyRay in a cats-full-house lives."
-"He what?? Lives in a cat's house? in a house full of cats? You must be thinking of Brigitte Bardot you are!"
-"No no no I'm not: ze Prishitte Partot is not Irish, she was not in a cold-wave band!! I know that! Prishitte Partot was a French actress, a fifties-to-seventies-time-era-based comeedian, a sexy sexy fleshsymbol yes? -Now is retired."
-"OK OK so he is not Brigitte Bardot, he's JohnnyRay, let's both agree, we both know the difference, all apologies for the confusion I didn't mean to... So what else've you heard? I am all ears!"
-"What else? hmm well, yes zen... ah let me see... I can't remember too much now, zis article... it talked about his life - ze Joh