On The Subject Of Crisps (x'crpt)

XcrPt from "YKY2.0" CopyRight UmaUma0012


-------------"Destroy Before Reading" ------------------------------------------------



　


Status update: I am going through a bag of "kettle chips", I am methodically demolishing a 150g bag of "cheddar and Caerphilly" -whatever Caerphilly is- in which I am assured "absolutely NOTHING (is) artificial". Now there's a good one: "nothing artificial" -Sure there is! Last time I checked the garden, slices of fried potato rolled up in spices and coated in salt were nowhere to be seen, were they! "Nothing artificial" me erse... Anyhoo, mission underway.

First, tear open the bag. A delicious thrill of panic always accompanies this delicate operarion as, more often than, the said bag explodes and you gasp in mock alarm: Will the crips fly off in all directions? Will there be anything left? ...Yes, amusement and solace can be found in the most mundane.
I knew the outcome as soon as I grabbed the bag and so be it: Demolish, demolish away! Wolf down - gorge - fill. Lick dry and retch later. Methodical as can be, I shall follow the procedure, I will give in to the routine. The first step is discovery: I savour the crisps one by one, taking time to properly taste them and letting them dissolve on my tongue. Then I build a rhythm. From one at a time I move on to a couple pinched together, then a few more altogether. By three, by four, by what turns into a fistful, I shovel them in my mouth and embark on a quest to fill myself up. It's a losing battle, really: by now the taste buds have lost their sharpness. They need more to effect recognition, and even more to achieve satisfaction. The original tingle has gone and the threshold is receding ever further. A right avalanche of salt, that's what is needed. I must move on to the next imperative: satiation.

I gorge myself on salt and let the crisps crrrack under my teeth -this is the one crunching sound perfectly attuned to human jaw, I would argue: "crrrRRrack" -repeat and enjoy. I work through a hefty 150 grams of fried and refried goodness, making sure to lick my fingers at regular intervals for maximum enjoyment: let no grease go to waste, overdo it as overdo can. I even wash my fingers episodically, before plunging them back inside the sticky aluminium. Yes, I knew exactly how events would proceed as soon as they got underway. This one is a satisfying given: there is no stopping now, and no turning back till satiated emptiness.
You open them, you finish them. Saltiness calls for more of the same, I swich off and give in.

Halfway through the pack I inevitably reach for the fridge and extract a generic bottle of fizzy pop chemicals: "Whizzz", "Pops", "xtra", "Faz", "Blurp", "pFuit!" -whatever ingenuous name research groups have hoovered up millions to come up with. Ultimately though, brands shouldn't matter. This is a soda -it'll do the job. I grab the bottle from behind the celery sticks which I won't eat but keep buying and plop it on the table. I improve it with a dash of vodka, and a generous one too, to give it some bite. Liquid acid explosion calls in turn for oseophageal activation and I instantly need more of them salty treats. Crisps - drink, drink - crisps, crisps - more drink. Before I know it, it's time for a refill, and the kitchen cocktail gets a couple more dashes of vodka or whatever's at hand. It's a work in progress alright: a finger of this, a measure of that. Final taste? Unknown. In more ways than one, it's a very private recipe, and must never be divulged: as sensations degrade, so must the infernal mixture. It's getting sickly sweet now in fact, and probably on the wrong side of safety. The perfect accompaniment to crisps then -or is it the other way round. I remember Dolores off The Cranberries, how she said she once went through twelve bags of crisps... She got through twelve of them in one mad sitting, couldn't get enough. I understood her then, and I understand her now.
I pig myself.
I am looking for satiation.

I note the passing of time by the decrease in volume of the bag. I also note it by the swelling in my stomach.

Just as taste evolves, quality also takes a turn for the worst. Some might say that crisps get increasingly manky as you go down the pack but that would be soooo mistaken. What depressing disregard for what truly constitutes happiness this attitude would constitute. Crisps are meant to be a riot, they're meant to be a guilty pleasure -Down with this health obsession, "comfort food" wasn't invented to fill this purpose! Scraping the barrel, see: this is precisely when it gets to a whole new level of interesting.

What happens is all the good ones are gone when you reach the bottom. Lording it at the top and first to be dispatched were the least imperfectly formed crisps. It's only natural, see: it is their very shape that made them available above all others. Here comes the science bit now. With every rattle and shake, the contents of the bag reposition themselves and so the smaller crisps (the more accommodating ones one might say), they slip under their perfectly formed and undamaged betters. Those of inferior quality sink to the bottom like cereals do. At the base of your bag is where the crumbs will have ended. The crumbs, the broken bits. The least attractive and most unhealthy. I don't see it that way though; I'd say these ones are the very essence of crisps, with maximum badness concentration. These are the super oily in this symphony of oiliness, the ones the rest have sweated on. At the bottom is where true taste resides. The salty residues glued to the salty deposits, the apocalypse of the senses. There's no more need for subtlety here, it's time for OTT: lick up the dregs and just shiver... A bit like when you're having fish in a restaurant and they always give you some bleedin' lemon and you save it for a mighty Mother of God bite afterwards. ...Yikes.

The shards are getting smaller. By now they've turned to spikes, and turned to sparks. Soon enough they'll be mere flakes. Dust. Globules of vinegar. Salt level has gone beyond noticeable and oil has overcome any last semblance of texture -this is "No No" territory. Lick and suck. Taste buds have been forsaken some time ago along with dignity and I'm only interested in completing the mission. Finish the task to its bitter end and disappear the last crystals of salt. That's nearly it. I drain my glass and give the bag one last good shake: evil bits gather in a corner and I pour the corner into my gullet.


I hope noone's watching.
I know noone's watching me, alone in my flat on a Saturday night.

Lily at a Jesus Lizard gig.

Xcr'pt from "YKNY2.0": In Which Our Heroine Attends A Jesus Lizard / Fugazi Concert. Copyright Uma Uma etc.

(...)
Stage-hands instantly appear and set about clearing the place for the next act. They own the stage and they know it: young Leanne's amp gets a good kicking and is sent flying into touch, soon followed by the drum kit (minus seated drummer though). Stage-hands sport pony tails on their heads and utility belts off their bellies, that's how you recognise them. I already know their kind: they're usually called "Spidy" on account of the tattoo covering their neck and like nothing better but to draw peckers with their flash-lamp once the lights have gone down. This reminds me: Where the Bono is Mathieu? Still hasn't reappeared from his drink gathering mission! Could do with a coke me, I'm melting...

If that were any possible, the atmosphere about the place has now turned even more electric: with the opening act gone, the audience are starting to smell blood and there is an undeniable sense of expectation taking over. I note a new age range taking up position at the front (also known as "the mashed pit"), more of the athletic type, and with lethal shorter than short crew cuts. They pierce right through the throng of old fogies and head straight up for the battlefront. ...Sadly I precisely belong to the throng of olf fogies. Caught in the changing of the guard, I can't extricate myself fast enough and soon get thrown about -I'm literally swept off my feet! Huh, huh, "scuse me", "sorry", nothing doing -the ebb and flow carries me in its wake and I have no choice but to follow. Do I not enjoy that, oh not one bit! Can't even turn my head round, can't be looking for Mathieu -for all I know, the fecker may still be queueing for the bar- and so I start to bounce.
Boiiing, boiiing.

"No ham shanking if yer kippin' in me scratcher d'you hear?"
"But he was miiiiiiles offside!"
"Ya big spanner, I'd have torn the skanger a new one I would!"
"Right boys, I'm off to shake hands with the unemployed -buzz me when it starts yeah?"
"And I was like "huh", "'da fuck??" -Didn't know whether to shit or get a haircut!?"
"Is that true they'll jump you if you light up?"
"Ma che cosa dice??"

I'm desperately trying to swim against the tide here, where oh where is Mathieu? Why did I ever choose to move in the first place, what in the name possessed me!! Really should have known better I mean... What was I thinking without any protection from the great unwashed?? /grr :-((/


"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, 'know? Your man himself got knocked out! Got knocked right out, he did... Bleeding everywhere he was -the band never stopped playing though -Oh, happy days..."
"Paid the full wack: thirty bleedin' Euro!!"
"Got it for free."
"Seriously though, a 'tache can soak up to ten percent of your beer -surely doesn't make economic sense to"
"That's nothing dude: I used to snort E's up me brown!"
"Shit you not, mate! Next time you see Ciara, check out the noddies on her... D'you reckon she's good for the goose?"
"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 this bollix: "No man is an island" me brown! Think about it: Man's a human being, right? And an island is a maritime based tectonic plates crash occurence, know worramean?"
"One-bagger or two-bagger?"
"Two-bagger man, I ren as soon as me spuds were done!"


Slowly but surely, I do manage to slide ever so slightly between the packed bodies:
"'Scuse me fellas / 'scuse me / sorry / sorry there, didn't see you / coming through / 'scuse me!"
At last I spot Mathieu. He's safely perched on top of the stairs, and proudly holds a plastic glass. 'Sweetie must have been looking for me I reckon, but not exactly being the tallest in the height department, I probably don't register on his radar -should have sprayed my hair funny, that'd have done the trick! In a strange way, of us two, 'turns out he's the one 'made the right choice when he decided to stay behind and wait to get served -that'll learn me for trying to be cute. So there he is now, literally lording it high above, while I'm still elbowing my way to safety down below. On another day he'd be about -oh- all of five seconds away from me. In the present circumstance... a good ten minutes of assault course.
"'Scuse me, 'scuse me"
-"Hey there... 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 haven't we? Besides, you can't go through here: See?" ( <------- br="br"> It's jam-packed solid. Nothing moving. ( - )
"Why d'you wanna go anyways? The Lizard are about to come on"
-"I... It's a bit too mental for me, 'know? Don't feel too well"
-"Right you are it's focken mental!! It's a focken honour to see Fugazi and the Lizard!! Just you wait til Dave Yeow comes on, he's proper hardcore"
-"Dave Who?"
-"Dave Yeow -He's the singer"
-"Oh, yeah"
-"Proper hardcore, he is. So. ... You're up for a bit of "Wheelchair Epidemic" then?"
-"Wheelchair what???"
-""Wheelchair Epi"-Right. I see. Tell me now young lady, you don't seem to know much about the Lizard now, do you?"
-"Nope."
-"And Fugazi?"
-"Neither."
-"Right so... Huh, well in that case let me suggest you brace yourself love, you might want to"

A huge roar erupts behind me. (Behind me... that is to say ahead of us, should I face the opposite.) (Which I'm not.) (Hence behind my behind, or the conventional upfront.) A huge roar erupts then, which leads me to conclude the second band are making their entrance -Quick! Quick! Get me out of here double fast! As the crowd surges forward, it creates a vacuum effect in its wake which suits me just fine: see me getting squirted further away! Yyyyyyyyyyes, one more push and I'll be safe! Safe!
"Driiiiing, driiiing, bong!" Somewhere behind me, the rock 'n rollers test their guitars. Their guitars respond.
"One two two, one two!" It's now the turn of someone sounding already hoarse.
One more push... Only one more push and I'm home and dry... On any day, all I'd 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, 'need to be brave, 'need to be brave and grab my chance by the balls: Dare I risk it through the sweaty opening? I totally feel like a baby emerging! I slip a leg through, I'm now technically one half already 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!!"
-"so we ONE TA THREE FOUR"

All hell breaks loose. There's no other way to describe it.

All hell breaks loose and and I swear to God if one half of my body -the one stuck between two perfect strangers- doesn't literally fly through the air! Holly Molly! The other half, meanwhile, remains very much standing on its remaining foot as I discover new perspectives in gravity.

Then it gets worse.

Before I know it, the melee to which my squeezed half 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 the brutes, my left side offering a surely unflattering view of my anatomy: Aaaaaahhhhhh! I am desperately trying to get some leverage here, anywhere will do.
"Hey, hey -Wait! Wait!! Hold it there guys! Hold it th"
But the young braves get down with it and start pumping their fists in the air -or whatever it is the youngs indulge in these days.
"Excuuuuse me!"
A fair bit of shuffling ensues -hey, I said no groping!- and I finally manage to extricate myself. Well, extricate one half of me, that is. I am still facing the wrong way though, and from my position, I'm ideally placed to observe glasses of beer gracefully trace through the air all the way from the stairs -Waste of a fiver, that. Steam is literally rising from people's heads, I think I'm gonna faint.
"I'LL CALM DOWN!!", some beast roars behind me, "I'LL CALM DOWN!!" By the sound of the infernal racket going on, I'd say he doesn't seem to stand much of a chance.
"-But I'm still shaking."

I still haven't had the opportunity to actually see what these lizards look like.
What they sound like though is... ahem, quite distinctive in their own way yeah. They're distinctive alright. Best description would be: the sound of falling down the stairs, falling down the stairs. I don't know what these guys are on -booze, speed, one, fire, one night only, stage, tour- but it sure isn't the money: they're like totally over the place! Bang, bong, boom, crash, speak squeak creak, meaow -I can't make heads or tails of what's going on! It's a bit like, let's see... it's a bit like when your thirteen year old boyfriend decides to demonstrate his newly acquired guitar skills, it's like that time when you brought back home the video for "Twin Peaks The Movie" instead of the one for "Twins", it's like going for a glass of water in the middle of the night and stumbling across your Da getting a "treat" from a groupie ...it's not a pleasant experience.
What do I do? What do I do? My first priority has to be to try 'n stay in one piece: some fierce pogoing is going on all around and I don't stand a chance. Being "petite" by nature -don't call me short OK- I'm like totally exposed to them flailing elbows. "Hey guys! Watch it!" I get hit in the back of my head and have no choice but to turn around.

This is when I discover this David "Yo!" fellow.

Sweet lamb a Jaysus! Whatever happened to humanity! I'm 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 Lizard front-man could reasonably be described as some kind of purple faced grunting gargoyle all over the shop, sweating from every pore and squealing like a hoarse pig stuck on a roast. He hasn't even bothered to put on a shirt. What's wrong with wearing a shirt, man? Is that too much to ask?? Isn't it how people actually evolved in fact: the one fine day they decided to leave their cosy cave and venture outside see what was up, didn't they -like- put on clothes in order to brave the cold? And -lo!- dress sense was born! Not only that, but clothes -think about it- clothes, isn't it how we differentiate and recognise each other? Huh? (Like "Look it! Here's a tidy fellow sporting a lethal cashmere scarf, I'm having some of that" and "Oh, here's a Decko.") -Isn't it what led to the creation of Brown Thomas of all places??
...But this small evolutionary detail sadly seems to have escaped this gentleman's attention altogether. In fact, the singer -and I use the term generously here- appears to be presently more preoccupied with keeping his torn trousers up. Ewww my word -doesn't look like we can expect any Calvin Klein underneath!
"Squeeeeal squeeeeeal, motherfucker, squeeeeal, one two one two!"
The music stops for a micro-second... (insert micro-second here) and then chaos resumes (/chaos/). "Broaaaaaaagh, bang, crash wallop woof woof!" As crashing cymbals joyfully drown out the harmonious din of out-of-tune guitars, your man comes up with a brilliant idea. He hurls himself head first into the crowd. "wwwwWAOOOOOOwww!" The crowd, to their credit, don't make way and receive him enthusiastically. Go check out YouTube and you'll find videos of audiences failing to receive stage divers. ...It can be quite messy. Thankfully, tonight's is not one of these occasions and your man, now held aloft by a sea of tattooed arms, squeals and grunts some more: "wwwWWWHEYYYYYY!" -Chris de Borg this clearly ain't. The squirming frontfellow now starts surfing above the assembled heads (why, David? why?) and progresses towards no particular destination -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, as two or three more appear out of nowhere. ...Well at least these two are not supposedly here to sing, which is what your man was hired to do. Yo's singing goes something like this:
"May-be (something something really fast) boilermaker, may-be (something something really fast again) boilermaker woooAAAAARGGGGGHHHH!"
I think we've moved on to a new song but I'm not entirely sure... Meanwhile, the crowd surfers meet in the middle of the eruption and exchange head-bumps as males do. Crunch! Vlam! Pronk! 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, as all manners of body parts fly about: elbows, arms, backs, knees... everyone's gone epileptic or. To think that I fancied a quiet night in... :-( Brave young males engage in some kind of wardance and I am left to fend off for myself, stuck in the middle of traffic. Left right left right, I've become a human top, spinning around but not the way Kylie intended.


"(Grunt) baby baby baby" -what's 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 a blur of legs flies over me and a body soon follows, disappearing head first under the forest of arms. How heartwarming... your man's sudden vertical departure is saluted by big cheers all around, but not to worry: more meet-and-greet candidates for suicide instantly replace him, moshing their way over people's craniums and necks. As the mayhem continually reconfigures itself with no regard for propriety, I suddenly find myself pressing hard against someone's sweaty manboobs -ewww... The biffo in question is towering over me and wears a charming shirt that reads "Hips Lips Tits Power" (???) but that's just fab: the big fellow's acting as a human shield against the rolling waves -Alleluia! I've found shelter! It might last just one more song, but I've found shelter! I cling to him, I cling to him, and my personal sumo arches his back against the relentless assault.

Somewhere above our heads, the lead grunter concludes one of his incomprehensible assaults on melody with a satisfied "Aaaaahhhh..." Truth be told, I'm getting the hang of recognising Jesus Lizard song endings: they're over when all that remains is the droning larsen between your ears. It usually brings us ten seconds of temporary respite.

Now let's talk serious.
I'm sorry but, back in the days when a certain Dub legend bestrode the stage like the proverbal octopuss, things were much simpler: the singer stood on the stage... and not on his audience's heads. There was -like- a clear line in the sand, and everyone knew where to stand. That is to say:
the audience "A" on one side,
and the band "B" on the other. Full stop. Inbetween the two shall no meet. (Or at least, not before the after-show, er, "congratulations" -'nuff said, see above.)
In days of yore, you most certainly did not see bodies flying right past your nose like I just did (oops, that must have hurt). I certainly can't imagine JohnnyRay The-Man-Himself taking very kindly to anyone crashing his personal space, let alone pilfering his mike mid-rant. No no no no, the Bard of Blanchardstown wouldn't have put up with that one bit! I don't imagine he would have gone for a wander down the mashed pit either, or put himself at the mercy of his listeners' tired arms -talking of which, I wonder how many more emergency landings are likely to happen tonight (there goes another one); the answer's probably a few.

"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'm almost getting used to this nonsense by now: it's like these guys started with perfectly legitimate songs with a normal guitar riff, a solid bass line and a coherent rhythm ...and then set about messing them up for the craic of it. (Huh, they mess them up alright.) Here we go again: Stop / start / stop / start / guitar shrill (I think it's meant to be a "riff") / stop again; bass heavier than yo mama's arse; drummer sounding like he's put on boxing gloves: another sonic outrage is on its way. So let's detune the guitar some more eh ("boiiiing!"), let's bash the bass ("Brommm!"), and let's ply the drumman with booze for good measure ("Weeeeeeee!"). Sighs rock critic Lily... Why can't they just leave it alone and keep it simple? Chill pill, lads! Yous are definitely starting to wreck me bonce something massive! Meanwhile and more pressingly, my man-shelter appears to be wilting under the relentlesss surge of the rioters and we're inexorably pushed towards the front. 'Can't possibly grab his love handles more desperately without risking a "X" certificate and so I slip, I slide, I submit. I go with the flow, I have no choice. "Zzzzzzip" go my feet dragged on the floor (that is, if I could hear them), "Boom boom boom bong" go the bass and drums -Jaysus is this a heavy number or what! With the resumption of the hostilities, the singer has taken to climbing over people's heads again -in fact I wonder when I last saw him on the stage proper- and I note with alarm that he's currently heading this way.

He's currently heading this way.

This can't be good. This can't be good for me. As as I get dragged/pushed along, depending on which way I turn, I realise to my absolute horror that your man is unerringly heading straight for me! Desperate times call for despearate measures: no no no no, please by the Bono, say it ain't so!! But calling on the holy one proves of no use: before I know it, the grunting gnome towers over me, all sweat and manhandled parts -I don't even want to imagine who's been holding what, let's not go there! His flabby torso hovers over my hair and he starts dripping all over me! Aaaahhhhh!!! Your man's totally dripping and I am trapped underneath, with everyone naturally dead intent on maintaining him in that very position on that very spot -Get him off me! Get him off me! That'll be a double shampoo and tetanus shot for me first thing in the morning, that. I close my eyes and try to be brave:
Sweet Mary mother of our Lord, should you hear me above this infernal racket, I promise to be a good girl from now on. No more "Dawson Creek" / "O.C." marathon, no more faffing about at the gym, not even any slagging of badly dressed oafs -and you knooow how much I can't abide slovenliness!


Finally I can't help it, curiosity gets the better of me and I look up. I soon regret my decision.
Your man is currently dangling down three feet away from 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..." Why, thanks a bunch mister, you're not too sound yourself! And then, 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, rolls away. He is bundled over to another lucky lucky punter 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 entirely ("that's right Dudley wwwweyyYYYyyy"), but most of the hoi-polloi follows and -alleluia!- I see an opening. I see an opening, says I. All of a sudden there is hope in the stampede, salvation amidst the sweatfest. The mental feckers are so keen on sticking to their hero -and in more ways than one, I'd say- on his air-lifted journey that they leave themselves exposed at the back. I don't think twice and dash for it.
In one second flat, I squeeeeeze out of the throng and rush to the back like it's nobody's business -Hurrah for we are born again! I make it to the stairs and cling to them almost hardly believing my luck. I've met the man himself and walked away from him, I'm the greatest. Sure, me hair must be all over the place now and let's not get started on my panda make-up (ruined altogether!) -but I survived. Oh I survived alright. Your man's raging impotently in his corner now -I like to think he misses me already. He roars something about "HERE COMES DUDLEY!! HERE COMES DUDLEY!!!" (now who the feck that Dudley fellow is, I still have no idea).

I treat myself to a long sigh ("siiiiiiiigh") and survey the damage done: nah, no pocket got torn off and no button's gone missing, that's a relief. On my right, 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, that."
-Dude number two: "True for you my man, true for you -although he was pretty ripped last time 'round too, that would have been oh... three or four years ago? Your man was like totally out of his box."
I turn round, I goes: "Oh is that so...? Well fellows, let me tell yous, yous don't even know who yous're talking to! See me? Was just after banging heads with your man out there in the pit! 'Matter of fact, yous come closer and sniff me -That's The Man Himself yous'll smell!!"

Except I don't. And good thing too
as dude number one continues: "Oh that one, eh? So I heard yeah, so I heard... -Then again, it was only at a bogside reception for a new TD, mind! You should see him in action at the Dail when he goes and tears Enda a new one"
-Dude number two: "Oh no question, man: Bertie never disappoints when he's up for it!"

I catch my breath and consider maybe calling an end to tonight's funs and games. I become aware of a now constant ringing in my ear, 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?

As the Ride Us Lizard depart, presumably picking up their clothes in the process, the crowd disperses, leaving only casualties with limbs facing the wrong way on the dance floor. Now where could your warriors possibly migrate to? That's right, they all flow back towards the bar! I desperately look to Mathieu and cling on to the handrail -I'd have better luck juggling soap bars! And so, without even so much as a basic "Sorry love but get the feck outta me way" for my trouble, I get pegged back ten yards by the incoming traffic. "Zzzzzzip" some more (that'll be my hand sliding up the banister), I get pushed about like I hardly exist -Jaysus, is this "kick Lily"'s day or what! Oh, and are this lot in desperate need of a gargle or? Huh. ... They certainly smell like they are (open snidey hashtag, close snidey hashtag). (...)

"Learn French" poster -how could anyone resist!

xc'rpt from "You Know Yourself 2.0" copyright UmaUma -with the usual proviso: subject to (yet another) revision / the setting: Alliance Francaise in Dublin, the time: around 2008.


A cheery poster catches my attention.


"Discover the fascinating world of the French, in all of its vibrant complexity and enriching magnitude!"

"Look at them, the French natives..." (photo of a French native) "they certainly are a queer kettle of fish, aren't they? They can't pronounce their aitches but add them everywhere, they eat frogs and snails, they play with flair but give up at the earliest opportunity, and when they're not on strike, they're after taking a siesta!!" (cartoon of a bed sprouting "ZZZZzzzs" in the air) "Now scratch beyond the surface, look beyond the cover, and ask yourself: are the French actually worth knowing? The answer is "Yes"! A thousand oui!

Take this French you may have just encountered around the corner, all lips curled and shoulders a-shrugging, everyone's natural reaction would be to flee and delouse but non, non, non, that would be wrong. That would indicate poor judgement on your part (and probably be offensive, all things being equal). Non, our advice is: don't be alarmed. Don't be phoning "Talk To Joe" just yet. Maybe this is all a misundestanding, maybe this is just a case of cultural -yes, cultural (!!)- differences...

Let's apprehend the situation in a rational manner. So here you are, faced with a French that is starting to make noises. Don't panic, assess the situation calmly. Maybe he -or she- is trying to impart knowledge of some sort? Maybe he -or she- is simply happy to see you? Does he wag his tail? (Ha ha, only kidding -it might be a she.) Look him -or her- in the eye and breathe slowly -now no brisk movement here, this might set them off-, observe the French and take note. Is he -or she- responding to your friendly behaviour and reciprocating eye-contact, or are the auld shoulders still rotating? For all you know, this may constitute normal conduct in France when awakening... Or else this French may genuinely be inebriated. True that, true, well within the realms of possibility.

Seriously though, think about it: could it be this French -who is now presumably standing up and squaring up to you, crab-legged, in typical Gallic stance-, could it be he -or she- is after all... not so different from you! Could it?? Admittedly, yes, this may come as a bombshell to some and an affront to good Fenian manners, but do bear with us and chew this over for a while. ... Now then. See? There's got to be some truth in it, isn't there got? Here is what we suggest: for all you know, yous two may have more in common than you previously imagined! For real!! Or at least we, at the Alliance, like to think so (otherwise, what a complete waste of our lives this has been... but let's not go there, oh no).
For sure, he -or she- will differ in a few minor details here and there, but you can't expect everyone to be the same. The real question is: should these details actually matter? Leaving aside the baffling accent and infinitely more stylish clothes, wouldn't you accept our daring proposition: this French you're exposed to may not, in fact, be so different from your good self... Have a heart. Doesn't he -or she- deserve to be treated with the same respect you would grant anybody in the country (even Limerick)?

So just relax. Try not to look tense or apprehensive when approaching a French: this is sending the worst possible kind of signal as he -or she- can smell fear, even beyond its surrounding cloud of perfume. Mock not the French. Engage with them via careful eye-contact; this is not the London Tube, so this conduct is perfectly acceptable. You may then attempt a friendly gesture such as waving your arm -not too vigorously though. Chances are the French may recognise your intention and will respond accordingly -note of warning here: this may entail kissing. Congratulations: you've overcome the first hurdle!

Now for the noise emitted by this hypothetical French. Bear this in mind, and this will spare you sweats of anguish: just because this lot sounds to your refined Gaelic ear like they are engaged in shouting or cursing you does not necessarily mean they are. In fact, their incomprehensible ejaculations may not even denote aggression -Oh no, this is just the French way of communicating! So don't be reaching for the mace just yet.


Part deux: Welcome To France.

Welcome to France" (map of France) "where the weather is famously grand, 365 days sunny, and where the girls are pretty -"Heureux days!" one is tempted to say (LOL!!!). France, where the houses come up with prices so low, so ridiculous ...they are literally begging to get snapped off indigenous hands! It's a win-win situation and no mistake, so heed the call, you cunning investor, and go East, help yourself to one, or two, or three -who's counting after all! Expand your portfolio and get in there before the Brits nab all the good ones. There may not be any French word for "entrepreneur", but the future is bright -and it's right up for grabs! Noted commentators say: be investing in the true land of opportunity the other side of the Irish sea, and secure yourself the dream cottage that you've always, er, dreamed of; it's easy to find: right under the sun. Only requiring a minimum amount of touch-up here and there (maybe a lick of paint or two), your very own retreat awaits your pleasure and is totally languishing after you, so don't be scared now, don't fret -go right ahead! Tackle the French by the horns!

Why wait when you can put one over your neighbours? They'll be fuming when they hear about your good fortune! Don't be phoning your Mammy in the middle of "Father Ted" just to tell her about your encounter with a French, jump straight into the world-famous Je Ne Sais Quoi lifestyle and enjoy! Try some nice Beaujolais instead of beer, tuck into cooked meat for a change, and remember: interacting with the French doesn't have to be a chore :-(
-after all, we're not English! :-)

Ourselves at the Alliance Francaise are on hand to help you achieve your dream, we love to help! So come on in, sample the legendary French sense of hospitality, its easy manners and famed politeness, and sign up for our StartUpQwikLern (TM) series of up freshening language courses! Anyone can apply -even Culchies. After a mere couple of lessons with our legally registered tutors (all criminal records vetted and local sex offender registries duly notified of our teachers' whereabouts), you too will soon be able to converse almost fluently with René the jovial postman and Renée the fat butcher. "Sacrebléu! Merde alors mon ami!""

Radio clichés

X'crpt fromYKNY2.0, copyright Uma o'Gil 0018-0012

(...)
Finally, if I'm really desperate for topics and pressed for time, I can always resort to the Disguised Overkills. These are deadly: they bypass the brain almost entirely and go straight for the jugular; they tick the boxes that haven’t even been built. When I'm really stumped for ideas, I don't think twice, I bring out the big guns. Here is a selection of what I mean by that -Enjoy!


"Politicians -who do they think they are? Do you think they are special? In your judgement, do you think they deserve special treatment?"
"Traffic wardens eh... -shouldn't they be employed catching criminals instead?"
"Billions are starving in the world and we have this obesity problem here in Western Europe ...what gives??"
"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 becomes sheer genius. Introducing the Political-Correctness-Gone-Mad sledgehammer: "How do you feel about this school in" (insert place name that can't be checked anyway) "that wants to ban Christmas this year for fear of offending non-Christian pupils?"
"Heard the latest from the European Community: 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?" -This one adds a further layer: the European Community has actually become the European Union for fifteen fecking years now.
Sure, there is an awful lot of old junk out there, right up for recycling.

And that's even before the "cyclicals".
Now, the basic principle behind the "cyclicals" is simplicity itself: it is about hailing the socially established landmarks that time our lives ("-Eh?") ...or what regular events happen every bleedin' year. You start with New Year resolutions and move on from there. In no particular order (that'd take me too long), we certainly have plenty to choose from:

-the officially most depressing day of the year: January the 5th
-the shocking discovery that, three weeks on, gym attendance by New Year recruits is already collapsing
-the Chinese New Year
-much chin stroking and finger wagging after the quarterly publication of various official statistics detailing such things as personal debt figures and road fatalities numbers :-(
-the sitting of Leaving Certs exams throughout the land -i.e. the usual advice to be administered to the nervous young wans
-the publication of Leaving Certs results and 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: aren't days getting shorter?
-Left-handers day
-Women’s Day
-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 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, I won't be celebrating!")
-Valentine's Day and its shameless commercialism -but then no fellow out there would dare ignore it
-Bloom's Day and its shameless commercialism
-the Roses of Tralee, its innocent kitsh gone astray and its shameless commercialism
-the (January) sales and their shameless etc.
-the Easter Rising
-the end of WW2 (in which Ireland didn't take part)
-the start of the GAA season. The rising sense -mainly in the Dub' media- that this could be the year the Dubs will be mounting a credible challenge for the title
-the deflation at the Dubs' defeat
-the GAA final
-the rugby Six Nations, and how outstanding-yet-unlucky-with-injury Drico seems to be (the main thing being that we beat you-know-who, 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 to mete out to revellers preparing to undergo the gruelling 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 else
-the election of "Alternative Miss Ireland", and what it says about our new tolerant mores
-the release of the new U2 album, its importance for the national psyche and prominence on the world stage
and on and on. Like I said, simplicity itself! Pick an agenda (any agenda), leaf through the holidays marked, select the ones for which you have old bollix to recycle, and there you are: job done, boxed off!

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


Sadly, this is not how it went today though; today I tried to be cute. Went off the script, went for originality -and now am pretty much up the proverbial creek. Luckily my allocated time is coming to a merciful end and my ordeal will soon be over. Enough with off-the-cuff sez she, enough with material that doesn't tick all the pigeonholes! (or something like that) Sometimes one shouldn't try to be too clever, the beaten path is the safest.


Marina's helping me out though; Marina's on my side. She is the programme's co-presenter and is dutifully emitting the little snorts of appreciation / disbelief befitting my edifying diatribe ("Fancy that! / Well I never! / Good girl yourself!"). I owe Marina big time.
I owe her even more when compared to a certain someone who is staying quiet -very quiet indeed- throughout the course of my ordeal.
That someone is Timothy O'Arnlan.

(tobecontinued)

An Evening At The National Library Of Ireland

xc'rpt from YKNY2.0 copyright Uma o'Gil 00000012, naturally subject to re-re-re-re-re-editing.



(...)

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 other two makes themselves comfy under the spotlight, spread out their notes on a little table and, without so much as a "do you mind, folks?", totally help themselves to a glass of water. One of them loosens his belt and lets out a fart ("Aaah, that's better…"). The soundman climbs up onstage to part your men’s chest hairs and adjust the microphones on their medallions. Silence ripples through the rows like dominos falling. The start has never been so close...

The NLI Director has a quick moustache check and puts away his comb. Coughs. He begins by welcoming everyone to this edition of "Library Late" ("welcome, everyone") then half-turns towards the two seated figures on the podium and confidently states that the guest of tonight need no introduction -which he proceeds to deliver. "Paddy McCabe was born blah blah blah, first published in etc., came to fame with yadda yadda -and there he is with us tonight". Big round of applause for Paddy Mccabe.

The next hour or so passes reasonably fast. The journalist feigns to enquire about the writer’s 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?), and generally leads him to recount amusing anecdotes, most of them relating to the recent adaptation of "Breakfast On Pluto" on 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 or what? Obviously, you must have been very flattered by the success of "The Butcher Boy", that sick piece of sh(...) where do you get your inspiration (...) does it come naturally to you (...) do you ever read your critics? How much do you pay them to (...) any chance of an autograph for me old Mah, she's like your biggest fan?" (Hang on, cross the last one out!)


Before you know it, the interview comes to an end and we face the moment dreaded by every pupil:
"I'll have to stop you there Paddy, even though that’s -like- totally fascinating yeah, but I'm afraid we're running out of time -Oh my goodness, how time flows in my company!- we've just about five minutes left to take questions from the floor. Now does anyone have any question for our guest tonight? ... Huh? … Anyone? .......... Now don't be shy... (Come on you bunch of mothers)"


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 minutes of questioning ensue:

"Hey Pat, remember me? We met –what- five years ago... Bought you a pint in this pub... Anyway, meant to ask you, what's with your obsession with sex, what's the subtext here? What are you like, man? a total perv'??"

"Have you heard the one about the bishop and the rabbi?"

"Why aren't you funny anymore?"

"So who dunnit in the end then? Didn't get it..."

"I have a question. Do you get paid for writing this rubbish? How much?"

"On page ten, you tell us your man is wearing a flat cap; then, five pages later, you write -and here I quote- that "Quentin mournfully took off his delightful panama" -What gives, pal?!"

"Me ma says I've got lovely handwriting, do you reckon I should become a writer such like yourself?"

"Is it me Pat, or aren't Gardai getting younger every year?"

"Me nan says that you're very bold, and a gutter mouth to boot, but I've found copies of your bewks in her house."

"What's your problem with decent ordinary folks who can't abide flaming poofters?"

"Sorry, is this the National Museum or the National Library?"

Twenty hundred minutes of questioning ensue when I, for one, can't wait to go investigate who the big hunk is. Expletives are fully deleted, yawns admirably repressed. A solid half-hour behind schedule, the lit' shindig eventually comes to an end and the Library bigwig grabs the mike back to thank us all again ("Thank yous all …again"). Why, thank you too, Mister. As the National Library staff stand poised to unlock the doors and let us out wild in the street, he informs us of the next event and invites us to a glass of wine upstairs. His intervention serves as a twofold signal:


-Left side, a gaggle of fans swarms onto the visibly gasping author, pressing into his hand copies of his books for signing ("Here, here, I 'got 'em all pal -all of your bewks! Read all of them too, right till the end. Now wait a sec', they're in me bag, ah here they are, shit! the stupid bint's forgot to take the price tags off! / Ah here you are, the man himself! I'm -like- your biggest fan! Can you sign 'em "to me old buddy Deco", that'd be massive!")
-Right side, a substantial crowd rush up to the café to claim their complimentary glass of plonk and low-fat cream cheese canapé. Better hurry, or there won't be any left for everyone.


I hesitate between the two groups, try to hover about and keep an eye on you-know-who: what's the story here? what's he up to? Finally, I have no choice: I let myself be dragged away by the receding flow ...which just happens to have engulfed the hunk. The café it is then (although I can't drink since I'm driving).
By the time I arrive there, no more than five minutes at the most since the end of the talk, half of the booze has gone. Guests in berets and goatees hold gripping conversations, pausing only to refill their glass. Some men do too. Meanwhile, the in-house photographer snaps away at the various personalities in attendance ("snap, snap, snap") -What about "lovely Lily Monaghan off Radio 101, yesterday" eh? But he doesn’t want to know, I don't seem to register -Is this is turning into a regular occurrence or what? Your man prefers to concentrate on some professor type, all wild hair and scuffed Hush Puppies, schmoozing with the Library director. Well suit yourself eh! I won’t insist. So I scan the room and snake my way back into the throng. Ever the accomplished socialite, I work the room; I make sure to salute the faces I recognise; I nibble; I circle back anti-clockwise; I munch some more; I pause five feet in front of the photographer and don't even notice him turning away; I wonder; I worry; I ponder; I even engage in light banter with someone I don't recognise. But still no sign of our Johnny. ?!!??!!! Sigh sigh sigh internally, sigh nevertheless. Well that's a bit of an anti-climax! Where the hell could he be?? Another one clearly biting the dust! Entertaining evening to be sure, pleasant interview that is certain... but massive anti-climax at the end of the day –The hunk is gone!
OK.
So be it, then.

At least I will have shown my nose around and pressed flesh, "Lily woz here" like... I decide to give it a last try just to make sure -let's work this room solid. Deep breath. Poise, posture, and glide, sashay, twist, turn, breathe, pause, repeat. Very good. One more time with feeling. Back straight, head high, elbows tight -here we go. And one, and two, and three, no slouching, "how do you do?", "yes Ma'am", "no Ma'm" -nothing doing. He's deffo gone. (massive :-(( ) Maybe he got bored... maybe he had a bus to catch... maybe -could that be it?- there is a match on the telly and he fecked off to catch it! Oh, whatever.

"How enchanting oh yes, truly delightful evening indeed, that's right, absolute gentleman -and so well spoken too, who would have thought! Oh yes, wild imagination, wild imagination's right! A true original to be sure in the grand tradition of -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 artistic types, they're very bold they are, I was just remarking, and in a sense -well I suppose-, could we maybe suggest it's their prerogative or... Come again? Of course I can take your picture -you two stand right there and... Say "cheese"! No bother at all, you're very welcome. We were saying? Right you are, a colourful bunch they certainly make! Half of what they write is just to fill up the page anyway, it's all fillers; they may just have a vague idea to start with and then... they pad it out is what they do, 'pile on the lines -Excuse me? I left the cap on? Dreadfully sorry about that -here, let me take another one... Oh. As you wish. No no, I don't work here but yes, I know where the toilets are: on your left, then your right, all the way down the corridor, you take the stairs and then you'll see the sign -you're very welcome. Now then. Truly enchanting, yes. And very bold. Too much bad language though. Bohemian type. Bunch of chancers. Totally imaginative and. Unsettling stuff to be sure. Dead queer, oh aye. Maaarvellous. Am afraid 'must dash though, lovely talking to you -Toodleoo now, cheerio! Until next time, absolutely!"

Not a moment too soon I take my leave and, gracious as can be, proceed to repair to the Lilymobile -no cab tonight, thank you very much. Internally, I'm peeved as hell. !!!!! Should have made my move right there and then, what was I waiting for?! ("Excuse me lady, but would you awfully mind fecking off so that I can take your seat? Thank you kindly. Now then. ... And what's a nice young man like you doing in a place like this, big boy?") Oh well, let's concentrate on getting home now. School night after all. Professional, remember? Totally professional. Hopefully they won't have clamped it again, them wardens they can be such a pain, what's their problem, ah let's not tempt fate now, would put the icing on the cake, deffo, keys keys, where are me keys now, never where you left them now that's for sure, sure need a better bag, one with pockets, pockets and flaps yeah, one more practical like -and I don't care if it'll look less "feminine"! A Marc Jacobs tot, that's what, that's what I should have got, a tip top one, that'd be deadly, but when oh when oh when will they come up with one fitted with a little lamp inside, a little lamp, you click it open and it lights up -alleluia! 'Not too much to ask, is it? Not too difficult! Ah but no, that'd be too easy, much too easy for the
So here I am, lost in my thoughts, foraging through the damn thing moving mountains inside in search of them fecking keys when who do I crash into but the man himself:
"Vvvvvlam"!

Flat out on my fanny.

(tobecontinued)

"Life Of Oharu" Revisited

xcrp't from "You Know Yourself 2.0" Uma o'Gil


I remember the time Sean and I met. It was at the IFI, 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. As it happened, I was less than overwhelmed by "The Life Of (Wretched Woman's Name)" and so was Sean. Give me strength: 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... Only the suspension didn't last long. The filum went like this. So there's this woman, right? Otaku or something, and she's sacrificing herself in the name of some... quaint aul' code of honour that has already made a right bollix of her godforsaken existence -her main squeeze having been offed in the very first five minutes like- but she's determined to get all martyrical and saintly, something brutal. "Suffering in the name of".
And there is me. Fidget fidget fidget, scratch nose, suck sweet, and I'm thinking (in-between checking for messages): I can't be having that! Can't be going along with this maso charade! This is what I'd say to her:
"Woh-oh, calm your jets here missy, you cannot be serious! Why so po-faced? Why take that aggro, ya bleedin cabbage? Why you give in to that sad bunch of windup merchants 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 does she give up on happiness, why is she taking it lying down -literally, ha ha!- and asking for more? ...Is this what Japan's about? Sacrifice?? Auld Uhuru's got it all wrong! When all she has to do is turn around and go:
"Well feck this for a game of soldiers! Yous can all take your edicts and stuff'em up your pipe! I've had just about enough of this nonsense -am off to Tokyo or New York, either will do! Tool and die, fear and trembling, the have and the have-nots -Yer must be havin’ a larf if you think I'm gonna put up with any more of that crap! Class division is for eighth grades doing maths! I ain't buying no more! So yous think yourselves clever eh, killing me one and only true fella? -Well yous can go hang yourselves for all I care now! Go take a jump! I'm gonna get me good kimono and that's the last yous'll see of me, up up and away! Game over! Let 'em eat lotus leaves, this lady here ain't for turning! It's sayonara from me and Philadelphia here we come! Yee-haw!! "

...But maybe I wasn't in the right mood. Maybe I didn't "get it".

Anyway, neither did Sean. More fidgety than a bag of kittens attacked by fleas, your man was clearly struggling to repress his yawns at ten paces. By the look of him, totally gagging for an espresso he was -and as he was, so was I. (No wonder there: studies have shown that as light goes down, darkness sends a signal to the back of your brain, and activates the production of some sleep molecule thingy... (zerotonin, I believe it's called). The brain is fooled, and interprets the situation as an order to go to sleep. You add black-and-white and subtitles to the equation -you're good as gone.) Yawn on one side of the theatre, yawn on the other, it's funny how yawning spreads faster than chocolate milk on a carpet. (Other scientific aside: Scientists have also recently discovered that yawning spreads to dogs. They conducted this experiment where researchers were told to yawn while looking at their pets and... surprise surprise! The dogs soon followed suit as they took to imitating their masters. Research money well spent, says I.) Anyway our eyes met as we both started squinting towards the door. Ten seconds later we didn't need to squint no more.
So this is how we met, sharing in our probably shameful sense of incomprehension and sympathising over a cupofcoffee. I actually remember telling Sean
"We should probably be ashamed of displaying such cultural ignorance"
-"Should we feck!" was his reply.


(tobecontinued)

Carving Dublin Up.

Uma o'Gil copyright 2008-0012 xcrp't



Let's cut the BS and, since we're on, here's a category The Herald certainly didn't fail to feature at every opportunity, the new top drawer elite that's stamped its mark on Ireland's imagination: drum roll for the new heroes of our times tada! ...The construction magnates. The crane maniacs. Them lovable movers and shakers... always engaged in sneaky acquisitions and cheeky counter acquisitions:


"Now then. Say you buy me The Shelbourne and I buy you St-Stephen's Green, how's that working for you?
-Call that a deal? Who you think you're talking to, pal! Who's the one bottling the Liffey and selling it back to Yank tourists here? You, or me?
-OK OK, so what about... what about I throw in the entry code to the Dail and the thirtieth of April? Fore!
-Riiiight that might just about clinch it but... But then -hear me out here- I'll throw in Balyfermot Central's golf course, Rosanna Davidson, Dun Laoghaire's yacht club and in exchange... in exchange I get the Jackie Yeats's "Water lilies", 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, 'sthat it? Well well well... Chew this over pal: scrap my last offer. Forget it, too late! How about I give you instead... my champion greyhound Kiki, a trip down memory lane for two, still Rosanna Davidson, a hearty hello and a couple of cranes in mint condition to boot -How's that sound now? More acceptable?
-What about Jackie Skelly's?
-You really fancy them do you? Right, but then I want my name on the Declaration of Independence!
-With or without your photo?
-Don't be daft -they didn't have cameras in 1916! Now on a postage stamp though... we may have a deal here.
-Hmm now let me think... Let me think, I smell a rat... You sure know how to drive a hard bargain! What about the three little pigs, by the way? You still own them?
-Only half half with McDermo.
-Say you throw in one of the pigs -you sort it out with McDermo- and in return I get your son to play for Ireland at the next Euros. They need a midfielder, leave it to me.
-Deal!
-Spit on it!
-Now wait a second though... I suppose ten sunny days are out of the question?
-.... That could be arranged.
-The right of way anywhere in town?
-Agreed also, but then I take back the thirtieth of April and I get the final edit on your autobiography in return. Spit on it! (Change of clubs, new set of balls.)
-Not so fast, not so fast, that's a big ask that... My legacy eh! Can't be messin' with that! Now what about... What about I agree on principle but then let's say I want the grey squirrels in town and you get the keep the red ones?
-That may work for me, but only pending a tax credit on nuts that your TDs won't oppose in the Dail.
-What about my arse your face?
-Rain on your wedding day?
-Ten thousand knives when all you need is a spoon?
-Are you for real? Want me to go and spill the beans about Shergar?
-OK OK or -Tell you what. Here's a mutually satisfactory one... Say we split the GAA fifty-fifty: half the teams play on my days, and half play when you say.
-Consider it done!
-Plus an audience with Joanne Cantwell.
-Holy feck! Don't push it now, I'd have to consult with me lawyers on that one!"

(tobecontinued)

"Free Pussy Riot"

A quick word on Pussy Riot.

Those of us who live in what is commonly known as "the West" -i.e. this nebulous, comparatively rich and reasonably democratic select entity that mainly includes the EU, the US of A, Australia and Japan- are always in danger of forgetting what a privileged position we find ourselves in, through hardly any effort of our own.

Not everyone is born that lucky.

As a matter of fact, the huge majority of States in this world have still not recognised the notions of human and civil rights, with religion being the major poison hindering the evolution of humanity. Religion -admirable as it can undoubtedly be for good souls in search of validation in a brutal, dog-eat-dog world- always provides the perfect excuse for all sorts of authoritarian regimes the world over.

This time, it's Russia who resorts to that cop-out.
Yes, Russia.

Hardly more than twenty years ago, the country was officially godless and "Scientific Atheism" (I am not making this up) was taught at University. Fast forward back to the present and Russia, under KGB apparatchik Putin, is now trying agit-prop artists for "religious hatred". Nobody is fooled except, arguably, a few old and distressed babushkas. "Authoritarian" (admire the euphemism) Putin does not suffer critics gladly. A handful of young women in cheap nylon was never going to stand much chance against him -They have been duly convicted.

Putin was always rightfully despised all around the world by every right-thinking person (need I remind anyone of his support for Assad, to name but one current example?), so his latest action is of no surprise whatsoever.
What he's also done though...
he has managed to turn into universal martyrs three girls who were largely unknown until 6 months ago -Now that's one mighty shot in the foot, Vladso!

Pussy Riot, we salute you and wish you "good luck".
In a way (see right above), you've already won the battle.

...When you have the likes of Sir Paul MacCartney, Uma o'Gil, Alicia Silverstone, Madonna, Amnesty International, Katie Nash and Peaches on your side, you know you must be doing something right! ;-)


Quick PS to John Lydon: now that is what "punk" is about -not selling butter and begging advertisers to hire you.

Eastenders parody YKY2.0Xcrpt

"YouKnowYourself2.0" Uma o'Gil 0012 xcerpt


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 nuffink, bruv'"
Second: "Dunnit."
First baldie: "Aincha!"
Second: "Watchit!"
First one: "Innit."
Second: "Tell you wot tho…, I’ll ‘av a butcher’s, see if I can find it –Nah less go dahrn the pub!"
Second: "Too fackin' right we will! Watch me!"
Builder: "Blahdy 'ell mate... Can't even have a bo''le of min'ral in peace these days! You ‘ave a blahdy cheek, queshioning me on me tea break! ‘hoo do you think you are? So what if I luv' me old Mum -godda problem with that??"
Lady coming out of launderette, smoking: "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 '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! 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: "Wouldn’t ‘ave been allowed 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, lighting up: "and you could leave yer door open -Take the Queen Muvver, ya cahnt: deserves every penny she gets! Gawd bless 'er!"
Unemployed single mother: "And luvs 'er G’nT, dunnshe? Praper class, aintsha!"
Alcoholic bum: "Always 'as a smile for everyone, a little wave..."
Ray Winstone, passing by: "Sweet... Who's the Daddy then?"
Unemployed single mother: "Nan of yer fackin' business!"
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: "'Ammers for the Cup! 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"
Young woman -for it is she- pushing a pram, smoking: "Oi! You watch yer mahrth! Show some manners wantcha -we 'got some fackin' kids liss'nin', avn' I!"
Jamaican, laughing: "Ha ha, you’s just been told my son!"
Credible gay character, on his way -sorry: on 'is way- to The Bucket Of Blood: "Praper naughty! 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! Cahm' 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 ‘after? This is Lahrndahrn Tahrn 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: "Need to see a man abaht a dawg"
Kid with earrings: "Sorted!"
Grandmother, smoking: "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 you cahnt chim chimeney who are ya who are ya too fackin right hell's bells wonncha!"

Gentle narrator employed to give the moral of the story at the end of every episode: "And so I say... why don't we all less go dahrn the pub ‘hen?"




Ah yes, they inhabit a strange world in "EastEnders"... a strange world with totally arcane topics of conversation, dead incomprehensible to someone’s admittedly refined ears. It's true though: these Albert Square residents, they never –like- discuss Bertie’s latest financial oddities -he must be loving it, being given a break from these pesky financial auditors! The Old Vic has to be the only pub whose regulars never sounded much bothered by the new Civil War debate -namely: did Roy Keane walk out on his country or did he not? It is the one place where the very existence of Glenda Gilson has gone unnoticed. ...Truly we are baffled.
(to be continued)

"The Dark Knight Rises" review

"The Dark Knight Rises (and so should I, it's nearly 9)", let's state it right-away, was much better than I expected.

Hard as I tried to keep away from all reviews, I was aware of the fact that the filum didn't exactly meet with general approval ("Libération", for one, appear to have hated it).
Following on its, er, predecessor, "The Dark Knight" serves up a scenario that piles on the complexities and ambiguities of what constitutes "right" and "wrong", "good" and "bad" -no wonder the Fatamericans hated it! It doesn't do "clear-cut" and doesn't offer a finger-pointing morale wrapped in ribbons at the end -in other words, it is pure Nolans. (The Nolan brothers, that is.)

In political terms, it is equally difficult to label the filum "right-wing" or "left-wing" as both sides discovered to their embarrassment when they tried to reclaim and/or denounce it, only to look very foolish indeed. The revolting radio demagogue R*sh L*mb**sh tried, apparently. (And failed, as ever.)
Is "The Dark Knight" an apology of **********  ******? Kindof..., but then what about its stress on ************** ************  ****** at ****** right up the ****?
The ********* ****** ******* subplot is as clear an indictiment of ******** ********* as one can discern in this smogarsbord of twists and double-twists. Now watch the Nolans go and add *** ******** ************  ****** to the equation: this certainly throws the cats among the pigeons, does it not? Eh??

I rest me case.

 

ChristianBale does ChristianBale (and is getting pretty good at it by now); Tom Hardy is back on the steroids; Hathaway is ...OK. Certainly not bad, but nothing outstanding either (Miou Miou and Meryl Streep can rest easy). One may start to wonder whether her career will mimic Our Scarlett's, better known as the Alice "Clueless" Silverstone or David "Laughing Gnome" Bowie syndrome... Will she ever be able to best her "Princess Diaries" performance (gasps, swoons, faints, gasps again, squeals, blushes, goes and takes a cold shower)? Only time will tell.

Oh, and deffo felt she looked considerably better without the hideous blood red lipstick.

 

Talking of human brickhouse Hardy, it is worth noting there's quite a few beefy men about, and the filum is at times in danger of veering into Michael Mann territory. (Michael Mann is this guy who loooooves featuring massive men -usually in impeccable suits- wielding gigantic phallic firearms for some reason.) 

Thankfully, the inspiration and tome remains mostly resolutely Gothic, cf. the variations on underground settings, weird masks, torches, inventive punishments, black as the new black,  etc. I am pretty sure "Arkham Asylum" is one of the main inspirations behind the movie (but I read the comic 20 years ago, so yous'll have to forgive me if my memories are a bit vague by now).

 

Scratches his chin Loig, it's a good thing that the series is coming to an end though (or is it?????) as the voice gimmick was getting a bit grating, methought: it is frankly hard at times to understand what your man -or your man, for that matter- is saying.

Hans Zimmer provides his usual crashing-atmospheric soundtrack to the proceedings; Michael Caine still blows the blahdy doors off after all these years (as well as various motorcars, buildings, neighbourhoods, whatever); our friends ******** ******** and ******* ********* turn up for a fun cameo -always welcome!; Marion Cotillard still holds an inexplicable attraction for Christopher Nolan.

Now then for some major tut-tutting: having Clark Kent wake up at the end in a "it was all a dream", bizarre cross-superhero, ending was a bit cheeky I felt (even though consistent with "Inception" or "Memento"). Talk of final twists, who could have ever seen this one coming eh!!

Still eh, all in all pretty good.

Typically accomplished script by the Nolan lad that revisits topics from previous instalments and offers variations on the themes, ties up various loose ends, and even manages to integrate ingenious references to recent political/social events such as the ********12******xu**** *******, the ******* ay caramba ******* ****** ** ** -or even the **** ****** of *********** ********* **** **** *** ******** ****! Nice touch there, I think yous will agree. Very topical. 

 

 

A batty (batty: geddit??????????!!!!) 7 out of 10 mark.

 

 

 

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YKY2.0-1 (subject to re-editing obviously)

A Umao'Gil production 0080012 "Here we go!"

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



"De la puta madre!"

Café-en-Seine on a Friday night and the tension is brutal. Myself and G. have just gained entrance to and are assessing the situation. Left... right... receding hairline, cut of their stitch, shoulders, bum... -we're on recon mission scoping the pre(o)mises. We're sussing, we're checking, but of course we're not looking -that'd be so fecking cheap! Sooo unrefined, and we are not, let it be known, not the uncouth type. Besides, can't make it too obvious eh. I'd say the main talent of a hunter resides in his -or her- cunning and stealth. Discretion is everything, discretion is the key, and I suppose I'm the one to ask: my recent record pretty much bears proof to how invisible I've become of late... Discretion's my middle name -unlike some other people whose name I won't spell out lest I should sound like I'm slagging me homegirl. Hence our foray into tonight, Georgie and me.

I like to think of myself as clued up. I like to think of Café-en-Seine as a cute choice: you get there, it's a suntan salon heaven! Washboard stomachs and realigned teeth. But Georgie begs to differ. Georgie reckons it's full of poseurs, thinks we should pass on that one ("I mean, it's not like Dublin's running short on pubs is it!"). Fast forward two hours of debate in my kitchen (and half a dozen Bacardis), and we are giving it another try. If only for my sake (thank you G., this is where I scored last! xxx). The way I lie to myself now, as I get all icequeen and not at all bovvered, it's just us two, some girlies passing through this joint. It's just us dropping in for a quick drink. ...A quiet drink at Dublin's Café-en-Seine on a Friday night.


We're like inside the place now. Scope, scope, scope.
To be fair, not much hunk stands out. Not much male sets the pulse alight. At first sight, all I can see is your run-of-the-mill polo and jeans. Even worse: jacket with jeans (!!). A lot of stubble too.
But we're in the place is the main thing, and can now advance in friendly territory. Glance to the left, glance to the right, proceed. We slide our way through the throng as efficiently as female elbows will allow -i.e. not an awful lot. It's like an assault course in here, this scene doesn't give in too easily. A bit like life I guess, you have to dive in and fight your way. A bit like life maybe -but with colognes coming at you from all corners. People's armpits, my nose level -makes for a fragrant equation as we soldier on regardless and hope for the best. Take the dive, suck it and see...

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. Earnestly discussing the state of rugby. ...That would be blokes. Blokes are just weird. Like it's Sat'day night in Dublin, I'll tell yous what lads: Why don't we all go down the classy bars and just discuss rugby? In Dawson Street. The perfect place. Next thing you know, they go on holiday in Spain, and spend their time in a pub watching Sky Sports eating fish and chips. Men are just weird.
I take it these ones are Leinster fans. Leinster are (is?) the local team, 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 B.O.D. himself. Your man is sometimes spotted about town, regularly sighted going on about his business -but not by myself yet. (Maybe I should get down to the stadium sometime, that'd help.) Right now, I'm only scouting Café-en-Seine, this super swanky "drinking emporium" that would give any French brothel a run for its money. Not that I would be familiar with French brothels either.

"To be perfectly honest wit you, another couple of deals like this one and I'll be good to go and retire in Dubai my good man! Strike it while it's hot! And then cheerio, that's me done -on my holiers forever! Just imagine: Dubai eh... Playing golf all day, chillaxing on the beach with them rich bitches in bikinis... -Bring it on!"
"For real?"
"For real. Right now, all the indicators are go, the feeling is on -All I need now, really, is close -what?- three or four more no more. Or five or six at the max and then... Happy days! Serious! Right now, we're currently working on a new securitisation package that will blow your socks off! Watch - this - space! It's proper mental rates we anticipate, can only rise even more with the derivatives involved! Win win situation, mate."

Georgina and I are shimmying our way through cool as you like. We're swinging it with as much nonchalance as another couple of Sunrises (Georgie's treat) and a Tropical Reef (mine) downed on our way allows us. Funny that, but feel quite sloshed already. In high spirits, oh high "spirits"'s the right word -see what I've done here!!!! The main thing is, maintain your dignity. Maintain at any cost. Right now, the world sways pleasantly enough, all around me -the problem is, I'm not even moving. Am kind of stuck. Try as we do, our valiant efforts to move forward have not exactly met with unqualified success. We haven't made much progress in the -oh- three/ten minutes that we got here and now me bladder's playing up. Blame it on the sudden heat, the human steam, the general din... but it's brutal. Undeniable -even in my present state. I don't feel well, all of a sudden. All this exaggerated laughter from all directions, these after-shave assaults, the place is heaving and so could I any time soon. Clearly, two packs of mature paprika crisps and a low-fat prawn sambo are nowhere near nourishment enough for a growing girl such as myself.

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

Well, pretty much as 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 it came into practice, odours that once were masked are no longer hidden. Some odours... or in plain English: B.O. -God some people stink! Like total gag, yeah! You'd be surprised, and I'm not just talking about morning -or even worse, evening- commute on the LUAS; even in this swankiest of places you come nose to chest with some mighty fly magnets! That weird mixture of sticky shirt sweat and expensive perfume liberally splashed on top... I know it's been a long day but... there is some serious yuck in here!

Cedarwood Sunrise by Jean-Hubert de D. somewhere on my right (-top drawer, that!), Cristal Fatal in that blonde's wake on my left. After a while, you get to recognise quite a few of them. There may be hundreds of flagrances about, but people can only afford / stick to a dozen. Past the first couple of years, that Jean-Paul Gaultier yoke totally lost its mystery, its novelty factor ...and got adopted by proper skangers -no way back then.

"I could spend hours listening to you... When I'm with you, I don't know why, I feel so relaxed... At long last I can be myself..."
"Oh you handsome swine, how could I resist you..."
"No creo que es una rubia, cabron"
"The index is up, the prospects hot -it's all good, knowwhatImean!"

The jungle's rumbling. What else have we got here...:
Someone's clearly been let loose with her other half's card at Brown Thomas this very afternoon: check out the top-to-bottom that's been freshly liberated from its packaging! I can deffo make out the creases of her outfit as she strikes a pose in a -like- totally casual way.

Next to the clotheshorse, a not even thirty-something (worth going on fifty in my book) is modelling the "golfer" look –and you know what they say about golf kits… (It’s white men’s excuse for dressing up as a black pimps.) Feel tempted to tell your man. Think I'll refrain.


A hot waiter waltzes by, holding aloft a tray that so must weigh at least a ton; does so as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Your man sniffily arrows his way through the circle jerk of rugger bugger fans and merges back into the fray with not a care in the world for their undoubtedly gripping tactical talk. The circle instantly reseals itself before the next attempt upon its safety zone cos’ that’s the thing though: ‘you ever noticed no matter where you stand in a crowd –there’s always someone ‘needs to walk right through your very spot!

As I negotiate my way past your basic dayglo rococo pillar (i.e. crowned by an understated kaleidoscopic ceramic statue of a Greek bodybuilder god holding up a deep red crystal vase overflowing with cascading vines that spread out under the suspended three-tier Art Deco crystal chandelier), I lose my footing for a second. Bending down to readjust the strap, what - do - I - spot?
A pair of Blahniks! A pair of actual Blahniks under a parade of legs that rise all the way to an an excuse of a miniskirt slash kitchen apron -dear me, she hasn’t left much to discover has she? Standing up, I sneak a look and almost gasp at the fakeness of the owner’s face: there’s been a load of work gone into these diagonal cheekbones and fulsome lips! Nose: drawn with a compass. Skin: flawless. In fact, some might even call it foldless ...like unnaturally super-tight, yeah? Like lifted almost as high as her panty line. Surely she mustn't be able to blink for fear of losing control of her bowels!

I'm thinking this, I'm thinking that, and then I realise I don't actually mean it. Standard kneejerk reaction, that. Basic jealousy. If anything I probably feel for her: she must be, what, post second divorce age range, but clearly's decided she won't give up just yet. She ain't going down without a fight and we ought to respect that. What she's saying here is she's still good to go, she’s still up for it, and so if money can buy her ten more years -well that's her choice to make. Fair play to her, says I -and then I realise, ten minutes later on reflection, that she was a he.

(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 situation yet?"
-"Indeed I have: Clauda gave birth to a baby boy last night!"
-"Oh did she? Fair play to her!"

A Quick Note On Lineker's Wankitude.

Quick recap: during the coverage of Olympic swimming last Saturday evening, the BBC anchorman suddenly broke into one of his little faces and wittily informed us that "if that console you, Germany is still also waiting for its first (gold?) medal". Now some people have argued that it didn't much mean much in the great scheme of things -Here is why I disagree.

1) Lineker's sudden aside was uncalled for, petty, pathetic, irrelevant, snidey, and playing on the stinking anti-germanic vibe that affects so many people in the UK. Talk about bringing the tone down! (see later on that subject). Quite what "Germany" in its entirety has to do with a British athlete being bested in the swimming pool is a puzzling question.

2) Mr. Lineker is a national media broadcaster. He is not your man down the pub -who is totally free to express any rank old bollix (and usually does so at every opportunity). Mr. Lineker therefore has a duty of self-restraint and decency.

3) More importantly, he is a BBC employee, which means he somehow represents the nation. The nation, as well as the licence payers who contribute to his enviable lifestyle.

4) More importantly still: why his little faux-pas (oops, sorry, foreign expression!) is particularly saddening. His attack of gracelessness came, what, not even 24 hours after the admittedly generous, open-hearted, and uplifting ceremony devised by Danny Boyle that aimed to show the world how welcoming, thrilling and forward-looking the UK can be. ...Head desktop repeated interface.

What Gary Lineker actually reminded us of is that he is first and foremost a football man. A football man at his most unplesasant ridicule.

Sure, some will retort (see above) that Lineker's remark is no big deal in the long run. That would be correct: it's just a would-be witty but in fact cretinous soundbite. But if you go down that road, well... you can always find worse. Always. Does that mean we shouldn't keep our standards up? Does that mean we should let everything pass and just consume what is fed us passively, irresponsibly? That's a tough one alright.

I would argue that one should aspire to better; one should not benevolently condone a race to the bottom, tiny steps by tiny steps. Sure, I certainly agree: Lineker hasn't explicitly insulted anyone. ...He's just stirred up some people's dormant feelings against an entire foreign nation, that's all.

Now please compare and contrast. The parents of British medallists Lizzie Armitstead and Rebecca Adlington were being interviewed on BBC1 this Monday morning. "We felt a little bit sorry for the French girl, with the reaction to Becky," said Adlington’s dad of the 400m freestyle yesterday in which his daughter won bronze and France’s Camille Muffat gold. Now THAT is what the Olympics are about, Mr. Lineker.
Rebecca's dad, we salute you -and congratulate your daughter on her lifelong terrific efforts.

　

OG Ceremony Report (subject to re-editing)

As Her Majesty parachuted safely in the centre circle, the industrial revolution gave birth to Dizzie Rascal and the giant dancing McDonal'ds TM fries got switched off one by one by machinegun totting squaddies, Uma wiped a solitary tear of excitement and helped herself to another cuppa. So far so good. The boy Doyle -he who got immortalised in the song "Danny Boyle Oh Danny Boyle"- had done good. Mancunia: 1 - Rest of the world: 0.

Why, in between the sprouting fountains of Coca Cola TM, rising NHS beds and bursts of Techno Faceless Bollix, he managed to give us a cameo by Our Daniel aka James Bond!!!!!!!!1 (drool). Our Daniel's stint was -like- totally ace and deffo fab. Didn't see this one coming, not least after dropping a penguin on him carrying the torch at PaddyPower earlier during the afternoon. Now one will obviously refrain from commenting on Boyle's featuring of "God Save The Queen" (and "Pretty Vacant" to boot!) by revolting young scoundrels The Sax Pistols in the presence of Her Majesty. We had a good laugh nonetheless.

It was good to see our friend Kenneth Branagh, Mike Oldfield, the 'Ctics, Sir Paul, Muse, thousands of perfectly choreographed volunteers, totally eco-friendly Bhopal Union Carbide TM neon signs, seven billion MasterCard TM statements falling off the sky, actual lambs cavorting about on dew dripping pastures of (-that's enough, Ed.). In the end, GoldenBollix didn't get to light up that cauldron yoke which is a shame -criminally overlooked David Beckham could do with a bit of media exposure.

I wasn't aware of the fact that Dizzie Rascal "Bonkers" belongs to the "grime" genre -I call it dance music myself- but Trevor Nelson must be right. Talking of which, since the cheeky scallywag managed to slip in a couple of shout-outs to his sis, I would like to gratuitously mention my own agent Malcolm McLaren, bessie Emer C., sponsor Bodyform TM, inspiration Tabatha Cash and contact number @loig7san. So there.

Emotional moments: the tribute to the "7/7" London Tube and bus bombings (there was a remarkable documentary about it recently on BBC2) and Muhammad Ali. Life can be as cruel as it can be beautiful.

In the fckwit category, no event of British public life would be complete without a T*ry making an arse of himself. Enter "the right and honourable" (sic) Aidan Burley who called the ceremony "multicultural crap" ( http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2012/jul/28/olympics-opening-ceremony-multicultural-crap-tory-mp ). ...Mr Burley is better known for having lost his government job after attending a Nazi-themed stag party.


And now for the real question: them Olympian flagbearers eh... Who was the hottest? Well Uma thought long and hard about it, and here are the results.
-In first place, we must have Our Katie (Taylor, Ireland). Cos' that's a fact.
-Serious contender: Djibouti (stunner)
-a tie between Chile, Colombia (I like them South American girls) and Marshall Islands
-Finland, Iceland, Norway (slighty more Aryan)
-Sao Tome and Principe
-Morocco, Liberia, Iraq
-late entry by Guam and Luxembourg. In Uma's famously charitable worldview, you're all winners!
(The UK could only get multigoldmedalled Sir Chris to lead the parade -but he's a bloke.)

This concludes our first report on twenty-twelve (-Reader's voice: ?!!!?????!). Stay tuned for beach-volleyball, MarsBars TM speed-eating, French women football gold-medal winning, and Jessica Ennis perving. Peace yo'all! Uma declares these Olympics open.

Our Katie, the other day:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISy0Hl0SBfg
On the subject of young mr. Rascal, here is a classic moment in recent British TV as El Paxo meets his match: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tM1XrVVVBAk