Modjren ways…
I love the way older people say the made-up word modjren in place of the actual word modern. As a way of saying something is contemporary or up-to-date it really has such character; it almost becomes a different word in its right with its own connotations. Quite post-modjren in fact.
Twink, is everything okay?
I love random creations in public spaces. Unglorified, underrated streams of consciousness such as these…
The above image was taken in the gents toilets in Bruxelles. The one below was taken in the gents toilets in Whelans.
They’re not the most artistic. In fact they’re not artistic at all. But it’s the randomness of it all that appeals to me. Why bother? Why not?!
And I know it’s a dangerous game to be taking photos in the gents toilets in the first place but they caught my attention so I thought fuck it. The fact that somebody thought it necessary to write such a thing on the wall of not one but two seperate gents toilets deserves wider public exposure.
Maybe their mysterious message adorns urinals elsewhere? It’s a distinct possibility.
I suppose they really just want the public to pray for Miss Adele King. Each to their own I guess.
Wacko Jacko no more…
The very sad and shocking news has broken that pop star Michael Jackson has died tonight after being rushed to hospital having suffered a suspected heart attack. The reputable LA Times, citing city officials, have confirmed the singer’s death.
The Irish Time breaks the news here…
The LA Times has reported in the last few moments that the singer was pronounced dead after being admitted to the UCLA Medical Center in a deep coma.
US authorities confirmed that the singer was taken to hospital after an emergency call was received from Jackson’s Holby Hills California home shortly after 12.20pm local time (8.20pm Irish time).
Paramedics are said to have performed CPR on the 50-year-old singer in the ambulance en route to the UCLA Medical Center. But a fire department official has told the LA Times that the singer was not breathing when the paramedics arrived at his home.
The TMZ.com celebrity website broke the news that the singer had passed away after failed attempts to revive him. “We’ve just learned Michael Jackson has died,” TMZ said. “Michael suffered a cardiac arrest earlier this afternoon and paramedics were unable to revive him. We’re told when paramedics arrived Jackson had no pulse and they never got a pulse back,” the entertainment site said. There was no official confirmation of the reported death and spokespersons for Jackson could not be reached for comment.
The news comes just weeks ahead of the 50-year-old singer’s attempted comeback which was to have involved an extensive global tour. He has had a history of health problems in recent years and has not finished a concert tour in more than ten years.
Very sad news indeed.
You must wonder…
… does the world really need Ben Dunne, his ego, his poxy radio ads and his tender me gallery bollox?
No is surely the answer.
In praise of…
Not as flash as the grape, your fleshier, limelight-hogging, more rounded cousin. More succulent than your lighter, sultry sister… the sultana. Today we salute you, and you alone, oh humble raisin.
So underrated, so modest yet what can’t you do? Low in sodium, fat and cholesterol free, you may be eaten raw or used in cooking and baking. Mixed with bran flakes or weetabix of a morning you turn a simple breakfast into a feast of fructosey goodness. As a simple snack out of hand you keep the vending machine wolf from the door.
So thank you dear dried vine fruit, so high in antioxidants, we salute you.
A welcomed Dublin welcome…
Having been away for the weekend I arrived back to Dublin Airport this evening from London. And the first person I spoke to was the Garda who checked my passport. I was greeted with a warm and genuine “How’s it goin’ NaRocRoc? Welcome home.” It made me smile.
There was nothing insincere about it, nothing forced. Just a strightforward greeting. But it made me feel welcomed back, regardless of the short duration of my trip abroad. And moreover it made me proud. You just don’t get that kind of warmth, that kind of sincere greeting anywhere else in the world. You just don’t.
Also it’s one of the things that makes it clear to see why Dublin was recently voted the friendliest city in Europe for the second year running in a TripAdvisor survey. “The warm welcome that travellers receive in Dublin makes the city a great choice for holiday-makers seeking both fantastic sights and friendly locals”, said TripAdvisor spokesman Luke Fredberg. Glad to hear it Luke, I really am.
From a tourism point of view our people skills, our hospitality, our charm, they are our greatest attributes. People don’t come to Dublin for the architecture and certainly not for the weather. Other cities have both in spades. And Dublin is certainly not the cleanest or most romantic city in the world. But what other cities don’t have is our sense of humour, our friendly nature, our innate welcoming ways. Granted Dublin has its problems but I for one hope we never lose our personality.
So long may our Gardaí continue to welcome people to Ireland in such a way. It’s free, it’s warm, it’s simple. And as Leonardo da Vinci put it… “simplicity is the ultimate sophistication”. Maybe that welcome typifies our own particular brand of sophistication?!?
ps. I had a rant at the very nature of airports last week so I was glad to be reminded that humanity can exist in airports. Plus I had the best blueberry muffin ever in Stansted so some of my negative feeling towards airports has been reversed.
What a headline…
There’s a movie in there somewhere. Has to be.
Don’t all kind of images spring to mind? It’s so evocative. I can just picture these shady Mexican lads stuffing bags of coke into sharks’ mouths and sending them off like lethal carrier pigeons on a drug run.
When you read the story it becomes slightly more normal and less surreal, but still.
It goes like this… Read the rest of this entry »
“Please take off your belt sir.”
A little piece of me dies every time I enter an airport. They are the most soul-destroying places. Devoid of personality, absolutely lacking in character. So clinical, so synthetic.
Lacking humanity, empathy. Bureaucracy reigns. Your rights take a high jump.
The food is always bad. The prices even worse.
Are there any more soulless places on this planet of ours?
Oh and I’m just back from a few days holiday just in case you were wondering!
We’re the heirs to the glimmering world…
I’ve just cycled home from work but in a completely different direction to that which I usually do. Tonight Dublin felt different. Quiet and mine. For just a moment.
A fox ran across my path and looked as shocked as I did. A heron stood proud. Calm as calm can be. Not a bother on him.
I smiled thinking of the re-emergence of Joe Higgins. Great slogan, “the best fighter money can’t buy”. Good luck to him.
I chortled thinking of the demise of Declan Ganley. Good riddance to him and his croneys.
I thought of people I know in Setanta who are facing troubling times, people like Radge. I wish them all the luck in the world.
I thought of my own situation. There’s every chance I won’t have a job by year end.
I thought of what else I might do. I’m convincing myself the world will still turn and things will turn around eventually. They will. We’ll get away with it. We always do.
I thought of my brother who tells me it could well be the best thing that ever happens to me. I admire his optimism. I live in hope.
I cycled home. And it felt good.
A Monday rant…
So I spent the weekend in Kilkenny. Good fun. Much frolics. All above board.
But today I must centre a rant at Irish Rail / Iarnród Éireann for their ridiculous pricing policy.
On the way down to Kilkenny I was running a tad late so I booked my ticket online at a not inconsiderable price of €18 for a single and picked it up at Heuston. I only got a single as there was a chance I was to get a lift back to Dublin on Sunday so no point paying the extra for a return. Worked out fine. Met lads on train, weekend kicked off. All good.
Then yesterday that lift back to Dublin never transpired so I got the train. When I got to MacDonagh Station in Kilkenny I was told that a single ticket was €34. What the fuck I thought. Then I was told it was cheaper to get a return ticket @ €32. Again what the fuck? How? What?
So it’s cheaper to get a return than a single? I’d love to hear the explanation for that particular logic.
So I thought well fuck it I’ll go online and get another €18 single. Except you can only do that at least 30 minutes before the departure time. I only had about 8 minutes to spare so that ruled that out. Convenient? For me, no. For Irish Rail, yes. The phrase over a barrel springs to mind.
So I had to shell out €32 for a monthly return ticket for a single journey. What an absolute rip off.
And the funny thing is this. Irish Rail are trying to make people use the online service as it will save them on labour costs. Yet in Kilkenny you still have to pick up the ticket bought online from the man at the ticket desk. Which, to my mind at least, defies all commercial logic. Fools.
So all in all I’m gravely pissed off at Irish Rail and their shitty ticket pricing policy. And their shitty slow trains. What must our European visitors make of it all?
The sooner we get a new government, and with it a Minister for Transport with a bit of cop on, the better.
The buffalo theory…
I’m off to Kilkenny for the weekend for a friend’s stag party so should be quiet enough round these parts til Monday.
Before I go I present thee with Cliff Clavin and his magnificent buffalo theory…
‘Well you see, Norm, it’s like this . . . A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the heard is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members. In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Now, as we know, excessive intake of alcohol kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. And that, Norm, is why you always feel smarter after a few beers’.
I for one can’t argue with that.
Isn’t it great?
It’s approx 11:52 in the pm. And I’m still sweltering. I must have drank about 3 litres of water today. Cycling 20 odd miles and playing football for 2 hours will do that to a man. Must get me some sunblock tho.
I’ve just noticed that my stat counter’s gone through the floor. Must be due to people finding a world outside their window and deciding to go play. But that’s all good. You will all come back tho right?!?
Motivation to post is low but these halcyon summer days must surely provide inspiration on greyer days around the corner? But fuck it let us not speak of such gloom. For the sun is due to shine again tomorrow. And heaven knows we all need these glorious days. Good for the soul.
So hurray for the sun. Long may you continue to shine. You make Dublin a better place to be and that can’t be bad.
I was a dancer all along…
I’ve been told that I’ve taken to talking in my sleep of late. Much to the amusement of her indoors. The latest instance of which has been my spoken word version of Dance Dance Dance by Lykke Li. Vocals delivered in a most deadpan style I’m told. Could well be a hit methinks.
A life-size replica…
Twice, I tripped as I walked up the gloriously appointed steps of the Lighthouse. My mind and body confused, seperate. Everything akimbo.
Then I caught my reflection in a glass building as I cycled past. I swear blind my reflected self was cycling faster than my real self. Bizarre.
As I cycled on I saw a couple jog past. Literally seconds later the same couple jogged past in the exact same direction as before. How? I do not know.
The world seemed disjointed.
I guess that’s just what happens when you go and see Synecdoche, New York.
A paradox…
Once upon a time there lived a man. No ordinary man. For this man could touch his nose with his tongue. And boy could he play the bongo.
He smoked with great elegance, like a character from the French New Wave. I never saw him without a cigarette, so much so I’d say he smoked in the shower.
He drank absinthe for breakfast and always had an espresso at midnight.
He was an artisan who never, ever did a conventional day’s work yet was never broke. An artist who didn’t believe in creating art. A bundle of apparent contradictions.
Nobody knew where he was originally from and he didn’t know where he was going. Borders couldn’t contain him.
You could almost see the trail of broken hearts in his wake. He could undress a girl by simply walking into the room, never mind looking into their eyes.
One day, his last day, his unconventional nature got the better of him. His lucky streak ran out. But he was never destined to see old age. Never destined to go beyond 27 in fact. Just like Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix.
An Eastern European country road, his motorcycle, and a truck. They combine to leave a bongo unplayed.
I wonder, in some loyal heart is his memory enshrined?
Fuck you Dermot Ahern…
I regularly finish work after 10pm. Which is fine by me as I’m not cut out for a 9 to 5 type routine. So far, so me.
And quite often I work 14 hour days in a relatively intense set up, which again is fine by me. I enjoy what I do and it keeps me off the streets.
After such days working sometimes I think to myself… “I’d murder a cold beer when I get home”. Just to unwind like.
And tonight is one of those nights. But unfortunately I’ve no beer in the fridge and there’s nothing I can do to remedy this.
So my problem is this… I can’t buy a beer, in a shop /off-licence etc, after ten o’clock on a Saturday night (i.e. on my way home from work) because our Minister for Justice doesn’t think I can handle that beer or two in the safety and comfort of my own home at such an hour. So instead he wants us all to go to Tesco and stock up on multi-packs of Stella for 27 cent or whatever ridiculous loss leader they put on as an incentive to get people into their stores.
Which is worse? Me picking up a beer or two after ten o’clock or people hoarding cheap beer during daytime hours to avoid having to be disappointed after dark? I know the answer to that question but unfortunately Dermot Ahern doesn’t.
So as I say… fuck you Dermot Ahern and the horse you rode in on. And don’t even get me started on your proposed fucking bejesusin’ blasphemy laws.
Snail Face…
I do like an odd news story from time to time. And this one is quite odd. And sure why not?
Fin Keheler, an eleven year old boy from Utah, has made a valiant effort to get into the record books… by covering his face with live snails.
He allowed 43 of the slimy mollusks to be put on his face last Saturday and wants the Guinness World Records to verify his effort.
The Guinness web site says the record set in 2007 for snails on the face for 10 seconds is eight. The boy says he has since learned the record was 36.
Fin made three attempts on Saturday. Sitting back in a reclining chair, snails gathered from neighbours’ gardens were carefully placed on his face. Those that remained for at least 10 seconds were counted.
His family is sending witness statements, video and media coverage to Guinness this week.
Snail Face
Isn’t it amazing what some people dream of achieving. That kid will be able to say to his Grandkids, “did I ever tell you about the time I broke a world record?”.
And remember kids, if in doubt write a post about snails. That’ll keep ‘em coming back for more. Ain’t nothin’ surer.
Which all just serves to remind me…
Meadow, how’s my snail-a-like getting on? I’m awaiting progress reports and the like!
Figure of Eight…
I was tagged with this by the Ponytastic RPs last week and am only now getting around to fulfilling the responsibility. But hey, here goes….
Eight things I like (in no particular order):
Licking the salty remnants from within the shells of pistachio nuts. Mmmmm salty.
Decisiveness.
The smell of a turf fire on a Winter’s day. Preferably in a pub accompanied by creamy Guinness and select friends.
The evening light in Spring.
Fresh Irish Strawberries.
The smiling eyes of a certain young lady.
The crunch of frost on grass underfoot on a cold morning.
Originality (in film, music, writing etc.). Those who strive to do something different.
Eight things I did yesterday:
Woke up with an excruciating, sharp muscular pain in my neck.
Went to a chiropractor for the first time. It probably won’t be the last.
Had beans on toast for dinner. Classy.
Listened to Tom Dunne on the radio. He’s a good egg that lad.
Read a variety of new Irish writing. Some brilliant, most bad.
Left a voicemail to wish my cousin a happy birthday, even though he’s a United fan.
Enjoyed reading about Shane Lowry, a great underdog triumph over adversity etc.
Played “Another Bites The Dust” on acoustic guitar.
Eight things I wish I could do:
Play the trumpet.
Play the cello.
Play the trumpet and the cello at the same time.
Always be on time.
Write a stunning screenplay featuring Scarlett Johansson and have it made.
Draw/paint.
Not lose touch with my oldest, boldest friends.
Speak every language there ever was / is / will be.
Eight things I don’t like:
When bus drivers drive off when they see people sprinting to make it on before the doors close.
Censorship.
Being late (even though I’m regularly late).
That 8 year old kids want to be celebrities without having any desire to be talented first.
Blasphemy laws.
Begrudgery.
Turnip.
Eamon Keane.
I’m tagging:
I think most people have done this one by now so I’ll leave well enough alone.
A pain in the neck…
Literally.
I awoke this morning with the sharpest of sharp pains in my neck. Excruciating. And I have been rendered useless by it.
I can’t use my right arm any more as that’s where the muscular pain strikes most from neck down. Trying to eat breakfast was torture. As was brushing my teeth. Even typing’s a bitch.
It has become apparent that ambidextrous I most certainly am not. Left handedness just doesn’t work for me. I’m dropping things, spilling things. Generally making a lefty mess.
I don’t know how I did it. But fuck me it’s sore. Did I use the word excruciating already? Well I’ll just have to use it again so as it’s the only word that comes close to describing the pain. It’s fucking excruciating. And no amount of Solphadene Solpadeine is changing that.
And I wouldn’t mind but I was only saying to someone at the weekend that thankfully I rarely get sick, if ever. “Haven’t been to the doctor in years”, says I. Tempting fate perhaps? Only slightly. Or as my mother would say, “ya put the mockers on it.” That I sure did.
And now I’m off to the nearest chiropractor. He can have all my worldly possessions just to fix me again. I just hope he can.
UPDATE: So I’ve been to the chiropractor. Nice chap. Reckons I’ve slipped a vertebrate in my neck or some shit. Or at least a joint thereof. And it is the reason for the inflammation, swelling and bruising that are still causing me much hell. No reason as to why or how it happened but it has so I just have to get on with it.
The pain “is your body telling you that something is wrong and to stop moving while it fixes it”, it seems.
He poked and prodded my neck for a while and then produced some kind of implement that wouldn’t look out of place in a Hitchcock movie. He kind of propelled / hammered it into the affected area which actually helped. Loosened everything up and helped the “tracking” of my neck.
So I’m still very uncomfortable but apparently it will get better with time. I left the chiropractors with some BioFreeze Cryotherapy gel and a loose prognosis. Oh and a suggestion to get some frozen peas to alleviate the inflammation. I have to go back on Wednesday morning for more prodding. Hopefully have settled down some by then.
A rainy night in Dublin…
I’m just in the door. It’s a dirty aul damp night out there. But that’s okay with me.
Tonight I spent the evening with my immediate family. Nothing formal. A pleasant, unremarkable time of it. The men spoke of football, watched football and drank tea. The women spoke of cervical cancer, didn’t watch football and drank red wine.
Later we discussed the merits of Appetite For Destruction by Guns n Roses. It made my sister feel old to realise it was released in 1987.
When I got around to putting on my coat to leave my mother wished I’d take a taxi, due to the weather and the lateness of the hour. I insisted I’d prefer to get two buses and walk a bit in the rain. She even wanted to give me money for it. I couldn’t accept it even if I wanted to. I told her I have a good raincoat. Thankfully I do, for as Billy Connolly once remarked, “there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing”.
So why not get a taxi? Well because sometimes I like to be out in the rain. Not for too long. And only if I know I’m on my way home and not to work or out. Plus I like the air when it rains in Dublin, and the atmosphere. It awakens the senses. Everything changes. In a good way. It clears the streets. Kinda like that “real rain” Travis Bickle spoke of.
Plus I don’t like being in taxis unless I really need to be. Least of all when I’m sober. And I don’t need to pay twenty quid to hear how the world is broken, that United got out of jail or that Fianna Fáil are cunts. I can keep my money and know that shit anyway.
So I walked up a very wet O’Connell Street with Sigur Rós in my ears, enveloping my brain, taking me home, while transporting me to another place. And that’s all good with me.
