The day the music died? Perhaps.
Dear Daily Mail Editor Person,
I was raised in a household where Buddy Holly was on heavy rotation… and that’s all good. The guy was an icon with killer specs. A legend with a deadly stratocaster and a deadlier fringe. But more than all that, he had a bevvy of rockin’ tunes. I kid you not. Just ask John Lennon, Elvis Presley, or George Harrison. Or maybe just Bob Dylan or Mick Jagger. They all know that Buddy was the shit.
I grasp you’ve already asked Paul McCartney but more on that later.
Where am I going with all this you may ask? Well you see, I will not sit idly by while Buddy’s image is taken in vain. Your new TV ad uses a fine song of his called Every Day. Sacrilege of the highest order I tell you.
You’re just piggybacking on his clean cut image and his legacy is tarnished by the merest association with your rag. Buddy’s estate should never have allowed that to happen.
Moreover, Paul McCartney, who owns the publishing rights to Holly’s song catalogue, should not have allowed it to happen. Should we blame Heather Mills and her hefty settlement? Perhaps. But still, McCartney should know better.
And interestingly, in the course of research, I discovered an article on the Daily Mail online with the headline…. “Surely Michael Jackson and Buddy Holly don’t deserve this? Jodie Marsh reveals hideous new ‘pop star tattoos’”. It turns out the classy Essex girl has images of Wacko Jacko, Buddy Holly and Chuck Berry on her arms. Incisive journalism indeed.
And you have the cheek to say Buddy Holly doesn’t deserve this?
I tell you this for free Mr Xenophobe, what Buddy Holly does not deserve is to have his image and one of his fine tunes pillaged in your ad.
So cease and desist. It may suit Paul McCartney Inc to rake in the royalties but it’s not what he nor Peggy Sue would’ve wanted.
Yours,
NaRocRoc
Would the real Mary Coughlan please stand up?
It’s just occurred to me that our Tánaiste is one Mary Coughlan. I saw her just now on the one o’clock news standing to address an empty Dáil chamber.
Where has she been since Biffo took the reins and she got that gig? What has she said or done since this recession lark reared its ugly bastard head? She’s been fairly fucking anonymous, to me at least.
And the worst thing is this… she is also our Minister for Enterprise, which should be a very important gig in itself. Surely in testing times such as these we should be hearing more from someone with that post of responsibility?
Maybe Biffo’s massive head and massiver ego doesn’t allow the limelight to spill in her direction? He is doing it his way after all. Whether that’s the right way or not remains to be seen.
Maybe he doesn’t have faith in her but then why put her in such important positions if she’s going to be so mute and ineffective?
Would the real Mary Coughlan please stand up?
The password is fidelio…
Burning with curiosity, I ran across the field after the rabbit with the watch in its waistcoat-pocket. Fortunately I was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. Down I went after it, never once considering how in the world I was to get out again.
Alice and the rabbit heading down to Soundcheck on the 19th of Feb
And so word has spread like wildfire, like a rogue meteor if you will.
I saw it here first, a real blog war you say? I’m there.
Supremo led me to the the Creator of it all. It’s like the Truman Show really. Except in Soundcheck form. With the almighty UnaRocks as the Morgan Freeman, God-type character. Except with better taste in music and an enviable energy to be setting up the likes of this lark.
In truth I brought it on myself. I answered the call. I’m sure I won’t regret it yet I’m excited and vaguely nervous in equal measure. And I don’t get nervous.
Maybe it’s the knowledge that there are some serious muso-blog type luminaries on the bill. Many of whom do it professionally and very well for that matter. I might just have to wear a mask.
Maybe it’s the knowledge that there’ll be some serious muso-blogger types on the dancefloor. People who can write, slate and review like there’s no tomorrow. Literally. Right there right then. They have the technology. And that’s perhaps more daunting. I might just have to wear a mask.
So let the Battle of the Bloggers begin. It’s on like Donkey Kong.
One thing I will say is that I can’t guarantee I won’t just play Guns N Roses.
Talk about life changing…
Early yesterday a woman in Southern California gave birth to eight babies in the space of a mere 5 minutes. Octuplets. In 5 minutes?! Mad Ted. That’s one every 37 seconds! They were obviously in a hurry to get out. Bit cramped in there I reckon.
And madder still, up until yesterday the woman thought she was carrying, ahem, only seven babies, according to the New York Times.
Her team of medical experts had told her that multiple ultrasounds confirmed it every time: 7 heads, 7 spines and 28 limbs, all packed into a space typically only several centimeters in diameter.
But when the time for delivery came on Monday morning, there was one wrinkle. After the seventh baby was plucked from the womb, an assistant announced that he felt another foot.
“That’s when the room all of a sudden became quiet,” Dr. Henry (the head of the medical team delivering the babies) said in an interview. “Everyone was in shock, including mom herself. She just couldn’t believe it.” I’d say!
Baby No. 8 marked a small miracle. Apparently the odds of being struck by lightning are better; it’s only the second time in recorded American history, that a woman has given birth to live octuplets.
The mother, who has declined to be identified, was described as being “overwhelmed but in good spirits”. She is recovering and in stable condition. And so are her children — two girls and six boys — all weighing from 1 pound, 8 ounces to 3 pounds, 4 ounces.
Apparently the procedure flowed perfectly. Despite the fact that they were blissfully unaware an eighth sprog was about to pop out!
How the eighth baby, a boy weighing about two pounds, went unnoticed was unclear, but it is believed he was tucked into one of the horns of the uterus, far from his siblings.
“You have to consider that all those heads and extremities were packed into a space that’s designed for at most two babies, so you can see that it’s conceivable that one would be caught in the midst of that and not be seen,” Dr. Henry said.
For now, the babies are being referred to with the letters A through H. It is not known yet if any are identical. Odds on one of them being called Barack anyone? Slim I reckon.
Still, it’s remarkable stuff altogether. I’d say Daddy Octopus with the super sperm will be making an appointment with his local snip merchant fairly sharpish.
Are we dancer you ask?
There is a very fine line between being cool and aloof and being an ignorant dickhead. And Lord knows we’ve all straddled that line. I sure have.
But all we crave is just a little of that human touch. So Mr Flowers to answer your question, yes, we are merely human. In a world without pity. Yes, we may be pretenders, and although we do like to dance from time to time, that does not necessarily make us dancers. Or denser.
If you should have any more questions I suggest you talk to Uncle Bruce. He can fill you in in ways I never will. He may well charge you €96 for the privilege but, believe me, it’ll be worth it. He might even point you in the direction of his friends with the Neon Bible.
Red Rum anyone?
There is a hostel at the junction of Marlborough St. and Talbot St. in Dublin 1. It’s called The Shining. Apparently it “boasts a clean, bright and friendly atmosphere”. However, they do say “Children Not Allowed”. That’s nice to know.
Still, it brings to mind all kinds of things. Namely…
Would you stay there?
It’s not all doom n gloom…
At first I thought it was a wind-up. Then I dismissed it completely. But behind it all my ego couldn’t resist so I went through with it. And I’m glad I did.
It all began when I wrote a post recently detailing my sprawling thoughts on all things recessionary. Thereafter a kind, polite lady contacted me alluding to my “great work”.
That’s why I thought it was a wind-up. It went on… “we are carrying out a new series of interviews with notable passionate bloggers, writers, and webmasters. In that regard, we would like to interview you”. And that’s when my ego started to prick up. So I replied.
And so it goes. I have now been interviewed by the Pakistani Spectator.
The wondrous interview is available here. It’s all about blogging and the wider world. Do have a gander.
The Pakistani Spectator is a web collective of bloggers and journalists who are trying to contribute their “humble share in the webosphere”. Their “aim is to foster peace, progress and harmony with passion”.
And I’m all for that.
At least the fat kid got to go in goal!
The longlist for the Irish Blog Awards was announced today. And laydees and genullmen The Narocroc Weblog is not there. Shock. Horror. Divil a nomination. And I had the speech written and all. I was gonna go all Kate Winslett on your asses.
Rick who?
If truth be told I’m not surprised. This blog is only finding it’s feet and I’m only beginning to find a voice. I haven’t been the most consistent or prolific blogger and even at that I don’t readily fit into any of the categories. In fact I wouldn’t have voted for it and it’s mine.
Yet I still felt a pang of disappointment seeing every other bloody blog up there and mine not. Like being the fat kid who didn’t get picked for football. At least he got to go in goal the little porker!
Still, good to see a lot of worthy blogs/bloggers getting the nod. And anyway isn’t it all about the taking part at the end of the day?!?
Enough already…
This recession lark has well and truly kicked in and it’s only going to get worse before it gets any way better. I’ve tried to ignore it as much as I can. I’ve been reluctant to post about it as I feel the more we all talk about it the worse it’ll get.
It’s everywhere. I’d swear the news organisations (print TV radio) invented it because they’ve nothing else to hype up. No real war; Israel, Iraq, Afghanistan are so dated now. Global warming is boring. They got so much milage out of Obama already so something new, something global was needed. And bad news sells. Nothing like a bit of doom and gloom to boost circulation and ratings.
Yesterday the Irish Independent had a recession special. The Late Late Show was dominated by it. Prime TIme have been creaming themselves all week with the doom and gloom. Etc etc etc. I’m sick of it.
And all they do is make it worse. It’s like the Gremlins. Add water and the fucker goes wild.
The thing about recessions is they are man made. Completely. Obviously. They are driven by fear. And most of that fear is propagated by the media. It’s a vicious cycle and it’s all completely inorganic. It defies logic in fact. If we all turned around tomorrow and decided that we didn’t want a recession. Bang there’d be no recession. But that’s not going to happen, collectively, is it?
Employers are using the recession to cut back. Often flouting labour laws and trade union agreements. Just because in the current climate they can, and everyone is afraid to say boo because we all have to be grateful, humble servants. It’s crazy.
And it all has happened so quickly. Only Bertie saw it coming and now he’s on crutches, karma anyone?!?
Now I’m not trying to bury my head in the sand. I know it’s serious. Australia is gonna be full of unemployed Irish plasterers, architects, electricians, everything, very soon and that’s a scary prospect. All because here in Ireland we are rudderless. Our government haven’t the balls or the smarts to deal with the situation at hand and the people are like lost sheep without a shepherd. Basically we’re fucked. And that’s just shit.
A friend of mine has set up a recession club in work. They go out for pints every Monday night now and anyone who utters the “R” word has to buy a round. Now that’s the spirit. More of it.
Of all the bus stops in all the world…
On a dark desert highway Dublin dual carriageway. Stepping out of a headlight haze. An apparition. A bizarre encounter. One part chance, another coincidence. The timing was vaguely freakly. All in a good way you see.
It felt strange. A colliding of my blog self and my real self for the very first time. Had to happen I guess.
He referred to us as “us”. The outsiders. The community. Soldiers of fortune. Reminded me of the X-men. Rogue outlaws. Might well be the first time I felt part of it. You, you, him, you. And me.
We shared public transport. Had a chat. Shook hands and walked off into the night.
Later we shared space and time in the glow of Kate Winslet’s sagging bosom and Teutonically hairy armpits. Again pure chance, pure coincidence. And why not?
It was a pleasure to meet you Mr Supremo. Til next time…
Here He Comes To Save The Day…
For some bizarre reason I seem to be singing the theme tune to Mighty Mouse today. And in that very operatic way it’s supposed to be sung, of course.
Why? I simply do not know. Don’t fight it, feel it I guess.
Update: There is an excellent Andy Kaufman sketch where he performs this very theme tune on stage. Well worth a look…
Backbone and lifeblood…
This year the GAA are celebrating their 125th Anniversary and it’s a big deal for all affiliated with the organisation. As a result, on Friday night there was a Late Late Show special, devoted entirely to the occasion. Much sentimentality and nostalgia. Plenty of back slapping, and praise. And an abundance of gobshitery from Brush Shiels.
There was much talk of how the GAA is a wonderful organisation. And I agree, it is. It is uniquely Irish and has contributed so much to our history and culture.
In recent years the GAA has gone from strength to strength and it continues to play an intrinsic role in Irish society today. So much so that the GAA put their FAI and IRFU counterparts to shame when it comes to professionalism and integration.
Much comment was made on the Late Late about how the GAA is an organisation of the people for the people by the people etc. It’s core is the volunteer who marks the pitches, runs the club bar, ferries kids from parish to parish for matches on cold and wet weekend mornings etc. Grassroots involvement is, and has been the key to the success of the GAA. And amateurism has helped preserve this success and foster the community spirit inherent in the GAA. Which, of course, is all fair enough.
But, lest we forget, the GAA are big business. Sponsored by all the biggest multi-national corporations who see a huge return on piggybacking on that very community spirit. Which again is fair enough. That money makes its way to grassroots level which is all good. For the most part.
On Saturday, 31st January the centrepiece of the GAA’s 125th Anniversary celebrations is the National League Round 1 match between Dublin and Tyrone. The GAA are touting it as a “one-off event incorporating a spectacular lighting and fireworks display, live entertainment and of course, the clash of Dublin and All-Ireland Champions Tyrone”.
The floodlit game will be played to a packed Croke Park I’m sure. That’s 80,000 odd paying punters. See there’s no such thing as a free lunch where the GAA are concerned.
Surely an organisation for the people of Ireland which for 125 years has had amateurism and the parish ethos at its core could reward and entertain those very people without asking them to open their wallets yet again?
I really think the GAA should give free tickets to schools and clubs across the country and put on this “spectacle” for those who provide it with its backbone and lifeblood. But it won’t happen. And that, for me at least, is a great shame.
“You look like Avril Lavigne…”
I bought a new hoodie in the sales last week. It’s a black and red chequered type thing. I thought it was kinda cool, trendy like. Today I wore it for the first time. When I walked into work the very first person I met said to me, “I see you won the bet”. The second person said, “you look like Avril Lavigne”.
I’ve since been asked “how was Brokeback Mountain?” and “which one of the Jonas Brothers are you?”.
Everyone’s a fuckin’ comedian aren’t they?!
“It’s hard to be humble when you as great as I am.”
I’ve just finished watching an interview with Muhammad Ali from 1972, pulled from the archive and broadcast tonight on RTÉ One. The programme was called “When Ali Met Cathal”, and it’s a simply outstanding piece of television.
Ali was an interviewer’s dream. Such an iconic character. So intelligent, so opinionated, so charming and disarming. He made for great television. And I’m so glad somebody in RTÉ decided to broadcast this piece again tonight as I’d never seen it before now.
Shot in glorious black and white, in front of a live studio audience, it holds up impeccably. Cathal O’Shannon posed the questions, with a light amiable touch. And it certainly was a great encounter. Ali just lets go with his thoughts on everything from racism and slavery to the fame of The Beatles and on to the cult of personality in modern sport. He was also very aware of his Irish audience and craftily tailored many of his answers to suit. Confident, delightfully arrogant, and sharp as a tack; the man talked a lot of sense. It makes for really engaging viewing.
Also his self-composed poetry about the the black man’s struggle for equality and his delivery of same were remarkable. I wasn’t aware he had written such telling verses. Cracking stuff altogether, his projection along the lines of Gil Scott Heron meeting Allen Ginsberg in a boxing ring.
Another great thing about the programme is this… there were no gimmicks, no explosions, no house band, no viewers prize. Just an extremely compelling one on one interview. Granted not every interviewee is Muhammad Ali. Yet it still serves as a reminder that TV does not have to be all-singing, all-dancing. In fact simplicity is rare. But very often, simplicity works.
You learn something new every day…
Being a romantic sort, this morning I bought a bunch of flowers for her indoors. When stripping off the label (very expensive, of course) I noticed that on there was a warning notice. It went like this…
“Lilies harmful to cats if eaten.”
Now that’s one thing I didn’t know when I got out of bed this morning.
A good friend of this weblog has often complained of his not infrequent run-ins with his girlfriend’s evil cat. Said cat, always hissing, looks at him with wrathful eyes. It has torn his clothes, pissed in his shoes and allegedly scratched at his eyes when asleep on the couch. His girlfriend laughs it off, saying the cat is “simply playful” and that he just doesn’t understand it’s personality. Like cats have personality?
Now I couldn’t suggest he buy his girlfriend several bunches of lilies on a regular basis could I? I swear it never even crossed my mind!
Nor mention placing lily petals delicately around the floor of her apartment in a series of romantic gestures? I wouldn’t even dare!
Disclaimer… no animals were harmed in the writing of this post.
And the NaRocRoc Weblog does not condone cruelty to animals in any shape or form! We do however condone the purchase of lilies for those deserving of them in these depressing, recessionary January days.
I’ll never forget whatsername…
Radge has posted about a Graduate-like encounter he had many moons ago with an, ahem, older lady in McGowans of Phibsboro. Reminded me of a particular dating experience of my own which began there.
McGowans is the kind of place you go when you should know better and go home but don’t. Rubber arm easily twisted. One last pint etc. Anyway I went there late one Sunday night with some friends.
I got chatting a to girl whose name I can’t for the life of me remember and that’s probably just as well. All I recall is that she was quite cute. Oh and she was a physio.
I have a history of bad ankles and knees due to years of footballing abuse so a lightbulb lit up over my head. I got her number and we agreed to go out later that week.
On my way to meet the lovely physio it occurred to me that I was in need of a cash injection. I queued at the ATM on O’Connell Street. When it came to my turn I opened my wallet but the place within where the ATM card always is… was bare. Never happens, bar this once. No card. No cash. Disaster.
I was early. She was earlier. Not a bad way to start. Except I had to explain my embarrassing, lack of cash situation. Awkwardly. Unconvincingly. She made nothing of it but I still felt like a gobshite when she paid for the tickets and the popcorn.
She insisted I choose the movie we go to. So I did. I chose Bowling for Columbine. Not exactly a romantic comedy, and I don’t think it was her kind of movie. Well certainly not by her reaction when the credits rolled. In hindsight maybe it wasn’t a great choice for a first date. Any date.
Oh and dropping the popcorn (she bought) didn’t help.
Afterwards I suggested we go for a drink. So we did. Over the road to Conways on Parnell Street. Again not necessarily a great choice for a first date. And again she had to pay for the drinks.
So funnily enough there was never a second date. And I haven’t been back to McGowans since. Still at least I got to see Bowling for Columbine. Never got her to give my dodgy ankles a rub though. Ah well. Win some lose some.
