DIARIT

VD Musings

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 23:51:00 GMT

Romance walks in metal boots. You can hear the change jangle in its pockets, too, as it steps over the houses. It takes out adverts in magazines, peers against the foggy windows, and hums on the bus but you can't tell where its sitting. Hums and hums. You'd hum too, but it'd make you blush. That's romance for you. Its one of those tunes.

One day you see it in the restaurant, cuddling, moist and flacid. Two people sit across from one another, the man playing on his wife's Nintendo DS, complete with pink and sparkles. She just watches him, watches the back of her Nintendo DS. Its her DS, but she isn't playing. She's just watching him punch buttons. His face is scrunched like he's taking a shit. Is that sensual? Taking a shit? Playing a DS? She watches him, waiting, bored, listening for the jangle of change. The fire burns, in its own way.

It flickers, and gets summoned, and it rejects you when you call the loudest, but it never really dies. It gets displaced, maybe, or forgotten. Some couples bicker, others chatter politely, both parties sure of their loins' inattention. Until that glass of plum wine arrives, or that caberet fondue, and drinks are shared and saliva too, and so on. Until the cab ride.

And still it watches, after you've paid, slathering on its winnings, watching you close the door, until the energy saver bulbs wink on, and then off again.

Airport Shaving - Philishave Regret

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 18:02:00 GMT

I was walking down to gate 43, halfway along the narrow, crowded, airbus pier in foggy Stansted airport, scowling and checking my watch like there was a snake up my sleeve. Some days I'd sit and watch how girls position their handbags when they sit, or how men stare when their girls leave them to browse. But today wasn't a day for watching. I wanted a shave and I wanted it now.

Bzzzz. Having a shave in an airport, like any public faux pas, makes you feel both rude and important. Having finished my beard I decided to continue, that is, to shave the rest of my head as well. Not only would I be more shiny upstairs, but I'd also be sticking it to Time, Destiny and any other incarnations of the Short Haul Pantheon.

It was only when the motor for my Philips Coolshave sizzled into defeat that I realised I'd made a bad call. Batteries.

Now it was time to make it look like I'd done it on purpose. I made some washing gestures, took a hat from my bag, and exited the bathrooms.

Bing. Bong. This is final boarding call for all stoopid, impatient retards on flight FR155 to Dublin. Please make sure you learn all lessons before embarking and have your pride ready for inspection at the gate.

DIARIT: 3/10

Carmen, National Concert Hall

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 13:34:00 +0100

The people’s Opera, Carmen is a sassy tale of envy and passion. Lane productions produced a 3 night show in the National Concert Hall (NCH) last week. I forked out €36 for a balcony seat and put on my Tuesday best.

From the red balcony, on the left hand side, there was a yawning view of the stage, much less dressed than the Amphitheatre (Ellen Kent) rig I was used to. What it lacked in theatrical attention it made up with the promise of ‘class’. Or so I thought. Markings on an enormous, knee-height dais intimated the changing of props, and it took up two thirds of the stage. Black drapes, peppered with faerie lights hung like stars on the wings, while directly to the rear there was a false wooden arch and inky horizons sketched on canvas.

I sat next to a family of Dubs. The guy beside me was a late adolescent in a Liverpool jersey wearing wrist supports like the ones they use in my boxing gym. He snuffled heavy phlegm and barked in deepest Dublinese.

‘Is that a bleedin’ clarinet?’

Curious.

Something that’s lost in the stalls (the main seating area) is the humanity of the orchestral tuning before the show. From the balcony, the usual cacophony translates into purpose, like tuning a radio, reminding me of the people behind the music. Normally I’d strain to pick out individual instruments, but when looking down form the lofty balcony, I spied each performer, their gentle movements, their concentration, and I could match each to the sounds of their instruments much more easily. It reminded me that I am not going to be listening to my iPod, or watching the cinema. This would be a performance.

According to wiki answers, Carmen is the fourth most performed Opera in North America. It’s one of those Operas that appeals to everyone. Why? Because everyone with a TV or a radio knows Carmen. I’d guess that half the themes have been used in advertising for some product or another. Furthermore, Carmen is brazen. From the opening scene, where soldiers perve over Micaela like bored construction workers, to the bar-room flamenco, to the quasi-rape at Carmen’s murder, this is the blockbuster of the classical scene.

It’s a big production, with big personality, so I was surprised at Lane’s success. Earlier in the year they’d put on a timid La Boheme, and I’d figured the same calibre would represent. Thankfully, there were a few improvements.

Imelda Drumm (Carmen) was sexy, throaty and vigorous. From the onset you knew she’d need an alpha co-star. Oops. Unfortunately, Michael Wade Lee (Don José), who gave a technical recital, didn’t have the oomph to match. Perhaps, however, he was playing to character, as Don José is a bit of a wind-bag chump (in which case, bravo!). As usual, it seems, my favourites were in support. Micaela (Claudia Boyle) was delicious, powerful and sweet - my favourite. Toby Stafford Allen played a jaunty, winsome rogue (Escamillo, the bull-fighter who steals Carmen’s heart). Odd casting, as we expect a monster when we hear Escamillo’s fanfare, and yet, despite his smaller size, Stafford Allen had machismo to match Drumm’s Carmen, and there was chemistry to taste.

After that, we were spoilt by the gypsy girls Mercédes and Frasquita, (Deirdre Masterson and Claire Kavanagh), and the soldiering perverts Zuniga and Morales (John Molloy and Eugene Armstrong). The support was wonderful. Everyone stayed in character, it wasn’t forced, and there was very rarely anyone looking for orchestral cues. The stage spun with energy, from the whisking ballet to the bare legged table dances, from the snoozing gypsy guards to the trumpeting ceremonials, from the randy soldiers to the randier virginal cat-fight. Awesome show. This time, Vivian Coates did a pretty good job. My faith in Lane is restored (though a few surtitles would have been handy).

‘All the singin’ was good an’ all,’ my neighbour acknowledged sagely, ‘’cept I don’ know wha’ de Fuck is goin’ on.’

DIARIT: 9/10

Three Men in a Boat - Filming on the Grand Canal, Dublin

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 8 Oct 2009 21:06:00 +0100

Walk it off. That's what they say if you're upset, or if you've eaten too much. Walk it off. It's the solution for something fleeting. A cure-all for the ephemeral grumps. I'm a firm believer in the walk. If you've got a problem, and it can be walked off, then it's not as important as you thought it was.

While testing this theory earlier on today, I was satisfied by the soft transition of my autumn glooms. I left the house with a rain-cloud on my shoulder, and padded the canal run with a listless gait. Despite the sun, despite the peace, I was melancholy. I had gotten myself into the loneliness spiral. This was all dashed apart, of course, when I spotted a barge stuck under a bridge.

Three Men in A Boat, I guess, has come to Ireland at last. The show, originally aired in 2006, featured Dara O'Briain (pronounced breeee-un for those who aren't quite sure), Griff Rhys Jones, Rory McGrath and a dog called Loli. They sailed from Kingston to Oxford in a skiff, matching Jerome's Victorian novel of the same name. They broadcast a couple of sequels, and now it looks like there's a new one in the making.

How would I know? I was stomping down the path and I passed a man in a brown suit, muttering to himself like a Thespian, one hand on his chin, the other pocketed, rocking back and forth on his heels. Griff Rhys Jones. On the return leg, I noticed the barge had become unstuck, there were cameras, many Londoners on walkie talkies and Dara O'Briain was standing on deck with a slim black hound leashed with a blue collar. At that moment, the sunlight was showing off, dappling the canal through faerie brush, so it must have made for a grand shoot. Not wanting to bother anyone, I continued on my way.

By the time I got back I'd felt much better. Ahhhh, I breathed, and sat down with a cup of coffee. Off it had been walked.

DIARIT: 7/10

How to Cheat the Lisbon Vote

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 17:49:00 +0100

How to cheat the Lisbon Vote? Tell the council that you've changed address. I rang them, emailed them and sent in a form stamped by the Gardaí. I thought I'd done more than what was required to keep things legal. Yet, just like last time, they ignored me. As a result, I can vote twice on Friday.

Perhaps they really think my opinion matters. Perhaps I'm the kind of guy they'd like to see over-represented. Trouble is, even if that were the case, they'd have picked the wrong chump. I'm Lisbon'd out, and I still don't know how to vote. The more I research, the less informed I feel. Opinions polarise like forks in the road. On the one hand I don't want to support the 'Get-Of-Our-Country-You-Smelly-Gypsies' Sinn Fein propaganda. I may not know what I'm talking about most of the time, but I can smell a pile of bullshit if you stick it in my face. On the other hand, whenever I ask a Yes-Man for feedback, all I get is 'jobs.... free love... and... jobs..." If it's so fucking important, why can't you explain in it less than a hundred pages?

4.5 million people in Ireland are deciding the fate of hundreds of millions of Europeans. Is it right to vote yes for something you don't understand? Tick. Tock.

DIARIT: 2/10

One More Tune - Heartbeat of the Dublin Songwriter Scene

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 13:48:00 +0100

I've got media indigestion. Every time I trip heavily into the broadcasting web, I feel I'm about to choke. There's too much for me, it's too broad, with too many curiosities. Either I click the power button and turn my head to vomit, or I spend hours trawling through nets and hooks of data to glean a useful message. Either way, I end up feeling stoppered, uncomfortable, and unsure if I've have had enough.

What I really need is some purity. Some organic media, if you will, with original content without an agenda. And I want it in bitesize, useful chunks. I want it to coax me, enlighten, charm and explore. I want a lot.

Luckily, there's One More Tune, a young website that hunts out coolness in Dublin so I don't have to. If you've never been, take a peek. The interviews are short, soft, heartfelt and warm. One by one you can find background intel on most of the songwriters in Ireland, and the list is ever expanding. From Gemma Hayes, to Mark Geary, Glen Hansard to The Spook of the 13th Lock, Roots Manuva to Dirty Epics, the interviews are engaging and honest.

When you watch, it's like you're peeking into a conversation between friends. There's none of the media punch. It's the living room poll, a comfy, tuck yourself in kind of operation, with the fire on and a cup of cocoa. Where MTV slaps you with a bareknuckled fist, One More Tune hugs you warmly and whispers something important in your ear. Yum.

So if you've had an overdose of media vindaloo and fancy a musical digestive, take 3 mins to watch something happy, honest and enlightening. It's the alka selzter of entertainment news.

DIARIT: 8/10

How do you wear a groin guard?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 21:46:00 +0100

Just finished lesson 2 in Krav Maga. I was worried my injury was going to slow me down. Oh, you didn't hear about my dice with death? Well, it's pretty short. It happened on Tuesday. My sparring partner advised me to do some shadow boxing. Not knowing how it was done, except from nostalgic clips of Steven Segal and J.C.V.D. punching the air with ruffled eyebrows, I was bound to get into trouble. Sure enough, 20 mins into practice I pulled a muscle. Luckily the only witness was staring at me in the mirror. It goes to show I'm already a lethal weapon.

Asked by the instructor what I'd do if I got in a fight if I couldn't handle shadow boxing, I replied 'quick uppercut to my own face. Down in one.' The crowd goes wild.

So, how do you put on a groin guard? Do you go into the changing rooms and come out with superman pants on? Or do you tuck it underneath and strut around like Hugh Heffner? I worked it out in the end. But, guys, this should give you an idea of my athleticism. It reminds me of the old adage, 'if you have to ask?'

Rough guide to this week's class:

4-hit combo, lunge punch, defensive punch, front kick and a little defence. In the end I was elected to be attacked by five assailants. I got a punch to the face and my hand is bleeding. Not as serious as it sounds. It was all accidental.

DIARIT: 8/10

If you can't be arsed reading, listen to the robot...

Self Defence in Dublin City Centre - Krav Maga

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 5 Sep 2009 12:47:00 +0100

So you want to learn self defence? Krav Maga (pronounced Krav Mugá) is the stripped down, no thrills, punch to the balls kind of fighting taught to the Israeli Military. It's quick to learn and super efficient. They teach you to avoid getting killed using speed and elbows.

I tried my first class the other night. I expected some serious heads, you know the sort, lots of knuckles and bruises. But most of us were new comers, late twenties, kind of unfit. The instructor said hello, turned up the volume and had us sprinting on the spot, pushing-up, jumping and sweating, all in the time it takes to disarm an armed mugger.

I learned to throw an elbow to the face, the principles of ground fighting (low line attacks from the prone position), aggressive blocks against knives and how to drop the opponent with a round kick. Finally I was attacked by the class, two at a time, to test my defences. I'm a little tender, but there's no bruising.

Look, this is the real deal, straight up, quick and cheap. It's in a handy location and there's no time wasted on ceremony. If you're looking for a class with a friendly, experienced instructor, a central location and an affordable price, this place is a great candidate. You're not going to get beaten up here, or looked down on, but you are expected to put your back into it. Some do it for fitness, others for technique, I do it for confidence. And I feel taller already.

Bridgefoot Street Boxing Gym (see here) holds classes twice a week on Mondays and Tuesdays at 7pm. €10 per class (you pay in €40 lumps).

DIARIT: 7/10

If you can't be arsed reading, listen to the robot...

Harvest Food Festival - Slow Food - Waterford

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 2 Sep 2009 10:49:00 +0100

"There's nothing quite like the grilled octopus in Paros port..."
"...it can hardly be compared to a prosciutto/stracciatella piadini on the Bologna boardwalk..."
"..But have you ever tasted ripened pineapples in a middle Queensland summer?"

Blah, blah, blah & yawn. All very glamorous. What they're really saying is, foreign food is scrumptious: I wish I lived there.

Well, you do. As far as food is concerned. Ireland has got to have the most under-celebrated gastro-culture in Europe. It's hard to wade through the jungle of discardable imports, but if one looks closely, there's a trove of yuminess in the brush. Now, I could list off a few of my favourites, but why not try them for yourself?

Head down to Waterford between the 11th-13th September for the Slow Food Harvest Festival. Learn chocolate making, get a 'whiskey tutorial' at the Chamber of Commerce and eat spit roast lamb in the Waterford feast. There's a national farmer's market of Slow Food confederates. That means locally produced honey, cured venison, organic ice cream, Omega beef, Connemara lamb, goat's butter, etc. Imagine the flavours. From the source.

Listen, it's family friendly, there are speakers from the Times, Darina Allen (the Slow Food empress) is going to talk, there's a big Grow It Yourself conference if you want to learn to put veggies in the back garden, and lots of smiling, open minded foodie colleagues.

If you've never heard of Slow Food, now's your chance to learn. It's about taking it easy, taking your time, slowing it down.

For more information visit Slow Food Ireland or email Donal Lehane.

DIARIT: ?/10

If you can't be arsed reading, listen to the robot...

Dun Laoghaire Festival of World Culture & Captain Magic Wonderland

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 30 Aug 2009 13:47:00 +0100

Dun Laoghaire is full of knackers, drunks and swearing. At least it was when I grew up. Nowadays you’re more likely to see a drum circle than a bottle fight. Especially in late August when the County Council pull their fingers from the moist regions of their persons and deliver the greatest free festival in the country.

This year I only had time to visit on Saturday morning, and by the time I left, I was searching for excuses to postpone my evening appointments. If you’ve never been, and you’re at home checking the web right now, get off your arse and take a look. There’s still a whole day of merriment to be had. It’s just a DART away.

The Dun Laoghaire Festival of World Cultures was started in 2001 by Jody Ackland. It celebrates music, food, dance, fashion and fun, global style. And it’s free. Ahem. It’s FREE. Did you get that? In Dublin, nothing’s free. Even buskers look at you funny. Music costs. That’s the way it is.

But down in Kingstown, the homeland, as it were, I was once again awed by the conglomeration of musical diversity. You could taste the atmosphere in the air, like the scent of crackling Bratwurst. Children, grown-ups, tourists and locals, all of us tip toed on the edge of excitement, ready to be drowned in carnival frenzy. By the seaside, there was a barrage of sounds, one minute a quintet of singing, dancing lederhosen, belting their hearts out like strained pigs doing tap dance, the next minute, blue wearing samba drummers grinning like happy devils. Winding through the stalls, past ice-cream, falafel, sushi and burrito vendors, the main stage thrummed like a patriot, the mighty woofers vibrating to the patter and call of a tourist Ceilí. This, for me, was the only disappointment. Irish music doesn’t have to be bland. Look at Kíla. But here, they had bland in buckets and spades. For the opening set of an afternoon fiesta, it looked like they’d picked up a CD in the Kilkenny shop and asked the group to attend. It was boring, watery trad, the stuff the visitors will pay for, but certainly not the spirit the youth of Ireland like to celebrate. It felt like I’d walked into Fitzsimons of Temple Bar on a Tuesday afternoon. Touristy, desperate and sparse.

That being said, it prepared me for a great turn in my emotion as minutes later I happened upon what can only be described as the Sexy Courtyard. Porn grooves slunk between a gyrating crowd, as funk-blues shook the paving stones. Captain Magic Wonderland had migrated from their usual busking spot in town to a small corner of Dun Laoghaire, right by the Kingston Hotel. They’re a five piece Blues / Funk / Tango set, as much deep bass, fiery vocals and elastic rhythm as dulcet violin, popping bongos and Latino swing. If you haven’t seen them in Temple Bar, CHECK THEM OUT. I’m cheap, but I still bought the CD. That good.

DIARIT: 10/10

If you can't be arsed reading, listen to the robot...

A460 Canon Powershot - Lens Error, Restart Camera

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 15:54:00 +0100

(If you're reading this blog entry for some Powershot A460 help, the link that I had found years ago [in the second last paragraph] has become broken ... so the solution is lost ... sorry about that)

Barcelona is probably my favourite city in the world. Outside the tourist hot-zone the streets are explosive with character. In August, especially around the 15th, the locals go fiesta mental and throw fireworks at tourists, wearing devil's masks, and dancing like gremlins. Over in Bario Gracia, things go even more topsy turvy, with locally sponsored street decorations, each themed and intricate. Thoroughfares are roofed with amber hangings so it feels like Autumn in the night, or encased and threaded with titanic spider webs like Shelob’s lair. This year, Wonderland drooped maniacally over one grand entrance, a tunnel of playing cards and Cheshire grins, and there was a great castle made of newspapers, huge and medieval, the entrance a battle portcullis that stretched for meters above your head. What a spectacle! Imagine the photos!

Somehow, between Parc Guell and this grand, annual Fiesta de Gracia, I scuppered my cheap, loveable A460 Canon Powershot digital camera, so my photographic intentions were ruined. All records of that wild, hot, fiery spectacle are confined to my waning memory (and the sated memory cards of other tourists). In the end, it wasn't a night for posing and composing, more for dancing and romancing. So not much was lost, except, of course, my camera’s functionality.

Never fear! 30 mins on the internet and I had the issue beat. If your A460 Canon Powershot camera ever tells you 'Lens error, restart camera,' it's probably sand inside the gears. Check out this website. Take a tiny screwdriver, some relaxing music and 10 minutes of courage. Whammo. You're back on track.

I like my cameras like I like my women, a little cranky at times but easy to fix. Canon Powershot A460, you're the gal for me. xxx Mmmmwah.

DIARIT: 8/10

Moving House and a Sandwich

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 7 Aug 2009 22:25:00 +0100

A peculiar smell. A wrinkling of the nose. A feeling of anxiety. It's always fresh, that moment, when you notice you've walked in shit. No matter where it begins, it normally ends with the shoe. For me, though, it was to end the following day, when I became a sandwich.

It was blistering sunshine, I had forgotten last night's doggy business under my heel like the discarded oats of yesterday's porridge, and everything was ship shape. But not for long. On my way to buy picture hooks from the pound shop it all came rushing back, onto my shiny baldness. That's right, a direct strike from above. I can see the seagull pulling up from a wild dive, hooting like a yankee, high fiving his mates back in the shower room. I've always suspected that dog shit made you lucky, but maybe I was wrong. In the space of a day I had become, in a sense, sandwiched by excrement.

In any case, one of my friends is leaving Dublin, to Greece, and I've had to move from my apartment because of it. Now I've got a cosy studio in Portobello with a big window, a foldaway bed, a foldaway table, fold away chairs and even a fold away storage box. I have enough furniture in one room to fill a terrace, but everything is snapped, swung and flopped into a neat package, so it looks like there's loads of room. It's sort of a mix between the tardis and Transformers. More than meets the eye.

It's a playful thing, having your own place. Your dirt, your smell, your cups of tea, your films, your shoes discarded, your feet on the sofa. Whatever you do, or don't, it's yours. So even if you do get shit all over the place, at least it's your place.

DIARIT: 9/10

IKEA Dublin, Opening Mayhem

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 12:21:00 +0100

Did you know that the Swedes pronounce Ikea without the I, so it sounds more like icky than pikey? In truth, Ickea Dublin is neither icky nor pikey, a fact I discovered with surprise on the opening day of the furniture Mecca.

I needed a couch, as much as any bachelor really needs anything. As a double-edged project, I decided to subject myself to shopping torture for the good of the blog. I expected turmoil, hatred and elbows. I expected mothers with prams to graze my ankles, snotty children, excess mucus, and the cacophony of hissing couples. I prepared myself for the worst, jogged to the bus stop an asked for a one-way ticket to Ballymun.

Arriving at the big blue warehouse, I knew from the start that something was amiss. When the bus driver told me we were to be delivered directly into the IKEA complex, I expected the UN on the walls, spraying the local outlaws with automatic weapons, screaming for the gates to be winched up as our bus hurtled through the clouds of smoke and gunfire. Sure, there were the flags and the bunting, and a few children with balloons. Sure, there was the Abba playing from a van in the car park. Nevertheless, it wasn’t the mayhem I’d been anticipating. I didn’t feel annoyed, stressed or anxious. I walked inside and people smiled and helped. Nobody was breathing down my back. Yet whenever I thought of asking a question, an agent of Ikea was waiting eerily on hand. I’d look up, and there he'd be, some fellow in a yellow t-shirt, grinning with information. I was instructed in a patient tone to play with all the furniture. 'That's the Ikea way!' he told me. So I did.

I opened out the sofa beds, closed them, sat on them, lay down, swapped mattresses, took off covers, discarded blankets and changed them for others, tinkered, measured, tested and compared. During the activity, I was approached by several patrons. No, no, no, I thought, don't ask me. I don't work here. Just play around with the stuff until you get what you like. That's the Ikea way. Then it hit me. I was enjoying myself. For the first time in my life, I was enjoying the retail experience. It thrilled me. I bought other things. Pillowcases, quilt covers, and bed sheets, a new mattress, a wardrobe storage unit and a bathroom mat. By the time I got to the departure lounge - it starts to look like an airport at the end – I was endowed with useless, cheap, well made gee-gaws. No matter how much you think you’re going to spend, you’ll spend more. Why? Because it’s fun. And you feel like you’ve saved a million.

I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but Ikea is good. Don’t be afraid of Ballymun, it’s less like the Thunderdome than you think, and they’ve rigged the 13A bus with carapace armour, a napalm flamer and nitrous injection.

DIARIT: 9/10

Ikea Tips: (1) Delivery charge starts at €35 for Dublin City centre, goes up to about €100 and is based on the value of the goods delivered. (2) You can get a temporary ‘IKEA Family’ card by picking up a bar-coded flyer in-store. You don’t have to fill out the details in the form, just tear off the bar-code and present it at the till. 25% off loads of stuff. (3) You can get a wooden dining table and four chairs for 50 blips. Incredible. (4) Bring your own plastic drinking vessel and it’s easy to scam free coffee in the departure lounge.

U2 Night

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 01:12:00 +0100

Right around the corner, Croke Park resounded with the clamorous hooting of Bono lovers. I wasn't there, of course, but I imagine it was the kind of gig that resounded. I was in work, serving happy drunkards with piles of sushi.

Croke Park is a wonderful piece of heritage, and I love it with all my Irishness, but it tends to attract events that attract weirdoes who like sushi. Tonight there were the normal sorts who smile and joke and talk with abandon. But there were also the food shy ladies, the fancy types who smell of obsolete perfume, wearing sponge applied make-up. After a great preamble, one pair asked if I'd 'got anything, you know, Irish? We only like the Irish food.' Then why choose the Japane.... forget it. I went for the soft sell, struggled, and bottomed out with shame. There was no convincing them. I’d already broken the camel’s back with the mention of 'ginger', and then I suggested chopsticks. They left in a huff, leaving their aroma behind them. Later I got a sassy couple in the corner who humped like teenagers after dinner, moaning and quivering, soft porn style. That's a CCTV for the YouTube. There were also the little things, like the 22 Italian kids who burst in unannounced and arm wrestled over the tables, the drunk who kept hassling the head chef for a job during service, the bewildered and repetitious granddad asking if the wine was coming, you know, for his back (it's just a painkiller, he would confess with a guilty grin), the massively boobed slag quartets, the suit wearing hippies, the song-singers, the shouters, the snappers of fingers. These kinds of people don't come to my place, at least not in such numbers, unless Croke Park is ajar.

Despite all that, or maybe because of it, Dublin was electric tonight. I'm no great fan of the mega band, but I'm a fan of the result. Temple Bar was popping at the belt with dancing, embracing, hooting youngsters. The bars bounced, the streets cheered, the restaurants smiled with curious appreciation. Go on the Ireland, I thought to myself, show them how young you are. Show them we've still got the spirit they talk about abroad. It's a rare auld thought, for me at least.

So for that, U2, thanks a million. To show my appreciation, I've written a punless blog. Don't worry about it. My pleasure. I hope it's what you were looking for. If not, with or without you, you can find me on the street with no name. It'll be a sort of homecoming.

DIARIT: 8.5/10

Moon

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 17:07:00 +0100

Moon, starring Sam Rockwell (Confessions of a Dangerous Mind), explores identity, isolation and mortality in the backwater lunar mining colony of the near future.

The opening credits are a bit glam, with an in-your-face name drop of "Kevin Spacey as the voice of Gerty" slapped all over the screen in CGI text. After that, it is engaging, mysterious and patient, as though something is going to happen, eventually, and the waiting for it promises tension, suspense, and profundity. However, the build up is prematurely satisfied - narrative overtaking implication - so by the end of the film the layers of closure have gagged your imagination. Let me explain with a parallel. Picture a complicated pregnancy in which the father questions his membership. He is driven insane with jealousy, questions his wife’s loyalty, and is eventually proven wrong by the colour of his child’s eyes/skin/etc. Okay, that’s a shit story, but you get the picture. In another version, some doctors do a few scans after four weeks and everything is revealed eight months in advance. One version is more dramatic. Moon is closer to the latter.

That’s normally the kind of thing that kills a story-driven flick. Moon was rescued from that fate for lots of reasons. First off, there was the homage motif. A HAL style thinking robot, chunky NASA lettering and retro, anarchistic positivism. It makes you think that this film should definitely have been made. In fact, it makes you think it already has been made, back in the late 70s when sci-fi was actually intelligent. Second, you’ve got Sam Rockwell acting mental. Always good to watch. It’s just one of those things that works. Lastly, Moon is not exclusively a narrative. Sometimes you watch a film and you come away going ‘I dunno what that meant, but it makes me feel’. Like Mulholland Drive or Waking Life. They have a sort of poetry, where the texture of the story binds slow, ponderous innards, like the turbulent crests on a noisy sea. Moon seems to have one foot in poetry, the other in spectacle, straddling the line comfortably but making inevitable compromise. You come away going, 'I know what that film was about and it makes me feel... but I wish it made me feel more.'

If you told me you were on your way out to see it and you'd just puffed out your umbrella, I wouldn't tell you to change your mind. It's a digestible, engaging tale, suitable for an evening of light reflection. It won't offend anyone. It's not a waste of time. However, it’s probably not a sci-fi legend, at least not with the first viewing. Perhaps it needs a second chance. I think that kind of sums it up.

DIARIT: 7.5/10

Rest of the Jam

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 13:04:00 +0100

Like the sunshine bright sparkles of a punch in the face, this morning I was blinded with poetry. After making gooseberry & blackberry conserve, I thought 'what can you do with the remainder in the pot?' Too hot to lick the spoon, too sticky when cool, too sweet to chew and too bitter to swallow. The shallow, thickening layer quickly becomes grime.

Take a dusty baguette, split it harshly into tough croutons and toss into the pot. They transform, softening lightly, toppling over one other.

Ladling the sticky objects onto a white platter, I felt like a returning general, gleaming in the sunlight, head high and victorious. What should I call these shards of inspiration? Paniniccinos? Sambitos? Whatever their label, they are scrumptious. Here’s a recipe to try:

Paniniccino Sundae (serves 2)

2 tbsp gooseberry jam
1 tsp water
1 cup dry bread, broken into 3cm pieces
2 scoops vanilla ice cream
1 tsp maple syrup
1 tsp icing sugar

1. Heat the jam and water, stirring continuously until it starts to bubble.
2. Leave to cool for 5 minutes. Stir bread into the jam.
3. Topple onto ice cream, drizzle with maple syrup, sprinkle with icing sugar and serve immediately.

DIARIT: 8/10

Shawshank Redemption - Gaiety Theatre

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 20 May 2009 12:54:00 +0100

This play is based on Stephen King's 1982 novella 'Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption', the same story that inspired the 1994 film 'Shawshank Redemption' featuring Morgan Freeman and Tim Robbins. It is an adaptation of the book, not the film. That's what we're being told.

I don't buy it. Kevin Anderson (who plays Andy Dufresne) is disguised as Tim Robbins, from his gestures to his hair tips, so familiar that if you squinted you'd think he had a button nose. Reg Cathey (who plays Red) impersonates Morgan Freeman rather well. He drawls with that deep, charismatic rumble. But essentially it is just an impersonation, with no real truth until the final scene when he drops the façade and acts like a real man instead of an icon. The play, though well produced and loaded with talent, felt to me more like a variety show than an emotional narrative. Perhaps that's because it was never based on Stephen King's novella at all. I think it was written as a nostalgic cash-in, never supposed to be exceptional, just a reminder of the brilliance of the cinema, a cue to the emotions of the filmic rendition without any substance itself. Like a reef in a tropical fish tank, it is engaging at times and quite pretty, but if you've seen the real thing it comes across contrived.

This might seem a little harsh, but if you bring a film to the stage you're not in it for the art. Either you think it's time to earn some extra dollar or you have a penchant for cabaret (or both). Nearly every title on this pipeline ends up 'The Musical'. So when I heard about Shawshank Redemption on stage I was cynical. I thought, when do we get the song and dance? Will there be an overture? Will the sodomy have a vocal accompaniment? Will it be catchy? Ultimately I was relieved: Musical performance was marginal. However, the play fell short in other parts. It felt rushed, stitched and staccato, as though the director (Peter Sheridan) wanted to remind the audience of as many scenes from the movie as possible, like a show reel. Many times I felt the bud of emotion in my belly, to then have it crushed by a sequence of unexpected, insignificant comedy. Soon enough I was yearning for the close. Get it over with, thought I, so I can go home and watch the real thing.

It was a great imitation, but you can't ask a stage director to compete with timeless cinema. It was a mistake, at least artistically, to try that road. Some of you might say, 'maybe he was trying to adapt the book after all.' Then why is Red played by a black man? In 'Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption' he's white and ginger. The play is named after the screenplay and cast like the film. Despite some deviations in favour of the novella, it straddles the back of the Freeman/Robbins brand, selling itself on nostalgia. Reg Cathey shines, but it's a shame to see him wasted on caricature.

DIARIT: 6/10

Star Trek Premier

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 23:32:00 +0100

If you’re a Star Trek fan, stop reading. I figure the only people who are not going to like what I have to say are either normalised morons or fundamentalist Trekkies. While I have nothing to fear from the former, I don’t want a nerd junta called on the bloodline.

The latest Star Trek film intends to introduce us to the origin of Kirk (the aptly named Chris Pane) and does so with ludicrous pomp. His father is killed by an angry Romulan called Nero (Eric Bana) who has travelled in time to exert revenge on the Spock family. He does this with something called ‘red matter’ that looks like a huge snooker ball, which, when ignited, creates a singularity and sucks up planets. More like brown matter if you ask me.

Kirk joins the academy and through rashness, bad manners and the unrequited mercy of his colleagues, he ends up saving the day with as much charm as a gyrating frat boy. Despite Abrahms reputation as a character director, there’s more development in a teaspoon of yoghurt. Perhaps he was caged by the expectation of the fan base that were bound to ask for more than a fair helping of nostalgia. The result is that half the dialogue has been uttered before in some other off shoot, only better, while the other half dots together the usual bland, Star Trek fisticuffs. Every action sequence includes Kirk dangling over a precipice. It happens so many times you wonder if Abrahms really understands the term ‘cliff-hanger’.

There are unnecessary CGI monsters, flawed motivations, flat fellowships and wooden deliveries. The cast is weak and confusing. Why is Winona Rider playing Spock’s mother? She has three lines in the film of no logical consequence. All she adds to the movie is budget. In fact, the whole film seems like a gifted medium to blow cash. The special effects were incredible, but most of them were choppy and meaningless, like the whole of Transformers. It was like an office stooge dressed in tinfoil on no-uniform Friday. Sparkly yes, but essentially expendable.

However, despite the flaws, there were moments of glory. The set design was lovely with great homage paid to the oldtech style of the 60s Enterprise. There were hippy curves, on the furniture, on the architecture and under the girlish skirts. Beehives were the obligatory hairdo, comlinks were worn on the wrist and the warp-core looked like an engine room from the yellow submarine. The little details were bountiful, joyful and satisfying. Isn’t it curious why less vigour was used on the screenplay?

I have a feeling that this film was hacked up by producers, redesigned as a high concept action and then sedated for younger audiences: Like taking a bottle of fine cognac, refilling it with top-shelf liquors and then boiling off the alcohol. There was something of the original in it, yes, but really only on the label.

DIARIT: 3/10

Turandot, Amphitheatre Productions, NCH

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 15:41:00 +0100

Turandot, Puccini's last and originally incomplete opera was performed at the National Concert Hall on Saturday 11th April by Ellen Kent and Amphitheatre Productions. The stage was impressive. Beyond the orchestral pit rose a small dais draped with glistening silk, and a bronze gong. There were two tiers of classical architecture each several meters high, like a miniature cross section of a Hollywood coliseum. It was a sensational structure and I was anxious for high drama.

The opera describes the courting of Turandot, the cold hearted princess of China (Galina Bernaz) by the smitten foreign prince Caraf (Irakli Grigali). Turandot, a bit frigid over some ancestral violation, won't have a husband and so demands that all suitors solve three riddles or be decapitated. Caraf takes the bait, lord knows what he sees in her, but beats the challenge.

The princess is outraged so Caraf decides not to force her to wed and instead offers a riddle of his own. If she can find his name before dawn - at this point nobody knows him except his father and a serving girl, who secretly loves him - then she can have his head. If she fails, she must marry. Turandot agrees and cries 'no one sleeps!' or 'Nessun Dorma!'. And so follows the male aria, laboured but efficient. Poor Grigali looked like a beetroot but even though his voice was nearly drowned by the orchestra it was a powerful delivery.

Liu (Zarui Vardanean), the serving girl mentioned above, is interrogated by the Chinese princess and executed. Not the most adorable trait for a fiance, but Caraf doesn't seem to mind. Here ends Puccini's work.

Yep, Puccini got fed up. It was musically flawed. Liu's role had superseded Turandot's and he felt the project had run out of steam. Then he died of cancer. It was completed by Franco Alfano and if you ever watch the opera it is easy to tell where Puccini ends and Alfano begins. It's right at the point when nothing makes sense.

After Liu is executed for not telling the princess his name, Caraf coughs it up anyway. Before Turandot has him killed, he grabs her and sticks his tongue down her throat. Viola! She falls in love with him. The End.

Lame.

For me the male principals carried the cast. Their vocals were tight and booming. However, the performance was deficient in another way. There was a general sense of distraction as though the cast were still in rehearsal. The 3 sages sounded out of key, or at least their awkward checks to the conductor established a smidgeon of doubt. In fact, barring Vardanean, everyone seemed preoccupied with the conductor’s cues. It was as if their desire to keep time had threatened them from their roles, a result better suited to the recording studio than the stage.

I felt there was more to be done and secretly hoped they were saving themselves for Monday’s performance of Aida.

DIARIT: 6/10

Seville, Best time to visit

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 14:51:00 +0100

A few weeks ago I was in Seville. It was a project-holiday - to research rumours of a humane foie gras produced nearby, and to get some sun and smoke cigars.

During the research part, I ended up in a little town called Fuente de Cantos, about 100k north of the city. I was looking for a patería, a particular one, somewhere in this village. But it took me two hours to find it, having taken directions from a drunk, and by the time I arrived, the shutters were down. I waited another hour, but nobody passed, sighed, and decided to return in the morning.

Back in Seville, my hostel had been blindsided by tourists and my bed was gone. Without a bed they would not allow roof access (to eat my picnic), so I sat by the river instead and hoped that with patience I would locate an alternate cabin. With some searching, I found the Hostal Picasso. It was right by the cathedral and offered a great position to explore Seville. Lunched and eager, I decided to investigate.

The city of Seville has gravity. Towers of grand stone press into the streets; domed, thick and old. Gleaming plazas roll out like racetracks, circular courtyards span like stadiums, and great spires prick the clouds. Between these Moorish giants the streets gather in organic knots, turning, winding, ducking under one another like frightened foxes. The beauty is clamorous. However, there is a price. During the best months the city becomes clotted with tourists. The good news is that if you are smart you can avoid them.

The optimal time to visit Seville is in the spring, just before Holy Week. The days are bright, the streets are wide with empty sunshine, and the largest throngs of tourists still exchange their dollars across the Atlantic Ocean. You can sneak into the grand cathedral in the morning, tour the narrow alleys of Santa Cruz unobstructed and enjoy cheap board, right in the heart of the city centre. Enervated locals have smiles for tourists, the flamenco shows are still attended by Spaniards and the buses are spacious for excursions beyond. It is the ideal romantic escape, best enjoyed in pairs. Plus, if you’re lucky, you can catch the rehearsals for the Christian parade at midnight on Friday night, where purple robed fanatics don pointed hats and chant below thick candlelight under the medieval presence of ancient stone.

There isn’t space here to recount every wonder, but if you’re in Seville you must visit the Feria market for olives, bread and fruit. Picnic in the Parque María Luisa and digest at the Plaza de España, whose neoclassical architecture was chosen for on-location filming by the Star Wars team. Just before midnight make sure to be inside Casa Anselma in Triana for a glimpse of underground flamenco. There is no sign so ask around.

DIARIT: 9/10

Green Nineteen

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 9 Mar 2009 15:29:00 GMT

A sneaky little restaurant at the top of Camden street, Green Nineteen is a pleasure to visit and proof that simplicity sells. It's lunch time heaven, €10 for every main, a short and yummy wine list, a tight, accessible menu and smart service. The sandwiches and burgers will keep the gluttons happy. I've tried the lamb twice. It's inconsistent. That's not a good asset for a new kitchen. The first time I had it the meat was frugal. Little bones stood up off the flesh like toothpicks on chicken nuggets. Despite the scale, the flavour excelled. I was so impressed I ordered it the following week. I could hardly recognise the dish. It was hamfisted, chunky, stringy with thick fat and chewy as an inner tube. Good things, as they say, sometimes come in small packages.

I'm not sure why they hang the menus off the tables like medical charts, or why some of the staff are snooty, or why the coffee is watery, but this will all be fixed by summertime, I'm sure, when their balcony will be exploited. I can visualise myself over Camden street with a rich coffee and a cigarette finally forgetting the chill of winter.

In the mean time, I hope they have the wisdom to keep their prices in control.

DIARIT: 8/10

La Boheme - National Concert Hall

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 9 Mar 2009 14:17:00 GMT

This Lyric Opera production was a tad disappointing. I still don't think I know enough about opera to give the proper critique but I talked to a couple of old hats who may have helped fill in the blanks. 'Of course, we're all used to hearing Calas and Pavarotti. It would be hard for the singers to compare.' 'The thing with Boheme is that it needs to be sung by the best. It's quite a simple opera. The voices must be superlative as they carry the show.'
In this case, the women dominated, Claudia Boyle as Musetta and Jee Hyun Lim as Mimi, the latter offering the only outstanding vocal performance. It was wonderful to see her spirited theatrics, to hear her clear soprano and wonder at the clumsy juxtaposition of her male counterpart (Ryan MacPherson) - who acted like pantomime and sung mute. In fairness to the chap, it was tricky for him to compete with the arduos Youth Orchestra. The pitt was level with the stage and he literally had to stand on a chair to throw his voice at the audience if he wanted a fair chance. For me this was a shame, as some of the loveliest moments are in duet but only Mimi could be distinguished in the clamour.
I'm not sure, but it was probably the fault of the director. I'll be wary of Vivian Coates.

DIARIT: 7/10

2nd Week of February

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 12:44:00 GMT

A lazy title. Let’s face it, we’re all feeling fairly lazy. It’s the start of the end; the grey light lasts longer, the orange Dimplex thermostat now winks instead of staring and you spend less time considering the double up option at the sock drawer. Although there’s talk of a barbeque in ‘the spring’, it’s often muted by the warm duvet of procrastination. There’s still time before the thaw and until then it’s tempting to lay down and snooze.

Nevertheless, one must keep oneself busy. I saw three films: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button whose mawkish lesson moved me unexpectedly and had me for the first time nodding at the nominations, Slumdog Millionaire whose cloying disguise failed to masquerade a pedestrian rom-com and had me back to the usual harrumphing, and finally Ché Part 1 whose delicious photography and temporal elasticity wore me out to the point of lethargy. It’s funny, I barely managed Ché, though I’d heard great reports, I winced through Slumdog, though I knew little bar the nominations and swallowed Benjamin Button like yoghurt, though I thought it was an animation about a 3D mouse. It begs the question; can’t I enjoy a film I want to see? Am I so easily duped? I project my expectation so brightly that sometimes I can barely see the film. It’s the cynic’s M.O. So what is a cynic without projection? If you’re one, never watch a film you’ve heard nothing about. It makes a mug of you.

Guitar Concerto at the NCH

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 13:47:00 GMT

Having squirmed from the residue of an emotional sneeze I was in good spirits on my way to the National Concert Hall. I had a ciggie in one hand and a banana in the other. My woollen jacket was bound up to the throat, my torn hat was tugged down over my ears and my opera tinkled into the street from rubbery headphones. It was fair weather that day, in as much as the austere sun glared at the cold, but despite the gleam everybody scowled. It occurred to me that I was on my way to something new and, significantly, they were not.

I had sat halfway down and halfway in. I was of the impression that the 'acoustics were better' there, but with my ears I probably couldn't tell. A chorus of foreign syllables echoed over one another in waves and I couldn't tell what language was being spoken in the crowd. Was it English? French? Slovakian? The lady next to me offered her husband a sweet, or did she? His body said yes, his voice said no. It was as though the semantics had gone, had been repelled, like a vampire baulking at the doors of church. Instead there was no language, not for me, except for the mingled susurrus of a waiting crowd. Soon, of course, that would pass as well.

The audience came in three kinds of shape. There was my kind, interested pretenders who would never know if what they were listening to was great, the old hats with mottled beards who smiled a lot and wanted everyone to have a jolly good time, and the neophytes in escort, beardless blazers mopped with lush, young hair and their delicate, mousey teacher with a thumping heart and flushed cheeks. The stage, on the other hand, was inhuman. The slim music stands stood like aerials in a winter forest and were surrounded by pastel blue seats and thin, fishing hook microphones that hung in stasis from a marionette high above. The only thing of character was a leaning double bass. It looked as though it had eaten too much pork and lay fat and lazy on the corner of a chair, like you do on Christmas afternoon.

There was a little ado for the entrance of the orchestra and then Raymond Deane opened the session with Embers. It breathed and swarmed with melancholy tension reminding me for some reason of The Silence of the Lambs, echoed comically by the imitative gurgling of a baby in the rear stalls. There was favourable applause and humour as one happy beard stood in appreciation and was applauded in return by the conductor himself. Bashful violinists made noiseless clapping motions with their bows as if they were unused to being seen and didn't like to make a commotion.

Benjamin Dwyer in his Guitar Concerto No.1 made the piece look difficult. It would be proper if another musician could give a second opinion. Was it as hard as it looked or just idiosyncratic? I can never tell. That's why I always think Jazz looks amazing, even if it is mostly just masturbation. The concerto fed you both orchestral and solo motifs that gradually crossed and blended with curious and rigorous tempo. I felt the tension physically. It broke and sung sadly and then screeched and subsided. It was quite rough on the senses but beautiful and, for me, complex. At the conclusion, I mean at the penultimate and then ultimate stroke of the last bow, at that moment a lady coughed with phlegm, and then cleared her throat. Dwyer signified his disapproval with a shake of his head and a glance to the composer, as if raising his eyes to heaven. I think he was one of the few who saw his point although I sympathised.

The third selection, Rajas, Sattva & Tamas, with wind and percussion, threw out a visceral, chewable passion that had my heart throbbing and the lush haired adolescents perched up on their seats like meerkats. It was these last pieces that made sense of the disharmonious opening. It had been mapped, from taut, minimalist, single faceted Embers, to the wild, slinging dissonance of the Guitar Concerto No.1, to the final, rowdy ardour. It moved me and let me think. At first I'd decided I wasn't going to call it a pleasure because it seemed like something else. Was it a chore? Can you sense a chore? Does it make you feel good? Whatever it was, it was worth it and probably worth a better audience. Screen for colds and flu Mr. Dwyer, I can tell you abhor them. What's the point in writing a perfectly good piece of music then for some person to add their own instrument? It's like having sex with some girl and her not keeping still...

DIARIT: 8/10

Interim

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 15:15:00 GMT

What is an interim? Or a new beginning for that matter? It's consequence of failure, like a match lit as the candle gutters. Among other things, that's the reason we hate Christmas. It ticks like clockwork counting. You remember last Christmas, weren't we in Dubai on the beach? Yeah, yeah, we were talking about James. He's got a kid now you know. Really? Yeah. And Philipa's in New York. I know. Funny old world, eh? So what are you doing now?

Tick.

I'll tell you what I'm doing. The same struggling that a larvae does when it's blind and hungry. I feel in danger and random. My dreams are like refrozen ice cream, molten and hard and molten again. I'm the same as before and yet worse because I'm running in a race with different rules but I'm wearing the same shoes. What the hell does that mean? That's the point. You probably have a better idea.

It's cold, mouldy, has light outside. It stinks of cigarette smoke and the recesses of man. It gleams at night with pasty white and blinks blue. That's the Now. So where will you be next year? What's the yard stick?

Tock.