I Always Shed a Tear When Someone Famous Dies

Observe the wisdom of the late Steve Jobs:

“What cloy pretentiousness!” I hear you say. Deep inside your dull, dense skull, the literary snot in you is bouncing up and down with excitement and indignation. “Having created useful, popular technology,” you complain “this guy thought himself able to lecture everybody on any subject.” You’re sickened by the pose he strikes, as unnatural as the warm, worldly style of writing. You want to tell everyone you meet that Jobs wasn’t carried on the wings of destiny with his heart as a map; he got there by ingenuity, dedication, and some luck. “He’s a technocrat who has mistaken himself for Jesus!” Having fired your argumentative six-shooter, you strut away. Your snotty ego feels above it all, having taken down an icon with a purposeful disregard for the proximity of his passing. As you strut away, however, I step from the shadows. I come into focus behind you, as you halt, suddenly aware of my presence. You know that I’m here to make you re-examine what you’ve said, and your ego shudders.
Pull back and you’ll see why Steve smiles so much in his picture. His message is, in essence, ‘my advice is not to take advice.’ This ridiculous, self-defeating message was not mistake – Jobs wasn’t that sloppy – it was a deliberate attempt at a more subtle message. It almost screams at you when he says that your heart and intuition know the way. What’s his frame of reference for my heart? Exactly: his heart! He mustn’t have meant this to be taken at face value. A man as thorough as he was couldn’t have overlooked it. It’s a coded message, intended to pass over the heads of his acolytes and hipster customers. It tells like-minded intellectuals – who communicate like beacons on the peaks of great mountains – a profound truth. Those of us who think in the cool space, high above the hoi polloi, know this truth already: all advice is useless. Steve must have recognised this early on in life, having a knack for discerning what does and doesn’t have usefulness.
I know you feel rattled, and perhaps you’re indignant about such a blanket statement. “Surely, not all advice is useless?” you say. Perhaps not all advice, but certainly the unsolicited life advice that excretes from the mouths of seemingly everybody. Let’s break it down. There are two types of people who will hear your advice: those who know what you are talking about and those who don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps there’s a third category, for those who think they know what you’re talking about. We’ll address them in a moment. Firstly, let’s look at those who know what you’re talking about. They already know what you’re telling them, so your advice is pointless, unless you want to bore them or listen to how wonderfully you enunciate words. Those who don’t know what you’re talking about can be bored just as easily and, again, you can admire the fascinating sound of your own voice. The difference is, of course, that they can’t relate to what you’re talking about and don’t really have any understanding about what you’re trying to save them from. A person needs to have had similar experiences for them to appreciate why you’re talking at them didactically, and once they’ve had those experiences – experiences strong enough to stamp some new knowledge or ideas in their heads – then they are no longer in need of your advice. If experience doesn’t change someone, you’d have to be pretty confident about your oration to assume that you will. That’s assuming you have won the confidence of the would-be listener. You’re starting on a bad foot after all, as giving advice tacitly says “I’m assuming I know what’s good for you. I made many mistakes in my life, and I’m going to assume that you’re making them, too.” The third person, who thinks they know what you’re saying, is your best prospect. He or she will misconstrue you, but it may turn out well. I find that familiarity can fade the colour out of something. This is why those who know what you’re talking about will find your advice boring. Those who think they know what you’re saying may find an attractive novelty in your words, though they won’t comprehend their substance. Perhaps that person will be motivated to do something good, but this will be an unintended side-effect, and your advice won’t be eligible for credit for the good that comes from it. That would be like thanking a corporation for the nice house you bought with the money you earned from them, as if they gave a damn about your happiness. And on that note, I’ll slip in an expression that a student of mine told me was common in Brazil: ‘If your advice was worth anything, people would pay for it.’
Finally, if you still think giving advice is worthwhile, listen to a song you cherished from yesteryear. How many of his gospel choir enshrined pearls did you truly carry with you this past decade? Exactly.

A Poor Observation

What have poor people ever done for me?

This is the question I keep returning to, as I wait for my bus everyday. They shuffle up to me and ask me can I spare some change. What rhetoric! Of course I can! They can’t just come out and say it, can they? ‘Give me your money.’ No, friend, it’s called my money for a reason, and I’m not going to part from it for some clichéd, worn-out line. You’re out of your league, I’m afraid. This angel-eyed, candy-skinned, high-class, hyphen-loving honey ain’t gonna give it up for some stinking, cheap-ass line. If you’re not packing some pretty sharp sound bites, you best keep shuffling on by.

I used to give it up easy, but it gradually dawned on me that I was handing over about twenty Euros a year. That’s about four cheap lunches. Who knew that handing over some change could be so costly? Would you even recognise the different symbols on the various tails of the Euro coins? What ignorance! It takes a well-travelled person to identify them, not some ignoramus who refuses to leave his grubby corner of the world. I ask you, have you never seen a Venetian sunset? Or gone skiing in St Moritz? Ever become imbibed with wine at Chateau Mouton Rothschild, or awestruck at Schloss Neuschwanstein? Countless cathedrals, monuments, restaurants, and museums await you – only a short plane journey away – yet you have decided to stay put.

It’s worse when they ask you to buy them a sandwich. These poor folks have been conditioned by sanctimonious-as-fuck types who like to demarcate themselves with their distinguished ethics (They don’t call them moral values, as they’re too refined and individual). Buying them a sandwich is reminding them that you have the power to judge them, because you have money. What does it matter anyway? If they have an addiction, they’ll find the money for drugs or alcohol. A sandwich isn’t going to help them more than just giving them change. In any case, what they need is high-spiritedness, a stiff upper lip, a knack for launching a gambit, an indefatigable work ethic, the will to seize one’s destiny, the inner strength to grab fortune by the horns, modesty, and sacrifice. Only these put bread on the table. The only sandwiches they need are solid moral values sandwiched between determination and self-motivation. Dignity lives in the human mind and heart, not in the food pyramid.

And before any of you get on your high horse and tell me that I shouldn’t make fun of the down and outs, you should know that I have many friends who are beggars and junkies, and they think my jokes are funny, so stop taking offence for them.

Sun Worshippers

The summer has made it here already. Unlike the snake-like people, who desperately crave sunny days for their cold blood, I’m ambivalent about it. For approximately the sixth year in a row, the youth of this country have resorted to gaudy 1980s pop to mark the changing of the seasons. Worst of all, they’re clothes are accessorised by a mandatory straw trilby. “Oh, how summery I am.” says the youth in his summer uniform. Yesterday, I saw them all shuffling onto buses out of town, the girls all prepped with wellies, knee-high rainbow socks, and waterproof fake tan. The Kings of Leon were headlining the event, and I so loathe them that I’m glad that’s their audience. It used to baffle me (given my deep mistrust for live music and the everybody-is-everybody’s-friend nonsense that goes on in festivals) why people were so eager about these things. That is until I saw this advert, abundant with golden promises:

Ah yes! The summer is a wonderland of endless possibilities. Men and women of exotic ethnicity and unconventional style will be interested in some dope like you. They’ll want to share tips on how to stay glamorous-looking after three days of festival, and they’ll be charmed by your Buckfast guzzling and straw trilby (How chic!). No thick ankles, no bad hygiene, no stupid assholes that steal your stuff or start fights. Connor O’Neill, nicknamed Captain Generic by his finance classmates in UCD, will get 43 ‘likes’ on Facebook, for announcing “What a weekend!”. Few will take notice that his name abbreviates as CON.

Dazzled as our youth is by the glamorous interpretation of getting drunk and getting their hole, it still doesn’t account for our endless preoccupation with sunshine. I suppose what is rare is precious, but we live in an age of cheap flights and warm infrastructure, so we’re not as exposed to the cold. And it doesn’t matter how many nice days in a row we have, you’re still subjected to boring conversation about how unfortunate we are. What matters the change in weather to me, when I can’t escape the tedious conversation about the conditions outside! And it’s usually expressed in one of two awful narratives: the God fearing narrative or the national self-deprecating narrative. Fear or shame. It says more about what’s inside than out, when you associate those two feelings with something relatively harmless and beyond our control. But it's okay to get uppity about poor bus services. If people didn't get uppity about buses, they wouldn't be able to marshal the anger to write blogs about all the people they see while they're waiting...

You Know Those People.

Oh, you know. The sort who constantly read meaning into lyrics that clearly doesn’t fit. Famous pop songs and children’s rhymes can’t be just that; they have to have some secret depth that needs to be decoded. Sometimes it’s about some love affair that people speculate about, other times there’s a hidden message about race or homosexuality. Even if there is a message in the song, I don’t see how that makes it better. Such songs usually attract praise for their apparent depth, yet all the songwriter has done is deliberately obscure something that could be expressed more explicitly, and I’m pretty sure most people don’t value obscurantism.

Puff the Magic Dragon by Peter, Paul, and Mary is a classic example of this pretentious malarkey. Some idiot, who was obsessed with drugs, decided that the song was about taking narcotics. After all, it was released in the 1960s, which were solely characterised by drug taking and subversive song writing. Words like ‘Puff’ and ‘paper’ pretty much explain their secret context by themselves, and the dragon represents opium or, perhaps, a hookah. The fantastical story of a magical dragon could only come from the mind of someone on shrooms or acid.

Leaving aside the ungainsayable argument that the songwriters have consistently denied that they were alluding to drugs, the drug interpretation only accounts for about 10% of the lyrics. With such flimsy requirements for interpretation, you could warp any song into any meaning. “But the author is no longer the generator of context and meaning,” says the post-structuralist, literary snot in you.

“Meaning lies with the reader or listener, and the text’s meaning shouldn’t be regulated by the songwriter.”

I see, but having read that Wikipedia link, can you really say you are still interpreting the song as a drug reference.

“What? What do you mean? Of course I do.”

No, I think your interpretation runs like this: The song was written without allusions to drugs, but I have chosen to read drug references into it.

“No, you’re just being polemical! You should give up your racket. Nobody’s impressed.”

I think we can safely say that interpretation isn’t willed, but passively received.

“Stop!”

The mechanisms of interpretation are antecedent to the will, surely. Mendacity will get you nowhere; you know you don’t believe that drug interpretation. I’m sorry friend, but you are not some master in your literary universe.

“Fuck you, Nigel! Boo hoo hoo!”

Okay. Leave the room then. I’ll entertain your girlfriend. Hey, you! – good-looking female – c’mere…

If you’re not convinced by my manly arguments, then I guess I’ll have to take advantage of the mass ignorance and start planting meaning into songs. Listen to this other ditty by Peter, Paul, and Mary:

That’s right, you’ve guessed it – it’s about a man who's disgusted by cunnilingus.

Weird People I Lived with in Galway, Vol. 1

 

It may come as a surprise to you, but, fadó fadó, I resided among the true Gaels by the western coast of our great land. For a year, I laboured over a PhD thesis that, in the end, was too radical for the conservative straightjacket that is academia. While living there, I was frequently lashed by the icy rain and sent tumbling home by a ruthlessly invasive wind. I longed for a comfortable home to return to, after a long day of anal rash inducing sedentary studying. Although it was a long walk from the university, my first house was far above student standards, and I felt no danger of it being wrecked by parties, living with two ‘civilians’, both over thirty. The mild mannered Australian man who interviewed me for the room was a great reassurance that I had landed safely. I was sure I had found a relaxed abode to return to every evening. I didn’t meet Lutzfemelda until I moved in later. Her name obviously wasn’t Lutzfemelda, but it sounds as crazy as she was. I can’t remember the first time we met, but I also can’t remember the frigid crow ever being very friendly towards me. The majority of the time, when I could stand to be in the same room as, she would greet my presence with a furrowed brow that would sit above her dark, lifeless eyes. I soon learned not to take it personally, as I discovered her rancour was too great to focus on one person. My contemporaneous study of philosophy informed me that her metaphysical composition consisted of large vats of resentment, mistrust, and paranoia, among other baneful things. She only derived enjoyment in life when she perceived victory over those she scorned; that is to say those involved in conventional/organised religion, those who trusted empirical science as a ground for medical practices, anyone who enjoyed materialism, and just about everyone in authority. It didn’t stop there of course; she also hated processed foods, smoke made by cooking, loud music, conversation at a normal volume, laughter, cars, academia, the English etc. The nuns who educated her were probably number one on her ‘Things I’ll Use to Make Myself Miserable by Resenting Forever’ list. Needless to say, I had to walk gently on quite fragile eggshells (free range of course). Innocuous activities could trigger one of the many nerves of resentment that ran from her periphery (the house over which she exercised dominion) to her very core (her abyss-black heart). I once was grilling a chicken for my dinner using with the extractor fan on. Lutzfemelda came in hastily, coughing dramatically and opening every window and door, to allow the freezing November night in. Determined to rid the house of ethereal oppressor that is convention, she would watch TV with earphones, connected via a wire that ran the length of the room. It would take a couple of awkward minutes, before the aggressively New Age hag decided to allow me to listen too. In the bathroom, her dominion still reigned, and I was greeted by an informative tongue chart on the wall, which you could use to judge your health, and by health I mean how much yin and yang you had. Incidentally, I had always seemed to have less yin after brushing my teeth.

Her insight to the spiritual world was at odds with her believe that sitting and thinking about things, as I did frequently, was useless, counterproductive, and destructive. Or at least that’s what I interpreted her opinion to be, as she expressed it mostly with an agitated face spasm and shaking her hands about her head. She once confided in me that there were too many people in this world, and she also kept asking me about when ‘the revolution’ was going to occur. By ‘revolution’, she meant a violent undoing of our technological society and replacing it with her Luddite, rural fantasy. I told her that in a bloody revolution, our leaders are not usually chosen and they are capable of doing monstrous things with impunity. Hence, we should be cautious about where revolutions take us. This involves thinking, something she didn’t agree with, given it might compromise her dichotomous worldview.

In the end, it was her who wanted me to leave, and, after the initial disappointment, I was happy to escape. The Australian gentleman was clearly saddened by my choice, but knew well why I was leaving. In the true hallmark of a horrible person, she got what she wanted at the inconvenience of another person, and then she pretended that she was happy to not inconvenience me after I had decided to leave, thereby creating the illusion that it was really my choice.

But that’s what horrible people do. She was more puritanical than the nuns she hated so much. She couldn’t separate the wrong from the wrongdoer and managed to reproduce it. And how did I figure that out, Mary? That’s right, I sat down and thought about it! See, I’m not afraid to say your name, you psycho! You can’t hurt me anymore! I’ll eat what I want! Go die in a ditch with all the other ungrateful Luddites of the world, you manic, bitch-faced, cuntish, haggish geebag!

Believe in Better

When Dustin Hoffman is rotting in hell, he’ll be forced to make a three day long advertisement for Sky Atlantic. For three uninterrupted days, he’ll have to make slight sighs, stare into the distance, and force the corners of his mouth into his cheeks to make an insincere Dalai Lama smile. Any failure to feign sincerity, and the project will start from the beginning, in a torturous activity comparable to the punishment of Sisyphus. For 72 hours, Mr Hoffman will have to stand against a New York skyline and produce line after line about stories, each one more pedestrian and obvious than the last. “Some stories are long.” he’ll tell us. “Some, [deep breath] some are short.” And so we’ll muse at length about stories, as he tells us about how some stories run for two hours, some for two and a half. Gravely, we’ll be told about how some run for a serious three hours, whereas others, we’ll be reminded with a tickled laugh, run for less than an hour. “They take us to a fantasy land, which – somehow – resembles our reality.” We’ll be reminded of how some people die in stories, while many live. Others come back from the dead as ghosts, whereas others never actually died. Some are brought back to life by the ‘magic’ of a future technology. Some are reborn in other forms. Some, like Mr Hoffman, die on the inside long before they die on the outside. Not even the greatest of stories can ‘make him feel’ anymore. Some stories are about action or adventure, whereas others are about romance. Some delve deep into farce and hilarity [fake-ass Dalai Lama smile]. “Some touch our very soul. Our soul, no less!” [Mr Hoffman has to restart the ad again.]

Oh, yes; when we tune into Sky Atlantic, we are appreciating in the same ancient art of storytelling that our distant ancestors practiced. Watching some B-lister like Tom Selleck in yet another cop show fills us with the same awe that great storytellers produced from impressionable audiences centuries ago. Our sense of wonder will be sustained by watching all seven seasons of Star Trek: Voyager in the afternoons – stories that will surely stay with us, as we reminisce about unforgettable characters like Harry Kim and Commander Chakotay (a man who could really appreciate the power of story, incidentally).

What’s with that smile though? Try doing it a few times. It’s like trying to bend a q-tip between your lips. The more sincere the smile seems, the more you mistrust him, knowing full well that nobody gets that engrossed in the wonder of stories. I imagine that they raised the gigantic pile of cash they’re paying him above his head while shooting. Look at him as he stares upwards, trying to find inspiration; you can almost see the dollar signs ka-ching-ing in his eyes. He nearly chortles through his line, thinking of the mountain of cash he’s going to sleep on tonight.

The advert has one saving grace however; it stars Dustin Hoffman and not the insufferable Anthony Hopkins. It’s hard to believe that in a 21st civilisation like ours that such an atrocity as the 2009 Sky ads were permitted. We suffered as Hopkins and his pseudo-charisma rambled pointlessly about the ‘magic’ of Hollywood. Despite my scars and misgivings about Mr Hoffman, I’m glad those dark days are no longer with us.

He Who LOLs Last…

Just as I’m getting to grips with my illness, life hits me with another disappointment. My magnum opus of pop, Unheimlich: The Philosophy of Lady Gaga was rejected by publishers. Taking their advice after the first draft, I littered the text with oversimplified interpretations of philosophical giants, creating a tenuous link between Ms Gaga and the life of contemplation. (Plato, Descartes, and especially Foucault are like open vaults for authoritative reference; you can mine them for just about any point of view.) But it wasn’t enough. To be honest, my publisher’s whole argument about it being too psychological was probably just to spare my feelings (like a noble, yet weathered old tree, my feelings are so mature that an ill-wind can cause them great distress). I suspect his real motive was his distaste for the 200 plus pages of my dream of a future of glamorous, orgiastic cyborg sexual relations. Elongated sentences like this probably didn’t inspire confidence: “Brought together over 17 light years, via holo-technology, I stare lustfully, yet resentfully and enviously, at her engorged nipples, through the holes of my artful, platinum mask, screwed into my facial edifice.”

So, I’ve decided to undertake a new project and complete my treatise on a philosophy so dark and brutal and honest that no publishing house will be able to resist the buzzing publicity that its controversy will bring. Anarchy: The Philosophy of the Joker will undoubtedly sell a million copies. Every internet residing, resentful atheist will want one. They’ll combat the disease of doctrinal, narrow-minded anti-intellectualism with pages and pages of readymade, one-line arguments. Small paragraphs will hardly need to be rephrased, as they will fit conveniently into Youtube comment boxes. Anal, vicious comicbook geeks will snort at you if you even mention it, and it will be impossible to have conversation about the book without someone informing another that he or she “didn’t understand it”. Unattractive males in their twenties will find solace and empowerment in the iron-clad words. When you buy it online, Amazon will recommend that you also purchase the 2012 ‘Not that Hot’ calendar – another invention of mine, which has writing space beneath an exiguously-clad hottie, to enable ugly, sexless, misogynistic geeks to – in an act of sour grapes – jot down the physical flaws of the girl.

But the philosophy of the Joker is more radical than the militant atheism of the Dawkins and his internet acolytes. As it says in the text, “the philosophy of the Joker doesn’t subscribe to the order of military; it is swayed by chaos” (approximately 17 percent of the book is italicized, incidentally). In fact, the philosophy of the Joker doesn’t subscribe to any order; “it wants to gleefully see the word burn.” It sees though all the all-too-transparent bullshit of society and religion, and then it puts its face right up to it, the stench of it fuelling the ever-burning rage. By merely mentioning nihilism and ‘the will to power’, the book draws parallels between Nietzsche and the Joker. “Surely the two men are kindred spirits,” the book tells us, “after all does the Joker not espouse nihilism and the will to power?” The Joker inspires fear, and the book’s readers will want to do the same after turning the last page. They will want to tear down societies hypocritical values, by showing them how debase ‘civilised’ people can actually be. The profound and unlikely truth will be revealed: people act badly when they are mistreated and desperate. (No, reader, you’ve read it correctly. Only by reading my book will you be able to understand this counterintuitive insight.)

Of course, we’re only talking about one portrayal of the Joker; the ultimate performance by the late Heath Ledger in 2008. While The Dark Knight’s Joker digressed from the character in the graphic novels (We don’t say ‘comicbook’, because they’re serious pieces of art.), he towers above all previous portrayals, especially Jack Nicholson's 1989 performance. The book flays the Tim Burton and Joel Schumacher Batman films over 156 pages, which absorb about 1,500 of the 5,000 plus counts of the word ‘moron’ (36 percent of which are entirely in caps). Neither of the directors appreciated the material in their hands, and they passed up the opportunity to make a film dark and intellectual enough for the true fans. We longed for a two and a half hour, dark and gritty film (never ‘movie’), with an near-impossible plot, to properly capture the complexities of being a billionaire martial art expert, who needs to indulge in unarmed vigilantism. Christopher Nolan finally gave us what we craved. We wanted more death, terror, destroyed lives, and brutal realism to truly encapsulate the tales of Gotham City. In a more adult portrayal, viewers almost believed they were watching a documentary, when Batman used less ornate Batarangs.

Alas, Heath Ledger has left us, in circumstances almost as dark as The Dark Knight, so we will never get to further explore the philosophy of the Joker from the mouth of the master. My book will have to be a substitute for the Joker acolytes on internet forum. Given the need for such a dark, no-holds-barred philosophy, I’ll be undoubtedly LOLing all the way to the bank. A bank job only surpassed in badassedness by the Joker himself.

But seriously though: we all know that Cesar Romero’s was the best portrayal of the Joker. 

“Ohh-hoo-hoo-hoo! Ha ha, ha ha ha!”

It Could Happen, You Know.

Suffering for pangs of great intensity, I recently visited my doctor. While sifting through some magazines in the waiting room (some of which date back to 1987), my mind began drafting a raunchy scene for my edgy new TV series. My precocious doctor would be played by a hot young actress, who would give me an unorthodox full body search. Rampant noises would be heard by incredulous (‘incr’ + AutoCorrect) patients in the waiting room. I would assure her that I felt much better afterwards, before awkwardly asking if I had to pay.

It wasn’t like that of course. I’m afraid to announce, readers, that I have a serious medical condition. While it isn’t life-threatening, it will periodically cause me great anxiety. The mild attacks will render me fervent and unable to control my tear ducts. The symptoms have been caused by a condition that separates my white blood cells from my red ones. Feeling the loss, my red blood cells tried to turn white, but only made it as far as orange. To make matters worse, about a third of my blood cells have gone crazy and developed copper-based haemoglobin. As a result of the oxidised copper, the third stream has a green complexion. So, I bleed the Irish tricolour. Apparently it’s called patriotism, and I’ll be damned if they try to cure me! Éireann abú!

Language Lessons

Following up on a previous article, I’ve decided to start chugging out my new TV show. Cutting close to the bone, the main character will now be called Nigel, and he too will scratch out a meagre living teaching English to foreign types (I will insist on playing myself of course, so subtle is my character’s personality). Nigel is a sexy and exceptionally smart guy, but he has his demons – he’s surrounded by morons and illiterates. Everyday he has to educate and edify those around him, whether it is his students, his friends, his colleagues, or the string of hot babes that fall onto his lap. I think Language Lessons is an apt title for the show. For fifty minutes a week, it stimulates the mind with its surprising plot lines and its witty and snappy dialogue; it stimulates the loins with its risqué and increasingly fantastical love scenes.

Let’s take a look at a sample scene I cobbled together:

INT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT

Nigel and Pamela, a dark haired, feline-eyed woman, with gigantic breasts, sit comfortably at a romantic dinner table for two. Pamela’s huge bosoms graze the table, as she leans forward to chat intimately.

Pamela: You were so cool around me; I thought you were disinterested.

Nigel: Uninterested.

Pamela: Sorry?

Nigel: I forgive you.

Pamela: I don’t understand.

Nigel: You meant uninterested when you said disinterested. I was neither.

Pamela: What’s the difference?

Nigel: One means objective or like a spectator, like me, gazing at your hypnotic bosoms. The other means not interested, like the vacuous zombies, who regurgitate bad English every day and have the nerve to say they’re native speakers.

Pamela: Ooh, I like it when you’re misanthropic. (plays footsy under the table) Maybe you can fuck the humanity out of me.

Nigel: No. I mean ‘yes’. Sure. But I’m not misanthropic. (sentimental music starts up) I just love language so much. When it’s good, it’s got a scent, you know?

Tears form in Pamela’s eyes.

Nigel: It’s so beautiful, yet so delicate and ephemeral, like ether. It skates momentarily over your tongue. With ultimate irony, its essence is ineffable. Almost like a childhood memory, so hazy, yet it fills you with desire to grasp it, hopelessly trying to return to some warm happy centre.

Music picks up in intensity, as we CUT TO:

INT. NIGEL’S BEDROOM - LATER

A steely, waxed stunt-ass gyrates, as Nigel pounds Pamela on a squeaky antique dressing table. The amber light casts their silhouette across a room full of tasteful, erotic statues. He swings her voluptuous body onto the canopied bed. She climbs astride him and her glowing breasts jiggle emphatically. We see a longshot of the lovers, before fading to black.

Irish Folk Song Omnibus, Vol. 1

In a flash of patriotism caused by my illness (If you look at the dates, you'll see that it's one of those diseases that works retrogressively though time. Eventually, the disease will de-age me and turn me into my father's sperm. If morbid had an antonym, I'd be using it about now.), I’ve decided to write a brief introduction to Irish folk music. When your plane lands amid the Celtic mists of the Emerald Isle, you’ll be well prepared for the rich, mentally ill, drinking culture of God’s own country.

Dirty Old Town

A song about an axe-wielding pussy hound, who seems to be getting drunker as the song progresses. Having only procured a kiss from the object of his courtship, he grows angry and sexually frustrated, seeing sex everywhere across the grimy city. Eventually, he makes a pathetic threat to chop the whole town down with his axe (the one he’s yet to make).

Rocky Road to Dublin

Man goes on a bender from Galway to Dublin (which had three syllables back then). He gets so inebriated he ends up dancing with pigs on a boat to Liverpool.

The Foggy Dew

A song about a man who witnessed the epic bravery of the 1916 Rising. Alas, he himself is a conversational bore and spends half the song talking about the weather.

The Auld Triangle

Brendan Behan’s elongated, sneaky plea to be moved from the men’s to the women’s prison. If it weren’t for his writing skills, this would look as lame as those ‘Cover me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians’ t-shirt.

When You Were Sweet Sixteen

A creepy song about an old man who can’t stop thinking about a 16-year-old girl and implores her to enter his dreams (where nobody will ever catch them together).

Raglan Road

You can knock Catholicism all you like, but if Patrick Kavanagh’s conscience hadn’t forbade him from masturbating, he would never have written this poem.

Monto

Set in the same red-light district as the hallucinogenic Circe chapter of James Joyce’s Ulysses, this irreverent ditty descends from trying to procure a prostitute to unbuckling one’s pants for Queen Victoria. Joyce would have been proud of such a garbled psychedelic misadventure.

Whiskey in the Jar

A man’s gun malfunctions at the crucial moment. His long-term lover betrays him for another man. Need I say more?

And the Emmy for Best Television Drama Goes to...

Hey, guys! I’ve a brilliant new idea for a TV show. Basically, it’s about me and my life, but altered to bring out the themes that run through my daily activities. It will straddle the lines of comedy and drama. This will enable me to take the audience by surprise, although the drama will predictably hit hard at the end of the episode. Some (surprisingly) insightful dialogue and acoustic guitar laden montages should drive the drama home, leaving the viewer profoundly affected as the credits roll. When we really need to play on the strings of the heart and mind, the main character will narrate, exploiting devastating existential truths.

Of course, the protagonist will have a job, like a lawyer or doctor, where issues of great gravitas arise every day. Perhaps a writer or actor, so he can muse artistically about his problems. He’ll have some eccentricities, which make his profession seem cooler and more unlikely. And he’ll get all the insights, as he edifies the other clueless characters. But it would be no fun to teach them in a didactic manner. Instead, he’ll use a roundabout method, where he acts like a complete asshole all the time, speaking about sensitive topics in a casual, disrespectful manner. This will create an edgy, comic effect. Of course, he’ll always be in control, so his manner will cloak how much he cares. In fact – in a brilliant twist – it will be revealed that his insensitive behaviour was caused by how much he deeply cares. This way, the audience can enjoy unfettered, troll-like behaviour without the guilt or indignation that their precious moral values have been offended. It will also make the main character cooler and even more insightful.

The other characters will only really serve to highlight the coolness of the main character and act as foil for his outrageous comic lines. I intend to setup the autocorrect on Word documents, so that ‘incr’ changes to ‘incredulous’, so often do I intend to use it when writing the other characters. The others’ lives will revolve around the protagonists dilemmas, and the protagonist always trump their wit and intelligence, even when it looks like they’ve got the best of him. Despite being a complete asshole, and probably having lots of idiosyncrasies and ailments, the main character will attract plenty of female attention. The women of the show (all of whom will be smoking hot) will be charmed and affronted in equal measure by the main character. They’ll try to navigate the difficult seas of his behaviour to find his heart. They’ll succeed. But no matter how deep and romantic the relationship, it will end within a season, because TV romances are only interesting at the start. It will end because of something cool and interesting the main character did, but it really won’t be his fault. He’ll regret it, but always have time to atone for it.

I was rummaging through names in my head, and I think House is a good, simple title. Unless I set it in California and load it with sex scenes, in which case I think Californication works.

The Uncommon Man

Ireland’s economy has spiked dramatically today, in what economists worldwide are hailing as an unprecedented miracle. Economist and broadcaster David McWilliams told us that “The entirety of our financial fortunes have taken a u-turn, not unlike the curvature of a beautiful woman’s breast.” He warned us, however, not to be misled by such a u-turn. “The graph actually makes a V shape, so, although it is a u-turn, we would be wise to compare it to the shape made by the frontal part of a sun-drenched woman’s thong.” Exports are up, and new businesses have opened in the past 24 hours. 100, 000 people will return to the workforce over the next two weeks, according to the most conservative predictions. Within the next six months, it is expected that those seeking jobs seeker’s benefits will be negligible. Immigration is set to rocket over the next year, as thousands of ex-pats and foreigners are expected to join the snowballing economic growth.

The public are already calling for honours and accolades for taxi driver Jimmy Nugent, the catalyst of our economic explosion. Universally hailed as the Moses of Ireland, there is fiery enthusiasm for Jimmy to enter the political arena. Queuing for hours outside Mr Nugent’s house, well wishers spoke excitedly about ‘the endless horizon of possibility unlocked by Jimmy’s words.’ Speaking on the Joe Duffy Show yesterday morning, Mr Nugent gave an impassioned speech that has inspired a nation. “Let me tell you, Joe,” he told the jaded presenter with his permission, “the government are a shower of wankers.” Uncharacteristically stunned into silence, Joe forwent his usual elongated ‘yeah’ and allowed Mr Nugent to continue with his illuminating and inspiring oration. “Them bollixes up in Kildare Street are making a balls of it.”, he informed a nation, with a surgeon’s precision, before carpet bombing the entirety of our rotten political system. “It’s not just the government. They’re all the same. All the fuckers in the Dáil.” “I wouldn’t vote for any of them,” he bravely announced. And turning radical, like a wind sweeping the nation, he told an enchanted audience that they should all be removed from office or – in his eloquent parlance – “booted out.” The regime dismantled by his words, he reconstructed the country in an awesome vision, unveiling a blinding kaleidoscope of practical and exciting ideas. “Reduce the TDs’ pay to minimum wage,” he instructed, offering a clear path to recovery. “Reduce the wages of the bankers, too.” In a moment of striking insight, he justified the wage reduction for bankers, telling millions of captivated ears “They’re as bad as the politicians.” Epic emotions running through the audience’s veins, he relaxed us again with masterful wit. “Bankers? More like wankers.” Tickled as we were by the impromptu gag, we were more stimulated by the feeling that things had suddenly changed. The key to all our problems was turned, and although the solutions have yet to be enacted, the shock waves of Mr Nugent’s speech have rejuvenated the country’s spirit, and we are quickly headed for better fortune.

When asked about Mr Nugent on his way to Leinster House this morning, Taoiseach Brian Cowen said he had no comment. Further questions were greeted with grunts from a man who was clearly irritated and distracted. In a full Dáil chamber later on, Mr Cowen began a speech in response to the recent developments. “As I have said before, we must tackle the problems that face us. There are a myriad of reasons we are here, and, as I’ve said before, our…” Breaking from his speech, the Taoiseach made an outpouring of emotion. “Fuck it. We’ve fucked up. I’ve been too proud to admit it. We need to change the way we do business here. We need to take care of each other.” Turning around to his backbenchers, the Taoiseach implored his fellow party members to take no more donations from interest groups and to leave government. “We need to reform and fight for the Irish people, regardless of our position.” Sniffs and coughs filled the silence after Mr Cowen’s speech, as TDs from all parties struggled to hold back streams of tears. Eventually opposition leader Enda Kenny stood up to reply. “I appreciate the Taoiseach’s words.” He started, finding it difficult to continue with involuntary waves of sobbing. “We were all acting the bollix, as James Nugent said. When I’m Taoiseach, I swear that things will be different. We’ll never play politics with the future of this country, I swear.”

Meanwhile, emergency services have been busy today with a shocking and bizarre number of suicides. Dozens of banking executives and property developers have been ending their lives in a variety of dramatic methods. “Some people see it as a statement. An apology for wrong doing.” a bystander told us, while watching the authorities clean up a mess left by banking CEO who threw himself off the Heineken building. Referring to the millions of euros voluntarily handed over to the Revenue Commissioner today, another bystander told us that “some people decided to apologise with money, but for others theirs sins were too great.” The unpaid taxes that have been returned to the Revenue will be used to fund public projects, and it seems the public would strongly favour a statue of Jimmy Nugent, “perhaps one of him on Kildare Street, giving the finger to Leinster House,” as artist Robert Ballagh suggested.

Listen Here, Bucko!

I know you don’t want to hear this, but it has to be said: I wish Jeff Buckley was still alive so I could tell him to get over himself. He actually emits a sigh before singing Halleluiah. It’s not something accidentally caught on mic before the song, it’s deliberately put there. That’s unforgivable. He may as well have told us that we needed to take the song seriously. ‘Treat it with gravitas;’ the sigh tells us, ‘my emotions are important.’ I wish that was the only blemish of maudlin self-indulgence, but the whole Grace album is full of it. It’s hard to imagine a faggier or more pretentious line than, “My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder.” ‘Oh, you’re so literary and tender, Jeff.’ says the college student who listens naively to his whiney voice. To her, he’s not dead; he’s more alive than ever. His spirit wanders sorrowfully forever, as it laments the heartbreak caused by some temporary lover, or some other minor problem that would just cease to trouble him if he preoccupied himself with a real job. She longs to find such a man, but the stirring melodies and poignant sentiments of Grace have misinformed her expectations, and she doesn’t realise that she’s already met such a person. He’s her clinging friend, desperate to be inside her naked body, and trying in vain to bed her through the long and futile friendship route. He wards off all new males, and sweats pure jealousy when she’s out without him. He stains his pillow with thoughts of other men making love to her; he stains elsewhere when he imagines himself with her. She doesn’t want him. She can’t hear his inner turmoil, and he can’t fully express the urgency and power of his emotionally entangled libido. He longs to cry in her arms, to be redeemed in her eyes. This is the sort of man that she wants, but can’t see. If she could, she would realise that she has longed for a complete wiener man. The disgust would hurt for a while, as it would be difficult to delude herself with impossible ideals of men. She would pursue a cad in an attempt to deny her poisoned dreams. Her cynicism would be somewhat diluted by the realisation of how much better sex is with men who aren’t dependent wet blankets (who sleep in wet blankets, funnily enough). He would be better off with his heart smashed. And not for the last time. He would toughen and become world-wise, stowing away his powerful, radiant fantasy romance. Perhaps in years to come, he would experience other women and grow in confidence. No longer pining for her love and attention, he would become fun and attractive Having exorcised his demons with positive experiences, he would swagger confidently down the street. And perhaps – just perhaps – she would be walking the other way, meandering through her disappointing life. Life would bring us together again. Both free, we’d agree to sit down in a café and talk about the years since we last saw each other. She would see me for the first time. The old lyrics would play upon her heart. She’d see a man full of tenderness and an emotional capacity for a true passion. Excitement would tingle within her, as she began to see the twist in the plot. I’d bravely seize the transient opportunity and hold her hand tentatively, before she reassured me with her grip. Walking out together, we wouldn’t be entirely sure what direction we were taking, but we’d know it was leading to a bright, golden destiny…