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Now He Belongs to the Bleedin' Ages

Walking the streets of Dublin last night, I felt an emptiness about town. Though surrounded by people, I could not help feeling a lack of soul, an absence of some vital energy. It wasn't until I took a turn down one of the less crowded streets that it hit me. In the sudden, short-lived silence, on a faint, distant wind, I could have sworn I heard a ghostly voice calling someone a bollocks. I then remembered that it had been two weeks since Jimmy Nugent dramatically parted from this world. After being pursued for half an hour by an Garda Síochána that faithful night, James Carthage Nugent MEP drove his vehicle off the promenade at Bull Island, Dollymount, sinking into Dublin Bay upon impact with the water. The body of the legendary man has yet to be recovered.

We have witnessed nothing but strange days since he left us. The government have taken an enormously long time arranging a state funeral, the cost of which is estimated at €25 million, most of which has been spent on consultancy fees for public/private deal. A spokesperson for the government said that the arrangement will keep the large bill off the government's debt and also something vague and evasive about putting the contract up for tender. An Taoiseach Leo Varadkar said something pedantic and platitudinal that may have been an unprovoked sleight at working-class people. 

Much confusion and contradiction surrounds his death. The discrepancy between certain details of his death and the official account has already given rise to many questions and a handful of conspiracy theories on the internet. Why were the Gardaí chasing him? Where is his body? What actually happened that night? Some claim that this saintly man performed his final miracle — a vanishing act — beseeching help from the Virgin Mary at the end of the Bull Island promenade as his flight from the authorities reached a dead end. Others say the car chase was a myth and that he died from heart failure at the wheel, while taking a tourist on a circuitous journey from the airport to their city centre hotel via Dublin Bay.  

The site of Jimmy Nugent's last stand.

One of the more sinister claims suggests that the Gardaí murdered him. It has been rumoured that they saw him as a threat, a man who called for martial law every time a major crime was in the media. He was always a controversial figure, but never more so than the final year of his life. His election campaign for the European Parliament was fraught with daily controversies, mainly pertaining to any one of his many radical policies. The fliers and posters for his campaign were jammed full of small print, listing all the ambitious plans he wished to accomplish as an elected representative: Irexit; pro coal ("Coal is proven. Coal's your only man."); pro gun ownership; indiscriminately hacking off the top tier of every public organisation to combat corruption; nationalisation of the banks; conscription; pledge allegiance to the flag (which he clarified was not metonymy); a restrictive immigration policy; anti-vaccination; establishment of new capital on the Hill of Tara; highly restrictive clothing regulations; detention centres; a revision of the history curriculum in schools; an investigation into chemtrails; an annual day of observance for how shite things are and who is to blame; a labour camp for those players on the Republic of Ireland football team who fail to get results; a space programme to determine if the Earth is round or flat; Irish Sakoku; a seat in the Seanad Éireann for his dog; a directive for the media to report more frequently on the crimes of Travellers and immigrants.

The confusion about his death and the lack of a corpse has led some to believe he is still alive. Many of his followers refuse to believe he died. A man of his legendary caliber could have easily master-minded a cunning escape plan. He may have wanted to avoid answering questions to the ongoing tribunal into his finances and decide to fake his own death. Elaborate conspiracy theories tell stories of him fleeing to foreign lands. Cheating death like Rasputin, he rendezvoused with a Russian submarine and is now an honoured guest in the court of Vladimir Putin. Some claim he was spotted in Sydney, telling Asian people at the airport that Australia is full already. A photograph that emerged during the week supposedly placed him in the hermit nation of North Korea, apparently on an ideas exchange with Kim Jong Un. A more plausible theory claims he was picked up by local fishermen in Dublin Bay. Embarrassed by whole ordeal and still a fugitive of the law, he informed the captain that he was a resident of Lambay Island, and requested to be taken home. I think this last idea is the most compelling. With such a small population, the tiny island would be perfectly suited for Jimmy Nugent's dream of a closed, restrictive society.  

Is this Jimmy Nugent on the far right?

Having heard those words on the wind last night, half in a dream perhaps, I slowly resumed walking home, somewhat disconcerted. But soon I felt better and picked up the pace, as it occurred to me that he was not really gone. I cannot speak for the veracity of all the claims above, but I will tell you this much: he will never truly leave us. When you walk this city, you will find him everywhere. Walk down by Dublin port, and you will find the wreckage of the prototype giant radiator which fell out of the sky and landed where the Liffey meets the sea. Cross the Ha'penny Bridge and you will meet the beggars Jimmy would frequently scold for not having a job. Walk down Kildare Street and you will see his monument giving the finger to Dáil Éireann. Wander out to Clondalkin and you find ample evidence of the economic progress his closed economy brought. Pass Burger King and reminisce about the stand he made against the slow service. And when you walk by the GPO, look at the anxiety in the religious preachers faces as they fear that he will return to savagely remonstrate with them. 

Jimmy Nugent's 'Finger of the People', telling "all the muppets" to "fuck off."

I know, in some sense, he will forever be with us. He will be with us wherever men vent their belligerent opinions angrily in public; wherever the high blood-pressure of men produces thoughts free of content and abstract reasoning; wherever there are those who thirst for the freedom to express one's opinion without the oppressive toil that thinking long and hard forces upon people. You will find him in the pub, in the polling booth, in the comments section, on the bus having an argument with the driver. You will find him behind the wheel of a car that honks too often, as a caller on the Joe Duffy show; in a taxi making you wish the topic of the conversation would change. The enduring champion of those who cannot be sold by reasoning, or deterred by compassion or understanding, will live on. I say to the disgruntled people of this country: fear not, he will always be near. He will never leave us alone.

How to Be a Writer, a.k.a., "A Dangerous Passion"

"How did you become a writer?" nobody asked me the other day, when I needed an opener for this blog entry. As it was nobody, my advice fell on absent ears of course, but I will nevertheless impart once again the ancient knowledge I have acquired as a man of the pen. The first and most important step on your journey to becoming a writer is that you must believe you are a writer. Research from multiple surveys shows that 93% of people who when asked "Do you believe you are a writer?", and answered 'no' were not in fact writers. This demonstrates how imperative believing yourself to be a writer is if you wish to be a writer. If this initial step proves difficult, try saying you are a writer to everyone you meet, or read and share inspirational quotes about writing online. Depreciate yourself in a disingenuous fashion, blaming your character faults — such as laziness, refusal to engage with even basic numeracy or logic, forgetfulness, fits of rage, melancholy, and substance addiction — on the writerly aspect of your personality that ultimately defines you. If all else fails, you can always smoke a cigarette in an evocative, monochrome photo. 

Something like this.

Before you go lighting up that cigarette, however, you should know that true literary genius requires more than just believing you are a writer. Believing is a pre-requisite, but great writers are also creative, a skill that requires years of being a creative person. As a novice writer, you should try to develop your creativity by being creative. The real trick of course is to be creative. All the best writers in the pantheon of literary greats were creative, had been creative, were being creative, and had been being creative. For the aspiring writer, this primarily involves entering the confines of your mind and berating yourself for not being creative. It also involves valuing creativity as a master virtue, the well-spring of all humanity. Creativity is featured in all our myths regarding the origin of our universe. God created the world from nothing, yet you cannot create as much as a short story without help. How then can we go beyond this impasse? 

Fortunately, there is a loop hole: writers are allowed to find inspiration for their work. There are many ways of doing this, such as taking a walk in nature and watching people from a cafe terrace. Best to get comfortable with these kind of activities, as most of your time will comprise of finding inspiration. Any writer will tell you the difficulty in trying to write when you are not possessed with inspiration. If conventional methods of inspiring oneself fail, you may have to resort to more drastic measures, such as engaging in disturbing sexual activities or taking heroin and listen to More than a Feeling by Boston on loop for 24 hours. Having strong opinions and falling out with people regularly will give you the angst and anger to bring new stories to life. You may be concerned about the effect this will have on your mental health, but in the deadly game of writing you must embrace pain rather than shy away from it. Indeed, many writers recommend cultivating pain to help churn the creative cement mixer. Go to pain-cultivating group meetings, where you mostly talk about your pain and encourage others to develop a sturm und drang emotional life. It's mostly young men standing in the corners, despondent faces buried in a forlorn arms, but it works. 

I was going to put Munch's The Scream here, but I think this stock photo works better.  

One surefire way of finding inspiration is falling in love. You may make a fool of yourself and people may regard you a creep, but the more tragic and uncompromising the love the better. All the great love songs ride the fine line between innocent passion and obsessive psychosis. Romantic love is not the only avenue a writer can take, as there is also self-love. Love yourself, because doing art is loving yourself. (The opposite is not true, no matter what the pretentious amateurs say.) Sadly, loving oneself is not as easy. On the treacherous road of becoming a writer, one must confront their Jungian shadow and assimilate it. How one does this remains unclear. Apparently, it involves making a lot of deferential remarks about the power of mythology and keeping a dream diary. Sitting alone in a dark room aghast at your personality and existence seems to help too. 

If and when you have invested the many years required to face the demons lurking in your soul, and assuming you have survived the many fatal pitfalls on your journey, you may finally and deservedly call yourself a writer. You have permission to now start writing. Any further obstacles can be overcome by just trusting your (infallible) instincts. Write what you know, especially if what you know is topical and can be read over the course of a sun holiday. Make broad statements about the human condition without any regard for their veracity or applicability to any situation. You are the quotes now, and you should feel at liberty to tell yourself as such in the mirror every morning. Oh, and for the love of God, get the ending right. For example: if your protagonist is a young man at university, desperate to find an opportunity to masturbate surreptitiously, it should end with him running naked in wilderness, screaming wantonly (no matter what your dilettante writing partner thinks). 

What's that? Nobody reads anymore? Quick, everybody, start a podcast! Or run to Youtube and start up a channel. Video essays, gaming, a patronising video about an academic subject  — it doesn't matter. Run to Youtube before it is impenetrably saturated! 

And They Will Be Loved

"I hate this song," I heard someone say the other day. "And it's always on the radio."

They were referring to Girls Like You by Maroon 5. They might have a point, but I gave the opinion very little notice, as I had heard it many times before. They may as well have been talking in a bygone year, referring to songs such as Sugar, This Love, She Will Be Loved, or Payphone. The Maroon boys have become a part of the cultural furniture, knocking out the periodic hits over the last twenty years. Like a planet with a long, elliptical orbit, they pass out of memory, only to return once more into our consciousness. It might be an old hit on the radio, or perhaps a new one on television. Perhaps a recommendation on Spotify, or when someone mentions Mick Jagger. It might be a soulless version of cover of Three Little Birds on an even more soulless Hyundai World Cup advertisement. It matters not, you'll hear them; Maroon 5 have an inescapable gravity. They have thrived and survived for years, despite the adversity the pop music market and being a shit band from an era of shit music.

Adam and the boys.

I am referring specifically to the very nadir of music, approximately from 1998 to 2004. Try think of a good tune from then. It's hard, isn't it? Songs that come to mind from that period: Elevation by U2, The Scientist by Coldplay, All Star by Smash Mouth, and Hero by Enrique Iglasius. That time also bore witness to Nelly, Ronan Keating's solo career, Matchbox Twenty, Evanescence, The Darkness, and Nickelback. Can you take any more? How about Five for Fighting, Train, and the solo careers of Robbie Williams and Geri Halliwell? Let's go one more round, through the very depths of this valley of woe and tears: Because I Got High by Afroman, Sk8r Boi by Avril Lavigne, Fix You by Coldplay, Out of Reach by Gabrielle, the Cheeky Girls and Las Ketchup. Most people will say that music was better when they were young, but if you are my age, you would need to be dangerously intoxicated on nostalgia to make such a claim. 

This is the pestilential cauldron that Maroon 5 emerged from. They knew their product would only ever be of a mediocre standard, but the saw an opportunity to ply their trade in such a lacklustre market. They are a merry band of stevedores, and like the dockers of yesteryear, they keep turning up again and again, never disheartened. Regardless of whether the opportunities are plentiful or scarce, they apply their mercenary work ethic to their music. Some times they must walk away disappointed, hands in pockets; other times, they hit gold with another radio-friendly hit. Their members are near-anonymous, except the lead singer, who cannot sing well, and looks like scuzzy, sleazy loser. His surname is Levine, a name that sounds like a mix of 'letch' and 'slime', and he comes across as the most basic of fuck boys who has rendered many of his groupies infertile with STIs. One must assume that their fans are very ordinary women. You might query that last sentence, for some Maroon 5 fans could be men. I considered that possibility, but found it impossible to imagine a man choosing to listen to a Maroon 5 song, much in the way that a woman would never enter the realm of MGTOW and Incels, and listen to a Linkin Park song.  

The Maroon boys earning their bread.

At a guess, Maroon 5 fill the need of people who need music to play in a shopping mall or a department store. Adam Levine's synthesised voice can be heard in Starbuck's or MacDonald's, or at a party where the DJ doesn't know what kind of music the birthday girl likes. Or perhaps they find fandom among teenage girls who have yet to make debut into the world of actual music. And there are all those poor souls who don't actually like listening to music, but need something to fill the void at a house party or the car (or at their wedding). In these situations the musical soldiers of fortune come to the rescue. As long as we have unremarkable, unthinking consumers, who want only for music of no distinction — something to accompany the Pepsi advertisement at the Super Bowl — we will have Maroon 5. They will undoubtedly continue, walking into eternity; like the Rolling Stones and their decades-long career, they will truly move like Jagger. 

Did someone beat me to the punch?

The Authentic Chill Life Project

Oh, hello there! I didn't see you come in. Please, take a seat. Sit anywhere. We're pretty laid-back here. This is a totally chill place. A menu? Of course, we do food. We're not quite a restaurant, but more than a cafe. It's best to think of this establishment as a liminal space, an encounter with potential. Love the experience - the living, breathing momentum. It's not so much the great coffee, delicious food, or cool clientele; it's the space between. That ineffable something that lies within the sum of its parts. That's why we charge eight euros for a slice of cake.

We're that fine intersection between environmentalism, hearty traditionalism, veganism, decadence, health food, authenticity, fantasy, luxury befitting the good life, and homage to the decades between 1920 and 1960 (sans glaring social justice violations). We ascribe it all to our authentic philosophy, shining through every smile and every last drop of our special blend coffee. Our baristas are cool guys — they've got the man-buns to prove it. The female baristas are implausibly smiley and beautiful, despite the stress of their perfect skin needing to stay within a strict band of shininess. We chalk notes on our sandwich-board, which is effectively a meme, to let you know that we're clever and modern. No need to be on your phone all the time — we put your feed out into reality. Put it away now, it's inauthentic.

The link leads to a blank page. 

All our food is locally sourced and organic, and there's not a solitary plate on the entire premises. We're committed to helping local farmers. On our menu, you will find Kilamilluagh cheddar cheese, O'Grady jam from Clonmel, the Tubbercurry Tub o' Curry, and an unorthodox marmalade made from oranges locally grown in Carlow. We also do "guerrilla farming" here in Dublin City centre, where we forego the conventions of asking permission and considering other people's interests, and start a garden wherever seems viable. When one of our gardens gets removed by the local council, we usually barrage the shit out of those tasked to remove it with threatening comments on social media. That last sentence may surprise a few people. We do operate in a chill, laid-back way, but please understand the importance of us modifying your every action, carefully mapping them on to our stringent, uncompromising worldview. But in a very chill way. Take only two napkins.

We pay our employees a decent wage. If they need to start late or take time off or play music, that's no problem. We prefer a party-like attitude. Our business partner, who bankrolls everything, occasionally comes a-knocking on our door, unhappy with profit margins. Like a neighbour, angry about the volume of the music, we extend to him the opportunity of joining our party and taking a slice of the chill life. He threatened to eviscerate the entire project and blackball us across the entire town if we offered him another slice of anything. But he's a cool guy when you get chatting to him.

But please, do pull up a chair. We're just chill people trying to make this world a little bit better. If you want to pay later that's cool. There is no wifi password, and it's cool to use the toilets. You can plug your phone or laptop into one of our many available sockets. Unless you don't use a Mac, in which case you can just fuck off. 

Expecting Different Results

All 101 of you (according to the latest data) who read my 2016 post about House of Cards must be wondering what I thought about the recent wrap up of the series. I'll keep this brief, as House of Cards has faded away from its former cultural status. I was vacillating between admiration and repulsion. I had admiration for their attempts to cap the series with the errant strands left after the Kevin Spacey scandal, and repulsion for the tedious tropes of a series long-since deprived of its sheen. 

It was one solitary line in one scene tipped the scale. One of the characters, Seth Grayson, spouts the following dialogue:

"Look, I can only assume while you were away somebody broke down the definition of insanity. If not, here's a refresher. Doing the same shit over and over and expecting different results."

"The definition of insanity, you say?"

"Yes," I hear you reply. 

"Surely that can't be it. Well, let's look it up in my weighty, well-worn dictionary."  

insanity: doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result.

"Oh, it seems as though you are correct." 

I walk away somewhat meekly. But there's a pause in my footsteps. Then a rehearsed pivot on my heel, à la Columbo. 

"Just one more thing… There are a few provisos listed in this entry." 

Does not apply in the following situations:

 - running 10 kilometres
- running a scientific experiment to contest the competence and/or veracity of a previous experiment 
- swinging a golf club
- kicking a ball between the posts
- having a child
- playing the lottery
- going on a first date
- getting out of bed
- going to work
- getting on a plane
- turning on your TV
- pulling the trigger in Russian Roulette
- rolling a die
- making your dinner

Sources: Albert Einstein, Abraham Lincoln, Gandhi, Tony Robbins, Nelson Mandela, Aristotle, Winston Churchill, Helen Keller, Jesus Christ, Maya Angelou, the Buddha, Mr Rogers, Marlyn Monroe, the Pope, the Dali Lama, Native American proverbs, Oscar Wilde, Warren Buffet, Mother Teresa, Henry David Thoreau, Confucius, Master Yoda, Uncle Phil, David Wolfe, and  Deepak Chopra. 

So, there you have it. I'm not sure what else to say, as I don't know how these imaginary conversations usually end. Either with you going off in a huff or telling me how wise I am. Or with a rapturous round of applause and a party. I guess it doesn't matter; just don't bother watching the last season of House of Cards.

Sex Lives of the Millennials

After more than one failed artistic endeavour, I am bravely putting my neck on the line once again. I have been tasked with delving deep into the sex lives of the Millennials. Millennials are the most important and most interesting generation of all time, and we need to get inside their bedrooms and examine every aspect of their sexuality. There is only one format suited to this task, of course, and that is the straight-to-Netflix, crowd-funded documentary — the kind where opinionated people (with varying degrees of expertise) are intercut with clips of stock footage. We have yet to find a composer, so please send us a demo for consideration. If you don't worship minimalistic electronica or you are not super mellow, then this is probably not the gig for you. 

There will be lots of shots of people walking on the street.

We will highlight all sorts of people, especially Instagram models, sexy baristas, bloggers and vloggers with attractive profile pictures, fitness gurus, digital nomads (provided they don't bear any sign of the austerity of nomadism), and entrepreneurs who know how to look presentable. We will interview them on the scooter, in the rustic cafe, in the shoebox "apartment", while they are recording a podcast about tattoos or craft beers, or while they are busy at a side-hustle. There will be a lot of confusing high rising terminal, but it will be me who is actually asking questions.      

Millennials: who are they? What makes them tick? Why are they so interesting and why is there such a proliferation of articles about them? Are they the laziest, most entitled generation of all time, or, conversely, the most embattled generation of all time? What is the deal with their finances, their political persuasion, their career paths, their inability to stay in a relationship? But most importantly, what are their sex lives like? Are they as we expect, namely transgendered, depressed, outraged, mobile, vegan, lost in identity politics, on social media, taking selfies mid-sex, covered in over-priced avocado in an apartment-cum-shack that is barely within their means, complaining about something somebody famous said on Twitter? And if so, how does that sexually satisfy anyone?

Also, what are the best beaches to get sunrise yoga pictures?

And what's the deal with the gig economy, Tinder, man-buns, and polyamory? That last one is a particularly contentious. In my ear, I can hear the objections of conservatives. "It disrespects tradition," they say. "Did all the spouses of days gone by cheat for this nonsense? Who now respects going around the back of your partner to have forbidden love with a fleeting co-conspirator?" I would agree if it weren't for two stubborn facts. Firstly, you must consider that some polyamorists are ugly. They have a much needed foothold with someone, and can now better bear the wind of single life that confronts an unprepossessing person. The second fact is the encouraging inclusivity of polyamorists.  Polyamorists are ceaseless defenders of inclusion and always wish others to be involved.

Millennials apparently are having less sex than previous generations. This cannot be just explained away by ugly polyamorists. We must get under the sheets with them and find out why this is. This poses new and challenging questions. For example, is he the man, inserted inside her, or — like one of those gestalt pictures — the inverse? Can we know? Do they know? Does anyone, including them, have the right to know? We must look more closely, get under the covers with these young "men" and "women" and see exactly what they are doing and feeling. Sex with these some good-looking people in the prime of their lives is the only certain way we can gain any real information. Only when we get fucked every which way 'till Sunday, will we truly have an insight into what it means to be a millennial.