(One Foot In The) Grave News

40 years ago today, this rather brilliant piece of music was No.1 in the UK charts.  Coincidentally, my poor mum was enduring an experience she said she “wouldn’t wish on anyone” – namely, giving birth to me.  I think I’m correct in saying she hasn’t had too much cause to regret it since, despite consistent exam failures, chronic late-development of my early potential and the fact that I talked about death a lot as a teenager.  Well, nothing much has changed, really.

Political Hot Potato

In the spirit of fellowship and togetherness, the Taoiseach yesterday met the heads of the Church of Ireland from north and south.  And, in the spirit of Christian generosity, the Archbishops brought Mr Cowen some lunch, in the shape of a gigantic baked potato.  Then, in the spirit of perma-starvation, our Brian scoffed it before commencing dialogue with the men of the (table) cloth.

“Sure, we understand irony…”

“..it’s like rain on your wedding day, right?  Or a free ride when you’ve already paid. ”

Good Old American Indie-Dependence

There’s a huge underground hype-machine winging its way to Whelan’s later this year, if whispers whizzing around hip musical circles are to be believed.  A new North American 5 or 6 piece are pencilled in to be the new ‘thing’ for the entire month of November.  From Baltimore or Brooklyn, or maybe it’s Canada, they’re said to be from that peripheral country-folk branch of American indie, with a good dollop of Talking Heads thrown into the mix to make them extra unique.   The four people who’ve actually seen them in rehearsal are already comparing them to Clap Your National Grizzly Cold War Wolf Fleet Horses Parade, Yeah.  And Talking Heads.

Don’t worry if you think you might forget about them by the time the tickets go on sale, you won’t be able to avoid the hype, particularly as their stunning, never-been-done image will be all over the press by then: checked shirts (worn outside saggy jeans), beards, receding hairlines and at least one member, most likely the bassist, or possibly the drummer, will be wearing a baseball cap. 

Star “Style” – Reg’s ‘Lion King’ Bassist

Hipper-than-thou Elton John groupies who attended his Thomond Park knees-up over the weekend were treated to the rare sight of a bass-slappin’ Gerry Ryan, proudly announcing his role in a new stage version of The Lion King.

Lovely Girls… They’re Running…

Plenty of unintentional humour sprang from last Monday’s Women’s Mini-Marathon in Dublin - although, technically, we’re not really supposed to find it funny.  As an event being held in the country’s capital, a city with a female mayor, it’s quite extraordinary that the organisers’ theme, from the compere through to the musical accompaniment, seemed to be one of ‘let’s patronise the girls’.  A letter in this morning’s Irish Times describes the unfolding embarrassment rather neatly. 

Terrorvision

All that’s missing from this picture is a little table with tea and HobNobs. 

Grills & Boys

Originally published in U Magazine, June 2008

Can you get the stench of burning flesh in the air? It’s that time of year again. Any day now, invitations to friends’ barbecues will come flooding in.

No one invites you to dinner during this period, no one says they’re having a few nibbles and cocktails in their garden, or in their 4’ X 3’ yard, in summer, you only ever get invites to barbecues.  And because there’s been a week of sunshine, they’ve been out in force early this year.  Apparently, it’s against the law to burn garden rubbish, but boy are you permitted to turn a small corner of your rear end into a funeral pyre for chunks of indeterminable animal offcuts.  I’m sure many of you are now wearing tops that were out on the washing line when one of your neighbours threw one of these acts of wilful fire-raising; smells yummy, your t-shirt, doesn’t it? I bet you were delighted when you first noticed what was happening. First you catch the scent of hot charcoal, then your throat and eyes begin to sting and choke, and finally you see the black plume snaking over the fence, the universally understood smoke signal meaning, “Man. Cooking. Now.”