Poppycock

Is it my imagination or has the whole poppy wearing thing got out of control? Remembrance Day is the 11th of November but this year people in the UK seem to have been wearing them for weeks - and they're still at it. This surely debases the currency. Also, it's become so pervasive you would wonder has it become compulsory? Does wearing it mark one as more patriotic (like the US flag pin during Bush's time)? Even the bloody football teams have jumped on the bandwagon. And of course you can't appear on TV without it - even in the most vacuous of entertainment shows. Now it would be churlish to argue with sparing a thought occasionally for those who died in the service of their country - even in a war as foolishly engaged in and as spendthrift of life as the First World War. However, we in Ireland, and not just Derry, can't help but feel a bit queasy about the whole business.

Kidney's Choice

For the first international of the season the Irish rugby team to play Australia almost picks itself. The only doubt is in the centre because of D'Arcy's poor recent form. But I think that Kidney will pick him because of his tackling, rather than move in Fitzgerald or Bowe from the wing. Earls will be on the bench. Here's my guess: Kearney, Bowe, O'Driscoll, D'Arcy, Fitzgerald, O'Gara, O'Leary, Healy, Flannery, Hayes, O'Connell, O'Callaghan, Wallace, Heaslip and Ferris.

And you'd fancy them to run Australia very close, if not beat them.

P.S. H'mm, close enough. But I'd quibble with picking that lightweight Paddy Wallace in the centre.

Man Seeks Quiet Local with Good Pint

There is a sacred time every Sunday, an islanded hour, when I like to find a quiet corner in a public house and read the Sunday papers. An essential part of the experience is the accompanying two perfect pints of plain. And then home for dinner. In this vale of tears surely that's not too much for a man to aspire to.

But I am finding it increasingly difficult to achieve this modest aspiration in my neighbourhood. Take last Sunday. The pint in my local (Fitzgerald's) has deteriorated of late and besides the big match (Chelsea and Manchester United) means that it will be heaving with soccer fans. Finnegan's is a fine pub but its Guinness has never been great - and I hate that renovation they did. I have a grudge with the Queen's (an incident with the red-blazered basilisk that owned the place) and I never liked that weird little speedy bar man in the The Club. So I settled on The Ivory where I know the pint will be perfect, and there's usually a quiet corner. And indeed the pint is excellent but there's no quiet corner - I think they've added a few TVs. There were five or six of them blaring the bloody match. The place is crowded with the gormless, mouths open, intent on the irrelevancy of the Premier League. I can't settle so I depart in exasperation after one pint - papers half read. Maybe I should move to West Cork. It wouldn't happen in Hackett's.

Hope at Last

The impossibly gorgeous, the impossibly exotic, Hope Sandoval appearing in Dublin. It's as if we had a visit from a unicorn. I have been an ardent devotee since the early Nineties when she sang with Mazzy Star. She went quiet in recent years but now has re-emerged with Colm Ciosog from My Bloody Valentine and a new band called the Warm Inventions. She graced us with her presence in Vicar Street last Saturday. A chance to experience that erotic and ethereal voice in the flesh.

What an extraordinary concert it was. The entire gig was performed in darkness with the band occasionally illuminated by the surreal films that were projected onto the back of the stage throughout the show. We caught glimpses of Sandoval's striking looks, her long skinny legs emerging from a layered white lace skirt, and the silhouette of her impressive embonpoint in a tight black top. But glimpses only. She spent a lot of the gig with her back to the audience noodling with a zylophone while she sang and when she did face the audience she had her hand over the mic at face level so her features were obscured. But the voice was as entrancing as ever. And the band and the film meshed with it perfectly to give us a memorable show.

Kidney Failure

I'm surprised that Declan Kidney hasn't selected Alan Quinlan in his 39 man squad for the autumn internationals. How can Quinlan be good enough for the Lions' squad 6 months ago and not good enough for the Irish squad now? Could Kidney be making a statement about foul play? Does this mean that Shane Jennings' Irish career is also over? But then he has picked John Hayes. So maybe there's the more innocent explanation that he's looking towards the future.

It's Official: Men Get in the Way

For years I've been labeled a backwoodsman and sexist brute for my single-handed campaign against men attending the births of their children. It's women's work I maintained - man's place is in a nearby pub. But from the early Seventies it became the norm rather than the exception - a by-product of feminism no doubt. All over the land ashen-faced males grimly did their duty, often distracting medical resources in the process. They came out afterwards speaking of mystical experiences rather than telling the truth about the abattoir it really was. Also, let's fess up lads, you never look on your partners in quite the same way again. The mystery is gone.

Now I see that my slightly dodgy rationale has been backed up by the much respected French obstetrician Michel Odent. He was being interviewed on of all places the Tom Dunne show on Newstalk. He had such a wonderful hammy French accent that I thought at first it was one of Dunne's spoofs - but no, it was the real thing. He maintained that men should not attend births for two reasons: it made the woman tense and so slowed the production of oxytocin, the happy hormone that makes the mother forget the trauma of the birth and helps breast-feeding; and it robs the woman of a lot of the feminine mystique she enjoys in man's eyes, an eventuality, Odent contended, that could have consequences later for the couple's sex life. His contention was that woman is best served by having another experienced woman, or mid-wife, with her. So relax lads, you're off to hook. Tell them Mr. Odent advised you.

A World Undone by G. J. Meyer

This is as good a primer for the First World War as you'll encounter. It covers everything from its origins with the Serbs troubling the rump of the Austro-Hungarian Empire (a boil that was lanced with the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand) to its conclusion with the redrawing of the map of Europe. It's particularly good on the political posturing and personalities that led to the whole debacle - military gung-hoism trumped political dialogue. It's brilliant on context. Besides the main action you get potted histories of the Ottoman Empire, the Romanovs, the Hohenzollerns, and the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It also shows, notwithstanding all the guff we read about the Somme, how the Brits stood back from a lot of the engagements and let the French and Russians suffer the cost. The casuality statistics confirm this scenario.

Mayflower by Nathaniel Philbrick

Not exactly a page turner like "In the Heart of the Sea" by the same author - but a revealing slice of early American life. There is not much on the voyage itself, the book concentrates on the fight for survival in the first few years. This fight was initially against starvation and then against the indigenous Indians that they were supplanting. There was not much to give thanks for on the first anniversary of their landing, half of the 102 that sailed were dead from scurvy and malnutrition. Their religious preciousness was soon forgotten in the battle for food and land. The most abiding impression you get is how amazingly resourceful they had to be after arriving in virgin New England: building, farming, trading, and fighting. A lot of the book describes various battles and skirmishes - mostly of course from a pilgrim perspective as the Indians left no records. The pilgrims had a nasty penchant for sticking Indian heads on spikes for the delectation of the populace. While the Indians were great men for the scalping. The book is strong on anecdote and character but a little weak on the broader picture - the role of England, the French, the other colonies etc.

Bullshit

The breath-taking presumption of that pompous prick John O'Donoghue in his risible and deeply disingenuous resignation speech in the Dail. He suggested that the people of South Kerry are so thick that they will be blinded to his obscene extravagances and look after him at the next election. If I were a voter in that region, and I do have a Kerry father, I would not be amused. I would be smart enough to realise that there is a connection between his incontinent (no wait a minute, unbridled is a more appropriate term) expenditure and the lack of funds for all kinds of causes worthier than his interest in the gee gees.

No Disrespect

What the fuck is wrong with us - Ireland I mean. The death of a very minor pop star - and by the way an apparently very decent guy - receives the kind of coverage in the national media that you might expect for Parnell or Michael Collins. While Boyzone are as charming a manufactured band as you'll meet in a month of Sundays, they are not momentous, they were (oh shit they are) limp, banal, and deeply derivative. Buddy Holly didn't die, nor even John Lennon. Let the poor cratur rest in peace.

And just to confirm that this was a celebration of the trite, Bertie Aherne turns up at the funeral suggesting a great loss to western civilisation etc. Dear God give me strength and courage.

Sean McSweeney at the Taylor Gallery

Sean McSweeney's opening in the Taylor last Thursday was a bellwether for the state of the art market. This was a new show by one of our most popular and respected contemporary artists. It was a strong show with a very reasonably priced selection of works on canvas and paper. Up to recently he would always sell out - except for the occasional very large piece. All these works were quite small and very accessible with more colour than is often the case with McSweeney. A total of eight sold on the opening night. Not bad. There was a comparatively poor turnout, certainly compared to Brian Henderson's show there earlier in the month. But Henderson sold only one piece on the opening night - so you could say the market is becoming very discerning.

McSweeney himself was in attendance - a most affable man is our rural Rothko. He went out of his way to greet anyone and everyone. There was no preserving a cool distance from the hoi polloi. We all repaired to Buswell's afterwards for a few pints.

Kingdom Come Again

The All-Ireland Football Final was a sad debacle if you were a Cork man. Actually it was a sad debacle if you weren't a Kerry man. Here's the bottom line: Cork froze, their big names did not perform; Kerry rose to the occasion as experienced teams inevitably do, their big names performed, and they got their tactics dead right (stop Cork playing, swarming defence, even Cooper back). It wasn't pretty. Tadgh Kennelly, feted by our craven sporting press, committed one of the most cynical, dangerous and mean-spirited fouls I've seen in a long time - in a notoriously foul-laden mean-spirited sport. He did it smack dab in front of the referee at the very start of the match and got away with it. And Nicholas Murphy, the recipient of the elbow in the face, was not the same man for the rest of the match. But this incident encapsulated why Cork lost. Kerry were darker, harder, better organised and cooler in the heat of battle. Cork will come back next year, wiser and wider (read cynical and mean-spirited) as they say down there.

William Boyd in Trinity

Went to hear William Boyd speak in Trinity last Saturday - fresh from reading his excellent latest novel - Ordinary Thunderstorms. He seemed the most amiable of coves, devoid of the kind of literary preciousness I detected in Colum McCann recently. He read an extract from his new novel and then answered questions from his meagre audience. It was a glorious sunny afternoon, which probably impacted the numbers. He spoke about his writing process (two years research, one year writing)and wasn't shy about sharing his opinion of certain sacred cows. He's not a fan of Virginia Woolf it seems and he wouldn't take Jeff Koons too seriously. He was very entertaining on the subject of Nate Tate: An American Artist - his hoax biography of an Abstract Expressionist. He enlisted such worthies as Gore Vidal, John Richardson (Picasso's biographer) and David Bowie in his plot and fooled most of the New York art establishment until the British press broke the story.

He also told us that a film was being made of Any Human Heart. I noticed Stephen Rea in the audience so maybe there's a connection.

Shine a Light

What a sad dispiriting movie this was. It basically showed the Rolling Stones cavorting in front of Bill Clinton and a bunch of celebrities for one of Clinton's charities. All well and good but hardly rock and roll. The audience looked like extras from Sex and City: plastic, overdressed, and lifeless - mostly well-groomed women of a certain age. And the music was a pallid echo of its former gutsy self. Jagger looked like a dizzy queen sashaying down the King's Road and Keith Richard was a gurning parody of his former cool self. Only Ron Wood was convincing - especially when he played pedal steel guitar on Faraway Eyes, one of the few bright spots on a dull night. The Stones have turned into an unconvincing tribute band to themselves. And Martin Scorsese, the creator of the wonderful Last Waltz has produced a real turkey, and not a wild one either.

Ordinary Thunderstorms

Just finished Ordinary Thunderstorms, William Boyd's latest novel. What a pleasure it is to read a good uncomplicated story, with an interesting cast of characters, and a fine sense of place. And one free from literary pretension and arty faffing about.

William Boyd can be relied upon for all this of course, we got it with Any Human Heart and Restless also. This story revolves around Adam Kindred's fall from grace through a chance meeting in London. It takes him from the cossetted world of hotels and credit cards and effortless living into a feral underworld of violence, dirt and hunger. Along the way we meet psychopathic hit men, corrupt pharmaceutical executives, and a randy police woman. We are also shown the London of council estates, begging and sleeping rough. It's a cautionary tale about how one slip can throw us back into the gutter. A tale for our times then.

Tipp Undunne

I'm not sure what happened in the last 20 minutes of today's All-Ireland Hurling Final because I took the dog for a walk after Bennie Dunne was sent off and Henry Sheflin equalised with the subsequent free. I knew the tide had turned and Kilkenny would win - somehow, and I just didn't want to be around to see it. It was the ultimate irony that Tipp should have a man sent off after suffering the attentions of the thuggish agglomeration that is the Kilkenny backline for the previous 50 minutes. Dunne deserved to be sent off. He was practising the lost art of doubling on the ball but mistimed it completely and almost decapitated Tommy Walsh. It was a careless rather than a malevolent act. It came when Tipp were dominating but had fatally missed two easy goal chances and it turned the match. People will say that this was a gallant performance by Tipp and that their day will come. Bollocks, today their day came and they blew it. Dunne would be better emigrating to Australia now with all his close relations for he will endure daily recriminations from parish and county for the rest of his life.

CODA: Having watched the portion of the match I missed I still think the sending off was the turning point. It gave Kilkenny more space and more importantly more hope in a match that seemed to be slipping away from them. The penalty was a mistake by the ref but Kilkenny were making inroads at that stage - the tide had turned. After the penalty Tipp were deflated and beaten.