tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-126423052024-03-16T01:12:29.805+00:00ArdmayleRandom musings on current affairs, sport and the arts.Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comBlogger733125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-89995257853426357462024-02-25T10:21:00.003+00:002024-02-26T15:13:29.555+00:00“The End” - the Doors’ Gothic Dream Song Brings Back a Hot Day in 1967<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5_G-WLnACzN6Cso2zTKrhfSWtYRp18vAhY6bhhwSdY8Otkk5QGJnJlo8KSGanX7PzIFbzj_QeLNooLvFlBRFM-zJ_-38QnnJ2-sjgns6bcQeZN4YN8-D5IQu4sfYbP4HUdcKTr8QPsdpdERZpt__bKIAmbR9d75e77N2miLNrl247SEWwpnD/s300/IMG_0015.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5_G-WLnACzN6Cso2zTKrhfSWtYRp18vAhY6bhhwSdY8Otkk5QGJnJlo8KSGanX7PzIFbzj_QeLNooLvFlBRFM-zJ_-38QnnJ2-sjgns6bcQeZN4YN8-D5IQu4sfYbP4HUdcKTr8QPsdpdERZpt__bKIAmbR9d75e77N2miLNrl247SEWwpnD/s1600/IMG_0015.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; line-height: 18.4px; margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">Driving near Schull yesterday one of those evocative tracks from the past comes up on Spotify – The End by the Doors. It was from their first and best album, The Doors, released in January 1967. I am immediately taken back to a baking afternoon in August of that year. I am heading to Clanricarde Gardens in Notting Hill with a friend to score some dope from a group of Irish friends we bumped into regularly around Earl’s Court - and with whom we shared an affection for the Warwick Arms on Warwick Road - where acceptable pints of Guinness were available. We arrive at their spacious ground floor flat and are let in after the customary paranoid interrogation (“who are you with”, “anyone around”). The room is in semi-darkness, the heavy, floor-length velvet curtains closed and a small lamp is fighting the murk. There is a heavy smell of hash. Pakistani Black was the most generally available form of marijuana in those days. It was a heavy, drowsy, high - conducive to listening to Pink Floyd or the Moody Blues and to crashing out. The End was playing as we entered the room. It was my first time hearing its Gothic doom-laden lyrics and dramatic musical pyrotechnics. The three occupants were Batt, Deke and Martin – all stretched out on comfortable armchairs and clearly stoned. Batt was the officer in command of their little drug-dealing triad. He was the son of a Garda sergeant in Clare and his drug-dealing would escalate to dealing heroin internationally and dying a few years later from an overdose in a hotel room in Toronto. He was a speedy, dashing guy who usually sported a beret and was always plotting the next move, the next rip off. His two companions Deke and Martin were very different types. Deke was a good-time Charlie with an endless capacity for booze and dope and little going for him except a striking physiognomy and a large muscular physique. He returned to Cork in later years and became reclusive due to a large growth on his once handsome face. He too is long gone – but his was a lingering, dying fall, played out in the corners of murky suburban pubs far from his old haunts. Martin was a slim, good-looking man with very long dark hair and sensitive features. He was a gentle soul, intelligent and well-read but much riven by a destructive cynicism about life in general and any form of endeavour or aspiration. He became a heroin addict and died choking on his own vomit about 10 years later. We were motioned to one of the abundant sofas in the room, a fresh joint was rolled and we too settled back and listened to that portentous Doors album on repeat. “This is the end, beautiful friends, the end.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-35586039142104380302023-11-27T09:57:00.002+00:002023-11-27T10:02:21.187+00:00Jack Donovan and Pinkey Downey’s<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSduvFexiMZLBm8ze-072VNPFKyLNtuXEN-Yi9PP-YRhoIpo2fBhJ9_oUovB5S1ERZGOEMAiWn_aoEigGa8RWyQ3u5TK-EieAEpiW0QyaLxAOLQa9vtLh1X4VstXyuXfE-OTxYIjn_eQ1uLIGe1_RBLZdbGmh_d4IvmB3b0KjvLnN0ig8Ol6or/s800/IMG_1881.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="585" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSduvFexiMZLBm8ze-072VNPFKyLNtuXEN-Yi9PP-YRhoIpo2fBhJ9_oUovB5S1ERZGOEMAiWn_aoEigGa8RWyQ3u5TK-EieAEpiW0QyaLxAOLQa9vtLh1X4VstXyuXfE-OTxYIjn_eQ1uLIGe1_RBLZdbGmh_d4IvmB3b0KjvLnN0ig8Ol6or/s320/IMG_1881.jpeg" width="234" /></a></div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"><p><i style="font-size: 11pt;">An edited version of this snippet appeared in the Winter edition of the Irish Arts Review.</i></p>Not long before he died in 2014 Jack Donovan was asked by a friend if he was still painting. His reply was pithy:</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background: repeat white; font-size: 11pt;">“Of course I’m bloody painting. It’s a disease, I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.” It was a disease that Donovan passed on to many a budding artist during his inspirational sojourn as head of the Limerick School of Art from 1962 To 1978. Two of those inspired, John Shinnors and Donald Teskey, are now in the front rank of Irish contemporary art. Shinnors saw Donovan more as an exemplar than a teacher. Rather than overseeing his charges, Donovan set up his easel amongst them and led by example. “</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">To me and my fellow students, Jack was an artist who practised his art amongst us. His self-imposed presence was unorthodox.” Nudes, clowns and a penchant for the irreverent were Donovan’s stock-in-trade. The earlier nudes often came in the form of collage using images torn from ‘girly’ magazines. In the later work, his nudes were painted, stylised, candy-store pink creations - far from erotic. There was a darker edge to his early paintings, while his later style became positively playful – even when depicting scenes from the crucifixion.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Nude in Bed from Pinkey Downey Series </i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">in Morgan O’Driscoll’s late October sale featureda large pink nude typical of his later work except for the fact that the eyes are painted realistically instead of his customary black orbs. The Pinkey Downey referred to in the title was a well-known bar in Michael Street (not far from the Hunt Museum) that also operated as a discreet brothel. Donovan and his friend the poet Desmond O’Grady were regulars there. It would be cheeky to suggest that they sampled the full range of options available in the long-closed premises. However, the hat hanging on the far side of the bed is exactly the type that Donovan favoured. This prime example of the storied Limerick artist went under the hammer at a modest €3,000.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><o:p></o:p></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-72340438384187567652023-11-01T13:26:00.002+00:002023-11-20T17:02:40.396+00:00RWC 2023 - Regrets We Have a Few<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTGL26OpZzIMs_Y5imx8jxnkdbs8oTuIx_6R95zRFN5la2GvbWunWsTYChIbfVsCbGODcR4IORnYa5jwTbQjnv_h29dyMvLdZ2udPOyIZ_prCM0ZeSd4SEtSFUdkaoO_zOLxoF4T-9BEB4oSYOW4JCNaz87cINr0xFnPEJnrmqIQj-yJCxc7E/s1200/IMG_1866.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTGL26OpZzIMs_Y5imx8jxnkdbs8oTuIx_6R95zRFN5la2GvbWunWsTYChIbfVsCbGODcR4IORnYa5jwTbQjnv_h29dyMvLdZ2udPOyIZ_prCM0ZeSd4SEtSFUdkaoO_zOLxoF4T-9BEB4oSYOW4JCNaz87cINr0xFnPEJnrmqIQj-yJCxc7E/s320/IMG_1866.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">This current Irish team is the best I’ve ever seen since started going to rugby internationals as a schoolboy in CBC Cork back in the early 60s. Perhaps we need another world-class prop and a bit more cover in the second-row but generally we have outstanding players in most positions. With New Zealand in rebuilding mode, South Africa and France seemed our only challengers. This was an opportunity for this team of all the talents to achieve sporting immortality. That this opportunity was not taken will haunt them to their death beds. The distorted nature of the draw was a factor - it stretched our resources and depleted our energies. And maybe South Africa, with greater strength in depth, husbanded theirs better. The closeness of the four top teams is illustrated by the fact that Ireland beat SA, SA beat France, France beat NZ and NZ beat Ireland. All by small margins. But even allowing for our limited backup resources, the defeat to New Zealand was avoidable but for a series of mistakes – some of which were inspired perhaps by Joe Schmidt’s intimate knowledge of our team. Our lineout was a mess and we couldn’t rely on regular clean ball from it. We didn’t seem able to counteract the NZ contesting tactics on the fly. I think James Ryan’s absence was a major factor here. Remember his injury removal for the latter stages of Leinster’s loss to La Rochelle in the European club final turned the tide in that match. The referee Wayne Barnes is an officious little prick, full of his own importance, and had clearly been briefed on Porter’s scrummaging style. Our boys should have been aware of this and adjusted accordingly. Losing all those early scrums and line outs sucked a lot of confidence and momentum from the team. The timely intervention from Jordie Barrett when it looked a certain try for Ronan Kelleher was a real killer blow. But still we hung in there. Then Murray gave away a silly three points for obstruction when there was no danger and Sexton missed a routine penalty not long afterwards. A six-point difference that would have given us the match. Even if one of those had not happened we could have been chasing a drop goal or penalty in those last desperate minutes rather than the required try. And then the ever-reliable Doris knocks on a routine catch near the NZ twenty-two when we are gathering momentum for a final surge. Thin margins, fine lines. And suddenly it’s all over. For ever. The Roundheads won - the brute pragmatists South Africa with their scrum-based tactics and their supreme defensive excellence vanquished the Cavaliers from France, Ireland and New Zealand. One positive note - we were saved from having to endure more of that appalling song the team seem to have adopted. I remain unconvinced of the Cranberries talents but Zombie has to be one of their direst efforts.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-85483902126809889052023-10-22T13:57:00.006+01:002023-10-22T17:09:29.856+01:00Recent Reads - October 2023<p><b> </b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQlrQStJS_Ipb0RUjLuR8_RpWo46cwAAcnI9BqTUC5p4N-vH9UqAf4oHXGfolvpA9mPZ2AfeM5Xg9VTKra6JTJVpk007SKT4nac_TqpL5KbEQV00A-uk1iHKFsbVg267zaEEYbEX5o3ZqJ25H8O9ReBswpkk0d-zSgOcU5oMDScIK2LYGJJAH/s806/IMG_1850.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="806" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQlrQStJS_Ipb0RUjLuR8_RpWo46cwAAcnI9BqTUC5p4N-vH9UqAf4oHXGfolvpA9mPZ2AfeM5Xg9VTKra6JTJVpk007SKT4nac_TqpL5KbEQV00A-uk1iHKFsbVg267zaEEYbEX5o3ZqJ25H8O9ReBswpkk0d-zSgOcU5oMDScIK2LYGJJAH/s320/IMG_1850.webp" width="238" /></a></b></div><p></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b>Be Mine by Richard Ford</b></p><p><b>****</b></p><p>This is supposed to be Ford’s last novel in the Frank Bascombe series. And it certainly has an elegiac feel to it with the ageing and infirm protagonist taking his dying son on a road trip to Mount Rushmore. Doesn’t sound like much fun but it’s Ford’s usual blend of acute observation and reflections on Middle America - and there is much humour in his rueful account of the difficult journey and the parade of characters they encounter as they traverse parts of America that rarely appear in popular fiction. Even though he’s a cranky old bollocks I would strongly recommend it.</p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b>A Thread of Violence by Mark O’Connell</b></p><p><b>*****</b></p><p>Probably one of the two most engrossing books I’ve read this year. It sound unpromising - revisiting the much trodden path around Malcolm MacArthur and his two brutal murders. However, it focuses less on the murders and more on the slippery MacArthur, his family background and his current post-jail circumstances. O’Connell explores his psychology and fails to reach a conclusion. MacArthur’s inability to accept his deeds as anything more than a momentary aberration and his complete absence of remorse and empathy certainly suggest sociopathy. He sees himself as above the common herd and the only motive we can ascribe to his deeds is his quaint notion that gentlemen should not be burdened with the need to work. It all makes for a riveting read. </p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b>Prophet Song by Paul Lynch</b></p><p><b>****</b></p><p>My tip for this year’s Booker Prize. It’s set in the near future where an authoritarian government, complete with Stasi-type intelligence services, began to sort out their supporters from the dissidents. The resulting violence and turmoil create a very modern state of disruption and deprivation in our own Fair City and beyond. It’s told through the experiences of a particular family as they go from cosy middle-class comfort to dislocated refugees. A convincing and timely warning of how fragile our world is and how we must guard our freedoms. Lynch writes well and draws us into this highly credible dystopia. </p><p><br /></p><p><b>Bee Sting by Paul Murray</b></p><p><b>***</b></p><p>Another tale of the cosy certitudes of a middle-class family being smashed but this time it’s economic recession rather than a fascist government. Murray focuses on the gradual diminishing of a family’s material well-being and the consequent effect it has on the individuals in the family: mother selling her clothes on eBay, daughter hiding their alarming fall from riches from her friends etc. This is also a Booker nomination but I found it somewhat lighter and less absorbing than Lynch’s book. Mildly entertaining at best.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>Old God’s Time by Sebastian Barry</b></p><p><b>**</b></p><p>I must confess that I’ve never really warmed to Sebastian Barry as a novelist although I remember enjoying very much his play The Steward of Christendom. Perhaps the fact that I saw the version with Donal McCann in the lead role (at The Gate) helped. There is a certain straining for effect, trying too hard for the literary flourish in his writing, that I find grating. This novel got such good reviews I thought I’d try him again - the fact that it was set down the road (in Killiney) also encouraged me. But no, it just didn’t work for me. There was a decent story in there somewhere but I found the journey to get there tiresome. I finished it but it was a struggle.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>The Wager by David Grann</b></p><p><b>*****</b></p><p>This was the second of the two most enjoyable books I’ve read this year. But a very different sort of book to Mark O’Connell’s. This is a ripping yarn. There are few psychological musings - just a highly readable account of of the privations suffered by the shipwrecked crew of a Royal Navy ship on an inhospitable island off Cape Horn. This was the 18th Century with strict hierarchies on board ship which slowly break down as those best equipped for survival come from the lower ranks. Hints of Lord of the Flies in there and Mutiny on the Bounty. The sources for Grann’s work included the detailed diaries kept by two of the survivors - one of whom was an ancestor of the poet Byron. So we got a couple of perspectives on all the main events and loads of attendant detail. There is even the added bonus of a very surprising ending.</p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b>The Singularities by John Banville</b></p><p><b>****</b></p><p>Banville just can’t let Malcolm MacArthur go - this is the fourth novel in which his doppelgänger Freddie Montgomery features. As always with Banville you can luxuriate in the fine writing and the waxing and waning of the narrative is unimportant as usual. There are many sly references to characters and places from his earlier novels - even as far back as his books on the cosmologists. Those familiar with Banville will nod knowingly, but it can be enjoyed without having consumed his back catalogue. The characters are well rendered and the setting lovingly depicted. He story kind of peters out when Freddie moves into the background but we don’t read Banville for a neat conclusion. The particularly ugly cover features an irregular black sphere and when I queried Banville about it at the Dalkey Book Festival he maintained that it represented a full-stop - so maybe this is his last go at MacArthur. </p><p><br /></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-25441503384033319382023-10-18T16:46:00.005+01:002023-10-18T17:25:02.257+01:00Claire Keegan: Rocks Rocked in Dun Laoghaire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiybYGu1a4qRLT4XHqiw0rndDAJYh5022zM81CM_6Q89eN-oYDrP52i1iBv2roZWZcydR1FKbxrLpD4U6u3IZKC1bLP2E4_bVHQAtkkl1716b1UyDTCr73VzNoc6d3pflBD-h7APfT5EXwXJZbEjN6QzgoNqpFchyphenhyphenTpq6VZ8YXIlJ_DDFqe7ZX7/s275/IMG_1849.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiybYGu1a4qRLT4XHqiw0rndDAJYh5022zM81CM_6Q89eN-oYDrP52i1iBv2roZWZcydR1FKbxrLpD4U6u3IZKC1bLP2E4_bVHQAtkkl1716b1UyDTCr73VzNoc6d3pflBD-h7APfT5EXwXJZbEjN6QzgoNqpFchyphenhyphenTpq6VZ8YXIlJ_DDFqe7ZX7/s1600/IMG_1849.jpeg" width="183" /></a></div><p>Entertaining event at the Pavilion Theatre in Dun Laoghaire last night. Claire Keegan was interviewed live on RTE’s Arena arts programme by its presenter Sean Rocks. She was not an easy ride for the amiable and always well-briefed presenter whose customary savoir faire was severely tested. His reasonable questions and mild assumptions frequently provoked tart responses. For instance when he spoke of her lucky break in having a family in the USA sponsor her studies over there, she responded that her own hard work had a lot to do with her success. In addition, her answers, like her novels, tended to be short and succinct leaving the unfortunate Rocks having to dip into his question bag more frequently than felt comfortable. She comes across as very self-possessed and a tad earnest - with little interest in playing the game as it’s usually done at these events where the interviewer lobs a safe question and the interviewee lobs back a bland answer and keeps the ball in play for a while. She did however do three fine readings from her books. Although she comes across as slightly humourless, there were flashes of dry wit. During a discussion of misogyny in Irish men she did aver that due to the smallness of her dating sample she would refrain from generalising. The full house was about 80% women - and they gave her an enthusiastic reception. I am a fan of her work and came away from the event an admirer of this doughty woman also. </p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-30939653812026332862023-10-14T16:52:00.003+01:002023-10-14T16:53:50.784+01:00Great Expectations - Tempting Fate in Paris <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhykCOmdcX-Ks2JmXbZh8-ATtvZbJ6utFa0ad6oJD5Sgrz-bYqK-FL4B7tcTGABzXXvThErN2jt-2AOqJqsi6EIXRfdTj7mxRBs_pcILU-gNgH06G0bhjL-FhJbKHvZsEGm_r5gBTHe_EFTPvTWKi4pdERkry8iEHH8CG7QBkh8aoLluSONOPv5/s612/IMG_1841.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="424" data-original-width="612" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhykCOmdcX-Ks2JmXbZh8-ATtvZbJ6utFa0ad6oJD5Sgrz-bYqK-FL4B7tcTGABzXXvThErN2jt-2AOqJqsi6EIXRfdTj7mxRBs_pcILU-gNgH06G0bhjL-FhJbKHvZsEGm_r5gBTHe_EFTPvTWKi4pdERkry8iEHH8CG7QBkh8aoLluSONOPv5/s320/IMG_1841.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>There seems to be general optimism about that we will beat New Zealand in the Rugby World Cup quarter-final today. Anyone with a sense of history should be feeling a slight pessimism. I have been watching rugby since I was a schoolboy in CBC Cork in the late 1950s (saw Jack Kyle at Musgrave Park, saw Tommy Kiernan play scrum-half for UCC at the Mardyke, attended Ollie Campbell’s Triple Crown win in Landsdowne Road in 1982). I also marked the great Jerry Walsh at centre when I played a practice match for UCC minors against the senior team. In all my years watching, this is without question the best team we have ever had. There are no weak links. It’s a golden era - we now expect to win rather than hope to win, and have been rewarded with Championships, Grand Slams and regular wins against all the powerful rugby nations. But this match today is different and I’m sure all concerned feel the weight of history. We have never won a quarter-final in the World Cup and to do so we must beat the team with the best record in the competition. It’s not the all-conquering New Zealand of recent times but there is no such thing as a poor NZ team. Also, having won 17 matches in a row there is a statistical likelihood that at some stage we are going to come undone. I feel that the match is going to be very close and could revolve around an injury to a crucial player or, more damagingly, a sending off. I’m sure Peter O’Mahoney has been warned to button his lip around Wayne Barnes who always considers himself to be the most important person on the pitch and reacts badly to lip. There have been bitter disappointments over the years. I was at Landsdowne Road in 1991 when we came closest to a semi-final. We threw away a winning chance against Australia in the last minute. (If only Saunders had found touch.) We had never been expected to win that match so perhaps the players were free of the kind of pressure our guys will face today. One factor may prove useful. We have injected some New Zealand blood into our our team in the form of Lowe, Aki and Gibson-Park. They carry that winning DNA that could tip the balance in a match that’s sure to be close. If we win, no matter what happens next it will be seen as a great campaign. If we lose, a nation will go into mourning. </p><p>Thus Spoke Jeremiah.</p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-68080222434397637252023-10-11T19:55:00.000+01:002023-10-11T19:55:36.620+01:00Richard Ford is a Cranky Old Bollocks But…<p> I’ve read most of Richard Ford’s novels over the years and have always enjoyed his meandering, observational style. He documents Middle America with a keen eye for humbug and bigotry but also with a wry acceptance. He’s a bird watcher. His novels ignore mostly the over heated and over-written-about East and West Coasts and focuses on the mundane lifes of low achievers and regular Joes in the heartland. We follow his modest Everyman Frank Bascombe as he goes through life in five of his novels and in his latest novel, <i>Be Mine, Frank </i>is facing the final curtain. He visited the Dalkey Book Festival in the summer and I experienced first hand his reputation for being a cranky old bollocks when I asked him a question about a negative review by Claire Lowdon in the TLS. I persisted in making my point, a tad after it was clear he wasn’t having it, and experienced the full force of his impressive wrath. I had bought his latest novel <i>Be Mine </i>a few weeks before and following my very public reading from the altar in the Dalkey Town Hall I was disinclined to read it. However, I found myself short-taken and bookless one night so I decided to forgive him and give it a try. The basic premise of the book sounds unpromising: a sick and ageing Frank Bascombe takes his dying and autistic son on a final road trip to Mount Rushmore. What fun we think. But astonishingly it is fun and turns out to be one of his most densely packed and amusing books. Check it out.</p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-22925233208657001772023-08-14T11:37:00.003+01:002023-08-14T12:00:03.107+01:00Galway – Beware Highwaymen<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Sr6h2oaA73M0gdI32Teeoqw9DI0cMvaGRIrMtPVJ8nFd_xKFD83G-SHcAmMKIvwVaJZqooZQ_CuSZBUUsy2hq638I6Np7FmfUAJQnjDqI3pBCDgHpVwHSshUZ3-yFksfzlew2XnTAeLb44d484q6Qg8cqr5NicTN3443UiN7jiEOz9cDSI9D/s287/IMG_1801.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="176" data-original-width="287" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Sr6h2oaA73M0gdI32Teeoqw9DI0cMvaGRIrMtPVJ8nFd_xKFD83G-SHcAmMKIvwVaJZqooZQ_CuSZBUUsy2hq638I6Np7FmfUAJQnjDqI3pBCDgHpVwHSshUZ3-yFksfzlew2XnTAeLb44d484q6Qg8cqr5NicTN3443UiN7jiEOz9cDSI9D/s1600/IMG_1801.jpeg" width="287" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Galway should be ashamed of itself, or rather its City Council should be. Take a bow recently retired long-term chief executive Brendan McGrath. This collective of nincompoops has been presiding over the most snarled up, traffic-jammed city in Western Europe for as long as I can remember. Those who listen to the morning and evening traffic reports on RTE are familiar with the daily Bothar na dTreabh debacle. We always felt it had the worst traffic management system in the country but a recent EEC study has confirmed that it’s actually the worst in Western Europe. You’d have to go to Seoul in South Korea to encounter the like. A Galway bypass is regularly proposed and regularly opposed - so some blame must also attach to our idle government who should have stepped in and sorted out access to a city that is central to our tourist industry. Meanwhile the people living there waste time and psychic energy languishing in their stationery cars – belching out pollutants the while. And it’s not just the locals – Galway is the main gateway to Connemara so many of those travelling to Clifden and Roundstone must pass through it. (As I do frequently.) If you’re travelling from Dublin to Connemara I’d recommend turning right at Athlone – taking the Westport road and avoiding the whole mess altogether. Even though it’s a longer journey (unless maybe you’re going to Leenaun).</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">But inept as they are at dealing with Galway’s traffic problems, the City Council has a wonderful revenue gathering racket going on that makes you wonder if its tardiness in sorting out the traffic issue is deliberate. If it were to make life easier for motorists, it could jeopardise this lucrative scam – its extortion racket on the N6. This road is a dual-carriageway on the eastern outskirts of Galway that takes you to freedom from the slough of despond of its accumulated traffic and onwards to the M6. The speed-limit on this capacious, non-residential road is a ludicrous 50 km/hr - that’s very close to 30 miles an hour. The cunning burgers running this shit-show of a snarled-up city have stationed a speed-trap at the very point where motorists having escaped the clutches of the inexorable traffic jams see the open road ahead and crank it up to 60 or 70 km/hr – that’s just over 40 mph. But beware, this light at the end of the Galway tunnel is a lure to line the pockets of the incompetent pricks that run the city. A bonus for incompetence. For you are entering a section of the N6 at Baile an Phoill that has levied the most fines for speeding in the country last year – by a country mile. A total of 326,240 fixed cost penalties – that’s a fine of €160 and three points on your licence. There are moves afoot to thwart this scam by raising the speed limit but no action has been taken yet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">In the meantime I’d just avoid the city. Galway always seems to get a good press: the place to go, the craic is mighty, the cosmopolitan crowd, a musical Mecca and so on. I’m not so sure. From my experience in recent years there are only three good reasons to go near the place: one is its location as the gateway to glorious Connemara, its annual Arts Festival and Charlie Byrne’s bookshop where you can encounter those obscure and interesting books that the accountants tell other bookshops not to bother stocking. (On my last trip I got a copy of John Rechy’s selected essays. Rechy was a brave pioneer of gay literature in America in the Sixties with his classic City of Night). Otherwise the city centre is a Disneyland of Paddywhackery with not one but two Carroll’s shops shamelessly doing brisk business in leprechaun hats and red beards. But I’m not here to bury Galway but to heap opprobrium on the inept clowns that run the city – and specifically those who mismanage the road system. Perhaps the new (interim?) Chief Executive Ms. Patricia Philbin can deliver us from this evil. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-18559298876235249222023-07-19T13:17:00.003+01:002023-07-21T13:17:28.616+01:00My Dog Missy - Portrait of a Lady<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strike style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixR58WuXSTbZaue7uxQULs5FlWsxo76RZYL4TKB6Nhvh2pCoW7pseCIsLn0yh4Vqr40W44sD8YUCnYZwjSHPqdmuAVEWe5Neo9qbfFd9xOcR3lBD8r64U-a4xivFMNSikQ7SvG4MNH6fnk7kvLIf1ktpyMsHvv7BbOQjVhbnLzx_TKKGGxm93R/s2816/IMG_0820.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2112" data-original-width="2816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixR58WuXSTbZaue7uxQULs5FlWsxo76RZYL4TKB6Nhvh2pCoW7pseCIsLn0yh4Vqr40W44sD8YUCnYZwjSHPqdmuAVEWe5Neo9qbfFd9xOcR3lBD8r64U-a4xivFMNSikQ7SvG4MNH6fnk7kvLIf1ktpyMsHvv7BbOQjVhbnLzx_TKKGGxm93R/s320/IMG_0820.jpeg" width="320" /></a></strike></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">I’ve had lots of dogs over the years and loved them all in my fashion – some obviously more than others. Susie, our amiable Golden Labrador, was certainly up there with my favourites. She was part of our children’s early years. Missy took over in their teens and saw them through to adulthood and off the premises. The bond I shared with Missy was stronger than with any animal I ever had. Over the years I travelled a lot and so was not attached as much to our previous dogs as were Diana, Sally and Cass - who were with them constantly. However, the arrival of Missy coincided with my decision to abandon the corporate world and move into the art world where I was able to do my writing and dealing from home. Thus I spent most of the past 14 years constantly in her company – apart from a three-week spell in the USA (where I worried about her constantly to the detriment of my holiday). </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">She was also cherished and looked after lovingly by the rest of the family but they would all agree about our special relationship while still admonishing me for my flagrant favouring of her over Shyla our other dog.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVoffhkHr3hY2idBBEIuBew188V_YjE4cTI1iB80QZe77Z-bbCO9F8lOlqWfaTbtS44W2zxSsWhAwAS0Bd4T-52Wi7sKEJ8ASwUejOQI2-jKCmI1sS03qVswmQuIZmu7ELuU1EO9z6SXigO60N1RyaCr-FvuoS9IPennTvIRGadCUGmEWBsyaW/s1600/IMG_8797.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVoffhkHr3hY2idBBEIuBew188V_YjE4cTI1iB80QZe77Z-bbCO9F8lOlqWfaTbtS44W2zxSsWhAwAS0Bd4T-52Wi7sKEJ8ASwUejOQI2-jKCmI1sS03qVswmQuIZmu7ELuU1EO9z6SXigO60N1RyaCr-FvuoS9IPennTvIRGadCUGmEWBsyaW/s320/IMG_8797.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Missy was a cross-breed but had pedigree royalty on both sides. Her mother was a gorgeous Red Setter and her father a Bernese Mountain Dog. Both had been acquired with a view to continuing illustrious lines within their breeds. They lived on neighbouring farms outside Virginia in Cavan and an illicit encounter between these aristocrats produced a litter of beautiful pups. My daughter Cass searching the Internet for puppies saw a photograph of them and next thing I knew I was en route to Cavan. The owners were a farmer and an artist and they introduced me to the straying mother who greeted me by planting her front paws on my chest and giving me a warm welcome. We were smitten by her and her gorgeous litter and headed back to Dublin with our bouncing puppy. There was much debate about a name but given her lady-like demeanour we settled on Missy.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: 14.666667px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMBXTgueYUT0KllGQKTRlQFKWWzeicg3Q3gRi6yxcJfOc0ZUJBf-K8BnfTOiRLl7PvItxcnZ4IinLZFPhuWEDxK-UsMZGM9H_NyFb7ryVwimlJz5BsbEq2eDVYEO0e9CfJkYvq5H4JiSU1WGjrP_46VC8DfMdhJWWLxgMu_PVbo3_QLF9uwL5h/s2816/IMG_0819.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2112" data-original-width="2816" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMBXTgueYUT0KllGQKTRlQFKWWzeicg3Q3gRi6yxcJfOc0ZUJBf-K8BnfTOiRLl7PvItxcnZ4IinLZFPhuWEDxK-UsMZGM9H_NyFb7ryVwimlJz5BsbEq2eDVYEO0e9CfJkYvq5H4JiSU1WGjrP_46VC8DfMdhJWWLxgMu_PVbo3_QLF9uwL5h/s320/IMG_0819.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">She was the first dog I ever trained properly. I took her on a DSPCA course in Rathfarnham (10 consecutive Saturday mornings – there’s commitment) and this inculcated in her a life-long ability to keep at heel and return when called – not to mention a healthy respect for</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">commands of “wait” and “sit”. She scored 95% in her end-of-course obedience test – a matter of great pride to her owner although I suspect that the female examiners were so in love with her and her sweet nature that this result may have flattered her. All was not perfect however, she had one expensive flaw – she fought fiercely against all attempts to groom her – either by us or by professionals. She was a shaggy dog and her luxuriant tresses needed annual shearing. The first time I took her to a groomer the female groomer, myself and my two daughters could not hold her still enough for the operation to proceed. At one stage the four of us and the determined dog were all on the floor struggling. We gave up and she departed haughtily with just a few clumps missing. So we evolved an expensive annual strategy to deal with the issue. Every June, en route to a holiday in Schull, we stopped at Skibbereen where an amiable vet called Jerry McCarthy gave her a mild anaesthetic and while she was knocked out the local groomer gave her a radical shave. Jerry also carried our the other routine maintenance dogs require. The bill was usually around €500/600 - more than I spend on my car’s annual service but worth it to see her freed of her winter wool and swimming and gambolling in the summer sun.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ7Ni_MDdeugbOTUYj-zrwOxwzgxKUzhH7D7m6BFbM-R8czbysKsDJjAa-9pRaKe8KiM84wDcqDEaLHLZKsl5fxYyJ3AIJ7pq8xTpQurelir6Uacoz6Lvv9cjNsevqBy1t7hzisyg0VLClYZwJ2fniQtsYij08H7aSccceo9AAljUTOcvXc88q/s3264/IMG_5697.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ7Ni_MDdeugbOTUYj-zrwOxwzgxKUzhH7D7m6BFbM-R8czbysKsDJjAa-9pRaKe8KiM84wDcqDEaLHLZKsl5fxYyJ3AIJ7pq8xTpQurelir6Uacoz6Lvv9cjNsevqBy1t7hzisyg0VLClYZwJ2fniQtsYij08H7aSccceo9AAljUTOcvXc88q/s320/IMG_5697.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">My daily routine with Missy started first thing in the morning when she came down to our bedroom to say hello - either scratching on the door to be let in or walking right in if the door was ajar. She would come over to the bed for a pat and a hug and and and then head back to kitchen to be let out and to be fed. She was never overly affectionate at any time of the day - a quick lick on the hand, a rummage between your legs and she was off about her business. When in a playful mood she would bat you with her great paddle-like paws – a tendency that required a speedy reaction if you were at her level as she had formidable nails. She was a very unfussy eater right up to the last 6 months of her life (when she became very finicky and needed cooked mince or boiled chicken).</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Around 11 am everyday we’d go for a walk on Killiney Hill, Dalkey Hill,</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Killiney Beach or around the large open areas in Shanganagh – bordering Woodbrook Golf Club. Occasionally we would go out to Wicklow, to Knocksink Woods for the wild garlic or up to Kippure to play in the snow that she so adored. In latter years (during and after Covid) we discovered the gorse covered paths of Roche’s Hill that flanked Killiney Golf Club. There we always stopped to sit and look across to Bray Head and the Wicklow mountains. There was a convenient rock-pool nearby where Missy liked to have a drink – the murkier the water the better. Then I’d go back home and settle down to do the three or four hours work that was my daily lot – and Missy would settle at my feet. If I was eating (breakfast, lunch or dinner),she was under the table just below me. In the evening when we stayed in and watched TV we had a standard routine. I would sit in my favoured arm-chair and Missy would</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">lie beside me on our sofa – giving my hand a lick before she settled down. She always began facing away from me, but at a certain point she would stand up and precariously execute an about turn to face me and lay her head on the arm of the sofa adjacent to my armchair. This was to facilitate the occasional rubbing of her ears that accompanied our evenings together. Before bed I’d take her and Shyla for a walk down our cul-de-sac and she’d often enjoy a fruitless fox chase. Until the last days of her life she liked her own bedroom (our dining room) and would, unlike her companion Shyla, never sleep in our room. She did sleep there for her last two nights – as if she was making the most of our company before she headed into that bourne from whence there is no return. Her delight at our reunions after even the briefest of separations was one of her most touching attributes. If I left home for an hour, a day or week she would greet me with unfettered delight, barking and jumping up on me – making a fuss of me.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> But s</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">he wasn’t just a pet – there was a utilitarian side to her as well. She was a very big dog with a deep-mouthed bark that would be set off by any stranger arriving in the vicinity of our house. Significantly over the duration of her life we were one of the few houses in the neighbourhood that wasn’t broken into. Both our immediate neighbours suffered significant robberies.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofWwrOHCnYuKzoK_YxfZHc0x8QTGzIaIuAUjRtU7-uqbs9TB6h0VXsku5CR103lku1_X-aQgE6mUEovfTQ92misw94U2GQkoPZcly9_oBDE9XZ3g3YXwypAB2_iIM_GGlGjvOHssJ_3PVqKJNquEmDACvfNWKKe1QU_oUGTcSFjsDo3lbV-zj/s1024/b9b944c3-d554-421c-a2c4-f73e88141fbb.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofWwrOHCnYuKzoK_YxfZHc0x8QTGzIaIuAUjRtU7-uqbs9TB6h0VXsku5CR103lku1_X-aQgE6mUEovfTQ92misw94U2GQkoPZcly9_oBDE9XZ3g3YXwypAB2_iIM_GGlGjvOHssJ_3PVqKJNquEmDACvfNWKKe1QU_oUGTcSFjsDo3lbV-zj/s320/b9b944c3-d554-421c-a2c4-f73e88141fbb.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p>Now as I go on my walks it has become like the Stations of the Cross, a via dolorosa. There’s that bench by the nearest green patch to our home where we used to rest during her last brief walks; There’s that throne-like rock on high overlooking Killiney golf course where we spent so much time just taking in the panoramic view; There’s the spot on Dalkey Hill (near that ugly communications tower) with its glorious view of Killiney Bay; And there’s the walk by the dog pound in Shanganagh where she barked indignantly when we brought her in to meet other dogs (apart from Shyla she was benignly indifferent to all other dogs); There’s the patch of grass on the way to Killiney Beach where she liked to perform her morning office; There’s the</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">bush where she collapsed on our way back from the beach one sunny day and had to be carried on a sleeping bag by a press-ganged group of helpers (thanks Jeff, thanks Joe); and there’s the bench on the path overlooking Killiney Bay and Bray Head where we sat in harmony as we took in the view – the tip of Dalkey Island to our left.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8Fovk1Jb0AfFon71Tguid0Ssnc4aOEAm-u8HB4Ja8gzH5UIx911qSktoOVokcLZah8BCn2c18X_3TrL6DnLl98rT4i4u7EoRYgC_3Sdfnsfu5YehFiufcfytPjFJY4xHGZMokI_74Ji2fg97nF-JENg95F_XrZO8qzc5HomcTUpMgtEC6Sgz/s3264/IMG_7287.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8Fovk1Jb0AfFon71Tguid0Ssnc4aOEAm-u8HB4Ja8gzH5UIx911qSktoOVokcLZah8BCn2c18X_3TrL6DnLl98rT4i4u7EoRYgC_3Sdfnsfu5YehFiufcfytPjFJY4xHGZMokI_74Ji2fg97nF-JENg95F_XrZO8qzc5HomcTUpMgtEC6Sgz/s320/IMG_7287.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Her last 5 or 6 months were grim and it broke our hearts to see her so diminished. I took her to the vet during this period to have her put down. So sure was I of its inevitability that I</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">took off her collar and brought her down by the sea to say goodbye - to the site of our many walks there. But the vet, seeing my distress, said we’d give her a course of steroids and see how it worked. She lived on for 7 or 8 more months.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">But gradually she was weakening and there were a few alarming collapses where she needed extreme pharmaceutical assistance to continue. She had trouble standing up as her back legs wouldn’t support her although the steroids helped this for a period. Her delight in rolling on the grass when we took her to a field was no more – she just plodded along morosely. Her joie de vivre was going. For the last few weeks she couldn’t even climb up on the sofa beside me without some serious support by us. Our daily walks got shorter and shorter as she panted furiously at any</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">venture – even the brief one up and down the cul-de-sac.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Occasionally there would be a collapse where she would lie under the table and ignore all food and drink and appear very distressed. These episodes were the worst. Finally I rang the vet and said that we were going to have the awful deed done. When I asked him about the disposal of the body, he suggested bizarrely that I dig a hole in the back garden and place her there. I was shocked at this -</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I wasn’t keen on be reminded of her demise every time I looked out the window. However, it sowed the seeds of an idea. My daughter’s partner’s family have a fine estate near Cong which has a beautiful sunken garden where they bury their dogs. They are hunting, fishing, sporting folk who appreciate their animals. I made the request and they were happy to oblige (thanks Peter). One of their workers (thanks to the other Peter) dug a fine deep grave and there on a lovely sunny afternoon we lead the poor creature to a blanket placed by the lip of the grave and the vet did his business. We get to pet her for a few minutes while the sedative took effect before she slumped down and he administered the coup de grace. A final, feeble, heartbreaking wag of the tail and she was gone.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">My daughter’s partner and I filled in the grave (thanks Ross) and covered it with sods. I placed a large rock from my mother’s family home on the grave and my daughter Sally painted her name on it. I also bought a good solid bench for the garden where we can sit and remember all those happy days we spent together. I visited it a few weeks ago and was happy to see her resting under a glorious rhododendron bush in full bloom. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">It’s now nearly five months since she died (February 25</span><sup>rd</sup><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> 2023) and, it’s time to write her story - her obituary. Her demise has enhanced my awareness </span><span style="font-size: 14.666667px;">of the brutal finality of death. Happy memories folks are not enough. It is painful to realise that I will never see her again, never walk the fields and beaches with her again, and never again revel in her unbridled joy at greeting me. I </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">am consoled, to a degree only, by the thought of what a happy life she had and how there was never a moment when she wasn’t treated with care and affection by all of us. From that whirlpool of atoms into which we are all destined to fall I can hear her spirit speaking and can see her beautiful head in my mind’s eye – she is telling me that she is grateful for all the care and love she received.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzR8hMMxVAOl1eblJDlxu5VC3HkrHe83svQAHJU4owem6gFYokdcpe9zG8lhKvSBcua6uTI5MHAUQMlea5UrOJzLsHwy7ohFe_E-bhGEwgBLRF3Hebgs4tEQCBLZGwpWGf7CZUL04AcsERyngMgyvUnClbs7uOIatS-pnbkqnnMrGYk2RsM6Ra/s1024/7cb54b0f-c32c-419e-849c-77b9398335e4.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzR8hMMxVAOl1eblJDlxu5VC3HkrHe83svQAHJU4owem6gFYokdcpe9zG8lhKvSBcua6uTI5MHAUQMlea5UrOJzLsHwy7ohFe_E-bhGEwgBLRF3Hebgs4tEQCBLZGwpWGf7CZUL04AcsERyngMgyvUnClbs7uOIatS-pnbkqnnMrGYk2RsM6Ra/s320/7cb54b0f-c32c-419e-849c-77b9398335e4.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">John P. O’Sullivan<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> Dalkey/Connemara<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">July 2023<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjLjg3PbupRp8lBBzE9_8-i1LN3vL09l-Ge9C1IZjcL1ocEDYN9Y5xqV8H6IY803NQ967Wb1H5K-MfC0ZyOQG3VHKHA8fpR1D-DuZXIWOLSJHCFscbq1qcTl8HOUevruy0Bc3j7z787r5u_cxJD2rpsYPGDZE3vhCZp-0DYkES6fOFXLb6j5xF/s4032/IMG_3241.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO8AImWYDJlNi1EhpuN6a9NG3eIotr7cLAuX_cKTQbAl3YNM1eyYQ-ZDK4bHIu5mCC34tXJ0FQJcCpJA4EkACoJqtjiLZ8Z_qR5brUBD0jpccaL-ZRYA6lP9aQowIJyn1UFXszA5UsSMKzTlOktD-XGnti1j9EJd9VvZ3zGkYJlMKOkwUCenE8/s3264/IMG_0438.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO8AImWYDJlNi1EhpuN6a9NG3eIotr7cLAuX_cKTQbAl3YNM1eyYQ-ZDK4bHIu5mCC34tXJ0FQJcCpJA4EkACoJqtjiLZ8Z_qR5brUBD0jpccaL-ZRYA6lP9aQowIJyn1UFXszA5UsSMKzTlOktD-XGnti1j9EJd9VvZ3zGkYJlMKOkwUCenE8/s320/IMG_0438.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeNgtfeqwWfSctV3JP7pvooBrZ1Fj2IwuRLac00h6saxEgDA5k86X8sS_KV5AV_-1NJo1_gdmQ_wLPXlJhzO94TLXHYfuABGnLys79GQEOU38UPeebCE6JjvRV0koBsel9XzVoWcaoYDgpt5B5EZLKItGQEyenJ08TlLsDwFYvGjw7GJGErjWZ/s2448/IMG_5452.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-67476238887875750412023-07-12T14:02:00.004+01:002023-07-12T14:06:22.200+01:00Rancid Ruminations - 12 July 2023<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3QDojVxPx7aHEcqTzneUpd5zNya180VJhj3wtC3ndOJJXbsC9HNbUVsbLhOk3RdbRhBOK3ZLgkn7wGaQMBuVi6sFA8lIzajrEkrEJHUxeQT1O12e4ck3HNya1N-naFLtFRpqBn6XvdGPjjWKkDckQAEdYWvDPdqeEriSuhEzKTgYZ5gI61-ye/s633/IMG_1791.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="633" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3QDojVxPx7aHEcqTzneUpd5zNya180VJhj3wtC3ndOJJXbsC9HNbUVsbLhOk3RdbRhBOK3ZLgkn7wGaQMBuVi6sFA8lIzajrEkrEJHUxeQT1O12e4ck3HNya1N-naFLtFRpqBn6XvdGPjjWKkDckQAEdYWvDPdqeEriSuhEzKTgYZ5gI61-ye/s320/IMG_1791.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 14.666667px;"> RTE imbroglio seems bound to lead to a good healthy purge. For many years it was run as a private fiefdom where corporate governance just did not apply. Aside from the financial slackness, generations of the same families followed each other into the station as if by divine right (the Sports department was especially afflicted). Apart from a generally efficient news team over the years, and occasionally Prime Time, its output is fairly mediocre. Ok, I like Nationwide also and Sunday Miscellany and that John Bowman programme early on Saturday – and I’m sure I’m forgetting many other worthy shows. However, in general, the term “Talent” was at best an exaggeration, at worst a ludicrous misnomer. It’s most enjoyable and informed radio presenters (such John Creedon, Philip King, Sean Rocks and the entire Lyric team) were not included under this precious umbrella. Fair dues to Tubridy for turning the base metal of his talent into gold but I never rated him beyond bland (and he banged on all year about that bloody Toy Show), nor the annoyingly cheerful Ray D’Arcy, and as for man-o-the-people Joe Duffy, heaven forfend. Off with all their heads I say, or at least curtail their salaries or let them see how they fare on the open market. As someone whose worked in journalism I can tell you that most practitioners find it hard to eke out a living from it. Most would happily settle for any salary that approached or exceeded six figures.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was mildly amazed by the outpouring of grief on our national media (especially RTE) on the death of Christy Dignam. It was almost Lady Di-like in its coverage. Lead item on the nine-o-clock news, multiple interviews with friends, family and fans, and follow-up coverage of his funeral cortège. Now to be honest I was never a fan, in fact I wasn’t even sure who he was as I had a tendency to mix him up with Christy Hennessy – both tended to play the working-class hero card. I had heard of Aslan but never listened to them much and couldn’t name a single song of theirs. But maybe it’s a generational thing and I’m in the minority here. Listening to his songs and singing I’d say he had a modest talent but seemed to be a pretty sound guy – sincere, articulate, and honest. But he ain’t Prince or even Bono. I suspect that he was a very good live performer and to Dubliners of a certain generation he represented a seminal period in their lives. A generation that now make decisions about content on our national media perhaps. If Bono were ever to die (God forbid) we’d have to close down the country for a week to accord him proportionate respect. </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-GB">The intractable divisions in the North are getting air time again today. The same dreary stuff. I am continually amazed that nobody north, south or across the water has addressed the major factor that contributes to this tiresome, anachronistic situation. By and large new arrivals to these the two warring tribes are separated at birth and placed in two different educational systems. If the southern states of the USA can desegregate education then surely it’s not beyond our wit to do the same. But where’s the will? Whose brave enough to even suggest it? Where’s the Martin Luther King? </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-15332233370011654352023-06-20T09:03:00.000+01:002023-06-20T09:03:38.302+01:00Richard Ford Turns on Local at Dalkey Book Festival<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYADvvIC6cySrJs2OFnLzEmdIybbU8J2altZoaQ2ioaW_XMXn1acExCKyzTdsUjyN0fxL1MD2paL_U1fNBIaaaVFe3mkcklfvlYViwfrLlDcAhNXxRITsEosoBuNhNYTDfqj74noiIVYjttts8SHnP71UdNz15Zy_u4IvIopUuSpd9CcmdqQ45/s1336/IMG_2539.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1336" data-original-width="1034" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYADvvIC6cySrJs2OFnLzEmdIybbU8J2altZoaQ2ioaW_XMXn1acExCKyzTdsUjyN0fxL1MD2paL_U1fNBIaaaVFe3mkcklfvlYViwfrLlDcAhNXxRITsEosoBuNhNYTDfqj74noiIVYjttts8SHnP71UdNz15Zy_u4IvIopUuSpd9CcmdqQ45/s320/IMG_2539.jpeg" width="248" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #313131; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12pt;">The Dalkey Book Festival is a genteel event where concerned book lovers turn up in droves to sit at the feet of a distinguished cast of international writers from the worlds of literature and politics. The format is usually an interview followed by a Q & A. Aside from the odd bore, these Q & A sessions are mild affairs with gentle lobs aimed at the distinguished guests. Controversy is rare, these are love-ins where the converted are being preached to. Even the comedians are treated with reverence. A tired-looking Dylan Moran did a set in a packed hall at the Cuala GAA club that, apart from 10 minutes or so where he slagged of those lucky enough to live in the area, was distinctly weak. He clearly ran out of energy and material as the show went on and finished up early. Nonetheless the packed hall gave him a generous ovation at the premature end.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #313131; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="color: #313131; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12pt;">However, I am sad to report these tranquil proceedings were disrupted yesterday by this writer when I managed to turn that benign elder statesman of US letters Richard Ford into a snarling beast. Here’s how it happened.The well-known literary hatchet-woman Claire Lowdon had recently published a vicious attack on the man and his work in the Times Literary Supplement. Amongst the many literary crimes cited she accused him of being racist, sexist and boring. There seemed to be a tendency in her review to conflate Ford with his character Frank Bascombe in </span><i style="color: #313131; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12pt;">Be Mine </i><span style="color: #313131; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12pt;">(his latest) and other novels. She also encouraged her readers not to buy </span><i style="color: #313131; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12pt;">Be Mine.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #313131; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #313131; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12pt;">I’m an admirer of Ford’s meandering style and have enjoyed most of his books. I was pissed off by the flagrant unfairness of this review. When it came to Q & A I was first up. I asked him had he read the abusive review and if so what was his response. “I never read reviews”, he answered, “my wife does and filters the contents before I see them”. I then started to try give him a précis of the review but he interrupted me in an agitated fashion and there was much hand waving from interviewer Merve Imre (a great hand waver generally by the way even in the most placid of situations). “Stop stop!” was the message. The microphone bearer was sent to wrest the organ of discourse from my blood-stained hands but I motored on about Lowdon’s urging us not to read his book. The mood in the room turned ugly, lynching was never on the cards, but much tutt-tutting and turning around and glaring. (My poor wife sat frozen with mortification beside me.) I reluctantly handed it over but not before declaring limply “I thought this was a Q & A.” A clearly maddened Ford barked “grow up” from the stage. Lacking the mike I was unable to respond. If I had been, I might have made the point: “you’re telling me to grow up and yet you get your wife to read your reviews.” So perhaps it was for the best.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #313131; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #313131; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12pt;">My big mistake of course was mistaking the nature of the game we play at these events. Instead of giving the great man a gentle lob, I executed a sliced backhand that he found unplayable. Poor show.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-81845984398692342902023-06-12T14:57:00.000+01:002023-06-12T14:57:10.970+01:00Shall I Compare Thee to a Small Tuscan City<p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 19px;">Travel certainly broadens the mind and can make you aware of how fucked up some things are at home. On a recent trip to Tuscany I flew in to the small city of Pisa (pop. 90,000). Straight out of Arrivals I was able to get a clean, fast, modern, shuttle train service to the main station in the centre of the city: a hub for onward travel to Lucca, Florence etc. It cost 2 euro. On arrival back in Dublin it’s retrieve your car from an expensive car park (if you can find a space), catch an extortionate taxi, or take your chances on an Aircoach as it follows it’s latest ludicrous route (Never however to a central hub.) Our ostensibly business-oriented government still hasn’t managed to sort out such a basic requirement for a modern city. We should all I suppose cycle home.</span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-62940141947277489852023-03-16T11:37:00.002+00:002023-03-16T22:39:36.658+00:00Cheltenham 2023 – Day 3 & 4 Ruminations and Day 1 & 2 Triumphs and Regrets<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">I’ve had seven winners so far: two on Day 1 and five on Day 2 but apart from a Dream to Share (4-1) in the Bumper and Langer Dan (10-1) in the Coral Cup my bets were relatively modest. So I am well ahead but could perhaps have been braver. Also, Geri Colombe losing by a short head in the second race cost me close to four figures. However, more importantly, I am well covered for Day 3 with some multiple bets running on to horses tomorrow so I don’t need, for example, to back horses I have in doubles with my darling A Dream to Share.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">So here goes. I’m a sucker for the big handicap hurdles and will go for two of Henderson’s Walking on Air (9-1) and Mill Green (25-1) in the Pertemps ar 2.10. One of Elliot’s sneakily well handicapped entries could of course do the business – but which one? In the Stayers Hurdle I have been getting promising intelligence for Home by the Lee from the owner (via a mutual friend) and Tom Segal has also tipped him He’s worth an ew nibble but bear in mind he ran a stinker here last year. De Bromhead’s horses have emerged from the doldrums (not a dry eye in the house when Honeysuckle won on that epic Tuesday) and he has multiple runners in the memorial race named after his son Jack. Foxy Girl (9-1) and Magical Zoe )7-1) seem the two best placed to provide the fairy tale result. The Kim Muir is not a reliable betting medium but I like the look of the handily weighed Angels Dawn (15-2) trained by Sam Curling down the road from Ardmayle. He unseated his apprentice jockey when cruising into contention at Punchestown in his last race and he owes me a few bob. His jumping is normally excellent and he stays well.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">On Day 4 it’s all about the Gold Cup and I am hoping that time has not withered the two De Bromhead horses that have come first and second over the past two years: A Plus Tard (7-1) and Minella Indo (20-1). Having backed both of them on each occasion I will stick with them for surely they will win if I don’t – and I don’t like anything else in the race. My other bet will be on Hiddenvalley Lake (17-2) in the Alfred Bartlett. With four places on offer he is surely a good thing to be placed at least,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-5850618050843606292023-03-14T13:27:00.005+00:002023-03-14T13:27:40.712+00:00Cheltenham 2023 – Day 1 and Day 2 – Ruminations <p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">I normally have strong feelings about the Supreme Novices Hurdle but I confess I am flummoxed by this year’s edition. The favourite Facile Vega ran a stinker last time out and I would prefer one of Mullins’ other runners Il Etait Temps. Marine Nationale has the best form but hasn’t run recently and his speed may be blunted by the forecast soft going. High Definition could be the answer but he fell last time and his jumping is generally sketchy. Staying is always a concern and one horse who will surely stay and is a tried and tested campaigner is Paul Nichols’ Tahmuras. He may have more modest top-grade form but at 11-1 he appeals as a decent e.w. bet. To confuse things even further I had hoped to back de Bromhead’s Inthepocket in the Ballymore and now I find he’s adding to my confusion by turning out here. Another e.w. chance perhaps..</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">The Ultima offers plenty of decent ew value and I will be looking at two horses with good course form – Happygolucky (14-1) and Corach Rambler (7-1). The former is lightly raced this year and had a prep over a distance way too short. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">The Champion Hurdle is not a betting proposition but I’ll be interested to see how close State Man gets to Constitution Hill. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">The Mare’s Hurdle is a fascinating race – not least because we get to see how much Honeysuckle has declined. I would love to see her win but will be putting my few bob on Echoes in the Rain – a top flight flat horse with form on soft.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">The Boodles at 16.50 is a lottery but I may speculate on Bad (9-1) trained by Ben Pauling – excellent French form and a modest weight. His trainer has had a great season and is positive about his chances.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">I’m a sucker for a Henderson horse and will back Mister Coffey (9-1) in the last on the basis that he will have to stop coming second at some stage.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">On Day 2 my main interest is in seeing if my only substantial ante-post bet A Dream to Share wins the Champion bumper. She was hugely impressive at Leopardstown – so much so that McManus who owned the second in that race promptly bought her from the Gleeson family. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-31589227974536087262023-02-20T14:29:00.001+00:002023-02-20T14:32:03.885+00:00Damien Dempsey at the Abbey<p> <span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">I have to confess that I am not familiar with Damien Dempsey’s music</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">– I knew of him vaguely as one of our standing army of singer-songwriters but couldn’t name you a song of his. However, when a friend offered me a ticket to go and see</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Tales from the Holywell </i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">at the Abbey based on his life and featuring his songs I went along mainly because it was directed by Conor McPherson whose</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Girl from the North Country </i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">(based on Dylan’s songs) I had enjoyed. This however turned out to be a much different kind of production. Instead of dramatised scenes accompanied by songs, we got Dempsey himself telling the story of his life and stopping occasionally to sing songs accompanied by a very accomplished quartet of musicians on violin, double-bass, keyboards and drums. He’s a personable, entertaining guy with a good stock of mildly amusing stories. His life was not as hard scrabble as his working-class hero persona might suggest. Both his parents worked and he attended a third-level college. He had a comfortable upbringing, even if it was in Donaghamede, which is hardly the Gorbals. But that’s alright, most successful artists, writers and musicians have a well-polished origin story that often strays from reality. His anecdotes and stories were not enough however to carry the evening for me. My main problem were his songs and his singing. He has a strong voice but with a limited range - it was frequently flat and out of tune, more shouting than singing occasionally. The songs themselves were often banal with clichéd language and commonplace rhymes. Best listened to in a crowded pub after a few pints I suspect. The sentiments expressed were admiral, but their mediocrity left me completely cold. (He’s no Richard Thomson nor indeed Teddy Thompson). However, I was pretty much alone in this regard as the packed audience greeted every song with ecstatic applause and in between hung on his every word as he told the story of his life. Fair dues to him for parleying a modest talent into a successful career. His amiable manner and impressive communication skills suggest to me that he’d make a good radio presenter – but of other people’s songs.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-84759746216215357082023-02-07T12:50:00.003+00:002023-02-07T12:50:59.035+00:00An Cailín Ciúin <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzK39atm0B3tz2-y5C2kuF7qqMrT0QpFRcKV7baVB7jbQEz2FQDauUQBJ1Jx7KKDq9g8e8ZZISeSU6-wUEMHYU3ZNDSjgMmDlsE94cVYL9-iIqWjMVeFiG69ffb6rxcS_0DmjwUFKOJ8r43_-Ff2n084RI72S6UztDeb8qIqbg1M_OdaUdgg/s271/94751637-CD2B-479C-89D0-D809395DF110.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="271" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzK39atm0B3tz2-y5C2kuF7qqMrT0QpFRcKV7baVB7jbQEz2FQDauUQBJ1Jx7KKDq9g8e8ZZISeSU6-wUEMHYU3ZNDSjgMmDlsE94cVYL9-iIqWjMVeFiG69ffb6rxcS_0DmjwUFKOJ8r43_-Ff2n084RI72S6UztDeb8qIqbg1M_OdaUdgg/s1600/94751637-CD2B-479C-89D0-D809395DF110.jpeg" width="271" /></a></div><br /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">I can’t think offhand of any Irish-made film that has impressed me as much as</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">An Cailín Ciúin. </i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">I had read Claire Keegan’s small jewel of a novel (</span><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Foster) </i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">on which it was based. Colm Bairead’s restrained and sympathetic direction turns it into a flawless masterpiece in another medium. Not very much seems to happen but every frame is loaded with import as the girl in question blossoms under the loving care of her fostering relations. But all the time we are aware that this is an interlude and she will probably be retuning to her chaotic and dysfunctional home presided over by her brutish father. The acting is flawless – especially the slowly thawing character of her uncle played by Andrew Bennett and the father rendered convincingly by Michael Patric. The most violent scene in the film is the latter’s stubbing out of a cigarette on his dinner plate and yet the whole film thrums with suppressed emotion and latent violence. There are lighter moments too – the interrogation by a local busybody where she is asked does the aunt use butter or margarine in her baking. The naturalism of the setting helps also – the slightly down-at-heel farm set in the lush green countryside. Comparisons with its fellow Oscar nominee</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Banshees of Inisherin </i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">do McDonagh’s ludicrous and overblown melodrama no favours. </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><o:p></o:p></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-56361677610397122772023-02-06T14:39:00.002+00:002023-02-07T09:26:31.094+00:00Rugby, Racing and the Fear of Relegation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rSWUpxwZxyTLjzCdkmnwR_lnfIyLNQtrfSDNgejGqIuMnLLpq2sE33AIhIrvds9Vq7VJ57iktXHS6evGNFujCKOH09JyVl63bEw22c9IMHcRkklhGzDrA_BFr1uwdDz3tT2X3VwcNPQEQMj_ElKx8Sk8n2CMJniYqrFSXWZ_N8tyWyCQyQ/s945/84ECD321-BC96-4581-959A-0B54C17F79EA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="945" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rSWUpxwZxyTLjzCdkmnwR_lnfIyLNQtrfSDNgejGqIuMnLLpq2sE33AIhIrvds9Vq7VJ57iktXHS6evGNFujCKOH09JyVl63bEw22c9IMHcRkklhGzDrA_BFr1uwdDz3tT2X3VwcNPQEQMj_ElKx8Sk8n2CMJniYqrFSXWZ_N8tyWyCQyQ/s320/84ECD321-BC96-4581-959A-0B54C17F79EA.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p> <span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;">I enjoy the Rugby Six Nations more than any of the other sporting competition – it is I suppose because of its history and the old rivalries renewed. I’ve been watching it since the early 1960s when our Cork school used to go en bloc. I particularly enjoy the Welsh match because they take it so seriously and history has sown the seeds of some serious antipathy. Many will remember the Mike Philipps farce in 2011 where a dim-witted linesman ( “it’s the correct ball”) allowed a clearly illegal try by the opportunistic scrum half. Older folk will remember the infamous punch delivered by the Welsh captain Brian Price to Noel Murphy (no angel mind you) in 1969. And on a personal note I always found the Welsh fans tendency (in the old Landsdowne Road days) to use the terraces as urinals a tad unseemly. So I certainly relished last Saturdays’ drubbing – although like most I was disappointed that the team took its foot off gas in the second half. The pack were outstanding, flawless in the line out and solid in the scrum with the back row in particular doing well – O’Mahony in the line out and Doris and Van der Flier everywhere. Keenan was superb at full back – brave and reliable as usual.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">The Dublin Racing Festival at Leopardstown was compulsory watching for anyone interested in top-quality racing and in form spotting for Cheltenham. The one slightly sour note was the absolute dominance of Willie Mullins, and to a lesser extent McManus as an owner. Mullins has become the Manchester City of racing with many of the big buys by the big owners ending up in his stable. Gordon Elliot is his only substantial rival with Henry de Bromhead in very poor form so far this year – even the great Honeysuckle has been vanquished. A feature of the racing was the number of Mullins hot shots who got beaten, only for the stable 2<sup>nd</sup> or 3<sup>rd</sup> string to triumph. These included Blue Lord at 1-4, Lossiemouth at 1-3, and the ostensibly unbeatable Facile Vega at 4-9. It’s rare to hear the generally amiable Mullins being critical of Paul Townend his stable jockey but in two of the cases mentioned he had a go at him in the after-race interviews. Of Facile Vega’s run he said next time Townend should “ride him like a racehorse and not a machine.” State Man in the Irish Champion Hurdle, owned by my old school mate Joe Donnelly, put Honeysuckle (over the hill?) in her place and he has to be considered a serious rival to the much hyped Constitution Hill in the Champion Hurdle. I was unimpressed by Galopin des Champs in the Paddy Power Gold cup and can’t see him winning the Cheltenham Gold Cup. I’ll be hoping de Bromhead’s pair (A Plus Tard and Minella Indo) recover their mojos. Another impressive performance was John Kiely’s A Dream to Share (see image above) in the bumper on the first day – a race that always throws up Cheltenham contenders. He was up against 7 Mullins’ horses (Willie, Thomas and Emmet all had runners) but won handily. A small owner and trainer prevailing - with a McManus horse in second. I had a decent bet on him at 14-1 and will be hoping for a repeat performance in the Cotswolds. While I’m on the subject of creatures being “over the hill”, would somebody please retire Ted Walsh. His son Ruby is probably one of the shrewdest analysts around and is always worth listening to on RTE and ITV and his daughter Katy doing her interviews on horseback is a nice touch even if it’s all a tad incestuous and unchallenging - many of the winning horse are attached to a stable with strong family connections. But do we need three Walshs? Ted has atrophied into a caricature of himself – with a desperate need to be blunt and salty (is using “arse” every time he’s on TV written into his contract?), and a singular lack of detachment.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">Not many people know that I’m an Everton supporter. But I’ve been at it long enough to see them win leagues, cups and even the European Cup-Winners cup in 1985 – beating Bayern Munich on the way. Their golden age in the 80s coincided with the Liverpool-inspired European ban for all English clubs – irony of ironies. I can’t remember why I started following them but assume it must have been because of the number of Irish internationals they featured in the 1950s: Peter Farrell, Tommy Eglington and Mick Megan to name a few. Kevin Sheedy was on their great 80s team. In recent years I’ve kept this near-fatal attraction quiet. The notion of them being relegated seems unspeakable – especially when you know their history and have seen at first hand the pride and esprit-de-corps at Goodison. But they have fallen into bad company in recent years and the management merry-go-round has been farcical. I was happy to see a no-bullshit, pragmatic manager such as Sean Dyche appointed . If anyone is going to drag them out of the slough of despond it’s surely him. So I was very pleased to see stirrings of pride and honest endeavour last Saturday when they beat Arsenal. I just wish it hadn’t been against Arsenal who I have begun to take an interest in because of the fine football they play and of course because of Arteta – their Everton connection. Now a result against Liverpool next week would be a different matter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-50156215838788567982022-11-29T11:23:00.001+00:002022-11-29T11:25:36.111+00:00More Paddywhackery from McDonagh: The Banshees of Inisherin<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrHNZrDU2CeQYAgaUYvj1WJH3lD_FYmSIkPaVvAs3RrbRp-JjWzsEViUQoQDVCIdXfTZJSS2QTlu26lTEJqv-HKKBVtgzFoYmCorpI5UflhgsGlzXeOVi0_-NZciLzzZC_nAzqCdroTRWjHoGs7uR16qFasBd4s9P0gD3WAiM96dVrGNHrg/s1280/CA64023F-815F-4608-9F59-57719F92C12E.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrHNZrDU2CeQYAgaUYvj1WJH3lD_FYmSIkPaVvAs3RrbRp-JjWzsEViUQoQDVCIdXfTZJSS2QTlu26lTEJqv-HKKBVtgzFoYmCorpI5UflhgsGlzXeOVi0_-NZciLzzZC_nAzqCdroTRWjHoGs7uR16qFasBd4s9P0gD3WAiM96dVrGNHrg/s320/CA64023F-815F-4608-9F59-57719F92C12E.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">We all know of course that it’s nearly impossible for an Irish-made film to get bad reviews in the Irish press. Even our back-slapping book-reviewing establishment will admit to the odd stinker, but not our film critics. I do recall Neil Jordan’s </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">High Spirits </i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">(an appalling farrago) getting treated as reverently as the latest Antonioni by a certain well-loved and now departed critic – who certainly knew better. So I went to see </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">The Banshees of Inisherin </i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">recently with only mild expectations – heightened a degree by a mostly positive review by Peter Bradshaw (not an easy lay) in the Guardian. Readers - it left me cold and unimpressed. Now there were elements within it that I thoroughly enjoyed: the epic scenery around the Aran Islands and Achill; the soulful dog, the soulful cow, the soulful horse, the playful miniature goat and the virtuouso performance of Kerry Condon as Siobhan – sister of the afflicted Colin Farrell character. But the story line and the cast of cliched caricatures left me beyond indifferent. I didn’t believe a word of it. Now the McDonagh brothers have form in dishing up Paddywhackery – especially the older sibling. It’s perhaps a second-generation Irish thing where the smart London boys are inclined to exaggerate the priest-ridden, feckless Paddy tropes. But Martin is as guilty of that sin in this film as his brother John Michael was in the deplorable </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">Calvary. </i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">No Irish-based film of theirs is complete without the brutal corrupt Garda or the compromised priest. The film is set in rural Ireland in 1923 so we’re not expecting latte-drinking islanders reading the New Yorker. Also, it’s a black comedy with Grand Guignol elements so we’re not expecting naturalistic characters and realistic situations. But even in comedy there has to be a reasonable foundation on which to build the story. And I couldn’t take seriously the basic premise. I just can’t believe a fiddle player would deliberately cut off his fingers – no matter how depressed he was. Neither can I believe that a priest would repeat local gossip in the confession. Or the naked Garda masturbating in his living room. And what was all this routine drinking at 2 pm? I’ve lived on isolated Irish islands with pubs and there was never such a practice – except on Sundays. The only place I encountered serious lunch-time drinking was amongst office staff in London in the Seventies. And the cliched characters: the snoopy post-mistress, the arrogant priest, the brutal Garda. Some positives of course: the surreal extension of the pigs in the kitchen trope was mildly amusing – especially that gorgeous cow. And the prosthetics were excellent – Brendan Gleeson’s fingerless hand was very convincing. But overall a poor show Martin. The Tourist Board however won’t mind.</span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-6448096990016431742022-11-24T15:31:00.000+00:002022-11-24T15:31:06.110+00:00RDS Visual Arts Awards 2022<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXm0xtNfa318NNMB56YkvVmNHwHBM7TEC-Vg3LrdEc7lMs1DBRBBub46u3_EsGD-kjvWqCUuXxLPG0bVnt-h4XuZ86elOfqdDj2x9QY09AuYv7z_LuYAH6RBhbBVDQqB5Um_Pxb3TOd2SMSpHHlJ09QYH12JUOJMzxi436DeMjKLd_Fcg6g/s2048/3D87CCD1-ECBC-4958-B4BB-105AF12B5297.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXm0xtNfa318NNMB56YkvVmNHwHBM7TEC-Vg3LrdEc7lMs1DBRBBub46u3_EsGD-kjvWqCUuXxLPG0bVnt-h4XuZ86elOfqdDj2x9QY09AuYv7z_LuYAH6RBhbBVDQqB5Um_Pxb3TOd2SMSpHHlJ09QYH12JUOJMzxi436DeMjKLd_Fcg6g/s320/3D87CCD1-ECBC-4958-B4BB-105AF12B5297.jpeg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><i>An edited version of this piece appeared in the Winter edition of the Irish Arts Review.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;">Aideen Barry, the curator of the RDS Visual Arts Awards tell us that “What you're seeing is a cutting edge snapshot of what the future of Irish art is going to be.” A bold statement which could perhaps do without the “cutting edge”. It’s a snapshot – time will judge whether it’s old hat, emperor’s new clothes, or the real deal . Barry is a fine artist herself with an interest in the Gothic and the “uncanny”. Her work incorporates drawing, sculpture, and film and the show that she and her fellow judges have assembled provides a rich and entertaining blend of these media. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;">Inside the entrance of the RDS Concert Hall you encounter Sadhbh Mowlds’ startlingly life-like <i>Eve (see image above). </i>I had to move very close to ensure it wasn’t a person so well-wrought was the illusion. Duane Hansen could hardly have done better and I wager he never used his own hair to give the legs a little authentic hirsuteness. This striking, award-winning work sets the tone for a show that aside from one dull and gratuitously esoteric work (accompanied by an earnestly worthy blurb) is full of colour and technical verve. Orla Comerford’s prize-winning <i>Oidhreacht </i>is an innovative video depiction of her father, a woodworker, building a boat. The film is projected on to three large curved screens and the images move from abstract to figurative depending how far you stand from the screen. This provides the viewer with a taste of Comerford’s own visual impairment. It’s a technical tour-de-force, an aesthetically-pleasing encounter, and a meaningful expression of the artist’s psyche. Another arresting piece of video was Aisling Phelan’s <i>Dual Reality. </i>A triptych of screens delivered a well-scripted meditation on the gulf between our identity and our digital identity. The long-list of candidates for the awards, and indeed the awards themselves, were inclusive in terms of colour and our LGBGTQ community. However, there was a noticeable shortage of male contenders on both the long list and the short-list. It possibly reflects the dwindling number of men taking fine art as a subject – with a touch of the zeitgeist thrown in. (A recent Graphic Studio Dublin show featured 16 female members and nary a male one. When I queried this with the curator she replied “I’d say you weren’t a bit worried when the art world was dominated by males for centuries”. A comment that suggests her selection process may have tainted by an element of revenge for the sins of our fathers.) It was good to see that one of this beleaguered gender at least made it to the final 13 – he also represented the art of painting, somewhat neglected in our art colleges. Syzmon Minias’s small self-portraits in oil were full of character with echoes of Vuillard and Eugène Leroy. Michelle Malone’s striking tapestries of the Artane Industrial School, accompanied by video and interviews with those whose lives were touched by the abuse in these places was another moving work and a fine record of hard times.The main award, the RDS Taylor Art Award, went to Venus Patel for her film <i>Eggshells. </i>As a queer person of colour she has experienced abuse, including ‘egging’. The film employed the offending object in a series of colourful vignettes where the artist danced her troubles away. I was however concerned by the number of innocent eggs that were harmed in this exercise. I was entertained by being allowed sit on Sinead McCormick’s very serviceable raft <i>Adrift </i>and getting that islanded experience. And Myfanwy Frost-Jones alarming film that dealt with pollution in Kenmare Bay combined grim facts with distractingly gorgeous views of the South-West. The show, notwithstanding the many substantial issues it addressed, was highly entertaining and professionally presented so it’s a shame it didn’t enjoy a longer run.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-43756266772817082112022-11-24T14:23:00.004+00:002022-11-27T10:17:36.404+00:00 Male Printmakers Banished from the Garden<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzSGgf-LALkUi_qRsRzFB5NwIAopHdVdARAWUoztjWGPdrpDxx1Hn9MvvF3JKwd3dBYzwSjK1FL2GF2h4FoocsDpC-guBIV20i3EFZfOhbHp4XO8IGivKYVdDsubCbvawELaae3SzPI5C9MI-Bv-AK0z5WYoze6B5ROTJrqGMNCBjZR6X7GA/s2056/1E375EDF-3642-44CB-8173-AAF49A5C6123.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2056" data-original-width="2056" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzSGgf-LALkUi_qRsRzFB5NwIAopHdVdARAWUoztjWGPdrpDxx1Hn9MvvF3JKwd3dBYzwSjK1FL2GF2h4FoocsDpC-guBIV20i3EFZfOhbHp4XO8IGivKYVdDsubCbvawELaae3SzPI5C9MI-Bv-AK0z5WYoze6B5ROTJrqGMNCBjZR6X7GA/s320/1E375EDF-3642-44CB-8173-AAF49A5C6123.webp" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">A visit to the Arts Council web site informs you that: “</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;">Diversity is a core organisational value in the Arts Council’s 10-year strategy to 2025”. This aspiration tells us that if you are an organisation that hopes to receive Arts Council funding you should make sure that your activities are inclusive. This embraces gender balance, the inclusion of racial minorities and those with physical handicaps amongst other criteria. A recent exhibition by members of Graphic Studio Dublin (GSD) caught my eye in this regard. I was a board member of GSD for many years and so continue to take an interest in its activities. The exhibition that got my attention was <i>Geomancy – The Printmakers Garden </i>curated by Aoife Scott at the University of West England (UWE) in Bristol from the 21<sup>st</sup> to the 25<sup>th</sup> September 2022. My issue wasn’t the missing apostrophe in the sub-title, although I admit that pained me, it was the fact that an exhibition that was a showcase for GSD featured 16 women and nary a man. Now I realise that there are far more women than men in GSD (the proportion is roughly 75-25%) but unless the show was confined to women (and it didn’t seem to be) you’d expect two or three men at least. Also, amongst the surviving males in GSD are four of the major print makers in the country: Robert Russell, Niall Naessens, Stephen Lawlor, and James McCreary.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;">I was curious about the reasons for this omission so I contacted Aoife Scott, a member of GSD (and a recent board member) via Instagram. She responded that “the male artists just choose (sic) not to respond or be in the exhibition.” Passing strange, I felt, that any Irish artist would pass up on an opportunity to show in England. I contacted, through a mutual friend, the four male GSD artists I mentioned earlier and none of them had been contacted. It’s perfectly possible that she contacted other male artists that suited her vision (ignoring what could be considered the cream of the current crop) who all eschewed the opportunity. But here’s the nub of the matter: realising that she was going to have an all-female lineup she should have made an effort to find alternative male representation. Especially as she was a board member and so someone who should be aware of the responsibilities of her organisation. The four I had contacted said they would have jumped at the opportunity to show there. A curator is entitled to select the artists she feels best suit her project, but when a specific studio is involved, with male and female members, she should ensure that representation is inclusive. Otherwise declare the exhibition a women only event. The other option of course is to claim that all the men are shite artists and that they were rejected on aesthetic grounds.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;">Being the nuisance that I am I contacted Aoife Scott again and this time didn’t get a polite response but rather an outburst of childish invective. I quote:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;"> “Are you threatened by female artists exhibiting together and supporting each other John? Is it that you are worried that the arts are being taken over by women…I’d say you weren’t a bit worried when the art world was dominated by males for centuries.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;">We’ll pass over the inference that I am centuries old in this cheeky response but here, naked and unadorned is our curator’s rationale for male exclusion. She is seemingly intent, through her choices, in redressing the balance after centuries of imbalance - of visiting the sins of their fathers on the current crop of male artists. In doing so she is of course repeating historical injustices. More significantly she is using an Arts Council funded organisation to carry out a political agenda that goes very much against the Arts Council’s advocacy of inclusion.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;">However, she is just one individual with a palpable agenda. Where was the GSD board when all this happened. For that matter, where were all the male members? I had occasion at a recent funeral to quote Dante on those who remain silent in the face of wrong-doing:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #202124;">“The hottest place in Hell is reserved for those who remain neutral in times of great moral conflict<span style="background-color: white;">.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124;">This is hardly a great moral conflict, but it should be addressed by those charged with running GSD and by its members. It was noticeable in the recent RDS Visual Awards exhibition for art student graduates how few male artists there were. I was told that this reflected the diminishing number of men attending art college. We should be encouraging more male engagement with the arts rather than ostracising men for the sins of their fathers.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-41112020952843526722022-08-23T14:19:00.000+01:002022-08-23T14:19:04.058+01:00Elvis the Movie at the Stella Rathmines<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-pi-d35Oc6Qlx4N1jaAbGrA9eJYWWjNYqxFoAqcUtymLU29GZth08d5B0g-JwfNWmBsbQBkwn_4YVmCTxMcNsB5T5jdOFcY0c9YtKRLvfxfMgY--CFRIPhbrET6Q_-nRaOz6IAywyoJHud85i3XczpG8zNRrIdQCX3LPwzWvF7vwsLgOMVA/s700/CE3959A4-5561-46DE-8A75-C22A7C11C39F.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="700" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-pi-d35Oc6Qlx4N1jaAbGrA9eJYWWjNYqxFoAqcUtymLU29GZth08d5B0g-JwfNWmBsbQBkwn_4YVmCTxMcNsB5T5jdOFcY0c9YtKRLvfxfMgY--CFRIPhbrET6Q_-nRaOz6IAywyoJHud85i3XczpG8zNRrIdQCX3LPwzWvF7vwsLgOMVA/s320/CE3959A4-5561-46DE-8A75-C22A7C11C39F.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">Rathmines is a long way from Dalkey so I hadn’t been at the new-dangled Stella since its refurbishment. My local was the much lamented Forum Glasthule with its perennially sticky floor. I have to report the Stella is mighty fine. It’s comfortable (we had a couch) the service is great, and you can enjoy a drink in an actual glass while watching the film.. However, they need to get rid of those godawful chi-chi lamps. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">Elvis the Movie was disappointing. I first heard Elvis when I was standing outside a record hop at the Collins Tennis Club in 1958. The record was I Got Stung – the last record he released as a 78. The classic One Night was on the A-side – but I was struck by the pure energy of the B-side. He disappointed our rebel aspirations by entering the army and doing all those appalling films but his early records and occasional emerging into the light (especially the Memphis Sessions – check out After Loving You, Suspicious Minds and In the Ghetto) secured his place in my affections. The heritage was safe and solid despite the tawdry later years in Las Vegas.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">The definitive biography of Elvis is Peter Guralnick’s highly readable two-volume classic: Last Train to Memphis and Careless Love. Reading them you realise that despite the extra-terrestrial glamour, the gorgeous voice and the universal adulation, Elvis was a simple country-boy with a fatal lack of moral courage. His biggest sin was to allow himself to be separated from his musical peers (such as Scotty Moore and Bill Black) and became the thing of a fairground hustler - Colonel Tom Parker. Cheesy merchandise a speciality. No colonel, no Tom and not even a Parker. The movie touches on this aspect of his life but it fails absolutely at giving us a more complete and complex account – it was all flash, bang, wallop accompanied by some serious ham from Tom Hanks. And even then we never got to hear one full song – one demonstration of Elvis at his prime. The corny use of Suspicious Minds to hammer home the message that Elvis was been hustled by Parker and Las Vegas villains was trite in the extreme. The guy playing Elvis gave an excellent imitation of the man and look out for a wonderful Little Richard cameo. Elvis the Movie is a mildly entertaining show-biz confection but didn’t come close to capturing the tragic trajectory of the man’s life. Nor did it want to do so.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-70289422239089739152022-07-23T09:48:00.001+01:002022-07-23T09:49:33.706+01:00My Times at the Sunday Times – A Valediction Forbidding Mourning<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPVoLx4oh1okrAwVi8JRvBA8jGPnLHJTMhXi20hNyvV1xz3YMoQ5s8wYpdiJKFliu0pGMYg_Gadqgm8_ktpqXiy6QfyJ2OsjRMUONkd2Sb4eXqvrhvFUIcjzFiUERp2fSzpzFnGamcNv0BaLSZNXRCcPuSIqrbcYurRvg2nkOBxanJxWpDDg/s4000/AC818F52-6865-49C8-8D1B-514855853D83.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2667" data-original-width="4000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPVoLx4oh1okrAwVi8JRvBA8jGPnLHJTMhXi20hNyvV1xz3YMoQ5s8wYpdiJKFliu0pGMYg_Gadqgm8_ktpqXiy6QfyJ2OsjRMUONkd2Sb4eXqvrhvFUIcjzFiUERp2fSzpzFnGamcNv0BaLSZNXRCcPuSIqrbcYurRvg2nkOBxanJxWpDDg/s320/AC818F52-6865-49C8-8D1B-514855853D83.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">I was saddened but not surprised to hear of the recent cull at the Times and Sunday Times Ireland. Say what you like about Rupert Murdoch (and there’s much to say), the Sunday Times was the only serious English newspaper with an Irish edition that gave extensive coverage to Irish news, sport and culture. Pick up the Observer, for example, and there’s nary a word about us unless the DUP are acting up again. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">I was very happy to have been offered an opportunity by associate editor John Burns to air my views on art, literature, and even my personal dramas (that root-canal treatment, those TB days) for nearly 12 years. This purge seems to be getting rid of some of its most-talented writers, leaving it much diminished. In addition to John Burns (an award-winning writer on culture), I rated Denis Walsh as one of the best sports journalists in the country and Justine McCarthy supplied an acerbic and articulate left-of-centre perspective on politics. Maybe a tad too left for Rupert’s taste. Mark Tighe, author of that brilliant and painstaking exposure of John Delaney’s machinations at the FAI, had already left. All it needs now is to let Liam Fay go and there will be no incentive to buy it ever again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">Irish art gets scant coverage in print and the Sunday Times Culture magazine was one of the few places where artists’ work was regularly reviewed. Let’s hope it continues to employ the services of the estimable </span>Cristín Leach in this area – a stern judge who has ruffled a few feathers in her day. While journalism doesn’t pay handsomely, especially arts journalism, it is hugely rewarding in other ways. I cherish many delightful memories of my stint there. I travelled around the country interviewing such luminaries as Basil Blackshaw, Sean MacSweeny, and that great Cork maverick Maurice Desmond. My favourite encounter was with Gilbert & George in the Mac Belfast. Sporting their new Donegal Tweed suits (they had eschewed Harris Tweed because of Brexit), they were by turns hilarious and outrageous. Despite being gay, they strongly disapproved of gay marriage – maintaining that it was bourgeois and that gay men should be sexual adventurers (quoting John Rechy). While all my art writing was received with nothing but gratitude, my book reviewing frequently exposed me to tirades of Twitter abuse. One female writer of light-weight fiction unleashed an army of her trolls (male and female) on me for deviating, minutely, from rigorous wokeness. At least the late, and much lamented, Eileen Battersby had the grace, albeit via her agent, to write a letter to the paper challenging my views on the clearly autobiographical character in her novel. The Speakeasy section of the Sunday Times (long discontinued) allowed writers to indulge in personal stories so I was able to horrify my Cork-based siblings with revelations about child-hood episodes such as my incarceration for a year in a sanatorium in Foynes and an episode in the Dental Hospital in Cork that far outdid Laurence Olivier’s dental antics in the film Marathon Man. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;">What fun it all was.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-27727966706193105182022-07-21T09:57:00.001+01:002022-07-21T09:58:15.328+01:00Sporting Sketches - July 2022<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi964LO26AzXGKmGayeb674csRpDL-n3foQB1Q1H0ZMjolOjtFNGOs4BgIwDZO1GBq42JL8UK9iCGNyOv4FjY6rP2DDoW_9dYxEk5PJMCmY7WRJEAmygcJinqzTwgIUHIEc-rC6ezT6gcN6X67Qk9ezg2jvaDxNftQABGb0a8muKR4jMQVVgg/s500/F6782663-A9A9-48AD-A052-2CD7AAE3B179.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="500" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi964LO26AzXGKmGayeb674csRpDL-n3foQB1Q1H0ZMjolOjtFNGOs4BgIwDZO1GBq42JL8UK9iCGNyOv4FjY6rP2DDoW_9dYxEk5PJMCmY7WRJEAmygcJinqzTwgIUHIEc-rC6ezT6gcN6X67Qk9ezg2jvaDxNftQABGb0a8muKR4jMQVVgg/s320/F6782663-A9A9-48AD-A052-2CD7AAE3B179.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">What a weekend for those who, in a world that’s falling apart, cherish the engaging distractions of sport. That epic in New Zealand, the sad sight of Rory McIlroy not collapsing, but failing to rise to the occasion. And not least the skill and passion of Limerick and Kilkenny at Croke Park. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">I watched the Ireland-New Zealand match on my own in a house in Bayswater while my hospitable nephew followed his Saturday routine of sleeping in after a hard week at the helm of a financial institution. It didn’t stop me shouting and roaring while texting my rugby Signal group the while. I have been watching rugby since Jack Kyle played out-half for Ireland, served at scrum-half by John O’Meara and then Andy Mulligan. (Kyle told me many years later, when I asked him which he preferred playing with, that Andy took the pressure off him by making the breaks himself, while the length of John’s pass meant he had more space.) I’ve seen Ollie Campbell’s inspired Triple Crown performance against Scotland and Michael Kiernan’s late drop goal against England. I watched in horror as Ireland threw away a World-Cup quarter final against Australia at Landsdowne Road – hang down down your head Rob Saunders, hang down your head Jack Clarke. And I listened in from a roof-top in Havana as Ronan O’Gara dropped that goal that gave us our first Grand Slam since Jack Kyle’s day in 1949. However, the match last Saturday was surely Irish rugby’s finest hour. Every man jack of them contrived to have the game of his life - even the occasionally flakey (especially defensively) James Lowe. His left boot proved a lethal weapon in our arsenal. While pundits focus on the way we obliterated New Zealand in the first half, I’d prefer to point to the character the team showed by not panicking when they were pulled back to a three-point difference. There they showed the grace under extreme pressure that was often lacking in the past. What a climax for that great old war horse O’Mahoney, and what a resurrection for Tadgh Beirne after his dismal early career. And what a show from the seemingly ageless Sexton. We have never seen the All-Blacks so put down.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">Rory, oh Rory what have you done. Four clear of the field (apart from the quickly fading Hovland) on a benign day at St. Andrew’s – the stage was set for you to finally end your major drought. You hardly missed a drive all day and you produced some magnificent iron shots – albeit never quite getting them into easy birdie territory. However, it was your old Achilles Heel let you down – your putting. You didn’t sink a single long putt in the entire round. Nor did you miss any short ones mind you. But to be a champion you need to produce the odd piece of magic – as Woods, or Nicklaus or Ballesteros did in their prime. You plodded around conservatively, like a latter day Nick Faldo, and unlike Faldo your conservatism was punished by an astonishing display of virtuoso putting by the relative rookie Cameron Smith. You didn’t lose it, you hardly made a mistake, but Smith won it by performing best when the occasion demanded. That will hurt – even unto your death bed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-GB">I have a problem with Kilkenny – I do confess it. And especially with Cody’s round-head regime. I hated their hard-chaw physicality and their cynicism, allied it must be said to the sublime skills of the peerless Henry Sheflin. That master of the dark arts Tommy Walsh (the judicious push in the back a speciality) epitomised their approach to the game. Their glory days overlapped with one of the better Tipperary teams of the last 50 years, and it was only towards the latter stages of the decade that the Tipp cavaliers learned their lesson – giving them two good hammerings in 2016 and 2019 to make up a little for the two they left behind earlier in the decade. There was a time when Cork were our bete noir but for the past 15 years they have been more to be pitied than feared. So I was by no means neutral watching the final last Sunday. While still being ambivalent about the tax-dodger subsidised Limerick, I assuredly wanted them to win. Cody cannot be beaten too often or too hard for my liking. Bitter moi? Anyway it was an outstanding final, fast-flowing, sporting and astonishingly skilful. And of course great drama too. T.J. Reid is no mean Sheflin stand-in and the Kilkenny team stood shoulder to shoulder with this outstanding Limerick side. Cody has renounced his brute pragmatism and joined the cavaliers. Now please retire.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-47248075430046582822022-06-15T10:50:00.001+01:002022-06-15T10:50:10.956+01:00The Basic Income for the Arts Scheme<p> A few acid drops on this scheme - published in Phoenix last month.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUx-BzmnSGctNG2lz3xirxvhsxK6itK2HsIxE4mY8NHIvZh6DZfBFr0sdIS3Uzr5G41-SdhrxEf2HjIMslRAX-_En-T1k4uqUXtKhSnuwvG9p2islB9qgkBiVs207TYS5SXBgwlfDCyxWP-JQss4LsNL06dcCrAsB4t_qW9asWRSiCWdMhw/s2048/E0ABEECA-9092-4AFF-909B-1B92E31EB9F4.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUx-BzmnSGctNG2lz3xirxvhsxK6itK2HsIxE4mY8NHIvZh6DZfBFr0sdIS3Uzr5G41-SdhrxEf2HjIMslRAX-_En-T1k4uqUXtKhSnuwvG9p2islB9qgkBiVs207TYS5SXBgwlfDCyxWP-JQss4LsNL06dcCrAsB4t_qW9asWRSiCWdMhw/s320/E0ABEECA-9092-4AFF-909B-1B92E31EB9F4.png" width="320" /></span></a></h2><br /><p></p>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12642305.post-6911225286905287472022-05-23T11:52:00.003+01:002022-05-23T11:52:33.292+01:00Michael Hartnett by Edward McGuire<p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbe1b3Kbovu80xHzmxm1mi-Q75n93jytPJh4jkj-LIBoSvvnCTlkC6KwvoQByQW_Q-xhZKEZDrUfmTmAyqorogHc1ddCC8ep-aiyXF2UvnoeG5HWgCU_Z6N-f8on8OMBjYpoThzwFQUeyr6IE-LUTOL_OqWZdisODY-Uu5TyWy3QQ0Yi4Ow/s813/7E24E988-2547-472D-ACE3-888F5544EAB0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="813" data-original-width="650" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbe1b3Kbovu80xHzmxm1mi-Q75n93jytPJh4jkj-LIBoSvvnCTlkC6KwvoQByQW_Q-xhZKEZDrUfmTmAyqorogHc1ddCC8ep-aiyXF2UvnoeG5HWgCU_Z6N-f8on8OMBjYpoThzwFQUeyr6IE-LUTOL_OqWZdisODY-Uu5TyWy3QQ0Yi4Ow/s320/7E24E988-2547-472D-ACE3-888F5544EAB0.jpeg" width="256" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p>When doing my quarterly art at auction preview for the Irish Arts Review, I wasn’t aware (because of deadlines) of Edward McGuire’s portrait of Michael Hartnett on offer at Adam’s June 1st auction. This is an outstanding work by an artist who has been described (by Brian Fallon) as Ireland’s finest portraitist since John Butler Yeats. We all know McGuire’s striking portrait of Seamus Heaney – housed in the Ulster Museum. The portraits have McGuire’s ubiquitous birds in common but they capture very different moods and personalities. We see the young, confident Heaney sitting four-square - eyeing us frank and free. A man going places. The Hartnett portrait captures a very different mood.. We see a diffidence here and the sadness and furtive melancholy of a man whose life was blighted in later years by marital discord and alcoholism. However, the sensitive, evocative and pointed poetry lives on. Such a fine poet. Such a fine painting.</p><div><br /></div>Ardmaylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00779130684283131747noreply@blogger.com