Ardmayle

What a Sickener

2012-02-06T12:07:00.006Z

Don't give me that pious nonsense about Wales deserving to win. Of course they did and that makes it worse. There's nothing sweeter than an undeserved win. Last year Ireland deserved to win and Wales stole it - literally. This time Wales deserved it and stole it again. The reason we lost to this weakened Welsh team are manifold - not least a criminally stupid decision to take a long-range penalty with 5 minutes to go, and inevitably concede possession, rather than kick for the corner and keep it tight.

So another disappointment inflicted on us by this Irish rugby team. I'm becoming a bit sick of the golden generation stuff. They scraped a Grand Slam in a weak year and have been dining out on it since. They have lost every important match bar one over the past few years - usually to France or Wales. They were dire yesterday against a depleted Welsh team who played with far more spirit and resolve. They never seem to be able to bring their provincial zest to the Irish stage. Kearney and the front five should largely be absolved of blame but elsewhere there were poor performances a plenty. Bowe's fumbling and weak tackling cost us two tries, Darcy and McFadden were rolled over at will by the Welsh juggernauts, Sexton and Murray kicked poorly and gave away possession, the back row was largely anonymous (except maybe Heaslip), and there was a general lack of hard physical commitment. And, dare I say it, O'Connell's leadership has to be questioned. Maybe he's an NCO rather than an officer. And Kidney has blown his chances of coaching the Lions in Australia. He's way too conservative anyway - Gatland is the man for the job.

A Studio Visit

2012-01-29T16:43:00.009Z

The house was an unkempt red cottage deep in undistinguished countryside. The persistent rain and muddy surrounds rendered the whole place more sad and squalid than bucolic. The artist greeted us warmly and took us into the smokey interior. We ducked through cobweb bedecked doorways as he led us past three yapping terriers into the living room. We were ushered onto a deeply dubious sofa that had obviously served as a bed recently - there were grubby sheets thrown over the back. We made small talk for a while. The terriers climbed all over us - eager to lick their way into our affections. The artist was courtly if a tad diffident. Conversation faltered. Then his rather bedraggled wife burst in and immediately began to fill the lulls. She offered us drinks and I accepted a glass of cider. The honey-flavoured cider was handed to me in a beautiful heavy Waterford glass. She also poured herself a very large glass of wine - her effusiveness suggested it wasn't her first of the day. She began coyly flattering the youngest member of our group: "you can't have children that old", "you're very tall aren't you" etc. As we took in our surroundings she told me, rather unnecessarily I felt, that she hated housework.

There were very many examples of the artist's recent more formulaic work strewn around the room and in the small adjacent studio. There was no sign however of the early work that I was sniffing after. The studio far exceeded Bacon's famous example in squalor. There was dust and cobwebs everywhere and the small room was littered with artist's debris - old paint pots, discarded brushes, torn magazines, ancient plates and a floor matted with dirt. An easel and a chair sat in the centre of the room in the only space available. Overhead was a dirty corrugated plastic roof mostly covered with vegetation. He sat into the seat while we took some photographs. There was a sad resigned slump to his posture.

The increasingly loquacious wife then insisted that we come out and look at their "shed". This turned out to be a self-contained apartment at the side of the house - marginally less filthy that the main house. The wife said they hoped to let it soon.Then we all tramped back inside - fighting off the amorous terriers.

Now I don't have a fetish about cleanliness and tidiness, as anyone who's been to my house will attest, but all this was too much. There's bohemian laissez faire and there's truly alarming filth - this was the latter. But they were a sweet hospitable couple - even if the wife did prattle on. My abiding feeling as we drove off was pity for their predicament. But who knows, it may suit them very well.

DLR Gone to the Dogs

2012-01-20T13:43:00.013Z

We are used to Dun Laoghaire Rathdown (DLR) County Council interfering in our daily round. An egregious example of this is the most heavily policed parking system in the country. Hordes of whey-faced enforcers, in their comic opera uniforms, patrol incessantly the streets of Dun Laoghaire and Dalkey. To what end? Did we the citizens demand this? Does it promote traffic flow? No we didn't. No it doesn't. It's purely a revenue generating mechanism for DLR and a bloody nuisance.

Looking around for further control mechanisms and revenue streams DLR have now decided to tackle the clear and present danger of dogs in the borough. In the past 12 months litter wardens have started to appear on the beaches and in the parks imposing fines of €150 on those whose dogs are unleashed during certain daylight hours. This is apparently in accordance with some 2009 bye-law. DLR has also started to put dog pens in various parks, thereby herding dogs together all the better to spread diseases. Also, these pens are way too small and generate conflict between the crowded canines. Despite numerous entreaties from the public and the creation of a lobby group, Dogs Unleashed (http://www.dogs-unleashed.org/), by the estimable Liz Neligan, DLR have now come up with an even more restrictive set of bye-laws whereby dogs cannot go on certain beaches (Sandycove and Seapoint) at any time, and can only go unleashed on Killiney Beach before 10:00 and after 19:00 during the winter months.

Why? Killiney Beach is largely deserted (check out the images) during winter months apart from the hardy community of dog walkers. Should we abandon it to cider heads, bonfire builders, and the odd forlorn pervert? There is the last resort of Killiney Hill for those who want freedom for their dogs, but I am determined to stay and fight them on the beaches.

London Weekend

2012-01-15T13:36:00.010Z

I arrived on Friday evening and went to meet my buddies in Gordon's Wine Bar near the Embankment tube station. This is a crowded cellar that sells only wine and basic food. It's a cosy spot with an unusually friendly crowd for a London venue. Much badinage at the crowded bar and chit chat between the tables. If I were a fit and single man I would make it a regular haunt. We ate later in an average Italian restaurant up the road and looked in at a listless jazz club (the Alley Cat). The strident and charmless female vocalist drove us out and we headed back to the bosom of our hotel bar.

Saturday morning brought us to the Dickens exhibition at the London Museum. A lot of background padding but it was worth the visit to see his manuscripts. The small regular writing and the copious corrections were in evidence from Great Expectations to his last work The Mystery of Edwin Drood - no change or deterioration in the hand, or in the working method. There was also a ledger of household expenses where you saw evidence of how his financially feckless father was a drain on his resources. We stopped off for a nostalgic visit to Portobello Road on the way back - full of tourists but entertaining. I had some mulled wine and bought a couple of CD box sets (Sam Cooke and Ella Fitzgerald).

On Saturday evening we started with drinks in the French House in Soho - still full of character and characters - and still not serving pints. Then up the road to the Red Fort - one of London's finest Indian restaurants. A bit stuffy in terms of clientele and too many waiters faffing about but the food was superb - delicately spiced and beautifully presented.

Replete we waddled down the road to Ronnie Scott's where we'd booked a table to see Sarah Jane Morris and her band. Nice. She's a big gallumping lass and a bit too right on for my taste ("The Gay Man Blues") but it was a tasty night of music. A couple of great guitarists, including the super cool Dominic Miller (Sting's main man), and an ass-kicking brass section. And so to bed.

On Sunday morning we headed to Hampstead Heath for a stroll down memory lane. We took an unfamiliar route turning onto the Heath just before Jack Straw's Castle and soon got lost. A phone call to a local friend and much GPS consulting soon got us out of there and back on Heath Street where it was time for lunch. We found an adequate Greek place (Bacchus) near the station and had a decent meal of hummus and lamb chops.

We had arranged to meet some friends in the Sir Richard Steele on Haverstock Hill. This is a place of low resort much frequented by scum bags and super-annuated rock musicians. Ideal for a spot of Sunday afternoon drinking. By sheer coincidence it transpired that an old friend Johnny Johnson was playing so we settled down to a couple of hours of rock and roll. It's a long time since I've heard Eddie Cochran's Cut Across Shorty sung in anger. And a fair old dollop of Jerry Lee Lewis - great stuff.

But the schedule was remorseless so at 7pm we headed down to the Roundhousewhere we'd booked tickets for the burlesque circus La Soiree.. Good dirty fun with some notable balancing acts and juggling. Some of the characters combined comedic patter with virtuoso tricks. The girl with the hula hoops fair stole the show.

On Monday, our last day, we finally got to the Courtauld Institute on the Strand. A fine eclectic collection - Van Gogh, Manet, Gaughin and a number of great Cezannes. An interesting curiosity for me was the Wyndham Lewis collection - including a fine cubist self-portrait.

Our hotel, the Radisson Vanderbilt, was a major find. Its location beside Gloucester Road tube station was ideal for exploring the city and it had all the facilities of a decent hotel for only £70 a night.

A Letter the Irish Times Didn't Publish

2012-01-07T09:37:00.003Z

Date: Thu, 05 Jan 2012 14:29:46 +0000
To:
Subject: Reporting on Caroline Walsh's Death

Dear Sir,

In the interests of accuracy, something I’m sure Caroline Walsh took seriously, Kathy Sheridan’s account of her funeral (Irish Times 27th December) needs to be corrected. She did not, as reported, die “unexpectedly in St Vincent’s Hospital”. Her body was removed from the sea near Seapoint and taken to St. Vincent’s.

The Irish Times showed no such coyness about mental illness and suicide in its recent reporting of the Kate Fitzgerald tragedy.

Depression and its often tragic consequences should be discussed openly. I would expect a newspaper of record like the Irish Times to put aside its fine feelings for a colleague and tell the truth.

Regards,

Jackie Kyle and Oscar Wilde

2011-12-20T17:13:00.009Z

A friend invited me to a sports award dinner in the Burlington Hotel last night. A black tie affair attended by a large number of mostly male business folk and a good smattering of our leading sports figures - past and present. We had Deirdre Ryan the long jumper at our table - a graceful and charming woman who would do credit to a catwalk. Rugby was well in evidence with Paul O'Connell and Gordon D'Arcy representing the present and the likes of Michael Gibson, Jack Kyle, and Ray McLoughlin reminding us of the past. The newly minted pundit Alan Quinlan was looking fit and well - and attracting a lot of admirers - mostly male. Eamon Coughlan and Ronnie Delaney were also there and lots of old boxers and GAA stars. Giovanni Trappatoni was at the next table being closely supervised by the oleaginous John Delaney. And I had Bill Cullen and his Apprentice team at the table behind me - like a mafia don with his attendants.

I tried to avoid bothering anyone who didn't fall into my immediate orbit but I must confess I did make a special effort to say hello to the great Jack Kyle. It's hard to believe this small spry personable man is actually 85. He could not have been friendlier and we spoke for around 30 minutes about all manner of things. When I made some reference to my interest in art he launched into an anecdote about a Dan O'Neill painting that he once owned. He had it hanging in his house in Zambia for years and when the frame fell apart he brought it into a local framer to get fixed. While in there it was spotted by a British art dealer and he was offered £30,000 for it. He took the money but you felt he still regretted it. He then got talking about Oscar Wilde and lamenting the fact that two such great Irishmen as Wilde and Sir Edward Carson should end up on opposite sides in a court room. He launched into a word perfect rendition of a substantial chunk of the The Ballad of Reading Gaol: "for each man kills the thing he loves ...". He went on to heap praise on De Profoundis and bemoan the sad fate suffered by Wilde.

As we were saying goodbye he confided in me that he was delighted to get an opportunity to talk about something other than rugby and promised we'd discuss Yeats the next time we met. I had to go and spoil things then by asking him which of his two great scrum half partners he preferred to play with, John O'Meara or Andy Mulligan. His answer was masterfully diplomatic. He maintained that O'Meara had the quicker pass and so gave him more time do things. Mulligan on the other hand took pressure off him by making regular breaks and kicking more. He seemed fond of both of them telling me that he had visited O'Meara last year shortly before he died, and recounting an anecdote about when Mulligan applied for a job and was asked what religion he was. His response was "what religion do you want me to be?". As I headed home he was still there going strong in the middle of an admiring throng. A true gentleman.

Christopher Hitchens

2011-12-17T17:00:00.006Z

Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and the innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,

Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice, conceit,
Lays its honours at their feet.

Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.

These lines from Auden's poem In Memory of W B Yeats could also apply to Christopher Hitchens. He was infuriating, politically inconsistent, an intellectual bully boy, and a great harbourer of grudges but above all else he was a wonderful lively writer.

I'm in the middle of his recent book of essays (Arguably) and as usual with Hitchens finding it entertaining and annoying in equal measures. i used to admire unconditionally his colourful writing and his political polemics but found myself going off him in recent years. His tiresome backing of G.W. Bush and the Iraq invasion long after the rest of the world had seen it for the debacle it was diminished his standing in most reasonable peoples' eyes. Before that there was his shameful involvement in the Monica Lewinsky affair. He gave evidence against Clinton to a Senate committee - siding with the monstrous Kenneth Starr. What was it with him and Clinton? The sustained vehemence of his attacks suggested something personal - maybe a Washington social slight. When writing on other subjects he would frequently drag in an unflattering allusion to Clinton. Most peculiar. I also found his uncritical admiration of Martin Amis a bit mawkish. No one's that perfect - a lot of what he writes about him, especially in Hitch 22, comes perilously close to gushing. Amis's view of Hitchens fell far short of adoration. He saw the talent for rhetoric and disputation but also saw the flexible principles and the tendency to take things personally.

And yet he wrote beautifully and sympathetically about Philip Larkin and other literary figures such as Betjamin, Waugh (lost on me) and George Orwell.

i saw him at the Gate Theatre a few years ago - around the time God is not Great was published. He was doing PR for his book and the event was a debate with God botherer John Waters, chaired by Brenda Power. It rapidly descended into a one man show. Power was plainly in thrall to Hitchens and gave him free rein. Waters was strangely muted and never got a blow in. To avoid embarrassment at a palpable mismatch Power moved quickly to a Q and A session. This descended into farce as Hitchen's response to any awkward question was "fuck off, next question". Charming stuff. Maybe he'd had a long lunch.

You have to admire the way he dealt with his final illness - filing what will be a posthumous article for Vanity Fair in which he challenges Nietzsche's dictum that whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Not his best but certainly his bravest.

Reasons to Get Mad - Part 1

2011-12-15T12:15:00.004Z

1. The energetic foisting of the debased currency that is Kevin Cardiff on Europe - rewarding failure again.
2. A universal property tax that charges the same for a cottage and a castle.
3. Enda addresses the nation on austerity and then pushes the salary of an erstwhile minion above the limit he specified. A Haughey moment for which he won't be forgiven.
4. A budget that saw high-earners untouched and those in trouble pushed deeper in the mire.
5. The big lie that is the Croke Park agreement. If you believe in public sector reform then you probably believe in the tooth fairy as well. It's all about leaving senior civil servants untouched. The rest is blather.
6. Allowing Fingleton and Fitzpatrick to walk the streets blithely.
7. And of course the big one: The brazen effrontery of a government asking tax payers to bail out the bankers and property goons who gambled us into this mess. And consequently the steady undermining of our independence and our bank balances.

And if all that isn't bad enough we have Gay Byrne back on TV and radio as if he'd never retired.

Arthur Koestler

2011-12-02T13:52:00.006Z

I've just finished Michael Scammell's surely definitive biography of Arthur Koestler, one of the great intellectual heroes of the 20th Century. It's a warts and all job with particular emphasis on Koestler's relentless womanising. He liked to operate from a domestic base so he was always living with one woman while he chased the others. But he was as relentless in the pursuit of truth and political justice as he was in chasing a well-turned ankle. It's remarkable the number of great events in European history he was involved in. He was an early Zionist and travelled to Palestine in the early 1920's to support the burgeoning Israel (but found the physical labour on a kibbuz not to his taste); he was Spain during the Spanish Civil War (narrowly escaping execution) and was in France when the Nazis invaded.

He saw through Stalin long before most of European intellectuals (such as Sartre) and his most famous novel (Darkness at Noon) did much to open people's eyes to the monster in the East. His campaign against capital punishment in England led to its eventual abolition, his articles in the Observer and his book Reflections on Hanging were hugely influential. Eventually he became disillusioned with politics and turned his attention to science. My favourite book of his is The Sleepwalkers, an accessible study of the history of cosmology that brought you into the worlds of Kepler, Galileo, Copernicus and Tycho Brae. A book I'm sure John Banville read before he started his novels on Kepler and Copernicus. I also enjoyed The Act of Creation, a study of the origins of creativity. Late in life he got into trouble with the Jewish lobby for having the temerity to suggest that the European Jews that emigrated to Palestine may have descended from the Khazars rather than from one of the 12 tribes of Israel. He also dabbled with parapsychology - an interest that did much to diminish his later reputation.

When his health deteriorated (he had Parkinson's amongst other ailments) he committed suicide along with his much younger (and healthier) wife Cynthia. He got much abuse for apparently dragging her into it but anyone reading of her long-term devotion to him would not have surprised at her willingness to join him.

Ruminations on the Art Market

2011-11-30T09:44:00.004Z

I attended the de Vere art auction in the D4 hotel yesterday evening to take the current temperature of the market. There was a modest crowd - around 170 I'd estimate and a smaller number of lots than usual (127). The estimates for the work were very modest indeed - in general less than 50% of their value during the boom. The auction houses are pricing to sell - forgetting their erstwhile clients who bought for investment. A Felim Egan that sold for €10K about four years ago was estimated at €3K to €5K (although it actually went for €7K), and a large Gwen O'Dowd (42 x 53 inches) at a paltry €800 to €1,200. So bargains to be had.

The market has definitely got more refined and discerning. Bad paintings by well-known artists are not selling and buyers are mostly sticking to the lower end of the estimates. A high percentage of work (around 30%) was unsold - much of it dross. Some highlights: Dan O'Neill was strong, King and Queen going for €27K (€7K above lower estimate) and Jessica for €14K (€4K above lower estimate); a bucolic piece by Frank McKelvey got €20K (€6K above); two standard Paul Henrys just about made their reserves of €60K and €70K; Gerard Dillon was weak and a 3 of his pieces didn't sell; an exquisite Conor Fallon horse in polished steel (the star of the show for me) went for €13K (€6K above lower estimate); the uneven Sean McSweeny and the uneven Tony O'Malley got uneven prices and Teskey and Shinnors hung in there just above their estimates. But the large Gwen O'Dowd painting from her Grand Canyon series at €800 was the bargain of the show. She may not be pleased but the buyer certainly was.

The image above is Dan O'Neill's Jessica.

Gillian Welch at the Grand Canal Theatre

2011-11-18T17:25:00.005Z

My first visit to the Grand Canal Theatre and I'm impressed. Easy car park access, helpful staff, decent sized bar (designed for interval drinks), roomy seats, and great acoustics and sight lines. I would be happy to attend a play, a lecture, or a classical music event here - but it's way too staid for the kind of music Gillian Welch plays. She needs Whelan's or at worst the Olympia to do justice to the mixture of country, blues, folk and bluegrass she delivers. Shit kicking music needs a grungy venue. At an early stage she chided the crowd for being subdued - a valid complaint but the blame lies with the formal layout of the venue.

But that's a mere quibble for this was the best gig I've seen in Dublin since the last Ry Cooder one. Having been unwell lately I was a bit disgruntled and self-absorbed but I was soon lifted out of it. She ranged over her back catalogue for two hours or so without putting a cowboy-booted foot wrong. I'd mention highlights except every song seemed a highlight - maybe Elvis Presley Blues and Time the Revelator or her haunting version of Neil Young's Pocahontas. Her pellucid voice and her seamless harmonies with her cowboy hatted partner Dave Rawlings were accompanied by some tasty guitar from both of them and the odd banjo interlude. She kept up a charming patter between songs and even treated us to a bit of tap dancing. Great show.

And by the way its Gillian as in gill rather than Jill.

How Infinitely Tedious ...

2011-11-17T10:46:00.004Z

I for one was hoping that our team of boring well-organised journeymen would not qualify for Euro 2012. But having ingloriously dragged themselves out of a group containing such luminaries as Andorra, Albania and Macedonia they managed to see off the might of Estonia in the playoffs. Glory days eh. In the days when I gave a shit about soccer I watched them beat England and Italy.

The national frenzy has already begun and will continue unabated until the end of next summer. Already we've had a Credit Union official on the radio telling the aspirant dolts how they can garner the readies to facilitate their lumpen meanderings through Poland or the Ukraine. The country is heading for the abyss, the new government is avoiding any radical solutions (don't affront the civil service unions), and by the way we seem to have lost our sovereignty, but our boys in green are oblivious.

Maybe they are encouraged by the excessive soccer coverage on all media. There's a whole fleet of journalists out there trying to justify their existence by pontificating on what's a very simple game really. Chief amongst them is Johnny Giles who's special gift is for stating, at tedious length, the bleeding obvious. But he's not alone - there's a standing army of ex-players who vie with each other to inherit his mantle. Their common qualities seem to be a complete absence of wit, a limited vocabulary, and an ability to make a mountain out of a molehill. Step in Ron, Phil, Ronnie, and even St. Paul. The only one worth listening to is Graham Taylor - Newstalk's European correspondent - and he's got the inestimable advantage of seeing Messi play every week.

Fie on't.

Vue at the RHA: Observations

2011-11-07T19:06:00.007Z

All creatures great and small from the Irish art scene turned up last Thursday at the RHA for Vue - a showcase for the leading contemporary Irish art galleries, not to be confused with the decidedly inferior Art Fair at the RDS. The attendance included Frank B. and the immaculately turned out Michael, Eamon the journalist, Campbell B. looking more spry than I've seen him for a while, Suzanne, Ger with fez, that tall languid guy with the long floppy grey hair, Mary late of the Hallward, big Eoin from IMMA, and of course J. (looking out for someone more important than the person she's talking to).

It seemed more a social than a selling scene - there was a huge turnout and a great buzz, but a definite dearth of red spots. The Taylor Gallery just inside the entrance to the main room seemed to belie this impression as they displayed five or six sold pieces - these however turned out to be tiny David Quinn works at €130 each. What a falling off was here from the halcyon days of Le Brocquy and O'Malley at their peak pulling power.

Moving on from the Taylor stand we came to the Rubicon Gallery which seemed to focus exclusively on Donald Teskey - not a bad thing I'd say. They were doing a roaring trade in his beautiful book of Connemara images (Donald gamely signing and schmoozing). The the stand displayed a fine selection of his oils, etchings and watercolours. You'd be forgiven for thinking that it was a gallery devoted to the work of one artist - but you wouldn't of course say this within hearing of the formidable Josephine lest a basilisk's retribution ensue. Two of the most impressive displays were the print works available from the Graphic Studio and the Stoney Road Press. In both cases the late lamented Bill Crozier's work loomed large but they had a lot more on offer. Nearby the Oliver Sears space was dominated by a fine Joseph Walsh glass-topped table on which I had to deter a couple of bibulous art matrons from depositing their glasses.

The amiable Paul Kane, looking a tad wan and fatigued, was attracting the very large gay vote. I like the way he pitches his prices but he desperately needs to look at his cheap and tatty labeling. A small thing but significant in a visually sophisticated milieu. The Kerlin was represented by a shorn David who is now looking to the burgeoning art scene in Abu Dhabi. Most galleries are now looking abroad for sales (especially London and New York) but this was a new one on me. Around the corner was Nicholas Gore-Grimes from the Crosse Gallery looking absurdly young. He's recently performed a cull on his stable of artists that included the fragrant Siobhan McDonald and the doughty Bridget Flannery. including the doughty Bridget Flannery. "Good for them and good for me" he reckoned.

Other things to catch my eye were a fine Le Brocquy etching of Seamus Heaney on sale at the IMMA stand for a mere €1,200; and a striking red heart-shaped organic piece by Eilis O'Connell.

Charlie Tyrrell Comes Clean at the RHA

2011-10-23T16:36:00.005+01:00

A curious event at the RHA last Wednesday. The amiable Pat Murphy accompanied Charlie Tyrrell around his exhibition and discussed his influences and his methods of working. An unusual insight into the inner sanctum of an artist - and surprising that it came from the famously testy and rigorous Tyrrell.

While nobody was so crass as to mention the challenging nature of Tyrrell's severe abstraction, you did feel that Pat Murphy was struggling for a foothold when he pointed to a horizontal line on one piece and suggested that this could be seen as a horizon line and thus represent the influence of landscape on the work. To Tyrrell's credit he played down this influence - saying that while he "leaves the door open to landscape" he doesn't welcome it in. He did concede that it may subconsciously intrude. He also declared a passion for grey that is influenced by "the grey of West Cork in November". He eschews realism and declared that he is a believer in the "complete contrivance of painting". He also spoke of the importance of "absolute finish", getting it right, citing Titian as an exemplar. You can see this is his perfectly honed images and immaculately presented work - down to the well-crafted wooden boxes in which his aluminium pieces are delivered.

Tyrrell never uses brushes: he just "ploughs on the paint" and then scrapes it off with Japanese spatulas. He wants to break away from the notion of easel painting. Layering and scraping he uncovers his images. "There's a minimalist in me" he declares and cites Donald Judd as an influence. I wouldn't argue wit that - even his titles these days are minimal (C6.10 etc.).

Rancid Ruminations - October 2011

2011-10-23T15:39:00.005+01:00

So the polls are saying Gallagher for president - how can such a thing be. He's a Fianna Fail-er for God's sake. It's the clearest possible indication that most people now see us as an economy rather than a nation. Give the creature a job in the Department of Enterprise - where his apparent entrepreneurial wizardry can be of use. It is irrelevant in the Aras. Higgins declaiming his poetry is a better fit.

The establishment campaign against McGuinness continues apace. I notice that chubby girl who writes fluff about her family in the Irish Times has joined in - see last Saturday's paper.

Interesting Rugby World Cup final. The southern hemisphere referee Joubert made sure that the hosts prevailed by leaving them unpenalized for gross offences (high tackles, offsides, handling on the ground etc.) while punishing France for lesser ones. Both sides were magnificent in defence and it could have gone either way.

I for one find unseemly all the crowing about Ghadaffi's death - especially considering the brutal manner of it. And do we really need to see all those appalling video clips on national television. The sick and prurient can gloat over them on YouTube.

You have to give the Israelis credit for at least being consistent in their judgements on the relative value of an Israeli and a Palestinian life. The swapping of Gilad Shalit for 1,000 Palestinian prisoners is the most dramatic statement of the perceived disparity in value.

It ill behoves us to take anything Gay Byrne says seriously but his recent ejaculation about RTE stars deserving their enormous salaries because of their lack of job security really bates Banagher. We are stuck with most of them for life: Pat, Ryan, Auntie Marian, Joe, even Gay himself until he retired (or did he?). The only way you lose your job there is if you die like Gerry Ryan.

The Presidential Farce

2011-10-10T15:26:00.004+01:00

Who really cares - aside from the media and a few concerned fools in the political parties? I do believe that the general public's interest is being artificially stimulated by a media desperate for a story other than the continuing one about the deep economic shit we're in. And the bloody candidates, God protect us.

Dana: A faded pop singer with old-fashioned family values and strong religious beliefs. Light weight and ludicrous.

Gay Mitchell: A Fine Gael shill without an ounce of gravitas - and old-fashioned right-wing views. Even his own party have disowned him. It's now dawning on them that the vote they got in the General Election was a protest vote against Fianna Fail and not an indication of new Fine Gael loyalists.

David Norris: Please shut up. All bluster, bombast and bonhomie. I don't care about the pleading letters - loyalty and forgiveness are excellent qualities - it's his perpetual showing off and attention seeking I find tiresome.

Mary Davis: Those air-brushed posters, dear oh dear. She should have embraced her essential crone and we would have been more charmed. I'm sure she would make a presentable president but I remain suspicious of all those favours she got from Fianna Fail governments.

Sean Gallagher: All square-jawed testosterone and economic solutions. He'd make a great candidate for the Apprentice but not for president.

Michael D.: Sound as a bell on most issues. Is he a bit frail at this stage? He has the Irish and the poetic inclinations - a touch maybe of the Cearbhall Ó Dálaighs. And he may prove equally obdurate if matters of principle arise. Should win.

Martin McGuinness: The shadow of a gun man. He knows he can't win but he's a stalking horse for Sinn Fein's ambitions in the south and anything close to 20% of the vote will be seen as a huge success. He is also the only candidate who doesn't concur with the cosy economic consensus.

The Dark End of the Street

2011-09-30T11:10:00.005+01:00

I've always been drawn to the darker side of art as any visitor to my house will attest. The current exhibition (Black and White) at the Oliver Sears Gallery takes me right where I want to be - to the dark end of the street. There is a hardly a dud piece in this outstanding show but the moody presence of Robert Motherwell's Elegy looms large over everything else. It lives up to Motherwell's own description of it as "a funeral song for something one cared about". See it and weep - then stay and admire the rest of the show. The other pieces that struck me were a small troubling Diane Arbus, an unusual black and white Hughie O'Donoghue, a gloriously explicit Picasso drawing, and an elegant, immaculately crafted Joseph Walsh table. The latter's order and decorum seemed incongruous amidst the brooding chaos of most of the other work.

McGuinness is Good for You

2011-09-20T15:05:00.002+01:00

I welcome the entry of Martin McGuinness into a presidental race dominated by media goons and political shills. At the very least he provides a radical alternative to the predictable views of the Labour and Fine Gael candidates. This country needs a new outfit – not a retailoring of the worn out Fianna Fail suit (take in the trousers, fix the holes in the pockets etc.). We all know that Fine Gael will not touch the bankers, and Labour will do nothing to discomfit the upper echelons of the public service. So combined in government they adhere to Fianna Fail policy on those rotten boroughs.

Fintan O’Toole (Irish Times, 20th Sep) joins the predictable establishment assault on McGuinness and certainly scores a point with his assertion about civilian casualties in the North. This may give pause to those who would point to War of Independence parallels and see McGuinness as a modern version of Michael Collins. But we must not forget the murky civil rights landscape in the North that was transformed following the activities of McGuinness and the IRA and the subsequent peace process he did so much to facilitate.

He may not win the prize but I suspect he will make it a far more interesting contest.

Rancid Ruminations - September 2011

2011-09-18T13:00:00.005+01:00

- A perfect Auntie Marian moment on RTE1 this morning. During a discussion on Sarah Palin's alleged affair with a black basketball player one of her panel opined that you couldn't even call it an affair as neither were married at the time, so it was merely what people do before they get married (i.e. screw around). Finucane's response: "well what some people do".

- Demented polemicist and Bush lover Christopher Hitchens gets a fine skewering from Fintan O'Toole in today's Observer:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/sep/16/arguably-christopher-hitchens-review-essays
He initially compares Hitchens to George Orwell and then proceeds to show the many ways he differs, including some ugly espousals of Enoch Powell's views on immigration and Empire nostalgic guff about the English language. He also scoffs at Hitchens' embracing of the US as the new Anglophone empire - replacing his beloved British Empire. Bracing stuff. Hitchens writes well, there's no doubt, but that's not enough to forgive him his unpleasant views.

- Beware all visits to the doctor. I ambled into my GP last Friday afternoon looking for a prescription to clear up a minor sinus problem. He did the usual tests and finding something a bit dodgy sent me to the nearest A & E for a few tests. Without boring you with the details (well let's say I don't recommend arterial blood tests), I suddenly found myself in the intensive care unit, wedged between a man evidently dying from cancer (and making desperate attempts to get out of bed festooned with drips and leads), and a young junkie suffering from a stab wound with a very uninhibited hawking habit. The reason I knew all about them was that only thin curtains separated us and the doctors made no attempt at discretion as they talked with them and about them. I managed to free myself the next day after a discussion with a very impressive consultant (tall, handsome, articulate, debonair and free from arrogance and bullshit - sounded English or maybe colonial). He told me the facts, and the odds, and left the decision up to me.

-

A Social Predicament I Hope I Never Have to Deal with Again

2011-09-08T18:17:00.011+01:00

My late August tour de France was spoiled by a severe chest infection that rendered me incapable of enjoying the delights of the local cuisine and sampling the wines of the Bordeaux region. I limped home a few days early to lick my wounds – and to prepare emotionally and physically for the encounter in Croke Park. A heavy-duty dose of antibiotics renders you depleted for quite a time afterwards and in retrospect perhaps my social comeback at Croke Park came a bit early. I suppose I should have taken it easy on the drink. There were the two pints in anticipation of the game, and the three pints for consolation afterwards. And then of course a bottle of wine with dinner.

Anyway I woke Monday morning (after a restless night) very sick indeed and getting up was not an option. Nor was it an option on Tuesday: my sinuses were blocked, my throat ached, my head throbbed, my tongue stung with a spiteful ulcer, and a dodgy tooth added to my grief. Another sleepless night followed with the malevolent tooth reigning supreme. I managed to get an emergency appointment with my dentist on Wednesday. She declared I had an abscess and despite my equivocations decided she had to get to work immediately. This involved much digging deep amongst the nerves. Traumatic.

I resolved to get back to bed immediately but as I was out of reading matter I decided on a quick visit to Hodges Figgis in town. Coming out of the bookshop with the latest Franzen I began to feel decidedly light-headed. I hadn’t eaten a thing all day, nor even had a coffee, so I headed for Fixx on the corner of Molesworth Street and Dawson Street. I ordered a coffee and pastry and barely made it to a seat – so faint was I. The place was packed and I found myself perched between two burly middle-aged guys.

I was relieved I had made it without fainting but the fun was only just starting. I took a sip of the black coffee and a bite of a croissant and then seemed to slip into some kind of reverie. It was quite pleasant and amusing at first and I remember chortling a bit. Then very abruptly it turned very nasty and I recall being dragged backwards by some malevolent and implacable force – I was aware of two bright red orbs and also of the extreme frenzy that accompanied this undoubtedly terminal attack. Then nothing. I came around after I don’t know how long. My coffee was still hot but my two flankers had disappeared. I looked around - nobody seemed to have noticed my predicament. There was cold sweat streaming down my face, and horrible relatu, something luke-warm dribbling down my leg. The horror. Luckily I hadn’t drunk anything that day so the volume was low and my trousers were up to absorbing it. But how to escape. Should I call the staff and say I’ve had an accident. The right thing to do of course but the social consequences (a crowded city centre restaurant) far outweighed the harm an encounter with a drop of urine would cause their customers. Should I attempt to dab my seat dry with the napkins that abounded. I pondered awhile. It was raining heavily outside – in such circumstances a wet seat is not unusual. I rose quickly and shuffled out into the companionable rain. My car was nearby, thankfully, I judiciously placed a plastic bag on the front seat and struggled home. Into the shower and back to the bed again - with what's proving to be the excellent Franzen novel.

I may get up tomorrow.

Cats Mistreat Pussies

2011-09-05T18:34:00.003+01:00

Tipperary were a disgrace. From the first whistle they allowed themselves to be physically intimidated by a fired up Kilkenny team. The extreme laissez-faire attitude of the referee aided Kilkenny's tactics. That malign homunculus Tommy Walsh was so busy hitting everyone within reach that he democratically included the ref himself - whose smashed nose caused a lengthy delay but resulted in no attempt to impose a bit of restraint on the brute physicality that prevailed. But Kilkenny didn't just win the physical exchanges, they won the tactical battle as well. They allowed Tipp no room to develop their elegant attacking gambits. They hustled and tackled with more intensity, and seemed to win all the fifty fifty balls - the spring-heeled hatchet man Walsh excelling in this area. They were just plain hungrier and that can't be summoned up from the sideline. At no stage did I feel that Tipp could win and so left the ground disappointed but with no sense that we deserved anything better. I'm sure as the team scatters to Thurles, Toomevara, Mullinahone and the more bucolic hamlets everyone of them is feeling the remorse of not doing himself justice. Ryan must take some blame also. It was obvious this whirlwind was coming and his men seemed ill-prepared to counter it.

Cody's Conundrum

2011-09-01T20:41:00.003+01:00

Cody wants this one so badly he can taste it. It’s visceral. And a win alone will hardly suffice. He wants to slaughter these upstarts. They had the temerity to halt the run of the greatest team in history. He burns to show that last year was a mere aberration, due mainly to King Henry being hors de combat. He also wants to deal with the heresy that Kilkenny are being supplanted by another great team, or even, whisper it, a greater team. Then he can retire with an impregnable reputation.

But he is taking a gamble with his legacy, he could have retired in glory last year. If Kilkenny lose again this time it will take some luster off their reputation (and his) and people will begin to speak of Tipp in the exalted way they had been speaking of Kilkenny. ("That was a great Kilkenny team but not a patch on the Tipp team that followed them.") So pay attention Declan Ryan in Clonoulty. They will come at you like a whirlwind in the first quarter and if you don’t withstand them you are doomed. Start like you did against Dublin and you are truly doomed. And keep the bloody ball away from Tommie Walsh. And please bring on Brendan Maher earlier this time.

This young and still improving Tipp team have matched Kilkenny in the last two All-Irelands. Two years ago they realized that Kilkenny are not unbeatable. Who will be more motivated? Cody and Kilkenny raging against the dying of the light, or the new kids on the block full of confidence and still retaining an edge of bitterness about the one that got away two years ago.

I think that Tipp have grown into a great team and that they will prove it on Sunday. But it will be close. A few bob on the draw at 11-1 mightn’t be a bad idea. But Tipp to win the replay!

Post script: The forecast rain may suit Kilkenny better. Maybe I should take that 6-4 against Kilkenny offered by Paddy Power as insurance.

Here's a Quare One for You

2011-08-30T22:08:00.005+01:00

Touring the Bourdeaux region of France recently chasing wines that were good but inexpensive, or not too bad and not too expensive. This proved to be an impossible task: the cheap ones are pure poison and you have to pay way more than I consider reasonable for anything I consider drinkable. Still it was nice to visit Saint Julien and Paulliac and to travel through the famous chateaux like Lynch-Bages, Leoville-Las-Cases and all the other shining stars of the Haut-Medoc.

But this is not the point of my story. As I was doing my leisurely thing with the girls, I was struck down with a spectacular chest infection, complete with acute sinusitis, strep throat, and a host of streaming purulent side effects. I didn't sleep for 5 days and ensured that anyone in a room with me didn't either as I coughed, snorted, snuffled and moaned. Every hour or so I would repair to the bathroom to do maintenance on my poor afflicted snout. I had intended to visit my French-based daughter and her family who were on holiday 40 miles down the coast of Bordeaux - near the Dune du Pyla. Instead I took to the bed in a hotel outside Bourdeaux and she decided to come to me instead. The hotel was set in extensive grounds, with a veritable forest surrounding it - bear this fact in mind. The morning of their visit I arose from my sweaty couch to visit the girls who were working on their tans by the swimming pool. I assured them I was still alive and then retired to the seclusion of the woods to make a private phone call. Ok I was ringing Paddy Power to back a rare Roger Charlton runner at Deauville (Definightly in a Group 3). I found a friendly tree stump in the heart of the wooded area and performed my discreet transaction. i stayed a while in sylvan seclusion brooding on my plight then returned to my sick bed.

My daughter and her two lively sons and more restrained husband arrived a couple of hours later. I stayed abed until dinner when I joined them. They had been set loose in the grounds of the hotel for the afternoon and one of them returned to the adults by the pool with a set of car keys which he had found by an old tree stump in an obscure corner of the woods. These just happened to my car keys, which for reasons mysterious, I had been carrying around with me as I did my earlier business. I'd obviously laid them down by the tree stump as I engaged telephonically with Paddy Power. What are the odds? The kids could have stayed by the pool, the woods were extensive, I had no knowledge the keys were even missing.

Consider the implications of being in the middle of France in a laden car with no keys - or no code or alternative set available in Ireland. I assume I would have had to set up a joint AA/SAAB initiative with all the multifareous hassle and expense that entailed - and me a very sick man. Definightly came second at Deauville but maybe I had used up my luck already.

What a Load of Rubbish

2011-08-23T14:20:00.004+01:00

On the way from Cherbourg to Bordeaux I stop off at the charming and characterful (Chateau, Cathedral, old town etc.) town of Vitre. I stay in an eccentric little hotel which seems to be run by a retired prostitute and her poodle. In fact aspects of the hotel, large circular baths, discreet side entrance and liberal guest policy (I sat next to a Great Dane at breakafast, and many of the guests had dogs sleeping in their rooms), suggest it may have been a brothel in an earlier incarnation. But it was cheap, clean and very friendly. I was just sorry I didn't have my dogs with me.

Walking around the town later I was impressed by the cleanliness, the plentiful public toilets and the general air of a place that cares for its citizenry. Their rubbish bin operation, which I came upon in action (see image: street level bin on top of large tank being emptied), was the most impressive aspect however. All around the town were what looked like standard issue rubbish bins. However below each bin was a very large subterranean storage tank into which rubbish placed in the bin dropped. Instead of having to clear (or not) overflowing bins daily, the well organised local government had to do so once a week at most I reckon. Now Vitre is a modest town in the poorer part of Brittany (a decent two-bedroom house costs €200K). Isn't it a wonder that our well-travelled local governments aren't able to come up with a comparably elegant solution to our rubbish problems.

Dublin versus Tipperary: The All-Ireland Hurling Semi-final

2011-08-23T14:15:00.002+01:00

There are I’m sure many different routes and routines employed by people for big matches in Croke Park. If I’m in company we’ll drive to the Gravedigger’s in Glasnevin, enjoy a brace of pints there, leave the car and walk down to Croke Park along the Canal.

On my own I’m inclined to leave the car at home and take the DART to Connolly Station. There I join the crowds wending their way the 20 minutes or so to the ground. I normally come out of Connolly, head North and turn left at the Five Lamps – as most people do. This time I took a different route, turning left earlier on Lower Buckingham Street and heading slightly uphill to where it joins Summerhill. Buckingham Street is an unreconstructed old Dublin slum – we’re back in the tenements. There are a few opportunists using rolled up newspapers (a nice anachronistic touch) to guide people into parking spots on the upper end of the street – but only the terminally naïve or totally lost succumb.

I have heard rumours (well actually John Leahy) that the Tipp supporters are staying at home until the final – the Kerry Complaint. Empirical evidence suggests otherwise. In fact there seem to be more Tipp than Dublin supporters about.

It’s a tiring walk and a hot day so I am glad to reach the stadium and enjoy a pint bottle of Bulmers. By the way, there always seems to be more than a pint in those bottles – and it’s not the ice because I always refuse it. The crowd is more gregarious than a rugby crowd and I strike up conversations with a various characters – a blocky opinionated red-haired Dublin club hurler and an old snedger with extreme BO from Thurles – both knowledgeable and passionate about their teams. It’s an older crowd generally. There is a preponderance of late middle-aged men.

In all sporting contests where teams are reasonably equal you have to ask who is going to bring the greater intensity, who is more motivated, more cranked up. In this match it’s obviously Dublin. They are missing some key players and are being written off by all the media and more significantly by the bookies – one to sixteen in fact, with the spread around 10 points.

And so it proves. Dublin come at Tipp like dervishes, and if it weren’t for a very fortunate Lar Corbett goal would have been ahead at half time. As it was they went in level after a half they dominated. Tipperary are a composed and confident team and they didn’t wilt under the Dublin fire. They scored a few elegant points at the start of the second half and from then on just did enough to hold them at bay. A gorgeous sideline cut from Noel McGrath was the highlight, and Padraic Maher showed once again what a key player he is for Tipp. They will bring greater intensity to the showdown with Klkenny in September – but so will Kilkenny.

Heaven Forfend

2011-08-10T10:56:00.002+01:00

Gay Byrne for president – how can such a thing be. At a time of radical questioning of the status quo, and of the institutions that got us into this mess, how could anybody think that a retired entertainer from a bygone era should be president. We need someone with an open mind – not a dogmatic conservative with Victorian ideas about crime and punishment. And I would also question whether he has the intellectual heft for the office. He’s a lightweight who once tapped into the zeitgeist but is now a burnt out case.

Witness his daddy knows best fulminations in his role with the Road Safety Authority – gloating over a heavy sentences handed out to some woman in the UK. Remember his nasty ambushing of the fragile Annie Murphy on behalf of his old buddy Eamon Casey. Or indeed his failed ambush on Gerry Adams – someone who knew how to look after himself. But his worst moment for me came on his radio show (sometime in the mid-Nineties) where Thatcher was touting her recently published autobiography. The questioning was anodyne and non-contentious - no challenge on the hunger strikers for example, and no mention of her breathtakingly arrogant dismissal of the 1984 NI peace proposals (“out, out, out”). But we don’t expect depth from Gay so no big surprise there. What did dismay me however was the appallingly unctuous tone he adopted. His normal confident chirpiness was replaced by a kind of craven deference – voice lowered, delivery slowed down, reverence in every word. And this from our leading national broadcaster to a woman whose contempt for Ireland was palpable throughout her career. Shameful.

Lord he is not worthy.

Recent Reads - August 2011

2011-08-08T17:12:00.003+01:00

The Pale King by David Foster Wallace

Unfinished and supposedly inferior to Wallace’s magnum opus Infinite Jest, I found it hugely entertaining. It’s really a loose assemblage of virtuoso set pieces: the annoyingly perfect Leonard Stecyk in whose face the principal wants to sink a meat hook, the riff on his pathological sweating problem that’s straight biography I suspect, and the IRS induction scene with his Iranian guide. It’s mostly set in an IRS office somewhere in middle America and there are reams of hilariously plausible arcane detail. Read it and weep for a lost talent – although page 85 may provide some clues as to why the author killed himself.

Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

Immerse yourself in the madness of this superabundance. Drugs and excess in a tennis academy, and dark deeds in a half way house. Don’t worry about following the story, just relish the journey. The section on the cleaners in the academy (one cleans while the other gobs on the spot to be cleaned) is one of dozens of hilarious set pieces. It occasionally vanishes up its own arse with cleverness but is diverting enough to keep you hanging on.

Crime by Ferdinand von Schirach

Eleven grim vignettes by a German criminal lawyer, based on his experiences. The emphasis is on the odd, the violent and the implacable behind the bourgeois surface. Extremely gory and eminently readable. The bite sized chunks are ideal for holiday reading in the sun.

Yoga for People who Can’t be Bothered to Do It by Geoff Dyer

Some early rueful reflections from the prolific and entertaining Geoff Dyer. Part travelogue, part memoir, it contains his usual blend of honesty, humour, drugs and sex The chapter on Amsterdam is all too evocative of a similar experience I had with the local skunk and his piece on Libya (Leptis Magna) captures the torpor and spiritual ennui of those blighted arab countries..

The Professor by Terry Castle

Honesty and self-deprecating humour are the hallmarks of this US-based English lesbian academic. The stand out pieces are her visit to the lesbian haunted Georgia O’Keefe Museum in Santa Fe and the title piece, a painful account of an early and abusive love affair with a professor in a mid-West college. There’s also a pitch-perfect put down of that sacred monster Susan Sontag.

Mao’s Great Famine by Frank Dikotter

I was looking forward to this but I feel it was let down badly by its structure . Rather than an organized whole the book is randomly organized under theme headings such as Ways of Dying. The Vulnerable, and Destruction. This means you don’t get an overarching narrative but rather a loose collection of essays. Stodgy writing as well.

Come What May: The Autobiography by Donal Og Cusack

Shock horror, Cloyne boy comes out. Interesting that he laughs rather than abuses his old nemesis Frank Murphy – even telling a very sympathetic story about a suit-buying episode in Bangkok. An interesting glimpse into the secret world of inter-county hurling and what goes on behind the dressing room doors.

The Memory Chalet by Tony Judt

Tony Judt died in late 2010 from mortor neuron disease. This was his last work and it was dictated from his death bed. The essay Night is a chilling account of what it’s like to be trapped in this hideous condition. Grace under pressure in every word of this book – ending in a poignantly nostalgic recollection of a happy time in Switzerland.

Fascination by William Boyd

Boyd’s latest collection of short stories. As usual he’s an entertaining and undemanding read. He gets a little experimental with his structure in a few pieces (one, Beulah Berlin A-Z, begins each paragraph with the next letter of the alphabet, another Lunch, is written in the form of a list with appropriate headings. Unnecessarily fussy I’d say.

Two of the Good Guys

2011-08-03T14:50:00.005+01:00

Two of the good guys in the art world died recently - Lucian Freud and Bill Crozier.

I first encountered Freud's work in the original Tate in London back in the late Sixties. It was a very graphic nude of Lady Caroline Blackwood - capturing perfectly the feral nature of that aristocratic troublemaker. I liked his unromantic vision and the too too solid flesh of his nudes. He also gambled, loved dogs, and led a resolutely raffish life - all positive signifiers for me. I wasn't a fan of his celebrity nudes (the Kate Moss one was vacuous, lacking the bite of the Blackwood) but I did like his depiction of the Queen as a grim old broiler, and he was merciless on himself in his self-portraits.

Crozier was an amiable cove. I met him a few times after openings in Taylor Galleries and always found him a friendly and unpretentious figure. I remember one incident in Buswell's where he had joined me for a pint after a show and he refused to budge when a member of the Dublin art world's inner circle tried to relocate him into her group nearby. He lived in West Cork for much of the year and I would bump into him regularly down south. I wasn't a big fan of his landscape painting - too bright (even garish) and formulaic for my taste - although I did like his still lives and his early more expressive work. I like my landscapes dark, dank and mysterious - more Wordsworth than Pope. He was fond of doing prints and did some very smart work for the Graphic Studio Dublin and the Stoney Road Press. These worked best for me.

Richard Thompson at Vicar Street

2011-07-18T14:36:00.005+01:00

What a doughty old troubadour Thompson is. On he comes with his beret and his knowing smirk and delivers a 90 minute show that is polished, professional, and great fun. The crowd pleasers are all included: Beeswing, Vincent Black Lightning, Galway to Graceland etc. But there's also a moving version of Sandy Denny's classic Who Knows Where the Time Goes. He precedes this with a nice little tribute to the late lamented Sandy. The guitar playing has become more adventurous with the years but never too fussy.

At gigs I always seem to attract the sing along types who bellow in your ear so you get a disconcerting fucked up stereophonic thing going on. I remember going to an Eagles concert in the RDS years back and Ronan Collins (directly behind me) sang along with every song. I also recall having my finger broken in the Leider Halle in Stuttgart at a BB King concert when I asked a noisy black woman to shut up. This time my tormentor took it well when I asked him to desist - just as well as he turned out to be about six foot four when he stood up at the end.

Vicar Street is a fine venue if you have a strong back. The little circular seats around the tables don't work - especially if you're at the stage side of the table with nothing to lean on.

Sympathetic Magic

2011-07-17T00:32:00.003+01:00

Ok, here’s the deal. Whatever chance Darren Clarke had of winning the British Open he blew today (Saturday 16th) by not taking advantage of numerous opportunities (about 6 easy missed putts I reckon) to put distance between himself and the field. He should be 5 or 6 shots clear.

He will blow up tomorrow and be lucky to make the top ten. The only thing he’s got going for him is the unlikely cast of potential winners behind him. Surely not Bjorn with his traumatic history; surely not Dustin Johnson with his recent major travails; hardly Jiminez at this stage of his career; or the young tyro Fowler with the extraordinarily ugly wardrobe; maybe Michelson who’s a little far back or the methodical Kaymer. I think the journeyman Glover may sneak in. Heaven forfend the West Texan progmatist Campbell prevails. Whoever it is, it won’t be Clarke. So be prepared to suffer as he misses easy putts, visits the rough and begins to berate himself. Compare and contrast his heart on sleeve approach to adversity (scowl of disappointment, shoulders slumped, eyes darkened,) to the imbecilic grin with which Padraig Harrington greets golf’s slings and arrows - not of course that you'll be seeing Harrington this weekend.

And by the way, much as we all love Tom Watson does he really have to wear that shit brown wardrobe. Come on Tom, we know you’re on the Seniors Tour but lose the dun look.

CODA: That worked very well. Maybe I should start predicting Kilkenny for the All Ireland.

Have You Ever Seen the Likes of That

2011-07-10T20:53:00.003+01:00

Well no actually. Not even back in the glorious prime of Jimmy Doyle and his Hell's Kitchen enforcers in the Sixties or the lustrous Tony Reddan, Jimmy Finn and their cohorts in the Fifties. Remember today was a Munster Final and Tipp won by 7-19 to 0-19 - a margin of 21 points. This was the most complete and devastating performance I have seen by a Tipperary hurling team in the past 50 year. Tom Semple and Martin Kennedy may have had their moments before that but they are lost to me in the mists of time. This was a sustained tour de force full of passion, guile, movement, skill, and courage. Witness Bonnar Maher's hand-passes, Corbett's acrobatic commitment and uncanny positioning, Kelly's power shooting, Noel McGrath's sublime sideline cuts, John O'Brien's unique hurley skills, and the phlegmatic Cummins providing ballast for the whole crew.

Allman, Friel and Beug

2011-07-05T19:02:00.009+01:00

It's a real pleasure to see an uncomplicated shit-kicking rock band at the top of their game. Gregg Allman and his merry men delivered a high-octane blues-tinted gig at Vicar Street last Monday - to an audience as grizzled as the main man. Allman has one of the sweetest voices in rock and one of the ugliest faces. Time, heroin, coke and alcohol (and a recent liver transplant) have not diminished his talent. And he still has that amazing head of air, mostly in a lengthy pony-tail but occasionally let fly free. He has surrounded himself with a wonderful band. His late lamented brother Duane is covered by a young gun slinger on slide guitar; some mad Jewish freak does piano and organ and there's a tall cerebral sax player and the mandatory uber cool bass guy. Behind them there are two and sometimes three drummers - or more accurately one drummer and two percussionists. They do some standards, some Dylan and a lot from Greg's "Low Country Blues" album. Highlights are "I Can't be Satisified", "Just Like a Woman" and "Sweet Melissa" - but it's all good stuff.

I haven't seen a production of Brian Friel's "Translations" since Liam Neeson was an aspiring young actor. This recent production in the Abbey was a lighter, sunnier production but you were always aware of the dark stuff (the Donnelly brothers and the potato famine) hanging in the air - a distant cloud in Arcadia. I always enjoy the tension in the theatre and admire the discipline of professional actors - as a bad amateur one in my time I have some inkling of what it takes. Some creep called Crawley in the Irish Times gave this production a dubious review making a slighting reference to Oklahoma. Cheap shot. I found it zipped along and if at times there was a bucolic feel to some of the scenes it was only to mark the contrast to the looming darkness. And the audience lapped it up.

I can take abstraction in art as well as the next man. In fact I'd consider the rigorously abstract Charlie Tyrrell one of my favourite contemporary Irish artists. And I'll bow to no one in my admiration for the likes of Scully and Rothko. However I just do not get Katherine Boucher Beug - who's currently showing in the estimable Oliver Sears Gallery. I loved her recent piece in the RHA but my encounter with her work en masse has not worked for me. Better judges than me seem to rate her very highly but you can't hurry love and I'm just not convinced. I pick up hints of Scully but I also pick up a dispiriting whiff of John Noel Smith. And while I may with time and effort come around to her symphonies of stripes I will never reconcile myself to the small twee 3-D wooden tables that accompany some of the work. Heaven forfend.

A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again (with apologies to the shade of David Foster Wallace)

2011-06-14T08:14:00.003+01:00

Sojourning in Schull with some bibulous friends I decided we needed a break from the unceasing revelry. The sailing season had just commenced and the harbour had begun to fill with boats fresh from their winter quarters in dry dock. My brother-in-law (henceforth known as Skipper) was amongst the sailing fraternity eager to kick off their season so I offered the three of us as sailing companions and ballast for the next day. The weather was promising but we decided to make a final decision the following morning based on prevailing conditions.

The next day dawned and as I made my way down to Brosnan’s for the Irish Times I noticed a stiffish breeze. My hungover companions were less than enthusiastic about the whole venture but agreed to let Skipper make a decision. He too was non-committal but said he’d leave it up to us – a pattern that was to repeat itself with dire consequences later in the day. Eventually I suggested we go for a “tootle around the harbour”. I’m not sure what “tootle” actually means but everyone agreed that this was a reasonable plan.

So off we go, Skipper and Son and the three amigos. We proceed sedately around the harbour for 40 minutes or so until Skipper suggests we go look at some seals on a little island outside the harbour. And we do. So far so idyllic – apart from Skipper treating us to various physical indignities (brushed aside, leant over, groped between the legs, stood on etc.) as he went about his sailing business. After the seal sighting he suggests we head for Sherkin Island – a fairly sheltered journey about an hour and a half away. We agree and settle back. The wind is behind us so it’s relatively smooth despite the freshness of the breeze. After a while as we reach a point quite close to Cape Clear. Skipper asks would we rather go there instead as it was only 20 minutes away as against Sherkin’s one hour. He makes it clear that it’s entirely up to us. Son stays quiet - in fact he remained resolutely uninvolved in all group decisions. There is no discussion on the relative quality of the routes – it’s purely a time thing. We have a pressing engagement in Hackett’s at around six so we opt fatefully for the shorter journey.

We proceed benignly to Cape Clear and decamp for a drink while Skipper and Son remain on the boat and enjoy a little snooze – and an intense bout of biscuit scoffing. We return in about an hour and head out of the harbour towards Schull – a journey of 90 minutes or so Skipper estimates. As soon as we leave the shelter of the harbour we hit what can only be described as a boiling maelstrom. The prow rises high in the air and bangs down alarmingly (and surely plank splittingly) on the turbulent sea, the boat tilts to the side at around 45 degrees and waves wash over all five of us sitting in the unsheltered stern. We had taken down the sails for the trip home but the conditions demanded they be hastily raised to bring some stability. Some stability still meant bouncing around at a 45 degree angle and getting soaking wet. To our left on the dancing horizon I could see the ominous sight of the Fatstnet – a name forever associated with sailing fatalities. Terror and acute discomfort battled for supremacy so I decided to repair to the small cabin and confront the demons alone. There the fear and physical discomfort were joined by a feeling of acute queasiness as I began to inhale the diesel fumes. To the side the small toilet smirked at me suggestively. My gorge rose with the seas. Through the hatch I gained some comfort and distraction by observing my ashen-faced companions stoically enduring their torments. Nobody said a word. Salty dog Skipper and salty dog Son, ensconsed in water proofs, seemed unmoved by the whole debacle. Benign indifference was their attitude to our plight – although I suspect Skipper of basely entertaining some well-concealed schadenfreude.

On it went endlessly. I never quite got sick but the bile that is vomit’s precursor filled my throat. I did breathing exercises: breathe in for 10 seconds, hold for 10 seconds, breathe out for 10 seconds. Now repeat. I’m not sure that breathing in diesel fumes was helping so I quit that and distracted myself with thoughts of my loved ones and how they would get along without me.

And then it was over. As we tied up Skipper averred that it was the roughest crossing he’d ever made from Cape Clear. He also said that he was by no means certain our life jackets were still working (some gas bottle issue) but he felt that he should wait to tell us this until we docked.

Encounter with Famous Cork Artist

2011-06-10T15:46:00.006+01:00

Down to Cork for the launch of the Graphic Studio Dublin Visiting Artists show in the Lavit Gallery - en route to a weekend in Schull. As we arrive a little early (around 18:00) I decide to call and see an old artist friend in St. Luke's - the eponymous Famous Cork Artist - henceforth to be entitled FCA. A phone call to Henchey's ascertains that the FCA had left the premises a little earlier so I call to his house up the road. He answers the door, a most infrequent occurrence, and greets me with enthusiasm. It's clear that he is very well lubricated. I realise that I've made a tactical blunder - my assumption that the early hour would find him lucid was mistaken. I tell him of the event in the Lavit and suggest that he joins me and my companions later. Not a chance - he will join us now. But first he insists that we have a look around his studio. He turns off whatever mess he was cooking and we repair upstairs from the decidedly funky and hard-core bohemian living room (don't ask). The studio however is immaculate, gear laid out in serried ranks (including 2 palette knives in their wrapping) and a dozen or so paintings in various stages of preparation. There has been a long hiatus since his last show but it's clear that he's painting again - albeit on a modest scale.He treats us to the usual comparison of his work with Mozart's and we nod appreciatively if not enthusiastically. There's nothing especially new except a painting of a blasted, barren vineyard, with a couple of the denuded stalks shaped like crosses - tricksy and alien to the FCA's normal style. This is for a series he's doing on The Somme.

Viewing over he joins us in the car and we head down to the Hi B - famous for it's misanthropic owner ("the grumpiest man in Cork"). We join another old friend there and settle in for a few pints before the opening. We get up to leave after a brace of Murphy's but the FCA's glass is still half-full. The old friend offers to look after him so we decamp to the Lavit. There the amiable women from the Graphic Studio are working the room. It's a very classy print show with works by Teskey, Crozier, Barbara Rae, Mary Lohan, Hughie O'Donoghue and many others. Go and see it. Following the show we have booked a table at Isaacs - including the GSD folk. The FCA is not a big eater and I hadn't included him in the booking but as luck would have it they can squeeze him in.

Things rapidly deteriorate. The FCA has always felt that an artist is entitled to behave like an absolute prick and be tolerated by the lesser mortals around him. His opening gambit is to blatantly light up one of malodorous roll ups - inviting the immediate horrified censure of the waitress. Next he decides that one of the women at the table and himself have a special affinity, the type only available to artistic sorts - like Abelard and Heloise perhaps. She is more than a little alarmed by this sudden outburst of affection and has to be rescued by various diversionary conversational gambits. Things get worse. Thwarted of his true love he begins to abuse his food. Eschewing knife and fork he begins to eat his duck, mash, and gravy with his bare hands - scooping handfuls into his gob indiscriminately - for all the world like a naughty child looking for attention. We decide it's time to go - heading to Henchey's for a nightcap. There's no room in the car for the FCA - we have to forcibly prevent him getting in beside the deeply alarmed object of his affection. A volunteer is assigned to escort him towards Henchey's and home.

We arrive in Henchey's and enjoy a restorative pint while we brace ourselves for the arrival of the FCA and escort. But he never gets over the threshold - an alert bar man spots his condition and he's consigned to the night. We are rather tainted by association and are confined to one drink. Irony of ironies, while the FCA walks off rejected into the night we sit back and admire his work hanging all around the pub - at least seven good sized pieces.

Treble Joy

2011-05-29T20:48:00.005+01:00

I put my money where my mouth was this sporting weekend and did a reasonably substantial treble on Munster to beat Leinster (11-8), Barcelona to beat Manchester United in 90 minutes (evens), and Tipperary to beat Cork by 4 points or more (evens). It sure added a piquancy to my enjoyment of these three events.

I always felt the Munster win was the most predictable - Munster's need was greater and Leinster would surely have a metaphorical and in some cases perhaps literal hangover from the Heineken Cup. I reckoned Barcelona had too much creativity for United although I was nervous it may go further than 90 minutes. I was sure Tipp would beat Cork in Thurles but the match odds of 4-11 didn't appeal so I took the handicap of -4 points - a small risk I thought.

Munster made me sweat a while, Barcelona won comfortably but I had to endure the death of 1,000 cuts before Tipp finally pulled away from Cork in the last few minutes. God bless Benny Dunne (and Eoin Cadogan) - I take back all previous imprecations.

This Cultural Week: Paul Theroux, Roger Waters and a Load of Arse

2011-05-27T11:44:00.004+01:00

Highlight of the cultural week for me was Paul Theroux’s appearance at a Dublin Writer’s Week event in the Samuel Beckett Theatre in Trinity. This event was only slightly tainted by the self-important prick (Colin Murphy) who introduced him. At one stage this creature corrected Theroux’s use of “twittering” instead of “tweeting” when any normal civilised welcoming person would have let it go. Theroux came across as an amiable cove, comfortable in his own skin and un-phased by the occasional awkward question. He looks younger than his 70 years and I’d say there are a few journeys left in him yet. He spoke very warmly of Dervla Murphy and her method of travelling - go to obscure spots and get among the people. He also spoke warmly of Joyce whom he quoted at length and Chekov. Surprisingly he gave a friendly nod to his old nemesis Naipaul also. He was very adamant that there were no fictional elements in his travel books and was quite critical of Bruce Chatwin for his cavalier attitude in this regard – especially in Songlines.

Roger Waters The Wall in the O2 Theatre on Tuesday was a triumph of stagecraft, design, and general pyrotechnics – however, apart from an epic version of Comfortably Numb the music left me unmoved. We had plane crashes with real flames (I felt the heat), 30 foot monsters, spectacular collapsing walls, and a large pig floating over the audience. The agit prop slogans have been updated to include references to Iraq and Afghanistan and the iPhone and iPod “i” prefixes some of the typographical elements. Waters’ voice is very limited but he was supported by a very competent band and the cracks were well covered. The star of the show for me was the splendidly grotesque graphics by Gerald Scarfe.

A seminar on Art Criticism Now in the LAB seemed like it might be of interest given the limited nature of art criticism in this country. However as soon as David Berridge (doyen of the Wild Pansy Press and creator of various “chapbooks” on art) started talking I knew I was in trouble. I am just not interested in the connection between “experimental poetics and art practice” and the notion of “performant criticism” makes me feel queasy. There was no grist for the mill of my mind in all this – it slip slid away. Berridge’s gratuitous esotericisms were followed by an interview between Caoimhin MacGiolla Leith and the performance artist Amanda Coogan. This started out by CMGL apologizing to his right on audience for the many conventional pieces of art criticism he has done to order – presumably a reference to those Tony O’Malley pieces he did for the IMMA catalogue. He spent a lengthy period establishing his credentials (the Tate got mentioned a few times) before he began his discussion with the bould Coogan – whose well-known breasts were peeping becomingly out her dress. Any attempt at talking high-flown arse by CMGL was met with a straight bat by the commonsensical Coogan. She maintained that whether it was review or academic criticism she welcomed it all as valuable PR. She spoke of gaining acceptance by the Boston Museum of Art recently based on the volume of reviews she was able to bring along to the interview. An amusing side show to this encounter was their differing pronunciation of “ephemeral”. Cooogan favoured a long second “e” while CMGL went for a short one. And it should be noted that this word got used umpteen times.

The Annual RHA Debacle

2011-05-25T20:36:00.004+01:00

Clubs make me queasy: the forced camaraderie with arseholes you wouldn’t give the time of day to if they weren’t in the same club; the spurious loyalty at the expense of honest appraisal, the petty rules and committees, the little Hitlers that enjoy such circumscribed and uncritical milieus.

But arts clubs make me especially uneasy. I have this romantic notion that artists should exist outside the confines of regular society: free-ranging, self-sustaining and ultimately independent critical entities. That’s why I consider the smug self-perpetuating oligarchy that is Aosdana to be beyond ridicule. And the pathetic eagerness and self-abnegation shown by aspirants to join this ridiculous club as a badge of their inauthenticity as artists.

Which brings us to the RHA. Much to bitch about here. As republicans do we really need a royal academy. Why not just the Hibernian Academy. And then we have the anachronistic robes – blue and wine coloured. Why? Are they to show that like the legal profession they are not as ordinary mortals? It’s bloody ridiculous. And why does the catalogue feature every year photographs of the selection committee going about their seemingly earnest and aesthetically critical business when we all know that any old shite by an academy member will get in and that an uncanny number of old NCAD heads and worthy veterans of the Dublin art scene also get the nod no matter what. Open submission me bollix. It’s a joke.

At the opening last night, in an effort to be trendy, Pat Murphy and his RHA staff wore white t-shirts as if the were officiating at an FM104 promotion – in stark contrast to the members of the academy in their robed finery – an oxymoronic juxtaposition that just didn’t work lads. Pat at the door greeting the great and good in their opening night finery looked as if he’d been caught unawares while finishing the hanging.

Let’s move on to the art. It’s astonishing that with 585 pieces on view there was so little that actually stood out. I remember the really bad works best. There’s a truly awful, Barrie Cooke called Sitting Figure, painted in 2007 and priced bizzarely at €31,701. This work is so bad it’s either taking the piss or signifies an artist that has lost his mojo and should stick to fishing – his alleged first love. The worst piece in the show, by which I mean the last piece you would choose to hang in your house, is a flat lifeless self-portrait of George Potter. Potter is a Chestertonian figure, and an RHA stalwart, whom we probably shouldn’t mock – but if you were doing a study of pomposity you couldn’t better this image. Maybe he should just have changed the title. Then there’s James Hanley’s portrait of the Chief Justice John Murray. I’ve no doubt Murray is a pillar of probity and a sound family man but Hanley’s depiction suggests one of the more corrupt and sinister of the later Roman emperors. I could go on but I’m getting bored. Liam Belton’s "so what" still lifes – all craft and no art; worthy efforts as usual by RHA hardy annuals like Bolay and Shelbourne; Pauline Bewick’s over priced book illustrations; Richard Gorman’s slices of interior design – for the confirmed bachelor market; an over fussy Felim Egan; weird minimalist water-colours by Vivienne Roche; bowl shaped tricksy pieces by Bridget Flannery – an artist I once much admired for her austere abstract studies; and of course a whole host of academic dross. I’ll exclude James English from that – he’s changed direction a bit and remains a class act. The stand out piece was a large bleak seascape by Donald Teskey that sold for €50,000. Other than that there was the usual elegance from Eilis O’Connell , a fine spumey Gwen O’Dowd, a couple of Mary Lohans going in a new direction, and a little piece by Katherine Boucher Beug that has lingered on my mind.

And by the way can you believe that they charged for water at the opening.

Rancid Ruminations May 2011

2011-05-17T15:33:00.002+01:00

This country is a joke. RTE did an excellent expose last night on the complete lack of controls over the taxi industry and on egregious corruption at the NCT. The body responsible, the NTA, refused to come on the programme to give an account of their stewardship. This is a body paid for by the tax payers but they don't deem themselves accountable to anyone. And no doubt nothing will befall them in the way of consequences. I think I'll move to Italy. At least you get decent food and weather over there along with your corruption and incompetence.

The sight of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the head of the IMF, being paraded before the beak in New York the day after his alleged crime shows again that the US care little for privilege and position where the law is concerned. Don't for one minute believe that a prominent Irish person accused of such a crime would ever be arraigned with such alacrity. Gardai would carry out thorough investigations. Files would be sent to the DPP. Heels would drag. Barristers would prevaricate. And justice would either be delayed or ignored.

The Queen eh - hard to care much either way about her visit. As a republican (in the French sense) I am a little queasy about the notion of royalty and being a subject - but the average Brit seems to be happy enough to go along with it. She's a great boon for their tourist industry but surely she could be had a lot cheaper. Also, I care little for the braying arrogance and relentless philistinism of the House of Windsor. And I can't stand corgis. I note she's visiting Cashel and Coolmore - her love of horses is her redeeming feature.

John Doherty at Taylor Galleries

2011-05-08T12:48:00.005+01:00

It was good to see a buzzing well-attended opening at the Taylor Galleries - things have been a bit bleak in recent times. I'm wondering if the unusual Friday opening was the reason or, more likely, the popularity of John Doherty's work. I first encountered his work about 16 years ago when he had a show in the Taylor entirely devoted to old characterful petrol pumps - or "bowsers" as they're called in this show - an Australian term I believe. I met him briefly at the time and liked his amiability and lack of preciousness.These days he's still painting old petrol pumps with personality, rusty old buoys and other marine equipment, and, most evocatively, small town shop fronts.The key to John's work is not the photographic precision of the images (which is remarkable) but the choice of subject matter. This is seen best in the desolate streetscapes of small town Ireland: Youghal, Rosscarberry, Ennistymon, Union Hall, Goleen and Carrick-on-Suir are featured in this show. He captures some kind of squalid ennui. You can feel the aridity of the daily round in such places. There are humourous touches amid the bleakness - the dog on a mission in Homeward Bound for example. The marine pieces are the least interesting - they seem lined up for our delectation rather like rusty versions of Liam Belton's cold academic still lifes. It's interesting to see that the prices are maintained at a level close to what prevailed in the boom times - this in stark contrast to what the auction houses are doing.They ranges from €3,500 for 18 x 18 cm pieces to €25,000 for 80 x 122 cms. And on the opening night it was heartening to see that around half of the 24 works had sold.

Schull Meanderings

2011-04-30T12:12:00.003+01:00

It’s curious the way outsiders (mostly French) have taken over a lot of the businesses in Schull. As you walk down the main street you start with a tapas bar (Casa Diageo) that is run by a Spaniard with very rudimentary English – not bad but a very dodgy wine list. Next comes Gwen’s selling designer chocolates run by a French couple – hardly a viable business you would have thought but it seems to be enduring. A few doors down is The Fish Shop run by a tall, young French guy who will spend time preparing the fish to your liking – often to the chagrin of the next person in the queue. Further down is the Paradise Creperie, again French run, which seems to charge Parisian prices - €8 for a filled crepe. Then there’s the takeaway (the Punjab something or other) that I’ve never been in but is manned by a team of unhappy looking Asians. Down towards the harbour (during the summer only) is L’Escale, the very popular fish and chip shop run by a middle-aged French man deficient in the social graces. Nice fish – shame about the batter. As you leave town there’s the New Haven run by another French guy – a noisy but serviceable bistro. No gourmets need apply. Then if you want a pint in Hackett’s you are likely to be served by an Australian, a surly Czech girl, or a couple of French lads.

The pubs in Schull are pretty well segregated in terms of clientele. The Courtyard, once the heart of the village, shows no sign of reopening. Its various incarnations since Denis Quinlan left have not been successful. The Black Sheep is the venue of choice for the brasher younger locals. They serve dodgy pub food and sport on TV dominates. I don’t darken its door. The Tigin seems popular with families, but it lacks character and the large taciturn owner seems to imbue the place with a brooding presence. The Bunratty does food and attracts the middle-aged Derby and Joan types and families. The owner is a charmless Brit. Newman’s was burnt out recently and is only back in a limited way. It’s popular with the sailing fraternity and the Cork professional classes. To be avoided. – too much braying Across the road is Hackett’s, hang out for artists, crusties, slumming sailing types, and bohemians from the hinterland. It has an appealing grunginess and tolerates dogs. If it weren’t so busy most of the time I would give it my imprimatur. So I have taken to frequenting O’Regan’s, around the corner from Newman’s and down towards the harbour. It’s run by a personable young local couple. Its customers are local fishermen and old snedgers mainly. A feature of all these pubs is the superb quality of the Guinness. Why can’t we enjoy the same quality around Dublin? One of life’s great mysteries

This Sporting Life - April 2011

2011-04-18T11:46:00.004+01:00

1. Insightful article by David Walsh in yesterday's Sunday Times about Rory McElroy. The gist of it is that when the pressure comes on McElroy the flaws in his game show up. And, as I've often said, putting in his major weakness - particularly from about 8 feet in. He spurned at least a dozen opportunities from this range over the 4 days of the Masters. I doubt he'll ever win a major unless he solves this problem. And putting is famously impervious to remedial treatment. Remember the young Garcia and all the greatness that was predicted for him? He too had a putting weakness and is now a fading figure - all those predictions of fame and glory come to naught.

2. It was great to see the cavaliers of Leinster put Leicester, those roundheads of English rugby, to the sword last week. They did it by beating them at their own game up front and then unleashing the sublime Nacewa to apply the coup de grace. It was an efficient and pragmatic display and I can't see them failing to regain the Heineken Cup now. Meanwhile in Brive Munster were giving one of the great displays of back play in the history of European competition - with a little help from the local team. The back three of Howlett, Jones and Earls ran amok on the sun-baked turf. They will surely win the Amlin Cup now. We can also look forward to a Magner's League final between Leinster and Munster. This will be tight but will be won by Leinster because they have a stronger pack - especially now with O'Connell injured.

3. The hurling season is beginning to bubble up nicely. Who could have predicted yesterday's results. Dublin beating Cork in Pairc Ui Chaoimh, hapless Wexford drawing with Tipp in Thurles, and Galway losing again to Waterford. Tipp can probably do without a League final against Kilkenny at this stage of the season - they can deal with them in September. Declan Ryan is blooding a lot of new talent and it'll be fascinating to see who he picks against Cork. I can't see any challenge to Tipp in Munster this year and I have a sneaky feeling that Kilkenny are a team on the turn - too many trips to the well for a lot of them. Galway may be the big danger. We shall see.

Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera at IMMA

2011-04-08T11:54:00.007+01:00

It's good to see a major international show at IMMA - it gives me a good excuse to go around the corner to the Royal Oak for a few pints afterwards.

There was a huge turn out for this gig, not just the usual liggers that IMMA attracts but a lot of senior arts people and artists. It was sponsored by BNY Mellon and the Mexican Embassy were involved so we got Margaritas, Mexican beer, and lots of canapes - followed by a mariachi band.

This was the first big arts event attended by the new Minister for Arts (Jimmy Deenihan) so there were some pointed remarks by Eoin McGonigal the chairman of the board at IMMA about arts funding. As 2011 is IMMA's 20th anniversary he used the occasion to celebrate IMMA's achievements during this period and to assert its major role in the cultural life of the country. He also came out with an interesting Freudian slip (if indeed it was a slip) in thanking the Department of Arts for their "subversion". He may have meant to say subvention. The most interesting thing Deenihan came up with was his commitment to setting up an Arts and Film TV channel and the promotion of the arts in our education system - especially at primary level.

As for the show, the most striking piece was Rivera's cooly erotic painting of Natasha Gelman. There are plenty of Kahlo's ornate and exotic works on show - interesting but not really my thing. I do like the way she always includes her moustache - a faint whisper after her emphatic eyebrows.

Who Reviews the Reviewers

2011-03-30T12:55:00.002+01:00

There's an interesting literary spat going on in the Letters Page of the Irish Times this week. Last Saturday the IT's chief fiction reviewer Eileen Battersby had a good go at Dermot Healy's new novel (Long Time) - suggesting dthat there were large amounts of guff to plough through to get at the meat. I haven't read it but found it refreshing to read a rigorous review of a new Irish novel - one that wasn't just a shameless puff by a writer friend.

In jumps Eugene McCabe with a letter on Tuesday suggesting not only that Battersby was ageist (hilariously citing her praising of Neil Jordan's latest as evidence of favouring younger writers), but that her writing was so poor that she wasn't worthy of raising a pen against the sainted Healy. In today's paper the heavy guns are wheeled in and John Banville (late of the IT parish) fires off a fusillade in Battersby's defence - rebuking McCabe for his "ad hominen and scatological attack".

The whole affair highlights the difficulties of getting any book honestly reviewed in this small island. Loyalty between writers is no doubt an admirable quality in a financially precarious profession. However, I am sick and tired of seeing them puff each other up in laudatory and uncritical reviews that ultimately deceive the reading public. And how many times do you buy a book adorned with celebratory names on the back cover and end up disappointed? I can think of recent novels by John Boyne and Josephine Hart that came festooned with critical garlands from fellow writers - and both were virtually unreadable.

I have always found Eileen Battersby to be a rigorous and fair-minded critic (although, by the way, I think she gets Neil Jordan's latest badly wrong) and I welcome her honesty . She certainly doesn’t deserve Eugene McCabes cheap and churlish assault.

Georgia on My Mind

2011-03-23T09:47:00.006Z

Down in Schull last Saturday grinding the coffee and preparing for a leisurely breakfast: Irish Times, croissants, and some savoury delights – you get the picture. The wife in benign attendance. The phone rings. It’s the brother with tickets for the Ireland versus England match later in the day – 300 kilometers away. A Grand Slam confrontation with the old enemy is not to be missed so without much hesitation I take on the logistical challenge. First I have to jump the domestic hurdle. Our weekend idyll compromised an initially pissed off partner gracefully concedes. Breakfast is cancelled and our hastily showered hero hurtles off towards Cork.

Rendezvous with the brother at the Travel Lodge near the Kinsale Road and we’re on our way via the South Ring and the Jack Lynch Tunnel. Two hours later we negotiate the slight hiatus of the canal, pass Paddy Kavanagh’s statue, and reach our destination in Ballsbridge. There a transaction with a distinguished ex-international outside Paddy Cullen’s (involving a discreet envelope) yields two tickets. I brazenly ask the Garda at Shelboune Road to move his barrier so that I can access my work place (well I used to work there) and we find a plum spot outside IONA Technologies – just around the corner from the stadium. As it’s our first visit to the Aviva Stadium we decide to go in early and savour the atmosphere. Two pints of plain (excellent quality – albeit in plastic glasses) and a hot dog later we settle into our seats.

The English find the red carpet this time and after the endless anthems and much gratuitous hoopla the match begins. It’s clear immediately that the Irish are up for it more than the English. It’s evident in the early collisions and particularly the first scrum. They are double tackling the English and stifling any loose ball. A few penalties and a few creative moments and the job is done. Sexton and David Wallace are our heroes. The last 20 minutes are spent sitting tight – with O’Gara giving a master class in tactical kicking. The hooray henrys behind us are rendered mute. One dud note at the Aviva is the horrible hectoring music that erupts each time we score, accompanied by some shameless brash prick announcing the score that we can see perfectly well on the giant score boards. They want crowd participation yet they drown it out when it’s at its peak.

After the match we take the car into town and find a perfect pitch directly outside the Ely Restaurant in Ely Place. The restaurant is booked out I’d been told over the phone earlier but I drop in anyway and my old buddies on the staff promise to look after me. We adjourn to the Shelbourne Bar to have our aperitifs (ok, two more pints actually) and soak up the atmosphere. There’s a large contingent of Brits in evidence, many of them wearing their English jerseys – poignantly. Two seats become available beside us in the packed bar and we sit back and observe the carnival.

On then to the warm welcoming womb that is the Ely. We are fed and watered well. Our waitress is Georgia from Sardinia – full of lip (in both senses) and generous of bosom. It would be ungallant not to linger over a few ports.

And so to bed.

Recent Reads - March 2011

2011-03-18T16:06:00.002Z

The Grass Arena by John Healy

These are notes from the underground – missives from a milieu that doesn’t normally send out letters. The world of the wino. Healy is a phenomenon, going from soldier to boxer to wino to chess virtuoso to award-winning author – and then back to obscurity. The structure is a bit sloppy but these anecdotes from the edge more than compensate. I love the details of their desperate ongoing search for drink. Methylated spirits, surgical spirits, and aftershave were all consumed when the conventional options were unavailable. Then there are the characters including one who was kidnapped by the gypsies and forced to work all day and was tethered to a wagon by chains all night. He also introduced me to the “water on the brain” phenomenon – a condition induced by extreme drinking. A poignant refrain throughout the book is his failure with the girls -notwithstanding his keen interest.

He eventually got fucked around by Faber & Faber when his street persona intruded on the genteel Oxbridge world of Robert McCrum and his chums. He apparently threatened to come visiting with his hatchet if his royalties weren’t paid. They pulped his books and threw him back into the gutter. It’s nice to see him reissued by Penguin Modern Classics and beginning to gain a new audience.

A City Boy by Edmond White

It’s the usual Edmond White autobiography. Look see what a naughty boy I’ve been – again. It’s entertaining but I’ve heard it all before. Also the relentless namedropping begins to get tiresome. Being a distant acquaintance of Susan Sontag is not the ultimate in human achievement. Well written and amiable throughout though.

John Osborne by John Heilpern

Or how the angry young man became an angrier old man. What a great biography this is – and what a monster Osborne was. He played fast and loose with the ladies until he met his match in that termagant Jill Bennett. He spent himself into acute poverty but never let that condition interfere with his champagne life style. He was a great hater and eventually rowed with almost everyone who engaged with him. At his funeral there was a list of people he didn’t want to attend pinned to the gate of the church – these included Fu Manchu (Peter Hall) and Albert Finney. Finney had starred in Tom Jones which made Osborne (who wrote the screenplay) very wealthy for a while - however he sued Osborne when he didn't get his due from the film. He wrote four great plays (Look Back in Anger, Luther, Inadmissible Evidence and The Entertainer) and a host of minor works and screenplays. An incidental delight in this book are the many hilarious examples of Osborne’s invective in letter form.

The Irish Question

2011-03-06T20:48:00.002Z

It'll be interesting to see if Fine Gael keeps to its election promise to abolish compulsory Irish. Or will this promise be sacrificed to appease the Labour lobby and preserve the multitude of state and semi-state jobs that depend on keeping this brain-dead patient artificially alive. I love Irish. I still regard Cill Cais as one of our most beautiful poems and I will enthuse about Caoineadh Art O'Laoire and the work of Sean O'Riordain. However this language is dead. It's gone, it has expired. It's not our mother tongue and it's not the language of daily commerce. It certainly exists in pockets of the South-West and West and long may it run there - I'm sure it's great for tourism. However, the vast bulk of the populace endure it at school and cast off the burden the minute they leave. It was surely significant that the leaders debate on TG4 before the election featured sub-titles. After nearly 90 years of shoving it down our throats it is officially recognised that most of us can't keep up with a banal political debate.

The only good reason someone would take Irish seriously is to get a job on TG4 - surely a situation of some circularity. We spend vast resources duplicating government output in two languages when only a tiny proportion of the population demand it. They don't need it by the way, they can all speak English, but by God do they demand it.

I don't propose we abolish it. We make it available to those who want to learn it - it should of course remain on the school curriculum. And I'm sure there will be a decent number who are interested in it for historical and sentimental reasons. And I'm sure it should continue to be pursued in universities. It is dead but it is part of our history.

The Brits successfully wiped out our language but we got our revenge by colonising (Joyce, Beckett, Yeats, Shaw, Wilde et al) theirs and we should celebrate this fact rather than persisting in this fruitless necrophilia.

Schull beneath the Skin

2011-03-01T14:53:00.006Z

Down in Schull on the trail of the mot juste. It's a different place when you visit it in winter without your dogs and entourage. And without the mind-numbing presence of the TV. I'm hardly Lear on the heath but I am thrown back on my own resources - interestingly. Hackett's and O'Regan's offer the consolation of a good pint and there's a half-decent bookshop on the main street. Restaurants are a problem off-season so I'm eating in. One trip to Antonios in Ballydehob cured me of that option - appalling food and intrusive and charmless hoyden running the place. And Brosnan's supermarket is better stocked than my local in Dalkey. absolved from all negative comments on local bars and restaurants is O'Sullivan's in Crookhaven where you get wonderful sea food, a fine pint and friendly service. It's just too far away for regular use.

The town is bustling with activity notwithstanding the dearth of tourists. It's always difficult to find a parking spot on the main street. It's extraordinary that a town of this size doesn't have a petrol pump. You have to go as far as Goleen or Ballydehob to fill up. Also, it doesn't have a hotel. The one on the way in has fallen victim to the building bust and is now a NAMA asset. Also, the Courtyard, once the jewel in Schull's crown, remains closed. Newman's on the corner of Pier Road is also closed after a fire - but will reopen in June they tell me.

My first visit to O'Regan's involved a breach of local etiquette. Prime Time or some political programme was on TV and I started chatting to the dark-haired and personable woman behind the bar about the state of the nation and the political riff raff running the show. Two old geezers sitting at the bar listened intently - the place was empty otherwise. When the bar mad moved over in their direction one of them opined in a stage whisper that "there's no place for politics or religion in a bar". To her credit she scoffed at him: "Shure what else will we talk about".

Rancid Ruminations Feb 2011

2011-02-25T16:58:00.004Z

Don't you love that cosy deal between Aer Lingus management and SIPTU - let's connive on a tax fraud, shure only our shareholders will suffer. The usual lack of repercussions will follow.

Does Kidney know what he's doing anymore? Rory Best should be dropped, Paddy Wallace should not be on the bench, and Stringer should be scrum-half. He should have started his kicking outhalf (O'Gara) against France and his running outhalf (Sexton) against Scotland. Also, I think this team is on the wane. O'Connell is not match fit, Fitzgerald is not match fit, D'Arcy is out of sorts, O'Driscoll is over the hill, and the entire front row is suspect. The only thing they've got going for them is that Scotland are even worse. We may eke out an unimpressive win.

With our Department of Finance in disgrace over its pathetically inept role in the current financial crisis, we now hear that our Department of Foreign Affairs are no better. Its advice to our citizens trapped in Libya was to get on the internet and book yourselves flights back home - in a country where this was just plain not possible. Luckily the Brits intervened and rescued a bunch of them. You do have to laugh at the Croke Park agreement and the notion that these guys will mend their ways and improve their work practices. You can't change a culture by decree. Non serviam is their mantra rather than noblesse oblige.

I do love horses and racing and I do like the occasional gamble. And I do understand the importance of the bloodstock industry for Ireland. However, the gulf between the level of prize money in Irish and English racing is astounding. I would quite like us to offer more than the Brits but not this outrageous discrepancy. Look at any days racing cards for Irish and English racing and wonder at the difference. It's usually two or three times greater for equivalent races. It encourages mediocrity as moderate horses can earn a decent living.

The election eh - hard to get enthusiastic. Nothing radical will happen. All we can hope for is that some of the more egregious FFers will bite the dust. I'm thinking particularly of that pompous red-faced prick in Kerry. Fine Gael will go easy on the banks and Labour will strive to maintain the ludicrous Croke Park agreement. A plague on all their houses. I think I'll go off the grid.

No Moore Street

2011-02-15T18:39:00.002Z

I had to laugh at Eamon Gilmore doing the cliched Moore Street thing with his entourage on TV recently. I know he's standing in Dun Laoghaire Rathdown but he should have known that the old Moore Street is dead and gone. The shutters are down, the hoardings are up, planning notices adorn nearly every building. Graffiti runs riot. The businesses that remain have a transitory feel to them: mobile phones unlocked, exotic hairstyle options, nails tended. An Asian girl stands in a doorway offering tickets for some mysterious lottery.

There are few enough signs of the Moore Street that we knew and loved. It is still possible to find a butcher boy - just. F. X. Buckley offering cheap cuts and offal is one of the few holdouts from the past – a cheery commercial island in a slough of despond. The rest of the street is dirty, decrepit, diminished and deserted. There are a few fruit stalls and a forlorn fish barrow. There are many gaps where once the serried ranks of cheerful harridans assailed you to buy moody bananas and other problematical fruit: “twopence each the ripe bananas”. The abiding atmosphere is of seediness and impermanence.

Number 16 Moore Street was the building used by the leaders of the 1916 Rising as their headquarters after they had left the GPO. It was declared a national monument by Bertie Aherne in 2006. There are vague plans to house a commemorative centre there for the centenary of the Rising in 2016. The site currently lies boarded up and neglected, a small plaque unreadable high up on the second floor wall. Broken windows, broken promises.

The seeds of Moore Street’s downfall lie towards the Parnell Street side where Lidl sells fruit and vegetables even cheaper than the stallholders. Commerce ruthlessly displaces character. Dubliners have moved out to be replaced by immigrants from Asia and Africa struggling to find an economic foothold in their newfoundland. God help them.

Kieran McGonnell R.I.P.

2011-01-20T16:20:00.005Z

I was saddened to hear of the recent death of the Cork-born artist Kieran McGonnell. He had an accident last October shortly after moving to Chicago from New York and was in a coma until he died last week. I didn’t see Kieran that often – we met a few times in Dublin and New York and once, the last time I saw him, a couple of years ago in Cork. However we kept in touch regularly via Facebook and e-mail.

Kieran was a uniquely nice guy. Even a natural misanthrope like me found it impossible not to like him from the first. He had a joie de vivre about him that was infectious. He was gay and occasionally tended towards campness but he also had enough of the acid of Cork in his blood to keep him earthed. He also had the most crazy and intense blue eyes. We liked to talk about Cork and about CBC the school we both attended. We also shared a background involving Collins Barracks and the military. But mostly we talked about art for which he was an enthusiastic advocate and tireless exponent.

Although he varied his media in recent times, the majority of work that I saw was large-scale water-colours in very bright colours – he especially favoured yellow and red. He also specialised in amusing titles. A giant piece (10 feet x 4 feet) I bought for my company rejoiced in the title “The Prioress Parades her New Wimple”. In recent years he started doing portraits of famous artists (Van Gogh) and American presidents such as Obama and Lincoln. These were geared I suspect to the poster market he was building.

Eilis O'Connell at the RHA

2011-01-18T17:56:00.012Z

The RHA is always worth a visit. It’s quiet, it’s bright, it’s free and now it has a coffee shop and a bookshop. And it frequently has interesting shows.

The current show by Eilis O'Connell is the most impressive body of work I've seen by her - it seems that move to Inniscara has done her good.

There are 38 pieces, all done since 2007. And what variety. There are beautiful found objects preserved in clear resin: red coral, birds nests, a child’s shoe, a vulture feather, a sheep's skull and a strange silvery object found on Inch Strand. Then there’s a series of small bronze rectangles (entitled Unlikely Monuments) etched with delicate patterns, each a minimalist masterpiece. These are apparently ideas for larger works. Upstairs the scale increases dramatically. We see 12 foot triffids, a superb Henry Moore like shape (but warmer and shapelier), and metal strips that suggest Brancusi's Le Signal. There are also some small exquisitely delicate gourd like bronzes.

This is a beautiful, classy and accessible exhibition. Get in there and relish it.

Downstairs is an exhibition of late work by Paddy Collins. There is a suggestion of Celtic iconography but the cut out format and attendant jagged shapes vie with the colour and pattern of the work. These were a critical failure in his life time – and I can see why.

Up Eoghan

2011-01-02T20:35:00.001Z

Thwarted of my usual Sunday papers today in Schull I buy the Sunday Independent . A reprehensible moment of weakeness. Jesus what meretricious shite. What the hell is Gene Kerrigan doing there? A good deed in a naughty world, or a man who puts pay before principle? Even the once sound Declan Lynch has gone all tired and flaccid.

But you know what, there are occasional moments of merriment to be gleaned from the general sad, self-referential, and trite effusions that emanate from this diseased organ. Is Eoghan Harris the most ridiculous man in Ireland? Or am I being unkind and has he slipped into dementia? Maybe his ertstwhile wife is indulging him on sentimental grounds. Alas poor Eoghan – oh what a noble mind was here o’erthrown. In today’s edition he compares Bertie to Daniel O’Connell. Now we know Bertie appointed him to the Senate and gratitude is a wonderful thing – but we expect a little balance and perspective from our journalists. Bertie and his crew (and his corrupt old boss) have sunk this country. Anyone who thinks otherwise isn’t paying attention, or is unhinged. And no amount of banging on about the Peace Process (a process he was involved in and not his doing) should divert us from his despicable incompetence.

I first encountered Harris en route to Kilworth Camp outside Fermoy with the FCA back in the early Sixties. Harris was an NCO in A Company 23rd Battalion. He was a middle-class boy from Douglas in charge of an Irish-speaking platoon called the Buion Galeach. They were the best turned out, most organised, most disciplined of the platoons – thanks to Harris. He was a charasmatic leader and they were a tight group. He endeared himself to me at the time by marrying his Gaelic soldier trip with a love of Buddy Holly. His platoon used to sing his songs on the way to Kilworth Camp.

Time moved on and Harris joined RTE and combined his semi-state sinecure with a leading role in the Official IRA. Years passed in the somnambulant atmosphere of RTE and the next thing we know he’s out there doing PR and marketing for Fine Gael – remember the Twink debacle. I think there was a flirtation with Unionism subsequently – who knows, it was dizzying keeping up with his u-turns. Anyway he has now ended up sounding like a choleric retired colonel writing from Leamington Spa. For God’s sake Anne retire him.

Or better still let him loose on the literary pages. The last time I heard him talk sense was about 12 years when he was reviewing Harold Bloom’s The Western Canon.

Reflections on 2010

2010-12-28T19:00:00.005Z

When I look back on 2010 it won't be in anger. Forget the economy, forget the weather, how could a year in which Tipp won a wonderful All-Ireland Final be considered a disaster.

Here are my best moments;

1. The exquisite pass from Noel McGrath to Lar Corbett that led to Tipp's second goal in the All-Ireland Final.

2. The removal of that pompous red-faced windbag John O'Donoghue from his sinecure in the Dail.

3. A definitive production of Death of a Salesman in the Gate - a parable for our times.

4. A glorious Goodwood where I enjoyed five winning days in a row.

5. Finally getting to the Prado and seeing for myself why Velasquez outranks Goya.

6. Sarah Jane Morris at Ronnie Scotts.

7. Novel of the Year: Damon Galgut's In a Strange Room.

8. A visit to Sean McSweeney's studio in Sligo.

9. Peter Green in the Olympia.

10. The winning point by Lar Corbett against Galway in the All-Ireland quarter final.

Adams Auction - Bank of Ireland Collection

2010-11-30T14:55:00.004Z

Because of the huge interest this auction was moved from Adam's to the Shelbourne. I had to run the gauntlet of a few well-turned out protestors with uniformly well-produced posters, Ballagh's influence perhaps. He was (some would say is) a graphic designer. He was very vocal in his opposition to the auction. The posters suggested that in some way the auction was robbing the people of their national heritage. This is a nonsense. It both flatters the work on show and neglects the fact that the work was hardly accessible to the people when the BOI owned it. Anyway IMMA had their pick of the choice pieces.

Although we weren't told so beforehand, it quickly became apparent that there were no reserves. A unique situation at an Irish art auction. However, as the estimates were set very low, most pieces went for the upper side of the estimates with quite a lot exceeding this. And there was lots of competition for most pieces. There were bargains to be had - a dark Dan O'Neill estimated from €6 to €8 K went for €4.5 K - but not many. A Dillon estimated at €35 K went for €50 K and Martin Gale estimated at €6 K went for €14.5 K. Le Brocquy and O'Malley were quite weak - all of the O'Malleys going for below the lower estimate and the Le Brocquys just about making the lower estimate. The Campbells sold well, as did some very dodgy McSweeneys. A poor Shinnors piece limped towards the mid-point in its estimate.

The only painting that remained unsold was a reasonable Barrie Cooke landscape. A resounding success for Adams but not a typical auction as many were buying for the cachet of having a piece from the BOI collection.

John Gabriel Borkman at the Abbey

2010-11-15T17:38:00.002Z

I was bored out of my tiny mind. This was stodgy, stagey old-fashioned theatre. The script by Frank McGuinness seemed stilted and occasionally clunky ("This disgrace breaks me to the bone") but that wasn't the crucial factor. My problem was believing in the central premise of the play - the battle for the heart and mind of Erhart. The concerns and mores of bourgeois Norway in the 19th Century don't carry enough of the universal to engage the interest. There were of course echoes of our own banking crisis in Borkman's plight - but these were peripheral to the main action. The set was impressive and the acting of the female characters was mighty fine - especially the gorgeous Lindsay Duncan. Even Fiona Shaw impressed, managing to harness her customary histrionics. I wasn't that taken by Alan Rickman's interpretation of Borkman - too low-key and mannered. And speak up man for God's sake.

The Hugh Lane Revisited

2010-11-11T13:45:00.004Z

What a wonderful amenity the Hugh Lane is. I hadn't been there for years so I went up last Tuesday to see the new Sean Scullys and to check out the collection in general. There's a great sense of spaciousness - the paintings are given plenty of room to breathe and they can be enjoyed in isolation from contending images. It's also nice and warm and would make a great sanctuary for cold tramps, but I suspect Barbara Dawson would not countenance any such blots on her escutcheon. I noticed a lot of yawning amongst the sparse attendants. What kind of job is that - sitting around all day. You'd want a very rich inner life.

The permanent collection is very much a mixed bag. There's worthy stuff by Mary Swanzy, Norah McGuinness, Orpen and Leech but do we really need mutiple Ciaran Lennons? Or Brian Maguires? Or anything by Mick Mulcahy. There is a smashing Jack Yeats (There is no Night), and a stark early Le Brocquy - not underivative of Francis Bacon. The Scully room is a bit of a disappointment - only three pieces, two very fine and one, I opine, a dud. The shrine to Bacon is a hoot. Can he really have worked in that chaos. Check out the multiple Krug boxes and note that he was a VAT 69 man as well.

The cafe down in the basement is a step up on your average museum cafe. There's an elaborate menu and waitress service only. There's also a collection of cakes that would do a Viennese emporium proud. It was empty apart from staff when I visited in mid-afternoon.

On the way out it did my heart good to see that heroic bust of Michael Collins by the great Seamus Murphy.

Recent Reads - October 2010

2010-10-25T13:18:00.006+01:00

Team of Rivals by Doris Kearns Goodwin

A large part of this biography of Lincoln deals with the run up to the 1860 Republican presidential nomination and the stories of the three men who were his rivals: Senator William H. Seward, governor Salmon P. Chase and William Bates. We get loads of domestic and period detail - so much so that the actual nomination battle comes as an anti-climax. Lincoln comes across as a likable character, clumsy and folksy with a common touch and a talent for anecdotes, but a shrewd operator. And a man of principle - an attribute common to a lot of the politicians in those days. The roles these erstwhile rivals came to play on his new administration is the main theme of the book. Enda Kenny please take note.

Jim Thompson - the Unsolved Mystery by William Warren

He went out for a walk in the Malaysian jungle and never came back. This book tries to weave a mystery out of the Thai silk magnates disappearance but fails because there isn't a single clue to go on. The banal truth is that he probably fell down one of the innumerable ravines and the disorganised searches never found him.

Hitch-22 by Christopher Hitchens

Petty, point-scoring and self-aggrandising confection from the debased currency that is Hitchens. It veers from fawning adoration (Amis, Fenton et al) to blinkered hatred (Clinton, Ted Kennedy et al). Yet for all that it's an entertaining read. The section on Edward Said shows an interesting ambivalence and the early chapter on his mother (who committed suicide) is quite touching.

Consider the Lobster and Other Essays by David Foster Wallace

I've long wanted to tackle David Foster Wallace but was loth to embark on a 900 page novel so I thought a book of his essays might be a good starting point. And, despite the tricksy typography and the rampant footnotage, I wasn't disappointed. Here's a writer who can move from porn conventions to English usage, from shock jocks to Dostoyevsky, from lobster abuse to radio hosts and retain his dry, lucid and sardonic tone. There are elements of gonzo journalism here but he is a finer phrase maker than Hunter S. Thompson and has a more intellectual bent.

Oliver Sears Gallery

2010-10-22T15:28:00.004+01:00

With all the gloom about and many galleries closing down it's heartening to see a substantial recent addition to the Dublin gallery scene - the Oliver Sears gallery on Molesworth Street. It's housed in a beautiful Georgian building that used to be the Ib Jorgensen gallery - across the road from the Masonic Lodge. It had a very successful Stephen Lawlor show a few weeks ago and last night a huge crowd turned out for an eclectic show by the sculptor Patrick O'Reilly. Oliver Sears is a class act and we enjoyed generous helpings of champagne as we checked out O'Reilly's strange mix of styles. Here a conventional but well-wrought bronze Pegasus, there a weird confection that looked like large iced caramels, outside an elegant silver tower made from tin cans, a hefty curved bull and many more surprises. Bemusing and entertaining - check it out. The crowd were mature and up market - I noticed the Gate's Michael Colgan really enjoying the champagne. There were lots of artists in attendance including Hughie O'Donoghue (Sears hottest property) and the very amiable Keith Wilson. Sales were't great but sculpture is notoriously slow to sell. O'Reilly is popular and has been doing well at auction.

This Sporting Life - October 2010

2010-10-20T12:10:00.001+01:00

• Who gives a flying fuck whether that potato-headed pussy hound Wayne Rooney stays at Manchester United or goes to an even richer club for even more money. The whole English football scene is so bloated and decadent that it’s impossible to engage with it. From time to time the old-fashioned decencies of a modest club like Everton overcome ones' cynicism but these moments are few and far between.

• Lar Corbett gets hurler of the year – probably on the basis of his hat trick in the All-Ireland Final but well deserved for his form throughout the year. His finest moment was that crucial match winning point against Galway in the quarter final – a match Tipp came very close to losing. Cometh the hour.

• For sheer intensity it’s hard to match the Heineken Cup and Munster and Leinster’s matches last weekend were up there with the best of them. Going against stereotype Leinster’s win was a heroic rearguard action while Munster’s was a 6-try massacre. Munster loaded to the gunwhales with grizzled veterans refused once again to be written off. I just wonder if they can repeat these feats of derring do on a consistent basis. Surely this season is a last hurrah for a whole host of them. Long term tips are Leinster and Leicester.

• The Ryder Cup – what a drama. And not just because I had a substantial sum riding on that phlegmatic Norn Ironer Graham McDowell. And aren’t you weary of Tom Humpheries’ bi-annual pop at the event, complete with mandatory references to Pringle sweaters. Yawn, yawn.

Workforce wins the Arc - how can such a thing be. I had his Derby written off as a freak. Horses eh

Dead Artists Liven up Adam's Auction

2010-10-14T14:23:00.005+01:00

In marked contrast to the recent de Vere event there was a very lively and successful auction at Adam's last night. There was a decent crowd and some lively phone bidding. I noticed John de Vere lurking in the wings -taking note no doubt of where he went wrong. Adam's clientele are noticeably different to those you see at Whyte's and de Vere's - there's a lot of old Dublin professional money about, unaffected perhaps by the recession. You see it in the clothes (brogues, waistcoats, old jewelry etc.) and the general air of confident entitlement. There are a lot of husband and wife teams and a fair percentage of older women.

Adam's has always stuck to the more conservative and traditional side of the art market and were often regarded as a little old-fashioned compared to Whyte's and even de Vere. They have however a loyal following who don't follow contemporary trends and consider the presence of a painting in an Adam's auction as a kind of imprimatur. I stayed for the first 100 lots and 86 of these sold - most of them well above their lower estimates. These works were mostly safe conservative landscapes, portraits and still lives by dead artists such as Frank Eggington, Charles Grierson (who?), Frank McElvey Nath. Hill and Charles Lamb. A good quality Paul Henry went for €72K. The most adventurous works sold were the two Colin Middletons for €11.5K and €13.5K - one of these was well below mediocre. Most of the living artists on view did badly although there were good reasons in a few cases. A huge unwieldy Shinnors triptych was withdrawn at €45K, an overpriced John Doherty at €24K and a truly dire Blackshaw at €22K. Even the normally reliable Camille Souter failed to sell and was withdrawn at €7K. A number of early and poorly framed O'Malley's also failed to sell.

Overall though this auction showed that there's a decent market for safe paintings by reputable names - preferably dead.

Art Market Blues

2010-09-29T16:21:00.003+01:00

Dire results at de Vere's auction in the D4 hotel last night - the first major art auction of the new season. The attendance was significantly smaller than usual. There was a reasonable number of good quality pictures with the estimates set noticeably lower than last year and yet nearly a third of the works didn't sell. It didn't help that usually ebullient john de Vere looked tired and shook and handed over half way through to his featureless factotum Rory Guthrie. Most pieces that did sell barely made their lower estimates. The usual suspects such as Teskey, Shinnors and Dan O'Neill did reasonably well - although a modestly priced O'Neill landscape didn't go. A large epic Paddy Collins of Yeats crawled to €29K while his other work didn't sell. Camille Souter remains popular and an airy fairy George Russell was one of the few works to surpass its higher estimate. Of the sculptors Rowan Gillespie did best. All in all a dispiriting indication that the art market is going the way of the property market. A rough estimate suggests that these works have halved in value over the past four years.

Death of a Salesman at the Gate

2010-09-23T14:39:00.002+01:00

This play has aged well. The sign of a classic. Despite being tired and wet I was instantly drawn into the downward spiral of Willy Loman's life. What a powerful pleasure good theatre is. There was a great cast: Gate regulars such as Stephen Brennan, Barry McGovern and John Kavanagh, augmented by some smart newcomers (Garrett Lombard and Rory Nolan), and the star turn Harris Yulin as Willy. You'd know his face from numerous films and TV programmes.

The spare set worked well and what Joyce Carol Oates described as the "eerie dream-like melding of past and present" was carried out smoothly and convincingly. And how apposite the play is for our times - Miller's critique of capitalist amorality (immorality?) still holds good. A reference to bankers and jail brought a knowing laugh from the audience.

Banville on J G Farrell

2010-09-15T19:11:00.004+01:00

Attended the symposium on J G Farrell at the Dun Laoghaire Mountains to Sea book festival last weekend. It was chaired by Lavinia Greacen - his biographer and all-around good egg, in a West-Brit gushing enthusiast kind of way. Although she is clearly a Farrell fan, her biography did include the warts, noting his emotional detachment and utilitarian attitude towards women. The panel included Greacen, John Banville, the nervy Rachel Cooke (the Observer writer), and a big amiable historical fiction writer whose name I have forgotten.

The sardonic and world-weary Banville was quick to prick the general veneration - attacking on two fronts. He described Farrell as "guarded and sinister with a creepy elegance." His major work Troubles he reckoned was too "finished and controlled" - whereas great novels should be "loose baggy monsters". Not a description that could be applied to much of Banville's oeuvre. He did praise Farrell as being "completely amoral" in his work - the "first requisite of the artist". He concluded by opining that he had died at the right time. His last novel, The Singapore Grip, suggested that he was waning as an artist. He lacked the engagement or passion to take things to another level. His letters and diaries were never ecstatic or despairing - he was always on an even keel. There were no wells from which to dredge material. Rachel Cooke hardly agreed suggesting that his work was "suffused with melancholy". She also took umbrage at Banville's playful suggestion that he might have improved as an artist if he had married a shop girl and the real world had intruded more. Well that certainly worked for Joyce.

Mahervellous

2010-09-10T18:02:00.006+01:00

That was a pleasant surprise and what a great match. After giving up on the Tipp team as a skillful but spineless lot after the Cork match they confound me by hammering one of the greatest teams in the history of hurling. Albeit a team that seems now to be over the hill - two retirements since the final confirm this. What worried me about the Cork match wasn't the defeat - few teams win at Pairc Ui Chaoimh - it was the lack of response by Tipp to Cork's onslaught. It seems they lacked leadership and intestinal fortitude. But as the season progressed they turned they changed this perception. There were Pyrrhic victories over Wexford and Offaly and then they were really tested by Galway. They gave away a couple of soft goals and found themselves 2 points down with a couple of minutes to go. But they didn't panic and picked off a couple of points before Lar Corbett hit a superb winner in the last few seconds. The Waterford match was an anti-climax - Tipp were in control throughout and were particularly impressive defensively - with Paraic Maher superb.

Kilkenny had their 5 in a row and injury distractions but they seemed strangely subdued for much of the final - creating very little up front. Mind you this was the best defensive performance I have ever seen by a Tipp team - they were tireless and harried Kilkenny in packs. It must be hard to recreate the intensity required to win an All Ireland year after year. Tipp were younger and hungrier and the had learnt some of the dark arts from their clash with Kilkenny last year. Also, they kept the ball away for that force of nature Tommy Walsh. Brendan Maher epitomised all that was best - bursting forward from mid-field and launching the boys up front, while Kelly was clinical from the frees and Corbett applied the finishing touches.

One worrying aspect of the whole business was how even Cork fans were behind Tipp - a patronising situation that we need to sort out. This team is young enough to win 3 or 4 more in the next 5 or 6 years - that should do it

The Redemption of Benny Dunne

2010-09-07T15:15:00.002+01:00

For the stifled impulse there is no redemption according to the Bard of Baggot Street. You could argue that there is frequently no redemption for the unstifled impulse either. When Benny Dunne tried to decapitate the niggling Tommy Walsh in last year's All Ireland Hurling Final he got himself sent off and this tipped the scales back in favour of Kilkenny. Forget about the dubious penalty, forget about the missed goals, it was this incident that gave Kilkenny the lift they needed at a time when Tipp had them buried. I blamed Dunne. In forty years time when he's nursing a pint in the corner of a pub in Toomevara the thought that he was responsible for Tipp losing an All-Ireland they should have won will still be tormenting him. However last Sunday Sheedy had the tact and grace to send him on for the last few minutes and in that time he scored a point and was on the pitch to savour Tipp's unexpected triumph. Partial redemption at least I'd say.

Strange Experience in Lucca

2010-09-07T14:56:00.002+01:00

My hotel in the centre of Lucca had offered a parking option but when I drove into the old walled town it quickly became clear that getting there was way beyond the abilities of my GPS. The tiny narrow streets are all pedestrianised and I was like Theseus in the labyrinth without an Ariadne in sight. I parked the car on the outskirts and walked to the hotel. The young guy at the desk produced a tiny map and marked a route for me so I returned to the car to give it a shot. Within seconds I was lost again, edging around corners into cul de sacs, negotiating my way around bemused pedestrian, and generally becoming hot, bothered and increasingly desperate. Then a portly middle-aged man on a scooter suddenly appeared in front of me and gestured me to follow him. I had no idea who he was or why I should follow him but being desperate I did so. He weaved his way around 4 or 5 corners with me in pursuit and then stopped and pointed to the little cul de sac where my hotel lay hidden - and rode off without a word.

On the Road Again

2010-08-25T09:59:00.003+01:00

1. Ferry from Dun Laoghaire at 13:15 - packed with returning English holidaymakers. As ugly an agglomeration of humankind as I’ve ever encountered. They gather at the fast food queues as the ferry casts off .
2. I run for cover to the upgrade lounge but a snooty factotum tells me it’s full. I buy a coffee and endure. It’s a two hour trip.
3. Road out of Holyhead much improved these days – get a flying start. I’ve my GPS set for the fastest route to Dover but I’m not sure about my subsequent traipsing across north eastern Wales. Maybe it’s avoiding traffic – another feature. And it does warn me of speed cameras. A feature that will be useful back in Ireland.
4. I’ve given myself a tight 6 hours for the journey and my GPS ETA suggest I’ll need every minute of it – presuming no stopping.
5. Yawn yawn M1 for miles and then get caught in the M25 debacle as I circumnavigate London in fits and starts.
6. Things loosen up after the Deptford tunnel and I hurtle towards Dover.
7. Make the ferry with 30 minutes to spare.
8. It’s a French vessel. All restaurants are shut but I butch my way into the truckers canteen (full of burly men in shorts!) and enjoy a cheap and serviceable meal. No wine.
9. In Calais at midnight and head diagonally across France – bound for Nice.
10. Get as far as the Arras turn off at 2:00 and decide that sleep is necessary. Find a dodgy hotel in an industrial estate and get 5 or 6 hours and an adequate breakfast.
11. On the road again at 9:30. Heading for Lyons and points south. Using the toll roads is expensive. I spend around €100 traversing France. Nice addition to the French GNP when you think of the volume of tourist traffic these routes attract.
12. Reach St. Raphael by 18:00 but monstrous traffic jams suggest I go elsewhere for a hotel. Nice itself is out but I reckon that Sophia Antipolis would be a good bet.
13. Find a perfectly adequate Novotel and settle down for my first decent meal in 2 days. There’s a live French version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire going on in restaurant. I’m impressed with the literary nature of a lot of the questions: Zola, Baudelaire and the films of Stanley Kubrick amongst others. Plus Greek myth.
14. Pick D. up at Nice airport – Terminal 1 for Aer Lingus a good guess.
15. Then a hairy, scary switchback ride through the tunnels and winding dual carriageways connecting southern France and Northern Italy. Not for the faint hearted.
16. We fetch up in the beautiful Tuscan town of Lucca – its old walls in perfect condition after all these centuries – suggesting amiable alliances through the ages. We dine in the old town and sip sambuca by the marvelous Gothic cathedral.
17. Stay in the outskirts in a Best Western which makes up for giving us an unmade up room by presenting us with a fine bottle of mine. Class.
18. Head towards Arezzo past the ravaged mountains of Carrara. What looks like snow is in fact the exposed white marble treasured around the world.
19. And then the green hills and golden fields of Tuscany. Through Arezzo and a winding mountain to our eyrie overlooking Caprese di Michelangelo.
20. Let the idyll begin.

More anon.

Letter to Irish Times Today

2010-08-20T11:37:00.003+01:00

Dear Madam,

While I understand the need to edit letters I think it is a bit cheeky to rewrite them. In yesterday's Irish Times you ascribed usage to me that made me cringe and afforded my family a cheap laugh at my expense. I would never use "a chara" and "is mise. This is civil servants' patois - a pious and perfunctory nod towards the language.

Yours etc.

I don't expect publication. Confounded: published in full.

Shock Horror - Irish Times Edit Readers' Letters to their Detriment

2010-08-19T22:40:00.005+01:00

Check out how the Irish Times edits letters without so much as by your leave. Outside occasional ironic usage I have never in my life used the phrases "a chara" and "is mise". Yet here I am sitting in my hotel in Nice fielding calls from my family wondering what's happened to me. I did however throw in a quote from Cill Cais which was omitted. Here's the corpus delecti. My original letter is first.

Dear Madam,

Every August we get the same old agonising about the poor Maths results in the Leaving Certificate. Maybe some year soon the whizz kids in the Department of Education will see some connection between the undue emphasis they put on our poor beautiful dead language and this phenomenon. Cad do dheanaimid feasta gan matamaitic.

Yours etc.

Here's what Geraldine published:

A Chara,

Every August we get the same old agonising about the poor maths results in the Leaving Certificate.Maybe some year soon the whizz kids in the Department of Education will see some connection between the undue emphasis they put on our poor beautiful dead language and this phenomenon.

Is mise,
etc.

Should I sue? Certainly the ridicule my family is already heaping on me demands some response. Where does that mouldy trollop Kennedy live?

This Sporting Life - August

2010-08-16T18:49:00.004+01:00

Tipp are beginning to insinuate their way back into my affections. That Cork debacle was almost the end but I retained a vestige of interest and slowly they are winning me over anew. Wexford and Offaly were training sessions but the match against Galway, which I attended, showed an intestinal fortitude that I doubted they possessed. Then along came Waterford last Sunday all butched up from Davy Fitzgerald's midnight route marches and Spartan regime - and Tipp matched them physically and destroyed them with their superior skills. The open spaces of Croke Park suit this team. The Mahers are motoring, Lar Corbett is enjoying an Indian summer and the McGraths are bringing youth and fearlessness to the mix. Why even the notoriously inaccurate John O'Brien scored freely. Now dare we hope - of course we do.

Aren't you sick of Padraig Harrington and his endless gabbing about how he builds his season around the majors. He's only qualified for one of the four this year. He should practice silence, exile and cunning until he wins again. All the self-justifying guff is undignified. And I don't know why he's pitching for a Ryder Cup slot - in his heyday he didn't win a point in two Ryder Cups (two half points was his lot). His long game has disintegrated. And much as we admire the gloriously exuberant Rory McElroy (notwithstanding his role as a corporate shill for Jumeirah), the fatal flaw in his game was again evident as he threw away the USPGA at the weekend - hardly sinking a decent putt in his last round.

Doesn't your whole being recoil in horror at the avalanche of hype for the new football season in England. The hiatus between seasons seems especially short this year with the World Cup interlude. Do we care how many million City spend, or how Russian oligarchs affect Chelsea selections, or how furiously Ferguson chews his gum? The fact is that it's all about how much money you have to scoop up the best players. Chelsea or United will win, Arsenal will flatter to deceive, Liverpool will struggle to score, City will struggle for cohesiveness - the rest don't matter. The only thing more irrelevant is Scottish Football. The Irish scene is not discussed in polite company.

How can the English handicapper rate Harbinger superior to Sea the Stars on the basis of one, admittedly fabulous, performance in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth stakes? Nonsense. And now of course that he's had to retire through injury a myth will be perpetrated. Sea the Stars won at all distances throughout the season culminating in a miraculous win the the Prix De L'Arc. Fie on't.

And Sharapova is back.

Glorious Goodwood

2010-08-01T18:49:00.006+01:00

Betting on horses is of course a mug's game. But it's a game I've been playing since that fateful day in 1953 when my mother took me across the Curragh plains to watch the Irish Derby. That was the year that Vincent O'Brien's Chamier won on a disqualification and I had a shilling on him at 8-1. Being a pious little prick in those days I remember buying two plaster statues - the Sacred Heart and the Virgin Mary - with my winnings.

Since that auspicious day I've taken a keen interest in the horses and over the years have been to Ascot, Epsom, Cheltenham, Aintree, Goodwood and all the major Irish tracks. I've even owned a horse or two and spent quality time with Charlie Swan's mother. The key is to enjoy the racing and don't expect to make money. From time to time you win and that suffices. Don't depend on it.

One thing that's common to all gamblers is that you don't hear of their losses - which are often painful and persistent. They will talk up their successes though - so here goes. This is my betting diary for the 5 days of the Goodwood meeting last week.

Day 1: Indian Days: won at 14-1; Lord Shanakill: won at 13-2
Day 2: Ghimaar: won at 8-1
Day 3: Beachfire: won at 10-1
Day 4: Proponent: 4th at 25-1 Webbow: 3rd at 12-1
Day 5: Evens and Odds: won at 20-1; Midday: won at 15-8; Genki: unplaced

Five winning days in a row is unusual if not unprecedente

Truman

2010-07-29T12:08:00.003+01:00

Just finished David McCullough's 1,000 page biography of Harry Truman - and what a riveting read it was, and what a cast of characters: Stalin, Churchill, Roosevelt, and even a cameo appearance by JFK. The book while generally lauded has been described as "a valentine to Truman" and indeed it is hard to find a lot that is critical. But the times he embraced were so important and eventful and he showed such strength and character that you are inclined to gloss over aberrations like the Loyalty Program - where federal employees were vetted for any communist tendencies. And what times: the creation and dropping of the atom bomb, the founding of NATO, the creation of Israel, the Marshal Plan and the Korean debacle. Having dropped the bombs on Japan following intense military pressure he was horrified at the civilian casualties and strongly resisted any subsequent use - the military wanted North Korea taught a lesson as well. His finest hour may have been the highly unpopular sacking of General McArthur who had lost the run of himself in Korea and was ignoring White House orders.

Incidental curiosities were unbuttoned quotes from those non-PC times where casual anti-semitism was rife and a farm boy from Missouri had no problems calling a spade a spade.

As history I'm not sure that this is the definitive word on Truman, but as an entertainment about a fascinating character and auspicious times it's hard to beat.

Galway Farces

2010-07-27T20:30:00.002+01:00

Here's a few thoughts about the Galway Races:

1. It's a party not a race meeting. Anyone interested in racing would be at Goodwood this week.

2. The races are mostly over-subscribed handicaps full of mediocre horses who have been running dishonestly for the past year to improve their handicap marks.

3. The exception to 2 are horses trained by Dermot Weld who is an honest trainer, a nice guy and extremely successful at this meeting. He's the only trainer I'd back knowing that I'll get a run for my money based on previous form.

4. The RTE commentators are racing insiders who will never rock a boat or raise a critical eyebrow. They're a bloody disgrace and the ugly red-haired one is creepily inclined towards sexist remarks - like when he twice importuned Barry Geraghty about his feelings for the generously proportioned female owner when Invisible Man won today.

5. Tracey Piggot is evidently a nice woman but a mind-numbingly tedious and talentless interviewer. Her special subject is the bleeding obvious and she shows no special insight into the horses or the jockeys. She may be the great Lester's daughter but he was famous for his riding and his taciturnity. I reckon RTE should have taken notice of the breeding.

Transports of Delight?

2010-07-27T15:45:00.003+01:00

The way our chauffeur-driven government continues its war of attrition against the private motorist (NCT, VRT, more tolls on the way, and of course the impending speed cameras) you would imagine we had a reasonable alternative. But of course the Luas lines don't connect, the DART serves only those based around around Dublin bay, the buses are slow, infrequent and finish too early, the trains lack basic amenities, and there's no coordinated ticketing strategy. Beyond all this is an endemic contempt for customers from all these bloated unionised semi-state organisations. I remember travelling in first class from Cork to Dublin a while back and having to endure what seemed like a union meeting in the next section. A bunch of uniformed staff ate sandwiches and argued vociferously as the snail like breakfast service dragged on around them. Getting the Luas from Sandyford recently at 09:00 there was only one ticket machine working and a long line of agitated commuters watched as their fellow travellers fumbled with the one machine - a touch screen system almost unusable in the bright sunlight. Later that morning I was getting a DART from Tara street and found that the decrepit ticket machines took neither my debit card nor a 50 Euro note. When I finally located a tiny ticket desk, the pimpled churl behind the counter took major umbrage at my temerity in proffering a 50 Euro note.

Hurling Accusations

2010-07-19T13:29:00.004+01:00

The season is taking shape and I don't like what I see. Are we going to have to suffer more cheap triumphalism from the charmless Cody (we haven't forgotten his antics at the final whistle last year). Kilkenny combine the sublime skills of Sheflin with the controlled aggression of Tommy Walsh - a winning formula. All the remaining teams are deficient in different ways. Galway are a one-trick pony, without Joe Canning they are toothless. Cork are in decline and are missing someone like Seanie O'Leary or Joe Dean up front. The twin towers strategy was found wanting against Waterford. Tipp have all the skills but I feel they are short a few Tommy Walshes. Also they keep tinkering with their half forward line. Surely to God they can cobble together a decent unit from all the talent in the county. And, by the way, Seamus Callanan is not the answer. On current form Waterford are the closest to a match for Kilkenny but a lot of their senior players are on the wane and I'm not convinced the new guys will compensate - although I liked the cut of Shane O'Sullivan's gib. The only way Kilkenny are going to get beaten is if Tipp put together a half forward line and, more importantly, discover within themselves the kind of passion and physical commitment they encountered in Pairc ui Caoimh when Cork hammered them. An unlikely scenario.

Art in Schull

2010-07-18T15:01:00.004+01:00

A recent trip to Schull coincided with their art week. The local shops and restaurants featured work by artists based in the area. These ran the gamut from dire to excellent. Representing the dire was Michael Whelton and there were a whole bunch of insipid landscapes by Jules Thomas (whose partner is Ian Bailey - Schull's most famous denizen) in the Black Sheep pub. Anyone looking for tell-tale expressionism from that source was out of luck. The estimable Chapter One bookshop had 3 pieces by John Doherty - two good ones of buoys in Sydney Harbour and an outstanding piece of a Carrick-on-Suir shop front - preserving for posterity the picturesquely decrepit. Further up the town in East Meets West had ceramic work by the supremely talented and frequently self-destructive Pat Connor. While he occasionally creates benign elephants and smiling birds, his stock-in-trade is angst and agony - gaping mouths and tortured poses. Many of his figures bring Munch's The Scream to mind and of late he has been producing wretched couples yoked together in Beckett style misery. Great stuff. There was also a smart abstract piece by his daughter Jo Connor.

This Sporting Life - July

2010-07-12T19:31:00.006+01:00

The World Cup eh, the apotheosis of all that's trite and overblown - presided over by the super-annuated suspender expert Sepp Bladder. Even the bloody ball was garish and unreliable. And don't tell me South Africa benefited - apart from generating an awareness that you may not get car jacked if you steer clear of Johannesburg. From time to time there was magic - a couple of the Argentinian goals, Germany's devastating counter attacking against England and Argentina, the spirit of Landon Donovan and the Yanks, the pure skills of Spain before the clogging started, and the passion of teams like Ghana and Uruguay (especially the splendid Forlan).

The flat racing season is getting interesting. Despite the fact I bet on him I do feel that Workforce will prove to be an overrated Epsom Derby winner. He was beaten easily by Cape Blanco in the Dante and that horse flopped in the French Derby. Though he did redeem himself in a workmanlike way in the Irish Derby. The King George VI and Queen Elizabeth at Ascot, when these two meet the older horses, will show us the wiser.

Wimbledon had its moments. The Ladies Final was effectively the match between Serena Williams and Maria Sharapova in the last 16. Two big hitters pounding each other over two close sets. The only difference is that Sharapova's service technique has too many moving parts, which leaves her prone to double faults, especially at tight moments. This proved the difference between her and the Williams juggernaut. The Wimbledon ladies finals have been deeply monotonous in recent years - Serena Williams' powerful and reliable serve repels all boarders except, occasionally, her big sister. The best woman's match I've seen this year was the final of the French Open where the Italian Francesca Schiavone defeated Samantha Stosur from Australia. Here we saw skill, shot variety and protracted rallies. I do like a sliced backhand and and a subtle drop shot. On the men's side we saw that as long as Nadal stays fit Andy Murray will never win Wimbledon. The reason is simple - Nadal's looped forehand is reliable, Murray's forehand falters under pressure. Of course Nadal retrieves better as well but Murray's service is marginally stronger if less reliable. Both have excellent temperaments but Nadal is a machine and Murray is a mere mortal.

Another great match between Cork and Waterford yesterday. Looking at it selfishly as a Tipp man I'm delighted with the draw - the ultimate loser will be vulnerable in the playoffs. But it's hard to call. That Cork half back line are the fulcrum of that team. Gardener, Curran and Sean Og are mighty men and Cusack is a hero in goal - but they are lacking in the forwards and this may undo them down the line. Mullane and Kelly may prove decisive in the replay especially if the Brick Walsh and newcomers like Shane O'Sullivan repeat their performances. As for Tipp's pyrrhic victory over Wexford, it'll take more than that to rekindle my enthusiasm. I need a win over Galway, Kilkenny or Cork.

Will Padraig Harrington ever win a golf tournament again? He's so bloody erratic off the tee these days that I doubt it. But I do feel that Graham McDowell, after his ice cold US Open win, has another one in him. He's got the right stuff temperamentally and a rock solid technique. What to do with Darren Clarke? He's playing well, especially tee to green, but he looks so bloody rueful all the time you suspect he's waiting for something to go wrong - as it did in the Scottish Open last weekend. If you could combine his accuracy off the tee and the fairway with Harrington's short game you'd have a decent golfer. As for the British Open this week, I fancy anybody but McElroy who will never win a major because he can't putt. This spake Zarathustra.

The Dalkey Book Festival

2010-06-28T13:13:00.001+01:00

Dalkey was en fete last weekend for its first book festival. The glorious weather helped and the local merchants pulled together impressively. The quality of the events varied. You had to tread carefully lest you happen upon Maeve Binchy dispensing blandness (that Chesire Cat smirk with no substance behind it); or John Waters (looking like Rasputin’s less charismatic younger brother) offering his unique brand of wrong-headed righteousness. There was some diversion in the likes of John Connolly and Declan Hughes discussing the best of crime fiction and Bruce Arnold talking about the art of writing about art. David McWilliams seemed to be everywhere, dispensing good humour and positive energy. There was plenty of literary heft and intellectual substance with Declan Kiberd and Robert Fisk showing up. My favourite event however was the interview with Conor McPherson in the Heritage Centre. The interviewer was Gerard Godley who is a jazz man so we were entertained by a wide-ranging discussion rather than one confined to the minutiae of his plays. McPherson looks more like an accounts clerk in an IT company than a tortured artist and there was an impressive absence of arse about the whole proceedings. He was inspired to begin writing by seeing a production of David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross. He did make one revealing comment when he maintained that he had a strong sense of the wonder and mystery of being alive and that he tried to bring that awareness into his work. This is something we tend not to say in these empirical days – with Dawkins and Hitchens bringing us down to earth – so it’s refreshing to hear it from one of our brightest and best. What is the stars, what is the stars indeed.

The only criticism I’d have of the whole event was that demand for seats far exceeded space so they may have to lose some of the intimacy of venues like the Tramyard and the Idlewild Café to accommodate more punters. Let’s hope it becomes an annual event.

The Killer Inside Me

2010-06-23T16:29:00.004+01:00

Don't let all the febrile witterings from the right-on British press put you off going to see this excellent film noir from the estimable Michael Winterbottom. (I enjoyed his last film as well - a decent stab at the story of Daniel Pearl called A Mighty Heart.) Casey Affleck plays a sociopathic cop in a small Texan town in the 50s. He has a penchant for spanking and casual murder. The period and milieu are perfectly recreated and Affleck is superb as the affectless villain. The much talked about violence is no worse than I've seen in hundreds of movies. The fact that it's done to women that he's been romantically (or sexually anyway) involved with makes it more shocking I suppose. Also, some feminist critics may have taken exception to the compliance of these women in the S and M games that preceded the murders. All done in the best possible taste in my opinion. Although the plot was a little unlikely, and the suggested Freudian origins off Affleck's behaviour a tad simplistic, this was a powerful and entertaining film. And there's a great original soundtrack with a Last Picture Show feel to it.

Fear of Balding

2010-06-17T15:41:00.004+01:00

The gold standard for horse racing coverage is set by Channel 4. It has the peerless John Francome and shrewdies like Jim McGrath, Alistair Down and Emma Spencer. It even has an Essex girl Tanya Stevenson keeping an eye on the exchanges and a finger on the pulse of the betting market. All professionals, all enthusiasts. Ok there is that bufoon McCririck but he's been marginalised in recent times.

Then you have the shambles that is BBC coverage. Clare Balding would make a great head girl, or perhaps captain of the lacrosse team but she's a ponderous disaster as a presenter. Her speciality is stating the bleeding obvious with heavy emphasis. Then they cruelly give this large ample arsed woman the tiniest co-presenter on TV, the famously inarticulate Willie Carson. They are never prepared. Carson keeps getting asked questions he has palpably to bluff answers to and there's any amount of off camera muttering as things unwind farcically. Their Royal Ascot coverage is a bad joke. Before the big races they have Balding gallumphing around the paddock pointing out who's who - like a nosey neighbour. Their post-race analysis is done by another distractingly diverse couple - the miniatiure ex-jockey Kevin Darley and a very tall pundit. Finally you have a guy called Richie who gallops around like a dog with two mickies grinning inanely as he asks questions of brain melting banality. The only relief is when the race starts and the one professional on the team, the commentator (another Jim McGrath) takes over. And don't get me started about the camp fashion spotter - straight out of a Carry On movie. What a bloody farce. It's fair wrecking my buzz and the racing itself is so wonderful.

This Sporting Life - June

2010-06-16T20:24:00.006+01:00

These days I am mostly watching racing. The World Cup is a buzzing sound in the background. I'm sure I'll start taking an interest at the quarter final stage. So far, from what I saw, Argentina played the most interesting football.

This week we have the annual glorious coincidence of Royal Ascot and Bloomsday - and sunshine to boot. Yesterday the Queen Anne Stakes opened the royal meeting with the best race of the 5 days - no keeping the good wine until last here. The French super mare Goldikova beat the English colt Paco Boy thanks to Richard Hughes waiting a few strides too many before launching his challenge. Aidan O'Brien's Rip Van Winkle performed like most of O'Brien's horses this season - badly below par.

The Irish rugby team are jaded. They should not be touring - it's purely a money making gig and is unfair on the players. By the way, what has Alan Quinlan done to Kidney? There is hardly a back row forward left standing in the country (Ferris, O'Brien, Leamy, Muldoon, McLaughlin, etc. all out) and yet he picks some pimply adolescent from the under 20s rather than someone who was selected for the Lions last year. It can't just be the gouging incident as Jennings was found guilty of the same offence. And our craven rugby journalists seem unable to address the issue directly. Given his lineout prowess Quinlan was an obvious choice to tour in the first place and was fit and fresh. Why was he ignored? Will no one ask the costive Pres boy?

I am sulking with the Tipp hurling team after their spineless display against Cork. Like a disaffected lover it will take something special to win my love back. They will now have to do it the hard way - maybe Galway in the quarter-finals and Kilkenny in the semi-finals. So be it. I am waiting for something to rekindle my faith. Otherwise Sheedy may have to go. Declan Ryan watches from the wings - his hour come round at last?

Although I backed Workforce to win the Derby and he obliged by 7 lengths in a record time, I am not convinced that he's a great Derby winner - in the Sea the Stars, Shergar, Nijinsky mould. The record time means little. Some of the best Derby winners had relatively slow times. He took advantage of O'Brien's pace maker and the going was very fast. I think it was a weak Derby. Time will show us the wiser.

Paul McCartney at the RDS

2010-06-14T12:48:00.002+01:00

Is it safe to admit that I was at this gig last Saturday? Will I be consigned to the carpet slipper and slippery elm food brigade? What the hell - here goes. It was a blast. McCartney's enthusiasm and engagement with the audience (including a number of Irish phrases) was in stark contrast to my last stadium gig - that addled old curmudgeon Dylan hiding under his hat. Two giant screen on either side of the stage helped. His voice was in excellent nick (another contrast with Dylan) and he ran through the Beatles back catalogue with freshness and verve - the Wings and later McCartney stuff were mercifully kept to a minimum. Highlights for me were the slower songs, especially "Something" dedicated to George (started off on the ukelele), and "Blackbird" although he showed he could rock too with "Jet" and a wonderful version of "Let Me Roll It". The band were tight (the splendidly louche looking Brian Ray on guitar) and the sound perfect - and we got two and a half hours plus a fireworks display. He interacted constantly with the audience and seemed to be enjoying himself throughly. Take note Mr. Zimmerman.

Recent Reads - June 2010

2010-06-10T14:30:00.009+01:00

The Forsaken by Tim Tzouliadis

This was a revelation to me, a well researched account of how a large number of US citizens fell out of the frying pan of the Great Depression into the fire of Stalin's Russia. These economic migrants were welcomed and feted initially but soon they began, one by one, to fall prey to the paranoia that prevailed under Stalin. The US embassy washed their hands of those who looked to them for succour - presumably viewing them as traitors for deserting their country. Aside from the great ogre Stalin, the villain of the piece is the US ambassador Joseph Davies who, in addition to ignoring the plight of his trapped fellow countrymen, sent glowing reports back to Roosevelt about the state of the Soviet Empire. Davies attended the Stalinist show trials and alone of all Western observers saw nothing untoward in these farcical proceedings. His main preoccupation was buying up Russian art treasures and shipping them back to the US. A monster of appetite and self-regard.

The Big Short by Michael Lewis

While a lot of this was too technical for me, I think I got the message. And can even explain what a credit default swap is. While the world's economy was going down the toilet thanks to the reckless packaging and selling of sub-prime mortgage bonds, certain clever boys (and they were all boys) were betting against these bonds and making billions from their inevitable failure. The brazen effrontery of the financial institutions who marketed these scrofulous bonds and who, in some cases, also bet against them is a wonder to behold. And we thought we had poor regulation over here. The book is good on the personalities who populate this freakish enclave - a lot of them seem to suffer from Aspberger's Syndrome .

Solar by Ian McEwan

A light-weight comic offering by a man who in his early days suffered from a certain portentiousness. This is an amusing confection for the beach - and why not. In Michael Beard McEwan has created a character to rival Nick Cave's Bunny Munro or Martin Amis's John Self. He's ostensibly a scientist but his glory days are over. His main concern is indulging his appetite for drink, food and women - strictly in that order. The plot is replete with cod science and there's an unlikely murder scenario, but that makes no difference. Enjoy the fun of the set pieces - especially the frozen penis episode. If you don't laugh out loud at that I'll refund your money.

At the Same Time by Susan Sontag

I picked this up at a car boot sale in Dun Laoghaire. I noticed that the flyleaf was neatly inscribed with the signature of Sinead O'Connor. A common enough name of course but I hope she's not down on her luck. Or maybe it was just spring cleaning. This is Sontag's final book of essays published three years after her death in 2004. It contains her famous (or infamous) New Yorker article following 9/11 where she bravely bucked the trend. She's a true intellectual hero who, while sometimes priggish and gratuitously esoteric, expands our horizons and challenges our smug assumptions. The best essay in this book is about Leonid Tsypkin a Russian doctor who wrote just one novel - Summer in Baden Baden. It's a labour of love.

Rancid Ruminations

2010-06-01T17:53:00.003+01:00

What fresh hell is this - being exposed on the national airwaves (Newstalk at lunch time) to the fulminations of that officious twat Gay Byrne. He was banging on about the 600 new speed cameras that are going to be installed - all the better to harass the persecuted Irish motorists still further. This is all about revenue gathering. Remember when parking restrictions were introduced we were told that this was to help traffic flow. Now it's an extortion industry - I can't even park outside Paddy Power's in Dalkey on a Saturday without some prick in a comic opera uniform feeling my collar.

For me the summer is over after the carnage in Pairc Ui Caoimh last Sunday. Nothing to look forward to but another lap of honour for the charmless Cody. Cork had the hunger and the passion, Tipp had lots of elegant stylists but they weren't allowed to play. It was like a saluki being attacked by a pit bull terrier. It ill behoves me to say an admiring word about Cork hurling - I still haven't forgiven Mattie Fouhy for throwing that hurley back in '61 (or was it '62). However there was much to admire about them last Sunday. I've always been a big admirer of Donal Og - both for his politics and for his tactical acumen. He threw in a few superb saves as well. The full back Cadogan was my man of the match though. Would that anybody on the Tipp team had his energy and manic commitment. Add the likes of John Gardener, the marvelous and ageless Ben O'Connor, and that family of South Sea Islanders they imported and you have a truly formidable force. Will they be able to crank up that level of intensity again this summer is the question. As for Tipp, I truly despair. What can Sheedy do with such a spineless bunch. And apart from Cummins they have no natural leaders. Maybe last September has damaged them fatally for they must know they left an All-Ireland title back there.

Art Musings

2010-05-30T15:05:00.003+01:00

The annual RHA debacle is upon us. Looking at the paucity of sales you might wonder are the RHA now making more money from the entry fees than they are from sales. And of course the vast majority of submissions are rejected every year - there being little room for everybody else in a show dominated by the Academy members' multiple submissions. The exhibits are the usual mix of the good, the bad and the truly mediocre. I am mortally affronted every year by the poor quality of the portraiture - dead eyes in dead faces, no animating presence. Send the lot of them off to the Prado to see how it's done. There were occasional good deeds: a mighty fine Gwen O'Dowd, an exquisite little Eilis O'Connell bronze, a moody Martin Gale featuring a line of cars at dusk heading into the ominous countryside, and a super urban landscape by Donald Teskey. And then there was a plastic bag of used clothes with a little photographic ID showing through - the title was "My Father's Portrait" . The bag contained the clothes and property handed over by the hospital after the poor man died. Poignant? No, bloody trite.

Peter Green at the Olympia

2010-05-19T18:02:00.004+01:00

Rumours of Peter Green's terminal decline are greatly exaggerated. Backed by a solid chugging band (including standup bass) he put on a fine performance in the Olympia last Sunday. Sporting a bandana and bearded like Captain Birdseye he beamed out on the audience as if he was really enjoying himself. The show took a little time to get going, but after a couple of perfunctory workouts we were treated to that sharp soaring sound that make him a legend amongst blues guitarists. And the amiable growl of a voice worked well. He ran through some of his popular stuff like Black Magic Woman, and Albatross but a large proportion of the show harked back to his John Mayall days and obscure songs by Robert Parker and Willie Dixon. The highlights for me were a virtuoso version of Parker's Steal Your Heart Away and a lengthy exploration of Rainy Night in Georgia.

Donovan at Russbrough House

2010-05-17T17:54:00.002+01:00

The last time I saw Donovan was in the old Arcadia Ballroom in Cork back in the Sixties. It was very early in his career and he was plainly at sea as a public performer. I remember a lot to time spent tuning his guitar before he got going. I quite liked some of his songs but regarded him a lightweight in comparison to Dylan. When I saw that he was opening an exhibition called Atlantis to Arcadia in Russborough House I saw it as an opportunity to kill three birds with one stone. Pay my first visit to Russborough House, support the excellent Cherrylane Gallery folk who were presenting the show, and see how the old hippy was looking these days. The show was very well attended but was over awed by its salubrious surroundings - why look at the decorative and insipid art when you can enjoy the glorious architecture and antique silverware. Donovan made a short and zany speech that seemed to suggest that Atlantis was located off the Kerry coast and told us how much he had in common with John Lennon. He is still flying his freak flag but these days it's topped by some circular decorative headwear - a la Richard Thompson. After the opening the crowd go downstairs for the promised performance by Donovan. This actually consists of Donovan declaiming rather than singing something dreadful called Atlantis while abusing a perfectly good guitar. After one song he mercifully hands us over to Chris de Burgh (an in-law of the artist) who sings a tuneful and perfectly acceptable version of Catch the Wind - by far Donovan's best song. A rum do all in all but we left well amused.

Meditations on Madrid

2010-04-27T20:04:00.010+01:00

Just back from Madrid - an estimable city that heroically resisted that old brute Franco and had the gumption in 2009 to to strip him of all his self bestowed titles (honorary mayor of Madrid, Adopted Son of Madrid etc.).

The hugely impressive metro system takes you from the airport to the city centre for €2. Most other journeys cost €1. Whenever I travel in Europe I am struck by how the citizens are looked after by their governments. We have a dysfunctional public transport system and a punitive regime towards cars – the worst of both worlds. The four days I spent there I used the metro exclusively - it operates until 1:30 or so and is clean and regular. Now that's what I call public service.

The highlight of course was the Prado. My nomination for the best gallery in the world. I kept my focus narrow because you can be overwhelmed by the infinite variety on offer. I confined myself to Goya, Velázquez and Titian. I love Titian, his Ecce Homo is one of the most powerful paintings in the building and his Danae is definitely the most erotic. However I had never seen Velázquez en masse before and his wonderfully expressive portraits left the most lasting impression. Most of them were of Spanish royalty but painted as the poor bare forked animals that lay beneath the ruffs and finery. There was also a series of portraits of the court jesters or bufoons. The one that lingered in my mind's eye was Velázquez's portrait of Sebastian Don Morro. In his expression you can see his intelligence at war with his ridiculous station.

The Reina Sofia Gallery was also worth a visit - not just to see Picasso's austere masterpiece Guernica - but also to enjoy a playful collection of contemporary sculpture.

There's a moving minimalist memorial to the 2004 terrorist attack in the Atocha train station. It's interesting to see that amongst the 191 victims named in the monument there are only a couple of non-Spanish names - and these are Eastern Europeans ones. An indication that Madrid is not a tourist city like Barcelona.

Blue Notes

2010-04-26T13:32:00.001+01:00

Blue arrived in our secondary school half way through 3rd year and so was always going to be an outsider. His family came from Dublin so his surname (Coughlan) was pronounced Cocklan rather than the Cork variation Cawlan. A confirmation of his outsider status. He was a rheumy-eyed, dirty blonde boy with a blotchy complexion. Our school was relentlessly philistine and success on the sports field mattered far more than other pursuits. Blue had no interest in games and not much in academic matters either. He also had a fine line in insolence, which did not endear him to Brother Leo - our ferocious Latin teacher. Leo made it his mission to beat this insolence out of Blue. He was singled out for almost daily beatings that went far beyond the routine punishment we all suffered. Leo would often lose his temper as he beat him out of the room and continued his ministrations in the small adjoining teacher’s room.

One curious thing I remembered about Blue was his virulent dislike of his mother. We all had issues with our fathers, but it was unusual to hear any boy berate his mother.

We were never very friendly and I thought no more of him after we left school. A few years later between stints at university I spent some time in London. Going into Picadilly Circus tube station one day I met Blue and a couple of other Cork guys – including the infamous Judd (later to spend time in US, British and Irish jails for heroin dealing). We got talking and they told me that they had a scam operating whereby they went around different dole offices in London signing on under different names. This way they made a comfortable living. They also had acquired a pile of unused tube tickets and generously tossed a few in my direction.

I bumped into him and his cronies from time to time in London in ’68 and ’69. These were halcyon times – the anti-Vietnam protests in Grosvenor Square, the legalise pot rallies in Hyde Park and of course the Stones in the Park. Blue had started to deal drugs – mainly hash but also LSD and various uppers and downers. He had become, according to his friends, extremely paranoid and reckoned he was being followed. He carried a Polaroid camera with him every where and would wheel around in the street and photograph those walking behind him to try and establish who was on his trail.

I moved back to university in late ’69 and didn’t see Blue again for about 6 years. After university I spent a few years working on oilrigs around the world. Between drilling stints we spent 6 months in dry dock in Amsterdam getting our drilling ship refitted. We would head into the flesh pots most evenings after work. I was walking through the red light area one night on my own when I bumped into Blue. He was very upbeat and invited me back to his nearby apartment to sample some of his wares. It transpired that he had moved on to heroin dealing and was doing well. He introduced me to his very pretty 17-year old French girlfriend. She couldn’t stay long as she was going across the canal to her work in a live sex show. Blue made some tea and invited me to snort some heroin. I remember how careful he was to warn me about the possibility of vomiting – a common occurrence for first time users. We sat back and reminisced about the old days in CBC. A little later there was a knock on the door and Blue opened it to reveal two middle-aged Chinese men in suits. It became clear that my presence was superfluous to requirements so I took myself off back to the rig.

In 1979 I had moved to Dublin and found more conventional employment. I was driving past the old Salvation Army hostel off Stephen’s Green one late afternoon and spotted Blue emerging. It seemed he was down on his luck. A few week’s later I was sitting in Stephen’s Green admiring the flowers. Suddenly Blue appeared making erratic progress across the grass and through flower beds. He seemed very agitated. He was talking to himself and kicking the heads off flowers. I left him to it.

My last sighting of him came around 1990. I had been staying in a hotel on Russell Square and was getting a tube to Heathrow the following morning. I was standing with my suitcase on the platform of Russell Square tube station when I saw a familiar figure working his way down the platform begging. He was very shabbily dressed and I particularly remember that the sole of one of his shoes was flapping. About half way down the platform he spotted me and before I had a chance to say a word he abruptly turned down one of the exits and was gone.

Recent Reads - March 2010

2010-03-25T21:38:00.005Z

Hitler by Ian Kershaw
Or how an art-school reject became a demagogue. It's very good on the early deadbeat days in Munich and Vienna and on the political chicanery prior to the Second World War. He was clearly asexual and seemed to get his orgasms from public speaking. It's still a mystery to me how he went from sad sack to beer hall orator to omnipotent leader. The will to power I suppose. Kershaw does his best to trace this route but it remains baffling. You can see the gradual progression in Stalin's rise but with Hitler there seems to be these massive leaps.

Love of the World by John McGahern
This collection of essays and reviews is a pure unadulterated delight from start to finish. Unlike the occasionally esoteric and acidulous Banville, McGahern keeps it direct and simple. And his judgements are more generous. His piece on the little known Patrick Swift is a gem and there's also a nice nod towards the great Edmund Wilson. It's not all literary, there are amiable rural reflections and some rueful comments on the state of the nation - the arrogance of the philistines in office. The writing is peerless and pellucid throughout. Buy it. Keep it by your bed.

Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane
Some excellent scene setting but the conclusion was a let down.

Letters of T. S. Eliot
For dipping into. A few surprises. He could be quite scatological in his exchanges with Ezra Pound, in marked contrast to the extreme formality of his letters to family and publishers. Also, these letters show vividly the health problems of his first wife and of his deep concern for her - contrary to what some biographies suggest. He also had to grub about for money for a lengthy period before he achieved financial security.

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
Yea, yea, very worthy. Convincing view of Thomas Cromwell from the inside and very sound on period detail - especially food and domestic stuff. I liked the alternative view of Thomas More and the machinations of Anne Boleyn and the suave Wolsey and all the court intrigue. It's a rollicking read. However, Henry VIII remained vague and peripheral and I would have liked to have seen Cromwell's comeuppance. Maybe that's the sequel.

Columbine by Dave Cullen
Fine piece of reportage on the US school shootings. The initial plan was for bombs as well as guns but the bombs failed to detonate saving hundreds of lives. The book looks closely at the families of the two killers and finds little to suggest they were responsible for spawning monsters. One of the two was clearly a sociopath and the other a weak-willed follower. It still amazes me how blithely they viewed the prospect of their own deaths. They went into it knowing that they couldn't survive.

Thoughts out of Season - March 2010

2010-03-25T21:01:00.004Z

I salute the person who came up with the Hell in Mirren headline after those Celtic sad sacks got hammered last night by St. Mirren in that great irrelevancy the Scottish Premiership. A headline that surpassed the event it described.

The Irish rugby teams defeat last Saturday was primarily a tactical one - Kidney failed us for once. He wasn't helped of course by Sexton's kicking failures or by Rory Best's public nervous breakdown, but he presided impotently over a team superior in almost every position that should have won easily. The Scots had a limited game plan - gain territorial position by Parks kicking on the right and Southwell kicking on the left. Then wait for Kaplan to give a penalty which he invariably did. Sexton's penalty misses sowed the seeds of doubt and the scrum and the lineout were a shambles. He should have brought on Buckley, Cullen and Cronin with 15 minutes to go. But instead he adopted a Mr. Micawber approach and inevitably nothing turned up. Mostly in rugby the best team wins. This was a sad exception.

For those of a cynical bent, Cheltenham was a pure delight. Binocular won the Champion Hurdle in fine style at the handsome price of 9-1 after been declared a non-runner a couple of weeks before the race. A few wide boys on the betting exchanges laid him at around 900-1, ostensibly taking advantage of those who hadn't heard or trusted the news. After he suddenly became fit again and romped home you might have expected some recriminations from the British Racing Press (or even the craven Irish hacks). After all we can recall the abuse visited on Jim Bolger after New Approach won the Derby after being declared a doubtful runner. Binocular's trainer is the incorrigibly amiable Nicky Henderson, whereas Bolger is a prickly perfectionist who doesn't suffer fools gladly.

A Gentle Beating in Killester

2010-03-03T11:44:00.004Z

It's good to get out on a fine Sunday afternoon. A DART from Dalkey to Killister and a 10-minute walk brought me to Parnell Park and an opportunity to see the thoroughbreds of Tipp open their National Hurling League campaign against Dublin. It's a nice intimate ground and you are right on top of the action. How young the players look and how slight compared to the rugby guys - although Paul Curran looks physically equipped to play number 8 on any rugby team. Now that helmets are compulsory it's very hard to know who's who although the numbers help if you have a programme.

It's clear from early on that Dublin are up for this game and that Tipp see it as a stroll in the park. The result is an easy win for Dublin. Nicky English is sitting directly behind me so I am treated to a rueful commentary on the proceedings. He's not getting very excited about things though so I expect that Tipp will improve from this first run. I have to absorb the abuse of my two Dublin buddies on the long journey back to Killiney. It's a long way to September.

The Arrogance of Office

2010-02-21T22:09:00.004Z

An illustration of everything that's wrong with this benighted republic was there for all to see in the Dail on the day of the debate about Willie O'Dea. The RTE cameras showed O'Dea, Dermot Aherne, and all the other Fianna Fail heros having a good laugh at the opposition as they tried to unseat O'Dea on a matter of principle. The notion that anything as spurious as mere principle should affect them was clearly hilarious. And of course it's beyond irony that O'Dea is a barrister and actually lectures on law. These guys have been in power too long.

A Fall from Grace

2010-02-17T12:49:00.002Z

The old story from Paris eh. You never give a sucker an even break. France were far from suckers and we gave them numerous breaks with our mistakes and poor decision making. And another thing, this French team were hugely well motivated and determined to show who was cock of the walk. This was exemplified by Parra - an annoyingly cocky and confident scrum half in the Matt Dawson mould. As a team they showed more hunger and intensity - a decisive ingredient in rugby. We lost despite dominating possession especially through the lineout. The French defence had plenty to do with this but we showed a lack of tactical nous by not varying our game more. Our backs, apart from D'Arcy's break, looked lumpen and one-paced. Their backs were faster and more varied in their attacking gambits. I felt that the French would have won anyway but the momentum turned after Flannery's foul. Instead of going to 3-3 we found ourselves 10-3 down shortly afterwards and never recovered. Healy's sending off further weakened a crumbling scrum. Kidney didn't help with his bench selection. He picked two out halves (Sexton and Paddy Wallace) and no wings. This meant that when Kearney went off 2 other players had to change position - Earls to full back and D'Arcy to the wing. If he had Trimble or Horgan on the bench we would have had better cover. And Paddy Wallace showed yet again that he's a game lad and a sound club player but is out of his depth in international rugby. Ferris and Heaslip were the only two Irish players to emerge with reputations unsullied.

Changes? Sexton for O'Gara certainly. Put Earls at full back for the injured Kearney and bring back Horgan on the wing (or maybe Trimble). Who knows what to do with the front row. Maybe Healy, Best and Court. Or maybe Horan, Best and Hayes. Neither one if going to trouble England. Where have you gone Tony Buckley, a nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

Arthur Koestler

2010-02-16T10:59:00.003Z

There's a new biography of Arthur Koestler by Michael Scammell that's just received a lengthy and laudatory review by the estimable Anne Applebaum in the current edition of the NYRB. Koestler's reputation has waned considerably since his death, for a variety of reasons. There's the lack of a manager for his estate (having taken the best qualified candidate with him when he committed suicide), there was the rape incident described in a previous biography by David Cesarani (he apparently didn't take no for an answer with Michael Foot's wife), and, perhaps most significantly, as a Hungarian Jew and native German speaker who wrote in English he doesn't really belong to any one country. And of course the actual suicide itself, where the dying writer took his perfectly healthy 55 year old wife along for the ride, didn't help.

I was an avid reader of everything he wrote when I was in college and I still have considerable respect for his achievements. Darkness at Noon was his masterpiece. Stalin and Russian communism were popular with European intellectuals at the time and Koestler's book helped to remove the blinkers from many. Not Sartre however, who was in denial long after it was reasonable and who broke off relations with Koestler as a result of the book (ok, Koestler also slept with Simone de Beauvoir which didn't help).

The book of his I enjoyed most however was The Sleepwalkers. This was a history of cosmology and astronomy brought to vivid life. I became familiar with the personalities and ideas of the likes of Ptolemy, Tycho Brahe, Kepler, Copernicus and of course Galileo.This was the book that influenced John Banville's wonderful early novels about Kepler and Copernicus. Although a Jew by birth and an early supporter of Zionism he wrote a hugely controversial book, The Thirteenth Tribe, that argued that European Jews are not descended from the Jews who lived in ancient Palestine but rather from the Khazars of Central Asia. A thesis that went down badly in Tel Aviv and New York. Another reason perhaps for his relative obscurity.

McSweeney in Yeats Country

2010-02-09T13:29:00.008Z

Went to Sligo last weekend for an opening in the Sligo Art Gallery. Our first stop was Drumcliffe Churchyard to visit Yeats' grave. It's been tarted up since I last visited about 20 years ago. There's now a large car park and a bloody interpretative centre. However, the graveyard itself is untouched and there's still the wonderful unobstructed view of bare Ben Bulben.

The show in the gallery was of small works by members of the Graphic Studio Dublin in response to the poems of Yeats. It was a low-key event but the work was attractive and affordable. I bought an exquisite Stephen Lawlor piece entitled Glencar. A lot of the artists were present and we all repaired to Hargadon's pub in O'Connell Street afterwards. This is a great old pub full of nooks and snugs and mercifully free of the accursed television. And the pint was first class. Later we moved on to a French restaurant called Montmarte. The service was glacial but the food and the company compensated.

The following day we were invited to visit Sean McSweeney and his ever amiable wife Sheila in his studio out past Lissadell (which sported a large Closed sign). Sean had been at the centre of the drinking proceedings the previous night but was there hale and hearty to greet us at midday. Not bad for a 75 year old. The studio is a converted national school - formerly Ballyconnell National School for Male and Female infants - as the plaques outside testify. Although Sean is going through a dry spell at the moment the studio is tantalisingly full of past work - but it was not a time for negotiating art deals. There was a group of five of us and after a tour of the building we sat down to an excellent lunch of coffee, homemade brown bread and some local smoked salmon. The studio is idyllically situated amidst farmland with a brief walk to the sea and Ben Bulben and Knocknarea looming in the background to remind you of your heritage.

Dull Start to Six Nations

2010-02-08T14:10:00.003Z

Neither France nor Ireland had to break into a sweat to win their respective matches. It was good to see O'Gara back to his best and Cullen may have fought his way on instead of O'Callaghan. Trimble or Earls will do on the left wing. If Ferris can't play against France, Kidney should pick Quinlan instead of McLaughlin - but he won't. It's a mystery why he has been omitted from even the extended panel. If it was gouging, Jennings is back from a similar offence. If it is age, Hayes is older - although of course in a position where options are limited.

France looked very strong against a limited Scotland. Their pack is fearsome and as usual they have speed and guile in the backs. Bastardieu is nothing special I reckon - a smaller and uglier version of Lomu. I'd be more worried about Clerc. Apart from a late flurry of activity, the England Wales match was nothing special. England have a great pack but nothing creative behind. Wales have a great back line but no pack - especially without Gethin Jenkins. I favour France overall as they are at home to their main rivals Ireland and England. By the way, is it my imagination or has the scrum become much more significant this year?

I have done the state

2010-02-05T10:30:00.003Z

The excellent Taoiseach series on TV3 - it's full of rich anecdotes from the past. When Reynolds cleared out the cabinet after he took over, Mary O'Rourke sought a meeting to protest her case. Reynolds' response, God bless him, was to tell her "to get put of here with your ould guff". Dick Spring also recounted how Reynolds' idea of consultation was to tell Spring what decisions he had made. The rock on which he subsequently perished - with the Harry Whelehan business. One constant since W. T. Cosgrave relinquished power to De Valera is the complete absence in Fianna Fail of any set of beliefs or coherent political philosophy. It's all about the acquisition of power and the dispensing of the subsequent largesse. It shows in events like Albert Reynolds' blithe acceptance of Dick Spring's Labour coalition demands in order to remain in office. I also liked Justine McCarthy's succinct put down of Haughey - she reckoned he should have shortened his risible quotation from Othello to "I have done the state".

Buddy Holly

2010-02-03T11:04:00.007Z

The unfailingly good-humoured Tom Dunne Show on Newstalk is this morning playing music by Buddy Holly - as I write this I'm listening to Heartbeat. Today's the 51st anniversary of his death so why not. This was the music of my early adolescence and so never to be forgotten. In those days we got all our decent music on Radio Luxembourg in the early evening. It brought us the likes of Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Eddie Cochran and of course Elvis. But Buddy was always my favourite. His plangent bitter-sweet ballads were especially attuned to the adolescent sensibility - check out What to Do and Crying Waiting Hoping. And he played exciting rock and roll with songs like Rave On and Not Fade Away. He had a homespun authenticity that made him a more empathetic figure than most of his peers. And then of course the tragic early death - he was only 22. What he would have become - a tired Las Vegas act, the greatest singer song-writer in the history of the universe, a drink and drug burnout - remains locked forever in the realms of conjecture.

Avatar and The Road

2010-01-31T15:10:00.002Z

Went to both these films in the past two weeks and found neither of them more than mildly diverting. I rarely enjoy films that have loads of CGI flying and fighting sequences - and I have a low tolerance of dragons and the exotic monsters of fantasy. The real world is grim and fantastical enough for me. Star Wars left me cold, for example, and I was unmoved by the Lord of the Rings. Avatar is no doubt a treat for the senses and the 3D effects were stunning. There parallels to be drawn with Yankee imperialism and rampant capitalism, and the remorseless pillaging of the Earth's resources, but the basic story was simplistic in the extreme - full of stock characters and situations. It was entertainment without content - like eating a meringue. The Road on the other hand was content without entertainment - a wholemeal muffin maybe. No film has the right to be so grey. The design and cinematography were sensational - image after image took one's breath away. But there was no break in the relentless grimness of the story. Even Beckett relieves the gloom with an occasional joke. You could admire a lot of it but you were hardly entertained.