The Dalkey Book Festival

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

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

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

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

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.