Is it? While I wouldn't get over excited about wins against a South African second team and an Australian team in decline and transition (and a whit discomfited by the extreme weather), nonetheless this is the best Irish rugby team I've seen in my lifetime. And I've seen them all. Jackie Kyle in Musgrave Park, Tony O'Reilly in Lansdowne Road, Gordon Wood in Thomand Park ("more fire Munster forwards" bellowed from the stand) and Tommy Kiernan playing scrum-half for UCC in the Mardyke. For God's sake I walked to Ballyphehane every Saturday of my schooldays to see Dolphin and Sunday's Well play - lantern-jawed Jim Kiernan in the centre, blind Bernie O'Mahoney at out-half and Vincie Giltenan a prop to savour.
There are of course better individuals from the past. You would love to see Sid Millar and Ray McLaughlin in the front row with Ronnie Dawson, and the immortal Ken Goodall at number 8. You'd have to have Tommy Kiernan at full-back - even if he is a Pres boy, and places must be found for Mike Gibson and Simon Geoghegan. But overall this is the greatest team and a number of them would make any Irish team of any era: Brian O'Driscoll, Paul O'Connell, and the underrated David Wallace to name a few.
The only weakness is at prop (but the new tame scrummaging laws will help us out next year) and perhaps at full-back. Stringer has been criticised for the lack of variety in his game but I'd prefer him to the showboating Boss. And who can forget his solo try in the Heineken cup final last year. I'd like Jerry Flannery back at hooker as well - he is an extra loose forward, whereas Best and that Cork Con fat boy are relatively immobile. Leave Dempsey at full-back and bring Murphy on from the bench for extra attacking options.
We'll never have a better chance of winning a Grand Slam. But put your mortgage on New Zealand for the World Cup. You can get 4 to 5 with Sporting Odds. Do it.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
In the Presence of the Lord
Went to the National Gallery last Saturday for a celebration of Louis Le Brocquy's 90th birthday - one of a seemingly endless series of events held this year to honour the great man. This was a rather special one judging by the invitation's unusual assertion that it should be presented at the door. And indeed there was security at the entrance checking that the riff raff didn't slip in.
The great and the good of the art world were in attendance. i saw Robert Ballagh as I came in, and there is the venerable Pat Scott leaning on an elegant cane. John Taylor and Mary were there, keeping very close to Pierre Le Brocquy - the man who controls access to Louis's work. The legal profession were out in force, Eoin McGonigal, chairman of IMMA was there and so was Jim O'Driscoll in the company of Peter Sutherland (whose wife appeared to called Verucca if my ears didn't deceive me). There were a lot of men dressed all in black but with extremely colourful ties - Ian Whyte to name but one. This is obviously the look for the professional art person. I also saw John Kelly from RTE (taller than I imagined) and even Benji from the Riordans (OK, Tom Hickey).
Raymond Keavney made the opening address suggesting that if Jack Yeats was the Irish artist of the 1st half of the 20th Century, then Louis Le Brocquy was his equivalent for the 2nd half. He then slightly lamely took him into the 21st Century with some assertion about how he would extend his influence into this period. It's a bit dodgy, I suppose, discussing the future of a 90-year old man. Le Brocquy himself then stood up and spoke very eloquently, from notes, about the origins of his head pieces. Some of the artists like Bacon, Beckett and Bono (oh dear) were his friends, he said. Others were artists he particularly admired - like Lorca and Strindberg. He remembered as a schoolboy meeting W.B. Yeats but only knew him as one would know a school-teacher. He tried to capture some of their intelligence and genius in these head images.
The show itself was mighty fine - the Yeat's and the Beckett's being especially good. The Lorca's seemed weaker to me but maybe that's because I have no real image of Lorca in my head. And thanks be to God they had the good sense to omit the horrific portrait of Bono as the Mekon.
After the speeches, Le Brocquy sat himself down at a chair by the rostrum and received a line of well wishers - a number of them shabbily putting the make on him for an autograph. And yes readers, I joined that line. But only because P. had his camera and pushed me. I let him off lightly - just congratulating him on his speech and saying it was an honour to meet him. His hand was surprisingly soft and delicate. Most artists (male and female) are horny handed. He seems a gentle soul - unlike his great shark-faced biddy gliding through the attendant lords nearby.
Oh and the food being handed out was pretty good: duck kebabs no less, and dainty confections of choux pastry and peppers with olives. And the wine flowed.
The great and the good of the art world were in attendance. i saw Robert Ballagh as I came in, and there is the venerable Pat Scott leaning on an elegant cane. John Taylor and Mary were there, keeping very close to Pierre Le Brocquy - the man who controls access to Louis's work. The legal profession were out in force, Eoin McGonigal, chairman of IMMA was there and so was Jim O'Driscoll in the company of Peter Sutherland (whose wife appeared to called Verucca if my ears didn't deceive me). There were a lot of men dressed all in black but with extremely colourful ties - Ian Whyte to name but one. This is obviously the look for the professional art person. I also saw John Kelly from RTE (taller than I imagined) and even Benji from the Riordans (OK, Tom Hickey).
Raymond Keavney made the opening address suggesting that if Jack Yeats was the Irish artist of the 1st half of the 20th Century, then Louis Le Brocquy was his equivalent for the 2nd half. He then slightly lamely took him into the 21st Century with some assertion about how he would extend his influence into this period. It's a bit dodgy, I suppose, discussing the future of a 90-year old man. Le Brocquy himself then stood up and spoke very eloquently, from notes, about the origins of his head pieces. Some of the artists like Bacon, Beckett and Bono (oh dear) were his friends, he said. Others were artists he particularly admired - like Lorca and Strindberg. He remembered as a schoolboy meeting W.B. Yeats but only knew him as one would know a school-teacher. He tried to capture some of their intelligence and genius in these head images.
The show itself was mighty fine - the Yeat's and the Beckett's being especially good. The Lorca's seemed weaker to me but maybe that's because I have no real image of Lorca in my head. And thanks be to God they had the good sense to omit the horrific portrait of Bono as the Mekon.
After the speeches, Le Brocquy sat himself down at a chair by the rostrum and received a line of well wishers - a number of them shabbily putting the make on him for an autograph. And yes readers, I joined that line. But only because P. had his camera and pushed me. I let him off lightly - just congratulating him on his speech and saying it was an honour to meet him. His hand was surprisingly soft and delicate. Most artists (male and female) are horny handed. He seems a gentle soul - unlike his great shark-faced biddy gliding through the attendant lords nearby.
Oh and the food being handed out was pretty good: duck kebabs no less, and dainty confections of choux pastry and peppers with olives. And the wine flowed.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Scarecrowing
My long-term obsession with the work of the Limerick artist John Shinnors has led me to commission just one more piece to round off my collection - that'll be it I swear. He did a series of scarecrow heads (one of his perennial motifs) that he sold as one lot to Dunloe Ewart about 5 years ago - I was much miffed at the time that he didn't sell them individually but he has agreed to paint me a piece in the same style. So I took myself off to Limerick last Saturday morning to collect the finished article. Commissions are always a bit problematical as you are under pressure to take a painting that you may not like when you see it. It's a bit like a blind date only, in this case, more expensive. So I approached this encounter with some trepidation.
We meet as always at the White House, at the Crescent end of O'Connell Street. This is a fine old bohemian pub with photgraphs of poets and artists lining the walls - and advertisements for various art events everywhere. There's even a framed letter from Robert Graves. There's some poetry event on in the evening and I meet one of the organisers - Gerry O'Brien. He's a gnarled looking character sporting very long hair dyed a reddish colour unknown to nature. Underneath this extraordinary head is a Munster jersey mainly concealed by a multi-coloured cardigan. Nature disclaims him.
Shinnors eventually shuffles in head down in his Lemmy Caution white coat with white pork-pie hat pulled down over the frizz of his remaining hair. I am playing with a black coffee (it's 1.30) but he launches into the Smithwicks. He gets a pint with a half-pint glass on the side - this I discover is for use on his very frequent trips outside for a smoke. He tips a portion of his pint into his half pint glass and out he goes. Strange, eh? He is a man with many foibles. He also goes to the jakes more often than any human being I have ever met. I'd estimate 3 visits for every pint. I would advise him to have his prostate checked but I expect he doesn't need me to tell him.
After an amiable chat we head for his display studio nearby. He does almost all his painting in his home studio, which he keeps very private. He assures me that I will like what I see. He has the painting set up on an easel with light flowing onto it from the large windows. It's a masterpiece - way beyond what I had hoped for. In addition to the stark and ominous image of the scarecrow, there's a wealth of attendant detail - red stitching, flecks of colour and a shadowy mirror image. I had been uneasy about the cost, given his recent auction results, but he comes straight out with a figure that is most agreeable to me. If I flipped the painting tomorrow, I could get twice his asking price.
We head off to Willie Sexton's (an old Garryown hero) to celebrate and after that to South's - another of the many rugby pubs in the city. I see Shinnors for about 50% of the time we are there. He's either out smoking with his miniature Smithwicks, or going for yet another piss. But that's OK, I watch Ulster hammer Toulouse.
We return to his studio eventually and he packs up the painting for transportation. We go back to the White House for one for the road and we run into the multi-coloured Gerry again. We are joined by two amiable old bohemian broilers who are very chatty and amusing about historical art events in Dublin - both seem very familiar with McDaids in the rare old times. It transpires that one of them is the wife of the estimable Jack Donovan.
I head back to Dublin with my precious cargo - taking extra care.
We meet as always at the White House, at the Crescent end of O'Connell Street. This is a fine old bohemian pub with photgraphs of poets and artists lining the walls - and advertisements for various art events everywhere. There's even a framed letter from Robert Graves. There's some poetry event on in the evening and I meet one of the organisers - Gerry O'Brien. He's a gnarled looking character sporting very long hair dyed a reddish colour unknown to nature. Underneath this extraordinary head is a Munster jersey mainly concealed by a multi-coloured cardigan. Nature disclaims him.
Shinnors eventually shuffles in head down in his Lemmy Caution white coat with white pork-pie hat pulled down over the frizz of his remaining hair. I am playing with a black coffee (it's 1.30) but he launches into the Smithwicks. He gets a pint with a half-pint glass on the side - this I discover is for use on his very frequent trips outside for a smoke. He tips a portion of his pint into his half pint glass and out he goes. Strange, eh? He is a man with many foibles. He also goes to the jakes more often than any human being I have ever met. I'd estimate 3 visits for every pint. I would advise him to have his prostate checked but I expect he doesn't need me to tell him.
After an amiable chat we head for his display studio nearby. He does almost all his painting in his home studio, which he keeps very private. He assures me that I will like what I see. He has the painting set up on an easel with light flowing onto it from the large windows. It's a masterpiece - way beyond what I had hoped for. In addition to the stark and ominous image of the scarecrow, there's a wealth of attendant detail - red stitching, flecks of colour and a shadowy mirror image. I had been uneasy about the cost, given his recent auction results, but he comes straight out with a figure that is most agreeable to me. If I flipped the painting tomorrow, I could get twice his asking price.
We head off to Willie Sexton's (an old Garryown hero) to celebrate and after that to South's - another of the many rugby pubs in the city. I see Shinnors for about 50% of the time we are there. He's either out smoking with his miniature Smithwicks, or going for yet another piss. But that's OK, I watch Ulster hammer Toulouse.
We return to his studio eventually and he packs up the painting for transportation. We go back to the White House for one for the road and we run into the multi-coloured Gerry again. We are joined by two amiable old bohemian broilers who are very chatty and amusing about historical art events in Dublin - both seem very familiar with McDaids in the rare old times. It transpires that one of them is the wife of the estimable Jack Donovan.
I head back to Dublin with my precious cargo - taking extra care.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Graphic Studio Gallery
Went to the opening of a group show in the Graphic Studio yesterday evening. It featured work by he currently hot Donald Teskey, the perenially sound Gwen O'Dowd, and the nicest artist in Ireland Tim Goulding. There was also peripheral work by Nigel Rolfe, Brian Henderson and the bearded patriarchal Patrick Pye.
There's always lots of artists and few punters at these GS gigs so it's great for networking. In addition to the above named we had Tom Phelan, the saturine Stephen Lawlor, Gerry Cox (in a fez), the delectable Yoko Akino and a host of familiar faces.
This was a very strong show but two pieces stood out: a beautiful Teskey seascape (I bought it dear reader); and a gorgeous colourful piece by Gwen O'Dowd. The works by Tim are worthy but don't engage me.
There's always lots of artists and few punters at these GS gigs so it's great for networking. In addition to the above named we had Tom Phelan, the saturine Stephen Lawlor, Gerry Cox (in a fez), the delectable Yoko Akino and a host of familiar faces.
This was a very strong show but two pieces stood out: a beautiful Teskey seascape (I bought it dear reader); and a gorgeous colourful piece by Gwen O'Dowd. The works by Tim are worthy but don't engage me.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Bertie's Blatherings
Bertie's act of contrition (but not perfect contrition) in the Dail yesterday was a vomit inducing performance. His sins were minor in my eyes but his playing of the poor befuddled Joe Soap was deeply unconvincing. When he's in the wrong and is playing to the plain people of Ireland in explanation, a few things occur: firstly he reverts to dis, dat, dese and dose in a big way; then he introduces a stutter - all the better to display his deep-felt dismay at these unfair accusations; then there's the mispronunciations: "relevations", "quid per quo" etc. He is disgracefully inarticulate for a prime minister at the best of times, but in extremis he seems to lay it on with a trowel - all the better to show the people that he's one of their own.
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