Richard Thompson at Vicar Street

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

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

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

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)

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.