Panadola Diction

I didn’t win the Hennessy New Irish Writer award today. Well, I didn’t enter, but, after reading the winning story, I’m thinking maybe I should have. Maybe we all should have. Come to your own conclusions here.

Another competition, which I did enter, but, alas, didn’t win either, was the Francis McManus RTÉ Radio competition. Joe O’Donnell won, details here. Joe has written and directed extensively for Glenroe, so I don’t mind losing out to him - what a legend. Sunday nights haven’t been the same since it (and Where in the World) left our screens. Bring them both back! But ditch Stephen Brennan, jees, what a moaner.

Here’s a classic clip of Dick: Glenroe

And here’s a must-have book for fans of geographical TV quiz shows. That’s Theresa up there with the big earrings, in case you were wondering.

I wonder what I won’t win tomorrow.

I was with some Romanian chap (a friend, apparently) and his young child on a bus. They didn’t speak at all. A dodgy bloke with a moustache, who looked kinda Mexican, was driving - he was giving us a lift to somewhere or other. I soon realised this was a bad idea, and I was trying to get us out of the dodgy situation. It was dark, there was nobody else on the bus - an old 1980’s coach. 

Despite my protestations, the dodgy driver took us to some dodgy carpark, it was sunny and desert-like, like Mexico. We tried to leg it when he stopped the bus, but his friend was in the carpark with a gun. They quickly agreed to let us go if we starred in a film they were making. Having no choice, we agreed. The scene required me to stand with my back against a wooden wall, with my hands flat against the wood, and for the driver to fire a gun at me. The shot was supposed to go through the space between my finger and thumb and leave a hole in the wall. We practiced it once (without my hand) and he hit the mark. Then, for the actual take, he missed and hit my hand in the fleshy part between the thumb and first finger. It left a bullet sized round hole, and it bled a little bit. I was really pissed off with him and walked off, slating his lack of professionalism and general acting crapness. I told him that he had no natural talent and he’d need to practice 500 times before trying something like that again.

I was really annoyed that he shot my hand. I don’t know what happened to the Romanian and his child.

Can anyone interpret this for me? Winning suggestion wins…. something intangible.

If looks could kill, Seamus Heaney would have injured me yesterday. I passed the old codger on Nassau St, and he tried to look the face off of me.

Perhaps he was in a bad mood, due to a lack of turf to lean on, or some other poet-specific complaint.

Or, more probably, he was annoyed about the Americans who stand waiting for instruction beside their coaches and completely block the footpath, whilst staring across the road and saying things like, “Oh look Hank, Kilkenny is in Dublin, isn’t that neat.”

Or maybe he just doesn’t like the look of me.

(edit) Note - the following paragraph contains no useful information. Don’t bother reading it.

This post was looking fine in work in Explorer, but looked messed up in Firefox when i got home. This is/was partly because HTML makes no sense, and largely because I don’t understand this template. Old Seamus seemed to be interfering with the picture of boys from Son of Rambow in the next post. The only way I could find to keep him confined to this post is to write more, thus enlengthening the post, and allowing Mr Heaney ample room. What an elegant solution. I deserve a Nobel Prize for skillz.

I went along to ‘Son of Rambow’ in Cineworld last night, and made sure to avoid the masses of sweeteaters and seat hoggers by arriving early this time. As I was knackered, I was really hoping that the film wasn’t going to turn into an expensive nap.

Thankfully, the film whipped along at a decent pace, and kept my attention throughout. Youngsters, Bill Milner and Will Poulter seem like real finds, proving that child actors don’t have to all be the same. Milner does especially well, playing the innocent religious outcast Will Proudfoot, while Poulter is always amusing, and surprisingly layered, as school troublemaker Lee Carter.

On several occasions, the film veers from believable coming-of-age, boys-will-be-boys material (which is often hilarious, if unremarkable), into the surreal, comic-book world of a ten year old’s imagination, as the two boys try to film their own home-movie version of ‘First Blood’. 

A couple of moments flirt with Hollywood shmaltz, but it seems to get away with it. The warm humour, the absurdity, the early 80’s setting, a soundtrack including The Cure and The Banshees, the (slightly over used) ridiculous French character Didier, and some fine performances left me with a smile on my face leaving the cinema.

 -Two thumbs up out of two

I have no inclination today. Inclination to do what? Exactly.

Here are some of the things floating around on the millpond of my brain:

• Why are Queens of the Stone Age supporting Linkin Park?
• Why do people buy novelty or retro bicycles? For example, the orange ‘high-nelly’ ones that used to be sold in that pointless shop on George’s St, which is now a pharmacy I think. Or, those San Diego style ‘cruiser‘ bicycles, which have no proper brakes. These both cost more than your average bicycle, they offer no advanced functionality (in fact they commonly offer reduced functionality), they make you look like a pretentious ‘tard, and they make people like me aware that you have no common sense. I’m all for novelty and retro in general, but not with bicycles.
• I won the Spanish lottery for the 2nd time yesterday. This time, I won €785,120. I have to call the nice lottery man on the premium telephone number later.
• Why won’t Stinging Fly hurry up and send me a rejection letter in response to the story I sent them? I need closure. (I know, it’s not even been two weeks…. I have no patience.) 
• It’s work-drinks tomorrow night. We accidentally invited a government minister who’s email is similar to that of one of the chaps here, he can’t make it, shame. He did ask us (via his personal secretary) to let him know how it goes though, as he was amused by the twelve “reply to all” emails that followed the group-invite, written in pirate-speak.
• Prague on Saturday.
• I have purchased a day-ticket to the O2 Wireless Festival in Hyde Park, for July 4th. Morrissey, Beck, The National, Guillemots, Siouxsie Sioux, Dirty Pretty Things, New York Dolls and Lightspeed Champion will be on show. I’ve never seen Morrissey live, and haven’t seen Beck since Witnness 2000, so, yes, good.
• I am definitely not going to Oxegen this year.
• I hope they add some more quality to the Electric Picnic lineup. But I’ll go for the pies anyway.
• Shouldn’t deodorant actually be called ‘odorant’?
• Is eating a whole block of cheese in one sitting worse for you than eating the same amount of cheese over the course of a week?
• Robots can ride bicycles (see above).
• I’ll stop this now.

Due to a slight party the night before, I very nearly didn’t go to this gig on Saturday night. Cleaning up a sea of ash-smeared bottles and cans whilst half-dead is painful work - but eventually it was all bagged, pain killers were sourced, a battered sausage was had, and I felt a little better.

So - Crawdaddy, a coke, nothing to sit on, not even a little leanage. Si Schroeder played a supporting solo set, which didn’t amuse me at all. Maybe he’s better with a full(er) band. I suppose I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, and I realise I was in a highly irritable mood, but seriously, I thought he was pretty brutal. Perhaps some of the songs were nice, pretty, deep. I don’t know. I couldn’t get past the weak guitar work and the mumbling. Sing up man, shave, strive for a pleasant guitar tone.

Other irritants included a constantly gurgling water/sewage pipe over my head, a group of people who stood at the back and talked loudly through the whole gig, and a complete cunt of a man and who stood right in front of my face just before DeVotchKa came on stage, then alternated between taking pictures with his huge camera and putting his girlfriend in a headlock whilst talking shite into her ear.

Despite all that, DeVotchKa were fantastic. The four multi-instrumentalists seamlessly blend varied influences and styles, and end up sounding like Mexicans lost in Russia. Or something. It’s easy to see how Beirut have been slotted into their vague pigeonhole. Frontman, Nick Urata, has a remarkable voice, and also chipped in guitars, bouzouki and some nice theremin playing. The dapper Tom Hagerman impressed on violin, accordion and keys. Spotty-dressed Jeanie Schroder (wo)manned the low-end on double-bass and sousaphone (massive wearable tuba), and Shawn King drummed well and made some trumpet cameos.

Don’t ask me what the songs were called, or what albums they were from. I have no idea. But it all sounded great to me. Isn’t it strange. . how four talented, enthusiastic musicians can distract you from homicidal urges. . .