The joys of good living

Spent most of last week in France with the Fabulous Galway Gospel Choir. We did two gigs and had a ball with a choir of lunatics from a French choir called Contre Ut et Maree, which means something very clever in French. The frivolity was compounded by the fact that I , being a good little catlick, had given up the dhrink for Lent, (with the exception of St. Patrick's day. Not drinking on the feast of the Patron Saint of Ireland is still a mortal sin, seemingly). I got happily soused on fumes. Roll on November. Heading off with a million under twelve rugby players to London this weekend for a blitz at London Irish. the kids will be fine, it's the half a million parents going with them that worry me!

Up and down the Wesht Coast

had two journeys over the weekend. Sunday I drove to a funeral in Doonbeg, Kilrush co. Clare, via Gort and Ennistymon, and came back on the coast road through Lahinch, Milltown Malbay, etc. The Burren was spectacularly beautiful in the evening sunshine and the bejewelled sea was a treasure. Monday Morning early left Galway with a car full of sleepy gospel singers in the pissing rain. Mike McGoldrick belted out of the speakers as we headed north through Ballinrobe and as we went on through Mayo towards Castlebar the clouds dispersed. After a quick coffee and pee break we drove on for Belmullet to sing at a wedding. Ry Cooder took over as we took the undulating route northwest through long expanses of bogland with mountains cutting the horizon. The sun beamed down on the countryside. The wedding was lovely, apart from the singing which was, well, lobvely too!:). We were very well looked after by Isobelle and Brian and their friends and family. Came back down the long and winding road with the Beatles singing in sympathy. What had seemed like a couple of chores over the bank holiday weekend ended up being thoroughly enjoyable. Sure It's a greeeeeeat little country really!

Breaking news........Jesus does a runner!

Daughter number two has a very busy Easter coming up. She's singing in a children's choir at a local church and they're reenacting the stations of the cross on Good Friday, and singing on Easter Sunday. She has been cast as the Good Thief, which she doesn't really know how to react to. I think she likes the idea of the baddy turned good, high street cred quotient and the ability to diss all the other baddies fron her high horse, or in this case... high cross. But when anyone mentions her role she looks straight into their eyes looking for the slightest hint of amusement or mockery. A scary sight I can tell you! Anyway, they went for a practice laat night to find that the kid who was cast as Jesus didn't show up. Pandemonium reigned for about twenty minutes, and the normally beatific lady who looks after the kids tunrned scary as a high priest who smelt a nest of blasphemers. After much soul searching the job was given to an adult who was in the vicinity and had the required level of maturity to accept his destiny or lack of speed needed to do a legger. No wonder Jesus waited till he was no spring chicken before he started stirring the.... hearts and minds. In the meantime keep an eye out for a ten year old fugitive with a long dress and a dodgy beard. Let's be careful out there!

Good News

So the smart money says that the newspaper industry is bolloxed. We all get our news faster, free and for nothing on the interweb. I buy the paper less regularly. monday and wednesday for the sports supplement, tuesday for the Health supplement (for my lady wife btw) and saturday for the review section, sport, tely guide etc. Don't bother with a sunday except every second week or so, depending on the front page stories, sports reports which interest me, or free dvd. This cut back is not for monetary reasons, although the arse of my trousers ios getting thinner by the day. No. It's because the news is so scary, irritating to maddening and depressing so much of the time.
We need more good news. I know that the common knowledge is that newspapers dedicated to good news stories wouldn't last pissing time, because there are so few that don't involve dogs saving drowning babies and singing frogs or other such wierdness. I believe that there are many more good news stories that could be published that could cheer the world just as long as they didn't have to be true. No problem there, as a large proportion of stories and opinion pieces in the papers habve little or no connection with the truth. So cheer us all up. tell us the good news. Leave a positive post here. Lie through your teeth if necessary. If you can't think of one send money to help me employ some good cheerful liers. you know it makes sense!!

Ears to you Mrs Robinson

I know the madness that yer man Wincent must have suffered. At present Son number one is eviscerating the bowels of a cheap chinese fiddle, Son number three is practicing singing for his leaving cert musical exam. He selected the six songs for same on the eve of his exam i.e. yesterday. Daughter number one is practicing the piano and singing bloody "Run" for her junior cert exam on Friday in which I'm apparently backing her. Daughter number two practices the piano nicely for about three minutes, comes out and asks if that was twenty minutes, when disabused of that notion she stamps back in and beats the shite out of the poor piano for the remainder of her(and our)sentence. My wife is addicted to Elbow, whioh, though quite pleasant and soulful means I'm scared shitless every time I turn the key in the ignition of the car, in case my head is going to be lifted off by the same Elbow. Add to the mix a barking dog and a persistantly hungry cat, sure wouldn't anyone be into lopping a couple of ears off!

beautiful game?

Ireland 1 Bulgaria 1. Ireland score in the first minute run around failing to pass to each other for an hour then score an own goal. Whoever called it a beautiful game should be beaten to death with their own white stick. Speaking of balls, son number three awoke on tuesday morning ready to go to school for his oral french axam, only to find upon looking in the mirror that he had turned into a basketball with legs due to mumps. He tore a ligament in his knee on paddy's day dancing in a pub while his shoe was stuck to the floor by whatever strange brew had been spilt there earlier. Ah, youth is wasted on the young!

What a game

Went out to a gig in the Róisin Dubh last night (Paraic Rushe, nice voice, apostolic looking, good backing vocalists and some good original material, most cringingly awful version of Hallelluiah heard so far), walking around many drunk happy people wearing Ireland jersies and enjoying their first cigarettes in years. It was that kind of match. I stayed at home in solitary confinement for the watching it. Didn't want any distractions or anyone to see me in an emotional wipeout. Lucky choice on my part. Fear, frustration, elation, more elation, concern , anger, nausea, ecstasy, blind panic, and relief in that order. Wondering whether it was possible to perform heart massage on onesself. That's it. the country is fucked for good now. We've used up at least ten years woth of good luck by using the Irish mind-meld on that ball for the last kick.

The mandoline mamma

In the far off days of the last recession in the late seventies and early eighties, when nobody had any money but we were all delerious apparently, 80% or so of the population were bohemian. There were no credit facilities or ATM machines. You knew on Friday morning exactly how pissed you were going to get that night by checking the contents of your pocket. You wouldn't be spending your money on anything else. There were only about seven cars in the whole province. You didn't need to buy cloths, other than the standard bohemian costume; wooly jumper and jeans. I was always interested in traditional and folk music, so you couldn't have picked a better time to be coming of age.
There was a magical, enchanted dragon's lair of a place in Galway city at the time called Cullen's Bar on Forster Street near the train station, (where the Púcán is now). A night in Cullens was a chance to play a part as an extra in an epic tale of homeric proportions as all kinds of heroes and heroines, gods and demons played out drink fuelled sagas of love, loss, lust, lechery, lunacy and liibidinousness (should have quit while i was ahead). The place drew not only the hardiest of the townies, but a large cohort of Spiddalonians who would have hitch hiked east at some stage during that week. The place would be alive with Thorntons, and Keadys, O' Connaires led by the inimitable sean nós singer Seán, known as 007 and a fair smattering of Conlons on a good night. They were a different breed in those days, living on mackerels, poteen and the chance of a lustful encounter with one of the miriad student teachers who came west in search of a bit of gaeilge. if Des Bishop had tried do do his thing in those days he would have been treated to many a dose of "the shleeping tablet" (Irish for lump hammer). This shower of lunatics were presided over by the regal Mrs Cullen, a lady to her fingertips who beatifically managed to keep something resembling decorum in this smoky wild theatre of dreams.
The pub consisted of one small bar and a back room. In those days there used to be a music session in both rooms every night. The back room was for the serious drinkers and the local heroes on the music scene, where sessions would involve Mickey Finn, Fred Johnson, Charlie Brown, Peter Galligan, a youthful Máirtin O' Connor, a babyfaced Joe Skelton to name but a few. Corky would occasionally launch into his life's opus "The Swan" which always started in the same place, but never ended up in the same place twice. Naj would treat us to some surreal crossover between sean nos dancing and ballet, but no one could remember anything of the dancesteps as one could not look away from the amazing expression on his face while he danced.
The front room session was a different animal entirely. It was about a welcome and setting an atmosphere. a musician catching your eye and giving you a smile as you entered. The music was every bit as full of soul and life and virtuousity, but without the need for genuflecting and silence. These sessions were created by Breda Lewis and her teenaged children Liam on the fiddle and Patsy on the Concertina. Her husband John would regularly join them when he wasn't travelling abroad on business. The session was lively and upbeat, young musicians were welcomed and encouraged, there was time for a chat and a laugh. The many wildly eccentric singers and dancers shape throwers and tragedians were tolerated far above and beyond the call of duty. An occasional lull in the music would coincide with an interesting insence of Consulate menthol cigerette and ganja. Then with a laugh the music would take off again. Breda was the first face you would see when you walked in the door, playing her mandoline as her pride of young lions wove musical patterns in your head. In addition to her family, she was a mother to a generation of young budding musicians. She offered herself as a teacher and a confidant, an cncouraging voice and a friend.
Times changed and life became more complicated, people grew up moved on, Breda and family left Galway for Clare and further afield. Occasionally one would hear tell of what Breda was up to now and then nothing for many years. A friend met her in hospital a year or so ago and was very saddened to see she was unwell. I saw her death notice in the Irish Times on Saint Patricks Day. Breda, I hope the session is as good where you are now as it was in Cullens.

two ra loo rah

So. The day begins with a 6.30am pilgrimage to Athenry to have one's arse painted green. Mass follows with the perfunctary mumbling through "Hail glorious Saint Patrick whereupon wife, daughters and dog will attend the Psarade. Home for bacon and cabbage and green jelly (or jello, depending on which side of the snake pool you live on) then on to a rugby match, or thirty rugby matches, to be more correct about it. the club i coach for are playing our city rivals at all age levels from senior to under 7. This will be followed by a music session and pints !!!! (I'm off drink for lent, but seemingly its a sacrilage not to drink on a feast day :) ). then home for a drop of tea and to watch the Simpsons visit to Ireland. then it's off to dance the night away at a Fest noz/Ceili. A combination odf Irish and Breton dancing. (Breton dances are easier to do when you're pissed, which never really made any sense to me.)
Tóg go bog é

Thoughts while adult son practices polkas

What did the fiddle ever do to you, you cruel bollocks?

Church and state reunite. Not so blessed are the cheesemakers, however.

Ok. So we're fucked. Economically, at least. Plus I have to stop things that will give my doctor a chance to scream abuse at me about cholesterol levels and suchlike, when i pay my annual visit in april to beg for drugs to make the pollen go away. And (always wanted to start a sentence with And, but never had the courage till now), (plus i think this is the first time I've used "fucked" in my blog, soon I'll be able to say c**t and other swearingladyspeak without feeling mortified!), I'm off the drink for Lent. Which got me thinking two things:
A) Don't call it low fat cheese call it Danger! do not put this on toast because it will taste like salted shite!
B) The government should get back into bed with the clergy. (Oops). They could double the length of lent, (oops again) and take all of the money from the trocaire boxes to pay for pensions and death squads for the bankers and stuff, and we could offer up our miserable existance in the meantime instead of marching and waving placards, which has to stop, because:
a) All the good slogans were used by the auld wans last year.
b) there are so many groups marching, that all dates for marching to the Dáil are fully booked tioll 2018, by which time we'll be grand again.

connemarvellous

The Fabulous Galway Gospel Choir hit Letterfrack at the weekend for the Tareis na Féile Bride Festival. Stayed at the incredibly fuhnky Old monastery hostel, where we had a feed of beans before proceeding to the church where we did a gig with some wonderful local musicians before heading down the road to hear Neil Toner and his good old boys play some shitkicking bluegrass. Climbed back up to the hostel wejre we sang loudly and into the morning. about half the party made it up Diamond Hill in the morning before chowder was consumed and the big green bus brought us back to Galway

going home over the hill

So John Martyn has died. There goes the one time epitome of coolness, the voice that was passion and pain in equal amounts, the best right hand in the business. Rest in Peace John. You'll br missed.

still standing

Nearly through January and still solvent, married and sane(ish). Using extra time fairly effectively. Doing some work, putting a few feelers out re. more work, doing a few jobs around the house, organising things a bit more than I used (not my strong point). Being driven mad by son number three, who is allegedly sitting his leaving certificate this june. He has spent an amazing amount of time since reseaching, studying and evaluating, comparing and contrasting..............holidays in July in Greece. Other than that he's remarkably relaxed, which has the opposite effect on his parents' mood. Son number two is protesting happily all around ze United Kingdom and geting (badly) paid for it. Son number one is rowing and studying, but never at the same time, thankfully. Daughter number one is studying and sighing whenever her parents embarass her (the record stands at 54 times in one hour). Daughter number two is stamping her authority on the family and the floor. dog is still afraid of cat and squeaky toys. Cat is afraid of nothing and nobody.

Don't panic

New year, new situation. 60% decrease in working hours at the day job (thanks, bord snip!). Looking at alternatives at present. Increasing part time projects in the short term to take up the slack. I tend to be fairly philosophical about these things, never having been one of those "job for life" people. I'm lucky enough to have the skill set to keep the wolf from the door in the short to medium term. the downside to this is probably that you can indefinately put off that serious chat you need to have with yourself! I think I need to invest in an mp3 player. When I'm out and about i generally listen to the radio on my phone, but with hourly updates on the state of the economy i need to change my siltening habits. Bought myself a Christmas present of Ry Cooder's anthology and have bopped my way into 2009!

Happy Christmas

Dá mbeadh mileoidean agamsa
Ní bheadh Críost gan cheol anocht
Is é ag teacht ó áras bán a fhlaitheasa
Chuig an mainséar bocht.

Do sheinfinn ceol do chuirfidh gliondar ar a chroi
Ceol nar chualathas riamh ag piobaire sí
Ceol ‘chuirfidh na réalta ag rince i spéartha na hoich’

If I had a melodeon, Christ would not
be without music tonight
when going from His white
heavenly house to the poor stable
I would play music that would put joy in His heart.
Music never heard by a fairy piper.
Music that would put the stars dancing in the night skies.
Eoin O Tuairisc 1919-1982

personalised pressies

What's important is that you show that you've put serious thought into your choice of present, right?
Ok. so far I've decided to send Barak a Bob the Builder CD (can we build it? Yes we can!) and Dr.(?) Gillian Keith is getting a bag of my shite in the post any day now. The new love in my wife's life, Gok Wan is getting a pair of braces because, although one may look good naked, one is rarely impressive while displaying plasterers crack or check boxers. Roy Keane's dog Trigger is getting roller blades before his master has the shaggin' feet walked off him.
On another topic, we've just received a directive from the powers that run the educational system in this blessed corner of the world which will revolutionise cost cutting as we know it. Sixty percent or more of people at any meetings must be based elsewhere and must have travelled to the meeting, before ...............any biscuits are provided!
Such inspired thinking gives me great confidence that my 60% reduction in hours of work starting January 1st next will prove extremely temporary. Maybe I should send Batt a few of my Dunnes vouchers

bah humbug me arse!

Three little words to bring the rosiness back to your cheeks and put the yodel into yuletide.
Sweary is back!
God help us every one!

flat out

Survived November! The maddest month of the year for me in terms of work, as My office administers a huge Science and Technology Festival which runs for two weeks, involving over 20,000 people mostly schoolchildren in lots of activities. I can be seen to panic at anytime night or day if a busload of children pass me anywhere on my travels. It's generally a lot of fun also, but good to get out the other end! December started beeeeeautifully as the Fabulous Galway Gospel Choir supported the Harlem Gospel Choir in a sell-out gig at the Town Hall Theatre on the 1st . Some of us got to sing a few songs onstage with them. We're doing another gig tomorrow night in the Abbey church in Galway at 8.30. January should prove interesting, as my hours of work are being severely reduced due to government cutbacks. At least I'm of an age to remember having lived through a recession before, so I'm not losing too much sleep.

heading the way of all the undead

Another bump on the downhill slope. My nine year old asked me whether herself and her buddies can go trick or treating without me watching from behind the bushes/lampposts/parked cars this year. What seemed like a chore is now revealed as having been a perk. sigh...