These t-shirts, one row of many similar on sale at Next, must say an awful lot about the way we live today.
They probably get to the heart of the matter 'like the swiftest arrow whizzin' from a bow'. But speed, my friends, will not always furnish truth. This may be buried deep within these manifestly ludicrous apparel and their evident popularity.
There seems to be a trend these days for offering up "gentle reminder" emails to complete timesheets, sign leaving cards, buy Bell X1 tickets and other trivial matters.
It could well just be me, of course, but the term "gentle reminder" leaves me with a dark foreboding and dystopian dread.
WHAT COMES AFTER GENTLE? I always comply before they show me.
Today marks the last day of March. More importantly it marks the end of this ludicrous business of using four word blog titles. In February we used three, January two, December one ... and so on. But next month, April, will mark an end to this preposterous, quotidian routine. The title of the postings can no longer operate under these unreasonable constraints.
Why did I do it? Simply so that I could have incremental monthly increases in the number of words in posting titles. And it was pleasing for a while.
Normally, when I go for a walk at lunchtime, I come back with something to tell you and today, sadly, is no exception.
Galway Hooker, a beer, according the Bridgestone Guide is the "Best in Ireland". That may well be true (very unlikely) but, if it is, that's not saying much. It's a race of (brewing) pygmies in this free state, unfortunately. I've had a few pints of the stuff over the years but never more than one at any sitting. It's a fizzy keg ale with concentrated opal fruits added for maximum fruitiness. Frankly, it's very poor indeed.
Friend of FTWWLT, Mcgenius, agrees with my analysis and (drunkenly) informs the Galway Hooker brewers of same on an annual basis. At the, optimistically named, Galway Beer Festival.
Anyway, what caught my eye today was the Galway Hooker van (pictured) which features what surely must be the lamest advertising slogan in brewing history.
"YUM, YUM, NOW THAT'S HOW BEER SHOULD TASTE"
How long did it take them to think that one up, I wonder? YUM YUM. Have you ever heard a beer drinker say that in celebration of a good beer?
(Assumes answer is resounding No)
Me neither. And another thing. If anyone ever did offer up a YUM YUM after drinking beer it certainly wouldn't be Galway Hooker they were drinking. Unless they preferred their beer to taste like Opal Fruits.
After a dinner of Moroccan-style lamb shoulder with cous-cous and roasted aubergine, I took the kids out for a spin on their bikes. Some other kids came out and, soon, there were several games going on including shove-piggy-shove, spin the skipping rope and tea party with "Hetty". A couple of kids had even started a business called "Dog School Supplies" and were dropping leaflets through doors.
All great fun and various articles (including furniture) were brought from the house in order to facilitate the games. You can't just make up games using thin air. Props are required.
I looked at my watch. It was 7:30pm. Still not dark. A joy to the see the kids having so much fun. Here I was socialising with neighbours, getting lashings of fresh air when, normally, I'd have been slumphed on the couch finishing the wine and watching Antiques Roadshow. It sure was fun but as we trooped in half an hour later, supper and bed-time still to be negotiated, I thought:
Follow me, don't follow me I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush Collar me, don't collar me I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush
So begins the REM song, Orange Crush. Doesn't it make you feel parched? A lovely cool glass of orange is the very thing for a warm summer day, isn't it? Or so supposed Simon Mayo in his introduction to the song on Top of the Pops in 1988.
Then, last night, after Holland had trounced Scotland 3-0, Setanta chose the same music in their closing montage in celebration of the Dutch and their famed "total football". Rousing stuff indeed.
The song, of course, is about Agent Orange. Napalm.
Pesky, oblique Stipe singing about a genocidal defoliant/herbicide used by U.S. forces during the Vietnam War. How the heck are people off the telly supposed to know that?
Today, after a profitable morning spent arranging children into straight lines, I went to Athenry Heritage Centre (which was a church in the olden days) for the launch.
As I entered that place, I saw something that chilled me to the bone. More of that later on the way out. Be patient.
I was ushered into a small ante-chamber and introduced to the County Mayor. He shook my hand very firmly and I congratulated him on his lunch. I was going to say "launch" but, for fun, at the very last second, I decided to change it to "lunch". He didn't seem to notice. It was around 1:30pm by then so perhaps he didn't find it strange.
I quickly made my excuses telling the organisers that I would take a "rain check" on the "launch". I've no idea what a "rain check" is, far less what was being launched. So I made for the exit with all due haste and, now, I will tell you about what I saw on the way in. For I also saw it on the way out.
Such was the frightening nature of the figure, presumably depicting Death, at the entrance/exit that I was only able to take these three pictures before quitting that place. For good.
You may remember (it's not impossible) this posting in which the sudden and unexpected arrival of birds, around my person, prompted me to burst into an equally sudden and unexpected rendition of "Why do birds suddenly appear, Every time you are near".
Well...
I was driving the kids to school the morning. It's a good half a mile away and it was unseasonably chilly. We were stuck in traffic amongst the other Hummers and SUV's. I say others only in the sense that there were others. I certainly wasn't driving one of them.
Anyway, pushing environmental polemic to one side if we may, I started singing this song again. A small bird (pictured) had alighted 'pon my jeely jar and, unable to get into the car the better to give me a peck on the cheek (I knew it wanted to), concentrated on it's reflective friend in the wing mirror.
The kids were very excited and we kept expecting it to fly away. But it rode with us for some time and, when it left, presumably at it's house, we all felt much reduced by it's absence.
You may remember (it's not impossible) this posting in which I'm frightfully rude about the self styled "Number Detectives", Eircom, for their willfully misleading and patronising advertising campaign.
If so, you'll be pleased to join me in being equally pleased about this picture, of the same bus shelter, which is notable, if that's not over-stating the case, for it's lack of said advert.
You see! You probably think this blog is a complete waste of time and is utterly pointless. Well there! Look! I've embarrassed them into taking the thing down. Yet another small victory for the way we live today.
You may also notice that in the original picture there was one beer can disgarded by the side of the shelter. That's also gone. Replaced by three beer bottles. Some things I have no influence over, I'm afraid.
I went to a cafe for lunch today and here's a picture of the aftermath. I do apologise for the spread-eagled nature of the knife and fork on the empty plate but, in my defence, let me say this. It wasn't me, it was my Mum. She'd gone up to the till to pay.
There seemed to be a run on mother and sons having lunch in the cafe today and in all cases, bar one (me), the son paid for his Mum's lunch. I was musing happily on this fact when a woman (and her middle-aged son) got up to leave but not before addressing me thusly,
"That's terrible. Letting yer mither pay like that". "You should be ashamed of yirsel", she added, before storming to the door. Her son followed her out but not before grinning smugly at me.
"I paid for hers yesterday...", I shouted meekly after them. Adding, after they'd already quit that place, "and it was more expensive".
On Saturday, whilst waiting on a take-away curry, I unfortunately picked up a copy of the Daily Record and, I'm afraid to report, I looked at it.
I was drawn to an EXCLUSIVE on the front page in which "Chef David Thompson, 39", who is a "Rangers fan", claims he was "punched in the face and called a jock b*****d" by a "Greater Manchester Police officer" before last years UEFA Cup Final. Rangers lost this game and went on to lose the league title to Glasgow Celtic on the last day of the season.
The police have used CCTV footage to track down 49 rioting Rangers fans but are unable to find any footage of the police officer punching the jock bastard in the face.
The Daily Record is indignant about this and, frankly, so am I. If you're going to punch a Rangers fan in the face the very least you could do is refer to him as a "Brit Bastard". Don't add insult to injury.
One of the most inspiring aspects of my weekend was undoubtedly watching Princess Anne and Prince William supporting the Scottish and Welsh rugby teams, respectively.
I know it means heaps to both those countries and their right royal patronage is not in the least bit patronising to anyone of a unionist/royalist persuasion from those countries. Anyone else can just get over it.
Sitting down in a Causewayside bar with a pint of Stewart's IPA to read your Dad's death notice in the Evening News is a strange and somewhat life defining act. Moving on to read the sport and local stories didn't quite seem right after that so I put the paper down. Another pint and then I moved onto the Southsider pub where I met the renowned country singer Lyle Lovett who was having some barbecued chicken. Lyle is a great hero to me and is one of a very few musicians whose music seems to have unfettered access to, what I like to call, my soul. Seeing Lyle there in that pub, so beloved of my early drinking years, was not a complete surprise since he was performing a concert in The Queen's Hall, just up the road. That's why I was in this neck of the woods.
But, still, seeing the great man just sitting there felt strange. It felt like a sign. On this life defining evening one of my great heroes was right there in front of me. They say "never meet your heroes" and, sadly, I chose not to heed them. The ensuing conversation was not at all satifactory not least for the Long Tall Texan (LTT).
M: Hi, Lyle, I just wanted to come over and shake your hand sir.
A solid start I thought
LTT: (shaking my hand vigorously) Hi, pleased to meet you, what's your name?
M: Musters
LTT: Well, Musters, thanks for dropping by
I might have left it there. I should have left it there. I didn't...
M: Yea ... I was supposed to be seeing you play in Brussels this weekend but I couldn't make it. I'm glad it worked out to see you play here.
LTT: Oh really, where are you from, Musters?
M: I'm from Edinburgh
Confused look crosses the LTT's face. What's this Brussels nonsense he's talking about? He's obviously a nutter. Lets wind this up quickly in case he's a sociopath...
LTT:Ok, great, well thanks again for stopping by Musters. I sure 'preciate you taking the trouble
We shook hands again and I left him in peace. My face was now bright red as the enormity of my faux pas started to sink in. I downed my pint then went to the bar and surreptitiously took this photo.
The show itself was truly towering and the LTT seemed unaffected by his recent trauma. He sang beautifully and the band were stellar. His access to my soul remained unfettered and, in that dark hall, I allowed the tears to fall brackishly down my face.
Sometimes, not always, it's best to try something before you dismiss it out of hand. I'd never tried any of the Brew Dog beer but that didn't stop me from denouncing their Paradox Smokehead and Punk IPA products in posts passim. And neither should it have. So it didn't.
But look here! In my local last night what did they have on but Brewdog's "hobnail" offering, the disappointingly named, Rip Tide. Their marketing team have dropped the ball here, no? Dirty Old Bastard or Shitstorm would surely have been more like the thing for an 8% beer for da kidz.
I decided the time for idle blogging was over. I had to at least do them the service of trying the blasted stuff. I ordered a pint of proper beer first. Ossett's Fine Fettle which is a truly splendid ale. Then I asked for a taste of the Rip Tide. The barman told me that they'd sold a couple of pints but no-one had managed more than a few sips. He said they'd end up giving the barrel away as free tasters.
I tasted my free taster and quickly realised that there's no such thing as a free taster. Not when it comes to Brewdog. I've tasted plenty of strong beers in my time. With strength one might reasonably expect sweetness. Riptide somehow managed to deliver sickly sweetness with bilious bitterness. It tasted like the worst medicine you've ever tasted. I took a large gulp of Fine Fettle to clear my ailing palette.
I've been feeling bad for a while now about my ill-informed, dismissive opinions on Brewdog and I'm delighted, finally, to have put that right.
Bet on horses, eat crisps, drink coke, watch 15-1. What now? A cornetto? Fuck me.... -- This message was originated from a mobile phone on the Meteor network.
Broadcaster, author, film-critic and all round good-egg, Andrew Collins, writes here in praise of Smooth FM. He argues quite convincingly even though I feel he may be 'taking a position' on the matter. Still, I can see what he means. The 'race of pygmies' that is British music radio today makes Smooth an unlikely contender for music fans.
I've been living in Ireland for some years now and, until recently, I always assumed that Irish music radio was a poor relation to it's British counterpart. I'm quickly becoming disabused of the idea. I've been over in Scotland (which, sadly, is a region of Britain) for a week now (helping out with the quantitative easing) and I'm honestly struggling to find anything, musically speaking, to butter my parsnips with.
Right now I'm listening to 6 Music. The music is generally alright but the DJ is George Lamb who, complete with fawning, irritating posse, comes over like a latter day Steve Wright. Didn't we get over all this some time ago? Turns out, no.
Over on Radio 2 in the afternoons we, inexplicably, still have one Steve Wright who, unsurprisingly, comes over like a latter day Steve Fucking Wright. And he's followed by Chris Evans! Are we in some kind of time warp here? What's going on? Other stations I've dipped into and notable for their sheer unrelenting, awfulness include Real Radio and Forth FM. I'm sure these losers pretty much sum up commercial radio for the way we live today.
I love classical music but I find Radio 3 thoroughly depressing. Is there some kind of Messiaen tie-in here? If not, can't we have something good please? I'd suggest the awesomely uplifting "Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis" by Ralph Vaughan Williams as a start point. So I flick onto Classic FM and there's some bloke called Simon Bates on. Surely it can't be ... [checks] ... yup, it's the soft-headed, militaristic gobshite himself playing endless Elgar, no doubt. I was even briefly and horribly exposed to the soi-disant Gentleman Cheesemaker, Alex James, one morning on this channel. Actually he was ok but I've taken agin the fringed fop and that's that.
So much hatred you may say? Well I just need a bit of musical balm in my life at the moment and I'm having to find it for myself. Of course I could listen to Danny Baker (if I lived in London) or Marc Riley or Mark Radcliffe but who wants to be listening to the radio at 8pm when there's perfectly good footy to be watched or beer to be drunk? Not me, mate.
To borrow from Elvis Costello, I need some sound salvation but (British) radio is leaving me overwhelmed with indifference and the promise of an early bed.
Just saw a doctor wearing pink crocs. "Are you sure about these?", I asked, looking down. I'm becoming a tad offhand with medical professionals these days. "Gay pride", he told me, winking.
-- This message was originated from a mobile phone on the Meteor network.
Cancer, like a boggy pitch on a windy day in a small provincial town, is a great leveller. -- This message was originated from a mobile phone on the Meteor network.
Update on the Cowan Lent story originally featured here.
Hugh was on to me this morning and, I'm sorry to say, he was very angry. He shouted at me and called me a "Wee Celtic Bastard". He feels he's been severely misrepresented by the writer of this blog and he asked me, personally, to put the story straight.
He told me he pays no heed to any "fucking Catholic liturgical calender" and that he will "fit Lent around his own social calender". "When it suits me", he added.
So there you are. Another wrong righted for the way we live today.
Here's another example of grammatical hometown blues brought to you by the 'honest toun' and originally featured here.
Now, it's well known that I, myself, am prone to the odd grammatical catastrophe but the difference is this. If I was writing blogs which I knew were going to be print-pressed onto a fleet of taxis (my ultimate aim, obviously) then I think I,d take a little bit more care.
He strongly advised potential job seekers not to come to the UK before getting a job. He said it was much better to get one first before arriving. He explained that this could be done over the intanet by searching the particular region you were interested in. In order to search for jobs in that region you didn't actually have to be there. That was the beauty of the intanet, he implied.
With this kind of clear mind is it any wonder he's in charge of all the affairs?
The Irish band Bell X1 are being critically lauded for their new album but, predictably, not by the boy Musters. Perhaps you think I'm down on all Irish rock music?
Not so, I quite like Declan O'Rourke. I also have enjoyed some of band member Dave Geraghty's solo work. I just don't get Bell X1 though.
By far the biggest problem is this. Are they supposed to be a comedy act? I fear not but if they were they'd be quite a good one. Perhaps before the mighty Flight of the Concords came along and changed everything they might have gotten away with lyrics like,
You're the chocolate at the end of my Cornetto
I love the way your underwire bra
Always sets off that X-ray machine
Not any more though. Just sounds feckin' laughable.
In the pub watching the rugby the other day. Supping a few pints of the black blood and cheering on Ireland against lovely old England.
I saw my mate Pierce so I marked him with a 1 and circled it. That's him just below it, see.
I thought there's Pierce through in the other bar. I'll pop through there at half time and have a chat with him.
A bit later, I went up to the bar for a couple of pints. And who did I see sitting at my bar, watching the game, but the very same Pierce. To say I was confused would be understating the case severely.
I marked the new Pierce with a 2 and circled that. I'd recovered well enough to have a chat with him and I congratulated him on the recent birth of his baby daughter. All the while I was looking over at the original Pierce who was pointedly ignoring me. Some people are just so rude.
According to academics in London, no less, the kiss is a "capacious carrier of much social, political and cultural freight".
On the other hand, Gilbert of the O'Sullivan, in his song "What's in a kiss?" wonders if it's,
"More perhaps than just one moment of bliss".
Or less, I would posit. It depends on who you're kissing doesn't it? Good. Another thorny issue put to bed.
Not so, says Gilbert. He is not content with the more/less bliss/kiss solution. Far from content. He now wants to know what's in a dream. He wonders,
"Is it all the things you'd like to have been".
Well it depends on the dream and, indeed, all the things you'd like to have been. Happy now? Is he fuck, happy. But at least he's honest. He goes on:
"I know it's really rather stupid of me, But I honestly don't know, Every time I try to find a solution, I'm surprised at how quickly I've become so slow".
You weren't always like this then? Are we still talking about dreams or are we back to kisses, by the way? Or a bit of both? But now the song shifts up a gear.
"And any time you need a light refreshment, Baby, you can count on me, I am your very own delicatessen, Well-equipped to supply you with your every need"
I'm not sure how to respond to this. Suffice to say that the very least of the problems here is the "refreshment"/"delicatessen" "rhyme". It turns out he didn't really care about kisses and dreams. That was just a ruse. All he really wanted to do was buy her a coke. Quite lovely when you think about it.
John Spillane, on his album "Will We Be Brilliant Or What?" (answer : No), has a track called "The dance of the cherry trees". I heard it on the radio this morning and it was the most preposterous song I've heard for a very long time indeed.
I've helpfully annotated the lyrics below which will, I hope, clarify some of the more troublesome aspects in play.
Let me tell you 'bout the cherry trees
> Well...
Every April in our town
They put on the most outrageous clothes
> Do you mean cherry blossoms? Not clothes per se...
And they sing and they dance around
Hardly anybody sings or dances
> Perhaps the people are too inhibited these days?
Hardly anybody dances or sings
> ah, you've switched singing and dancing. But why?
In this town that I call my own
>Does anyone else call it your own? Perhaps it's not. You're from Cork, I believe...
You have to hand it to the cherry trees
> you certainly seem to anyway...
And they seem to be saying,
To me anyway;
> you think they might not be saying it to anyone else?
"You know we've travelled all around the Sun
You know it's taken us one whole year
> what's this now?
Well done everyone, Well Done"
> er, thanks
It goes on like this. We have cherry blossoms in the air, on the street, at your feet, even in your hair. And, I think, it's a celebration of Spring we have on our hands here. We've travelled round the sun, it seems, and it's taken us a whole year. And we should be proud of our achievement. The cherry blossoms "seem" to be thanking us. And so is John Spillane for that matter.
Well done everyone, Well Done
On behalf of me
> John Spillane
and the Cherry Trees, Well Done!
> thanks Guys
And they seem to be saying
Is it only to me?;
> No, I is feelin' it too now, Spillane, man.
On behalf of me and the Cherry Trees, Well Done
Well Done Everyone, Well Done
> aw shucks
WELL DONE EVERYONE!
> ok, no need to shout
There's a lot going on here isn't there. I don't think it can be covered adequately on a mere blog. Some kind of PHD study would be more in order. But one point does need to be made. I'm no arborculturalist but I'm pretty sure that a "cherry tree" does not grow "cherry blossoms". I feel sure it grows cherries. If memory serves, it would be the cherry blossom, or Japanese flowering cherry, which blossoms thusly.
Anyway, that's the least of the song's problems so enough of my pedantry. I think it only remains for me, and you too if you'd care to join me, to congratulate John Spillane and his perennially woody muses on their fine work over the year and to wish them a Happy Spring!
According to The Daily Mirror, Manchester United defender Rio Ferdinand and his fiancee, Rebecca Ellison, have arranged for a barn owl to swoop down the aisle and deliver their rings in a velvet pouch when they get married in August.
Proof, if proof be need be, that footballers have more money than sense.
In case you didn't get a chance to read this interview, with the enigmatic film-maker, in which he discusses his strange passions, I've taken the liberty of providing this precis:
GW : Good Morning, David.
DL : Good morning, Ma'am.
GW : It seems to me that time, and it's inherent civility, is an important part of you're oeuvre?
DL : It's Thurs, Feb. 26, 2009.
GW : Indeed. But there's an underlying darkness to all your work, is there not?
DL : Here in LA, beautiful blue skies, golden sunshine, very still.
GW : Yes, I hadn't thought of it in quite those terms. You're work is often accused of lacking warmth. How do you respond?
DL : 52°F, 11°C.
GW : But it's constantly evolving, changing, no?
DL : Yes, 48°F 9°C.
GW : What do you have up your sleeve next, David?
DL : RAIN. Lots and lots of RAIN.
GW : How do you respond to your detractors. Some people think you're willfully obscure...
DL : Let a smile be your umbrella.
GW : Wonderful, wonderful. Thanks David.
DL : Thank you too. It's a very special day.
For more of the wit and wisdom of David Lynch, check out his Twitter page.
We've had some pork issues here. All pork products were withdrawn recently and there's been a big push ever since to get people back eating it again. They're even taking out adverts to make us eat it. Pork products include pig, bacon and rashers.
If you're having a nice bit of bacon you might have it with toast. And a slice of lime on the side. As garnish.
I don't like this logo. There's far too many royalists around here. Even the EV in fancy letters seems to endorse Our Queen: 
I thought there's Pierce through in the other bar. I'll pop through there at half time and have a chat with him.
We've had some pork issues here. All pork products were withdrawn recently and there's been a big push ever since to get people back eating it again. They're even taking out adverts to make us eat it. Pork products include pig, bacon and rashers. 