Dugdale's Monasticon

Public meeting to kick start Limerick Local Heroes initiative

2012-01-17T16:54:00.000Z

A large group of Limerick people drawn from all walks of life have come together to launch Limerick Local Heroes, an initiative that aims to energise Limerick people to create new and sustainable jobs for the people of Limerick. Local Heroes is a community driven programme aimed at giving a voice to all Limerick people in the future development of the city. A Public Meeting will take place in the Strand Hotel at 6pm on Monday 30th January at which all the people of Limerick are invited to come along, give their opinions on how to improve Limerick economically & culturally and see how they can get involved in creating an environment in the city for jobs creation. The event will be facilitated by RTE broadcaster and producer Aonghus McAnally.

Tony Frawley, spokesperson for the Limerick Local Heroes Steering Group, explained, “Limerick Local Heroes was born out of a frustration amongst genuine Limerick people drawn from the arts, business, sporting & community sectors who believed their voices haven’t been heard in developing a future vision for Limerick, particularly in terms of job creation. The initiative is Limerick’s version a similar project in Drogheda which has seen a reinvigorated community working together to deliver measurable results for their community and was documented in an RTE television documentary. We therefore put the wheels in motion to try and replicate their success on a much bigger scale in Limerick city. Our initial meeting of 15 people in early December has now grown into almost 60 and we have put together a structure which will allow the people of Limerick to come out on Monday January 30th and have their say as to what needs to be done to get our city back on track.

The great thing about this initiative is that it is for the people of Limerick driven by the people of Limerick and its success will ultimately be measured by the participation of Limerick citizens. It is not organised or tied to any public or state body, just simply the citizens of Limerick getting together and getting something done for the city. The Public ‘town hall’ style Meeting we are holding offers the people of Limerick their one chance to have their say on what can be done to help improve the city. No suggestion too big or small will be overlooked as the whole premise is to give everybody a voice. Job creation is our main aim but growing the community spirit and creating a sense of increased pride in our city is hugely important also. I would encourage all Limerick citizens to attend the meeting and grab this opportunity to make a difference in the development of the city going forward. The more people that attend the more diverse opinions and ideas for the development of the city can be explored as the programme moves forward. With developments like the Opera Centre coming on stream this is the one chance for the people of Limerick to have a voice so we should grasp it with both hands.”

The Limerick Local Heroes initiative is not for profit and the steering group behind the initiative is made up of individuals from all sections of Limerick society, business, sports, arts, community, education all of whom are giving their own time to developing an environment for job creation. Those interested can find us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/localheroeslimerick, Twitter @LmkLocalHeroes or at www.limericklocalheroes.com/. The Drogheda project on which the Limerick Local Heroes initiative is based upon was the subject of a television documentary on RTE and details can be found on www.rte.ie/localheroes/

Limerick and its Cultural future

2012-01-05T21:05:00.002Z

It is refreshing to see Kieran MacSweeney, the president of Limerick Chamber of Commerce, outlining a set on nine potential uses for the Opera Centre site. In it he notes that the purchase of the site by the city council will allow all possible stakeholders to contribute ‘from our new unitary local authority and the regeneration agencies to IDA Ireland, Enterprise Ireland, Limerick Institute of Technology, University of Limerick, Mary Immaculate College, Failte Ireland, Shannon Development as well as ourselves in Limerick Chamber and many other business interests’. The most crucial stakeholder is not mentioned. The people of Limerick themselves.

MacSweeney notes that Limerick is in a prime position to be designated Irish capital of arts, sports and culture. He mentions the School of Art and Design, the World Academy of Music and Dance, our Georgian Heritage and our success in Sport as key selling points to obtain such status. What he does not mention is that our city has failed to deliver a dedicated, focussed and thriving artistic scene and the failure lies in the fact that there has been no joined-up thinking when it comes to the arts.

Where was the furore from City Hall, the Chamber and Shannon Development when Limerick’s oldest and internationally renowned arts festival EVA lost it’s funding? Where was the heated debate when Dagdha Dance Company quietly went bust leaving a wonderful venue lieing dead and empty on John’s Square? Where was the lobbying for the locating of the the Irish World Academy of Music and Dance in the city centre? Where is the compulsory purchase orders on the beautiful Georgian buildings scattered around the city that have been allowed go to rack and ruin?

It is very easy to put out sweeping statements about the future of the city centre. In relation to the arts the simple fact is this. Limerick is a disjointed and on many level uninterested city when it comes to supporting home grown culture. It is widely recognised that the Cranberries were not embraced by the city until they finally achieved a international success. It is true that the Rubberbandits have been on the go for many years only to be adopted by Limerick upon reaching the pinnacle of their success. In order to continue to produce such nationally and internationally renowed acts there must be support from the outset.

A number of years ago discussions began surrounding the future of the Belltable Arts Centre. I was not living in Limerick at the time and am not in a position to comment on the political decisions made. One thing has become obvious. The design of the new Belltable is seriously flawed. The redevelopment of the building should never have taken place on the existing site. The arts office and the Arts Council should have entered sturdy negociations about the future of the Belltable. Instead what has happened is that any money once available to better Limerick City Centre’s theatrical and cultural hub was wasted. The design and fit out is in no way near what is required from leading touring companies. This is not a criticism of the current artistic director, someone who has come to the fore at a very difficult time in the Belltable’s history. This is a damning criticism of the powers that be who did not consult the most important stakeholders. The theatre goers themselves and the theatre practitioners in the city.

There has been recent discussion surrounding the potential redevelopment of the Theatre Royal site with the location of a digital media academy and digital arthouse cinema being the likely occupants should development take place. Very welcome one might say. However what is never mentioned in media reports is that, as part of its new scheduling and thanks to Arts Council funding, the Belltable Arts Centre has invested in a state of the art digital cinema system and is already regularly screen arthouse and mainstream foreign cinema in the 220 seat venue. Why would a city the size of Limerick need two arthouse cinemas around the corner from one another when the existing one struggles to get bums on seats in the first place? Once again, when it comes to the arts, the key stakeholders are not being consulted.

It has often been said that Limerick is a working class city. It does not have a cultural theatre going tradition. Well if I was to base my opinion on the numbers of parents sending children to performing arts schools, dance classes and music lessons in the city I would be certain that there is a definite recognition of the importance of the arts. What is missing is a central, well-designed arts centre in the centre of the city, a space where people can congregate, view art, attend theatre, visit museums, have lunch and take in the magnificent River Shannon as they do so.

It has taken the likes of Mick Dolan to take the risk and produce and promote big acts at the Milk Market’s Big Top. This is civic leadership. It has taken the management of the likes of Bourkes Pub to provide a new platform for up and coming musicians and bands. Limerick is a cultural hive of activity. What is needed is a strategy, a planned view to the future lead by those on the ground, in the know and actively involved. There is no point in appointing decision makers from Shannon Development, City Hall, Failte Ireland and so on if there is no understanding on how the city works from a cultural and artistic point of view. The track record to date is poor so maybe there needs to be a consensus that a new way consulting is approached going forward.

In the 1990’s the then Corporation allowed the old Savoy Theatre to be raised to the ground. In doing so we lost a theatrical gem and a key centre of life in our city. If culture really was at the forefront of the political agenda in the city this would never have been allowed to happen. I am firmly of the belief that if we were to create a civic space which can offer all our cultural offers under one roof then we would convert those with an interest in the arts back into fully paying punters. The new owners of the Opera Centre should bear this in mind as they panic over whether to give M&S free rent.

Culture is only one of the many good points made today by Kieran MacSweeney but it is a crucial aspect of Limerick’s future. The people must play a huge role in any consultation going forward.

Is Marks and Spencer the answer to Limerick's problems?

2012-01-04T22:27:00.002Z

Yet another article appeared in yesterday’s Limerick Chronicle in relation to the ongoing saga of our Opera Centre. Now that the council have purchased the site they are engaging in heating exchanges with the owner of the Parkway Valley site. Tied into this is the debate surrounding whether or not Marks and Spencer would be the appropriate anchor tenant for the Opera Centre if, as expected, planned developments of the site as a large retail development goes ahead.

I recently downloaded Mary Portas’ review of the state of retail in the UK. Before I write any more I would suggest that every developer, retailer, planner, councillor, decision maker, Tom, Dick or Harry has a bound copy of the 55 document on their person at all times. She makes sense does Mary.

One of the questions we must ask ourselves is why are the majority of those with an interest in the site so gung ho on Marks and Spencer being the salvation of Limerick City Centre’s woes. The answer lies in the concept of convenience. Shopping as we know it has changed radically over the past 30 years. Why has the Crescent Shopping Centre seen such success? Why is Dundrum still considered to be a Mecca for shoppers? Why does yet another out of town development by the Parkway make sense to a developer even in today’s climate? Why is Limerick City dying a death? The answer is convenience. We as shoppers have become accustomed to the notion of everything we need being under one roof.

Marks and Spencer for some reason is seen as the missing link in Limerick. Most of the other major brands have set up camp in the Crescent. Marks and Spencer won’t be locating in the Crescent due to site restrictions so it is well known that they are actively pursuing a location in the city centre or potentially the Parkway Valley.

During my time in Dublin and London I would have used Marks and Spencer occasionally and mostly for its food offer which is excellent. However what must be recognised is that food in M&S is not cheap. People are cash strapped at the moment and my uneducated guess is that, if they were to establish themselves in the city centre, there would be an initial rush down the aisles followed by a slow and steady downfall in footfall. I also believe that if city council bases the design of the site around the presence of a major retailer then it will have missed a fabulous opportunity. This is where Mary Portas comes in.

Portas gives some figures in her introduction and I will list them here:

• Town centre vacancy rates have doubled over the last two years and total consumer spend away from our high streets is now over 50%

• In 2015 we’ll be spending more than £40 billion a year over the internet and through mobile devices

• Out-of-town developments have enjoyed positive growth rates since 2001 while town centre growth has been largely negative

• Since 2001, the number of superstores in the UK has grown by 35%, whilst all other forms of grocery outlet have declined

Fundementally what Portas points out is that how we operate as consumers has changed. We crave immediacy. We crave convenience. But strangely we also crave a sense of community. By investing in the likes of Marks and Spencer, Tesco, Lidl, Aldi and so on the money we spend does not get recycled in the local economy. Local high street businesses close resulting in less footfall on the onset of a vicious circle. We are in an age of consumerism and the recent crying out for a Marks and Spencer presence in the city is a perfect example of that. It is only a small percentage who see that the answer to Limerick’s problems does not lie in a new retail presence.

The recent success of the Milk Market is the great success story to emerge from Limerick in recent years. The reasoning for this lies in that sense of community. Local people saying hello as they nibble a freshly made sandwich or sip coffee and browse under the grand white canope and listen to locals playing live music. The atmospheric sense of community that exists on a morning or afternoon in that place is irreplacble. It certainly does not replicate in the Crescent.

Mary Portas quotes from Jane Jacobs 1961 book ‘The Death and Life of Great American Cities’

“The trust of a city street is formed over time from
many, many little public sidewalk contacts. It grows
out of people stopping by at the bar for a beer, getting
advice from the grocer and giving advice to the
newsstand man, comparing opinions with other
customers at the bakery and nodding hello to the two
boys drinking pop on the stoop, hearing about a job
from the hardware man and borrowing a dollar from
the druggist.

Most of it is ostensibly utterly trivial, but the sum
is not trivial at all. The sum of such casual, public
contact at the local level – most of it fortuitous, most
of it associated with errands – is a feeling for the
public identity of people, a web of public respect
and trust, and a resource in time of personal or
neighbourhood need…”

I sometimes get off the bus outside Dan Lawless’ florist. If he is in there is always a wave, occassionally a chat but without doubt a smile. I sometimes eat brunch in the Wild Onion. There is always a welcome (occasionally gruff), a hello and a sense of hospitality. I sometimes browse through the many delights in Country Choice and I get an immediate welcome smile. Advice on what is good is always on hand. This is what community is about and this is what a high street and town centre should be about. The major chainstores remove the individuality away from the neighbourhood.

It is not impossible to bring this sense of community back into Limerick. It is only about us reevaluating where the future of retail is going. Could it be that the future of a town like Limerick could be one which is void of any major retail presence? Could it be that a return to the old days of market trading sustaining a vibrant community is on the cards?

Last Summer, before the riots, I walked the streets of Croydon. Everywhere you look there are market stalls, independent traders, butchers and cafes. On the other side of London take a trip to Wood Green and notice the thriving local community. Wander Portobello Market on a Saturday Afternoon. Stroll through Elephant and Castle. Get immersed in the magic of Camden. It can well be argued that the successes of these markets are down to footfall and population but they are also down to the sense of community, the excitement of the atmosphere and the sense of fulfillment as you people watch over a coffee.

Before Limerick City Council makes a fundemental error using short sighted strategies to possible tobble external developers with county land they must stand back, read the likes of Mary Portas and think about what is coming down the tracks. Limerick is known for its people. The city must be given back to the people. Marks and Spencer may just have a place in the county afterall.

Could 2012 be the year of Limerick's Local Heroes?

2012-01-04T18:06:00.000Z

Around this time last year I was listening to the wonderful Documentary on One series on RTE Radio 1. Pat O’Mahony was doing a Twitter experiment. Existing Twitter users and some who had never tweeted in their lives put the social medium under scrutiny. Listening to the documentary I became curious.

I was starting to become tired of Facebook. Having joined it almost 7 years ago, the novelty was fast wearing off. I felt it had become a medium through which users would now simply post irrelevent, over-personal naval gazing demands for attention. Facebook was becoming a lazy way of interacting. It was becoming the valley of squinting windows in Cyberland. I was becoming disillusioned with a medium through which I had interacted for quite some time.

I joined Twitter just around the time of the general election last year, partly out of curiousity and partly to do with some work I was doing for the radio station. Intially I simply followed politicians, news stations, commentators and hashtags relating to the election campaign. I was logged on when Paul Gogarty conceded defeat. I was there when Willie O’Dea had a pop at Peter Power. I was there when Jan O’Sullivan told us of here gardening exploits on the morning of the count. By the end of the campaign I was hooked. The immediacy of the world of Twitter was fascinating. The first time one of my own tweets was retweeted felt like a milestone. I began to interact with @’s, most of whom I had never met before but over time became people with whom I felt a connection. I saw Twitter as a medium through which like minds would inevitably cross paths.

This is exactly what happened on an evening when I was watching the Local Heroes programme on RTE 1. I was struck by the spirit of get-up-and-go displayed by the people of Drogheda. The twitterati were feeling the same. Using the genius of the hashtag concept I was able to interact with others watching the show. It was also becoming clear that there were other viewers based in Limerick who could see the potential of the Local Heroes initiative in our own city. Within the space of two hours a small group of relative strangers had decided on a time, venue and date for an initial meeting to introduce a Local Heroes campaign in Limerick.

So what is Local Heroes? The concept started when a group of individuals from all walks of life realised that something needed to be done in Drogheda to change the onset of unemployment, liquidations and negativity in the town. It was an initiative led by the people for the people. It was an initiative that required people to be fully committed to overcoming a negative situation through positive action. Local Heroes is a chance for people to create jobs by jump-starting their local economy using the skillsets, knowledge and passion that exists in every town and small city across the country.

Led by the very passionate Tony Frawley a group of us met at that first gathering in the Absolute Hotel in Limerick City. What struck me was the power that Twitter had to actually inspire individuals to give up a cold Tuesday evening and attend what could easily have been perceived as ‘another talking shop’. What was also evident was the fact that hoteliers like Donacha Hurley were willing to provide meeting spaces, tea and coffee free of charge for such a gathering. By the second meeting our numbers were gathering. The wide array of skillsets, interests and reasons behind attending was exciting.

The Local Heroes Limerick initiative is now well up and running. Limerick is a city that needs its people to come together. All walks of life need to accept that Limerick has been particularly affected by the recession. Years of poor planning, years of our city being a tale of county/city boundaries, years of a lack of solid leadership has not helped. What the Local Heroes concept will attempt to do in the coming months is to inspire the people of our city and its environs to work together in making the most of what our city can offer.

A number of months ago I had some dealings with Graham Royce. He was the man behind the Mid West Showcase where small and medium sized enterprises as well as start up businesses gathered together under one roof to showcase the wonderful positivity that still exists amongst many in the business community. The success of the showcase in just a couple of years meant that Graham had to find a new venue to host the event. Dell came on board and in a wonderful display of positivity, the Mid West Showcase celebrated local enterprise with the help of a company that, despite setbacks, continues to be a key employer in the Limerick region. This is a macrocosm of what Local Heroes can do.

I was delighted to read today that La Cucina, owned by celebrated Twitterers Lorraine Fanneran and Bruno Coppola have won a restaurant of the year award from the Bridgestone Guide. La Cucina is an example of a small local business which has defied the odds to establish itself as success story not just in Limerick but nationally (La Cucina also won best casual dining in the Irish Restaurant Awards last March). Their use of Twitter has been recognised as a real selling point. The likes of Lorraine and Bruno exist throughout the city. Local Heroes enables all of these people to pool their talents and make our city shine.

The Local Heroes campaign is not just about those who are lucky enough to be employed, not just about those who are lucky enough to have a business plan, not just about established leaders. It is about everybody. It goes from the grassroots up. A story was recently told of certain taxi drivers who ask tourists why they have come to Limerick telling them that they would be better off in Galway or Cork. Until the mindset whereby our citizens knock our own city changes we will never be able to achieve the potential that exists within each and every one of our people.

Of course there will be challenges, of course there will be naysayers but fundementally 2012 is beginning with a positive initiative in Limerick City. Local Heroes is for everybody and January will see the first step in what could and should be a step away from the negativity of recent years. If we as citizens can take in all of the great things our city has to offer, learn to speak with positivity and allow change to happen then we could be the success story that we deserve to be.

To follow the Local Heroes Limerick campaign on Twitter use the hashtag #limerickurmylady or
https://www.facebook.com/#!/localheroeslimerick

Pride or Prejudice?

2011-10-30T23:38:00.001Z

An article appeared in today’s Sunday Indepedent. The headline screamed –

‘Loud and proud gays want to take over rest of society’

Judging by Twitter the article, written by Eamon Delaney, has raised a few eyebrows in some circles and downright offended in others. I agree with him. This is why.

In my late college days, a couple of years after I had dealt with my own sexuality, I went on a trip to Manchester with some gay aquaintances. Manchester apart from London was seen as the gay Mecca at the time. Queer as Folk, a groundbreaking series focusing on the lives of gay men had aired on Channel 4. Canal St had become famous. It was an exciting trip and my companions could have been forgiven for being a little ‘exuberant’ as we made our way by train to the city. After a couple of drinks some members of the group decided it would be appropriate to ‘camp it up’. Gradually they became louder. I became more uncomfortable. Young families, old people, professional commuters and ourselves shared a cabin. It was our group of tables that became the focus of attention. Loud mouths, inappropriate humour, smutty quips, fundamental attention seeking had taken over. It was not my cup of tea. It was embarrassing and I was ashamed. I reflect on that moment as being a point when I realised that being gay did not require acting gay. It did not mean throwing my sexuality in the face of others. I, for the first time, was able to criticise aspects of being gay. And I wasn’t ashamed to do so. The train experience was an example of young insecure people reacting to their sexuality instead of dealing with it. If they couldn’t be comfortable themselves then others could be equally uncomfortable.

I was adopted. I was raised in a happy home. I was a lucky boy. I am a lucky man. Growing up I found it difficult to tell people I was adopted. People got the wrong idea. ‘Home and Away’ was the youth soap of the day. The show centred around a couple who took it upon themselves to foster as many kids as they could store in their Summer Bay roost. The foster kids had back stories which were laced with alcoholic parents, criminality, drugs, antisocial behaviour, death, misery and suffering. Most of the kids appeared in the show with some kind of ‘issue’ needing to be addressed. Kids of my age equated my adoption with the foster kids of Summer Bay. I hadn’t the debating skills nor the energy to argue my case. It was easier to say nothing.

My relative silence in relation to being adopted was superceded later on in life by my silence in relation to my sexuality. It was always easier to admit being gay to total strangers than it was to say the words to many close friends, aquaintances or family members. Many of those, despite being well exposed to gay people, had few occasions to be socially linked to ‘out’ people. Others had rather odd preconceptions of what it was to be gay. Others, for whatever reason, (thankfully) stopped acknowledging me. My nature was to minimise any awkwardness and say nothing. After all, how often have I been in a situation where someone has sat me down, told me he has something to say and come out with the words, “Nigel, I am straight”? I have never defined myself as ‘gay’. Whats more, it shouldn’t be anyone’s business.

Why, therefore, would I write an entry such as this on a public blog? Reading the reaction to a piece of journalism which criticised the gay agenda angered me. There is a growing sense that the only way to respond to gay issues these days is to agree. Any dissent is knocked back. It is homophobic. It is against equality. It is bullying. I would argue that my experience on the train trip showed equally heterophobic, abusive, reactionary behaviour by a group of people who felt the need to shout in order to be heard. This is not uncommon on the scene. Vive la difference I say, but not if it deliberately makes the rest of society feel uncomfortable, embarassed, offended or upset. My companions in Manchester that afternoon did nothing to further their cause. When I criticised, I was turned upon.

Two months ago David Norris officially announced his candidacy for the role of President of Ireland. There was no one prouder than myself. A gay man was not only being considered for the position but was genuinely being tipped to win. Early opinion poles put him way ahead. As the Ezra Nawi issue developed many began to question attempts at ‘homophobic sabotage’. On a fateful Saturday afternoon I listened as Claire Byrne, filling in for Marion Finucane, revealed the issue of letters written on Senate notepaper in support of Nawi. There was no doubt in my mind. Norris’ judgement was called to question. Supporters of Norris continued to stand by him and continued to use the words ‘homophobic’ and ‘anti-gay’. My decision was made that morning. I was able to see the wood from the trees. It would have been nice to see Norris in the Aras but events convinced me that he was not suitable. It was not about his sexuality and was not about a group of homophobic people sabotaging his campaign. It was about his judgement. The hardline gay ‘activists’ could not see that. They shouted “discrimination” from the rooftops. When the sensible criticised, they were turned upon. In the end, sense prevailed.

Eamon Delaney refers to an article by Suzanne Moore in the Guardian last week in which she calls gay marriage as a conservative ‘selling out’. “Should being gay not be fundementally about being edgy and experimental”, she questions. Delaney then mentions the elephant in the room:

“Isn’t this part of the problem? Many gays want to have it both ways. Thus gay magazines are full of ads endorsing late-night gyms, sex lines and a freewheeling sex activity wich would be dismissed as sleazy in heterosexual culture. But we also have articles that suggest a yearning for bourgeouis respectability”.

Take any ‘gay’ magazine. Be it commercial or free you can bet your bottom dollar that there will be the usual articles dealing with issues such as gay adoption, gay marriage v gay civil partnership, gay soldiers, gay rugby players or GAA stars, Kylie, X Factor etc etc etc. However the predominant theme running through all of these magazines will be sex. “Sex sells”, they say and in the gay community this is a rule that is never broken. I have seen plenty of ads for prostitutes in telephone booths in my day. On the gay scene there is no need for phone booths. The last 30 pages of your average gay mainstream magazine is full of them. I don’t know where straight people go to have their orgies but on the gay scene the underground saunas will be advertised via full page ads in these gay community publications. I have rarely heard my straight couple friends discuss their threesomes in the local bar but in the gay community it is a coffee topic and actively pursued on massively popular websites such as Gaydar, LadsLads and apps such as Grindr.

From Quebeq to Queensland, Copenhagen to Cape Town, the gay scene is homogenous. There is an unwritten rule, a subconcious acceptance as to what is expected. Limerick’s one and only gay bar boasts an advertisement for a sex sauna on a piece of poorly designed A4 paper stuck to the neon drowned walls. I am no prude but if you are telling me that this is the done thing in every mainstream ‘straight’ bar or magazine then you are talking complete and utter bullshit. Straight people have to actively seek sex in order to get it. Gays have it pushed in their face from the get go.

Listening to Derek Mooney’s show recently I was suprised to hear a review of an iPhone app called Blendr. The app allows people to use their GPS facility to identify people nearby with similar interests. Simple titbits of information are entered, photos are uploaded and Bob’s your uncle. The world of internet dating suddenly becomes closer to your doorstep than ever before. The fact is that Blendr was designed and devised by the same developer who created the gay equivalent – Grindr. Grindr has become a phenomenon. You download and with minutes have immediate access to men in your vicinity and beyond. Depending on how close you are to an urban centre you can be guaranteed to have 100’s of people with reach. It is universally accepted in the gay community that Grindr is a hook up site, no more no less. Men can click a profile and provided ‘stats’ fit – anything can be yours, instantly. Grindr is a phenomenon. Blendr, the straight version, has yet to take off. Despite all the bravado, could it be that the straight community are less quick and ready to act on the ‘hooking up’ front than their gay counterparts? Sex is what the gay community is about.

“Do you have a Gaydar account?”, is a common chat up line on the gay scene. Gaydar is another bestselling website which allows you to create a profile ‘advertising’ yourself to the millions of other subscribers around the world. At present the Gaydar website boasts 6 million members from 140 countries. It is simply a phenomenon. Again it works on the basis of locality and GPS, although there is the ‘travel’ facility whereby one can organise ‘meets’ or ‘hookups’ long before you even arrive at a chosen work or holiday destination. I discovered Gaydar around the time I moved to London. There are two types of people who use Gaydar. Decent people hoping to come across new friends, gym buddies, concert companions, drinks aquaintances or loves of their lives. In this instance Gaydar is used as a chat/messaging tool which can and has in my case resulted in the creation of lasting friendships. In another, and most common instance, Gaydar is a means to acquire immediate sex. Straight friends of mine stare at me open mouthed when I tell them the details of Gaydar or Grindr. Many say they wish it was that easy for them. Sites like Gaydar whilst available are just not as prevalent in the straight community. Finding a partner in life should be cherished yet it is common in gay circles to use Gaydar or Grindr to push for the next best thing. Sex is what the gay community is about.

In being adopted into a great family with a loving home I was exceptionally lucky. My upbringing is testament to the wonderful gift that that adoption is. I have no doubt that two men or two women can provide all the love that I was given by my parents. My fear is this. The nature of the gay community - predominantly focused on issues around sex and experimentation – cannot sustain long term relationships let alone solid homebases for children. I recently performed at a civil partnership of a couple who have been together for many years. Both deserved to have their relationship recognised legally. Both deserved a day where they could profess their love for each other in front of family and friends. Both looked into each others eyes and wept. I was profoundly moved. It was clear they had an undying love for each other. The faces of the guests, many of whom were middle aged straight couples, said it all. They were also moved. I experienced an afternoon where I was proud to be gay. The unfortunate thing is that in the 12 years since I said the words ‘I am gay’ I have come across very few friends who have sustained long term relationships. Yes, of course straight relationships break down but one thing I have often heard is that the children are what sustain relationships through the tough times. I do not believe that the track record of successful, sustained and long-lasting gay relationships is strong enough to merit the argument for equality in relation to gay adoption versus straight adoption.

Writing this response to Eamon Delaney’s Sunday Independent article was instinctive and natural for me. I am not embarrassed about being gay. I am proud of people like David Norris who fought so hard to gain acceptance for gay people in this country. However I feel the time must come when the (as often quoted) 10% of our society accept that fundamental changes that have already been made. There are still many important issues that need to be addressed in the Trans community and in support for young people coming out, for example. Until such time as the gay community accepts that it cannot nor will ever be equal let alone a majority it will never be able to accept the criticism that comes its way. All causes will push on for the next best thing, and they are right to do so. The fact that issues such as gay adoption or gay marriage are even on the debating table is a great thing. But gay people must accept that points of view, from whatever stance, must be regarded with respect.

Eamon Delaney said something today that many, gay and straight, are also thinking. He questioned gay marriage, he questioned gay adoption and he questioned the sexualised nature of the gay community. He will now feel the wrath of the staunch gay activists and single minded scene conversationists. Those who epitomise 'Pride' will see Delaney as prejudiced. I’m gay. I’m on Eamon’s side.

Limerick songstress creates musically gilded Lily

2011-10-10T17:19:00.000+01:00

Limerick singer Jean McGlynn is no stranger to local audiences. Having spent a number of years living in the UK and performing in professional productions of South Pacific, Oliver, Beautiful Game and Les Miserables, McGlynn returned to Ireland and has once again established herself as one of the region’s leading vocalists.

With ‘Lily’, Jean is set to return to the Belltable Arts Centre in Limerick this month with a stageshow conceived, devised and produced by herself in collaboration with musical director Noel Lennon.

“I wanted to take popular music, rearrange songs and turn them into actual performance pieces quite removed from their original guises. In doing this I feel we are showcasing the edgier side of musical theatre”, she says.

“I have been performing in the city for many years doing mainstream musical theatre and have always had a passion to further develop my theatrical style”.

McGlynn sees ‘Lily’ as a piece of theatre which will take the audience on a journey through a range of emotions.

“It is a show about love, losses and longings”, she notes. “My inspiration came from a piece of music I discovered about a girl with nobody in her life. I was moved by the story and the emotion contained within. I felt it would be interesting to look at a range of songs which showcase the relationships that women have with others and how they need these relationships in order to survive.”

The result is a piece of theatre that is set to enthral audiences. The new production, directed by Michael Finneran, sees Mc Glynn creating an emotionally sensitive theatrical experience. Described as a musical journey through a variety of genres, ‘Lily’ is sure to be a show that audiences will identify with.

“I have adapted stories and music that I know will give audiences a sense that not only were they entertained but also challenged to question the relationships we encounter as we move through our lives”, McGlynn adds.

Set in one room, the production sees Lennon and McGlynn collaborating to create musical reworkings of some popular songs which evoke an emotion that reflects the intimacy of the setting. McGlynn notes her approval of Lennon’s arrangements and says these new interpretations have given a definate edginess and personal feel to some very well known songs.

“I have been wanting to put together a one-woman show for some time but could never find the inspiration that felt right. It took time but I feel I now have the concept that feels appropriate for me personally”, she adds.

'Lily' is a collaboration between Bare Space Theatre Company & Music Theatre West and will be performed in Limerick’s Belltable Arts Centre on Friday 21st and Saturday 22nd October at 8pm.

Limerick's opera star, literary genius and local government motions

2011-09-13T20:23:00.005+01:00

The first the former managing director of the University Concert Hall heard about Limerick’s Opera Centre was a number of years ago when the project was in its infancy. An important looking document landed on his desk with the address saying ‘Opera Centre, Limerick’. The confusion had started. The local postal service had heard nothing of an ‘Opera Centre’ and putting two and two together had logically come to the conclusion that the document was intended for Limerick’s other ‘Opera Centre’, the University Concert Hall.

I was working with Douglas Wallace, architects for the centre, around the time the Opera Centre project was conceived. I remember being struck by the grand name being considered for the development. I had to rack my brain as to why such a title would be given to a retail project in the heart of Limerick, particularly at location where, to my knowledge, no operatic performance had ever taken place barring the odd drunken rendition of Nessun Dorma after a few too many in the Locke.

The penny finally dropped. The Opera Centre site was named after Catherine Hayes, Limerick’s most famous soprano who was born at number 4 Patrick St. I felt I owed Limerick an apology. Being a musical man I felt I should have been aware of this little gem of information. It seems I was not the only one to be slightly confused by the naming of the project.

From educated locals, to educated visitors, to overly educated taxi drivers to this day there is confusion about what the Opera Centre was, or is, all about. One particular driver in the city centre asked me: “Why are they bothering putting an opera centre down there? Sure don’t we have the Belltable?” Struck by this highly learned insight I felt it was not my place to add fuel to the fire by explaining the background of a group of retail architects in Dublin sitting around a table for hours debating the best name for the project. It was all too confusing.

Why do I mention this? People of Limerick do not need to be reminded of the current state of the opera centre. The hopes and dreams of the creation of ‘an exciting retail and lifestyle development that will become a centre piece in the rejuvenation of Limerick city centre’ are now dead. Little slivers of information are fed to us on an ongoing basis. “There is renewed interest in the site”, we are occasionally told. Then we are fed information relating to the Marks and Spencer saga, a retail chain that is seen as the way forward when it comes to the Opera Centre site. Marks is considered Limerick’s saviour, it would seem. The latest developments regarding the Parkway Valley may have finally silenced any dreams we have of a retail symphony being played on the streets of Limerick, to use an operatic term.

What has gone unmentioned in this whole development saga is the very nature of why the site was named in the first place. The powers that be in Regeneration Developments, the company behind the Opera Centre, felt that Catherine Hayes’ links to the site were important enough to merit an entire 40,000 square metre retail centre being named after her. Prior to this, the only mention of her was via a rusty green landmark plaque bolted onto number 4 Patrick St. Our city councillors and governing body certainly had not given Catherine’s birthplace any huge recognition.

In 2007 members of political parties in Avila, Spain, voted to name a street in the town after the Irish writer Kate O’Brien to mark her long association with Spain and the land of Teresa of Avila. In June 2008 our then deputy mayor, Cllr Jim Long attended a ceremony in the Avila region for the official naming of the street after Kate O’Brien. At the time, Saturday 14th June 2008 to be exact, the Limerick Leader reported that Cllr Long had put down a motion caller for the preservation of O’Brien’s birthplace on Mulgrave Street in Limerick city.

“I was over-awed by the whole ceremony. The villagers spent two weeks preparing the village, building a stage and organising entertainment. It was most impressive and they deserve huge credit for this”, Long was reported as saying at the time. Cllr Long seems to have been so impressed by the whole event that two years on, this time in the official capacity as Mayor of Limerick city, he is once again off to attend another impressive and well organised event. The Limerick Post is reporting that he is attending another ‘street naming ceremony in honour of the internationally acclaimed Limerick author’ and has been invited to the official naming by the Mayor of Avila.

I am writing this based on published information in two of our local journalistic bastions and must be forgiven if I have picked up information incorrectly. One thing is certain however. A number of years ago whilst acting as Deputy Mayor, Cllr Long felt so passionate about the whole situation that he made his way to city hall and tabled a motion. His moving and impressive experience whilst on what one might call a ‘junket’ had put a fire in his belly. He felt our city should take on and preserve the birthplace of our most renowned literary export.

Over two years down the road since his motion and the now Mayor Long is packing his bags yet again to travel to Spain and celebrate the life of Kate O’Brien. Two years down the road since his motion and the house of Kate O’Brien continues to lie in a state of dereliction on Mulgrave St. Two years down the road since his motion and passers-by can see the O’Brien name engraved on the facade of the building as weeds, moss, broken windows and misery seem to envelope our own piece of O’Brien history. Maybe the bit of sun and another ‘well organised’ event might inspire Mayor Long to table another motion. Maybe we will see another headline in the Limerick Leader in the coming weeks with Mayor Long calling for the preservation the O’Brien house.

It took developers from outside our city to see the potential of commemorating Catherine Hayes, Limerick’s finest soprano. It took the people of Avila in Spain to recognise the work of Kate O’Brien Limerick’s finest writer. Is it not time that our own local government put on a ‘well organised’ event centred around the preservation of Kate O’Briens house as a literary visitors centre of note?

Something tells me the final chapter of this saga has yet to be written.

Addendum:

I was sorry to see that the Kate O’Brien saga seems to have hit a sore nerve with Mayor Long. Anyone interested in the debate would be strongly advised to read the offering of another blogger on this matter. The blog entry can be found at:

http://captainpurplehead.blogs.ie/2011/09/04/kate-obriens-house-still-ignored/

Stewed - from farmers market to the aisles of Sainsbury

2011-09-13T14:50:00.005+01:00

Whilst living in London I discovered the Alexandra Palace Farmers Market. With views right across the city, the location was magical. The stalls were too. I had not been acquainted with the concept of farmers markets up until then and really loved the energy, the smells, the tastes and the many delicacies being proffered from either side of the tree lined market strip.

It was around that time that I first encountered Alan Rosenthal and his new business – Stewed. Alan had been a typical city boy, hard working and full of London get-up-and-go. In 2008 he ditched his office-based job and indulged himself into the carefree life of the market trader, setting up a business based on a very simple premise – he was going to sell Stew.

You could not pass Alan’s stall in Ally Pally without at least stopping and taking a huge intake of breath. Sampling the aroma of the huge pots of thick stews was a joy to the nasal senses. His branding was already clever, something he was already good at having worked as a conceptual marketing agent. People were buying. Something stood out about Alan’s stall. Therefore I was delighted a few years ago to hear that he had expanded. The business was now moving into the major retail sector. Stewed had been contracted by major retailers like Budgens, Sainsburys and then Waitrose. They were also supplying deli’s, foodhalls and developing an online supply presence.

Alan came to my attention again recently as I walked through the aisles of Superquinn only to see the familiar Stewed brand staring back at me. Nutrition heaven was once again on my doorstep. Now the Superquinn aisles are not the same as being wrapped up warm and strolling the leafy paths of the farmers market at Alexandra Palace but I can assure you that the range of Stewed dishes available will brighten anybody’s day, especially as we head into winter.

Stewed now have a range of six mouth watering pots of epicurean delights : Thai Chicken Stew; Chorizo, Chickpea & Pork Stew; Chickpea, Sweet Potato and Feta stew; Hungarian Goulash Beef stew; Bob’s british beef and ale; Moroccan Chicken Stew.

I converted my mother this afternoon with a little pot of the Chickpea, Sweet Potato and Feta stew served with a chunk of brown bread. The wind has been howling the past few days and Alan’s hearty offering seemed to settle the sense of meteorological doom, even if just for an hour or two.

Limerick has seen a great success story in it’s Milk Market. The weekend market is thriving and individual businesses are not afraid of putting a smile on their faces. Alan’s success with Stewed is a great example of how important it is to support small traders. We never know who our next big success story will be. It could be your local market trader. Give them your support.

The Stewed cookbook has been published by Ebury Press and is available in all good bookshops.

www.steweduk.co.uk

What's in a name?

2011-09-04T19:58:00.001+01:00

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

The words of Shakepeare’s Juliet as she tells Romeo that it is the person ‘Romeo Montague’ that she loves and not the name ‘Montague’. For Juliet realises that the feuding between the Montagues and the Capulets is purely down to an artificial and meaningless focus on the familial name rather than the individuals themselves.

The outgoing Head of History at Mary Immaculate College has recently suggested that were King John’s Castle renamed ‘Limerick Castle’ then Shannon Development would find it much easier to market the castle and Limerick would have its name finally associated with its most notable feature. This suggestion came at the same time as a namechange was also being considered in the Regional Hospital, or should that be the Mid Western Regional Hospital? The recent addition of a medical department in the University of Limerick has now created the potential for a renaming of the hospital to University Hospital Limerick.

Whilst the renaming of our hospital makes some sense from an academic point of view, I have my reservations about the name of our castle. I recently asked someone what they thought about renaming the castle: “Well if you change the name of the castle what will happen to St John’s Cathedral or St John’s Hospital?”, they replied. We in Limerick will defend what is important to us to the hilt but often don’t realise what we are defending is a misinterpretation of fact. It could be suggested that, in our confusion over whether our Castle was originally funded by the great King John or dedicated to one of the many Johns who have been deemed worthy of sainthood, we have already proved that the actual name of a place is immaterial – it is the change that one fears.

It has been suggested that instead of Limerick Castle we should put more thought into the renaming. Maybe have a name which remembers the Viking links to the site. Maybe a reference to the Treaty of Limerick? Maybe reminders of our Cromwellian past? Limerick has so much history we could be days arguing the endless possibilities of potential new names for the site.

Rebranding costs a lot of money. It is never as simple as just renaming. Important elements such as marketing Materials, letterheads, websites or mementos in giftshops all must be recreated. The fact of the matter is this - we are awaiting construction to begin on the latest redevelopment of the site and adjoining lane. Until such time as they get the look, feel and offer right up there, any consideration of rebranding will be a futile exercise.

I heard a lady suggest we call it Gilligan’s Castle - after the man who has done so much for the Island. In that case we could be looking a whole new branding of the Island itself.

Gilligan’s Island, perchance?

The Road Less Travelled

2011-08-29T21:18:00.009+01:00

Sometimes doing something on a whim results in a satisfaction that nothing else can match. It was a stunning early autumn afternoon today. The air was fresh and clear. There was a feeling of stillness to the city and I felt a strange urge to simply walk. As I passed the Locke Bar I was reminded of someone who once told me to give the first section of the Lough Derg Way a try.

The Lough Derg way is a 25km walking trail that stretches from Limerick City to Killaloe and another 40km on to Dromineer. The route takes in the banks of the River Shannon, the canal and the shores of Lough Derg. I had heard some people say they wouldnt feel safe wandering alone along a narrow path on the outskirts of the city. I never pay heed to those who allow the potential dangers that always surround us to dictate their lives and in doing so deny themselves the opportunity to explore something new and experience the wonder of our hidden outdoors. I wasn't disappointed.

The trail leading from Limerick City starts just after the Kemmy Bridge. There is a non descript entrance to the path just behind the petrol station on Clare St. The start of the trail is marked by a couple of old ruined cottages that until recently had got a name for their use by drug addicts and the homeless. This ‘problem’ now seems under control. Once you pass through the gates you really do enter a hidden natural Aladdin's Cave in Limerick City. For the next hour and a half you will wander along the shores of the River Shannon. You will look around and ask yourself if you really are only a few hundred metres from Clare St, Dublin Road, Parkway, Rhebogue and Castletroy. It is a secluded pathway full of beautiful vistas, narrow treelined pathways, riverbanks boasting flowering foliage, calm waters reflecting a landscape that suggests nothing of the urban. This is pure escapism. Once on the path you will not turn back.

I walked and walked. How long would it take me to get to Annacotty? I quickly lost any concept of my timing. I wanted to stop and look around. I wanted to take a photograph. I was happy to just exist on the banks of the River that has been the heart of our city since its inception. Not taking everything in seemed sinful.

At certain points of the trail you look forward, then back, along an almost endless stretch of path that seems to be enveloped completely by hanging branches. Any gaps are filled in by the river's glassy water. You wander past the point where the river and canal meet. You realise this is the point where the waters take an almost 90 degree turn up around Kings Island. You encounter little footbridges. The path is only disturbed momentarily as you approach the Park Road bridge after which the canal bank continues taking a sharp turn right as you once again meet the banks of the River Shannon and head on your way to the UL campus and beyond.

I was struck by the number of people using the trail this afternoon. Walkers, joggers, cyclists. Every now and again I passed the odd solitary fisherman as oblivious to the suburbs beyond as myself. Unlike the dusty noise-polluted footpaths of the Dublin Road, people acknowledge you on this trail. A smile and a hello seem to be order of the day. Despite the relative solitude of the place, it is homely. It is peaceful. It is Limerick.

I passed the wonderful new bridge linking the Clare campus of the University of Limerick and was proud to see the magnificence of our 21st Century university campus. Walking the path I realised just how close we both are. We can moan and argue about its lack of connection to the city. The Lough Derg Way puts me in no doubt about this link. In fact it must be one of the most wonderful connecting routes from any university campus to any city. I wanted to keep it a secret but it should be used.

My newest Limerick experience came to an end at the university. As I left the path I came across a young tree still with its summer dressing. Around the tree was a pretty circular wooden bench. On the bench was an inscription dedicated to a young student who tragically lost his life a number of years ago. He was a 19 year old woodwork student. The inscription read:

He lived. He loved. He laughed. He left.

We are not given much time on this earth. Enjoy it.

Closure of the Trinity Rooms raises questions about the future of the Granary

2011-08-23T18:07:00.000+01:00

The Limerick Chronicle is reporting that the Trinity Rooms, one of Limerick’s most popular nightclubs, is to remain closed with the permanent loss of 50 jobs. The owners of the club have stated “health and safety and legal reasons” as the basis for a decision to bring an end to one of Limerick’s nightlife institutions. The club’s doors had been “temporarily” closed in July when it was reported that a rat infestation had created serious health and safety concerns.

The news in July sparked confusion and debate. A statement from the management at the time said: “We are fully satisfied that the Trinity Rooms is not the source of this problem but this in no way relieves us of our obligation to uphold best practice in health and safety standards for our staff and clientele”.

A spokesperson for the nightclub admitted that, after bringing the rat infestation to the attention of Limerick City Council and the HSE, they “voluntarily agreed to close the premises with immediate effect”. Indeed at the time the HSE noted they “did not force the closure of these premises”.

Management also said that they had raised the issues facing the nightclub as a result of its proximity to the derelict Opera Centre with Limerick City Council for a number of years with very little success. A report back in July suggested that Trinity Rooms had sought for the site to be placed on the derelict sites registrar in order for action to be taken.

Worryingly the Limerick Chronicle has also reported that “the owners are pleading an inability to pay redundancy terms to the staff, of which close to 15 would have been eligible for the payments”. A spokesperson is quoted as saying issues surrounding the redundancy payments were “of a very sensitive nature”. Something tells me we have not heard the end of the Trinity Rooms ‘rat infestation’ saga.

The rat infestation appears to be a convenient explanation for the end of a club that had been suffering for some time however the confirmation of the club’s closure leaves Limerick with yet another gaping wound in its cityscape. The Trinity Rooms and Docs, as it was in its former guise, was a landmark club in the city and a social addition to the Granary Building at one of the busiest entry points to the city centre. The closure is not only a loss to Limerick’s social scene but also raises questions as to the future of the Granary Building itself. If there is a rat infestation, if the dereliction of the Opera Centre is impacting so severely on the Granary then we could be looking at the Granary’s future being dictated by the ongoing lack of action relating to the Opera Centre site.

The Granary Building is a five-storey limestone former bonded warehouse, built in 1787 by the Limerick merchant Philip John Roche and renovated around 1985. The renovation included the inclusion of an extension which now houses the county library. An appraisal of the building notes: “Although this is a standard warehouse structure, it is highly significant due to its scale and location around Michael Street, which was once dominated by industrial architecture. Indeed it was one of the first multi-storey warehouses to be erected in the city. It is a good example of how adaptable industrial architecture is to a number of uses including civic, recreational and office use”.

It is ironic that a building housing the Limerick offices of Shannon Development, a body that continously seems to ignore the needs of Limerick city centre, is now the centre of another major loss to the city's heart. The Granary Building is located at a vital link between the King John’s Castle/Mary’s Cathedral/Abbey River areas and the up-and-coming architectural gem that is the Milk Market, Limerick’s most happening spot.

One would hope that some enterpreneur unaffected by the recession would see the potential of the Trinity Rooms site. My guess is that until such time as we are given a firm answer as to what is planned for the Opera Centre site then no one in their right mind is going to invest. Doing some research today most hotel and tourism marketing sites describe the Trinity Rooms in terms such as “one of the biggest and best venues in Ireland and has rarely been out of the national press since opening its doors in July 2003”.

These sites can now remove yet another landmark from Limerick’s ‘to do’ map.

It's a blog about it's or its

2011-08-16T13:20:00.004+01:00

I was rightfully pulled up this morning on an aspect of my grammar. During my college days I received a corrected essay back in my pigeon hole. At the bottom of the final page was a comment that I have never forgotten. "You have an unhealthy relationship with the apostrophe", it stated in red ink.

I obviously didn't learn my lesson. This morning I was once again exposed as a serial abuser of the little dash that has so much potential to ruin a reader's experience (note use of apostrophe). As penance I am therefore learning my lesson - I have downloaded a little grammar programme and will endeavour to ensure that I do not misuse the apostrophe again. My sincere apologies to those who have been affected.

For those who may also suffer from a similar affliction, here is something that might help:

It's is a contraction for it is or it has.

Its is a possessive pronoun meaning, more or less, of it or belonging to it.

And there is absolutely, positively, no such word as its'.

A simple test
If you can replace it[']s in your sentence with it is or it has, then your word is it's; otherwise, your word is its.

Another test
Its is the neuter version of his and her. Try plugging her into your sentence where you think its belongs. If the sentence still works grammatically (if not logically) then your word is indeed its.

Examples
It's been good to know you. Contraction: it has
It's a bird! It's a plane! Contraction: it is

The dodo bird is known for its inability to fly. Possessive pronoun: its inability = the dodo bird's inability

Limerick and the Doughnut Effect: Need to Learn Lessons from US Cities

2011-08-15T15:05:00.002+01:00

Transcript from recent lecture given by Tom McEnery of the Irish Technology Leadership Group

Today I want to talk to you about Limerick and donuts.

There have been recent articles about the city of Limerick, a city that I have been visiting since 1965. I like the city very much and I have watched a number of transitions. The latest transition which I thought had been going well until a few years ago seems to have gone awry and is repeating a very familiar theme that happened in America to many of our major cities. Centrifocal forces, suburbanisation, highways, housing all pushed so much of the retail and development unto the fringe, the edge of the city, the suburbs, that centre cities were left behind.

In downtown Limerick- the centre city- this is surely the case. Empty store fronts , social problems, the businesses that are there having great difficulty surviving. This is a movie we have seen before in America and it is a horror movie.

There are ways to deal with this. In America, in the city of San Jose, we learned as well. But we learned that it was very costly to build on the periphery, that you have to control things through planning and through zoning and through the way the city or the governemnt uses it’s resources in highways and housing subsidies etc. But we all know the painful lessons that Ireland has learned, I hope. What happened in its financial and real estate boom and bust. You can see that mirrored closely in Limerick.

What happened in limerick is that the donut, the outside, was zoned and was allowed to occur. It came not only at the expense of downtown businesses but it came at the expense of every single resident in the downtown Limerick area. This should not have been allowed. They should have seen history and understood it.

Joyce said: “History is a nightmare we are trying to awaken from". In Limerick, in donuts and in the development that was missed in the centre city while planning and other zoning decisions were made on the periphery and now are in great deal of problems as are the rest of the Irish real estate world, we really see it coming full circle. All they had to do was look at America all they had to do was look at the mistakes and the successes in the city of San Jose. They would have controlled that development, they would have allowed it first in the centre city building up places where roads and taxes and the police and other services were already in place and not allowing it to run amok as it did.

It is a sad story. It is one which I hope Limerick can recover from. But in centre cities of America – the Los Angeles’, the Clevelands , the San Joses’, the Dallas’, the Detroits and the Atlantas it has been a very painful lesson.

It is happening in Ireland and they should have known better.

http://www.itlg.org/

The Army of Good in London Town

2011-08-09T14:29:00.001+01:00

On the morning of the 6th of July 2005 I woke around 7.30am in my apartment on the corner of Edgware Road and Marble Arch. It was a typical morning. London was still feeling a sense of celebration after the previous day's announcement the the city was to host the 2012 Olympic Games. I made my usual morning stroll to work on Golden Square in Soho. It promised to be a warm July day.

On the 4th floor of Fintex House just next to the Virgin Radio centre and a stone's throw from the neon gilded Picadilly Circus I sat at my desk - things were about to change. By 9.30 it was obvious that people were late for work. Rumours were going around the city that there had been a power cut on the London underground. Rumours then started of a bomb on the underground. Once this was confirmed the true scale of what was happening became clear. Kings Cross, Liverpool St, St Pancras, and Aldgate East stations were all affected. Trains were being blown apart deep underground. A circle line train that had just left platform 4 at Edgware Road station was also bombed. This was 100 yards from my flat and an option for me if I was running late for work.

Around 11am a bus on Tavistock Square was blown up. By this stage our office was in shock. The small numbers who had made it to work huddled round a TV in the boardroom. In what felt like permanent silence we took in what was going on. For a time it was difficult to receive or make calls. The London network was crashing under the pressure. All public transport was cancelled. People were advised not to enter the heart of London. Loved ones and friends could not be contacted. Bizarre, frightening, absurd, tragic, sad and confusing are terms I would use to describe that morning.

By noon most office workers in the Soho area had abandoned work for the day and focused on ways and means of getting home. Most Londoners who work in the heart of the city live well outside. No public transport was running. I made my way back to Edgware Road. Oxford St, a street that is synonymous with red double decker buses, taxis and frantic shoppers, was suddenly transformed into a sullen hill empty of any traffic other than those who walked slowly and aimlessly towards Paddington and Hyde Park.

On the 7th of July I found myself in the heart of a national tragedy, a moment of horrific significance in a great city. I was lucky. I was unhurt and safe from harm. But I learnt something that day. I learnt just how defiant Londoners are in the face of terror. I witnessed entire communities come together to ensure that those behind the events of that day had no effect on how their city would continue to operate. Living alone in a flat in central London I was called by work colleagues and invited to join them in a bar in Clapham. People felt the need to socialise and gather together. It was a community spirit I had yet to experience.

By 7pm I left my flat to make my way across the river to Clapham and was stunned to see buses running again. In the space of a few hours the city was getting back to normal. No one was allowing shock to stop them from letting terrorists know who was in charge. The streets of Clapham were a hive of activity. People were out. Conversation was all about the day's events but fear was at a minimum. We were edgy but we were together.

Watching events unfold last night it was clear that London was experiencing another moment of terror, this time perpetrated by young thugs with their own mediocre reasoning and mission. Sky and BBC were very obviously struggling to keep up with events. The Metropolitan Police were physically overwhelmed.

At 2am last night the famous London community spirit kicked in again. Posts on Twitter started getting tweeted and retweeted. There was to be a community clean up in Clapham. A community clean up was being also organised in Croydon. Suddenly what had been a night of posting regular updates from new flash points all over London was turning into a defiant community call to arms in the early hours of the morning. Cleanups were ready to take place come daybreak.

At four minutes past eleven this morning, the Prime Minister ended his long period of silence to give a statement on the events of the previous night. By the time Cameron was finishing his coffee and pastries the people of London had already been cleaning up the city for hours. The true London spirit spoke far more that the words that Cameron uttered from behind the gates of Downing St.

Of course the clean up is now the focus of the 24 hour television news stations. These clean-ups didnt just happen by accident. It was an instinctive reaction from the people of London to show their true selves to the people of the world.

The philosopher Alain deBotton perhaps summed it up when he tweeted this morning- 'The good tends to always outweigh the bad: it just takes longer to get itself organised.'

No army can replace the good that exists in London town.

Silence on North Great Georges Street

2011-08-02T16:00:00.000+01:00

All weekend a nation has been gripped by the saga that has been the Norris campaign. Bit by bit we were drip fed snippets of information. Saturday View suggested the existance of a letter supposedly written by Norris on Seanad notepaper. The Sunday papers not only proved the letter to be true but just how damaging it was going to be to his campaign. Supporters of Norris began to leave his side one by one. What is normally a quiet weekend from a news perspective was suddenly boosted by a fascinating rolling story. Opinion pages in newspapers were full of contrasting viewpoints. Twitter was hopping and bloggers were fighting their way to getting a slice of the Norris controversy.

So we get to today. The morning news shows were building up the fact that three of the senators and TD's already signed up to back him had now pulled their support. We then heard during the 1 o'clock news that the man himself was finally to give a press conference on the doorstep of his north Dublin Georgian home at 3pm.

This was significant. Throughout the past five days the one person who should have spoken publicly had gone to ground. Norris was never someone who was shy at coming forward but this time it was different. Terry Prone was heard yesterday suggesting that he should refrain from saying anything until such time as he had exactly what he wanted to say totally clear. In other words, Norris had made enought blunders recently when dealing with the last controvesy.

Prone, the wonderwoman of PR and media training, was actually suggesting that in this case it was better for the man stay out of the Spotlight. I read it as being a case of Norris finding himself in a situation that required careful consideration. Norris was a defeated man and his silence was ominous.

I spent this afternoon keenly waiting for the press conference. Something in me wanted him to say he was going to continue. It would have given legs to this fascinating news story and would really have raised a few questions about the selection process. However a rather lacklustre performance in the latest of Liveline's infamous polls could well have sealed the deal. Just as Joe Duffy came off air Mr Norris arrived by car to face the large crowds that had gathered outside his home.

And just then as the man who had been silent for far too long finally spoke, our national broadcaster and the other stations decided to go into silent mode. As planned the press conference took place bang on 3pm just as all hourly news bulletins went on air. RTE covered the fact that he was about to speak. Newstalk did the same (I was listening to both) but no one was covering it live. RTE Live had blamed it on a communications error. Somehow I can't believe that no journalist on site had a mic that could go live. A source close to another news programme admitted that despite having a very good technical team, the actual production team were very slow at getting live feeds on air.

I had to tune into Twitter to get almost constant images of the man speaking to the media, snippets of his speech were posted and finally at about 6 minutes past 3, after the sports bulletin, Sean Moncrieff went live to his man on the ground who proceeded to read out extracts of Norris's speech as Norris himself continued to speak to the media yards away. Another member of the team handed him updates which the reporter would then read out. Had he just walked over to the press gathering, held up his mic and allowed us to hear it live Newstalk would have had the honour of beating RTE to a live news scoop. But no. It was not to be.

It was not until 3.15 that RTE got to broadcasting anything at all from North Great Georges St. After talking to Brenda Power about the important role she has in Celebrity Banisteoir, Derek Mooney decided it was now time to go over to Philip Boucher Hayes 'live'. At this stage Norris had finished speaking for over 5 minutes. I had got all I needed to know from Newstalk. The Twitterati were going nuts about the lack of any live coverage of this major breaking on TV, the web or radio.

A story where all the criticism was of Norris's failure to put the public and the media straight as to what was happening ended with a media blackout of his farewell speech. After being let down by Norris over the past 5 days I was finally let down by a lazy and incompetent media.

Judgement call

2011-07-30T18:43:00.001+01:00

If what is being suggested is true and David Norris used his influence as a Senator to appeal for clemency for his former partner then today is a day when I find myself let down, disappointed and sorry for so many people who, like myself, have supported the Norris campaign.

A few months ago Norris found himself embroiled in another difficult situation when the content of an interview he had given to Magil magazine concerning aspects of his homosexuality and thoughts on pederasty and underage sex. I like to consider myself very liberal. I listened to his thoughts with care and found it difficult to fully understand and accept his views.

I was particularly struck when he said:

“I cannot understand how anybody could find children of either sex in the slightest bit attractive sexually… but in terms of classic paedophilia as practised by the Greeks, for example, where it is an older man introducing a younger man to adult life, there can be something said for it. And in terms of North African experience this is endemic. Now, again, this is not something that appeals to me.”

Subsequent to this controversy a poll suggested that support for Norris was not only unaffected by the comments but he was leading the field of those declared as contenders in the presidential election. I hoped that this would be the last of the skeletons to emerge from Norris’s closet. Something told me it wasnt to be the case.

Hearing of the latest rumours emerging in relation to Ezra Tizhak Nawi it was my initial reaction to view the story as another attempt to drag up Mr Norris’s past once again in order to smear his campaign. However listening to Elaine Byrne on Saturday View this morning it was clear that this story was going to be damaging.

A letter allegedly exists and is due to come to light in which Mr Norris uses Senate writing paper to appeal for clemency for Mr Tizhak Nawi in relation to his conviction by an Israeli court of having sex with an underage male in 1992.

If the story is true then Mr Norris has displayed an incredible lack of judgement. Supporters of Senator Norris are calling this episode a smear campaign. It is not a smear campaign if what we are being told proves the man's judgement unsuitable for role of Irish president.

Others have suggested that this is yet again a witch hunt against the Senator by a group of homophobic individuals on a mission to block Norris’s way to the Aras. if the alleged letter exists then there is no witch hunt but what there is is a major questionmark over the suitability of the man to hold the office of president.

Someone commented on Twitter this afternoon:
'Let he who is without sin cast the first...'.May be case to answer but shouldn't we allow Sen. #Norris to explain before rush to judgement.

I sincerely hoped that the lastest controversy would be dealt with swiftly. But all day we have seen resignations by those heading up his campaign, we have seen politicians already signed up to support his candidacy getting itchy feet and we have seen nothing of the Senator. Those of us who like me have suddenly felt let down by the ‘people’s’ candidate deserve to hear from the man himself. We are now told that he is speaking to the Sunday papers. We must wait until tomorrow to hear the explanation behind another controversy to arrive at the Senator’s door.

It is not good enough.

Is Limerick the new Graveyard of Ambition?

2011-07-26T16:31:00.009+01:00

When the Arthur's Quay Shopping Centre was officially opened in Limerick in October 1989 it was hailed as a development that would bring a new lease of life to the city. One commentator at the time noted:

“Commerce is the lifeblood of the city and an injection such as this is the tonic to revive and rejuvenate. The opening of such a prestigious and upmarket centre right in the heart of the city is just what Limerick needed to bring life back to its centre.”

22 years later we are in the midst of a heated debate about another shopping development in the heart of the city that was set to revitalise and bring a new lease of life to the city. Forgive me if I am cynical but could it just be possible that the big developments may not be the answer? Despite the hype at the time Arthur's Quay never really took off. With Quinnsworth (now Tesco) as anchor tenant it failed to attract any quality retailers into its other units and has remained ever since as a centre that is just doing its bit.

Whilst the City Council sat like pregnant ducks debating the future of the city centre, the county council was granting planning all over the suberbs for retail developments that ultimately killed the city. Just last week we saw the vulnerablity of this policy. One of the city’s most prosperous and leafy suberbs was feeling the punch of recession. The last remaining major stakeholder in the ultimate failure that was Castletroy Shopping Centre was being threatened with examinership. If Superquinn was to close its doors Castletroy was facing the reality of a ghost centre right in the heart of the community.

Last week I was given the task of interviewing a number of stakeholders on William St to gather their responses to the prolonged fiasco that has been the roadworks there. I walk that street every day. No one could be oblivious to the sheer chaos that the works have created. Gradually creeping up from Sarsfield St over the past number of months we have almost come to associate the street with noise, diggers, concrete mixers, pedestrian ramps, protective metal fences, barriers, dust, men in yellow reflective bibs and traders with worried expressions.

As I spoke to people on the street I was witness to a man pushing a young woman in a wheelchair down one of the rickety wooden ramps. He then attempted to bring the woman into a shop only to realise that the access ramp was at an angle making it impossible to negociate the chair in the door. The street workers kindly aided the man as they physically lifted the ramp into a more manageable position. This happened as the persistent rattle of drills and clouds of dust filled the air.

I stopped and watched people ‘enjoying’ coffee on Limerick’s cleanest and most enticing street Little Catherine St. How anyone could hear what the person at the other side of the table was saying is beyond me.

Some retailers on William St are happy the work is taking place. It had been too long since anything was done on the street, they say. What they had not bargained for was a series of setbacks and bureaucratic decisions that was ulimately going to delay what should have been a simple process. Established retailers claim 50-60% drops in takings. Tied in with the current economic climate they express serious worries about their ability to continue trading.

Limerick is like a lovely little jigsaw. All of the pieces lie jumbled in a heap and no one knows how to put it together.

I spent a couple of days in Galway last weekend. The town was, as always, a hive of activity. The Arts Festival had just come to an end and final preparations were being put in place for Race Week.

Lunch on Saturday involved Tapas at Cava JP McMahon’s delightful restaurant on Dominic St which has introduced Galway to the wealth and breath of Spanish cooking. Its Tapas menu is famous for its representation of many aspects of regional Spanish cooking. Cava showcases over 50 regional Spanish Tapas and was heralded as serving the ‘Best Tapas in Ireland' by food and wine critic Tom Doorley. Friendly staff, a very exciting menu and fantastic art on the walls, Cava was a place that just satisfied. Enquiring on how business was it was interesting to hear that there has been a real sense that Irish people are now spending their holidays in Ireland and this has been reflected in the customer profile around Galway this year.

A walk down Shop St was entertaining as always. All sorts of characters fill every nook and cranny providing the parambulating audience with the street entertainment that has made Galway famous. The bustling streetscape was accompanied by a soundscape, a medley of different musicians each competing for a momentary dedication of attention.

A relaxed July afternoon was rounded off by a short walk along the Claddagh and espresso on the banks of the river.

On Sunday morning we decided to have breakfast in Nimo’s under Spanish Arch. As with all the cafes and eating houses that weekend you were invited to queue as tables were at a scarcity. As one table became free new customers were happily seated in what seemed to be a conveyor belt of custom on a summer’s morning. The management were obviously used to this as their ability to control the constant steam of people as well as providing efficient and friendly service was notable.

Upon my return to Limerick just after 1pm on Sunday I decided to get my papers and spent the afternoon in town with a coffee. I may as well have been standing in a incense scented back room in Thompsons.

The city was dead. As these two images show, the retailers, coffee shops, and restaurants in Limerick are shut on a Sunday. The one small cafe on the corner of Thomas St and Little Catherine St that did open was full. The few tourists we do have wander up and down our streets open mouthed on a Sunday looking for something to do.

The contrast between the scene I had left not an hour up the coast and what I was facing in my home town could not be more stark. There is simply no excuse. We can blame rates, we can blame lack of tourists, we can blame it on the religious dictations re: days of rest. A city that is closed on a Sunday in this day and age deserves to fail.

Discussing our urban predicament recently with an esteemed colleague it was highlighted that it has not been unknown for a city to curl up and die. In a recent Newsweek article entitled ‘America’s dying cities’ the following was said of Detroit:

‘Earlier in the decade, Detroit not only thrived from a booming auto industry, but the city also boasted a vibrant music and art scene. Unfortunately, the decline of the auto industry hit this city particularly hard, at one point causing the unemployment rate to shoot up to nearly 50%. Some of those who could afford to move and weren’t tied down by a mortgage likely shifted to other regions with better job markets, evidenced by the decline in the overall population and the number of residents younger than 18.’

Ring any bells? Limerick is not immune to the fate of urban mortality, the death of a city. "Stop comparing Limerick with Galway", I am always told. "It's simply not fair. We don’t have the tourists they have, we don’t have the sea nearby, we don’t have the festivals, we don't have a university in town". We don’t have this. We don’t have that. Excuses, excuses.

Galway was once called the ‘graveyard of ambition’. A small web of poorly planned streetscapes and old derelict buildings was slowly transformed through the embracing of its culture, its physical amenities and its humour. Galway has become the phoenix of ambition. Limerick, ‘Ireland’s third city', has been overtaken by Galway, overtaken by Cork and, I would suggest, overtaken by Waterford, Kilkenny and Killarney also.

There is no immediate solution to our problems but I would suggest that until such time as we have a group of free thinking, goal driven, like minded people running our city we are doomed. Limerick has always been great at defending itself. It is a city ‘well versed in the arts of war’ afterall. Sometimes it is healthier to sit down, take a breath and accept the failures of the past, accept the frightening possibility of our future fate and ensure that it does no come to pass. There is room no longer for those Angela Ashe’s deniers, room no longer for anyone who tells us that we have a vibrant city, room no longer for anyone who tells us the Opera Centre is our saviour, room no longer for anyone who denies us a future.

Send in the Clowns

2011-07-19T22:11:00.000+01:00

The circus kicked off around 2pm. Equiped with a strong pot of coffee I sank into a bean bag and strapped myself in for what was hyped to be the showdown of the century. The Skycopter was showing us images of a black people carrier - rumoured to be that of Rupert and James Murdoch. It was then announced that they had arrived in Parliament Buildings and were on their way to the committee room. The significance of the moment was palpapel. Twitter went into overdrive. The Murdoch's heads on a platter was what was called for.

After a short protest at the back of the room we got the first glimpse of the two men sitting and ready for the hours of detailed questioning to follow. The first up to put questions to the pair was Tom Watson who played a blinder all day. The Murdochs, looking awkward and tense, asked permission to make a statement in advance of questioning. They were denied. It was clear that this was going to be no walkover for the moguls.

As Watson fired off his first questions Murdoch suddenly grasped his son's arm and stated: "This is the most humble day of my life". It was a line he would repeat later when finally allowed to read a prepared statement and a line which he obviously felt would gain him some sympathy.

Sympathy wasn't coming. In fact Murdoch came across as a grumpy old man whose humbleness faded away in a display of arrogance initially. As one commentator said, "It is like the Wizard of Oz, when you get to the Emerald City you realise Murdoch isn't the wizard you thought he was".

The questioning continued with Murdoch Sr looking more like a confused old man whose finger just wasn't on the pulse. And then it happened.

In what seemed like a split, live on television, Murdoch was assaulted. Assaulted by a comedian, with a pie made from shaving foam. Viewers around the world saw the initial stages of the surreal event. We saw Murdoch, remain seated as a man in a check shirt got within inches of him. We heard a female voice shout'no'. We saw Murdoch's wife, a rather elegant woman who had been restless throughout the proceedings, throw a fierce punch at the assailant. And then the cameras shut down.

This afternoon for a moment my heart skipped a beat. In the initial confusion I felt like I had just witnessed an assasination. Of course everything became clear rather quickly. This was an act of stupidity by an idiotic clown. Murdoch was safe and after 10 minutes was ready to resume his questioning.

Everything had by now changed. What had been a public grilling was now some sort of public display of respect for a man who could endure such an assault and retain his composure. The old man suddenly looked revitalised. Now in his shirt sleeves he looked younger and more ready than ever for anything else that could be thrown at him. It then dawned on me that this was an old man. It was a person who had dedicated his life to business and had been damn good at it. Like him or loathe him he deserved respect. Little did we all think at the beginning of proceedings that Rupert Snr would at the end come out looking stronger than ever.

I was not there when Kennedy was shot. I have seen the footage and imagined the shock that must have be felt by so many. Imagine if today's attack had been more serious. How would we all be feeling? What would the papers be saying in the morning?

Johnny Marbles tweeted just before he attacked Murdoch: 'It is a far better thing that I do now than I have ever done before #splat'. The action of this one clown changed my opinion of Murdoch. Helped up from his seat by the woman who had earlier dived to his defence, he left the room a bigger man than before.

Public Interest?

2011-07-18T22:11:00.000+01:00

I first came across the term 'public interest' in June 1999. I woke up to see a headline in the Sun newspaper which screamed 'Boyzone Stephen: I'm gay and I'm in love'.

Good on him, I thought, that is until it was revealed that the young singer had been backed into a corner. Stephen Gately had found himself with no option but to speak of his sexuality after getting wind of attempts by certain media to out him. It was in the public interest, you see.

Ironically it turned out to be a turning point in Gately's life. He no longer found himself in denial and the remainder of his short life was lived without fear of media disclosures on his sexuality in the public interest.

When Madeline McCann disappeared the world was taken by the story. It would not go away. Jeremy Thompson was camped outside the villa where the little girl was last seen for months. The Sky News homepage had UK, World, Sport, Weather and 'Madeline' as links to subsections. As time went on the media needed new angles to keep the Madeline story going. Sky needed to keep a Breaking News flash bar scrolling across the screen.

It wasn't long before Madeline's parents would be pulled in for questioning to the delight of the preying media who only weeks before were selling papers based upon their supposed sympathy towards the McCanns. All of this was in the public interest.

The past couple of weeks has been an astonishing roller coaster sequence of events that will change the course of journalism and media law. Twitter users will be aware of the seemingly constant stream of breaking news alerts, comment articles, blog posts and general ranting by tweet.

Reading yesterday's Sunday Times I was struck by just how much pleasure the paper took in highlighting Gordon Brown's error in accusing the The Sun of hacking his medical records so as to reveal the 'public interest' exclusive of his young son's diagnosis with cystic fybrosis.

Isabel Oakeshott's article entitled 'So Bitter And So Wrong' suggests that over many years Gordon Brown's relationship with News International. He had, incorrectly as it now appears, blamed them for the story about his son appearing in the press in 2006. He was angered by the coverage he receieved during his term as Prime Minister and used the scandal of the past two weeks as an opportunity to seek his revenge. Attempting to settle an old score, it would appear.

Reading the Times, I was struck by how far this story has come. Public-interest journalism has been defined as: 'a watchdog, holding the powerful to account, exposing fraud, deceit, corruption, mismanagement and incompetence.' News International were exposed early on in the saga as a group who used deceit, were corrupt, mismanaged their newspapers and ultimately were proved to be incompetent in following basic codes of conduct.

Suddenly we are forgetting what this story is all about. We are seeing resignations, we are seeing the settling of old scores through incorrect allegations, we are seeing an empire crumbling. Just like the Madeline story, the News International revelations are no longer about the crux of the matter - that the News of the World were found guilty of hacking into the voicemails of a murdered schoolgirl.

The public interest has now shifted. Apparently the public interest is now about watching all sorts of different people settle their old scores. This evening, breaking news was telling us that the person who blew the whistle on the whole thing had been found dead. For a time it was being played out as if it was another David Kelly, the weapons inspector who took his own life after being revealed as a whistleblower in the Iraq WMD affair. It now seems, and I hope it proves to be the case that Sean Hoare's death was an unfortunate coincidence.

So what should be in the public interest? We all know what News International did now. They are being held to account.

At the same time 11 million people are in need of emergency life-saving assistance.

The Horn of Africa is today in the public interest. And it ain't trending on Twitter.

Good News

2011-07-16T21:54:00.004+01:00

These days it is easy to find yourself saying nothing positive about Limerick. This week we were given the news that three more established retail outlets in the city centre are closing their doors; it was revealed that our Regional Hospital is hugely over budget half way through the year; nationally our credit rating was relegated to junk status and locally a man was appearing in court on charges of using an Alsation to commit buggery. One could be forgiven for finding it tough to say anything positive.

But this was a week when a little gem in Limerick city beat off competition such as the Aviva Stadium, the Long Room Hub at Trinity College and the Humanities and Social Science Building at NUI Maynooth to become Ireland’s favourite building. It was a week when the cast, crew and creative team of a major opera production based itself in Limerick in advance of the world premiere of an important piece of work. It was a week when Ireland’s best tourist pub put its gleaming plague behind the bar in Limerick city.

So, please forgive me. This blog is going to be positive.

Early on Monday morning I heard of Limerick’s Milk Market winning the People’s choice award at the RIAI awards. I immediately knew that this was a significant coup for Limerick from both an architectural and tourism point of view. Possibly the most positive thing to happen to Limerick in many years was now getting national recognition for what it is: a splendid celebration of market life and community. Morning Ireland were on to the story. By lunchtime it was being featured on national news. This was a big deal.

The philosopher Alain deBotton would argue that:
“one of the great, but often unmentioned, causes of both happiness and misery is the quality of our environment: the kind of walls, chairs, buildings and streets we’re surrounded by. And yet a concern for architecture and design is too often described as frivolous, even self-indulgent.”

DeBottons book ‘The Architecture of Happiness’ suggests that the buildings around us have a huge impact on our moods and impact on our sense of wellbeing. I think it would be easy to agree with deBotton when you consider some of the many areas within Limerick city and it’s surrounding areas. But on Monday our Milk Market was deemed worth of the title ‘Ireland’s favourite building’.

The Milk Market has become a popular destination for people from all parts of the city and county. It has brought a new life into a part of our city. Despite our economic woes we have got to maximise the potential that this iconic structure has brought to Limerick. With a bit of thought and a bit of planning we could soon have a cultural quarter in the heart of our city to rival anything Europe.

Rehearsals are currently underway in Limerick for the forthcoming production of a new edition of Jean Phillipe Rameau’s opera Dardanus. The University Concert Hall has collaborated with the European Opera Centre and has welcomed them for a month long stay as an international line up of singers prepare to take to the Limerick stage under the bator of French conductor Lauent Pillot.

The project is an extenstion of a strong relationship developed beween UCH and the European Opera Centre. It is a hugely significant production from the Concert Hall’s perspective and is sure to be a spectacular piece of work.

I am no opera buff but I have been appreciative of the genre since my secondary school days. On a visit to New York in 2006 I was lucky enough to get a ticket for Zeffirelli’s production of La Boheme in the Metropolitan Opera. It was my first full scale opera and I was blown away. There is nothing more powerful than a full scale opera, staged beautifully with a full scale chorus and orchestra.

Limerick is very lucky to have the opportunity to have such a production rehearsing in the city with a view to performing on our doorstep. This is a must see production . Tickets for the opera are notoriously expensive but in this instance the production has been supported by Plassey Life Service, the Irish Chamber Orchestra and the Irish World Academy of Music and Dance and the University of Limerick. The production takes place on Wednesday the 20th and Friday the 22nd of July. Tickets are a steal at €20.

I was in the Locke Bar on Tuesday evening and was delighted to see a shiny new plaque erected behind the bar. A few weeks ago the Locke was announced as winner of the Best Tourist Bar in Ireland at a ceremony in Dublin. Yet again this was a coup for the Limerick. A well run and progressive establishment in a key part of our city beat off stiff national competition to be recognised as the leading place for tourists to visit.

It is vital for not just the Locke but for all powers that be in Limerick and the Shannon region to promote this win to all tour companies visiting Ireland. We need to be screaming from the rooftops that we are home to the best tourist pub and Ireland’s favourite building. I will take this opportunity to plug The Old Time Irish Radio show which has been running in the Loft Venue at the Locke since June. The show is ideal for tourists and a great opportunity to start to market Limerick as a destination city and not just a drive through for tourism. That debate is for another day.

During the week we also saw the opening of the Frank McCourt Museum. Readers have been captivated for almost 12 years by Frank McCourt’s masterpiece, “Angela’s Ashes,” now they can finally see his home described in the book. The museum is home to an exact replica of the home on Roden Lane that McCourts family lived in.

Despite what some say about the book, Angela’s Ashes undoubtedly put us on the international map. We need to celebrate the book's success and this new museum will be another attraction which places us in a position to be a real player in Irish tourism.

Someone said to me recently that we in Limerick are getting into a habit of being down on ourselves. Seeing the city centre slowly dying, seeing regeneration stalling and seeing retailers being forced to close their doors does not help. Focussed debate is necessary to right the wrongs in Limerick city.

But enough of the wrongs. This was a good news week.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose

2011-07-13T22:24:00.001+01:00

Walking up Catherine St today I stopped to read a planning application on the wall of two adjacent Georgian building barely standing in a state of total disrepair. The applications date back to 2008 and reading them I was reminded of that halcyon era when development of property was the order of the day.

Despite erecting architecturally impressive and shiny buildings on our riverfront (turning our back on the river in the process), Limerick can be proud in the knowledge that we really didn’t make hay while the sun shone during the days of property development fanaticism. In fact we can take bow for actually managing to fall into a deeper state of shabbiness as other Irish cities enjoyed makeovers.

The buildings on Catherine St are just two of many along that little stretch in the city centre that have fallen into utter dereliction. The site of the old Daffys pub is slowly getting there. The entire block where the Desmond Arms once stood is a daily reminder of the Celtic Tiger bypass of Limerick. I noticed these very much dated planning applications on a date when I read with sadness the news that the future of the beautiful Georgian House is now uncertain.

The Georgian House was restored by Limerick Civic Trust 13 years ago to showcase Georgian Limerick. It seems that the building, despite is attractiveness and despite it’s pleasant location, is simply not sustainable. I can only put this down to the fact that tourists ain’t coming to the city.

Now ironically, the restoration of the Georgian House was happening at a time when Castle Lane was being developed adjacent to King John’s Castle. I was the first singer to work at Castle Lane as part of a cast performing a show developed by Shannon Heritage and marketed to a similar audience as their other entertainment offers – Bunratty, Knappogue and Dunguaire.

Shannon Heritage/Development quickly realised the project was unsustainable. I moved away from Limerick and, upon my return 11 years later, found myself at a loose end. I walked up to Castle Lane and found it in a state of shutdown, the gift shop gone, the tavern boarded up and graffittied, destined for a derelict state similiar to those buildings on Catherine Street. I stood on the grass verge on the banks of the Shannon, taking in what I consider to be the most beautiful vista of the city and the Shannon, and wondered how so much money could be spent on a development next to a wonderful castle only for it not to work. How could the Castle Lane development fall into disrepair after only 13 years?

Shannon Development are now about to redevelop the site for the second time. I have read the proposals. I am intrigued by consideration being given to the “use the latest in technology to highlight the story of the River Shannon, the Viking history of Limerick including a longboat" and they plan "to project water onto the floor to make it look like you’re walking through the Shannon”.

A mock river waterfeature, is it? Do we not have a real, wide and animated waterfeature running through the heart of the city, not 30 yards from Castle Lane itself. As we listen to the sounds of the mock river waterfeature (via the 'latest technology') rippling through the new Castle Lane we can also listen to (correct me if I’m wrong) the likes of Paul O’Connell filling us in on the history of Limerick city. No historical attraction in Limerick is of course complete without our sporting legends throwing in their tuppence worth.

Call me a cynic but I question what lessons have been learned from the last Castle Lane development. I also question any body which basically evicts a city’s museum in order to spend their €6 million grant sensibly.

There is an old French proverb that goes along the lines of: the more things change, the more things stay the same. The Celtic Tiger has come and gone since Castle Lane was previously developed, since the Georgian House was restored to its former glory. Could it be said that Limerick now needs to stand back, take stock and think about where things are going wrong before investing money into new projects destined for failure?

Blowing it all out of proportion?

2011-07-10T18:46:00.005+01:00

I am currently on my second reading of 'Understanding Limerick', a collection of essays focusing on the problems that exist and have existed in Limerick for many years. Edited by Niamh Hourigan, this book is a must read for anybody living in Limerick with any form of social consciousness.

For too long Limerick has been a tale of two cities where the privileged have chosen to ignore the underpriviliged leading to a society where the isolated have found themselves in a spiral of hopelessness and despair leading in turn to a rise in criminality, drug abuse and gang culture.

On so many levels Limerick is a proud city. It is a historic city and a city that has so much potential. Hourigan’s edited collection of contributions from leading scholars in the field of Sociology, Social Policy, Criminology and Urban Geography is both enlightening and moving. It is inspiring and infuriating. It should be compulsory reading for anyone living in this city.
Hourigan quotes the journalist Fergal Keane, who worked in Limerick as a court reporter in the 1970’s:

‘The defendents were almost exclusively drawn from the city councils estates. Their crimes ranged from the theft of a church poor box to hideous gang rape. They were whey faced and thin, coughing from cigarettes. They were destined for jail followed by unemployment and jail again. The system regarded these young men with contempt and they returned the compliment. Meanwhile anybody who suggested the city’s crime problem might be getting a little out of control was roundly condemed. It was in Limerick that I first heard that favourite phrase of the politician: “you are after blowing that all out of proportion”. A journalist who hears that must realise he is on to something good. The reckoning for Limerick would come long after I left the city.’

One could suggest that Keane was writing in the not too distant past, just 30 years ago. Maybe our city has not had a long standing battle with exclusion, deprivation and social inequality. Perhaps those who got a little put out by Mr McCourt’s famous document are right. Perhaps we really are blowing it all out of proportion. Well then let's go back to 1909 and to the travel writer Thomas Johnson’s perception of the city, also quoted by Hourigan.

‘I could not help but wonder what strange notions of comfort the inhabitants of that city must have had to crowd their homes together in such a fashion when so many square miles of open country lay all round about. But, when I took a walk along those lanes and alleys , my wonder was turned to disgust when I found that these houses were not only crowded into congested areas but many were unsanitary and unfit for human habitation...Evidently on this planet it is not a crime to take advantage of a man’s poverty and make a profit out of a death trap.’

Strong language, eh? We all know what transpired when the powers that be realised that overcrowding was a problem. The pressure to respond to the problem resulted in a lack of thought out, joined up thinking. Entire communities were removed from their comfort zones and placed in the many square miles of country that lay just outside the city boundary. The development of Southhill (1967) and the construction of Moyross in the 1970’s was the result. Instead of creating a new sustainable local authority housing solution the Corporation simply focused on providing houses, bricks and mortar. No shops, no community centres, no schools, no bars, no pubs, no medical facilities, no heart, no soul. It makes one wonder what, in the name of God, they were thinking.

Comparisons can be made to that other farcical housing solution in Dublin – the ‘futuristic’ Ballymun development. You could be forgiven for forming a conclusion and saying the the cause of Limerick’s problems today was an inept authority with a lack of forward thinking. However we are where we are and no amount of dwelling on the past can show us the way to the future.

Over the past week I had the pleasure of being part of the Irish Chamber Orchestra’s Music Factory project. Music Factory is a summer camp the ICO runs every July, brings children together from across Limerick city and the region to have fun, whilst developing their interest in music and the arts. The camp is devised by ICO violinist Diane Daly and run by Diane, along with ICO education officer Kathleen Turner.

This year the camp took circus as a starting point, and developed a series of different plays, based on life in and elements of circus life. The children devised the stories, designed the set and created the songs and music.

Since 2008 the ICO has worked in partnership with Bank of America Foundation to help children develop their inventive skills, providing them with access to music and the ‘hands on’ experience of composing and playing musical instruments, encouraging talents that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. In addition, the project works to break down social barriers, bringing children from different backgrounds together to work to achieve common goals.

I had been aware of the excellent work Kathleen Turner does with various schools in regeneration areas around Limerick and remember being particularly impressed with the performances her children presented to the Dalai Lama during his recent visit to the city.

To be part of a camp where half of the children were from regeneration areas was a joy from start to finish. It was noticeable how the children came together as a whole. Friendships were made across all social spectrums. No one was excluded. What resulted was a week of happiness, fun, constructive group creativity and a sense that, for the week, all problems that these children may encounter at home could be forgotten. The Irish Chamber Orchestra must be commended for their work in this field.

Recently, on a visit to the city, the Minister with responsibility for arts and heritage Jimmy Deenihan commented that Limerick must focus on its excellence in the fields of arts and culture in order to move forward. This is exactly what 'Music Factory' and 'Sing Out with Strings' is doing.

Reading Niamh Hourigan's book we realise that the future must lie in the young people of Limerick. The same young children, all of whom have been touched by things with which even adults cound not cope. The same young children who can together compose a piece of music around the theme of forgiveness. If we can continue to get funding for projects such as Music Factory then maybe, just maybe, we can solve the issues that bricks and mortar cannot.

www.irishchamberorchestra.info/education.html

Pangs of despised former love

2011-06-12T15:58:00.000+01:00

At exactly this time last week I stopped smoking. I woke this morning feeling rather proud of the fact that I had arrived at my first landmark - the first week off cigarettes. Today has, however, been a tough one. All day I have been biting my lip, my hands have been irritable, my arms slightly dull and achy and I have had pangs of hunger despite having a healthy and full lunch. So to get myself through what I really do feel is my first moment of temptation in 7 days I am writing a blog entry.

My earliest memory of touching a cigarette was as a young boy hiding behind the shed in my friend's back garden. My friend was always one of these rebellious boys who was destined to test all of life's little vices. I on the other hand was the type of child who was terrified of being caught doing something naughty. I hated the guilty feeling. My cheeks would redden at even the slightest hint of interrogation. I was a happy child. I loved the outdoors and always was found kicking a football on the green or hitting a tennis ball on the side of the house. Our little excursions down through the fields were so exciting to me. It made me feel like a real explorer. There was nothing better than uncovering an oddly shaped ditch which lended itself to the creation of the ultimate tree house complete with upstairs watchtowers, ante-rooms and rope bridges. Being naughty wasn’t necessary.

I have alway's been shy at first meetings. Once totally comfortable with new friends I would come out of my shell, often being the centre of attention, but being around strangers, especially strangers who were ‘bold’ in my mind was not something I enjoyed. That day in my friend's house, when i felt the sensation of a filter rest on my lips, felt the shock of dark smoke hitting the back of my throat for the first time and felt the guilt at having done the unthinkable, i would never have thought that one of those small white sticks would play such a huge role in my life.

Despite my first taste of a cigarette at the tender age of 9, I didn’t actually take up smoking until I was 20. I got a summer job singing at Knappogue Castle in Co Clare. We would perform at two banquets per day. We would arrive in the castle at about half past 4, get ready, perform the first banquet, have a break, perform the second banquet and then head back to Limerick. Most of us were young. We were college goers without a care in the world. Most evenings involved finishing work, quickly getting ready and then hitting Limerick for a few drinks.

It was during my time at Knappogue that I started to dabble in smoking during our break between banquets. The entertainers would have tea and then gather at the dining room window to smoke and few cigarettes and gossip before the next banquet would start. I started to join in. I remember the minty taste of Consulates particularly. I also remember enjoying the feeling of the cigarette kicking the back of the throat. I remember that slightly lightheaded feeling. I had never needed to feel part of the rebel gang as a child but as an adult smoking was no longer rebellious. It was a choice. And late in the day made my choice.

Call it an addictive personality. Call it stupidity. Call it whatever. The past 12 years of my life have had cigarettes playing a lead role. Last Sunday I stopped. I do not intend starting again. Stating this on my blog adds to the pressure factor - failing in this attempt will only result in embarrassment. No one likes to be embarrassed.

So if anyone spots me smoking ever again, please feel free to lambast me, mortify me, kick me. In fact feel free to take the cigarette and dab it out on my cheekbone!

Dalai Lama

2011-04-19T21:04:00.002+01:00

I didn't get to be present in the University of Limerick during the Dalai Lama's recent visit. To be honest in the weeks leading up to the event I knew very little about who he is, what he stands for and just how wonderfully happy he seems to be. When asked their views about how significant the visit was, many people on the streets of Limerick expressed excitment, some were apathetic. One man could not wait for the Dalai Lama to come to our city and 'spread bundles of joy from his fat little body'.

The ceremony, organised the Irish World Academy of Music and Dance, started early on that Thursday morning. From the moment I tuned in just after 9am I couldn't help feel that I was witnessing something that was going to be special.

Who could not be moved by the words of Richard Moore? His story is remarkable, his capacity for forgiveness knows no bounds. I had heard his story many times but on this particular day I was even more struck by the depth of what he represents. His handshake with the man who took his eyesight with a rubber bullet spoke volumes. It was humbling to witness.

At a time when we as a nation are maybe beginning to realise that material wealth is not actually something to aspire to. Maybe had we put all notions of gain, ownership, wealth and greed to one side during the heyday of the Celtic Tiger, and followed some of the simple teachings of the Dalai Lama, then we may have come out the other end relatively unscathed.

I have no plans to run off to Tibet. I will however allow myself to be more open to the teachings of those I once considered 'different'. If you are look for energy, compassion and wisdom, have a read or listen to the Dalai's work. It is uplifting.

Though one defeats a million men in battle, one who overcomes the self alone is in fact the biggest victor

Indian Poem

2011-04-19T20:28:00.000+01:00

This day is a special day,
It is yours.
Yesterday slipped away
It cannot be filled with more meaning.
About tomorrow nothing is known.
But this day, today, is yours,
Make use of it.
Today you can make someone happy.
Today you can help another.
This day is a special day,
It is yours.

The University of Castletroy

2010-12-20T22:12:00.004Z

During a short visit to Boston I found myself at a loose end. Browsing my crumpled map I decided to take the short train ride to the Harvard University campus. Harvard is located in the leafy Cambridge district about four miles from downtown Boston. The main entrance to the campus is just off off a pretty quadrangle with coffee shops, restaurants and a bustling bar and entertainment scene.

Wandering around Cambridge I was struck by the palpable sense of it being a university town, and a noted one at that. Students jostled for places in the metro station at rush hour, the coffee shops were filled with academics with furrowed brows deep in thought, young girls lay on patches of green grass rating guys on Facebook, buskers filled the air with music to cash in on the streams of youthful dreams and quirky little newspaper stalls peddled Harvard memorablilia to tourists and Newsweek to regulars.

Harvard gave me a sense that both students, academics and the local residents existed together during term time, each benefitting from the other. Cambridge and Harvard is simply welcoming.

Boston can boast Harvard as its most famous school but it has so many more. MIT, Boston College, Emmerson College, Emmanuel College and Suffolk University, to name but a few all located in the urban surrounds of the city. Boston is a city that has embraced education and invited a sub culture of young vibrant students to live there.

Back in 2006 I spent three weeks visiting friends who were studying at New York University. I arrived expecting to be brought to a campus behind large walls, well hidden from the chaos of New York City. I was pleasantly suprised to discover that the centre of NYU is its Washington Square campus in the heart of Greenwich Village. The famous Village is one of the city's most creative and energetic communities in New York City, it has attracted generations of writers, musicians, artists, and intellectuals.

In fact the founder of New York University had a vision whereby the university would be "in and of the city". There are no boundarys to this campus, no walls, no gates. NYU is just another part of the Big Apple. I remember being struck by just how awe inspiring it must be to be a part of such a vibrant and exciting school. NYU doesnt rely solely on Manhattan, however. It also has locations in Brooklyn and in Tuxedo.

NYU takes pride in educating its students but it also places a huge emphasis on branching out to the community of the city itself. Part of it's mission is 'The University’s relationship with the community is inextricably tied to its academic mandate and mission to serve as a private university in the public service. NYU maintains close working relationships with the city’s elected officials, nonprofits, Business Improvement Districts, and community organizations to encourage volunteerism share resources, bolster the economy, and inspire the next generation of leaders and decision-makers.'

All you have to do is visit Greenwich Village. I defy you to tell me that this policy is not visible on every street corner.

I studied for four years in Trinity College in Dublin. Those who are familiar with the Trinity Campus will often compare it to an Oxford or a Cambridge in the UK or a Harvard for that matter. The campus is entered via a small little archway on College Green. Once you pass throught the famous gates and find yourself on front square you immediately forget the Dublin you just left and feel almost transported to a bygone era. History you can sense is within every cobble. If only the walls could speak, you wonder.

During my time at Trinity I would leave my dorms on Hatch Street, wander through Stephen's Green down Dawson Street and through the Nassau Street entrance. Our days would be filled with coffees on Westland Row, drinks on Pearse St and late night shenanagins up and down Dame St. Spring term would revolved around cold beer in the Pav whilst a group of showoffs greened their whites during the second over.

My friends during my Trinity days were also made up of UCD med and engineering students based on Earlsfort Terrace, Bolton Street technical students and surgeons from RCSI on St Stephens Green. We studied in the city, used the city, loved the city.

I grew up on the University of Limerick campus, well as good as anyway. My father was head of what was then Thomond College of Education. My mother ran the bookshop on the NIHE campus. In 1989 both colleges merged and Limerick received full university status.

During my childhood I watched as new additions were added to the leafy Castletroy parkland campus. I would play on the river behind the White House, run up and down the hills around the sports fields, drink soft drinks in the stables and be fascinated by the visions of underwater dynamics of swimmers in the diving pit. I really did watch the campus grow.

When I arrived back to Limerick last year after years in London I felt something was lacking in the city. I had always taken a pride in how Limerick had, slowly but surely, started to develop a real sense of the urban. The riverfront was beginning to be embraced, the milk market revitalised and pedestrian streets boasting new architecture adding a newness to what was so staid for too long. What was lacking was a sense that we are a University city. Where were all the students? Where was the sense that, not only did we have UL but, we have LIT, Mary I and the Limerick College of Art and Design.

It is true that Limerick boasts a beautiful campus. Billionairres like Chuck Feeney have pumped US dollars into developing state of the art facilities, water fountains, acres or water fountains, glazed structures, world music academies, Chamber Orchestra buildings with wooden floors you would be afraid to walk on, internationally recognised newly engineered bridges linking us to Clare, 50 metre swimming pools and athletics facilities which would make most cities proud.

But in the city of Limerick, a city slowly dying from a retail perspective, the University of Limerick may as well be in Clare. The students get bussed in and out every Tuesday night for their weekly piss up. After that they stay in the Stables drinking ghastly coffee and availing of cheap chicken and chips. Unlike New York, London, Boston, Dublin, Cork, Derry, Belfast - our city has not embraced our university and the university has not embraced us.

Can you just imagine the value of having a fraction of the 13,000 students UL 'boasts' to educate discussing the ways of the world on our city's streets or parks during term time. Can you imagine how our city would improve if certain University Departments were to base themselves in the city? Can you imagine if Limerick City was also to benefit from new architecture thanks to Chuck or JP's millions?

In usual Limerick fashion a debate was opened up recently whereby some people wished for our University to be called the University of Limerick and Clare - based up the aforementioned bridge linking the two counties on campus. I have simply always referred to it as the University of Castletroy - it has done very little of value to our beloved city.

No amount of money pumped into so called regeneration is going to be of any use until the people who actually run the city go and get themselves an education in an urbanised university.

Despair

2010-11-17T15:59:00.003Z

Four children and three adults died yesterday. In two seperate incidents, adult males took the lives of young women and children. One of the males then took his own life. The other was found in Kilkee and is now being treated for injuries sustained before charges are brought.

The two tragedies were not linked. I call them 'tragedies' for a reason. I am not privy to any private details as to the background of the men or their families. I can however put two and two together. We as a nation are in a state of despair. Is there any point in me wasting energy listing things such as unemployment, negative equity, bailouts, lies, deception, recession, ghost estates, banking crises, depression, liquidations, pensions worries, budgets, five weeks to Christmas?

Other than the fact that there is five weeks until Christmas, our government is responsible for every factor in my edited list above. I will bet my bottom dollar that these factors - all created by a culture of greed, political ignorance and financial/economic ineptitude - are factors which caused those two men to react in such a violent and hopeless fashion.

When our government threatened to cut the old age pension, pensioners marched on Leinster House. The threat was overturned. Action worked. I will admit one thing. I have voted once in my life. My one and only voting experence was took place on first occasion I was entitled to use my vote. After that the novelty wore off. I am aware that I can be accused of ignoring my civic duty. I simply can say that I have never been inspired to vote, never felt that issues were relevent to me, never watched the news or listened to the radio and felt angry and emotional, never saw ingrained worry on peoples faces, never saw shops closing daily, never heard the word sovereignty used so much, never knew people who emigrated out of necessity, never considered schadenfreude to be such a good thing. I will be using my vote in future.

Fine Gael's Brian Hayes appeared on Ivan Yate's breakfast show on Newstalk this morning. One of the principle things a politician is trained to do when speaking on TV, Radio or to any media for that matter is always to maintain a professional, calm and dignified demeanour. It certainly would not be appropriate to curse in any way shape or form. That is until we are in an economic quagmire. Reacting to FF's Frank Fahy sticking to the party line - ie: denying that we are asking for a bailout, refusing to accept it is a nessessity - Mr Hayes accused Fahy of speaking 'shit'. The time has come where all rules must now be put to one side.

The current government is brazenly clinging on to whatever you consider power to be at the moment. They are so wrapped up in lies and deception. The nation has been taken for fools They are aware that an election tomorrow morning could very potentially result in a FF wipeout. They still believe that they will find some way to winch our nation out of the cesspit of hopelessness. Our opposition lacks pzazz. We as citizens seem to be resigned to whatever is coming our way. We have lost the backbone needed to stand up and fight. We talk to Joe, we engage in heated pub debates, we emigrate, we apply for tickets for Frontline, we get clinically depressed and sometimes, rarely but tragically sometimes we find it all too much and resort to unthinkable acts or despair.

The incidents reported yesterday may have other more personal factors which caused the men to act the way they did in Cork and Limerick. I see them as tragic statistics of a time in Irish history where sadness, fear, confusion and anger are the prevalent emotions.

Pat Cox summed it up today with the following:

Specially on communication I think we are at a moment of some national drama and definition and the Irish people deserve a clear, intellectionally rigourous and honest explanation in the plainest language. Who will do what? How will they do it? When will they do it? And why are they doing it? And we don't need that to be political waffle, spin, wishful thinking, illusion or delusion and unfortuately we have had too much of the latter and nothing of the former in terms of intellectual rigour and honesty.

Milk Markets, Good Food Guides and Tour Bus Standoffs

2010-07-30T14:53:00.000+01:00

Has anyone noticed the latest battle to hit the streets of Limerick?

Over the past number of months I have watched, albeit with a certain sense of mortification, the green Limerick tour bus that spends it's day bringing no-one no-where. Forgive me for being a cynic but let us be honest here. Limerick city centre simply does not have a siteseeing offer that merits the presence of this little green ghostbus. So I was tickled pink when I discovered that a red tour bus has arrived on the scene just across the river. Two buses are now competing for the lone tourist naive enough hand over money for a trip through the streets of a city which, lets face it, seems to have suffered rather than benefited from the years of the Celtic Tiger.

One must always be careful when making comments about a place which many call home. Limerick is my home, I returned here out of choice recently and I have rediscovered a place that I genuinely have a passion for. This love for the city inspires me to open my eyes, to take notice of the things that are wrong and that could be fixed. I believe that if someone spends the whole of ones live in the same place it becomes more and more likely that the flaws will go unnoticed. So this blog entry is a constructive criticism of Limerick.

After watch the tour bus standoff just beside the Locke bar I decided to make my first trip to the new Milk Market. With the atmosphere of a petit Covent Garden this space is enclosed by an impressive white canopy which ensure the winter drizzle will not dampen the enthusiasm of the fantastic people who sell their ware. Yesterday was the artisan market and dozens of traders created a buzz that I haven't seen in the city for a some time. With coffee shops, a fantastic creperie, deli's and much more, Limerick's Milk Market is well worth a visit some morning.

Whilst wandering through the market I was approached by Peter Ward who runs the Country Choice Delicatessan. Obviously extremely proud of his business, Peter is only too delighted to introduce you to the many epicurean treats on offer. Peter established the Country Choice business in Nenagh, Co Tipperary back in 1982 and over the past 25 years has developed a national reputation in Ireland for sourcing, cooking and selling good food. Country Choice has stuck to its core principles of local sourcing of foods and promoting the work of the best of Irish artisan producers both in the region and nationally.

As I left Country Choice Peter handed me a map of Ireland which has been produced by Good Food Ireland. Why do I mention this? I will start by quoting Good Food Ireland's mission statement:

"Good Food Ireland was founded by Margaret Jeffares in November 2006. It operates as a not-for-profit, industry driven Irish food tourism organisation. It is the only industry group with an all-island food tourism strategy. Good Food Ireland provides business benefit for the membership through its framework which allows them to penetrate from local community to the global market and vice versa. Good Food Ireland has a Steering Group led by a Chairman who advises on the future strategy of the organisation."

I arrived home and opened the map on my kitchen table. It is a fantastic celebration of quality Irish food and culture. Many hidden culinary gems are revealed with over 173 businesses listed, included contact details, addresses and pinpoints on the map of Ireland. Naturally I was curious as to what businesses from Limerick would be represented on the Good Food Ireland map. Not one. Nothing. Not a single shop, restaurant, deli, butcher, baker, candlestick maker.

Antrim, Armagh, Carlow, Clare, Cork Derry, Donegal, Down, Fermanagh, Galway, Kerry, Kildare, Kilkenny, Laois, Leitrim, Louth, Mayo, Meath, Monaghan, Roscommon, Sligo, Tipperary, Tyrone, Waterford, Westmeath, Wexford and Wicklow.

All of the above have at least 6 entries. Cork has 40. Now these are not 5 star Michelin restaurants. Yes, Ballymaloe features but so does the Burren Tearooms in Clare, The Heatherlea Bakery in Bangor, Kinsale Farmers Market and Kate's Kitchen in Sligo. Forgive me for getting a bit vexed but Limerick's omission on the Good Food Ireland network is not simply an oversight. It comes from a lack of PR savvy, it comes from a lack of an sense of pride in our local product, it comes from idle laziness in the City Hall, it comes from a lack of leadership.

Limerick does not have much when it comes to siteseeing. Our two rival tourbuses will continue to roll through the city empty. Good Food Ireland is an example of another means of attracting people to our city and region. The 170 little pinpoints on the map of Ireland are very equally and fairly distributed nationwide. Tourists will pick up this map. Many will possibly do a culinary tour of Ireland using this map as their guide. Limerick does not feature. Until such time as organisations, businesses and elected representatives get their act together from a marketing and PR perspective Limerick city will remain a place which, as stated in a tour guide many years ago, is 'best seen in your rearview mirror'.

Fear or Laziness?

2010-03-17T23:23:00.000Z

There are two kinds of sufferers in this world:
those who suffer from a lack of life...
and those who suffer from an overabundance of life.
I've always found myself in the second category.
When you come to think of it,
almost all human behavior and activity...
is not essentially any different from animal behavior.
The most advanced technologies and craftsmanship...
bring us, at best, up to the super-chimpanzee level.
Actually, the gap between,
say, Plato or Nietzsche and the average human...
is greater than the gap between that chimpanzee and the average human.
The realm of the real spirit,
the true artist, the saint, the philosopher,
is rarely achieved.
Why so few?
Why is world history and evolution not stories of progress...
but rather this endless and futile addition of zeroes?
No greater values have developed.
Hell, the Greeks years ago were just as advanced as we are.
So what are these barriers that keep people...
from reaching anywhere near their real potential?
The answer to that can be found in another question, and that's this:
Which is the most universal human characteristic--
fear or laziness?

From Richard Linklater's 'Waking Life'

A shit day

2010-02-15T21:04:00.000Z

I love dogs. Always have done. Always will. I used to have a little Yorkshire Terrier called Charlie and for years we were inseparable. So I was only delighted to get a call from my brother last week asking me to look after his new Japanese Spitz, a white little bundle of love.

I had a lovely weekend. There is something about dogs that makes you feel good about yourself. They give unconditional love and stare at you with a neediness that is simply heartwrenchingly wonderful.

As I left their house this morning I knew I would miss the affection, the warmth and the piercing adorable eyes. The one thing I was not going to miss was the little brown gifts left for me in various parts of the house. He is only a puppy after all. I spent at least an hour today trying to wipe, clean, pick up, seek and find little jobbies. How a miniature Japanese Spitz can create so much shit is beyond me.

I arrived home this afternoon and looked forward to a little respite despite the void. Entering the house I heard a strange flapping noise. I had been out of the house for three days. A bird had fallen down the chimney. For three days the bird had become emaciated as it frantically flew from room to room dropping little black balls of panicky shite down my walls, onto my carpets, my couches, my ornaments, cushions.

It's all cleaned up now. I'm sipping a black coffee and refusing to let whatever force it is that is testing me to prevail. Tomorrow is another day.

Peace and gay marriage: Time is on their side.

2010-02-02T02:29:00.000Z

I have just been watching a news report on the never ending saga that is the Northern Ireland Peace Process. The latest dramas unfolding over the border coincide with broadcasting of a Channel 4 dramatisation on the life of Mo Mowlam. One could not help being struck by the similarities of watching the dramatisation of Mowlam's regular meetings with Adams and Trimble and the current meetings taking place in Stormont. 'Plus ca change, plus la même chose', one could be forgiven for thinking.

On Sunday Eilis O'Hanlon wrote an article in the Sunday Independent where she muses on the current crisis. “The mollycoddling of the North's political version of spoiled toddlers has to stop”, announced her byline. In fact quite a lot of last week's analysis in both the print and television/radio media went on a similar path. O'Hanlon makes the point that policing will devolve sooner rather than later and that the latest 'crisis' isn't really a crisis at all.

Just after 11am on the 31st August 1994 and IRA statement announced that there would be a "complete cessation of military operations" from midnight and that the terrorist organisation was willing to enter into inclusive talks on the political future of the Province. I remember that momentous morning 16 years ago more vividly than most. My father, born in the nationalist area of Belfast and proud of his roots, died the previous day. He had spent most of his adult life watching with deep interest the daily happenings in Northern Ireland. Dad had based himself in Limerick in the early 1970's as the Northern troubles were in their infancy.

My family always thought it ironic and somewhat touching that the one thing my father had wished for in his life actually came to pass the morning we brought his body home from Dublin. He would have been so happy to have seen the news that night. I'm sure my father often questioned whether he would ever see peace in his lifetime. Unfortunately he never did but it didn't take long to come.

If my father were to rise from the grave today he would see many changes in the world he once knew. I'm sure one of the first things he would ask is 'What's the situation up home?'. If I was to sit him down last night to watch the latest news bulletin on the policing crisis I think he would laugh himself back into the grave at how far we have come and how minor the current issue is. In the sixteen years since he died sworn enemies have sat side by side. Paisley has shaken hands with Ahern. The country is at peace and the North is actually riding the recession more comfortably than most. We should all hold off when criticising whats happening at the moment. Things have come so far. The many hundreds of years of struggle, maiming, murder and bigotry are slowly but surely coming to a complete end. My father would be the first to allow the lads up north a little more time to solve the wee issues left on the table.

Just a few months before my father died and not long before the IRA made that momentous announcement homosexuality in Ireland was formally decriminalised. It seems like only yesterday when I, as a sixteen year old adolescent, said goodbye to my Dad at a time when I was having huge doubts about my own sexuality. I have often wondered in the years since what he would of thought of it all. I have no doubt in my mind that he would have come round to the notion but it would have taken time. He was a God fearing northern Catholic after all!

When I look at the years I have lived since my Dad died they predominantly are marked by these two huge movements in Irish culture. Cessation of violence in the north followed by a long and often frustrating peace process and the 'legalisation' of homosexuality followed by a long and often frustrating process of acceptance and openness in society. These movements are ongoing. They may take many more years to fully bloom to their full potential and I, like my father, would say give them time.

Since returning to Ireland I noticed the voice of Brenda Power regularly turning up on radio. She was not really known to me before living in London and then spending time at sea. I looked her up online and was interested to see that she was known for her opposition to gay marriage and in particular for an article she had written for the Sunday Times last summer. I read the piece and was struck by how part of her viewpoint resonated with me.

Opening the article Power questions how easy it is for a man 'to make a serious political point on the shortcomings of the new Civil Partnership Bill while he is wearing half a wedding dress and calling himself Miss Panti'. Reading this I had to stop and think how much research Brenda had put into the gay community in allowing herself to open her article like this. As one blogger noted:

'Let me get this right. Your argument is don't give gays the same rights as everyone else because some people wore drag in a recent parade? This is like saying we must not allow any Irish people get married or ever have children when some of them dress up as leprechauns on St Patrick's day.'

Aside from this initial faux pas she does go on to make some very relevant points. Now I am not well read on the legalities of what the Civil Partnership Bill allows so I will refer to what the Irish Council for Civil Liberties stated at the time of the Bill's publication, hailing it as “broadly progressive”:

"This new legal structure offers a solid foundation for the recognition and protection of loving same sex relationships. However, although it is solidly grounded, the Bill remains a halfway house to granting genuine equality to same sex couples through full civil marriage.

Now the onus is on those who, for religious or other reasons, still believe that it is acceptable to discriminate against people on the basis of their sexual orientation to explain why their prejudice should be reflected in law".

I take from this a reading that we, as Irish citizens, have taken a huge step in the publishing of the bill but that it will take a little more time to reach our destination. And they, meaning those who, for religious or other reasons, still believe discrimination to be acceptable should be allowed the time.

Brenda Power makes the point that, ten years ago,we as a nation could not possibly have dreamed of such provisions coming to fruition. Her argument falls down once again when she states:

”But it’s the omissions in the bill...that have irked the more vocal campaigners. They want to be able to marry, with exactly the same status and ceremony as heterosexual pairs, and they want to be able to adopt and co-parent children just like straight couples. The new bill doesn’t grant them those rights. And as long as they choose the likes of Panti to argue their case for equality, it’s difficult to see that changing.”

For those who may not be totally in the loop regarding the gay community Power is referring to the annual Gay Pride Festival which celebrates not just gay and lesbian culture but the culture of the bisexual, transgender and queer communities also. It is a celebration of difference. It is an annual celebration of acceptance and most of all it is an annual celebration of how far we have come as a people. As the aforemention blogger noted, when we celebrate St Patricks Day we celebrate with Leprechauns. Similarly when the gay community celebrates Pride it is the drag queens who take centre stage and bring a carnivalesque quality to the festival. Panti happens to be the face of alternative Ireland and also happens to be one of the brightest, wittiest and most talented individuals to boot.

Here, however, is some of Brenda Power's article strikes a chord with me. Pride festivals everywhere are amazing events. They are fun, often wild and debauched. Pride is supposed to be good natured and for the most part it is. I twice visited Brighton Pride, a massive event, when living in London and travelled to the event by train. On both occasions my friends and I found ourselves sharing carriages with gay revellers and straight commuters alike. On both occasions I found myself questioning my own identity as a core group behaved in way that even I found offensive. I won't go into the nitty gritty but what I will simply say is that on both occasions I was offended, my friends were offended and I am damn well certain that the straight people in the same carriage were bloody appalled. These people did not represent me.

I often find myself wondering why a section of society (to which I proudly belong ) feel the need to achieve certain goals, rights, aims, whatever you want to call them through the means of shock value is beyond me. When events like Pride are done well and done as they should be they do what is said on the till. They make me proud to be a part of it. When subsections of this subsection of society feel the need to shock through sexualisation or base crudity then I find myself stepping back and feeling the urge to disassociate myself.

I was lucky to have had good friends and and solid core base around me who quickly accepted who I am. To this day I still get the odd inquisitive look when I head out in Limerick. These are looks that no longer threaten me. I simply say 'Give them Time'. If I throw who I am in their face it will take much longer.

In order to get to where they are in Northern Ireland it took many years of intensive debate and unnecessary heartache. In the last 16 years a lot of pride had to be swallowed on both sides. A lot of sacrifice had to be made. The same must apply in the whole debate around civil partnership and gay marriage. Huge steps have been made. Many values and beliefs have adapted but we cannot expect it all overnight.

Let us take our time. Let's allow others to take their time too. Change can sometimes take a lot of getting used to. Personal values, no matter how we consider them valid or invalid, are rights of the individual. Change is happening but it will take a while.

The love that dare not speak its name" in this century is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. It is that deep, spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect. It dictates and pervades great works of art like those of Shakespeare and Michelangelo, and those two letters of mine, such as they are. It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as the "Love that dare not speak its name," and on account of it I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual. That it should be so the world does not understand. The world mocks it and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it.

Oscar Wilde speaking at his Old Bailey Trial, April 26th 1895

Taking it for Granted

2010-01-11T17:29:00.000Z

You would need to have been hibernating with the smart animals not have have noticed the fact that it has been a bit cold lately. As is customary in this part of the world, the moment we have what is called 'an extreme weather event' we seem to go into complete meltdown (no pun intended).

The nation ran out of salt as the Minister responsible for such issues basked in the Maltese sunshine. Our roads froze and the local hospitals ran out of Plaster of Paris. In fact they say if you take a bitter risk and pop your head outside for more than a minute you will definitely hear the snapping of at least one bone somewhere in the vicinity.

I only just got off the phone to my friend who lives in Chicago after regaling her with stories of the deep freeze of 2010. She interupted me rudely and commented on the fact that, living in Chicago, she experiences conditions far worse that we are currently suffering and yet still manages to be at her desk at 8.30 each morning. I asked her if she had experience anything similar to a desert drought with regards flowing water and she asked me if I was mad.

About three days ago I got up and prepared for my morning shower. Turning on the unit, my beloved power shower burst into action but no water came out. After a little bit of investigation I quickly realised that water was no longer flowing into the house. I tried another shower which is connected to a tank in the attic and had the most delightful soak on an arctic Friday morning.

Two hours later it became apparent that not only had water stopped flowing into the house but my tank reserves were empty and obviously not replenishing. And so the fun began. For the first time in my life I realised just how much I have taken the novelty of free flowing water for granted. I am living alone in a sort of hell at the moment. Anything I use to cook with cannot be washed afterwards. I cannot wash my clothes. I cannot shower. Shaving is not an option.

On Saturday night I went to a friend's 30th birthday party and had a few too many. I got home and landed in bed waking up yesterday morning with a rip roaring hangover and a mouth with the texture of an elephant's hide. I staggered downstairs with the aim of filling myself with a tank of water filled with effervescent vitamin tablets. I had forgotten about the drought. I searched high and low for some form of liquid to settle my parched tongue and had to be content with some leftover white lemonade from Christmas which seemed to only make things worse leaving me with a buildup of thick saliva at the back of my throat. I just had to bear the elements and make my way to the supermarket to stock up with bottled water.

So thirst dealt with I am now on day 4 of having no flowing water. The kitchen, my favourite place, is like a bomb site which makes my seasonal affective disorder all the more controlling. But worse, far worse. There is no water flowing into my toilet cisterns.

What can one do in such a situation? A man has got to do what a man has got to do. I am lucky in the fact that I have a rather large garden with plenty of icy foliage. I have now resigned myself to the fact that every time I feel the urge 'to go', I wrap up warm, put on my brothers wellington boots and head down the garden behind an evergreen and supply the soil with what I believe are good nutrients. I have yet to pick up the courage to squat behind same evergreen and dispatch some even better nutrients. Without being crude, I feel one brewing. It looks like I could be making a midnight visit to the bottom of my garden to make a deposit in the freezing fog. This is the closest to Neanderthal as it gets.

Oh, did I mention the fact that my fridge freezer has stopped working?

Speaking my Mind

2010-01-06T17:38:00.000Z

As a kid I noticed a trait developing in myself, one which has lasted in some capacity right up to today. If I ever found myself in a situation where anyone was making a complaint I would run. I still find it excruciating to sit at a table when people complain about their food. I get embarrassed if I am a passenger in a car where the driver has a fondness for horn honking. If someone skips the queue I smile and say 'my pleasure'. I just can't seem to speak out. I hate conflict and often mistake scenarios where one should speak their mind as a situation of conflict.

I am now on day four of my epic 'no smoking' adventure and I have found myself to be extremely irritable today. My freezer won't freeze and that has put me in the foulest of humour. Who was it that said 'Water, water everywhere. And not a drop to drink'? The frigging country is frozen solid and yet the perfectly good mince I bought two weeks ago grew mould as it sat in my ineffectual bloody freezer.

Where am I? Oh, yes. My irritability has prompted me to write a blog about something about which I would not normally comment, probably because I would be afraid of the conflict it may result in. It is something that I feel needs to be said, political correctness aside.

On the weekend the Sunday Independent reported something which made me ponder. Last year the Irish state provided €130m in funding for Traveller groups for a variety of projects. This does not include any national benefits also received such as social welfare. The figure quoted above came about after the United Nations asked Ireland to prove that it was not a discriminating country.

I have never been one to discriminate. Being a gay male I have had my fair share of exposure to discrimination, bigotry and acceptance issues. Growing up I lived not far from a dedicated halting site which had been the centre of controversy for many years. My parents were always respectful to travellers who knocked on our door regularly. Of course I would have viewed them with a sense of difference but I never found myself looking down my nose. As I developed into an adult and became more sensitive to 'difference' I lost any potentially latent bigotry and simply embraced the 'vive la difference' mentality.

On St Stephen's Day, as is customary in our family, a few of us jumped in the car with no particular plan and just drove out of Limerick. The roads were still in a dangerous state so going anywhere too far wasn't on the cards. We headed though the city centre and then out the other side and decided to hit Adare and the West Limerick area. I suddenly found myself in the most surreal Irish country town.

Rathkeale is located about 30km from Limerick city. It has gained notoriety in recent years for two reasons. One was a bizarre incident where locals discovered what they believed to be the image of the Virgin Mary in a tree stump in the local graveyard. At the time hundreds of people held nightly vigils and many more turned up to pay their respects. The other reason for Rathkeale hitting the headlines has been the fact that the small village has a significant traveller community. In fact 45% of the community in Rathkeale are travellers.

What strikes you the moment you enter Rathkeale is that this is no ordinary town. It is impossible not to notice the fact the the village has an unprecedented number of what one may consider to be luxury vehicles, and big luxury vehicles at that. Everywhere you look there are 4x4's, Jeeps, Range Rovers, Mercedes, BMW's. I saw two Hummers sitting on the side of the narrow main street. These vehicles are everywhere. As you move through the town you are struck by something equally bizarre. The town is full of large newly developed homes. These are buildings erected purely for the travelling community which are then boarded up permanently while the supposed inhabitants reside in state of the art mobile homes which are docked on the front lawn.

What we need to understand about the situation in Rathkeale is that the residents are made up of exceptionally wealthy travellers who have made their money through various business interests both in Ireland, the UK and Europe in areas such as furniture, antiques and car dealing. These are the very people who are claiming off the state, who are receiving millions from the government in special funding aimed at 'aiding' the traveller community. These are the people who have homes built for them which remain empty and boarded up. These are the people who seek acceptance and integration within the settled community.

One of the saddest things I saw in 2009 was the appearance of two couples on the Late Late Show who were in the middle of court proceedings to have their homes repossessed. These honest hard working individuals were victims of the boom. They were no doubt the recipients of those wonderful 100% mortgages. Whatever of it. They are loosing their homes. No help from the government. No help from the banks who dumped them in it in the first place. They will be evicted.

To witness the homes sitting idle in Rathkeale as the the Hummers and 4x4's cruise the village streets one is reminded of the image of a peacock showing it's feathers. Next year we will probably fork out another €130m in funding in order to prove to the United Nations that we are not a discriminating nation.

Events from the last year have highlighted that maybe the Irish community as a whole suffers from the very same fear of conflict that prevents me from speaking my mind on occasion. We spent years watching the government pump money into the property industry during a boom could only go bust. We said nothing. We watched the banks, crippled by greed, being bailed out by taxpayers money. We whimpered but on the whole we said or did nothing. We knew for years that members of the Catholic Church were abusing children both emotionally, physically and sexually. We said nothing. When the brave few finally opened their hearts and described their pain, still there were deniers.

Take a trip through Rathkeale some day. It will stun you. But it may just give you a perfect landscaped view of the Irish psyche. Shocking examples of breaches in law, political governance, social etiquette, financial ethics and childhood innocence take place regularly in full view of a nation of ostriches with their heads in the sands. Maybe its time we stopped fearing the repercussions of speaking out and said what we think.

The Quest for Exquisite Satisfaction

2010-01-05T19:14:00.001Z

So, it is 2010.

On the 31st of December 1999 I was in Lahinch watching the last sunset of the Millennium fall over the Atlantic horizon. I vaguely remember having one of those romantic, utopian and slightly arrogant notions that I was experiencing something uniquely special which would remain with me forever. Ten years have passed, ten New Year's Eves have been celebrated. All of these have promised new beginnings. All of these have been rung in with high hopes for the future and a similar sense of romanticism wafting in the air of whatever bar, club, houseparty or cliffedge I happen to have found myself on the various eves of the past decade.

During the Christmas period I happened upon old friends, many of whom i have lost contact with over the past 10 years. I was quite touched when one of them asked me to continue with my blogging. If you were to read one of my first blog entries on this site which was posted just over a year ago you will realise that my initial reasoning for creating a blog was to diarise the fantastic travels I was about to embark upon during my time on the Queen Victoria cruise ship. In the months leading up to my voyage I was regularly posting entries about the most random of concepts. I found myself carrying a little notebook everywhere I went to make a note of anything that struck me as interesting.

The irony of the whole thing was that when I actually boarded the ship and set upon the ocean blue I suddenly stopped writing. It is something I now regret. I saw some of the most amazing places, met the most wonderful people and had the best experiences of my life on board that ship. To sail into New York harbour and swing around the island of Manhattan on a crisp Friday morning in October is something special. I spent a day in the most northerly inhabited town in the world as my home lay docked nearby with a glacier for a backdrop. I sailed passed St Marks Square in Venice as the city was coming to life. Barcelona become a familiar haunt. Copenhagen delighted. St Petersburg disappointed. Boston enchanted. Talinn entertained. Cephalonia seduced. Quebeq towered. Pisa leaned. Dubrovnik suprised. Norway shone. Southampton welcomed home.

I would love to be able to say that I could still endeavor to recount the numerous anecdotes I have stored from that wonderful time. I am sure that as time goes on I will find moments to pull the odd story from the cerebral catalog. I am no longer giving any guarantees as I have failed so miserably to continue with what I started at the time it would have been most valuable. All I can say is that I will do my best to put pen to paper once again in 2010.

So what made me start this blog again today? Well the first reason was my friend giving me the kind compliment over Christmas. My second reason is one far more sensitive and potentially life changing. This time 10 years ago I was in the early stages of becoming addicted to Nicotine. Despite the fact that I was obviously brainwashed I would state that I found cigarettes to be the most wonderful addition to my life on certain occasions. To give them up is hard. I have come across so many people who look at smokers with a disdain similar to finding a lump of shite sticking out from under their shoe as they sit down to have a glass of Pinto Grigio. Smokers must be looked at with sympathy. Never mind the silly reasons for starting in the first place - the simple fact is that we are totally hooked on one of the most powerfully addictive substances the world can produce.

I do not want to be lauded for the fact that I am attempting the most stereotypical of New Year's resolutions. I am back writing because psychologists suggest that when those awful withdrawal pangs take control it is important to fight back. One way you can do that is to write your feelings. I have no more interest in sharing how I am feeling with any random reader. To be honest I don't feel that bad. But I will attempt to use those moments where I would once have lit up a smoke to write a simple thought.

Wilde said 'Smoking is the most perfect of perfect pleasures. It is exquisite and leaves one unsatisfied. What more could one want?'. Maybe 2010 can be all about the quest for exquisite satisfaction.

Happy New Year.

Finding my sea legs

2009-04-26T21:58:00.000+01:00

I am writing this entry as I sit on the very front end of Cunard's Queen Victoria cruise ship. Around me is nothing but the vast open ocean. Going by the numerous displays around the ship France is somewhere to the east.

As with any new phase in one's life the first few days will be slightly strange. Getting used to life on the high seas will not be immediate. There are certain tricks of the trade to become accustomed to.

We boarded the vessel almost a week ago. I had spent the last few weeks examining the ship online, reading about it, looking at pictures, reading reviews and getting as much information as I could. Nothing prepared me for the sheer wow factor you experience upon viewing the Victoria for the first time. It is a mammoth piece of work. Standing at the side of the ship you must have your head at full tilt in order to see its top. I had to take 3 digital photos in order to cover the ships length. To give some of you an idea of the beast I now reside on here are some basics. Victoria is home to 990 staterooms and can be home to 2000 guests. It weighs 90,000 tons. It has a length of 294 metres, width of 33 metres and is 54 metres high. There are 1000 crew members working on board.

The crew areas of the ship consist of what seem to be a labyrinth of corridors and stairwells. I like to see myself as someone with a very good sense of direction but I must admit that in the space of 24 hours I have been lost on this ship at least 5 times. To their credit experienced staff members have been nothing but helpful which raises the spirit and bodes well for the coming months. As I write I realise that by positioning yourself at the front of the ship you feel much more of the rocking sensation. I have been lucky so far. I have not felt that dreaded seasickness although standing in the shower this morning I did experience a disconcerting sinking feeling.

I spent this week getting settled into the cabin that is to be my home for 6 months. I was delighted to find that my cabin is surprisingly spacious. The clever design makes good use of storage facilities which turn a potentially compact and claustrophobic space into very pleasant living quarters.

As a singer I have what is considered to be guest status. This means I am entitled to have access and use of most passenger areas. Whilst this is a nice privilege it does mean that in order to make use of it I must remove myself from my dancer colleagues. Ironically I think that in time the guest areas shall become somewhat stale to me.

So what of the ship? It has been compared to a floating hotel and I would have to agree. What makes it all the more special is the permanent sense of escapism that one feels whilst on board. I love the fact that I am now sitting alone, not really knowing where I am, and seeing nothing for miles but blue skies and the calm rippling ocean. I stood on deck on the first evening and joined the passengers in what is a sail away ritual. Many waved goodbye to Southampton as we toasted the beginning of a fascinating journey. I felt a quiet sense of relief that I was finally on board and ready to add another chapter to my life. 'Who needs a steady career when you can do endless wonderful and eye opening things', I asked myself.

A couple of nights ago one of my colleagues said that simply sitting on deck and watching the sun go down in some random place in the world is her idea of heaven. I have to say I kind of agree. I am sure I will have lots more to write about over the coming months but for now I feel I just want to breath in the sea air and ponder my new life.

Sic Luceat Lux Vestra

2009-04-15T21:24:00.000+01:00

I had a phonecall last night from an old mate with whom I shared rooms during my time at university. Strange how a simple unexpected encounter with your past can remind you of the good times you have experienced with so many. The call coincided with a few pictures I came across on Facebook.

I lived for 5 years at University Hall on Hatch Street in the centre of Dublin. The hall was run by the Jesuit order as a residence for students in Dublin. Originally 'Hatch Hall', as it was fondly known, catered predominantly for students of University College Dublin. The distinctive neo-Gothic building is located a stones throw from St Stephen's Green and Earlsford Terrace, home to Ireland's National Concert Hall but which originally was the location of the infant university.

In its heyday Hatch Hall would have been seen as a hall of residence for privileged wealthy university students. Most of these students would have specialised in disciplines such as medicine, law and engineering. In time the hall opened its doors to other Dublin colleges an the place quickly became an institution in the city. Any doctor in Ireland today would immediately feel a strange bond with anyone who spent time in the hall.

I was there right up until the end of the Hatch Hall era. Many would have looked at me as slightly odd considering how long I spent living there. I have often wondered what it was about 'Hatch' that made me want to be a part of it for so long. Receiving a call from that old friend sent streams of memories flowing through my mind. Hatch Hall was a home from home, a place where one could make friends for life. It was a place where one could test and discover who you were but, most of all, a place where you could be part of a piece of history. The building really was an institution where many of Ireland's intelligencia and influence resided. It was a haven where great minds and talents came together at the dawn of their adult lives.

As I write I realise I have not credited the Jesuits for the part they played in the creation of such an institution. The fact is that this religious institution, so focused on providing education to young adults, were particularly important in my formation as a young man. I did not attend boarding school as a kid and I would not say that I came from a particularly wealthy background. Many of the students who stayed in the hall had done so. They were either Jesuit educated at Clongowes Wood College or boarding schools such as Glenstal Abbey or Roscrea. My introduction to the hall was as a young man who had always lived at home. I was wet under the ears and in need of branching out into the big boy's world. Hatch Hall was the perfect introduction to adult life. I discovered a new freedom to discover myself whilst also having the ear of a wise Jesuit on my doorstep.

I feel I need to stress that this period of my life coincided with a time in Ireland when the Catholic Church was taking a battering. Stories of abuse and corruption were rampant. It was not a good time to be a priest in Ireland. The Jesuits, despite feeling the brunt of this public onslaught, managed to escape the furore by simply being true to what they represented - the Ignation philosophy. Ask me now exactly what this philosophy is and I would struggle to define but one thing is certain - my time under the Jesuit umbrella made me a better person. I never doubted them for one moment. I identified with the philosophy and what it stood for. My recent blog in which I mention playing football in a Dublin prison was part of a Jesuit outreach scheme which was linked to their commitment to faith and justice.

One could not help feeling part of history in the place. Just prior to my arrival at the hall Caravaggio's The Taking of Christ was discovered hanging in a meeting room of the Jesuit house next door where it had rested unnoticed for years and, rumour has it, wiped down with Pledge whenever visitors were expected.

Senior politicians in the Irish system spent their student days in the hall. Pat Cox, former president of the European Parliament, current Taoiseach Brian Cowen, Des O'Malley - the list of alumni is impressive. If many of these alumni were famous so were the Hatch Hall pranks. Revellers on the infamous Leeson Street strip would only be too aware of the constant threat of 'water bombing' after a long night out at Leg's, Cat's or Rio's. I was never shy at taking part in the fun of Hatch Hall. During my time there I pulled rickshaws into the early hours on the streets of Dublin in the hope of earning an extra few quid. Uninsured, I remember slipping on a cobbled street in Temple Bar an having my two drunken passengers land with a thud on top of me. How we were never sued I do not know.

One famous night I found myself christened one of the 'Hatch 3' after being arrested (still unfairly in my eyes) for being, and I quote, 'drunk and intoxicated to such an extent as to cause danger to myself or others'. The 'Hatch 3' had some explaining to do upon our arrival back at the hall after a night as guests of the nation in Pearse St. Two court appearances later (a result of false names being given by two of my accomplices) resulted in a minor fine but a major root up the arse.

Hatch residents had a second home. Hartigan's Pub on Leeson St was run by the ever youthful 'Ma' Mulligan and was the location for much of the most 'intellectual' Hatch conversations. Young students mixed freely with the elder statesmen of Hartigans often into the early hours. My particular trick in getting that elusive extra pint was to start a sing song approximately 5 minutes before closing. I often think about the Hartigans crowd. Their like will never be seen again.

My Hatch days came to an end in 2003 as I made my merry way out of the big iron gates and said farewell to all that had gone before. A few years later the hall closed and was sold to a developer who ironically was the biggest client of the architectural firm I then worked for. Despite having planning permission it still remains a form of residential hostel, currently housing people awaiting asylum decisions. It is an appropriate ironic nod to the faith and justice ethos so close to the Jesuit heart. Unfortunately the Jesuits themselves play no further role in the running of the hall but their influence on so many at University Hall will never be forgotten. Looking through the aforementioned pictures on Facebook I was delighted to see one of a recent reunion in Hartigan's Pub. Adorning the walls now are many of the pictures which once hung on the walls of the hall. I noticed a picture beside the bar of a football team in which I am sitting on the front row. Questionably I take a certain pride in being part of the hall's posterity on the walls of a Dublin alehouse. They both were home to me after all.

When I received the call from my friend last night we reminisced on one particular night where we took it upon ourselves to sleep al fresco on the roof of Hatch Hall. My memory of that night was of a group of young people with our lives ahead of us doing exactly what young people should do. We chatted the crisp night away probably, knowing my friend, about deep philosophical concepts under a starlit sky. We then slept and woke covered in morning dew somehow feeling that we had somehow solved many of the world's problems. We had sealed a bond that only a Hatch man could understand.

I write this as I sip a pint of Guinness far away from Hartigan's pub and the busy corridors of Hatch Hall. I raise a glass to everyone I came across during those Halcyon days. It really was the best of times. I leave you with the Jesuit motto of the hall and one of which we should all take note moving forward.

SIC LUCEAT LUX VESTRA - In this way let your light shine

Birth was the Death of Him

2009-04-12T19:28:00.000+01:00

I came across one of Samuel Beckett's great lines this morning. The opening segment of A Piece of Monologue reads: "Birth was the death of him." I have always had a funny appreciation of Beckett's work even since before my days studying at the very same university as the man himself.

During my time at Trinity College I took a module dedicated to Beckett's work. Many of my tutors were Beckett scholars. The department was named the Samuel Beckett Centre for Drama and Theatre studies. So it was almost impossible to escape his existential dramas. Obviously Waiting for Godot was the first point of call but I do remember also being struck by works such as Endgame, Happy Days, Not I as well as his Film starring Buster Keaton as a pitiful figure haplessly attempting to escape perception only to realise that one impossibility - one cannot escape self perception. Perception of the self is one of the major themes of existentialism. Reading the lines from A Piece of Monologue make me think of something which affected me deeply during the week.

"Birth was the death of him"

I happened upon an episode of Panorama which dealt with the state of care for our elderly in the UK. The excellent investigative team planted a number of undercover journalists posing as care workers. With very little background checks and the minimal of training these people were hired as care workers and pretty much immediately sent out to do rounds. One could not but be profoundly moved by what was shown.

We witnessed helpless men and women coming to the end of their lives. These people had very basic requirements from the the care organisations hired to provide home help. Instead we were witness to old people lying in their own shit for days because care was not visited upon them. Some were not provided with hot meals for days at a time. Others were hurt by untrained care workers using hoists which needed the most skilled of people to operate. Medication details were never provided. Even the most basic of needs, company, could not be provided. Why? Because the care companies were onto a fast buck. They take on more than they can handle and force the mostly good natured carers to work ridiculous hours with unreasonable targets. These care workers therefore feel unable to provide the vulnerable of our society with even the most basic of care.

It was the interviews with the sons and daughters of these poor people that moved me most. They were oblivious to what was going on having put their trust in others to look after their loved ones. Can you imagine what it must be like to find out that the mother who raised you, nurtured you, provided for you and loved you is now being treated no better than an animal?

I became very friendly with an old man during my time at college. He had devoted much of his life working for a religious institution in Dublin. In hindsight I would not be wrong in saying that at the time I met him he was pretty much institutionalised. At the age of 74 the institution he had devoted his time to for over 30 years closed. With the help of a dear friend of mine he found himself a new home. Our worry was that this new and radical change of lifestyle at such an age would affect him negatively. We were wrong. The man took to it like a duck to water. To this day he is in better form than even. I speak to him regularly and believe that he sees this new life as a gift, a chance to gain the independence which he was missing for many years.

The case of my friend is an example of when things go right. He was lucky. He had support. He had his health. The people we saw on last weeks Panorama were not so lucky. Maybe what we need to take from this is one simple lesson. If we could give a little of our time to just one older person in need of a little help what a difference it could make.

Beckett's existentialism, whilst being witty and often hitting the mark, does not necessarily have to be a doctrine we give in to. On paper birth really is the start of death. We are treated with care and love by our elders upon our birth. It is our duty to provide the same when the wheel turns full circle.

On a lighter note - it is the 70th birthday of Ireland's greatest living poet Seamus Heaney. I will leave you with one of his works, one which many of us are taught as an introduction to poetry and one which I have never forgotten.

Blackberry-Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

Modernism and the Recession

2009-04-04T19:27:00.000+01:00

It has been so long since I posted anything here. It is not that I got bored of constantly updating. I have simply been to busy to even contemplate an hour or two of brooding. The past eight weeks have been the toughest and most challenging weeks of my life. I have gone through extended periods of self doubt, nights sitting with a dictaphone till the early hours, frustrations, tiredness, anxiety and stress. All of these fade to insignificance when I stop and think of the goal I am working towards. It is two weeks until I set off on a voyage of wonder. I intend using my free time on the ship to speak more about my rehearsal experience. So today I will focus on architecture, modernity and the recession.

I used a much needed day off on the weekend to visit Milton Keynes with a dancer friend of mine. I was told that the retail offer in this town far outweighed that of Northampton. I felt an urge for retail therapy so took the 15 minute train ride to MK (as it is affectionately known). Emerging from the station I was taken aback to find that it was located in a rather modernist architectural square. We made our way towards the Midsummer Boulevard shopping centre. The route immediately struck me as unusual. Every building was brand new featuring reflective glazing reminiscent of the opening sequence of the Dallas soap opera. The landscaped roadways were clean, almost clinical. Pedestrians availed of crisp underpasses with a suprising lack of graffity. Everywhere I looked there were the type of buildings one would regularly see in the Architect's Journal.

I commented to my friend that this must be the new commercial zone and wondered where we could find the heart of the 'town'. As we walked I felt more and more as if I was in one newly constructed elegant business park. Parts reminded me of the approach to any modern airport. It got more confusing as we continued along Midsummer Boulevard. There was a Jury's Inn. An All Bar One. A trendy Mexican eatery. A hair salon. All of these located on the ground floor section of modern architectural creations. After about a kilometre, at end of the Boulevard, we arrived at our destination - Midsummer Shopping Centre.

I am no retail guru but having worked for a retail design and architectural firm I have an awareness of good design and the importance of finding anchor tenants in order for a development to succeed. Midsummer stunned me. The place is huge with partially enclosed glazed malls stretching from every direction for what seemed like miles at a time. Everywhere you look in the place you see big names - John Lewis, Debenhams, House of Fraser, Hugo Boss. This is a place that every retailer worth his salt took the opportunity to be part of.

Why am I writing about this? Well as I made my way back to the station this evening I was once again struck by the strangeness of the place. I started to wonder if I was missing something. Looking around me I could see no signposts to 'town centre'. There was no cute English church square, no heritage spots. It was rather lacking in soul. I felt the need to investigate as soon as I came home and sure enough my gut feeling was correct.

Milton Keynes is a planned city centre after the government of the 1960's decided there to be a need for new urban developments to relieve London congestion. So basically Milton Keynes was developed from scratch. My immediate reaction was that this must be the case. Milton Keynes is far too modern to have a soul. I remember reading that architecture can have a profound effect on those who use and live in a specific location and in this case one can only feel uninspired by a town with no real history.

People acquainted with Dublin would only be too aware of the history of Ballymun, a development of council accomodation which was designed to deal with the problem over inner city overcrowding. The design of the Ballymun 'flats' won many architectural prizes in its day but as time went on the place became stale, miserable and downright dangerous. Drug problems soared in the area and the place became synonymous with Ireland in the 1980's. Unemployment was rife.

As I walked through Milton Keynes I found myself wondering about the current state of both the British and Irish economies. When times were good it was the property developers who made hay. Architects were given the leeway to test the latest design innovations. It now seems that we are faced with another Ballymun problem. New constructions will remain uninhabited. Those with tenants will become run down. The award winning architectural erections will slowly become flacid and in time our suburbs and in many cases our inner cities will once again become tired and dull. If architecture really does affect our mindsets and wellbeing then we are in for a very tough ride.

Maybe its best to view all of this from the deck...

Desiderata

2009-02-21T15:57:00.000Z

I am sitting on a Saturday afternoon and thinking about what I would like to write today. Instead of boring you with unplanned text I will instead invite you to read Max Ehrmann's Desiderata. It says it all really.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let not this blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams; it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

The Reader

2009-02-20T13:17:00.000Z

A number of years ago I found myself watching the film adaptation of Michael Cunningham's 'The Hours'.I enjoy watching the odd movie but I am no film buff. I find it difficult to engage with certain styles and rarely find a movie that really touches me. And being touched by a movie is important to me. I need to be stimulated in a way that asks questions of me. I want to feel a sense of achievement after watching a film. One may accuse me of being far too pedantic. Maybe I am. Maybe I am denying myself the entertainment factor that comes with the movie industry. 'The Hours' was one of the few movies which left me feeling stunned, challenged, emotionally charged and content.

Subsequently I lifted a copy of Cunningham's book from my shelf. It had been given to me by a friend for my birthday and had spent time gathering dust. Inside the front cover was an inscription.

'To Nige. For the dark hours and the dazzling moments. F'

I felt I owed it to this good friend to read the book and couldn't put the beautiful prose down. It was the moment I concluded for myself just how more fulfilling a book is for the soul. I may have loved the movie and also knew the plot but these factors had no effect on my read. The book was simply superior. Something about the style, subtlety, succinctness, characterisation and interweaving themes provoked a reaction in me that I cannot explain. I am no literary critic and am not trained in breaking down a novel for critical examination but I know when I am touched. 'The Hours' touched me.

This revealed to me how much more important the written word is. Images on screen can be beautifully shot and flawlessly edited. Music can add mood but rarely is the viewer required to use the gift of imagination. I think I remember hearing that we use a smaller part of our brain watching television than we do whilst sleeping.

Over recent months quite a number of filmic adaptations of literary novels have hit our screens to great acclaim. Girl With a Pearl Earring, The Kite Runner, Slumdog Millionaire and Revolutionary Road. And then let me not forget The Reader.

Refusing to watch any more movie adaptations before reading the book I have just turned the last page of The Reader. I have a sense of ambiguity. Bernard Schlink's book is relatively simple. The story of a doomed relationship set in the aftermath of World War II, we see the central character is seen showing kindness to a woman guilty of Nazi war crimes. The novel in no senses justifies her actions but it does challenge the reader to see a humanity in a character many would shun.

When I was at college in Dublin I signed up for an outreach project which involved playing football with inmates at Arbour Hill prison on the northside of the city. Arbour Hill is a little different to other prisons in the sense that it houses prisoners who really cannot be located anywhere else. Arbour Hill is home to male prisoners convicted of ghastly crimes – rape, paedophilia, murder – many of the crimes in fact being considered some of the worst in Irish criminal history.

Every Tuesday evening a group of us would take a minibus from the leafy surroundings of St Stephen's Green and make our way across the city to Arbour Hill. The bus would approach the prison in a the same way a prisoner would as he contemplated the beginning of a long sentence. We would be escorted into a holding room normally used to register the new guest. We had the use of holding cells to change into our football kit. A guard would then arrive to escort us into the prison proper. It really can only be described as a surreal experience.

I remember the strange mixed emotions upon my first visit to Arbour Hill. A strange mix of fear and excitement, curiosity and guilt. I felt as though I were part of one of those fly on the wall documentaries, the ones where the viewer is getting a real pleasure out of being given access to madness, evilness, degeneracy and danger. Only in my case this was for real. We were then led through the main cell block. Standing along the corridors would be normal looking men doing normal things. Cell doors were open. It was recreation time. Some prisoners sat in each others 'rooms' playing cards or watching TV. Others simply chatted amongst themselves and greeted us warmly as we walked reticently through the cell block. I remember having a palpitating heart the first time I walked that walk. Isn't it interesting how you feel the same physical sensation when affected by such opposite emotions? The pangs of love, the ache of grief, the shudder of fear. All of these actually manifest their presence in our bodies using exactly the same chemicals released to our brain but interpreted in such different ways.

We would turn a corner towards an open door which led to the prison yard. The yard in Arbour Hill is exactly as you see in the movies – or hear described in any book for that matter. Surrounded on four sides by high grey walls lined with the familiar random patterns barbed wire. The only signs of the outside world available to prisoners from this yard is an odd branch of a tree riding a gust of wind to get a glimpse of the sin housed within. The yard was tarmacked and lined with rows of wooden benches on each side on which sat men of various ages, shapes and sizes. Those who wanted a more relaxed form of exercise would use the periphery of the yard to take a daily stroll. The yard in its entirety is no larger that the average basketball court.

As we would emerge from the cell block into the recreation yard we always could sense a very sudden but only momentary silence. The prisoners were weighing us up. We were a rare glimpse of what was going on outside. Some of us might be wearing the latest soccer jerseys. Others had trendy runners. It wasn't done to rub it in their faces but something which we never really thought of at the time. Still, we were of great interest to these guys.

I always found it intriguing to feel that, during these initial moments upon entry to the yard, it was us – the free ones- who were being treated like caged animals. It was us being watched, visually interrogated and assessed. After these few awkward moments a warm round of applause would ring out around the yard. These guys were delighted to see us. We offered them not just a short football game but also the chance to feel somewhat free again.

Whenever I talk to people about this experience I often get a very hostile reaction. The common reaction is to ask the question 'why would you contemplate engaging with such people let alone offer them the hand of friendship?'. The answer to this question is not an easy on to come by.

During the time I was visiting the prison I had come across a book on some of the most notorious Irish murders. The book focused included the surroundings of unsolved cases over the last 20 years most famously of which are the disappearances of a number of women during the 1990's. An inmate of Arbour Hill is widely suspected of the murders of these women but owing to lack of evidence had never been convicted. He is serving time for the brutal multiple rape of a women in the Wicklow mountains. He played for Arbour Hill's football team.

What I learned from that experience was just how normal these men look. The have manners. They can be charming. They feel pain. The have humour. I kept asking myself 'what is it in these guys that made they do what they have done?'. I do not believe that anyone is born evil. External factors or chemical imbalances must be the cause. I read yesterday that Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, is now being considered suitable to be placed in a lower security prison. They are considering treating this man, who killed something like 17 women, with respect.

Sutcliffe's father openly admits that he believes it was his harshness as a father that had a profound effect on his son. When you look into Sutcliffes background you can't help but feel some kind of sorrow for him. This is what I felt when I worked in Arbour Hill. I looked at all of these men. I didn't think of the suffering they caused others but of the suffering inflicted on them that caused them to do evil. People have criticised me for this. How can I see good in evil? How can I have had fun with men who had done such horrible things?

Reading 'The Reader' reminded me of this. I had complete empathy for someone who was able to see a chink of goodness in someone full of sin. When you allow yourself to see past the action and try to see into the soul your eyes are opened.

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

Addictivity and Connectivity

2009-02-20T12:50:00.000Z

Having no internet has made me realise just how reliant I have become on the blasted invention. Up to now I have become very fond of things like BBC iPlayer, live streamed Irish radio, instant news, friendly chats on MSN and comforting Facebook connections.

For the first two evenings in Northampton I found not having the laptop constantly buzzing, beeping or poking to be a release. Like giving up cigarettes, the first couple of days is easy. Then after day three you find yourself unable to pass a newsagent without a sense of magnetic forces pulling you towards the tobacco counter. Similarly I found myself this morning wandering the streets in the hope of finding a cafe where internet was available on demand. I simply could no longer suffer the pangs resulting from the loss of connectivity.

I am annoyed at this. I have an addictive personality. I hate being hijacked in this way. I found a cafe. Not only did it have internet but it offered free internet if you spent over three quid. Knowing that my addictive personality requires at least two coffees I was onto a winner. Drooling at the mouth I handed my money to the barista and asked him for the wireless code which he promptly handed over. I felt like Charlie Bucket with the Golden Ticket.

Almost as if my laptop knew that, in order to achieve success in withdrawing from addiction it would need to be cruel to be kind, it refused to accept the WEP code. I tried and tried again. I returned to the counter twice to confirm I had the correct code. I checked my firewall settings. Nothing in my power was going to allow me to log on today. What must it be like for heroin addicts? No wonder they resort to all sorts of hideous crimes to get their fix.

The two Americanos I had knocked back were having a negative effect. On good days I savour them. On days like today they cause me to get frustrated, tight chested and edgy. It doesn't help that at the table opposite are two mothers with four of their offspring causing havoc. These spawn of Satan were having great fun screaming, hitting each other, wailing, bashing teaspoons and throwing sugar. The mothers simply sat engaged in conversation oblivious to the fact that their darlings were pissing everyone off. It was only when Baby A slapped Baby B, so hard that I swear I heard the crack of bone, that their mothers decided to call it a day.

It is reported in the media that there is to be a huge increase in the numbers of stay at home dads a result of the recession. This can only be a good thing if it means reducing the numbers of little runts allowed to cause mayhem in coffee shops.

I need a Valium.

Aged Racism and Gay-inspired Haiku

2009-02-17T12:10:00.000Z

Waking up in a new place is always a make or break for me. If I wake with a sense of foreboding I start to worry. I slept very well. In fact I would go as far as to say that I was very comfortable in my new surroundings.

Northampton on a Sunday evening seemed to be dead to the world but this morning it had taken on a whole new perspective. It really is quite a lively town. I decided to take a wander and get my bearings. The hotel as it turns out is located slap bang in the centre of the town. Just around the corner is quite a large market square with various traders setting up stalls as I passed through. Despite a rather high ratio of discount stores dotted everywhere you look there is also a very good choice of high street retail offers.

I followed the well signposted directions towards the tourist information centre and was delighted to find it located in a beautiful Gothic structure that houses Northampton's Guildhall. Inside after collecting a bunch of guide leaflets it was suggested that I also visit the Royal Derngate Theatre just around the corner.

The Derngate is an example of what I love about the UK system. I have seen a real pride in artistic establishments anywhere I have visited in the United Kingdom. A number of years ago I was part of a show tour which visited cities and towns in Ireland and Northern Ireland. Without a question of a doubt the theatres we played in the North were far superior to their southern counterparts.

Northampton had initially given the impression of being soulless but here on Guildhall Road was what I could see was the heart of the town. Entering the theatre via a rather unimposing doorway I turned a corner in the lobby and was faced with what I now have come to recognise as a quintessential new English theatre. Architecturally this place is fantastic. Bright, exciting, cool and new. I discovered that the building had received a facelift recently and it was plain to see that no expense had been spared. I was suddenly excited to be here. Looking through the Spring brochure it was clear that Northampton is not a place that is forgotten when it comes to touring shows or one off events.

'Flashdance', starring Bruno Langley and Hear'say pin up (?) Noel Sullivan, opens tonight as does the tour of Noel Coward's acclaimed 'Brief Encounters'. The line up of visiting shows over the coming two months is impressive. Just to give you an idea of why I get excited about such things I can tell you that Ireland is lucky if it gets two good shows in Dublin per year.

Happy with my morning's discoveries I found a respectable looking coffee shop on Abington Street. As I stood at the counter someone bumped into me startling me in way only newcomers to a strange place could be startled. The feeling that turns you into a character from a western movie, reaching for the non-existent pistol for protection. I recovered my composure when I realised it was a sweet little old lady. Apologising for her clumsiness she explained it was as a result of blindness in her left eye.

'I can't see black', she said.

For a moment I accepted this bizarre excuse as though it were a perfectly normal comment for a partially sighted person to make. Then I asked myself the question, 'What colour does a blind person see?'. I closed my eyes. Black.

'Sometimes if I walk on the street and if a black person is pushing a pram I just walk into them', she added with a rather disturbing cackle.

Now I understood. I had become a medium though which this woman could have a racist rant.

'I can never explain to them that I can't see black for fear of offending them'.

I took the 'them' to mean the aforementioned black people pushing buggies. At this point I was uncomfortably aware of my being involved in a rather inappropriate one-sided dialogue. I turned my back, ordered a black coffee and left my colour blind bigoted friend to find enlightenment with someone else.

Small town petty racism aside, Northampton wasn't all that bad. Next step was the locating of a cozy, friendly pub.

I had been told to visit the Boston Clipper, an unusual name for what fundamentally is Northampton's only gay bar. I always like to find out the lay of the land from the gay point of view. More often than not a regional gay bar is exactly the same as any other regional gay bar. In this regard this town did not disappoint.

I used to have a friend who was a gifted Haiku poet, having had a number of Haiku books published over the years. Haiku is a form of Japanese poetry and typically contains a kigo, or seasonal reference, and a kireji or verbal caesura. In Japanese, haiku are traditionally printed in a single vertical line, while haiku in English usually appear in three lines, to parallel the three metrical phrases of Japanese haiku. Just to give you an idea of what a classic Haiku looks like here is one:

the first cold shower
even the monkey seems to want
a little coat of straw

What I love about a good Haiku is that a well written one always seems to capture a mood, an environment and an emotion in such a precise and succinct way.

Sitting alone in the Boston Clipper I was happy to take in my environs. Notebook in hand I found myself jotting down thoughts and recognised a certain Haiku style coming through. Instead of breaking down my thoughts and involuntary random noted perceptions into individual Haiku I am going to publish them here for the first time in one flowing piece of observant verbosity.

The Boston Clipper

Fashion faux pas'. Empty smiles. Hearts are kind.
Drinks are mixed. Thoughts are too.
Dancefloor empty. Jukebox to blame.

Bleached hair. Shiny shoes. No socks.
Poppers on sale. Chocolate bars. Steps.
Jokes shared. Hearty laughs. Empty souls.

Neon fittings. Jovial physiques robed in bagginess.
X Factor. Sex Factor. Lesbian named Jamie.
Shiny pole. Lines of shots. Rows of guilt.

Pool table. Ripped cloth. Slot machines with flashing lights.
One more pint. To bed.
Alone.

Arriving in Northampton

2009-02-17T12:05:00.000Z

So here I am. Northampton.

Let me tell you something I have noticed in myself over time. It has taken me a while to acknowledge this. I am a Walter Mitty. A well meaning and kind Walter Mitty but a Walter Mitty nonetheless. Whenever I am about to embark on a new journey in my life I daydream. Instead of finding out the facts I dream about what will 'probably' happen. I imagine the best case scenario.

I do not question how lucky I have been in life so far. When I have needed things to go right they invariably have done so. This does not stop my expectations running away with themselves. Let me explain.

I started packing yesterday afternoon and was quite proud of my ability to purge what I considered as a sufficient quantity of excessive stock from my life. I filled a bin in the process and found it quite satisfying. By this morning I had also managed to fill two suitcases, a large backpack and a respectably sized laptop bag and headed on my merry way up north. I was sure I was being smart when it came to how much I was bringing with me on my trip. Walter Mitty-ism numero uno.

I knew that I would spend my first two months in preparation for the Queen Victoria in Northampton. I was also aware that during this time I would be living in a house which I would share with my fellow singers. Last week I received word that the house in which I am to live is currently being used for singers rehearsing for another ship. During this period of overlap my team are to spend a few weeks living in the Grand Hotel in Northampton. This suited me down to the ground. Nice room to myself, bathroom with constant hot water and fresh towels. I hit the road.

I was lucky to have help on my journey to Euston where I was to get my train. I took two bags and he took the other two. Despite one near miss on an escalator at Kings Cross it was an easy journey. I found myself seated snugly and on my way to Northampton in no time.

I arrived in the station on time at seven o'clock and only then did it dawn on me that I may have a little hurdle to overcome in making my way to a taxi. The train had arrived at a platform two tracks away from the station proper. I would have to make my way up a flight of stairs, walk along a lengthy overpass and then make my way down a second flight. I looked down at my two cases, large backpack and reasonably sized laptop case. Then I looked up at the journey that faced me. Undaunted I threw the backpack over my shoulders, slid the laptop bag on another shoulder and tugged the two cases towards the stairs. It was at this point I started wondering if I had really shed enough crap in preparation for an 8 month period where I really wouldn't have anywhere to put anything. The 'Walter' in me told me to shut up and get on with it.

Do stair designs need to conform with certain architectural sets of standards? I ask that question because I found the stairs at Northampton station to be rather steep. Maybe it was my load but, by Christ, I felt like Edmund Hillery by the time I got to the top.

I felt like Eddie the Eagle by the time I got to the bottom.

I had decided to go down the stairs allowing the heavier of my two cases to lead the way. It decided to have a bit of fun. The suitcase bringing up the rear followed suit. Caught in the middle of two cases with minds of their own on a rather steep set of station stairs is not recommended. Ignoring the giggles of two overweight schoolgirls I put my bags back on my shoulder, held my head my up high and promptly darted for the exit.

I had been told to take a taxi from the station to the Grand Hotel. How delighted was I when I emerged from the station to find a long line of taxis waiting, well, for me. I dragged myself up to the window of the first cab of a rather sombre looking queue.

“Take me to the Grand Hotel”, I said in my best I-am-not-from-Northampton accent as I attempted to open the back door of the cab.

I looked the driver in the eye and noticed that he had a sudden sense of panic on his face.

“I cannot drive you to the Grand Hotel. The road is closed. Anyway it's just over there on that street”, he said pointing to what appeared to me to be a black abyss.

At this point the driver had got out of the cab and seemed pretty keen to be rid of me. It dawned on me that maybe the hotel really was only spitting distance and that he was terrified of loosing his queue position. I decided to take him on his word, save him an unlucrative trip and made my way in the direction of his finger.

After three minutes and now cursing my load I stopped for a rest at a bus stop. I had no clue as to where headed so I stopped an Indian jogger and asked him for the Grand Hotel. He slowed down and thought for a moment.

“Grand Hotel? Hmm I can't say I know that one”.

“It's apparently just around here somewhere. I just don't know the area”, I replied.

“Well there is a place just up the road which allows people to stay but I don't know if its that you are looking for?”, he vagued. Allows people to stay? I felt like Joseph tugging a Donkey by starlight in Bethlehem.

I decided I had my fill of uncertainty and made my way back to the station with renewed vigour and in the hope of finding a new taxi at the front of the queue. To my chagrin Mr Ignorant was still sitting in his cab waiting for Godot. Instead of wasting my breath on him I made a beeline for the cab queued just behind. His response was just the same. The road was closed but it really only was up the road. I explained how my load was quite a difficult one and that even the shortest of walks was going to be a chore let alone one where I had no idea where I was going. He got out of his cab and went to have a chat with boyo in front.

After some deliberation he agreed to take me most of the way to the hotel but certainly not with any delight. He insisted that it would at least come to a fiver. I said I didn't care if it was ten but that I simply wanted to get my bags off my back and into my fucking room.

The journey really was only a short one but was long enough to have caused me immense grief had I walked the distance. We arrived in a dark alley and the driver informed me that we were at the back of the hotel. I thanked him, payed him and removed my burdens from his vehicle. Once again I went through the now repetitive ritual of maneuvering the bags onto my person. As I struggled with the rucksack my new nemesis in the form of taxi man reversed his cab to make his way back down the lane and went right over one of my cases. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as I heard what was not the healthiest cracks coming from under his wheel. Realising what he had done he moved forward releasing my newly compacted suitcase, smiled and zipped off down the lane.

I can tell you this much. If I had got the bastard's number I would seek him out and ensure that his life was made hell from this day on. I had arrived at my destination and for that, at least, I was grateful.

Winter Ramblings

2009-02-01T18:45:00.000Z

Am I too diligent? I woke up this morning, looked out the window and saw white. Someone who had obviously lost their compass stuck a flag and a photo of their family on my whitened driveway. Instead of simply phoning work and saying I would not be in I embarked on an expedition towards Wood Green. The buses were down so I decided to walk. What a waste of time. I used my GPS to find a clever route to walk. It suggested a series of options, one of which was GO THE FUCK HOME. I gave up somewhere 60 degrees north and headed for home, following my tracks.

The snow is at least 5 inches deep out here. And being the reliable person I am I spent an hour and a half trudging and slipping whilst cursing myself for being stupid enough to leave bed. The only thing that made up for this was the fact that the grey and rather depressing environs had been transformed overnight into a rather magical wonderland. I was hit by a snowball and smiled at the little bastard.

I have now pitched in for the day and thought it might be an idea to get out my quill and produce another dose of scripted rambling. Short of any amazing stories to impart I will revisit the theme of rekindling my relationship with London. I have been lucky enough over the last while to discover a few little gems around the city and seeing as I am about to leave I feel it my duty to give them a plug in advance of my departure.

A few months ago a friend of mine introduced me to a place called Cha Cha Moon just off Carnaby Street. Having worked on Golden Square for a few years we were always looking for somewhere cheap yet tasteful in the Soho vicinity. You would be surprised just how few good places there are to have a reasonable lunch in the Soho area and this latest addition would have been very welcome a couple of years ago. Cha Cha Moon is the brainchild of Alan Yau, the man behind Hakkasan, Yautcha and Wagamama.

Those of you who have enjoyed the chance to eat at both Hakkasan and Yautcha will know how Yau loves to mix superb design with really excellent oriental cuisine. Fans of Wagamama will probably always talk about the fun of communal Hong-Kong style dining. Cha Cha Moon is a fusion of what Alan Yau does best. He has yet again invested in great design and funky lighting which results in a ambiance with class and style. Customers are young, pretty and trendy and the seating layout reflects that of it's sister Wagamama.

I personally find the menu more exciting than Wagamama. When it opened Cha Cha Moon offered most dishes at the very reasonable price of 3.50. I have noticed that a few dishes are now hitting the 4 pound mark but it really still is a bargain for what you get. Portions are large, the atmosphere is always buzzing and, despite there often being queues, you never have to wait long to get a table. I would personally recommend any of the starters and as a main try the Singapore Fried Noodle - you will waddle out of the place without having your wallet emptied.

Cha Cha Moon has had mixed reviews from many of the major food critics but if you are looking for something different some lunchtime or something quick in the evening I really don't think you can go wrong giving it a visit. Cha Cha Moon is located within the discretely camouflaged Kingly Court just off Carnaby St.

http://www.chachamoon.com

I have often heard how Islington is really THE place to be in London but I have rarely ventured to the place barring a few fleeting visits to Sadlers Wells. Last Wednesday a friend suggested coffee there. This particular friend has a knack of finding places that, unlike Cha Cha Moon, seem to offer very little for quite a lot. True to form she blindfolded me, led me by the hand and I found myself in Ottolenghi.

Ottolenghi states its mission as offering great food in a cool, sophisticated-yet-laid-back environment, mostly around communal tables (with a few small tables for two). I have to say it really is cool. It is the sort of place that makes you nervous before you get the menu. This is a very sophisticated Mediterranean deli. When you walk in the door you are immediately struck by a selection of some fantastic salad and pasta concoctions. It is very obvious that this place prides itself on the quality of its product.

Ottolenghi's customer base seems to be a mix of people looking for good quality take-away food and the yuppie set 'doing lunch'. Once again the communal seating dominates. The design is predominantly white, seating is bespoke and comfortable. There is a cute little garden out the back which I'm sure is lovely during the Summer months. I had eaten so I didn't sample any of the food. Strange to write a review of a place where all I had was a good coffee but I just know that this is a find. Ottolenghi has sister branches in Belgravia, Notting Hill and Kensington. I think that says a lot but if you really want to experience an epicurean delight do give it a chance. Their website is full of pride in what they do with a nice blog and lots of posted recipes. Really worth having a look at.

http://www.ottolenghi.co.uk/locations/islington

Last but by no means least is La Pain Quotidien. Now as I have been writing this I realise that all of the places I mention today, despite looking unique, are part of new restaurant chains emerging in London. There is something less appealing about chains but these really do seem to have great philosophies and certainly give off no sense that they are mass production money making machines.

La Pain Quotidien (The Daily Bread en Francais) is located on Great Marlborough St just down from the side entrance to the Palladium. The glass fronted facade gives a view into a charming and rather rustic French themed tea cafe. I found it on a Saturday afternoon a few weeks ago and was bowled over. This place is just fantastic. Yet again you are offered a great big communal wooden dining table. Immediately you smell the fresh bread, see the scrumptious cakes and individual tartines. Our group of six took our seats. The menu was just so good it was impossible to make a decision. I went for what turned out to be most incredible scone with jam and whipped cream. Sounds boring but DO IT! The waiters bring you pots of preserves, syrups and butter to use as you wish. Milk comes heated in little ceramic jugs. My friend had a cheese board fit for a French king and another had a selection of sweet and savoury bisuits. My 'medium' Americano was huge and stayed warm.

The philosophy of La Pain Quotidien is 'to provide good value, high quality organic produce in a convivial rustic setting. We believe in a return to simplicity, sustainability and community, and try and push these values through everything we do'. It really comes through in the service and value. Those of you wondering what it is about the surge in communal table eating will be interested to know how it has come to be a stable fixture in La Pain Quotidien:

The communal table is centrepiece in every Le Pain Quotidien. Established with the first Le Pain in Belgium, when the founder Alain Coumont needing reasonably priced furniture found a long seamstresses table. It worked so well for uniting the customer and giving the café its sense of warmth and community that it has been used ever since.

I won't bore you with listing where all the other branches are because there really are lots of them. What I loved was the fact that I felt as if I was in something unique. That is something they can be proud of.

So there you go. I am now feeling something like what AA Gill feels like on a Sunday morning. I do hope that my recommendations come in useful to some of you looking for a fun bite to eat someday. I am now at a loss as to what to do today. I don't have anything warm enough to wear to make snowballs or snowmen. I am looking out my window. The trees are white. It really is very pretty. So I will leave you with one of Robert Frost's works of beauty:

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Bits and Bobs

2009-01-25T21:29:00.000Z

It has been a couple of weeks since I last wrote an entry. I think I have had what many would consider writers block. Creating entries on this site over the last couple of months has been fulfilling but the more I write the more I can't help feeling the responsibility to produce something insightful, worthwhile, cerebral, interesting and so on and so forth. Something has been niggling me over the last two weeks and my urge to write has been curbed as a result. I have taken the decision to purge these niggling literary demons and give another entry a shot. Here goes.

In three weeks time I will pack up my belongings and head for the glamourous environs of Northampton in preparation for my time on board the Queen Victoria cruise ship.

Of course, as is the case with any life change, there is a lot of small print to sort out before it actually happens. I have never been great with the organisation of my life and every now and again things crop up that simply must be dealt with. I liken myself to that of an ostrich putting its head in the sand. (Now that I think of it I remember reading somewhere that the whole ostrich-head-in-the-sand complex is a complete myth but you get where I am coming from.)

The first thing I have had to do is organise a simple interview at the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square. This will facilitate my getting a Visa to work as a seaman of all things. I am contemplating donning a sailor suit to mark the occasion but considering the red tape already involved I don't think it would go down very well even in an Obama-run embassy. I am due at the embassy at 8.30am on Wednesday. I am not allowed anything other than myself and a lot of paperwork when I arrive. My fingers must have no cuts and I have had to be extra careful to avoid papercuts.

Filling in the various forms has been an eye opener. They ask the most odd questions if you want to set foot on US soil:

'Have you ever been a prostitute or a procurer of prostitutes?' - Given the state of my bank balance the former has crossed my mind.

'Do you seek to United States to engage in subversive or terrorist activities, or any other unlawful purposes?'

'Have you ever participated in Genocide?'

Do people actually click yes to any of these questions in advance of entering an embassy, I wonder.

I don't know why having to do things like this gets me so stressed but I am not lying when I say that my mind is addled by a few simple things. I have started waking up with a jolt just at the moment of falling asleep. It is the oddest sensation. I sit up flustered finding it hard to breathe and feeling slightly disorientated. All of this is probably manifesting as a result of a subconscious fear of the unknown, a slight anxiety about the fact that my life is to radically change in the coming weeks. Where most people would get excited and organise themselves with great aplomb, Nigel does it with a an sense of impending doom.

I think I know where the root of my anxiety lurks. Another part of the seaman's initiation is a thing called an ENG/1 certificate. Put simply this is a medical which says I am fit to sail.

Do not think of me a freak for what I am about to tell you. One of my earliest memories of childhood is of me begging my Mum to phone the local priest to ask him if God would think it ok if I did not die. I kid you not. My Mum still laughs when she tells the story of her four year old son having a deep rooted phobia of death. The fact is I had and still have a terrifying fear of mortality. With this comes an irrational but no less terrifying fear of the medical profession. Even as my brain can process the fact that doctors are potential life 'elongators' I still have a dread that a visit to a doctor will result in him saying something like 'Nigel, would you please sit down?' and delivering me a hammer blow. 'Shame on you!', you would be perfectly justified in saying. I am a healthy young man and should bask in the glory of such a truth whilst I can. Still, it doesn't stop my wayward mind playing little tricks now and again.

I recognise that I have had too much time to think and instead of looking forward to the wonders I am about to witness I have allowed negative thoughts to creep in. I will be leaving London, a place I have called home for five years. As I get ready to pack my life in suitcases once again I realise just how little I have. This realisation is something that makes me ponder and reminds me of a little aphorism my Mum uses now and again: 'The most important things in life are not things'. I have made a decision to start my life at sea with the bare minimum of 'things'. I don't actually have a need for them. Why hoard? The time will come when I have a home of my own and maybe then it would be time to acquire things in an attempt at portraying my identity with bits and bobs.

They say worry often gives a small thing a big shadow. On Wednesday I will have tied up the loose ends. I will have a drink that evening, finally start celebrating the success I have achieved and toast the future.

Fresh and Wild

2009-01-12T22:18:00.000Z

"When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life"
Samuel Johnson

I had a lovely day on Sunday. I know it sounds pathetic to say but I don't get out enough in London. When I moved here six years ago I spent my first few months living in a one bedroom apartment at Marble Arch right on the corner of Hyde Park. Oxford Street was a stones throw. I arrived at the start of a very good Summer. Not knowing many people in a new city means you either can decide to sink or to swim.

I found myself discovering an amazing city that summer. I remember my weekends sitting on a deckchair in Hyde Park watching rollerbladers, footballers, sun worshipers and kite fliers. I walked the markets of Notting Hill, spent evenings with cold beer in Soho Square, shopped in Camden Town, promenaded the South Bank and partied in Old Street. My clubbing spirit was awoken and often never slept in Vauxhall. It seemed that there was a neverending plethora of 'firsts' to be experienced in London. I embraced it, I used it and I loved it.

As with many relationships, my initial romantic flutters with London ceased and our romance stagnated. I no longer looked up to wonder at the architectural prowess. I stopped using the tube as a passageway to an adventure. I forgot what it could do for you if you just opened yourself to the possibilities.

So back to Sunday. It was not planned and nothing special but it was lovely. I got in touch with a friend and asked her for coffee. As it turned out she was on her way to her allotment in Alexandra Palace and asked me to join. The plan was to build a bonfire to rid the plot of unwanted winter growth. You see this is what I love about London. Anyone not living in the northern side of the city wouldn't know anything about Alexandra Palace. In fact many of those living right beside the Palace have never had the curiosity to see give it a visit. And if you know the right people you can discover the little gem that is the Allotments within the Palace grounds. So for those who have never visited, here is a photo to give you a taste of the views you get over London.

I keep having to remind myself of exactly what the point of today's blog is. You see on Sunday I visited an allotment and lit a little bonfire on a crisp Sunday afternoon with a friend. Afterwards we visited a quaint garden centre nearby to have coffee. The coffee shop was like the Old Curiousity Shop selling everything from scented candles to scented microwavable hot water bottles. I made my way home via the farmers market nearby. I have mentioned this market in a previous blog but it really is worth a visit on a Sunday. And therein lies my point. I did something on Sunday. I rekindled a little part of my romance with London. I realised how sinful it is to fester and waste your life ignoring the wonders that literally wait outside our front doors.

(I cannot stop myself thinking what a good idea it would be to publish a podcast of good city walks in London or other cities for that matter. I wonder if it has been done? If anyone has come across one, let me know.)

Whenever you take a walk in somewhere like Alexandra Palace you always come across a certain breed of Londoner. The dogwalker intrigues me. I cannot stress how much I adore dogs. All through my childhood I begged to have a dog and my persistent tormenting of my folks reaped its rewards when I was 12. I got Charlie, my Yorkshire Terrier, when he was just 3 weeks old. Without sounding cliched, he was my best friend. The unconditional love you get from a dog is without compare. I had a strange kind of symbiotic relationship with that animal. I could look at him in a certain way and he would know if it meant dinner, walk, bed or bath. He would see me take a suitcase out and would yelp uncontrollably in the knowledge that 2 weeks in the kennels were on the cards. He was a fantastic companion and, by God, I miss him. Charlie went where the good doggies go a few months before I left for college - which suited us both just fine I am sure but it hurt at the time. I'm rambling again.

How do people keep dogs in a city? I was lucky. We had land and larges patches of greenery around our house so Charlie had a happy life. Even in the city centre you see people walking their dogs down Shaftesbury Avenue, the odd queen dragging an angry groomed poodle down Old Compton Street and happy couples letting the family pet free in Regents Park. I would give anything to have a dog again but it just seems too unfair to the animal to bring it up in a metropolis. Maybe there is secret to it.

Anyway whatever about dogs needing to be let out, I was very happy to get out this Sunday. Life is too short to forget that there are things out there that should be done.

Voyeurism, Gaza and Gazza

2009-01-06T00:30:00.000Z

Have you ever had one of those restless nights with continuously interrupted sleep resulting in dreams getting confused? Last night I had a very worrying dream which featured Paul Gascoigne doing a strip tease. I woke in a sweat. I was baffled and spent the day fretting about whether my subconscious fantasies were warping me. My experience, I realised, was a result of this media age constantly swamping me in information. As I slept my thoughts were somehow focused on the situation in the Gaza strip. My other thoughts were focused on the situation with Gazza.

The Sunday papers were full of comment and debate on the worrying Gaza crisis. Our TV screens every evening allow us to see live images of yet another middle east conflict. I find myself wondering if we are becoming immune to such events nowadays. The review section on the Sunday Times had two interesting stories one of which was an interview with Sheryl Gascoigne, the ex wife of the former football star turned alcoholic manic depressive mess. The interview came in advance of a Channel 4 documentary screened this evening.

Paul Gascoigne was always a bit messy. In fact he was probably too messy for anyone to care and has over the last ten years spiraled dramatically. And his plummet has pretty much gone unnoticed by a media which seems to thrive on watching chaotic lives being destroyed by fame and all that comes with it.

During the summer Gazza (as he is fondly remembered) entered rehab yet again. On this occasion he allowed a Channel 4 crew to film his life after rehab. Sheryl and her young family had agreed to have him back in the family home in hope of salvaging the man and father they still adored. What happened next was inevitable. He lasted twelve days at home, had enough, and spent the next few months getting totally pissed with Iron Maiden on their tour of Europe. What we, the viewers, were left with was a tragic story of a family struggling to cope with the loss, the helplessness, the rejection and so much more.

I am no stranger to fly on the wall documentaries but I found tonight's 'Surviving Gazza' traumatic viewing. We were witnessing a family in turmoil. This man's young adolescent children were in mourning for a dad who is still living if only barely. Despite their best efforts we were privy to one final and particularly cruel rejection in a hotel room somewhere in Portugal. The family had travelled in the hope of finding their Dad, taking him home and making everything ok. It was never going to happen.

The Sunday Times hinted at the possibility of Sheryl Gascoigne using the crisis as a money making opportunity. We need to remember that it was Gazza himself who initiated contact and agreed to the film being made. Aside from why they did it I think a more pertinent question is why we want to view it? In many senses it is a ridiculous question. Human beings by their very nature, whether admitted publicly or privately, thrive on voyeurism.

This was car crash television at its very best. We got to see vulnerable young kids input their opinions on the very adult syndrome of alcoholism. What made this show work on a much higher level than merely voyeurism was the remarkable maturity of his three children. Their dignity and genuine care for a father who had betrayed them beyond repair was admirable. I was glad I had a chance to witness this. It still didn't stop me feeling I had been invited into a very private war.

The other story from the Sunday Times commented on a recent controversy from the world of Facebook. A woman has recently been censored by the Facebook team after putting images of herself breastfeeding her newborn child on the site. The image was relatively innocent in most respects. The mother offered the explanation for her actions. 'It is hard to get a picture of me when I am not nursing', she said. Obviously in her eyes it was a normal thing to do.

The journalist in question, Daisy Goodwin, has issues with Facebook:

"I think the truly disturbing thing about Facebook is not its attempts to impose normative values on its members but the way it blurs the line between public and private. Most people who sign up to Facebook will, in the first flush of enthusiasm, do anything to increase their friend tally. Short of running for office, it is after all the only way, post playground, to quantify your popularity. I must admit I have clicked yes to people I have heard of only vaguely to bump up that vanity-boosting number; but as a result I long ago stopped posting anything that I wouldn't be prepared to wear on a sandwich board in Oxford Street at the height of the sales."

On my recent trip back home my mother asked me just why anyone would want to put so much information about themselves on an internet site. This is a huge debate and one I could spend hours discussing. The fact is that Facebook is phenomenally successful. Everyone is using it.

And this brings me nicely back to the documentary on Gazza and maybe even to the coverage we are seeing of the situation in Gaza. People not only want to consume voyeurism. They want to add to it too and what better way than to publish your home snaps and current status' day to day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

I have stopped updating my status. I find it a pain in the arse. I hate reading other people's. 'Matt is making tea' - I don't care. 'Tom is bored' - get a job. 'Phil thinks he has the flu' - I hope you die from it. What I have started to do in my status box is to link people to my Blog. I believe that what I write here is a true reflection of my current mental status. Why do I want people to read it? I don't know. Is it not the same reason why journalists get paid lots of money? If people enjoy my blog even only momentarily then I have done something good. If no one reads it, well, I have enjoyed writing it and sharing my thoughts in Cyberland. Its a form of voyeurism but its tame. I could be doing worse.

I think we need to start accepting that we live in an age of instant publishing. Something in our psyche these days has a need to justify our existences through various media. What is important is that we don't lose sight of what is truly important.

Gaza is far more serious than Gazza.

Hooked by the Salmon of Knowledge

2009-01-02T17:13:00.000Z

KNOWLEDGE IS POWER
Sir Francis Bacon, Religious Meditations of Heresies, 1597

So it is 2009. It seems like only yesterday when I watched the sun set over the horizon near the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland on New Years Eve 1999. I remember thinking what an ideal place it was to say goodbye to an entire Millennium. I was a young undergrad without a care in the world. By the end of this year we will be looking at ten years since the dawn of the new Millennium. I have recently become morbidly and acutely aware of the sheer pace of the passage of time. I shouldn't really be thinking about such things. I just do. I feel that I need to do so much more with my time.

I have never really been one for new year resolutions. I find them such a waste of time. They usually become the topic of conversation around this time of year. If I get cornered into a discussion of resolutions I tend to head for the nearest exit to smoke a cigarette that I have resolutely decided not to give up.

This year I feel a little different. It's not that I am subscribing to the new year resolution fanclub after 31 years. I just know that there are things I should be doing. I realise how easy it is to slip into a routine and how difficult it is to change. Over the last few months I have rediscovered the joys of reading. With this has come a realisation of just how fun it can be to learn new things. To open my eyes and ears to new ideas, politics, current affairs, opinions, music styles, places, people, food and drink. This freshly rejuvenated desire to acquire knowledge has its drawbacks, however.

I hate being asked what I need for Christmas. I find the whole idea of needing to be against my very nature. I love going home to family. I love the very fact that I am back where I grew up feeling the homeliness, smelling the familiar smells, feeling a sense of belonging. When my Mum asked me what I 'needed' this year I told her this. I did not need anything and didnt want her fretting about what to spend her money on in order to please me on Christmas day. As usual, as it is with mothers, she insisted and I went along with it. As it turns out, I did have a need for something. An iPod was the ideal thing to satisfy me.

I love my music but I have never really been a headphone wearing person. In my recent quest for knowledge I have discovered the wonder that is iTunes and in particular the podcast. If you are like me and love listening to all sorts of radio broadcasts you probably also suffer from the frustration of not being able to get enough. The Podcast is wonderful in the sense that you can get the very best bits of almost any radio show summarised succinctly into little half hours nuggets. You can have these snippets of intellectual debate sent to your iPod on a daily basis and you can listen whenever you want. So I got a nice big iPod for Christmas and I have duly started subscribing to as many podcasts as I can get my hands on.

Here is where the problem starts. I am not very good at time management. Over the last while I have done my reading on my daily tube ride and during my lunch hour. This effort at time management has enabled me to knock off some great reads on a weekly basis. And now I have my podcasts I was excited to think I could kill two birds with one stone. To my great despair I realised that my little human brain cannot take in too much information at one time. I sat on the tube today and played one of Stephen Fry's podcasts whilst trying to read the Booker Prize winner from last year, The White Tiger. Upon arriving at Oxford Circus it dawned on me that I had read just two pages of the book and hadn't a clue about what Steve had been waffling on about for 30 minutes. This left me vexed for the day.

I may sound like an anorak in reiterating the fact that I want to learn this year. I have a need to expand my brain. What I have realised today is that in order to do this one must have a very ordered daily existence. Maybe I am somewhat lacking in the ability to multitask but my experience today showed me that I must choose between reading or audio stimulation on the tube. In fact the clickety clack sound inside the carriage prevented me from getting most of what Mr Fry was saying anyhow and this extra effort in listening took my attention away from the book. So, what's to be done?

What started as an quiet resolution to learn more has now branched out into a time management issue. The problem is that I don't like time management. I like an ad hoc lifestyle. If I feel the urge to write a blog like this I don't plan my time. I don't set aside an hour to do it. I just do it when I am inspired to do so.

I am grumpy now. I want to burn my book and delete my podcasts. I think I must treat my quest for knowledge as others would treat going to the gym or pruning their shrubbery or washing their car. It's not a resolution, it's a fucking hobby!!

PS: I get frustrated by never being able to know the correct usage of its and it's. I have learned enough for today so, if I am wrong, you can just make do. You know what I mean anyhow.

Are you right there, Michael??

2008-12-30T01:10:00.000Z

I have always been an admirer of Ryanair's Michael O'Leary. A Jesuit educated Clongownian, he has almost single handedly developed one of the world's most successful airlines and has stuck the two fingers up at any begrudgers he has encountered along the way. His 'no frills' means of travel does just what it says on the tin – it gets us cheaply from A to B pretty much on time every time. Pre-recession it was commonplace to hear moans and groans about his modus operanda but really we did not know how good we had it. We had money to spend and Michael allowed us to spend it in some of Europe's most beautiful places.

Only last week Michael O'Leary placed a second bid for the overall takeover of Ireland's national airline adding that if his bid were to be successful he would reinstate the Heathrow to Shannon service which was removed last January. Aer Lingus, as was expected, rejected O'Leary's bid. In the same press conference Aer Lingus also announced it was to commence frights from Heathrow to Shannon in March 2009.

Last year thousands of people took to the streets in protest at Aer Lingus's initial decision. Business leaders and politicians spokes of the damage such an action could have on the Mid-West's economy. This was, remember, a few months before we were to see any signs of a recession looming. 12 months later in the midst of a devastating financial crisis and faced with a takeover bid by a successful businessman Aer Lingus have backpedaled after all. This is what I cannot stand about government run institutions. Decisions seem to be able to be made willy nilly. Aer Lingus claim that reinstating the Shannon service has nothing to do with Michael O'Leary. We know that is pure rubbish. Why did they get rid of it in the first place? Because the Peace Process had been completed in Northern Ireland. The Belfast economy was on the up and Aer Lingus saw a Belfast-Heathrow route as something that could make them more money. Without so much as a thought they dropped a vital link to the mid west in favour of Belfast, an airport which is still financially supported by the British government.

Take a look at the map of Ryanair routes and you will see that there is very little 'politics' involved when it comes to choosing where they will fly to. If its feasible and if there is an airport of some kind there - they will do it. This in turn has allowed us to become a far more traveled generation than all of our predecessors put together. Many of the arguments against O'Leary getting control of Aer Lingus revolve around the issues of one man having a monopoly on air travel. I wonder if a monopolisation by O'Leary would be such a bad thing. He has obviously proved that he is a shrewd businessman. He has managed to turn a fledgling airline into a instantly recognisable and globally successful brand. O'Leary has stated that should his bid be successful he would retain both brands individually and run them both based upon their existing values. I say give him a chance but with a few little clauses attached.

Over the past year or two, O'Leary has allowed his business to become deliberately frustrating to its customer base. Try booking a ticket on Ryanair.com and you will see where I am coming from. Sneaky little charges here and there are discretely placed on the booking page. Insurance charges, airport check-in fees, bag charges and so on all can add up to such a point that I have wondered if it would be better to use Aer Lingus when travelling to Ireland after all. If he continues to treat customers and staff with contempt whilst also running a major airline monopoly we could all be in for many miserable years in terms of air travel.

This was my most recent experience of Stansted airport. Upon arriving at the airport we were faced with lengthy queues of confused early birds waiting to get information on their flights. Ryanair do not want the hassle of people checking in at airports now and hence have pushed online booking on all of us. Gone are the days when a kindly face would check you in, label your bags if you had any and point you in the direction of the correct gate. Now we must not only check in online but also possess our own printers and paper in order to do so.

I had brought one bag with me which was just about going to fit in the overhead cabins. I decided to be honest and declare that it was a little oversized and that I was willing to pay my 10 pounds baggage charge in order to check it in. I was told that if I wanted to check it in Ryanair would have to cancel the fact that I was already checked in and they would have to start the process all over again. In other words, in order to put a bag on the flight I would have to pay an extra charge of 38 pounds. I told the desk attendant where to get off, stuck my bag on my shoulder and decided to wing it.

I got to security only to realise that liquids, gels and other materials had to be put into little plastic bags. I had done my research on this. You are allowed to bring cosmetics and perfumes on board a flight if they are 100ml or under. All of mine complied. What I didn't realise is just how small the frigging bags are, and, you are only permitted one of them. I managed to fit one tube of toothpaste (75ml) and a Lab Series face wash (90ml) into the bag before it was full. I was once again facing a hefty charge for checking my bag in. I decided to wing it once again. I sealed my plastic bag and left the other 7 bottles of various face, hand, and other lubricating gels in my hand luggage. I got away with it! Not one question was asked. Now maybe it was Christmas goodwill or maybe it was very lax security standards at Stansted – but they saved me a small fortune.

In my previous job I would travel a lot between London and Dublin. I really enjoyed flying. I could never understand why people would say they found it stressful. Then again I was always travelling from Heathrow on an Aer Lingus flight. Stansted is a horrible experience. Once you have overcome the initial journey through security you are faced with a marathon of a walk to the gate. Passengers gathered at the airport all look rather disheveled. They are moody, unhappy and always edgy. The staff are no better. In fact my favourite image of the morning was a group of Ryanair staff standing on an elevated platform, staring quizzically at the crowd of restless passengers waiting to have their bags checked in. The foreheads may as well have had 'What the fuck do we do?' written in black ink. This scene is purely a result of Michael O'Leary trying to see just how much he can cut back and still run a business. It is not acceptable. If it continues he will see a revolution in air travel – people will simply refuse to travel with him. In times of recession he people will no longer travel ad hoc. They certainly will not travel if his policies on customer service continue to head in the direction he is guiding them.

On boarding Ryanair flights these days you encounter a funny noise going on in the background. At first it is not too noticeable. After 20 minutes it becomes a pain in the arse. A perfect example of Mr O'Leary's cheekiness is his jingle. This is a tune which he has 'commissioned' to be played on all flights. It is a computer synthesised symphony of squeaky mayhem. I have been aware of it for a while now and simply put it down to bad taste. However when I noticed that every overhead bin on the flight was emblazoned with posters advertising the fact that this tune had now been 'megamixed' and released as a downloadable track or ringtone, I knew what O'Leary's game was. He is increasingly aware of the dissatisfaction brewing within his customer base. Instead of pacifying us and offering us incentives to continue flying with him he is teasing us, niggling at us and begging for a fight. He knows he has us by the balls and I kinda like being had by the balls. The simple fact is this. If I want to fly, I must fly with Michael. And if I fly with Michael I must suffer the little things Michael will do to annoy me. Once I reach my destination I will be fine.

I really just hope that if Michael realises his dream of controlling Ireland's national airline he will stop playing immature games and treat us with a bit of respect.

Notes on Adoption

2008-12-19T19:57:00.000Z

A few years ago I had a friend who took a very keen interest in the fact that I am adopted. I used to find it a little bit too much at times. I would often find books left outside my door dealing with the subject and it came up in conversation many times. It was only later that it all made sense. Over dinner this person told me how his sister had given up a baby for adoption in 1970's Ireland.

Adoption happened in Ireland for many reasons. It is my belief that the primary reason for the particularly high adoption rate in Ireland occurred as a result of the power of the Catholic church. It would have been considered a stigma to have a child out of wedlock. Young unmarried girls who found themselves pregnant would be sent away for a period of time until the baby was born. The baby would be put up for adoption and the mother would return to her home with very little spoken of the traumatic event that had occurred.

More than 100,000 children were separated from their parents through adoption and fostering in Ireland since the foundation of the State. Of these, 42,000 were adopted after the introduction of legal adoption in 1952, and a further number were illegally registered as if born to their adoptive parents (known as "de facto" adoptions). Most unmarried pregnant girls were consigned to religious-run, State-funded Mother and Baby Homes, and were pressurised to give their babies up for adoption by their families, social workers, doctors, priests, adoption agencies and nuns. It was not until the mid 1970s that some meagre social welfare supports began to be provided to enable mothers to keep their children, although social and official attitudes continued to condemn unmarried motherhood up until the early 1990s.

I was adopted in 1977 when I was a week old. I know nothing of my birth parents and have never had a real desire to find out. What I do know is that in November 1977 a loving couple, unable to have children themselves, took me in their arms and gave me love, nurtured me, cherished me, raised me and made me the person I am today. I have never considered myself 'unwanted'. In fact, if anything, I was the most 'wanted' baby imaginable.

Growing up I was aware of my little bit of difference from the moment I could think for myself. There was never any hidden history in my family. I knew I was adopted. My mum would discuss it regularly with me. I suppose she felt a need to ensure that I was fully aware of where I came from should I ever want to investigate further. My earliest memories on adoption were always based on thinking how lucky I was. My Mum always said there was a certain snobbery in me. As a kid I would remark at how glad I was that I lived where I did. If Mum had not adopted me I could have been an itinerant (my words aged 6).

This is where there is a lot of ignorance about adoption. It is a total myth that adopted children came from broken homes, poor homes or unloving homes. In my youth the TV soap of the day was Home and Away. Those of you who were addicts like me might remember the characters of Tom and Pippa who gave up there lives to be foster parents. More often than not they would take in children most of whom had horrible childhoods or behavioral problems. They would be fostered because of alcoholic parents or tragedies beyond belief.

My peers believed that adoption was the same as fostering. I felt they saw me as akin to one of Home and Away's traumatised unloved children. As a result I found it a little difficult to say 'I am adopted' - not because I was embarrassed but because I didn't want anyone to negate the fact that I was living in a loving home with the best parents on earth. My relationship with my parents was no different than anyone else's. I was a little bit more special.

Interestingly my closest neighbours had two children of a similar age to me, both of whom were adopted also. My mother's best friend had an adopted daughter. So I wasn't alone but I was alone with my private thoughts. I have never really spoken to another adopted person about their feelings on the subject. I just know that my attitude was pretty open and shut. I loved my parents. I was happy and that was that.

In Ireland the predominant adoption factor was that of illegitimacy. Just look around today's society and take note of how many unmarried people you know with children. Does it necessarily mean they are not loved or not living in a functional loving home? Irish society was dictated to for a long time by an revered institution with many many rules and opinions about how society should function. If the local priest's nose was put out of joint it would be a disgrace on the family. Keeping an 'illegitimate' child was simply out of the question.

Despite not investigating any of the circumstances surrounding my birth I did not at any point consider myself as 'illegitimate'. The word itself smells of bureaucracy. I have often wondered how the church can continue to function in the knowledge that it unreasonably put the fear of God into kind human beings who knew no other way. It has been reported that many mothers who would have been forced to put a baby up for adoption to this day feel physically sick if they walk on the street where an adoption agency was once located.

This is where I come back to the story of my friend. His overly keen interest in my adoption was justified. As he got to know me he was in the middle of being an intermediary in the reunion of his sister and her baby boy who was now 18 years old. Sitting at dinner one night he said something that I have never forgotten.

'Every November 3rd, on your birthday, there is someone who you do not know who thinks about where you are, what you are doing, what you look like and what might have been', he said.

This was a profound thing to digest. I had never considered the possibility that my birth mother would actually think of me. I realised for the first time that the person who created me was a stranger to me. Yet I was an ever present presence in the mind of that person and had been for 28 years.

In my friend's sister's case the reunion was relatively successful. Let me describe a little about the processes involved. I, and I alone am the only person who can instigate the beginnings of a possible reunion. I would inform the adoption board in Ireland of my possible interest in beginning communication with my birth mother. The process continues very carefully often facilitated through various intermediaries. The adoption board would inform my birth mother of the situation. Or not.

In some cases it has been known for mothers to make a clear directive saying that under no circumstances would she want any contact. In this case that would be that. After months of painful consideration and emotional decision-making I could be rejected just like that.

My friend's sister was one of those mothers who never stopped wondering. The reunion that came about was a blessing beyond anything she could have imagined.

After listening to my friend's story I began to think a lot more about my situation. Anyone I meet always asks me if I have an interest in finding out more about who I am. I always answer like this. I know who I am. I have had a wonderful life. I have known what it is to have a caring, loving family. I have already seen my father die. I never stop thinking of him as my dad. I look into the eyes of my mother and see just that, MY mother. Fate played a part in bringing me to where I am.

As Christmas approaches I know that there is someone out there who will think of me. I hope she is well and I hope she is happy. She played a huge part in creating the man I am today. For that I am thankful.

Grey matters

2008-12-16T22:58:00.000Z

At exactly 2.37pm today, 16th December 2008 ascending within a brightly lit elevator in Debenhams, Oxford Street, London - Nigel Dugdale found the first ghastly grey hair sticking out from the side of his no-longer-youthful head.

The above statement is written in the third person and italicised for a clear reason. What confronted me today in the unforgiving and slightly pawmarked mirrors within a 1980's liftshaft was something I have feared for a long time. As I write I am dressed in a black two piece suit and gazing at a photograph from my childhood. I am in mourning for lost youth. A bottle of Jameson lies empty on my desk. Leonard Cohen sings Bird on a Wire. I have the hair in a jam jar.

Ok. Most of the last paragraph is a melodramatic lie but what is absolutely true is that I found a big long wiry grey fucking hair on my head today. Am I wrong to be treating this moment as an absolutely seminal event in my life? Its all downhill from here. Next week I will start to lose control of my bladder. In January I will forget my name. I give myself till March.

All of this came on the day when I was introduced to a new colleague, a rather smug looking gay guy called Brad. Brad seemed very keen to proffer some information to me without invitation.

'So are you seeing anyone', he asked just after I told him my name.

'I beg your pardon', I replied promptly.

'No its just that I've been in a really happy relationship for the last six months and my boyfriend just booked us a trip to Venice for a romantic New Years break', he gurgled.

I stood there grinning uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. Is this guy for real, I wondered. But it didnt end there.

Rubbing his hand along his pectorals in a slightly camp way he added:

'I met him at the gym and I just knew it was to be. On our first date he put rose petals on the bed and we had a candlelit bath after dinner'.

I interpreted the meaning as this - they watched each other shower after overdoing the weights, had a quick sauna and jogged home to make hay as the sun shone, so to speak.

His bout of verbal diarrhoea did not end there. In fact it pretty much continued for the rest of the day. I was worn out by 6pm. It was like a Radio 4 dramatisation of the Love Boat. I packed up my things and made my way home with my grey hair in a jam jar.

Now that I am officially old I think it is ok for me to begin to panic about relationships or lack thereof. But if having a relationship means being as smug as my new pal Brad then I will pass thank you.

Now where did I put my pills....

I am a Rock

2008-12-11T15:28:00.000Z

It's not been a good week.

'Hell is other people'. So said the existentialist philosopher Jean Paul Sartre in No Exit (Huis Clos). For some time I have been somewhat drawn to the potentially attractive concept of solipsism and existentialism. I don't claim to be an authority on the subject but the idea of existing purely for one's self excites me.

Don't get me wrong. I will contradict myself by saying that I need company and love having friendships. But the times I am most happy are when I am alone with my own thoughts. Loneliness scares me but at the same time isolation excites me.

This dichotomy I think is naturally human. We grow up creating friendships, needing acquaintances in order to grow mentally and socially but most of us would admit to being most comfortable purely with ourselves.

I have a little music playlist that I listen to when I need 'me' time. It was only today that I noticed two particular songs that I am particularly fond of. One is 'In my Room' by the Beach Boys. The other is 'I am a Rock' by Simon and Garfunkel. See the pattern?

How did i get on to this topic? Oh yea. A couple of things happened this week that put me out of kilter. You know when you get up in the morning feeling relatively peaceful and head out the door with a smile on your face only to have some prick fuck it all up?

On my morning tube ride the other morning I found myself a seat at Turnpike Lane and sat quietly until Covent Garden. As per usual at rush hour the train got more and more packed as we got near central. I got off at Covent Garden and made my way along the platform. About half way down there was some kind of commotion. Those of you who use the London Underground know the etiquette. Let people off the train before embarking.

On this occasion one particular gentleman, dressed in a dapper pinstriped suit, ignored the rules. With his arms extended he attempted to push his way on as a group of people tried to get off. He was so stubborn in his quest he pinned a young woman with his elbows and locked himself in place. I kid you not. The man held a crowd of people by himself. A fistycuffs ensued and I found myself in the midst of the scuffle managing to escape to Covent Garden with my jaw barely intact.

You see, this is one of the things about London. In order to get by in this city you must train yourself to block out others. You must stand in a crowded train, your face inches from a complete stranger. You must not smile for fear of being considered odd. You must ignore pregnant women who need a seat (many do). You must be in a rush. And most of all you must look distinguished while doing all of the above.

London's transport system is a biological educator and for that I am thankful. Isn't it great to learn something everyday? This week I learned just how chronic halitosis can be. I found myself face to face with a man on a bus in North London. And my God - was that a journey. It was cold on that bus. The man's breath created a little cloud as he exhaled. How this little cloud didn't have a green pigment I don't know. His breath was astonishing. It was pungent. And I could not move. Never in all my days have I gazed into the eyes of another human being with such astonished disgust. Surely if you had breath like that you would smell it yourself and reach for the Colgate. Not this man. I got to White Hart Lane and spent a quid on a bag of Polo mints.

As I write this I am realising that today's blog is one big moan. So I will just purge one more of this week's demons. That of noisy people.

I am on edge at the moment. I don't know why but I find myself jumping when a car honks its horn. I cower when a child whimpers. But I nearly suffered a coronary on Tuesday when a lady sneezed in Cafe Nero.

At this point I need to quote from Bill Bryson -

'You may not feel outstandingly robust but if you are an average sized adult you will contain within your modest frame no less than 7 x 10 to the power of 18 (a very large number) joules of potential energy - enough to explode with the force of thirty very large hydrogen bombs, assuming you knew how to liberate it and really wished to make a point. Everything has this kind of energy trapped within it. We're just not very good at letting it out.'

The woman in Nero was robust to say the least. She was more than you're average sized adult and the sneeze that came out of her head shook the walls of the cafe. I have never heard anything like it. Every customer held onto their cups and some ducked under the tables in case of a secondary tremor. My heart missed a beat and paired with the effects of the caffeine the whole incident left me weak and rather shook.

I could wax on about young kids on the upper level of buses playing medleys of their favourite rap hits but I think I have said enough.

It is fast approaching the season of goodwill. I really do love my fellow humans. Its just that at times I wish I could be left alone.

Sunday Miscellany

2008-12-07T17:31:00.000Z

Ok, so it is a cold Sunday afternoon. I am a smidgen hungover from Saturday's unexpected debauchery so I have decided to just write randomly about things with no significance whatsoever.

Following on from my previous blog I am going to start this entry with my two new words from Saturday and Sunday.

Saturday's little gem is 'ersatz', a German word meaning replacement but used in English to mean substitute, artificial and often inferior. I won't bore you too much with the etymology of the word but its worth looking it up in Wikipedia just to see an example of how words come in to being.

Sunday's addition to my ever expanding lexicon is 'bucolic'. Bucolic is defined as 'of or pertaining to shepherds; pastoral; of, pertaining to or suggesting an idyllic rural life; a pastoral poem'.

During the week I read that hedgerows, a distinguishing feature in the landscape of both the UK and Ireland, are a relic of what is called the 'enclosure movement'. I am sure that I have studied enclosure as part of the history programme at school but must admit that I had lost any memory of this and felt the need to find out what enclosure is.

The enclosure movement was the period when common land was taken into fully private ownership and use. Obviously in order to distinguish various plots and define ownership some form of definition was required. This was solved by means of hedgerows. I know that this particular topic is not the most interesting thing to discuss on a Sunday evening but I have always been amazed by awesome human feats which have mostly gone unpraised.

Just visit the west of Ireland and and I defy you not to be taken aback by the seemingly endless rows of stone walls which define the Irish landscape. Its easy to take these for granted but when you touch one, when you realise the work that must have gone into laying stone upon stone for miles and miles, it is a feat nothing short of extraordinary.

In the UK it was hedgerows and not stone walls that did the trick. It had never dawned on me to look at a hedgerow as something wonderful and worth keeping. The only manmade thing older in the UK is Stonehenge. Between 1945 and 1985 96,000 miles of hedgerows were ripped up in England to make way for housing developments, business parks and shopping centres. I am strangely understanding just why quirky little 'Save the Hedgerows' movements exist. I also feeling a slight empathy with their cause.

Moving on. Those of you who visiting Selfridges on Oxford street should take note of the original front section of the store. Not only is the building architecturally beautiful, the interiors are stunning also. When you get store training at Selfridges they are very focused on a particular look, a particular selling style and also giving customers the best possible retail experience.

Gordon Selfridge was a visionary, the first retailer to focus on advertising. He acknowleged the emancipation of women and created the notion of shopping for pleasure. His writings on retail were ahead of his time and many of his sayings are still used today. Here are a few of them:

* People will sit up and take notice of you if you will sit up and take notice of what makes them sit up and take notice.
* The boss drives his men; the leader coaches them.
* The boss depends upon authority; the leader on good will.
* The boss inspires fear; the leader inspires enthusiasm.
* The boss says "I"; the leader, "we."
* The boss fixes the blame for the breakdown; the leader fixes the breakdown.
* The boss knows how it is done; the leader shows how.
* The boss says "Go"; the leader says "Let's go!"
* The customer is always right.

Bill Bryson's 'Notes from a small Island' is a great read. I was sitting in a coffee shop the other day drinking a black Americano and engrossed in his account of a particular coincidence that happened to him at a time when he was struggling to write an article about coincidences. Lounged on a comfy leather sofa I was totally oblivious to those around me. As I closed my book and prepared to leave I looked to the seat opposite me. Sitting there was a young man, drinking an Americano and reading Bill Bryson's 'Notes from a Small Island'. Now, there's a coincidence!

Over the last couple of days I have noticed an abundance of small change in my pockets. I really have never seen the point of coppers. I know the old adage - 'Watch the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves'. The pounds have never looked after themselves and all the pennies ever do is gather dust in some dirty jar on my bedroom shelf. Now I'm finding more and more coppers every day. Its because of that gobshite Gordon Brown and his Darling cutting VAT. A coffee that was once 1.80 is now 1.73. For the sake of seven pence I would rather pay a rounded price and save myself from gathering dirty brown coins in the bottom of my pockets thank you very much.

Did you ever read Alice in Wonderland as a kid? I remember having a hardback illustrated editions of the writings of Lewis Carroll when I was a child. I remember the story keeping me spellbound as it rained in Limerick and the plush illustrations are still embeded in my memory. You can understand my certain disappointment when I discovered that Lewis Carroll's interest in the young Alice Liddell, the inspiration for the Alice stories, was a little more than just literary if you get my gist. What is it about these genius' (geni?, geniuses?) who create wonderful children's tales yet also feel the need to have sex with them too? Wasn't it the same with Baden Powell and the dude who wrote Peter Pan?

I love market stalls in London. They have such character and atmosphere. There is a really great farmers market in Muswell Hill/Alexandra Palace on Sunday mornings which is well worth a visit. I knew a guy who runs a stall there selling his brand of exotic soups. At the time he was working on branding his product in the hope of selling it to some of the bigger retailers. I could see at the time that he could be on to a winner. His recipes were tasty and diverse. His logo was stylish with a subtle hint of the organic and he had a good business brain. I was delighted to read in The London Paper last week that his products have been snapped up by Harvey Nics in London. If you find yourself in the store or in Ally Pally Farmers Market look out for Stewed

The leafy streets of Wood Green are full of little individual street market vendors. Normally you find them down dodgy little laneways but I have heard that their produce is second to none. I always feel a bit sad for these guys and wonder if they actually make enough money to get by. These people are not stupid and most have been in the market trade for generations so I'm sure I have no need for concern.

I did pass a stall the other day, however, and was slightly bemused by this entrepreneur's particular offer. 'Galia melons and Christmas trees' said the crudely hand painted advertising billboard. Galia melons and Christmas trees? Who in the name of God wakes up one morning and decides they are going to set up a business selling Fir trees and fucking Galia melons. Not only that but the Christmas trees in question were the smallest most miserable looking things I have ever seen. The sort that would make a child cry and would make the angel look like Michael frigging Jordan.

Finally (I do hope I'm not boring you) a little story about the London Underground. I have no quarrels with this institution. I am rarely late and the trains are clean but when things go wrong the can go specacularly wrong. Last evening I made my trip to Piccadilly Circus. Upon arriving at the station we were told that no Piccadilly line services were stopping at Piccadilly. We were also told that we would remain in the station for a few minutes as the service was regulated. 40 minutes later I was still sitting on a packed train in the very station at which I wanted to embark. The driver informed that because no trains were stopping at the station he could not open the doors. After 50 minutes London Underground decided that they would let us out at Piccadilly after all. In a scene resembling a mass exodus, frustrated families late for their ice skating a Hyde Park forced their way past each other in a controlled panic. Upon getting to the escalators a man guided us to one which was not actually operating. Isn't there something quite disconcerting about walking up escalators that are motionless?! As the crowd got halfway up the stairs some dimwit operator decided to give us a little bit of help and turned the escalator on. The only problem was the machine was programmed to go down. As we all walked up the stairs brought us right back to where we began. What a nightmare.

Enough for now. Im hungry.

Malapropisms

2008-12-07T17:06:00.000Z

I like coming across new words and I am now taking upon myself to try and learn a new word every day. I can't stand it when someone uses a word that I don't fully understand but more so I absolutely hate it when people use words they do not understand particularly if the word is used in the wrong context.

I once had a friend who had a fondness for the word 'specific'. Everything he spoke of would be specific this and specific that to the point that it grated on me. This poor chap, in the hope of sounding profound, had not been educated in the difference between the Pacific Ocean and the word 'specific'. I jest you not. We would go shopping and he would be looking for a 'Pacific' tee-shirt. We would go to a restaurant and he would browse the menu looking for a 'Pacific' fish dish he adored. I just hadn't the bottle to correct the poor boy on what is defined in the English language as a malapropism.

A malapropism (also called a Dogberryism) is the substitution of an incorrect word for a word with a similar sound, usually to comic effect. It is not the same as an eggcorn, which is a similar substitution in which the new phrase makes sense on some level.

An instance of mis-speech is called a malapropism when:

1. The word that is used means something different from the word the speaker or writer intended to use.
2. The word that is used sounds similar to the word that was apparently meant or intended. Using obtuse (wide or dull) instead of acute (narrow or sharp) is not a malapropism; using obtuse (stupid or slow-witted) when one means abstruse (esoteric or difficult to understand) would be.
3. The word that is used has a recognized meaning in the speaker's or writer's language.

These characteristics set malapropisms apart from other speaking or writing mistakes, such as an eggcorns or spoonerisms.

Here are some of my favourite Malapropisms:

"It's not the heat, it's the humility" Yogi Berra

Selections from a rich malapropism culture of The Sopranos:
"Revenge is like serving cold cuts."
"…my knight in white satin armor."
"…prostate with grief."
"Quasimodo predicted this"
**"Create a little dysentery among the ranks."

"I want to be effluent mum!" "You are effluent Kimi..." (i.e., affluent) — Kath and Kim

"Because I like you, I'll even do it pro boner." (i.e., pro bono) - Bart Simpson agreeing to help Seymour Skinner with his love life.

Real life

It was reported in New Scientist that an office worker described a colleague as "a vast suppository of information". (i.e., "repository")
New Scientist also reported the first-ever malapropism for "malapropism", when, having become aware of his error, the office worker apologised, saying he had committed a "Miss Marple-ism."[7]
Time reported Irish Taoiseach Bertie Ahern as warning his country against "upsetting the apple tart" (ie., "apple cart") of his country's economic success.
Alanis Morissette unintentionally misused the term 'malapropism' when she commented on her unintentional misuse of the term 'ironic' within her song "Ironic".
A contestant on ego trip's Miss Rap Supreme claimed that "alcohol, as they say, helps you let down your prohibitions." (i.e., "inhibitions)
* "It's great to be back on terra cotta!" (i.e., Terra firma) — John Prescott, former British politician.
* "However, they delineate—quotas, I think, vulcanize society." (i.e., balkanize or vulgarize or polarize) - George W. Bush, US President.
* An instructor for a children's law course described statutory rape as "When an adult age 16 or older has sex with a statue."

Status Anxiety

2008-12-04T17:29:00.000Z

I did a days work in Selfridges yesterday and had a strange moment which reminded me of a book by the philosopher Alain DeBotton. 'Status Anxiety' asks the questions:

'Do you worry about how well you're doing? Are you envious of your friends' success? Are you suffering from Status Anxiety?'

My experience yesterday certainly resulted in an answer of yes to all of the above. Selfridges, along with Harrods, is a very different animal to other department stores in London. Selfridges is, pure and simply, in a different league. It is amongst the most instantly recognisable retail environments in the world and its customer base is a reflection of this status.

I was positioned in once again in the Gucci section and was enjoying the 'privilege' of selling the newest fragrance, launched on Tuesday and exclusive to two stores in London - Selfridges and Harrods.

Towards the end of the day I was approached by a glamourous couple in need of my counsel on an issue which was obviously causing a crack to appear in their relationship. She loved D&G. He was in love with the new Gucci. I fell in love with him.

I didn't understand what came over me at the time. I get it now. This guy was possibly the most beautiful creature I have ever encountered on this earth. It was not his physical prowess that captured me, although his six foot two inch frame, silky toned skin and a skin pigment that simply glowed certainly had me in awe. What struck me was this guy's confidence. He spoke with a deep authoritative voice. His fashion sense was nothing special but the particular items he wore exuded class. His teeth were like a Steinway's ivory keys. I simply melted.

At the time I put my reaction down to the fact that this guy was drop dead gorgeous and instantly attractive. I spent a blissful 10 minutes guiding the couple towards the important relationship-defining decision. In the end he gave in to his girlfriend's flirtatious sulk and went with her choice of fragrance.

Working in London you come across beautiful people on a daily basis. After years living here you become immune to it. So many visitors remark on the style, beauty and class of people they see on the streets. I had stopped noticing, that is, until yesterday.

This morning it dawned on me, so to speak. Yesterday I was struck by an deep and uneasy feeling of inferiority. As I stood at the mahogany counters in Selfridges I encountered a man who I saw as being the epitome of who and what I wanted to be. This guy had style, confidence, education, wealth, beauty and charm. He glowed.

Why did I envy this guy? Why did I feel inferior? The answer lies in the fact that I experienced a sudden bout of what DeBotton describes as 'status anxiety'. During my encounter with this Adonis I went through a range of feelings and desires. I wanted to be like him. I wanted to be seen as successful. I had a fear that my life was veering towards failure.

Alain DeBotton defines status in a number of ways:

'One's position in society; the word derived from the Latin statum or standing'

'One's value or importance in the eyes of the world'

Most interestingly he notes that different societies award status to different groups eg: hunters, fighters, ancient families, priests, academics, knights, fecund women etc. Most recently status has predominantly been awarded in relation to financial achievement. 'High status', he says 'is thought by many (but freely admitted by few) to be one of the finest of earthly goods.

Working in Selfridges or any of the high street stores in London requires you to have a thick neck. Colleagues are often very tough nuts to crack. I don't really understand why but my experience yesterday gives me a hint at one of the possible answers. When you are dealing with some of the most glamourous, wealthy and influential people in London it requires an air of arrogance or self belief. It would be very easy to crumble in the face of material 'success'.

DeBotton quotes Arthur Schopenhauer:

'We will gradually become indifferent to what goes on in the minds of other people when we acquire an adequate knowledge of the superficial and futile nature of their views. of the paltriness of their sentiments, of the perversity of their opinions, and of the number of their errors...We shall then see that whoever attaches a lot of value to the opinions of others pays them too much honour'.

My experience yesterday was positive because this particular individual was polite and charming. Nothing in his interaction with me suggested anything other than respect. My sense of self worth allowed me to take negatives from the interaction. I encountered a moment of self doubt because of an arrogant need to have status. I was concerned about how I was seen in the eyes of this stranger.

Growing up in Limerick I would pass a homeless man and his dog on my daily walk home from school. He would sit outside Limerick's equivalent of Selfridges, not begging, simply being. Something about him enthralled me. He had a certain sense of peace, of dignity. Years later over dinner I brought him up in conversation. It was revealed that this man, who had died in the meantime, had once been a senior tutor at a major Irish university. Circumstances too numerous to go into went against him but, in short, this man never ceased to be an educated, dignified and interesting person. His stoicism as he sat on the streets of Limerick could probably be put down to the fact that his sense of self worth never cracked even as his life fell apart.

Status Anxiety is in us all. It is our choice if it is to be something that consumes us or simply something that opens our eyes to just how fortunate we all all. After all, the handsome man in Selfridges struggled to make a fragrance choice for fear of putting his girlfriend's nose out of joint. Is this happiness?

I will finish with DeBotton's summary of his Status Anxiety thesis:

'Status Anxiety possesses and exceptional capacity to inspire sorrow. The hunger for status, like all appetites, can have its uses: spurring us to do justice to our talents, encouraging excellence, restraining us from harmful eccentricities and cementing members of a society around a common value system. But, like all appetites, its excesses can also kill. The most profitable way of addressing the condition may be to attempt to understand and to speak of it.'

Change we can believe in - but can we?

2008-12-03T00:11:00.000Z

I've started reading a book which contains Barack Obama's basic manifesto as well as a collection of the speeches he made during the election campaign.

Along with most people I think the 2008 election campaign and its result was the most riveting and uplifting event of the year. We were witness to an unprecedented event in modern politics and for the most part were carried away by the cult of Obama and all that went with it. It was uplifting to see the American people make a choice that seemed unthinkable just a few years ago. So much of the coverage around the time of Obama's election commented on the race issue despite the fact that Obama steered away from it for the duration of the campaign.

Now that the dust has settled and he is getting on with the business of choosing those who will work with him I find it slightly worrying to read his manifesto. So much of what he is determined to do is is rooting in changing and solving the economic woes of the United States. He makes promises, offers solutions and issues statements which seem to suggest he has the answer to America's financial crisis.

It is acknowledged that Obama is a political rookie. His campaign was run with genius and the failure of the previous administration certainly helped his cause. The sudden collapse of the economic system in September greatly put the ball in his court. Obama now has 4 years to make an impression as a bonafide political leader. If his promises are anything to go by, he will have a huge job convincing both the American people and the international community that yes, he can do it.

My worry is that, unlike Blair in the UK and Ahern in Ireland, he comes to power at a time of unprecedented financial uncertainty. His job will be to pick up the pieces after years of poor decisions. If the goals he outlines in his manifesto are simply unattainable in his first 4 years we could be looking at an Obama presidency which is considered a failure. How tragic would it be if this inspirational and promising leader was to suffer because of Bush's legacy.

Advent - Patrick Kavanagh

2008-12-01T23:13:00.000Z

To mark the day that's in it I am adding a poem which I studied at school years ago.

Advent

We have tested and tasted too much, lover-
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room
Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea
Of penance will charm back the luxury
Of a child's soul, we'll return to Doom
The knowledge we stole but could not use.

And the newness that was in every stale thing
When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking
Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill
Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking
Of an old fool will awake for us and bring
You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins
And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.

O after Christmas we'll have no need to go searching
For the difference that sets an old phrase burning-
We'll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning
Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching.
And we'll hear it among decent men too
Who barrow dung in gardens under trees,
Wherever life pours ordinary plenty.
Won't we be rich, my love and I, and
God we shall not ask for reason's payment,
The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges
Nor analyse God's breath in common statement.
We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages
Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour-
And Christ comes with a January flower.

Pickpockets with excellent taste

2008-12-01T21:49:00.000Z

I don't if anybody feels the same way but I find it very hard to accept losing anything belonging to me. No matter how valuable the item I simply can't stand loss.

I have been meaning to read Zadie Smith's books for a long time. After only recently discovering the wonder of Amazon.co.uk I was delighted to find three of her books for only 99p each. So, for a tenner I got most of her stuff delivered to my door. Something in the back of my head said that her writing would be somewhat female orientated. It was a friend who insisted I get reading her.

I started last week with 'On Beauty' and I am really enjoying it. No, forgive me, I must rephrase that. I WAS enjoying it until some thieving git stuck their hand into my bag on the Victoria line and helped themselves to my book!! A thief with good taste methinks.

If anyone sees someone reading 'On Beauty' by Zadie Smith on either the Piccadilly or Victoria lines please examine the front cover for a dark coffee stain (it was only 99p after all) and ask them what happens in chapter 6.

Knives are out - get cooking!!!

2008-12-01T20:07:00.000Z

For all those budding cooks out there I have to recommend Jamie Oliver's new book Ministry of Food. I discovered how fun it can be to cook through his recipes a few years back. They never fail to satisfy the palate!

So in the spirit of Ministry of Food I am going to attempt to convert readers by adding a simple lasagne recipe as included in the latest book but with a couple of added touches from my good self.

What I love about Jamie Oliver is that his classic recipes are so damn simple. Unlike that Tourettes sufferer Ramsey, they use relatively cheap ingredients and I can honestly say I have found it a joy to learn how to create a great dinner from scratch.

In this recipe I he does something I have never considered. He dumps the raw mince straight into the slightly softened veg and lets the mince cook in the sauce rather than browning it first as is the norm. The result is a melt in the mouth bolognaise which is simply fab. When buying the bacon, get urself two nice slices of good smoked bacon from the butchers counter. The chopped chilli and paprika is my addition - gives it a bit of a kick. I also add the little bit of sugar. Antonio Carluccio recommends adding lots of sugar to any tomato sauce and I think it works great.

If you are happy to spend a little extra on fresh lasagna sheets - DO IT! Makes the dish cook better and eliminates hard crispy bits in the middle. Serve it with a good glass of red wine and a nice salad - Enjoy - here's the recipe.

Jamie's Lasagne

For the Bolognaise sauce

2 rashers of smoked streaky bacon
2 medium onions (finely chopped)
2 medium carrots (finely chopped)
2 sticks celery (finely chopped)
1 red chilli (finely chopped)
2 cloves of garlic (crushed and chopped)
Olive oil
Two heaped teaspoons dried oregano
Teaspoon smoked paprika
250g minced pork
250g minced beef
Small handful sugar/castor sugar
2 x 400g tins plum tomatoes
Glass red wine
Bunch fresh basil
50g parmesan cheese

For the lasagne
250g lasagne sheets preferably fresh
1 x 500ml tub creme fraiche
100 gram Parmesan cheese
Handful grated cheddar cheese
1 ripe tomato

To make the bolognaise

Finely slice the bacon and prepare the veg. Place a large casserole type dish on a medium heat. Add 2 glugs of olive oil, garlic, your sliced bacon and oregano - cook and stir well for a few minutes till the bacon is lightly golden. Add the carrots, celery, onions and chopped chilli and cook for about 8-9 mins until the veg is slightly softened. Make sure you stir every 40 seconds to prevent sticking. Stir in the raw mince and cans of tomatoes. Fill one of the empty tins with water and add to the pan along with the red wine. Stir in a good dose of salt and pepper. Finely chop the stalks from the basil and add it to the sauce along with the paprika and sugar. Bring to the boil. Turn down heat and let sauce simmer with lid on for about 45-50 minutes or until the sauce has a good consistency. You don't want it too watery!

To finish the sauce

Preheat the oven to 190c/gas 5. Remove the Bolognese sauce from the heat. Add the finely grated Parmesan and stir in well. Take any large Basil leave, rip them up and put them into the sauce leaving any smaller ones for later.

To make your lasagne

Spoon a third of your sauce into the bottom of an earthenware oven proof dish. Follow with a layer of lasagne sheets. Dollop over a third of your creme fraiche and smooth it out to cover the lasagne. Sprinkle one third of the Parmesan and some salt and pepper. Add another layer of lasagne and repeat the layers twice more finishing with a layer of cremer fraiche and the remaining Parmesan. Add your grated cheddar. Top with slices of tomato and remaining basil. Drizzle with olive oil. Cover with foil and place in the oven for 20 minutes. After that, remove the foil and cook for further 35 minutes until the lasagne is bubbling and golden.

Maybe animals are a bad idea..

2008-11-30T00:57:00.000Z

In response to my previous post - there are those who are not too keen on buying goats or other animals for that matter at Christmas. Here is an example:

Don't follow the herd and give a cow for Christmas

We're about to enter the season of gut-busting excess, when the tills don't stop ringing and our appetites for giving and receiving get well and truly sated. Just in time, another gift idea has come along that is not about self-indulgence but doing good in the world; or so it would seem.

Paying for farm animals to be gifted to impoverished communities in the developing world, notably Africa, has moved from novelty to omnipresent fashion. The aid agencies Oxfam and Christian Aid made the early running. But this year about a dozen agencies are using your money to punt goats, chickens, sheep, camels, donkeys, pigs and cows to the world's starving. Prices vary : £70 will get you a cow from Help The Aged, whereas Send A Cow demands £750 per animal. Farm Friends wants £30 for a goat, while World Vision will settle for £91 for a whole herd.

The marketing strategy is resolutely upbeat. "Socks? A CD?," asks Farm Friend, "The search for a genuinely memorable present is over." The cow on Help the Aged's leaflet, meanwhile, is garbed in a Santa hat to distinguish the agency's effort from the rest of the herd.

The message might bring comfort to the target audience, but such schemes, sadly, are not a good thing. They serve only to increase not diminish poverty. Why? Because farming animals is an inefficient, expensive and environmentally destructive way of producing food. All farmed animals require proper nourishment, large quantities of water, shelter from extremes of weather and veterinary care. Such resources are in critically short supply in much of Africa. In fact, the wide variation in prices asked by the donor agencies testifies to this reality: arguments have broken out between Send A Cow on the one hand and Christian Aid and Oxfam on the other, as to the "quality" of the animal delivered and whether the many supplementary costs are covered in the asking price.

Sceptical readers might at this point, accuse me of dressing up a concern about animal welfare as a concern for the world's poor. Let's be clear that there are major animal welfare issues involved in sending animals to, for instance, the Horn of Africa where, earlier this year, up to 80 per cent of cattle perished in a drought and many of the remainder were washed away in the floods that followed. But this is not about cows taking precedence over people.

The reality is that animal gift schemes are, in the words of the conservation charity World Land Trust (WLT), "environmentally unsound and economically disastrous". In a statement last week, WLT declared: "Now that the grave consequences of introducing large numbers of goats and other domestic animals into fragile, arid environments is well documented, WLT considers it grossly irresponsible ... to continue with the schemes ... as a means of raising quick money for charities over the Christmas season".

It is incontestable that desertification and further human impoverishment will follow the introduction of goats into already degraded areas. But if goats are environmentally disastrous, cows are extraordinarily burdensome economically. A newly lactating animal requires up to 90 litres of water a day, a lot of food and veterinary treatment to cover endemic problems such as scours, mastitis and lameness.

But where do the vets come from? EU dairy farmers receive $2 a day per cow to remain financially viable. For many years, British sheep farmers have received more than 40 per cent of their income from the taxpayer. If such feather-bedding is needed in the comparatively benign agricultural environment of the West, how can we expect the poorest people on earth to cope with their animal "gifts"? It is many times more efficient to use the available agricultural resources - land, labour, water - to feed people direct, rather than devoting those resources to fattening animals.

Some donor agencies try to confront the inherent inefficiencies of animal farming by setting up "zero-grazing" regimes. In other words, the animals get permanently banged up in sheds. But they still need water and food - and, in such deprived environments, suffer high levels of economically punishing disease, early infertility and premature death.

Ultimately, my objection is to the commercial forces that are seeking to persuade people of the poor world that their best nutritional interests are served by buying into modern, high-throughput farmed animal production processes. With that comes an addiction to high capital input systems, additional stresses on precious water supplies, environmental destruction, a loss of control over the means of production, bad health, a nightmare animal welfare scenario and more human poverty and malnourishment.

So this year, boycott the donate-an-animal schemes and instead support projects that help people, animals and the environment. Animal Aid, for example, will be seeking support for a scheme to plant 2,000 trees in Kenya's Rift Valley province. They will bear oranges, avocados, mango, pawpaw, kei apple and macadamia nuts. Such efforts won't erase the blight of poverty in Africa, but neither will they add to it.

Andrew Tyler is director of Animal Aid

Dont buy a perfume, buy a goat!

2008-11-29T23:23:00.000Z

Before I head off on the cruise I have got myself a job with an agency which supplies actors/performers to work as sales consultants in stores such as Harrods, Selfridges, Harvey Niks and so on. I, being a new starter, have been placed in the glamorous surroundings of Debenhams on Oxford Street.

Considering the state of the world economy one would be forgiven for thinking that retail would be the first thing to suffer. Not, my friends, on Oxford Street if the last few weeks are anything to go by. The street has been chocobloc. The store has been buzzing. Even the recent 'Mega Days', where Debenhams knocked a meagre 10% off all stock, attracted an incredible crowd. People were buying. In fact people were not simply buying, they were scoffing.

According to some sources the take over the last 2 weeks has been 20% above that of last year. This may be put down to consumer panic as the first Christmas of the recession draws near. Customers could be using their spending power to put off the effects of the recession until January 2009. Or maybe people have used the boom wisely, investing well and saving for the rainy day which is now pissing on our roses. Whatever the case, I have not witnessed the symptoms of a recession on the worn out cobbles of W1.

I have to say that my first experience of retail sales has been rather enjoyable. I do find selling an exciting and often rewarding experience.Customers will only buy if there is a need. I identify the need, offer my suggestions and just let them make their choice. I hate it when you feel someone on your shoulder ready to pounce as soon as you even eyeball a bottle of Gucci.

What has got on my tits, however, is the 'need' to consume that is obvious in so many people who come through the doors of Debenhams. Anything with the slightest hint of a bargain is pounced on. People become greedy in these stores. They become hunters.

Last week a lady approached me with a worried look on her face. She was holding two perfume gift sets for men and needed my advice. She was buying for her sons. One had just got married and had everything he could possibly need, the other was environmentally friendly and quite difficult to buy for. She was not enjoying the process of buying gifts that are inherently meaningless for her siblings.

I started my pitch by suggesting one fragrance for the newly married son. 'Dolce and Gabbana's latest fragrance is elegant, trendy, subtle yet instantly recognisable. The ideal fragrance for the discerning adult male', I offered with my subtle yet bile wrenching sales spiel. She looked at me as if I was morphing into John Paul Gautier. I took the hint and ceased the pitch. It was at this moment it all became clear. My job was not just to shift stock after all, it was to make the customer happy. I placed the elegant bottle back on its overstocked shelf, took her by the hand and led her behind the Davidoff shelf where we could not be seen.

'Have you ever thought about buying a goat for Christmas?', I asked. She looked at me now as if i were morphing into a goat. 'No, it has never dawned on me', she replied uneasily. I told her of a site which I have known about for a few years now. This world gifts site allows you to forget material goods for ungrateful friends and family by purchasing useful gifts for needy people in troubled parts of the world.

I need to state here that i have never bought a goat or a cow for Christmas but the angel on my shoulder has often attempted to twist my arm in this regard. My experience of working on Oxford Street has made me consider taking the bull by the horns, so to speak, and donating a gift this Christmas.

Back to the lady. She was completely taken by this idea. She jotted down the website address, bought D&G's 'The One' for her newly shackled son and left the store a happy woman. I sold Dolce and Gabbana and a goat to a woman in Debenhams.

PS: D&G's new fragrance retails at 35 pounds sterling for a 50ml bottle. A goat is 25.

http://worldgifts.cafod.org.uk/gifts/goat

Britney -ex Factor

2008-11-29T23:06:00.001Z

Felt slightly old tonight. The entire planet seems to have been glued to Britney Spears on X Factor. I am totally disengaged. She does nothing for me. Zilch.

Au fond du Temple Saint

2008-11-29T22:14:00.001Z

Over the last number of years I have slowly tried to educate myself in Opera. As a kid I often resented operatic music being played at home. Apparently I accused my mother of trying to make Sunday's 'depressing' as she sat reading the papers and listening to an operatic medley. I do remember feeling a sense of uneasiness as such tunes would fill the halls of my Limerick home. As I look back I wonder if this uneasiness was simply a child's instinctive identification with many of the musical sentiments.

Anyhow, enough waffle. Opera is no longer depressing. It is wonderful.

I have enjoyed finding arias that I love, finding the english translation for them and learning about their context withing a particular opera. In this post I am uploading a duet from Bizet's Pearl Fishers. The video is of Roberto Alagna and Bryn Terfyl - it is considered by many to be the best rendition of this famous piece. I have included the background and translations. I hope you enjoy.

"Au fond du temple saint"
from The Pearl Fishers (Les Pêcheurs de Perles)
Music by Georges Bizet
Libretto in French by Michel Carré and Eugène Cormon

Scene: The coast of Ceylon. Zurga, the newly elected leader of the little world of Cingalese fishermen, has scarcely been inaugurated when Nadir, a long-lost friend of his youth, appears. After greeting one another with affection, they recall the time when they were foolish enough to quarrel over a beautiful priestess in the temple of Brahma, Leila.

In the duet, "Au fond du temple saint" the two men sing rapturously about falling in love at first sight with a beautiful woman as she was revealed to them for an instant in the dim, incense-clouded temple. For each it was an almost mystical experience. When they realize they were in love with the same woman, they are alarmed. Believing themselves cured of the old infatuation, they swear eternal friendship.

BRYN
It was in the evening!
In the air cooled by a breeze,
The brahmanes with faces flooded with light,
Slowly called the crowd to prayer!

ROBERTO
At the back of the holy temple,
decorated with flowers and gold,
A woman appears!
BRYN
A woman appears!
ROBERTO
I can still see her!
BRYN
I can still see her!

ROBERTO
The prostrate crowd
looks at her amazed
and murmurs under its breath:
look, this is the goddess
looming up in the shadow
and holding out her arms to us.

BRYN
Her veil parts slightly.
What a vision! What a dream!
The crowd is kneeling.

BRYN & ROBERTO
Yes, it is she!
It is the goddess,
more charming and more beautiful.
Yes, it is she!
It is the goddess
who has come down among us.
Her veil has parted and the crowd is kneeling.

ROBERTO
But through the crowd
she makes her way.

BRYN
Already her long veil
hides her face from us.

ROBERTO
My eyes, alas!
Seek her in vain!

BRYN
She flees!

ROBERTO
She flees!
But what is this strange flame
which is suddenly kindled in my soul!

BRYN
What unknown fire is destroying me?

ROBERTO
Your hand pushes mine away!

BRYN
Your hand pushes mine away!

ROBERTO
Love takes our hearts by storm
and turns us into enemies!

BRYN
No, let nothing part us!

ROBERTO
No, nothing!

BRYN
Let nothing part us!

ROBERTO
No, nothing!

BRYN
Let us swear to remain friends!
ROBERTO
Let us swear to remain friends!
BRYN
Let us swear to remain friends!

BRYN & ROBERTO
Oh yes, let us swear to remain friends!
Yes, it is her, the goddess,
who comes to unite us this day.
And, faithful to my promise,
I wish to cherish you like a brother!
It is her, the goddess,
who comes to unite us this day!
Yes, let us share the same fate,
let us be united until death!

And they're off...

2008-11-29T21:17:00.000Z

Ok so I am sitting at home chatting to a mate on msn and he has just asked me to have a read of his 'blog'. An impression has been made. It has been my intention to create a blog of my own for some years and tonight, my friends, is the night. Before I begin what I hope will be an existential love affair I must clarify for myself the exact definition of a 'blog'.

A blog (a contraction of the term "Web log") is a Web site, usually maintained by an individual with regular entries of commentary, descriptions of events, or other material such as graphics or video. Entries are commonly displayed in reverse-chronological order. "Blog" can also be used as a verb, meaning to maintain or add content to a blog.

Many blogs provide commentary or news on a particular subject; others function as more personal online diaries. A typical blog combines text, images, and links to other blogs, Web pages, and other media related to its topic. The ability for readers to leave comments in an interactive format is an important part of many blogs. Most blogs are primarily textual, although some focus on art (artlog), photographs (photoblog), sketches (sketchblog), videos (vlog), music (MP3 blog), audio (podcasting), which are part of a wider network of social media. Micro-blogging is another type of blogging, one which consists of blogs with very short posts. As of December 2007, blog search engine Technorati was tracking more than 112 million blogs.^[1] With the advent of video blogging, the word blog has taken on an even looser meaning — that of any bit of media wherein the subject expresses his opinion or simply talks about something. (Wikidpedia)

Ok so let me clarify something. There is no part of me with any intention of providing 'artlogs', 'sketchblogs' or 'vlogs'. I am a man of simple means and am happy to add this modest effort to Technorati's engine. I am also quietly smug about the fact that I am now officially engaging with an interactive format that is primarily textual.

I may provide the odd micro blog in my time but I do hope I can find it in me to allow some of my thoughts to spill into the depths of cyberland.

My initial fear (and I really do take this seriously so, yes, fear is the correct word choice) is that I have lost the ability to write. Its only when you sit down to put pen to paper that you realise what a daunting prospect lies ahead. It is personal. It is challenging.

This fear leads me on to the fact that so many others have an inherent style unique only to themselves. They have interests, beliefs, ideas, loves, losses, turns of phrase and deep wit which allows them to entertain through pure observation.

I hope to use this blog to share my own ideas and experiences in a way which is unique to me. I will strive to overcome pastiche, mimicry and smartarse-ness.

In the coming months I will embark on a six month stint as principle singer onboard Cunard's Queen Victoria cruise ship. I intend to use this blog as a means of recording the places I visit, sites I see and people I meet.

So here we are - I am now a blogger. The next steps? Do I carry a little diary with me to write things down or can I simply be spontaneous? AGGHH - why do I feel that this is to be a labour of love?!