So. Farewell Then, John Martyn

How shocking it is to hear of John Martyn’s death earlier today at the age of sixty. Martyn did not live a particularly healthy life, even to the extent of suffering the amputation of part of his right leg six years ago, but still. Sixty seems no age to take the path of the Faithful.

John Martyn was never mainstream. Solid Air, released in 1973, is probably his greatest album, and Sweet Little Mystery was on the radio in the mid-‘eighties, one of those songs that you look back on wondering why you didn’t like it at the time and blushing deeply at the memory of what you did like at the time. Another case of youth wasted on the young.

That said, Martyn’s fan base was extra-ordinarily loyal, as your correspondent discovered at one of John Martyn’s shows, at Vicar Street on November 25th last year. A friend of An Spailpín’s was kind enough to present me with a ticket, and we went, not expecting much but glad to be in out of the rain.

I had forgotten about Martyn loosing his leg; seeing him rolled in from stage left in a wheelchair was disconcerting. But he had a super, jazzy backing band and for two hours John Martyn gave it socks on stage. He also had a marvellous line in between song patter; like a lot of men who write sad songs, he had quite a sense of humour himself. If you imagine Tommy Cooper with a Glasgow accent you’d need a shipyard saw to cut you get an idea of it.

There was no pretence about John Martyn. You got what it said on the tin. I couldn’t help but notice how tarnished the saxophonist’s saxophone was, and realised this is probably because he spent more time playing it than polishing it. Martyn had the reputation of something of a guitar virtuoso and even to your correspondent’s uneducated ear, his guitar playing was extraordinary. And who would have thought then, as the hall rang with applause, that he would be gone with three months?

May God have mercy on John Martyn, and we may we remember him this way – in his prime in the early seventies on the BBC's Old Grey Whistle Test, singing one of the great secular hymns of our age, May You Never.







Technorati Tags: culture, music, John Martyn, appreciation, obituary

Fáilte is Fiche Roimh Banríon Shasana?

Bhí alt spéisiúil go leor san Irish Times inné, ag plé cathain an mbeidh sé cóir do Banríon Shasana dul ar chuairt anseo in Éirinn. Shíl an Spailpín gur chóir di teacht anseo, agus an seanchogadh thart ar deireadh, ach tar éis na píosaí inné, nílim chomh cinnte mar a bhínn.

Cuireann Mary Kenny an cás ar son na Banríona, ach ní chuireann sí go maith é. Feicim féin go mbaineann filíocht éigin le seanteidéil Shasana, ach tá Mary beagán ró-thóga leo - ní mór domsa cé atá ina leath-dheartháir leis an Iarla Rois, mar shampla. Agus maidir le máithreacha Átha Cliath ag cur fáilte le Prionsa na Breataine Bige, agus eisean anseo ar chuairt i 1995, tá an Prionsa tuilte go leor dóibh, agus go raibh siad go léir sásta lena gceile.

Chuir Charles Lysaght an crú ar an tairne nuair a iarrann sé cé a dtiocfadh amach ar na sráideanna dá mbeadh Banríon Shasana i paráid éigin ar Sráid Uí Chonáil? Cé a chasfadh brat an aontais in ómós di? An dtógfá féin, a léitheoir?

Shíleas féin le fada gur chóir Banríon Shasana dul ar chuairt anseo, chun a thaispeáint go deo go bhfuil an sean chogadh thart. Insíonn an beirt Géaróid agus Máirtín go bhfuil, agus má tá fios ag duine ar bith, tá a fios ag an dtriúr sin. Ach tá an cheart ag Lysaght san Irish Times go bhfuil sé ró-luath fós, gur mhair an dearg fola os comhair an ghlais ró-fhada chun dearmad a dhéanamh, agus Banríon Ellis II a ghlacadh mar gnáth cuairteoir eile. Ní mbaineann an fadhb le ceist an Tuaiscirt, agus síocháin ansin anois. Baineann an fadhb leis an gceist a chuireadh níos luath - cé a dtiocfadh amach chun fáilte a chur roimh an mBanríon? Cé a chasadh an brat di?

Ba cathair an tSeoinín í Bleá Cliath go deo, agus ar mo bhealach féin thall is abhus sa chathair faighim boladh Shasana i ngach uile áit. Uaireanta, i siopa éigin, ní bheidh a fios agat an i mBleá Cliath nó Brighton atá tú. Níor éirigh leis na Gaeil fíor-scoilt a dhéanamh eadrainn agus an t-oileán eile i rith na nócha bliana tar éis bunús an Saorstát, agus orainn atá an locht, agus ar na Gaeil féin amháin. Ar son cén rud ar chrochadh Caoimhín de Barra agus dódh Corcaigh? Go gcaithfeadh na Gaeil a dtráthnónta ag breathnú ar an X-Factor, cosúil le Heathcliff agus Cathy ag breathnú isteach fuinneog na Lintons san úrscéal Wuthering Heights?

Shamhail lucht 1916 go mbun náisiún Gaelach tar éis an tÉirí Amach, agus is léir anois gur theip ar an mbrionglóid sin. Ach níl an crógacht againn an fhírinne sin a admháil, nó an Éire sin a bhunadh i gceart agus mar sin, tagann an dúil amach in áiteanna aite. Is iad an dream atá ag ceannaigh na geansaí Manchester United agus ag breathnú ar an X-Factor a mbeadh amach ar na Sráideanna ag caitheamh cloch roimh an mBanríon.

Tá an cheart ag Charles Lysaght - más mhaith leis an mBanríon dul go hÉirinn ba chóir di dul anseo mar duine sa slua ag rás capall. Má thagann sí lena coróin, corróidh sí na daoine, agus an fhírinne searbh gur theip orainn an Banríon agus a ré a chur ar ár gcúl.





Technorati Tags: Gaeilge, polaitíocht, Banríon Shasana, stáir

The Domestic Miracle of Newstalk's Off the Ball

While Off the Ball, Newstalk’s evening sports show every weekday, has received much critical acclaim, its true achievement has never really been identified. It is this: for the first time, gentlemen may face the unspeakable horror of housework, knowing that at least they can listen to Off the Ball while ironing shirts or doing laundry.

Off the Ball’s success is due to its positioning – the notion of any radio worth listening to after seven o’clock in the evening is a revolutionary one – but also to the remarkable teamwork of the show’s most notable presenters, host Eoin McDevitt and soccer correspondent Ken Early. The remarkable nature of the partnership seems lost on Newstalk management, as stand-in presenters rarely match McDevitt’s calibre, and can fall distressingly below it – sometimes to the extent of the gentleman laying down his iron to give LA Woman one more spin on the trusty CD player.

McDevitt’s particular gift is one that seems simple, but its rarity on the radio suggests that it may be more difficult than it appears. McDevitt listens. He is interested in what his contributors have to say, rather than giving the impression of a man simply sitting through a lot of yak waiting for his opportunity to put his own splendid oar in, and delight an eager nation with his pensées.

The quality of the contributors on Off the Ball is exceptional – hurling analyst Daithí Regan is a particularly standout – and the sheer length of the show means that they have a lot of time to discuss an issue, rather than simply tick off boxes. McDevitt can bring a slightly embarrassing level of awe to his weekly interviews with John Giles but then, which of us could be calm in the presence of that great man?

Early is a horse of a different colour. An Spailpín Fánach hardly ever watches soccer anymore, the cheating and cowardice having become too monstrous to ignore at this stage, but Early is a man capable of making converts. Early is that rarest of creatures, a soccer savant. In a game where “well, the lad’s a bit special” is considered seeing life steady and seeing it whole, to hear Early riff on comparisons between a player and Field Marshall Von Blucher, the man who out-Napoleoned Napoleon at Waterloo, is heady stuff indeed.

Soccer savants give the impression that the game of soccer is a precise and detailed metaphor for life itself. The most notable example of such a savant we had here was Eamon Dunphy of course, before Dunphy became a caricature of himself in his mean-spirited attacks on Giovanni Trapattoni. Early is now the inheritor of that mantle – more rapier than Dunphy’s broadsword, and always worth listening to.

McDevitt is aware of Early’s talents and, in his best form, acts as agent provocateur to Early, egging on Early to greater flights of fancy. It doesn’t always work, of course, but when it does it’s sublime. Thank God for Off the Ball – imagine how rumpled shirts would be at those eleven o’clock meetings if it were no longer on the air?





Technorati Tags: Ireland, culture, sport, media, radio, Newstalk, Off the Ball, Eoin McDevitt, Ken Early

Reading the Runes of the Dublin Bus Routes

An Spailpín Fánach is mystified why Dublin Bus isn’t a more popular topic of conversation in the city. Dublin Bus, as the majority public transport system in the city, has a huge impact on the lives of the populace. But there never seems to be any discussion of how the buses operate; why they do what they do, and why they don’t do something else. Perhaps the fact that one so seldom sees the likes of Ryan Tubridy or Gee Ryan squeezed in the standing room part of the bus between the chemically dependent and the hygienically disinclined has something to do with it.

The news reports of the job losses in Dublin Bus have been cursory at best, and overtaken by the hideous scenes at the Anglo-Irish Bank EGM. Is this an instance of news management on Dublin Bus’s part? How interesting to note, for instance, that the latest news section of the News Centre link on the Dublin Bus website does not have any news of the layoffs at all, or their consequent effect on the overall service in the city?

Curiouser and curiouser. How interesting also to note the repeated commitments that, in spite of the great breach in the hull of the company’s finances, no routes will be lost. To which An Spailpín asks: why not?

Who decides what makes a bus route? How do you get that job? Who comes first? The company, the drivers’ union, or the commuter? Perhaps a look at some of those routes – that are immaculate, inviolate, safe from the sickle – will be instructive.

Let’s start at the start. Route 1. Route 1 of Dublin runs twice daily. At half past seven in the morning and eight minutes past five in the evening, a bus leaves Parnell Square East and travels to Poolbeg Extension (whatever that is). A bus makes the return journey, twice daily, at five to eight and twenty to six. There is one bus at the weekend, early in the morning on Saturday, and that’s it. And what An Spailpín wants to know is: why?

Route 5, from O’Connell Street to Sandyford Industrial Estate. Five times daily, there and back. Buses at eight, eleven, twelve, one and three. Why? Who needs to go from O’Connell Street to the Sandyford Industrial Estate at those hours?

Route 58c is a bit of a legend. It’s one for the connoisseur, the same way that On Her Majesty’s Secret Service was the biggest flop of all the Bond movies, but always gets high marks among aficionados. Route 58c runs from Parnell Square West to Dún Laoghaire, and goes via Foxrock Church on the way. It’s a bus for people that enjoy a spin, clearly – how much better it would have suited Liam Reilly than the 46A during that famous summer in Dublin. But the Bagatelle balladeer mightn’t have been able to catch it of course. Because the 58c runs but once a day – in the morning, it leaves Dún Laoghaire at 7:35, and then returns, from Parnell Square West, at 5:17 in the evening. There is no service on Saturday or Sunday. Why is that?

Route 51 is remarkable for not having a return route. Five times between half-six and nine-thirty in the morning the 51 brings commuters in from Neilstown to Aston Quay. And then just leaves them there, apparently. Why isn’t there a return route? What’s the grand plan behind all this?

Route 86 is one of those buses that is rarely seen. It runs in the deep south, from Shankill to the Sandyford Industrial Estate at twenty-five past seven every Monday to Friday. One of very few similarities between the denizens of Shankill and Neilstown is that, like Neilstown’s 51, the 86 doesn’t seem to have a return route either. Why?

These are just some of the highlights of course – true busmen simply need to say “78” or “142” or even, God help us, “70x” to each other during the Friday night post work pints to reduce the company to tears of laughter. What is sweeter than the in-joke?

Someone once said that, to truly understand James Joyce’s Ulysses, you needed a working knowledge of the Dublin tram system of June 16th, 1904. Reader, imagine the modernist masterpiece that could be written by someone who can figure out the bus routes?





Technorati Tags: Ireland, Dublin, Dublin Bus, Bus Routes, Commuting

Exclusive Preview of the New U2 Single - A Return to their Early Days

An Spailpín Fánach is thrilled to offer visitors and exclusive sneak preview of the new U2 single, which features our heroes in a return to one of their first and greatest hits, given a contemporary slant. Take it away (whoops!) boys!

I can’t believe the revenue
Sent a letter to the members of U2

When will,
When will you pay your taxes?
When will? When will?

Cowen’s raising taxes no matter who you are
Don’t he know it’s not cheap to be a star?
But we’ve thought up of a plan
Pack our bags up,
Pack our bags for Amsterdam

Taxes, bloody taxes
Taxes, bloody taxes
Taxes, bloody taxes (taxes, bloody taxes)
Toothbrush packed, I’m off!

Third world debt really bothers me
But not as much as the Irish VAT
They must be smoking something funny
To think I’ll sponsor any Irish dole bunny

Taxes, bloody taxes
Taxes, bloody taxes

Cause tonight ... I’m keeping all my money
Tonight...
Tonight...

Taxes, bloody taxes (tonight)
Tonight
Taxes, bloody taxes (tonight)
(Won’t pay none!)

Take your bills away
Take your bills away
Take your bills away
Take your bills away
I won’t pay your bills today
Taxes, bloody taxes

Taxes, bloody taxes (taxes, bloody taxes)
Taxes, bloody taxes (taxes, bloody taxes)
(Not for me!)





Technorati Tags: Ireland, culture, music,
U2

Got No Money? Feeling Peaky? It's No Problem, Just Send for Twiki!

RTÉ’s Prime Time made an extraordinary editorial decision tonight. They had a special edition devoted to discussing the recession, which was correct – anyone that isn’t bricking it over the recession isn’t paying attention. And then they had a panel discussion about the recession, during which George Lee was suitably biblical.

And then, for reasons that still have your faithful correspondent shaking his head, more in sorrow than in anger, they had a ten or fifteen minute film about hope for the future. And this was based on interviewing people who are running start-up companies with the idea that the country will rise on the backs of these like a phoenix from the ashes.

Well. That is a relief. An Spailpín had been getting worried.

Then they had another studio discussion. Alan Aherne of NUI, Galway, and Richard Curran of the Sunday Business Post remained determined to tell things as they are, rather than as Mark “Give Us Hope!” Little’s vision would dictate. There was also Padraig White, who could have done with a haircut. And then there was Aileen O’Toole, from a company called AMAS.

AMAS, we were told, is a company that helps people use the internet. Everybody reading this blog is using the internet. Using the internet isn’t that hard. This is grand sort of stuff fifteen years ago, when people could say with a straight face that learning html was an easy intro to learning a computing language without getting laughed out of court. If people have to be taken by the hand and told “this is a browser, this is a mouse,” then the best thing to do would be to say “this is the door, this is my shoe.” But perhaps it was just sloppy editorial. What did Ms O’Toole think the future held?

“We are in the right space in terms of going forward,” said Ms O’Toole. How John Murray would love to meet her, and take her out for dinner. He could take the necessary notes on his sleeve during bathroom breaks.

Ms O’Toole's big marrow did not win first prize from Evelyn Waugh, however. It is only fair to point out that An Spailpín Fánach is the same man who hooted with laughter twenty-five years ago when Geoff Read told Gay Byrne on the Late Late Show that he was going to make a mint selling bottled water, so I could be wrong here.

But if Mr Andrew Deegan thinks he can turn serious coin making little model robots, as demonstrated to Mark Little during the film, he may need to think again. It could be the program did him wrong; some quick googling tells us that Mr Deegan is in a venture called Breakout Gaming Concepts and gaming, though your correspondent understands not its appeal, has a future. Prime Time should have brought this to the front, instead of choosing the bizarre “we are an entrepreneurial nation” approach it did.

Because An Spailpín’s only thought, watching Mr Deegan measure some piece of a plastic with a set square – a set square! – was to think that the only way that buckeen is ever going to get a month off the dole queue in the next twenty years is if they make a movie version of Buck Rogers, and the call goes out for a brand new Twiki. Beedi-beedi-beedi readers! I’m going to drink a lot of whiskey now. It’s the only way I sleep anymore.





Technorati Tags: Ireland, politics, Prime Time, recession, Twiki

Lá an Choilín - Gradam an Golden Globe Buaite ag an bhFearalach

Tugann súil ghearr an Spailpín faoi dheara gur éirigh le Coilín Ó Fearail gradam an Golden Globe a bhuachan oíche Dé Domhnaigh amach i Los Angeles, Meiriceá, as ucht a thaispeántas sa scannán In Bruges.

Chonaic an Spailpín an scannán céanna, agus dár liomsa má tá gradam tuilte ag daoine dá laghad sa scannán tá sé tuilte ag Breandán Ó Gliasáin, a thug taispeántas ana-chumhachtach mar fear foréigin ag iarraidh rud maith a dhéanamh uair amháin sula gcuirfear faoin bhfód é. Bhí meas agam freisin ar thaispeántas Ralph Fiennes freisin, ach bím faoi draíocht i gcónaí leis na Lahndahn geezers sin. Ach an Fearalach in In Bruges an aisteoir is fearr i scannán grinn nó cheoil i mbliana? Ní chreidim.

Tá locht mór sa scannán In Bruges. Agus scannán mar sin idir láimhe agat, caithfear smacht a choinneáil i gcónaí ar thon an scannáin, agus theip orthu le sin in In Bruges. Éiríonn na cúrsaí grinn go maith, go háirithe na Meiriceánaigh rómhair a mbuaileann leis an bhFearalach agus iadsan chun staighre fada a dhreapadh, ach titeann an tóin as nuair a thaispeántar corp an linbh ar mharaigh Ray, carachtar an Fhearalaigh, i rith an scannán. Caithfear an corp a choinneáil as radharc, ar eagla go mbrisfear an mí-chreideamh. Tá blás chreidimh Chaitliceachais sa scannán, agus an Fearalach agus an Gliasánach ag breathnú ar na sean-phictiúir ar chúrsaí chreidimh i mBruges fite fuaite leis an súgradh, ach tá an meascáin ní cheart.

Ní aontaíonn mórán liomsa, áfach. Is laoch é an Fearalach ina bhaile dúchais, agus nuair a chonaic mise an scannán sa phictiúrlann an Savoy ar Sráid Uí Chonaill an bhliain seo caite, ní fheadair leis an bhFearalach cos a chur amú. Tá radharc sa scannán ina mbriseann troid amach i mbialann éigin, agus buaileann Ray bean buille lán díreach isteach ina gob. Bhí uafás ar an Spailpín, ach bhí leath an slua ag gáire fúithi agus leath eile ag beiceáil a dtacaíocht don bhFearalach, fear mar a gcíne féin. Ní thuigim, agus ní thuigfidh go deo.

Ní hé sin an chéad uair a chuir an Fearalach ionadh orm, ach an oiread. Cúig bhliain ó shin, agus na Cluichí Oilimpeacha Speisialta Domhanda 2003 ar siúl in Éirinn, bhuaileas le cara chara domsa, cailín a bhí ag tacaíocht leis an ócáid mhór. D'iarradh uirthi cad é buaicphointe an seachtaine di, agus d'inis sí dúinn ní h-amháin gur bhuail sí le Coilín Ó Fearail, ach gur leag sé a lámh uirthi. "An cladhaire salach!," arsa an Spailpín, an ridire bán, an galántach deireadh. Bhí gach uile bean sa seomra ag féachaint orm mar daoine ag iarraidh orthu féin cé hé an t-amadán tofa seo? An uair sin, théadh gach cailín in Éirinn ina codladh ag brionglóid go mbrisfeadh Coilín isteach chomh fada di i rith na h-oíche. Tá an bua aige. Mo mhallacht go daingean air!





Technorati Tags: Gaeilge, scannáin, cultúr, In Bruges, Colin Farrell

Three More Nails in the Coffin

A friend of your faithful correspondent recently spotted something in Dublin that gives something of a chilling illustration of just how bad things are in Ireland right now.

These three photographs are all of premises within five hundred feet of each other, on Prospect Road, Phibsboro, Dublin 9.

Chartbusters is the first of the three premises you meet as you walk north, towards Glasnevin cemetery. Chartbusters called in the liquidators last week. The shop in Phibsboro was either cc’d on the email or else has a boss who reads the papers, and is now flogging its stock and getting set to put up the boards.

McDonald’s plc isn’t going anywhere, of course, but the retail unit in Phibsboro is up for lease in one month, according to a sign on the building. Nothing symbolises Western Capitalism of the late twentieth century like Mickey D’s golden arches. And now they’re packing up and getting out of Dodge.

And finally Douglas Newman Good, like Saville’s on the other side of the North Circular Road, have moved along. What went around has come around for the auctioneering business in a grim illustration of just how delicate a bubble it really was.

Here’s the thing. Phibsboro is one and a half miles distant from the beating heart of Dublin. You can walk as far as it from O'Connell Street in half an hour. By any measure of a city, Phibsboro is a prime retail location. And these three shops are now gone or going. Dear God in Heaven – what’s going to be left come the summer? Will there even be a summer?






Technorati Tags: Ireland, Dublin, politics, recession, Phibsboro

So. Farewell Then, Tony Gregory

How sad it is to hear of the death of Tony Gregory, TD, this evening. Mr Gregory died today at St Francis’ Hospice in Raheny after fighting a long and brave battle with cancer. Cancer eventually won, like it does.

Tony Gregory’s death marks the end of an era in Irish politics. The eighties were not a good time for the country, but Mr Gregory will always be remembered with fondness and affection as a good man in a bad world.

Persons of a certain age will remember Tony Gregory’s vivid entry into Irish public life in 1982. Country bumpkins, such as your correspondent, An Spailpín Fánach, were always aware that there were some hard chaws in Dubbalin town but seeing some bowsie with no respect for God, man or the divil marching into Dáil Éireann with no tie on him was taking things a bit far. Gregory delivered his famous Gregory Deal to his constituents in the north inner city of Dublin, while we in the hungry west left the snipe grass for Cricklewood and Camden Town, just like we always did. One-nil to the De Dubs, once more.

And then the years rolled on, as they do, as the country changed through the eighties with the building of the IFC and the re-generation of Temple Bar (both in Dublin). Eventually, the first mewlings of the Celtic Tiger became a full, throaty roar and all those heaps and heaps of money suddenly manifesting around the country affected Tony Gregory not in the slightest. In the slightest.

This, I think, is Gregory’s greatest asset, and what makes him such a remarkable man in our political life. Irish politics is notoriously short on principle; principle Gregory had in spades. While others bleat about injustice over plates of smoked salmon, Tony Gregory did stir in the ‘Joy out of solidarity with the Moore Street traders. We live in an age where socialist candidates for the Dáil canvas outside Morton’s supermarket in Ranelagh, just about the last place you’d think of to cash in your butter vouchers. Tony Gregory kept his head down and stayed with his people.

It was interesting, listening to some of the radio reportage on him this evening, to find out just how private a man Tony Gregory was. Most politicians, whether they are aware of it or not, choose that terrible and doomed-to-failure life because they cannot resist the siren songs of power and prestige. Tony Gregory dealt with that world with gritted teeth. He was an unlikely candidate to appear on Fáilte Towers or Celebrity Jigs 'n' Reels.

Stephen Collins, political editor of the Irish Times, told Ivan Yates on Newstalk this evening of how little Gregory cared for journalists or their company, and how deeply suspicious he was of them. This is the diametric opposite of most politicians, who normally try to inveigle themselves with the fourth estate by attempting to drown the quillsmen with free whiskey. An approach that can be very successful in that very clubby world of Irish public life.

Speaking of whom; a journalist remarked on a radio station this evening that Tony Gregory’s refusal to wear a tie to the Dáil was revolutionary in the ‘eighties, whereas the Green Party’s Paul Gogarty now regularly appears in the chamber with an open collar. Tony Gregory famously remarked, when questioned about the tie back in the ‘eighties, that most of his constituents couldn’t afford a tie. Mr Gregory represented the damned and dispossessed, the people of Sherriff Street and Amiens Street, of Ballybock and Summerhill and Mountjoy Square. Mr Gogarty has a You Tube link on his page on the Green Party website about confessing one’s carbon sins at the Electric Picnic. Maybe a tie is not the only measure of a man.

Ar dheis Dé go raibh anam uasal Tony Gregory, fear cróga a sheasadh a fhód ar son a mhuintir gan bogadh gan bacadh. Ní bheidh a leithéid arís ann.





Technorati Tags: Ireland, politics, Tony Gregory, obituary, Dublin