I'm sitting in the Molson-Pub Bar & Grill in Toronto International Airport, I'm sucking an ice-water through a lemony straw. I've probably got another half an hour or so of good faith with the staff before they encourage me to order or leave.
The good faith I have is based on the Double Morgan and Coke I had when I came in.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but instead of making me pleasantly drunk it gave me a wet-slap of a headache which nearly knocked me unconscious.
It suddenly occurred to my body-clock that I had been awake for 18 straight hours (ironic because it is 6 o'clock pm here in Toronto) and it responded my making me so incapable of focus that I had a tricky time making eye contact with the staff to ask for water.
My wonderful master-plan for my trip through Toronto has completely fallen through.
The aformentioned plan went something like this: go to Toronto. leave the airport, and get a train into a nice downtown area. Eat a meal and wonder around. Return to the Airport and Fly to LAX.
Naturally enough my plane to Canada was hideously delayed and I spent time that was meant to be spent investigating Toronto, sitting on a floor in Dublin.
When I arrived at YYZ I discovered that US Immigration had created a marvellous, inescapable red-tape maze, which chewed me up and spat me into the US departures end of YYZ.
Time to move on.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Michelle In DIT
Took this picture of Michelle in DIT today.
(Also found out that I can post pictures and posts straight to my blog from flickr)
-Rory
(Also found out that I can post pictures and posts straight to my blog from flickr)
-Rory
Monday, January 19, 2009
Update
One of my poems and two of my articles were read out in Joels Awful Snack 89b!
Thanks for the mention Joel!
-Rory
Thanks for the mention Joel!
-Rory
Monday, September 15, 2008
First Kiss
We danced slowly, I am naturally uncomfortable with dancing so I was very relieved to find her a willing and capable lead. I followed her as we gently moved from side to side.
I did my best to pick up any other mannerisms, like looks and gestures: if she looked down and to her left I looked down and two my right. I immediately drew the comparison to 'looks' from Zoolander.
After a while I stopped clowning around... I was distracted by the smile which had bloomed on my partners face.
I noticed that she was much, much closer than she had been when we started dancing. I wanted to know that she was on board with us kissing (part of why I enjoy being drunk is that I stop worrying about this stuff) so while doing my best to keep the slow beat of the song I looked in her eyes and notified her that we had been moving closer together.
She insisted that I had been the one moving closer to her but I still held it was mutual. I told her that 'regardless of the cause we will meet in...' and I trailed off, I had no idea how long we were dancing, when did we start? How far apart were we then? What distance had we covered so far? In the end I decided there were simply too many variables so I chose an arbitrary number that would give her time to laugh at this outlandish statement and resume dancing in time to steadily lean in and kiss before the song ended.
'thirty or forty seconds' I said immediately regretting it, it suddenly sounded like an eternity. But before I knew it we were locked in a tight embrace on a dance floor kissing in a somewhat melodramatic way.
It was a truly excellent first kiss.
-ANkh
I did my best to pick up any other mannerisms, like looks and gestures: if she looked down and to her left I looked down and two my right. I immediately drew the comparison to 'looks' from Zoolander.
After a while I stopped clowning around... I was distracted by the smile which had bloomed on my partners face.
I noticed that she was much, much closer than she had been when we started dancing. I wanted to know that she was on board with us kissing (part of why I enjoy being drunk is that I stop worrying about this stuff) so while doing my best to keep the slow beat of the song I looked in her eyes and notified her that we had been moving closer together.
She insisted that I had been the one moving closer to her but I still held it was mutual. I told her that 'regardless of the cause we will meet in...' and I trailed off, I had no idea how long we were dancing, when did we start? How far apart were we then? What distance had we covered so far? In the end I decided there were simply too many variables so I chose an arbitrary number that would give her time to laugh at this outlandish statement and resume dancing in time to steadily lean in and kiss before the song ended.
'thirty or forty seconds' I said immediately regretting it, it suddenly sounded like an eternity. But before I knew it we were locked in a tight embrace on a dance floor kissing in a somewhat melodramatic way.
It was a truly excellent first kiss.
-ANkh
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Bastard Review Song
On Tuesday my good friend Neil told me about an idea of his to make Zero Punctuation style reviews of the plays we would see as members of DIT Drama.
I was quite taken with this idea and in this shower this morning (A great deal of my ideas arrive in the shower... typically the only place I cant use a notebook or a tape recorder) I had an idea for song.
In order to keep the song structured and in my head I continued to sing it to myself for the next half-hour. So if anyone asks... that is my excuse.
Anyway this should be sung in a loud and verbose manner, possibly accompanied by a piano.
It's times like this I wish I had given a crap when I was taking piano lessons*.
Bastard Review
Before
It's just another crazy bastard review!
Find out what those crazy bastards, think of you!
In yet another crazy, BAS-TARD REV-IEW!
After
That was a crazy, bastard review.
Just another crazy bastard review.
Oh please mother, don't make me watch another...
BAS-TARD RE-VIEW!
I hope we get to use it.
-ANkh
*It's an odd fact that I was never interested in art or drawing anything until well after people stopped trying to teach it to me, the same with music.
I was quite taken with this idea and in this shower this morning (A great deal of my ideas arrive in the shower... typically the only place I cant use a notebook or a tape recorder) I had an idea for song.
In order to keep the song structured and in my head I continued to sing it to myself for the next half-hour. So if anyone asks... that is my excuse.
Anyway this should be sung in a loud and verbose manner, possibly accompanied by a piano.
It's times like this I wish I had given a crap when I was taking piano lessons*.
Bastard Review
Before
It's just another crazy bastard review!
Find out what those crazy bastards, think of you!
In yet another crazy, BAS-TARD REV-IEW!
After
That was a crazy, bastard review.
Just another crazy bastard review.
Oh please mother, don't make me watch another...
BAS-TARD RE-VIEW!
I hope we get to use it.
-ANkh
*It's an odd fact that I was never interested in art or drawing anything until well after people stopped trying to teach it to me, the same with music.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Evil Crane
Arwen's rather demented belief that The Crane looked 'evil' prompted me to attempt to make an evil Ralph Steadman style crane.
Thus we have: Evil Crane.
As usual drawing a female of the species caused my normal breast-drawing-panic and I had to go scurrying through my photo archive for a girl in t-shirt. I eventually used a picture of my ex-girlfriend.
Ah... I don't miss her much... but I do miss her breasts...
-ANkh
P.S. Check out plurk. I'm really starting to like it.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Barstow
I was walking towards my front door when the drink began to take hold.
My hands seemed big and loosely connected to the rest of my body, using them was difficult.
I tried to take out my keys, I would need the big one to undo the bolt. My fingers did not agree with my objectives; they fumbled and nearly dropped my keyring. Eventually I grabbed out my door key, ready to plunge into the door. Sadly upon further inspection the key was for the snub at the top of the door, making it useless until the bolt had been withdrawn.
After further fighting and scrabbling I found the key I needed and with it and the stub key stumbled into the house. I locked the door behind me with surprising ease and stumbled off towards the bathroom.
It had all started several hours before in an MG hot-hatch traveling from Glasthule to Dalkey.
I was with my comrade-at-arms, a scoundrel conman; and his friend, a queasy young fellow whose great passions were driving, making money and listening to some of the worst music ever recorded by human beings. He was lambasting our eardrums with a boot-full of expensive sound equipment and talking excitedly about his next business deal as he blasted through the quiet streets of empty towns, desperately trying to hit the speed limit between stops by accelerating dangerously.
"So I'll pick you guys up and we'll all go in together tonight, okay?" he screamed at us over a terrible dance remix of a mediocre one-hit-wonder.
'Going in' would mean going back to Dun Laoghaire, which was hosting 'The Festival of World Cultures' an annual event which had been slowly gaining momentum for the past few years until it turned into the riotous event of thronging crowds and banging drums that it is today. My first trip there had gleaned only two nuggets of information: 1. The little restaurant by the seafront should server mozzarella burgers all the time, and 2. I hate everyone.
My comrade, whose two greatest fears are walking and paying for anything (especially public transportation) wholeheartedly agreed with this proposal, but he insisted that he would need a few hours to nap before he could face the public. (In scoundreling the early bird gets the worm, and he had also spent most of the preceding night chasing that same worm.)
I saw this as an opportunity to both escape my accursed studies and observe and interact with the local fauna, and agreed.
At Ten O'Clock my peaceful neighborhood was rudely disturbed by the blasting horn of a blue MG, shivering with the recoil from it's speaker system, which were treating the surrounding houses to the 'Euphoria Cut' of The End.
I was in the bathroom polishing my shoes at the time and was quite startled by the ruckus. The thought that my neighborhood was experiencing its first gang shooting crossed my mind as I marched towards my front door. I gingerly opened the door to see my neighbor standing at her gate, glaring down the road towards the source of the disturbance. As I went to walk past her, I said my normal cheerful hello; she twitched and spun around.
'Hey Rory, you startled me'
'Sorry, whatcha doin'?'
'Just keepin' an eye on these' she said and waved a hand towards the car.
'Oh' I said and coolly walked past to squeeze my frame into the rear seat of the car.
I looked back as we tore away to see the look of vague discomfort on her face.
My hands seemed big and loosely connected to the rest of my body, using them was difficult.
I tried to take out my keys, I would need the big one to undo the bolt. My fingers did not agree with my objectives; they fumbled and nearly dropped my keyring. Eventually I grabbed out my door key, ready to plunge into the door. Sadly upon further inspection the key was for the snub at the top of the door, making it useless until the bolt had been withdrawn.
After further fighting and scrabbling I found the key I needed and with it and the stub key stumbled into the house. I locked the door behind me with surprising ease and stumbled off towards the bathroom.
It had all started several hours before in an MG hot-hatch traveling from Glasthule to Dalkey.
I was with my comrade-at-arms, a scoundrel conman; and his friend, a queasy young fellow whose great passions were driving, making money and listening to some of the worst music ever recorded by human beings. He was lambasting our eardrums with a boot-full of expensive sound equipment and talking excitedly about his next business deal as he blasted through the quiet streets of empty towns, desperately trying to hit the speed limit between stops by accelerating dangerously.
"So I'll pick you guys up and we'll all go in together tonight, okay?" he screamed at us over a terrible dance remix of a mediocre one-hit-wonder.
'Going in' would mean going back to Dun Laoghaire, which was hosting 'The Festival of World Cultures' an annual event which had been slowly gaining momentum for the past few years until it turned into the riotous event of thronging crowds and banging drums that it is today. My first trip there had gleaned only two nuggets of information: 1. The little restaurant by the seafront should server mozzarella burgers all the time, and 2. I hate everyone.
My comrade, whose two greatest fears are walking and paying for anything (especially public transportation) wholeheartedly agreed with this proposal, but he insisted that he would need a few hours to nap before he could face the public. (In scoundreling the early bird gets the worm, and he had also spent most of the preceding night chasing that same worm.)
I saw this as an opportunity to both escape my accursed studies and observe and interact with the local fauna, and agreed.
At Ten O'Clock my peaceful neighborhood was rudely disturbed by the blasting horn of a blue MG, shivering with the recoil from it's speaker system, which were treating the surrounding houses to the 'Euphoria Cut' of The End.
I was in the bathroom polishing my shoes at the time and was quite startled by the ruckus. The thought that my neighborhood was experiencing its first gang shooting crossed my mind as I marched towards my front door. I gingerly opened the door to see my neighbor standing at her gate, glaring down the road towards the source of the disturbance. As I went to walk past her, I said my normal cheerful hello; she twitched and spun around.
'Hey Rory, you startled me'
'Sorry, whatcha doin'?'
'Just keepin' an eye on these' she said and waved a hand towards the car.
'Oh' I said and coolly walked past to squeeze my frame into the rear seat of the car.
I looked back as we tore away to see the look of vague discomfort on her face.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Holiday Snaps
Finally got around to loading some holiday snaps onto the web.
Here are some nice shots of cars: http://picasaweb.google.com/Ankhwatcher/OldCars
Here is what I did while wandering around a small town at 5am: http://picasaweb.google.com/Ankhwatcher/DeepNight
Here is the office where I was working/hanging out: http://picasaweb.google.com/Ankhwatcher/SAGA
-ANkh
Here are some nice shots of cars: http://picasaweb.google.com/Ankhwatcher/OldCars
Here is what I did while wandering around a small town at 5am: http://picasaweb.google.com/Ankhwatcher/DeepNight
Here is the office where I was working/hanging out: http://picasaweb.google.com/Ankhwatcher/SAGA
-ANkh
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Damn The Infernal Night
It is approximately 2.50am. I will be rising from bed at 7am. I have not slept. I finished 'Hell's Angels - A Strange and Terrible Saga' by Hunter S. Thompson. My fan is too noisy, it makes an irritating clicking noise as it runs. My pillows are somehow, all wrong. Women are problematic. Decisions are second guessed. Blah. Here I am, caught again. Awake in The Infernal Night. The Long Dark Tea Time Of The Soul.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Hello, I'm drunk
I said to the attractive girl waiting at the bus stop. She laughed and found humour in that and my many drunken comments and questions as I related a night of drunken debauchery at Ireland's capitol of weird: Fibber Magees on Parnell street.
I arrived in Fibbers practically breathless from my habit of walking everywhere with my back stiff in a walk of near-run speeds. I burst in behind two attractive young ladies who were not dressed in a fibbers-like manor, speaking of which: I was not dressed in a way that would be familiar to the inhabitants of the establishment either.
I was wearing a well fit top, which was black with vertical white stripes, I was also wearing a pair of 'easy fit' jeans and leather shoes.
The standard Fibberwear of the Fibbermen (as the regulars are known) is
3 to 5 facial piercings.
2 visible tattoos and 1 large, obscured tattoo that can be exposed later, this will serve as a conversation piece during a lull.
A large black jacket, preferably the kind worn by Neo in the lobby scene of the matrix; failing that a large, loose, fading jean-jacket will suffice.
A band t-shirt, preferably beaten to shreds and displaying the name of an obscure band with terrible vocals.
A pair of big black army boots, if big black army boots are unavailable black boots of the near-platform style with pretend-steel capping bolted on for effect with suffice.
Hair should be died red. Extra points go for creativity in this field.
So clearly my clothing choices, which would have made me perfectly acceptable in snotty clubs across the city; made me stand out here.
I arrived in Fibbers practically breathless from my habit of walking everywhere with my back stiff in a walk of near-run speeds. I burst in behind two attractive young ladies who were not dressed in a fibbers-like manor, speaking of which: I was not dressed in a way that would be familiar to the inhabitants of the establishment either.
I was wearing a well fit top, which was black with vertical white stripes, I was also wearing a pair of 'easy fit' jeans and leather shoes.
The standard Fibberwear of the Fibbermen (as the regulars are known) is
3 to 5 facial piercings.
2 visible tattoos and 1 large, obscured tattoo that can be exposed later, this will serve as a conversation piece during a lull.
A large black jacket, preferably the kind worn by Neo in the lobby scene of the matrix; failing that a large, loose, fading jean-jacket will suffice.
A band t-shirt, preferably beaten to shreds and displaying the name of an obscure band with terrible vocals.
A pair of big black army boots, if big black army boots are unavailable black boots of the near-platform style with pretend-steel capping bolted on for effect with suffice.
Hair should be died red. Extra points go for creativity in this field.
So clearly my clothing choices, which would have made me perfectly acceptable in snotty clubs across the city; made me stand out here.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Story So Far
What I did on my summer holidays:
Well lets see... I spent most of June building and setting up my new PC and generally being a total shut-in. Then I did some work in July, which resulted in money that disappeared so fast I suspect I may have burnt it.
Then I went to California, where I played tech. support for my dads office for two/three weeks, put on a few kilo's and bought some nice clothes.
And I arrived back two days ago.
Since I got back I've been going to the gym every day! (2/2 ain't bad) But that is probably only going to last until my first hangover: natch.
California was a big vacuum of no friends and no drinking so I'm in a big hurry to go out... which is also a good way to avoid studying for my host [a veritable buffet] of repeats (exams): natch (Is there a limit to how many times you are allowed say 'natch'? Where would I look that up, 'Natch-etiquette'?).
Of course this is slightly way-laid by my complete lack of funds. By my rough calculation I am around 90-150 euro in debt (Subtracting credit card from bank balance to reach this figure), with no obvious way to climb out of this hole except working my 1-day a week job for a few weeks and staying in my house like some sort of leper-hermit; which is how I got into this state in the first place. bah.
-ANkh
Well lets see... I spent most of June building and setting up my new PC and generally being a total shut-in. Then I did some work in July, which resulted in money that disappeared so fast I suspect I may have burnt it.
Then I went to California, where I played tech. support for my dads office for two/three weeks, put on a few kilo's and bought some nice clothes.
And I arrived back two days ago.
Since I got back I've been going to the gym every day! (2/2 ain't bad) But that is probably only going to last until my first hangover: natch.
California was a big vacuum of no friends and no drinking so I'm in a big hurry to go out... which is also a good way to avoid studying for my host [a veritable buffet] of repeats (exams): natch (Is there a limit to how many times you are allowed say 'natch'? Where would I look that up, 'Natch-etiquette'?).
Of course this is slightly way-laid by my complete lack of funds. By my rough calculation I am around 90-150 euro in debt (Subtracting credit card from bank balance to reach this figure), with no obvious way to climb out of this hole except working my 1-day a week job for a few weeks and staying in my house like some sort of leper-hermit; which is how I got into this state in the first place. bah.
-ANkh
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Hope - new version
Here is a rhyming version of 'Hope is the thing with barbs', enjoy.
Hope is the thing with barbs
That flashes near the beach,
Which Shines of Silver– Glitters of Gold
Never quite in reach,
And luring when all is calm;
And never giving peace
That could relax the weathered soul
Thats problems willn’t cease.
But when the trap is sprung;
And I take the bait,
Then my fate is set,
And barbs don’t abate.
-Ankhwatcher
Hope is the thing with barbs
That flashes near the beach,
Which Shines of Silver– Glitters of Gold
Never quite in reach,
And luring when all is calm;
And never giving peace
That could relax the weathered soul
Thats problems willn’t cease.
But when the trap is sprung;
And I take the bait,
Then my fate is set,
And barbs don’t abate.
-Ankhwatcher
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Hope
'Hope is the thing with feathers' or 'Hope' is a wonderful Emily Dickinson poem comparing hope to a bird.
Here it is:
So here is my take:
Note: This is the first draft, and I will be scratching my head over fixing the rhyming scheme, there is still work to do.
-Love ya kids.
Here it is:
Hope
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-Emily Dickinson
So here is my take:
Note: This is the first draft, and I will be scratching my head over fixing the rhyming scheme, there is still work to do.
Hope
Hope is the thing with barbs
That flashes in the water,
And shines –glimmers gold
Always just ahead,
And luring when all is calm;
And never giving peace
That could relax the weathered soul
That’s seen such rough a sea.
But when the trap is sprung;
And I take the bait,
Then my fate is set,
And barbs don’t abate.
-Ankhwatcher
-Love ya kids.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Today I decided I wanted an account on a website called 'Ping.fm'. When I went to their sign up page I found to my dismay that they were in what is known as a 'closed beta'.
A 'closed beta' is where they have a functional product but are still limiting its use to a small group of hand-picked test users. Traditionally a 'closed beta' would be the step before an 'open beta' where the software or service is expected to be fully functional but lacking polish. But in the case of this website I suspect the 'closed beta' will lead to a full release.
Their sign up page has details.
Upon reviewing their sign up page I decided it would probably be best for me to send them a communique requesting access to their closed beta.
The message is preserved below:
It seems to me that ping.fm is all about laziness. A website that will stop me from having to go to the trouble of checking both twitter and plurk.
Naturally this a service I as a slacker (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Church_of_the_SubGenius#Slack) would like to avail of.
Your sign up page essentially gave me what I chose to consider two options: I could either google to find one the "many sources providing them" or "send [you] a message and try to swindle an account from [you]".
In keeping with what i feel is the spirit of ping.fm I tried to gauge which of these two options would involve the least amount of work for me.
Of course this is very hard to determine from the given starting position: but an email is always fairly easy and convenient however a google search can be very unreliable, especially when one is trying to gain a limited resource. So I chose to appeal instead to your organisation directly to grant me access to your exciting new service.
So how about it, may I have a beta key?
Oh and it goes (oxymoronically) without saying that if you ever attempt to charge for this service I will make and escape so swift I will leave an Ankhwatcher shaped cloud behind me.
Your sincerely,
Ankhwatcher
A 'closed beta' is where they have a functional product but are still limiting its use to a small group of hand-picked test users. Traditionally a 'closed beta' would be the step before an 'open beta' where the software or service is expected to be fully functional but lacking polish. But in the case of this website I suspect the 'closed beta' will lead to a full release.
Their sign up page has details.
Upon reviewing their sign up page I decided it would probably be best for me to send them a communique requesting access to their closed beta.
The message is preserved below:
It seems to me that ping.fm is all about laziness. A website that will stop me from having to go to the trouble of checking both twitter and plurk.
Naturally this a service I as a slacker (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Church_of_the_SubGenius#Slack) would like to avail of.
Your sign up page essentially gave me what I chose to consider two options: I could either google to find one the "many sources providing them" or "send [you] a message and try to swindle an account from [you]".
In keeping with what i feel is the spirit of ping.fm I tried to gauge which of these two options would involve the least amount of work for me.
Of course this is very hard to determine from the given starting position: but an email is always fairly easy and convenient however a google search can be very unreliable, especially when one is trying to gain a limited resource. So I chose to appeal instead to your organisation directly to grant me access to your exciting new service.
So how about it, may I have a beta key?
Oh and it goes (oxymoronically) without saying that if you ever attempt to charge for this service I will make and escape so swift I will leave an Ankhwatcher shaped cloud behind me.
Your sincerely,
Ankhwatcher
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Longest Day - 21/06/2008
On Saturday the 21st of June I attended a Phantomfm.
Many notes were made into my small Moleskin notebook that night. They are expanded below:
(Notes: The Longest Day had started for me at 8am and had involved a great deal of standing, I didn't really want to be at this gig. I just felt I should be. As a result of this most of my notes were angry whingings and complaints.)
The first performers took the stage, the band CODES.
Codes specialised in hugely-generic could-be-anybody rock.
I've taken position standing around at the back of the plush, carpeted hall enjoying a heated debate about which advert we had heard this "undiscovered" "indie" band on.
And why the fuck am I listening to indie in this fucking carpeted, soft-lit, cube-stool infested hell-hole anyway?
This isn't Rock and Roll.
I think I'm the only person here in a band t-shirt*: Man I hate my generation.
*Rolling Stones. I bought it in Temple Bar. It's really cool.
Considering challenging people to tic-tac-toe to break the monotony.
-I would, but the problem is... I'm shit at tic-tac-toe. The best I can ever do is stalemate.
Jesus Christ!
Codes are dedicating Every Fucking Song!
They probably think they'll never be on stage again. I hope their right.
I've found the balcony... Seems like a good place to spit on the acts from.
CODES - So generic they practically fade into the ambient noise.
The Kinetics Take The Stage
They seem better - Could be the placebo effect.
On the next page of my notebook is a drawing of a tall table. This was used to illustrating a point. The point was something about tables...
Things to say before leaving the upstairs balcony:
You stay here, I'm going to punch-out the lead singer.
I had originally intended to write more, but instead I went downstairs in search of adventure.
This band likes to end every song like it's the end of the set. A lot of "Thank you!"'s irritating.
Why do so many of the wankers* have curly hair?
*I meant the audience... and maybe one of the band.
Bah! This is a good song.
I think I would require a high intake of Jack Daniels to enjoy it... But doing JD shots on my own... that can't be a good idea.
The next page features a sketch of a pair of legs, ending in large ugg boots with the legend "I'm trying to draw a still-life of a pair of fucking ugg-boots! Get out of the fucking way!"
I hope that's self explanatory.
The page after features two badly drawn boxes, scribbled out. And the legend: "Bah. Can't draw a cube. Might as well draw the damned Easter Bunny."
I'm not sure how the Easter Bunny got involved in it... presumably it made sense at the time.
The next few entries are very scattered, I'll attempt to explain them as I go.
Upon seeing a girl with a quite broad face, lots of blond hair and very short-shorts:
I wonder if anyone has ever told that girl she looks like Dolly Parton?
Feeling I was using my notebook as a cover for my general feeling of pointlessness stemming from my inability to enjoy music for music's sake I wrote:
Take refuge in a notebook.
It's a slogan. Of sorts.
Then after attempting to move my left foot and finding much more difficult than one would expect:
Fucking sticky floors - Every surface not covered in carpet it coated in fucking glue.
"Where are you from?"
I've never had a decent answer to that one.
I'm from Dublin, Ireland. But the reason why you are asking is because my voice sounds different. It's partly because I was born in the states, but it's really from watching too much British TV.
Ham Sandwich Take The Stage.
Current position: Dance floor.
Current thought: Wish I still had my sunglasses.
Lead guitarist reminds me of the character who said "It's" at the start of every Monty Python's Flying Circus Episode.
Second string and bassist seem to be hiding at the edges of the stage.
Lead singer is dressed in that grey sacking and Black Belt thing from the eighties that doesn't look good on anyone.
Lead Guitarist is dressed as a male whore.
Fuck me these lights are nuts! I should have brought a hat!
Some Mop-Haired cunt is using me as a back-rest while the lighting technician tries to weed out the epileptics from the herd.
Second string looks like he is going to faint from heat exhaustion.
Perhaps he should take off his jacket?
I'll nod along and smile. That'll fool them into thinking I have a sense of rhythm.
Oh good, the second string took off his jacket. Looks much happier now.
I think "The Raging Homophobes" would be a great band name.
Ah Dublin. Everyone is a cover band.
For An Encore Ham Sandwich Play 'Material Girl'.
Seems an odd choice - as far as I can tell the lead singer is actually dressed as Kim Wilde. Kids in America would seem a more synchronous option.
And finally:
Next time I'm bringing some CIF! I can't move my bloody feet!
After that I scarpered. Stopping only to tell some pretty-young-thing from New York that her and her friends were going the wrong way across Dame St. to get to Temple Bar.
Long fucking day eh?
-ANkh loves you.
Many notes were made into my small Moleskin notebook that night. They are expanded below:
(Notes: The Longest Day had started for me at 8am and had involved a great deal of standing, I didn't really want to be at this gig. I just felt I should be. As a result of this most of my notes were angry whingings and complaints.)
The first performers took the stage, the band CODES.
Codes specialised in hugely-generic could-be-anybody rock.
I've taken position standing around at the back of the plush, carpeted hall enjoying a heated debate about which advert we had heard this "undiscovered" "indie" band on.
And why the fuck am I listening to indie in this fucking carpeted, soft-lit, cube-stool infested hell-hole anyway?
This isn't Rock and Roll.
I think I'm the only person here in a band t-shirt*: Man I hate my generation.
*Rolling Stones. I bought it in Temple Bar. It's really cool.
Considering challenging people to tic-tac-toe to break the monotony.
-I would, but the problem is... I'm shit at tic-tac-toe. The best I can ever do is stalemate.
Jesus Christ!
Codes are dedicating Every Fucking Song!
They probably think they'll never be on stage again. I hope their right.
I've found the balcony... Seems like a good place to spit on the acts from.
CODES - So generic they practically fade into the ambient noise.
The Kinetics Take The Stage
They seem better - Could be the placebo effect.
On the next page of my notebook is a drawing of a tall table. This was used to illustrating a point. The point was something about tables...
Things to say before leaving the upstairs balcony:
You stay here, I'm going to punch-out the lead singer.
I had originally intended to write more, but instead I went downstairs in search of adventure.
This band likes to end every song like it's the end of the set. A lot of "Thank you!"'s irritating.
Why do so many of the wankers* have curly hair?
*I meant the audience... and maybe one of the band.
Bah! This is a good song.
I think I would require a high intake of Jack Daniels to enjoy it... But doing JD shots on my own... that can't be a good idea.
The next page features a sketch of a pair of legs, ending in large ugg boots with the legend "I'm trying to draw a still-life of a pair of fucking ugg-boots! Get out of the fucking way!"
I hope that's self explanatory.
The page after features two badly drawn boxes, scribbled out. And the legend: "Bah. Can't draw a cube. Might as well draw the damned Easter Bunny."
I'm not sure how the Easter Bunny got involved in it... presumably it made sense at the time.
The next few entries are very scattered, I'll attempt to explain them as I go.
Upon seeing a girl with a quite broad face, lots of blond hair and very short-shorts:
I wonder if anyone has ever told that girl she looks like Dolly Parton?
Feeling I was using my notebook as a cover for my general feeling of pointlessness stemming from my inability to enjoy music for music's sake I wrote:
Take refuge in a notebook.
It's a slogan. Of sorts.
Then after attempting to move my left foot and finding much more difficult than one would expect:
Fucking sticky floors - Every surface not covered in carpet it coated in fucking glue.
"Where are you from?"
I've never had a decent answer to that one.
I'm from Dublin, Ireland. But the reason why you are asking is because my voice sounds different. It's partly because I was born in the states, but it's really from watching too much British TV.
Ham Sandwich Take The Stage.
Current position: Dance floor.
Current thought: Wish I still had my sunglasses.
Lead guitarist reminds me of the character who said "It's" at the start of every Monty Python's Flying Circus Episode.
Second string and bassist seem to be hiding at the edges of the stage.
Lead singer is dressed in that grey sacking and Black Belt thing from the eighties that doesn't look good on anyone.
Lead Guitarist is dressed as a male whore.
Fuck me these lights are nuts! I should have brought a hat!
Some Mop-Haired cunt is using me as a back-rest while the lighting technician tries to weed out the epileptics from the herd.
Second string looks like he is going to faint from heat exhaustion.
Perhaps he should take off his jacket?
I'll nod along and smile. That'll fool them into thinking I have a sense of rhythm.
Oh good, the second string took off his jacket. Looks much happier now.
I think "The Raging Homophobes" would be a great band name.
Ah Dublin. Everyone is a cover band.
For An Encore Ham Sandwich Play 'Material Girl'.
Seems an odd choice - as far as I can tell the lead singer is actually dressed as Kim Wilde. Kids in America would seem a more synchronous option.
And finally:
Next time I'm bringing some CIF! I can't move my bloody feet!
After that I scarpered. Stopping only to tell some pretty-young-thing from New York that her and her friends were going the wrong way across Dame St. to get to Temple Bar.
Long fucking day eh?
-ANkh loves you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
