Trips & Double Majors

I'm just in the door in time for the golf. I've been away too long. Longer than I had intended to be. Was it worth it? Can't say it did me any harm. On a battery level.

I don't know what it is about this particular year but, be it a US presidential election or visits to the nursing home, I seem to be tuning out. Seeing little benefits from certain things. Tiring to the point of - nonchalance.
   French word I think. General meaning. I really couldn't be giving a certain four letter work made famous by a fictional priest with a liking for alcohol from the Isle of Craggy. Desperate stereotyping - the genius type - but the subject of stereotyping couldn't have been further from my mind as I turned on the computer and prepared for another week writing for myself.
   Shortly after a deep sigh something unexpected happened. My finger just kinda stopped short of the 'on' key. Stayed there for a few seconds. Then moved again. Away.
   I gathered it up and closed the laptop down, grabbed a bag full of clothes and 37 minutes later I was sitting on a bus heading West. Spontaneity, I think they call it. I left the key of the house with Gustav who I woken from his sleep.  He'd just got off the night shift.
   'I'll be back in a week,' I said. 'Keep an eye on the place,' handing him the key to the house.
   'Hold it a second,' he said, still half asleep. He went back inside, returning with his camera.
   'Where it is you go, take picture. I keep it for scrap.' He handed it to me. Cool.
   'OK, 'I said and hurried off. The bus to the big smoke needed getting if I was to make Mayo by nightfall. I could do it. It was 8.35. In the morning.

Go on Rory Mac. Whey! 3 shot lead in the final major of the year.  Ooh, Tiger there's too. Nice.  I'm glad I didn't extend my holidays into another week. There's no place like home on the last day of a golf major - however good it was to touch base with Mattie once again.
I tend to avoid impulsiveness since - well, you know.  Never seemed to work out for me. Finding myself half way to Dublin on a whim was a surprise.

   'Anyone sitting in there?' an elderly woman asked me, pointing down to the seat beside the window. Was she blind? She didn't look blind. Was quite obvious there was no-one sitting there.
   'No,' I said, rising to my feet.
   'Oh, you could have just shuffled across,' she said, grazing past me toward the window.  Bloody hell. What does she think I am? A poker dealer. A disco dancer.
   'You're very kind.'  How little people know about others.
    'My pleasure,' I said, disguising my voice unknowns to myself. Like I do. Hiding who I was - where I came from - for reasons I don't even know. I sat back down. It's times like this I wished I'd brought a book.
   'So where you headed?' she said. Deep sigh. My mistake for sitting so close to the top on a near empty bus.
   Oldies.
    I looked at her face. Late sixties, I'd say. How could I fib?
   'Out West,' I said. 'To see a friend.'
   'I've never been,' she said, before telling me her life story. She's been to England once.
   'My sister died. Unexpected,' she said. 'I found thousands of pounds hidden everywhere when I was clearing out her flat. Her daughter was delighted. We could have had her brought home if we'd found it sooner,' she said. 'She'd have liked that.' She seemed sad all of a sudden.
   'Was too late be then. We'd cremated her. My niece said it was more environmental friendly.' I wasn't sure where to look. At least she had the window. Not that she cared as she went on to tell me how hard it was for adventurous women back in her day.  Seems her sister was one of those.
   'Shocking to see them still leaving today,' she said, shaking her head. At last. On my level. Something I'd heard about. Emigration. I was just about to go into a rant at the expense of the present administration when the bus stopped suddenly.
   'Mrs McGuire,' the bus driver shouted.
   'My stop,' she said. For feck sake. I got up again and stepped out into the aisle.
   'Enjoy America,' she said walking forward. A little rustically. Age, I suppose.

Woo! Ian Poulter. What you at?  Five birdies in a row. Leon would be proud.
Better watch your back, Rory Mac.

I was early for the bus to Castlebar. Three hours early. I parked on a bench and waited. The back of the bus felt like a seat from the heavens when I finally took it. I could have stretched out along them. 
   Gone to sleep. Would have felt like home.  There was no such luck. A few fellows took up their own residence on the back seats. Avoids. Luckily no one decided to use the seat beside me. You know the one? The one you don't pay for but still feel is yours.
   Buses. Strange places.
   The last time I came this way I found the trip bleak.  We weren't long out of the city and I'd drawn the same conclusion again. I decided to do what I do best. Sleep. I dreamt of Granddad Booker making his way up from Mayo all those years ago 'walking barefoot in winter.' Never could tell me how long it took him. I tried to draw Granny out about it. One of her finger wagging 'don't mention that again' times, it was. Man, they fought like tigers. Funny stuff.
   A cleaner woke me when we got to Castlebar.
   'Last stop,' she said.
   'Barefoot,' I said, trying to remember where I was. She looked at me. Tired. Drawn. Beaten.
   'Just get off the bus,' she said. I hope I wasn't foaming from the corners of my mouth. I quickly moved on and stepped out on to the street. A Tesco's the only thing I recognized. Phew. Some bells rang six. I'd made it. Before dark. Hours before dark. I'm sure Mum was fibbin' to me when she said I'd never make it in out in the real world.
   'Is this Castlebar?' I asked a random passer-by. She kept walking. I put it to one side and built myself up to ask someone else. They look friendly.
   'Excuse me, is this Castlebar?' They stopped. They looked like students. I'm not sure what they thought I was.
   'Yes,' said the one with the messy hair. 'Where do you think it is?' Aggressive little git.
   'Sorry,' I said. 'I fell asleep on the bus and wasn't sure.'
   They looked at me - this freak. In off the bus. Clothes in a hold all. Had I even shaved?
   'Thanks,' I said after them. The natives were friendlier the last time. If a little more eccentric. I walked on up the street in the opposite direction and popped into a newsagents.

 Tiger to -4. Normally starts falling away by this stage since his crimes against matrimony. Not today. Not yet anyway.

'Can I help you?' a girl said from behind the counter. Ah, this is more like it. Smile too.
   'Could you point me in the direction of the Pontoon Road?' I said, mirroring a smile back in her direction. Lord, but I must sound like a plank.
    'We have little maps of the town,' she said, pointing up to a stand displaying postcards. Enda Kenny's office? No way.
   I was sure I'd remember - Castlebar wasn't Dallas.  But smiling she stayed until I reached up and took one.
   '€3.'
   Never broke the smile. I gave her it in change. She didn't seem to mind as she told me there was an 'alphabet' thing at the back and I'd find where I was looking for there. I didn't realise I looked so odd - so out of place - that I looked like someone who couldn't find their way around a map. I was a scout once. For two weeks. 

Paddy Harrington! -4.

I stepped back out on to the street. It was busy. I continued on up the street and found a quite spot. I sat down on my bag against a wall and folded the map out.
P.
Pontoon.
 To Pontoon.
Pontoon Road.
   Here we go. Quick turn 90 degrees. Booker luck. Back down where I'd just come from.
   A car horn. I looked up. Police. Irish ones.
   'Lost?' They had pulled up on to the footpath. I hadn't even noticed. I got to my feet.
   'I am, be dad,' I said. 'I'm looking for the Pontoon Road.'
   'Hop in,' one of them said. He didn't look old enough to be driving. 'We'll run you over.'
   I did as instructed. You don't mess with the law. Unless, you're from Rossport.
    'Thanks lads,' I said getting in. 'Very decent of you.'
    'New in town?' the passenger Garda said as his mate pulled off down the street.
    'I am,' I said. 'Just off the bus.'
   Silence.
   'Where you from?'
    I told them.
    'My aunty lives down there. Una Gangley. Do you know her?
    'Can't say I do,' I said.
    'What's in the bag?' the driver said.
   'Clothes,' I said. 'I'm here for a few days.'
   'I didn't ask you how long you'd be here?' said the driver. Pause. The two of them laugh.
   'Where will we drop you?
   'Little cafe,' I said. 'Tessy's.'
   'Mattie's joint,' they said together before laughing again.
   'How you know Mattie?' the passenger guy asked. I couldn't go into it. I'd need all night.
   'Old friends,' I said.
   'Ah, Mattie's alright. Best breakfast in the town.'
   The driver guy took a sharp turn right and then another almost immediately. I was glad i was sitting in the middle of the back seat. I'd definitely have been kissing window.
   Two minutes later they screeched up outside.
     'Mattie's place is down the alley at the back.'
   'Thanks lads,' I said, missing the door handle at the first attempt in my hurry.
   'We'll be seeing you about,' the driver said with a serious face. He then pretended to smile before they began twittering to themselves again.I shut the door over and they drove off.

Rory's taking Kiawah Island asunder. -10 at the turn.  Two ahead of Poulter. Oh, who's that? Justin Rose. -6 for the day.

 I kind of knew I'd find Mattie at something. As I walked down the alley, there he was. Mowing the lawn with one of those old mowers. The 1 hp. Keeping busy.
   'Do you never stop?' I called out.  He was facing my direction. Head bowed. Watching the newly sharpened cutters scalp blades from the grass. He looked up and stopped.
   'Well it's about fuckin' time...' he said walking over to me.
   'Great to see you,' I said.
   'Aye, it is,' he said shaking my hand firmly. He's re-discovered a depth to his accent since he moved back over here. Sounds like Granddad used to - when he'd be telling his stories. His bullshit stories. Great bullshit stories.
   Within minutes normal service was resumed. Mattie cooking and serving me. Like the old days.  Cabbage, bacon, spuds, onions and carrots all in the one pot. He filled two mugs from it as it fermented. If vegetables ferment - which I doubt they do. As good a soup as I've tasted in a while. Nice and salty. Great for the heart.

I could bore you into a coma with scenes of serenity as Mattie closed the cafe early each day so we could cycle some ruggedness. He damn near killed me on Day 3 - a four hour round trip to the place the road led off to. A little pub on a bend on the road, a lake for as far as the eye could see.
   I was a little worried as we set the bikes down up against the side of the pub and went inside. Mattie opted for a cordial when i went for the black stuff. Two to re-hydrate, two for pleasure - and one for the road. We got back by bike light around eleven, taking breaks to grab Gustav his snaps and to water the bog. Not that it needed it.
   By the weekend I was talking about going home but Mattie would have none of it.
    'What you going back for?' he said. 'Stay another week.'  I didn't need convincing. There was something about getting lost on a bike in the middle of no-where which was appealing to me. A different state of recluse. A more natural one.

Bogey-bogey, Ian Poulter. Rory by four. Barring an Adam Scott...

My phone rid itself of some dust when it rang on the Tuesday night of the second week.
   'Are you alive?'
   Gustav. I'd filled Mattie in on our Gus. I sensed Mattie was glad I had a neighbour. I re-assured Gus I was well and good.
   'Maybe you come back this week?'
    I didn't know if that was a question or not.
   'Maybe,' I said. Jaysus. The freedom.
   'Please try,' he said. 'Linda's friend. She come for weekend visiting.'
   I knew there and then I wouldn't be going back. I wasn't going through that again.
   'I'll see what I can do.' I'd have asked him to feed the goldfish but I don't have any, so I bid him a quick goodbye. Mattie laughed as I told him of that fateful night. 

There was days I just sat in his little cafe. Reading a newpaper. They still exist. Just watching the world go by. The two young Guards were in and out. Could be a comedy duo. Sonny could have done something for them. If the law didn't work out. If Sonny was here...
   They were drove off their feet. Some lorry with part of an drilling machine had jackknifed in the county. Heading to the coast. To drill. Who'd have thought? Oil - in the West of Ireland. Being given away.
   I couldn't resist. I stole away and found an internet cafe to find out what had happened. Shell had tried to sneak it under cover of darkness. Big escort. Media silence. Then the old bog road had her say. I find them hard enough on a bike. I had a snigger to myself as i read how Mother Nature had her say and thought to myself- only in Ireland. But when was planning ever a concern in this country?

Oh shut up. You're on holidays! Or were. 

Rory. Can't see him doing anything but winning from here. Six clear. Two-majors at 23.


You can't help but deal with the issues at hand when with close friends for a time. It was no different here. I took what Mattie had to say seriously. Hadn't listened to many this year. Gustav's occasional rabble and that's about it. Mattie was always worth listening too. The coherent Mattie, that is. He's still hanging in there. Fighting like the Irish boxing team at the Olympics. And after spending a little time here, he seems to be winning as well. Funny where he found his place. Back home. Where he probably always belonged.
   We said what needed saying and no more. I promised return visits as i packed to leave.
   'You're always welcome,' he said. 'I don't forget.' I knew he didn't. He was one of life's good ones. Rare. Occasional. Proper friends. 

The two boys in the squad car picked me up earlier today to run me to the bus. They had insisted. I'd got to know them by name. Larry and Larry. The two Larry's. If only Sonny were around. I made one last request.
   Within five minutes there I was. Standing in front of Enda Kenny's office. Jaysus, it's small. Bit drab. Depressing color. It seemed fitting. For the times that are in it.
   It was Sunday. I decided to take the chance that he wouldn't be in there. That he'd come out and tell the two Larry's that he wanted a word in me ear. Out the back!
   I got passenger Larry to take a quick snap of me. Outside the seat of power in the West. For prosperity. I giggled at that thought.
   They dropped me to the bus.
   'Add us on Facebook,' they said.
   'I'll do that,' I said, waving a backward five. Like we were buddies.  I know I won't. But, good lads. The pair of them. Doing their job in a jobless country.
   I felt a little less stooped as the bus made her way back to Dublin. Raining one minute. Sunny the next. Cars racing along - Galway flags trying to escape from car windows. Heading for Croker. Hundreds of them. Cris-crossing. Too and fro across the island. In no time at all.
   Great country.
   Lousy government.

I don't think Gus knows I'm back. I'll knock into him tomorrow. With his photos. Can't have him ruining the golf. I'd missed the whole Olympic games. We did good. For a little country with feck all going for her. Our athletes have rarely let us down. This team certainly didn't. In youth I'd have been absorbed in it. Everything. From dusk to dawn.
   Things change I suppose. As people get older.They say a change is as good as a rest. For once, I think they're right.

Go on Rory. Roll it in. Nah, I don't believe it. He has. Win by eight. One of the Golden Bears records seems safe as Tiger faded.  Just can't see him taking Jack's 18 now.
 With no-one really knowing who is claiming who this weather isn't it  great to watch someone as young as Rory McIlroy shove criticism back down his critics throats.

USPGA champ. Double major champion. Not bad, wherever you're from. 

  

Womble Don

Eat, write and sleep. Write, sleep and eat.
Odd menial chores.
Sleep, eat and write.
Bathroom breaks. Various lengths. Some tasks rhyme with write - others with behave. Others hiss.
Weekly excursion - visit old folks home.
Collect wages on way back.
Eat, write, sleep. 

'I think we need a hobby,' said Gus, already claiming his first week of paid leave from the supermarket. Linda was working. Coinciding holidays might give their little secret away. I mean, how dare they fall for each other contrary to company policy. Unwritten too. NO employee liaisons.
   'We?' I said, as Andy Murray, great British tennis hope, turned to his Mum, fist clenched, having just taken the first set in the Wimbledon final against Roger Federer. The time had come.
   'Yes. It can't be all working and no playing,' he said, grabbing two bottles from a box of top-end beer he had bought in a two-for-one children's allowance day offer at a rival store earlier in the week. Gus doesn't have kids. So, he doesn't get the allowance. But why shouldn't he, should we say, take advantage.
   'What's this?' I asked. 'Is this working. Sittin' here on a Sunday - getting slowly intoxicated?'
   'No. This is not my meaning,' he said, as Andy's Mum jumps forward, raising a loving fist at her son as he takes another game. I can't see Murray being denied. His time must be now. He's hitting it sweetly.

'Tennis?' Gus offered. I nearly choked on my suds.
   'You're kidding - right?' I said, recovering.
   'Do I look like I is for kidding?' He raised his right eyebrow. He didn't. Unfortunately.
   'Tennis isn't really my thing.' I said.
   'Then what? he asked. Break point, Murray. Looking like his day.
   No.
   A second one.
   No again. Fed ain't a six-time champion for nothing.
   'Then - how about we just watch the TV?' An extension of tone on the 'then.'
   'OK,' he said - ruffled.
   Menial conversations. On Wimbledon final day. Can't be having it!
   Another break-point.
   No.
   Murray would rue these. Minutes later he did. Federer wraps up the second set from no-where. Didn't see that coming. Neither did Murray by the looks of things. He's slumping. He has to hold.
   He does.
   Phew!
   Bottle.
   What next? The skies to open.
   Yes. Players off.
   'I must go,' Gus said rising. He took three bottles from the box and left them to the side.
   'Call in during the week,' I said. 'When you're off.' He picked the box up and put it under his arm. Clinking all over the place.
   'I is off now,' he said, waiting for a second.
   'Talk to you soon.'
   I jumped up myself, leaving Gus to let himself out. I'd bought strawberries. And cream. They're very green though. Must be the rain.

I shut the curtains over not long after Gus had closed the door. Soon after the roof went over Centre Court. Off, it would not come again. The rain hopped off it, rebounding out from the speakers on the TV. Quite the pour.
   As the players came back out to a longing British crowd, it didn't take long before they started to realise that Federer was hitting form, and try as he may,  Murray had no answer. Federer was coming in more, making Murray move, being more aggressive on Murray's second-serve. An error that had cost the Swiss the first set. Serving sublimely. Focused.
   The writing's on the wall. With all the grace and elegance that has made him the greatest tennis player of all time, Fed reels off the closing two sets to claim a record-equalling seventh crown. His seventeenth grand slam title. World number 1 again. At 30.
   As Murray reflected on his fourth grand slam final loss, the disappointment flowed from his eyes as he thanked those around him. Graceful in defeat like William Wallace on his final day in Hollywood.
   Time is on his side - but he is playing in the Federer/Nadal era. Throw in a Djokovic, and one can see why it is difficult for the Scot - the weight of an entire nation on his back. The burden of carrying the failures of his peers at the London Venue stretching back to the 1930's on his shoulders.
   What might have been...

I lay prostrate on the couch. Head tilted to the side. Catching the glow from the fire and glimpses of the TV set in equal measure. The fire - patching my face. The TV - parching my brain. To combat the boredom I did what all self-respecting practitioners of the state of elusiveness do. I fell asleep.

There I was. Driving Sonny to talk Andy Murray off the Wimbledon roof. It took a long-winded motivational appeal, but Sonny talked him down.
    Seconds later.
    We're all refused entry in The Fed's private party. Wimbledon champs only - and their agents.
    'Maybe next year,' said Mike Tyson to Andy. He was bouncing at the door. With Mitch!
    'I'm heading back to Italy,' Sonny said - telling Andy to keep his chin up. Andy thanked him for talking him down.
   'I do it all the time,' Sonny said, before shaking both our hands.
   'Nice to see you again, Don,' he said. He disappeared like the figment of my imagination he was.
   'Who are you again?' Andy asked.
   'Don Booker.'
   'Never heard of you, Don?' Don't worry about it kid. 
    But this was a dream. My dream. I could have fed him anything. Took advantage of the scenario.
   'Wanna get drunk?' he asked. A bolt from the tartan.
   'Shouldn't you be getting back to your girlfriend and Mum?'
   'They won't stop crying. You'd think I'd died or something.' He turned his head back a little and attempted to smile. 'Unless you have to get back to yours?'
   No. That certainly wasn't going to be a problem!

Somehow or other my face had found itself nestled, nose first, down where lost pennies go to hide in the couch. Among the stale crumbs and discarded hairs. Forensic nightmare!
   We found ourselves drinking a 200-year-old bottle of Jim Beam on the very couch I lay sleeping on. From his private collection.
    'Bit of a hole,' he said, looking around. He passed the bottle over.
    Cheap shot.
    'Tis. Writings a bit of a slow burner.'
    Think.
    'You must be devastated with your loss?'
    Cheaper.

   The mouth fulls pass.
   'Must be nice,' he said, offering his hand to take the bottle again. 'Being a nobody. Not that I mean any disrespect.'
    I handed Jim back over.  Us pair of slang-slingers. Probing.
   'It has its benefits,' I began - not able to list many. 'It's quite for one.'
   'Yes it is,' he said.

   We listened for a time. Passing the bottle too and fro. Commenting occasionally on its hidden nectar's - its values - its historical importance in times of male woe. Near its death, it came.
   'What do I have to do to win one of these damn things?'
   That's Sonny's field. I had no answers. I thought about giving his a few positives. Like he had got to final. That he had millions in the bank. Third best player on the entire planet. Or is it the fourth? I was never third at anything. Not even at egg and spoon. But I didn't. Like a seasoned voter, I knew it wouldn't make a difference.
   'You need a hobby, man,' I said eventually, after some serious thought. I wanted to help. 
   'You think?' he said, tipping his head as far back as it would go to drain the final drop of Jim down passed his mouth. It was an impressive sight.  'Like what?'
   Fuck. I should have just kept my mouth shut. I was stumped.

   'Do you read?' I asked. He looked at me like i had asked him something offensive.
   'Of course I can read.' Ignoring his hearing, I passed him the copy of my book which just happened to be in my hand.
   'Try that,' I said. I expected him to say 'No.' But he didn't.
   'Booker's World,' he said. 'Imaginative!'

   I don't know how long it took in dream hours, but he got through it in what seemed like the blink of a squinting eye.
   'And I thought I was a loser?! he said, breathing out, eyes bulging like he was stressing a fact.
   Bingo!
   'See,' I said. 'There always someone/something worse.'
   'I just needed reminding,' he said - shaking the empty bottle in hope. But this was not a fairytale. 'Thanks. Just what I needed.'
    I knew it would have its uses. Someday. I told him to keep the book.
   'Toilet reading,' I suggested.
   His Galaxy something sounded off. He took it out. Fancy.
   'It's the girls,' he said, passing it over for me to read.
   Sleek too.
   We've stopped crying now.
   'Guess, I gotta go,' he said, starting to rise. Thank fuck. The legs on which he sat were numb. I wasn't doing my own chest cavity much good either. So, I rose off me as well.
   'Do you think I can win a Grand-Slam?' he asked.  He disappeared before I told him he could. He just had to do it. I sounded like a Nike cliche. I was glad he didn't hear me.
    I woke from my slumber. Morning. Trying to cascade through those heavy curtains that served me  so well. I felt like an eighty-year old man having just done a 12-hour shift on a ground-roller over rocky terrain. Which isn't good. I'm no where near eighty.

I attempted to stretch. I felt a twinge. Jaysus, had I pulled a disc? No. I could walk. My blood turned to pins as it began to circulate.
   What was that noise?
   Skype? Upstairs. Who'd be calling at this forsaken hour? Through a simple process of elimination I realized who it was. Sonny. He's the only one in my Skype list. Ordered to download it. By him.
    I made coffee. Purposely strong. Those cheap bottles!

Ten minutes later I'd framed myself adequately and had Sonny on the other side of a computer screen. Bronzed as usual. Reminding me of those medals I never won.
   'I tried calling you,' he said.
   'I heard,' I said.
   'Why didn't you answer. It could have been important.'
   Not to me. 
   'Is it?'
   'Well, no...'
    I listened to him bang on again. Like his marriage counsellor. Amanda and Luke were fighting. Over how to develop the Italian enterprise to make Sonny 'fit in.' To make it pay for them all. So they'd never have to come back. I listened. Silently. Until he stopped for breath.
   'Do you think they're having an affair?' I said. I watched as the expected look fell across his face. The classic furrowed brow. Might as well give him something else to think about. Throw a little family triangle among those thorny Italian vines. Paint that. Abstractly.
   'I never said that?' he whispered - looking cautiously over his shoulder. No you didn't, Sonny. But now your thinking about it. Still - at least you have the sun down there.
   He convinced me there was nothing going-on. Not that he had too. Boredom's a wicked thing sometimes. My bad.
    Personal note to self - Must try harder in inter-personal relationships. Claim more sensitivity from universe. Must maintain friendships. Might need feeding. Someday.
   Eventually the conversation ended itself in its usual way. The connection died. Like it does. Not sure if he tried to call back. I'd sent the computer into hibernation and got beneath the bed covers. That's more like it for a Monday afternoon. I'd talk to Sonny soon.

Larry Mulligan used to say he'd ban days of the week in favour of a more 'floating' approach if he ever got into power. Not sure of the power he had on his mind - being the independent hippy of the wrong era he was. In the wrong town. In the wrong country. Contemporary California might have suited old Lar better.
   Me? I'd just ban Mondays. Make Sunday a 48-hour thing. Get the publicans on board.  Reclaim the beer from the supermarkets. An Irish revolution.

You'd miss certain people. Certain places. Things.
Maybe I do need a hobby.
Kite surfing? You'd need a kite for that.
Research the family tree? - No thanks!
A job? - If only.

I think Ireland has me withered.
Write, eat, sleep.
Eat, sleep.

Sleep.

Trapped

I had a dream. It turned into a nightmare. An eight day one. 
   Ten years is a long time. Especially when one waits on something. Like participating on the world stage in one of soccer's premier competitions, the European Championships. Sometimes things are worth waiting for - but over the past week and a half that proved to be nonce - proving that such sentiment has no place in the Irish soul.
   I'd given myself an unpaid holiday. I knew the start date - June 10 - the end, when Ireland were dispatched from Europe's top national competition. The first game was vital.
   Croatia - a superior team on paper - a result, a must. Less than two hours later Ireland's odyssey had begun. An odyssey that started as it ended - in a resounding defeat. While national governments and sporting bodies called for Fair Play awards to be lavished on the fantastic Irish fans, the players left the tournament with the worst record of a participating nation in the tournaments history - albeit sharing the accolade with a few others, namely Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and Denmark.
   Three damning defeats, eight goals conceded and just a solitary goal for the Irish supporters at home and abroad to force bouts of sporting ecstasy from a people in need of a lift. The team failed to respond to the challenges like teams of yesteryear who served us abroad. Simply, they were just not good enough.

In truth, but for a favourable play-off draw which paired us against European minnows, Estonia, we would not have been there at all. Thousands travelled to Poland and the Ukraine for the matches, but had to resort to renditions of The Fields of Athenry when shouts of support failed to inspire an aging, ill-managed team.
   Robbie Keane now plays his football in a Z-league in the United States and it showed. Fan favourites Damien Duff, Richard Dunne and Shay Given were equally disappointing. Not one of the squad provided a shred of positivity for the world cup qualifiers ahead. Dispatched after just two games, the manager had a chance to blood some new players. He remained loyal to the old - the tired and tested - the failed. Hardly instills a confidence in a manager who football philosophy is at best, dated.

Roy Keane had his now customary pops at Irish soccer - his inclusion of Irish soccer fans in his latest tirade - the spew of a bitter man now earning his living as a pundit living on controversy. Eamon Dunphy threw his weight behind the team and even backed them to get out of the group and to the knockout stages - a prediction with him walking Dublin's Grafton Street dressed as a clown.
   The only highlight was the fans. The best in the world. Too bad we don't give them much to cheer about. I'm pretty sure they have done more for Irish tourism in the past 10 days than Leo Varadkar could dream about doing in ten years. Yes, Leo was there. The Sports minister who knows little about sport. Appointed by Enda Kenny to his first cabinet it was the earliest sign of the new taoiseach's leadership qualities - or lack of as it turns out to be.
   But even I can't let the government take the fall on this one. The buck must stop with the manager - he picks the team. When those teams failed, he remained loyal. Poor management if you ask me. The players let him down. They let everyone down. I don't remember such a no-show from an Irish side in any of their five major tournament appearances since 1988.
   Should he stay? Who know? Though a near €3 million contract over the next two years suggests a certain level of extravagance the FAI are rarely noted for. We all remember Saipan and the 'facilities.' Ireland rarely has philosophies about things - soccer included. If we had one it would reap benefits within a generation. But like economic sovereignty returning, i just don't see it happening.

Summer!

Mad Pride

The homophobic Republican tour whistle stops in the liberal state of New Hampshire tonight as they go to the polls to choose who should run off against Obama in November. If the polls are correct, Mitt Romney leads the pack with Ron Paul a distant second. Romney needs the momentum from this one as they head for South Carolina. It's a different state of affairs there. It's territory which will decide whether Rick Perry or Newt Gingrich retires from the race.
New to the party is John Huntsman and he is currently polling third. Iowa surprise, Rick Santorum propping up the field with Perry and Gingrich. So much for momentum. This was to be expected though, given New Hampshire's swing-state status by becoming a Democrat stronghold going back to the days of Bill Clinton after Republican successes.
If Romney does well in South Carolina or Florida the week after, it's over. If he gets the Republican nod the pollsters have him almost neck and neck with Obama. The only other presidential candidate to run Obama close is Ron Paul.
I found it despicable earlier today watching Fox News pull a Democrat congresswoman up on taking something Mitt Romney said about 'loving to fire people' out of context. These people will stop at nothing to push the Republican agenda. What makes it worse, it seems many Americans are buying into it. True, in an evolving society government should be less visible to us all, but these people want the run of everything, to do as they please at any one's expense, often under the name of God. I'm sure God would want little to do with them. I wonder will Obama hold firm and not bomb Iran. If he does, he's at war. Americans won't vote out a war-time President once the war was started on his watch. Now we will see how much water that noble peace prize holds over the coming months.

*************

The guys from the ECB and the IMF are in town for a spot-check. With tax receipts down to the tune of almost a billion, the talk on the street is of an impending second bailout for us. I never seen that! I thought straight to default. How we have been led the merry dance.
Events over the coming weeks will tell a lot. It's looking like a referendum if I am to be honest. I can't see the Euro collapsing, as I feel there are just to many 'interests' involved. A flood of cheap money will be made available - once you are a firmly a European. After that, who knows? I can't see the Supreme Court not guiding us toward a vote for make no mistake about it, their will be little negotiation about it. You're either in or you are out.
France wants a Robin Hood Tax on bank transactions which the UK is opposing. I'm not sure why. Maybe because every transaction would then have to declared?
It does seem the decent thing to do, considering we robbed the poor to pay the rich, so they could get richer, and tell them in the middle, who the poor elected, to make us poorer. Are you with me? Nope, didn't think so! You wouldn't write that sh**

*************

"Fuck them I say. Fuck them and the mother's they were spat out of. Fuck them and their whining mediocrity. Fuck them and their excuses for not living, their excuses for failure. Why do our class have to swallow all this guilt as if we've done something wrong? We carry these fucks. On our backs. Everyday. And this is how they thank us? Resentful, jealous, backbiting lowlifes, calling us the enemy but always with the hand out looking for more. Why are we the ones punished for being successful while they are rewarded for failure? Walking around in their pajamas at three o'clock in the afternoon. Fuck them and the shit they get away with everyday."
CHARLIE CASANOVA

Ok, it's not the Palme d'Or, but the good news today is CHARLIE CASANOVA - which if I'm correct was made for under a grand and without support until its success demanded it, received four Irish Film & Television Academy nominations.
It's just the latest in a long list of accolades the independent film has scooped on its global travels through the festival sphere.
The film was nominated in four categories. Best Film, Best Screenplay, Best Director and Best Editing. I think if ever a film spoke to the powers that more money put into an enterprising film industry and developing it further would be money well spent. But Ireland is rarely so brave. A New Wave as Ireland sinks - How Irish would that be.

*************

Ireland lost two of her unsung heroes in one day today. Journalist and filmmaker Mary Raftery, who exposed child abuse in church run state schools in her documentary, States of Fear, died today aged just 54. Her place in the hearts of Ireland is forever cemented by the gutsy and courageous way she did her job. Many in this country could learn from her. Particularly in those fields.
And "Mad' John McCarthy, founder of Mad Pride Ireland. He was 61. I've heard him described as a 'force of nature.' A truly inspiring figure - a man I only came to know about about three months ago. I really wanted to meet the man. Not it will not be.
Both leave behind legacies that defied a time. People Ireland should reflect on. Linger on, even. They are all that is great about Ireland. They should be held in the highest regards and even inspire a nation.
You've all heard the saying about the good dying young. There may be a truth in that pudding. I'm not sure if either person knew of absurdity, but they certainly seemed to embrace it in their lifetimes. If only we were all so brave.

R.I.P

Junged

Barring a surge of luck from the cosmos, I should be able to put 2011 down alongside those other vintage years of Booker's life as pretty much a non-event. That's how she cuts, hey!
It wasn't by any means the worst year ever. The feeling of social exclusion in a depressed country being fed back to happiness on a diet of austerity and bad press can wear a fella thin at times. But with a middle aged gut to contend with, maybe that's not a bad thing.

To those who trust those who lead it is a casual shrug of the shoulders it seems. The spread of pain diminishes somewhat the higher you find yourself in the class structure of the country. Top of the class and you're made. Up there you even have the law on your side. It's a phenomenon not exclusive to dear ol' Ireland either. It's widespread - driven by a sick Social Darwinism where even those swept forth from some decent ideal is quickly whipped into believing that if you are not fit, you will not survive. One or two of them should take a bit more care of their own gut. And with Ireland's lower classes being mangled the most, I dare anyone of sound mind to argue against societies direction in 2011 as being totally one of inequality, which, for me anyway, much dis-service to some of the words of the Irish constitution. We shouldn't forget where we came from. And equally careful of where we go.
To the 'unattached' observer, it stops at nothing short of the greatest heist ever undertaken at the expense of the nation's people - and there have been a few.
An ineffective government being submissively held to ransom by German Banks, the IMF, as well as being held here at home by unions. The opposition is weak. Hard core lefties with big expense accounts? Less hard core lefties unable to escape their past. And the Failers. Hardly instills a feeling of confidence, does it?

My guess is one of two things are going to happen in 2012. The Euro will collapse or Ireland will default. I simply can not see us rejecting the new treaty now currently getting meat added to its skeletal totalitarian outline if put to us in a referendum. Many will feel the need to stick with the great European project. Might be worth it short term, but what are the long term repercussions for Ireland if it all goes fubar?
2012 will be a good year for opinion. To bad the majority of it is either ignored or comes in various shades of brown...

As another year prepares to die, a few notables fell from the conveyor belt of life this week.
British writer Christopher Hitchens lost his battle with cancer at 62. Regarded by many as one of the world's leading intellects, the antitheist rose to worldwide prominence for his pro-Iraq War stance during that debacle. Hitchens was fearless in all matters concerning society and leaves behind a rich body of work from future generations to ponder over.

Vaclav Havel, BE, the former President of the Czech Republic died yesterday aged 75 also from cancer. The dissident playwright lead the peaceful 'Velvet' uprising which brought the fall of communism in Czechoslovakia in 1989. Also renowned as an intellect, Havel is one of the few politicians on the world stage to be held in high regard for the fearless life he chose to lead both as a writer and also as a leader when his country called on him.

North Korea's favourite son, Kim-Jung, took il on his state train while out on a jaunt and died of a heart attack. The reclusive leader of a country named as one of the 'axis of evil' by that other great 21st century intellect, George W. Bush Jr, died on Saturday. His death was announced to a grief stricken nation this morning after being kept secret for nearly 48 hours in secret spy tests being carried out by il's favorite son, Kim Jung Un, on how much intellect the CIA have at their disposal at present. It's being seen as a minor victory for the new 'Supreme Ultra-sapian' in North Korea's War on American Paranoia and its impact on global affairs.
Did you know Kim Jung Il once had South Korea's best film director kidnapped in an attempt to build a North Korean film industry. Pity the noted film buff wasn't Irish.
The 'mad as a bag of hammers' leader was also supposedly Asia's largest drinker of Hennessy Cognac between 1992 and 1994. He was also fluent in Welsh.
Of course Kim Jung will be remembered mainly for the deaths of millions of his own people that starved to death in the 1990's famine when the economy collapsed due to failed national policies and natural disasters brought about crop failure.

I guess that's the trouble with legacies. They last.

Strains

I don't know what it is about a forthcoming budget that just chills the bones and makes me want to work. I finally started my second book this week - a world set far off into the future.
I'm beginning to wonder if we'll make it that far at all given the possibility of this baby getting out or a nuclear holocaust over a drop of oil. But I'd say we are safe for a few years yet, hey?

At least long enough to give a few more publishers something to chuck in the bin anyway. But it's time to try again and with deadlines now set and word counts to be met each day, I'd be kind of hoping that the blog will go quite over the next few months (collective sigh of relief) as simply highlighting the way Ireland has been hijacked this past three years by writing about it here has about as much function as a dead tool.
With the sudden spark to write again, came the flood of ideas that always come once delved in. New characters sprung to mind and I've doubled the work I have done on another outline for a book I'm doing in the crime fiction department.
Despite the fact Booker's World is 999,911 short of its first million sales, I'm still hopeful the next one of two have a little more success when it comes to finding a real home as I'm not sure I want to carry the effort of Booker's World through from beginning to end once again.
I don't blame myself of course - that's down to those people looking after the social welfare of us all. But now that the final nail has been driven into the 'your on your own' coffin, it's time to find other ways of trying to get to make a living which doesn't make one a ward of state, as they say.
I need an editor and a damn good proofreader.
I think the reason I did not begin my second book until now was doing all the work on Booker's World myself, a task that really made me appreciate how much the efforts of others can help with the writing, but definitely did not have me running back to the keyboard for long spells.
I find careful concentration that is needed when proofreading is difficult for me, gives unwanted headaches and that horrible tiredness. Writers may know what I mean. But no sense quitting now. Effort counts for nothing in this country unless it comes with ass-kissing lips. Isn't it time we moved on from that now that we are, should we say... fooked?

So that should keep me busy until the Summer of 2012 in between applying for the non-existent jobs in Ireland and those that require visa entry from abroad. I could of course just try my luck in Greece or Italy and perhaps even in Spain. But then again, sometimes your just safer on a little island floating towards that more glorious of islands, Iceland. Took no shit those guys.
In it together for worse or worse r - like all good marriages!.
Good to see races having a strong sense of who they are. I think we Irish let it all go to easily. That's the most gut-wrenching thing of all. The so called 'greater good' serves no real purpose when everything is so heavily weighed against ordinary people. Sometimes that weight can serve some good. Can change a societies direction. It's better to stand for something more than your banking and business buddies, isn't it?
There's at least a hundred things Ireland (the country) could do in the next six months that could help things along - fill gaps created by cuts. But will any of them be implemented. Not fu*kin likely... Without problems, 'government' have no function.
Heaven forbid!

Thursday night. Can only mean one thing. Greg House. If only Booker had heroes...

Merkle 'd.

There are times when this blog has called out to our esteemed establishment and in some cases has rudely commented on matters of external affairs. Though anti-European in a Superstate sense, it does have fringe benefits. Like being able to travel freely abroad and work also. I did for a time... but that's another story.
As some now deem citizens within this mounting failure as Europeans, I don't haunt myself too much by offering opinion, as by consensus those that label us as such are also deserved of theirs. I've seen the NATO road to democracy in action and it does little to distinguish itself from their most solid ally, the equally proficient war machine that America rages whenever duty calls. So I forgive myself for commenting on America as well.
After all, they are the ones who preach fair speech - I find it easier to use my practice of it to call it as I see it, rather than use it to provoke sentiment towards others under some deluded mind I myself classify extreme. With the US pulling out of Iraq by years end and retreating into Kuwait, the Isreali's are stoking up the fires with macho speak in the direction of Tehran, as Iran continues on the path to securing themselves against the 'do-gooders' by making themselves a nuclear bomb, the large member in the crazy world of different ideals. However anyone feels about nukes or Iranians having one consider they have never started a single war in their history. If deterrent by fear is a psychological means for peace, then we have to be fair about it. Levelling Iran would be just a crime against humanity and we've had to much of it already. But we'll find few that care, though China and Russia are coughing a little which is good to see.

I sent Georgie Pap to Cannes on Wednesday night with this blog post. Something to mull over on his charter. At the time of writing it, I threw a sly piece of historical context into his thinking and declared him Metal Balls for the day.
The call to political disobedience fell on deaf ears. Lost in the waste baskets of a search engine or another comment in your file at the FBI.
Yep, lost.
Now I don't know about other folk, but 'metal balls' is not a bad name for a Superhero. Even for a day. But, as it turned out, Pap was castrated by Angela Merkle as Sarky watched on with grimace, Dave Cameron licking his lips from behind a double sided window enjoying being a Tory, before Rupe decides to take Dave down by way of News Corp. Truth. The first edition.

Pap made it back to Athens, but missing the tail he'd left with.
Within hours his call for a referendum was recalled, and after surviving a cull on the promise of his resignation, Pap sits hours away from being cast into the world of Brian Cowen - a world of dishonest reflection, followed by justification, and a six figure memoir deal from Amazon and Fabre.
How will history remember these men. Let's be honest. Who cares? There have been many in recent times who have also pitched for their page, and sure why not? Hidden within us all is a megalomaniac, isn't there? Just waiting to get out, to sell out, to aid a better drop out.

Pap clings on but by tomorrow his castraters have demanded that a government of national unity and solidarity be put in place and a gentle little nudge to Pap that it's time to take his place at the Sanitarium of the politically poor.
Let's set Democracy aside, shall we? In the interest of society. Has our thinking been decimated or are we being proved to be a stupid organism and being treated as such? If it were that simple perhaps we would not care. But there are many sides to people and easier ways to manipulate them. Therein lies some real problems.
Next up in this economic game of dice is the Italian Question? Think Greece by ten. Flamboyant leader Silvio Berlusconi has declined an offer of a bailout, but invited the IMF in to take a look at the state of affair.
That should see Silvio slip safely out of the country by the time the IMF say they are just moving in - like it or lump it.
Temperamental people, the Italians. Hot blooded. Passionate. Italian is a way of life. Sitting within her borders the center for Roman Catholicism. It's not Aliens v Cowboys anymore. It's IMF v The Church, and although they have both have had many detractors in recent times, I only see one winner in that fight.
In Italy anyway...

It all clearly shows what a political mess the Superstate is in. The Markets have high jacked us all. The castration of Pap on Wednesday night will surely wake her up?
The dream of co-existence now tripped at hurdle one, beneath the weight of individual states national sentiment. That's what happens when you have a system where so much trust in placed in those who deem themselves worthy and when government don't constantly ask the people for an opinion.
You smelling it as well?
What is a vote if what you voted for is not agenda once that vote is cast. What is a vote when removal of politicians just moves the next sycophant up the power conveyor belt. Why is democracy in it's cheapest, most corruptible form, the one we have to accept?
To know reasons you have to know people. To know people and how easy manipulated they are is not particularly a light at the end of the tunnel experience. When placed in context to what's happening around the world at present, well, there you have a pretty fucked up futuristic hard boil on your hands.

But all is not lost. For the Irish tried to take over the World - with our Canadian counterparts - over the weekend when they dared sail to Gaza with relief and humanities to the besieged people there. Stopped off shore by the Isreali Navy they were all arrested and had their disobedience to Isreal rewarded by a night or two in the cells. At least they survived, the last Flotilla's occupants were not so lucky.
It's nice to know some Irish people are standing up for what it wrong in the world. Leaving fear aside to show some humanity with fellow human beings. A simple gesture of kindness by Israel would have seen them being able to pass though.
A small victory for Isreal in the war for peoples minds. The trouble with Isreal it seems is it doesn't give a flying skud about how anyone perceives them. It's the same in America too. Way too arrogant for a nation so young.

All members of the MV Saoirse have earned their endorsement. For what it's worth. In the spirit of fairness, I single out one in particular.
Chris Andrews, former TD and member of Fianna Fáil. Will wonders ever seize? A Booker Endorsement for a Failer.
I couldn't see Mary Harneys cuticles surviving such a trip, but Bertie, you know, it's not too late to go on a little cruise. You could say to the main dude from Mossad when they come aboard, The Bertie,
'Do you know who the fuck I am...' Whistle yourself off on a worthwhile note?

I'm glad I'm not a conspiracy theorist and just a writer in an attic.

Once In A While...

Politicians beware! I'm giving you a rest day. Enda and Eamon, you're safe. I'm still debating whether I should youtube the censorship issue. Was kind of hoping someone would come in late with a nice paid internship running my own magazine dealing with popular culture from an alternative viewpoint. And no, I won't be a paid patsy. No Times or Indo either! Maybe Politico or if The Story goes daily. I'll increase your tax take or go bust doing it. Isn't that what it's all about?

I thought it would be groovy to write about writing again for a change. That weird thing a percentage of the population engage in which keep the rest of society that safe distance, as engagement with them would surely only mean trying hard not to fall asleep. On their side, of course!
Maybe some writers will understand that. It never really bothered me much that I could spend mounds of time on my own. It certainly suits the pursuit somewhat.

In recent times I've been finding it harder and harder to let my writing go. It's not that I doubt what I write about - but small mistakes showing up, does for some reason really annoy me. I've been getting the help of some kind people of late to make the ebook version of Booker's World an error-free zone. I'll disclose the amount of mistakes i get back when they are finished. It shouldn't bother me much, I mean I didn't bankrupt a country or anything, but I guess it matters enough to not want them there.
I'm nearly finished my second novella, Cripple. Originally wrote as a short screenplay, lost to a wet weekend, I've been mulling over it for over six months now. I'm trying to make it fit into about 10,000 words and what I hope to make a customary feature with shorter works - 13 chapters. It probably says more to the type of reader I hope to appeal too as the years go by, as anything more I can offer. We all have our quirks. Quirk is welcome here.
The word on Booker's World by those who gifted me the read has been great. I don't say that easily, but I have been told that once readers get into it - which takes a little time - it's gets harder to put down. That's a good thing, right? Or am I reading it wrong? Anyways, it always sends a little adrenaline flowing through the juices again. Writers will understand.
Some enjoyed the way I didn't chapter it like in the traditional sense. One or two didn't like that approach. I definitely felt it's more of a male book - though a lot of the comment has come by way of lady readers. It's a small group to appeal too - the middle aged working class/unemployed male reader of Ireland - but Booker was never about appealing to anyone in general. I needed to prove to myself that I could go the distance on something that required more effort than 20 minutes spent just wanting the life of Charlie bleedin Harper for a day. Or being taken out by Bernard Dunne in one.

Cripple is based around an incident I witnessed while in school of a cane beating. I saw a few of them back then. The fact that it was a Christian Brother didn't help. The theatrical show he put on also didn't do much to make one understanding of the world any better. And finally, it was who it was dispensed too - a nicer lad, I doubt most people would ever meet. The crime, well let's just say it didn't fit the punishment. That particular school pal done OK as far as I know. But I do know others who didn't do so well. So I went exploring that idea and Cripple will be the result.

As I mature as a writer - I hope - I learn new things as I batter out the pages. Some things about myself. Some things about life. Themes. Things universal to most people whether they admit it or not. In Cripple, I wanted to see how a childhood event like that could send someone sideways for a time. And how and what it would take to make the trek back from there.
It's impossible to draw on something without bringing what life experiences people gather along the way into play. Or maybe it was just the look of a beaten soul, seen somewhere - for whom it seems a saving is beyond. I'm sure we see them on our streets everyday. Those lost - their reasons their own.

I know I really should be writing genre specifics to get those damn sales in, and who knows where writing goes, but for now it's nice not being a whore to a paycheck.
I have a genuine belief anyone can write. Lots of people dabble I'm sure in the quiet at times. To what extent people take their writing will always depend on their effort... and perhaps a higher standard of English also helps. It depends on what your writing. But I don't see writing in ways like standards so much. People should set those for themselves. We get told what to do enough.
Whatever anyone else says really shouldn't ache too much if you write for the right reasons and are comfortable enough with who you are. I guess in many ways that's why I didn't write seriously for the best part of 30 years. Effort will always be made more for the set of the time. Times hard to leave behind. Or maybe not - dependent on the times.
I know it's an old cliche, but we do all write the book of our own lives. Those invisible pages - read differently by all and sunder. Perhaps most are best left unwritten.
Would people change things? You bet they would, but what then would wizards of the word, Hemmingway, S. Thompson, Capote, Bowokski or Twain have had to write about then? Handbags and shoes? Lesbian Zombie's? The End of Days?
Sounds a lot what Leon used to write... back in the day, when the drink flowed like water from a fall down his eager throat. Mad fecker he was!

I want to write a crime novel. Under a pseudonym no one will ever know about called Jack... Did I just write that? It's a short or long story - again dependent on how you look at it. The bore and doubter in me is not sure though. What if it didn't sell like the I-Phone 4?
I guess I may still have some learning to do on the plot end of things too. I'm too young for an autobiography ghost-written by Eamon Dunphy. Though I'm sure Jordan has about a dozen of them out there in multiple languages- everywhere. Damn you, Jordan.
We will see what happens. The need to emigrate is the time filler these days. It gets a little more intense with each day. Back to the real world for a time. With it's many worries and woes. Ups, Downs and disapointments - some harder to bare than others.
'But you have your health,' as Mum Booker used to say. When she could remember...

It should be easier by now. And in many ways it is. Other things which one has no control over are battled easier by the experiences you pick up as you go. There was a saying flying around Facebook the last few days about allowing things live rent-free in your head. That can cost people years. With no years left to lose - I guess those things don't hang around so long anymore. None of us might have control over much, but they don't have to control who you are either. That's probably the best thing writing has given me over the last few years. That sense of freedom. The chance to find out who you are and then what the **c* you're going to do about it. Can't say that is ever easy, but I don't want to live life in a shell or a haze. So one has to find the ground between. 'The Ground Between' - The self help masterpiece by Booker D. Booker! Might even get on Oprah! Or Hannity?

My budget doesn't extend to the top of the bookshelves this weather. But I do get the occasional gift. One swung by my way a few months ago from a friend down under. Barry Simiana. His story, Gone to Mum's is part of a collection in a book called Next Stop Hollywood - Short Stories Bound For The Screen. I read it today. Exquisite. I don't do reviews, because I'd have to do them honestly and sometimes people don't like that, but Baz is my kinda writer.

...and I quote, ''Kelly intrigued me. I've always been a sucker for redheads. They get me everytime.''
Baz and Leon would have been great pals. The story though is more than that. It ticked all the boxes all good stories should. Brilliantly set, defined characters - it drifted between the raw and subtle with ease. I even ate an orange!
It had a letter in it too - readers of Booker will know what I mean. Irony hey! From so far away.
Baz's new book is out now. Touch of Evil. I'll see if I can't nab a credit card from somewhere soon. Mine ran off with half the government Ministers at the last election. They got millions. I got to be a writer.
Life doesn't suck so much when it's 25 outside and when your Ayrton Senna on a mower for an hour. What about those skid marks? Ground will be dead soon - for another year.
The hottest day of the year, they say. It's nearly October!
A strange daze indeed.

*************

If you have 18 minutes

Murder by State

When I turned out the lights at 2am last night, the last thought I had was that I might wake up this morning and this world that we occupy might just be a little bit of a better place. Like I do most nights, I take a look at the news and catch up on the events of the day. As the news anchor weighed in on the economic doom that's coming, a news bar at the bottom of the screen said that Troy Davis, an African American on Death Row in the State of Georgia was temporarily reprieved as the US Supreme Court debated whether to grant him a longer stay of execution. If that failed the President could have intervened.

I woke this morning to the news that as I slept, Troy Davis had been executed after the Supreme Court ruled he should be put to death. Obama didn't intervene. The world wasn't a better place. A sense of real sadness came over me and it has remained all day. Humanity, it seems, is sick and you won't see any pharma company coming up with a pill to cure it any day soon.
I don't know if this man is innocent or guilty. Perhaps only he knows. In his final words he once against protested his innocence. But I do know that what he has had to endure over the past 20 years shows a level of inhumanity that is truly sickening.
Guilty or innocent the facts of the case present a reasonable doubt in my opinion. Davis was convicted of shooting dead an off-duty police officer. No gun was ever found. No DNA to put the matter beyond a doubt. Zero physical evidence. Ten witnesses signed affidavits saying police coerced them into implicating Davis. Eight more signed affidavits implicating another man. This held no weight with anyone of influence.
For 20 years Davis languished on Death Row. Some would say punishment in itself. Here in Ireland if you commit the ultimate crime, you're usually out in 10-15 years. This was the fourth time a date for the sentence to be carried out had been issued. The physiological impact of that perhaps is justice enough. To know and protest throughout your innocence can only make it worse.

The facts and figures don't lie. As a deterrent the Death Penalty has been proved time and time again to be a failed practice. It does not deter. The Troy Davis case is but one of many where serious grounds for innocence has been known, but yet the executions were still carried out.
Here's one case you can read more about. Sunny Jacobs was a death row inmate for 17 years on Death Row in Florida before her conviction was overturned. Her partner was not so lucky. He was executed. She currently lives in the West of Ireland.

Since 1990 the State of Texas has executed 442 people. Hardly surprising that, when you consider George W. Bush was a previous governor. A war-mongering half-wit who is responsible for, at a conservative estimate, the deaths of well over 100,000 innocent men, women and children in illegal wars.
Presidential wannabe and current Texas governor Rick Perry is another blood thirsty hound. In a recent debate Republican supporters clapped and cheered when Perry was asked how did he sleep at night after ordering the deaths of 234 people. Of course the animal said he slept very well. Perry it seems also has the blood of the innocence on his hands.
And what of Obama - the great hope of just three years ago. I saw the pictures of him witnessing the death of Osama Bin-Laden. Fair enough, he may have had proper cause on that one. But last night he shamed the colour of his own skin by standing by for political gain and allowed it to happen. He allows wars to rage and his presidency has been nothing but lies and empty promises. He may very well lose his office come next November and to what. Another blood thirsty Republican?
It's at times like this you hope for the existence of some form of justice on the other side for all this. But then you realize that no all-powerful or all-loving entity would stand by and allow the travesties of humankind to take place if such powers existed. These morons know this. Otherwise they would simply not act in such a way. But for all we don't know, there is a wrong and a right. Wrong seems to have been the order of the day throughout human civilization. And we seem further away today from ever reversing the blood splattered pages of our history to set about correcting it. And maybe with that sadness I mentioned above comes also the feeling of powerlessness. I accepted the philosophical guidance of Absurdity a few years ago. But even the freedom that comes with that, the search for a personal meaning to all is at times pretty hard to find.

I've mentioned a filmmaker by the name of Terry McMahon before. His film, Charlie Casanova is currently ripping through film festivals the world over. I don't know nor have I ever met the man.
Today he posted a piece of writing any of us practitioners would have been proud to write. In a country so devoid of any inspiration, it's nice to come across people who don't hold back - who say it as it is - whatever the personal cost to them as we stumble through this absurdity of life.
I hope he won't mind me re-posting what he had to say.
It deserves to be read -

''I am not Troy Davis. I remained silent during this. Why are you surprised he was... executed? Because the colour of the skin of the U.S. President is the same as Troy Davis's? Power turns all skin grey. I am not Troy Davis, I am an Irish working class white male where we have Burger King and security guards and cops but we don't have guns or execution chambers. We don't need them. Our state uses different weaponry but the result is the same. I am not Troy Davis, I am Terence Wheelock and I lived in Summerhill, Dublin, until I robbed a car and was found dead in a police celI. Nobody campaigns for me. I am not Troy Davis, I am a nameless-faceless protester on the Shell to Sea campaign who daily has my face smashed in by police and IRMS private security. Nobody shouts about me. I am not Troy Davis, I am one of the 110% increase in suicides who save the state the cost of lethal injection by taking my own life. Nobody turns up at my funeral. I am not Troy Davis, I am Teresa Treacy, in prison because I tried to get the state to compromise on entering my private land and destroying its beauty. Nobody is chanting outside my jail cell. I am not Troy Davis, I am one of the countless parents of special needs children who have been condemned to the shadows. Nobody has called to offer assistance. I am not Troy Davis, I am another homeless body. Nobody has offered me a room. I am not Troy Davis, I am ashamed at who we have all allowed ourselves to become. Nobody does anything. I am not Troy Davis, I am alive and capable of fighting back, before I am Troy Davis.'' - Terry McMahon

I'll never figure out life. I accept that. But I do still cling to some hope that karma plays some part in providing justice. I don't believe life with all its genetic complexities could come about by accident. I don't believe in any entity that has the power to stop injustices could let a child starve in some dust bowl or allow half wits like George W. Bush rise to power to massacre the innocent as they sleep in bed in a cowardly fashion by firing a missile from the middle of a sea. There is no justification for that. Not in any civilized world. Perhaps that is the problem. We've yet to civilise. And at the current rate of going, we're hardly likely to ever be.

Troy Anthony Davis 1968-2011
Murdered by The State of Georgia - September 21, 2011
RIP

They Came From West Memphis

It's nice to just close over the blinds and get on with it when the Summer has been such a dreary affair. Cold and damp. Very typically Irish, at least my little corner of it anyway.
I spent the week proofing my second novella and hope to release it in the coming weeks. Like Sonny Strange, it will consist of close to 10,000 words and 13 chapters. Unlike Sonny though, there will be no pick-up.
Cripple tells the story of a man who, blighted by a childhood memory, goes off the beaten path before someone less fortunate attempts to make him see the error of his ways. I wrote it as a film a few years back. I spent about 6 weeks in pre-production only to see the damn thing succumb too, yes you've guessed it, a downpour. That is the nature of that beast. Having struggled to get it all together and then for that to happen. It was at a time when it was all systems go, there was money to pay crew and get things done faster. That was before the wallop. If it's all about timing, well mine sucked.

To be honest I haven't been tuning in much to what's happening this week. I know the stock markets are all over the place and Europe wants more power but can't agree on much else. Almost feels like our faith is sealed. I'm just not even going to think about that.
Cross water the fallout from the riots continues and it is the harshness of the sentencing in some of the cases that have some human rights groups up-in-arms.
Two men who incited a riot over Facebook were jailed for four years each even though the riot never took place. I'm sure a community order and the public humiliation that went with that might have sufficed. It's a tough Justice system in the UK. Plenty of failings over the years. And with the hacking scandal leeking out slowly the behind the scenes, containment of that particular hive of wasps must have the spinnies in overdrive.

During the week I viewed a few documentaries online. One was a 4 hour epic called The Century of Self. Extremely thought provoking and definitely in many respects cements long held views on just what a sorry way humankind has been manipulated for the best part of history and to no extent as well as in the modern day.
If any random readers have a few hours to spare it's well worth watching. Makes an absurdest approach to life that little bit more, shall we say, satisfying.

Years back a friend and I came across a documentary floating around one of the channels on the TV. Paradise Lost tells the story of a horrific triple child killing and the subsequent jailing of three young men who became known as The West Memphis 3. A second documentary, Paradise Lost 2 questioned the guilt of the three men jailed for the horror. One of the three, Damien Echols was actually sentenced to death and has spent the last 18 years on death Row.
This week the trio pleaded guilty to murder and were released on time served. With the third part of the documentary due for release in just over a month the timing of the release could not have come at a better time for Director, Joe Berlinger who together with Bruce Sinofsky have documented the story for the past 18 years.
One feels the story has not fully reached its conclusion, but having weighed up the evidence subject to the documentaries, one would feel though justice seems to have finally been done, other injustices in the case have still to be addressed. But it sort of weighs up my little weekend weather let-down those few years ago and sends it into insignificance. 18 years of any life is a long time to give, be it at the mercy of a state's justice system or the art of filmmaking. Both are worth an endorsement any day of the week.

Molten Memories

There was a possible conflict of interest arising at the time of writing. Older readers of the blog know that from time to time a person strays across the Booker eye and after careful consideration is granted The Booker Endorsement. It's a bit like a Noble Peace Prize and a Turner Prize rolled into one. To date there have been a number of inductee's, with Thierry Henry the only Hall of Famer to have his Jersey retired for sins against the Irish. With no prize money or Crystal involved, it's never going to bestowed with a gala evening where champers and Jaffa Cakes will flow. However...

Last week I inducted two worthy Irishmen in the form of Christy Moore and Gay Byrne. I can only assume that after today's events and riding off the back of the endorsement, word filtered out that Gaybo might consider a run for the Aras. Great. Sure why not? As good as anyone on the sheet at the moment, hey?
Then whispers came down the wires that Fianna Fail were to offer him their nomination. Oh no!! Surely not Gaybo. It would have been the cheapest of sellouts. But thankfully it appears from this article that Gaybo won't be taking the nomination. To lose another Hall of Famer for the reasons stated above would have meant that it's continuance as a feature of the blog would be under question at the next one man board meeting.
As I read through the article my suspicions that political entities pop in now and again was further cemented when the article above suggested they were also after Ireland's best broadcaster on the political and current affairs circuit, Miriam O'Callaghan. You may remember when the IMF rode into town on Ollie Rehn's back? So gifted in their direction they now have the world at a financial precipice. No money's worth it now, hey Ollie? But back to Miriam. Ah yes. In the challengingly accurate title, Bailout - An Absurd in one act, which plays to a tune of a series of absurd events and signs off with a Hollywood type, What there doing now piece? I touted her as a Taoiseach in that. So perhaps absurdity does exist in some strange form everywhere.
But Booker's claim to fame - because let's face it, it ain't looking Tom Clancy anytime soon - will always be the 50 million big ones he cost the taxpayer last Winter so we, as an island, could be warm. If it wasn't for what came after driving the Austerity bus it may have even brought us together for a night or two. Failure by the mainstream media to pick up on the story sows up the thinking that this type of idealism needs to be kept where it is - on the dole - until the time comes to be thrown into an internship. But it can be used for political ends all the same. Was a good idea though, wasn't it?

Luckily however it seems Miriam is going to stick at what she is at for the time being. So looks like there still looking, but it is a poison chalice one feels, especially if the Bertie report appears between now and polling day. Has the time come to forgive them? Offer a damn alternative, then maybe. But the ramming of Austerity down the throats of people who didn't cause the crash that is unfolding is old politics and failed economics. If politics is to survive and a proper form of democracy is established around it we might turn the downward spiral of this century upward again. But it ain't looking to good at the minute.

Of course the blogs biggest fail was the Vincent Browne for Prez Facebook campaign. I think I made a mistake launching it on Facebook as in the next few days i will publish a Bookeristic viewpoint on Facebook as a platform for writers. The results will startle you... or maybe not. I have to hold my hands up and admit - though i tried intermittently - Booker failed as a campaign manager, but will always have the distinction of launching a Presidential campaign with a fictional character.
Vincent's probably too busy finishing Charlie's Memoirs to usher himself into the arena through some radio campaign fronted by Jedward. I got a message once saying someone mentioned the page to him and he smiled. Not bad for a fictional dole-bird written by a real one.

Couple of minor things to address. Someone emailed me and asked when the other cut chapters of Booker's World will be up. I was thinking no-one was reading so will try get some more up in the next week or so. My expose into that epublishing outfit won't be happening. On this one, I've decided to be pro, loike. I don't want this blog turning into a place for business practice critique's. It's hard enough keeping up with everything as it is... and finally, the ebook will be along toward the end of September as it is being held back so the web series can be filmed, somewhere, somehow... blah, blah, blah

Hitch-Hiking

What country gave away, at a conservative estimate, €420 billion of gas reserves to a big oil company and cracked down on the dissenting locals with force and imprisonment and then allowed a regulator lob a 22% hike on domestic gas prices on citizens of _______ struggling in every quarter except the established one?
Answers on a postcard please to Who Wants To Be Taken For A Ride? at P.O Box, 56232265569, Plankville.

Seriously though! Political sci-fi writers would be laughed at. But yet it happens. It would not be so bad if the wealth was coming ashore for the benefit of the Irish people and then the World, but no, the only thing coming ashore is pollutants, be they oil or radioactivity.
Ireland is being continually wrapped with a leather belt for failings by those who escaped the label of failure because the government of the day said so. Haven't we not had enough of those damn belts in Ireland yet?
Ireland's CEO, AJ 'Chopper' Chopra was in town today to give an insight into the €3.6 billion of cuts and tax hikes to come in December's budget despite Enda and Eamon's insistence there would be no cut to social welfare payments nor any tax hikes this year. Have we Statesmen willing to stand up for the Ireland at long last? Or will Chopper continue to wear his 'I can do what I want' look every time he graces us with his presence?

Here's how I think it will all play out. Tomorrow the media will fill us in on the minor details. The 'debate' will begin. Labour will have massive pressure put on them. Fine Gael will stand firm. Cracks will appear, but like most coalitions they'll limp on until it comes around to saving their bacon. Unfortunately that can sometimes backfire. Ask The Incredible Hulks!

Let's face the reality. Ireland's going to be tramped on again, thousands more will leave, the economy will constrict because money fuelling what's left of it will be put in State owned zombie banks so the ride at the top can go on and many remain ignorant of it, bought for the price of a medical card to access an inept health service. And that's being kind...
NAMA posted first year losses of over a billion euro yesterday. With nine years to go and everything the world over on the brink of economic collapse, it's hard to see the Agency going anywhere but alongside the many, many other costly pearls of wisdom previous governments have implemented. Overspends, inflated wages and pensions, rent of prefabs, e-voting machines, cash bonanza's for those that bankrupted us, etc, etc, etc, etc efeckinctera.............
The blog started nearly two years ago. It's been a sharp dive down the graph ever sense. At this rate of going the running joke in the Third World will so be, 'The First World...(laughs) ... tomorrow's third world. And no-one saw it coming.' (more laughs)

Well at least RTE have spent some of their cash wisely in the production of a special with Christy Moore hosted by Gay Byrne tonight. I was listening to Christy once on a CD Player when he walked past me in a place, well, that's another story.

Modern day and great Irishmen. Both of them. People Ireland can be proud of. In an age when people like that are harder and harder to find. It's a shame Ireland has gone the way it has... yet again. It's almost a generational phenomenon by now. Will that cycle ever be broken?
It's a tough thing to say, but it's looking like it won't, well, not in my lifetime anyway. Those who brought us to our knees should be ashamed of themselves, but for the lost part, I'm confident they're not. History can't be faked anymore, and history records. Unfortunately the world don't spin on the creation of some semblance of legacy or contribution to life that befits existence.

It spins until the Sun says we don't anymore. Scientific fact that one...

The Patriot Prism

Once again events around the world conspire to bring home the absurd world we live in and with the weight of those horrors being too much for people, it can also be at times the saddest place to be. Some people are doomed to spend their lives enclosed between walls, their minds stretched to the limits under the weight placed on them by the sadness that exists among us every single day, even in ordinary day lives.
So many things happen on a daily base which help us form the opinions we all carry with us. Freedom to express that opinion is, in my working-class opinion, everyone's right. Without them you can't sway opinions on issues, hence any real change open to mankind seems to only come about after extreme acts of violence toward our fellow man.
I haven't looked into the background of what has unfolded in Norway over the past 36 hours, but one thing I know is the killer is nothing but a murdering coward, for no ideal is worth the lives of innocent people and has no place in any democracy. There has to be better ways to get your point across than slaughtering people and worse so, your own. I reckon when they sent Tim McVeigh to the table he was glad for the release of the burden of seeing the faces of innocent women and children haunt his every waking hour and I believe even he knew in the end, brutal slaughter serves no purpose, however justified warped thinking and twisted idealism's can be at times.
How one person can inflict so much damage to the psyche the world over will be the subject of much discussion in the short term. The longer term will bring about a more stringent approach, with a further shadow cast across society as it slowly closes in on itself by the censoring of any open and constructive debate. I've seen it in Ireland. Top politicians who delete 'friends' on Facebook for asking the wrong type of question. The Patriot Act did it State side. And the phone hacking scandal in Britain. All a perfect storm, or what?
Open society may very well be the fault for so many losing their lives in Oslo at the end of the day. To commit the atrocity that was perpetrated on Norway's darkest day since the war, severe lapses in security probably contributed more to the death toll than any other single contributory factor apart for this individuals need to make his point. How do you balance it?
It is terrorism, but I did not like the way many analysts jumped down the throat of Muslims as a primary reaction. I guess people are better keeping trap closed in certain quarters. The standard of Journalism being delivered is also appalling. One Sky reporter was saying that McVeigh carried out his bombing in Utah. This is the main stream media?
Civil society has no place for people who carry out such acts. Some put them to death, others lock them up. One thing is sure, they can't be allowed to walk among us. Until we get to the stage Spielberg got to in Minority Report, it's always going to be a social conundrum that one.

Earlier this evening I found me pipes getting hot for a few reasons, mainly stemming from a disturbing fact I read earlier today where it was said that 1 billion people in the world now suffer from malnutrition. It was nowhere to be seen on any front pages of tomorrows newspapers. Not one. The headlines were split between Norway and the tragic death of Amy Winehouse, as she became the latest entry into the 27 Club.
Singer Winehouse shot to worldwide fame with her 2006 album, Back To Black before a slow slide into drug and alcohol addiction, culminating in her death today at just 27 years of age. With the world at her feet, addiction slaved over her every waking minute as she fought her demons under the glare of a tabloid driven frenzy which can have done nothing more than make her close further into addictions arms.
I'm all up for a bit of banter. I'd laugh at some strange jokes. All good. But I did find some comments in the world of social media tonight more than distasteful. Addiction is classified by the W.H.O as being a disease. It's clutches are hard to break free from. I'd even go as far as to stay damn near impossible, such are the odds against anyone battling any of its forms. So in a world where people are entitled to an opinion, I guess you have to let anything go. But calling her 'Junkie Scum' is probably among the most distasteful thing I've heard in a while. I blame education, as I'm more than well-voiced in human flaw, but even sometime people need to take a little charge of themselves.

I'll comfort myself in the fact that out there somewhere in the universe, what energy remains of her maybe singing vocals written by Bill Hicks alongside Kurt Kobain, whist being accompanied on piano by Richard Burton and backing vocals from Ollie Reed and Ronnie Drew. Trombone and Bangles from Richard Harris. Perhaps a little jazz. Or the blues. And who knows what's possible anymore, as any Math man will tell you, it's all in the numbers. Isn't it?

Amy Winehouse
Endorsed!

Daz's Daze

I wrote this post a few weeks back when Rory McIlroy decimated the field at the US Open. I called it Fairy Tales. Though I can be far reaching at times with my comment, I didn't expect that it would be outshone, so soon, and for many reasons.
Yesterday, Darren Clarke, at the age of 42 won the British Open Golf Championship, winning his first Major in the process. He also became the third golfer from Northern Ireland to win a major championship in just 13 months. I'm sure any fiction writer pitching that tale to a would-be publisher would have found themselves laughed from various offices across the globe in the past few years. But today, it is reality.
Clarke, a multiple winner across the globe and also winner of two World Golf Championships - on when he mauled the Tiger - always had the pedigree. But most, myself included, always thought Daz's Day had passed.
Few will ever forget Clarke at the 2006 Ryder Cup at the K Club, when he moved personal mountains to help Europe secure a famous win. Clarke's wife Heather had died from Breast Cancer just a few short weeks before. He asked to play and was given a wild-card by European Captain, Ian Woosnam. In a roller-coaster of a tie, Clarke shone in all quarters before finally succumbing to the emotion of it all as the tie reached a climax.
Things changed after that for the popular Dungannon man. Left with two boys to care for, Clarke's world ranking sunk lower with each passing year. There were two wins on the European Tour in 2008 and another one earlier this year, but Clarke showed he wasn't finished just yet, as he led the field from start to finish at Sandwich over the weekend.
Valiant efforts from Phil Michelson and future Major winner, Dustin Johnson, were not enough to deter the Ulsterman who remained the personification of cool throughout the four days. As he sunk a half-footer at the last for a 70, Clarke's moment had come at last. As he claimed the adulation of the crowd, few would have offered a more popular winner on the day.

The win comes just weeks after Rory McIlroy's win at the US Open and Graham McDowell's win there the year before to make it an historic hat-trick of Major wins from Northern Ireland. Add Paddy Harrington's wins and one can see that Irish golf is in pretty good shape.
I've always loved the history of golf and the stories that whisper from its history books. But no matter how much dreaming can be done sometimes, this is beyond even the most wildest of imaginations.

Darren Clarke, Champion Golfer 2011.
Endorsed.

Goodnight Garret

Having written yesterday about duty and what that can sometimes entail, it's with a touch of sadness to write about the death of former Taoiseach, Garret Fitzgerald tonight.

One of the islands elder statesmen, he was Taoiseach on two occasions in the 1980's in almost Jekyll and Hyde combat with his chief political nemesis, Charles J. Haughey.
While one was trying to move Ireland forward and liberalize it somewhat, the other was feasting from the state coffers.
Fitzgerald's hands were largely tied during his years in office due too, yes you've guessed it, a deplorable economic situation.

An establishment lifer, Garret Fitzgerald was spoken about with great affection today, but not exclusively by that jet-set. In an Ireland so often afraid of change, he did what most fought against at the time, a more modern Ireland.
He didn't quite get there, but it may be fair to say he set the foundations for what would ultimately become an ultra-modern society and all the downfalls that came with that. One suspects under the politic of Fitzgerald, Ireland would possibly not have ended up as she did after successive Fianna Fail governments drove everything but the final nail into our sovereign coffin.

Like Haughey, Garret Fitzgerald will be buried with a State funeral. A true Statesman, a noble practitioner of politics and a life worth endorsing. That can't be said for all.

R.I.P