A Message from the Universe

Down at the petrol station, people park in front of the pumps but don’t buy any fuel. They just block the pumps for the people who need them. They saunter in and get their bacon rolls and their Mint KitKats and they saunter back out and they don't give a toss. It drives me a little bit askew. 

A few months ago, one person managed to park their car strategically so that all four of the centremost pumps were rendered unusable. It required a pinpoint level of accuracy and an immeasurable absence of empathy. I applauded the person as they returned to their car, having bought no petrol, of course. “Amazing parking,” I said as I slow handclapped, “truly amazing.”

Yesterday morning, I was setting off on a bit of a journey and I felt I should fill up the tank before I hit the road. Getting to a pump was a battlefield. Abandoned cars were strewn all over, as insensitive punters stocked up on toilet rolls and hash browns and no fuel whatsoever. I got to a pump eventually, unlocked my fuel cap, released the nozzle, jammed it into the appropriate orifice, squeezed the lever, and waited. And waited. The display showed the cost of the previous fuel fill. Forty Euro. Any moment now, it would reset to Zero and my fuel delivery would begin. I knew that a little alarm was sounding at the cash till inside the shop, alerting the staff to the fact that I was out here, in advance of my trip to Athlone, waiting to get a little gas in the tank.

Any moment now.

I waited.

My own personal fuel temperature began to rise. Badly parked cars, battles for space at the pump, delays en-route to destination, being ignored in my hour of minor need. I started to get the right hump. Perhaps I should let out a roar at the shop window, a Dustin Hoffman like protest along the lines of, “I’m waiting here!!” I could do it too. I have the lung capacity. That’s for damn sure.

Then I looked down.

Beside the petrol pump there stood a stainless steel circular bollard, about a metre high. It has a black plastic cap that fitted on top of the tubular fixture. It was evidently there to prevent errant vehicles from banging into the petrol pump. A guard, a protector, quietly doing its job.

Someone had taken a pencil and written on the top black surface of the plastic bollard cover. Where most writing instruments would not have made any impression on the dark surface, the graphite of the pencil had seemed to taken to the medium remarkably well. The single word, that somebody had written there, stood out in subtle but legiible relief from the background. The almost childlike cursive style seemed all the more personal and intimate. Somebody, probably somebody in my own heightened state of annoyance, had taken a moment, produced a pencil, and written a message to whoever may come after them.

A one word message.

The message said, “Smile.”

I don’t think I smile as much as I used to. I don’t think I’m alone in this. The world is a harsh place, in many ways, and we are plugged into the harshness of the world in a way that previous generations could not dream of. Two hundred years ago, a horror or a sadness on the other side of the world would never be known or considered. Today, it is in our heads two minutes after it happens. I'm not bemoaning this connectivity, I think it helps us to keep the world straight, to not let horrors be enacted without any repercussions. It's necessary, but it's also hard. We are plugged into the whole wide world and it is a pretty tough narrative to keep up with. 

I remember an illustration the appeared in a copy of the Radio Times when I was quite young, decades before Internet and Cable News. It showed a humanoid figure reclining in some kind of comfy chair. The naked form was connected by hundreds of cables running from every corner of its body to devices and machinery, being fed every aspect of the world directly into its being. The figure in the chair was charred and frazzled, twisted, and distorted, obviously in significant pain. I sometimes think we’ve kind of become that character. Wired to the whole planet and all of the grief and horror it has to offer. Bearing it all as best we can.

Maybe that’s why I don’t always smile as much as I used. Maybe it isn’t.

All I reckon, having read the single word message on the bollard at my local petrol station, is that it’s okay to smile now and again if we can manage it. More that that perhaps. There is, perhaps, an onus on us to smile and live and enjoy our lives as best we can. Because when we do that, we can remain strong and able to assess and fight and resist where necessary. If we try to carry the world on our packs, forever unsmiling, we will surely break in two and be of no use to anyone.

The petrol pump clicked and the fuel started flowing. I was on time for my meeting in Athlone and it was a useful meeting. I had a coffee afterwards and a nice chat with the guy I met. Not about the job or the cost of it or the difficulty in doing it. It was about his sons, and how he loves books about history, and how he can sing for hours if you give him a guitar.

And, somewhere in the middle of all that chat, I had a smile.

Weight Loss, Crunchy Gravel, and Guilty Secrets

My current attempts to lose a few pounds are going okay, I guess. 

The scales move downward, but only at the slowest of paces. Sometimes they go back up again. But the overriding trend is a downward grind over a period of months and I tell myself that’s all for the best. A slow loss of weight will make it easier to keep it off. All bullshit, of course. Any slight decline in poundage can so easily be undone by a couple of double size Mars bars and a litre of 7-Up.

Still, on we go.

My methodology is low key and old-fashioned logical. Eat less and exercise more, with neither of these things being done to any great extremes. Rather like a smoker (which I’ve never been) I have one big vice which it immediately benefits me to give up. I’ve already alluded to it and we’re only three paragraphs in. I will eat loads of rubbish and sugary things, if left unchecked. So I’ve checked it. The rubbish is out of the equation and, like the smoker, I can feel better by making that one adjustment alone. Add to that a drive to eat smaller meals with no in-betweens and that’s the full extent of my calorie-reducing regime. As for exercise, I do what I’ve always done except I try to do a bit more of it. I walk. I always walk quite a bit anyway but now I throw in an extra quota of walking whenever I can.

That’s all I do. You can tell I’m no expert, nor am I a person driven to weight loss excellence. I just want to continue a slow decline into Christmas then hope to fuck I can get through that festive season without piling it all on again in one short week. If I had one word of insight or help to anyone who is thinking of doing the same, I would offer that fact that every half pound lost feels like a victory and evokes a little increase in self-esteem. You don’t have to become Where’s Wally to feel like a success at this game, however misguided that may be.

None of which is the point of this week’s post.

Some of the walking I do is around our local lake. We have a designated pathway around half of the lake, a circuit with two bridges, and it is the best thing since sliced bread. Peace, nature, a view of The Reek in the distance, ducks, swans, reeds gently swaying in the breeze, wild flowers, little dogs, big dogs, smiling people… it’s a good place for a walk. There’s a car park you drive into, along with all the other cars, and you set off in one direction and you arrive back from the other direction (in the nature of circuits all over the world) and it takes about 25 minutes to get around so you go around twice or even three times. It’s all good.

But, just lately, as an added bonus, I’ve started parking in another car park which adjoins the lake path in an altogether different location. This public car park is much less used and parking my car there gives me the feeling that I have my own private access to this most public of places. It also has a remarkable, hard-to-define bit of loveliness that makes it a slice of heaven for me.

Gravel. It has gravel.

You heard, the car park is finished with lovely, crunchy, loose stone rather than the utilitarian tarmac of the main car park. And shoot me if you want, but I bloody love gravel. That crunch underfoot is one of my favourite things in the whole world, seconded only by the crunch under my tyres as my car pulls in. I can’t really say why. That crunchy, cornflake sound just makes me feel as if I am off the beaten track and away from all the concerns that come with being in a town or a city. I’m on the gravel, dude, and life couldn’t be better. Since re-discovering this quiet, tree-lined parking area, my walks are exponentially better. And, no, I’m not telling you where it is. Sod off.

As I walk the lake circuit, I’ve got my earbuds in and I’m listening, listening. What is Ken listening to, the entire population of the lake wonders (as if!). Is it the very latest scientific or political treatise? Is it some in depth analysis of the current state of the Arts?

(Guilty secret incoming.)

Nah, it’s Reacher.

I listen to Reacher books. Not all the time, obviously, but quite a bit. I’ve often got one on the go and, of late, if I’m on a long drive or walking our esteemed lake, I’ll have Jack Reacher in my ears, kicking ass in stereo.

Part of the attraction of my listening to Reacher audiobooks (which I get free from Castlebar Library via Borrow Box) is the person who reads the books. Jeff Harding is the absolute voice of Lee Child’s Reacher books and his rather harsh, uncompromising tone eminently suits the material and, after listening to quite a few, has become like an old friend to me. Jeff imbues Reacher with a voice that is an utterly American blend of capability and wariness, and it brings the character to life in a way that no visual adaptation has come close to doing. Not even that enormous guy on Amazon.

Of course, there’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure. Any pleasure we can extract from the world is okay as long as it’s not hurting anybody or putting on weight. Although, if there was one element of the Reacher audiobooks that is a little guilt inducing, it would be the way that Jeff portrays the females in the Reacher books. Jeff is either an extremely macho person or else he is really good at portraying a really macho person. The ladies in the book suffer a tiny bit from this fact because, as Jeff switches from Reacher’s trademark machismo tones, the ladies all fall into a similar vocal pattern that is slightly prissy, matter of fact, and declamatory. 

In smaller words, all of Reacher’s women sound the same. Similarly, the bad guys and authority figures all sound the same too. They all get a rather weaselly borderline belligerent voice. The overall effect is that, as Reacher traverses the United States and the wider world in search of justice and fair play, it sounds rather like he’s meeting the same people over and over again. Don’t get me wrong, I like all this very much. There is a comfort in knowing that Reacher’s next lady will sound just like his last one and the next bad guy will die making rodent noises, just like the last one did.

Reading back, this has been a rather random trek through weight loss, loose gravel, and voiced anti-heroes and it seems to be of limited value to any one right-thinking person.

What can I tell you? This is my mind.

'Welcome to it.

A New Autumn

“And summer’s lease hath all too short a date...”

In my head, autumn has already begun. 

I know that might be an annoying thing to say. Summer holidays have weeks to go yet and, if you’re in school in England, your holiday has practically only just begun. 

Conventional wisdom would also say that the 1^st of September is as good a time as any to resume calling the world ‘Autumnal’ and, for most of my life, I would have agreed with that. When we were small, autumn started on the night ‘The High Chaparral’ was on the telly and we were sitting on the floor, trying to sellotape wallpaper covers onto our new school books. School was starting again the next day and another supposedly endless summer was sudddenly at an end.

But, as I’ve clocked up a few years, I now tend to think that autumn arrives as soon as the very first signs of it peep through. A leaf or two on the trees turn golden and brittle, the daylight slips a little sooner out of the evening sky. Signs like these speak clearly to me that autumn is now here and, even though it’s only the 10^th of August, summer’s lease has once again prematurely expired.

It’s an age thing, I think. To find Autumn present so very early in the year. But it’s an Irish thing too. The season is historically caled 'Lughnasa' and it’s that time when harvesting begins. (I’m a townie, I don’t know actually much about harvesting). And, like I said, the natural signs are there too. The first of the blackberries on the thorny bushes on my back garden have ripened and are now dark and luscious. “Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it.”

I like Autumn. For me, it’s a time for getting things done. Nothing is in the way. No Christmas edge, no summer doldrums. Let’s get it work. But I tend to mourn the passing of summer a little bit too. I’m always left with the feeling that I never even came close to celebrating it enough. I have worked all the way through, as I always do. I have let it sidle past. 

But another part of me knows that I haven’t really done that. For every day of thsi summer, I have taken a moment and looked around me and acknowledged the full trees, the endless evenings, the kids on the green doing their holiday hurling classes. I may not have rolled around and covered myself in summer, but I have always known it was there. It that sense, I haven’t missed it at all.

One other slightly sad note. I had written somewhere before about how a Chestnut tree that sits across the river from my childhood home was always the first to turn golden at the end of the summer. If I went to Sligo now and looked across the Garavogue, I’m sure that same tree would have the new season written all over it. Every year I noted it. When I moved here to Castlebar, I found a new ‘Early Tree’ right there on The Mall. Another Horse Chestnut. Most years, I would sit on one of the benches in the town green and just note for a moment that the tree had turned and autumn was here once again. This year, the tree is gone. I wrote about the cutting down of a few trees last Christmas, for safety reasons, and, silly me, I never realised that my tree was one of them. I guess I’ll have to find another tree to stare at.

As an antidote to all this morosity, I went for a walk yesterday just after writing the bulk of this thing and found large residues of summer to be still in the air. I guess it’s just one of those times of the year when everything is on the turn. One day one thing, the next day another. Best not to sweat it too much. As my old pal Rod McKuen sang, “And to each season, something is special…”

And anyway, you mustn't pay too much heed to me. I'm a law unto myself. I hope that your own personal summer runs right on up to the middle of September. The weather is usually at its loveliest then anyway. Summer isn’t over yet, for most of us, not even close. As for me, I’ll be just fine, down here in my own new Autumn.

Summer will come again.

With a little luck and with a fair wind.

Service Will Resume

This will mark a couple of weeks without a new blog post.

Well, yes, this is a sort of a blog post I suppose. But, then again, not really. It’s more of a note that there isn’t one this week. And that doesn't really count. Not for me anyway.

We lost someone lovely in the past week. A family member. A great friend. I don’t want to say more. This isn’t the place. Nor am I seeking condolences or kind thoughts. Thank you but I’m not sitting in that chair. I’m only saying, someone important and wonderful is no longer on the end of the phone or an hour down the road.

Losing a person is a bit like losing a tooth. There is a new and enormous gap that we explore tenuously. We feel older and more easily breakable. We miss what was, so recently, so thoroughly there.

And it's hard to write blog posts when all that is going on. 

So service will resume. Next week perhaps. What will I write about? Your guess is as good as mine. But that’s always been the way. Something will arise. Or not. If it doesn’t, we’ll make something up.

Service will resume. Maybe not normal service but, you know yourself.

It’s hardly ever been that.

The Next Thing

I’m a Lucky Duck.

I may not be ruggedly handsome, or semi-famous, or even monetarily semi-rich but, sometimes I just feel lucky.

As some of you may already know, I write. Not for a living, not 'professionally' in that sense of the word. But I try to do it as 'professionally', in another meaning of the word, and as well as I can. And the reason I feel so lucky is because I usually have something ‘going on’ with my writing. Some kind soul may be working up a short film, some kind group of souls may be working on a play.

This makes me a Lucky Duck, in my book. So many writers have to work into a void. Will their work ever see the light of day? Who knows? With me, thanks largely to my friends, I work with a reasonable expectation that the words I type will someday make a thing that will be seen. For someone like me, who loves to write, and who lives to share my silly little stories, that’s an incredible thing. 

There is also the inevitable frisson that this luck of mine could run out at any minute. Like any of us, the next piece of writing that is seen may become the last piece of writing that is seen. It all encourages a simple typing soul like me to do their very best. The possibility of something actually being seen is a huge encouragement to make that something as good as it can possibly be.

Lucky Duck.

And now, with our short film Joey settling in very nicely on YouTube (that’s a link, if you care to click on it and see), the Next Thing raises its head excitingly above the parapet.

Last year, the inestimable Castlebar Musical and Dramatic Society asked me about the possibility of doing some of my plays in my beloved Linenhall Arts Centre for a couple of nights, to help raise some funds for their next major musical endeavour. It should go without saying that, from my point of view, the possibility of this happening was immediately very high. CMDS has a super wealth of talent in its cohort, and the chance to tap into that, to tell some of my stories, was an exciting and an intriguing one. In the heel of the hunt (whatever that means) we had a highly memorable two nights and a super-highly memorably rehearsal period beforehand. I got to do some directing, and lots of other things too, and I was singularly delighted with how the plays went over.

That was 2024.

Now it’s 2025.

And, gosh darn it, here we go again…

Earlier in the year, CMDS asked me would we consider doing another 2 nights this year, with different plays of mine. If I were being smart with you, I would say I thought about it for all of two seconds but, the truth is, I thought about it for a little while longer than that. 

You see, the first three plays had been somewhat ‘no-brainers.’ I had seen them all done, a few times in some cases, and I had some idea they could go over okay. To do it again, this year, would require the use of material that had not been produced before. Untried stuff. 

So I had to think about it a little bit harder.

But not too much harder.

To get to do theatre stuff with CMDS again? To be permitted to bring some previously unseen work to the stage?

Hell, yeah! Let’s get to it!

This year’s plays are ‘A Sort of Whodunnit?’ and ‘The Doubles Partner.’ There may be an additional piece of theatrical frippery (hence the ‘two-and-a-half plays’ thing on the poster) but we’ll get to that on the night. ‘Whodunnit’ is a comedy play that has never been seen anywhere before. It has been carefully shaped to specifically suit the cast who will play it. See apology below. ‘Doubles Partner’ has been seen a few times but the excitement of bringing back two original cast members, and adding in one of my favourite actors in the world, makes it an exciting prospect. It’s a fun play which has gone over well with audiences in the past. Here’s hoping and believing it will do so again.

As of this weekend, it all starts to feel a bit more real. The plays will be on October 16 and 17^th of this year. That’s still quite a way off and there’s a lot of work to do before we get there. But, this weekend, the shows went up for sale on The Linenhall website. Lots of empty, unclaimed, seats, which is one of the many frissons of doing theatre.

As I go on about how exciting all of this is for me, I remember that I also want to send out a word of apology to some lovely people.

Last year, we did an open audition for our plays and we got three wonderful casts out of that process. But, on my request alone, we are not doing that this year. Having watched last year’s productions, I got a very particular idea of who I would like to see in certain roles if more of my plays were ever done, and this ‘personal vision’ (if that doesn’t sound too arsey) coloured all the writing and rewriting work I have done on this year’s plays, prior to casting. So I approached the person I saw in each part and I asked them if they would like to play that part and, rather amazingly, they have all said yes. (Lucky Duck). So that’s means we won’t be doing an open audition call this year because a) there aren’t as many parts as last year and b) the people who I saw in my mind’s eye, are all up for doing it.

So this is a little apology to anyone who might have liked to come in and take part in an open audition for this year’s plays. If we ever do anything of mine again, it will probably be back to open auditions. It’s a process I greatly enjoy. But, for this year, the opportunity to ‘cast the parts as I wrote them’ was simply too good to pass up.

I’m hoping this will put an interesting colour on the performances. I wrote ‘Two for a Tenor’ for four of my acting friends with no idea if they would ever want to do it. But their constant presence in my head coloured all of the writing process and shaped each of the characters in odd little ways. Then they all turned up to do it. I’m hoping a little of that dynamic rubs off in this year’s plays too.

So, sorry and thanks, in equal measure.

And now, the work begins. There is so much to do, so much to get done. It’s scary and daunting and a little shiver-inducing. But I’m a Lucky Duck and I can’t let these life-affirming opportunities pass me by.

So, once more into the breach…

It’s going to be fun.

 

(If you’d like to come and see the plays ‘A Sort of Whodunnit?’ and ‘The Doubles Partner,’ you can book via the Linenhall website by clicking right here or you can telephone the box office, in box office hours, on 094 90 23733.)

Joey Hits YouTube and Sees Some Action There

There comes that time in the life of a short film when it’s done all the festivals it can do and screened most of the screenings it can screen. When that time comes, it comes time for YouTube and Letterboxd and such.

This week was Joey’s week to debut on YouTube and it’s had a mighty good start with lots of views and lots of ‘Cards and letters from people we don’t even know’, to quote the old song. And, if you get that reference, I'm fairly impressed.

‘Joey Had Never Been Out of the City’ is a short film made by my friend-and-conspirator Richard Keaney from a short film script I adapted from a short story I wrote. (I’m doing all this repetition deliberately so don’t come picking me up on it). It was made on a budget of €2.75 (approx) but attracted some great production and acting talent, who all came along enthusiastically for the ride. 

This is eternally appreciated and thanks very much to you all. x 

For my part, I love to tell stories. In person, on a page, on a screen, on a stage, I’ll always tell you something if you’ll let me. And the opportunity to see my writing on a big screen in front of a captive audience or, now, out in the universe for anyone to see… well it is serious bucket-list stuff and it rocks my little world.

So, hopefully, there’s an imbedded link below to take you to the YouTube iteration of our short film. If you click on the photo on top, it should take you to YouTube, where the viewing experience might be better. If you’re heading over there, I hope you get some enjoyment out of it. Click a thumbs up, if that's not an offensive notion, or even leave a comment. It all helps to get 'eyes on.'

But for now, for us, as Two Brew said, ‘On to the Next’.

And if you actually get that reference, well then I’m extremely impressed.

On a Stage, Talking Movies

On Thursday night, I found myself on a stage talking about movies. And, never wishing to overexplain any situation, that is where the title of this week’s blog post comes from.

‘But how did this come about?’ I hear you cry. And I would gently exhort you to calm down a little because you’ve been quite stressed lately and it’s worrying me. Go and have a green tea or a lie down or something and come back and read the rest of this later. We’ll all still be here.

Better?  Good.

This ‘Celebration of Mayo Indie Short Films and Filmmakers’ was the brainchild of Carnacon’s Ruaidhrí Hallinan, who co-wrote and co-produced the excellent short film ‘Where the Old Man Lives’ along with Kilmaine's Eamonn Keane. This short film was directed by Sonya O’Donoghue and it stars Michael Harding, Ruth McCabe, and Michael Patric. 

Ruaidhrí, who I very much enjoyed meeting on the night, is a virtual powerhouse of creative filmic energy. In an answer to an audience question, he described producing as the hardest-by-far part of getting a film made. This is not hard to believe as Ruaidhrí carries with him a drive and enthusiasm for his work that is both impressive and mildly contagious… I need to get something done, like now! In one recounted story, Ruaidhrí described how he tried to get hold of a contact number for the an elusive and brilliant actor and eventually tracked him down by schmoozing a helpless temporary intern on a phone. In the very nicest possible way, the story evoked for me an image of Brian Cox in Manhunter; “I'll bet you have a call caddie right next to your phone… well zip that little pointer right on down to the letter 'H'.

‘Where the Old Man Lives’ is a very fine short film. It deals with subjects that are highly relevant to the modern Irish rural community. Themes of loneliness, isolation, societal fear, and aging. It is beautifully produced, written, and exceptionally well performed by a glowing cast. It was the final film shown at our film evening and you should check it out when you get a chance. I feel sure it will come your way.

Ruaidhrí devised the evening around this fine film and he generously sought out a number of other County Mayo Film People to come and show our wares and to share the event with him. This was an act of generosity combined with an accurate realisation that audiences enjoy a well-curated selection of short films with the added fun of meeting the film makers. This was borne out by a full-house audience in the Linenhall Arts Centre and a very warm and enthusiastic response to the evening as a whole.

There were four films shown in all and each of them stood out in their own way. One of them stood out, for me in particular, because I wrote it - but we’ll get to that. The evening was MCed by Cróna Esler, who I’ve known for a long while and who played her customary blinder in keeping everything rolling smoothly and keeping us all (mostly) in check.

The first film was ‘Rapacious’ written, directed, and produced by Eamonn Keane. For me, this was the most beautiful of the four films. Imagery, photography, and sound were of an extraordinarily high quality and as a showcase for the super digital projection facilities at The Linenhall, it was the perfect choice. A lot of the audience would have been familiar with the Moore Hall location in which it was shot but I feel a viewer who did not know the area would be struck by the beauty and colour of the world where the film is set and the shocking incongruity of the ruined mansion rising out of the woods.

The third film was ‘Vanilla’ and one of the absolute highlights of the evening was getting to meet writer and director Tony O'Donnell. I think Tony kind-of won the evening in many ways. His easy going, slightly laid back approach to the interview and Q&A session engaged everyone in the nicest possible way. However, behind the gentle exterior lies a considerable writing and directing talent. Tony assembled a cast for his very first short film that is nothing short of astonishing and when one sees the quality of writing in his film, one understands why they all journeyed down to a much-loved Belmullet pub for two days filming with a man who had never made a film before. They obviously saw what we, the audience, saw the other night. A slice of raw filmic talent with a world of possibilities now unfolding in front of him.

Heady stuff.

The second film was ours, and by ‘ours’ I mean director Richard Keaney’s and mine. Well, I’m only the writer so it’s Richard’s film really but let’s not argue about it.’ Joey Had Never Been Out of the City’ has been around the festivals now. It’s won awards for acting and writing and it even won Best International Short at the Bedford film festival, which was darned nice of them. This is my second cinematic collaboration with Richard and we’re both working hard to do more. We did ‘Getting In’ a few years ago and that did well at festivals too. This was my first time to see ‘Joey’ on a big screen and with the added bonus of an audience of nearly two hundred people. It was a buzz for sure. In the interview/Q&A, afterward, I did my usual schtick, I’m not the best at selling myself or bigging myself up but I’m proud of what Richie and I have pulled off here, with practically zero resources and a lot of help from industry friends: a little film that plays and works well.

If you want to know about me, you can read the 800,000 or so words that sit on this darned blog. There’s plenty about me here, if you want it, but that’s quite enough about me for now.

Some words about Richard Keaney are in order though.

Richard is pure filmmaker at heart. As long as I’ve known him, which must be the best part of twenty years, cinema, and everything cinematic has been a huge part of his life. His knowledge of the medium is Wikipediac (did I just make that word up?) and he sees everything, considers everything, and remembers everything. He even works in the medium.

He is driven to make movies and, more importantly, to make the best movies he can. Richard is  still a  very young man. We met when he acted as a teen in a number of my theatre plays. He shared those stages with virtual unknowns such as Sally Rooney. Even then, the love of film was abundantly clear. I wrote a part in my favourite teen play ‘Midnight in the Theatre of Blood’ to reflect his movie-buff character and he played the part. 

Apart from the films he has made from my own scripts, he has also written and directed ‘Scope,’ ‘Late Arrivals’ and ‘Recoil’ among others.

On a personal level, Richard is the gentlemanliest (did I make that word up too?), kindest, most generous, most enthusiastic person you could ever hope to meet. I think the main thing Richard and I share is a quiet but driving ambition to make the very best film that we can. It’s as simple as that. 

Richard has the talent to be a great film maker. But is there more that can be done to help him, and all the other upcoming film makers, achieve this goal?

If there was an overarching theme to the evening, I feel that this was it. 

There are a number good funding schemes for short and feature films here in Ireland but, by understandable necessity, that funding tends to go to people and bodies who are already three or four steps down the road. The most wonderful initiative would be one that provided some funding opportunities for those who are just one or one-and-a-half steps down the same road. People who have already shown enough commitment and passion to make a short film or two. Not beginners, not without evident talent, but just needing a small-but-crucial boost and a modicum of encouragement to be able to push on through. To go that little bit bigger and that little bit better.

The difference between me being a writer every day and not being a writer at all was, I feel, just a few small comradely claps on the back from people who knew their stuff. If there was such a thing as that for the wonderful, driven film makers who can’t quite yet convince the established funding programmes to take them on… well, I think that would be a fine, fine, thing. 

If in doubt that this could work, just seek out see the work that is being done these days, here in Mayo and all over the place, with zero help and practically zero budget, by people who know their stuff and who are driven to do it well. A couple of grand might make their next project possible. It might even make their next project their best project yet. Think about it.

Thanks very much to everyone who made Thursday night possible.

It was pretty good, wasn’t it?

Misheard Prayers

Growing up Roman Catholic, going to all the ceremonies, serving my time as an altar boy, I knew all the moves and, mostly, I still do. I still know all the prayers too, although they change the words around a little from decade-to-decade, just to remind me that I’m no longer down with the religious kids.

We all had the famous prayers off-by-heart, of course. The Hail Marys and Our Fathers were embedded in there by decades of rosaries (sorry for repeating the word ’decade’ so soon but that’s what rosaries are called… decades). But there were also the ‘harder’ prayers, the ones that you started off quite boldly reciting but, by the middle, an uncertainly about how it actually went. These prayers, ones like ‘The Memorare’ or ‘Hail Holy Queen’ are still belted out today, more often than not at the end of a good funeral. They contain phrases like ‘Despise not my petitions’ and ‘Turn, then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us.’ Good stuff like that.

Both of these prayers, and others like them, subscribed to a view of Mary, the mother of Jesus as a sort of a holy intermediary. She is often called on the step-in or ‘intercede’ when a good prayer does not seem to be hitting the mark. The idea, for my Mum at least, was that Jesus and God were often tied up with the big stuff and sometimes didn’t catch the littler pleas. But a word to Mary, who seemed to have time on her hands for this kind of thing, could often bring a solid result. Mary could catch Jesus on a little down-time and gently ‘nudge’ him a bit. “Did you notice that Josephine was asking if her son could do okay in his Junior Cert Exams? I know, I know, it’s manic, but maybe a little something for her? B-Minus, maybe?"

I mention these ‘hard’ prayers because something reminded me of them but, more particularly, something reminded of how I misunderstood one line in one of them when I was small. Although I now know the right words, the old misheard words seem to almost mean more to me, even now.

In 'Hail Holy Queen' the often quoted phrase ‘Valley of Tears’ or ‘Vale of Tears’ pops up. But that’s not it. Right before that phrase, the prayer confirms to Mary that it is indeed, “To thee do we send up our sighs.” When I was small, I clearly understood this line as being ‘To thee do we send up our size.” This was not even a mystery to me. We were sending our measurements up to Mary so that, when we inevitably arrived in heaven, we would have a fine set of afterlife garments all ready-made for us. Maybe even, if we were very good, a pair of wings, made to measure.

If these words ever come up, at a funeral, as they more increasingly do, I always think about scribbling down my inside leg measurement, on a post-it note, and sending it up the chimney and into the waiting arms of Holy Mary. It tends to lighten the severity of the moment, if only temporarily.

Rereading those old prayers for this piece, and looking more carefully at the words, I am reminded of how we reeled off the prayers without really thinking too hard about what we were saying in them. It’s been instructive to read them slowly and to consider the import of the words. One of them asks to be ‘delivered from present evils’ and, God knows, who doesn’t want that? And, of course, if God doesn’t know, a word in Mary’s ear probably won’t go amiss.

It’s like that with Shakespeare too, I find. You can read the words, learn them, and recite them, but if every word doesn’t mean something, if every sentence doesn’t bind together into a coherent thought in your own head, then your reading of them won’t mean anything to anyone who hears you do it.

The same thing with music. I played the accordion when I was a child and I could read the notes off the page and play them in the time required. But, sometimes, I couldn’t actually hear the tune I was playing. It was just a jumble of correctly followed notes. There’s a middle bit in The Blue Danube that was like that for me. Dah dump dah, daaaah da dump dah dah dah. I played it right but it made no sense to me or to anybody else. Then I heard it played right and then I knew what it was and then, when I played it, I could hear it and other people knew it too.

When a good actor performs or reads Shakespeare, and they understand what they are saying (they sometimes don’t) then I have a much increased chance of understanding it too.

So it is with Music and Shakespeare…

And with Prayers…

And with the News…

Harder the Hotter the Day (inspired by The 37th Wombat)

Harder the Hotter the Day

In the cool of the morning

My head comes unglued

I get sorry that you went away

But I’d better keep moving

Just try to get on

It gets harder, the hotter the day.

 

The kitchen needs cleaning

The goldfish needs food

And I don't have nothing to say

But I better start working

Mowing that lawn

It gets harder, the hotter the day.

 

Everyday housework

Every small chore

is harder to do on my own

But all thoughts of labour

Fly out the door

When it’s thirty degrees on my phone.

 

My body gets tired

My head it gets stewed

A case of all work and no play

And I miss you all weathers

Now that you’re gone

And it gets harder, the hotter the day.

 

Nodding and Smiling

I very much don’t want to write anything this morning.

Almost any other option seems considerably more attractive. I could cut the grass; except it’s been raining overnight so not really. I could watch an episode of Poker Face, although the last one I watched didn’t scale any heights. I could empty the dishwasher (it has to be done sooner or later). I could do… dozens of things, really, all surprisingly gleaming and attractive in comparison to sitting here and tapping out words on a screen.

Yet here I am.

It’s what I have to do. Call me a writer, don’t call me a writer. I do both to myself with regularity. I may be, I may not be, but there’s no denying I have the heart of a writer. And if I don’t write for the simple reason that I don’t want to, then it will come back to make me uncomfortable, much in the same way that failing to shower or to brush one’s teeth can.

Usually the Saturday/Sunday blog commitment comes very easily. At this stage I have a sort of ‘writing callus’ that means I can dash off a thousand words on something-or-other without breathing hard. But usually, I have a fair idea what I’m going to be writing about so I sit and dash it off then tidy it up then tidy it up some more and then hit ‘send.’ It’s these weeks, when I haven’t quite landed on something specific that I’d like to write about, that’s when the niggly little voice says, “Hey, Ken, here’s an idea, don’t write anything at all. Put the bins out.”

It’s actually not too bad when I don’t have a specific idea for my 1,000 words. I can usually manage and work around that. It’s when there’s a few little ideas crashing around all at once and none of them are stepping forward for active duty. That’s when things can get a little fraught. A wiser blogger than me would note these little crashing ideas down and use them as tinder for the next few blog posts over the coming weeks. But that’s not how I roll here. If I start to plan it, it becomes something different. It’s really got to be a fast spilling of a fairly random idea or else it just seems to become some kind of technical exercise rather than a creative one. Does that even make sense? Who cares? Typing it out was better than wheeling the green bin out to the street.

Among the ideas vying to be written about today was a little bit about the cat and how she always seems to effortlessly choose the option that is most troublesome to me. A brief example: I was at home the other day and so the cat was welcome to occupy her basket in the hall and have a nice leisurely duvet day. The cat’s response, ‘Me? In that thing? Today? No sirree!” The day after, I had to get to the office in a rush and the cat is there on the door step, overnight valise packed. “I’m ready for a full day in my lovely basket now, so get out of my way!” Cats, eh?

I was also contemplating writing a bit about Bluesky, which I now use in place of Twitter, which I don’t use anymore. It’s quite good but there is a lack of engagement, for me at least, on there. No matter what I say, the same couple of kindly souls will give some indication that they’ve seen it. As for the rest of the online community, the impression is that either a) the post is not being seen or b) it is so mortifyingly awful that the sooner we move on and forget it, the better for everyone. I find, the only way to continue to survive on there is to visualise your silent cohort seeing what you’ve typed and quietly nodding and smiling to themselves. Subtly appreciating what you’ve said and the engaging way in which you’ve said it. Just a bit too busy with other things to ‘like’ or ‘share’ or respond to it. But still a nod and a smile.

That’s why I called this piece ‘Nodding and Smiling.’ That title, and the vague idea, was all I had when my fingers landed on the keyboard, ten or twelve minutes ago. I knew it wasn’t enough for a full post but I figured it would turn up somewhere in here. That’s how it works for me. I find a thought and I build something up around it. Like those little fresh water worm creatures that build a shell of sand granules and tiny pebbles around themselves. 

Gosh, I haven’t thought of them in decades. Are they even still a thing? We used to find them under rocks in the Back River, when we were kids, and peel off their thin layer of ‘sand skin’ and put them on our fishing hooks as tasty bait. EDIT I looked them up. They're called Caddis Flies and, yes, they're still a thing. That's a photo of one on top of the post.

That’s how the writing gets progressed. Some tiny, fleshy, squirming idea gets bits of debris added to it, to build on and protect. And maybe someday someone will find the idea under a rock in a shallow stream and they will peel the shell off and hook it and we’ll go together and catch a big fish with it.

There! (Dusts off hands). Done!

I can go and mow the lawn and wheel the bin out now though, somehow, I don’t want to do any of that anymore. For me at least, writing can’t be about wanting to do it or needing to do it or wishing I had done it or berating the fact that I didn’t do it.

I just have to do it. 

That’s all.

Joey’s Coming Home

 

I was going to start out by typing something along the lines of, “unless you’ve been living under a rock, this past year, you’ll already know about Joey.” But that’s obviously just silly. Things go on in our lives and we may share some of them on social media, even repeatedly so, but that doesn’t mean people have seen them. Often, it’s quite the opposite, we say these things out loud and practically nobody hears them.

That’s all okay.

So, just in case you haven’t heard, ‘Joey Had Never Been Out of the City’ is a short film by director and friend Richard Keaney that was written by yours truly. It is the second completed film we have conspired on, the first being ‘Getting In.’ Both are a testament to Richard’s talent as a filmmaker and his unwavering tenacity in striving to get stuff done. It is also a testament to my ability to type, let’s not be overly modest here.

Joey was born from a story that fell on me from out of the sky on a trip to Dublin one day. I wrote it as a short story which still resides here on the blog somewhere and, some years after that, the urge to adapt the story to a short film script became unavoidable.

It’s taken a long time to get from page to screen, but then things very often do. Anyone who mistakes this shit for being easy is not in the game. But, as I said, Richard was (and remains) indefatigable. He assembled a team of people to produce, visualise, act-in, record, transport and generally realise and he got it done. Kudos to all those people who came along with him (us, I guess) for the ride. I hope you are happy you did, as I surely am.

I’m really happy with Joey as a short film. It’s true to the intent I had when I was buried in the pages and it looks and sounds really great. It’s played a fair share of film festivals on its run and has won a fair share of kudos and awards along the way.

And now, it’s coming home. To Castlebar, where Richard and I are both from. The Linenhall Arts Centre, where we both have cut some teeth (mine a bit longer than his) is presenting a ‘Celebration of Mayo Indie Short Films & Filmmakers’ and Joey and Richard and I will be there to see the film screened and answer a few questions. I hope there’s a lanyard. I do love a good lanyard. The evening is on 26^th June at 8.00pm and tickets can be got from The Linenhall website or by phoning them or calling in to them. They’re always worth a visit.

https://www.thelinenhall.com/whats-on/events/celebration-of-mayo-indie-short-films-filmmakers

The evening is being organised by Ruaidhrí Hallinan, whose film 'Where the Old Man Lives' is also showing, and I believe it was he who got Film Ireland involved so thanks very much for having us on board, Ruaidhrí. See you there! 

This is doubly exciting for me as I didn’t manage to get to any of the festivals where Joey appeared so this will be my first (and possibly only) time to see the film up on a big screen. Also the other films that make up the evening are of a very high calibre with some of Ireland’s top talent attached to them. Also my old (not old) pal Crona Esler is presenting the evening and, I guess, asking the questions. All top stuff.

I rattle on about this but, as a writer, my redemption has been to learn the importance of seeking out like-minded people in your own place. Help them out, get them to help you out. Make and do things together. In this way, film and theatre and art can get made and be seen and be given the very real opportunity to rise up out of its local routes and march out to beat the world. I may never see my stuff in Hollywood or Broadway or the West End of the NFT or even Sligo or Athlone. But it exists. The words have became flesh and they exist out there in the world and that is a great and a wonderful thing. Thanks to everyone who continues to help me to make that happen. It’s the best process, the best fun, and it turns script words on pages into something tangible and real, which is magic.

If I don’t see you there on June 26^th, at The Linenhall Arts Centre in Castlebar, I’ll certainly see Richard and I’ll certainly see Joey. 

And that, for now, will be enough.

Sugar, Oh Honey-Honey

At the ripe old age of going-on-sixty-two, and with a wretched family medical history like mine, you’re going to at least aspire to try to take some care of yourself. I tried pretty hard last year but then Christmas came and undid every little good thing I’d achieved. After a few months of winter hibernation neglect, I’m back on the metaphorical (only metaphorical) treadmill again. Trying to shed a few of the excess pounds. Trying to be good.

I cherry-pick what I do from overheard wisdoms and Instagram previews of videos I never watch. Walking is my secondary weapon of choice and I get quite a bit of that in every day. It works better, I find, if I can put my mind to it but my mind is invariably elsewhere when I’m walking, up some frosty mountain or nestled in some dim back room.

But my main approach to losing a kilo or three is to lay off the sugary things. I share this dubious advantage with smokers, I guess. If you’re a smoker and you want to do better, health-wise, you have a clear but difficult route. You give up smoking. For me, my baseline copious sugar habit gives me the same thorny pathway to improvement. Lay off the buns.

So I’m doing what I did last year, which seemed to be working. I’m getting some extra mindful steps in, underusing my fixed bike/clothes horse, and cutting out everything sugary that I can find. The upshot is not that I become suddenly svelte or godlike but the weighing scales do move in a satisfactory, but slow, backward direction.

But, man, I miss my sugar.

As a person who never smoked, gets a bit pissed on one bottle of Coors Lite, doesn’t gamble, doesn’t… do anything really, the sweets and chocolate were my vice and my reward and my crutch. If the day was going badly, a Double Decker could smooth out the bumps and if things were going excellently a Fry’s Chocolate Crème might be a just reward. I think most people like sugar but I don’t think most people like it in the same way that I do. My habit goes back to early childhood when I first gained the autonomy to go to the shops by myself. My much-missed brother Michael would send me off for a large bottle of Coke after his day’s work and the accompanying tip would allow me to have some little confectionary boost of my own. Something that was rapidly consumed before I made it back home.

In college, I subsisted on gang packs of biscuit and fizzy drinks and, crucially, annoyingly (now), never gained a pound. I had the constitution of a greyhound and no amount of calorie intake seemed to change that.

But times passed, metabolisms slowed, and the sugar highs started to come with a subtle but steady price. In my mind, aged sixty-one, I am the same lean, mean, word machine that I always was. But the mirror and the scales conspire to tell a different tale.

So here I stand. Sweetless, chocolate-less, fizzy drink less. Trying to seek out and omit every pocket of clandestine sugar that exists in my life. It gets easier… but not all that much.

The petrol station display speaks to me. “You have miles to go before you sleep,” it says, “and a double Mars bar would ease the journey quite a bit, wouldn’t it?” Similarly the sweet aisle of Tesco (as opposed to the lake isle of Innisfree) lays out in front of my trolley as if to say, “would we really all be here if it wasn’t right that you bought at least a few of us and ate us on the way home?”

But I persist. I’ll keep at it, at least until Christmas ’25, when it will probably start to go literally pear shaped again. The benefits of all this denial are slight but not slight enough if you know what I mean. Still, every pound shed feels like a little win. I imagine that I feel better as I go and imagining you feel better is every bit as good as actually feeling better.

But these are the good times and it’s easier to do this kind of thing in the good times. I can give up on the reward sugar, I can give up on the treat sugar.

But the crutch sugar, when it is needed, will surely be the hardest of all.

Sunshine Gesture

(Photo by Ronan Courell)

There’s this gesture that Castlebar people use to each other when it’s been sunny for a few days in a row. It may be universal. I can’t say because I haven’t circumnavigated the world recently to check it out. So, let’s assume that this thing that people do in my County Mayo corner of the world is particular to here, even if it's not.

It’s just a tiny mime, really. One person meets another person on the street. They say hello and then one or other of the people extend both their forearms out to the side, keeping their elbows tight to their waist. Then they turn their hands palm upwards and look briefly skyward. The other person will generally contribute something like, ‘I know’ or ‘Isn’t it great?’ or ‘Long may it last.’ It’s a little pantomime that says, ‘Look at me, I’m holding out my hands and there is actually no rain falling on them. Can you believe it?’

Other countries get sunshine, obviously, but there aren’t many places where it’s arrival and persistence is celebrated quite so universally as it is here.

Here in the West of Ireland, we don’t usually get weeks of continuous sunshiny days. We do okay, the weather is generally mild and not too brutal, except in the very depths of winter. But summers can be drizzly and cloudy and a bit dull sometimes, so the arrival and persistence of some sunshine is an event worth remarking on and even performing a little skit about.

We’ve just had a few weeks of straight sunshine and there’s no question it raises the spirits. People sit out on the grass on the Mall (which is like a village square, unusual in Ireland) and stretch their white legs out. One prominent shopkeeper runs her store from the seat of her moped on the street outside the shop. She goes in when someone wants to buy something and chats to everyone that passes when her wares are not required. Outer layers of clothing are abandoned by everyone throughout the town and, of course, the weather is celebrated in practically every single discussion that is held.

For my part, I give up the umbrella that I nearly always carry. People remark on it. “We must be in for a long spell; you haven’t got your brolly with you.”

This past few weeks have seen a lovely spell of sunshine and warmth. The trees and birds have responded in admirable fashion.

This morning? Well, it’s drizzling once again. I hold up my palm and droplets fall onto it. My phone says there’s a 40% chance of precipitation, at least that is what I think it says. I’m never entirely sure. Whatever the phone app is saying, there’s a dark cloud looming out behind the clothesline and I think that 40%, whatever it means, may be a little bit optimistic.

Never mind. We had joy, we had fun, as the old song goes. And the sunshine will come back again one day soon.

In this we hope and trust.

Some Moments from Lillie and Enda’s Wedding

Friday was Enda and Lillie’s wedding in Galway City, and it was a good one.

No, strike that. Let’s start again.

Friday was Lillie and Enda’s wedding in Galway City, and it was a really great one.

Weddings are mostly about the people who are there, and I think that’s one key reason why this wedding was such a lovely day. There were just a lot of lovely people there. My day was warm and sweet and funny, from the very moment we opened the front door of the hotel and stepped inside. This was not some magic trick on my part. It was the people, pure and simple, and how lovely they all were.

We immediately met the groom, Enda Jnr., who had the kind of suit you’d like to get for yourself if you were getting married. His Mum and Dad, Ann and Enda Snr., were right there too. Enda is Patricia’s brother, and I usually am granted the pleasure of sitting with him at weddings. Not today. Today he had a whole different seat to fill. Ann looked beautiful and her default sunny firebrand mode pertained right through the day and long after I had stumbled off to bed.

There’s something about a G&T in a big roundy glass that just lets you know that you’re out. You can try to replicate it at home but it’s just not the same. A buzz went around that the bride was near, so we all hustled ourselves into the private area where the wedding was due to take place. We scored a seat a few rows back and wondered if we were too close, but we toughed it out and were rewarded with a top view of proceedings. A very well-dressed lady came up to the very front row and wondered if she’d be okay to sit there. I started to explain to her that the front row was probably reserved for immediate family when a gentle nudge from Patricia advised me that this was the Mother of the Bride. Apparently, women can identify Mothers of the Bride without actually knowing who they are. Another key difference between the sexes had thus been identified.

I thought the ceremony was really lovely. Lily was stunning in her bridal dress, and we've already covered Enda back up the text. The couple’s two sons were both highly present in the proceedings, culminating in the creation of an artwork made from coloured sand which the whole little family delighted in making. For a moment, there seemed to be no ceremony, no huge event. Just Mum, Dad and the two kids at play, being guided, messing up a little bit and, ultimately, making something special.

To the bar, where we scored a table and a big platter of hors d'oeuvres all to ourselves. The lady who had sung the eclectic music from the wedding ceremony (You’ve Got a Friend in Me), now set up across from us and started singing live to some gentle accompaniment from her technology. She had a lovely voice. After a while, she started to take requests, each of which she delivered with style and grace. I offered her one of my hors d’oeuvres, but she politely declined.

I always find great delight in meeting my Brother-in-Law, John. We hit the bar and had a respective pint and a glass of Guinness and started a conversation that proceeded to weave its way though the entire day. Topics covered included Quantum Physics, works derived from the work of Jane Austen, Bob Dylan, the Housing Market, Bargain Glasses and our mandatory heated disagreement which this time concerned the year that Jackson Browne played Lisdoonvarna. John is the very best.

Dinner came around and I had Eamon on one side and John on the other, with Patricia right across the table. An ideal arrangement. Eamon has a few years on me, and he is getting ready to jump out of an aeroplane in a few weeks. I asserted my view that he is a feckin’ lunatic. I seem to have turned into my Dad in many ways, one of which is a need to try to build a rapport with the persons serving dinner. My Dad had mercenary intentions in doing this as he always wanted to score a second helping of baked Alaska. I have no such desire; I think it’s just in my genes. Dinner rolled along with no sign of speeches. A lovely little girl, the daughter of a couple at our table, rifled her activity pack and found tiny stickers of coloured rainbows and I was gifted a particularly fetching one on the back of my hand. I treasured it right up until my pre-bedtime ablutions.

Speeches are always a high point for me. The acid smell of nervous sweat that gently emanates from the participants is like ambrosia to my senses. The food of the Gods, that is, not the creamed rice.

Lily delivered a compact, admirable speech. She is very much someone I wish I knew better. We meet from time to time, of course, but it is always at some family moment or other where time and opportunity do not always align. She is an admirable person who I see as having warmth and determination in roughly equal measure. Hopefully, in the coming years, we can sit down and I can demonstrate first-hand what a big eejit I am.

The speeches did not disappoint. Conor, Enda’s brother, was best man and the best fun in his speech was when he ribbed his brother warmly about such diverse matters as the maturing ability of his left foot and Enda’s youthful inability to progress beyond a second can. The fun in this was mainly derived from Enda’s seemingly heartfelt annoyance at Conor’s pronouncements. The subliminal effect was of two brothers of great closeness who have had a lifetime together to learn exactly how far to push each other and exactly where to stop.

Enda’s Snr’s gentle voice did not trouble the quirky microphone. Enda cannot help but be himself, no matter what the situation, and ‘himself’ is such a good thing to be that it carries us all along with him. His speech was warm and funny, and we were with him though every word, as we will always invariably be.

The Father of the Bride delivered an old school speech with a beautifully timed gag about gardening right in the middle. Kudos from this writer for that. His love and respect for his daughter shone through and I felt I knew her a little better when he regained his seat.

Tables were cleared and a lively band took up residence beside the bar. Hard working and entirely convincing, they filled the floor with ease at moments when so many bands can struggle. I always enjoy watching the band at weddings and these boys worked hard, every one of them multitasking their way through the set. Including the drummer, who seemed to be on Social Media duties while maintaining a dirty backbeat.

I am of the elder generation now and I don’t generally last into the traditional wee small hours. At around one-ish, Patricia and I executed a reduced version of an Irish Goodbye and slipped away. 

From where I was sitting, standing, and stealing late night pizza, it was a most excellent wedding, full of love and fun. Thank you for having us, Lillie and Enda, we hope to see you again soon.

Many congratulations to Enda and Lillie. They really make the most splendid couple, and this meagre blog wishes them many long decades of love and health and adventure with their lovely children and with each other.

As they said somewhere back in the Book of Tobit; “Grant that they may find mercy and may grow old together.”

4^th May 2025

Easter Parade

These days, there are many things can lasso and tie me up me that would never even have caused me to twitch back in my twenties or thirties. Take Irving Berlin for instance. Back in the day, I wouldn’t have thanked you for any mention of him. I knew some of his songs, as everybody does (whether they know it or not) but, beyond that his name evoked ‘old stuff’ and ‘out of date stuff’ and thus held no interest for a young Turk like me.

Times change. We change.

These days, I’m not an Irving Berlin fanatic or anything close to that. But his songwriting talent amazes me, his songs grab me periodically, and I find a large measure truth and authenticity in his work.

It’s Easter and that means that the film 'Easter Parade' is doing the rounds of the TV channels. Oddly enough, I don’t think you’ll find it easily on your television today but I’ve seen it appear three times in the last week and if we still had TCM I’m sure there would have been a couple more. Like ‘White Christmas’ before it, ‘Easter Parade’ seems to have now slipped into my consciousness. It is a part of my Easter weekend and if I don’t see at least some of it, I feel that I have missed out.

With ‘Easter Parade’ it is certain elements of the film that grab me, rather than the overall thing. Certain moments and set pieces make it special. For me, the musical number ‘A Couple of Swells’ is quite close to perfection. ‘A Fella with an Umbrella’ is one of those myriads of songs that Mum used to sing so it holds a place. ‘Drum Crazy’ is great showcase for Astaire and for how effortlessly wonderful he was. Steppin’ Out is iconic and jaw dropping in places. And ‘The Girl on the Magazine Cover’ seems naughty no matter how you dress it up.

But the part that gets me the most comes right at the end. Judy Garland decides to go and get Fred on her own terms. She sends him chocolates and an easter bunny and a hat. Then she calls and serenades him as he tries on his now garlanded top hat. The song she sings swells and sway and then easily grows into being Easter Parade. “With your Easter bonnet with all the ribbons on it, you’ll be the grandest fella in the Easter Parade…” Why is it a magical moment, for me at least? I can’t really say. But it is. It’s a bit clunky and old-fashioned and kitsch but I just think it’s great.

I think it’s best not to overthink why it is that something hits home in a nice way. Best just to go with the flow and find that something sweet and charming. To lay it out on a steel table and cut into it too deep might mean that the magic might drain away and be lost. There’s no question that it is largely due to sentimentality. These songs that were old when I was young still prevail. My Mum sang them as a young woman, just as Judy and Fred sang them in their time. And their times are all past now. Add to that that this year’s 5^th Avenue Easter Parade will happen later this morning and my younger son now lives there. Will he walk the Avenue? I doubt it. But it was unthinkable even last year that such a level of proximity could ever occur.

The world is a surprising and a fragile place and I guess we’d best take warmth and nostalgia from wherever we may happen upon it. Even if it is only a dated musical film on a late night channel or a clip on a YouTube link.

Have a Happy Easter.

Bleagh

Patricia and I went off on holidays for a bit more than a week and a bit less than two weeks. We’re back now. You may notice that I never tell you when I’m actually on holidays in case you come round and burgle my house. Nothing personal, just basic home security.

We went off to the sun. I won’t tell you where exactly in case you come and burgle my house. It was lovely for the first 90% of the time and it was considerably less so for the final 10%.

We were flying back on Sunday afternoon so, by Friday, there was a sense of things coming to an end. For lunch, I set out the usual mix of fresh rolls, cut price charcuterie, biccies and chocolate. It all looked very appetising so it was a little surprise when I sat down in front of it and immediately decided that, no, I didn’t want any of it at all. Not one bite.

By dinner time, it was clear that something I had eaten had violently disagreed with me. Less said the better except to allude gently to the fact that the traffic was all in one, gravity-assisted direction. I hung around the place and consoled myself that I had a full day to get over it before I had to fly home.

In the evening, feeling indigested, I took two Rennie and crunched them up. The unexpected result was practically immediate. Let me just say that once, in around 1993, I drank an entire bottle of red wine without any food at a little social do and that was the last time that I had ever thrown up. Until, that is, the moment I ate those two Rennie. After that, I couldn’t seem to remember how to stop.

The next day there was a feeling that the storm had passed but the ghost that remained bore little resemblance to yours truly. I ate nothing and tried to stay hydrated. On Saturday afternoon, I sat on the couch and watched Summer Holiday and Hello Dolly back-to-back without moving an inch. At least I would be shipshape to get on the plane the day after. At least we would get home.

That theory about it being something I ate? The sort of went out of the window at about nine pm of Saturday evening, fourteen hours before the plane, when Patricia came down with the exact same thing that I was grappling with. A bug then, I guess, not food. By ten pm on Saturday evening the reason why seemed largely irrelevant. Patricia was twice as bad as I had been and I had been pretty bad.

At this point a veil is drawn over the last night of our holiday. Suffice it to say it wasn’t very edifying.

Sunday morning was a complex equation. Should we cancel flights, try to get another few nights’ accommodation? What to do? Patricia rallied in a way I couldn’t have dreamed of doing on the day before. She really is something. Most of the packing had been done before the storm descended so I managed to finish it up. We hauled ourselves into the worst taxi in history, rattled to the airport, got on the plane, and got home without too much incident. The lady in the seat to my right looked over at Patricia in the seat to my left and said, “your wife doesn’t enjoy flying very much, does she?” I nodded and smiled.

Home couldn’t have been more shining and regal if it had been a sprawling palace rather than the slightly under-aired bungalow that it was. The sense of comfort and safe harbour upon getting in the door was almost overwhelming. You know what they say, great to travel, great to come home.

Which all begs the question, was it worth it? That week in the sun, rounded off by two singularly unpleasant days. Was the good part worth the bad?

As with many of these questions, they seem to become a little more profound as years advance. They seem to be a metaphor for bigger questions of life, mortality, and existentialism.

Was it worth it? 100% yes.

The early morning walks on the beach, the swims in the still-cold water. The time together, recharging, without stress or responsibility. The smiles, the companionship, the fun, the food, the drinks, the books, the music. Those initial great days were absolutely worth the less good ones at the end.

So it is with holidays.

So it is with life.