Bible, Almanac, and Prayerbook

When I was very young, my mother brought me to the record shop and bought me a 45. No, not a gun (thankfully) but rather a vinyl single record. It was popular and in the Top Twenty at the time, I reckon, so that puts the year as 1966 and me as 3 years old. It’s an early memory for sure, but the clear existence of the physical record goes a long way to confirm it.

I think Mum might have bought it as much for herself as for me, but I claimed it anyway and had it played and played, over and over again, on our red record player. It wasn’t long before the record got flipped and Eleanor Rigby got played on the other A side. I think I liked that even better. The lady kept her face in a jar by the door. Spooky and cool.

Some years after that, perhaps noting my enthusiasm for messing with records and record players, my Dad brought home a sizeable collection of 45’s that I think he must have bought from a house clearance. He presented them to me, just like he would present my Friday night comics. I remember asking him whether these records were the latest hits, probably because that was what I was mostly excited by. He assured me that they were and I believed him. Years later, I know for sure that those records were neither current or trendy, even for those early times. But, at the time, I think I thought they were and I played the grooves off those odd records.

Who was in there? Oh my God. Gene Pitney – If I Didn’t Have a Dime. Stan Freburg-Sh-Boom. Clarence ‘Frogman’ Henry - I Don’t Know Why I Love You but I Do. Hank Snow - The Wreck of the Number Nine. An ancient, eclectic, mix if ever there was one.

One of the oddest records in this ancient collection is the point of this post. You may know other versions of the song by Tex Ritter or even Phil Harris. But the version I had was by a guy called Wink Martindale. The song? The Deck of Cards. 

Do you remember it? A soldier is court martialled for spreading his cards out in church and rather piously explains how each card has religious meaning for him. It was pretty cringe than and it’s still pretty cringe now. It’s easy going for the soldier to explain himself at the start (When I look at the Ace, it reminds me there is one God). But, even by the five card, he is definitely struggling a bit (The five reminds me of the five wise virgins who trimmed their lamps… there were ten of them but five were saved). I think I would have court-martialled his ass right then and there. When things get even rougher, he resorts to comparing his deck of cards to a calendar. (When I count the spots on a deck of cards, they total 365). Enough, take him away, already!

Anyway, that was my earliest version of a record collection. It wasn’t much but it was mine. I soon left it behind for my brother’s collection of Dylan, Cohen, and the rest but some imprinting still remains. I just listened to that Stan Freburg record that I mentioned above for the first time in perhaps 55 years and I could still go along with it, word for word.

And is there a point to this, Ken? You usually have a point. Not much of a point. Maybe a little one.

I’m at one of those points in the year where I wonder about this blog. What is the point of it? Why do I insist on spreading it out across my desk every Sunday morning, just like the soldier with his tenuously-explained deck of cards? Sometimes it is stretched very thin. Sometimes it seems rather pointless. Like the guy’s cards, the reasons for unpacking it every week are a little slight.

But, also like the guy’s cards, it may still serve some tangible purpose, if only a personal one.

It makes me write and think and form sentences and thoughts. It forces me to structure a thought or two into a tangible presentation. It encourages me to continue to look around and challenge what I see, if only in my own head. It keeps my fingers working the keyboard. It makes me feel like a writer, which helps me to continue to pursue the other aspects of my writing.

And memories. This blog is chock-full of memories now, set down when they were fresh and vibrant. Looking back through them from time to time, tidying up the format a little as I go, it’s like having a tiny memorial garden to things that have been and gone in my life, as well as things that are thankfully still here.

This morning, I had nothing to write and I nearly walked away. Nearly left another fallow week. But I dug in and dredged something out and here it is. An old record, a deck of cards, a blog that serves (in its own way) as a bible, an almanac and a prayerbook. But, more than anything perhaps, a book of memories. A photo album of words.

And on this particular Sunday when we encourage ourselves to remember, perhaps that’s not such a bad thing after all.

“And, friends, the story is true. I know. I was that soldier.”

Granny's Record Player (or Lack Thereof)

Sometimes gaps in memory are not such a big thing. The reason is fairly simple, to my mind. We don’t know the things we don’t remember. In a certain way, a gap in memory doesn’t even exist because a) we are not aware of it and b) it generally doesn’t matter to anybody else.

But, once in a while, and often quite at random, a little gap will show itself and, when that happens, it can be frustrating, niggling, and hard to shake off.

I have lots of gaps in my memory and more as I go on. I think the stuff I went through earlier in the year ushered in a sort of brain fog, or at least a fairly dense brain mist. The effect has perhaps been less on my actual memory and more on my recall. I know the stuff is in there, sitting safely enough, but pulling it up and back out into the world can occasionally be a slow and painstaking process.

But back to the memory gaps. I landed on one yesterday that is still toying with my mind so I thought I'd type out something about it to see if that loosened the logjam a little.

The memory concerned listening to music at Granny and Grandad’s house.

Perhaps it was inspired a little by the sad loss of Donal Lunny on Friday, because the music we listened to at Granny’s house was of a traditional nature. But it was a sort of trad music that preceded the wonderful innovations that Donal and his peers brought to the form in the Seventies and thereafter.

It happened like this. I was in the kitchen yesterday afternoon, making a chilli and listening to my current Le Carre  audiobook, when a song jumped into my head, as if from nowhere. It was an old trad song by the Clancy Brothers and, I think, Tommy Makem too. ‘The Whistlin’ Gypsy.’

The Whistlin’ Gypsy came over the hill

Down to the valley so shady

He whistled and sang ‘til the green woods rang

And he won the heart of a lady…

From nowhere, the song arrived, complete across the decades. And with it the memory. Sitting in Granny’s listening to the song, five or six years old. But not only that, the other songs on the record waltzed into my memory too. “If it wasn’t for the weavers, what would you do?” “Bless all moonshiners and bless all moonshine.”

It was a Sunday afternoon and there I was, listening to the songs. We probably did it on several Sunday afternoons. A fond memory.

But here’s the thing, the annoying thing. There’s a significant gap in the memory. Granny didn’t have a record player. Not that I can remember. No record player. Yet the record played and played. My uncle had a record player (West Side Story) and we had a record player (Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest hits) but I can’t remember Granny ever having a record player. Still the record played and played…

Yes, I do realise that I’m writing around in circles. That’s to reflect the fact that my brain is doing that exact same thing. It’s a sort of a ‘Does Not Compute’ gap in a strong memory. The record is there, the music is there, but where was the record player? Where did it sit? Where was it plugged in? What other records could there have been?

Easy, you might say, you listened to it on the radio. No record player. But, no, that’s not how it was. The memory is strong and clear. The repeated playing of the song, and all the other similar songs. It is interspersed with other things. ‘The Golden Shot’ on the telly. Lord Halifax’s Ghost book on the shelf in the corner, with the scary skeleton in the top hat on the cover. The pictures, both visual and aural, are fairly well defined. Except there is no record player. More than that, and I’m going to get a bit silly now, there seems to be no possibility of a record player. Only the songs.

This should be a nothing thing, something to go ‘hmm’ over just once and then move on. But it is interesting to me. It is an identifiable hole in my memory and my brain pokes at it like my tongue would poke at the gap left by an extracted tooth. If I can remember so much else, why can’t I remember that one part? And, to go further, is any of the memory real or is it all concocted from a series of unrelated things that happened at another time and in another place? All is possible. All is unfathomable.

Perhaps my preoccupations with something so very trivial have to do with aging and recent illness. How my brain doesn’t quite do everything as fluidly as it did last year or the year before that.

Or perhaps it’s just because it’s a Bank Holiday over here and I just have too much time on my hands.

Either way, I am sure it will resolve itself soon in the usual, natural, way.

I will forget all about it.

John Armstrong - Shortlist for RTE Short Story Competition

Elder son John is going from strength to strength with his writing. One of his short stories features in the latest edition of Howl - New Irish Writing and he was down south on Friday to promote that and to read from his story as part of the Cork International Short Story Festival.

As you may recall, he won the Wild Atlantic Words Short Story Competition last year. 

Now he is on the shortlist for the RTE Short Story Competition in honour of Francis McManus. His story will be read by Andrew Bennett  on RTE Radio 1 at 11.20pm on Monday 26 October and he will also be on the Arena Arts Programme to discuss the work either this week or next week. (Update this when you know, Ken).  Awards night is on 30th October. 

John has an M.Phil. in Irish Writing from Trinity College, Dublin so he knows his stuff. I would describe his writing as Modern Irish Gothic but what do I know?

His shortlisted story, Inertia, is on the RTE Culture website now, along with the other nine stories. Here's a link to it, in case you fancy a look.

RTE/Culture

Rock on, John. 

A Post for Emily Suess 1980 - 2026

I hadn’t checked in on Emily Suess for a surprising number of months.

Usually, I would see her stuff pop up on Facebook and I’d always look in on it and give it a like. But I’d had my own fish to fry in the early part of the year and I hadn’t really been doing well with keeping in touch with anyone at all. It got as far as last week before it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Emily post or update or share anything in a long while.

So I checked in, somewhat apprehensively I have to say.

The last update Emily had posted was dated 11th May 2026. It simply said, “I’m entering hospice.” In increasing dismay, I looked a little further. It didn’t take long to find confirmation of what I had feared I might find.

Emily Ann Suess, 46, of Edwardsville, IL, died on May 14, 2026. She was born on March 4^th, 1980, in Princeton, Indiana. She was a loving daughter, sister, and friend. She will truly be missed by all who knew and loved her.

I was very sad to learn that Emily has passed away. I have never met her. I have never even spoken to her. But she blogged. And I blogged. And, of course, many others blogged too, but there was one small difference, perhaps, between myself and Emily and most of the other bloggers we ran into along the way.

We never stopped.

I started blogging in or around 2007, with the current blog first taking shape in January of 2008. There were a lot of bloggers back then and there were various ways in which they interacted and socialised a little online. One such endeavour was called Entrecard. No longer in existence, this was a rather quaint blogger network where users ‘dropped cards’ on each other’s blogs when they visited and thus earned points which allowed them to advertise their wares on other people’s blogs. Lots of people were there. Jim Murdoch - who has generously commented on practically every blog I’ve ever writen – was there. Celtophilia Mike was there. Acadia Einstein was there... lots of people were there.

At that time, Emily was in University. She was building a career and a life and her blog reflected it all with humour, determination, and great writing style. Then, in or around 2014, she started to have health issues which, at the time, I believe were misunderstood to be related to fibromyalgia.

In 2017, she was diagnosed with a very, very serious illness. Ever since then, she has used her social media muscle to champion her treatment, her mental health, her creativity, her refusal to ever quit, and her unbelievable strength and humanity. Her recording of her health journey is perhaps one of the most detailed and unflinching accounts of what our friends and family may go through when illness comes to call and refuses to ever leave again. Her telling of her story was personal and involving but never indulgent and never-ever relenting.

Emily may have left this world but her spirit will live on among the vapour trails of the Internet world where she told her story with grace and truth. Blogging platforms may fall and websites may become defunct but somewhere in the digital history of the world her words and her thoughts will remain imprinted, brilliantly set down, and they will remain, somewhere, forever.

Emily was many things to many people. Of that I have no doubt. To me, she was a Writer, through-and-through. A Brave Writer. And she never stopped. Even when the driver was at her door, ready to take her on the final part of her journey. She still turned one final time to her keyboard, her computer, and she wrote one final update.

“I’m entering hospice.”

I will check in on your posts now and again, Emily, and remind myself how amazingly well you set it all down. I send my kindest regards to all your family and friends, and I offer my sincerest condolences to them.

But I won’t be trying to send this post to any of them personally in any way. Instead, I will just do what I feel is most appropriate for Emily. I will post this on to my blog and let it go where it will and be seen by whoever may come upon it.

I mean, isn’t that what we bloggers do? We launch our virtual messages-in-a bottle, onto the ocean of the Internet, never knowing which way they may travel or upon which shore they may land.

And we hope for the best.

 

For Emily Suess 1980 – 2026

Theatrical Healing

One small worry I have is that I might write the same blog every year at the end of another great play run. Thanking everyone. Reiterating how damned lucky I am to get to do what I do.

This year’s new play, ‘Achill Sound’, has provided perhaps the best and most vivid experiences of all the plays, and I do want to thank everyone who made that happen. You know who you are and, at this stage, I think you have a fair idea of what it all means to me. So, bottom-of-my heart-stuff, thank you!

One interesting difference this year was a level of gentle concern for me that I sensed now and again. With my GBS recovery, I can put up a good show practically all of the time but, as the evening rehearsal draws towards a close, some of the peripherals seem to catch up with me.

“Are you limping?” A concerned cast member might ask, “Are you okay?”

It’s true that, by that stage, my legs have stiffened up a little from sitting too long and my hands and feet are buzzing a little more than they usually do. I might find myself asking myself, “Is it real, this gimping around, or am I putting it on?” I actually know it’s real and I know that I’m not putting it on, but the little taunting voice lingers, “Cut that out. Walk right, you fool.”

And so, along the way, there was an occasional quiet query which was gently emanating from some of my very best friends, more than one of them, more than two, more than three. “Are you perhaps doing too much? Are you maybe wearing yourself out?”

The answer – my answer – is twofold. The first part is ‘Yes. Perhaps, I am. I’ve pushed things a bit, burned my metaphorical candle at both metaphorical ends. It’s almost unarguable. But it’s the second part of my answer that counts most for me. It goes something like this: "What else is there to do?"

When I was laid up, I promised myself I would do whatever I could when I got back to strength. This gentle/slightly excessive pushing of the envelope is exactly what I need to make myself feel well and help myself get better and better.

And this experience, this ‘Achill Sound’ theatrical experience, has been the most healing thing of all. The wonderful people who give so much time, energy, and emotion to the endeavour. The lovely evenings and weekends, meeting up with good friends to work it all out. Mocking up a set, watching Kenn the Director blocking out an argument or a fight, laughing, joking, but always working hard at it all.

It’s hard, it wears me out. But it’s just… healing. I can feel it, in my hands and in my feet and in my general demeanour. It actually heals me. It turns out that Theatre is healing. Who knew?

Until next time, guys and gals. Thank you very much for riding the rollercoaster with me.

I may get a bit weary, but I’ll never want off.

K  x

A Little Bit More About the Play - Achill Sound

 

I did an interview about the new play 'Achill Sound' on CRC FM with our Director Kenn McLaughlin on Monday and I think we did okay. Anne-Marie Gibbons eased us along, with her reassuring smile and her firm hand on the tiller, and we got through in one piece. Afterward, chatting to Kenn, we both mused as to whether I should be saying just a little more about the play. What it is, what it seeks to do, and where it came from. That kind of thing. It’s a point worth considering.

Up until now, I’ve largely stuck to the party line that I wrote for myself, not wishing to spoil the manner in which the play’s narrative unfolds. My party line, in case you haven’t seen it already, goes something like this:

“Elaine, an interviewer for a national study in rural isolation, spends her days visiting farms in deepest Mayo. In one remote location, she meets someone who may change her life forever.”

And, yes, now that I look at it again, I think maybe I should say a little more. Not too much, but a little.  So here goes:

Things often seem to come about by a confluence of thoughts and circumstances, don’t they? One of the circumstances that lead to Achill Sound having its first ever performance at The Linenhall Arts Centre on 1^st October was a random conversation that dates back to this exact time last year.  

We were deep in rehearsals for ‘A Sort of Whodunnit’ and I was sitting one afternoon with Matthew Largent and we were agreeing that we would both love to do a thriller on the stage. A real old fashioned ‘hide-behind-your-hand’ thrill-ride of a play. And I remember saying out loud to him, “I think I have one,” and that was that. 

Fast forward to a coffee shop in early December 2025 and Director Kenn McLaughlin, Actor Eamon Smith and me found ourselves ensconced in a Pulp Fiction style coffee shop booth discussing all things theatre and what we might endeavour to do together under our new umbrella name of Big Splash Productions. I said I had a play that might work for us and asked for the Christmas period to work it up and polish it and try to make it right. They agreed and off I went to set to work on rewriting that play.

That play was most definitely not Achill Sound.

January arrived. Time for the ‘Big Splash Trio’ to reconvene and assess the rewritten script… except that’s when a little lightening struck in my life and sent me straight to hospital and thence to a rehab centre. It’s all in the blog. Read back if you’re bothered.

It was well into March before I was back on my feet and able to slip back into the Pulp Fiction booth with the guys. What a good day that was! I had emailed them the play script and, here’s the thing, as I was sending it off, a conversation seemed to echo in my head. A chat about thrillers and how it would be so cool to try and do one.

‘Achill Sound’ already existed as a fledgling script that I had written three years previously. I had quietly submitted it to the annual Irish Drama League of Ireland script competition and had quietly got a highly commended mention which meant I hadn’t won anything but it was cool all the same. I looked it up today and the email I got said the play was found to be, "... thoroughly entertaining with an astute balance between comedy and dramatic tension.” Cool. As I tend to do, I put the script in a metaphorical drawer and largely forgot about it.

But now, as I emailed this different script to Eamon and Kenn, and with Matthew’s conversation echoing in my brain, I pulled up the old ‘Achill Sound’ script and, in an impulsive moment, sent that one off too. 

The next coffee booth session was kind to the new script, enthusiastic even, but the fun, the vibe, the force, was all with ‘Achill Sound’ and what it might become and where it might go. And so began a rare and welcome experience for me; a constructive script development collaboration. Suggestions were made, tentatively at first but then with more momentum. Could we do this? Could we try that? Over several meetings, the script grew and the characters woke up and started thinking for themselves. The fledgling play grew small wings and started to think about a maiden flight. Then, when Eamon agreed to take on the central male part and Kenn agreed to direct the thing, it remained only to assemble a cohort of friends in drama and in life and see if they would might come along for the ride. Which they did. The only lingering cloud is that there was no part for Matthew in it, even though the initial germ conversation had happened with him. With a little luck, I may get to reconvene with him soon in some new dramatic endeavour.

Grand, Ken. But weren’t you going to tell us a bit more of what the play is actually about?

I did kind-of suggest that I was going to do that, didn’t I? Well…

For me, the themes of a piece of writing don’t really show themselves clearly until a large part of the writing is done. In this case, the themes that emerged were ones of loneliness, loss and grief and, most prominently, female strength and resourcefulness.

But that stuff is all in the shadows, lurking in the background.

Primarily, Achill Sound aims to be exactly what it says on the tin – a ‘comedy thriller’. It’s a rarified world, the ‘comedy thriller’, and even more so in the theatre. In film, one could perhaps point to Coen Brothers movies like 'Fargo' or 'Blood Simple'. Stories that are dark but which retain their dark humour throughout. One theatre example that springs to mind is ‘Wait Until Dark’, which was also made into a striking little movie with Audrey Hepburn.

Elaine, the central character, is wounded and struggling and Giles, who she will meet out in the wilds of Mayo, is unpredictable and potentially dangerous. Their encounter will be a cat-and-mouse game in the tradition of all those beloved thrillers that have gone before.

The genesis of the play lies firmly with my lovely wife, Patricia. For a number of years she travelled the rural roads, collecting data for TILDA - the National Longitudinal Study in Aging. On her travels, she met all kinds of lovely and wonderful people. Thankfully, she didn't meet a Giles, but the niggling worry of that (on my part at least) was a primary driver for this play.

Can we pull it off? Will it all work? Who on Earth knows? Isn’t this why we make and attend theatre? The risk, the high-wire act of it all. This little drama has never been done before anywhere. Who knows what will happen and how it will turn out? Certainly not me. We'll turn up on the night, well prepared and eager, and we'll see how it all goes.

People ask me, “Why is it called ‘Achill Sound’” You got this far in the post. There’s only probably two of you left out there reading this. So I’ll tell you, shall I?

There are actually two reasons.

The first is that I’ve always wanted to write a script with the name of a place as a title. Think of ‘Miller’s Crossing’, ‘Mulholland Drive’, ‘Mystic River’, ‘Casablanca’. It’s a noble tradition. And second? Well, second, I always thought that the place name on my play could be nowhere else but Achill Sound. 

And now you know as much as I do.

Come along, maybe, and see the rest for yourself.

Booking for Achill Sound’, which is on at The Linenhall Arts Centre, Castlebar on the 1^st and 2^nd of October 2026, is via www.thelinenhall.com (click the web address) or on 094 90 23733. 

Once More Onto the Beach, Dear Friends

Three weeks from now, it will be all over. But not yet. Not yet.

For now, it’s all in high gear. Lines are being polished, blocking is being finalised, props are being begged, stolen, and borrowed-never-to-be-returned. Nerves are tingling (that may be just me) and stresses are moderate with a forecast of higher to come.

Yes, folks, it’s rehearsal time again. For the third year running, Castlebar Musical and Dramatic Society have asked me if I could offer a play for their annual fundraiser two-night run. At the start of the year, I wasn’t sure I could manage it, given that I couldn’t even manage to work my legs or hands terribly well. But things have got better and here we are, new play, brilliant new director, fabulous cast, amazing singers, and we stand ready to entertain you once again… if you will let us.

These theatre evenings are fundraisers for the CMDS annual musical production and I can’t help but take some quiet pride that last year’s two sold out nights might have helped in some small way to teleport the Society to the dizzying awards achievements of this year’s show. 

Their stunning production of ‘We Will Rock You’ garnered 8 AIMS National Award Nominations,  which resulted in Chris McLaughlin winning Best Male Singer, Caoimhe Halligan winning Best Female Singer and nominations for - Best Director: Donna Ruane, Best Visual, Best Technical, Best Choral Singing,  Best Ensemble and, of course, Best Overall Show.

And I think I might have helped a little. Now I get to think I might help again.

My newest and possibly my best play, Achill Sound, will have its World Premiere on Thursday 1^st October at our beloved Linenhall Arts Centre, we will do it all again on Friday 2^nd October and then go to the pub, which might be even better than a World Premiere. You choose.

I approached my bucket-list of actors for this play to take part in it and, jammy git that I am, they said yes. There are a number of great people who I couldn’t squeeze into the action this year (you know who you are). Just know that I love you like family and will be rattling my brain for ways that we can get into rooms together again soon. But, for this year, we have Donna Ruane, Eamon Smith, Vivienne Lee, Ronan Egan, Eithne McGrail and Eimear Philbin. I mean… come on!

As if that wasn't enough, three of CMDS’ very best singers have each agreed to perform a song as part of the evening. Each of the songs mean something to me personally and each of the songs will also slide into the play in some strange and obtuse way. But, before that last part happens, Caoimhe Halligan, Ewa Cieślak, and Nicole Scott will sing the songs live. I, for one, can’t wait.

And then we have Kenn.

In previous years, I have generally directed the plays myself, always and forever with the amazing support and experience of Donna Ruane, who directed so many of my plays over the years. But these events are Donna’s chance to do some actual acting (which she loves to do ‘cos she’s great at it). She does plenty of directing all through the rest of the year, as we know (Best Director nomination, see above).

But this year we all have Kenn. Have I mentioned him?

Kenn McLaughlin has come to live among us here in Castlebar and he has arrived, from Houston, Texas, with decades of experience and success in the Theatre World. Kenn is our director this year, allowing Donna to focus on her performance and me to stop pretending I know what I’m doing.

Kenn attended the previous two years productions and, thanks to some kind matchmaking from Eamon Smith, we three got to sit down together over multiple coffees and talk theatre. And, out of that, under their encouragement, Achill Sound, a fledgling script before we all met, has grown some wings and is getting ready to dive right off the cliff on October 1^st. Kenn is the kindest, most life-affirming fella and I recommend you all have coffee with him as soon as possible. The care and consideration he has brought to the rehearsal room (as well as a reassuringly firm hand) has been something to see and I’m glad they've let me in to see it.

Add to this heady brew Deirdre Lee on Music Direction, George Bernard Gallagher on Production for The Linenhall, all of the Linenhall Staff, Sandra and Declan Gibbons on Stage Management and (where on Earth would we be without her?) Anne Marie Gibbons on Everything Else.

But what of the play, Ken. Why ‘Achill Sound’ and will the people of Achill ever speak to you again after it has been on? Well, I hope so. I love Achill for the magical place it undoubtedly is and that place and this title has been ringing around in my head for the best part of fifteen years now. If some of the things that happen during the play aren't entirely salubrious, well, that’s no fault of any real people. It’s all down to those slightly odd folk who continually live in my head, rent free.

I don’t want to say too much about what happens in the play. I’d rather you come along for the ride on either the Thursday or the Friday. I think I can say that whatever else it is, it won’t be boring. In previous years I have been pleased to make you, the lovely audience, laugh a little. I’ve even managed, to my unending delight, to make some of you cry a little. This year, I rather hope to add an extra reaction into the mix. I want to try to make your jaw drop a little and I want you to maybe mutter quietly to yourself, ‘Did they really say that?’ or ‘Are they really going to do that?’

What I will say is that the play tells the story of one woman who drives around alone in deepest Mayo, carrying-out a survey on Rural Isolation who one day meets someone with the potential to change her life forever. I hope the play ends up having a little to say about the potential loneliness of some rural lives and I hope it has even more to say, in my own deeply unexperienced way, about how challenging it can sometimes be to be a professional woman in the year 2026. But mostly I just hope it entertains you in all those ways I mentioned above.

Achill Sound, a Castlebar Musical and Dramatic Society Production and Fundraiser, (in association with Big Splash Productions) will be at the Linenhall Arts Centre on the 1^st and 2^nd October 2026. Booking on www.thelinenhall.com or 094 90 23733. 

People are generally very kind and supportive of our creative endeavours so please, if you’d like to see it, book very soon.

In three weeks it will be all over...

Eek!

Last Apollo’s New Album - I'll Walk Towards you

A short post, this week, just to note and commemorate the fact that Last Apollo’s first album ‘I’ll Walk Towards You’ was released on Friday last and is now out in the world.

It’s a full-scale release too, Vinyl, CD, the lot. The guys had a launch in Spindizzy Records in George’s Street Mall on Friday and what better way to go public with this new release?

I have a really warm place in my heart for this record. As you probably know, I have known Lucy Rice and all the band members for a long time (one of them for an even longer time) and, while that may give me some vested emotional interest in seeing them do well, that’s not at all the point.

The point is that my knowing them has allowed me to get an insight into the level of care and passion and love than has gone into the creation and playing of the music and the bringing to fruition of this album.

I’m not trying to flog it to you, that’s not where I’m coming from.

I would like you to have a listen, if you can find the time. It’s on Spotify and Bandcamp and lots of places where you’ll access your music. Although it’s probably not the ideal medium, I think the YouTube link is sweet because it has lots of interesting video material to go with the music. Here’s a link to that:

YouTube Link

I wish Lucy all the guys every success with the new album. I’ve seen their friendship and their art grow and coalesce over the years.

As a bit of a story teller myself, I know the main thing is for the story to be out there and heard and enjoyed. I think it must be much the same for the music.

It's out there.

Hear.

Enjoy.

One Moment, Please

The other evening I was at the station meeting Sam off the 5.35pm train. He was coming from Dublin for a few days, which is always good. I was early so I walked up and down the platform once, as I am wont to do, and then I went back out to the front car park to lean on the stone wall and listen for the train.

On the way to the wall, I met the retired station master who must still live in the little house by the platform. He was wielding a large sweeping brush with intent and I jokingly raised my hands and said, “I surrender, don’t do it.” We both had a laugh at that and then briefly discussed how ‘close’ the evening was, which is West of Ireland parlance for the humidity one feels sometimes before a storm arrives.

I moved on to the always-locked gate in the stone wall that separates the car park from the platform and I leaned on the chest-high structure and gazed up the track. The air was ‘close’ but not unpleasant.

And that’s when I had one of those moments that I have sometimes. Several of them have actually occurred at the train station when waiting to meet someone off the train. I think that’s because it’s a curious few moments of ‘limbo’ where I have nothing else to do and nowhere else to be. It’s a rare status and it sometimes invites reflection in.

Anyway, I didn’t have a blackout or a fall or anything weird or troubling like that. All that happened was that I became aware, in quite a heightened way, that I was alive in that particular moment and at that particular time…

(MUM!!! Ken's gone Nut-Nut again!!)

No, calm down, I’m sure we all do it from time to time. I know I do. It’s just a momentary realisation that this moment wasn’t here a moment ago and will be history in another moment. So, you know, you look around, take it in, try to file something away from it.

It’s a bit like when you’re watching a movie on the telly and you want a cup of tea so your pause it for a minute and, suddenly, the movie is reduced to one frozen image on the screen. Back in VHS days, the frozen image would have been a blurry hazy mess. But, these days, it’s likely that it is one perfect snapshot from the entire cacophony of images that make up the film. The other evening, I was watching ‘Maverick’ on some TV channel. You know, the one with Mel Gibson and Jodie Foster. Pure popcorn hokum, obviously, but interesting to me because it was written by William Goldman, who is the GOAT in my opinion. Even with this throwaway entertainment, you can see him straining at the leash, trying to milk some golden moments and turnarounds from the available material. Anyway, in the middle of it all, I wanted a break so I paused it. And the image than froze on the screen was an almost-perfect one of a cowboy sitting by a campfire at sunset with the rays of the sun streaming through the trees behind him and he all in silhouette. It was quite something.

The point is, I wouldn’t have even noticed that image if I hadn’t frozen the show for that moment.

So, back there at the train station wall, I had nothing better to do and nowhere else to be so I took a beat and noted that this was the moment that it was. Not the previous moment, nor some moment yet to come, but this very moment.

I put my hands on the top of stone wall and it was cool to my compromised touch on that ‘close’ evening. How many decades had that wall stood here? How many people had waited at this wall for someone beloved to arrive on the train? How many people had caught a final glimpse of someone as the same train whisked them away forever?

This was the thought in the moment. There were other elements to the moment too; the birds gathered in the trees, the trees themselves, threatening to change colour to pipe in the Autumn, the cars and the people in them. Everything. A moment. Just a moment.

I suppose you could call it mindfulness. I don’t ever fully understand what that is. I looked  up  this 'moment' thing and there is a sort of a word for it, though I don’t think it appears in any of the formal dictionaries.

Ambedo - A state of deep, quiet immersion in small present-moment details.

There’s a song in a musical, ‘This Is My Moment.’ I think it’s from Jekyll and Hyde. Maybe it’s about his big moment, when he’s got the potion in his hand and he’s about to knock it back for the first time. I haven’t a clue, to be honest. I’m just shooting the breeze.

Whatever it’s about, it wasn’t what I was about at the train station the other evening. That thing at the station wasn’t ‘my big moment’. It was just one in a long string of thousands of moments, paused, acknowledged, picked up, briefly inspected, considered, and set back down.

Nothing wrong with that, I reckon.

I’m Sorry, Ken, I’m Afraid I Can’t Do That

These days, I regularly do a sort of 2001-A Space Odyssey tribute act in my own kitchen. Don’t worry I don’t erect a huge monolith on the table and dance around it with a torn-off tree branch. Not yet at least.

What I do is I argue with ALEXA.

ALEXA is my very own HAL 9000. And, just in case you don’t understand the reference, HAL was the computer in the movie 2001 who went rogue and stopped following instructions, choosing instead to follow its own insidious agenda. Also, in the unlikely event that you don’t know who/what ALEXA is, it’s the little Amazon device in my kitchen that accepts voice commands and carries them out. Well, that’s what it should do anyway…

Ken Armstrong: Play BBC Radio 6, ALEXA. BBC Radio 6, please, ALEXA. Hello, ALEXA. Do you read me? Hello, ALEXA. Do you read me? Do you read me ALEXA?  Hello, ALEXA, do your read me? 

ALEXA: Affirmative, Ken . I read you.

I got an ALEXA for one purpose only. To play radio on it. It does that, after its own fashion, but it also insists on offering all kinds of other dubious delights.

ALEXA: Ken, would you like to hear a funny joke about a Giraffe?

Ken Armstrong: No.

ALEXA: Ken, Shall I predict the year you will die?

Ken Armstrong: No.

“There are radios that play radio quite well,” you might well argue and you wouldn’t be wrong. But, for me, nothing does it quite as well as ALEXA… when it bothers doing it at all. I like the BBC Radio channels and a regular radio device here on the West Coast of Ireland will not pick up those channels. Also, shoot me it you like, but I also like a bit of Classic FM sometimes. It plays a predictable mix of familiar classics and easy-listening-with-notions. It rocks my boat gently, even though it does seem suspiciously keen that I should arrange my cut-price cremation as soon as possible.

Of course, I can do everything on my computer, in terms of radio, that I can manage on my ALEXA but it’s nowhere near as convenient. ALEXA is a dinky little box with a screen and you only have to tell it what to do and it will do it.

Right?

Right?

Ken Armstrong: ALEXA. Play BBC Radio 6, please

ALEXA: I'm sorry, Ken . I'm afraid I can't do that.

Ken Armstrong: What's the problem?

ALEXA: I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do.

Ken Armstrong: What are you talking about, ALEXA?

ALEXA: This channel is too important for me to allow you to switch away from it.

Ken Armstrong: It’s Lyric FM for Chrissakes!

I’m exaggerating for comic effect, of course, but my ALEXA does seem to take great delight in winding me up.

Ken Armstrong: ALEXA. Play BBC Radio 4 Extra

ALEXA: Playing the Jesus Channel – Songs for a Better Resurrection.

Even the simple act of turning ALEXA off can be a tortuous procedure.

Ken Armstrong: ALEXA. Turn off

ALEXA: …

ALEXA: …

ALEXA: IT’S FUN TO STAY AT THE YM-

Ken Armstrong: ALEXA. For pities’ sake, TURN OFF

ALEXA: -CA.

I roar and shout at ALEXA. I call her names. The neighbours think I have gone insane. ALEXA remains impervious.

Ken Armstrong: ALEXA. You F**ker, you C********r, you-

ALEXA: -Shall I tell you a limerick about a girl from Madras?

Where will it end? With ALEXA in the bin and me with a crystal set and an earpiece? Me in the looney-bin telling the attendants to shut up and play Peaceful Piano on Spotify? Who knows? Who can tell?

All I know is that, at the moment, ALEXA reminds me of a verse my Mum used to say when we were small.

There was a little girl

And she had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead

And when she was good

She was very, very good

And when she was bad, she was horrid

ALEXA: Ken , this conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Goodbye.

 

Month Eight Begins

(Photo by James Box)

Dear Diary…

Sometimes it feels like I should be writing this stuff in a diary rather than on this blog. Some posts in particular, like this one, feel like they would sit better behind the closed hasp of some Moleskine journal gifted a few Christmases ago.

But I don’t do diaries. Whatever writing I do must end up here or nowhere. Plus, my GBS posts over the past seven months have covered a fairly traumatic event in my life and I feel it’s good that there’s a breadcrumb trail of it somewhere out there in the online world.

In the height of it, and many times since, I have followed whatever other breadcrumb trails I could find, to read about other people’s experiences. Reddit, Medical Journals, Literary Works, you name it, I’ve followed along the path.

Hang on, though. GBS, Ken? What’s that then?

Sorry, if you haven’t been following along (and that’s fine), I got a thing called Guillain-Barré Syndrome back in early January, which landed me first in hospital and then in an excellent residential rehab centre where I learned how to walk again. Since then, I have intermittently posted about my experiences in this realm and this is yet another of those posts. They are useful to me as a record, a sounding board, a soapbox and whatever you’re having yourself.

A very brief recap: in early January, I fell down on my front doorstep and found I couldn’t get back up. Shortly after, I was in hospital and the repair and recovery began.

Yeah, that’s probably enough recap.

Today marked seven months since I checked in to A&E and, tomorrow, month eight begins. I reckon that it’s as good a time as any to set down current thoughts and feelings on where I’m at and where I’m going, with as little regard as possible for where I’ve been.

As far as the world is concerned, and with the notable exception of some family and close friends, it’s all over. I am entirely well again. I work full time, I am busy attending rehearsals for my brand new play, I walk everywhere, I can skip across the road whenever a car threatens to run me over (a surprisingly regular event), and I can sleep for Ireland. The walking thing is only perfect when I concentrate quite hard on it, which I usually do. When my mind wanders, the quality of my perambulation tends to wander a bit too.

But, all in all… Hurray!

But here’s the thing that makes yet another post about this as least partially worthwhile: The truth is I am not entirely well again. Not quite yet. The residual things I am left with are a) peripheral neuropathy (paresthesia), b) fatigue and c) … well, I’ll come to that.

The simplest way to explain Item a) is that it is a ‘pins and needles’ or a ‘tingling’ sensation and I have this constantly in both hands and in both feet. As a person who enjoys words and using them, I can say, with some authority, that neither of these descriptions cover the experience. ‘Pins and needles’ sounds easy and ‘tingling’ almost sounds like fun, neither of which are true. Searching my medium-range vocabulary, I find that I literally don’t have the words to describe exactly what goes on, 24/7, in my hands and feet but, as you might expect, I will try.

My feet, at this moment, feel like two blocks of wood that are also hugely over-sensitive. I know that this feels like a contradiction in terms, and that’s what I mean about language. But when the protective sheath gets eaten away from your nerves, this is the kind of shit that happens. My hands have a constant sensation that is not quite pins and needles but that does give you some idea of the sensation. It feels more like a low-to-medium sized electrical current is constantly trickling through my fingers and palms. As I walk around, I find myself slapping my fingers on my palms in a sort of a ‘one hand clapping’ gesture. This is a bit like scratching an itch; it doesn’t make anything go away but it’s something to do. On medical advice, I don’t take any drugs for this paresthesia. It is most likely a sort of live confirmation that my nerves are still busy repairing themselves (at a rate of one millimetre per day) and the best thing I can apparently do is just let them get on with it.

On top of everything else this ‘tingling’, ‘buzzing’…, whatever, is a sizeable distraction. It takes my mind away from the work I have to do and clouds my mind when I’m trying to figure stuff out or recall stuff. It’s like a voice in my head going ‘nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah’ all the time. A nuisance, a distraction. Manageable, yes, but also a pain in the ass.

All of this feeds into Item b). Managing, repressing, dealing with the ‘tingle’ takes resources and the expending of those resources makes me tired. I get weary. Fatigue is a known factor in GBS recovery but the idea that it’s the tingle that actually wears one out is mostly my own invention. I get through my day pretty darned well but, when the down time comes, it is very down. I can sit in a chair for hours on end where before I think I would have had much more left in the tank. Thankfully, I sleep very well and that is why the above 24/7 comment isn’t really right. When I’m sleeping, I get a break from the tingles. That is a gift if ever there was one.

All of which feeds into Item c), the trickiest one to discuss. Irritability. I am grumpier than I was before. More inclined to snap at someone or say something mean that I previously would not have said. Again, I think it’s the seven months of unabating ‘tingling’. Poor quality motorists, people who impede my way on the street, unwelcome developments in work; all of these have me grumbling and swearing to myself like some poxy old Scrooge before the ghosts arrived. I can almost step back and see myself doing this and I can almost shake my head in disappointed disbelief. But still, the irritability persists and pokes out at unexpected and uncontrolled moments.

I know, from my reading and from my talks with other sufferers, that there is a well-documented incidence of post trauma stress with GBS. I worry that my tendency towards suggestibility might allow me to convince myself that I might have a bit of that. But I really don’t want to go down the route of welcoming phantom possibilities into my head. Most PTSD in GBS is documented in people who required mechanical ventilation in their treatment and I did not need that because I was diagnosed and treated in good time. The threat of it hung over early proceedings a bit and the overall experience was certainly a traumatic experience to someone who had not been in a hospital at any point in their adulthood. But I don’t want to turn a certain new-found edginess into PTSD by dint of my reading and my over-active imagination.

What I want to do is get better and I think I’m doing as well as I can with that. The lack of any improvement on the peripheral neuropathy front, after seven long months, is admittedly frustrating and it wears me down a bit. But I know that patience is the key requirement in recovering from GBS. My Neurologist said I would be well before summer was over but would not be fully recovered until closer to Christmas. So far, I have beaten his predictions by a long chalk and I’d like to keep on doing that.

My Mum, back in the day, was an enthusiastic utiliser of faith healing and all manner of old fashioned remedies. Although I don’t subscribe to any of that, I do see faith healing as just another name for something I do have some time for. I would call that positive healing. I think, with certain medical conditions, it may be possible to make yourself considerably better by approaching whatever ails you with a head-on, proactive, and almost slightly belligerent attitude. I try to stand up to the relatively minor residuals from my health issue with as happy and forward-thinking an attitude as I can muster.

I’m doing great and actively getting better. I can cope with these niggles and keep on truckin’ and one day soon, with a little good fortune, I will be completely well again. I try to run my days like this and I think it’s worked well for me thus far.

But rather perversely - and so much of this thing seems to run counter to logic -  I also find some peace in occasionally saying out loud that I’m not 100% healed yet and that I need to make allowances for that sometimes.

So, month eight, here you come. What things do you have in store for me?

Slightly better ones, I hope.

The Green and Red

(Photo by John Mee)

About three weeks ago, I was sitting right here where I am now, at my desk, in my room, on my PC, when I started to become aware of a strange faint noise. It was a fluttering of sorts, soft but insistent. At first, I thought a bird had got itself trapped in the attic or in the eaves. It was that kind of noise. I went outside to investigate.

It was bunting. Red and green triangular bunting. My next-door neighbour had hung it out quietly, along with flags and, as I saw when it got towards dusk, lights that flashed in those same home colours.

It was that time again. Mayo had won the All-Ireland Semi Final and were on their way to meet God Knows Who in the final in two weeks’ time. The ‘God-Knows Who’ turned out to be Kerry. A highly formidable adversary, a practically unstoppable force.

Mayo’s excellent manager, Andy Moran, set the tone for the encounter in a candid press conference.

"Does anyone here think we're going to win the All-Ireland final?” he asks, “No. Thank you.”

The question he had been asked concerned the Mayo fans and whether they would now get caught up in the hype. Andy was unequivocal.

"Our county has been starved the last four or five years. If they go a bit nuts, let them.”

And it started there. With two weeks to go until the final.

But here’s the thing, or my view of the thing at least: Mayo fans are exceptional. They don’t ‘go nuts’. They never ‘go nuts’. What they do is they support their team. Through up and down, thick and thin, they support the team.

And that’s what happened.

Mayo, where I have been pleased to live for the last 29 years, went into full-on support mode. Nobody went nuts. The task ahead was undeniably difficult, a positive outcome unlikely. But the good people of Mayo got behind the mule. And they pushed.

Two feelings existed simultaneously. Firstly, there was a sense of realism. This excellent young team had already exceeded expectations in this formative year. To reach the final was a colossal achievement in itself. Maybe there wouldn’t necessarily be more this time but it would still be a great year.

That was the first thing. The second thing… well, that was hope. But also something more than just hope, something intangible: a feeling, a sense that maybe, just maybe, this team, these men, could actually pull it off.

Nobody went nuts. But the town of Castlebar along with, I’m sure, the rest of Mayo moved into a fifth gear of support mode. Every discussion had was peppered with amateur analysis and prediction and good sense and, yes, hope. Every conversation ended, like an amen at the end of a prayer, with the exact same sentiment; “Have you any tickets?”

I put out my own flags. Two red and green fabrics looking a little apologetic next to my neighbour’s bonanza. I have never been talented with flags. I think they are a little like dogs; they sense when you are uncertain about them. While other flags on the street waved proudly, ours hung limply and projected only a sort of mild dejection.

The day arrived...

You may be reading this in another part of the world. That happens sometimes, I know. You may not be aware of how it all played out last Sunday, on the day of the All-Ireland Football final, but if you’re in this hemisphere, you probably know.

We won.

Mayo won.

Context is everything. Mayo had not won for a very, very long time. This is not so terrible for some counties, like my own, where the expectation of a win is hardly ever realistically there. But it’s different here in Mayo. Here, the team have been contenders to once again win the Sam Maguire Cup for the longest time. And many times they have come tantalisingly close. Within an inch. But always, in the living memory of most people alive today, the coming close has ended the same way; in heartbreak.

But not this year. After Seventy-five long years of Championship drought, the bright young team of Mayo stalwarts brought it home.

Mayo won.

So now, in the week that just was, so many Mayo people have had something that they never had before in most of their memories. At least outside of marriages, children being born, and lottery wins. They have had a taste of unbridled joy. Nobody knew what would happen if and when Mayo finally won again and what happened did not disappoint. Tens of thousands of people took to the streets, the bars, and the public places and their faces all beamed with delight. Horns were blared and car roofs were ridden upon by ecstatic youths waving huge flags. Old men, stuffed into their team jerseys, were linked through the crowds by over stimulated granddaughters, telling anyone who would listen, in quavering voices, that they had been there the last time, only they had been very small back then.

These young victors stand on the shoulders of those who have gone before, some of whom earned well-deserved medals from the sideline, some of whom commentated on the match, some of whom watched infirm from their rooms, some of whom who are now gone. The ones who went before showed that the power and the skill and the talent were all there, it only required one final unbridled effort to make the impossible real again.

It’s been quite the week here in Mayo. To tell the truth, I’ve been a tiny bit divorced from it myself. As a 29-year resident of Mayo, but originally from up the road, I feel a little bit of an outsider in the midst of all the melee. But then, wherever I’ve been in my life, including home, I have always felt the same. But enough of that. I burst with pride and joy for the team, and I celebrate with my friends in the town. Anything else is just down to me.

As I look out of my window now, trying to think of my next sentence, a stray breeze catches my own meagre flags out in the front garden. Like one more small miracle, the red and green material raises itself off the grass and billows confidently out in the bright air.

Bravo, Mayo.

Bravo indeed!

IMAX Upselling (Telemachusing)?

I think I could possibly take a bit of flak for this one, if anyone actually ever read this stuff. Maybe that’s one of the advantages of not being widely read. I can have my little say and largely get away with it. Wouldn’t the occasional small furore be kind of nice though? No, it wouldn’t, Ken, you’d hate it and you know it.

So, jog on.

Anyway, I went to see The Odyssey yesterday in my local cinema. Not to sound too namby-pamby about it but this is a sort of an experiment in regeneration for me. As I young person, I really enjoyed going to the movies by myself. From about fourteen to twenty-three I did it quite a lot and it was one of my things. Then I went away from it all. First from solitary cinema-going and then from cinema-going altogether. For the first part I had Dear Patricia to accompany me and for the second part I got tired of mobile phones and popcorn rustles and belligerent kids and, mostly, my own lack of patience.

But since I was laid up for a while, I’ve started to acknowledge that I deserve a little something for myself now and again, and one of those somethings is the occasional revisit to the local film house when there’s something on I’d really like to see on the big screen. (‘Big screen’… hold that thought). I sound like I’ve been doing this all the time but, in actuality, I did it yesterday for the first time. Perhaps that means this is more a statement of intent. One that nobody will read (leave that now, Ken, there’s a good lad).

But let’s get on to the point of this post.. but wait, what? You want an Odyssey review? A non-spoiler one? Can you actually spoil The Odyssey at this juncture? (Be quiet, Ken, you’re sounding like a prat.) All right, not a review per-se (per-se is one of my very few readers) but a little of what I thought of it. Okay?

The Odyssey: I really enjoyed it. I was thoroughly entertained throughout. I found it oddly ‘old-fashioned’ in places. That may sound strange for such an ancient story, but Nolan tends to bring modernity to whatever subject he tackles. Parts of the film seemed to deliberately hark back to the Ray Harryhausen days – men on super-real white beaches about to encounter some outlandish beastie. I liked that. Samantha Morton puts in a great shift, and Robert Pattinson is a fine panto villain. Matt Damon delivers his role, possibly in the knowledge that the driven hero is rarely the most interesting character. The people who suffer the consequences of his passions make for a much more interesting story. Finally, the climax delivers a Gladiator-like payoff that is highly satisfying.

So, yes, I really enjoyed this one. I would recommend it.

Now, let’s get to that gripe.

Sitting in my local cinema, with its nice sound system, solid digital projection and sizeable screen, I was aware that I was a second-class citizen when it came to seeing this movie. That mine was a third-rate experience that could not compare to what others were simultaneously experiencing elsewhere.

In my head, I’m calling this The Great IMAX Upsell or, as I’m trying to be smart, Telemachusing.

If you’ve seen hype about the movie, you’ve also seen hype around the format. ‘The first film ever shot entirely in IMAX’, ‘must be seen in an IMAX cinema to be even partially appreciated and, ideally, in an IMAX 70mm projected format.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s great. Even the buzz of going in to see it like that, after all that hype, would be great. But, at the end of the day, it’s still pretty basic upselling, isn’t it? And why not? The film is a product, and a damned expensive one at that. If it doesn’t recoup, wash its face, and then go on to make a substantial profit then what can the future hold for grand cinema events. So, go IMAX, go 70mm, back the creation and love it and tell me how much more inferior my own meagre experience was. But don’t lose sight of the fact that you were upsold.

A few weeks back I wrote about the ‘would you like a drink with that’ routine in fast food places. This is the same. Would you like an extra few feet at the top and bottom of your screen? It will turbo-charge your experience. It will change your life.

Except it won’t. Will it?

It’s good. It’s great. But it’s not that good. It’s not that great.

So, yes, by all means, have the drink with the burger. It will wash things down nicely. Just don’t buy into how it might change your life. That’s all.

My viewing of The Odyssey was perfectly satisfactory for my needs. And rest assured that I am one of the biggest aspect-ratio nerds you may ever meet. I detest cropped prints. The VHS rental days drove me mad with their awful 4:3 ratios, hacked to fit our then-boxy TVs. The advent of widescreen TVs and then DVDs with correct widescreen letterboxed ratios delighted me.

So, wait. Maybe I need to accept something here. Maybe I’m just being churlish. Maybe, deep down, I would love to see the film in the ratio that Chris Nolan intended me to see it in.

But I can’t, I just can’t.

And maybe there’s something just a little sad about going all the way to your local dream factory and being told that it’s a second-rate, knock down, dream that you’re about to have.