Self-Congratulating Shite. No, Really.

So the end of term draws close, and the time for appraisals, summations and the like is damn' nigh upon us. A tough job it is to nail down what to draw from the last ten weeks, or whether anything should be drawn; maybe a greater achievement would be to look at this semester as nothing unusual, as a job done, rather than well done. There certainly won't be any victory parades, nor celebratory nights out: the lesson to learn is that the greatest victories, the satisfying ones, come from a sense of completion that no-one but yourself can generate. No amounta back-slappin nor congratulatin - though well appreciated, mind - can replace a self-constructed feelin of accomplishment. I think I'm feelin it.

Perspective is vital. Knowing when to exert oneself, and when such investment is unnecessary, is probably the soundest discovery o the term; much as I've delighted in the pure theatre of Old English word-paintin, it all seemed like an exercise in education, rather than education itself. I'm braced for tougher challenges to come. Note to self: it's just a game.

Besides that, the journey, bein by far the worthier part, has been nothin shorta blissful. I've made friends along the way, lost touch with a few old ones, which o course wrenches at the heart like nothin imaginable; lettin go is often the hardest part, but rarely does one thing end without some kinda new thing beginning in its place. Moving on.

Moving on, next term, my second Yorkshire summer, is shapin up very nicely. Modern Irish Poetry is the soup o the day, wi Yeats an Muldoon for the aul main course, an wi only eight folks in the seminar group, includin myself, I reckon I can cook up somethin spectacular.So that was a great example of what can be done wi shitty metaphors, abstract nouns and generalisation alone.

Thanks for readin this term! See you in April.

Dave.

Election Time, There's No Need To Be Afraid.

Pre Script: listen, if it be within your faculties, to "Radiation" by the Epoxies. Fo. Shizzle.

So the Assembly elections have come and gone. Bein on the wrong side o the Irish sea, I haven't heard from the emerald/tangerine isle in manys a moon. Not much has changed, but we've secured self-determination. "A farce," says my dad, "the UUP have bought it". And so they have. The only poor buggers who know how to run a country have gone and lost nine assembly seats to go with the all-but-one they lost in the election to the grown-up Parliament in Westminster. The final score was DUP 36, Shinners 28, UUP 18, SDLP 16, wi the Alliance gettin a respectable 7 an the Green Party, did you ever, pickin up a sly one in North Down, most likely down to the fact the candidates name is Brian Wilson, for let's face it, who wouldn't vote for him? If'n I could think of a decent Beach Boys pun, you could bet your bottom dollar I'd stick it right here, an by Jove you'd be fallin off your chair for the hilarity of it all.

But spare a thought for those who weren't so lucky. Those who didn't find themselves on the right side of the party lines. Those who were caught receiving a 'sports massage' in a Belfast hotel in the middle of an election campaign for the most socially conservative political party since Ian Paisley could sit in place for more than a half hour without urinating uncontrollably. Nevertheless, Paul Berry's valiant effort to convince the nation that ability to govern and sexual preferences were unconnected fell some way short, though picking up over 2000 first-preference votes in Newry and Armagh district is not to be sniffed at. Northern Ireland: We're Getting There!

So that's it! Another election under the belt - the Northern Irish have more politicians and elections per head than any country on the earth - and things have more or less panned out as expected. Trimble and Hume retired to international diplomacy, Paisley can only eat soup, his son's a bollickin fool; it won't be long til Gerry's the only piece left on the board since '97. Strange how these things pan out.

And as if that weren't enough! Today the Langwith College Volleyball legends, nay, ubermensch ass-kickin allgunsblazin KINGS AMONGST FRIGGIN SERFS kicked all manner of posterior cross the aul court in a stunnin three-set thriller wi more twists than a book wi a lotta twists in. FUCK YES. Every man (and woman) jack o us played out their gorram skins the day, all wi Albi's Napoleonic leaderships skillz teachin them there clowns exactly what time it is. Hammer Time, is what. We Hammered Yez Time, is more specific. A bloody marvellous end to the term was had by all. Albi, Steve, Dan, Naomi, Simon, Raph, Lou, Lucy, Phlip, Lou's fella, Naomi's mate, Joelle (we miss you!), we gave 'em a helluva fight, an never stopped believin. And that makes us goddamn mighty. Like ducks. Like mighty ducks. All our ancestors are lookin down an goin 'here, they've got some mad skillz, this lot.' An then drinkin an debauchin an discussin fine arts an whatever else they do in the great beyond. More power to em. But you take your victories where you can, and hold em close, for there's few things warmer than a win well won. Except maybe a fine lookin lass lyin next t'you. Hard to quantify, in concrete terms, though. Certain assumptions must be made. Certain posts must be ended.

Thanks,
Dave.

Pitch 'n' Putt, Human Kindness, and a very special birthday greeting

Two great writers out on a Sunday afternoon in bloody terrible weather, playin the most infuriating game on the planet. Are there literary possibilities in the game of golf? The purity of a dash to the finish, where only strength of mind and clarity of thought count? Massive forearms help, I guess, an $3000 drivers, an havin the free time to turn professional... nevermind. Golf is the closest thing to chess you can do standin up. Nothin like three pairsa waterproofs, a wooly hat an a bout o hypothermia to take y'away from the world for a bit.

Beckett ain't all that bad, either. Havin actually seen his work performed, it suddenly makes sense. Studyin the text is pointless, an it takes a certain kind of genius to pull off such a seamless transition from written word to performed art, maybe performed reality. Endgame an Waiting For Godot in the right hands make for some transfixin viewing, that strikes its mark wi the greatest force when you recognise the players as aspects o yourself. Not only that, but it manages to keep a sensea humour about itself, somethin Joyce alternately struggled with an captured perfectly, dependin on whether he was composin for that intolerable bastard Stephen Dedalus or not. Ulysses is a crackin book, no matter what mantle o greatness might be thrust upon it, just because it gets the point so perfectly, inhabits the character o Leopold Bloom so entirely, like no one has done before or since. 1922. Unreal. An o course, seein him fuck up a drive on the pitch 'n' putt is comedy gold. Jimmy woulda approved.

So Fusion was on last night, a show o highs an lows. There's some extremely talented folks out there. Woulda liked to have seen more of em. But it turned out to be when we got home that the best story emerged. After orderin Efe's (lovely pizza), we told the delivery guy that Amy said hi, all of us bein slightly tripped out by hunger. He remembered seein Amy a couple weeks previous, huddled in the corner in a similar fashion. The conclusion was obvious.

"You are pregnant!!"

Before rushin back to the van. He reappeared seconds later with a handful of strawberry flavoured lollies for the newly expectant mother. People are wonderful.

But not as wonderful as this dude here, who recently celebrated his twenty-second birthday. Here we see him in earlier times (on the left), recoverin from a nasty bouta sunburn, as was his wont. Happy Birthday Aaron! You are the wind beneath my wings.

Thanks,
Dave.

Ireland Crush England, Croke Park and Sylvia Plath

So, today Ireland kicked all shiny shades o shit outta England at the rugby, which, I'll be honest, brough me no end of satisfaction. Mostly because of two folks in particular: Brian Ashton, the England coach, who is one of those wankers who thinks he's the bee's knees but is - in fact - tosser-in-chief, a highly respected position in the tosser community; and Brian Moore.

Moore is the twattiest of commentators, practically without peer across the sporting diaspora, in terms of being opinionated, biased, and for the most part, wrong. He made the critical error of writing off the Irish, a move that - if we are to assume it had any effect on the Irish squad - could only be a motivator, one that was condemned by critics an fans alike. There's not much to be added, except to praise Eddie Butler for remaining calm an professional throughout. He's a better man than I. Moore made phantom calls all over the pitch, steadfastly refusin to grant Ireland even the slightest of leeway for skillful backplay an fierce defence.

Which is a shame, for I haven't seen Ireland so good in manys a long while. England simply weren't in the same league. Farrell looked like a Union wannabe, Wilkinson missed a kick, did you ever, and Ireland were sublime. O'Connell was an absolute machine, bustin heads like Cuchullain reborn, Horgan munched through anyone thick enough to get in his way, and from nine to fifteen, they gave a performance that'd remind you of nothin less than the way Arsenal can pass a football, but with more violence an less dancin. An our very own wee Isaac Boss took a try for himself to make it 43-13, which makes for a nicer scoreline, all in all.

Better, by far, than the 19-16 bloody stupid scoreline some o the lunatic fringe were hopin for. I couldn't believe the hack o some folks in the build-up to the game. Of course it was awful, no-one wanted for folks to get killed back in the day, but it happened. And life went on. There's no point in arrguin that the RA started it by killin British agents, there's no point in playin 'who's the victim'. The fact is that the Black and Tans were ordinary fellas put in extraordinary circumstances beyond their trainin, in a hostile environment. What they did was inexcusable, and - of course - the lessons learned from that day should never be forgotten. But just as inexcusable is playin stupid bastards an demandin an apology eighty-six years later. From who? The men with the guns are long dead. The politics that motivated them have passed on. The government that occupied an repressed no longer hold sway. It's just the Irish now, an there's a minority that can't let go of the victim status. It's time to move on, give the fuckin B&Ts a break. And don't pin stupid political banners on a little game o egg chasin.

The Bell Jar is fascinatin stuff. I'd always seen it as a kind of scenester book - one that you read just to say you'd read. An true enough, she's a pretty tragic figure, wi more than her fair share o stories to tell. First time I saw it was in the hands of a fella - I assume he was a student, he looked like one - the copy all dog-eared an outta print, readin it on the subway in Boston, Plath's hometown. Back then, it suggested to me everythin my bias needed to hear, that this was a novel for the myspace crowd, of bad fringes, tight jeans an expensive tastes. But Plath herself is a narrator - while not free o pretense, fair enough - who's at the very least an engagin figure, one you root for in the end. But there lies in the book a tenderness, a willingness to understand, an a wish to be understood, that's often absent in fellas like Burroughs or Huxley. There's a definite desire to see the best in life, a cravin for the thing that makes everyone else seem so happy, so normal, that sits agonisinly, infuriatinly outta reach. both for reader an writer. Watchin the novel unfold, sittin in pretty fuckin awful comparison to the actual end to Plath's life, leaves a bitter taste. I can see why the myspace crowd took her on: she's a genius no-one got, but for me, it seems more a case o her failin to 'get' anyone else. The fact o the bell jar is that everyone can see you, scrutinise you, judge you, but you're helpless to do anythin about it. Myspace man could get anyone he wanted wi his hipster fringe an desginer scruffy jeans, but Plath wouldn't a got him. Maybe I'm missin the point, but the book is jus so much more than a handbook for non-convention. It's more like a cry for help that no-one got.

Thanks for readin,

Dave.

In Which Dave Figures Out How To Work Imbedded Youtube Videos

Another beltin track an video from New York coupleband Matt and Kim. It's an odd video, but sweet in its own way. There's not many bands out there that I'm excited about, but these guys have just captured my imagination in a way that no other act has done in a long time. Maybe it's an acquired taste, or maybe they'll turn out to be a flash in the pan, but man, it feels good to be excited again.

Thanks,
Dave.
PS. Kim is hot. That is all.

Solitude versus Lonliness; aka How I'm not an emo.

It's that kinda night, lads. It's pissin it down outside, there's no reason to get up particularly early in the mornin, an I feel great about the world at large. It might only ha' been the friendly look of a coupla girls I've never met before an shall surely never meet again, but hey! No better reason to take an alcohol-founded trip o optimism. For to be honest, I haven't felt so good in weeks. A wee quiet night out wi some folks to whom I owe nothin but respect, an possibly a drink or two next time we find ourselves between a bar an a hard place; a couple drinks in Montey's, wherein reside the finest lookin lasses afore they go to Toffs, honestly the classy standards in that place, you'd need to be Sean Connery t'score in there. Seriously like.

So optimism is the order o the day! Far as I can tell, the other folks in our motley crew are happy as larry in their relationships, be they long or extremely short distance, and I see no reason to refrain from their jollities. For I have long since figured out that I am simply better alone. I don't always enjoy it, an for the longest time I've tried to fight against it, but it just seems like solitude is the path that I am predestined to take. I'm fine with that. Because solitude is a state best enjoyed wi company. It is entirely possible to be completely alone in a room fulla people; equally it is possible to be absolutely communal and sociable on one's own. The most intimately human a fella or lass can be is when said couple folks, be they or be they not of a differin gender, are alone together. That's the overarchin goal, folks. That's the holy grail. And by god it's been too long. So here's to solitude, in all its realisin glory.

Thanks,
Dave.

The Homeland, Clubbing, xkcd

Yeah, so it's been a while since my last post. All honesty, things have been goin smoothly enough, no drama to speak of, which I gotta say is most vexin for an artist of my calibre to go through such a dry patch in terms o subject matter. There is the excitin news that Northern Ireland has officially been named the hate capital of Europe, with 36% of respondents to a survey stating that they just don't like gays (19% European average), while a whompin 46% simply would not live beside a black, jewish, muslim or gay person. Decent people leave Ulster.

It was cool goin out an seein everyone again on Tuesday. I'll be honest, I enjoyed it pretty much right up until we headed to Toffs. There's just somethin that makes it impossible for me to enjoy myself when I cannot hear anyone and have no real interest in the music that is causing my aural mischance. These things I cannot deny. On the other hand, where is it writ that I should feel that so inclined? Some people love clubs, can't get enough of them, the dirty bastards. That's fine, they are for the most part, decent, clean-livin folks with whom I have no beef. However, I am simply not categorised under the variety of folk that find it easy to let go in a crowd wi'out fear of lookin a dick. Nor, in fact, do I feel like I know the folks who do enjoy clubbin well enough for to hang out wi'them, thus aggravatin my discothequal misery. So what to conclude? Clubs simply aren't for the likesa me. Which is a shitter, t'be honest, as that's where what gangsta rappas call 'tha honeys' is at, so to speak. And it is in precisely that category of lifestyle accesorisation that I am unfelicitously lackin. Damn and blast. Anywho, I'm under the belief that given the right circumstance, an a fair bita good fortune, some finelookin lass wi low standards shall surely come my way. An I'll probly fuck it up, but she might have a mate who's got a good sensea humour, and perhaps enjoys all variety o chinwaggery bout Kerouac an such. A fella can dream.

Might I direct you t'ord the fine site www.xkcd.com? Tis a marvellous thrice-weekly updated comic site, wi more revelations bout the geek-psyche that I can handle alone. In this, I need the assistance only you can grant. Do this...for me.

Thanks,
Dave.