Celebrity Love Island

Whacker was on the whiskey. Prone to paranoia when on the hard liquor, it could go either way. A north-cider from Cabra, he’d moved to The Island almost twenty years previous. Spoke fluent Irish with the natives, but still sounded like a skanger when he spoke The English. His main claim to fame was that he’d been on the nine o’clock news when he caught TB from a tourist. Lost half his bodyweight and was airlifted to Dublin. The whole island had to be quarantined.

But Whacker was better now, and back on The Rock. He’d a massive tattoo in Chinese on the side of his neck, which he claimed meant chicken balls. He said he got it done for a dare in Cavan. He’d another one of beads and a crucifix around the very top of his chest. He wasn’t happy with the shadow on that one, he said. Not that he’d be gawking at himself in the mirror, he was always quick to add. Only when he was shaving.

The pub television was always on in the background – as if the islanders were afraid they’d miss something happening on The Mainland. But nobody paid it much attention – far too busy telling each other stories at the bar. But every now and then something would catch a native’s eye, and this would prompt further speculation. An ad came on for a PrimeTime Investigates program about drugs in Ireland, and one of the natives asked the rest of them if they’d ever taken drugs.

–    I took one of them ecstasy tablets one time, a big fisherman in his forties volunteered.

–    What was it like?

–    Fuckin’ right yoke; I was shtill up drinkin’ pints at lunchtime the next day. Terrible hangover though!

–    Where were ya at that craic?

–     Prague. A load of us went over for the brother’s stag party. We went to this big rave where you had to wear all white to get in. I wore me boiler suit. This fella just hands me a tablet and I said arragh shir fuck it, and horsed it into me. Then there were these two midgets having sex in a cage.

–     Ah here now; are ya sure that wasn’t the ecstasy? says the barman

–     No, they were at it before I even took the tablet. It was part of the event, organised as a showpiece.

Hearing mention of dwarves and midgets, Whacker suddenly emerged from his wink-eyed stupor.

–      I had sex with a pygamy. Last summer. In the graveyard.  At twenty to one in the afternoon.

The whole bar doubled over clutching their guts, laughing in a way they don’t laugh on the Mainland. A dangerous style of laughter – you could cause an injury, burst your appendix – tear something. Not these tough islanders.  Once some sort of composure was restored, the questions start flying at Whacker.

–           Where did you find a pygamy?

–           She was over visiting the island with two friends.

–           Was she Irish?

–           No, from New Zealand.

–           Why did you bring her to the graveyard?

–     She wanted to see the graves. I was paranoid then that the whole island saw me. I felt like a paedophile, even though she was thirty-five. She was just so fucking small…

And with that solid contribution delivered, Whacker re-entered his seated-coma. His head swayed from to side and he began to drool as he pondered the ramifications of banging a leprechaun.  That’d be unpatriotic behaviour – pure anti-social – he concluded.  People have been kneecapped for less.   What would Gerry Adams do in that situation, was the question Whacker always asked himself.  You wouldn’t find him riding dwarves in the cemetery at lunchtime on a Monday. Certainly not. Nor Mary Lou McDonald. That was a bad lapse in judgement – a momentary slip – Whacker consoled himself. It won’t happen again Mr. Adams, I promise.

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Two Minute Mass

Two Minute Mass
a film by Nicky Larkin
starring Patrick Conway & Felicity Mckee
narrated by Gosse Terpstra & Marco Bianchini

Two Minute Mass is a schizophrenic love-letter to the city of Belfast.

On arriving in Belfast you became very aware of how psychologically fractured and polarised the issue of identity is in the city. To a large degree your identity is imposed upon you, based on pre-ordained factors – such as the lottery of your birth – and whether you were born Catholic or Protestant.

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The Belfies (full film)


The Belfies (Belfast Selfies)
The Belfast Selfies came about as a culmination of a number of ideas. The Belfies are an antidote to the instant ‘selfie’ way we capture portraits today. Our attention spans have become the casualties of the rapid-fire digital age we find ourselves positioned in, constantly surrounded by millions of ever-changing pixels wherever we go. Between popular culture and digital advertising, there appears to be no escape. The Belfast Selfie project also strives to present a new face of contemporary Belfast, different to the traditional, historically presented ideas of Belfast. Belfie subject’s names are not given, as even a name can identify and hence be troublesome in a city with such a fractured, sectarian past, such as Belfast. Each Belfie subject was chosen at random on the streets of Belfast city centre, and given only one simple direction – to look directly into the lens for a prolonged 30 second period.

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Just Another Touchy Paddy…


A few days ago in London I sat down in a low-end food and liquor merchants, part of a famous UK-wide chain. Surrounded by flashing fruit machines and alcoholic geriatrics, it’s truly a place souls go to die. But they do a fantastic Chicken Tikka, so swings and roundabouts I suppose.

The waitress came to take my order. I told her about the Tikka. Then she repeated my order back to me in a bad stab at an Irish accent.

It wasn’t even my flat midlands accent she tried to mimic. It was that awful patronising Hollywood-Paddy brogue – that Darby O’Gill beggorrah-bullshit. Think Julia Roberts in the Michael Collins biopic. Like a bad impression of a locked leprechaun.

The familiar tickle of the ginger-rage crept up along my spine towards my brain. I didn’t know what to do. So I stood up and stormed out, leaving the waitress stuck to her spot in shock. She’d clearly never angered a ginger before.

In her defence she tried to pacify me as I grabbed my jacket, but by then it was far too late. I’d gone past the point of no return – I knew I had to commit fully to my temper tantrum. It’s like having a seizure – you can’t just climb back up on the sofa and carry on chatting like nothing happened. People notice that sort of thing, it becomes a talking point. And I certainly didn’t want to watch those alcoholic geriatrics gossiping about the touchy heat-seeking Paddy in the corner.

I reached the door and kept storming up the street. But then as the initial blinding dose of ginger-fury began to evaporate, I started to doubt my explosion. Was it an over-reaction, I began to wonder? Was I being too touchy?

Then I passed a Chinese couple on the street, and I decided I was right. That waitress wouldn’t have done a bad Bruce Lee impression if they’d placed an order. That’d be racist – completely unacceptable in anyone’s book. That sort of stunt would get her fired, and her employers up in front of a judge, and rightly so.

But now after a few days reflection (and some serious over-thinking), I just feel confused. Even though the waitress’s little Paddy pantomime definitely wasn’t acceptable, as a contemporary nationality we’ve become over-sensitive to even the slightest hint of Paddy-Whackery. Perhaps this comes as a result of the rest of the world constantly telling us how fantastic we are, and telling us they wished they were Irish. 35 million Americans proudly proclaim their beloved hyphenated heritage, according to the 2010 US census.  That’s 11% of the total US population, and seven times our own population.  The biggest Paddy’s Day parade in the world doesn’t happen in Dublin, it happens 5,000 kilometres across the Atlantic, in Boston –  a city where 23% of the population claim Celtic heritage.

So is it any wonder our Irish egos have become overly massaged, to the point we’ll storm out of dodgy restaurants in a huff at even the smallest bit of slagging?!

But then as usual we completely contradict our own expectations.  Despite our sensitivities, ironically it’s us alone who are the single biggest producers of Paddy-Whackery.  We peddle homemade Paddy-Whackery on a massive scale, which we then flog all around the world. I recently read a theory that speculated the reason Mrs. Brown’s Boys has become such a phenomenal hit in the UK is because it’s a contemporary, socially acceptable way for the British to continue laughing at the backward Paddies.

While I don’t subscribe to that particularly touchy thesis, it’s an interesting idea never-the-less.  It’s alright to laugh at ourselves, but at what point do people stop laughing with us, and start laughing at us?  Or is the difference that important?  Either way, we only have ourselves to blame…

But I never bought into that brand of nationalistic paranoia many of my contemporaries subscribe to. It’s a telling symptom of collective low self-esteem at best, or collective schizophrenia at worst. It makes no sense to be paranoid when half  the world wishes they had Paddy passports. The idiots peddling locked leprechaun accents are few and far between. I was just unlucky.

Having that said – and having clearly over-thought the whole situation – I still couldn’t resist firing off a scaldy email to the management of that dodgy restaurant chain. Because no matter how much over-thinking I do on the issue, at heart I’m just another touchy Paddy. Prone to the ginger rage…

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Compo-Culture reduces us to a bunch of bone-picking vultures

Compo-Culture and the rise of the anti-hero….

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Leaving Cert Points


It’s been 12 years since I did my Leaving Cert, yet I still have nightmares about it. I wake up in a cold sweat, panicking. It takes me a minute or two to calm down, and reassure myself that I’m not actually doing my Leaving Cert again.

In this horrible re-occurring dream I’m always the same age I am now, except for some reason I’m about to start my Leaving Cert. Tomorrow. And I’ve only just found out. So I’m desperately trying to remember a load of irrelevant details I once learned off-by-heart, then promptly forgot. 12 years ago…

You can see why it makes for a very effective nightmare – it scores high points on that fear/panic scale.

And that’s the problem with the Leaving Cert, or at least it was in 2002. It was just a horrible fear-inspiring memory test, where you had to remember a load of irrelevant details, then write them down on a piece of paper. Even the subjects you think wouldn’t be a memory test, were still a memory test. English for example.

I remember wondering whether to take a gamble on the amount of poets I had ready for the exam. Not ready as in a bunch of poets waiting outside in a van, ready as in how many poets I could quickly recite an essay on. An essay I wrote several months earlier under no pressure whatsoever.

If the gamble payed off and the right dose of poets came up, you were completely sorted. If the gamble failed and the wrong dose of poets came up, you were completely screwed. It was like Las Vegas for Civil Servants.

The other problem with the Leaving Cert that’s definitely still the same in 2014, is it retains that bloated, crushing, overinflated sense of importance it did in 2002. They tell you it’s the most important thing in your life. How it will decide what you do for the rest of your days. Your whole existence seems suddenly defined by how large a quantity of irrelevant information you can store in your short-term memory…

So a horribly big memory test – that you believe your life depends on. That’s a fairly stressful combination.

And although still hugely stressful, the underlying motivations being peddled today have changed direction slightly since I did my leaving Cert. In 2002 we were half-way through a Tiger, pumping out quantity surveyors and occupational therapists like there was no tomorrow. But if you wanted a taste of Tiger-pie, you had to do a science subject. The teachers recited that to us like a mantra – as if they were on commission from science itself. You’d be at nothing without a science subject, those teachers said. A pointless operation, those teachers said…

Still I had no interest in science. But those teachers just wouldn’t stop warning us of all the awful fates that could befall a person who didn’t have a Leaving Cert science subject.

Feeling backed into a corner, I picked chemistry. My rationale was that physics involved a load of maths – the only thing I hated more than science. I didn’t have the stomach for brutalising dead mice, or whatever it is those perverts get up to in their shady biology rooms. And agricultural science was just a room full of farmers. Having no road-frontage in the family and being completely useless at hurling, I had no business in that room whatsoever.

So chemistry it was then – by process of elimination. Apart from not understanding the scientific jibberish in the books, I definitely knew it wasn’t my cup of tea every time we did an experiment. The rest of the class would get – what I felt to be – disproportionately excited, when the teacher horsed a little fleck of magnesium into a bowl of water – and it went alight. I honestly couldn’t care less, I’d rather be doing anything else.

Hurtling towards a solid fail, I dropped chemistry in sixth year, and took up geography instead. I really liked it, I could handle remembering a load of irrelevant details about fishing in Norway, or shipping in The Netherlands. Why didn’t I think of this a year previously, when choosing subjects for fifth year? Why didn’t I pick geography instead of chemistry first time around?

But no, we were told we definitely needed a science subject, especially now there was an invisible Tiger printing money outside.

We were told if we didn’t have that elusive science subject, our whole existence would be a sham. We’d be destined for lives as washed-up, weeping alcoholics, sleeping on our brother-in-law’s sofas, like the science-less wasters we were. But that never happened to me – I don’t have a brother-in-law.

Also, I knew I was going to art college way before I even made my first communion. There was never any doubt in my mind. And yet I still allowed myself to be talked into doing a science subject in fifth year – out of pure fear-mongering and gossip. Art colleges aren’t renowned breeding grounds for Nobel Prize-winning scientists. But then Einstein wasn’t much of a painter.

So finally arriving in that art college after the big memory test was all over was a massive, overwhelming jolt to the system. But in a good way, like a defibrillator when flatlining in the back of an ambulance.

Thankfully over the past 12 years I’ve mainly managed to avoid situations where I become convinced my life depends on remembering a load of irrelevant details, and then writing them down on a big piece of paper. But it still doesn’t stop those Leaving Cert nightmares…

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Escape to Mosney…

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