The Crazy is Catching

I wanna know…. (or, Tales of an Irish Summer)

Have you ever seen the rain?

Because, according to Accuweather.com, I certainly have. And will. Woe. In other news I sent my passport off for renewal today. All going well, the girl in the Post Office informed me, I should have it back in FIVE WEEKS. Gah. 

Things I do not understand

gratuitous shot of John Isner that has little bearing on content of post.

1: Why we care if the Queen of England (it REALLY pisses me off when she is referred to solely as ‘the Queen’, as if she’s the only one, of as if she’s our Queen. Why am I capitalising Queen?!) visits. Big step forward or no in relations between Ireland and the UK, doesn’t Cowen have more important things to do than invite a monarch to tea? A bloody expensive tea, I might add. Then again this is the man who spends the state’s money on travelling to schools in his constituency to raise green flags, a task being done by local or county GAA players in every other county…

2: What’s going on with Jordan/Katie Price, Peter Andre and Kerry Katona et al?Summary in less than 50 words required.

3: The BBC’s obsession with the skyline at Wimbledon. I get it, cameramen, as time passes so does the colour of the sky. It happens EVERY day, not just when the great and amazing and spectacular and unbelievable and inconcievable game of tennis as played on Court 18 today between Isner and Mahut is on. I swear to baby Jesus, if they panned to a shot of a jet preparing to land ONE MORE TIME I was going to take my tennis business elsewhere. Though I do love when they comment how the banal things a player does in the course of a match: “Isner has stopped for a moment to change his racquet, because of the new balls. He’ll need a tighter string”, followed by five minute chat on how tight strings are needed for new balls, because, well, the balls are new.

This land is my land

National identity and national pride are not things to which I give a lot of consideration. I consider myself Irish first, European second and a citizen of the world third. I don’t feel shaped by being Irish and though a sense of pride might be inherent it is not worn on my sleeve. Recently I told an English friend that I considered myself European in addition to Irish. He didn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend. Being European was some kind of surrender for him, being part of Europe comes with leaving behind a sense of English-ness, of being British, in his eyes. We couldn’t agree so we moved on, these disagreements are healthy and it’s not my place to change someone’s views because they don’t fit with mine.

The reason I’ve brought up the question of identity is because something happened at the weekend that made me feel more Irish than the Irish themselves and I sort of loved it. No, it wasn’t a rally, an IRA induction ceremony or a 1916 commemoration; it was a music festival.

Festival of the Fires took place at the Hill of Uisneach, Ballymore, Westmeath this past weekend and it changed me. But before I begin the tale of how a few hippies, some lovely scenery and too much cider brought about a transformation I will first explain the festival itself.

Uisneach Hill is about a 20 drive from my house. It is thought to be situated at the centre of the Island and it is said that from the hill you can see all the counties in Ireland. It is a sacred pagan site where Bealtaine is celebrated to mark the end of Winter each year on May 1. The first fire in Ireland is said to have been lit there. There are so many tales about the Hill itself that to tell them all would take much longer than I have. Needless to say, it is a special place soaked in a history that sounds like fiction when you talk about it out loud.

The festival itself was celebrated on May 1 as tradition dictates and was organised by local music promoters who wanted to resurrect the ancient traditions and light fires on the hill once more. I went with Cakeface. The rain was pouring down as we began our ascent, thankful I had wellies and she had her trusty festival shoes. At the top of the first hill we passed a hut and were stopped by a red-haired woman who asked us to come back to the hut when the rain cleared, learn to poi and take part in their celebration. We marched on, all the way to the top of the hill past the food vendors roasting pigs and mulling cider. It sounds ridiculously quaint and it was. I can’t BUT write about the day like this because this is what it was.

On top of the hill the bonfire was set and on top of the rock known as St Patrick’s Bed two nuns surveyed the outlying counties through binoculars. Men and women on horseback were painted like extras from Braveheart, swigging from cans of Budweiser as they paraded around the festival. The day itself was a happy blur: we drank mulled cider and cold cider, we ate roast pork and cookies and sausage rolls. We tied prayers to a May Bush and sat on a rock watching the world pass by. We found a digital camera and helped it find its way back to its owner. We heard some music: nothing amazing but nothing terrible either. At a certain point, when the rain had passed we walked back to the first hut and the woman we first spoke to brought us into a fairy fort and taught us to poi. The sun was at its highest point then and looking around, the county from whence I came looked beautiful painted in greens and sitting under a perfect sky.

Later we convinced ourselves we could take part in procession dressed in hippy pants, completely out of our comfort zone, at least one of us singing the Smiths in her head to keep going. Then suddenly we weren’t in a procession, we were part of something. The procession was everyone walking to the top of Uisneach Hill, everyone looking to the fire and the magic and the reason we came. People’s eyes were bright, bright in that way you only think happens in books. Children ran about chasing the sparks from the massive fire and as it grew stronger we retired backwards where there was more space to appreciate the fire. Looking around other hills in the distance had also lit fires, we were just one of many. It was dark then and time for Kila. Everyone gathered around the stage and listened to music with an Irish heart. There were no tricolours, no proclamations of freedom or war, just talk that it was a great day to be there, to witness this, to be part of something new, something older than time.

And we were. We might have known the words to the songs or be able to speak the language fluently but we were one. I rarely feel a part of a place. I like to think I’m European because it means I can be almost anything at any time. Last Saturday walking down the hill lit by lanterns, tripping in mud and shivering against the May breeze I was at home at last, in my county and my country and I’ve rarely been happier.

Cake and dirty salad

Food wise it’s been a weird and wonderful month. This plate of delights, when it eventually came following another bout of the slowest service EVER when I was in Morzine, France skiing a few weeks ago, helped cheer up three very tired and emotional girls. The green stuff? Some kind of sorbet, it was VILE.

It can’t always be fancy. After a few hours tearing down the slopes a girl needs some sustenance and where else is sustenance but in a MASSIVE plate of salty frites with mayonaise and ketchup.

Chocolat Chaud: the only known cure for a heart slightly broken by holiday romances, late nights and shockingly early mornings.

Birthday mornings after are best cured with tea, cupcakes and a viewing of Grey Gardens that will keep us away from cat ownership that little bit longer.

But sometimes hangovers are created by tea and cake (chocolate scones, little pistachio chocolate bites of heaven, mini bakewell tarts and crispy cookies) at the L’Onglex Ladies Tea Party prior to the Irish Blog Awards 2010 at the G Hotel, Galway.

“What do you want to eat for lunch?” Rosemary asked me as we walked to meet Kevin. “A big, dirty, salad with loads of goats cheese”, I replied. My wish was her command so to Javas in Galway we went on Sunday morning and got one of these babies each: leaves, goats cheese, bread, honey, walnuts, pine nuts and strawberries. Dirty? Yes.

Tea and sympathy

Quick post because I think I am emotionally scarred following a viewing of The Godfather Part II followed by Scarface within 24 hours. But before I let the bloodshed of organised crime into my celluloid life I was a very respectable girl this weekend, the type who goes to afternoon tea in The Shelbourne.

The tea was in honour of meeting up with two of my greatest and bestest friends who I never get to see because we are TERRIBLE at organising anything that suits everybody. So to celebrate meeting finalmente we went to the Shelbourne and pretended that we are the type of ladies who eat sandwiches without crusts. When we got a little too boisterous for the Lord Mayor’s Lounge (me: “Tara, is there a real-live human playing that piano?”) we adjourned to the bar and missed greeting the returning Irish Rugby team by seconds. Not that we let that dampen any spirits. I couldn’t be without my friends; if only every Saturday was like this.

There were salmon and brown bread delights but we ate them before the camera had time to catch up…..

While a story I had already heard was explained (LOTS of catching up…) I took pictures of the delicious Strawberrytinis (I know…) we ended the afternoon with.

Grace and Love and the good things

The Sartorialist wrote this lovely post a few days ago; I found it really inspiring. (Inspiration from the most unlikely of places: 30 Rock!) He writes about how the small things a man or a woman does for their partner are what count, and what is noticed, more than the bigger, grander gestures in life. Though not in a relationship I have worried, and will continue to worry, about how I am percieved by the other person. It eats away at you and in the end you forget to notice and appreciate the small things that keep a relationship alive and well and full of love. Quite what are the big things I can’t define but the smaller things are simple and full of grace and ever so easy to do.

I know I won’t be able to stop myself posting more about St Valentine’s Day (or the movie of the same name which looks just like He’s Just Not That Into You, doesn’t it? What’s with Hollywood these days? Do they think we don’t NOTICE these things? Jamie Foxx, you disappoint me.) as it approaches as I’m am the corniest creature going and though I do detest the day, I appreciate the sentiment.

If you’re a competitive sort as well as a romantic you might want to head to Dundrum this weekend and check out the Body Shop’s photo booth, all in aid of celebrating their new fragrance ‘Love etc’ . By having your photo taken for that special someone (or something, people do love plants) you can win dinner in Roly’s, free Body Shop products and special discounts. The photos will be posted to the Body Shop’s Facebook and Flickr on the day. So if you’re in the area do go and if you win some delicious smelling products remember who sent you…..

The Proust Questionnaire

Via Rosemary, who got it via Ripped Knees who was inspired by Capture the Castle these are my answers to Proust’s questionnaire. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, folks.

Your most marked characteristic? My height? It helps in the supermarket.

The quality you most like in a man? The ability to make me smile. Like, eyes-crinkled-up kind of good smile.

The quality you most like in a woman? The same.

What do you value most in your friends? Their always-ready-to-listen ears, unfailing loyalty also helps.

What is your principle defect? Laziness, giving up at the first hurdle….

What is your favourite occupation? Reading, eating, writing, sleeping.

What is your dream of happiness? Personal contentment, professional success, a bright future with James Franco.

What to your mind would be the greatest misfortune? Losing someone close to me. The loss of any one of my senses, particularly taste.

What would you like to be? In charge.

In what country would you like to live? All of them. I’m more concerned with cities than countries. I want to return to Rome and grow my own in Portland, Oregon.

What is your favourite colour? Red and black, but not together.

What is your favourite flower? Yellow roses

What is your favourite bird? Robin, the seasonal favourite.

Who are your favourite writers? eee gad, too many. Chuck Palahniuk, Norman Mailer,  Annie Proulx, F. Scott Fitzgerald, James Baldwin, Bret Easton Ellis, some of Kerouac despite his personal failings…..

Who are your favourite poets? Walt Whitman, Bob Dylan, WH Auden

Who is your favourite hero of fiction? Batman.

Who are your favourite heroines of fiction? Zelda Fitzgerald, in all of her guises and craziness.

Who are your favourite composers? Can I go with musicians here as my knowledge of composers doth not exist? Er, Dylan again? It all ends up back at his doorstep.

Who are your favourite painters? Caravaggio, Jackson Pollock

Who are your heroes in real life? My parents, Batman, Debbie Harry

Who are your favourite heroines of history? Rosa Parks, can I say Hillary Clinton?, Countess Markievicz

What are your favourite names? I don’t have any.

What is it you most dislike? Overdone steak, earnest singer-songwriters, bad weather, warm beer.

What historical figures do you most despise? I don’t despise any historical figures, I resent that they existed and what those around them allowed them to do.

What event in military history do you most admire? The fall of the Berlin Wall

What reform do you most admire? In Ireland I admired the success of the Yes side in the divorce referendum, one small step and all that jazz. Democracy, wow!

What natural gift would you most like to possess? Thankfully I could do most things if I tried hard enough, but some of Sabrina the Teenage Witch’s powers would make everyday life easier.

How would you like to die? I prefer not to answer that.

What is your present state of mind? Anxious and irritable.

To what faults do you feel most indulgent? Laziness. Straight up.

What is your motto? Dance, dance, dance.

10 years is a decade, who knew?

How did this happen? HOW? Next year is 2010 and EVERYBODY managed to not tell me. Perhaps a freakout akin to this current one was envisaged, perhaps they knew that telling me A DECADE had passed since I graduated from school would frighten more than the bejesus out of me and everyone I met for days afterward.

But, COME ON. A decade? 10 years? How did this happen, HOW? I’ll stop capitalising now; I know it hurts the eyes. I do have a reason to freak out and it’s not the numerous “end of the noughties” lists that all already beginning. (This list is a worthwhile one, however, contribute!) It’s the fact that 10 years ago my misguided school friends and I, deluded as we were that friendship would last forever outside the confines of boarding school, thank you Enid Blyton, planned a reunion a massive ten years after graduation. Those ten years have passed and I fear that reunion is coming, far too bloody fast.

I plan on revisiting this subject as I find it fascinating how much ten years has changed me, all the while making me feel like I’ve remained the same. But for now, what with the revelation ringing in my ears I need to lie down in a dark place with no calendars near me.

misty water coloured memories

Last night, in the changing room of my gym, David Gray started singing something about opening up his heart to all the jealousy, bitterness and ridicule. I laughed. Heartily. I was remembering how someone had once used White Ladder and Coldplay’s Parachutes to seduce me. Cliché does not even begin to cover it.

In fairness to the person in question they did not live on an island where every household is reported to own a copy of Gray’s famous album nor were they subjected to the endless playing of ‘Yellow’ by Irish DJs.

Still, when they put on those two albums I did everything I could not to laugh out loud. This person, their arms covered in tatoos, their music collection a who’s who of Bay Area punk, considered those two albums sufficiently indie and sentimental enough to woo fair lady.

I’ll never be sure if I should blame the boy or his music choices for the nothing we became.

Pleasing Yusuf

“You can’t please everyone, so you got to please yourself” Ricky Nelson, ‘The Garden Party’.

Last night I took my Dad – or rather he took me – to the O2 to see Cat Stevens/Yusuf Islam. Billed as Cat’s (let’s call him that to ease confusion) first gig in Ireland the concert promised a trip down memory lane for the oldies in the crowd. Indeed, as we observed, the crowd was composed mainly of people in their 40s and older. Though it might be wrong to assume, there was definitely an air of expectation in the concert that this was a Greatest Hits tour, a chance for the paying Irish public to finally hear the songs that coloured their past, live.

Stevens, on stage © Ciara Norton

And from the outset it looked like this was what it would be. Cat began his set strolling onto the stage, guitar in hand. He was shortly joined by two more guitarists and together they entertained with the kind of folksy music Cat became famous for. There would be no dancing to this music but the crowd were happy, perhaps full of expectation that soon a Cat Stevens hit would make its voice known. After a few slow songs the stage opened to reveal keyboards, bass and drums and it was then that the show really got going. For about ten minutes, that is.

At this point Cat started talking about the “surprise” in store for the audience. I knew, as I had paid attention, that this meant a preview of Cat’s new musical Moonshadow. I presumed that as it had not been the opening act (a much better slot, no?) it would be little more than a few minutes of the second act, not close to the entirety.

Cat Stevens and Band, o2 Dublin, © Ciara Norton

The interval ended and the real fun began. Cat ambled on stage, sat on a box and with his guitar sang an unfamiliar song while two children played on stage. Their voices – the irritating sing-song kind – interrupted the song to talk about a land of no sun or too much sun or something like that and it was at this point that I began to grow nervous and the crowd started to shift their weight in the plastic seats.

This was as close to a full-blown musical as you could imagine in the middle of a concert. Plotlines developed, characters formed, children grew old and old people grew tired of the rebellious youth. It was hard to stomach, hard to watch a musical the majority of the crowd didn’t seem to know was coming when Cat Stevens was obviously wandering about backstage. Oh yes, he had left the stage after the first song and his cast took over the singing duties. This meant, in case my point is not clear, that the audience DID get to hear his hits, but these were the hits sang by cast members of a West End musical, their every syllable enunciated through grinning, gurning mouths.

Nobody in the audience paid to listen to an actor sing ‘Father and Son’, nobody wanted a female cast member to twist ‘Wild World’ into a lament for her lost son and nobody wanted to see ‘Matthew & Son’ turn into a dance routine. It was hard. I hate to see people on stage boo-ed, I understand that the cast members of Moonshadow were merely doing their job and I suppose they were doing it well, or as well as can be expected in the face of a hostile audience.

Then it was over. People were still walking out when Cat reappeared to tell us he’d be back in five minutes, that he hadn’t left us, that he hoped we hadn’t left him. So we stayed and hoped that a hit was somewhere in our future, a familiar song to heal the hurt of the unexpected musical. But it wasn’t coming. Cat introduced songs from recent albums, he thanked us for coming and spending “so much money”* and smiled his way through his second, shorter set. Even ‘Moonshadow’ was ruined by the addition of the lead from the musical returning on stage to falsetto his way through the classic. At this stage everyone was uneasy, Cat affirmed that he would not be playing some songs like ‘Hard Headed Woman’, presumably not in keeping with his current outlook on life. For his encore Cat began with a new song ‘All Kinds of Roses’ from Roadslinger. The crowd screamed blue murder and he replied “Now I know what Dylan felt like”. Not that this was comparable to Dylan’s electric moment, in any way.

I left during the second song of the encore, a reimagined version of ‘Lilywhite’. By then it was too late for me and I had to leave. Anyone know if he ended on a high note? EDIT: Apparently I missed Ronan Keating and Cat sing Father and Son together. That I can definitely live without.

To conclude, for I know I’ve rambled on  long enough,  I am usually in giving any performer the benefit of my doubt. I don’t like to boo (I didn’t last night) and I don’t like to hear others do so. I respect a performer’s right to play his recent songs, not concentrate on hits from 30 years ago. I do have issue with the promotion (POD and AEG in association with the Irish Times and 2fm were the promoters) of a concert that used Cat Steven’s hits to entice people into the O2. The preview of the musical was not billed as the major part of the show it was. I knew about it but I believe myself to be in the minority of people there who were aware it was part of the show. I respect Cat Stevens but I do not respect last night’s show or the promoters who allowed what happened to happen. As he might have learned last night “it’s hard to get by just upon a smile”.

*DISCLOSURE: my tickets were free, not that this prevents me from being angry on behalf on the thousands of others who paid €80 and upwards for the privilege.

EDIT: The Daily Telegraph’s reviewer had this to say about last night. I can’t say that I agree with calling the people in the crowd who registered their disapproval loudly “churlish and mean spirited”. Brian Boyd’s four star rating and my own differ widely, especially when it comes to Moonshadow.