December 2004 Archives

u2log.com and Whedonesque.com google ad earnings will go towards the Tsunami appeal.

Joss Whedon's "Official Holiday Post" at Whedonesque.com

Guy #1: '... so we're going to Chile for just two weeks, for the christening, in the same church where we were wed...'
Guy #2: 'And you're bringing the baby?'
Guy #1: 'Um, yes... the *christening*?'
Guy #2: 'Ah yes, quite. Quite right.'

'That's not music!', says the man in wellies and Barbour jacket in the hotel bar after the concert. The women around him protest slightly, not particularly convinced they're right. 'No, but it is, um... a fine tradition, you know, it's like... um, cabaret.'

'It's not music,' wellie-man insists, 'flicking his hair like that, and...'

I'm thinking he likes Christy Moore and Altan, and feels more than a little threatened by the flamboyance of Herr Friday, 'flicking his hair like that' and oh horror, perhaps even 'flicking his wrist'. Or perhaps wellie-man's sour since a couple of hours earlier he'd been in charge of the door when the evening MC told him he better be taking good care of me since I was a 'very. important. woman.' My 8th row ticket was quickly replaced by one in row 2.

Being 'very. important.', even if tongue-in-cheek, is something that appeals to me, with my long dormant delusions of superiority (now a raging inferiority complex). It is enforced by the fact that I'm hanging with the 'talent' all day, offering my unsollicited advice on arrangements and scoffing complimentary lunch.

In the early afternoon it's coffee and paracetamols with G., leaving band and crew to set up the stage for the soundcheck. As we go around the village (talking, window shopping), the kids call out and adults stare. I suppose they recognise his mug from the Indo's celeb-pages. The waitress flirts as she serves us our orders. G. is part embarrassed, part oh-so-used-to-it. He grins halfway between shy and cheeky. It's a good day for us, comfortable together in this foreign place. Joyous even despite the serious words we speak over cappucinos, words that haunt me still.

It's time to go back to work and we walk down, I kid you not, 'Goat Street'. Back to the venue, the 14th century St James Church. The sun washes prettily over the hills and the pastel colours of the houses reflect all kinds of gorgeous. 'Look at that,' he says, 'isn't that beautiful?'. Yes. I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be than here, right now. But then it's back to business. I put on my journalist hat, scribble down notes and take pictures to document this newest chapter of G.'s career.

'Fuck. Lunch.', is G's curt reply when the soundman, over the PA, suggests we cut the soundcheck short for lunch. It is a tense moment. 'Youse are very laid back here, aren't youse, it's lunch and then it's pints and then it's dinner and... Look, we'll finish this and then we can ALL have lunch.' Everybody laughs, more than a little relieved.

I expect the crew considers mutiny confronted with the 'demanding' prima donna, but they seem to appreciate being put through their paces. Afterwards, the director of the show, Bob, is in awe. 39 acts in two weeks and G's the only one who had any conception of television, of how he wanted his performance captured. He's the only one to sit down with the director and his aid to go through every song, explain what they're about, what the instruments are going to sound like. Every little detail of the story. Bob shows me his notebook, three pages for this one performance, one for all the other acts. He's thrilled.

My Secret Santa this year was Scott Matthewman, while I played Santa to Fraser Lewry.

Having been Secret Santa for people who don't have websites before, it's nice to be able to treat and be treated by someone who does and you wouldn't mind adding to your blogroll.

The Secret Santa present was the only present I got this year (not celebrating Christmas has obvious disadvantages) and I watched it in one sitting: Queer as Folk series 2.

Christmas hampers are quaint survivors of an age when workers were poor and sickly and employers provided food to strengthen the work force.

A lot of companies go for the ethereal these days, picking gifts of glass or wood items (made in Eastern Europe) that are very, very useless. I've had my share of two-part vases and oddly shaped napkin rings. Worse still were the tasteless tins of fruit and bags of ancient walnuts. My current employers go for booze.

Did you get a Christmas hamper (or other gift) from your employers? If so, what was in it?

To kick off with mine: Red, white and bubbly. Australian. Also, a Christmas bonus (which was tiny, since I've only been officially employed since Dec 1.)

• Average amount Dutch person spends on Christmas: 101 Euro
• Average amount Brits spend on Christmas: close to 800 Euro
• Brits spend that money on prezzies
• Dutch spend it on food (only half decent meal of the year)
• Christmas is on a weekend, Brits get two extra days off.
• Christmas is on a weekend, bad luck for the Dutch
• Dutch don't get Christmas pudding. Lots of Christmas cake, though.

Christmas in my country, as you can see, isn't that big a deal. You are, however, supposed to spend it with your family and yes, trees are involved.

This year, I'll be working on Christmas Day, spend Boxing day hopefully in peace and on my own. Back to work on Monday.

I created some stuff at CafePress.com using some of my own photographs that I took last week in Ireland. Now my content has been flagged and CafePress want me to hand over license agreements for the images.

Eh... yeah, sure, I'll grant myself a license. What the fuck?

Two things happened to me recently that were unrelated, but maybe they're not.

1. I met a guy that I sort of liked. This is rare. I have lots of lovely male friends but I hardly ever meet any that I 'like' like. I don't know, I'm picky? The odd thing was this guy didn't ignore me like guys I 'like' like usually do and we spent quite a while talking. Twice. And he started it. And we would have talked longer if his majesty hadn't interrupted. And, kids, hold on to your hats: I asked for and got his number. I have no idea what I was on.

2. On the tram the other night, the guard winked at me and just pretended to stamp my ticket. A free ride! This is surreal for someone who usually gets very annoyed with tram guards flirting with people who are in front of them, and then is completely ignored or scowled at herself.

Also, at the aftershow the other night, despite doing my best impression of a wallflower, people kept coming up to me to talk to me.

It must be the haircut. At least four colleagues commented on it today as well, which they don't usually do.

I'll have to send Monique, who cuts my hair, a Christmas card.

{click to enlarge}

In summer, Dingle is a beehive of activity. Coach upon coach of tourists arrive, taking over the town and its 52 pubs. The only foreigners in Dingle this time of year were myself, an Italian travelling salesman showing his fine suits to a fisherman in the harbour and the Lithuanian girl cooking me breakfast in my B&B.

Wednesday morning 9 am, the marina and harbour were still, safe for the gulls screeching and the quiet conversation of fishermen tending their nets.

Most of the town folk probably weren't aware of the two-week hustle and bustle surrounding St James Church on Main Street and the late night revelling in Brenners hotel opposite the church.

Talent and crew stuck together in this microcosmos, welcoming the lone traveller from Amsterdam in their midst. Working, laughing, swearing, drinking agus ag caint, ag caint, ag caint.

Let's map those 40 shades of green in images. I've started an Ireland group on Flickr. If you have pictures of Ireland you wouldn't mind sharing with the world at large, join up.

She makes her Christmas pudding in plastic containers, not like her mother, god rest her soul, who'd wrap the thing in cloth and let it hang and rock from her Singer sewing table.

Is the recipe secret? 'No, I've got it on a piece of paper,' she says, with serious intent. The same recipe for the last 30 years, involving carrots and sultanas and many other things. Whiskey, of course. Just a drop.

It isn't 'ripe' yet, still a little soggy at the top, but Mrs Lynch tells the husband to serve us slices. 'We're out of cream,' she says, despairing. But it tastes heavenly regardless. 'You don't have to eat it,' she adds, almost incredulous we should eat her sticky black concoction. But we want to. Oh, we want to.

She stands on the porch as the husband drives us to the bus stop, in the freezing cold and forgets to wave, her mind already caught on other things. Like the neighbours' daughter, who she used to mind, who now has a little wan herself. She's in and out the door and regards Mrs Lynch's front room her own. Didn't they buy the DVD player when the little wagon said they should so she could player her Disney DVDs in it? They did.

We thank her for her kindness and the tea, fish and chips and buttered slices of bread, the biscuits and the cider and washing up when we said to leave it. But it's no bother, didn't the husband do the cooking?

So he did.

I'm always away when the good stuff happens at Whedonesque. Joss is posting left right and centre and USA Today ranks the Whedonesque community #70 in the top 100 people of 2004.

And here's the thread that goes with it.

Spotted at Schiphol airport: the entire Ajax Amsterdam football team. They look like overgrown toddlers in jammies, in those unflattering team track suits.

Oh my god, they killed...

Hello?
Hmmrrvvw
Is that you?
MwwImmmmtrappednerveinmebackgrrheavypainkillerzz.
That sounds bad.
RvvrvwoarrestingthenflyinintoDingletuesdaynightcantriskdaroads.
Oh dear.
Whenaayoucommenin?
Tuesday evening, coach from Cork to Tralee then on to Dingle.
Isziscostinyouaforchune?
Yeah. It's ok, it's my Christmas holiday.
Waahtwonightsinbloodydingle?
I'll go to Dublin after.
Hrrmhayoushomewhedastay.
Sorry?
Mmmindingle?
...
//sigh// Have. you. a. hotel. to. stay. at?
Um, yeah... B&B.
Hmmthacoubequaint
It's overlooking the harbour.
Deesounchuksat12comealongtotha'
Ok, yeah, I will.
Wellah.. ahmeetchu... ahtexchuwhenIcomein...
OK, take care now, look after yourself.
Moutamahhead. Mgonnasleep. Ahmonheavymedicashun...
I know. Go to bed now.
Mmkaybyeiwillseeyoutuesdaynigh...

It's a simple equation. 'Do they know it's Christmas' was, miraculously, a good single. No, really, it was. Version '20', however, isn't. 'We are the World' was a piece of crap, so the remake 'We are the future', should be great.

Yeah, it's unlikely.

• Troubled Diva thinks otherwise. And thinks so lengthily.

I ain't half back and already arranging my trip to Ireland (Dec 14 - 18). It's going to be a bit of a trek, flying into Cork on December 14, catching a bus to Tralee and then on to Dingle (4 hour trip). The gig is the next day, Dec 15th, in St James's Church, seating 60 people. I don't have a ticket (only available via e-mail, payment by cheque. Huh?), but I'll just show up for the soundcheck and let Gav sort the credentials. (Update: ticket sorted) (Update II: heh, apparently guestlist sorted too. Good boy.) Apparently there are other artists besides him on the bill. Hmm. The next day I'll take the bus to Dublin (8 hour trip) arriving there past 7pm. I then have a day to spend riding the Luas or sipping cocktails in The Clarence, and back to Amsterdam on the 18th.

• Curry score: 2 (Local take-away and the still fabulous Rasa Samudra)
• Celebrity score: 1 (Tracy Emin @ the ICA)
• Art score: 3 (Osbourne Samuel gallery, Raphael exhibit at National Gallery, 100 artist see God at the ICA)
• Sleep score: +/- 20 hours in two nights

Spending the weekend in London, looking at art and hopefully doing very little else but be with friends and use my camera. Oh, and someone stop me from using my phone to download e-mail. That 330 euro bill came out of bloody nowhere!

My friend and co-founder of U2log.com, Ben Hopkinson, got a cool quote from Bono outside of the Osborne Samuel gallery tonight. Ben's been on walkabout for three years and hasn't been able to contribute much to our site, unfortunately. We miss him a lot and I'm glad his first 'assignment' in three years and standing around in the cold for hours paid off.

Our Queen's father, His Royal Highness, Prince Bernhard, has died. He
died of a malignant tumor in his lungs and his bowels.

Asked how he wanted to be remembered, the prince told the press: "I hope the Dutch people remember that I broke my balls for them my whole life." He was a scoundrel and a real character and I liked him for it.

BBC News: Prince Bernard dies

Derek Guggi Rowan's exhibition at the Osborne Samuel gallery in London officially opens tonight and on Friday to the general public.

Break a leg, Gugs.

If you want to see his work, the Osborne Samuel gallery is at 23a Bruton Street, nearest Tube: Bond Street and Green Park. Or view the exhibition online at Guggi.com and more on the Osborne Samuel website.