May 2001 Archives

I have a thing about Exchequer Street in Dublin. There's nothing particularly special about the street itself. It connects George's Street with Wicklow Street and on to Grafton Street. It's full of little clothes shops and plenty of eating places. It's got the Central Hotel on the George's Street end that is just a little too expensive for me to stay in. But I count two separate moments on that street where I was perfectly happy, both times basking in sunshine, both times on top of the world. It's my street.

My friend Anto made it even more memorable this time by revealing the secret that's behind the grim exterior of the Central Hotel. After the gig in Blanchardstown we all re-grouped in 'The Library', the hotel bar on the first floor, all pluche chairs and low lit rooms. A place to remember.

Clammy Sunday morning, my last few hours on the island. Saturday was filled with art (Francis Bacon, captivating) in Hugh Lane, a restless nap in the Garden of Remembrance .

I met a friend in the Stonewall Cafe over eggs benedict and muffins, and I found peace within.

A peace that had me blissed out for the rest of the day - I kind of breezed through drinking in O'Neil's and food in Sufi's with Tom and later Mr Mersault and his twin.

Helena Fuckin' Christensen was sitting not too far away from me. A tiny thing, with scraggly black hair and a thuggish looking bf on her arm.

Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. I didn't.

Sinead O'Connor's prettier than any of the supermodels. God knows, she's a bigger ego on her too.

She rips up pictures. She's a priest. She's a lesbian. And then she isn't. She puts her foot in it. She stumbles, falls.

But when she sings, she soars.

In the lobby afterwards, my friend stood sipping his pint, trying to work up the courage to say hello to her, but never did. She was mingling, while the other artists sat at our table.

Sinead had phoned Maurice, Gavin's pianist, an hour before show time. 'Can you play backing for me? The songs are all on my last album.' Maurice didn't have the album. He picked up Gavin, who did. He popped the cd in the player and listened driving down to the venue. An hour later, he was playing the songs, backing Sinead, live on national radio.

This will never cease to amaze me.

The sun is beating down on Dublin, there's just the slight relief of a cool breeze. I can't remember flying in. I can't remember switching planes at Heathrow. I can't remember baggage checks or pass control. I am here and have been here since the dawn of time. I moved into a hotel on Georges Street where the lady said: 'You've been here before, you know the drill...'

I have taken buses. I have slept on Stephen's Green. I have shopped for clothing, checked my e-mail. I have eaten lunch with a friend. I have received calls and text messaged to and fro. I have told a friend to: 'whisper, smile and nod a lot, they'll think you're mysterious and sexy.'

Sometimes being here is more home than anywhere else could be.

It was a difficult choice... do we stay at home to watch the Eurovision Song Contest, or do we use the 100 guilder ticket we bought to see Lou Reed/Robert Wilson and Thalia Theatre production, 'POEtry' - based on the work of Edgar Allen Poe.

Watching this mostly German (songs in English) modern opera, I wondered what Reed was thinking when he got involved. Though visually enchanting, it lacked soul, it lacked a vibe, god knows what, it lacked something. Sex perhaps. And with someone behind me having the mother of all coughing fits, I couldn't wait for the first act to end so I could go.

I have never seen so many people leave a play or any kind of show during the intermission.

So... impatient as ever, I've moved on from etudes and started to try and teach myself to play Beethoven's Für Elise. (a well known piece, cause it's easier when you know how something's supposed to sound). You do not want to hear this. Trust me.

Another thing you do not want to hear is Christian Death, the band I went to see a few nights ago. I have one or two of their albums, which are rather good (but oh, so 20th century), but I'd forgotten that Rozz Williams is no longer with us (suicide), and let's face it Goth really is a bit... over the hill rather than over the top.

This is Ramon, of www.letmestayforaday.com, having a Guinness in Mulligan's. He's just started out on his travels and today he hitchhiked from Hilversum to Amsterdam and stayed with me. I'll tell you all about bad Mexican food, stolen cigarettes, presents and a damn fine movie ('Traffic') tomorrow. Now you'll have to excuse me, I'll have to go make the bloke's bed.

Ramon asked me why I do all the sites that I do. And I said if I didn't work all the time, I'd have too much time to think.