I explained this to the guard at the stairs, but he wouldn’t let me through. He brought me back to the machine. I told him again the machine was out of change, but he said ‘I’m only trying to help you’ and asked me where I was going. He tapped in my destination and told me to put 2,70 in the machine. Sigh. Never try to argue with the feeble-brained.

I showed him my 5 euro note and spellled it out for him again: the machine doesn’t accept my bills because it’s out of change, and no, the guy in the shop doesn’t want to give me any. ‘There are shops outside,’ he said. Yeah, thanks for nothing.

Meanwhile, I am doing the ‘mailbox’ shift at work, answering problems people have with our websites and our video sterams and this time I’m the one being insulted by customers, just because I can’t fix their computer problem.

A world without people. That would be ideal.

On that note: Get Grace Out! Get Grace Out!

Did I mention I got caught without a ticket on the Metro the night before? 37 euro fine.

I’m stuck at home with no food and no money and a hell of a temper.

It’s a wonderful world.

Tivoli has the dubious honour to have inspired Walt Disney to build his Disneyland, but the Danish park is charming, not gaudy. It’s old fashioned and far too lovely to be camp.

When I was little I wandered into one of its gambling venues with a handful of coins (from my uncle) in my pocket.

There I found a strange betting machine. It was based on horse racing. I didn’t understand the instructions, but it looked fascinating so I dropped in a coin and pressed some buttons.

A few minutes later a heavy load of money spilled into the receptacle at the bottom of the machine. I looked around me, but none of my relatives had followed me into the building.

I was a little sad that no one had witnessed my fortune, but I pocketed the winnings with a thrill. And spent it all on other, less generous, machines.

The last time I saw her, she got on my nerves as most of my adult
family members do. This was two years ago, at my uncle’s place. We had
Christmas dinner and she demanded to know ‘what I’d done with my
mother’s money’ and why I didn’t believe in God. That got my heckles up.

But she and her husband were very kind and welcoming to me on many
occasions, and she and I wrote letters for a while, that kept me in
touch with and part of the family.



When I got the news about my uncle two months ago, I was also told my
aunt, like her brother, had been diagnosed with lung cancer in the
final stage. The same disease, by the way, that took my mother.



God must have had an off day when he concocted our family gene pool.



My aunt, who was in Copenhagen for treatment, passed away Wednesday night. She was spared much suffering.

I only half believed them then and when my grandparents died and nothing materialised, I shrugged and filed ‘em them in the box labelled ‘childhood dreams / urban myths’, along with Santa Claus and the baby Jesus.

It appears the field does exist. And now I wish it didn’t, for the rift it’s brought.

But hey, it’s kind of funny to think that legally, I own part of a piece of land on Sulawesi, even if through circumstances, I’ll probably never really have it.

But when it soothes, you don’t want it to end.

Perfect. That’s how I’d describe our little visit to Dublin last week. So perfect that coming home – normally a thing of beauty – pales in comparison and I’m having a hard time getting back into my groove.

Mr Hg and I flew in just before noon on Thursday. We checked into the Central Hotel on Exchequer Street. We grabbed excellent pub lunch (roast chicken & chips) at Davy Byrne’s and tried a new stout (Guinness Brew 39. Our verdict: watery, bland.). Got caffeined up at the Avoca café. Then saw Hazel O’Connor belt out a few old ones and a few new ones at Tower Records, hooked up with a friend on the spot, chatted with Ms O’Connor about mutual acquaintances and then sauntered down to the O’Reilly Theatre for Consigliere Friday’s outing with the Crash Ensemble and Gavin Bryars. Which was very, very good. Except for Bryars’ Jesus Blood Never Failed Me, which I’ve always detested. Die, tramp, die.

Afterwards, we
could just murder a chinese… so we did, at a
late night resto that Mr Hg remembered from an earlier trip. Later that
night, Jimmy the night porter served us drinks in the resident lounge
at the Central.

 

On Friday we enjoyed the Central’s breakfast (less rancid than Kelly’s,
but not great), saw Mr Guggi’s new set of bowl, vessel and other
kitchenware paintings at the Solomon Gallery. There I ran into the
artist Charlie Whisker who I hadn’t talked with since 1990, good to
catch up and by golly he did remember. From the Powerscourt Centre we
headed towards our Power Lunch at the Michelin starred l’Ecrivain on Lower Baggot Street. I
didn’t write down the exact menu, but this comes close:

Blackpudding terrine & scallop risotto

Ile flottante with sliced orange, chocolate shavings and mint oil

We were also served a warm liquid appetiser, which pleasantly
tasted of cream and bacon. Hmmmm, bacon. The main course was my
favourite part of the meal, the different flavours just jumped off the
plate, surprising and just right. I chose the blackpudding entree
because I’m a big fan, but perhaps something else would have
complemented the sea bream better. The dessert seems to be a variation
on this French Laundry dish.
The mint oil was so fresh and ‘green’ tasting I thought it was basil at
first. Which I don’t think would sit strange in creme anglaise.

The food made me smile and feel good about myself, the world and
everything. Afterwards it rained and the wind turned cold so we sought
shelter in Hodges and Fidges book sellers on Dawson street, then went
window shopping till we were back at the Central Hotel. Mr Hg promptly
fell asleep while I took care of a small migraine problem that had
lingered from the day before. Maxalt is my friend.

We had some business to take care of, a shipment of books and t-shirts
that needed to be carried from the North of Dublin to Amsterdam. So we
hung around waiting for our Irish friend to drop them off. See my
opening paragraph: Irish men drive me round the bend. We had no choice
but to sit and wait for our friend to show up, three hours ‘late’.
Fortunately, sitting and waiting was done in the Central’s Libary Bar,
not a bad place to be. Cue a lot of beer and banter and a late night
kebab.

The next morning we checked out and flew back to our home towns, a little sad to let it go.

The trouble with Dublin is…  There is a limited choice in where
to go and what to do. But the choices available are excellent. There is
food and drink to suit my tastes at all hours. It’s equally familiar
and alien. I feel as much at home there as I feel out of place. I fit
in as much as I stand out. I love it twice as much as I hate it and
know it better than the city I live in.

And when it soothes, I don’t want it to end.

These are my options:

Canon 20mm/2.8 | Canon 24mm/2.8 | Sigma 20mm/1.8 | Sigma 24mm/1.8

If it’s all about saving $$, I should pick a Canon lens. The difference between prices here and in the USA is quite a bit more than $100. There’s not as big a difference for the Sigma brand. Around 30 to 80 dollars (though they do come with hoods and tube cases. Canon is stingy on them.). It seems from the many tests and opinions I’ve read that the Sigmas out-perform their Canon counterparts for these particular focal lenghts. I reckon I’ll end up with one of the Sigmas, whichever feels the best on the day. They’re prettier too. Always important.

If money was no option, I’d probably get the Canon 16-35/2.8 L.

Also gots me one of these rapid Sandisk cards.

While MiG the most ‘theatre’ of all and not in a good way, it’s J.D. who understands the theatre of rock. Check out his performance of Pink Floyd’s ‘Money’. The guy has vision. I’m also digging the rhinestone megaphone that he uses in ‘Pretty Vegas’, the song he co-wrote with Andrew Farriss. Well, I would, wouldn’t I? His performance of ‘By my side’ was subtle and I love the voice. That hint of Elvis that everybody hates so much? It’s a good thing. Elvis doesn’t have the patent on it. It’s Scott Walker. It’s Bowie. Totally floats my boat, anyway. I’ve been humming ‘Pretty Vegas’ for the last couple of days.

MiG’s the next to go. Too feminine, too sweet, too theatre, too squeaky clean. An ill fit with the Farriss brothers. Then it’ll between Marty and J.D. And Marty? Maybe an audience favourite, but he’s just completely wrong for INXS. The grunge voice and the arrogance cum naivety in thinking he can change and lead this band, come on. His idea that INXS invented ‘dance rock’ and that he can make them compete with the new new wave bands… please. Convoluted much? Poor sod, I nearly cacked myself when he started to ‘explain’ the music business to OB:INXS.

My money’s still firmly on J.D.

Maybe Suzie can join Fleetwood Mac now she’s eliminated. That’s where she belongs.

I’ve never been prouder of being British.
It’s a guilt-cd – the money is for Comic Relief. And I think it’s more Peter Kay at number one, and Tony Christie not knowing when enough is enough.
Rogue – 08 May 2005 – 09:48

Michael Portillo has no shame.
Simon – 08 May 2005 – 09:48