Sunday, 14 December 2014

Xmas story that used to be read to me as a child

This is a delightful children's story which 'once upon a time' was read to me every Christmas . It came from one of my mother's magazines during the 1960's. The original's remains are shown at the bottom of the page, part of the many whimsical 'treasures' I keep.

If you are lucky enough to have an audience of even just one small child, I hope you will read it to them. 
Merry Christmas  B 

The missing first two lines are:
Everybody knows how Santa Claus looks
You've seen his picture in your picture books

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

George Bernard Shaw Comments on Death and War

This is an extract of an email letter from a friend this eve ..

"His thoughts reminded me of George Bernard Shaw’s comments recorded in the book Bernard Shaw and Mrs. Patrick Campbell, Their Correspondence tells about a letter written by English actress Stella Campbell to the British playwright. She tells Shaw about her son’s death on the battlefield of World War I. She mentions that she received a letter from the chaplain that was “full of tragic gentleness and praise of my brave son.” Shaw writes her in reply: “It is no use: I can’t be sympathetic: these things simply make me furious. I want to swear. I do swear. Killed just because people are blasted fools. A chaplain, too, to say nice things about it. It is not his business to say nice things about it, but to shout that ‘the voice of thy son’s blood crieth unto God from the ground.’ To hell with your chaplain and his tragic gentleness! The next shell will perhaps blow him to bits; and some other chaplain will write such a nice letter to his mother"

Saturday, 14 September 2013


An intimate monologue written by a ‘Shameless’ & ‘ Skins’ Writer  Jack Thorne.  Spark Productions Graiguenamanagh, Co Kilkenny, Eire

This potential little gem flagged up to me a few weeks ago as being part of The Graiguenamanagh Festival of Books .   I like solo theatre performances these days simply because over the past few years  most of the memorable theatre I've seen has been of this genre.   Many of these are scattered through the rest of my blogging pages  either as reviews or mentions.

Spark Productions are I suppose semi pro  and that means that what they haven’t got in money and available talent is compensated for by buckets of enthusiasm and graft.  It has meant that what I have seen has been hugely entertaining or engaging.  That is what theatre is about. I don’t care if it cost hundreds of thousands to put on, or a fistful of euros.  If it doesn’t leave me with a satisfying glow and something to enjoy again in my own head . It is simply labelled crap. And frankly I've seen rather too much of that since returning to live in Ireland.

In the UK I saw considerably more great stuff than rubbish, but here it is the case of seeing more rubbish and hoping , indeed praying that ‘tonight’s theatre will  be good’ but driving home despondent, often early and once or twice foot flat to the floor and somewhat aggressively. It shouldn’t be so…and as some of you know I’m slowly but surely attending to that particular matter.

‘Bunny’ looked potentially my type of thing, it also had the Manc connections and it was only a few miles away and had a book fest to amuse me in the afternoon pre show. However it conflicted with things I also fancied at Dublin Fringe.  That latter was causing me a problem as I’d skipped Dublin Fringe last night to see what I was sure was going to be great theatre in GBL’s  ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ fact it was forchrisakes fly me to the interval so I can piss off home  (which I did). An eve sulking ensued.

Was going to see 'Bunny' worth skipping the certainty of a great night at Dublin Fringe? Oh heck yes indeed. A monologue told by a very sweet and talented young actress who just held the tiny audience engrossed from start to finish.  I had expected to see a fairly hard looking woman performing this, maybe a bit guttural. I’d thought the risk was in that element being over done.  I’m familiar with  the Shameless scripts and know a few of that cast in a casual sort of way. Also I’d seen some of the bigger names from that series appear in other things. Maxine Peake being the most obvious one to point out..I last saw her in Miss Julie at The Royal Exchange.

When I arrived in this small function room at The Duiske Inn there was a very pretty young woman dressed in jean shorts and baseball boots standing at the front. I presumed that she was a stage helper until I realised she was wearing the look of someone priming up to perform.  I was curious.  She wasn't what I’d expected.

Recently I suffered Olwen Foure’s  God awful load of tripe ‘River Run’ at Kilkenny Arts Fest and the egotistical old bird, stood front of stage in grey suit and gold shoes waiting until the auditorium was silent before making a ridiculous ‘thing’ of taking off her silly shoes as though about to do something spectacular before walking barefoot into centre stage and boring the tits off me for the next hour or so.

This actress was nothing like that. She waited, picked her moment and grabbed us all. She was a superb story teller with an  air of detached innocence and what was a very gentle and cultured voice. I believe she made the whole thing work much better than it may have done, had it been the hardened youth or woman that I’d expected.  In the same way as reading Shakespeare as if you had no preconception of how it should be read, makes much more sense and is far more entertaining than the over dramatic and gushing way we are taught to believe is correct.

Put simply it was an hour of top quality , engaging and wow element theatre and all should be congratulated and thanked for presenting it.  It should have been at Dublin Fringe, it should have been in someone’s reg theatre schedules.  It warrants a bigger airing than to a few grateful attendees in a bar/foody place’s function room.

Monday, 9 September 2013

Robert Robson Artistic Dir & my closest friend now sadly deceased.

June 2013 

Many of you will know Robert through his work in the arts and as his friend. Many too will read and contribute to his obituaries and eulogies, miss his presence and humour, his knowledge and his professionalism. Robert was the man who was always there when he was needed whose knowledge of all that matters in theatre and dance was exceptional and undoubted.

 Inevitably there will be as many anecdotes over the coming years about Robert equal only to the insightful and frequently hilarious ones that he entertained us with. He was great man in many respects but perhaps best known for his role in arts. Well as a close friend we shared some stories as might be expected given the time we spent together. However they are small fry compared to the breadth of those he had already acquired before we met. Not only had that but he relentlessly acquired more every single day of his life. I swear my inbox was an utter joy and pleasure to see whenever there was a Robert email. I had several daily and these were topped up by regular phone chats of similarly fascinating and entertaining information and discussion.

So, rather than attempt to write an obituary or a eulogy about Robert Robson The Artistic Director. Let me indulge and try to quench just a little, the utter distress and loss that his passing has caused me by talking about Robert my friend.  Sure, he taught me a huge amount about the arts, about technicalities, of what was clever, of what was truly talented and of whom was who.  I had in effect the tutorage of the world’s greatest expert and that is something I was acutely aware of and so valued it immensely. I always will.

However what he also taught me, just by being himself, was modesty, loyalty, passion (for his family and for art), to be self effacing, yet proud of one’s achievements.  Robert  was a gentleman in the very essence of what one should be.   I looked up to him; I looked levelly at him and trusted him implicitly. I have never had a relationship with anyone quite like that.  How could I? There could only ever have been one Robert Robson.  Quite simply, the life experiences that he had, when coupled with whatever brain patterning he’d been born with, could only develop into that astonishing individual.

We met as neighbours in the same apartment block. Robert would be outside, often in his dressing gown, deep in thought and drawing heavily on a Marlboro light. We’d speak the language of polite neighbours ‘good eve how are you?’  ‘The damn management company still haven’t fixed the gates’ and such like.  This went on for months. I’d no idea who he was nor he me.  Neither of us had the foggiest idea of a mutual passion for theatre either. It came out one day that he worked at The Lowry and being a nosey individual I looked him up. Ah!  But also ‘ah yes, a man at home’ and one doesn’t go too much into talking shop. So it was only occasionally that I’d mention in passing some snippet  about a show I’d seen and he would ‘aye’ at me and carry on smoking.

One eve though I’d got back late and there was Robert in the freezing cold having his cigarette by the communal door.  I joined him for a moment and lit my own up, but frankly it was so bloody cold it wasn’t pleasant.  I asked why he smoked outside and he said that his wife was due to visit and she didn’t like him smoking , if he smoked in his apartment she’d know he had been.  I invited him to mine, where he could smoke as many as he liked and have a brew at the same time.

It was either the cold or curiosity but he came up and we talked for hours about theatre and arts and music.  We became firm friends.  I know that being away from his real home and his wife and family  bothered him immensely and I was feeling isolated from cultured discussion. So between one floor of an apartment block and a short stairway a mutually beneficial support came into existence.  In due course we hung out together and saw huge numbers of shows ,not only at his theatre but elsewhere, we went on jaunts to theatres and  Mintfest and exchanged reviews and opinions when one had seen what the other had not. The ratio generally  being my one show or performance to his ten..( that never changed!).

With Robert there was never once a time when it felt necessary to temper down what I wanted to say, nor vice versa.  It was completely open discussions we had, possibly because unlike many male friendships there was no competition between us, genuine or perceived. The result was that in many ways we used the other as an extension of our own thought process. Better out than in, or ‘how does that thought sound aloud?’  A luxury indeed.

Robert certainly knew more about me than anyone ever has or ever will. I cannot say that about him but I can say I knew him, (the private him that is), extremely well. Indeed as I write this I can both hear him and visualise him taking what I tried to explain and handing it all back to me, neatly wrapped up…I could do with him now!

When  it became my time to leave Salford the only concern was my friendship with Robert . Selfishly for me and because of breaking what was perhaps a useful habit for him?  However my prayers that I’d not lose the greatest friend of my whole life, were at that time supported and in fact we continued to discourse, rant, laugh and support each other just as much as before except it was via email and telephone and without the coffee and sticky buns of the Salford apartments.
In June  Robert came over to visit me in the little house in Ireland.  I am so glad he came.

A great and informative obituary is here courtesy of The Herald Scotland

Tuesday, 25 June 2013

Guaranteed: A new Play by Journalist Colin Murphy about The Irish Bank Guarantee as set out by The Irish Government

This play is promoted as a dramatization of the events leading to The Anglo Irish banking agreement a very hot topic in recession hit Europe but extremely so in The Republic of  Ireland where  the very visible signs are of a country teetering along on a wing and a prayer & bugger all in the way of hard currency.  It was appropriate, although perhaps not intentionally so , that I should see it premiered in Newbridge, Co Kildare where I’d  been a boarder at The Dominican College some 35 years ago. The school is no longer functioning as a boarding school & when I looked in before theatre, seemed faded and forlorn.  Equally, the town which was once fairly upmarket was depressing, tacky and had certainly lost its aspirational qualities… I’ll be glad never to see it again.

It certainly put me in a frame of mind to understand more about what had happened in Ireland over the past few years.  Infrequent visits to my parents house, where I now live again had often confused me. Where locals had driven battered old wrecks of cars previously, Landcruisers abounded and seemingly everyone was building some grandiose house from the bestselling book ‘of Irish Bungalow plans’. It didn't stack up at all.  On my return here I have been bored witless by the moaning about the economy and the self pity, whilst simultaneously needing to get work done but unable to find anyone prepared to do it.  (especially properly)

However, all of Europe and much of the world is in a similar state and my own affairs have most certainly been battered by recession. I am not wholly unsympathetic therefore, but curious.

‘Guaranteed’ I hoped would be a potted version of events that provided me with some clues as to what went wrong here. It did. ..although sitting in the Q&A session afterwards I’m not so sure that the obvious facts had occurred to any of those taking part. Namely that the whole thing was caused by individuals borrowing and then borrowing more on the vague notion that things were worth more than they were (namely buildings) and banks being similarly minded. However it is the banks and the politicians who now receive all of the blame.

As  a play it was confused. It was not satirical enough to be satire, not funny enough to be comedy, and not accurate enough to be re-enactment, but it was interesting and it was entertaining. It was also a tad too long. Less is more sometimes and I’d have liked to see some  editing going on so that pertinence and tension were kept up.  It was dated too, which surprised me from Fishamble who are usually so innovative.  Typewriter lettering on a big screen to signify a change of location ?... which  was too high up to be read anyway, high flying career women in muddy court shoes? ..there was much that lacked attention to detail.. Role changing so that an actor who one minute is delivering a line as a Press Officer also delivers the next line as a young something else made following the play seamlessly quite difficult. I want to take in the story, not try to fig out who is who and have to remember it.  So overall. I wasn't ecstatically enthusiastic but accept that it was the first night it had played to an audience and as such some tweaks will no doubt be made. 

If it was compared to Toxic Bankers which was a tiny musical about hedge fund managers in a crisis and which I found so dreadful (despite rave reviews) that I slipped out at the interval I’d say this was far superior in every respect. If it was compared to another Irish play ‘Allegiance’ which was a dramatization of the infamous meeting between Winston Churchill and Michael Collins which led to the formation of The Irish Free State’ then it has much to learn.

Would I recommend it?  Absolutely. It is topical, it is uniquely Irish, it is a story that should be seen and heard by all living in Ireland as there is not one of us who won’t find a parallel in there somewhere, or a reference that very much is like a stomach punch..( ‘Northern Crock’ for me) and the actors are highly skilled people. They did a sterling job.

Sunday, 31 March 2013

My Most Selfish Act

Eight years ago on April 1st I realised that there was no alcohol inside me. I’d given up some weeks earlier but knew that logically my system would still have trace elements if nothing else. As it happened I was writhing on the floor of my flat in agony for a couple of weeks as withdrawal kicked in. I won’t bore you with the details other than to say it was not pleasant and I have absolutely no intention of ever suffering like that again under any circumstances.   I had no idea what day or date it was until then, when I had a look to see.  On discovering the irony of reaching a totally alcohol free state on April’s Fool Day it appealed greatly so was designated (by me) as my sober anniversary.

It all seems such a long time ago. Or rather most of the time it does, there are certain times when it becomes a fight or a temptation. A yearning to just be like everyone else, enjoying a pleasant glass of vino or a pint with a pal.  But I can’t, never could and never will. I am all or nothing. This eve I was astonished to discover that it is not seven years since straightening out, but eight!   Anyway I've decided not so much as to explain in any great depth as to how I managed to get sober. That is part of a book which I write huge chunks for, rewrite it, add a bit of gloss and fiction. Throw in the document shredder and start again but which I hope will one day assist someone, anyone, to move forward with their alcohol problem.
The title of this blog entry is ‘My Most Selfish Act’ and it is possibly the most accurate heading ever given to any of my written ramblings.  Sobriety in my case is.

It has nothing to do with wanting to do the right thing by my family or friends. It’s not a penance for the damage I caused when at the height of my drinking. It never was and it never will be. It is solely for me.  Selfish?  Yes indeed and that my dear reader (if there are any) is the only way to deal with an addiction.
To make any life change there is always a trigger. It is no secret that  my drinking cost me my wealth, my future, my wife, family, subsequent relationships, got me landed in jail, banned from driving, out on the streets homeless and a whole raft of kickings, fights, broken limbs, scarring and so forth. None of those were the trigger.

The trigger was a particular incident back in the early part of the year in 2005. 

I had a genuinely good friend and drinking buddy who amongst many interesting things in his past was a former hit man for a firm of gangsters. He had mellowed somewhat and was a pragmatic and decent enough guy. He had several daughters one of whom I got along with very well. Not in a sexual way or any type of relationship, just a nice girl who liked and trusted me. I’d call for brews or her  to mine,  that type of thing.
At that time there was another drinking associate of mine who was frankly a bit of a shit.  I never trusted him entirely and he knew it.  For some reason he decided to cause me trouble and he did this by claiming to my pal that I had ‘slagged off his daughter’ . I got wind of this one afternoon and was a bit nonplussed. It patently was untrue and what  was supposed to have remarked was neither said in any language or using any words that I do, but was allegedly in a place and time that I wasn't in.  Sadly however, the world of macho pride, especially in gangland and small communities is very easily dented.  Furthermore, no matter how close you might think you are, unless you born and brought up in that community, you are an outsider when it comes to accusations against you.

Word came to me that I was in deep trouble. I was likely to be killed.  As you can imagine I became rather paranoid, sleeping with a wardrobe against my front door, not using the bedroom, acquiring a tin of CS Gas and generally looking over my shoulder. This went on for several weeks and as I had no real way of upping and leaving town and anyway was not guilty of anything. I decided that I may as well confront the issue. If I was going to be killed it wasn’t going to be done sneakily and without me having my final say.  Namely that I was innocent.

I went to my former friend’s house in broad daylight. It was in a cul de sac on a notorious council estate.  As I walked down the street I was aware of the atmosphere tensioning and other people that I knew from there taking in deep breaths.  I knocked on the door.  It is true to say that it was pure adrenaline that I was running on. I did not feel scared but nervous. I knew I had not said what I was accused of.
The door opened and an aghast former mate was standing there.  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he asked.  I replied. ‘I know you are out to get me for what I’m supposed to have said. Fine. But I am here because it is not true. I cant hide around here and I cant leave but  If you carry out your threats you will be making a huge mistake’. ‘Get the fuck away from here’ he said and closed the door.

I walked to the end of the road and around the corner and my legs gave up and I was close to fainting.
The matter had been closed.  It’d had actually worked well for both parties. His place as a community hard man was preserved.  There were far too many witnesses for him to have subsequently come after me.. and I did feel that he probably hadn't wanted to anyway.  After a year or so we did acknowledge one another in the street albeit discreetly.  I suppose too that respect for me had gone up. I hadn't run but had confronted the matter.  However for the next few months afterwards I made effort to stay low profile and  once again stayed home for several days in an only slightly less alerted state. Just to be sure!

That is when the trigger of selfishness kicked in. You see, the more I sat in my own company pondering my lucky escape from a somewhat horrendous situation. The more I began to doubt myself. I began to wonder if I really had said what I was supposed to. I wondered how I’d of behaved in such circumstances if that was the case. The more I thought, the more I was confused and scared and then finally I realised that I didn't actually know with utter certainty.  I’m almost sure, damn sure, even now. But there is a minuscule element of doubt and when your life is threatened because of it, that minuscule amount becomes highly significant.

I made the decision there and then that nobody was ever going to say something about me that I could neither fully support nor repudiate. Nobody was ever going to tell me what I had done the night before and for me to not have the foggiest about whether it was true. Total memory loss being a common feature of drinking to the levels I  did.

To this day, eight years later not one person has or can. That is the primary reason why I am sober and why I will remain so. The benefits I have reaped from it are multitudinous and highly valued. But to the often asked question 'what made you give up?' Well there's your answer at last. 

Sunday, 24 February 2013

Once -Gaiety Theatre Dublin

A bit underwhelming given the number of awards. Too many dragged out dialogue moments but dance that stopped as soon as it was warming up. The songs were mainly melancholic. The amateur lighting & lack of any props made the set seem unbelievable as a bar/music shop/two flats and a recording studios. Likewise the US style of delivering 'comic' lines with a pause so that we know *something clever was said* was irritating. The swearing was unnecessary & the acting & delivery as wooden as one might expect from an amateur dramatics group.  Playing 'spot the cue' was so easy it was ridiculous & so the impression to me was that 'Once' believed it's own PR & didn't feel it needed to work hard. Some shows cannot run & run with same cast or transfer seamlessly to a different audience in a different country. This is one of them. It did receive a standing ovation but it was quite possibly due to everyone suffering numb backsides by the time the second half had dragged itself along and they needed to move. In summary, it was a bit of light entertainment and a harmless enough way to spend a couple of hours, but cutting edge, riveting, extraordinary, memorable or any such adjectives did not apply.

The trailer is here: Once - The trailer