Eoin Butler: writer, journalist and Mayoman of the Year
Tripping Along The Ledge
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NEW ADVENTURES IN BABYSITTING #3
Christ, is there anything as soul destroying as a child’s incessant crying? I don’t know how many hours it lasted. Two and a half, maybe three. Later, I dug out this track released (as I recall) the week the September 11th attacks. But from the very first line, I knew it didn’t quite fit. Read the rest of this entry »
THIS IS FUNNY*
A door to door sales rep knocks on the door of an ordinary semidetached house. It’s answered by an eight year old boy, dressed in stockings and suspenders, with a fat cigar in one hand, and a large glass of red wine in the other. Read the rest of this entry »
THE TAYTO YEARS
This week, I’ve been inveigled into writing on the topic ‘Food Memories of the 1980s’. It’s kind of a tall order, given that I was only a small boy during that decade. It was all a blur of penny sweets and Subbuteo as far as I can recall .
Go on, they said. There must be a few special Eighties food memories that stick out… Well, there was that time Duran Duran dropped by my house and we ate Rice Krispie Buns and played Space Invaders together.
Really, they gasped? No, of course not. Read the rest of this article here.
THIS IS FUNNY
TURN BLUE (1977)
“Jesus? This is Iggy…” Had forgotten until reading this again how completely deranged/brilliant a song this is…
OH YEAH… OH YEAH… OH REALLY… OH YEAH… BOOOOOOM!
The White House has confirmed that Barack Obama will announce an American exit strategy from Afghanistan (with short term troop increases, no it doesn’t make sense to me either) next Tuesday. I wonder will it be anything like this?
THIS IS CRYPTIC
The Guardian’s weekly football photoshop mash-up The Gallery is in today. No prizes for guessing what topic they’re covering…
LE BATEAU IVRE
I followed deadpan Rivers down and down,
And knew my haulers had let go the ropes.
Whooping redskins took my men as targets
And nailed them nude to technicolour posts. Read the rest of this entry »
I WAS MADE TO LOVE HER (1967)
“DEAR PATRICIA. HAVE TAKEN COP. SEE YOU LATER…”
“Your work,” she inquires. “Legal, isn’t it?” “Am… mostly… Why do you ask?” She eyes me quizzically. “You’re the solicitor, aren’t you?” “No, I’m the journalist.” She squints over her glasses and snorts. “Arrah, for the love of God…” Read the rest of this post here.