Eoin Butler: writer, journalist and Mayoman of the Year
Tripping Along The Ledge
Barry Butler
This one goes out to…
Saturday would have been my father’s 62nd birthday. I met my mother for lunch and pretended not to remember. My upset would only cause her upset. My pain would be her pain. You could fill Urlar Lake with our tears. (My mother doesn’t read this blog by the way.) Here’s something nice I once wrote about him. Here’s something else. And here’s something else.
Well, I’ll be a son of a gun!
Spotted John Rocha on Exchequer Street, Saturday morning. He was wearing clogs and holding an enormous cigarette holder. Someone told me RTE are doing a countdown of the all-time greatest Irishmen. Well, I’m gutted J.R. didn’t make the cut. Because we are nation of chancers and bullshit artists. And this guy is beating us at our own game. Read the rest of this entry »
LITTLE OLD WINE DRINKER ME (1967)
Overheard this song in a shop this evening. It was a big favourite of my father’s, which was kind of ironic, since he didn’t actually drink himself. It brought a tear to my eye, I must admit. It also reminded me of a very lame old joke told (I think) by Tommy Cooper… Read the rest of this entry »
CLICKING ALONG THE LEDGE
#5 Compliments From The Chef (April 6th)
Acrimonious tête-à-tête with misanthropic celebrity chef Marco Pierre White for the Irish Times. The guy has the biggest ego of anyone I’ve ever met. On the other hand, I’d never even heard of him until about an hour before the interview (and kind of think cooking is for girls.) We were possibly never destined to be best mates then. And no, neither myself nor my “lady wife” ever took him up on that offer. Read the rest of this entry »
THE GREEN AND RED OF MAYO
My friends Samir and Dee are getting married today and I’m sure its going to be a wonderful occasion. But come 5pm, I know that my thoughts will turn to McHale Park in Castlebar and the person I’ll wish that I was there with.
ON FATHER’S DAY
Every time the seasons change I think about my father. In early spring I see him jotting down the names and dates-of-birth of his latest crop of Under-10s, gleefully identifying future corner-backs and budding centre-fielders. When the sun comes out in May, I envision us striking out for the beach at Enniscrone. (You always know when it’s summer there, he’d say, because the old ladies wear their overcoats unbuttoned.) In August, he’s picking blackberries to make jam. And when the frosts return in late November, he’s making breadcrumbs for the birds that come to forage in our garden. Read the rest of this entry »