Georges Street

Of course, I don’t believe a word of it…

Back in the mid-90s I hitched a lift to Galway with a young businessman who drove a shiny black Mercedes. His job, he told me, involved rummaging around the attics and outhouses of rural Ireland and retrieving whatever rubbish he could find: old bicycles, obsolete household utensils, even discarded road signs.

Why, I asked him? He told me about a craze for Irish-themed bars that was sweeping Britain and continental Europe. Bar owners abroad were paying ridiculous prices for the kind of crap generally found gathering dust in our grandparents’ garages. Foot-pedal sewing machines were being used as tables in Bradford; High Nellies were hanging from tavern walls in Bratislava. Read the rest of this article here.

Published: Evening Herald, December 2008

Hogan’s

It’s Saturday night and Aidan is down in the dumps. I’m not sure what his problem is. But no doubt he’s going to fill me in. He’s not a man to bottle these things up, that’s for sure.

“Would you say I’m getting fat?” he asks, eventually.

I look him up and down.

“You are fat,” I reply. “I’d say you were getting fatter.” Read the rest of this entry »

WHAT PEACHES AND WHAT PENUMBRAS! WHOLE FAMILIES SHOPPING AT NIGHT!

Hit the DVD place afterwards tonight, more out of habit than with any particular plan of attack. I mooch around the box sets, aimless now that the Wire’s seemingly endless Bataan Death March is finally over. All have short, non-descriptive titles: House, Rome, Lost, The Shield. I have no idea what any of them are about or if they’re any good. Probably not. Probably not. Read the rest of this entry »

“HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED BULIMIA? I HEAR IT WORKS WONDERS…”

“Do you think I’m getting fat?” he asks, eventually. I look him up and down. “You are fat,” I reply. “I think you’re getting fatter…” Read the rest of this article here.

“HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED BULIMIA? I HEAR IT WORKS WONDERS…”

It’s Saturday night and Aidan is down in the dumps. I’m not sure what his problem is. But no doubt he’s going to fill me in. He’s not a man to bottle these things up, that’s for sure.

“Would you say I’m getting fat?” he asks, eventually.

I look him up and down.

“You are fat” I reply. “I’d say you were getting fatter.” Read the rest of this entry »

Published: Evening Herald, February 2010

Shebeen Chic

Back in the mid-90s I hitched a lift to Galway with a young businessman who drove a shiny black Mercedes. His job, he told me, involved rummaging around the attics and outhouses of rural Ireland and retrieving whatever rubbish he could find: old bicycles, obsolete household utensils, even discarded road signs.

Why, I asked him? He told me about a craze for Irish-themed bars that was sweeping Britain and continental Europe. Bar owners abroad were paying ridiculous prices for the kind of crap generally found gathering dust in our grandparents’ garages. Foot-pedal sewing machines were being used as tables in Bradford; High Nellies were hanging from tavern walls in Bratislava. Read the rest of this entry »