Talking to some friends about branding and re-branding, the subject of Jameson came up. It seems the jury was split about the look and thrust of the current tv commericals. Some think they’re clean and focused; others think they’re cold and set the drink in an ‘individual loner’ niche.
Me, I think that the whole brand extension into film sponsorship is great. But the good thing about the film audience is that while going to the movies is something you do with a friend, you talk about the film with friends. That wider circle isn’t captured in the TV ads which are largely look over substance. Cool looking – but a teeny bit shallow really. I just don’t think the whole thing was thought through fully. It’ll be interesting to see how the next trenche of commercials turn out.
Think I might watch a bit of soccer tonight – Man U vs Lille – if only to hear Johnny Giles adopt his “I’ve got a bit of indigestion” look whenever Bill says that was a good bit of play by Ronaldo. “No, no, no,” Johnny will say. “That’s not football. That’s dancing. I wouldn’t have him on my team if he indulges in that. Don Revie would never have put up with that. In fact, if Ronaldo had been in the great Leeds United team, Norman Hunter would have broken his legs – his own team mate. He wouldn’t do much dancing then. Pass me those Rennies, will you?”
God save Ireland from PR shots. Myself and the guys have just been holding up the Belfast traffic as we were snapped for a magazine piece. Shame it happened at lunchtime, just as all our office neighbours were popping out for the sarnies. Shame I didn’t know about it in advance or I could have worn something different. Shame the sun was so bright and I had to squint so much. Shame about my double chin and flared belly too. Other than that, I’m sure it will turn out lovely.
As Gary Glitter once said, Hello Hello I’m Back Again. And yes, I know, it’s not good to be making jokes about him any more. But having been away so long I’m just a little bit rusty. So anyway, where was I? Oh yes, November - setting up and starting to run a new business. That’s the real reason I’ve been away from this blog (which, by the way, I started purely for close family and friends – but which I’m now going to launch upon the world).
Even though I was away, I was never far away from a computer – but business took over, big time. I kept meaning to add a little blog at the end of the night – but kept putting it off. But as they say, procrastination is the mother of all thieves of time – or something. I also note from some of the other very good blogs that I’ve been reading that real bloggers always blog. A bit like writers write. Wonder if there’s a connection there?
Ok. Here’s the stream of consciousness catch-up bit. Last thing I wrote was about Bob Dylan – there’ll be lots more of him in the future. Then there was my daughter’s birthday before Christmas. Then Christmas. Then I worked through the holidays. Then I went back to work. And continued to work every evening at home. Then there was the Shane Ward concert that we all went to because my daughter loves him (I managed to write some important emails during it but she never noticed because she was screaming so much). Then there was more work. Lots of trips to Dublin (work). Several good games of basketball, especially because Star started winning again. (More about Star anon). Someone played some sort of song at Croke Park. What else… well, I’m sure it will all come back to me.
Anyway, as I said, I’ve been reading some pretty good blogs recently. And I have to say that they’re all either from Dublin/the South, or the States, or related to advertising and marketing. The one thing I’m not getting is anything good from the North. This was brought home to me on a trip to Dublin a few weeks ago (yeah, work) when someone asked if all anyone blogged about in the north was petty political backbiting and stuff. This was coming from someone well up in the wonderful world of blogs. It seems that the main political blogs up here – even though they’re penned by people who would probably consider themselves erudite, cosmopolitan, etc – only serve to reinforce the view that northerners have their head up their asses. So maybe my real purpose in this is to show how erudite, cosmopolitan, etc I am myself whenever I don’t mention politics.
Speaking of which, it’s now the eve of our assembly elections. I imagine the likes of Rainbow George will have a sleepless night tonight wondering if I’m going to go out tomorrow and give him a number one – to coin a phrase. I have to say, I found the whole campaign very bland this time around – even the satirists were off their game. If that’s the case, God save Ireland. Night, night.
This has always been one of my favourite Dylan songs. Not only is it lyrically and emotionally strong – you have to hear it though, to get the real effect of the phrasing – it is also a song that has worn better with age than many of the ‘political’ songs he wrote around the same time.
Recorded on 23 October 1963, the song was released on Dylan’s 1964 album The Times They Are A-Changin’ and gives a generally factual account of the killing of 51-year-old barmaid Hattie Carroll by the wealthy young William Devereux “Billy” Zantzinger (whom the song calls “William Zanzinger”), and his subsequent sentence to six months in jail.
The actual incident took place on February 9, 1963 at a ball at the Emerson Hotel in Baltimore, Maryland. At about 1:30am on the morning of the 9th, Zanzinger ordered a drink from barmaid Carroll and when she didn’t bring it immediately, he cursed at her to which Carroll replied: “I’m hurrying as fast as I can.” Zantzinger said: “I don’t have to take that kind of shit off a nigger,” and struck her on the shoulder with the cane. Carroll was taken to the hospital butdied the following morning.
Zantzinger was charged with homicide, acharge later changed to manslaughter and assault and was sentenced to just six months. Dylan’s song strongly implies that his upper-class status contributed to the relatively low length of the sentence. After the sentence was announced, the New York Herald Tribune conjectured that Zantzinger was not given a longer sentence to keep him out of the state prison, since the notoriety of his crime would make him a marked target among its largely African American inmates. Zantzinger instead served his time in the comparative safety of the Washington county jail and also paid to the Carroll family the sum of twenty five thousand dollars.
In 2001 Zantzinger told Howard Sounes, in Down the Highway, the Life of Bob Dylan, “It’s actually had no effect upon my life”, but is vitriolic in his scorn for Dylan, saying, “He’s a no-account son of a bitch”, claiming that the song is inaccurate. “He’s just like a scum of a scum bag of the earth, I should have sued him and put him in jail”. He claims that the song is a total lie, but has never attempted to prevent Dylan from performing it.
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll
William Zanzinger killed poor Hattie Carroll
With a cane that he twirled around his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath’rin’.
And the cops were called in and his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody down to the station
And booked William Zanzinger for first-degree murder.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain’t the time for your tears.
William Zanzinger, who at twenty-four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy parents who provide and protect him
And high office relations in the politics of Maryland,
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And swear words and sneering, and his tongue it was snarling,
In a matter of minutes on bail was out walking.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain’t the time for your tears.
Hattie Carroll was a maid of the kitchen.
She was fifty-one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes and took out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn’t even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
And emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level,
Got killed by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed through the air and came down through the room,
Doomed and determined to destroy all the gentle.
And she never done nothing to William Zanzinger.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain’t the time for your tears.
In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all’s equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain’t pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the cops have chased after and caught ‘em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom,
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin’ that way without warnin’.
And he spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished,
And handed out strongly, for penalty and repentance,
William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence.
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now’s the time for your tears.
Last year I spent some time filming with the makers of Jameson Irish Whiskey. These weren’t the suits, or the guys on the distillery floor. These were the Four Masters: the four big wigs who control the flavour, blending, look and – essentially – the future of Jameson, Paddy, Powers, etc.
So after spending some time doing the filming bits, we naturally chatted about Whiskey. I have to say, I was never a real afficianado of the drink in the past, but their knowledge prompted me to taste and enjoy the various Jamesons, Paddys, etc and even to begin to appreciate the subtle differences.
As filming was wrapping up, I asked each individual Master what his favourite whiskey was. Funnily, there was no mention of Jamesons or Paddys or even of the £90-a-bottle Midleton. Instead, they all nominated a somewhat secret and scarcely promoted band – Redbreast.
The name brought back vague memories from childhood – when there might have been the odd bottle in my grandfather’s cupboard.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, when our own business partnership recently had reason to toast itself in an unfamiliar bar, I went to get the drinks in. And what did I see behind the counter? A bottle of 15-year old Redbreast, as well as a bottle of the 12-year old – the first time I had ever seen either behind a bar counter. Naturally, the orders I had taken from my chums went by the wayside and I presented the table with a series of large Redbreasts.
Let’s just say that after a great amount of fruitful sniffing, sipping, smacking and swallowing, Redbreast is now the Official Drink of our Company.
For anyone who needs to know all the technical stuff, here’s what the website says about Redbreast:
“Unique among whiskeys, Redbreast is a ‘Single’ unblended, pure pot still Irish whiskey which has been triple distilled in oak casks for not less than twelve years. This uncompromising dedication to authenticity and quality gives Redbreast a traditional smooth mellow character and a taste which is full flavoured and assertive but not over-robust.”
Once upon a time there was a dog called Dixie. The dog was a fluffy dog. Dixie was a good dog she always did what she was told to do. But the thing was that she was blind. Every were she went she always bumped into something. Every time she bumped into something the owner was cross with her. So then the owner told Dixie that it was time to go home.
As the teams had gone onto the pitch, Arsenal made a fast, elegant start with Rosicky going close. The deadlock broke when Fabregas took a free kick and Stewart scored an own goal when headed into his own net on 28 minutes. As Watford started Marlon king had a great chance when he just poked it over the bar, he should have scored. Arsenal scored there second in the 43rd with Thierry Henry slipping it under Ben Foster’s body. Watford were putting Arsenal under immense pressure and when Arsenal broke away it was 3 on 3 and Henry’s wanted to score but slide it to Emanuel Adebayor and side footed it into the bottom corner. Watford were still trying but when the final whistle blew it was Arsenal who was the happy side.
Final score Arsenal 3 Watford o
Stewert OG 28
Henry 43
Adabayor 67
A great win for Arsenal.
The other evening, the folk programme on Radio Ulster happened to play an introduction to a song by someone I think was called Dermot O’Connor (apologies if that is wrong). Anyway, they played his spoken introduction to the song – a song about the three generations of one family (all called ‘Jim Green’) who sank in a trawler accident in the Irish Sea about 3/4 yeas ago. A grandfather, son and grandson lost their lives.
Three generations – all gone in a flash. If I was part of that family I don’t know how I’d cope. But the thing that brought an instant tear was what the singer related in his introduction. He told us how, after the body of Jim Green the Grandfather had been brought to the surface, the wife of his son (the middle Jim) had spoken to the divers. She told them: “If you find the two remaining bodies, bring them to the surface together. But if you only find my husband, don’t bring him up without finding my son”.
It was just that she couldn’t bear to have her eight-year-old son lying there on the sea bed alone, the two other bodies having been lifted.
I have to say that I spent about ten years supposedly studying the classics of English Literature. Nevertheless, nothing I’ve ever read then or since has quite struck me in the same way as Mrs Green’s concern that her son’s bones might not be left on an ocean bed. Alone.
This, as they say, was a game of two halves. Loughguile came storming out of the blocks and dominated a first half of open hurling. The mood of the half was set when Joey Scullion miracuously pointed directly from a sideline cut about forty metres out. Loughguile, it seemed, were on a roll and continued to hold the upper hand before going in at the break leading 2-6 to 4 points. To all intents and purposes, the game was over and the Shamrocks looked set to break their run of three losing finals in a row.
But whoa – what a difference a half-time break can make. Whatever was said in the Ruairi’s dressing room needs to be bottled and given to every team in the country. Out they came like men reborn, pegging back a handful of points before a goal set their fans alight.
At the other end, Liam Watson had a chance to knock over a simple 25-metre free to give his team a confidence building score. Inexplicably, though, he sought to rattle the net like he did in the first half from a similar position. This time, though, the Cushendall defence stood tall and cleared. With the ball won in midfield, a sweeping move set the Ruairi’s goalwards where they swept over the equaliser.
Moments later, Shamrocks goalie Quinn dropped a high ball and it was swept into the net. That in effect was the end of the story and the Ruairis notched up another rake of points to ease their way to a comfortable win that looked anything but likely at half-time.
Final score: 2-13 to 2-7.
Two memories stand out: Scullion’s majestic sideline cut for the opening point, and the same player in tears at the end of the game, totally inconsolable.
An amazing game. And it served yet again to show that nothing beats a good club contest. God save Ireland from the diving soccer crowd and their ilk.
John Lennon once said: “If you tried to give rock and roll another name, you might call it Chuck Berry”. Berry was among the first musicians to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame on its opening in 1986. He was inducted by Keith Richards who said, “It’s hard for me to induct Chuck Berry, because I lifted every lick he ever played”. In 2003 Rolling Stone magazine named him number six on their list of the 100 Greatest Guitarists of All Time.
Berry had his first hit in 1955 with “Maybellene”. The song peaked at No 5 on the Billboard charts. At the end of June 1956, “Roll Over Beethoven” reached No 29. The hits continued from 1957 to 1959, with Berry scoring over a dozen chart singles during this period, including the top 10 US hits “School Days”, “Rock and Roll Music”, “Sweet Little Sixteen” and “Johnny B. Goode”.
In the 1970s, Berry toured on the basis of his earlier successes. He was on the road for many years, carrying only his Gibson guitar, confident that he could hire a band that already knew his music no matter where he went. Among the many guitarists performing this backup role was a very young Bruce Springsteen.
Berry actually wrote Promised Land when he was serving time in jail for transporting a girl across state lines for immoral purposes. In fact, he had to borrow an atlas of the US from the prison library to plot his hero’s journey from Virginia to California.
To my mind, Promised Land sums up the classic rock and roll ambition, together with veiled references to the political struggle faced by Southern blacks at the time. Cleverly, Berry offered a partial allegory of the 1961 freedom rides to protest against the continued segregation in the South.
In the song – which is also chock-full of quasi-biblical imagery relating to the Exodus story – Berry’s hero follows much the same route through the South as the freedom riders. In one verse, Berry invokes the worst violence experienced by the actual freedom riders, which occurred in Anniston, Birmingham and Montgomery, describing a journey that “turned into a struggle, / half-way across Alabam”.
His best known song is of course Johnny B Goode. Not only is it a staple of every kid who ever tried to play electric guitar, it was also chosen as the American cultural contribution to the Voyager 1 spaceship Golden Record.
The Voyager Golden Record is an actual gramophone record containing sounds and images selected to portray the diversity of life and culture on Earth. It is intended for any intelligent extraterrestrial life form that may find it.
The contents of the record were selected for NASA by a committee chaired by Carl Sagan. Dr Sagan and his associates assembled 115 images and a variety of natural sounds, such as those made by surf, wind and thunder, and animal sounds, including the songs of birds and whales. To this they added musical selections from different cultures and eras, and spoken greetings from Earthlings in fifty-five languages.
They also included a printed message from President Jimmy Carter who said: “We cast this message into the cosmos. Of the 200 billion stars in the Milky Way galaxy, some – perhaps many – may have inhabited planets and space-faring civilizations. If one such civilization intercepts Voyager and can understand these recorded contents, here is our message: We are trying to survive our time so we may live into yours. We hope some day, having solved the problems we face, to join a community of Galactic Civilizations. This record represents our hope and our determination and our goodwill in a vast and awesome universe.”
To date, only one message has been received back from extraterrestrials.
I left my home in Norfolk Virginia,
California on my mind.
Straddled that Greyhound, rode him past Raleigh,
On across Caroline.
Stopped in Charlotte and bypassed Rock Hill,
And we never was a minute late.
We was ninety miles out of Atlanta by sundown,
Rollin’ ‘cross the Georgia state.
We had motor trouble it turned into a struggle,
Half way ‘cross Alabam,
And that ‘hound broke down and left us all stranded
In downtown Birmingham.
Straight off, I bought me a through train ticket,
Ridin ‘cross Mississippi clean
And I was on that midnight flyer out of Birmingham
Smoking into New Orleans.
Somebody help me get out of Louisiana
Just help me get to Houston town.
There’s people there who care a little ’bout me
And they won’t let the poor boy down.
Sure as you’re born, they bought me a silk suit,
Put luggage in my hands,
And I woke up high over Albuquerque
On a jet to the promised land.
Workin’ on a T-bone steak a la carte
Flying over to the Golden State;
The pilot told me in thirteen minutes
We’d be headin’ in the terminal gate.
Swing low sweet chariot, come down easy
Taxi to the terminal zone;
Cut your engines, cool your wings,
And let me make it to the telephone.
Los Angeles give me Norfolk Virginia,
Tidewater four ten O nine
Tell the folks back home this is the promised land callin’
And the poor boy’s on the line.
On Sunday, myself and my nine year old son settled down to watch the second Compromise rules test between Ireland and Australia. With Ireland one up from the first game, and enjoying an eight point aggregate score advantage, we anticipated it was going to be tough, with the Aussies doing everything to claw the game back. As it turned out, tough wasn’t the word for it. Even ‘x-certificate-all-out-savage-kamikaze-no-holes-barred-warfare-with-a-vengeance’ wasn’t quite the word for it either.
For those of you who didn’t witness it, the fists (mainly Australian) started flying after just a few seconds. They continued flying for most of the first ten minutes while the (mainly Australian) half of the refereeing duo did bugger all to stop it. After a minute or two, it became evident that the (mainly Australian) tactic of whack your opponent senseless was carefully premeditated and designed to unsettle the timid and less muscular Irish – although one or two of the home lads sneaked the odd sly head butt in here and there.
It was at this point that I seriously considered switching channels so that my son could watch something a lot more genteel (the England-New Zealand rugby match was on the other side) but I thought I would stick it out and so give my son a lesson in why never to switch from hurling in order to play Gaelic.
You see, despite all the talk about this being barbaric carry on, it is exactly the type of thing that I and thousands of others once engaged in at club level – and the type of thing that nearly every club player experiences at one time or another, right up to today. Yes, I know that it’s nearly all gone from county games, but not a club in Ireland can say that they never engaged in something similar in recent times. For example, here’s an example from a very recent Fermangh club match that I found after a 20-second search on the internet:
The real difference overall, I thought, was that the Aussies will chin you to your face and not rely so much on the cowardly punch from behind. And they’re much stronger than the Irish too – so there’s no showboating with those buggers: it’s wham-bam-thank-you-mam, and no pretend-he-hit-me a la soccer (something else that is creeping in here big-time).
At the end, it was all very embarrassing – particularly when the Aussie captain, Barry Brick-shithouse-with-a-broken-nose, feigned to throw a punch at his marker Reilly. Embarrassingly, the Irish lad flinched like a child and the Aussie just turned away laughing. It really was as simple as men versus boys.
So, should the series be continued next year? I for one would be glad to see the back of it. As it stands at the moment, the only purpose it serves is to give the poor unfortunates whose team never get a chance to play in Croke Park, the opportunity to get up there with the ‘childer’ and support their team. Hence the lack of any real or meaningful support from the crowd – even Brush Shields’ half time singalong couldn’t get them going.
Another thing, we’ll never beat the Aussies for their blind commitment – to any sport really. Any nation that is reared on the gluttenous diet of sport that is served up down under don’t give a toss about the taking part. For them it’s always shit or bust. And our lads – our teachers, gardai, vets, builders, sales reps and so on – aren’t at that level yet, no matter what anyone tells you about the increasing professionalism of the gaelic environment.
I think that the players who spent a month travelling the length and breadth of the country training for this fiasco should realise that Aussie Rules and our own code weren’t meant to get hitched. So our – amateur – players would have been better served by resting up after a year of playing at club and county level. They should concentrate for a while on being teachers, gardai, vets, builders, sales reps and so on. And let them also learn from the strength and drive of the Aussies who, I’m afraid to say, obviously know how to catch and kick a ball much better than the present generation of hand-passers and sham divers who grace our game.
And finally, let the GAA also learn from their sanctimonious, holier-than-thou condemnation of the Aussie tactics. Let them go back to their clubs and tell them in no uncertain terms that there’s to be no more of any parochial, blackguardly carry-on. Play it clean – or have your club banned for 3 years!
If that was the long-term outcome of this fiasco, if it meant that kids could play our games without having to expect the odd ‘doing’, it might all just be worth it.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Well, it’s Friday night, there’s a nice little bottle of red sitting next to me and, to cap it all, the news from Scotland seems slighly more upbeat. No, Wet Wet Wet haven’t decided to reform and Celtic haven’t signed Ronaldinho – as far as I know.
I refer instead to the “No Guts, No Government” talks as they seem to have been dubbed. Without having heard the full story yet, it seems there might be some ever so slight movement in the direction of a hint of a promise of something tantalisingly small on the horizon – even if it is only the size of a midge’s winky.
Yes, the talks have blossomed. Goodwill breaks out all around. A new era of fellowship beckons. It’s the dawn of a fresh understanding. Fraternity with no bounds. Or maybe it was the prospect of no pay cheque arriving in the month before Christmas. Whatever the reason, the self-important gobshites have begrudgingly recognised the truth in the old saying – “Do dog, or shite the licence.”
Let’s hope now that there’s an end to their easy ride and that they have to actually start earning their money in the years ahead, rather than float around impervious to the fact that in order to survive most people have to actually produce something at the end of the day – dig a drain, build a wall, teach some kids, cure an illness or whatever.
Of course, they also have been guilty of hiding behind the fact that there are many tough decisions ahead. Conveniently, they have been shunning issues like water, rates and the 11+, pretending that it is big bad Westminster forcing it upon us. Well, the years ahead will show us what our local guys are made of. I imagine that some of our current household names will fall actually short in many aspects of the task – personality and competence to name just two – and that some unlikely heroes (I use the word lightly) will be thrown up. Oh, it’s all so exciting.
On a much lighter note, I see that the beeb has a picture of a windswept Ian Paisley arriving in Scotland for the talks. I’m no expert on headwear, of course, but it seems to me that the big lad’s hat is not a million miles off the “broad, black brimmer of the IRA”, a style much favoured by the boys back in the day. Mind you, Big Ian has in the past also famously donned a beret – another style favoured by revolutionaries, a la Che Guevara. What next, I wonder? Gerry Adams in an Armani sash? Or how about Martin McGuinness in a dapper wee 12th of July bowler – with all his fishing flies neatly arranged along the headband. Peter Hain, of course would be free to wear whatever he wished – but I reckon he’d struggle to get anything to fit the biggest head in politics.
On a more personal note, its been the end of another fruitful, satisfying and often very funny week in the world of what it is I do. (To those of you who don’t really know me, I’ll tell you what I do when we’ve gotten to know each other better.) Why didn’t I go into business in this way years ago, I wonder. Maybe the truth lies in the fact that I’ve always been a bit of late developer. That, of course, is a phrase that often gets bandied about very flippantly but – to be serious for a moment – I actually think it’s true with me. Why’s that, you say? Well it’s the old Catholic boarding school thing: too much bromide in the tea. When I think about the taste of that stuff we were given three times a day I’m often tempted to round up a few witnesses and take the buggers to court. Would it be possible to sue on the grounds of lost earnings through not being mature enough to apply oneself to a sensible job? It’s possible. Although the counter to that would be that fact that no bromide might have actually encouraged inapproprite promiscuousness. I might even have a whole extra legion of kids to support by now. So maybe we’ll just let it lie.
Anyway, sorry if I went on a bit there – it’s just that my wife is watching Pat Kenny in the next room and I need any possible excuse in order not to watch that wooden lump. God Save Ireland from him and his ilk.
Bald blogging bloke in Belfast boldly writes…
These are some of the things that please me. Or annoy me. Or just plain happen to me. A lot of it's going to be about music, sport, marketing and family things. There'll be the odd sarcastic rant as well - I hope. It'll probably be written quite fast and be frequently daft or confusing. Or both. Spelling/typing may be up the left too. So if that's not your cup of tea there's not much point in wading through it all. Not entirely sure how all the technical bits work but I'm going to give it a go. If I do something terribly off-blog, just let me know.
Joan as Policewoman;
Ali Farke Toure - Savane;
Loretta Lynn;
Tinarawien;
The Killers - Sam's Town;
Freddie King;
The Bothy Band;
Duke Special;
Johnny Cash - American V;
Pat Metheny - The Way Up;
The Blind Boys of Alabama;
David Bowie - Scary Monsters; to name a few...
On God Save Ireland’s bedroom table…
Richard Dawkins: The God Delusion; John Grant: The Brand Innovation Manifesto; Russell Davies: Egg, Bacon, Chips and Beans; John McGahern: Memoir; and that Iain Banks book about touring Scottish distilleries
Next Month’s Dinner Party List:
God Save Ireland; Mrs God Save Ireland; Mohammed Ali; Shane McGowan; Eamon McCann; Queen Elizabeth 1; Marcel Marceau; Mary Magdalene; Alan Hansen; and Martin the Weatherman from TV3.
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