I know I’m probably discovering this far later than everyone else, but I have been in stitches laughing at this:

Jimmy Kimmel is a TV host in the US who has a late night chat show. The Ben Affleck video is a supposed revenge reply to his girlfriend’s video, “I’m Fucking Matt Damon”. Fair play to all the stars who played their part in it – Brad Pitt, Robin Williams, Don Cheadle, Cameron Diaz, Harrison Ford, Macy Gray, Josh Groban, McLovin (Woohoo!), Meat Loaf and, of course, Ben Affleck. Better than Live Aid!!!

For balance, here is Sarah Silverman’s original video:

I meant to write this a few days ago.

When I did the MovieExtras thing last week, I made a new friend (it seems to be something of a trend these days). David O’Neill is a future star (nothing wrong with positivity) and it was great to meet the guy.

He and a number of others have put together Ireland’s answer to Shaun of the Dead (I’m sure director Niall O’Rourke won’t mind me drawing parallels, particularly if he ends up having the success parallel to Shaun of the Dead). The trailer is below and it looks kitsch, it looks cheap, it looks disturbing – in short, it’s looks brilliant. So, I wish them the best of luck with it and I hope for an invite to the premiere.

Is blogging just another fad?

Inspired by Mark’s post, I started thinking about my new obsession, blogging. It’s fair to say that I go through fads and phases. From an early age I gave up playing the recorder, I gave up playing the guitar, I gave up drama, I gave up singing, I gave up art, I gave up writing, I gave up fishing (yep!), I gave up cycling (incidentally, I just got a bike as a present), I gave up college, I gave up, I gave up, I gave up. It’s fair to say I don’t have much of a track record for follow through. It’s fair to say I say “It’s fair to say” too much!

So, why is this any different? For starters, I’ve always wanted an avenue back to writing (not so much for fishing). I like to put my thoughts on paper (or screen!). My brain is usually a garbled mess and writing it all down helps to sort things out and give structure to my thoughts (my PDA and Filofax are lifesavers). So, this is less a fad and more an extension of something I’ve been doing in a very solitary way for quite some time.

But this can’t just be a diary, can it? Well, yes and no! Yes, it is a form of ‘public diary‘ where people can read what you’ve been up to and what you’ve been reading about, but as it is public, there is the drive to make it more interesting, to embellish, to draw the reader in. So, no it needs to be more that just a diary, imho.

Grandad says he’s blogging to state a personal opinion, and if he influences people then he’s delighted. I like that! That sounds like the answer I’d want to give after I’ve been blogging for a while. But, Mr Grandad Man, I wonder if you’d still be writing so feverishly and frequently if you didn’t have a readership base? I wonder if just writing your opinions down is enough or does the ego need the feedback? I’ve enjoyed the feedback I’ve gotten so far. I’ve been both surprised and uplifted by it. Perhaps it’s the feedback that will give me the impetus to keep going after the fad or phase subsides. We’ll see!

But, for the moment, I’m loving it. It’s making me think more and ask questions, both of myself and the world around me.

And it helps that I have a few friends who are interested in it, Darragh in particular, and are not belittling me (as I may have expected). Indeed, the Otter Half, in support or something, has begun a blog of her own. So please get over there and lend her your love….or at the very least, a kind word.

Update: Rick O’Shea just answered the question “What is a Blog Blob?”

So, following on from Saturday night….

Okay, admittedly, yes, well, Sunday……didn’t begin well. I was unsurprisingly heavily hungover. Now, my general way to cope with hangovers is denial; this coupled with the fact that I wanted to appear somewhat alert for everyone I was visiting led me to go into hyper mode. That may be why I had no real problem with being woken up by my little brother and my camera:

Okay, so maybe I had a bit of a problem with being woken up, but I quickly came to.

I was greeted, when I finally ventured downstairs, to a big fry up. I know a lot of people in a hungover state would turn their noses at this, but I believe there is nothing better that a big greasy fry to make you feel better.

While I was sad to be heading off (I really had a fantastic weekend), I couldn’t wait to get home to herself. And screw you if you think that’s too mushy!

My journey home was a damn sight better than my journey down. I got the 2.30 train from Limerick and all I wanted to do was nestle into my seat, knock on the iPod and drift away. But, as is the norm with me, someone decided to start talking to me. Okay, so, generally, I’d be more than up for chatting with random strangers. It can be fun and it’s great to meet new people. But as soon as this guy said hello, my hangover said “What the fuck? No, no way! Don’t you dare engage him in conversation!!”. But, I fought my hangover and started chatting to this dude, who turned out to be a great bloke. In fact, we talked non-stop from Limerick to Heuston, from Heuston to Connolly and then from Connolly down to Sydney Parade, where he almost missed his stop because we were deep in conversation.

So, I’d like to thank him for making my journey a quick and interesting one.

But….at long last I arrived home to Lottie and I can’t remember the last time I was so happy to see someone. It’s always nice to get away, but it’s wonderful to come home.

So, after the fiasco of Friday evening, which has led me to vow never to get on a bus again, I found myself waking on Saturday morning in Clare. It was my twin sisters’ confirmation day and a chance for me to meet my many new relations.

I guess the first genus of Neo Familius I met are not strictly relations of mine. They are Biomammy’s husband’s brother and his family. That was fine and easy, no complications, or discomfort. I could only hope the rest of the weekend would go as smoothly.

I struggled to recall the last time I was in a church. I think it was my Otter Half’s mother’s wedding two Christmases ago. Prior to that it was a similar length of time. I wasn’t really mentally prepared for it. I forgot that being a kids confirmation, there would be singing, embarrassing sermons from the Archbishop and, of course, surreal performance art. What? You mean performance art is not a staple of confirmation day? Well, apparently it is in Clare.

Naturally, and rather shamefully, I took to a fit of the giggles. I couldn’t help it and I couldn’t stop. The Archbishop did not help the situation by exclaiming, “Now boys and girls, I’ve got a little something to show you”! He was, of course, referring to a picture of the Holy Trinity….ahem…..of course.

Is giggling at mass a mortal sin? Well, it doesn’t matter – i think I’m already condemned to hell for living in sin with my girlfriend, takes the lord’s name in vane, coveting my neighbour’s very sexy, truly beautiful, sleek, black, 42″ Plasma television. Oh and let’s not forget that genetical modified microwavable meal I had last week. I really don’t think I’m suited to Pope Benedict the Idiot’s Sixteenth’s new batch of no-no’s. (Have a look at Bock’s Blog on this or Grandad’s ‘Bless me Father’ post.)

Truthfully, the slightly lengthly ceremony was quite nice. The twins looked lovely and seemed very proud to be there. As I sat there (holding back the giggles) I did find myself looking around at the very beautiful building and the interactions between the community. I always thought the moment at mass where everyone shook hands and declared “Peace be with you” was one of the better Catholic customs. Why can’t the church be more about that and less about the condemnation of my microwaved pasta dish.

The twins seemed to have a great time and they made a fortune in confirmation money which is, I’m sure you’ll all agree, the most important thing. I was just happy to be down spending a bit of time with them all, even if it was in a church.

The ceremony finished 367 hours later and we legged it home to watch the oh-so-brutal Ireland v. Wales game. The most entertaining part was watching George Hook border on a coronary.

I spent much of the day drinking, eating, eating more and drinking more. Meeting random friends and family was going very well (I have no recollection of most of their names, but I think I bluffed it well enough). Next came the terrifying meeting with Biomammy’s mother. She got quite the build up. I was more than a little nervous (though I hid it well under my guise of Mr Easygoing Man). The first thing that shocked me about her was the wheelchair. I’m sure Biomammy mentioned it, but she spoke of her as such an imposing, almost battleaxian, figure that I pictured her with eight legs and towering just slightly higher than the house. Secondly, her age – she was far older than I had imagined. Again, this came from the build up she got. If I’m honest, I had prepared myself to really dislike her. In particular, I was all set to have an angry debate with her, should she turn out to be some mad religious zealot. As it was, she was a kindly old woman – she held my hand and told me how wonderful it was to meet me. She hugged and kissed me and tears welled up in her eyes. How could anyone dislike this person? I thought she was lovely. And later, we drank together, which is always a good thing.

Post the Biomammy’s-mammy-meeting, I completely relaxed. I felt very comfortable wandering through the house between different groups of family friends, siblings and other assorted relatives. And, I particularly hit it off with a chap who introduced himself as my ‘Cuz’. The night gets blurry after this. There was more food (a lot of prawns), some Singstar on the PS3, a variety of bizarre world music (that I felt obliged to say “yeah, this sounds really great” about, even though it sounded like something early on rejected from Paul Simon’s Gracelands album), then there was Brendan Grace’s pub and I know I played Darts, because there’s photographic evidence.

After that….there’s nothing…..

I was in great form, cloud nine, fucking jubilant in fact. It’s Friday, I got out of work (every so slightly) early, and then….I got on the Limerick bus from Busárus.

I can’t blame CIE for my being stuck at the back of the queue and therefore getting the second last seat on the bus. Equally, I can’t blame CIE for the man I got stuck sitting beside, a man endowed with Charlie Landsborough‘s looks and the temperament of Gorgon Ramsey. Couple him with the loud chatty woman in front of him and you have a recipe for disaster.

Sidenote – why did I not sit in the other available seat? I could smell that guy from four rows away. People were standing and that seat was still vacant.

The entertainment begins when her phone rings….loudly….a number of times….before she finally answers it. At this stage Charlie is already irritated. He’s mumbling (not very quietly) things about ‘bloody women’, ‘fucking mobiles’ and ‘cupid hunt’ (I may have misheard). When Chatty finally answers, it’s clear Charlie would prefer to still be listening to her ringtone. To say she was loud would be a gross understatement.

Let me paint you a picture: Chatty is in the front leftmost seat of the bus, Charlie and I are directly behind her. At the very far back of the bus on the right hand side, there’s a young couple, clearly in love, longingly looking into each others eyes. Although they’ve only been together for a short time, they have promised eternal devotion to each other. For them, there is no one else in the world; for them, there is only the eyes of the other; for them, there is no bus. And yet, even they were startled back to reality by the noise of this woman’s voice.

“Hello! Hello! Hello, can you hear me? Hello? Who’s this? I can’t hear you! Hello? I can’t…..oh, hello Margaret, how are you? What? What? WHAT? Oh, yeah, I missed a few calls and text things. I don’t know how to work it so I just let it ring. WHAT? No, no, Michael’s dead! Sure, he’s gone before Christmas. I know it’s terrible! Young? No, not at all, he was older than me. Oh, MICHAEL!! He’s fine! Has his Leaving this Summer. Listen Margaret, I’m on the bus, so I’ll let you go. What? WHAT? Yeah, Limerick! We’re just pulling out of Busárus now. What? Ah, he’s not is it? Well, send him my love. What? I know, I know!”

This went on….and on…..and on….until Charlie snapped. Again note, we’re still in Dublin city centre on the start of a three and a half hour journey! He stood, or at least he attempted to stand. It was then I noted he probably had a few drinks on him, although he didn’t smell like a brewery, so I didn’t mind too much. I wish I had a few! He stood up and shouted at Chatty to “quiet down and stop annoying everyone”. She promptly lowered her vocal volume and soonafter finished her call to Margaret. I think much of the bus saw him as a hero – I just saw a scary person.

The bus was quiet for a while (very quiet) and a pleasing side effect of his drinking set in. He nodded off to sleep. I relaxed, I listened to what was going on around me and I took out my phone to began this blog.

A guy on his phone close to me says, “…the blood, unless it’s in very close proximity won’t have any effect”. An odd comment! I think it has something to do with farming and cows.

According to Matt Cooper on Today FM, Gerry Ryan and his wife have separated. And that was the moment Chatty got going again. Apparently, she is friends with the woman sitting beside her, who has so far been silent. Seemingly, the news of Gerry and Moira’s separation was of dire consequence to everyone’s lives. Well, so Chatty believes. Her initial volume returns briefly, but she quickly realises and lowers it down. Apart from a mumbled ‘fuck sake’, Charlie remains reasonably stoic.

Apart from Cooper on the radio, things remain quiet for a while.

The bus is unpleasant. It’s too warm, it’s stuffy, the coughing from behind me is giving me the shivers and the broken light above me is beginning to piss me off. It’s neither fully on nor completely off. It’s in some kind of limbo state. If light bulbs walk towards the light as they expire, this one was definitely resisting. This one was clinging to life by a thread. Perhaps it has unfinished business back home – a wife, kids to look after. As I sit here feeling sympathy for the dying light, rather than pissed off, I realise I’ve got slightly mad. iPod time, methinks!

We’ve stopped to take on more people, onto the already overfilled bus. The last guy to get on was black. And the bus really had reached it’s limit. The painful struggle and fear on the face of the busdriver, as he told Mr Black that the bus was full was a treat to watch. I know Mr Busdriver isn’t racist, Mr Busdriver knows he isn’t racist, Mr Black knows that Mr Busdriver is not racist, but the fear of what may be perceived was scribbled all over his face. He got up from his seat and searched down the bus, desperately seeking a seat for Mr Black. He soon returned and I really had to hold back the laughter as Mr Busdriver innocently delivered this line: “You’ll have to sit at the back of the bus!”. 

Charlie started mumbling again: “I can’t see myself making it, I can’t see myself making it”. Now, the first thing I thought this meant was that he was about to snap and kill someone – me perhaps. But then I relaxed when I figured he probably just needed to pee. The panic returned again, when I thought of him relieving himself on the seat next to me. I swear I can feel the seat getting wet.

Two hours on the bus now. It just dawned on me I haven’t a clue where I’m getting off. Mr Busdriver says he’ll let me know when we get to Birdhill. He seems trustworthy, but fingers crossed.

We’re at Portlaoise (I’m told it’s an hour from Birdhill) and Charlie is getting off. I’m tentative about moving in to the window seat. I doubt he’s peed, I really doubt it, but I don’t want to check. Alright, alright, people are getting on.

Well, it’s dry! It’s warm! It’s a window seat! Things are looking up. I miss the train. Well, why didn’t you get the damn train? It’s so expensive, that’s why! Is it any wonder people don’t use public transport. The only service halfway comfortable costs a mint (€28.50) and the cheap option (I paid €10 single journey) feels like I’m living the final moments of a not-yet-dead hamster, whose owner is burying it in a shoebox in the back garden on a sunny Summer’s day. Hope comes in the form of the neighbour’s doberman.

Oh God, hope is fading. The nice quiet, not smelly woman who boarded at Portlaoise and sat beside me, is travel sick. While she hasn’t vomitted yet, she’s close to it.

There she goes!

Well, at least she had a sick bag with her. That’s thoughtful! It smells awful in here now. The aircon is on full, so instead of roasting to death, I’m going to freeze. Do they have hamsters in the Arctics? Is there such a thing as a Snow Hamster?

If anyone manages to read this far down, thanks for hearing my moans. I guess, it’s not that bad. I’m nearly there and the smell is subsiding (or I’m just becoming accustomed to it). I should have gotten the train. I know this. I could stretch out. I could use the toilet. I could have my book out on the table in front of me. I could cut and hour off my journey time. I could get a beer or two. Mmm beer!

Anyone want to know why I’m making this trip? It’s my twin sisters’ confirmation tomorrow. It’s great getting down to celebrate (is celebrate the right word? I guess so) with them. So, wish me luck for a good weekend. I’ll talk to you all on Monday.

I’m getting the train next time!

Final Note: As Chatty alighted, she announced in her very loud voice to Mr Busdriver –

“Thanks very much! I had a lovely ride!”

The whole front of the bus fell into hysterical laughter. It’s been a long journey, I think we all needed a good giggle.

Three years ago, I was struggling monetarily, paying a ridiculous monthly rent in a city centre apartment; I was in the midst of a career in hospitality, working ungodly hours for low pay and little thanks. I had very few real friends and rarely socialised, but none of that matters when you’re in love.

That was the backdrop of my life when I saw Blood Brothers at the Gaiety Theatre for the first time. It was an unforgettable experience and the show immediately became one of my favourite musicals, but certainly my favourite staged drama.

Three years later, my circumstances have changed significantly. Importantly, I’m still in love with the same amazing girl, and I am still in awe of an astounding musical and a story that amazes time and time again.

Last night, I returned to the Gaiety to, once more, hear Rebecca Storm as Mrs. Johnston, the impoverished, put-upon, too-old-for-her age, Liverpudlian single mum. Put in an impossible position, she finds herself handing one of her newborn twin boys over to her infertile employer, who yearns for a child of her own. Thus begins the slippery slope towards tragedy. But, before we reach any degree of despair, we are provided with a first act of hilarity with clever lyrics, funny tunes, slapstick performances and, of course, grown men and women pretending to be kids (“It really doesn’t matter, The whole thing’s just a game”.)

We meet Mickey, Eddie and Linda, two firm friends (twins, separated at birth, unbeknownst to them) and their female compatriot, a girl who would eventually fall in love with both men. Mickey (played by a ridiculously talented Sean Jones) was raised by Storm’s Mrs Johnston, along with her seven other children, and grows up on the breadline with neighbour Linda, while Edward ‘Eddie’ Lyons was raised by the neurotic and uptight, upper class Mrs Lyons, never wanting for anything except a normal life with his friends.

As we follow the trio’s journey from childhood, through adolescence and onward to young adulthood, we, the audience, are happy to join in their games and cheer with them and sing along, but there is always a shadow lurking at the corner of our eyes, in the form of the narrator, played by a very natural (undoubtedly due to his many years in the role) Keith Burns. He reminds us of the superstitious warning once uttered by Mrs Lyons to Mrs Johnston that if either twin should discover the other twin exists, they shall both immediately die. In an example of foreshadowing similar to the ‘star crossed lovers’ destiny in Romeo and Juliet, we all know what is coming, but we are praying it won’t.

The second act dispenses with much of the frivolity and we see the real reason this musical has been such a long running success. The woes of adulthood weighing on the lives of Mickey and Linda are played out with a painful ring of honesty on stage. As we see them try to cope with recession, unemployment and depression we are drawn in completely. So much so, that the ultimate finale, which I know all too well, still came as a shock.

The music, the story, the performances in Blood Brothers resonated for me, as I saw the potential my life had to become like Mickey in the play, had I not escaped the small mindedness of small town Ireland….well, there but for the grace of some random deity go I. And I was not the only person with whom this story struck a chord. There were a number of teary eyes in the house throughout the show, not least from the lady sitting beside us, who began blubbery as the overture began.

It is rare today to find something that can stir so many emotions, leaving you feeling sad and uplifted in unison. Please, please, please, if you have never seen Blood Brothers, go see it now. It runs in the Gaiety until Saturday 15th March. If you have already seen it, then I’m sure it needs no recommendation from me. You’ve already bought your return ticket.

Update: apparently tickets are extremely limited.

Never have I seen truth and comedy combined so well in a cartoon. This is my cat:
 

This, however, is Simon’s cat:
 

It is one year since beginning the process to find out who my Biomammy is. Indeed, it’s a full year since I ticked the boxes and registered with the Adoption Board‘s Preference Register. And since then, it’s been one of the most hectic, stressful and fun-filled years of my life.

I have found a whole new group of friends (the best I’ve ever known), an entire family who have made me feel so very welcome; I have a working life I enjoy and a social life that’s wearing me out, but I’ve no intention of giving it up.

I find myself taking a figurative breath for the first time in a long while, and I’m looking back at how I arrived here. And yes, I do mean right here……sitting on a DART, writing a blog (a what?) on my lovely Pocket PC. It’s a far cry from sitting in Business Studies class in the De La Salle ten years ago, beside my only friend Fergal, listening to the teacher drivel on about the weekend’s football results, all the while being stabbed in the back (literally) with a compass. I don’t recall any strong desire or ambition beyond one day getting out of that cess pit. I certainly couldn’t in my most fantastical dreams see myself settled in my own home, with a beautiful, amazing girlfriend, surrounded by a large group of friends whom I trust, and yes, love. But that nerdish little teen was in existence ten years ago. Right now I’m trying to recall only one year ago.

It all began in Paris a year and three weeks ago and has been a year of journeys, both physical and mental. I have met piggies in Galway; drunkenly conducted a ‘traditional Irish folk group’ consisting of a Romanian and a Latvian in Sligo; played football (for three minutes before suffering some kind of attack, reserved only for the unfit fool who stupidly believes that a little kick-around can do him no harm) in Navan; discovered that everyone in Clare knew all about me before I had even arrived to meet my brand new familial branch; fell head over heels for Sushi in Sotogrande, Spain (before taking a 220km per hour taxi journey back to the apartment in 20 minutes when it should have taken an hour); I bought an eight thousand euro bathroom in Greystones, and came to the realisation that I had become an adult. But one of the longest journeys I undertook began in the Burlington Hotel (a twenty minute walk from my workplace), where I met Teresa, the Biomammy, for the first time (well, the first time that i can remember – she recalls a time when i was a damn sight smaller and far less talkative).

I’m not sure exactly when I began jokingly referring to my biological mother as the Biomammy (actually, i would imagine in was in a drunken conversation with a friend of mine, Gary, during which he devised all the best ways to take the piss out of me, after i told him i was adopted – “So, what was it like when you found out you were abandoned on a doorstep?” – Honestly, this is humour for him Update: Apparently it was my Otter Half and not Gary, as they have both now informed me), but Biomammy always seemed far less serious and clinical that biological mother. Biological mother! It sounds like I was designed in a lab.

From what I’ve heard, read, been told, the process of linking with a Biomammy (or any other long lost biological parent) can take a very long time. Even when both partieds are on the preference register, the process can still be quite drawn out. The generous side of me wants to say it’s because many people need time to emmotionally prepare for the meeting, and the adoption board is aware of this. But I think it’s fairer to say that the board is another state body that is underfunded, inefficient and painfully beurocratic. The reason I say that I want to give themn the benefit of the doubt, is that my story was so very different to all the horror stories, the failed meetings, the tears, the sorrows. Mine was a simple process. Mine was quick, easy and straightforward.

I was lucky enough to register at a time when the Board was undergoing some changes. Barnadoes, who usually handle the mediation (I think that’s the correct word) were overworked and unavailable and the Adoption Board’s administrator, Grainne (to whom I’m eternally grateful) saw my file, saw Teresa’s file, put them together and made two phonecalls. Within two weeks, Teresa and I had exchanged letters and less than two weeks after that, we found ourselves in the Burlo Berkley Court.

So, was it difficult? Not in the least! In minutes, Teresa and I were chatting like two people who had known each other for many years. We exchanged photos, stories of our lives; I met her husband and we hit it off too. It was all very comfortable, very simple and, of course, highly emoptional. However, both of us managed to maintain our cool and held back the blubbering tears (in front of each other, at least).

In no time whatsoever, we were exchanging emails and I was Bebo-ing my little brother. Indeed, I have gone from having just one sister to having three (Teresa has twin daughters aged 12 now) and from zero brothers to two (a teen and a ridiculously cute 10 year old). And they are all wonderful. The eldest (of my new siblings) has just turned 16 and I was very worried that he might have a problem with me. But no, he made it all very easy for me. On Bebo we discovered how very similar we are in our likes and behaviours. It was very surprising.

It was wonderful then meeting the entire family for the first time. We (the Otter Half and I) drove to Clare and had an amazing (and drunken) weekend. Since then, things have just gotten better and better. We’ve all become very close and I am looking forward to going down to Clare again for the twins Confirmation this weekend.

Well, I’m very glad to share my success story. I hope to expand on it and gloat a bit more about my great life and if you have any comments, questions or gripes, please let me know. I’m an absolute open book and I hope people enjoy what they read.

I had a fantastic evening on Saturday. As I said, my friend Darragh informed me that I would be going to the Blog Awards and I was so apprehensive, but I was immediately put at my ease on arrival. Firstly, by the delightful Suzy (Maman Poulet) and then by Ross Corrigan, known to most, I think, as “the fucker with the mohawk”. Ross, you and Ken are stars. I hope to have pints with ye again.

The whole blogging thing is completely new to me. But I’m a convert. As I said to Conn of EdgeCast, it’s been amazing to read articles written with passion and wit, not often found in the mainstream press. I have spent much of Sunday adding an endless stream of RSS feeds from the wonderful Grannymar to the incredibly talented Rick O’Shea; from the bizarre IceCreamIreland to the surprisingly confusing DOBlog. I’ll be reading for weeks just to catch up on the abundance that I feel I’ve missed out on.

Congratulations to everyone who won on the night…and indeed, congratulations to all the nominees. Just so you are all aware (in case you haven’t already realised) you are all so well liked and respected that people don’t just feel that your blogs are worth commenting on, but they feel you are worthy of awards. I hope each and every one of you have egos the size of the Alexander Hotel today. You deserve it! You have earned it! Well done!

Well, as part of a blossoming tradition, we (me and my otter half!) celebrated her birthday by going to the Choice Music Prize for the third year. The Choice Music Prize is for Irish Album of the Year and has produced some controversial decisions the last couple of years (how Duke Special missed out twice is a crime against music) and this year was no different.

Vicar Street was filled with blank faces as Super Extra Bonus Party (hitherto known as SEBP to save my poor aging fingers) were announced as the winners. There was an audible silence when the announcement was made, before shock subsided and the oom went wild for SEBP.

Continue Reading »

I first joined MovieExtras.ie last summer and was surprised to be immediately plying my ‘extra’ trade down in Powerscourt in Wicklow, on the set of The Old Curiosity Shop. Though the day was long, it was a lot of fun and I met some great people (and, of course, I was paid for my time).

Today, I find myself in an advert (confidentiality forbids me from saying what for just yet, but I’ll update it soon). Slightly different from the Dickensian period costume drama, I was running around Tower Records and Pearse Street DART Station making as much noise as possible.

I have been invited along to the Irish Blog Awards by my delightfully geeky friend Darragh, so I thought it an appropriate time to get this blogrolling.

Firstly, congratulations to all the nominees at the awards. The final shortlist has been announced and I have linked to each of the sites below:

Best Blog Finalists

• Bock The Robber
• Ice Cream Ireland
• Maman Poulet
• On The Record
• Fatmammycat.com
• Beaut.ie
• Twenty Major
• Gingerpixel
• Irish Flirty Something
• Grannymar

I am in awe of all these people who are essentially modern day journalists. It’s inspiring to see how much of a reaction they get from the general public. The comments and discussions sparked by these (often insightful, often bizarre) blogs is evidence that people today want more than a pompous commentary from Kevin Myers or a biased review from a press censored reviewer. And, of course, people want to talk about Ice Cream, which is not done enough on RTE’s SixOne News.

I’m looking forward to meeting some of the faces behind the words and I can only hope to have a fraction of their readership in the future. I can only imagine the satisfaction they must have from knowing that so many people are interested in what they have to say and look forward to each blog entry with anticipation.

Some day…some day!