DarrenByrne.com

I have two things to say to Mr Gray Wright:

Firstly, your name is so damn cool. I’m sure it’s a pseudonym to keep you in the land of anon, but I hope it’s a real name because I love it.

Secondly, you may have teetered over the edge and fallen into insanity. Maybe!

Gray is a new blogger who writes on Sinful Origami Paper and has a nice turn of phrase which forced me to go back and read all of his posts (it wasn’t too much work – there’s only 9 posts). I would particularly recommend reading Broken Places.

Today’s post, Stranger Than Fiction, shows him slipping into madness, but there is something in what he’s saying. Stuck in a Truman Show psychosis, he is worried that everything may be an illusion, a figment of the imagination. So, is he right? Is the whole world a stage in which we are all the players and he is the director. Or worse, is his girlfriend pulling the strings? Aagh! I think he’s taking me down with him.

Go check out his blog…now…go on…

Seemingly some people had problems accessing my Another Saturday post as part of the Seven Bloggers Project. The problem appears to have sorted itself out now. So, go on, give it a read.

Another Saturday…

Lottie will be taking over the reigns held last week by Deborah on Avoiding Life and AJ on LeCraic the first week, to live blog tonight’s episode of The Apprentice Ireland. Tune in to TV3 at 9 this evening with laptops at the ready to praise, ridicule, berate and critique the contestants this week.

Show up and support Lottie – she’s nervous. 🙂

After my recent punnery on the show’s title, I discover that one of the greatest TV shows ever is returning. The Krypton Factor, which originally ran for 18 years and finished in 1995, will return for a new revamped series next year.

ITV say it will be harder and include the latest technology to create a new show for the 21st century. I’m excited. I think the only thing better would be news that they are bringing back The Crystal Maze.

Maxi has got our creative juices flowing this week. He has set up a little project involving seven bloggers with seven different viewpoints. Each of us were challenged to continue the previous person’s story in a new voice. English Mum kicked it off, so you can start the trail there. Thriftcriminal followed her and H of Shitetalker, came next. Maxi had his chance then and passed the baton to me. It was an interesting piece for me to write and I’d love to read any comments you might have.

When I was done, I passed it over to Darragh and he gave it to K8 to finish the story of seven parts.

So, I’m picking up where Maxi left off…

Story links: Intro | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 6 | part 7

__________________________________________________________

I nervously drag myself towards him. On the outside I’m a wreck; I’m a pale, shaking pillar of anxiety, with a quivering voice and a head firmly buried in my chest. Inside, I’m different. I’m someone people should listen to, take heed of. If they knew what went on inside, they wouldn’t fuck with me.

But on the outside…

I nervously drag myself towards him and tap him lightly on the shoulder.

“Are you the manager?” I ask, knowing perfectly well he is. Why don’t I just grab him by the throat, kick him in his lardy stomach and then when he writhes on the floor, smash that wine bottle over his head? Why don’t I? He deserves it.

He is taking a decade to turn around. People are always doing this to me. They think my time isn’t important. It’s very fucking important. I’m an important man and I could have deadlines and meetings. He should move faster. He doesn’t know what I could do.

He finally turns fully and I take a shaky half step backwards. Why did I do that?

“Pardon?” he says.

He was just doing it to piss me off. He knew what I said. He knew what I asked. He was like all the others. Like my ex wife. Like my mother. Like my boss and my kids and the guy at the train station. They know what I said. Why do I always have to repeat myself?

I take a deep breath. I know what I’m going to say to him. I know what I’m going to do. I’ll clasp my hands onto his hair. I’ll drag him down to my level. I’ll shove a fork in his ear – then he’ll have reason to say ‘pardon’. Everything would be ‘pardon’. He’ll be ‘pardon’ on the phone and ‘pardon’ at home and ‘pardon’ with his customers. He’ll regret ever saying ‘pardon’ to me.

I try to speak, but my throat dries up. I clear it and meekly say, “Excuse me, are…are you the manager?”

Of course he’s the fucking manager. What a stupid question? My mind races back to that idiot cyclist earlier in the day who went through that red light. I should have pushed him over. I should have pushed him onto the road and smashed his head in with my shoes. I should have stuck my umbrella between his spokes and sent him flying through the air. His face would be mangled on the tarmac and his nose would crack open. The red blood would cover the road and he’d never run a red light again. I should have done that.

“Yes, how can I help you?” he says. Pretentious prick. Help me? He can’t help himself. He thinks he’s something special with his fancy restaurant and his stupid uniform and his tea towel on his arm and his name badge and his perfect hair. I want to tell him how dumb he looks. I want to knee him in his balls and make him cry on the floor. I’ll rip out his hair and I’ll take his name badge. I’ll burn his whole fucking restaurant down around him. He makes me so angry.

Even now he’s smiling and waiting for me to say something. What if I say nothing? What if I just stare at him? He’d be scared. He’d wonder what I was going to do. He’d be worried. He should be worried.

I knew what I wanted to say. I wrote it down before I left Mother’s house. I had a plan. Where did I put my notepad?

I fumble. I search my pockets. I look in my briefcase. It’s not there.

I can feel my heart rate increase. My palms are becoming sweaty and my vision is blurring. Where is my notepad? Where did I put it? I looked at the manager and he is still smiling at me.

I can’t breathe.

“Is everything ok?” he asks.

“NO! No, it’s not,” I shout at him. I don’t know where that came from.

I run. I turn to him and I say “sorry” and keep running. My chest hurts. I can’t breathe. I fall over a chair, making a loud thud as I hit the ground. I can feel people staring at me. I’m crying now. I’m crying loudly. I get up and run. I don’t stop running. I’m running and I don’t know where I’m going. I’m still crying and my leg hurts. Why does my leg hurt? I can’t breathe. I have to stop.

I look around. I’m on a street corner somewhere and people are looking at me. My head is pounding and I don’t know where I am. I think I’ve stopped crying, but I’m still gasping for air. I take a deep breath and I look around again. Where am I?

I know where I am. I recognise that shop. I’m not far from home. Which direction? That way. I’m walking now. My head. It hurts so much. Why is my leg sore?

I’m nearly home. I’m limping now. What happened?

I look down and I see my trousers are red. Why are they red? I’m bleeding. My leg is bleeding. What happened? I don’t remember anything.

I don’t know how I got here.

I’m nearly home. I know that. But I don’t know where I was. Why is my leg bleeding?

I remember leaving the house. I said goodbye to Mother and I went out. I remember her face. She looked worried. Why was she worried?

I remember leaving the house and walking down the street. It was the first time I had been out of the house for a very long time. Why did I leave the house?

I see my front door and I see Mother. She runs to me.

“Oh my God, what happened to you? Are you ok? How did you do this?”

I can’t answer. I’m silent.

“What happened?” she screamed.

Silence. Everything is blurring again. It’s very dark.

………

I’m in my room, in my bed. I try to move and I stand up. My head hurts and my leg hurts. Why does my leg hurt?

I hear a shout from downstairs: “Are you ok up there?”

“Yeah”, I reply.

“Pardon?” she says.

“I’m fine,” I reply, louder this time.

Why do people always say that to me? Don’t they know who I am?

I look out my window, down onto the street and I see another bastard’s face, with his smug grin and know-it-all eyes. I’m going to kill him. I have a plan. Where did I put my notepad?

Lottie bought me a ring in Galway about 4 years ago. It’s a silver ring with the Lord of the Rings thingy on it – “One ring to guide us, one ring to blah blah blah“. I’m not a Tolkien fan and have only seen each of the movies once. I have seen no DVD commentaries, nor have I been to a convention. I just really liked the look of this ring we saw in the jewelery store window and Lottie bought it for me. I love it. Honestly, every time I look at it I feel something. Happy that I have such a great girlfriend, reminiscent of times past, sad that I’m stuck in work and am neither with Lottie nor in Galway. It reminds me that most of the greatest times of my life occurred when it was just me and her. It’s wonderful to have many friends around you, but it’s truly special to be able to share your life with just one. The ring is a small thing, but I love it.

Not long after my Granny passed away, I got a gift from my aunt. She’s my uncle’s second wife and I don’t really know her well. I don’t know her at all really. She gave me this gaudy glass picture frame, not anything I would pick for myself, and in it was a picture of me and my Granny on my sister’s confirmation day. She is sitting in my parents’ sitting room, looking glamourous as ever and I am sitting beside her in my blue shirt, yellow Bugs Bunny tie and mustard waist coat, with a blade 2 haircut. It’s the gayest I have ever looked. And yet, I treasure this present. It always has one of the prime photo positions in our sitting room.

Just over one year ago my biomammy came up to Dublin to see me and to celebrate my birthday with me for the first time since I was born. She drove all the way from Clare, just to see me and I took an extra long lunch break (which seems a little feeble now) to meet her for lunch. We went to Pacino’s restaurant at the bottom of Grafton Street and chatted away like we had known each other for many years. I loved it and I can say unreservedly that it was one of the greatest days of my life. At one point during the meal, she nervously produced a box, my birthday present. I wasn’t sure what to do – to rip it open, to save it until later, to casually unwrap it while still deep in conversation? She went to the bathroom and I tore the box open. In it was a beautiful Armani watch and underneath was an inscription – “To Darren, Love Teresa, 02-08-07”. I have worn it every day since then and I adore it. I look at it and am reminded of how lucky I am to have the wonderful life I do.

These are, indeed, a few of my favourite things. I am fairly materialistic and I do hoard a lot of junk, but these fall among the list of possessions that I treasure. If there were things I would grab as I legged it from my burning apartment, these would be included. I wonder if other people have some small items that mean this much to them – simple items that may not mean much to other people, but hold a special meaning to them?

I went to see comedian David O’Doherty in Vicar street last night. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Rick speaks highly of him and Anto thinks he’s a comedy genius. His support act was Wilson Dixon. Apparently he’s a Country Music star from Colorado and while I may doubt the veracity of his claims, I couldn’t knock his comedy. Taking a swipe at middle America, he was funny and smart, but once he was singing his comedy songs he shone. DOD had a tough act to follow.

He needn’t have worried, of course. O’Doherty’s natural comic act was hilarious. His laid back delivery and who-gives-a-fuck attitude make his show a great success. Some of his act fell off a bit, but most of it was lapped up by a very appreciative audience, me included.

This is DOD’s first gig since his return from winning the if.comedy award in Edinburgh and, according to him, his biggest gig to date. He will only get bigger.

Two rednecks, Bubba and Cooter, decide to go to college. Bubba goes first, and he is advised to take maths, history and logic.

— “What’s logic?” says Bubba.
— “Well, let me give you an example,” says the professor. “Do you own a tractor?”
— “Sure do,” says Bubba.
— “Okay. Then I assume, using logic, that you have a yard.”
— “That’s real good,” says Bubba, in awe.
— “Logic also tells me that since you have a yard, you also have a house. Is that right?”
— “Gawly!” says Bubba.
— “And since you own a house and a house is tough to take care of by yourself, the odds are that you have a wife. Right?”
— “Betty Mae! This is incredible!”
— “Finally, since you have a wife, logically I can assume you are heterosexual. Is that right?”

— “You are absolutely right! Why that’s the most fascinatin’ thang I ever heerd of. I can’t wait to take this here logic class!”

Bubba, proud of the new world opening up to him, goes back into the hallway where Cooter is waiting.

— “So what classes are ya takin’?” says Cooter.
— “Maths, history and logic,” says Bubba.
— “What in tarnation is logic?”
— “Let me give you an example,” says Bubba. “Do you own a tractor?”
— “No.”
— “Then you’re gay.”

Question: What did the Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?

Answer: Make me one with everything.

I‘m on the DART on the way home after the David O’Doherty gig in Vicar Street and I’ve been catching up on the affairs over in The Blog Pound. It’s a lively, if somewhat pointless debate spurred on by a rant from my best friend Mr Doyle. I’m not going to add anymore to the debate here. I don’t feel there’s a need.

However, in my reading, I followed a link to Le Craic’s blog this evening and now, sitting on the train laughing so hard I look like a buffoon, I’m receiving odd stares from my fellow passengers.

So, what has inspired my guffaws. AJ’s photoshopping skills have produced the best picture of me ever, with some sage words from yours truly included.

AJ, I love this. Still new to blogging, I have enjoyed it so much and it’s silly moments like this that make me realise why. It’s all fun. The online debates and the offline meetups; the lengthly reports on new Irish start-ups and the stories of bruised moobs; the lampooning videos of US Vice-Presidential candidates and the YouTube clips of a strange unicorn named Charlie; the smiling pictures of bloggers with Mickey Mouse and the photoshopped satire of the very talented AJ. All of these things make reading blogs far more interesting than just perusing the Independent in the morning or vegetating in front of Sky One all evening.

So…I say, let’s all meet up at the Web Awards and raise a glass to the Blogosphere and all who sail in her.

I haven’t had much of an online life lately – the offline world has been preoccupying my time. One of my favourite real world activities is going to the theatre and on Tuesday night, the Bruiser Theatre Company staged a production of The Case of the Frightened Lady in Greystones Theatre.

They describe it as a classic ‘who-dunnit’ for all ages, but it is so much more than that.

It is not a straight ‘who-dunnit’. In 1932 the acclaimed thriller writer, Edgar Wallace, receives a call from his publisher demanding the finished draft of his newest novel. The problem: he hasn’t written it yet. Throughout the night, he, his wife, his secretary and staff brainstorm and act out his entire new book devising plot, character and climax on the fly. Playing out each character to perfection were a cast of five – who each pretended to be a number of characters in the novel. As the evening progressed so too did the novel’s plot, but also the subplot of the tensions between Wallace, his wife and his secretary.

This play was hilarious, from start to finish. It didn’t miss a beat, probably because it was choreographed to perfection. Indeed the choreography was the most important part of the play. Each scene change, each gesture, each brief interaction was timed to the second. The mania and hysterics of the play didn’t let up right to the end and the audience truly felt as though it had been taken on a journey throughout.

Ultimately, the pay off – the reveal of who actually dunnit – is a little flat and there is no true drama building up to it. The subplot of the love triangle isn’t fleshed out to a finish either, which does disappoint. So, as a dramatic piece, the play does fall short, but as an out and out comedy it is wonderful. I laughed constantly and the comedy techniques employed were brilliant. Everything from the subtle glances, to the farcical prat falls, from the witty lines to the low brow ‘knob’ jokes, The Case of the Frightened Lady delivered beautifully.

Well done to the cast and all who were involved in putting this play on stage. I’ll will keep an eye out for future Bruiser Theatre productions.

Mr Maxi Cane is on a mission. If you haven’t yet heard of his Smellumentary, check out this link. He’s planning on going 30 days without washing, without changing his clothes and, worst of all, without changing his underwear. Do we want to be around him when he does this? Definitely not! But do we want to see how he gets on with his project? Absolutely!

Of course, it’s not enough just to sit at home and veg out for a month – you need to interact with the public; you need to watch their faces as you raise your arms to hail a taxi, Maxi. So, we have the Smellenges – challenging Maxi to do normal things, turned abnormal by the man’s filthy stench.

He has come up with some ideas himself, but I’ve got some smellenges of my own.

1. Go to the Cinema

Easy, yes? Well, there’s a bit more to it. You have to make a phonecall at 6.50pm from the top of Grafton Street, booking a 7pm showing in Cineworld on the other side of the city. Then, you just have to make it to the film on time. Simple! Oh, and it needs to be a recent release. We’ll be needing a packed house. 🙂

2. You Need to Look the Part

Maxi, you’re moving up in the world. The floral shirts and cycling shorts just won’t cut it anymore. When you’ve finished your Smellumentary, there’ll be TV interviews and press conferences. You’ll need to look the part. So, I think it a good idea to get measured for a lovely new suit. I’m told Brown Thomas’ men’s department are very helpful. See if they’ll take your measurements for a brand new suit.

3. Not All Male Grooming is Out

Fine, you may not be washing or changing your clothes, but that doesn’t mean you have to be a complete slob. A nice tight haircut and perhaps a shave will make you feel wonderful. I know a particularly fine Barber on the Quays and I’ll even fork out for the cost of the haircut, as long as I can be there to watch.

Well, Maxi, what do you think of those suggestions? If you’re not happy with them, I’m sure Lottie can come up with some even more diabolical ones. I bet Andrew has a lot of filth on his mind. And I’ve no doubt that Darragh can come up with something special – he may seem clean living, but he’s just a dirtmonger at heart. Guys, consider yourselves tagged.

The rules:

• Choose three activities that would antagonize the aroma and get up people’s noses
• Make sure they’re at least a little physical
• Keep them relatively simple, safe and legal
• Link your answers back here
• Give credit to the person who tagged you
• Tag three others

Oh, and if Maxi picks your challenge, you’ll get something very special – an official Smellumentary T-shirt, which he may even wear before giving to you…if you ask nicely.

Maybe I should give up training to be an accountant and become an events organiser instead. It sounds like a lot more fun.

Coronas are playing in Greystones, in the new theatre, on Sunday 5th October at 8pm. It’s a great venue with incredible sound, so it’s sure to be a good gig. Tickets are only €15 and we’ll be having a few drinks before and afterwards. Drop me a mail (darren at darrenbyrne dot com) if you want to come along and you can pay for the tickets on the night. Also, I’ll be taking the Monday off, if anyone plans on joining me for a late one (Anto, I’m talking to you here).

If you don’t know who Coronas are, then shame on you, but here’s their website.  Also, invite as many as you like – just let me know the numbers before Friday.

Additionally, just to give you a heads up – I’ll also be arranging a big night out for the end of Lottie‘s exams on October 10^th, with The Flaws playing in Greystones Theatre too. It’ll be one of our now infamous cocktail nights. It’s the night before the Web Awards on the 11^th, so let’s make a mad weekend out of it. I’ll talk more about that next week.

So, to the very few of you who have not been down to our apartment yet, let me know if you need directions, DART times, bus times, etc.

Thanks again to Movies.ie, we went to a preview of Death Race last night in Dundrum. This action movie with Jason Statham falls into the guilty pleasures category of my film tastes. Director, Paul W.S. Anderson, has also helmed the brilliant Event Horizon, along with the action packed Resident Evil and Alien vs Predator. I went into this movie with the full intention of switching my brain into autopilot and just enjoying the ride.

In the eighties, we had Schwarzenegger, Stalone, Van Damme, Seagal, John McClane, even Lethal Weapon brought out a great action star in Mel Gibson. Nowadays however, short of the occasional Bourne movie, the brief return of Bruce Willis in Die Hard 4 and the plethora of comic book movies, the action movie genre has become a bit watered down. Wonderful as the Dark Knight was, a man in tights just doesn’t inspire the same raw, instinctive growl deep down in the male psyche than seeing some reluctant cop in a vest crawl across broken glass while being shot at by German terrorists. Even Bond is a bit watery these days. So, I ask, is the action hero dead and gone, with Charles Bronson in his grave?

Jason Statham says no. To action fans Statham is already a star. Lock Stock, Snatch, The Transporter, Mean Machine and last years plotless but high octane adrenaline fest Crank secured him a cult following. He is a no-apologies, blunt, brutal action man, who cares little for plot or emotional drama and prefers to pump muscles and drive cars.

There is a loose plot to Death Race, which is a remake of the 1975 movie Death Race 2000. Essentially, Jensen Ames (Statham) is framed for the murder of his wife and is sentenced to prison. In a few years time, when the world economy is gone to shit and crime is an epidemic; the prisons have become the new Big Brother, where the inmates fight to the death to gain their freedom. The most popular ‘sport’ is the Death Race, where the drivers must bash, smash and crash their way across the finish line. If they kill a few opponents along the way, all the better. But this plot matters not. It’s an excuse to fill the screen with gratuitous violence, hot women and fast cars. The trick that this movie pulls, however, is that it makes no apologies for it. The Coach (played by a brilliant Ian McShane) even explains away the big breasted beauties as being good for ratings.

The movie is further improved by some solid supporting roles. McShane is flawless and even Tyrese Gibson presents a formidable foe for Ames. Joan Allen, in the role of prison warden Hennessy, is a stroke of genius though. I don’t know why this Oscar Nominated actress agreed to do this movie, but I’m glad she did. Her script shows that the film makers had their tongues firmly in cheek when making Death Race. With gusto and sheer joy she delivers the best (and worst) line of the movie –

Okay cocksucker. Fuck with me, and we’ll see who shits on the sidewalk.

It’s camp, over the top, fueled with energy from the explosive start right to the, well, explosive finish. Maybe it’s a bad movie but I loved it. A bad comedy can be saved by making the audiences laugh enough. A bad horror movie can be saved by scaring the bejaysus out of people. So, perhaps a bad action movie can be saved by being so fuel injected, so hyper, so insanely visual that it has the audiences pumping with adrenaline and joy. A grown man, sitting behind us in the cinema, actually screamed at one point. Surely that’s reason enough to go see this movie.

Whatever happened the Charlotte Church Show? I really enjoyed it. She was surprisingly funny (for an ex-classical singer and failed pop princess) and I loved the opening to each of her shows, when she sang her theme tune each week in a different style, with differing topical verses.

Here’s a few: