Pseudonym

‘What’s in name? A weed by any other name is still a weed.’

I recently heard that quote from an animated flamingo called Featherstone. Ok, so it’s not ‘exactly’ Shakespeare but I think we can allow a cartoon about gnomes based on a tale of teenage suicide some wiggle room.

Any child or unemployed person with a Cineworld pass knows, I am of course talking about Gnomeo and Juliet the 3D movie based on The Bards opus. Having developed something of a thing for Emily Blunts plummy British accent I took myself along to see (hear) her voice the titular Juliet. Not expecting much from the movie it was quite enjoyable and it did give me a nice intro into this week’s piece.

I’m incredibly fussy about what people call me. My opinion on somebody is instantly affected depending on how they address me. They say you only get one chance to make a first impression. Why would you mess that up by calling me something that isn’t my name? Getting someone’s name right is a simple courtesy.

I once worked a job where it was customary to change the names of anyone who might have an unusual name, usually foreign nationals. It’s not as if they had particularly hard names to say in the first place. One of the managers decided that one Chinese workers name was too difficult to pronounce so that became Paul.

Of course if he’d been Irish on a British Building site he would have been called Paddy. Apparently that was different. That was racial. This was just convenient. I’m not sure how ‘Bo Heng’ felt about that. I know how I would have felt about it

Mine is a very simple and common name. It’s not hard to pronounce or remember. Yet the amount of times I am called something different is staggering. Why do people feel the need to add syllables to a four letter word when they address me? I’m not Johnner, Johnno, Johnser or JohnJoe. And I am certainly not Johnny.

I used to have a boss. He reminded me of a cliché spouting parody of a radio DJ. Like Alan Partridge or Tony Fenton with less charisma. Every day he would greet me as Johnny. It used to drive me nuts. His desk was behind mine so I would be typing (or more likely arsing on the internet) and I would hear his awful voice float over me. “Hey Johnny, have you got a second?” I would stop dead in my tracks. My fingers would claw up and my shoulders would tense.

The first couple of times I asked him nicely would he mind not calling me Johnny. No problem he said, he’d been in the army and all the Johns were Johnny so he just assumed I’d be the same. I smiled and moved on to whatever business we had. Then the next day he would call me Johnny again. Oops he forgot. I wouldn’t have minded so much if his name hadn’t been John as well.

It’s not that I’m against nicknames per se but let’s try and have some degree of originality. Hoops and Jayhaitch (or J.H. for those who haven’t figured that one out yet) are perfectly acceptable. Hoops is a derivative of a childhood nickname of Hula Hoops. I like Hoops though. It makes me sound ‘street.’

At least nicknames can be attributed to some sense of acquired familiarity. People who think they are close enough to you to have a pet name for you. This is understandable.
Strangers who refer to me as ‘Bud’ ‘Buddy’ ‘Pal’ or ‘Mate’, however, have no such luxury. It really makes me cringe when someone calls me one of these. I’m not your buddy. I don’t even know you.

This is especially annoying when it’s perpetrated by those cocky arseholes that are raising money for charities. You know the ones in the bibs with the clipboards. “Hey there buddy, have you got a minute to support the starving babies?” or “Alright mate, you want to give money to stop animal cruelty?”

I hate those guys. Their over familiarity is not endearing, it’s rude. Considering most of them are getting paid for it, if they want me to give them some of my money, they should act professionally. It sounds ridiculously old fashioned, but surely ‘Sir’ is appropriate when soliciting donations.

Oddly enough, I’m ok with being called ‘dude’ or ‘man’. It seems softer, less sarcastic. Maybe it’s because buddy and pal can be used in an aggressive manner. Dude just seems warmer. Perhaps it to do with the connection the words have with the hippy movement. More likely it’s to do with The Big Lebowski.

“...I’m the Dude. So that’s what you call me. You know, that or, uh, His Dudeness, or uh, Duder, or El Duderino if you’re not into the whole brevity thing”

Ok so maybe if the Dude isn’t going to get hung up on what he is called maybe I shouldn’t either. I suppose there are more important things to worry about in life. After all if ‘the Dude abides,’ maybe I should too.

Just don’t call me Johnny.

Test

This is a test. Just trying out something. Please feel free to read a proper entry...you'll find them over there in the Archive. Pulp are playing Electric Picnic along with Arcade Fire this September. Awesome Sauce. This makes me excited

Locomotion

How was everyone’s St Patricks day? Did we all have good time and celebrate appropriately? Thanks to my good friends Sean and Shona, I had a great day down in Kilkenny City. Let me say, you haven’t lived until you experience the Kilkenny St Patricks Parade. Awe inspiring stuff...

I’m not particularly nationalistic as I’ve said before. If you think Ireland is crap, that’s your opinion and I’m not offended. Personally I think it’s pretty cool, Dublin in particular has the potential to be a great place to visit. Like any other city it has its problems but generally I think the good outweighs the bad.

I recently signed up for the City of a Thousand Welcomes initiative. It is a programme which pairs up first time visitors to our capital city and willing ‘Ambassadors.’ The Ambassador is somebody who is willing to meet up with the tourist and have a chat with them about Dublin over a pint or a cup of tea.

Having been on the receiving end of some spectacular hospitality while in Spain, I always said if I had the opportunity to make someone’s visit to my hometown a bit more interesting, I would.
When you sign up you need to answer some questions about yourself and they test your knowledge of Dublin. No point in having someone talk about Dublin if they don’t know the difference between manure and Moore St.

One of the things they ask you is where you most like to visit in Dublin. I’ve always thought it was St Stephens Green, the fenced park at the top of Grafton St. I always just loved how in the middle of a busy city I could escape to shade of a tree and read a book in silence or just watch the world go by.

However, when I was filling out this section, I actually chose Kilmainham Gaol. Having visited there in the last six months or so, it is fresh in my memory. The former prison is a haunting place to visit with tales of torture, cruelty and injustice, from our not too distant past, resonating in every hallway. Probably not the cheeriest place to send a tourist but definitely worth a visit.

Upon reflection, I don’t think either of these qualify as my favourite place in Dublin. The actual answer is not something I’d ever really considered before my latest trip there last week.

And I’m not sure it’s a suitable recommendation for someone looking to see what the fair city has to offer. In fact it’s a gateway to leaving Dublin. It’s Heuston Station.
Now, I’m not a train spotter. Let’s get that clear from the start. I have no interest in recording the serial number of locomotives or collecting ticket stubs for the 6:45 Mallow to Dublin express.

It’s just some of my favourite memories are tied into the station. When I was twelve I remember meeting there with the rest of my scout troop at seven o clock in the morning to head off for a five day camp on Fota Island. I’d never been away from home for so long and I was as excited as a puppy with a new slipper. Living in a tent, cooking our own meals, it’s unlikely I’ve ever felt as grown up as I did that day.


When I was in college in Waterford it was the first stop on my way back home. Travelling by train was too expensive for a humble commercial computing student but my dad would pick me up at the bus stop outside every Friday. He’d drive me home where I’d have mammy dinner and then he’d take me to the pub for a pint.

Now when I’m in the station it usually means I’m going to visit my friends around the country. It will probably have been a while since I’ve seen them and a good time is usually guaranteed

Of course the train station offers no such assurances. The memories haven’t all been the cheery kind. Saying goodbye to someone I care deeply for on platform 7, two years ago, was one of the saddest days of my life. I left the station that day with my hood pulled low to cover my face and hide the tears. Heuston has surely witnessed thousands of emotional farewells and welcome homes.

I suppose the same could be said for Dublin Airport, the dock where the ferry comes in or the other train stations around the country.

Maybe it’s the 19th century design, with its grand pillars holding up the portico at its front door. Heuston has something special. For me it is a magic train station. And no, that’s not a euphemism.

Spooning

One of the big drawbacks of doing this writing lark and working part time to pay the bills is that you’ve got to be flexible. Its not always possible to have the weekends off. The fact that I haven’t seen a single one of Irelands reportedly average Six Nations so far this year or I don‘t get to go home and have a Sunday Roast in my folks are sacrifices I have to make.

And that’s ok. I enjoy my schedule, it lets me write Blogs on Monday afternoon and hoover the stairs on Tuesday morning. If anything it means I appreciate my days off on weekends all the more when they do occur. I have one this week and I can’t wait.

Do you know what I’d really like to do with my day off? I’d like to go out on Saturday night, get drunk, maybe have a bit of a dance. Then I’d like to go home and have some drunken sex before spending the next day having hungover sex in between eating breakfast in bed, watching movies, talking nonsense and generally having a nice time.

Oh I should have warned you. This one is going to be a little honest. I may ‘share’ a bit.

I wrote before (here) how I wasn’t a huge fan of sharing my bed. Snoring, cuddling, naked sleeping being the reasons as I explained. Unless of course it was someone who I was comfortable with. Someone who I could relax around. And that’s what I really want for my Sunday. Someone I can happily just be with.

Of course the first step in spending a lazy, horny Sunday with somebody is to actually meet someone. And I haven’t done that in a long time. Don’t get me wrong. I have had sex. “I gets mine,” as the latest rapper turned actor might say.

None of those encounters worked out. Just not right for me. Or they weren’t meant to work out in the first place. Casual, No strings, friends with benefits kind of things. I don’t want that anymore.

There is a movie out at the moment called No Strings attached. It stars Ashton Kutcher (playing Ashton Kutcher, his best kind of role) and recent Oscar winner Natalie Portman as two chums who try to have a casual,friends who have sex relationship and it doesn’t work out because (spoiler alert) they fall in love.

In my experience, this is not what happens. One party might develop feelings while the other is content to go along with the status quo until they find someone they do want to be in a relationship with, thus breaking the heart of the deluded half of the duo.

Alternatively, one of the fuckbuddies (I hate that term) might realise they want something more out of life in general and realise that its not a productive path to go down. Or neither of them will realise this and they will end up having empty, meaningless sex for a long time until one of them dies.

That’s not for me anymore. I used to think it was cool to have as much, varied sex with as many people as possible. And it is. But I’d just like to meet someone who I can hang out with on a Sunday.

Of course I realise that people in relationships, people with kids and families know this already. They probably think that I have some fantasy that is nothing like the real thing. At least 3 of my friends can’t remember the last time they got to lie in bed all day Sunday and perform their special party piece on their partners naked body.

Maybe I am just a romantic at heart. I’ve definitely seen too many movies. I want my last minute dash to airport to stop the girl leaving. I want to burst into a church a punch out the jerky boyfriend who doesn’t laugh at her jokes. I want a musical number.

Failing that? I’d settle for someone who makes good scrambled eggs and likes Cohen Brother movies.

Knowledge

Question. What are the names of the 4 ‘stars’ of RTE’s version of The Hills, Fade Street, called?
If you answered Vogue and 3 other gee bags you are correct. At least according to the table quiz I attended last Friday. For that was the answer my team drunkenly supplied and we received full points.

Firstly I’d like to point out that I am not proud that I used the ‘g’ word. It’s a word I’ve never liked and I find it much more offensive than the ‘c’ word for instance. As I said we had had a few Budvars during the course of the previous rounds and in fairness, it is kind of accurate.

Secondly, my team, John’s Lack of Commitment as were collectively known, were in second place and trying to keep up with the leaders. We were grateful for any allowance made for making the scorekeeper giggle. I take table quizzes very seriously you know.

I always have. Perhaps it was a way of proving my intelligence. I’ve told you before about my desire to show off. Taking part and being good table quizzes was always just another way to that. One of my favourite memories from being in school was in second class when my team (I’ll refer to them as my team, I may not have been captain but I like to think I was the star) beat the other second class.

Being in the group of 4 chosen to represent Mrs. Galvin’s class was pretty cool at the time. But when we won on the stage in front of the rest of the school it opened up a whole new world to me. It’s not like I had a special way for practicing for trivia contests. I just seemed to have a sponge like quality for absorbing pointless information.

And I went on to put it too some good use. I won all kinds of contests. In school, in the Library, my scout troop represented Dublin in the All Ireland Scout Table Quiz. My biggest regret is that our school wouldn’t let us enter Ray D’Arcy’s Blackboard Jungle television quiz show. Something to do with the school having no money.

There was one day in school where a quiz had been organised and the teams picked a week beforehand. On the day not a single one of my team mates where in. I still emerged victorious. I don’t want to appear braggadocios, but I was pretty good.

Even as an adult, I was part of some interesting wins. My team once even almost got into an Anchorman style gang war when the defeated champions accused us of not knowing what to do with a crystal bowl. What the fuck does anyone do with a crystal bowl?

Regardless of their petty bitterness, they couldn’t spoil that moment. We’d won some quality prizes and met TV3 weatherman Martin King who was compere for the fundraiser in aid of Barretstown.


But definitely my favourite moment as a man with Rainman like knowledge of the cast of Coronation Street was in my childhood. My dad had brought me to get my haircut so I would have been less than 12 years old.

As the barber was cutting my hair, I noticed he had a plaque beside his jar of barbicide. This commemorative brass plate on a piece of black wood was to honour his appearance The Larry Gogan radio show as a contestant on the Just a Minute Quiz.

The Just a Minute Quiz is exactly what it sounds like. People would ring in to the avuncular host Larry, who would ask them general knowledge questions for the period of one minute. Who ever got the highest score in the week won a hamper of Denny Pudding or something similar.

So from what I could ascertain from the evidence presented, my bearded hairdresser had been one of the contestants but with a score of 10 he was not good enough to win the big prize.

As chance would have it, as he was giving me a short back and sides, he was listening to Larry Gogan and the daily question and answer segment was about to start.

I wasn’t going to open my mouth. I usually like to sit quietly while the barber does his thing. But he started to answer the questions.

He wasn’t bad. He was better than the dribbling Luddite who was actually on the radio. Honestly, the man thought Bordeaux was in Germany.I was surprised he actually managed to dial the number to enter.

If my hairdresser was going to show off his superiority to the monkey on then the radio, so was I. It was close. But I definitely won. The barber was really impressed. Like I said, I hadn’t even reached puberty and there I was with greater general knowledge than at least two adults who thought they were clever.

It didn’t matter that he was impressed. I was a cocky little so and so, it didn’t matter if some scissor jockey thought I was clever. What did make me feel great was as I was imparting my crystals of knowledge; I was watching my Dad in the mirror.

Every time I answered a question right he smiled. He laughed when the barber indicated that he was beaten by a tiny tot. He was proud when I told him about the Larry Gogan Plaque.

These days my Dad probably thinks I’m more smart arse than smarty pants but back then it was something he loved to see. His ‘brain box’ kid knowing more than most of the grown ups. That always made it special for me when I got a question right.

Sadly my love of table quizzes has been tainted. The dawn of the Iphone has meant that the cream no longer rises to the top. My encyclopaedic knowledge of non league English football grounds does not reap the rewards it once did because now any simpleton with a company phone can sneakily get the information at the touch of a button.

I used to think they were only cheating themselves. Well they aren’t. They are cheating me. The Bastards.

By the way the actual answer to the Fade Street question is Vogue…eh….then there is…You know what? Some things I can live without knowing.