Wordgasm

A misunderstanding of the word ‘synecdoche’ got me very excited this week. I thought I was going to be able to use it as the beginning of my blog. I’ve only ever seen Charlie Kauffman and Stephen Fry use it in actual sentences up until now, which was pretty good company to be in. Unfortunately, when I looked it up, to paraphrase Inigo Montoya, it did not mean what it was that I thought that it meant.

I was trying to find the word or phrase that defines a sentence which proves its own point. The example I was going use was “I can’t make up my mind if I’m indecisive or not.” The closest I can get to a label for such a statement is a Liar’s Paradox. It’s not quite that but its close (‘this statement is false’ of course being the ultimate Liars Paradox.)

I get excited when I get to use words that aren’t necessarily the norm. I guess this makes me a bit of a lexicon loser but so be it. I find vocabulary exhilarating. Some of it may be to do with the unwarranted superiority complex I sometimes get. Being in ‘the know’ when others are reaching for the dictionary kind of turns me on.

An Irish comedian called Michael Mee used to quip about telling knock knock jokes to Bedouins. This didn’t always work because a lot of people didn’t know what a Bedouin is. I used to get a warm sense of smugness as I laughed know I was just that little bit cleverer than the rest of the room.

Obviously the title of this blog isn’t an actual legitimate word but there is a great sense of satisfaction in crafting new words which have a clear meaning. Vocabularic is another favourite made up term of mine which I use to describe my worditude.

It’s not the world’s greatest superpower in fairness. It’s never helped attract the girls or rescue someone from a burning building. But it puts a smile on my face and my geekiest ambition is to one day coin a phrase that enters the Oxford English Dictionary.

Thanks for reading my words.

Did you see what I did there?

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.

Flamingo

Have you ever wondered what kind of person bares their soul on such a public forum as a blog? Why would anyone want to reveal their innermost feelings and thoughts? How can I sit here and candidly broadcast to the world (that’s right, the entire world reads my blog)my most intimate secrets?

Its not that I set out on my little writing “journey” with the intention of it being so personal. It started when I was supposed to be writing a light hearted little review of my 2009. It was supposed to delivered in the standard glib, sarcastic, one trick pony, jokey manner that anyone who knows me will have become accustomed to in the last however many years I’ve been rocking the grumpy smart ass gimmick.

However as I started to write that piece what flowed from me was the most open and honest I’ve ever been with anyone. Especially myself. I revealed stuff about myself that, while was never a secret, I was afraid to put out there for public judgement. And it felt great. It was cathartic and therapeutic. It made me realise that if I was going to this writing thing properly, it was the only way I could do it.

And what it has actually done is teach me to be open and honest in reality too. I think I’ve always tended to be up front about my opinion on things or how I felt if I didn’t like something. I’m not sure that was the case though when dealing with myself and my feelings. And if you can’t be honest with yourself, can you really be honest with anyone else?

That’s one of the reasons. Its not, however, the only one. Another of the main reasons I do this is much less noble. I do it because of ego. Simply I like to show off. I always have done. I write for the same reason I did stand up comedy and the same reason I was in the drama society. Its my way of saying “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!….look at this” (proceeds to do cyber cartwheels…in a skirt…while wearing no underwear.)

A lot of people would find it funny that I call myself a show off. To some people, I’m a quiet unassuming chap who would never be so bold. These people don’t really know me. I have a tendency to hang back and weigh up my options before throwing the real me out there. Its something I’ve always done. I’ll probably continue to do it. I’m ok with people having the wrong opinion of me for a while. I like to be a surprise.

When I say I like to show off, I don’t want you think that I go around winking at people going “That’s right. Its me. From the internet” What I mean is that its always nice to be good at something. And if your good at it you should let it out.

I think I’ve always been capable of being a good writer. Back when I was in school, I was pretty good but then what was I being compared to. The teachers seemed to think I was good though. They always gave me competitions to enter. Always encouraged me. Recommended things I should be reading.

Frank Connolly, Br Declan Power, Br. Lynch (never figured out his first name) Paddy Furlong (he encouraged me to write in Irish) and Timmy Cullen were all an enormous influence on me in secondary school. They seemed to recognise that I was good at something and in a system that didn’t necessarily allow for much individual attention, they ensured that I got enough of an ego boost from my writing that I didn’t stay the shrinking violet I was headed towards becoming.

In primary school Denis Costello dedicated Friday afternoon to reading a book of our own choosing. He helped me find the escape that could come from literature and the thrill of finding a piece that excited and challenged the mind. He would play music that eleven and twelve year olds from Crumlin wouldn’t normally listen too. I’d like to say classical but there was a bit too much James Galway and James Last for it to be called that. However it did open my ears and tastes to something different than Top of the Pops.

Who knows if they’ll ever get to read this, but if they do I’d like them to know I appreciated it then and I really appreciate it in hindsight. When I finished school I wanted to be writer. Fifteen and half years later. I still do. Thanks to them. It’s just taken me a while to do anything about it.

There are other people who I know read my stuff that have been essential in crafting my style and direction as a writer. I won’t name them. There is only room for one big head on this blog. One day I will thank them. Properly. If (when) I ever get to publish a book, their names will be there in the dedication page. That’s the way we writers do it.