Tag Archive for 'impressive beards'

The Beard Brothers

Some fellers are fixin’ to get some information out of me. NotRuairi is (n’t?) at it, as is this hirsute hombre. Six things they want, which is a bit annoying, since I gone and did 25 of them on Facebook a while ago. Seriously, those are all the things about me. I have nothing left.

But then I read Andrew’s facts, and it occurred to me that they were awful familiar. Awful familiar indeed… for you see, I know this man – or rather, I knew him. We were a team, Andrew and I, before an unpleasantness forced us apart. Then a while later we were a team again, before a misunderstanding put paid to our relationship. Then after a couple of years we were a team again, and then we kind of got really really drunk, and I guess there might have been some psychotropics in the mix, and basically we haven’t seen each other since.

Many fine histories of our exploits have been written1, but here’s a few choice “behind the scenes” nuggets that tend to get left out:

1. While my favourite pen is a Bic biro, Andrew is a die-hard fan of Staedtlers. In order to minimise arguments and avoid needless destruction of property, we tend to write in pencil when in each other’s company.

2. You know where at the start of those Pepé le Pew cartoons the cat would squeeze under like a freshly-painted fence or something and then the skunk would chase her for ages looking to do the deed on her? Well, [excised at the request of the British Royal Family]

3. In the space of three minutes during a late-night/early-morning singalong in a Munich pub in the 1860s, we inadvertently invented the Eurovision, paracetamol and Cambodia.

4. Pork, as a meat, was much less delicious before we started hanging out together. We’re not sure why.

5. We wrote the preliminary code for Auto-Tune in 1971. It’s taken 38 years for someone to find a proper use for it.

6. The seven-day-week thing is one of Andrew’s most common boasts  but, as usual, he was only partly responsible. I recall it was a balmy Blurnsday evening back in the sixteenth century: myself and himself were pretty heavily into peyote at the time, as were the rest of the Tibetan aristocracy2, and in the middle of one of our lengthier binges I happened to make an offhand comment about there being seven celestial bodies visible to the naked eye. Well, things got somewhat hazy, but when we came to several days later Andrew was clutching a sheaf of paperwork from the US Patent Office3. After several months on the road, and some characteristic mountebankery, we’d convinced the rest of the world to adopt the new system.

  1. q.v. particularly the following paragraph on Wikipedia: “In the course of history, men with facial hair have been ascribed various attributes such as wisdom and knowledge, sexual virility, or high social status; and, conversely, filthiness, crudeness, or an eccentric disposition, such as in the case of a bum, hobo or vagrant.” []
  2. Long story. []
  3. which office, ironically, we ourselves had founded less than two weeks earlier. []

Chuffed

Today I stumbled into becoming a cartoonist by proxy, thanks to the quick-witted, nifty-with-a-sketchpad and heavily-hyphenated Sparky Donatello. Which confirmed a suspicion of mine: while blogging is indeed a powerful tool of informational power media buzzwords 2.0, it’s not the blogs themselves that have the moxie; no no, my freakish little amigos, it’s the comments. You show me some maggoty ould tramp who wanders into a comment box and I’ll give you favourable if somewhat complicated odds that they’ll end up being treated like royalty.

With this in mind, I’m going to go lurk behind Leinster House with a laptop and mutter about tax cuts for the bearded. Going by my current run of luck, I expect sweeping reforms within the week.

The Electric Picnic is Decadent & Depraved: III

Some notes about the music, I suppose.

Guy Garvey is a class act, and one of the best frontmen going, but he’s a hard man to track down. Security tend not to accept a 6-pint jug of cider as valid identification. Should have gone with the pints, obviously, or pulled some Manchester variant of the potato man routine… the plotting continues.

Going into this thing I had resigned myself to missing out on my usual Sunday evening fix of balding middle-aged men with mullets and walrus moustaches wearing suits and doing karate kicks, so imagine my delight when Grinderman turned up. As a bonus, there was a sentient beard flinging percussion instruments around the place and playing a tiny, tiny guitar. Mortal men would have just looked silly.

Much as The Sex Pistols did… either they’re hell-bent on becoming the most nonsense thing in human history or they’re just acting out Primary School: The Musical. In whatever case, when you come in from a day spent with Henry Rollins and Nick Cave – men with actual testicles – John Lydon gets pretty old pretty quick.

“I’m a doddle for interviewing…”

Neil Gaiman links to a long, long interview with Alan Moore in which Das Beard talks about the craft of writing. It’s pure gold – he’s not at all shy about going into detail. Plus he comes across as a charmingly down-to-earth sort:

DW: I feel quite awkward doing this ‘cos I’ve never really interviewed anyone before…

AM: Well I’m a doddle for interviewing ‘cos I’m completely infatuated with the sound of me own voice…you just have to say a few basic words and I’ll talk for the next hour or two.

I especially love his description of how the plot and premise for Lost Girls came together. I don’t know how any writer could read that and not want to run off and start maniacally filling notebooks.

Speaking of which…

(It’s in Belgium.)

In Bruges in three words: well worth seeing.

It’s pretty slow at the start and some of the acting jarred for reasons I can’t put my finger on, but the characters are a lot of fun to watch and the story does draw you in. I think I’d enjoy it more on a second viewing – it’s one of those films that isn’t quite what you’re expecting it to be, so it can be hard to just relax and enjoy it the first time around.

I’m not sure what exactly constitutes “an Irish film”, but the writer/director and the two main* characters** are Irish and that’s good enough for me. So I feel comfortable saying: In Bruges is unusual for an Irish film, in much the same way that a book that isn’t about cottages in the 50s, that chick-lit story we seem to like, or The Seedy Underbelly Of The Celtic Tiger is unusual for an Irish novel. I mean, are we really allowed to write this kind of stuff? Are we allowed to… have fun?

* Warning: Poncey website.

** Warning: Impressive beard.