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South Anne Street

TWO EURO COFFEE FOR STUDENTS

THINGS WE’RE LOOKING FORWARD TO IN 2016 1. Replacement of the Erasmus programme. Junior Sophister students will now have to spend a year in an IT of their choosing. DIT, ITT, CIT, GMIT and WIT are available. DCU is also available for students who do not wish to travel that far past the thresholds of the Pale. 2. The Provost releases his much anticipated autobiography, detailing his rise to power with full colour plates of every single student hope that he destroyed. 3. SU finally rebrands as KPMG TCDSU. 4. Hoards of students taking part in Students Against Bees realise that Reads made a typo in official campaign material. 5. Proposed Trinity Ents’ ‘Hunger Games’ train doesn’t gain as much traction as hoped. 6. Berkeley library to be renamed the ‘Brrrkeley’. Its icy cold structure must be respected. Librocop will be confiscating all hot water bottles and beverages in the name of ‘health and safety’. 7. College’s implementation of ‘Lynn Ruane term’ instead of Hilary term to further the ‘Women in Leadership’ program. 8. Trinity’s leftover HEA funds to be invested into a ‘Book of Kells’ theme park in a bid to attract tourists. 9. The Provost Press Office releases a long overdue Spotify playlist with God Save the Queen featuring twenty seven times. 10. Trinity to hire professional ghosts in a bid to have the best 1916 centenary celebration.

Greetings! Welcome to the ﬁrst issue of Miscellany this academic year, and a big thank you for picking it up! We have some fantastic, miscellaneous content for you this issue, from politics to short stories to drag queens. Miscellany is all about showing Trinity students some of the most engaging content from all over campus, and we’re so proud of what we’ve put together this issue. We’ve also left the hallowed grounds of Trinity to chat to Lewis Kenny, a Northside bred spoken word poet, and Louise O’Neill, the critically acclaimed author of this year’s Asking For It, a novel that deals with rape culture in small town Ireland. We’re also out to convince you of Kanye West’s godlike genius, chat to up-and-coming theatre group S.H.I.T.E. and so much more. We hope you enjoy Miscellany as much as we enjoyed creating it. Love, Sinead and Aine

Cover model: Pixie Woo

Our celebrity drag guest Pixie Woo can be found at the monthly entertainment show Dragged Up which showcases international drag talent such as the cast of RuPaul’s drag race as well as talented homegrown queens. See draggedup.net for latest updates. You can also catch her every Thurday at Prhomo, Dublin’s biggest student gay club. She’s also part of the witchy magic of Space’n’Veda every Wednesday at the George.

The Greatest Living Rockstar on the Planet.......................................3 Grinding Gears...................................................................................4 Queens of Campus............................................................................5 Living in Shadow................................................................................9 Friday the 13th..................................................................................10 Red Revolution..................................................................................11 Building Walls...................................................................................12 Geek Out: Louise O’Neill interview.....................................................................13 Why You Should Read......................................................................15 14 Reasons why Listicls are the Literal Worst...................................16 S.H.I.T.E............................................................................................17 Out of Order......................................................................................19 The Sweet Rewards of Rot................................................................21 Poetry Corner....................................................................................22

Editors: Sinead Loftus and Aine O’Connell Deputy Editor: Paul Glynn PRO: Carla King-Molina Politics Editor: Ruairi Keane Geek Out Editor: Doireann Ni Chonghaile Fashion and Photography Editor: Kat Clinch Music Editor: Cathal Kavanagh Copy Editor: Andrew O’Donovan Layout & Design: Aisling Crabbe

The Greatest Living Rockstar on the Planet by Cathal Kavanagh Throw your mind back to June for a moment and recall the kerfuffle of Glastonbury. Maybe you went. More likely you didn’t. Maybe you watched the BBC’s coverage of it, maybe the idea of televising live music was inherently ridiculous to you. Regardless, if you remember anything about this year’s edition of the Worthy Farm shindig, you’ll remember it had something to do with the performance of the current high priest of maniacal egotism, Kanye West. The focus of an imbecilic petition trying to prevent West from playing, the set itself divided opinion in the way only a Kanye set could do. Parts were utterly beyond reproach. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ was admittedly left in a bloody, butchered pulp. However, most attention in the aftermath focussed on West’s assertion towards the end of the set, that “you are watching the greatest living rock star on the planet”. Spoken half in jest though it was (although with Kanye one never can tell), the boast contained more than a kernel of truth. Let us not equivocate or remain with one buttock on the fence of musical taste. Kanye West is the greatest living rock star on the planet. If we’re being honest, the title may require some mild stretching, or at least a qualification of terms. The definitions of ‘living’ and ‘rock star’ require some explaining. What about all those other musical pioneers and visionaries who

are, by medical standards at least, alive? What about the fact that Kanye is first and foremost a hip-hop artist and that terms like ‘rock’ don’t by absolute necessity apply? All in good time. Let’s start with an outline of Kanye’s claim to greatness. ‘Great’ in a broad sense, not merely that he is a man of brilliance, but that he is capital G. Kanye West hasn’t changed the game. Kanye West is the game. Along with, but distinct from Max Martin and other such serial songwriters in the assembly line of chart-friendly hits, Kanye has redefined, redirected, and reimagined the parameters of popular music. The last decade of musical history are in many ways merely the echoes of Kanye’s influence. What would hip-hop, indeed music, look like today if not for Kanye? What would Kendrick, Drake, J Cole, A$AP and a generation of artists following in his bow wave be doing? When Yeezus came out, Lou Reed (that Lou Reed, yes) praised it as a work of genius. Battalions of critics lined up to agree with him. In simple terms, it is one of the greatest albums of the 21st century. From the unmitigated, sonic filth of ‘I’m In It’ and ‘Send It Up’ to the bona fide club-worthy bangers in the mould of ‘Black Skinhead’ or ‘Bound 2’, Yeezus, to quote ‘Pulp Fiction’, isn’t in the same ballpark as much else. It isn’t in the same sport. Importing the rough, intentionally ugly, almost avant-garde stylings of Death Grips into a mainstream setting, it was visionary in the mould of few other albums in recent decades. Time will remember its greatness. Now, any artist who made Yeezus and vanished off the face of the

earth would probably merit of a prominent place in history regardless. But Kanye didn’t. Yeezus was merely the latest in a string of albums which have all been bombastically era-defining in their own way. Surpassing even Yeezus, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy stands near the top of the all-time pile in its own right. Coming off the back of his infamous 2009 VMA debacle, Kanye returned a little over a year later with a panoply of collaborative masterpieces, in their own way redefining the album itself for a largely redefined world. Back in 2007, a prominent, again largely media-driven frenzy grew up between 50 Cent and Kanye around the simultaneous release of Curtis and Graduation. In contrast to the one-dimensional, somewhat exploitative gangsta-rap stylings of Fiddy, Kanye was expected even then to produce an album on an entirely different plane. Of course, Graduation swept the boards and battered Curtis around in terms of both sales and acclaim. West had reminded the world that rap music could and should aspire to the condition of art. To return to Beethoven a minute, the composer’s 1st and 2nd symphonies are largely regarded as standard enough, brilliantly executed but less than innovative uses of the symphonic form; but it is from Symphony no.3, the mighty ‘Eroica’ that his place as the greatest of the greats starts to be solidified in heroic fashion. Parallels? It does feel odd to justify Kanye’s place in the gallery of greats. Some remain unconvinced, ballyhoo the man’s spectacular bril-

liance on the basis of his personality or his political spoutings. Anyway, is he really that great? Doesn’t ‘living’ cover a fair whack of people in any case? First of all, can you name a living artist who has a claim to be better, more consistent, more innovative or outright fantastic? Go on, try. He has his aging challengers, the pioneers of rock, pop, hip-hop and R&B still clinging to their mortal coils. What would Springsteen and Plant say to West’s claims? If an undergraduate’s soul can be said to depart their body the day they begin to use LinkedIn of their own volition, then a rock star is probably DOA in any artistic sense once they start releasing Greatest Hits albums and playing in stadiums to the owners of Audis. Art doesn’t care for your heartbeat. What of the ‘he isn’t a rock star’ idiocy? That his style, iconoclastic, angry as it is, somehow precludes him from counting rock ‘n roll as one of the traditions he inherits? Nonsense. Rock ‘n roll is not a style of music, nor is it even a discrete set of cultural phenomena. It isn’t the homoerotic cult of the guitar hero, and it isn’t the down-strumming of an electriﬁed powerchord. It’s something else. It consists in the look of revulsion plastered on the eyes of the philistine classes, a feeling of unease in the bellies of the types of people to start pithy petitions concerned with who it is that plays a bloody festival. Rock ‘n roll is the willingness to smash what came before, and rearrange the wreckage into a portrait of yourself. Rock ‘n roll is Kanye West.

GRINDED GEARS Caomhán Ó hÓgáin I’ve started giving grinds to secondary school students. I’ve been too absorbed in my studies to gain any experience for one of those “job” things. Still, I need money. You know how it is. One Junior Cert student sought me out; Project Maths was besting her. Now, there was no Project Maths when I did the Junior, and I only ever caught its hesitant introductions for the Leaving but I consented. It’s only maths with more real-life applications; how hard can it be? My student showed me a pre-mock trigonometry question. Not a little stumped, I felt the need to transcribe. And here it is: -Mary stands on a cliff 74m high from the shore. She has been instructed to do so by Colin, via text. It was a speciﬁc request, she recalls, with the location given to the nearest co-ordinates and the time a “six o’clock sharp”. It is now 05:58. What is Colin doing, she wonders, wanting her between this airﬁeld and

the sea? Though thoughtful and cute, Colin is an incurable messer. Mary recalls how for her 23rd birthday, everyone wished her a happy 24th. It seemed at ﬁrst a case of Good-One-Ha-Ha with her roommates, who were clearly under the false impression of their own hilarity, and envious while months delayed their own special days. Things got weirder when Mam’s wishes came next. Mary’s mother was a date machine. Obscure saints’ feasts, the death days of Kennedys, and so on burst like popcorn into her everyday thoughts. Yet even her 2 was followed by a 4. When all Facebook messages that day signed off with “Happy 24th!”, when her own proﬁle settings thought her a year older too, Mary almost screamed. Colin came in the door after another long day in the library. Mary’s heart could not have sunk more as she took from him an envelope that read “Happy 24th”. ‘Just open it’, he said, ignorant of her pain. Inside, she found tickets, no, reservations for the Fitzpatrick Hotel, New York; check-in for December 24th. Christmas Eve in that city. How many winters had passed where she’d dreamed it? Colin did that stupid grin with the eyebrows, and said “Happy 24th”. Mary fell – no, she faltered, but Colin’s hands saved her. He drew her in. She wanted to hit him and love him. Mainly just love him. The cliff stands in the noise of seaside silence. What is he doing now? Mary

lapses from excitement to wariness and back. Whether romance or hoax, she hopes he comes soon. The wind is slapping, cold at her cheeks. It is 05:58 also for Colin, who peers from behind a large rock forty metres horizontally from the foot of the cliff. His trademark look of content – Mary loves it – where mouth and brows smile in unison, is wiped from his face. Something is wrong. Mary is not here. No. She cannot miss this. The candles and ﬂowers have been too delicately strewn in the sheltered alcove. Colin and the pilot, a client who owed him a favour, spent weeks on-and-off cleaning its used barbecues and discoloured cans. Colin had bled and stank after each excavation. Still, choosing the right ring made it look easy. Alone now, he feels the case bulge in his pocket. Still there, unlike Mary. An engine revs from above. No. Where is she? It cannot be time. Then a shout. (a): Calculate the angle of elevation as Colin looks up to see Mary thrown off balance as the pilot’s aeroplane takes off behind her. (b): Assuming Mary falls and Colin sprints twelve metres to catch her, and that in her brief plummet, Mary registers the alcove and, after slamming into the beach and Colin’s body, tries to whisper what a beautiful proposal had been planned and that her answer was yes, but before her message can form, is knocked out by a knee held by Colin who’s screeching and writhing while Mary stays silent – and now there’s blood, blood everywhere, it soaks into the sand, and gradually other bodily ﬂuids do too, and it’s impossible to tell whose is whose, and then looking on is a child who cannot turn away, and he stares, captivated, long after the tide has swallowed his sandcastle, until

a smoking guard, shaking like her red-tape, deflects the child’s most direct questions and drives him to a home, where he starts listening to Rammstein and post-modernly draws, confused all the while when distinguishing intimacy from blood-flowing pain – assume all of the above, and further still that in 20 years a gaunt Colin sits on a memorial bench for his love at the top of the cliff, his right leg devoid of all motion, his heart of emotion: what then would the angle of depression be as he stares numbly at the spot where she landed, his screams then mimicked by the wind that flutes now through the cracks of the bench’s green wood, already salt-eaten and fissured? (c): And if the pilot, having happily completed the requested cloud-trail of love-hearts, notices the carnage below and can hear, even over the engine, the pathetic wails of the kindly solicitor who’d helped him gain his flying license, cutting through the red-tape that his past addictions had spelled, is rendered by shock unable or perhaps simply unwilling to alter the trajectory of his craft, which plunges from 96m above the shore at a steady 40 degree angle, how far out must the coastguard then go to reach the point of submergence, with the vain hope of discerning the pilot’s remains from unfortunate fish, assuming the pilot’s cousin, among the crew members, tears and recalls how they were never really as close as they could, or rather should have been. A spirit bottle beckons when this search is over. Then another. Then another. And who among us can blame him? Give all answers correct to two decimal points. -I have since consented only to giving science grinds. In Project Maths, I’ve found that the angle of depression is acute indeed.

Queens of Campus

By day: Damien McClean Known for: Former LGBT Rights Ofﬁcer, Rock climbing, Maths Soc. By night: Pepper Ann Random Fact: Can see into the future by exactly ﬁve seconds

By day: Jason Leonard Known for: Deputy EMS Convenor, member of the CSC executive, Notorious gay By night: Buffy Cummers Random Fact: Once ďŹ t 19 marbles in her vagina

What is drag?

The term ‘drag’ was originally created as a term to refer to clothes considered to be attached to one gender when worn by a person of the opposite gender. However, drag has developed into a performance culture in which members of one gender impersonate, often in an exaggerated or stylised way, the opposite gender. Drag as a term not only addresses the concepts of gender and costume but all the elements of performance from acting, singing and dancing to comedy and impersonations.

It is not to be confused with:

gender-bending: the disruption or deliberate mingling of traditional gender norms to defy gender stereotypes androgeny: a combination of ‘male’ and ‘female’ characteristics that creates a sexual ambiguity. cross-dressing: wearing the clothes of the opposite sex (but not necessarily embodying that gender). transvestitism: deriving pleasure from dressing in the clothes of the opposite sex. transgender: a person whose self-identity does not conform to their traditional (or physical) gender, often not conforming to either male or female fenger roles. Whilst many of these culture share connections with the drag scene, they are separate and distinct. Drag is a unique form of expression that embraces the fun, dramatic and sexy side of the opposite gender through performance and characterisation. Photographer: Katie O’Neill, Instagram: @oneillkt247 MUAs: Anna O’Callaghan facebook: anna o’callaghan makeup Shane Chubb Stylist and Co-ordinator: Kat Clinch Clothes courtesy of players basement and stylists wardrobe Wigs generously donated by friends of the magazine.

By day: Paraic McLean Known for: Convenor Drama/Film/Music, Players, PRO Ents By night: Anita Calzone Random fact: Carries glitter with her at all times

Living in Shadow EVERY SO OFTEN I HEAR PEOPLE ASK, “SHOULD WE REMOVE THE T FROM LGBT?”

TO WHICH MY RESPONSE IS AND ALWAYS WILL BE “NO”. The marriage

referendum and the Gender Recognition Bill were closely interrelated for me as I fall into both the ‘T’ and the ‘L’ parts of the acronym. The success of both this year has made life so much brighter for me in Ireland. It’s incredibly important for me personally because it’s hard being transgender. It’s hard to wake up every morning and look in the mirror and hate the person staring back at you. To be looking at other girls and thinking “why couldn’t I have a life like that?” The invasive, nightmarish thoughts of “why wasn’t I born a girl?”, to be jealous of other girls and then have the immediate feeling of shame for thinking that way. There are days when you feel trapped, helpless, lost, with no hope for the future. I still feel an ingrained sense of shame at who I am and that sickens me. Yet, you have to get by. You keep pushing onwards. You put those thoughts away as best you can. I have been fortunate enough to have great friends who have been incredibly supportive of me. I write this anonymously because I don’t feel comfortable, brave or safe enough yet to forge ahead with this part of my life. I am still hiding, still in the dark of the closet for the most part. Thankfully though, I have been

blessed with friends who have helped me and shone a light in some of the darkest parts of my life. I don’t claim to speak for the entire transgender community, my experience is unique to me. While I may have similar experiences as many other transwomen, I can never claim to speak for us all. How can I, when transwomen of colour are murdered at a horrifying rate, when those in countries far less tolerant than our own face such horrendous discrimination. My experience and my views are my own. There are transwomen I agree with and others that I disagree with. Many have great reservations towards Drag culture and I can see why. Sadly all too often, Drag Queens and transwomen are conflated by society as one and the same. Many Drag Queens, who are often cis gay men, have reclaimed trans slurs that, when I hear them, put a knot in my stomach. Some transwomen have, in response, sought the misguided measure of banning Drag Queens from pride events. As I said, I do not want the T to be removed from LGBT. I recognise the problems with Drag culture, I recognise the issues that many transwomen have with Drag Queens. I also recognise that these differences are not irreconcilable. Some transwomen perform as Drag Queens. There has been overlap between the art form of Drag and the life of

being trans. Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, two transwomen of colour, performed as Drag Queens. During the Stonewall Riots, alongside fellow transwoman Miss Major Griffin-Gracy, they were among the leaders who fought back against brutal police repression. Drag Queens and transgender people have fought for the same things before. I greatly admire Panti Bliss for her work during the Marriage Referendum campaign and for her support for the Gender Recognition Bill. I also have deep admiration for TENI, Transgender Equality Network Ireland, who fought so long for the Gender Recognition Bill, and gave untiring support to the marriage equality referendum. I am thankful, beyond measure, for all those, transgender people and Drag Queens, who fought, in the past and continue to fight in the present, for what is right. I recognise the issues with Drag culture but these issues need not lead to hatred or intolerance. More understanding from Drag Queens of transwomen is needed. Hateful slurs cannot be reclaimed by those who do not face the full force of their meaning day-in and day-out. Drag Queens are not always in Drag, but transwomen are always transwomen. We don’t take off a costume. Certain Drag Queens should be more understanding of transwomen and their problems and not merely pass

it off by disparagingly telling us to grow thicker skin and stop complaining. I have thick skin; I grew it because I had to. Because I have to put up with seeing transwomen be constantly questioned, belittled, demeaned, dehumanised, and made into comedic tropes. Because when I hear people bitch about transwomen in public, I have to grit my teeth and rein in my anger. Understanding would go a long way towards rapprochement between transwomen and Drag Queens. We are not the same but there is an overlap, and we cannot deny each others’ right to exist and thrive in life. I do not advocate banning Drag Queens from pride events. Such actions would go against everything I stand for and want the LGBTQIA community to be. I believe that the entire community must be more understanding and accepting of each other. We need to recognise the diversity of others in terms of sexuality and gender identity. As a group, we must be inclusive. We cannot police other’s gender identity or sexuality. We’ve fought so hard against outside intolerance, we cannot succumb to internal problems. We must understand each other, accept that we are all different, and celebrate that. For society at large, much needs to change. The conflation of transwomen and Drag Queens needs to end. “Drag is art, Trans is life”

is a good rule of thumb. The media need to stop sensationalising transgender stories. I’m hoping for the day when someone will come out as transgender and the media will not question them, and sensationalise them, and merely shrug it off. Personally, my life is not that exciting, I am the same as everyone else, I may be transgender but that is not all I am. I’m the same as everyone else, I have the same hopes, dreams and fears as everyone else, and I’m incredibly ordinary. I was just made a little different! I am a human being and deserve to be treated as one. I am not a “thing” or an “it”, nor is my existence a joke as it is all too often portrayed on TV or worryingly and worse still, as some kind of psychopath, something that appears disturbingly often in depictions of transwomen in TV programming. I’m the same as everyone else. My existence does not threaten or undermine anyone else’s, neither is it anyone else’s business. I want to be treated the same as everyone else, not as a joke, not as a psychopath, but as a human being, the same as everyone else. I’m the same as everyone else and I want and deserve to be treated that way.

Friday 13th Kelly Meehan Brown

I don’t think there are enough words in the English language to describe the last few weeks in Paris, although the French word “douleur”, roughly translating to ‘pain’ and ‘suffering’ seems the most apt. One hundred and twenty-nine people are dead. One hundred and twenty-nine innocent souls who went to dinner, to a concert, to a football match, dead for being alive, for living freely. There is a misery hanging over the city but it’s contrasted wildly with the shocking realisation that life goes on. People are still getting the Metro to work, tourists are still milling about the closed landmarks, we still laugh, joke, and sing. Luckily, this was the first time I have ever been in an area affected by something as mindless and hateful as terrorism. And so, it was the first time I realised that the world doesn’t stop, it can’t stop -- if it does, terrorism will have won. We visited Place de la République. It’s a square in close proximity to the shootings that took place on Friday, November thirteenth. Every inch of the monument is covered in flowers, candles, posters, children’s drawings, and teddy bears. It’s remarkable that, despite the recent offerings by the public, the remnants of offerings to the victims of the Charlie Hebdo attacks are still discernible. ‘Je suis Charlie’ is now ‘Je suis Paris’. However, whether you choose to accept it or not, this disaster doesn’t just affect the French capital alone. In the aftermath of the attacks, an image of the French flag flying together with the Lebanese flag moved me. Forty-three

people lost their lives in Beirut on the 12th of November. Many have spoken about how Beirut has been forgotten in the aftermath of Paris but I beg to differ. The monument at Place de la République paid homage to this equally needless and tragic incident. It wasn’t, nor could it be, ignored. So, why did Facebook not allow people to change their profile pictures to the Lebanese flag? I don’t know, but what I do know is that while the mainstream media seemed to not cover the Lebanese disaster as much as the Parisian one, I know the people care. I have seen it in the faces, in the graffiti and in their outrage. There is an anger and a sadness that spans the globe, not just in Paris. We were honoured to be in the presence of the internet sensation that is the German man who brought his piano on a string tied to his bicycle. This man rolled up, sat himself down, and started to play John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’, much to the delight of the spectators. This man was not just playing for Paris. “I hope someday you’ll join us /And the world will live as one.” Those words are not just for one city, one race, one religion. They’re for the world.

team. I can’t wrap my head around it. This isn’t a war zone, these people weren’t armed. Why did this happen? And how much action can we, as a civilisation united against terrorists, afford to take to ensure it does not happen again? I can’t finish this article without taking just the one sly dig at all the absolute idiots, through the wondrous medium of Facebook, whose bigoted and ignorant comments I am forced to endure. If you think for one second that every single Muslim is responsible for this, you’re wrong. If you think that, owing to one of the terrorists gaining access to Europe as a refugee, means that Europe should stop allowing refugees in, you’re wrong. If the fact that someone has changed their profile picture to the colours blue, white and red offends you, I suggest you go and see a doctor to find out what led you to the notion that this is a politically motivated stance.

At the risk of sounding like an absolute shithead, most people who changed their profile photo have absolutely no idea what those colours politically stand for, myself included. The vast majority of Facebook users are In the aftermath of the attacks, showing their support for a nathe city that I have fallen in tion in turmoil. If you think this love with has become a place I is ignorant, selfish or attention no longer trust. It’s too early to seeking, and you take the time say that I’ll never feel safe here out of your busy life that is safe again, but it’s difficult to shake from terror to physically hit the the feeling of unease that fills letters on a keyboard to type me every time I leave the safety out a status indirectly aimed at of my apartment on the outyer man you haven’t spoken to skirts of the city. However, this for eight years from primary isn’t about me. It’s not about an- school, to ridicule and shame yone I know because thankfully, him just because he changed the everyone I know is fine. This is colour of his face on a website, about the massive and needless you need to re-evaluate your loss of life that occurred for no life. People are dead. Who gives reason. This is about the people who could’ve easily been you or a fuck about what John from me, out for a drink on a Friday Tipperary did with his profile night, going to see their favour- picture. Sort out your priorities. ite band, or favourite football

Red Revolution – Canadian Style Although outsiders saw the result as a ‘surprise’ (the word the Irish Times used), some had called it long beforehand. To almost anyone paying close attention, it was clear that the Liberal party was going to mount a serious challenge. Nine years of a single party in government tends to galvanize opposition, and in this case, this was exactly what happened. The Liberal election strategists had made concerted efforts to avoid a split vote amongst those to the left of Harper. This had cost them dearly in the 2011 election. Most of all, Canadians desired a change. Harper has been called the last Neo-Con of the early 21st century, and was more aligned with the politics of Bush and Blair. On foreign policy he was a hawk, and one of the most outspoken critics of Putin. He was one of the bad guys of international environmental politics, along with Tony Abbott of Australia. On social issues he was accused of fearmongering against Muslims. Trudeau on the other hand, ran on a distinctly liberal reform platform. This was a clear-cut choice right-ofcentre and left-of-centre options, and Canadians have had their say.

The gender-balanced cabinet caught the attention of the world, as did the snappy “Because its 2015” explanation. The appointment of a Sikh Defence minister was similarly notable as an immediate signal of intent. Although significant, these in themselves are not going to affect the lives of ordinary Canadians. The coming years and months will tell us exactly how many of his promises Trudeau will actually follow through on. Few governments follow through on all election promises. Some lie to gain votes, while others find it extremely difficult to push through their policies once they get into power no matter how sincere their intentions. The realities of politics will likely blunt the efforts of Trudeau to follow through on all of his promises. Canada is a federal nation, and provinces can put up significant resistance to certain policies. Alberta and Saskatchewan remain conservative strongholds. Unforeseen events both in Canada and around the world,

such as the Paris terrorist attacks, may also force Trudeau to change course on certain policies. One issue Trudeau has promised to tackle is electoral reform. Canada is one of the last developed countries still using the Westminster style single-seat constituencies. The current system has served them well in this election. The Liberals’ large majority in parliament belies the fact that they only received 39.5% of votes cast. A more plural system would benefit the smaller parties the most, and the Liberals run a risk by imposing such a system. However they are likely to follow through in this area, as the system was partially responsible for their dismal result in the 2011 election. Trudeau has come into office at a difficult time for the Canadian economy. Canada avoided the worst of the financial crash in 2008. However for the first two quarters of 2015, Canada slipped into recession before returning to 1% growth in the third quarter. It is unclear whether this will be a sustained growth. To combat this weak or negative growth the Liberals plan to double spending on infrastructure.Part of the problem is that Canada is now a commodity based economy. Such economies were hit worst by the slow-down in the Chinese economy, as well as the sustained drop in energy prices. In 2014, Oil accounted for over 25% of Canadian exports. The oil industry is mostly based in Alberta and was (figuratively) a gold mine. Before the crash in oil prices unskilled labourers could earn upwards of double the minimum wage while skilled tradesmen could earn up to $100,000 per year or more. This rosy picture has changed. There is no longer a labour shortage and unemployment has increased. However, the energy industry has not collapsed. The Saudi strategy to drive North American oil out of business by flooding the market with cheaper oil has failed so far. The Canadian tar sands are a more expensive way to extract oil; however they have remained viable as a business and are proving more robust than anticipated. Climate politics will be a key area to

watch with the new administration. The election has been taken as a win by environmental advocates. Canada’s actions at the December UN conference on climate conference will reveal more. It has been flagged as an opportunity for the Liberals to make their mark on environmental politics, and Trudeau will likely unveil plans for emissions targets. Achieving these may prove a little more difficult if provinces like Saskatchewan and Alberta object. Trudeau has also pledged to cancel the purchase of F-35’s fighter jets from the US, but even some very hawkish politicians had recommended this. The plane was in fact too costly and over-sophisticated for Canada’s needs, and was being pushed by a US desperate to reduce cost-per-unit by increasing economy of scale. The move was a pragmatic one and the money saved will be largely spent on the Navy while a new fighter jet is selected. Overall defence spending will remain steady or may be increased, going hand in hand with a rationalization of the military. Trudeau’s pledge to take in 25,000 refugees before the end of this year has already been revised downward to 10,000. The ambitious number dwarfed the number the US is planning to accept (10,000 by the end of 2016), but is itself dwarfed by the numbers coming to Europe. The move has already caused concern for some in the US, fearing terrorists may slip across the longest land border in the world. The Paris attacks have affected this plan, as it was recently announced that Canada may not accept young, single, male refugees, another significant moderation on initial pledges. Finally, Trudeau has promised to legalise cannabis in Canada. Possession of cannabis is legal for medicinal purposes, but is still a criminal offence otherwise even if this is very rarely enforced. The days of criminalisation may well be numbered as Trudeau has promised to tackle the issue in the first two years of his term.

Tommy Monahan

Building Walls: The Death of Schengen by ﬁonn mcgorry BISMARCK, SYMBOLISER BOTH OF UNIFICATION, AND OF BALANCE-OF-POWER POLITICS, HAD BEEN IN OFFICE FOR JUST OVER A YEAR AS THE FIRST

CHANCELLOR OF THE GERMANY HE HAD

ENGINEERED WHEN HE SAID “WHOEVER SPEAKS OF

EUROPE IS WRONG: IT IS A GEOGRAPHICAL

EXPRESSION.”

Bismarck’s cynicism surrounding the prospect of European identity and integration shows his realist view of the state of play in Europe, with an inherently conservative view of the role of the state. Economic shocks and terrorist attacks have occasioned the discourse surrounding Brexit, Grexit, and other possible re-fragmentations of Europe, giving an inordinate amount of responsibility for Europe’s future to formalistic arrangements, neglecting the role of peaceful co-existence in the lives of Europeans. Nationality is a complex beast and citizens of Europe have the right to consider the state of their Union. The growth of a European identity, and a vision of politics and economics of Europe as more than a sum of the politics and economics of individual states, is of course partially caused by these institutions, however at this moment, where none of these fears about a collapse or fundamental alteration of these institutions have yet come to pass, one has an opportunity to reﬂect on what it is within Europe’s architecture which has engendered this growth in an identity. With the trappings of statehood as yet unaffected by these economic shocks or by terror, it is difﬁcult to project how European identity is reliant on these institutions. However, a fundamental aspect of a nationality is shared ownership over territory. Aside from the exceptions of Britain and Ireland, who retain opt-outs, and four states who, for various reasons, do not yet meet the criteria for accession, all EU states are participants in the area, along with Iceland, Liechstenstein, Norway and Switzerland, Monaco, San

Marino and the Vatican City, all of whom have historical ties to other European states. The membership of non-EU states clearly shows the complexity of European history, however, the Schengen Area is fundamentally linked with the European Union and its ongoing existence is therefore intertwined with the Union. It is easy to argue that Schengen has done more to encourage imagination of “Europe” in the past two decades than any other European institution. One of the big-

itself which will endanger Europe, and not the terrorist threat, through the weakening of Schengen Agreement arrangements and a re-imagining of European institutions. The two fundamental considerations in multilateral agreements are trade and security. The beneﬁts of multilateral free trade with other European states are so patently obvious at this stage, particularly in the European Union, that were Brexit, Grexit, or indeed “Scexit” (a Scottish retreat from the United Kingdom) to take place, there is little reason aside from pride which would compel these newly independent states to install trade barriers. Europe, too, aside from perhaps attempting to deter other states from following suit, has no real incentive to implement barriers to former constituent parts of the Union. It is of course true, that on balance, that deterrent is as good a reason as any, as once a precedent is set, it is difﬁcult to predict if other states would desire to replicate a secession. The security issue, however, is much more nuanced. States make attempts to gather intelligence on activity taking place within their borders. The proliferation of anti-terrorism legislation in a number of states is indicative of one method of attempting to deal with this. Critics reasonably argue that this approach leads to states failing in another responsibility, that of ensuring the liberty of their citizens. The privacy concerns which dominate this criticism also encompass what is perhaps a more complex and advanced relationship that Europeans have with their states. wThis right to privacy in Europe has grown to encompass an expectation of freedom of movement, both within states, but also between European states and across borders. Communities extend across borders on the continent. People routinely live in one state and work in another.

gest opportunities a state has to show that it exists is at its frontiers. However, this openness is also one of the biggest threats in the minds of many Europeans, particularly with the post-mortem on Paris paying particular attention to the trans-national migration of the perpetrators from Molenbeek in Belgium. If security services are able to manage security concerns across open borders within the Schengen Area, trust in the institution will not be affected. The ﬁrst priority should, of course, be to acknowledge the lessons of Molenbeek, and to ensure that apparently acknowledged ‘hotspots’ should be considered secure. However, another view is that it is fear

School students travel home across territorial borders for lunch, and rational consumers travel to cheaper jurisdictions to shop for groceries. With the debate around the future of Schengen which the Paris attacks have sparked, this freedom of movement is also a target for legislators. Though those seeking to advance this anti-terrorism legislation would make the claim that these citizens have little to fear and have nothing to hide, the truth is that any amount of inconvenience in crossing borders to pursue day-to-day life is an increase in the inefﬁciency of Europe and furthermore decreases trust in the institutions. Schengen’s role in encouraging European integration therefore is a role which, if threatened, will do more to undermine Europe than Brexit or Grexit ever could.

geek out. MISC INTERVIEWS... LOUISE O’NEILL

In the ﬁrst of our Misc interview series, co-editor Aine O’Connell sits down with Louise O’Neill to chat about home, Trinity and her new novel, Asking For It. TO REFER TO LOUISE O’NEILL AS A RISING STAR SEEMS DISINGENUOUS. THE CORK-BORN AUTHOR, WHOSE SECOND NOVEL ASKING FOR IT WAS PUBLISHED THIS SUMMER, HAS SINCE BEEN AWARDED IRISH AUTHOR OF THE YEAR, SIGNED THE RIGHTS FOR HER FIRST NOVEL TO BE ADAPTED INTO A FILM, AND TOURED THE WORLD. O’Neill’s defiantly femi-

nist writings have struck a chord with a generation deeply interested in women’s rights: Asking For It became a bestseller around the world. O’Neill’s success has brought her to many different places, her twitter is a constant stream of airport tweets and selfies with famous people, but when she spoke to Miscellany about her hometown of Clonakilty, it is clear that O’Neill is something of a homebird, though her relationship with home wasn’t always harmonious; something that inspires her fiery fiction. “I loved Cork as a small child”, O’Neill tells me, “but my value system wasn’t coherent with what I saw around me”. As she grew up, she saw issues with the sleepy parochial nature of the town, and moved to Dublin to study English and History at TCD upon finishing her Leaving Cert. Did Clonakilty inspire any of her writing? O’Neill acknowledges that Ballinatoom, the town in which her latest novel is set, isn’t a million miles away from Clonakilty but is adamant that the places are only loosely linked. On the topic of basing characters from books on people from home, O’Neill seems affronted at the suggestion. “I’ve never done that, I want to make things up for a living. It defeats the purpose!” True enough, Louise, but Asking For It is still something of an uncanny experience for anyone living in a small Irish village or town. The sense of claustrophobia and conformity is palpable;

girls dress the same, speak the same, and fuck the same boys, who all play GAA. When Emma is raped, she becomes an outsider, almost as though rape distances her from her peers and even her family, “living in a small town is a bit like being a celebrity” admits O’Neill, a reference to the busybody culture that permeates much of small town Ireland. Knowing the business of everyone around you is quintessential Irishness, but in Asking For It, it becomes a tool for hatred and negativity. One of the most frightening lines from the book reflects this, “they are innocent until proven guilty. But not me. I am a liar until proven honest”. This lack of sympathy displayed in the novel is something that doesn’t take a lot of imagination to conjour up – there’s an ongoing case in the U.S where a judge asked a rape survivor why she hadn’t simply “kept her knees together”. Inspired by the high-profile Steubenville and Maryville rape cases, Asking For It is still a noticeably, and necessarily, Irish novel. With statistics from USI indicating that one in four women at college feel as though they have had non-consensual sexual experiences, it’s high time that Ireland gets talking about these issues. Unsurprisingly, Asking For It has been at the forefront of this conversation. Using

the hashtag #NotAskingForIt, Twitter and Facebook became a hub of discussion around rape culture, and the need to ask consent. O’Neill recently joined the launch of UCD’s ‘Ask Consent’ campaign, universities across the country have started to speak about this topic in earnest.

“

One of the most frightening lines from the book reﬂects this,“they are innocent until proven guilty. But not me. I am a liar until proven honest”. O’Neill and I end up having a bit of a rant together on it; is university too late to discuss this, I ask? We agree that it is – given that university students are generally eighteen or nineteen, it’s far too late to teach them about consent at this point. When I asked, O’Neill advocated for the topic of consent to be “drilled into children from a young age”. Now

an influential author with a huge fan base, O’Neill admits that she “really wants to use [her] voice” to influence change in Ireland, such as better sex education. What is “better”, I venture. O’Neill advocates less of an emphasis on reproduction and more of a shift towards a discussion of sex itself. It’s a somewhat radical opinion but it’s certainly gaining ground, especially amongst self-identified feminists. We don’t focus too much on rape culture during our chat but O’Neill’s Twitter is an eye-opening experience for anyone who feels like they want to learn more about the topic.

ence on her first novel. It was exacerbated, she tells me, by moving to New York upon finishing her MA and constantly “wondering if people were impressed by me”. Working in fashion, which she loved, O’Neill nonetheless had recurring dreams about home and returned after about a year, “it was an odd experience”, she acknowledges, but credits her home with “giving [her] the space and time to write”. Not one to shy away from the topic of home, O’Neill is madly enthusiastic about her family, crediting her parents’ support and positivity for helping her to get better and to write both her novels.

O’Neill’s journey to feminism has been a difficult one by any standards. She moved to Dublin to study at Trinity and felt instantly overwhelmed, she tells me quite a funny story about taking two hours to get from St. Stephen’s Green to the Trinity Arts Block. Nonetheless, she persevered, dropping history to study pure English during her first year. She studied gender and sexuality studies as well as post-apocalyptic fiction, two things that massively influenced her debut novel, Only Ever Yours. O’Neill speaks about Trinity fondly, telling me she loved her four years there despite battling an eating disorder for some of her time there. O’Neill speaks openly about this as it’s another real influ-

Asking For It cannot have been an easy thing to write. O’Neill has called it “harrowing” in many interviews. The meticulous research pays off. Asking For It is terrifyingly real – the least believable element is that the sun shines during the Irish summer. That speaks volumes about the quality of the novel. It’s not an easy read but it’s an essential one that will leave many readers sick to their stomach and crying out for change. Like Louise O’Neill, we all have a voice, let’s hope that many of the thousands who have read Asking For It learn to use it as capably and as powerfully as she does.

Why You Should Read: The Sandman HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE, ONE THAT MAY

So I faced a bit of a dilemma when, in my quest to read everything he has every written and somehow absorb his soul, I came across his Sandman comics. Reader, I did it. I bit the bullet and read them, and even though I have yet to fully become one with the author, it was absolutely, positively, incredibly worth it.

Why, out of all the other aspects of “nerd culture” that I have embraced, did this one not make the cut? Comics, more so than any other media, are still very much the domain of men. Try going into Forbidden Planet or Big Bang Comics, and all you’ll find are guys and the occasional emo teenager, and I don’t know which is more intimidating. Boys are steered towards comics from a young age, while girls... well, let’s not get into all the things girls are steered towards right now, but suffice it to say I was never encouraged to identify with Spiderman. On top of that – or maybe because of it – a part of me has always seen comics as being “lesser” in some way. I looked down on them in the same way a kid who has graduated to text-only books would look down on picture books. Using pictures seemed like cheating, why use pictures when you can use words? Words are great. Words are powerful, all on their own. Text-only books give you so much scope, so much freedom to imagine the story in your own specific way, and no one can take that away from you. You’re not limited to the author or the artist’s idea, regardless of how great, or awful, it might be. Fuck those guys, what do they know? Why inhibit the power of your own imagination with someone else’s ideas?

They are beautiful. The story is wonderful, the artwork is breathtaking, and the combination of the two works unlike anything else I’ve ever read. Far from inhibiting my imagination, these comics paint pictures I could never dream up in a thousand years. If I thought my own imagination was better than someone else’s ideas before, then I was sorely, sorely, mistaken. What is it about this series that makes me gush like a schoolgirl over One Direction? Firstly, there’s the fascinating, epic story. Morpheus aka The Sandman aka King of Dreams, or just “Dream” to his friends, is imprisoned for decades following a botched blackmailing. On his release he travels the world(s), restoring order to the chaos that developed in his absence. It’s fantasy at its finest, incorporating elements from a range of cultures and mythologies – you’ve got Greek, Christian, Norse, Arabian, African, Japanese – and from all eras of human history. Have you ever wondered where Shakespeare got his ideas? Or what Orpheus (yes, from the Greek myth) was up to during the French Revolution? Or what cats think of death? Would you like to see Odin, Anubis, and the physical manifestation of order have an awkward dinner party? Then you’ll love this. Arguably more striking than the story and the artwork, which is worthy of a whole article to itself, is the diversity. For something that was written over 25 years ago, it still puts most modern series – in any medium – to shame. Death, possibly the most powerful being in the universe, is a woman (and a teenage goth, at that, with

WELL DAMAGE MY REPUTATION FOREVER:

I DON’T READ COMICS. And no, I don’t read “graphic novels” either. No anime, no manga, or any variation of the “mostly pictures plus some words in a small book” format. (Yes, I know, I’ll leave my nerd cred at the door on my way out.)

Having established my distaste for the genre as a whole, it’s time for confession number two: I am a huge Neil Gaiman fan. In fact, I think I might be (dare I say it?) a fangirl.

a fabulous sense of humour). Her sibling, Desire, is genderfluid, neither a man nor a woman (or both male and female, depending on your interpretation). The protagonists of “A Game of You” include a trans woman and a lesbian couple, and that’s only one story among many. The Sandman series is huge, not just in terms of scope, but in produced issues. While the original run finished in 1996, Gaiman et al have been intermittently producing spin-offs and prequels since then, and The Sandman: Overture only finished two months ago, proving how relevant it still is. Reading it is not a challenge or a chore. It’s the kind of series where you look up from it and hours have gone by without you noticing. It has the kind of magic and majesty, the pure emotional force, that I hadn’t encountered since Harry Potter. Remember how you felt about Harry Potter when you were twelve? It was exciting and devastating and filled you with wonder – and let’s be honest, it probably still does. If you want to feel that again, read this series. This isn’t one of those “I read this one thing and now I’m a convert” stories. I haven’t read another comic book since I finished The Sandman and I don’t feel the slightest desire to do so. My feelings towards the medium as a whole are mostly ambivalent, but hey, there’s always an exception. You might not like comics now. You may never like them. But you will like The Sandman.

14 Reasons Why Listicles Are The Literal Worst 1) Words like “literal(ly)”, “actual”, “too real” should not be used outside of Facebook or Twitter. And putting them in CAPITAL LETTERS doesn't make it any more acceptable. Yes, Buzzfeed, I'm looking at you. 2) Choosing a random doesn't make your list cute or quirky. 41 pictures of Jennifer Lawrence falling over? Honestly, you could have just left it at forty. Hell, even a solid twenty would have done the job. 3) They always repeat an item “for emphasis” but in reality it's just to make up numbers and page space. 4) Seriously though, repeating an item is the ACTUAL worst. 5) Most of the time they're not even real entries, they're just an excuse to use a particular photo or gif. 6) Now I have this photo here and I need to say something about it for appearance's sake but no one really reads the caption so I'm just babbling blah blah blah purple monkey dishwasher okay that's enough I've hit my word count. 7) They usually start out well, with one or two funny and/or relatable entries, but devolve into “look at some random pictures and tweets I've managed to somehow string together” because writing a lot words in a coherent structure is hard. 8) Putting a list of other peoples' tweets about something together does not count as writing an article. It's just lazy. 9) I want that job, and I hate these people for having it. 10) Some entries aren't even entries, they're just comments on previous entries. 11) It's really annoying, isn't it? 12) When You Capitalise Every Word Even Deﬁnite And Indeﬁnite Articles And Small Words Like If You Are Flouting All Conventional Titling Norms And You Sound Like Dory In Finding Nemo Trying To Speak Whale. 13) Listicles are terrible. I'm repeating this at the end so you remember that there was a point to this list and you haven't just wasted ten precious minutes of your ever-decreasing lifespan. 14) Another gif, just because.

WHAT’S ALL THIS SHITE? An interview with Kat Clinch.

limit at committee meetings – because there’s only so much shite they can put up with). The concept was simple – people would stand and speak for a few minutes about a subject of choice – essen-

S.H.I.T.E. are a young, new theatre group recently established in Dublin. The committee is made up of students from our very own Trinity College, so I sat down to find out what they’re all about and why you should check them out. S.H.I.T.E. is an acronym for Sophie’s Highly Interesting Theatre experience. But what inspired Sophie Cairns, the company’s leader, to start her own theatre group? The girl who puts the S in S.H.I.T.E. tells us the origin story of the project: It actually began as an inside joke with my parents, they thought it would be hilarious if I had my own theatre company under such an amusing acronym. It only became a real thing when they bought me the domain name shite.ie as a Christmas present last year so I felt I had to start something… S.H.I.T.E. actually began its life in Berkeley, California where Sophie was studying for a year. She and a company of friends plotted and executed a number of events in the name of S.H.I.T.E. Following the success of her efforts in the States, Sophie decided upon her return to Ireland that S.H.I.T.E. should go international. Leaving the Berkeley branch to be run by her local team in Cali, headed up by Josephine Yang, Sophie brought the acronym and the idea back to Dublin. Being the title figure of the acronym, Sophie felt obliged to bring highly interesting theatre experiences to more people. S.H.I.T.E. International kicked off with a piece in the International Youth Arts festival in London (described by the committee as ‘exactly like Crufts – but for theatre’) where they were even nominated for the Best in Fest award. After this, Sophie established a committee with some friends from Drama Studies in Trinity and they developed a programme for S.H.I.T.E. Dublin and reached out to the public to fill their ranks. So what are S.H.I.T.E. all about? S.H.I.T.E. are about embracing new writing and diverse spaces – they want to show that you can create theatre anywhere if you have the interest and the enthusiasm to do so. S.H.I.T.E. performs only original pieces created specifically for S.H.I.T.E., their own events or with the company in mind. Their casts, directors and writers are all volunteers, some with no theatrical experience whatsoever, who want to be part of a creative project. Their events are free to enjoy though there is a box at all events for donations to help fund future shows and projects. So what have S.H.I.T.E. done so far? The Launch of S.H.I.T.E. Dublin was an event called ‘Heads full of S.H.I.T.E.’ (the writer and committee would like it to be known that not all the works by the group involve poo puns and there is even a strict pun

tially: shite on for a bit. A diverse range of topics from lists to the Mongols and pro-wrestling to ‘blue people’ were covered and the night was finished off by peoples sharing ‘shite facts’ (which I am told involved several harrowing details you never knew about small rodents that were too graphic to include in this interview).It was followed up by their ‘S.H.I.T.E. walking tours’ that took people on satirical tours of Dublin led by well-known characters from Ireland’s cultural history such as Oscar Wilde and Molly Malone. Their most recent event was a project called ‘Living Room Plays’ showcasing new writing from young people and performed in – you guessed it - a living room. The event showcased the group’s talent for using limited space and resources to bring an evening of fantastic entertainment. All

the pieces were written specifically with the event in mind and performed by Trinity and non-Trinity students – some of whom had never performed before. The works varied in tone and genre from James Ireland’s intriguingly dark Salmon With A Sweet Chili Dressing to the light-hearted comedy of The Brief and Blazed life of Sheldon by Jack Looby. The night was M.C.-ed by one of Trinity Drama’s top talents – Mr Colm Gleeson. No living rooms and only a couple of audience members were injured in the making of this

face you want to give money to and attempts to keep them out of debt. Katie ‘No Pants’ Baubau is the event manager and she describes her role as ‘finding lush locations like public toilets or parks for our performances and making costumes out of toilet roll’. Finally, Jack Looby (no toilet pun intended) handles the groups social media presence and Luke Casserly is the stage manager for the performances. When asked how they plan to keep the project going into the future (most of the committee are in their final year of university and scarily close to the real world) the committee admitted they’re taking things as they come. They plan to carry it on into next term with several more ideas in the works but when asked whether it will continue after college Sophie simply said ‘We’ll see’ – at which point Orla asserted that she would ‘TAKE OVER!’ . While the group has now staged several successful projects, they rely largely on the S.H.I.T.E. community as a whole to be able to continue creating events and performances and as such will simply continue to work for as long as they have the creative resources and enthusiasm to do so – world domination is not their agenda. When we asked for a sneak peak into future projects, it was revealed that one event they have planned will infact be staged in a bathroom – a sort of ‘bring S.H.I.T.E. home’. They also have a number of amusing pun-based ideas in development for future shows. At the close of my S.H.I.T.E. time, I ask if the group they have any advice for aspiring theatre buff wanting to stage their own productions? ‘Don’t create your own –just join us’ – they joke. The committee emphasise that you don’t need money or connections or even a space to create theatre. They encourage any aspiring theatre moguls out there that, following their example, you’ll be surprised how much you can do with no money, or how fast you can raise money or how easily you can get creative talented people involved. They also stress that S.H.I.T.E. is open to everyone even if you aren’t dramatically inclined.

event. So who are the S.H.I.T.E.-heads that help bring original theatre to the masses? Sophie ‘el presidente’ Cairns is the leading acronym and chairwoman of the group. She is supported by Orla ‘waiting for Sophie to die’ Devlin – the secretary and second in command, responsible for recording all committee banter and plotting to usurp Sophie’s thrown on the committee. Colm ‘I’m in all the plays’ Gleeson and Ellen ‘ellen’ Corby are the ‘people-sourcers’ – finding people to participate in the performances and filling in the S.H.I.T.E. community on upcoming projects. Alexandra Christle is the finance manager for the group – she holds the donation bucket at events, provides a

The committee laugh and joke a lot throughout the interview, and though they may, at first glance, seem to be nothing more than group of students and friends taking jokes and running with them, their passion for creativity and their desire to share the fun and experience of both watching and making theatre is inspiring and they already have a growing cult following. Miscellany attended their Living Room Plays and can report that their Theatre Experience really is as Highly Interesting as the acronym promised. They not only provide entertainment and showcase talent but provide a great forum for new writers and aspiring directors and an opportunity for anyone who wants to get involved in acting. If you are interested in getting involved in SHITE or seeing a SHITE production contact: facebook: https://m.facebook.com/Shiteinc/ email: shitedublin@gmail.com or check out shite.ie

OUT OF ORDER. By Rory McNab I really hope that’s not piss. I watch as the dark stains creep through my bundle of notes precariously balanced on the corner of the sink. I’d scanned the wet marble surface for a section that was less damp. This proving elusive, I’d resigned myself instead to having them touch as little of the slick surface as possible. It’s probably not piss. Who’d piss on a sink? The notes sagged listlessly over the edges of the marble counter, looking as if they were about to slide onto the even damper floor. Admittedly, a fitting place for my garbled musings on Pound and Eliot and Yeats and God knows what else. There is definitely piss down there though. I place a near-empty bottle atop the drooping wad, hoping it will anchor the whole increasingly sodden mess in place, before turning to face the urinal. There is a certain etiquette that must be observed when making use of a urinal. It is not something that is taught. There are no evening classes to enlighten one as to the correct decorum which must be adhered to. Rather, it is learned through trial and error and, most importantly, through observation. And the first rule that one learns is; for the love of god don’t observe anything that goes on at the urinals. The middle distance is your friend. And so I stare ahead, drinking in every detail of the sullied white tiles covering

the wall, noting the tiny patches of pink mould which have made their home in the grouting. Oases of life struggling to survive in the bleached porcelain desert. I wonder if David Attenborough ever considered making a documentary on the life of bathroom mould. Somehow I doubt it. I hear a cubicle door open behind me and someone going to the sink to wash their hands. That’s not going to help the moist note situation. My thoughts immediately turned toward their wellbeing. I hear another cubicle door bang closed behind me. The cubicle. When one enters a cubicle it is like entering a confession booth. You are seeking to expunge yourself of past sins, striving for a sense of purity. A physical and soulful experience of cleansing amidst the tranquillity and solitude offered within the confines of four tiny walls. Hoping to emerge from your graffiti-smeared chrysalis renewed and refreshed. In my periphery I perceive a portly middle-aged man heaving into action at an adjacent urinal. I redouble the intensity of my stare ahead. Such pink mould. Out of the corner of my eye I see the flash and jangle of a belt opening and decide the wall is no longer enough. I turn my gaze toward the heavens and the visual sanctuary of the ceiling. I sense that he, my bathroom companion, has done the same. Although we stand side by side,

attempting to utterly ignore the mere existence of one another our body language screams; “It’s alright mate don’t worry, I’m not… “Good. Cos neither am I… Just having a quick look over the ceiling tiles Ditto. Though… they’re a bit… Dull, bit grey. It’s a shame they’re not more interesting Aye that it is. Nice bitta art or something Wouldn’t go amiss A lovely painting or mural I tell ya that Michaelangelo fella-Sound lad- -Aye. He had the right idea. How so? -Painting on the ceiling. With the Sistine Chapel? -That’s the one, wasted where it is though. Shoulda been in a jacks? -Shoulda been in a jacks. How so? -Well who goes around staring at ceilings normally? Fair point- -Only time’s in a bathroom True, -Where ya just need something to distract ya,

Something to help ya say; Don’t worry, I’m not looking at ‘it’,” I’m not looking at ‘it’.”

place of chaos. Beyond there is out of order. To go through that door is to enter dysfunction. Stress, work, commitments, obligations, jealousy, betrayal, blah blah blah...they all exist beyond that And we finish without a word door. By walking away from the ceramic uttered but with a lot said and sanctuary of the bathroom you re-imshaken, I return to my sodding merse yourself in the madness. The bundle and he doesn’t wash sheer, giddying, dizzying insanity of it his hands and he exits. Exits all. through a door affixed with a In here then, if the outside world is ‘out sign. of order’, then, inside the bathroom, in here, must be ‘in order’. The simple etiquette of interaction which we must OUT OF ORDER adhere to, which we all come to understand, is comforting. There are paramIt had evidently been removed eters. A bathroom panders to our most from a cubicle or one of the pair base needs, to the simplest truth; that of almost asthmatic hand-dryers, we all shit. This knowledge is the great hanging under the wall-length social leveller. Our bestial nature is mirror opposite the urinals, or inescapable. Bathrooms are the, somethe taps or something. But there times gleaming, often grimy, testaments it was, gaffertaped to the door. to our primal selves. The door to leave the bathroom. In here amidst the grubby pragmatism The door back out to the world. of the porcelain, we temporarily absent ourselves from worrying about whatev er troubles might plague us. OUT OF ORDER Getting reading done for class. Saving enough money to visit my girlWas it some grand piece of friend in London. satire by a disgruntled cleaner? Writing this piece. Some maverick making a bold Drying off my now soggy notes. statement about the world? A small protest sure, if it can be I wonder what it might be like to just called protest at all, but one that stay in the bathroom. To just simply was meant in earnest. A moment never leave. To hide from all these of frustration which boiled over problems and the chaos and the uncerand caused this mysterious tainty and the expectation. cleaner, this brave stranger, to Some sort of bedding could easily be brand the whole damn world a fashioned out of my jumper and scarf in

one of the stalls. Food situation could become an issue. Would probably have to start getting a lot of take-away food delivered if I never left which I suppose wouldn’t be the healthiest-The door swings open and a cleaner enters, dragging a bucket of soapy water which swishes and slops onto the brown-tiled floor. The cleaner is a man in overalls, seemingly unremarkable. One of life’s many background extras that we fail to notice every day. How to describe him? A slight hunch? Thin, greasy hair sticking slick to his scalp? But look how he holds his mop with such purpose! A sort of bleary bored face seemingly waiting to be animated, waiting for something, something new, something else. He reaches up with one hand and grabs down the sign. “Excuse me?” I ask, “Did you by any chance put that there?” He glances up at me, startled. Talking to a stranger in a bathroom? I’m breaking the etiquette. “I did yes,-” Hesitant. “-accidentally left it here earlier. Need it now though for downstairs.” He turns to leave. “Somebody’s gone and done a shit in a urinal.” And he let the now bare door swing closed behind him.

The Sweet Rewards of Rot Charlotte Ryan It was on a ferry to Cherbourg, in the middle of a storm, that I first learned to appreciate wine. The mounting waves had forced all but myself and my mum’s partner from the dinner table, they too revolted by the smell of braised lamb and potato fondant to stay, he and I too obstinate to leave their heady aromas. Faced with five butter-and-gravy-laced servings of French food, on a ship that was becoming increasingly lopsided, we did what felt like the rational thing to do: we ate them. At that point, I hadn’t spent much time with my mum’s partner, one-on-one. There was nothing malicious about that fact. It was just how it had worked out. I was in my early teens, insisting to myself that I was an autodidact and obsessing over My Chemical Romance. He was a sports lover, a car afficionado, and countered my every utterance of Gerard Way with a playful exaltation of Status Quo. On the surface we hadn’t much in common, but eating enough meat to fuel a Viking together will bond you. This is why vegetarians are lonely people. We struck on an unlikely topic when a particularly strong jerk of the ship capsized a wine glass. Tracing a jagged line over the magenta stain, my mum’s partner told me about the breathtaking region that is Bordeaux, famed for its jewel-like red grape and the exceptional wines they produce. The names were like those of long-expired court dynasties, infinitely more fruitful: Lafite Rothschild, Margaux, Mouton Rothschild, each pronunciation accompanied by an instinctive sweep of the hand. I started to think of Bordeaux as a land encrusted with

rubies, volatile, fiery, abundant with the dark fruits of the forests. That is, until he told me about the sweet wines of Sauternes and Hungary. The production of sweet wine occurs on the boundary between natural alchemy and pure chance. Given the special conditions of misty mornings and balmy afternoons, Botrytis cinerea, the fungus that usually destroys the grapes, carries out a miraculous U-turn. Instead, it transforms them. The fungus feeds on sugar and tartaric acid in the grapes, its roots as thin as angel hair probing deep into the microscopic pores of the delicate grape skin. The grapes shrink, turning at first grey with the fungus bloom, and then to a rich hue the colour of rotting violets. The skins at this stage are pulp, and the grapes have lost more than half their weight, but less than half their sugar. The juice within has been distilled to intensely sweet nectar, extremely rich in glycerine. These beads of liquid magic, shrunken and bruised, are a repulsive sight to behold, a fitting result of the process known as “noble rot”. Although visually sickening, the sweet wines produced are indeed regarded as being among the most superb. Hungarian sweet wine, or tokaj, was famously celebrated by Louis XIV who, after sampling some at the French royal court, offered a glass to Madame de Pompadour, declaring it “Vinum Regum, Rex Vinorum” (Wine of Kings, King of Wines). Definitely a line to try out at Coppers. The Hungarians so valued their tokay grapes that a mention of them is included in their national anthem, ‘Himnusz’: “In the grapes fields of Tokaj/ You dripped sweet nectar.” The inclination of heritage is in no way mere sentiment either, with tokaj being produced in more or less the same way for over 200 years. The infected

grapes, once at optimum festering stage, are handpicked, destalked and stored for 6-8 days. They are then unceremoniously trampled to a putrid pulp before being added to a base tokaj wine and left to ferment, a process that could take years to reach the desired degree of alcohol as the liquid is so incredibly sweet. Once fermented, the wine is filtered and stored for at least three years, during which time they develop into the stiff and fiery sweet wines the region became associated with. Following World War II Hungary became a Soviet state, and what was traditionally a revered exercise in patience, instinct and precision was dulled to homogeneity, where quantity was valued above quality. While some 6,000 independent wine producers struggled on in the ancient tradition, bottling and distributing was controlled by the state farm of Tokajhegyaljai at Satoraljaujhely, a property as devoid of passion as the once-volcanic hills it rests on. Although Hungary has historical superiority in sweet wine production, it is the Sauternes region that still reigns supreme. The crown jewel of the region is Château d’Yquem, a hilltop fortress with walls as golden as the grapes of its vineyards. While the estate dates from around 1477, the famed vineyard did not exist until 1711 when Léon de Sauvage d’Yquem took control of the property. In the time since, it has garnered respect both for the delicate complexity of its wines, and for the painstaking labour put into producing sweet wine specifically. Grape pickers move through the vineyard in four groups, 40 people to each, carefully inspecting each vine for grapes infected to the desired level and handpicking them. The process can be repeated up to ten times, with each grape

allowed the time to rot slowly on the vine. The grapes are then put through a crusher and a vertical press, milled to remove stalks and finally poured into oak barrels where they ferment for 2-6 weeks. Yquem wine is matured for three and a half years at least, and the labour intensive process of production is always reflected in its price. A 1787 bottle of Chateau d’Yquem was the most expensive bottle of white wine ever sold, fetching $100,000 dollars in 2006. Yquem sweet wine is so thick that it never clears itself naturally by gravity. The sediment remains in suspension, held in syrupy embrace. The desired result is a wine that tastes luscious, usually marked by flavours of apricots, dates and all manner of fruits that ought to reside in syrup. Sweet wines move from flavours of honey, cream and nuts to something more oily and heavy when older. They also darken, from light gold to burnished amber, as the wine itself continues to shed layer after layer of sugar, distilling itself into greater levels of concentration. The resulting flavour is often one of liquid toffee, with just a touch of petrol added. It’s too easy to take the piss out of wine connoisseurs. They say things like “look at the legs on that wine!” and use adjectives like “beefy” and - I kid you not - “grapey” when discussing the drink that’s robbed them of possible thousands of euros. Thankfully, my mum’s partner isn’t that kind of wine lover. Sitting among heaps of fallen cutlery, gravy-smeared plates and the faintly puke-tinged air, he taught me how something sweet can be found in something rotten if you persist in looking.

Poetry Corner with Alice Kinsella

Poetry, an art form previously reserved for academics and those with a morbid fascination with Sylvia Plath, is exploding. In our fair city, one can’t turn around without running into an open mic night or spoken word showcase. These poets are a world away from dusty couplets and long winded sonnets about flowers written by people who died before our grandparents were born. This new generation reminds us that poetry is a platform for artistic, social and political expression. Here at poetry corner, we’re going to look at what’s happening in the world of Dublin poetry today. These high fliers are moving fast, and we don’t want to miss them. In this issue, Alice Kinsella speaks to spoken word artist Lewis Kenny about identity, the past and poetry in Dublin today. Kenny is a twenty-two year old spoken word artist hailing from the north inner city. His works draw on urban experience and youth culture, bringing to light social and economic situations of 2015. He is a First Fortnight slam champion and the founder of ‘OutStraight’, a show that combines spoken word with graffiti, and the Inter-Varsity Poetry Slam. Kenny has made numerous television and radio appearances including RTE One’s art show ‘The Works’ and The John Murray Show on RTE Radio One. What made you start writing poetry? I suppose it all started when I decided that trying to be a singer-songwriter wasn’t for me. I really didn’t like the music scene in Dublin, I found it very exploitative, and in some cases lacking a real community. My music was never really that good, but I always liked lyrics and writing a story, even if it didn’t go to music. After a chat with a a good mate of mine I decided ‘I’m gonna start reading my lyrics to people’. It was a strange experience, especially because I knew absolutely nothing about poetry to begin with, or even how to get involved. To what extent do you think that your local or national identity as inﬂuenced your work? Massively. Everything I write is a reflection to myself, my surroundings and the culture I come from. I think to not have a sense of where you come from in your work, whether positively or negatively, is a great shame when I read or hear the work of other poets. I have written more about my home than any other topic. Street Literature (an Irish hip-hop group) put

it perfectly when they said; ‘Never forget where we’re coming from, it’s only common sense, We’re products of the environment which we represent, You have to keep it real for this world to acknowledge you, And Dublin is the place that I’m paying homage to’ What are Irish poets today doing differently from those of the past? Poetry is often seen as a practice belonging to dusty books and academics, do you think this is the case in Ireland today? I probably wouldn’t be the best to answer that question as I haven’t had the experience of both worlds, but I like to think that today’s poets speak more in a common tongue. What I mean by that, is that their work is a lot more accessible, can be related to more, and carry a lot more personal and emotional truth. I think that poetry can be seen as dusty, definitely. A lot of the time if I tell people I’m a poet, they’ll ask if I’ve been published, and then I’ll have to explain that I’m a performance poet. Poetry in Ireland has very deep roots, and is slowly growing more and more branches on the tree. In the last two years alone, the exponential growth in the popularity of poetry in Ireland, especially spoken word, has been staggering. Third level colleges across the country have been setting up poetry societies with great success. For example, Lingo, Ireland’s first spoken word festival, just sold out The Button Factory (among other venues) in it’s second year running. I’ve even been named as the poet laureate of a football club! The attitude is changing everyday and it’s really refreshing to see, and it’s all down to the hard work and talent of so many poets, event organisers and poetry enthusiasts the have been spreading the word. What would like to see from the future of Irish poetry? I’d like to see a distinctively Irish brand of spoken word make a big splash across the ponds to England and the US. The talent is very much there, and in the future I have high hopes of this becoming a reality. For writers, I suppose my best advice would be to not be afraid to let who you are as a person shine through in your work, and to not give a damn what people think about it.

Fresh Prince of Donabate So this is the craic all about how Me head got wrecked flipped upside down Stall it for a minute and I’m gonna be OutStraight About how I became a fresh-to-death scobie in a town called Donabate Out in Cabra East I was born and raised On the scratcher, slinging bags is how I spent most of my days Flaking out, toking segotia all grand Listening to absolute fucking bangers of tunes and Some ropeys stroll up throwing shade in a fouler One of them said he poked the box off me aul’ ones growler’ Got in one little straightener, had him banjaxed in a state So me ma says ‘Here you get up to your auntie and uncles in Donabate’ I begged and pleaded with her day after day But the scaldy little geebag knew I’d debts to pay So I picked up me Málas and then she gave me the odds And I threw on me chats and thought ‘Man this is redhot’ I hear of first class yayo, and that the scene is mad Whacking oners up the hoover with a rolled-up 50 in hand I thought ‘Is that what the lads in Donabate live like?’ Jaysus this might be alright. Well I hopped off the bus with the thoughts of the session Then a guard tries to screef me for minor possession I just got here the little scrote I’m not trying to get nicked So I scarpered up the road screaming ‘Gerrup outta dat ye prick’ On me one’s and two’s I was legging it 90 Only here two minutes this is absolute pony I decided then that the streets weren’t flake so hoped and Joey and says ‘Here back to me gaff in Donabate’ We pull up to the gaff and he calls it at 8 And I says ‘Ha laughed at if you think you’re getting paid’ Legged inside told him it was on slate He won’t get nothing though from a scobie in Donabate.

DEAR MISC We here at Misc are concerned with all your relationship woes and lifestyle issues. Have a question about your boyfriend’s lack of Netﬂix and chill look or perhaps your lip synced version of ‘Believe’ by Cher didn’t get the praise it deserved? Don’t fear. Our very own agony aunt is on hand to deal out the advice and reassure your panicked minds.

Q: Help! For the past few weeks I’ve been having sex with this guy, and it’s been all right. The problem is that, whenever he gets close to having an orgasm, he starts laughing. It begins as little more than a giggle, but by the time he is about to come he is gripped with a hysteria that is, understandably, the opposite of sexy, and I feel like he is making fun of me. What can I do? A: I’m sure he’s not laughing at you! You don’t seem like a very funny person. I think the solution here is a simple one - just before he goes “over the edge”, you need to tell a joke. Then his mirth will seem absolutely justiﬁed, and you will feel both funny and sexy. My favourite joke happens to be sex-related: “What did the woman say after she had an orgasm? … It’s a trick question - only men can have orgasms!”. This joke, if delivered well, will absolutely ﬂoor him.

Q: How do I get more people to notice that Carly Rae Jepsen is the Leonardo Da Vinci of the millennial generation? A: Sometimes greatness is not recognised in its time. To this day, there are still people who don’t understand that “Dip It Low” by Christina Milian is the most inﬂuential song of the modern era, or that without “Temperature” by Sean Paul, there would be no The Weeknd. Maybe before she dies, the public will realise that songs such as “Run Away With Me” and “Your Type” access depths of feeling other musicians can only dream of. I live in hope.

Q: Help! I was in the club last night and was shifting this lad, while sitting on his lap. I was enjoying the kissing immensely, and thought that, were hands dropped, it would be ﬁne with me. “Why don’t we head to mine?” he said. I was delighted - it had been a while since I had got “the ride”, as they say. I leapt up, ready to get my coat and wander out in search of el taxi. On the way to the cloakroom, I turned around to make a seductive comment to Mr. Imminent Sex, to see that he wasn’t behind me. I went back to where we had been kissing, and saw him sitting there, looking deeply unhappy. I ask him what was wrong, and he gestured to his crotch, and I saw - to my horror - that my period had started mid-kiss, and blood had seeped onto his jeans. Mortiﬁed, I ran from the club, and haven’t seen the guy since. Should I remain silent, or try to rectify the situation?

A: Tell him to get the fuck over it. Men are awful and disgusting, and we are subject to their oozes on a regular basis. They sweat all over us in clubs and piss on our toilet seats. Worst of all, they expect us to get covered in their ejaculate - and enjoy it! This man has gotten a lesson in what it’s like to be a woman. Hopefully in the future he will look back at the incident, and realise that your period blood made him understand feminism. Q: Help! My boyfriend and I have recently started having sex, and it’s been pretty good. He treats me very well, and only infrequently calls me by the name of his former girlfriend. My issue is that, recently, he can’t climax unless a song by Robbie Williams is playing in the background. This is OK when it’s an upbeat banger like Rock DJ or Let Me Entertain You, but when it’s an emotive tune like She’s The One, it really ruins the mood for me. How can I broach this subject without upsetting him, or making him feel uncomfortable during sex?

A: You need to let your boyfriend know that it’s not 2002 anymore - Robbie Williams is over. Try to get him to update his taste to reﬂect the music that’s popular today. Sam Smith and Justin Timberlake are both viable options. If he’s willing to diversify a bit, artists like fka twigs and Grimes have been making music that’s at the fringes of pop music, yet still very much accessible. With Adele about to drop 25, the world of pop is about to shift dramatically - it’s tough to know what the options will be in a few months.