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Benjamin Zephaniah Lapdancers Simon Armitage Scientology Christopher Reid Christmas choons Ian Duhig Dictionary Head Brendan Kennelly European escapes Grafton Street buskers Fashion: urban bards Set list: theatre

TNT

Trinity News Two Arts & Culture Supplement Issue 2 3rd December 2003

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TNT

3rd December 2003

TNT: CONTENTS 3

Features: Emma Farrell has her personality tested by scientologists to discover whether she is unhappy, James von Simson builds your vocabulary with a wry smile in our new regular feature Dictionary Head

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Arts: Kate Hartnoll interviews recent T.S. Eliot Prize nominee Christopher Reid, Sarah Courtald talks string vests with poet Ian Duhig

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Emma Farrell visits the scientologists on Lower Abbey Street in an effort to discover her true personality.

Arts: Phil King talks to internationally reknowned poet Brendan Kennelly about his latest collection ‘Martial Art’

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Fashion: Dave Ring puts together a motley crew to show how he’d dress poets if they’d only stand still long enough and let him

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The TNT Interview: this issue John Hollingworth talks to Benjamin Zephaniah and Simon Armitage about their life, work and writing

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Music: Anna Whiston takes a walk through Dublin and remembers why she hates Christmas music so much, Kevin Byrne confronts the rag-tag bunch that litter Grafton Street in the name of busking.

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Travel: Ruaidhri Breathnach on what to do if you find yourself in Trieste, Madrid or Brussels, Paul McKane tells us that Dublin doesn’t seem so bad it you live in the German equivalent of Portlaoise.

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We cruise scientologists:

I

t was high time I paid the Scientologists a visit. I’d heard that free personality tests were offered in their office on Abbey Street, and decided to try it. It was agreed that safety in numbers would be a wise move. We were greeted by a man with an unnerving resemblance to a young Ron Howard. Through stifled giggles we were then seated and given the trademarked ‘Oxford Capacity Test’.

Our giggling became less stifled as we read through the 200 questions, many of which were strikingly similar. It seemed that only a few traits were real-

Entertainment: Alix O’Neill got more lap than she bargained for when she consented to giving a female perspective on lapdancing, Valerie Flynn sorts the theatrical wheat from the chaff for the festive period.

TNT Editor

John Hollingworth

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Deputy Ed

David White

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COMPETITION!

“I got the sinking feeling that should I suddenly have experienced shooting pains up and down my left arm, the suspicious Scientologists would refrain from calling an ambulance and instead encourage me to talk about my childhood.

Great.”

Editorial

I

apologise to anyone perturbed by my recent habit of shouting ‘hurrah’ at random intervals. Several caring friends have quietly ascribed this worrying tendency to stress caused by my efforts to maintain consistently high standards of journalism in this very publication. By now we both know that I clearly have no intention of such lofty ideals. In fact I have no ideals at all, I just like getting free things because I work for the paper.

No, the key to my strenuous and enigmatic bouts of screaming is simple. I am slowly being driven mad by the morons employed

by Dublin’s Viking splash tour. Every morning I’m woken by the rattle of my window panes as another yellow boat on wheels rounds the corner and a chorus of tourists shout ‘hurrah’ at the provost’s house with the baritone gusto and galling optimism of Shane MacGowan conducting a Welsh miner’s choir.

Before I even open my windows I can

Graham Mooney

The first five people to email the editor at respectedleader@yahoo.ie will win two free pairs of tickets each to the Redbox for this Saturday night. There isn’t even a question. All you have to do is email. Do it soon. guess the day’s weather by the volume of tourist shout. An ear splitting roar reminiscent of liberating an oppressive dictatorship always indicates a sunny day. A pitifully cheerful lone voice, usually that of the tour guide entertaining a single parent family, generally signals a wet day. That saves me from bothering to get out of bed at all.

Useful, you’re thinking. Wrong. I’m glad Messrs Sony and Philips worked so diligently to engineer machines that can wake one gently by playing a favourite song at a gradually increasing volume. That I am robbed of such a gentle prod into action at the start of the day by hungover fat lads wailing on cue disappoints me.

It disappoints me in the understated DeNiro sense, in which the word ‘disappointment’ thinly veils an unstable disposition frequently given to homicidal rage.

But homicidal rage is difficult to maintain for any length of time so I scaled it down to irritated shouting. As I don’t know where the tour guides live I shout in a scattergun fashion, hoping to irritate one of them at some point. If you happen to be reading this and you work on the tour, then I have a special Christmas message for you: strike up the shout, get on the boat with all your co-guides, drive it into the Irish Sea and don’t stop until you’re dead.

For everyone else, have a great break and enjoy this issue. If you’re still harbouring a secret desire to write for us then email me with a 400 word submission on anything arty and I’ll get in touch eventually. Think of it as your Christmas present to me. Or something like that. Ace.

After returning our test papers we were "encouraged" to sit and watch a video as our personality graphs were drawn. Placed less than 2 feet away from the screen we had the good fortune to see ‘Dianetics: The Science of Survival’. It bore a comic resemblance to a Gillette advert: all over-production, unnatural colour and blandly even-featured people with blindingly white teeth.

In more subdued tones it then recounted the origins of Scientology.

Apparently it’s based on the Principles of Dianetics. These were laid out in a book of the same title written by L. Ron

ly being examined. They had a palpable interest in paranoia, for instance (Q113: Are you certain that people on the street whisper about you as you pass?). Anxiety was also of great interest to them (Q188: Have you experienced muscle twitches, aches and pains with no apparent medical cause?). I imagine close attention is paid to a person’s answering of Q37, which seems to point to your potential for cult mentality- "Would you consistently vote for the same political party regardless of marked alterations in their policies?".

Financial solvency was a recurring theme also, with questions such as Q44Do you have or intend to have 2 or less children though your large income would permit more?". And then there were the random questions which I couldn’t bring myself to analyse as I was too busy tittering, such as "Do you feel edgy and intimidated in the compaGraham Mooney ny of children? and "Do you frequently read railway timetables and telephone directories just for pleasure?".

Hubbard some years ago. In it he asserts that the "problems of our turbulent world" can all be traced back to our glaring flaw as humans - the Reactive Mind. The video explained how unhappiness in humans and even many diseases are the result of the Reactive Mind. It illustrated the point by showing footage of a young girl falling into a swimming pool. As she begins to drown, we hear a bystander screaming "Oh my Gawd! She can’t breathe!". The voice over then steps in to explain that "for the rest of her life, this young girl suffers from asthma. Her Reactive mind literally follows the command of this bystander. She does, indeed, believe that she cannot breathe. And tragically spends the rest of her life on inhalers". I got the sinking feeling that should I suddenly have experienced shooting pains up and down my left arm, the Scientologists would refrain from calling an ambulance and instead encourage me to talk about my childhood. Great.

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TNT

3rd December 2003

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Graham Mooney

we’re not kidding you We were then separated and in turn were taken to a cramped interview room where Mr. Howard analysed our results. Clearly he wasn’t too enamoured with my responses. As I seemed to come across as someone relatively content with my life, he felt I had answered untruthfully. "Mmm. Yah. I see here where you say you enjoy life?...Mmm…Are you sure you’re being sincere? I mean, you may just think you enjoy your life".

"No", I replied, "I’m generally quite content with things".

"If you say so…".

"Yeah. I’d say so."

He looked somewhat defeated in this cul de sac of contentment. Time for a new tactic.

"Why did you feel the need to come in here to visit us?"

For fear of giving myself away, I commented as breezily as I could, "Oh, you know…just walking down the street with my friend, and decided on impulse to co-" "Do you often do things on impulse?"

"No, I wouldn’t say that. I’m not neces-" "You know unchecked impulsiveness could be a sign of unhappiness".

You get the picture. Lots of him telling me I wasn’t happy with my life. That I was miserable but didn’t know it. Lots of me looking at his skin-tight lycra polo neck and wondering how people can actually take life advice from these people.

I decided to put a halt to examinations of my own character and ask him to explain to me the Principles of Dianetics. He spoke at length, employing lots of self-help jargon and leaving enough semiotic gaps to give the whole thing an air of a la carte ideology. Apparently, Scientology could mean whatever you wanted it to mean. If you’re into Darwinism, use a bit of that.

You’re more the Eastern philosophy type?

Then use that. Nietzsche floats your boat?

Sure, why not? He wasn’t revealing much, but I couldn’t quite figure out if he was simply being guarded or if he didn’t know what Scientology was himself, but liked being in the club regardless.

Though he didn’t tell me what Scientology was he was at great pains to tell me what it was not: he assured me that Scientology is "not a cult or anything like that". He then went on to explain that as "the word Dianetics ends in the letters ‘ics’, that means it’s a science". "Oh, I see, when a word ends in ‘ics’ it becomes a science?". He replied warmly "Yeah, now you’re getting it". Right.

He was also eager to dispel those horrible rumours that Scientology is a business.

Despite reminding me that he wasn’t "some kind of salesperson" three times during our interview, he beseeched me to buy the book on Dianetics four times. To soften the blow of refusing to buy the book on the fourth occasion I laughingly said "Ah, you know, EUR7 is a lot of money for a humble student to part with. Haha!". He instantly perked up: "Yeah. So, how much money do you actually have?". It was time to leave. I’d intended grilling him on what exactly was meant by the "disease and decay of Asia" and the "sexual perversion recently made legal by society" mentioned on the official website. At this stage I was just too addled by the bombardment of jargon that I wanted to go home. Besides, I wanted a cup of tea. Theological debates aside, I think Scientology failed me in this regard. There’s a lot to be said for religions that base their rituals on bread and wine. At least I’ve never left Mass hungry.

Graham Mooney

Dictionary Head James von Simson teaches you a lesson.

FLOCCINAUCINIHILIPILIFICATION

F

rom the collaboration of the four Latin words flocci, nauci, nihili, and pili meaning "of little or no value". I added ‘fication’ to make a noun. It is especially well used when the man lying next to you in bed indulging in a post-coital cigarette enquires as to whether he was good or not. Confuse the poor chap and lead him into the assumption that that it is another way of saying mind-blowing as it sounds like ‘formidable fornication’ under a heavy accent.

INFUNDIBULUM Meaning "a funnel-shaped cavity".

Standard jibes of bucket-pussy-Barbara & windtunnel Wendy can now include infundibulum Iona. Most effectively used by the recently rejected, but can also be used by those who are just plain mean.

DISCOMBOBULATE Meaning "to confuse, upset or disconcert". One of those few words that does exactly what it says of the tin. Much like Ronseal Woodstain. Can also be used as a threat when mugging old ladies on Tuesday when they’ve just left An Post having collected their pensions.

For instance "gimmie all your fuckin’ money or else I’ll fucking discombobulate you". Skag money will arrive forthwith from a shaking hand. Equally effective on a comic-book collectors and/or Sci-Fi junkies as they will be too busy arguing whether it is a Klingon or Vulcan ‘death move’ to stop you taking their lunch money.

BANT Meaning "to diet." Originally referring to a Victorian form of the Atkins-Diet.

Not to be used on the Pacific island of New Guinea where "banting" is a colloquial term for the act whereby the tribal chief’s spotty teenage son skull fucks the most recent human sacrifice as the family goat is off limits.

Weapons of mass conviction: equipment they use during interviews

If you scratch our back…

Many thanks to Emjay, Lucy Morry at PFD Agents London, Karen Alexander at Faber and Faber in London, Tina and Aoife of Spectra Photos at Clerys, Seamus the Clerys Santa, Siobhan O’Dowd at the Pod, Professor NIcholas Grene, Naomi White, Katie Dickson, Tony Kiely, Graham Mooney, Matt Pitt, Phoebe Ling and Tim Walker. You can all sleep soundly at night knowing that you have done good deeds. Go raibh maith agaibh.

MASTICATE Meaning "to chew – especially food". To be told to younger siblings and used in defence during their classes after goading and embarrassing the teacher into believing that they are talking about masturbation.

COJONES Strictly a Spanish word meaning testicles, but in the sixteenth century it was a term of contempt for a man in English. Now best, and not often

enough, used as a term of courage. As in " man, you must have big cajones". Also previously used by SuperMacs in a much-maligned name for their new Mexican burger. It beggars belief that no one checked what the word actually meant in Mexico, but if employees were that smart then they would have been snapped up by Abrakebabra.

MUGWUMP Meaning "an aloof arrogant person".

Most effectively used when challenged by someone obviously more intelligent and better than you who has just pointed out a recent example of your wanton stupidity. "English twat" is equally effective, though one might fear the joke is actually on you, or me.

ZENZIZENZIZENZIC Meaning "the eighth power of a number". Or "the square of a square of a cube". Obviously. Hasn’t actually been used as a word since Welsh-born mathematician Robert Recorde published The Whetstone of Wit in 1557, but does have the potential to be used as a good name of a German heavy Goth-metal techno band. Or pet rabbit. Or to be incorporated into a rash drinking game involving a pint of Tequila, a length rope, a bucket of ice, a red felt-tip pen and an Irishman by the name of Declan Galvin.

Phoebe Ling

PRAIRIE-DOGGING Strictly two words, but allowances can be made for such a useful expression.

Best used when dying to use the jacks, as in "I’ve gotta crap so bad I’m prairiedogging". Basically an extension of "touching cloth" whereby your turtlehead keeps popping out of its hole. Not to be used in front of German sociologists, elderly relatives and visiting Heads of State. Though his His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia did remark, after his failed appeal to the League of Nation in June 1936, to Irish Taoiseach Garret FitzGerald that it took so long to get off his ceremonial Rastafarian robes he was "prairie-dogging like a mofo". FitzGerald’s reply is not recorded.

ROD As in a baton. Best employed around this time of year with the suffix ‘magic’ attached. As in "I went to visit Santa’s magic grotto and he let me play with his magic-rod" Can be used throughout the rest of the year after visiting your local priest’s office.

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TNT

3rd December 2003

Good Reiding? on fundamentally redefining poetry itself.

Christopher Reid has just been Reid’s emphasis is on poetry as a form of nominated for the T.S. Eliot human communication, his attitude posiPrize for poetry. Kate Hartnoll tive but not over idealistic. When asked whether poetry wonders why.

C

hristopher Reid has been writing professionally for twenty-five years.

He has published nine volumes of poetry and won a smattering of prizes including the Somerset Maugham Poetry Prize. His work regularly achieves very good, but not rave, reviews. His name is not that well known, but his books are constantly in print, sell relatively well and he is respected in literary circles. Oh yeah, and he was chief poetry editor at Faber and Faber for most of the nineties, placing him very close to the heart of the "poetry scene", although he would probably not put it that way himself.

So, no Wordsworthian hallucinations inspired by sublime nature. No flirtation with fascism, madness or hard drugs.

What we do have instead is an admirable selection of varied poems, notable, as The Guardian put it, for their, "technical facility in no way inhibited by the liking for rhyme and formal structure".

This is not to say that he is mediocre or bland, either as a poet or as a person. A brief look at his career reveals a poetic voice that is constantly renewing itself and exploring new directions. From his early vibrant descriptions of the world around him, through the dramatic ventriloquism of Katherine Brac, children’s poetry and his newer, more sober and considered work, bland is never an accurate description. What I am suggesting is that Reid represents perfectly the contemporary breed of Professional poet. The emphasis is on writing and the promotion of poetry through academia and publishing. It is not on the ego, on grand schemes or even

could change the world, he responds that it is a "good idea to hope so", but added that "whilst poems won’t have an impact on politics, or business, or world events, or mass opinion…they could have one on human beings, and that’s a s t a r t " .

Furthermore, when he talks of his early ambitions as a poet they are notably focussed.

He talks of opening up British poetry to international – and specifically American – influence. He "simply…thought that the [British] scene was dead and…wanted to liven it up". Perhaps it is this focus and vision of poetry as individual incidents of communication between poet and reader that make him suspicious of movements or labels. Or perhaps it is just because the one time he was labelled, it was as a "Martian". Regardless, Reid is very succinct in his views on poetic movements: "they are journalistic inventions. I just see individual talents here and there, mainly

Duhig digs Trinity Phoebe Ling

He came from afar to help us right our literary wrongs.

Sarah Courtald has a chat with this year’s writer in residence.

I

n an apparently empty room at the top of the Oscar Wilde centre, there are knights chasing dragons, Viking ships burning up inside lightbulbs, and footprints in the snow. In the middle of the room a witch casts spells in a string vest.

The witch, Ian Duhig, is the writer in residence, who looks out of his window onto a

grey day in Westland Row. As he talks, the room turns into an invisible bric-a-brac shop, full of folksongs and floating dragon ships, as well as the ordinary people of his poems. He tells me about his new collection of poetry, The Lammas Hireling, and his favourite item, the string vest.

"It’s the truly universal garment. I had a

working independently, if not in complete isolation".

But having gotten rid of all the paraphernalia, what practical advice does Christopher Reid have for young poets trying to get published? His response is situated characteristically somewhere between a positive view of the world – including the literary world – and a healthy cynicism. So he does stress that "there are still too many editors at work who care more for good writing than for business” but he also suggests that you "crash as many book-world parties as you can".

Some may see Reid, and by extension much of the current attitude towards poetry and poets, as unambitious and limiting.

What about theory? What about expressing some ultimate truth through poetry? What about history and poetry as a continuum? What about the point of it all godammit? And yes, these are valid questions. But, more important, I would argue, are the positive effects of this emphasis on being a poet as a job, and concentration strictly on the poetry itself.

It opens up a space for poets to develop their voices in. To build up their confidence without any added pressure. And then they can engage with the grand questions if they so wish.

Reid was poetry editor at Faber and Faber for years before writing full time.

friend who was a poet called Jack, and I saw a photo of him when he was young, with his friends. They were all wearing string vests. I realised that, all over the world, there is this secret community."

Duhig remembers less fondly the Irish string vests his mother used to buy him.

"They were a safeguard of moral uprightness". With their Glen Abbeys underwear "they would take so long to get yourself out of…They were the last white cotton citadel. They were supposed to keep you away from evil wiles. Of course, I got into as many evil wiles as I could. Which was not as many as I would have liked."Duhig’s experience of a Catholic upbringing was an "ungenerous one", which may explain his fondness for "evil whiles", and his love of the phobias of the Catholic church: magic and heretics. His poems empathise with persecuted people: "I connect with people like Menocchio.

He was a miller, and he saw the world as a piece of cheese. God was the cheese, the oceans were the whey, and the angels the worms in the cheese."

"He sounds like a fruitloop" "Well, he was killed for the way he saw the world. It appeals to me, the way an object can become cosmological."

Most of the characters of Duhig’s poems are more ordinary, like Ken in Ken’s Videos, Seahouses and the Ben-Shermanand-Levis teenager in Blood.

"The people in the book are people you might meet. I imagine what its like to be the character. It’s a human connection, and you never lose it."

Duhig began writing verse by putting rhymes to tunes he could hear coming from the pub next door, while he was working in a hostel in the North of England. "If you had a terrible day, you could lose yourself in writing." Despite working since then in universities, his poems have stayed close to the world of hostels and drug addiction centres.

London poetry frustrates him. "It is ingenious, and middle class, and frightfully well behaved. I love graffiti. ‘Fuck the next pope!’ Or, ‘We’ll always remember Jimmy Sands’. Poets have always enraged moral society. Shelley, Byron, in the last century Robert Graves...Yeats himself was obsessed with magic…People want you to do something normal, like write a novel."

So it has been a relief for Duhig to come to Ireland. "Poetry is to the Irish what football is to the Brazilians. People here have been so welcoming. They are much

If I were to describe Reid’s outlook –both as a poet and as it came across in his interview – I would say that it was one of pragmatic humanism, combined with a dry sense of humour. It is probably that which makes him a great editor, a reputation which is expected to be cemented by his forthcoming edition of Ted Hughes’ letters.

He talks about how his work on an apprenticeship scheme with nine young poets with enthusiasm and cites several young poets he would recommend: Mathew Welton’s The Book of Mathew he especially singles out as "wickedly innovative". He also recommends yet unpublished writers Anna Woodford and Dean Parkin.

And what about the general state of contemporary poetry? Sweeping generalisations are not what you expect from Christopher Reid, but when push comes to shove he does have one thing to say: "well, thank God you’re not living in the middle of the 18th century".

Graham Mooney

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arts

TNT more receptive. Poets are witches. We have a coven, a community, we practise an ancient art. Here you are seen in a traditional role.

You aren’t seen as dodgy."

Just as chants and spells had a practical use: "to get the cow out of the bog", Duhig’s poetry has a transforming purpose.

"I write elegies about people, to remember them.

When you write about something, it helps you to come to terms with it. Not just writing, but talking about something.

Language transforms things. Spiders, for example. People who work with phobias encourage their patients to talk about them.

Fear doesn’t come from the part of the brain that is to do with language. When people talk about things, it comes from a different part of their brain."

His poems connect different parts of the brain, are "both rational and irrational." Since he intends to create magic, the riddles of his poetry are often left unanswered.

"There’s a Danny DeVito line: there’s nothing in a book you can’t get quicker off the telly. Which is true. I like things to develop, as you read it again. Someone once accused Turner of indistinctness. ‘My indistinctness’ he replied ‘is my forte.’"

"Have you ever seen Taggart?" he asks. "I was deciding how mysterious I would allow myself to be.

Some things they explained, some things they didn’t explain, then I thought, if they can get away with it, I can."

"The Lammas Hireling, for example, came from a story I heard about a man, who,as he was dying, turned into a hare. His family became embarrassed. They had a very small funeral. When they lowered the coffin, they could hear the hare’s paws scratching on the inside. So the poem began with something physical, which was then lost. I want the poem to be like a horror film, where not everything is given away."

At the moment I can see bits of the poem, as if I was holding up a tiny candle to a huge wall painting. But as I write down his references, from medieval theology to Chinese history to Beowulf, my page of notes turns into an illegible maze. So I’m relieved when he says that

3rd December 2003

Vilbia, one of the funniest poems in the collection, is inspired by an X-Men mutant, who turns into water - pissing himself from ice to raging river.

Film and art have been a great influence on Duhig.

"It doesn’t have to be something big you take from a picture. It can be just a small thing, a detail, an atmosphere, or a mood.

Damien Hirst interests me.

I think he’s clever, and also serious. He tackles all the classical themes." Duhig’s poems are as brutal. With this brutality, there is also tenderness.

If you find The Lammas Hireling, look out for the dragons. I asked Ian: "Where did all the dragons come from?"

"The dragons are from the legend of Qu Yuan, a poet who wrote some of the most beautiful poetry in Chinese.

He worked for the state, and was exploited by corrupt politicians. As his city was being invaded, he drowned himself in the river. Dragon boats went searching for him. Every year there’s a dragon boat race on the Tyne and Wear to celebrate his life. Its amazing, they look up to him, and he was a poet! He was a people’s poet".

Duhig clearly wants to be a people’s poet, and look beyond ivory towers. He is hugely grateful for the way he has been treated in Ireland, where he can be a poet and connect to ordinary life, "and not be abnormal". He is grateful for that "traditional Irish charm."

You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of his curses. Especially not when "Being a poet", he says "means being able to say one thing, and to mean the opposite." So I hope he won’t put a curse on me for saying that he reminds me a bit of his string vest. A dreamcatcher however stretched, holding its integrity and warmth.

The only thing he says that I don’t actually believe is his claim that he couldn’t put together a Selected Poems: "There weren’t any to select. It was like the Manchester Beauty Contest. Nobody won."

He seems ridiculously modest, but also very lucky, because, "Poetry is having your cake and eating it."

His job is chasing dragons, and catching glimpses of magic in ordinary life.

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Kennelly: martial artist Phil King has a laugh with Trinity’s Professor of Modern Literature about his next book of poetry.

B

rendan Kennelly’s latest book is a poetry collection entitled ‘Martial Art’, which consists of translations of the ancient Roman poet’s epigrams, and some original musings inspired by the material. Martial, like Patrick Kavanagh, was a blow-in, hailing from the Spanish provinces. ‘I think I had Kavanagh in mind, but also Louis MacNeice. He was an outsider in this city. Kavanagh said that the greatest mistake he ever made was coming to Dublin in the forties and being labelled a culchie.

They saw him simply as a "promising

peasa n t " .

They wouldn’t let him free from that, and his own personality didn’t help him, any more than Martial’s did.’ The Roman poet had a fairly precarious existence, but knew many of the most famous writers of his day, and seems to have had occasional wealthy, influential patrons.

‘He did get to know them and they did accept him gradually. I don’t think he was ever prosperous, but neither was he hungry. Still, you could see the envy in him for people with two houses. His financial insecurity made him a sharp critic of manners, food, clothes and wine, because he didn’t have enough of

them.’

Kennelly himself is a Kerry man, but studied at Trinity and has been Professor of Modern Literature since 1973. ‘I’ve been here since I was a boy. I’ve never belonged to any group. I just taught and worked and wrote and read and enjoyed the classes and travelled and did readings all over the world.

So I have a real sympathy for a person from a province who comes to a capital city.’

Not a lot is known about Martial; from his poetry Kennelly sees ‘a melange, a mixture. Shrewd, diplomatic, curious, an assassin, an arselicker. And if you look at poets today, that is precisely what they are. People do arselick their way into prizes, you know. If Martial stood back and simply criticised, he wouldn’t have survived.’ He was a poet by trade, not a Romantic dreamer, independent of economics. ‘He writes, "A poet must put bread on the table." I know what that means.

I’ve heard people say it since childhood.’ The need for sycophancy and h y p o c r i s y depressed him: his epigrams remind one of frustrated scribblings on cubicle walls. At times Martial anticipates Marx; everything in Rome is for sale, everything is commodified. ‘How many pounds will buy a star?’

The socialist doctrine of the alienation of the worker, when that which he produces is not for himself but for his master, is expressed in the lines: ‘Should you wish them [my poems] to be heard as yours, buy them... They’re mine no longer.’

And as Kennelly says, ‘The rich in Rome had such an indulgent lifestyle. They knew how to idle. I mean, look around Dublin today.’

Martial’s Rome stands as an allegory for the concept of the city, alongside Eliot’s London, Baudelaire’s Paris, Hart Crane’s New York, and Joyce’s Dublin.

‘Segius says there are no gods, no heaven,’ reads one epigram. ‘The

proof he offers? He’s a rich man.’ In Rome, there is no equality, no justice, and no moral accountability.

The rich live in ivory towers. Their only threat is the sting in their conscience. ‘Judges’ reads: He said, over his umpteenth glass of wine, ‘I can’t sleep any longer, no matter how much I drink.

Memories terrorise every bone.

Darkness and silence are merciless judges.’

Martial is a modern poet, and Rome is a modern city; people can’t sleep without drinking, ‘the god of divination is under stress’ and the prophesies are drying up, he is so overworked. Are there uncertain times ahead for the city of cities?

Who has judged it for its sins? One of the final epigrams, ‘Coldest moment’, speaks of urban soullessness and emptiness, loss of faith in goodness, in charity, in faith itself: His coldest moment came when, as a result of nothing but the callous, boring evidence of the years, he lost his belief in belief.

Kennelly and I discuss Tokyo, and the plans afoot, as reported in Trinity News, to build a mile-high skyscraper, a vertical city such as science fiction writers have been prophesying for the last century, JG Ballard amongst them. He tells me about reading ‘all my old stuff’ for the Empress of Japan. ‘In the queues in Tokyo no one is an inch out of place, and everything is timetabled, even executive sex in one’s shirt and tie for an hour at lunchtime.’ Then after work, go home, eat, drink for two hours and then bed. ‘Underneath the order there’s a kind of confusion,’ he says.

‘But you’ve got to hold on to the dream of the perfect city, where everyone is happy and well-fed.’

The old utopian dream. ‘Of course we’ll turn it all to shit, we always do. But you’ve still got to have the dream.’

‘Martial Art’ is Bloodaxe Books

published

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Writers Required TNT seeks both undergraduate and postgraduate contributors from any discipline. Anyone with an enthusiasm for art, photography, literature, factual writing, film or television should contact the editor. Email a four hundred word article on anything within the broad field of art to respectedleader@yahoo.ie and the editor will contact you about writing for the supplement. This submission is not a test. Although TNT comes out less frequently now than before due to the restructuring of the paper overall, we will try to accommodate as many writers as possible. We look forward to hearing from you.

fashion 6

TNT

3rd December 2003

urban bards:

art & anguish

shot & styled by dave ring make-up by katie mcgrath modelled by chris, dave & mark clothes courtesy of monto

fashion

TNT

3rd December 2003

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7

tnt interview 8

TNT

3rd December 2003

Paleface & the lion boy John Hollingworth talks to Simon Armitage and Benjamin Zephaniah, two popular English poets at differing ends of the creative spectrum, about their life, work and influences.

"I

’m not a practising Warlock" he laughs and I laugh with him. He may not be a warlock but the amount of units that poet Simon Armitage shifts could certainly be described as magical. There’s no sophistry to his popularity: his poems are elegantly wrought and rarely obtuse. He’s not hard to understand but his linguistic clarity and precision can be breathtaking. In describing the appeal of Anthony Gormley’s artwork (such as the ‘Angel of the North’) the poet provides an apt description of his own: "there’s all kinds of dialogue you can have with his work." Like all great artists both Armitage and Gormley manage to be both "complicated and simple at the same time."

Simon Armitage was born in Yorkshire in 1963. He remained there until moving to Portsmouth to study Geography at the polytechnic (1981-1984). After graduating and spending two years in "a haze of Fall albums, unreturned library books and state benefits" he enrolled in Manchester Metropolitan University to study for a masters degree in psychology (1986-1988).

Subsequently employed as a probation officer in Manchester for six years he began "spending more and more time reading [poetry] and… more and more time writing." Eventually the writing reached a sufficient "critical mass" to chance jacking in his job for a year (with the option of returning) and writing full time. He never turned back.

Working with the blunt end of society has earned Armitage a certain respect and lent the occasional working class tenor of his poems credibility. When asked if the job affected his writing he says that it "informed my take on life" and provided him with interesting "language and settings." He cites his undergraduate degree as a weightier influence upon his work: "my own poetry is very spatially aware, from the layout on the page to its concerns

Armitage looking typically wry

with geometric description of people and places within the universe. I think I’ve used models of space and time to describe or question human relations."

Armitage’s poetry is imbued by the sceptical eye, dry wit and bluntness characteristic of the north of England. He writes with a muscular economy that allures in its complexity: the reader is surprised to find words dropped in supermarkets, train stations and smoky pubs collated and juxtaposed with such punchy elegance on the page. He’s seen by many as the ‘people’s poet’, an unofficial moniker but an apt one considering his commission to pen a thousand line poem (‘Killing Time’) in order to commemorate the millennium. Ditto his three year stint reading poetry on Mark and Lard’s BBC Radio One show: he describes the experience as "fantastic" and admits that he may be tempted back when the ageing duo inevitably migrates to BBC Two. Universal appeal should not signify artistic dumbing-down and with Armitage it doesn’t. Like Gormley he takes the ordinary and turns it into the extraordinary.

This seems to escape the major prize-giving panels. Judges have repeatedly passed over Armitage because of the petty rationale that a poet who sells doesn’t need or deserve laurels. If the northener sold half as many books he’d probably have bagged the major poetic silverware by now.

Eschewing London in favour of remaining near his Yorkshire hometown indicates the northener’s stylistic rejection of the normalising forces embodied by the capital in favour of staking out his own provincial poetic voice. He regards his home as inspirational: "ideas get handed down as well as language." Armitage’s poems are idiosyncratic local ale rather than generic Starbucks latte. When I ask him why so many inventive modern artists hail from Yorkshire (Hughes, Harrison, Hockney, Hepworth, Hirst, Bennett) he replies with characteristic wit: "well, it’s a big place."

When pushed, he expands a bit: those artists all "practised some form of artistic dissent" that can be linked to "notions of independence in this part of the world" inspired by "a feeling of standing away from what’s going on elsewhere." I’ll buy that.

Armitage’s lack of silverware fits in with this independent spirit: he may not want to ‘blast and bollock Blairite Britain’ but neither does he want to employ outmoded rhyme schemes and Grecian relics like Harrison. In his ‘Book of Matches’ collection Armitage professes to have ‘no convictions- that’s my one major fault.’ His concern lies not with politics but with mapping out the eccentricities of mankind, cataloguing them through a neglected provincial lens. In this sense it is unsurprising to hear him cite Larkin and Muldoon as influences on his writing, the former because of his ability to "engage with the commonplace", the latter because of his "use of conversational language." Yet the poet forges a unique voice: if Larkin is smooth red wine and Muldoon straight whisky, Armitage has the clarity and satisfying shock of a frosted vodka shot.

For those who’ve never read him, the poet recommends ‘CloudCuckooLand’ as a good introduction. I’d recommend ‘Book of Matches.’ Both are currently languishing in Hodges Figgis’ downstairs bargain basement.

Benjamin Zephaniah has a problem: people aren’t paying attention to what he says.

No more perfect example could be given He may be smiling here, but Zephaniah’s than the establishment’s recent attempt to award not a happy man at the moment him an OBE. Whichever facechanged: "I used to have this message for less Labour culture tsar gave Zephaniah the government and this message for the the nod would have done well to actually cops but now I have this message for Bush read the man’s poetry first, particularly the and the U.N." That message has stayed the following lines: "the lure of meeting royal- same: think for yourself, do what’s right ty/ and touching high society/ is damping and steer clear of "politricks" (‘The Old creativity and eating at our heart." Truth’). If Zephaniah is a poster boy for ‘Bought and Sold’, the poem that contains telling the truth about Britain then it’s no these lines, was printed alongside his open surprise that he’s a bit pissed off. The rejection letter in The Guardian’s G2 sec- Stephen Lawrence trial, on which the poet tion last Thursday. worked, painfully highlighted that racial When I spoke to him a month ago, he discrimination and hatred remain a probreferred me to the same poem when ques- lem in the country. tioned about his refusal to accept awards of Zephaniah’s last book of poetry ‘Too Black, any description. "These people can’t have Too Strong’ was his fifth and his first for read my work" he intones incredulously in five years. That the 45 year old poet has a compellingly rich Brummie voice spiced printed so little material is no coincidence. with Jamaican and London accents. He values spoken performance far more Zephaniah doesn’t enjoy "showbusiness" than printed pages and devotes much of and "smiling at everybody." his time to more practical endeavours than The ‘people’ he refers to in this instance poetry. He points this out in his Guardian are the awards panel for a literary prize article: "I spend most of my time doing given for writing on disability. After other things." These ‘other things’ range exhaustive cajoling by his agent, from sponsoring a local girls football team Zephaniah reluctantly agreed to attend the to supporting anti-racist campaigns and awards ceremony, coming second. At the protesting about animal rights. ensuing reception the panel sidled up to Zephaniah is a polemicist as well as a him one by one, confiding "I don’t know poet, but dub poetry, the Jamaican-born, about the rest of the judges but I voted for reggae-influenced verbal style that the you." The bemused poet was told to "write Brummie uses, has always been of a politianother disability piece and come back cal nature. It originated in Jamaica as a next year." Their hypocrisy coupled with medium in which to express and discuss this condescending pat on the back may as community issues. The poetic idiom is perwell have been a punch in the face. fectly suited to being used as a medium for Zephaniah hasn’t set foot on red carpet protest: it demands focused, intense brevisince. ty of expression and should be, essentially, That his Guardian article broke govern- memorable speech. The ‘dub’ element of ment protocol, which dictates that those dub poetry makes the idiom even more rejecting honours should do so confiden- memorable, infusing it with a catchy, musitially, epitomises the poet’s character. cal, song-like nature. "I am always trying Zephaniah has never played by the rules. to capture the rhythm of the performance" He dropped out of school at age 13, was says Zephaniah, musing that "just because imprisoned for 18 months at age 16 and we have books… that’s no reason to let the was nominated for the poetry professorship oral tradition die." at Oxford University in his mid-twenties. Oral poets such as Zephaniah are a rare Whilst in prison the poet performed some breed. I was amazed that whenever I of his early work for a friendly warder, who queried the meaning or implication of a reconsidered his job after hearing line of his poetry, he’d be able to recite the Zephaniah’s pithily powerful verse. Taking whole piece without hesitation, in some his poetry more seriously after seeing this cases referring to the work of other poets tangible proof of its capability, Zephaniah whom he could also quote verbatim. He is moved to London at the age of 22 to add his "a storyteller, a bard" obsessed with voice to the frequent anti-Thatcher "telling it as it is." There’s "no props, no protests of the 1980s. gimmicks, no flashy clothes, just the voice" In a previous interview he described him- and "the voice is music, the tongue is the self at this stage as an "angry, illiterate, first instrument." uneducated, ex-hustler, rebellious If you’re interested in his work then check Rastafarian." Whilst he’s certainly literate out ‘Too Black, Too Strong’. To hear his disand educated by now, he remains angry tinctive performance style buy his CD of and rebellious. His target, however, has live performances entitled ‘Reggae Head.’

music

TNT

3rd December 2003

Cheesy Christmas Choons Anna Whiston says humbug.

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t’s always a pleasant experience when you hear those catchy beats of Wham in late November each year. But it’s also a bit unnerving. I mean, from the first time you’re re-greeted by George Michael singing ‘Face of a lover…’ you know that the scene is set for total aural bombardment for the next month and more. Yes, it’s the season to be jolly well saturated by some of the worst that music has to offer. Even the trendiest of music junkies reveals an Achilles’ heal for some decidedly naff Christmas tune, which has ‘sentimental value’ (an epithet that invariably describes something that’s just plain bad). But in general, Christmas songs, though of dubious artistic merit, are a good thing, if only because there is finally something other than Rachel Stevens playing in shops! In fact, I was beginning to suspect some kind of conspiracy last month as ‘Sweet Dreams my LA ex’ followed me like a mantra from shop to shop. I’m also hoping that that guy with the guitar on Grafton St. will supplement his two-song John Lennon repertoire by adding a third Christmasthemed one. A little variation never hurts…

In search of authentic Christmas experience, I conceded a trip to BT’s Christmas shop. I have been contemptuously avoiding this section of the shop since its reopening in October (or was it September?

each, it was soon obvious that the difference was generational. Basically, the choice is between the fifties and the eighties, a savvy division that fits nicely into or did it ever close?). Anyway, the only presents for parents’ generation and presmusic playing there was a muted and ents for your generation. As I was scandecidedly un-cheesy version of Ave Maria. ning the play list of the youth-oriented This did not fulfil a craving for some naff one, the songs seemed strangely fresh in feel-good tunes, but my next stop, M&S, my mind. As the earthy sound of The proved to be everything BT’s was not. I Pogues accosted my eardrums, I realised highly recommend a visit if you want a that I was not mentally reproducing each quick fix of tune from the those tunes album in my you love to head, but that hate.

Under the music the auspices of was coming examining from the varieties of shop’s sound s p a r k l y system. That Christmas sorts out the wrap, I licensing fee, hummed along then! to the upbeat My next misrhythm of sion was to Slade’s ‘Merry suss out the Christmas, festive fare on Everyone’ and offer in the Wizzard’s ‘I Anna Whiston asks Santa to stop the music music shops.

Wish It Could HMV didn’t Be Christmas Everyday’. When Band Aid let me down. Among the top forty albums came on, though, I thought it was a good was a satisfying splash of Christmastime to leave (good cause, bad tune…) but themed ones. The Rat Pack contribution on the way out a CD stand caught my eye. was strong… there were about fifty differYes, M&S have extended their own brand ent compilations with swing singers and range to include compilation CDs with a trad seasonal songs. Also lurking on the festive theme. Two similarly formatted shelves was ‘The Full Lounge’, a contribubut differently coloured albums literally tion from RTE selected by protégé Ryan glittered on the top shelf of the stand. Tubridy. Though this swing album retails Turning over to look at the contents of at a steep EUR21.99, I noted a curious

Down and out in Dublin Kevin Byrne gets up close and personal with Grafton’s buskers

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noticeable change has come over Grafton Street. I’m not talking about the confused mumbles of shoppers trying to find a hint of festive spirit in Brown Thomas’ sterile, uber-chic ‘Christmas’ window; I’m talking about the piped music. A few shops have attempted to imbue us with festive ‘buy gifts now’ glee by pumping out sewage plant amounts of Bing Crosby and other such wholesome family crooners. Certain things should not be imposed on people; democracy, slavery and overly jolly festive bilge. Standing up to the piped music are Grafton Street’s buskers. Love ‘em or loathe ‘em, you have to agree that their individual charms blow Uncle Bing and ‘Little Jack Frost get lost’ out of the water.

I talked to one of the flower sellers, and asked for her opinion. She strongly supported the buskers, saying "it’s a great opportunity for them to get out and get a few oul’euro…and sure don’t they bring a bit o’ life to the street?" And it’s true, the rag-tag crew of musicians, dancers, and people who stand remarkably still, do bring a lot of life to the street with their individual charms.

Undoubtedly the supergroup of the street are those three guys who play the Beatles; I like to call these the ‘very good three’. I was talking to the chap who plays the tinfronted guitar, and I asked him if the piped music annoyed them, to which he replied that "they’re [the shops] just doing

their thing, you get used to it". When I asked him if people gave out to them for attracting amphitheatres of obstructive spectators (you know the ones that you can’t get through, even with a cattle prod) he said, in understatement, "there are a few who get a little annoyed when you slow down their consumerist urges" (I say ‘in understatement’, as I’ve seen well-todo people, predominantly with dyed blonde hair, drop kick OAPs out of their way at times).

The buskers I find to be most amusing are the child buskers, not, I hasten to add for some repressed Catholic reason, but for sheer entertainment value. The best known of these have to be the wee screaming kids, whom I like to call the 40 watt amps. I was listening to the youngest singing the ‘Fields of Athenry’ with a force and intensity that would suggest that he’d just swallowed an Australian forest fire, and I couldn’t help but admire his commitment, he told me he’d been out "for ages n’ages" (he spoke true as he’d been out for 6 hours by the time I talked to him). I later asked him who his main musical influences were, an undoubtedly silly question since he’s seven, to which he replied "me brudder, he taught me all de songs". On saying this he pointed down the street to his main musical influence, the slightly bigger 40-watt amp, and at 10, true stalwart of the Grafton Street busking scene. He too was singing that much loved tune. Neither of them plans to follow a career in music, he informed me.

Another unforgettable youngster (I sound like an old man) has to be ‘angry boy’ (sod political correctness, it describes him perfectly) the teenager who plays incredibly loud electric guitar with distortion on full.

He is evidently a living legend amongst the teenage Goth scene, to which his retinue of unsmiling darkly clad, tortured middle class kids attests. A great game to play is to try to make him smile. So far no one has succeeded.

The non-singing buskers fall into two categories: the statue men and in a category all of her own, the crazy-dancing Asian lady. The statue men have appeared in various guises over the years: there was zenned out yellow man, then the tin man, and now there is blue man.

I tried to ask blue man a few questions but he was not to be tricked and completely ignored me.

The statue men seem to do quite well, the youngest Why bother giving of the ‘very money to people for good three’ told me "some standing very still American for hours on end?

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absence of any song by Sinatra, whose face beamed at me from every other conceivable inch of shelf space. Humm, I thought, did someone say mark up?

As I was pondering the moneymaking strategies of a certain terrestrial station, something caught my eye. It was a cocktail stick with large chunks of cheese. Not the real stuff, but a picture on an album cover. As my mission was to investigate cheesy Crimbo music, I naturally made a beeline toward it… and was not disappointed.

The album, entitled ‘The Ultimate Cheese Party’, was, true to its name and graphics, full to the brim of cheesy music. Although the orientation of this music was not exactly festive in the chestnuts-roasting-by-an-open-fire sense of the word, it undoubtedly radiated the seasonal party spirit. Songs included D:Ream, ‘Thing’s Can Only Get Better’ (you may cringe now but you liked it at the time, admit it), the Village People and Eighties Kylie. But just in case one was in any doubt as to the appropriate time to play this symphony of naff, a version of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ features as the CD’s last song.

That was almost as bad as ‘Christmas Crooners’ which came complete with 3D pop-up festive scene!

So, the message for the holidays is to leave your music cred at the door and relish the kitsch that is Christmas. And try to stifle screams of anguish as you hear that career-destroying offering from Paul MacCartney, ‘Wonderful Christmastime’.

After all, aren’t we all guilty of serious lapses in taste in the name of festive cheer? lady dropped him his first 20E about five minutes ago" – not bad for doing nothing!

Despite the talents of the other buskers, the undisputed star of the street has to be the crazy-dancing Asian lady with the Mona Lisa smile. The only person known to dance to S Club 7, Westlife and other such trite pop fabrications, with as much grace and precision as a fight sequence from ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’. I had the privilege of talking to her, she was possibly the most gracious and smiley person I have ever met. She doesn’t really speak much English, but she communicated to me that she came from China and hopes to stay in Ireland. She loves dancing, but loves playing music more; she told me "I eat, sleep, play music and dance" (whilst explaining this half in speech, half in mime she touched the ground, gestured towards the sky and pointed to her heart, all the time smiling serenely and genuinely). It seems that whenever she performs on Grafton Street she fills the immediate vicinity with her ethereal calming aura, even if some drunken lout is singing to a bollard three feet away.

One piece of information, which I discovered whilst researching this article, is that permits are not needed to busk on Ireland’s streets. We must be lucky in that only the good (if not good, damned entertaining) performers decide to busk. Next time you’re walking past one of those familiar faces, throw them some change; in the words of a Dublin Eliza Dolittle, they give the street a bit o’ life, and without them the street would be completely ‘Disney-ified’.

travel 10

TNT

December 3rd 2003

Paul McKane on why home is where the heart lies, especially when you’re in Germany.

N

ow that you’re all settled into college life, spare a thought and a prayer for those of us 'departed' colleagues - the Erasmus students, who were persuaded by promises of cheap drink, travel, exotica and sexy Europeans into fecking off to the Continent for ten months. The reality in a lot of cases is Germany/France/Italy's answer to Portlaoise - ok for a day trip, but a year's sentence?

The Germans are no stranger to forms, documentation or bureaucracy; and with Greens in power you wonder how they can be so environmentally unfriendly! Having seen my signature more times than I care for, I finally received tenure of a bed-sit in the woods, which made Sparta seem cosy!

Taking a non-German speaking mother and her VISA to IKEA was an arduous task, but I was ready to rock and roll Swedish style. Also, Christmas is efficiently German, it’s mid November and

Something in the air: Christmas lights on Grafton Street there are few decorations to be seen. Roll on December 1st!

My German Portlaoise is quite pretty in the snow, although the temperatures are afraid of heights, rarely climbing above freezing point. I was left to my own devices and those of fellow Erasmus stu-

dents from UCC. Now, being of culchie stock, my flat Midlands accent has succumbed somewhat to Dublin 4dom over the last two years, but it’s now in danger of going south, so to speak, and I sound like a male Mary Kingston. Send tape recordings of BESS tutorials please before

it all goes horribly askew!

As regards the other nations of the world, with sexy smouldering Italians and odd Bulgarians could one's social life be dull?

Well, it could actually, with Erasmus student get togethers organised into HeavyOn-Partying (80's music and non-alcoholic Becks), or Pushing-The-Boat-Out (Cheese nachos and fizzy water). What’s a pure social animal to do?

"All I want for Christmas" is a comforting tune muttered by the many international students in France and Austria who are of the same sad existence as I, passing Phoebe Ling our time mail-ordering Barry's Tea and fantasizing about Batchelors Beans while running around muttering under our breaths about Erasmus grants and ECTS points and "will Modern Icelandic or Forensic Pathology count for anything?"

Erlangen has no Christmas market so it cannot cash in on the old carol singing. At least the shopping is cheap - in the twelve shops we have. Still, one should look on the bright side. No widespread reports of mullets have been announced and everything is a third of the price of Dublin.

Should you stay or should you go?

Ruaidhri Breathnach gives you three reasons to leave Dublin as soon as possible.

T

rieste is a perfect nowhere land, tucked away under the armpit of the Adriatic like a read paper. It is the kind of place a man-on-the run seeks as a safe-haven for his troubles, a place where he can melt undetected into the nondescript. It has the strong industrious vibe of a city entirely absorbed in itself, yet in no way impervious to the outsider.

Here it’s easy to enjoy the anonymity the traveller longs for, whilst voyeuristically people-watching as locals and tourists weave about their daily business.

Ten miles south of the city lies Croatia, where the Illyrian coast ends and beautiful Dalmatia begins. Whilst in the city, take a tram up the Via Monte to reach Opicina. If you fancy a slightly further trek, then Slovenia itself lies only five miles from Trieste’s city centre over the formidable limestone rock formation of the Karst, Krst or Krs (depending on whether you speak Italian, Slovenian or Croatian).

Behind Piazza d’Unità, the left side of which flanks the harbour, are the remnants of Trieste’s once thriving Jewish Quarter. It’s a maze of narrow winding streets, alleys and stairways; bookshops, antique stores and galleries. The Piazza itself (reputedly the largest in Italy) provides a useful landmark with its large neo-gothic municipality. Be sure to drop into the refined Caffè degli Specchi.

On New Year’s Eve the square transforms itself into a rock venue and, weirdly enough, a family striptease joint - make sure you wear gloves and a big hat!

Despite their obvious potential for tourist exploitation, the ‘historic’ cafes of Trieste have retained their bourgeois credentials along with their aesthetic essentials.

Garish murals line the walls between leather clad couches and high corniced

ceilings. Hushed, bow-tied waiters scamper around serving strudel and tortes whose sticky crumbs are washed down with exquisite mouthfuls of coffee on silver trays, accompanied by little snacks and white cotton napkins. Caffès San Marco, Tomasseo (great Pasticceria, gelati, cocktails), Tergeste and Stella Polare are choice haunts that won’t disappoint. Over the New Year each one holds equally different jazz concerts and impromptu poetry recitals in the local dialect.

The Gulf of Trieste is a vast expanse of expressionless water. To the north lies the ominous Austro-Hungarian palace of Miramar and beyond this the Castle of Duino. To the south can be found the Bay of Muggia which bustles with much of Trieste’s former maritime trade; tankers and commercial vessels dock there all year round. Trieste holds the largest yacht race in Europe (La Baracola) at the beginning of October when all varieties of sailing boats ply the bora-whipped waves to the boundless enthusiasms of the Triestini. A walk along Pier 7 through the coffee-scented air gives you a real taste of

the city’s imperial heyday. Before leaving, visit one of the many coffee shops to purchase a small package of the best freshlyground coffee in the world.

The city centre of Brussels does not house one supermarket, one megastore or ten thousand bureaucrats. The latter are, in fact, banished to their parliamentary stronghold on the hill. Beautiful highceilinged bars are to be found on every street radiating from the opulent main square, the Grand Place, or ‘Grote Markt’.

Stylish students drink devilish beer and speak either French or Flemish, rarely both. The Flemish element of the city is fascinating and gives the city a distinctive edge that can be sampled in its record stores, image and photography shops, bookstalls and trendy boutiques. If you can speak French that’s great, but don’t expect ‘les flamands’ to reply.

If you’re after culture then visit the Musea für Schöne Kunste, which houses Francis Bacon’s majestic Pope Innocent X, as well as a huge sculpture by Henry Moore and the most extensive collection of Belgian Surrealists, René Magritte and Paul Delvaux, in the world.

Late buses, construction everywhere, rain: why stay in town?

For moules et frites I can recommend only one place, Chez Vincent, not far from the Market Square on Rue les Dominicians. Two hunks of meat dangling in the window like excoriated arms advertise this old butcher’s shop and beer hall. Walk through the kitchen and take a seat at one of the long monk’s tables draped in white linen to catch the drool as you salivate over the chef’s flambée dishes ranged in copper pots before you. This is the only restaurant I have been to where the waiter’s rank is marked by epaulettes.

Your first experience of Madrid will probably be its metro. Bright, efficient and spacious, that’s a good enough place to start. If you enjoy the sour reek of armpits or the taste of leather straps you must be patient, my child. Alight from this miracle of modern transport when you’re near enough to the Puerta del Sol but not actually in it.

I recommend getting off in the ChuecaMalasaña district where you’ll find an organic blend of gay/trendy/student life and the best and most varied restaurants, bars and clubs in town. Once you have checked out accommodation and found the useful map on the back of the metro timetable, throw your guidebook down the Swanny and paint the town red.

New Year’s Eve is the best time to go: the birds are frozen to the trees and the Madrileños erupt in childlike fantasy. All bars are open late and serve complimentary tapas. The squares are filled with crowds and musicians and the clubs cater to all needs and perversions. After a night on the town eat ‘churros y chocolate’ in the café with the rest of the clubbers at 7 am and watch the transvestite prostitutes reapply their make-up and blow you kisses between mouthfuls of morning vodka.

If you must get some ‘culture’ then go to the Centro de Arte Reina Sofia and watch the rotating show of Dali/ Bunel’s hilarious Un Chien d’Andalou and L’Age d’Or.

entertainment

TNT Graham Mooney

3rd December 2003

In for a penny, in for The set list a pound

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Valerie Flynn talks theatre, dahling

Stripping it down: Alix O’Neill gets to grips with her first lapdance.

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true Northern Irish lass, I’ve dabbled in a spot of recreational stripping in my time: you know how it is, drunken night out with the girls, the oh-so-seductive beats of the Trousersnake permeating the bar… You’re just itching to straddle the nearest chair and unbutton your shirt. Ok, so maybe that’s just my inner naughtiness trying to surface. But after numerous pleas from my violated gal pals and bewildered boy buddies to "put it away", I finally decided to find out exactly what I was doing wrong and made my way to Angels for a night of hedonistic pursuits with the professionals.

Entry into the club wasn’t as straightforward as I had anticipated.

Entirely female groups are obviously a rare sight, which would explain the incredulous looks of the doormen as we approached.

"This is a lap dancing venue, girls", we were informed.

"Really?" I haughtily replied. "I thought that poster of the writhing dominatrix behind you, was advertising a Christian prayer group".

The beefcake did not take too well to my non-too subtle mocking and kicked up a fuss about girls gaining entry without a "man to look after them". Just as I was about to indulge in some irate bra-burning activity, a more pleasant individual appeared on the scene and told us we could go in. He warned that we’d be harassed by prurient punters, but assured us he would handle any trouble.

Confident this Titan would have no difficulties in guaranteeing our safety, I coolly strolled into the club. It was a real "Cheers" moment. Only everybody didn’t know my name.

They simply stared. We looked completely ridiculous, as is generally the case when two fully clothed girls enter a strip joint. Shuffling over to the bar to order a couple of absurdly expensive drinks, I contemplated shedding my offensive garb right down to my mismatched underwear, just to avert the burning gaze of the

sleazy looking crowd.

As I surveyed the room, I was struck by the atmosphere, which was practically civilised I was expecting women with breasts to their knees, perched on the swelling laps of festering old men, screaming "encore de vin, wench!" Then I realised I wasn’t in a nineteenth century Parisian brothel but a modern-day Lap dancing club.

Dublin’s venues may not be quite on a par with the uber trendy strip clubs of London or Manhattan, but they’re not entirely sans classe. Proudly clutching Louis Vuitton bags and drizzled in Chanel No. 5, the dancers appear confident and self-assured; girls who are clearly relishing the financial perks of the job.

Intermittently they take to a tiny stage at the front. Trying to remain enticing whilst shimmying round a pole to Craig David is not an easy task. If you’re expecting a re-enactment of Christina Aguilera’s "Dirty" complete with crotchless chaps and simulated thrusting, you’re sure to be disappointed. Angels is no Moulin Rouge. There’s a distinct absence of spectacle and feverish excitement and what I witnessed on stage was no more risqué than Kate Moss’ recent endeavours at pole dancing in the White Stripes’ new video. I had to restrain myself from jumping up on the platform and showing the girls how it’s really done. Hats off to the ladies though - they can twist their torsos into positions a squad of Romanian gymnasts would be proud of.

After a margarita or two, I was ready for something a little more, shall we say…intimate. Well if John Townsend felt obliged to have a go (in the name of journalism of course), I saw no reason why I shouldn’t partake. ‘Tis the age of equality and all that. Having procured my flesh - a wickedly randy lass named "Rogan"I was led to a dimly lit room at the back of the club for a private dance.

The colossus standing guard at the curtained entrance was the first indication I was about to get more than I’d bargained for. Now, the unworldly girl-next-door I ain’t, but even I was taken aback by the level of, erm, attention the lovely Rogan paid me.

In my naivety I actually thought a private dance involved a bit of naked expressivity in the middle of the room while the punter quietly "appreciated" from the sidelines. Not so. I was very much a protagonist in this three-minute performance.

Hands by my side, my legs were thrust apart. The sheer terror on my face must have been painfully apparent as I was told to relax and just enjoy the experience. And so Rogan began her "dance". Her PVC nondress was shed in seconds and pretty soon we were chest to face. My ear

was nibbled, my neck kissed (which I own, wasn’t entirely unpleasant).

Then she began writhing about on the floor, unperturbed by my convulsions at the spectacle. Midway through her gyrations, a questionable chap in a trench coat arrived with another dancer. For some reason, he seemed more interested in joining our little party than being entertained by his own woman.

Strange that. As Rogan continued to wink incessantly at me, yelping like a Chihuahua on helium, I felt somewhat guilty that I wasn’t remotely turned on. She was giving it her all, bless her. I did notice how good she smelt- like milk and freshly cut roses.

And she had the softest skin. So I complimented her on her choice of moisturiser and asked where I could buy some. I have to admit, I’d never talked make-up with a girl while her well-oiled knee was in my crotch but hey, you gotta try everything once, right? After the three minutes were up, I came out of the room, not aroused but certainly more up on my beauty knowledge. I left the club feeling giddy, full of respect at the ladies’ agility and content with my amateur stripping status. Wrapping the old legs round your neck six nights a week could do terrible things to a gal’s gait.

Lap dancing will never be fully considered a bit of harmless fun. Which is a real pity. Alright, so it’s not exactly the most wholesome way a girl can earn a bit of extra cash, but it’s not that different from Britney Spears baring all to promote her next record. Also the prevailing notion of the penniless single mother, who turns to stripping to put a gifted child through school, whilst supplementing an abusive boyfriend’s crack addiction, is a perpetually propounded Hollywood myth. Of course cases like these exist but the plain and simple truth is, many western women take up Lap dancing because it’s a lucrative business. From my experience, it is clear that the girls are well looked after and seem genuinely content with their career choice. Women have come too far to be exploited these days. The man that enters this arena, believing he is holding the trump card, is a fool.

These girls are smugly gyrating all the way to the bank. If you’re prepared to accept this, boys, then leave your guilt at the door, take your Euro in hand and make an impoverished single mum a very happy woman.

Back cover photograph “sex is cool and good for your immune system” by Matt Pitt.

F

airy lights are glittering all over the city at night. Brown Thomas looks like a set out of Moulin Rouge. There's that cocacola ad on the telly, mince pies in the shops; there are children with woolly hats and pink faces from the cold.

Feeling suicidal? Indulge your inner Grinch with a reminder of why you really hate Christmas at the Gaiety. This year’s pantomime is ‘Cinderella’. To see Susan McFadden from ‘You're-A-Star’ (no, I don't We sift the layers of know who she is either) as listings for gems Cinderella and Ronnie Drew from various artistic endeavours involving men with beards will set you back 26. Oh yes it will.

If you know and hate someone doing the Leaving Cert or want to confront head on your own post-traumatic anxiety, Alan Stanford's new adaptation of Charlotte Bronte's ‘Jane Eyre’ is at the Gate from December 2nd.

Stanford directs the production with Dawn Bradfield and Susan Fitzgerald in the title roles as younger and older Janes respectively and Stephen Brennan plays Mr. Rochester. Now, I don't go in much for this adaptation malarkey but having seen Stanford's ‘Pride and Prejudice’ at the Gate last year (which starred, incidentally, Susan Fitzgerald) I have to say that this promises to be a really formidable production. Tickets are 25 with a whopping 2 off for concessions. Go to a matinee - they're only 15.

For another hefty culture dosing Brian Friel's ‘Aristocrats’ is at the Abbey until January 24th with a sign language interpreted performance on the 19th of that month. It is directed by Ben Barnes and the cast includes the excellent Peter Hanly and Ingrid Craigie.

First performed in 1979 (at the Abbey), Friel tells the story of a Donegal family from the Big House who have gone down in the world. In the words of its own blurb: "set in Ballybeg Hall in County Donegal, the decaying home of District Justice O'Donnell, where those who congregate for a wedding stay to attend a funeral, Friel's chronicle of three sisters and their 'peculiar' brother reveals the way 'in which the ache of one family becomes the microcosm for the ache of a society'". To see this powerful play will cost you 20- 30, depending on the importance you place on being able to move your neck for the 4-5 immediately succeeding hours.

Pulitzer Prize Winner Sam Shepard’s 1982 play (and 1985 film), ‘Fool for Love’, runs until 13th December at The New Theatre. Directed by Ronan Wilmot and starring Patrick Joseph Byrnes, Sean Power, Laoise Sexton and Ronan Wilmot, it is another gloomy account of people who inch through life in crumbling buildings (in this case a bleak motel room in the Mojave desert), discontented and hungering. Sorry, did I say gloomy? I meant powerful. Either way, you can’t go far wrong for 10.

‘Triple Espresso’ (hilarious tag line - 'a highly caffeinated comedy') is the three-man-show story of Butternut, Bean and Maxwell, a trio of failed comedians who decide to try one last shot at the big time. It is the brainchild of Bill Arnold, Michael Pearce Donley and Bob Stromberg, a trio of now very successful comedians with a 7-year old show running simultaneously in six American cities and an extended run until December 20th at Andrew's Lane.

There are two schools of thought on Triple Espresso where some have enjoyed "a good chuckle" at a well written, if patchy, comedy (slightly hysterical), others extol a show that "has its roots in old-fashioned, crowd-pleasin' vaudeville". Tickets are 24.50 if that's a risk you’re willing to take.

The last word...