The historic setting of St Patrick’s Hall as a backdrop to the Queen’s speech made me think of Garret last night. As the results of the Lisbon Treaty were called out to assembled politicos in St Patrick’s Hall of Dublin Castle, I gatecrashed the gig (thanks to ye know who ye are), and got to interview Garret briefly. Here’s the footage! Yes, it’s raw.

And when I got talking to him, the established media saw he was open to giving comment and they circled around him asking him questions as well.

Oh and here’s Garret, Dick Roche and Conor Lenihan celebrating the Yes result! Snatches of MaryLou in there as well.

What a gentleman! And what a loss to us all Garret RIP.

Going live on TV from tomorrow. For further details in how to support Barnardos, check out their campaign site.

Evidence, that I should buy high-waisted trousers and be the new Craig Doyle. Yes, I know it’s the Cenotaph.

London was awesome. Post on Interesting on the way. Let me distract you with my pics.

This is what I get. Looks like poo in a roll, but it isn’t. The sauce was pseudo-pepper-sauce-in-a-jar-like. Understandably, I left my food behind me.

Oh yes and there was loads of flies hanging out.

Probably because of the half-eaten food and rubbish left on tables.

I also did not like that the door from the dining area to the kitchen was wide open.

Never again!

So the Duke, from 8pm. See you there! Drop a comment if you wanna come along!

I’ve been looking forward to this bill for quite some time as it was suggested that it would incorporate both libel and slander into one offence of disseminating defamatory information but now it seems to be turning into a vehicle for the ignorant to air their grievances. I’m not one to use the gay card but from a man that has labelled homosexuality as an abnormality and who is part of a government that continues to drag their heals over civil union legislation, it’s hard to come to any other conclusion. If this were allow to pass as it is suggested, it would grant the courts a large scope to deem what is and what is not acceptable to say from the perspective of those that are inherently religious; the non-religious and those philosophically opposed to particular religious teachings or simply those opinions opined by even the most fanatical, would do so under the constant threat of prosecution and undoubtedly, the gays would be top of the list along with other “moral reprehensible groups”.

So, Lily has moved house tagged me into reflections of a blogger. Rarely do I meme but…

Reflections of a blogger? To me the blogging is a textual voice. In the end, we’re sharing ideas, opinions and little glimmers of memories. Words, their mode of their transmission, are the important things one ought to treasure. And in order to blog, one ought to love words. Passionately play with them, throw darts at them, bounce them off walls and curve them around corners.

For the root of my love of words, I look to people that inspire me. Every single one of us have influencers in our lives. People we look to for inspiration. The second of May will mark the ninety-six birthday of my late grandmother. As a Gentile family, of course we’d call her Nana. She stands alone as one of the primary influencers in my life. Growing up I would spend every every weekend and Summer at her house.

Contrary to popular belief, living with grandparents was amazing. They’d both tell tall tales. His of the petrolheaded logisitics of the Free State. Yes, he was there the day of the first jet landing at Shannon airport. Hers of local hijinx, political schism during the War of Independence and giants that scoop inquisitive girls into trees to boil them. My grandparents had an unusual relationship to say the least. Never in my lifetime, did I ever hear them call each other by their own firstnames. It was always Himself or Mrs K. For all of their differences, they shared a passionate love of reading.

Grandad was a paper hound. The Evening Press and Irish Press were furiously digested every day. And perhaps a reread, just in case something had changed. The going at Goodwood required a kitchen-tabled steward. And oh, he was careful never to buy a Blueshirt paper.

For Nana, morning and evenings were book-ended with prayer. She’d keep book upon book of prayers. A couple of bibles too. Between Silk Cut puffs and lungfuls of Ventolin, she’d pick apart her prayer books to pull out pamphlets to every obscure saint imaginable. She’d pray for the sick, for the healthy, for dead, for causes, for family and for anyone she felt needed a little grace. Once prayer was done, she’d be free to arise or sleep. More likely, she’d be free to read.

The long days were Agatha Christie, Dick Francis and maybe Dean Koontz. She was a cross-genre pulp queen. Alex Hailey sat beside Catherine Cookson. Jackie Collins with her loose morals did not have a chance. Behind the heavy-blanketed mahogany bed in a cabinet of dark, exotic wood was the ultimate library cocktail party. Would Poirot, ever the sharply-dressed observationist gel with the architypal Francis hero, hard-nosed and possibly a little beaten-up?

Once a week, the local mobile library would visit. Nana’s house was curiously lodged on a steep decline from the main road. So when the bulky bus of books parked outside, half of the fun would trying to climb aboard without toppling over domino-like. Interestingly, most the books in the library were covered with loose clear plastic. Perhaps a bureaucratic bot estimated that flights in and out of library constituted a significant rain risk? We carry out a complete post-mortem on last weeks selections with the driver before picking a tall stack of fresh, mac-wearing hardbacks.

At her house, I read Villette. I met Dickens, Homer, Le Guin, Cooper and Carroll. I followed the adventures of the girls of Trebizon. Never a Blyton, I could pass up. Reading was never pressed, it was ever-present. We’d bookmark the hours with stand-up spoon pots of tea. Every second of that was an idyll. I’d sit and read in relative silence with her in a heartbeat.

Haughty ideals and preciousness of blogging aside, if one does not love words they ought to shut shop. In truth, there is no definite way to blog. It’s a verb, a doing thing. One commits words to page. And we’re back to precious words again. Loving  them. Loving the art of cleaving clear words clear from the mind or the act of reading them. Enjoying how neatly we tin ideas in them, ready for an expectant eye. Love words, love your blog voice and more importantly, have fun.

Qik from outside The Stag’s Head, Dublin.

Interview with Hazel McCallion, Mayor of Mississauga, Canada. She’s been in office for 31 years now. If we were all like this at 88..

In the meantime, search engines have brought people here on searches like “I think I have cervical cancer”, “symptoms of cervical cancer” and “how long will I live with cervical cancer”. While the web is a great place to research everything from osmosis to goldfish, you need the expertise of a real professional. You need dedicated facetime with them.

I know that you are genuinely scared and that sometimes reading stuff off the web might  seem to help allay those fears. But some of the information out there is flawed, half-assed or written with hidden special interests. Some of it will make you feel even more paranoid without even having been diagnosed.

If you notice something has changed in your general wellbeing, please consult your doctor and get yourself checked out. Every minute you spend without proper diagnosis, adds more risk. Please see a doctor.

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Scuse the edits. I thought I was in preview mode!

Here’s the shout after the first Irish try.

Try 2.

On winning.

The Olés kicked off then!

My favourite café in Cork at the moment is Cork Coffee Roasters on Bridge Street. Their coffee is dark and mysterious. The roast is nose-tinglingly nutty. Try it!

So often we get dragged done by focusing on our own little patch. Ultra cynicism is a heady cocktail and we drink it way too fast.

Loving this. Thanks.

you really love your youtube vids, don’t you?

Sometimes creativity is stuck fast to apathy like skin taunt over bone.The way I work though periods like this, is simply run through pages and pages of streams of consciousness. A seemingly endless scratchpad of braindumps.

On a long journey recently, I spilled over ten pages of bit-sized fanciful fleets. Worked through three ideas I had for novels. Wrote lots of emo shit fit for the bin. Shook some sense into mangled post kernels. I have many documents clogging up my Desktop. Possibly just about 2.9 great ideas, but I’m writing. Yes, I love Youtube but given the choice the hula dance of the alphabet has my heart.

So, excuse my video crutches. Back to wordy posts. Soon. Just let me line up my dominos.

We’re useless when it comes to a few inches of snow, aren’t we? Excited, but useless!

• Batt O’Keeffe speaks on bringing forward a proposal on third-level funding in April: 

Quoting Batt: “Obviously, it would be premature at this stage to say exactly what we propose to do, but if you look at other jurisdictions you will see there is a student contribution by and large now to third level.”

• Kelly Osbourne has been allegedly arrested for assault:

“… been arrested for allegedly slapping a journalist at a nightclub in London.”

• The Brit nominations are out:

“Outstanding Contribution to Music: Pet Shop Boys” (What the Fuck!)

I’m currently encircled by makeshift walls of tissue. Careful, don’t come any closer. Back soon.

Sorry, boys..

Have to say, I’m really loving the open wifi and convienent location of the Marriott while being home in Limerick. Tea is pricey at €4.50 a pot, but it’s smack-bang in the middle of the city centre, comfy and I have a nearby power point. What else can a girl ask for?