An interview with the great man. 5x.
1) In the film 'The Commitments,' did you laugh at the line of dialogue: 'What did Evel Knievel want? God sent him. Wha'? GOD sent him. On a fuckin' Suzuki?'
I did, but I'm not really sure why now. I think it's because everyone else was laughing, but the joke itself is largely irrelevant, it's just your man says it with the 'duorty' Dublin taxi-man accent that he could have said anything and everyone would have broke their shite. "What did Evel Knievel want? God sent him. Wha? GOD sent him.
"But that would presuppose now, more of an ontological or teleological framework from withing we could properly think about a god, or Gods? Wha? Wha? Says you!!"
Actually, that would have made me laugh harder. If I could have understood that at 12 years old.
As it stood, I got the jist of the humour enough to see how it could work. You see, what he's doing there is expressing his lack of admiration for the cocksure Joey The Lips Fagan by pointing towards his mass-produced Japanese motorcycle as a likely indicator of less than divine provenance. It's a joke that clearly sums up end of the decade 80's Dublin. In many ways.
2) You left Ireland. Why?
I'll paraphrase the great Roy Keane when the same question was put to him during the Saipan Incident of 2002. Ireland, you're a liar... you're a fucking wanker. I didn't rate you as a country, I don't rate you as a holiday destination, and I don't rate you as an island. You're a fucking wanker and you can stick your Rose of Tralee up your arse. The only reason I have any dealings with you is that somehow you are the homeplace of my ancestors! You can stick it up your bollocks."
3) Describe your perfect opening twenty minutes to a day.
Well that would have been this morning! Honestly. My whiskey-leaded eyelids fluttered open as waves of ecstasic undulation reverberated around my body.
When cogent thought was finally possible between the shards of pure euphoria lancing my neural pathways I remembered the series of incidents from the night before and glanced down to see perhaps the most beautiful little blonde of my lifetime sucking and yanking away gamely on the old SnakeValley.
Once she had her fill from the tap, and gargled, a good vintage I'm told, off she went to make me some toast and marmalade. What the fuck more can I say here? What did you expect me to say? You KNOW me!
4) Describe your perfect closing twenty minutes to a day.
I was tempted to just say the above in reverse order but I'll just say, it's probably staring at a photo of a distant loved one, knowing that, wherever they are, they are thinking of you before finishing the cocoa and turning over, content.
Nah. Only messing. Coming into the arse of a 20 year old as she rips the sack of you from underneath then both collapsing in a sweaty crumpled heap of oblivion. Obviously.
5) Musically, what really fucks you off?
R Ampersand B. It doesn't even make any sense, where are the Blues here? And the rhytmn is always the same so why focus on that as a feature? Or maybe that's the point? In any case they should change it to Rectum and Barse music. Why? Because those are the two areas of your body which are the closest to shit. Brown, smelly, uncompromising shit.
Just picture it. A lump of steaming human shit there, right there in front of you. No frills, ifs or buts. Not a comfortable thought is it?
6) Describe your old flat on Aungier Street and the goings on therein.
Disgraceland. Well, that's too long a question to be getting into, and my memory ain't the tight battleship she used to be so maybe I can lazily re-paste something from my blog from that era?
'Hang on.... No. THIS is it. THIS is the most tired I've ever been. In an absolute jock so I am. What's new eh? Grapefruit juice and Peach Schnapps together that's what. It's called a Gloucester, because it affects the eyes first. I made it, fuck off you. There's nothing left in my skull cavity save a mere impression of a brain, an insubstantial artefact, ephemeral and impotent. I'd love to give up the drink but it won't give me up, such is the path of the alcoholist. What's that? You want me to drink you? Oh , but I can't… Can I?.. ..mmm……brownest of browns… G is for the rotting entrails in my gut, U is for the unusefulness of my mind, R is for the red eyes squeezed tight shut, N is for the nob worn down in the grind. GURRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!'
As for the flat itself? A two bedroomed fully furnished apartment with spacious saloon, fitted kitchen, central heating, access to court. Bins on Thursday. If you want to throw out a box you have to cut it up.
7) On a scale of one to ecstatic, how pleased were you to be leaving your last job in Ireland?
I've been far pleaseder to leave jobs than that in my time. What? Sitting around chatting, talking nonsense, watching sport on TV, occasionaly updating a chart or rattling out a paragraph here or there? That's not work. I was ecstatic when I knew I finally would never have to work with my uncle delivering slabs to construction sites from 9 in the morning till 8 in the evening. That, my middle-classed chums, was work. And don't get me started on the coal truck... Still, it toughened me up.
8) What have you yet to achieve that you'd most like to?
I've never been able to beat M.Bison on Hard using just Dhalsim in Super Street Fighter Turbo Championship Edition Ex Plus Alpha. That's the kind of thing that eats away at a man.
9) Your favourite cinematic moment?
Oh there's so many ! And every time you drink with me I'm sure to come up with a different one. So for now I'll list the first three to come to my head - Donnie's ashes flying into the Dude's face in the Big Lebowski, Arnie's 'pushing pencils" line from Predator, all those orgasms in Amelie (quinze if I remember correctly).
10) How ideal is Paris?
Ideal for me anyway. Let's tick the list box. Arrogance, Sexual Supremecy. Giant Phallic Tower. Refined taste, but with a certain unapologetic grubbiness. That's my Paris. As Ernest Hemmingway said - "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast" Et pour finir, je te donne François Villon, le poete maudit, qui a dit, (en l'ancienne langue bien sûr) et je suis d'accord avec lui - "Il n'est bon bec que de Paris" A plus z'amis!