Waywardblog's Blog

“A Movie, Maybe?”

THE WRITE STUFF — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 19:03:37 +0000

All that I have ever really wanted was for a man to take me to the movies

Not too much to ask really, is it? To be taken to the movies with my hand in his

Of course it would help if the man was willing to walk me down the aisle

No, not that kind of aisle, silly

He lands a can of freezing cold cola in my hand

Holding a big box of popcorn for us to go about sharing

Of course, if he likes, we can share other things too

As much as a lingering kiss whilst waiting for the movie, maybe

Thinking about it some more, I don’t really mind what we go and see

So long as it’s not one of those soppy romantic flicks

I believe that any real romance should be found for ourselves

He can locate a pair of seats near the back where the man with the torch won’t bother us

After the movie, he can walk me all of the way back to my apartment

Leaning in to whisper in my ear what a great time he has had

Just how much he might like to do it again

I’m only too happy to do it all again, I tell him, just so long as he makes me laugh

Causing popcorn to fall from my lips all the more

Simple Smut

THE WRITE STUFF — Sun, 07 Aug 2011 12:34:40 +0000

I wasn’t looking to write smut. Really, I wasn’t. But, as it so happens, the cash is good… no, scratch that altogether, the cash is great, the social aspect that comes with it extremely exciting. It all happened one morning while I was trying for what can only be deemed the one thousanth time to land myself a job within the journalism industry – a tighter than tight knit industry when it comes to this country – Ireland. Scratch that too. It was more down to the fact that it had run it’s course as an industry rather than it being anything that should be considered even professionally inane. Thinking about it now, it wasn’t really that I hadn’t done alright for myself from time to time, but there just didn’t seem to be any such gaurantee of a well paid job. Well, at least not with the kind of job I wanted to do anyway. Bored and becoming more and more irritated owing to two things, firstly because there were plenty of people who kept on at me saying that I was a good writer, and secondly because, and this is the important part, but I knew that they weren’t filling my head with shit. They couldn’t, I was too hell bent on hearing the truth. I guess that you could say that I was the person at the party, amongst a thing or two else, who was always being referred too as the talented writer and this was the kind of thing that would always be followed by some mopy chap in accounting asking me what it was that I liked to write?” Tight lipped, I would tell them that I wrote some poetry as well as a book. “A book about what?” Who really cared? Nobody until such time as there were copies of it on book stands inside bookstores, surely. I might have been a talented writer but I needed to start garnering something of a name for myself and quick. Heck, I was twenty-eight years old and people were definitely starting to wonder if in fact I had it in me to do what it took anymore. I was living alone in a bedsit and starting to wonder for myself if this is really what I wanted, to be living in a one-room apartment with a tiny television that I’d had to borrow from my younger sister and all kinds of manky insects trying their damndest to crawl into my bed with me at night. It wasn’t the worse place in the world by any stretch of the imagination, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that it did make it all the more enticing for me to want to start making some real money in going about bookng myself a nice holiday away for two weeks. I’m ranting, something writers are all too prone to doing. Stick to the story, little man. Smut fiction, if I can call it that, I suppose to a certain degree came knocking on my door. I liked to think outside the box and seeing as I found myself imagining these things anyway, I decided, why the heck shouldn’t I start writing about sex? Sex sells right, and really I wasn’t the kind of writer too proud to be known for such a thing. I did love to write but I also loved to make some money, and besides, if it did give me a bad reputation, that was better than no reputation when it came to my chosen profession. So I started looking about online for American magazines that might publish these kinds of manuscripts. No such luck at first, I asked a friend of a friend if she would mind reading my stuff. Know what, I was as surprised as you when she said that she would do that, that I could go about trying to write utter smut and that she would be more than happy to let me know what she thought. Her admittance let me know that for most people it is more down to a good story rather than good wriitng, so I thought, why not bloody do both. Use my talents to really shock as well as surprise people. I went about writing a two page story about a couple of sexed-up twenty-somethings, the woman far more hell bent that the man, her ending up naked and on all fours more often than not. Send. She seemed to like it. She said that I could write for sure, but wanted to know where I was considering sending this stuff. I wasn’t considering it, but rather going on a whim and hoping that something might stick. Reading back over the first draft of my short, I decided on one thing first and foremost, that I might need to e-mail that friend of a friend again in telling her that I was sorry for having the audacity to send her such smut. It really was out and out smut and all that I had to defend me was, well, my writing. Writers can write about whatever they want, right? It is up to you people to decided whether or not you actually want to read it in the end. No more, no less. Rather than feel worse for wear, I went about re-writing it, cutting out the use of the world fuck in the dialogue and instead saving it for describing the hardcore stuff that would need to be getting people’s minds racing. Whatever else racing was entirely up to them. So I wiped myself off and went about submitting these manuscripts to the American magazines that I could find. There were a few and I knew that I just needed to get myself out there. One magazine e-mailed me asking to read my stuff. Send. Their reply: This isn’t the worse writing in the world. We are interested in talking to you about a further project. Good work. Shit the bed, I was in, well, relatively so, anyhow. So write I did, I wrote and wrote until I had a five page ‘project’ about a hooker living out of older and far richer mens pockets. The dialogue was rather fine, the sex outrageous to the last, it painting the woman, the prostitute, as someone who couldn’t go without money, not sex, but then the two had to come hand in hand, for too long a itme. Her name was Amanda Rowbottom and the magazine loved her. Heck, their readers loved her so much so that they wanted to commission me to do a column about her nights on the town. It got more and more filthy, smutty, but I was happy as long as I was able to make some money for my fictioal writing. That hadn’t happened before and I knew that all I had ever needed was a sense of direction courtesy of some or other publishing house. Hey presto, I was there, and what’s more got to enjoy myself, maybe meet up with a woman on a night out and take her home. Sometimes they even asked me how much I wanted to use them for research. Really I didn’t, but who was I to complain. Nice. Very.

JAGERCAST podcast with DUSTY RHODES: YouTube links

THE WRITE STUFF — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 14:13:53 +0000

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=da3TIYuzMBg&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fH9rR2DYYUs

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4hWgkDVGVU&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1MAvgu3gRM&feature=related

Post Regarding Novel ‘Ten Tenants’

THE WRITE STUFF — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 13:58:44 +0000

I will be posting up continuous drafts from my novel titled ‘Ten Tenants’. The novel will trace the very different lives of ten very different tenants who have come to inhabit the fictional street Clondon. The ten tenants, as stated, will differ in their demeanours, quirky traits playing more than just a bit part. From the struggling author residing at No. 1, to the female Hairdresser with a love for tattoos like no other renting no. 3, to the school kid a few doors down who has gotten pregnant by the school nerd, she being what would constitute the Irish version of the Prom Queen, you are guaranteed a laugh a minute. The Prologue introduces author Perry Entwistle in all his glory. He is also the man who will narrate the novel, not to mention that his own shortcomings in penning his first book, ironically titled ‘Ten Tenants’ causing him a world of havoc. The novel intertwines all the residents lifestyles, ridiculous situations par of the course when it comes to description. Then there’s the weird and wonderful Manny Wakefield at No. 5, confessing from the onset to once having rode motorcycle with the infamous Hell’s Angels. This manages to confuse the rest of the neighbourhood. How on earth could that be at all possible if he also admits to spending two decades teaching Catholicism to a school brimful with disobedient children?! To top it all off, there’s a celebrated Actor at No. 10, a method actor happy to over-indulge when it comes to taking the neighbourhood on. One thing’s for sure, Perry Entwistle, be it in penning his novel or living smack bang in the middle the all too blurred line between reality and fiction, has his work cut out for him, his publisher dropping by time again in informing him of as much. He can’t but recall a sentence his now deceased father once told him. “Perry, son. Living the life you live, I really don’t think that you need to have an imagination to write anymore.”

Bollywood Extravaganza Comes To Rathmines Swan Centre’s Omniplex Cinema!!

THE WRITE STUFF — Tue, 17 May 2011 20:38:19 +0000

Interested in capturing ‘the spirit of India’? Look no further! Between 10th and 15th may, The Swan Centre’s Omniplex Cinema, Rathmines, plays host to some of Bollywood’s finest in film direction. Simultaneous events scatter the nation – Limerick, Belfast and Kerry being of further benefit. The Omniplex welcomes Bollywood legend Prem Chopra amongst other hotshot names. Eighteen films will be showcased – director Avtar Bhogal’s ‘Honour Killings’ a must see. Jim Deenihan, Minister for the Arts, spoke of the graft on organizers such as Kerry’s Sonali Flynn’s part. The event promises to further staple the gap between Irish and Indian film-making. Indian Film Festival of Ireland director Siraj Zaidi portrayed his rapture at the Irish public’s acceptance. The Festival’s 2nd year in motion, this refreshingly boisterous occasion, given the degree of hardship experienced the world over, pits said continents side by side, capturing a spirit all of it’s own.

Photography/Isabelle Hubbert (French Actress)/ Filmbase, Temple Bar

THE WRITE STUFF — Fri, 06 May 2011 10:11:15 +0000

Writing for established online magazine ‘Le Cool’ is something of a Godsend for me. Not owed wholly to the fact that I’ve no more than 186 characters to play with, but also because it places me on a pressurised playing field like no other. Something which I need in keeping my brain ticking over. Anyhow, having completed my first review in covering the impressive exhibition at St. Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre that was ‘The Philip Lynott Exhibition’, I took it upon myself to go about my next review. After falling unluckily short in an attempt at wrestling a mouth-watering review of ‘Manifesto’, a Rathmines restaurant boasting world championship awards for it’s pizza, from another writer, I finally opted on the review I’m about to delve into.

So, there I was strewn across my bed when suddenly I thought, crap, I really should get another review done for Ciaran at ‘Le Cool’! It might help all the more if I choose to do a review on a really enticing subject if I’m interested in adding to my article bank (yes! That’s what I call the place where I store old articles,’ The Article Bank’ – Christ, thinking about it now, that’s a sad enough admittance). So, heading on into Temple Bar to cover a photography exhibit based on a shoot with French actress Isabelle Hubbert, I went about my walk from Rathmines to the city centre wondering how I’d write this one – art is my brother’s thing most certainly, and definitely not mine. In fact, the fecker’s nearing on genius in my opinion but that just might be bias. Ever-accepting of my lack of talent in that department, I grabbed a pen and paper from the curator sat at the front des. Not because I’m just that unorganised but because I wanted to test my resolve in pitting myself against the odds with what may well turn out to be a crap review. To top that, crap, I’ve no pen or paper! – and see how I fair. Anyhow, the exhibit covered 17 images taken of said actress by her husband and a couple of other creative heads – writers and the likes. As art really is open to interpretation, here’s my opinion on this particular exhibition.

Photographs are nice. Isabelle Hubbert was, is – I don’t know if she’s actually still alive, I really didn’t feel the need to research too much – an elegant looking woman with raven hair and a dashing of freckles more blatant than my own. Black and white for the most part, deciding to land myself something of a theme, I clocked the first image of her as pensive, while smoking a cigarette – Isabelle, not me! Portraying health, maybe? Ah, I dunno.

Next, I went for one of the images mid-exhibit where Isabelle, the smoke fiend, – kidding – was sat on a chair with her toned legs strewn out across the photograph. By the by, a helluva lot sexier than how I might have appeared when strewn across my bed before said exhibit. This photo, for me, portrayed a theme of beauty; there could be no doubting that, while hardly an out and out sex-siren, Isabelle is, was rather beautiful (I’ll get to researching the answer on that note, just gonna open another tab ) The final photograph of Isabelle, the sexy-legged smoke fiend, – still kidding, not to mention using up word space – was of her caught in a bush with a white veil round her head, this indicating a willingness to change. So, all in all, the theme in my opinion, and it is only my humble opinion, might just be… confusion?! Ah no, third time kidding. I’ll go with a theme of CHANGE. In all fairness, I really never had as much as a leg to stand on seeing as I’m the one who knows nothing about art. If I expect people to appreciate my scribbles, then I’ve to seriously start opening myself up to doing the same the other way round. Also, Hubbert, in all of her pristine glory, somehow managed to get nominated for no less than fourteen of her films at ‘The Cannes Film Festival’ over the years. Oh, and it might also be worth a mention that her husband/photographer Robert Chammah most definitely likes to mix business with pleasure.

P.S. Isabelle hubbert, it should be stated, is – turns out she is in fact still very much alive, what’s more happy out shacked up with her husband Robert – pronounced Ro – bear – while continuing to smile for his camera – a ferociously feathersome lady in that she’s appearing awfully slenderline when compared with past pictures of the actress on Google Image. For those of you who are wondering what the hell ‘feathersome’ means, well, there you have it. And remember this part above all else; it gives someone a boost in confidence without the backhanded compliment that is “Have you lost weight?! which will always leave them wondering “Was I fat once?!” “

Brian O’ Driscoll

Le Cool Magazine (Dublin)

THE WRITE STUFF — Wed, 04 May 2011 18:56:53 +0000

exhibition

The Phil Lynott Exhibition

Reared in Crumlin, Phil Lynott, along with members of band Thin Lizzy, blew the Irish music scene wide open. It still remains something of a conundrum as to how they didn’t manage to cause an equally hardened dent overseas. Promoted by Phil’s mother Philomena, the exhibition drags you by the hardened collar of Phil’s upbringing to heady evenings spent strumming guitars to over two-hundred thousand fans. With a warehouse of stories left in his sizeable wake, visitors feel an overwhelming pinch of the star’s eerie presence; a chance to catch the original Thin Lizzy sign alight used at concerts spreads your imagination all the more. You’d swear you’re backstage at a Lizzy gig awaiting the band’s return. Eager fan Vite gave the Hot Press organised event a 9/10. Hot Press can be proud of the exhibit’s whirlwind progression, it placing one of Dublin’s favourite sons back on the public’s front doorstep for a time.

Brian O’Driscoll

“Escort That Fine Ass Right Over Here!”

THE WRITE STUFF — Sat, 30 Apr 2011 10:40:26 +0000

After spending the last few years escorting some of Italy’s most desperate, albeit sexy single women, Darius felt it high time for something of a change in his life. Sleeping with an endless line of beautiful, albeit mature ladies and not having to worry about calling them the next day had finally started to take its toll. These days, he only ever seemed to be left with an unmoveable feeling of unease. As it turned out, maybe his far more conventional friends who enjoyed nine-to-five jobs followed by a heady weekend boozing their work-week away had gotten it right all along. Maybe he did need to find the right woman, to take a break for himself, and her, in settling down full time.

Oxford Dictionary Approach

THE WRITE STUFF — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 12:32:37 +0000

Having toyed about with the strange enough idea of coming up with a new word, I ended up with the word ‘feathersome’. Truth be told, I didn’t really have the balls to use said word around people because, well, it’s a bit contrived, not to mention sure of yourself. However, seeing as I’m hopefully neither of the above, it took a friend in Hughie Duffy to coax the living daylights out of the idea in approaching Oxford Dictionary with the idea of publishing the word. Now, I really don’t expect anything to come of this but, in fairness, as Hugh said, “Look, it isn’t my area of expertise (mine either to be honest, not yet anyhow), but if breaking into the fictional writing market is what you want to do more than anything else, then start getting quirky my friend.”

So here it is, our approach at getting a ‘word’ into The Oxford Dictionary. C’mon, as weird as it might sound, someone had to come up with the words we use from day to day:

‘FEATHERSOME’ DEFINITION: To refer to someone as feathersome would be to incline that they appear far less ‘big-boned’ when compared with their usual appearance. Example in a sentence: “You’re looking ferociously feathersome today, Hughie!” (although Hughie wouldn’t actually be the best example seeing as he has a little more work to be done before deserving of being referred to in that light

‘Feathersome also goes about cutting out the back handed compliment that is, “You’ve lost a lot of weight”, this only ever managing to leave the person questioning just how heavy they may have been before said ‘compliment’.

I dunno, guess we could call it our own ‘fictionary’ if ‘feathersome’ goes nowhere

A Night On The Tiles, Down The local Tesco… Running In The Park

THE WRITE STUFF — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 09:12:15 +0000

Now, I can’t tell if this kind of thing happens to the rest of you but, over the course of the past year my dalliances when it comes to story-telling have been out-and-out taking care of themselves. What I mean by this is that, while it remains paramount to have a degree of imagination in adding further fuel to an already bristling story, these heady experiences, if I can call it that, which I’ve been incurring, be it a night on the tiles, a club brimming with a thousand different faces/stories – guaranteed to be somewhat quirky for the most part – or something as simple and supposedly straightforward as an early morning run in the park, for the most part the stories have, as I said, been writing themselves. I’ll happily admit that I may well have what most people would call an overactive imagination, in that I’m always looking to squeeze a tale from the unlikeliest and most dried up of sources. However, recently even I have found myself wondering what the hell is going on. Answer me this, please. Are outrageously impossible-to-make-up stories usually supposed to drop from thin air in landing on your all too unsuspecting lap? That’s right! No word of a God damn lie, right in front of my very eyes would people’s aforementioned quirky traits seem to highlight themselves all the more. C’mon! In fairness, how often is it you return home in the evening and, on being asked by your housemate how your day went, you get to relay to them the sort of events said housemate may well, and through no fault of their own, reckon are yarns to the max?! I really can’t blame anyone for questioning my true life ‘storytelling’. Flip that coin on its head and I’d have just as much of a confused look upon my face mid-storytelling. Put it this way, sometimes I’d far rather just put on my clothes, head on down the road to… hell, even mass (okay, that doesn’t read too well there, hell and mass!), but NO, there’s bound to be something of a ‘stalker’ seven doors over – not a good thing either, trust me- this particular ‘stalker’ resembles that of a melted wellington, or a drunken homeless chap all too ready and willing to offer me his clapped out shoes in repaying the favour in giving him a place to stay for the night! Here’s to praying for just ONE carefree day, free of the all too usual quirky traits, more so full of sun, sand and… heck, you can go and figure out the rest for yourself, but I’ll take what I can get at this heady stage