Minstrel's Meanderings

Good Friday 2

Sean O'Neill — Mon, 19 Apr 2004 03:14:03 +0000

Smoking Trail.

This is probably the last 'smoking' piece that will appear on my journal - regular updates of the 'where? and what?' will go onto the discussion board. I don't know if I'll be able to afford cigarettes this week - I've just bought every Sunday newspaper, and there are a lot of them. About ten days ago, I called to a bungalow in a 'middle of nowhere' not a million miles from my own 'middle of nowhere' cottage. The woman who listened to a song and bought a CD, was very interested when I told her about my smoking adventures. She also happened to be smoking in my workplace but it would have been churlish of me to object. She turned out to be Lynne Kelleher - freelance journalist and is, at least 50% responsible for my appearance in today's Sunday World, People, Star and Times.

I welcome comments on the discussion board, where somebody who calls himself, 'The Wise Old Man' sent me my first ever 'hate mail' on Good Friday. I must be doing something right. Anyway, speaking of Good Friday........

It's Good Friday again. 2004 this time. I'm in Killarney and, of course the pub are shut -unless you know the right back door, and the right knock. I don't but I'm feeling peckish. Hey, why not pay a visit to the Killarney Holiday Inn - yes, the very place where 'The Ansbacher Waltz' was written at the IMRO writing collaboration, all those years ago? Maybe the bar will be open for coffee - they do good coffee - and a sandwich. It is.

I'm being very good. I ignore the 'meaty' stuff on the menu, even the turkey and ham, and order a cheese and tomato, toasted. I'm not going to be that good though, when I finish my sandwich.

The place is quite busy with lots of families and I'm afraid I'm going to have to risk killing a few children with my cigarette - I hope they'll be happy to know that they died in the name of freedom.

I'm in a side room off the bar and the only other occupants here are one very serious looking couple and their toddler. Here's my sanwich - very nice too. Oh my God. I've just noticed that the female half of above couple is about seven months pregnant - and....AMERICAN.

People I've met along the way, ask me if the thought of a 3,000 euro fine doesn't worry me. I don't have 3,000 euro so why should it. To quote Kris Kristofferson - again - 'Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose' and I think that in our time of relative prosperity - or just easily available credit (thanks Linda Martin), a lot of people have far too much to lose to be free.

I do have nightmares though, about being under 24 hour surveilence by omnipotent 'smoke police' or environmental health officers - I heard them on Pat Kenny, on the radio and they sound mean - especially the female one. This is why I'm having my equivalent of Q put a chip in my engine to enable my Eunos to reach speeds in exess of 200mph AND deliver 60mpg - on unleaded*.

Sandwich was good and I've ordered a second cup of coffee and will light up soon.

What I do fear more than the EHO is that our wonderful government/dictatorship - without any decent opposition - have a bigger masterplan. They want to turn all it's citizens into an unpaid police force.

Here goes. Trusty fake Zippo almost failed but now I'm law-breaking again. 1,000,000 euro reward for capture of 'Billy the Cig' or 'The Cigcinati Kid' with smoking butt.

Halfway through smoke, couple are leaving - I think they were going anyway. The barmaid passed once and I don't think she noticed - it's amazing how invissible these deadly fumes can be - maybe I should have asked for an ashtray. I do tap my ash onto my cigarette box and not the floor - I'm not all bad.

Finished and left my usual card, on which I wrote 'smoked here on Good Friday', with the barman.

The day after the smoking ban came in, it was another branch of Holliday Inn complaining that they'd had two weddings cancelled by couples who chose alternative venues - across the border.

* Did you know that as long ago as 1990 it was discovered, by scientists, that the fumes expelled during the filling of tanks with unleaded petrol, are highly carcenagenic. The Swedes, who seem to care a lot their people, insisted that within a year or so, all filling stations install petrol pumps that suck these fumes form the cars tank while filling it And that, in the meantime, all pump attendant wear filtering face masks. Do any of our health ministers want to know about this?

Smoke Trail

Sean O'Neill — Thu, 08 Apr 2004 21:37:49 +0000

Smoke Trail. A one man band's , one man stand against what one man banned.

A man walks into a bar (this isn't a joke), orders a glass of Guinness, sits down with it and begins to write. It's a Wednesday, 9.30ish, and the bar is quiet. A middle aged couple and one other. The couple decide to go out for a smoke. The TV imposes 'Footballers' Wives' on the quiet bar and the man lights a cigarette. The barmaid doesn't notice - or pretends not to.

If she chooses to ask him to put out the cigarette, he will decline as politely as possible and explain that it's not personal and that it won't happen again, in this bar - the Corner House in Croom, Co. Limerick - but that yesterday and every day, since the smoking ban came into force, he has picked a pub at random and done the same thing.

He's still writing and still smoking. The couple have returned from outside. Will they notice? 'Footballer's Wives', the final episode, is riveting. Cigarette finished. No big deal. No EHOs or members of the Garda have disrupted this quiet scene. He'll finish his glass now and point out what and why he's just done what he has - and leave a calling card behind.

This happened on 10th April and when I told the barmaid she was flabbergasted, as were the couple whose main concern was that I'd be fined 3000 euro. I pointed out that I could have recollection problems, like Bertie, and that as nobody had noticed - well I'd probably get away with it, and again tomorrow - and the day after etc. and that I didn't have that kind of money and so would probably have to settle for a term of accommodation - at government expense - in a place where I would be allowed smoke. They said that they'd send me some cigarettes. The barmaid said that she wished I'd asked first. (she was very young.)

Here is a list of the places in which I've had a cigarette - or in some cases begun one and left before finishing it.

Mar. 29 The Long Point (an appropriate beginning), Whitegate, Co. Cork.

30 Jimmy's Bar, Killworth, Co. Cork

31 Stag's Head, Mallow - Cork Road, Co. Cork

Apr.1 Thatch Bar, Dromina, Co. Cork (got barred AND so did my friend who hadn't smoked - maybe they were just kidding, being the day it was).

2 Greyhound Bar, Castleisland, Co. Kerry

3 Hickey's Bar, Mount Uniake, Co. Cork

4 Montegue Hotel, near Ballybrittas, Co. Laoise

5 Batt Murphy's, Middleton, Co. Cork

6 Ulick's, Farranfore, Co. Kerry

7 The Corner House, Croom, Co. Limerick

And coming soon to a bar near you. Suggestions welcome.

How do you know when a politician is lying? - his lips move. Let's leave John Deasy out of that one and give him the 'Politician with Integrity' award.

This will be also posted on the discussion board along with a regular update and your comments.

Tom Chapin @ the Green Room Sunday 4th April

There's a kind of 'nice' that brings a person out in goosebumps and raises the hackles and brings a determined resolve not to enjoy or participate. Tom Chapin sails dangerously close to these waters and then gradually melts you down.

For a start, he's American - yeah, so's Bob Dylan and lots more besides but Tom is almost 'Little House on the Prairie' American. Too sweet to be wholesome or too wholesome to be sweet. One of my favourite songwriter/singers, another American, is Boston based Bill Morrisey. Bill asks himself, in his song, 'Amnesia',"Are my friends all hip? Do they play tenor sax? Or belt their pants round their armpits and wear plastic pen packs?". These lines sprang to mind as soon as Tom walked on stage - and he wasn't carrying a saxaphone. Think black and white movie actor Jimmy Stuart with a guitar and you're just about there.

If you don't know already, Tom had a brother, Harry, who was killed in a car crash, at the peak of his career in the early eighties. Harry is well known for songs like, 'The Cat's in the Cradle' and, one that hugely influenced my parenting, 'Flowers are Red'. Apart from folk singing, Tom has a huge body of songs for children - like ten albums. He describes them as songs for kids 'between Barney and Brittney'. He'd already played an afternoon, 'Kids' gig at the Helix. I didn't get to that but had heard one of his childrens songs on an interview on 'Rattlebag' a couple of days earlier - 'There're two kinds of seagulls, hegulls and shegulls, and hegulls like shegulls - and that's why there's seagulls'. The song goes through two kinds of lots of things - herzarrds and hizzards etc. etc. I'd mentioned this song to Donal McGuirk of the green room when I arrived - though this was billed as an 'adult' gig, and Tom was going to be singing from his folk repertoire, and some of Harry's songs.

Tom was joined on stage by Michael Mark, who played a mean bass and harmonized, as well as singing a couple of his own songs. I had travelled up from Cork with my girlfriend and her daughter who is seriously 'cool' and potentially as truculent as only twelve going on thirteen year olds can be, when things aren't going their way. From about the third or fourth song, we all relaxed and got into the show. When Tom did Harry's, 'Flowers are Red', Mike did the boy in the song and the transformation in him when he went from being the enthusiastic first day at school to the product of an unimaginative teacher was perfect.

I have never seen an autoharp being played - I was given the remains of one, picked up from a hucksters shop, years ago. Tom played his for a couple of songs and watching this was like watching a man waltzing with his 'sweetheart' and magic. Another magic moment was when Tom sang a song - not one of his own and I didn't catch the writer's name - 'American Jerusalem'. This has got to be the best September 11 song.

Half way through the second half of the show, he said that, while this was his adult show, there were people in the audience who'd come all the way from Cork to hear 'Two Kinds of Seagulls' and sang it. I still don't know who told him but I suspect it was Donal. Thanks. I suspect that in Tom's world the term 'adult show' doesn't have the connotations that is has elsewhere as none of his material would be unsuitable for children. I did find that, probably as a result of writing so much for children, that apart from a few of his own songs and Harry's and 'American Jerusalem', his melodies were very simple and without much subtlety. Great lyrics though and not a nasty bone in his body I suspect.

The Green Room is the venue at the Holiday Inn, with ex IMRO man, Donal McGuirk at the helm. Donal is one of the greatest champions of singer/songwriters I know and after 18 months of dedication there, is finally getting recognition for the venue - despite it's unlikely parentage. It's there that the IMRO writing collaborations take place and - hopefully many a future 'hit' is premiered (I'm talking about my Christmas song here - check out the journal on my website if you're reading this on musicsceneireland or check out their site if you're already on mine)

Should you go to a gig at the venue, and you should, bring your sunglasses or suffer the effects of the bar staff's 'green' shirts - which must surely contribute to their grumpiness - bordering on rudeness.

Just to digress while I'm on the point. Imagine, if you will, you've bought a CD from me and it skips. You come to tell me about it and I tell you that I'll have my expert look at it. It comes back to you and doesn't skip but you're not happy 'cause the case is covered in blackcurrant jam and chip fat. You contact me to point this out and I say, defensively, that my man is unlikely to be responsible and perhaps it was that way when you gave it to me, but that I will check it out and get back to you - but, sure, couldn't you just clean it yourself? 'Not the point' you say. I don't get back to you.

Six months later, you bump into me and remember how pissed off you were about it and you ask me why I didn't get back to you. I avoid answering that but tell you that I did check it out and that it couldn't possibly have been my 'man' as he assures me that he only uses marmalade and axle grease. Do I go up in your estimation? I think not.

What is the point of this absurd story? Well, it's metaphorical for an experience I had with one of the managers at the Holiday Inn. To spare his embarrassment, I'll just call him 'Clever T' (Ian Dury fans will have a head start on this one). Here's what did happen. Last August I drove up to Dublin, top down in my old but good Eunos Roadster (Mazda MX5). I'd treated it to a wash the day before. I like my car - though not the point of obsession.

There is an underground car park at the Holiday Inn - just as well, it's located on Pearce Street - and while I engrossed myself in co-writing sessions organized by IMRO and stayed inside for most of the four days, my car was being dripped on by something mysterious from the ceiling above the space in which I'd parked. Probably nothing to worry about but better point it out to the management and suggest they block off that space, till they fix the problem - lest a Pat Kenny lookalike from Lucan, with a black 02 Audi TT (see Good Friday in my journal) should park there for a day or two.

'Clever T' looks at the situation and says he'll send down the handyman and so I return to bar - they do good coffee - until 'Clever T' comes to tell me that it washed off fine and it was detergent dripping from the kitchen above - he also pointed out that there was no lacquer coat on my car and that anything would mark it. I'd bought it 13 months earlier and polished it once and it was, for a thirteen year old, not in bad nick - lacquer coat or not.

At a glance it looked OK in the dim light of the car park - BUT. When I pulled up in front of the hotel - I'd left my phone charger behind - the brilliant sunshine revealed that the front of the car had scouring marks in circular patterns, over half it's surface - heavier where the drips had been and in fact still showed.

For what went on from there, go back to the metaphorical story and you, with the CD, play me with the car let 'Clever T' replace me, in the story and you'll get the picture - especially if my final comment was that - anyway, your CD player was a heap of shit. Public relations?

This has been written and will hopeflly appear in a new e-zine www.musicsceneireland.com (or .ie - not sure)

Good Friday 2002 and a 'scary' story 2004

Sean O'Neill — Thu, 01 Apr 2004 06:17:03 +0000

Loads of stuff coming soon - smoking in pubs - STILL and dropped new guitar - still works.
Here's a piece I wrote which appeared on the 'gigsmart' site in 2002. Also a story I wrote for schools last week which went down well on it's first outing on Monday, in Whitegate national school in Cork.

Good Friday
Or
How I got to Handle Gerri Haliwell's Boots (yes that was BOOTS) and get a piece of Michael Flatley's shirt.

About a year after I began writing and performing my own songs, it occurred to me that there some songs were like shirts and some songs like shoes. Shirt songs and shoe songs -not a bad album title - maybe after Dead Birds and Funny Fish which, I hope, will be in the shops by September.
"Shirt Songs and Shoe Songs". In case it isn't obvious I'll explain. Some songs, you write, you learn, you sing and gradually, you get more and more comfortable with and as you relax with them they get better and better. They're the shoe songs. I reckon Guy Clark has a lot of shoe songs.
Actually the analogy falls down in my own case on the shirt songs, as I like my shirts old and comfortable, like my shoes. But if you like to keep your shirts looking like they've just come from the box after you've worn them and washed them, then you're going to have to put in a fair bit of work with an iron and maybe some starch to keep them that way. A Shirt song, you write, you learn, you sing from the heart and it sounds great. It usually comes from something you feel strongly about when you write it. After you've been singing it for a while, the energy can go out of it and what had been a great song is now merely a good song. With shirt songs you have to get yourself back to where you were at when you wrote it each time you perform it to keep it fresh and "just out of the box"
On Joni Mitchell's album, "Blue", I would think of Big Yellow Taxi as a shoe song and almost everything else as shirts.

Good Friday is right up there with Christmas in the popularity ratings in Ireland and I figured with the pubs being closed and f#ck all else to do, most people would be home and delighted to listen to a song on their doorstep. Wrong. I went to Lucan, got an early start - about twelve - and maybe I don't know something about the pubs in Lucan but there were even less people at home than on a regular day and most of them found lots of stuff to be busy with. Lots of gardening, hoovering, lawns to be maintained and cars to be washed.
I like the Audi TT but find the owners of these to be, in the main, total pratts. Here's the scene; about four o'clock I come around a corner and see a guy, who'd win a Pat Kenny lookalike contest any day, in his garden polishing a black Audi TT. Now the house is your standard newish red brick 3 bed. 2 rec. semi-detached and has a pair of iron gates about 3 feet high with the spiky tops that are sometimes picked out in gold. So nothing unusual here. Not so fast though. The Guy, I'll call him Pat, is engrossed in the polishing - it's a 02 reg. and polishing paintwork this new doesn't do it any favours but what the heck, it's his car. He continues to ignore me as I press the latch on the gate and realise when I push it and it doesn't open that it's an automatic remote control electric job. I could have thrown a leg over and walked over to the guy but as I was only about four yards away I introduced myself from the gate. Pat continued polishing and when I had finished my bit, he declined. OK. That's his prerogative. What did piss me off though was that for the whole time I addressed him, Pat didn't once look up.
Now I can be a bit of a bastard myself and I was delighted when Pat's next door neighbour wasn't at home. This meant that I could stand at the door, waiting for a reply, for AS LONG AS I WANTED. I stood watching Pat polishing and getting redder and redder, and very self conscious for about ten minutes and then told him that he was doing a super job and that I would give him a free CD if he would clean my Toyota Corolla. Pat declined.
If I were a rich man though, I'd probably be a total bastard. Idea one; buy heavy chain and super-strong lock and some night, in the middle of the night lock Pat and the TT securely in and it wouldn't be a Friday or Saturday night either. Idea two; as idea one but recruit a rugby team to lift the car over the gate and leave it outside. On second thoughts, it would be better to leave the car locked in but lifted to face in the opposite direction. All fingerprints to be carefully polished off, of course.
What's this got to do with handling Gerri's boots and Michael's shit er shirt. Not a lot, but I always find that for everyone like Pat there's someone like Shirley.
Earlier the same day, I called to a house where some gardening was being done, but not too seriously. The kids were mucking in and enjoying themselves. When I called one of the older ones went to get his mam and when she came around to the front, she recognised me from the Nationwide programme and said that she'd buy an album anyway, but would I sing a song for her four boys, aged twelve to two. After the song, when she went to get some money, one of the boys went in and returned with a pair of sparkly green, very high platform boots. When I told him that I didn't think they'd suit him, he said that his mam had been given them by Gerri Haliwell for doing her ironing.
When Shirley came out she explained that she worked as a dresser and costumer at the Point Depot and that when the Spice Girls played there, these boots had been hurting Gerri's spice toes and the she'd worn them for about two songs and changed. After the show she'd given them to Shirley.
A couple of hours later I was working across the road and Shirley came over with some blue fabric fluttering in her hands. She said that she wanted me to have it - for luck. She explained that it was an off-cut from a shirt she had made for Michael Flatley - the shirt that had been seen by 600 million people on television, when Riverdance was introduced at the Eurovision Song Contest in the year ????
Thanks Shirley. All in all not a bad Friday

The Terrible Eater From Space c.Sean O'Neill

Tommy wasn't scared of much.

He wasn't scared of the dark - he knew he could switch a light on.

He wasn't scared of being on his own - he liked himself.

He wasn't scared of animals - he knew if he was nice to them that they'd be nice to him.

He wasn't even scared of bullies - he knew that they'd meet bigger bullies one day.

He wasn't scared of getting lost - he had a good sense of direction.

He wasn't scared of people who had different coloured skin or different beliefs and ways - he knew that people are people and kind of all the same.

He wasn't scared of school - he knew he had a lot to learn.

He wasn't scared of his mammy and daddy - he knew they loved him.

He was scared of................

The Terrible Eater From Space.

He was scared that the terrible eater from space lived under his bed - in his room.
He had never seen the terrible eater from space - but he knew it was there and getting hungry.

He knew he was safe when he was in his bed - it couldn't get him there. It could only get him when he was in the space between the door and the bed. It couldn't come out from under the bed - it would disintegrate. But....if he wasn't careful, it could pull him under the bed and that would be the end of him.

He knew that the terrible eater from space was getting hungrier and hungrier every day - except Sundays and bank holidays, when it just bided it's time and lurked.

Unfortunately, the other thing that scared him was telling his mammy and daddy about the terrible eater from space - they always said what a brave boy he was so he couldn't tell them he was scared. So every night, Tommy would run from the bedroom door to his bed and jump onto it - just as the terrible eater from space was about to grab his ankle and pull him under the bed. Phew!!

One day Tommy's mammy told him that his little brother, Steven, was big enough to have his cot moved from her room into Tommy's.
"No, no, no," Tommy said, "he can't come into my room."
"What?" said his mammy. "You love your baby brother. I thought you'd love to have him share."

Tommy did love his baby brother but knew that Steven was too small to jump out of reach of the terrible eater from space and that the terrible eater from space was so hungry now that Steven would be gone in one big bite.

Tommy ran to his room and closed the door. He even put a chair against it and would talk no more.
His daddy came home from the office at the usual time but Tommy didn't run out to meet him as usual.

"He doesn't want Steven to share his room," said his mammy, "and now he won't come out of his room."

"Knock knock." went his daddy.
"Who's there?" said Tommy.
"Lettuce."
"Lettuce who?" said Tommy.
"Lettuce in, I want to talk with you." laughed the daddy and Tommy let him in.

Eventually, Tommy told his dad about the terrible eater from space and his daddy told him not to worry - that he'd sort it out.

The next day was Saturday and Tommy's daddy didn't have to go to the office. He took Tommy with him to a big place where they sold wood and tools, and they bought loads of stuff including a sign that said, "DANGER - KEEP OUT".

When they got home, Daddy explained to Tommy that he had some dangerous work to do and told him that he was to look after Mammy and baby Steven for a while. Then he brought all the wood and tools AND the vacuum cleaner into Tommy's room and hung the danger keep out sign on the door.

Much later, he came down for dinner and said that he'd finished. He'd hovered out the terrible eater from space - who'd then disintegrated in the hoover, and so would not be back.

After dinner, daddy took Tommy and mammy and Steven upstairs to look. The sign was gone and so were the tools and wood and sawdust. All clean and tidy.

Tommy hardly recognized his room. where his bed used to be, there was a sort of climbing frame, with a seat and a desk at the bottom and a bed up on top - really high. Tommy wasn't scared of heights. He could see the floor underneath and no terrible eater from space. By the window was Steven's cot and Tommy could see the floor underneath that, and no terrible eater from space there either.

He gave his daddy a big smile and a big hug and his mammy gave his daddy a big smile and a big hug and Steven gave Tommy a big smile and a big hug and......bit him on the nose. Ouch.

Now Steven sleeps in Tommy's room and Tommy sleeps soundly, knowing that the terrible eater from space is gone - and is scared of nothing - well almost nothing. Sometimes when he wakes and sees the way Steven is looking at him - well he knows that Steven, with lots of new teeth, is just waiting for a chance to use them on him again.

A Christmas Song and The boy who wanted to sing (a story)

Sean O'Neill — Thu, 18 Dec 2003 05:13:08 +0000

If you've been following my meanderings since I began the site in August, you may remember me being all fired up about a Christmas song I wrote with Bob Martin. The song took over my life for about six weeks and I hoped it would be buying my Christmas dinner this year and next and next etc. The plan was foolproof - I'll outline it - but alas the fools were planproof.

Here's the short version;

Create a buzz about a "mystery" Christmas song to be known only as "The Turkey? Song"

Have a high profile - low budget Christmas party at Halloween. Publishers, local and International would attend - they'd have been mad not to. The venue would have been decorated and "Dollies in stockings" would have been distributing Mulled wine and mince pies.

With announcements of the winners in the demo competition, presentation of cheques to winners in five categories, one of the winners to be given a gift-wrapped Mazda MX5 by Santa, there would have been lots of photo opportunities for the press and the publishers would have left with a stocking containing novelties and a CD with five different versions of the song - in five different genres. A week later, the "Believe in Christmas Company" would accept an offer and next year "The Turkey? Song" would be an international hit.

There are about 40,000 reasons why none of this went ahead, each one worth a Euro.

As I shan't be sending any Christmas cards this year - again, I'm going to post the lyrics here and hopefully Yule hear it on the radio next year and the year after etc.

The Turkey? Song

It's that time of year again
Parties and good cheer again
Elves're working overtime
Santa's boots're being shined

Coloured lights and jingle bells
Moving trees and Christmas smells
Lots of reasons to be jolly
Doors festooned with wreaths of holly

Mrs. Jones from down the road
Underneath her heavy load says,
"Have a Merry Christmas do!"

This Christmas - I got you
My dreams all - coming true
All this and - turkey too
This Christmas - I got you

Telly says it's going to snow
Families 'round the fires glow
Sparkles hanging everywhere
Hope I get a teddy bear

Train-sets running right on time
Dollies, stockings, spicy wine
Worries put away in drawers
It's the time for Santa Claus

Postman bringing lots of cards
Christmas box, he's working hard, says
"Have a Merry Christmas - do"

Last Christmas passed me by
Was such a lonely guy
I got my Christmas wish
This Christmas I got....
This Christmas I got you.

Repeat chorus till hoarse.

Tomorrow morning, I'm going into a school to talk to eighty children. This story was written this morning for them and for anybody who would like to read it to themselves or to children.

The boy who wanted to sing

There once was a boy who wanted to sing. When he was very small, and I mean VERY small, he heard the birds singing and, as he was too small to talk, he thought, "That's lovely - I want to do that" and he gurgled happily.

Time passed and he grew a bit bigger and, when he was by himself in the garden, he used to join in with the birds and he was very happy. Then one day he was happily singing to himself while playing and his big sister passed by and said, "Stop that. That sounds silly."

"But I like to sing," said the boy, "it's what I love to do most."

"Well don't," said his nasty sister. "You're not a singer. Only singers sing and people will only laugh at you."

"But I want to be a singer - that's all I want to be." He said.

"Well you're not and you never will be. I'm bigger than you and so I know better." said the boy's sister, horribly.

The boy was sad.

He went to school and learnt to read and write and learnt to add and subtract and even how to divide and multiply and was very good at them all - actually, his writing was always a bit messy. He had a secret though and that was that he still wanted to be a singer and when he was by himself he would sing and was happy then. Walking home from school, across the golf course, he would sing beautifully - but only when there was no one else there.

At night, when all the family were watching 'Coronation Street', he would sit in the kitchen and listen to songs the radio (it used to be called the wireless - even though it had a wire and a plug but this is not the story so forget about that). Sometimes, if he knew the song on the wireless and if the telly was turned up loud enough so he wouldn't be heard, he'd join in and sing along.

One day, his mother asked him what he wanted to be when grew up and he told her his 'secret'.

His mother was kind and told him that he should really think about doing something else - maybe plumbing - because you'd have to be really, really good at singing to do it for a job. She did ask him to sing though but he got embarrassed and put his head down and said, "Not yet."

One day, at school, the teacher told the class that they were going to start a choir and went round the class, listening to the children singing a scale, one at a time - ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah. "This is my chance to get it right." The boy thought and he wanted to so much, he wanted to too much and, when it was his turn, he tried hard, he tried too hard and, while he didn't actually turn into one, he sounded awfully like a frog.

"No. No good." Said the teacher and the boy was sad and all the way home from school he sang, "ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah." - beautifully - by himself.

He grew up with his secret, listening to songs on the radio. He was very exited when he heard a band that was from near where he lived. He heard them more and more. He read about them in the papers and saw them on the television too and he watched them become world famous. Encouraged, he saved and bought an old guitar and tried to learn how to play it. One day, he was going to be a singer - he knew it.

He grew up, finished school and got a job taking photographs and he was good at it too. He met a beautiful girl, his Princess. They got married and had three children. They were a very happy family and when the, now grown up boy was on his own - in the shower or driving in his car - he would still sing but because being a Daddy is quite a lot of work, he didn't think too much about being a singer any more.

When his children were growing up, he tried to teach them that they could be whatever they wanted to be. He told them that if they believed in themselves, they could do anything they wanted to. The oldest wanted to be an astronaut - his friends said that was silly but he knew his dad said he could be if he believed it. He's an astronaut now by the way. His brother is an artist and the baby, his sister is a famous ballerina - but that's jumping way past the end of the story.

Sometimes, even while they were a happy family, the Daddy would feel a bit sad because he knew that there was something missing. One day, the Mammy asked him what was wrong and he told her that, while he loved taking photographs - it wasn't what he wanted to do - all his life.

"What do you want to do?" she asked him.

He told her his secret. "I want to sing - maybe even make up my own songs and sing them"

"Oh, don't be silly." She said, "You can't sing, you're not very good at the guitar and you don't even write postcards! Why don't you just be happy being a photographer?"

The Daddy got sadder.

More time passed and the children grew up. The Daddy still used to sing - in the bath and in his car and the Mammy remembered her dream was to be an actress and became one and one day the Mammy and the Daddy knew that they couldn't live happily ever after together anymore and so the, much older, boy went to live somewhere else.

He was lonely but his guitar was a good friend and he spent a lot of time playing it and singing by himself.

One day, he was singing so loud that he didn't hear a knock on the door. The man knocking was from Africa and was knocking at the wrong door but he knocked again - a bit louder. When he knocked the third time, the boy (we'll still call him that) heard and answered.

Dembe Sowe was as black as coal and as tall as a tree. His hands were as big as feet and his feet were like skis. He stood at the door in his rainbow coloured coat with a drum on his shoulder and asked, "Dat you makin' dat sound? Is good man."

He was looking for some people who used to live on the street and who'd said, "Come and stay with us if you ever come to Ireland." He came in and had a cup of strong coffee and talked with the boy for hours.

The boy told his story and how he couldn't sing when anybody was listening and Dembe thought a while and then said, "You know, in Africa, everybody sings. We don't think, 'am I a good singer? am I a bad singer?' We just sing - all the time"

He explained that in most African languages, you couldn't say, "I am a singer, or I am a builder or a photographer."

"This is because 'I am' means 'I am' and nothing else. We say, 'I make pictures' or 'I build' or 'I sing' and everybody does their best and enjoys it. You want to sing, so sing - I like to hear you sing and other people will too. Bring your guitar onto the street and some people will listen and enjoy and some won't but follow your heart man - follow your dreams and be YOU - that is what is important. When you do that, then you are on the right road for you and you can only do good."

Dembe stayed for a few days and drank an awful lot of coffee - strong and black. He said that he needed it to stay as black as he was.

The boy heard what he said and, a few weeks later, nervously brought his guitar to the city and sang - sang his best and loved it. Nobody told him he was silly and some people even gave him money.

A few weeks later, he wrote a song - about following your heart and then another and another, and in less than a year, he'd made a record and made lots of friend who love music, and even travelled to Africa to thank Dembe Sowe for his advice.

These days, he's a little bit famous and will pass on Dembe's advice to anyone who'll listen. He's pretty happy, most of the time and writing songs and stories. He even wrote this story and maybe he'll live happily ever after, after all.

Copyright Sean O'Neill Dec 2003-12-17

Ps. I'm seeing lots of coloured lights and jingle bells and sparkles hanging everywhere, these day. We also have a lot of Santas climbing down chimneys and reindeer on rooftops. Cribs don't seem to be so fashionable lately and I wonder if you could call the groupings of glowing snowmen and Santas and elves in the gardens "Ho Ho Holy families" Sorry. Have a merry Christmas - do.

Cars & Women

Sean O'Neill — Mon, 17 Nov 2003 00:10:19 +0000

So, how's the car going? Well I don't have to open the boot with a penknife anymore and the ugly 'piranha' hole in the back is covered with a sign saying; 'For amazing CYBERSEX - and some songs - visit www.seanoneillsongs.com..... (sorry, I lied about the sex). Eleven euro did the job, ten for the sign which is silver plastic, so matches the car quite well, and one for some sticky Velcro to keep it attached. It must be working too as I've noticed that the site is getting about three hits a day - and only two are mine.

The reason I don't need a penknife to open it is not because it's fixed - it's actually worse if anything. I met a guy who had two visible and one invisible Mazda 323fs in his garden. The invisible one was concealed in the nettles and was never going to drive again. The bootlock looked similar and the guy offered to give me the one from that car and dove straight into the nettles to remove it. I was wearing sandals and as getting nettle stings on my feet is low on my list of 'things to do before I die', I left him to it. He went to a lot of trouble to remove it and even more to fit it to my car - while I pointed out that it was different and probably wouldn't work. It didn't and realizing that if shut the lid, I wouldn't get it open again, I blocked the catch receiver so that it won't actually close at all.

Nowadays, the lid clatters a bit as I drive, reversing on a windy day can be tricky as it can suddenly blow open, obscuring the rearward view. Storing anything irreplaceable in the boot is not a good idea either, especially when parking in the cities. The direction in which I park, relative to the direction of the prevailing wind is important too.

On Saturday 1st November, the day of my gig at Wexford Arts Centre, I drove from Ballycotton, in Cork, to Wexford - top down and sunshine all the way. The gig went well, although the posters billed me as a 'singer of folk songs and ballads', so I wasn't sure what the audience had come to hear. I only did a small bit, one operatic link, to show them what I was sparing them. I stayed in 'Shanagolden' B&B. Marie, the owner plays accordion, loves music and, according to a friend of mine will 'mug her guests for a tune'.

There was a trilogy of macabre plays on in the evening and the Arts Centre had put me down for a ticket. The weather became a bit more 'normal' for an Irish November during the afternoon - I was the only one busking - and by evening it was a lot more 'normal' - raining sideways.

Fortunately, I'd emptied out the boot at 'Shanagolden' and so when I left the theatre and emerged into the wet windy night, to find my bootlid blown wide open and the rain battering it's interior, that was all that got wet.

Sunday was spent, trying to sort out 'women troubles', in Dublin prior to going to the Holiday Inn for a 'reunion' of the writers' collaboration, organized by Donal McGuirk, to coincide with the launch of a monthly singer/songwriter night to be held there, on the second Sunday of every month, commencing in January 2004 - and we'll be able to SMOKE there, for the first two anyway.

Arriving in Galway (is my car allergic to Galway?) on Monday night, I stopped for cigarettes and the car door decided that I didn't have the password again and so I had to enter and exit through the roof for the next twenty-four hours. Why don't I get it fixed? I've tried. If I bring it to a garage, when it's working, they can remove the interior panel to see there's nothing wrong with it. If I bring it in, when it's not working, then they have to fiddle about with rods and hooks to get it to open so that they can remove the interior panel - to see that there's nothing wrong with it!

Fortunately, most of the time, it works and the car goes and goes and stopped! This is actually a rewind; it stopped a couple of weeks ago, in Camden Street in Dublin and not without fair warning.

For those who don't know - and do care, I will talk a bit about alternators - fast forward if you do know or don't care - or both. OK. Battery starts engine. Engine's inside stuff - going round and round and up and down - turns belt to drive alternator. Alternator's insides, turning, generate electricity to run the lights wipers, radio and all the other electric stuff AND keep the battery charged to start the engine, to run the....etc. If the battery isn't charged, a push will probably start the car. If the engine is f*cked, then the car won't go and if the alternator is gone, or weak, then the battery will be drained by the aforementioned electric stuff.

My engine is good and my battery was replaced, earlier this year - when my alternator was also showing signs of not being well. A repair was carried out, using a second-hand one and a different belt. It was good enough to keep things afloat while the days were long and the nights were short. I usually work until eight or eight thirty in the evening and once the days became shorter, I noticed that my lights didn't seem quite as bright as they should be - must sort out before end Oct. when the clocks go back (I hate it when the clocks go back).

In the last week in October, I ordered a new/reconditioned alternator - but not before I came to a halt, in broad daylight, in Camden Street. I had sensed the engine was struggling to stay going - right beside a rare, on-street parking space. It cut out as I pulled in.

I loaded the meter, did my business - see daughter, have lunch, see about getting Greek mobile phone fixed (another story) - and as I finished lunch, I rang the breakdown service, again, and they actually got to the car in less than the twenty minutes they said they'd be.

Sort of sorted, by the garage I was carried to, I put replacement back on the long finger. A few nights later, I finished work, in Tarbert, Co. Kerry, at about 9.30 and headed for my cottage, in the middle of nowhere and after 20 minutes, the lights dimmed noticeably and by the time I got to Newcastle West, were little better than candles. The radio is a good indicator as to how bad things are and did nothing when I switched it on to check and I still had ten miles to go!

These last ten miles are along a narrow but unusually straight road. Cars travel quickly and it's very dark. Not the ideal place to come to a halt - even if your lights are working. In town, under a streetlight, I switched off everything except the engine to get some charge into the battery - about fifteen minutes. That got me another five miles nearer home. The same thing, outside the set-back entrance to a house got me home. It was a scary journey and the next morning, I ordered the new part, which arrived to Buttevant, at about 5.45pm on the Friday of the holiday weekend - just in time to be fitted and just in time for the putting back of the clock.

That just about covers the car troubles, despite which October was probably my best month yet, in terms of CD sales. I think that this is just a question of luck and also the fact that I've been busying myself to avoid dwelling on the 'women troubles', in comparison to which, the 'car troubles' pale into insignificance. As I've said before though, this is supposed to be a music site so 'mind your own f*cking business'.

One thing I have learnt - I think - from the above is that; to work well, a relationship sort of needs a good alternator. Both people should by charged and energized by it. If the alternator is f*cked, then it drains both. Sh*t, I sound like yer one that used to be on the radio, 'isn't an alternator..... a lot like liiife'.

I'm Scared

Sean O'Neill — Sun, 16 Nov 2003 21:45:38 +0000

To quote JOHN LENNON, "I'm scared", maybe as scared as I've ever been. Why? December 6th, CORK OPERA HOUSE is why.

My friend, B, has a 12 year old daughter, Sophie. I met Sophie back last August on my way to the IMRO writers collaboration. She asked me what it was all about and I told her that I'd be drawn out of a hat with a different person every day and write a song with them. Her eyes widened when I told her that MICKEY HARTE - or Mickey Joe - had been at two previous events and that, yes I had actually met him. My ratings soared. Of course, I told her, it would be very unlikely, with his post Eurovision schedule, that he'd be at the HOLIDAY INN.

Not only was he there but he asked to have a strum on my new MARTIN Cowboy IV guitar. For a SOUTHPAW (who actually plays guitar right-handed), he did very well playing mine - upside down - and even signed a hastily cobbled "Certificate of Authenticity", stating that he'd actually played on these strings - now in Sophies possession and in her Mickey Harte folder.

Subsequently, she gave me a letter to include with a demo I was sending to his 'homeplace'- I absolutely would not give her the address. When she got a reply, amazingly, the same address was included and being a very smart kid, the next time she got five minutes on her own with the phone, she dialed 11811 and got a Donegal phone number, but no reply.

Mickey's mum has caller ID, she explained, when she rang back, a half hour later. Sophie and Nora Harte had a long chat. Nora got to hear about the strings and certificate and the Mickey Harte folder (which would put any school project to shame) and lots more important stuff. She phoned again this week and told Sophie of a gig in Cork.

A Mickey Harte gig is not my natural habitat but how could I say no to a text asking that I bring her to the Opera House in December? I got two third row seats today along with a ticket to see MARY GAUTHIER tonight.

I heard, through GIGSMART, I think, that IRELAND has about five hundred people who will take the trouble to go and see artists they know little about. I am one of them. I've heard one track by Mary, from Louisiana, a few times over the past eighteen months, on MYSTERY TRAIN - Why have they taken JOHN KELLY off the Monday night slot? Don't we have enough sport at the weekend?

Fish swim - Birds fly
Lovers leave - By and by
Old men - Sit and think
...........................I drink

to quote Mary Gauthier ( pron. Go Shay)

It's just after two in the morning. I'm just back at my cottage in the middle of nowhere, listening to her DRAG QUEENS IN LIMOUSINES album, having thoroughly enjoyed the gig. I'm looking forward to seeing her again but I'm damn scared about December 6th at the Cork Opera House. It's not Mickey - it's the fans.

Ps. No, I'm not shouting. Everything in capitals was done to remind myself to do the stuff you need to do to create 'links'. As of now, I'm not sure how to do it and I'm posting this now or else it will be way out of date by the time I've figured it out.

Good News

Sean O'Neill — Sun, 26 Oct 2003 22:56:52 +0000

While I try to look at the positive side, it's not always that easy. Mondays for instance. Every Monday I start a new week. What if no-one listens to a song and I sell no Cds at all and what if this trend continues on Tuesday, Wednesday etc. etc.? So far it hasn't happened but on any Monday this may occur to me and until I've earned my first euro, it can seem to be very much a reality.

Back when I started, this was much more of a worry but now, with almost four years of Mondays behind me, experience is reassuring. I've only just learned that it's also been a worry for those close to me - my partner, my kids and friends and I hope that the reallity of my second album, "Odds and Sods" and it's eventual release should alleviate their fears for me. My mother recently asked me if I ever thought I'd find myself homeless. Maybe she'd heard the joke; What do you call a musician without a girlfriend? - Homeless.

Things are going pretty well for me right now. Some good things from the past week; someone told me they'd heard me being mentioned and a track played on the John Creedon Show on RTE radio 1. It wasn't until, a few days later, a second person confirmed it and even knew what track, I actually believed it. Somebody I met in Kilarney, told me that my 'Wandering Minstrelling' had been mentioned in an interview with Cilla Black on Radio Kerry a few days earlier. Somebody else, also in Killarney, told me that they'd just read - in Hot Press - that I'd sold over six thousand copies of "Losers and Sinners" - a slight exageration, I'm about two hundred copies short. All this tells me that I am getting somewhere, driving round in circles.

Whatever day I manage to upload this, I'm writing it on Monday 20th October. I've just spent the weekend with my partner, in Dublin. Before I left this morning, I checked my e-mails and site (still very quiet). I tried typing seanoneill into the MSN search engine - the site didn't come up. Then I tried Google - Bingo I was listed - a few times. It seems that the journal entries are being picked up. Next I tried Yahoo - I'm there too. Hey, maybe I really do exist.

www.seanoneillsongs.com

I've just typed that because, I suspect that the more times it's mentioned in the content, the more likely it is to appear in search engines. I'd welcome feedback from those who know more about this stuff. www.seanoneill.com is a site owned by an American couple and has quite a lot of stuff on it and seems to come up, very high in the search engine list and I've typed it in 'cause I also believe that it'll bring my site further up the list. For this reason, and the fact that I once traded under the same name, I'm also typing in www.seanoneillphoto.com

www.damienrice.com . What's that got to do with this site? Well, I like Damien and typing his site here could do the ratings some good too.

When I moved up to Dublin in October '99, to play at the singer/songwriter nights, I started running into Damien and he blew me away. While staying with my friends, the Herlihys in Kerry, last week I picked up a rag 'Ireland on Sunday' and read a totally bitchy article by Mary Carr. The general tone of it was that maybe Damien doesn't give Lisa and the band the credit they deserve and maybe they'll f*ck off and where would he be then and who does he think he is anyway? It's good to see someone who's done it his own way getting through. Good luck to you Damien. I'm listening to 'O' a lot lately and getting occasional texts and e-mails from people who've just seen the 'Blowers Daughter' video on the telly.

Anyway, I left Dublin at about 12 and drove as far as Adare in Co. Limerick. I was photographed in Adare last January and was featured on the cover of the Limerick Leader. (check out www.limerick-leader.ie type 'troubadour' into archives and it should come up)
It was almost five when I began knocking on doors but by 7.30, I had a days wages. With Monday out of the way, the rest of the week should be a doddle.

When I first began selling my CD door to door, I thought that within a year, there'd be at least a half dozen people doing the same. If there are, then I haven't heard about it - and I think I would. There was a guy I came across, in Newbridge, Kildare, who sold a few tapes in his neighbourhood - I think he did this for a few weekends. I also came across a guy who would offer to read you a random page from his book, on your doorstep and sign a copy for you if you liked it. Today though, a woman told me that a friend of hers - Gerry Henderson - was going to give it a go. Gerry, I hope you do and if I can give you any help, then I'd be happy to.

I arrived home to find that I had a brown envelope waiting. It turned out to be my biggest royalty cheque yet. Thanks IMRO. www.imro.ie

A Sort of Discography

Sean O'Neill — Sun, 26 Oct 2003 22:48:56 +0000

Christmas 1998 saw the 'release?' of 'Smug and Sanctimonious Songs', 20 copies made in all. This contained the first 12 songs I'd written and while I know I have a copy somewhere, I can't lay my hands on it now. Some of the songs from it are on 'Losers & Sinners', some on 'Dead Birds & Funny Fish' and some on 'Odds & Sods'. Songswise, it was a good album but it was done on a 4-track machine and by the time the duplicates were done, you'd have to be very keen to hear them, to tollerate the poor sound quality. Maybe sometime I'll revisit it digitally - probably not.

'Losers & Sinners' - I call this my accidental album - happened about tan and a half months after I wrote my first song and less than ayear after I began to sing outside my bath. Two tracks from it and the lyrics can be found on the site. Here are the sleeve notes.

Monday 12th July 1999

Does anybody else read sleeve notes? Just in case, I'm writing these, while listening for the second time to a tape of a two hour recording session at the home studio of Peter Vastl. This was the morning after doing my first ever paying gig (40 pounds), in O'Chea's wine bar* in galway, from 12.30am to 3.00am. The recording session cost me thirty pounds so I'm already ten pounds in profit (soon give up the day job). The voice, despite a good spoon of honey, is rough here and there, but I kinda like it like that.

The songs, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow are from a selection of fifty I've written since my first, 'Nice and Sleazy Caledonia Blues' - 24th August 1998, sung in no particular order - the newest, the album title was four days old and now two days later, I know I can do it much better but, having been a perfectionist for most of my forty eight years, I'm now learning to let things go (even the cough near the end of 'Unidentifiable Residential Object').

My son, Emmet donated the grapics and design, so this is probably the most inexpensive album ever produced but I want to put something of what I've been doing for the past year into the public domain. While a guy can learn a lot singing and playing on the street, he can also get pneumonia.....

Sean 'almost a Legend' O'Neill
e-mail; seanbirdfish@hotmail.com

Ps. I like to think of this as a concept album, actually a three concept allbum;

1 Going with the flow, I threw away my maps and user guides 12 months ago and have had an amazing year.
2 Quitting the day job
3 To raise funds to buy a decent left handed guitar for further recordings etc.

While retaining copyright on the songs here, I have no problem if you wish to tape it for gift and would appreciate it if you can take the time to write out some sleeve notes - at least my name. Thanks.

There's also the the third verse from 'No Hard Feelings' but I'm not going to type that out when it's already on the site.

'Odds & Sods - an interim album'

The follow up to 'Losers & Sinners' should be 'Dead Birds & Funny Fish'. The plan was to do a 'radio friendlier' album on a budget ten times that of L&S - ie three hundred pounds or the euro equivalent. It will be done but logistically, it won't be easy. So far, I've used about half that budget. I've found the studio - Cosmic in Ballymun. I've recorded a pile of stuff there and need to go back with my musicians - all of whom I've met through knocking on doors. They've offered their services - free - but they are fairly scattered around the country so getting them to Dublin and accomodating them is something that needsa a bit of planning.

My dad died last year - the June bank holiday weekend. He was still throwing himself at the world and keeled over - two bites into his last supper - and that was it. He'd been asking me for a while, when I was going to put out 'The Badness'. This track is on 'Dean Birds & Funny Fish'. I decided, following the funeral, that I was going to do an album - in a day - and that, along with that track, it would have songs that someone, somewhere was looking for a copy of, and that I'd call it 'Odds & Sods'

I'd met Aiden Roberts through IMRO and a friend, Josh Johnson - a great piano player - had told me that he had a really nice studio. I did my day there and then decided to go back and do another and get Aiden to put some other instrumentation on top of the guitar and vocal recordings we had. That actually became four more days and what was going to be a second CD to sell on doorsteps, will be going into a lot of radio stations soon - and maybe getting played occasionally.

'Dead Birds & Funny Fish'

Watch this space.

'Free as a Breeze & Fresh Out of Vitreol'

Not quite written yet.

The Old Mill

Sean O'Neill — Mon, 20 Oct 2003 18:44:59 +0000

There's a very special place, not far from Naas or Newbridge. It's an old mill that's been lovingly restored by Eoin O'Toole,who bought it in 1987 and did most of the renovation himself and with the help of friends. Outside there is a water driven millwheel and walking around inside, you can see the ancient machinery working as it used to. This in itself is special but what makes it unique is that it's now being used in a number of ways, providing a gallery space and performance area for all manner of artists, not yet with a sufficiently high profile to show at the more mainstream venues or those who like to do an occasional low profile gig.

Everywhere there are small touches that show the care that's gone into making "The Old Mill" what it now is. Children's paintings can be found pinned to old wooden beams and craftwork, for sale or not is everywhere. The square footage of the place is enormous yet the atmosphere is very homely and almost cottage-like. One gets the feeling that, uniquely, this place isn't there for the money. Yes, you can buy food, teas, coffees or even a glass of wine (and until recently a beer), and it can be hard to tell who is working there and who is helping out.

Open from Wednesday - Sunday, the mill acts as a place where couples can have a pre wedding reception reception - with very picturesque surroundings for the wedding album, a low budget - high quality recording studio and, in the evenings, a completely different sort of music venue. Set dancing classes are held there in the early evening, a singer/songwriter session (with the option of having the set recorded - for little more than the cost of the blank CDR) every Thursday night. People of the calibre of Luka Bloom and John Spillane play regularly on Saturdays. Lazy family Sunday afternoons - in the grounds, weather permitting - feature traditional Irish music, which makes way for a bit of jazz in the evening.

I am a songwriter and don't have many opportunities to perform my work to an audience prepared to listen to music unfamiliar to them. In the small theatre space here, I've been at some of the most atmospheric songwriter nights, I've played to some of my most atentative audiences and even been joined on stage by some wonderful singers who I'd met an hour earlier in the kitchen and the result of this actually was recorded and features as a hidden track on my new CD.

There are very few places in which a stranger can feel as welcome, in the world, let alone in Ireland and I feel that it would be a crime against real values if this place were to be shut down.

Eoin showed me a letter from a solicitor, in which I, as a regular patron, have been called rowdy. It also suggested that I could be responsible for frightening the horses. Since discovering the mill, I've attended on at least ten occasions - to perform or to listen. I have stayed overnight a few times and found it to be a hard place to leave. I have never seen any rowdyism there - nor have I seen a horse.

The Land of the People who Smile and Dance(a short story)

Sean O'Neill — Fri, 10 Oct 2003 23:01:12 +0000

The Land of the People Who Smile and Dance

Long, long ago, in a land not far away, there lived a happy race of people. In this land - known as the land of the people who smile and dance - no-body was rich and no-body was poor. There was enough of everything to go around. Everybody had a place to live and enough good things to eat and people had enough time to talk to each other and, of course, to smile and dance.

The King, who was neither rich nor poor, was well pleased with his land, and doubly pleased when he mused that it was almost 1,000 years since last their country had been at war and that everybody had been smiling and dancing ever since. Of course there was that slight invasion a few hundred years ago, according to the history books, but apparently, everybody was so busy smiling and dancing, that hardly anybody noticed. The invaders, it seemed, were so taken with the way of life here, that they smiled and danced and soon completely forgot that they were invaders.

One night, a few months before the Millennium, the King had a dream. It was a beautiful dream and when he woke, he told the Queen all about it. In the dream, there had been many people, smiling and dancing and much merriment - and - beautiful MUSIC. Music, yes music. Did I forget to mention that in 'the land of the people who smile and dance' they had not yet discovered music? Sorry, I forgot.

"It was so beautiful." said the King, with a tear in his eye. "It even matched the dancing"

Over the next few days, the King found himself thinking back to the dream and sometimes his smile became a little wistful and he found he was missing the music.

"How can you miss something you never had?" asked the Queen. "Cop yourself on." she smiled.

The King's smile sank a little. "But what if....? What if....?"

"You're a dreamer, Kingie babe, but I love ya"

"You may say that I'm a dreamer - but I'm not the only one." sang the King.

"Oh, that sounds nice." said the Queen. "What did you do?"

"I spoke, but with music - I told you it sounds good - but there's more to it than singing, much more."

"Maybe we could do something for the Millennium" sang the Queen - a trifle wobbly, but catching on to the idea.

Later, after much consideration, the King decided that traditional music was probably the best sort to begin with and had posters put up announcing the plans for the Millennium. The ambassadors of 'the land of the people who smile and dance were sent abroad to seek out whatever musical instruments they could find. A website, asking for instruments, know how and information on traditional music, was even set up.

Soon, instruments were arriving from all four corners of the globe - Hyde Park was particularly fruitful. Teach yourself to play books came in good supply too. It was a time of great excitement all over the land. People were astonished at the variety of shapes and sizes - not to mention sound made by these magnificent curios, things that went 'ping', things that went 'toot or tweet'. There were even things that made sound by sawing the stretched gut of a cat with the tail of a horse!

A special 'Millennium, Traditional Music Gala' event was put on, in the Palace grounds so that the people could democratically decide which instruments were the most suitable for their traditional music. It was held in the games stadium and those who considered themselves to be knacky with the instruments were given a couple of minutes to demonstrate the range of an instrument and the people would vote, by a simple system, involving apples, oranges and bananas, on whether an instrument was 'just right, showed potential or just wouldn't do at all'. Some that made the 'just right' group, later proved to be not so - i.e. the Tuba. But all in all, it was a good fair way to sort it out and what a week it was. The smiles got bigger and bigger, some occupying entire faces, even encroaching on the torso and, it was said, one man's went right down to his belly-button and eve off the sides of his face - nobody actually saw this smile, it was always, a friend of a friend. Needless to say, there was also plenty of dancing.

The favourite instruments were the fiddles (the cat/horse one), the smaller ones, as the cellos and basses were hard to hold under the chin and smile and dance with. Squeeze boxes of all shapes and sizes were also popular as were bodrans, sticks and bones. Plucked instruments like guitars and mandolins met with much approval - though some said, "Not too many guitars, please". Whistles, it was generally agreed, had a great sound although the musicians didn't seem too keen to play them. The Illean pipes went down a Bombardier with the audience and the musician. While many liked the Sitar, and it made the 'maybe' list, it was decided it sounded a tad too foreign to be of much real use. The brass sounded too 'brassy', much to the relief of the musicians, the harmonica sounded nice - although no-one seemed too keen to play it.

Over the next few weeks, bands were formed across the land and there was much clamouring for the fiddles so some bands had two of three fiddle players and maybe a couple of box players. Bodrans, sticks and bones were snapped up quickly too. Guitars, bazoukis and mandolins all found themselves busy but all over the land, it became apparent that nobody wanted to play the whistles, flutes, mouth organ or even the ill fated tuba. One group almost came to blows over this and probably would have if the King and Queen hadn't happened along as thing were heating up.

"What's wrong?" enquired the King.

"Pat won't play the whistle - and he's very good at it" said a fiddle player.

"So are you, better than you are on the fiddle. And I want to play the guitar" said Pat. He was the smallest of the band and fighting his corner.

"But we've enough of those already," said Mick "and sure you're great on the whistle, brilliant - or what about the harmonica, go on ya boy-ya." encouraged Mick, the largest of the bunch.

"Don't you like the sound of the whistle?" the King asked, "I think it's lovely - it's one of my favourites Pat. Sure, go on."

"I love the sound of the whistle. I do. I do. I really do but I just don't want to play it, nobody does - or the harmonica or the tuba or anything you put in your mouth! Ask them." smiled Pat.

"Is this true?" asked the King, with his gravest smile.

After a few moments, everybody nodded, smiling sheepishly.

"But it sounds so lovely. We surely have to have the whistle. Don't we?"

Enthusiastic nods all round.

"King," it was little Megan, "can I say something?"

"Of course you may," said the King, "if you think it will help."

"Maybe I shouldn't." said Megan, her shyness getting the better of her.

"You can whisper it to me." smiled the Queen, warmly.

So she did.

Later, the Queen explained to the King, that Megan didn't want to play a 'blowing' thing because whenever she did, her smile went away and she thought that this might be a problem for the other musicians too - though nobody had said anything about it.

And so it came to pass that a few days later, the King had every available poster site covered with the announcement of the 'Millennium Musicians Charter'. This was received with great delight, especially when it came to paragraph 44, subsection d, which stated that, 'as a consideration for 'blowing thing' players, who may have difficulty smiling, while they play, that ALL player of traditional music, refrain from smiling whilst performing'

Little Megan, on reading this, was overjoyed and, at the next band practice, was pretty quick about securing her place - only for a while - as tuba player.

The land is still there but now it's known as 'the land of the people who dance and smile (when they're not playing traditional music)' and in
one thousand and one hundred years, they have not been at war though there was almost a punch-up about a hundred years ago - according to the history books.

Sean O'Neill copyright 2,000

Opera

Sean O'Neill — Fri, 10 Oct 2003 22:51:23 +0000

Gilbert and Sullivan - no not Gilbert O'Sullivan - wrote a song that goes, "A wandering minstrel boy am I". I've had that snatch of it sung for me so many times, on doorsteps, that I know it off by heart. If you know the rest of it, please keep it to yourself.

I never could stand the works of G & S. I think I got an overdose of it when in primary school. All thanks to the enthusiasm of one malaria infected teacher who thought that Cliff Richards music was the devils - and Elvis, don't even mention Elvis. I'm probably a bit more open, since I began to write, to listening to Mr. Gilbert's or Sullivan's (I can't remember which, even though I did see "Topsy Turvy") lyrics, but for me, their stuff is to opera, what ABBA were to rock and roll.

Guess what? I've been invited to do a gig at the Wexford Arts Centre, during the Opera Festival !!! Now Pavorotti I ain't and so won't be doing the old Madame Butterfly or Carmen numbers but I feel that I should get into the spirit of the festival and while I've never written an opera, surely it can't be that hard.

I was thinking of an epic story with lots of archetypal characters - I'd play them all and do the orchestra too. Something about five minutes long - the Reduced Puccini Company. I do a passable soprano, if the atmosphere is right and if not a true tenor, I'm confident that I'm more than a fiver.

I even made a start at writing it and then thought, "Why not weave a set list into a story - I've more than enough songs - and do operatic links to introduce them". That was yesterday and I've made a start already, in spite of ongoing car, mobile phone and to a lesser extent women troubles. I have until November 1st to finish and perfect it. If you are in the Wexford area, the gig is in the Arts Centre theatre and should kick off soon after one PM. (lunchtime)

Even if I chicken out on the above, you should enjoy the gig.

PS. My partner, who does smoke, thinks the previous entry "Smoke screen" is B*llix and disagrees with me totally. What do you think? Why not visit the discussion area and air your views?

PPS. There's a lack of pictures around here. Does anyone out there have a digital camera they don't want? Also, the back panel for the car (see "Women and Cars") hasn't turned up yet.

Smoke Screens

Sean O'Neill — Mon, 06 Oct 2003 07:25:05 +0000

I'm an addict and so I'm biased but surely the decision by our smug, ex-smoker minister, Michael Martin, to ban smoking in the workplace, in particular, the pub, is ill thought out and whether enforceable or not, is just not fair or even wise. For the last twenty years or so, the issue of smoking or not has been a divisive one, but this latest move is surely one in the wrong direction.

We live in a world full of conflict between peoples of different races, cultures and religions. The American administration think that we should all be like them and enjoy it. Consumption is the name of the game. We buy into it, we get the fancy cars - with built in obsolescence, the labour saving devises that we work so hard for, the 24 hour TV to numb our heads so we don't think, fast junk to eat - out or from the supermarket - ready in four minutes, no less. We buy into advertised products to make us feel more beautiful, cool or safe - when the business of advertising is to make us concerned about problems we never knew we had, until they told us - and then tell us what we can do to make us feel better - and as long as we stay busy enough, we won't see through it.

I'm not saying that if I were to write a string of 'hits' that provided me with more money than I could possibly need that I wouldn't find ways to enjoy it - a nice house in a place I liked, with a grand piano and recording studio. Hell, I even know what three cars I'd have in my garage - a pre '99 Mazda MX5 for everyday use, something a bit less practical, purely for fun - a Caterham 7 or Aerial Atom (look it up), and when I needed more than two seats then I'd use the V-Dub - actually while it's made by Volkswagen, it's called Bentley Continental. We can all dream. What I am saying though, is that not having these things - OK Mazda aside - does not make me unhappy and I do not believe that having them would necessarily make me happy - I don't need them. Advertising is about creating a need.

I discovered something recently - at one of the seminars coinciding with the IMRO writing collaboration. It may not seem that big but it's a huge one for me. What I leant about was moral rights. I'll explain - supposing, down the road, I get that 'publishing deal', suppose I've written a song that would be great in an ad for say Coca Cola or McDonalds or Smarties (now a Nestle product) or even Shell Oil - well for the past number of years, I've been buying alternative to these companies products - exercising my right to choose. I had always assumed that a publisher automatically had the right to exploit the songs he published in any way that would earn money for himself and for the writer. Not so. An artist has the right to stipulate companies that will not benefit from the intellectual property (i.e. song) and have this included in the publishing contract. This is very liberating for my head.

What's all this got to do with smoking or not in pubs? Plenty - or nothing at all. It's all got to do with a sense of proportion though. I have no wish to inflict my smoke on anyone who for health reasons or for personal choice finds it totally objectionable. If, say, I'm out with a friend with children or maybe who has asthma, I will take my leave for the five minutes a few puffs will take and no hard feelings either way. Take though - and I believe this paranoia has been spun - the smoker who gives up - gets through the addiction and gets preachy. You go out with them and conversation about the benefits of not smoking seems to be the only one possible with them. Their houses become smoke free zones, so you go outside to indulge yourself in your despicable habit - to their tut tuts. Sooner or later you just stop going out with them and you visit their homes, only if you must.

I don't think that a total ban on smoking in pubs is what any reasonable person wants. There are thousands and thousands of addicts, like myself, who have smoked for years and have accepted that this will be something they will probably do till they die. When I began, the only warnings you'd get were from old men who'd warn you that it would stunt your growth or get soot up your nose. As research showed more and more harmful effects, I tried many times to quit but resigned myself to being a smoker for life about twenty years ago. I do try not to smoke too much into a second pack too often and that's about the best I can do.

Smoking's been around for a long time - longer than our modern society. Our modern society is extremely stressful and this is extremely stressful but this is OK - it's accepted as the 'Norm'. I believe that smoking is less harmful than stress and intolerance, which can only lead to more stress. The accepted norm nowadays is to live fast, work hard, play hard, climb over whoever gets in the way. The popular media reinforces this - as it keeps the wheels of business oiled, which in turn ensures their survival and I think it's killing us way faster than a few cigarettes. It's not sustainable but there are pills you can take when you get sick or when you feel sad and, provided most people buy into it, it will sustain itself for a while. The marginalized - drug addicts, abuse victims, homeless, mentally ill and free thinkers, once in a minority, can be kept in their place and, if you try really hard, almost ignored.

We've got a police force big and strong enough to bash the heads of a few hippies or students or any of the above who think otherwise but hey, they never seem to be about when the normal, fast living fast partying believers do the head bashing after a fun night out.

I've always been fond of Kerry (and the Kerry people seem to be quite fond of me.) In Kerry, the eccentrics seem to be celebrated rather than squashed, and I've just heard, on the radio, that Kerry publicans have just voted, unanimously, not to enforce the smoking ban. Which of the other 25 counties will be next to show its balls.

Far be it from me to encourage law breaking - but if anybody knows of any sites for standing up for the right to smoke, I'd really like to know about them. Imagine a group of people (smokers) around the country, 100,000 strong and on one or two nights a week at a nominated pub, as many as can make it, arrive at the pub between eight thirty and nine forty five, and at precisely nine fifty five - by the pub clock - all light up. What with bin protesters and disgraced politicians???, will the prisons be big enough to contain us all?

It's just over two weeks since we went LIVE. It's ...

Sean O'Neill — Mon, 08 Sep 2003 23:25:17 +0000

It's just over two weeks since we went LIVE. It's very peaceful here - nobody bothering me in the discussion area - except maybe Bill Gates and Madonna - and I don't believe that for a minute. I guess it won't always be like this so I'll just enjoy it while I can.

The last three weeks have been completely crazy. I've been travelling around a lot, selling CDs only when I had to - like when I needed cigarettes, petrol, food or a top up for my mobile. No, I haven't been staying in bed or lazing around on the beaches during the very unirish weather of late.

Sometimes you get a ball and you just have to run with it, to the exclusion of almost everything else. In my opening piece, I mentioned "the Turkey? song" or , actually, "the Turkey song?". This will, one day no doubt be huge and earning me more money than I need. What I've been trying to do, since I wrote it three weeks ago, with Fairy Bob - aka Bob Martin, is accelerate its Karma.

I'll tell you a bit about the song, but first a bit about Christmas and Sean O'Neill. Maybe if I just say that the other two Christmas songs I've written - "Pre-Christmas Blues" and "And Santa Got Nailed to the Cross" were less than merry, you'll get the picture. "Pre Christmas Blues" appeared on "Smug & Sanctimonious Songs" in December '98 - more on that some other time.

When I was a kid, coming up to Christmas, I might be taken in to town and into a grotto to see Santa. It would have been a huge event and some years it mightn't happen at all. (I know, "we were so poor we had to crawl the five miles to school, backwards - cleaning the roads with our tongues to earn money for our mothers etc. etc). Now, any kid who hasn't seen Santa a dozen or two times by Christmas Eve is probably waving a white stick and wearing shades. It's kinda taken the "Special" out of it - regardless of your religious beliefs.

Maybe this is a temporary thing, but in the last few weeks - in fact since I got my new Martin Cowboy IV guitar, my cynicism, anger and sarcasm seem to have abandoned me. The Martin is my Happy guitar and I almost have enough positive, life affirming materiel to do an album - I'll probably call it "Free as a Breeze & Fresh out of Vitriol" - watch this space.

So, "the Turkey? song" embraces what Christmas might be, plays with all the clichÃ©s and invents some new ones. It also acknowledges that everybody might not be feeling quite as happy as the singer - who just happens to be in luurve. How bad?

Anyway I was about 50,000 euro short of fund to launch the "Master Plan" and gave it until last Friday to come together or not. It didn't.

What has come together is the first print of "Odds & Sods" and while this won't be officially released for a while, I will be out this afternoon selling it myself - along with "Losers & Sinners", and it should be available from the site - once I get that side of things organised. Hounding your local record stores for a copy, meanwhile, will be doing me a big favour. Are there any people out there?

Something else coming together is an album to be called "Fusion" - I don't know yet if there'll be a picture of a boxy Ford Fiesta on the cover, but I've been invited to contribute a track to it. It might be worth a lot of money - probably for a children's charity and should be out for Christmas. It's being overseen by Myles, who runs a great singer/songwriter night at the Old Mill - between Naas and Newbridge and will feature 12 of the Thursday nighters. Watch this site for more info. I think I'm booked to play there on the 18th and 25th of September.

If you came to the site "on a promise" of amazing cybersex and some songs, sorry but it'll be a long time before the cybersex is up and running and anyway what's wrong with the real thing?

Does anybody out there have a laptop they don't want? I could really use one and can think of at least three worse people you could give it to. No stolen ones please.

Got to go and sell some records. Need cigarettes, need petrol, need food and need phone credit. I'd also like to start work on "Free as a Breeze & Fresh out of Vitriol"

The roadster? Door opening again and N.C.T. passed with the help of plumbers P.V.C. tape. A long story.

women and cars

Sean O'Neill — Wed, 24 Sep 2003 21:20:26 +0000

The Mazda MX5, Eunos Roadster or Miata, if you are an American, is as tough as nails. On top it looks pretty and hasn't dated much since it's introduction in 1989. The shape was shamelessly borrowed from the 60s Lotus Élan, simple and still fresh. Many, myself included feel that the 1998 restyle actually took from the purity of the original.

Look under one and its all girders, well bolted together, with all the mechanical and suspending bits attached in a confidence inspiring way. If you have one and have never looked at it's bottom, do - now or maybe finish up here first. Get down to your local garage and get it on a ramp for a while and take a walk underneath.

Monday lunchtime, outside a shop in Cork City, with a borrowed drill and a 5mm bit, I drilled about 30 holes in mine. 'He's finally lost the plot', I hear you say, or maybe he just wants to take the prettiness off the car.

Got my new album - the first 100 of the first 1,000 anyway (I couldn't fit more in the boot (trunk)). Been having trouble with my women lately - that's the first line from 'Connie Lingers' a track from my unfinished second album - read the journals.Troubles come in threes, sixes or ninety-nines - depending on the weather (still unseasonably good)

The first doorstep copy of 'Odds & Sods' was bought by a lovely woman, who's door I knocked at, revisiting the housing estate, in Dundrum, where I'd sold my first doorstep copy of 'Losers & Sinners' all those years ago. Coincidentally I lived in the same estate from Sept. '69 for eighteen months. Were you even born then?

After talking for a while and singing a couple of songs, over a cup of tea, she gave me a copy of a book she'd written some years ago - The Love Crucible. From the bit I've read, it's quite a book and should eventually help me sort out my tattered and torn love life.

Tuesday, I left Dublin - heading for Winkles in Kinvara - the songwriters night and worked, en route, in Loughrea and made my first sale there to a man of the cloth. As they say 'it could happen to a Bishop - which in fact, he turned out to be. Clonfert and a gentleman.

At about seven, my gearlever became a bit stubborn and became increasingly so over the next hour. The clutch pedal had 'gone soft' meaning either my cable was gone, my pressure plate (I know this from previous experience) was f*cked or my hydraulics were b*llixed.

When your clutch is slipping, at worst, you are sitting in you car in gear with the engine revving but you ain't goin'nowhere. I don't want to get technical (this is supposed to be a music site), but just imagine driving a car, with a clutch pedal that you don't use. Yes? Now you've got the picture. It's not fun but it can be done. Here's how; to start - put the car in first OR reverse with the engine off. Look both ways and all around and if there's no one within half a mile, turn the key and hop till the engine has caught - being ready to switch off in emergencies. If it's forward you want to go, better get thinking about moving up a gear or several. Gear changing is tricky and, as I said, I don't want to get technical here so suffice it to say that it's a question of matching engine speed to car speed and knowing what gear you are in.

I had a Triumph Spitfire years and years ago and while it wasn't very old when I bought it, something fell off most weeks and, eventually, only the absolute essentials got replaced and I actually drove it in this fashion for a year or so - the fact that nobody else could drive it sort of added to it's charm. When I was studying violin making, about ten years later, my elderly Citroen went down the same road.Reversing should only be done in emergencies and right turns onto major roads handled with extreme caution.

I got to winkles in this fashion, played at the songwriter night and gave a friend - Ricko Donovan - a lift back to Lisdoonvarna, where I would stay the night. I warned Ricko that he was taking his life in his hands. We took the coast road from Ballyvaughan in order to avoid 'corkscrew hill'. Open two-seaters are not the ideal cars for falling off mountains in. We only had to stop and start once on the entire journey - done mostly in fourth gear.

Instead of the four to five hundred euro I was expecting to have to find, the problem was sorted - temporarily - by a mechanic Ricko knew, with a few ccs of hydraulic fluid. It must be leaking somewhere but it doesn't seem to need anymore a week later.

Left Ricko's and the car is pulling to the left. The front nearside tyre is not quite flat. After it was repaired, I worked the day in Clare and dropped a copy of 'Odds & Sods' into Darragh McConnell, son of Cormac and nephew of Mickey, who wrote 'Only the Rivers Run Free'.

Cars running great and gets me back to the cottage in the middle of nowhere - the first time I've been there in a while.

Maybe you're still wondering then, why drill all the holes in the car? (I know that that's a questionable question mark but it is my site!)

I'll explain, eventually. After a good weeks work, lots of songs sung and copies of both albums going well, I headed up to the Old Mill in Newbridge on Saturday, where Barbara Dunne was playing a gig - with a string quartet. I missed the gig, all but the last three songs. Why? That's where the 'having trouble with my women lately' comes in. How so? Mind your own f*cking business or wait for the songs. I'm sure it'll all get written down eventually.

Saturday was a weird night - probably something to do with the moon being in cahoots with Mars, which has been hanging around a lot lately - unlike Madonna who must have found something new to pursue. Sunday was a gorgeous day and I hung around the mill till about twelve drinking good coffee and enjoying good company.

One guy there is working on special effects for the film that's being shot down the road at Ballymore Eustace - King Arthur. He told tales of people collapsing from smoke inhalation when the valley was filled with black battle smoke, generated by a diesel burner and of extras doing the battle scenes, after minimal training. One guy losing an eye and another getting his head staved in a bit and all for 75 euro per hour. Life was tough in those days. I'm glad I turned down the audition.

I went to look at the site though. Couldn't get near it and contented myself with a lunch at the Ballymore Inn. They do a great pizza.

Heading back, cross country, over the Curragh of Kildare, pleased to be avoiding the Cork - Kilkenny hurling final traffic, the weather was particularly un-Irish. I stopped to sit on the grass and have a look at the Sunday paper for an hour or so - no rush. Nice weather for a t-shirt and some lighter trousers and I'd loads of clean stuff in the car.

Not a soul in sight - done. Thirty seconds after throwing the old stuff in the boot, I knew I'd left the keys in the pocket and, of course id closed the lid! Somewhere in the country I had a spare key - maybe even in the boot!

Oh yes! When I renewed my insurance last, I enquired about these 'extra benefits' that I was paying lots of extra money for. Roadside assistance! They'd even given me a sticker, with a phone number on it and wasn't it on my windscreen.

In due course, Herbie - honestly that was his name - came to the rescue. Not as I'd imagined though with a bunch of skeleton keys, but with a full on rescue vehicle and not a clue as to how to get in to my trunk.

So here we are, sitting in Donnelly's hollow in the Curragh, sun is shining, doors, windows and roof all open or nice little roadster, rescue truck behind and two grown men scratching heads.

Imagine a mouse's airbed, complete with a puffer bulb to inflate it. Herbie had one and slipped it between the back panel and the lid of the boot. The widening crack wasn't nearly enough to insert fingers to find unlocking cable or rod. There are two strong bulkheads, sandwiching a petrol tank, between the open interior and the closed boot so no way in there. Any other day of the week, transporting the car to the nearest locksmith would have been the solution. Herbie phoned a buddy from the AA, he shed no further light on matters.

How would a twelve year old expert - and there are a lot of them - get in, I wondered. Herbie thought they'd do a lot of damage first. I suggested that we may have to do some damage, at this point as I had to get going. I then had to give a waiver to his head office and the first and least damaging thing to try was the old 'screwdriver in the lock' routine - didn't work.

Not quite soon enough, but just before things got really drastic - and we are talking crowbars here - I got the idea about fishing out the clothes and keys. I mean, they had to be on top of everything else, and yes, Herbie did have a piece of wire and another mouse thing to widen the gap a bit more.

My rainbow sweater was the first escapee - albeit with a few new holes - then an attempt by my full briefcase. This was followed by a bra - not mine, honest - and finally the trousers. Yes the keys were in the pocket. Brilliant!

Would the lock still work after the screwdriver? Let's try. Key breaks in lock.

Amazingly, within an hour of this, Herbie returns with a new key - cut from the two halves of the old one and I'm on the road - just in time for the Cork - Kilkenny final traffic, with my cork flag flying at half-mast.

Monday morning, even with the new key, the boot won't open. Small as it may be, a good chunk of my life is in it - briefcase, phone charger, writings, Cds etc. and so to a locksmith in Cork city.

He tries everything to no avail and as the lock, recessed to begin with and pushed further in by the screwdriver, is too far in, he can't cut off the top to remove the barrel. I suggest cutting a hole in the back panel - it is only plastic and was damaged by an anonymous 4 x 4 tow hitch about 8 months ago. The only alternative would be ripping off the lid with a crowbar.

Michael couldn't bring himself to do the damage and as it was lunchtime I suggested he went to eat and left me alone for an hour with his drill. So that's why I, outside his shop, drilled about 30 holes - in a square pattern, about the size of a Cd jewel case.

I can now open and close the trunk, with a small penknife - so can anybody else so I won't be carrying my millions in there and it's not a very pretty sight. I am looking for a replacement panel for less than the 500 euro I've been quoted - for a used one - so if you have one of these in your back yard (and I got the laptop) let me know. If you happen to see me driving along, with a Velcro attached sign, advertising the website then you'll know it's covering a multitude of sins.

If I happen to have a black eye or broken nose - then that'll be another story and, like I said, 'mind your own f*cking business.

Finally got here! It's the twenty forth of August ...

Sean O'Neill — Mon, 25 Aug 2003 07:08:44 +0000

Finally got here! It's the twenty forth of August 2003 and my oldest song is exactly 5 years old today so it seems like a right sort of day to begin this journal. Maybe there are no coincidences.
Briefly, the past week has been an amazing one for me. I have not been doing my wandering minstrel stuff, I haven't sold a single CD and have lived off two cheques that were gathering a little bit of dust in my back pocket - one from IMRO for 100 Euro and one from RTE for the same amount. The kindness of strangers also has played a big part and I have travelled about the country in my roadster on very little petrol.

Monday. Got to my rented cottage, from east Cork for the first time in a fortnight. My lovely landlord wouldn't accept rent 'cause I'm hardly ever there!

Tuesday. Made lots of phone calls and chilled for the morning before heading - topless as usual - for Kinvara. Winkles has won traditional music pub of the year many times but on a Tuesday night it hosts one of the best singer/songwriter nights I've been to and I get there when I can. I phoned a friend around six to arrange a place to stay and was sorted until I got a call just before the gig and found that due to unforeseen circumstances, my bed had just fallen through the ceiling. No problem haven't I lots of friends in Galway. Made a few phone calls and talked to recorded messages and switched off my phone for the gig. This is an unplugged, around a table in the centre of the pub thing. There were six acts each doing a song in turn and then being followed by the act to their left, and round and round the table till closing time or after.

I was last to play and by my turn had formulated a plan. Surely in the attentive audience or even among the musicianers, there would be a spare bed, couch or even floor. I played a brand new version of "To Be One or To Be Two", (I've added a la la la bit in the middle so it's now twinkle twinkle little star meets amazing grace meets silent night still - with just a dash of Spanish Harlem and called Lovers Lullabye*, a better title for men in big hats looking for a nice song to cover). You could hear a pin drop. For a pub, the audience is unusually attentive and it's a very pretty song. Two verses and then the la la bit. Not tonight Josephine. Tonight the la la bit became some thing like, "this is usually the la la bit but while I have your attention, I'd like to announce that my bed exploded just before the gig and the if anyone had same of couch or floor, to let me know before closing" and straight into third verse and great applause but no offers. It should have worked, it should have.The grass out side the hostel was very comfortable. The lumps and bumps fitted me perfectly and my sleeping bag was cosy. It was 1.45am when I got my head down and even later when the wheels in it began to slow down, (an idea of giving my car as a prize in a "Turkey Song? demo" competition was gaining momentum just as I was drifting off, my bladder said, "Oi! What about me? When I knew I could no longer ignore it, I got up, peed (yes, even songwriters pee) and then found the exact same comfortable position and had a lovely sleep till it began to rain a bit, then a lot.

I hit Galway about 3.15am. In my Galway days, the cafe, Apostasy opened till 4.00am and you'd always meet a friend. Apostasy is now called something in Irish and closes earlier.

Back in the Galway police station, where, just over four years earlier, I'd been inspired(?) to write "Jody Jody", the officer on duty was not at all pleased to be ask if it were possible to rent or borrow a cell for the night, or what was left of it. He seemed to think that I should have been at home in bed hours ago. He did give me a photocopy of a hotels list (maybe I should carry a photocopy of a bed).

The intermittent problem I have with my car door lock chooses it's moments really well and I will have it fixed before I give it away. Usual routine is to open the passenger door, unclip the roof, lean over driver's door, put key in ignition and turn halfway. Then the window can be wound down and it's easy to hop in over the door. Fortunately the rain had stopped so I could leave the top down and reverse the procedure when I got out.

I've driven around the corner and parked on the ramp to enter Jury's Hotel car park. The automatic gates aren't being cooperative but there is enough light to be able to read my list of phone numbers if I can find my reading glasses. The John Creedon Cheque in my back pocket will probably be swallowed whole for the four or five hours sleep I'll get and I hate hotels but this is a last resort.
"Are you trying to get in to the car park?", enquired the guy passing by with his girlfriend.
"Why don't you ram the gate?"
"I like my car too much and they're big f*ing gates"
"I like ya already" he said.
"Do you want to use our couch?"
It always works out in the end and at about five after listening to his bands nine song demo (really good - Musicola), I got some sleep.

It's been a week of resolving lots of underlying conflict in relationships, writing songs, on the hoof, into my trusty Dictaphone as well as formulating phase two of the Master plan (it's my site so I can be as optimistic as I like and can say I told you so to the disbeliveers, when all my prophecies work out -so there). As I type I'm listening to a demo I was given this afternoon of, "Words Fail Me", written and recorded in rooms 123 (mine) and 108 about ten days ago - the same day I wrote my first "greatest Hit", which has a working title of "the Turkey Song?" which, with it's proper title, should be the Irish Christmas number one this year and should conquer the world by next.You may be asking yourself if this is the site of a madman and most people who know me would resoundingly say "YES".

In a previous life, a woman who I had a lot of time for, and still do, asked me what I wanted to do with my life after I told her that I was wasting my life running a photography business, good and all as I was. I told her I wanted to write and sing songs, to which she replied that I could neither sing or play guitar very well AND as long as she'd known me I had not written a postcard and hey, it was all true but a leopard can change it's spots if it wants to enough. Listen to "I Can't Hear You", as a refusal to stay in your box - and that'll be a massive song for someone some day.

Wednesday. Called to a friend who lives in a thatched cottage which has my favourite bedroom, in the whole world and over good coffee asked her to give me her overview on my faults and she did - don't hold your breath, that's my business. I had already arranged to stay in her loft that night. The loft is a tiny space in the roofspace, wide enough for a medium sized mattress and maybe a rug beside it and high enough at the apex to stand up, if you must. If you've claustrophobia, forget it. Otherwise it's a guarantee of the best nights sleep you'll get outside of a Tipi.

Met up with Rusty, an old friend and brilliant guitar player. He took me home to his new studio and demonstrated by letting me record a few songs including "I Ain't Talkin' Walkin'", even bought me a pack of cigarettes when I ran out - I smoke too much.

Thursday. Left thatch after catching up on sleep. Still entering and exiting car via roof - a bit trickier this morning as it was raining. Plan was; cash JC cheque at friend wholefood restaurant, thus avoiding banks - I hate them, give me credit unions any day - and continue toward Dublin as I had a gig and a meeting before it to discuss strategy for launching "The Turkey Song?" with Bob Martin the co-writer. Restaurant closed down a few days previously said a notice in the window and dealing with banks became a necessity, and banks I mean, as the first told me that without an account I'd have to go to RTE's bank in Dublin. I told him that, while I knew they were losing money, I was sure they were good for 100euro. E.C. regulations. I voted no.

To get to Dublin, I needed more petrol than I had AND more cigarettes so I tried putting my case to the cashier at the college bank, who was less impressed with rules from Belgium and was soon on my way.Finally, at 3.00am, I got to my brother's house in Dublin - I have a key - and fell onto his couch and went out like a light.

Friday. A busy day. I listened to a demo turkey, Bob had made, for two hours on repeat, while getting breakfast, making phone calls and planning how to best use the day. Wound up with twenty demos on printed discs and a very nice cover, done by my son, Emmett, while I enjoyed minding his two small boys. Slept in my other home with my beloved - not Samantha Mumba's mum, as the gossip in Cobh, Co. Cork, would have it.

Saturday. Meetings all day from ten till five. All very interesting. Two were personal and the purpose was to continue my quest to find out what is wrong with me. I hear again that I'm too focussed on my quest for world domination and give too much information when a little is plenty. (I had planned to write a few lines to welcome you to the site, so I suppose this is not without foundation.). The other meetings were with a wonderful PR person and she wanted more information than I could give so I suppose that's a balance, and with Neil McBride who gave me the demo of ,"Words Fail Me" and finally dinner out with the "woman sometimes known as Samantha Mumba's Mum".

Sunday. I would have rested but THIS had to be done. This is probably as long an entry as you'll get here but it was quite a week so I thought I'd give anyone interested enough to read this far, as much information as they wanted and, anyway, I wont have to type it all out again for the book. Garda at checkpoint, "What's your address?"
"www.seanoneillsongs.com officer"
Next week will be worse but I probably won't have time to post the details. Who said, "Whew!!!"

If you got this far, maybe you'll come back now and again and tell all your, not too sensible, friends or add yourself to my mailing list.It's good to have the site - oh the power - and will probably be an outlet for the stuff I've been boring my friends and people on the busses with since I began my INCREDIBLE journey from somewhere else to Legendhood. (Bill Gates tells me that Legendhood is not a word - sorry Bill, it's my site and I think it should be - so there and YOU don't even accept "busker" so what do you know?).

I suppose this is a sort of David and Goliath site - an alternative music business site. I'd prefer it to be honest and free of Bulls*it and bad words - my grandkids may access it. Stimulating discussion will be welcome and I will endeavour to answer communications, whether I'm sleeping rough or hugely successful. I'll probably send you to sleep every now and then so watch those Internet bills.