Gavan Reilly's Portfolio writings, ramblings, mumblings

How To… Blag your way backstage at the Ball

1. If you’re a guy, get a pair of classic black shades to go with your tux and approach the front of the stage, claiming to be Damien Dempsey’s personal minder. Try finding a clear plastic tube and shove it between your back and right ear to create the illusion of an earpiece.
2. Befriend/kidnap a pizza delivery boy, borrow their uniform, retrieve an empty pizza box and tell the bouncers you have a large pepperoni for “a Doctor Anthony Kelly”.
3. Tell the bouncers that you actually are Damien Dempsey. (Who remembers what he really looks like?)
4. Secure a trolley and a large cylinder of helium, and tell the security men that the cylinder is merely Bell X1’s communal asthma inhaler.
5. Use the old classic blagging line. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m James Carroll!” Sixty percent of the time it works every time.
6. Finally, if all else fails… win a Pulitzer (go on, it can’t be that hard), join The University Observer and try to blag a press pass from them. Warning: no sane people need apply.

Album review: The Tiny – Starring: Someone Like You

The Tiny are a Swedish threesome who formed in 2002, comprising of… well, basically a piano, cello and bass. You might imagine that the prospects of variety among these instruments are quite limited and, well – you’d be right. The group’s second album (the follow up to 2004’s commercial flop Close Enough) strains to vary itself and while the extra orchestration drafted in by producer Christoffer Lundkvist (his studios are called ‘Aerosol Grey Machine’. At least this album has something going on for it) do have limited success, the overall picture is of an offering that sounds like the same track nine times.

The only saving grace is the appearance of Ed Harcourt on ‘Sorry’, which could be a reasonable single in the making but is more likely to appear on an artsy mobile phone advert. There’s some promise here, but it’s a niche market that The Tiny are after, I, for one, am not in it.

Clanking tin-pan catastrophe from Swedish oddballs

Rating: 2/5

“The UCD Ball and Trinity Ball are equal in all but name.” Discuss.

While it’s hard to draw a comparison between the two Balls before the Belfield equivalent, on paper the differences are many and striking. The first is the terrain: the Trinity campus is notoriously difficult to traverse in even flat heels. Throw in copious amounts of alcohol and wonky stiletto heels, and accidents abound. Conversely the only obstacle in Belfield are the few steps leading to the pit. Not exactly a death-trap, you might agree.

Another major difference between the two Balls (as the actress said to the bishop…) is the allocation of ticketing. The Trinity Ball, to be blunt, is far from a Trinity Ball: it merely panders to the whim of anyone who wants to check out the musical luminaries(!) peddling their wares at College Green. Any two Trinity students can bring a ‘guest’ – basically translating as meaning that it’s open to anybody, and the few Trinity students with bizarre enough tastes to enjoy the music on show are left out in the cold. Not so in Belfield: tickets are only sold to those in possession of a valid Student Card. No card, no studenthood, no entry. Simple as.

The final – and surely most striking distance – is the quality and variance of musical acts on show. Trinity’s 2006 Ball boasts such musical legends as Felix Da Housecat, Who Made Who (who?!) and – wait for it – those musical maestros, the names on everyone’s lips, the Next. Big. Thing. That’s right, it’s Ocean Colour Scene. Scoff… The business that is Anto Kelly has secured a line-up worthy of the students of Belfield: Tiefschwarz, The Blizzards, Republic of Loose, and the real guys on the up – Bell X1. The author is sure he’s not alone in believeing that the Loose boys would put on a far better late night shindig than Ocean Colour Scene peddling The Riverboat Song ad nauseum.

The Tale of Two Balls – Students by birthright, but UCD by the Grace of Anto.

Anto Kelly: Belfield’s Private Adonis?

Anto Kelly. You know him as the guy who’s been booking Ents gigs and arranging the UCD Ball since September. But those of you who’ve ever cast glance upon him will also be aware that Anto Kelly has some of the most illustrious hair known to mankind. No kidding – its shine cannot be underestimated. It is actually believed that Anto’s touch once restored the sight of a blind man, only for the man to be blinded once again by the intense, penetrating shine of his flowing locks.

Other than the dazzling brilliant white tones of his teeth (rumour has it that Nelly had each of his front teeth silver-capped just to keep up), the other striking cosmetic quality of Anto Kelly is his designer stubble. Senior staff from the School of History believe that such stubble was originally known as ‘Anto Stubble’ before becoming mainstream. It’s also thought that Chuck Norris used Anto’s visage as a model for his own Velcro-like facial hair.

Anto Kelly: Belfield’s private Adonia. Form an orderly queue, ladies.

The Blogging Revolution

From a young Iraqi teenager’s account of her experiences to a string of slanderous posts on a Drogheda site… Gav Reilly reports on the rise of blogging and the first ever Irish Blog Awards

There was a time, not all that long ago, when to be awarded on even a national scale for journalistic prowess would constitute the pinnacle of a scribe’s career – a landmark recognition of formulated opinion and convincing argument. Here in the third millennium, though, the fourth estate has become an open shop – so much so that it seems anybody can earn themselves some hack integrity.

Welcome to the 21st Century, and the dawn of The Blogging Age.

We all know what a blog is – the name derives from an abbreviated ‘weblog’, and to 99 per cent of users, is to all intents just an online version of the old-fashioned paper-based diary. The often underestimated form that a blog can take, though, is that of a new or opinion journal, and it’s these that are beginning to come to the fore: and so much so that the latest mould of journalists are not only winning their own categorised awards, but also those of the more established journalists. And while it might still be a few years before a blogger is winning a Pulitzer for their personal musings, other prestigious awards are no longer impervious to attack from the cyberjourno.

A little under a month ago, the inaugural (and judging by the interest, probably annual) Irish Blog Awards took place in Dublin’s Alexander Hotel. It might be assumed that because of the fledgling nature of the awards – and indeed the medium at large – that such awards would be selfglorying, but in fact the awards were chosen by an open panel that eventually numbered 1,700 (to put it into context, the worldwide Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences that chooses the Oscar winners number 6,000, for a much older art form), were sponsored by Microsoft Ireland and had 2FM’s Rick O’Shea as MC. Top of the pile on the night was an anonymous and absent Southsider, going under the handle of Twenty Major, who scooped three awards including Best Blog and Best Blog Post. Indeed, it might seem bizarre, but in fact it’s a sign of the burgeoning popularity of the medium when the absence of Twenty himself – becoming widely known for his scatological social commentaries – was much lamented on the night.

The real glory of the blog, though, and the challenge that faces the world in trying to evolve to cope, is the utter and rivalled freedom – nay power – that the author wields. The shortlist for BBC Four’s uber-prestigious Samuel Johnson Prize for non-fiction this year includes an anonymous blog written by a young Iraqi woman, entitled Baghdad’s Burning. Looking at the blog, one would imagine the desire for censorship (as an April Fool’s Day joke, the author suggests saying that there’ll be electricity in the city this summer) – and it is in this particular area that the world has yet to come to full terms with. Closer to home, a Dundalk blog is facing closure – and legal wrath – for (possibly) slanderous comments made against local TD Dermot Ahern and singer-songwriter Cathy Maguire. Such action, is not new, however. In 2004 a UCC student, Gavin Sheridan, was served with a defamation suit after commenting unfavourably on author John Gray. While standing by his remark (which still stands on his website, unretracted), Sheridan agrees that the medium has its limits. “Irish bloggers are more careful because libel laws here are so onerous,” says Sheridan. “I am liable not only for what I personally write, but also what everyone else posts on my blog. I’m like a newspaper in that respect, expect I don’t have the means to defend myself,” he adds, explaining why many bloggers remain anonymous.

Meanwhile, Chinese authorities blocked internal access to a key anti-Government blog after it was a winner at last year’s International Weblog Awards. Wang Li, author of Microphone, said the best thing about winning the prize was that “it’s a slap in the face for those who police the internet in China.” Mandarin officials are now introducing regulations requiring registration of personal information with State sources before would-be webmasters are given blogging privileges.

Whatever future the blog has in the wider world, one thing is surely to be remembered: as the world gets smaller and the Information Age matures, the most instant power or ability to sway might not lie now with traditional journalism, but with the everyday keyboard user who simply has something that they want to say.

Welcome to the Blogging Age.

Trigger Happy Telephone

Despite repeated warnings in cinemas, some people just love to talk says Gav Reilly

It doesn’t seem like five years now since the heyday of Trigger Happy TV but it really has been half a decade since Dom Joly was on our screens with his inimitable oversized Nokia phone, screaming a protracted ‘Hell-low!’ from various, exceptionally random locations (“Yeah, I’m in Brussels,” anyone?). The one residual moment that lives on, in real-life practice on a daily basis, is the scene in London’s Odeon. “Hello? Yeah, I’m at the pictures.”

Of course, the problem with Trigger Happy TV was that, after a few years, it just became far less funny. Naturally, then, having the cinema scene repeated ad nauseum is far less funny again.

We’ve all been there, though – engrossed in Hollywood’s latest million-dollar offerings, gripped by the drama unfolding before us, only to be interrupted by someone in the row in front of us getting an ‘urgent’ (“No! Oh my God, can you dye it back blonde again?”) phone call, accompanied by the piercing trill of whatever Pussycat Dolls, or – God forbid – vintage Spice Girls ringtone they’ve procured for the day. Worse again, obviously, is when they actually enter into conversation for a good fifteen minutes or more, and the rest of the cinema-going public is privy to all that, like, totally crucial gossip about Girl X, Boy Y, the other Boy Z (surely related to Y somehow) and nightclub A. It’s frankly stupid.

So what’s to be done? Well, newer cinemas are being built with copper plates in their ceilings which bar any mobile reception, but legal challenges are being planned because this will also block a phone from calling the emergency services. Short of asking phone operators not to provide coverage in certain buildings, then, it seems that we’ll just have to hope that people start taking the hint and actually turning their phones off when asked to. And if you’re going to insist on leaving your phone on, then at least do everybody a favour and get a decent ringtone, would you? A bit of Bell X1 always goes down nicely.

Return of the Flock

Bell X1 frontman Paul Noonan spoke to O2′s Gav Reilly about the UCD Ball, his Trinity days and how he still cycles to gigs…

Paul Noonan is tired. It’s the afternoon of the final day of the three-week UK Tour de Flock, and the soundcheck for the final Leeds gig has overrun. He’s exhausted to the point of stuttering on words, but beneath the fagitue, though, lies some comfort. “It’s been going really well,” he explains, “we’re feeling like things are kinda happening here.” And well they might – Flock, the band’s third LP, has been almost universally well-received on the other side of the Irish Sea and they are, it seems, finally shaking off the tag of ‘guys who were in a band with Damien Rice’.

Not that it stops Noonan being nervous of his own performances, however – although he intensely enjoys the live experience (he likens Bell X1 gigs to “an in-joke that everyone is in on”), he cites Radiohead’s Thom Yorke as a role model with an enviable ability to cut loose on stage, and that he is no less wracked with doubt about compiling an album after two earlier successful attempts. I ask if Flock’s success has changed life in the band. Noonan struggles to decide, saying “I don’t think it really has, but, you know… people will always say that. I don’t feel like we’ve, kind of, reached any higher plane or whatever.” Nor is Noonan comfortable trying to sell the Bell X1 experience.

But what of the ball, and of Bell X1’s college memories? The frontman is audibly cheery about recalling his Trinity College memories, studying Computer Engineering. “The defining feature was hanging out with girls in some kind of legitimate way. The idea of going to single sex schools is so f**king archaic… I still like walking through college. It was a very liberating time.” During his college days he developed a penchant for cycling – something which even today he still enjoys, even to and from his concerts. “When we’re in Dublin I’ll always cycle around,” he tells your surprised interviewer. “I actually got my bike clamped in Temple Bar last time we played in the Olympia.”

The first UCD Ball won’t be the first time that the Bell X1 boys have played in Belfield, mind: as Juniper (yes, complete with Rice) they played the 1998 Fresher’s Ball. “I have memories of sitting in a bush, drinking Buckfast,” he says somewhat oxymororically, the aural smile returning. But it’s something they’re looking forward to – it will be their first Irish gig since their triumphant RDS appearance in January. Noonan is particularly looking forward to meeting Damien Dempsey again (Eyebrowy have him down to a tee, apparently), hearing the “refreshing” Republic of Loose, and hooking up with his childhood mate Brian McMahon, now drumming with Future Kings of Spain.

I tell him that the UCD Battle of the Band winners also have a slot, and he again perks. Does he have advice for college bands who want to change the world? “I think that idealism is valid, naive or otherwise. It’s a positive thing to believe in. Music can change people’s lives.”

With that philosophical note, Paul Noonan needs to get some food and a quick rest. It’s end-of-tour and practical jokes will abound, but you get the sense that it’ll soon be a trophy cabinet and taxman, and not a prank, that will worry Paul Noonan more.

Going for Gold?

Does anybody care about World Records anymore? In light of a recent record set by students in UCD on Science Day, Gav Reilly examines the good, the bad, and the ridiculous world records and UCD’s connection to record holding

There is an opening scene in a recent episode of The Simpsons where Lisa, watching a mock-up satire of the Guinness World Records: Primetime show (featuring a man who holds the record for the least number of faces, with zero), bemoans the fact that once upon a time to hold a world record actually meant something worthwhile; that it was a valuable achievement worth cherishing. As much as many would belittle such sentiments, how many readers would actually like to hold one? With the mass-influx of wacky glory-hunters setting records for the oddest of things, a once illustrious clique of uniquely talented people are losing the respect they once earned.

There are, as anyone can guess, quite a few major categories of world records: the high-profile athletics and sporting records (Asafa Powell’s 100m record of 9.77secs springs to mind); the rather more stagnant records of the natural world and wildlife; those that are masteries or human engineering and then there are those that beguile all human senses and make the reader wonder just why people would ever desire to hold such a record. All joking aside, does anybody really envy India’s Radhakant Bajpai who holds the ignominious distinction of having the world’s longest ear hair, extending over five inches in length? Thought not.

The world at large, of course, is familiar with most of the world’s record holders through that most noble and absurd of publications, the Guinness Book of Records. Even more legendary is its history: Sir Hugh Beaver, who in 1951 was Managing Director of the Guinness brewery in London, was out on a shooting party when he became embroiled in a rather heated debate (one wonders the logic of starting an argument when all parties have easy access to firearms…) over whether Europe’s fastest game bird was the golden plover or the grouse. With a flash Beaver realised that having a book, packed with such statistics, resident in every pub in bar in the world, would solve such disputes far more easily. The brewery hired twin brothers Norris and Ross McWhirter to compile a book of world records in the manner and hence the very first edition appeared in London’s bookstores and bars on the 27th of August, 1955, going on to top the Christmas non-fiction bestseller list of that year. The rest, as is a cliché, is history, with the book still claiming its title as the world’s bestselling non-copyright book – at least until the Harry Potter series claims the record at some point this year.

If course, this topic has a particular resonance to UCD this month in the aftermath of Science Day, where as a fundraiser, Liam O’Reilly, broke the world record for most hugs received in an hour (727). But Ireland – and indeed UCD itself – is no stranger to world record breaking: once upon a time UCD held the distinction of having the world’s largest single LAN network. Last December, meanwhile, Carlow YM Badminton Club sent the new benchmark for the longest game of mixed doubles in history, playing for 24 hours and 21 minutes in aid of Temple St Children’s Hospital; and in a similar attempt to raise Tsunami funds, Belfield’s own Karl Falsey (2nd B&L) smashed the record for the longest competitive singles tennis match, playing for a gargantuan 30 hours and one minute. Holding a record is something Falsey, for one, takes great pride in. “It means everything to me to be classed as a world record holder,” says the Meathman, “and there is almost no better feeling than to be in that category.”

Such testaments of human endurance are part of what makes holding a world record and appearing in the Guinness Book of Records such a special achievement: naturally there is an endless pride in the knowledge that throughout human history, nobody has ever done anything quite as quickly, or just as long, or with as much sheer brawn as oneself – which is why so many people are eager to hold such records, however inane or bizarre the records are. Those with a penchant for reality TV will recall Big Brother 2 when, as a task borne out of sheer boredom, housemate Dean O’Loughlin built the world’s tallest sugar cube tower. Such records, though, pale in comparison,and Falsey acknowledges that “a world record is a world record… it takes far more effort to become the fastest man on earth than having long ear hair.” While obviously the new century brings new records to break (The Ricky Gervais Show, which finished just yesterday, was recently crowned Most Downloaded Podcast with an average of 261,670 downloads for each of its twelve episodes), there are obviously hose like Bajpai who cultivate aural hair just to be included in their midst.

So if you fancy entering the Guinness Book of Records, either play competitive tennis for thirty hours and two minutes; or eat three cream crackers, dry, in 82 seconds. Just don’t blame the author if you’re put to shame by meeting the holder of a more respected record should you choose the latter.

Album review: Cat Power – The Greatest

Although a little bizarrely titled for a non-‘Best Of’ album, The Greatest is already being hailed by the mainstream press as one of the better works of 2006. And having listened to it, I’m not sure which I find more confusing: the fact that these publications can seemingly predict 2006’s musical future, or that they think the album is something of a masterpiece.

Certainly there is something to be said of the opus: Cat Power (her real name is Chan Marshall)’s voice is probably best described as KT Tunstall on a perpetual downer and with the voice that Joss Stone is destined to have when she’s as old as she already sounds and on a 20-a-day habit. The work tinges with heartbreak and hits peaks on the hypnotic ‘Lived in Bars’ and ‘Where Is My Love’, and particularly on the gospel single-in-waiting ‘Living Proof’.

The lasting impression that the album gives, though, is that it would work well in the background while there’s smooching to be done.

Emotional (if not bland) bluesy offering from a breakout Memphis songstress.

Rating: 3/5

How To… have a bleedin’ deadly Valentines

• Steal a phone and ring Adreeeen Kennedeeeee and threaten to shove a banger into his letterbox if he doesn’t say “I love ye, Teena, will ye marry me, ye will?”
• Neck a few cans, find a karaoke bar and sing ‘Mambo No. 5′ replacing every girl’s name in the song with Teena. “A liddel bit o’ Teena in muy luy-eff…”
• Copy the scene from Meet the Parents where the kids hold up a series of signs saying “Marry me, Pam”. If you can’t find enough kids to help out, then bribe Tina’s seven kids with twenty Bensons each.
• Buy a matching set of romantic his-and-hers Le Coq Sportif tracksuits from your local sports shop. Claim the staff and/or customer loyalty discount as appropriate.
• After treating your beloved to not one, but two Happy Meals – and a McFlurry. Go on, it’s St Valentine’s! – crack open the vintage bottle of Buckfast that you’ve been keeping stuffed in your Dublin GAA jerseys for that special occasion.
• If you’re going to pop the question, make the moment extra-special by nicking a Burberry scarf (no need to chop up your baseball caps, fellas) and gluing properly sized bits of it to the ring box to give it that personal touch.
• As you hit the hay arms with just yourself and a box of Willie the Irish Rover, have the perfect soundtrack by putting on your Pogues mixtape, starting with ‘A Rainy Night in Soho’. Pleasant dreams…