Bennett and I discuss dog bites.
So, the company who find things didn’t find my glasses. And it’s all a bit of a blur.
My camera is staring at me these days, wanting to know why it hasn’t been used. Well, I’m going to remedy that soon - both for practical and creative purposes.
In the meantime, these are two shots I took of the wonderfully photogenic Dublin, in radically different circumstances.
THE BEATLES: I’m currently trying to distil the entire back catalogue of The Beatles - and some Paul McCartney, too - into a single CD for my friend. We’re going to see Macca in London early next month and, given she’s not had much of an interest in the band before, I’m trying to give her something to work off so she can get the most out of the gig.
Question is: How does one go about this? Right now, the playlist is taking something of a chronological format. I think one of the most enduring appeals of The Beatles is their accompanying story, their development, their organic lifespan and natural death by internal forces.
I’ve opened with I Saw Her Standing There and closed it with the Golden Slumbers medley/The End. In the middle I’ve ordered it by album, tried to mix it into what will be an entertaining and varied listen, and kept the focus on McCartney while also incorporating Lennon and Harrison for comparison, contrast and context. (The gig will also be less than a week after George’s 10th anniversary, and so I would imagine a tribute will be on the agenda.)
I’m an editor by trade, and I enjoy the challenge of maintaining the essence of a work while making big cuts. However, no matter how much I shift this around, I feel like it doesn’t represent the band.
Suggestions?
My subconscious tells me I’m awake too late by implanting this song into my brain.
I keep remembering that we’re going to the Euros, and smiling.
When I wake in the morning, I’m going to conclude that it was a dream. What else would be natural? Ten years, four missed tournaments, learning to accept that the summer buzz is not something we involve ourselves in.
But no. We’re going. And so, summer 2012 is going to be unforgettable, etched in the minds of sports fans and apathetics alike. Shop windows will be painted green, flags will hang outside houses, TV ads will become more one-tracked than they do even at Christmas and people who normally think that “in the net” means “online” will, temporarily, become wizened sages of the beautiful game.
In the meantime, we can talk and anticipate. We can imagine the amazing, harking back to the Greek success story of ‘04; we can manage our expectations by fearing the worst; and we can plan at least three top-notch summer evenings.
But most important is this: each one of our tournaments spawned one moment that would eclipse everything else. The one that would become a staple “Where were you when…?” question in the specialised field of Irish conversation.
Houghton in ‘88, Bonner in ‘90, Houghton again in ‘94 and Keane in ‘02. Close your eyes and think of them; you’ve seen them so many times that you don’t even need YouTube, and heard them so many times that George Hamilton’s voice, his words and his timing are all synced perfectly with your mental image.
Soon, we’re going to find out what the next one will be.
I keep remembering that we’re going to the Euros, and smiling.
Some photos just cry out for it.
