Here's to Arthur

 In previous columns I’ve mentioned how I have found myself in obscure places all in the name of journalism.

From the Glenshane pass in 3ft of snow to a flooded Fermanagh in 5ft of water.But every now and then I get to go somewhere that’s not quite so random and last week I hot footed it to a pub in Dublin for the launch of Arthur’s day 2011.

The big day itself takes place on the 22nd September at 17.59 in Limerick, Dublin and this year for the first time in Belfast. And the lovely people at Guinness invited me to Whelan’s bar right in the centre of Dublin for the official launch and of course a wee sample of the ‘black stuff’.

Our visit was sound tracked with some top music acts including local band Cashier No 9 who went down as smoothly as the pints. Alloe ‘I need a dollar’ Blacc also took to the stage. Accompanied only by an acoustic guitar the man behind this summers most popular song oozed coolness and his voice was unreal. And I was delighted to find that when I interviewed him after he was as down to earth and cool as I had hoped. 

Unfazed by the horde of fast talking reporters he answered everyone’s question, laughed at my 'allo 'allo 'allo introduction and at my suggestion that he should capitalise on the songs success and release a follow up called ‘I need a coffee’, or ‘I need a Bentley’. We decided that he could even release an album listing all the things he needs and he would be sorted for life.

But undoubtedly the lady of the hour was Paloma Faith. I am a big fan of the flame haired soul voiced one and had to give myself a stern talking to on the journey to Dublin that I wouldn’t get star struck and laugh like a bashful teenager at everything she said.

It was important to be able to probe her on the pressing issues like where she got her shoes (turns out it was New Look, sisters keeping it real) and who she would most like to duet with (Paolo Nutini, because she fancies him)

The ‘Upside Down’ starlet arrived in a fetching flower jumpsuit with white and pink lily corsage in her hair. Tinier in real life but just as striking, she posed for photos outside the bar shouting ‘happy Guinness drinking’ to all and sundry before donning a floor length silver gown for her performance which was flawless and prompted my decision that we should become best friends.

That assertion was cemented, I believe, when on finishing her performance Paloma made a wrong turn coming off the stage and I found myself steadying her from falling over. I reckoned that more or less qualified as saving her life and decided that her eternal friendship and access to her wardrobe would make us even.

As we waited to interview her, a reporter turned to me and said I hope she’s not a big diva but I on the other hand hoped she would be. I wanted her to make unrealistic demands and only answer questions through the medium of dance or have a reporter removed from the room because he looked her directly in the eye. Alas there was no such tomfoolery because she was lovely and I’ll get to see my BFF this September for the big day itself. To Arthur!

What a Muppet!

  

A politician in the South faced a grilling last week over comments he made about a colleague not realising his microphone was on.

Wexford TD Mick Wallace and fellow political pals were gossiping in the Dail about Fine Gael colleague Mary Mitchell O Connor when he referred to her as Miss Piggy. The Swine.

Unbeknown to him a nearby microphone picked up the comments which went a little something like this, Wallace: ‘Miss Piggy has toned it down today?’ Flanagan: ‘They’d want to ban her wearing pink.

It wasn’t just the mics that picked up ‘piggygate’, just about every paper south of the border mentioned it and O Connor who interestingly has a penchant for wearing pink shirts and has a mane of blonde curls had to apologise.

He said he passed the comment because of the lady in questions handbag and that he was very sorry for the offence caused.

Ms Mitchell O Connor said she was hurt and upset but was over it. Part of me had hoped she’d reply with an acid laced Miss Piggy quote ‘You dare to offend moi? Kermy is slitting your tyres as we speak!

Perhaps they could make peace over a game of back gammon or Wallace could go the whole hog and buy her a box of truffles?

But it’s certainly not the first time someone’s been caught out by a pesky mic. A high profile gaffe was former PM Gordon Brown describing an exchange he had with a female voter in Rochdale as a disaster calling her a bigoted woman.

He was then forced to back peddle furiously even visiting her house to apologise, but arguably the damage was done and the next day front pages were splashed with the story.

Even the Royal family have been caught out. During a photocall in 2005 Prince Charles was heard muttering -"These bloody people. I can't bear that man. I mean, he's so awful, he really is''-about the BBC’s royal correspondent Nicholas Witchell...Ouch!

But we reporter types are not immune to the odd on air slip up. During a speech by former vice presidential candidate Sara Palin reporters, unaware they were on air, branded her the dumbest of the dumb and compared her speech to that of a seventh grader.

Even Alistair Campbell couldn’t spin that into some sort of compliment, ‘No no we said fun’est of the fun’ then again she might well have   believed them, after all the woman claimed she had foreign policy experience because she could see Russia from her house.

Yoga to be kidding me

I gained a valuable life lesson this week and that is anything with the word ‘extreme’ in front of it is never a good idea.

Unfortunately this pearl of wisdom came to me not through a book or by listening to the enlightened words of a spiritual guru, no, as with many things, I realised I shouldn’t do it, after I did it.

I decided I’d give Yoga a go. I thought I’d play the head and partake in this ancient form of exercise in my living room via a dvd. So on the ball was I, I thought I'd get the inside scope on the basics so that when I did go to a class, in public, with other people who were incredibly bendy and had their own yoga mat and homemade wheatgrass I wouldn’t look as much of a fool.

So dvd purchased, sofa pushed back I pressed play, fully expecting to be largely sitting crossed legged and humming. I now realise I expected to be meditating not stretching every muscle to snapping point.

It was ok to start with, although I should've known the suspiciously bronzed, immensely muscled instructor and is team of Sports Illustrated model friends did not look the way they looked by simply standing on their tippy toes and pointing their hands to the sky. 

Ten minutes in and it dawned on me this was not beginner yoga, this was extreme, tear inducing, wrap your leg behind your left ear and balance on your right hand agony.

Of course I couldn’t do any of this but I’m a competitive being and wasn’t about to let Mucles Mc Torture man get the better of me. I did the warrior one two and hellish three and dozens of other shapes that would make a contortionist go, jeez that’s awkward.

I did everything but spin my head 360 like that girl from the Exorcist, but after forty five minutes I pretty much looked like her and had the bad temper to match.

Needless to say I did not feel at one with body and mind and for the next three days I felt like I had been kicked, repeatedly, by Mc Torture and his gang.

 When I regaled folk of my yoga no no and cast aspersions on anything extreme someone mentioned extreme ironing.

According to the official website, extreme ironing is "the latest danger sport that combines the thrills of an extreme outdoor activity with the satisfaction of a well-pressed shirt". 

Apparently some (people with too much time on their hands) have ironed on a cliff, in a canoe; while snowboarding; in the middle of the M1 Motorway and whilst parachuting.

While I could be forgiven for being a tad over ambitious about my stretching ability when I think of these extreme ironers a yoga term suddenly springs to mind ‘planks’

If its not broke don’t fix it!

There are some things that are perfectly ok to dust off and use again.  Whether its a 1970’s fur coat, faux of course, found at the back of a vintage store, or an old t-shirt you’ve had since Uni, not because it is retro chic, but simply because it still fits and you’re delighted.

But some things are better left untouched, fondly remembered and reveered with respect, those things include classic films.

It seems there’s a new remake or ‘adaptation’ in the cinema every week. Chaps named Zack or AJ, fresh out of moviemaking school, who on their directorial debut decide to breathe new life into and give a post modern interpretation of a classic or in lay mans terms destroy everything that was good about it.

For some, remakes simply enhance films that back in the day effects just couldn’t do justice to. But I think the age of 3D HD blue screen effects and the addition of whiter teeth, bigger muscles and longer legs, is a case of style over substance.

When I heard the ‘Karate Kid' was to be remade I winced, for that is a cult kid classic.

Mr Miyjagi could do anything, teach trophy winning finishing moves, fix any injury and beat up a crowd of high school jocks, despite only being four foot three and a hundred and ten.

‘Karate Kid 2’ however was unnecessary and ‘The Next Karate Kid? Hilary Swank maybe a million dollar baby now but back in the early nineties she was an angst ridden high school loner who dragged Mr Miyjagi away from tending his Bonsai tree to teach her how to dance for the highschool prom, whatever would Danielson say?

Some sequels are good though, Godfather 2, yes, Sex and the City 2, a resounding no.

As bad remakes go Alfie pretty much tops my list. Michael Caine’s cheeky chappy yet still charming character in my armchair critic opinion outclassed Jude Law’s cocky pink shirted cad.

Director Tim Burton is a fan of the remake and I am a fan of Tim Burton but, the original Charlie and the Chocolate factory was far better than his version.

Burton also took on cult classic ‘Planet of the Apes’ Hmmm if only there was a way to type the tumbleweed effect.

I will also be avoiding ‘The rise of the planet of the apes’ it’s not a remake its just I haven’t been able to look at any type of monkey type creature since I read the story of a woman who had her entire face ripped off by a neighbours pet chimpanzee. Firstly who has a pet chimp? Secondly what on earth did she say to it?

Some remakes work well, but I’m struggling to think of a single one. Zilch, zero, nada. Maybe its because I actually know nothing about good films and should stick to the day job or perhaps its more to do with the neighbours blasting Atomic Kittens take on ‘The tide is high’ Cover versions? Don’t even get me started on those.

Anyone for Tennis?

I’m currently engrossed in all things Wimbledon. It’s my totes fave sporting event. Maybe it’s because as a child it was always a sign that the summer holidays were just around the corner or perhaps it’s because I have convinced myself that if I watch sport by some sort of televisual osmosis I too will become as fit as those racing across the baseline.

This year is no exception, whether it’s the wardrobes of the powerhouse pair the Williams sisters, the inevitable down pour of rain which prompts the frenzied sprint to covered the pristine court or the drama when a 135 mile an hour serve collides with a hunched over official at the back of the court…ouch.

The Pimms, the strawberries and cream, the white clothes only rule, the american spectator asleep behind his tennis ball shaped sunglasses, I thirty love it all.

The standard at this year’s tournament is unreal, top class athletes competing in gruelling 5 hours games fuelled only by a banana and weirdly coloured energy drink.

But, some argue the real characters of tennis have been and gone. Andre Agassi and his remarkable permed mullet for one. Perhaps even more remarkable is that the long lion mane hairstyle he sported in the early nineties was in fact a wig!

 The Wimbledon champ admitted the toupee faux pas in his autobiography a few years ago. Now, I’m all for men stepping up and taking on the balding battle but surely he could have opted for a short back and sides rather than a bon jovi-esque bouffant barnet.

One of Tennis’ most memorable characters is John Mc Enroe, like him or loathe him he was entertaining. The site of his white man afro, held in place by a groovy head band, furiously waving his racket at the umpire shouting his now trademark ‘you cannot be serious’ was top class.

The baseline disputes too have been confined to the history books with the introduction of Hawkeye, the digital camera that captures a shot deeming whether its in or out, but the odd time we see a hacked off player back chatting the umpire as he sits unflappable in his highchair.

Ireland has never really featured in the tournament but this year Conor Niland hoped to change all that. However the Irish man, ranked 184 in the world, lost his first round game. But I wouldn’t discount him just yet; for as a junior he beat 6 times champ Roger Federer, not an easy feat.

Although the English do better, they never, despite the hopes of a nation, can go the whole hog. Nevertheless each and every year thousands flock to ‘Henman Hill, ‘Rusedski (I’m really Canadian) Ridge’ or as it’s been named this time ‘Murray Mound’ in the hope that this will be the year that their man can win.

Hopes are high that Andy Murray will seal the deal. He is able to floor opponents on courts around the world but has yet to reign supreme at Wimbledon.

While I admire his prowess, he’s hardly the mostly charismatic of sports stars. A post match press conference would be more exhilarating if it was taken buy his sweaty wristband.

Nevertheless I’ll remain transfixed with all things tennis based until its game set match.

When Computer Says No

I often view the internet as a useful, nay, vital tool in my day to day job.

Like Turner and Hootch, Cagney and Lacey and Lois and Clark the internet and I, despite the odd hissy fit, work well together and get the job done.

Access to broadband is up there with coffee and the ability to translate the double dutch scrawling of less than perfect shorthand, scribbled down at lightening speed, outside a courthouse, in the rain.

So imagine the blind panic that ensued when the world wide web decided to down tools for a brief yet earth shattering time mid way through a busy news day last week.

Reaction to ‘computersaysnogate’ was varied. Some maintained perspective and observed that in the grand scheme of things all was not lost, hippies! Others, mid way through writing a story on an online programme, were less than impressed and brandished a stapler with intent to cause an internet router grievous bodily harm.

At this juncture it has to be noted that the internet outage only lasted thirteen minutes before we were back on line. But during that seven hundred and eighty seconds, yes I did the math’s, well there was no internet, what else could I do, it gave an insight into life without the world at our finger tips.

While one can still do the job without it, reading the news on air goes largely unaffected, the the ability to provide an update on a fast moving story on our website is nigh on impossible.

It got me thinking about the days when reporters led a internet-less existence. Images of a 'jack the hack’ type character wearing a tribly with the press card slotted into the brim, who meets his sources beneath a bridge of noisy traffic, who has the down low on the 5.0 and the latest on the crime boss who has the boys take care of business while he goes to dinner with his broad immediately sprung to mind... or maybe I just watch too many old school mafia films.

Nevertheless it made me appreciate the skill of old school reporters, the art of networking and making contacts and the trust they built up with their subjects. And despite the leaps in digital technology a lot of that has largely remained.

Yes, news may now be presented through different mediums to meet the needs of people in their busy lives but the nature of getting a good story has largely remained unchanged.        

While we may now record interviews on our digital dictaphones, upload them on to news station webpagse and compress stories into 140 characters,the core elements are still there.

With that in mind I'm off  to get my head measured for a Trilby, well, one has to look the part.