I’m feeling mental…Senti-mental

sixfeet

Last Christmas. Good times

As we await the end of the world, at least there’s still this. When I’m sitting in my dinner on Chrimblas Day, ready to stab a sibling with a wishbone and carefully keeping an eye on the volume of alco-liquid that will get me to bedtime, I will be humming ‘Fairytale of New York’ in my head. Best watched/listened to alone as adding one other person makes it feel like some kind of formal Irlanda ‘salute the flag’ event. If heard in a pub, it provokes a selfish reaction as you scowl at some pissed-up tit in a Chrimblas jumper, wanting to tell him, “I remember when this came out you little prick. You probably think the Killers are legends. Go to Arnotts for your Chrimblas music you dick.”

Anyways, It’s about the only thing worth looking forward to at Christmas. Everything else disappoints, except functional alcoholism. In this awkward time when people are worried about ‘other’ people saying Happy Holidays, taking the Christmas out of Christmas, worrying about a war on Christmas, just remember one thing: nobody is actually doing that. If someone says Happy Holidays to you, you can say Happy Christmas to them. They don’t care. Nobody cares. Muslims don’t care. Buddists don’t care. Evangelical Ewoks don’t care. Scientologists don’t care because they want your Pass Card. I don’t care.

There is no God. No evidence of its existence. No evidence that it doesn’t exist. No one knows. Nobody actually knows. So, if someone says Happy Christmas to you, you’ll probably go Happy Christmas back, despite you both dropping your religious education aged 12 and only go to a church for a wedding or a funeral. You say ‘bless you’ when someone sneezes. That embarrassed person usually mutters ‘thanks’ through soaking hands. They don’t actually think that your ‘bless you’ means that you are an ordained priest or are a dark wizard with healing powers. Fuck that and fuck you. Giving me a cold I don’t fucking want.

I once heard Ronan Keating singing this song. He won’t be doing that again.stretch-macgibbonxmas

trip-eee

That auld shite

Was watching the useless Ladder 49 and it got me all Irish-American and made me feel all Irlandish an shit (like all those movies make me), so I thought I must post this piece of beauty, which when I play it does not sound as good, hence my obscurity.

Murder on Raglan Road

Stretchmarking the universe with mummylicious bubbles!

I remember as a young Stretch hearing “Raglan Road” performed by one of my cousins at some party back

The future, yeah? my hole

The future, yeah? my hole

in the way-back-when. Too young to be involved, and too terrified of old weird gummy relations shoving money into my pockets expectantly, I hovered around the music observing the ways of the sing-song. Of all the amazing music from these sessions, the renditions of “A Long Way from Clare to Here” and “Raglan Road” have always kinda haunted me. At this time I had just heard Led Zeppellin IV, so I had to readjust my mind to this old style religion.

Years later, after arse-ripping experiences such as WASP’s “I Wanna Be Somebody” and Motley Crue’s “Talk Dirty to Me” I first heard Luke Kelly’s version of “Raglan Road.” It was a revelation. At that time the youths I knew were split into disparate groups, with a code of one-type-of-music-only-please. Cure heads, rockers, punks, mods, goths, big-fisted country Smoky fans, pantsuit-wearing new romantics:  a melting pot with some of the most obnoxious ingredients. I realised that in a small way, I could listen to other types of music like trad, country, death metal, Stooges, bluegrass, cajun, and still feel that because of my Anthrax t-shirt that I was still part of one of the individual food groups.

It meant that I could take a slagging for listening to Boxcar Willie or Louis Armstrong (pre-advertisements days), with the knowledge that later on in life, I would listen to whatever I want without feeling uncool or sumthin. I didn’t remove my fingerless gloves or tie-dye t-shirts or cut-off t-shirts and decide that I’m a grown up now: Where’s my copy of  A Rush of Blood to the Head?etc In reality, I pretty much dress the same now as I did when I was an eleven year old Stretch. What I’m trying to say is, Yeah, I’m fucking great and better than you!

Luke Kelly defined that song to the extent that I cringe mercilessly when I hear other versions of it, which is fine when I’m watching on TV or sniggering at the radio, but when someone sings it at a party, my stomach lurches and my blood pressure goes up from trying to stay stony-faced as other people nod. The weird thing about it is that anytime I hear anyone sing “The Auld Triangle” I love it. (Check out the Pogues version).  The effect just isn’t the same.

To illustrate my point I will cause whoever bothers to read my mlog to watch some examples of the atrocities committed, sometimes well-meaningly, on this great song. At the end, Luke Kelly will do for you what he did for me, back when I was as small as baboon’s testicle.

nothing like talking slowly and being earnest to make me vomit until the morning star holds my hair back and says, “will I make you a piece of toast?”

Phil Coulter, Ireland’s first soft-porn star forces Mary Black to sing outside in the freezin cold, in a trench coat so large that she became embroiled in the Watergate scandal with no mention of cocaine whatsoever. Oh no

Irlandia’s self proclamed King of the Travellers eats my vomit then vomits it all over me. Oh the lack of dignity is shockin (fake Dubalin accent). Nice guitar tho, but shut up ya bollocks. I’d say Satan was the one doing the kneeling on this occasion.

hahahahahahahahhahahahaha…pirates…murder

see, you can’t actually kill Damien Dempsey, it would be too ironic and you’d only annoy yourself. Beheading the prick and stuffing a rag in his mouth might work though.

anyway here’s the original and y’know….

Still can’t find Motley Crue’s version