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June 22, 2005

LIAM'S MAILBAG: Questions Finally Answered!

Since this column started I’ve been receiving all sorts of questions from the good Nationalist readers. My schedule doesn’t allow for much else apart from the kind of lazing dreamers do but with the arrival of some gentle sunshine last week I took the time out to read through some of your e-mails. Q. How do you go about writing your column every week? Daniel in Sallins. A. That’s a good question, Daniel. I write the column every Sunday night. Imagine, if you will, a old noir film. Imagine a room that wouldn’t seem out of place in a hard-boiled detective story. A cluttered desk beside a tall file cabinet. In the centre of that room is an oversized desk on which sits a big clunky typewriter. That’s the desk I sit at. I’m wearing a creased pin stripe shirt with an open collar and a black tie hanging around it. I’m smoking Lucky Strikes. Every time my fingers strike the letter keys they make a sound not un-similar to the sound of a magnum gun shot. It’s 2am. That, Daniel, is how I go about writing the column. It’s a wonderful experience. Q. Liam, what’s your favourite Hueston Station announcement? Lillian in Kildare. A. That’s quite a tough question as I have so many favourites. The “We’re implementing the Smoking Ban soon” announcement still makes me smile although I do like it when they announce things like “the train approaching platform three is on schedule.”

Q. You reference books quite a lot in your column but what’s your favourite book? Martin in Naas. A. The Little Prince by Antoine De Saint-Exupéry is easily one of the finest books I have ever read. Translations of it differ greatly but I like the one by Katherine Woods. It is a book I’ve always read in one sitting which in a sense is required of this beautiful parable. As the author says, “I do not want anyone to read my book carelessly. I have suffered too much grief in setting down these memories.” When I was in France years ago, when they still used Francs, the Little Prince lived on the back of the five franc note. Q. Is Paul Winters really as bad a driver as you make him out to be? Claire in Athy. A. Claire, if anything I tone down Winters’ bad driving so that the Guards don’t take him off the road. You might also be interested to know that he’s working on a production called “Traffic Jam: The Musical.” No kidding.

Q. Who’s the weirdest person you’ve ever met while commuting? Danny in Nurney. A. Anyone who commutes will know that weirdoes prefer to use public transport than drive, a fact that’s mildly depressing. In any case, there’s an old man who I regularly bump into on the number 90 into town whose not so much weird as he is odd. Usually I hate getting stuck with sitting beside odd people who insist in talking to you but this old man is different. The stories he comes out with are fantastic. For example, “Buck Whaley was an extremely wealthy gambler who lived in Dublin in the seventeen hundreds. Due to inheritances, he had an income of seven thousand pounds per year (not far off seven million a year at today’s prices). He lived in a huge house near Stephen’s Green which is now the Catholic University of Ireland. He went broke and he had to leave Ireland due to gambling debts. He swore he’d be buried on Irish soil but is in fact buried in the Isle of Man in a shipload of Irish soil which he imported for the purpose.” Every time I meet him he comes out with these tales. “The original name of Trinity College was “Trinity College Near Dublin.” The capital was a lot smaller then.” and “The Burke Brothers were Dublin’s 1960’s equivalent of the Kray twins. They weren't actually brothers but second cousins.” I have no idea who he is but I like to think he’s a failed Dublin historian who got fired after making up his own history.

Q. Liam, what would you most like to have in the world? Isabel in Kilcullen. A. A bouquet of sharpened pencils. Please continue to send your questions and comments to liam@liamgeraghty.com or send a bouquet of sharpened pencils to Liam Geraghty, Kildare Nationalist, Edward St., Newbridge, Co. Kildare, Ireland

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (pg.6)

Posted by LiamG at 11:13 PM

June 11, 2005

Kids These Days

Kids these days. They think they have it made. DVD’s, iPOD’s and Barney. In my day it was videotapes, Walkman and Sesame Street. I was an early eighties child in a simpler time. Back then we played Nintendo. We were happy with 8-bits. Blissfully lost in playing Super Mario for hours because if Bowser caught you back then, you’d have to start the whole game over again. Not like nowadays. Nowadays the kids can save their progress in a game. Sure that’s practically cheating. We had none of that back in ’83. You’d sit on the floor; two inches away from the TV set and battle the forces of evil until your hands bled from the rectangular joypad. We didn’t have curves back then.

Then there were the trees. You don’t get trees like we had em’ back then. By God, I could climb a tree like a monkey and still have no regard for the health and safety regulations from the Ministry of Tree Climbing. We’d build our own tree houses out of some old wooden planks and a few rusty nails. Nowadays they have interior tree designers who’ll give you a quote based on the size and type of tree you have in your garden. I mean, honestly. How are they ever going to be ready to face the big bad world if they’ve never even fallen out of a tree? That’s an integral part of every childhood.

And then there’s the skateboards. Way back when, we only used skateboards to sit on while someone pushed you down the road. We didn’t have any fancy stunts or tricks to show off. The best way of showing off on a skateboard back then was doing a Hollywood style leap off the thing before you went head long into an oncoming car. We didn’t even know there were people in the world that made a living out of it. Back then MTV showed music videos. It wasn’t the Jackass/Viva la Bam skater show marathons that we see now. Don’t even get me started on the clothes. Kids these days are too bloody fashionable. Back in my day, you’d be happy just to have a pair of LA Gear let alone a whole wardrobe of expensive clothes. St. Bernard was the brand back then. Try telling that to kids these days. They want to look identical to they’re favourite singer. It’s all about celebrity these days. Weren’t always like that you know. Back in my day, the closest to a celebrity we had was Ray D’arcy and you sure as Hell didn’t want his wardrobe.

Didn’t have mobile phones back then either and anyone that did had to carry a generator the size of a small goat around with them just to keep the battery going. These days every kid has to have the latest picture phone to text each other with. Back in my day, we had alternative communication methods. Two soup tins with a piece of twine connecting them so you could have a conversation with your friend around the corner. We had good old-fashioned lemon juice. You could write a message with it that would be invisible until you put in the oven for a few minutes. Then there’s the Internet. We didn’t have the information-super-highway back then. In those days if you were going to be kidnapped it was going to be by a man in a car offering you sweets not online in a chat-room. The Internet, indeed. Windows 95 was the thing to have back then. My entire childhood soundtrack was in mono. Try telling that to kids these days. We didn’t have time to be fashion conscious or surf the Net. We were too busy falling out of trees.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 10:51 PM

DUBLIN

The bridges are great, the streets are great but most of all it’s the people who make Dublin city great. So let’s spend one short day with them. 9.15am O’Connell Street, A middle aged man shouts over to elderly woman on the street. “How’s it going there, Dolores? Keeping well?” She shouts back loudly, “Sound as a euro, Pat, sound as a euro.” 11.55pm, Roddy Boland’s Bar in Rathmines, a group of Italian guys (tourists) are trying to chat up two Irish girls and aren’t getting very far. One of the lads is in the middle of a poetic speech about one of the girls and her “beautiful pale skin”. “In my country,” he says, “you would be a princess.” She glares at him. “And in my country, you’d work in a chipper,” and with that she walks off. 2.30pm, Parnell Street, A flustered D4 woman is runs up the path and hops onto the bus just before it takes off. “What number bus is this?” she enquires. “It’s a forty,” says the Dublin driver, “It says so on the front.” She looks confused. “Yes, but it says 40a on the side and 40c on the back.” “Well I’m not going sideways or backwards,” says the driver.

6.43pm Dublin Airport Arrivals, A young man in a pale blue shirt has just arrived in the country and is furiously looking for the toilet. He runs around the arrivals hall until he spots it. He runs in only to find a queue. The disabled toilet is free and he can’t wait any longer. When he comes out he’s met by the scowl of an old man still waiting in the queue for the regular toilet. “Jaysus,” he says, “It’s a bleeding miracle!” 12.24pm, The 51b bus in traffic, A seven year old kid is talking to his mother about her choice of Holy Communion suit colours. “I don't want cream, Ma. Cream is for girls. Girls are gay. I'm not gay. I want black. Black is deadly.” 4.53pm, Ballyfermott, Two Dubs in tracksuits are walking through the park. “Let’s go into town,” says Mark. “I have to go to the post office first,” says Gav. “We’ll go to the GPO.” “Is there a post office there?” 9.02am, the 90 bus, two girls from Wexford are sitting on the top deck of the bus. They’re passing by the Four Courts when one exclaims, “Look Susan, it’s the GPO!”

7.49pm, the number 122, Two young girls are sitting at the very back of the bus with a five year old. “Darren who’s yer Da?” one of them asks. “Go on Darren tell us what’s yer Da’s name?” The boy mumbles “Mark,” to which one of them roars back, “"No ya big ejit, your other Da!” 8.16pm, the back of a cab headed for Hueston Station, a content columnist is looking out at the quays as they fly by and then to the beautiful red sky. “Red sky at night…,” he says out loud. “…Tallaght’s on fire,“ intercepts the cab driver.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 01:46 AM

The A-Z of Commuting

The A-Z of Commuting.

A is for annoyed commuter. They can be found at any station, platform or bus queue continually tutting and saying things like “this is ridiculous, isn’t it?” in the hopes that the person standing beside them will concur. Tip: Never concur. You’ll only find yourself in a moaning conversation about Irish Rail for the next forty minutes of your journey with a complete stranger. B is for buses. Slightly more pleasant than trains but considerably less comfortable than LUAS trams. C is for caught, as in “This ticket is from last week. You‘re not getting on the train.” Lying is always the best policy when caught. “Oh my God, really? This is so embarrassing. But listen I’m in a real hurry today would it be ok if I got on and I’ll (cough, cough) buy a ticket on the train?” At this point bring out the Bambi eyes. D is for driver. It’s hard to tell which variety of driver is the best. LUAS drivers frequently honk at oncoming cars. Bus drivers are strict on tickets but are friendly enough. Train drivers constantly make incomprehensible announcements that sound like a Dublin Dalek. E is for eternally late - as in trains.

F is for “f**k sake!” The cry of a commuter whose just learned that he’ll be spending next two hours in Heuston Station. G is for gasping for air. Expect this to happen when the Arrow is at twice the legal capacity and the people beside the windows opt not to open them. H is for hungry. Why is it that when you’re dying for a something to eat on the train there’s always a guy sitting across from you whose brought a bloody packed lunch and a Mars bar. I is for iceberg. Those station announcers will try any excuse as to why your train is late. J is for jostle. When you’ve got a hundred stressed commuters who’ve been working in an office all day expect to be elbowed, shoved and manhandled in the fight for a seat on the Arrow. Take no prisoners. K is for kumquat ***noun*** 1. A small spiny evergreen citrus shrub or tree, native to China. 2 The small round orange citrus fruit produced by this plant, resembling a miniature orange. L is for Liam Geraghty, commuter extraordinaire.

M is for morning madness. Getting the earliest possible train from Newbridge - the 6.50am. It’s technically the middle of the night if you can still see stars in the sky. N is for newspapers. Opening up your enormous broadsheet paper to it’s full size is wrong. It’s bad enough that you read the financial times without you shoving it in front of my face too. O is for Orwellian. George was right, it’s not 1984 but they’ve even got cameras on our trains and buses. P is for pedestrian. Once you’ve survived the bus into town it’s time to brave the streets of Dublin. Expect cyclists, druggies and enthusiastic charity workers. Q is for queue. Although bus queues are more like swarming around at the door rather than a civilised straight line.

R is for reggae. You’ve got an iPOD and hence think you’ve better taste in music than the rest of us so why are you listening to reggae. For crying out loud, turn it down. The earphones are in your ears. It doesn’t need to be up full volume. S is for shouting into your phone. Now the whole carriage knows what your having for dinner. T is for taxi. There’s nothing better than strolling across from the number 90 bus stop and hoping into a taxi when everyone else is standing out in the rain. U is for U-turn. It’s an infrequent oddity but an oddity all the same. Your bus driver is lost and has taken a wrong turn. And no, he wasn’t a foreigner. He was a Dub. V is for vacant. If it’s unoccupied why is the train toilet always locked? W is for weather. Always rains when you forget you’re umbrella. X is for xenophobia. If you are one, you won’t like commuting. Y is for Yugoslavia. You’ve gotten on the wrong train. Z is for zombies, i.e. early morning commuters.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 01:44 AM

Indie Yuppie Bastards

In all my three years of commuting to Dublin one major noticeable arrival in commuter-types stands out the most. The frequently crammed and often sticky carriages of Irish Rail have always been lined with civil servants, students, day-trippers, pensioners, business people, mitchers and so forth. But rarely does a new breed launch itself onto the platforms so casually as the Indie-Yuppie. The bastard cousin of the 1984 yuppie is here. He’s in Ireland, he’s on our trains and he’s got an iPod. Defining an Indie-Yuppie is a hard thing to do largely because most twentysomethings can now be categorised as one. It’s the look, it’s the opinions, it’s the music. Music is paramount to an Indie-Yuppie. Mainly because they believe their tastes in music to be superior to everyone else’s. They like INTERPOL. They like WILCO. They like The Killers and all bands beginning with “The”. And then when the band they liked and knew of for a “couple of years” before everyone else gets played on mainstream radio they immediately remove it from their iPod listings. But here lies the crux.

The Indie-Yuppie is such a wide spread being that the individuality in tastes that they claim to have, become mainstream. They’ve come from all labels of society - from hipsters to musicians and from students to Yippies (Young Irish professionals). Spotting one is easy. When you’re in Heuston Station look around you. He’s the guy in SuperMacs with the distinct white ear phones of an iPod dangling around his neck. She’s the girl sitting outside Eason’s reading EMPIRE. It’s the two of them sitting at the JusJuice Bar drinking smoothies. As mentioned several times thus far an iPod is the pier-de-résistance for an Indie-Yuppie. To them it’s a means to listen to Talking Heads but more importantly it’s a fashion accessory. Fashion plays an important role with the Indie-Yuppie. If their not wearing their iPod on the train you can spot them by their retro cartoon t-shirt.

At 7am in Newbridge Train Station don’t be fooled by someone who looks like they just rolled out of bed but still looks cool. It’s a look. Indie-Yuppies get out of bed, have breakfast and then head to the bathroom where’ll they attempt to give themselves that “just-out-of-bed” look. In fact you could be an Indie-Yuppie already. You might be one if you believe that the bigger the gig, the better the band are. On the other hand, you might be an Indie-Yuppie if you're the only one in the audience. You might be one if you think Napoleon Dynamite should have won Best Picture of the Year at the Oscars and Zach Braff should have got Best Director. If you’ve set salon.com as your default Internet homepage. Wait just a minute. At this point the sinking, sudden feeling of a dawning realisation pushes down my stomach. I have copies of the New York Press scattered on the floor. I ironically own a pair of Converse shoes now owned by Nike. Eighty per cent of my DVD collection is made up of Hitchcock and Asian movies. I put little cocktail umbrellas into my coke glass whilst doing lunch. I have a blog. Oh my God. OH MY GOD!

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 01:43 AM

A Long Time Ago, In A Galaxy Far, Far Away . . .

Ok, so I promised I’d never mention Star Wars again after I wrote a whole column about the release of the original trilogy onto DVD. I lied. As you no doubt will have guessed by Darth Vader appearing on the front of your Corn Flakes, Chewbacca selling you Pringles and Yoda drinking diet-Pepsi - Star Wars is back. And for the very last time too. The final instalment of George Lucas’ epic space saga is filling cinemas all over the world as you read this. But let me take you back to last week. Back when there was still a week to the official release of the film. Back when die-hard fans begun camping out side cinemas across America. Back when yours truly went to the top secret press screening.

I was told through the grapevine that the first ever screening of Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith in Ireland had took place on Saturday morning in front of an 800 strong audience dressed up in robes and yielding toy light sabres. How had this slipped by me? Now I’ll have to wait another week to see the film that I’ve waited ten years to see. Arghhh! Yet in these situations coincidence and luck are always good signs. Word came through of a second secret press screening being held secretly in the Savoy Cinema on O’Connell St. at 10.30am on Monday morning. This was my one chance. I had to get into the screening for the good of mankind. So come Monday morning I’ve managed to struggle out of bed at the ungodly hour of seven am. I’m taking all precautions to ensure I’m not late for my train as would usually be the case. I practically run all the way to the station and when I get there who should I meet but Al. He has an inkling as to where I might be going. “Star Wars,” I say. “Isn’t everyone here going to see Star Wars?” Apparently not but Al was at least.

After the train journey and the dash through the building site that is now Heuston Station we hop aboard the faithful number 90. Along the way we concoct various lies to tell the doorman when we get there. Lines such as “I’m from the Times, don’t you recognize me?” or the best being “I’m from Twentieth Century Fox - I produced this damn film!” When we arrive though it doesn’t appear that were going to have to blag our way in at all. All but one of the main doors to the Savoy are locked. We proceed in. So far so good. Over at the entrance to screen number one there are two gigantic guerrilla bouncers in suits. And let me tell you they cause me some alarm. I didn’t come this far to be thwarted right at the entrance. I try and figure out what the bouncers are doing exactly. They’re definitely stopping people. For a horrifying moment it looks as if their asking to see people’s tickets but it turns out they’re merely searching people’s bags. This is it, I thought. Now or never. My destiny lies beyond them and too it I must go.

I stroll casually over to them trying my utmost to look like a stuck-up film critic as most film critics invariably are. The bigger of the two stares down at me. “Here to see the film?” he says. I try to remain calm. Don’t do anything to screw this up, just answer him. “Eh . . .yes. Yes I am.” He nods. “Can you open your bag for me?” Now for readers who are wondering the reason for this question, it’s because Star Wars isn’t due for release for another week and if I had a video camera concealed in my bag I could theoretically pirate the film to DVD within a day. Their not taking any chances. I oblige and open my bag. A few books and a notepad. Nothing incriminating. “Ok,” he says, “and can I have a look at your phone?” I hand it over to him. Again he’s checking to see if it’s one of those fancy video recording phones. Thankfully I have a boring old model. “Thank you, sir. Go right in.”

At this point a beam of light shone down upon the entrance to screen one and a choir of angels burst into a joyous rendition of “Hallelujah”. I hurried in and jumped into the first seat I can find. Already there’s around a hundred people here. All journalists and the like. Francis, the presenter of The Den comes in and sits in front of me. This is quite possibly going to be the coolest thing ever. The lights dim. The velvet red curtain pulls to the side and the most famous cinematic words fade up on the screen. “A long time ago, in a galaxy, far, far away . . .”

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 01:41 AM

The Saddest Starfish The World Has Ever Known

“The Sea is a very big place.” A famous oceanographer once said that. He was right too. Myself and Winters decided that we needed to see the Sea immediately. Spending too much time in Kildare can turn you into a regular land lubber, as an old pirate mate of mine use to say. So off we go in what has now become famously known as the GW (Geraghty and Winters) Mobile. In other words “that little red Ford Fiesta swerving all over the road.” Our expedition begins on the motorway. This is an immediate cause for concern to me as I’ve never taken a drive with Paul where the law actually commanded him to drive faster. Motorways are like that though. Also a worry is that Paul has a thing about trucks - mainly that they’re big and scary. This in turn scares me as the motorway is full of them. The GW Mobile is without radio. Literally where there once was a radio is now a gaping hole into the cars inner workings. I’m not exactly sure where this vehicle came from but I imagine it’s previous owner was the kind of guy who’d give you some magic beans in exchange for your cow.

We have to make our own music to compensate so at regular intervals we sing “They’re may be trouble ahead/But while there’s music and dancing and love and romance/Let’s face the music and dance.” It’s kind of a general theme tune on life really and has a soothing quality when you’re a passenger of the GW Mobile. Especially when on the motorway. Our destination is Bray, that bastion beside the Irish Sea. It’s not as easy to get too as one might imagine. I give my reading of the map as accurately as I can which isn’t terribly accurate at all. Mix my navigation with Paul’s regular bouts of “We should definitely take the next left” and you’ll find yourself on a road that suspiciously has an awfully lot of signs pointing to Wexford. We somehow manage to overcome adversity and find ourselves in Bray. We’ve survived getting to the Sea without actually driving into it which was my main concern for the entire journey.

Stepping out of the car, we’re hit by the invigorating smell of Sea air. There is not a cloud in the sky. We walk down onto the beach and stare out into the beautiful blue abyss. On the sandy stretch of beach we come across two Crab shells, a piece of sea weed and the body of the saddest starfish the world has ever known. Not content with a beach that doesn’t seem to have any whales we head over to the Bray Aquarium where all manner of sea life is in waiting. There’s a tank full of piranhas that stare hungrily back out at us. We sea an oddly blue lobster who, tired of being looked at all the time, tries to retreat into the corner of his little tank and close his eyes in the hope that he’ll wake up and this will have all been a bad dream.

We move on to the Shark exhibit where they have a few small but suitably menacing looking sharks that swim close to the surface knowing that someday someone will make the fatal mistake of wanting to put their hand in. And Paul does exactly that. Not in the shark tank but in the stingray one. He tries to touch the stingray who seems friendly enough until I notice a sign saying “Stingray can sting!” and advise Paul of his options. We leave the aquarium and return to the pebbled shore of Bray bay where the words of a famous oceanographer come to mind.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 01:39 AM

15 MINUTES

Summary: How far would you go for fame? For Stanley Parker, a failed ventriloquist, the answer to that question involves a gun, some hostages and the presenter of the world’s longest running talk show. Obsessed with becoming a celebrity Stanley takes over a small rural cinema and demands an appearance on The Late, Late Show but things aren’t going to be that simple when the local bumbling Guards turn up.

Project Beginnings: After working on countless small video projects I was eager to take a stab at producing an independent short-film. When I went to study Journalism in Rathmines College I met Leo Corrigan, a screenwriter who had already written several short-film scripts and TV pilots. At the end of our first year in the course, I went to Corrigan with the most flimsy of plot outlines ever known to man. “It’s about a guy who try’s to hold up a local store but it all goes horribly wrong.” Corrigan took this one simple idea and turned it into a deliciously black comedy script. I immediately set about bringing together the cast and crew who would do justice to the script a mere two months later.

Crew:

[Producer/Director] Liam Geraghty
See the “About Geraghty” section on this website to read about Liam Geraghty.

[Co-director] Paddy Melia
Paddy Melia is one of the most successful theatre producers to come out of Kildare. His shows are regularly booked out which is a testament to the quality of his productions. He has won numerous theatrical awards for Best Show and Best Director.

[Screenwriter] Leo Corrigan
Leo Corrigan has written several short-films and TV pilots. He has studied film and journalism.

[Editor] Steve Neville
Steve is an immensely talented editor who has worked on several award winning shorts. He also worked on Cartoon Network’s popular new show “Foster’s Home For Imaginary Friends.” He currently works for TV3.

[Music] Leigh O’ Gorman
Leigh O’Gorman was the composer of the music for 15 MINUTES. He is the man behind LUBE: PROJECT X who perform their unique sound regularly in Dublin venues.

Cast:

Ross McMahon [Stanley Parker]
Ross McMahon is one of Kildare Youth Theatre’s most talented young actors with a natural talent for comedy.

Mick Malone [Taxi driver]
Mick took on the hilarious cameo role as the taxi driver suffering from piles. Mick is a well known figure in Newbridge pantomimes.

Paddy Melia [Cinema Owner]
Short of an actor to play the part of the cinema owner, co-director Paddy Melia stepped enthusiastically into the role bringing his natural eccentricity to the role.

Laura McGann [Emily]
Laura McGann is media student in Ballyfermott Senior College. She has performed in a numerous Kildare Youth Theatre productions. Her first play “When Angels Meet” recently debuted to a full house in the Riverbank Theatre, Newbridge.

Mary Hogan [Old lady]
Mary Hogan is a member of the hugely successful Newbridge Drama Group.

Des Garrett [Sgt.]
Des Garrett has been involved in theatre for years. He’s involved in acting, directing and teaching acting workshops. He performed in The Melting Pot’s immensely successful production of “BOUNCERS.”

Hugh McKinley [Guard]
Hugh McGinley has performed with several theatre companies over the years and has also been involved with facilitating youth theatre.

Pam Quinlivan [Stanley’s Mother]
Pam has been involved with numerous local productions.

John Bowdren [Ray Byrne]
John Bowdren is a hugely talented actor in amateur theatrics. He has recently toured the country performing in the award-winning “Kings of the Kilburn Highroad” directed by 15 MINUTES co-director Paddy Melia. John also recently won Best Actor for his performance in the “Kings of the Kilburn Highroad.”

Liz Garrett [Psychiatrist]
Liz has been involved in theatre for years performing in numerous productions.

Paul Winters [Voice of the dummy]
Liverpool legend Paul Winters provided the voice for the ventriloquists dummy. Paul has a wealth of experience in theatrical production in the UK and Ireland. He directed the Without Further Ado Theatre Company’s hugely successful production of “The Talented Mr. Ripley” (in which Liam played an semi-naked Italian gigolo!). He is currently the technical manager in the Riverbank Theatre, Newbridge.

Aftermath: 15 Minutes premiered to a full house in the Riverbank Theatre, Newbridge, Co,. Kildare. The short has been screened numerous times in Kildare and Dublin.

Posted by LiamG at 01:37 AM

Reversing Out of Trees

So there we are. The bonnet of the car has now made contact with the bark of the tree. Silence. What do you say when you crash into a tree? “Bloody Hell!” says Paul in the thickest Liverpool accent ever heard this side of Lullymore. I hop out of the car to examine the damage. It’s totalled. The tree, that is. The car has miraculously survived without injury. As have me and Winters, thank God. I hop back into the car. “I was going to tell you we were headed towards the tree but I didn’t want to be a back seat driver,” I say. Paul, a little shaken, remains quiet, concentrating hard on reversing out of the tree without hitting something else. Hitting a tree is probably good for learner drivers. Shakes them up a bit. It must do because as we turned around and headed back towards the Bog of Allen museum we had missed, the car rattled along at 10mph. A safe speed.

So we eventually pull up to the museum in the middle of nowhere. All this time I couldn’t help thinking that whoever works there must get fairly bored at times waiting for people to flock to a museum that’s hidden amongst the labyrinth of roads that weave throughout the Bog. And sure enough there was the museum guy at the door locking up. An hour before they were supposed to close. I imagine that man must have cursed the arrival of Liam Geraghty and Paul Winters as they pulled up outside. Doing what any decent museum employee would do, he opened the door up, switched on the lights and welcomed us in. I’ll bet he wasn’t the happiest when we strolled through the entire museum in around fifteen minutes. Not that we didn’t enjoy it. I got to see the skull of a 5000 year old Great Irish Elk there that had been discovered on the very Bog of Allen. I have a thing about the Great Irish Elk so I was mightily impressed that they used to live in Kildare too.

At the end of our mosey through the building we made our way back to the guy who let us in and had a chat with him about the Bog. One thing I couldn’t help noticing though was that as we stood there yapping in the museum’s shop, not only did they sell some very nice paintings of the Bog but they also had on offer the complete series of Star Trek Voyager on VHS! We finally thanked the man and went out to the car. The museum guy begun to lock up again but as soon as he did another car pulled up outside. “Excuse me, sir,” the driver said. “Is this ze Bog of Alan museum?” Sounded French to me. I’m certain that at that very moment the museum guy was cursing Charles de Gaulle as he opened the doors once again. With a wave, we were off again on our misadventures across the unknown Kildare countryside. Rathangan was our next port of call.

We needed to find a DIY shop as a matter of urgency. I won’t go into details sufficed to say the car needed some emergency repair work. We happened upon a chippers simply and boldly named “TAKE AWAY” where we had some well-earned food. Now at this point I needed to relieve myself in the loo. Only problem was I couldn’t find the light switch and there were no windows so the whole place was enveloped in darkness. How did I manage? With great, great difficulty. Moving on, we found our DIY store a bit down the road. We walk in. “I need the cheapest hammer you’ve got,” Paul says to the man behind the counter. “I’m killing someone tonight you see.” The DIY man barely raises an eyebrow and points us in the direction of the hammers. “Now,” continues Paul, “I also need two short lengths of wood.” So in a matter of minutes we were on our way back to the car with a hammer and a few bits of timber. Everything qualified mechanics would use to fix a car. Bloody Hell.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 01:36 AM

One Crappy Day in April

Monday 4th April

This morning I got up early in order to catch the 12.05pm train to Dublin. I got up a bit too early though and found myself with a few hours to spare before I had to depart for the station. A film is in order. I search through the extensive DVD collection but can’t find anything I actually want to watch and that’s including the one’s I own but still haven’t seen yet. That’s one of the pitfalls of being a young Irish twenty something - you have it all but you’re still bored. I decide to open the vaults and see if I’ve any old videos worth watching. Grease - too much of John Travolta in the morning is bad for you. The Pagemaster - Oh dear God. I actually own this!? Disney’s The Fox and the Hound - Perfect! Haven’t seen it in ages and the front cover promises lot’s of cute foxes and hounds. Starts off very ominously. The credits are unaccompanied by music. All we get to see are various misty morning scenes in a forest. Then it becomes apparent that there’s a fox hunt on. A mother fox carrying her cub is being chased and then BLAM! The mother fox is shot reminiscent of Bambi’s mother’s death.

The story picks up from there as Todd, the orphaned fox cub meets Copper, the perky hound puppy who become in separable friends. It’s all great heart-warming stuff but then they grow up and that’s when the film returns too it’s unsettling opening notes. Copper is a huntin’ dog. Todd is the prey. It’s a tragedy in the Greek sense. I was in tears at the terribleness of it all. How could Disney make such a film? I always thought nothing could rival the onset of depression that watching “Watership Down” could give you but by God “The Fox and the Hound” does. So with a great start like that to my day I wandered off to Newbridge Station.

Meet Keara on the train. She studies Anthropology - the study of people. I’ve often wondered what can you actually become after studying anthropology. Keara reckons after you study it, you become an professor teaching it and join the never ending anthropology circle. It brought to mind an American magician I once saw being interviewed. He was asked what he studied when he was in college. He answered anthropology. The interviewer asked him what that qualified him to be. To which the man said “a magician”. Touché. Said goodbye to Keara on the number 92 - a bus in all my years of commuting I never knew existed. A number 92 - what will they think of next. Rushed across O’Connell Bridge and up to the third floor of Eason’s to, you’ve guessed it, the Muse Café. I really do need to find a better place to do lunch.

So after several hours of witty conversation there I joined Hank Tree and Barry Tully on the Arrow home. It was the notorious evening train that’s always packed like the Tokyo Metro. Bare this in mind then, when Hank and Barry decide to start telling jokes. Now in the interests of keeping my weekly slot here on page six I won’t dare repeat any of them sufficed to say they had to almost whisper them for fear of any one overhearing which was a waste of time considering the carriage was silent. So it came to be that I spent the entire journey home trying to keep a straight face at some of the most unspeakable baby jokes I’d ever heard.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 01:36 AM

Crashing Into Trees

Going for a drive is supposed to be pleasant. It’s the kind of thing you do on a lazy Sunday when all else fails and certainly not the kind of thing you do on a busy Tuesday. But of course yours truly would end up doing this. Paul Winters is on his way to the house in his brand new second-hand car. We’ve decided to drive out to the Bog of Allen Museum, part of the Bog of Allen Project in Lullymore, and have a look. So when Paul arrives I hop in the car and unfold the large wrinkled map of Kildare. I am going to be the navigator for our journey. This is actually going to involve some real navigating on my part since neither of us know where the Hell Lullymore is. Paul has a vague idea of how to get there and thinks we should go through a route that would bring us through the Curragh. “Absolutely not,” I say. “I am the navigator. Master of the map. Sovereign of the streets.” A pause and brief silence fills the car. “And,” I continue, “I know a shortcut. Take the next turn left. Over that bridge lies the road to our destination.”

In hindsight such bravado in the navigating department should be brushed aside in favour of good old fashioned logic and general map reading abilities. We’re driving along now at a good pace. One thing I may have omitted to mention thus far is that Paul is a learner drive. This fact makes me nervous. Me being nervous makes Paul nervous. The two of us being nervous cancels out and we end up both being edgy in stead. “Look out for that car!” “I can see it ya know!” We pass through Milltown in the blink of an eye. It’s going to be the start of a series of one road villages. In the distance the Hill of Allen is rising before us. “We shouldn’t be going up the Hill of Allen!” says Paul with an air of distress in his voice. “We’re going my way,” I say, “and anyway we’re not actually going up the Hill of Allen.” At that point the road starts sloping skyward and it looks like we are, in fact, going up the Hill of Allen after all. I remain quiet and hope we just come down again, which we eventually do.

On through Allen and to Kilmeage where we come to a bit of a crossroads and a dilemma. There’s four roads to choose from, I can’t figure out which one we’re supposed to take and I won’t let Paul see the map cause it’s my job. So I guess. Now this is where you would not be shunned for supposing that we took our first wrong turn but as it happens it wasn’t. That would follow soon after at a crucial make or break choice of “left” or “right” at Allenwood. “Left or right?” Paul says. “Left or right? You gotta pick one.” I muse. “Right,” I say. “It is most definitely right.” At this point you’d do good to actually root out a map of Kildare and see how wrong taking a right was. We end up in bloody Derrinturn. “Liam, are we lost?” Paul asks as we pull over into a petrol station. “No. We are certainly not lost because I have now figured out that if we continue along this road we will very soon cross the border into County Offaly..” Paul stares at me, mouth a jar. “I hear Offaly is nice in the Spring,” I say.

So after we turn around, drive all the way back to where we should have taken a left, take a left and then we manage to drive pass the bloody Museum! The best was yet to come in the crowning of our mis-adventures across the Kildare countryside. We obviously needed to turn around to get back to the museum, so, at a quiet fork in the road, with no other cars or distractions about, Paul begins to turn the car around. But as he does we don’t seem to be going quite 360 degrees and also I can’t help noticing that were driving at a steady pace towards a rather large tree. In times of peril you always imagine you’d panic just a little but this was not the case. Neither Paul nor I were in the least bit off-put that we were about to make a collision with a sycamore tree that didn’t appear to leaping out of the way. In my head I was thinking “tell Paul were about to hit a tree” but then decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. That was my third mistake.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 01:36 AM

And They're Off! (or how to lose money at the races)

Sunday morning of last I was enjoying a well earned lie in after the previous nights debauchery in Coffey’s. Yet at 1pm my sleep was broken by the rather loud arrival of a text message from Hank “lock up your daughters” Tree. “Are you coming today?” The message referred to the Battle of the Bands that was starting at 2pm at the Curragh races. This column’s house band $chmackey and the Salads were going to be playing. I briefly considered the notion of going but then decided that it would be best for all concerned (but mainly me) if I stayed in bed. So I sent my reply: “Probably not.” The “probably” eases the answer somewhat. I returned to my slumber only to be woken again a minute later by another Hank Tree text. “You have to come. I need a drinking/smoking/betting buddy.” And there it was. The line that would seal my fate for the rest of the day.

This left me with one hour to get from my bed to the Curragh Races. The Salads would be on at two o’clock so I’d have to be on time too. Of course as a great many deal of people have experienced first hand - Liam Geraghty is never on time. Eternally late, in fact. So I employ my usual tactic of texting Hank messages like “I’m nearly there” when in fact I’m only stepping into the shower. With only an hour to spare there’s almost too much to do. First of all there’s breakfast and that my friends is a meal I take very seriously. Then there’s getting dressed. I’ve rarely been to the races. I’m unfamiliar with the dress code. I first don my most exquisite suit that has only ever been worn on two other occasions but I quickly change my mind to something more casual. Blazer. Jeans. Converse. Ideal. I search the house for a pair of binoculars but to no avail. After all that it’s a mad dash across the Curragh plains until finally the racecourse is in sight.

Outside I meet Newbridge’s coolest couple - Mary Ann and Neil of the Jazz Catz who are also on their way to see the Salads. Inside the bands are about to begin. Hank Tree, the Salad’s bassist, looks worried. I’m guessing he hasn’t had his usual pre-emptive glass of vodka before the gig. After the Salads play, me and Hank depart in favour of some of the aforementioned drinking, smoking and gambling. So there we are sitting on a bench that’s sponsored by “WOODIES DIY” with a glass of Jameson in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The brass band beside us are playing “New York, New York” and we’ve had an insider tip on a horse in the next race. Life is good. But from that moment everything spirals out of control. Inadvertently, I’ve placed my digital camera on the ground while we’re sitting on the bench but I won’t actually realise this for at least two hours. Our insider tip comes last.

I regain a little hope in the next race when Hank says that number three, “Eldorado” is a certainty to win. I don’t question this and go and place twenty euro on the horse who will come fifth. The rest of the day will see us attempt to win back the money we lose in the previous race only to have our horse come in fifth every lousy time. I wish I had stayed in bed.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 01:34 AM

Ctrl Alt Del

Bloody technology. Is it just me or does it always pack up just when you need it most? Take computers. The Daddy of all technological mishaps. Your sitting there typing up a ten page document and then out of the blue the whole PC crashes. End of story. Now the tech whiz kids will argue that the nice people at Microsoft, bless them, have come up with all sorts of in-genius ways to save your work in case their machines crash but why in God’s name don’t they spend their time getting there software up to scratch in the first place. I mean who remembers the infamous Windows 95/98 message that used to pop up on your screen every so often telling you that you’d “performed an illegal operation”? Oh really? Since when has playing Minesweeper become an “illegal operation”. Oh it’s a sorry state of affairs when your own personal computer is accusing you of criminal activities. Bloody Bill Gates. I’d like to put him through a few Windows and see how he likes it.

Another amazing “technical innovation” is the Eircom 1901 twenty-four hour help line which I got acquainted with this week. There I was about to go online and check my e-mail when I got the ol’ “no dial tone is detected” message. Great. Just great. I get down on the floor and fiddle with the phone cable for a while, every so often trying to go online but to no result. Then I try the phone itself. Also on the blink. So I ring 1901 from my mobile to talk to a robot about the situation. Story of my life, folks, story of my life. The Eircom robot is truly a marvel though. He has an answer for everything and sort of sounds like an Irish Cary Grant. The thing about him is that you don’t need to press “1” for sales or any of that jazz. You actually talk to him and he can pick up on phrases. He’s a friend to the friendless. In fact when he gets it wrong he says “Sorry, my mistake.” Couldn’t help laughing when I tell him my problem and he says “I don’t actual deal with that myself but I’ll put you through to someone who does.”

Didn’t expect him to be dealing with my problem himself considering he’s a pre-recorded voice. By the end of our enlightened conversation I’m convinced he’s more like HAL the psychotic computer from 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY than Cary Grant. Bloody robots. If their not taking over the world, they’re putting you on hold. (***If your computer isn’t on the blink, you can e-mail all comments to liam@liamgeraghty.com***)

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 01:33 AM

The Three Types of Wait

I hate waiting. Waiting for trains. Waiting for people. Waiting for Godot. I hate it all. Waiting rooms especially. Take the Dentists for example. You go to the Dentists for your appointment at 4.15pm sharp. If fact you arrive a little early as to be on time but regardless the dentist is never ready for you on time. In fact time almost stands still in waiting rooms. All the posters are from 1970’s Colgate campaigns, the magazines are ageless copies of the National Geographic and the seats are a peculiar mix of old and new. So for starters the environment is just plain strange. Then comes the waiting. Now for those of you unfamiliar with waiting there are several kinds.

The agonising wait, the terrifying wait and the Irish Rail induced mind numbing wait. The terrifying wait is the one that comes with your dentist appointment. Most people don’t like going to the dentists. They may not be pathologically horrified at the prospect but they’ll at least find it an uncomfortable thought. The dentists, knowing this full well to be the case, came up with the terrifying wait in order to strike fear into the fearless. First of all, and most importantly, is the waiting rooms proximity to the dentists surgery. One room away is the norm. This allows for the most spine-chilling sounds of all to be within an ear-shot of waiters - the dentists drill. Bom, bom, bom! I’m reliably informed that modern dentists practises will just have the drill sound piped into the waiting room through speakers for that surround sound effect. This goes hand in hand with your appointment not being on time. They figure by letting you sit there an extra twenty minutes listening intently you’ll crack sooner or later. And most do.

The next kind of wait is the always in fashion Irish Rail induced mind numbing wait. Quite simple really. Your trains late, you’re stuck in the station and there ain’t nothing you can do about it. Staring at the sky is quite popular as is continually checking your timetable and looking at your watch in an attempt to somehow rectify the situation. Scientific studies have shown it doesn’t. The only thing to be said about the Irish Rail induced mind numbing wait is that it’s a collective one. A waiting experience shared by a fraternity of commuters. Its almost beautiful. Almost.

The final and in my mind the pen ultimate in waits is the agonising wait. It’s the wait for something in which the outcome is uncertain. It’s the interview wait. With the dentists wait you know you’re going to end up with a drill in your mouth, with the train wait you know its eventually going to arrive but with the interview wait you just don’t know and it was this one I experienced personally this week. After finishing my spell in journo college I took a year out and realised one thing - I wanted to go back! Not to the journo academy of course. I had already completed that, but just back to college and that easy going lifestyle in general. To quote a song from Avenue Q, a Broadway show I once seen in NY, “I wish I could go back to college / in college you know who you are. / You sit in the quad, / And think “Oh my God! / I am totally gonna go far!”/” Film production beckoned.

I had an interview in Coláiste Dhúlaigh at which I would have to sell myself. My getting into the course rested on my sole ability to do this. So I made my way up to Dublin to where I had not been for several weeks. I caught the shopping bug instantly as I stepped into Henry St. Shopping duly absorbed me until the point where I realised I only had a half hour to get out to Raheny. In my haste I ran down by the GPO, on past Eason’s, over the O’Connell Bridge and jumped into a taxi opposite the number 90 bus stop. This was my first mistake as my Dublin driver told me. We we’re pointed in the exact opposite direction of Raheny. We’d have to drive half way down the quays before we could turn and then drive all the back up again. My second mistake was my God awful pronunciation of Dublin place names. “Driver,” I said “I need to get to Raheny!” Now readers who know a thing or do will realise it’s pronounced RA-HEE-NEE and not RE-HA-NEY as I so boldly announced. So after a few minutes the driver eventually copped on what had happened. Fast forward a furious drive through Dublin until we arrive at Coláiste Dhúlaigh in Raheny.

Inside I’m shown where to sit and then it begins - the waiting. It doesn’t help that the other applicants beside me are yapping away about how hard this course is supposed to be to get into. The guy in front of me is next in. They interrogate him for about twenty minutes or so until it’s my turn to go in. This is it. This is the interview. Now call me naive folks but I genuinely didn’t expect half of the questions they threw at me. “So why should we give you a place on this course?” Because I’m great, is what I kept repeating in my head but was wise enough not to say out loud. “What other courses did you apply too?” It was only then when it dawned on me that I hadn‘t applied to any other courses and hence everything rested on this blasted interview. “What is your favourite film?” Now that’s easy. It’s You’ve Got Mail, that delightful Tom Hanks / Meg Ryan New York love story. But I can’t say that of course. Any mention of You’ve Got Mail at an interview for Film Production is bound to end in tears. I say the French film “Amelie” instead. It’s just as big a love story as the more main stream You’ve Got Mail but it’s got that Art House thing going for it. Finally the interview is over. I didn’t think it went to well, but of course, in grand agonising style I have to wait for a letter to tell me if I got it or not. Two days later it arrived. The wait was over. I got in.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist.

Posted by LiamG at 01:30 AM

June 10, 2005

$chmackey and the Salads

Summary: The Saladsrepresents the entire range of music documentaries and visuals that I created for Newbridge band $chmackey and the Salads. That range extends to four separate DVD’s of music recordings, documentaries, mini-movies and interviews with The Salads. Music visuals have accompanied The Salads at several of their gigs including the Tsunami disaster benefit concert which I was asked to host and create the entire evenings video visuals for.

Tsunami Gig Poster: [I like it because it looks like I'm billed to be singing]

Project Beginnings: While taking a year out from college I was eager to keep filming and editing. The Salads provided the perfect opportunity to film, edit and experiment with footage as the project was largely not going to be seen by anyone else.

Crew:
[Producer/Director/Editor/Camera] Liam Geraghty

Cast:

$chmackey and the Salads are made up of:

$chmackey [Lead Vocalist]

Hank Tree [Bass]

Rich Clifford [Guitar]

Hash Brown [Drums]

Dr. Stuart Schneider [Synthesizer/Guitar/Song writer, composer]

Posted by LiamG at 01:35 AM

June 05, 2005

A Nice Cup of Tea and a Kimberley

Read a delicious article on biscuits this week. It mentioned a new book that had just been released on the subject. Biscuits that is. The book is called "Nice Cup of Tea and a Sit Down" and its chapters detail various types of biscuits from the droll digestive to the addictive Jaffa. Most alarmingly this new book makes an outragoues attack on my favourite biscuit - the Kimberley. Oh my beloved Kimberley, your taste is unreviled. Kimberley biscuits are probably the only product I'd endorse if asked. Please, please ask me to endorse them. I'll take my payment in the form of Kimberleys. Ahem. Where was I? Ah yes, the blasphomous biscuit book! It says, "Half the world claim some Irish lineage. If they really were, then they would possess the genes that enable them to enjoy the Kimberley biscuit. The Kimberley is a keystone of Irish teas and sit downs." Who could resist the soft mallow centre of a Kimberley? Who I ask you? Who? Had I of known of this book at the time I first headed off to the States I would have brought a packet of them with me to put hear say to the test. One thouroughly Irish thing that is inextricably linked to the biscuit is tea. Tea is my heroin. God, I couldn't get through a day without at least six cups and thats a conservative estitmate. And I never really grasped just how odd it is to have the whole nation drinking tea constantly until I visited my writing comrades in America. My first stay was at Ned Vizzini's apartment in Brooklyn. When I got there I went straight for the kettle. And what a kettle it was. You switched it on and then it just boiled and boiled and boiled. There was no stopping this kitchen appliance. It simply didn't turn itself off when it got to the boil so when the kitchen looked like a dense morning mist had descended on it then that was the sign that you should probably plug it out. Now Ned only had Green Tea in his abode and if theres one thing I can't stand its Green Tea. If you can't put milk and two sugars into it without it tasting horrible then its simply not tea in my books. Luckily I'm always prepared for tea misfortunes and I'd managed to smuggle some genuine Irish tea bags into the country. By the end of the week I had Ned hooked on the stuff. So much so that he insisted I mail him a box of our tea bags when I got back. It was then off to Washington D.C. to stay with Marty Beckerman whom recently deceased Gonzo legend Hunter. S. Thompson once called a "morbid little bastard." In Marty's the kettle situation was much worst. They didn't have one. What a shock that was to the system. I spent the whole week boiling water in a big pot to feed my addiction and it would become scarily apparent to Marty just how much tea I actually drank. "Jesus Liam! More tea!?!" Ah yes, its true what they say. The simplest pleasures in life are a nice cup of tea and a Kimberley.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:32 PM

The Apology

What a week it’s been in the electrifying, yet too seldom deplorable, exploits of yours truly. Several things have surfaced in the last seven days. 1. I cannot spell apology without the aid of the columnist’s best friend - the spell checker. Whoever created it should receive the Nobel Prize for Grammar. Weeks usually fly by like pigs about liars in my life but not this week. In the past seven days, through various ridiculous situations, it has been required of me to spell the word “apology” more than six times! I rarely make use of an exclamation mark but I feel the circumstances call for it. I mean there are only seven days in a week and for 90% of them I was failing miserably in trying to spell “apology”. I first approached it with an “a”. “APOL-LA-G” I said to myself. There’s definitely a “la” sound in there. In due course it was pointed out to me that the only “a” in apology was at the beginning. It was not pointed out to me however what apology was spelt with. This led me to the letter “e”. Phonetically I couldn’t actually hear the “e” sound but e’s tend to be like that. In any case, when in doubt, throw in an e. This casual motto does not work in theory as was pointed out to me once again by another person who could spell apology. So it came to be that I learnt how to spell “apology” upstairs in Coffey’s last Friday night. I was sat round a table with Scouser legend Paul Winters, guitar player extraordinaire Rich Clifford and cynical anthropologist Keara Kennedy. We we’re celebrating the success of “Sounds of the River” - the most inappropriately named tsunami benefit gig in the county. I had been hosting the gig which, by and large, had turned out to be quite good with the best of local Newbridge bands playing to a sold out Riverbank theatre. No major mishaps except for the introduction when band members were to run across the stage and I then would introduce the show but ended up with Hank “Lock up your daughters” Tree trailing behind the rest of the eager band members and tripping up onto the stage. Of course I didn’t notice this and started into my welcome note before I realised Hank was lying at my feet.

During the night we had planned to be a bit daring and between bands offer the audience an anagram. We offered them the word “tsunami” which was projected in big blue letters onto the stage. Oh how audacious we thought we were. We of course had no solution to this particular anagram but upon making my way back unto the stage intrepid audience members had actually come up with several solutions and embarked on shouting them out. So where was I? Ah yes, we we’re celebrating the night in Coffey’s when Keara told me exactly how to spell apology. This was no mere innocent spelling advice though. Keara Kennedy was after an apology. Not just the word but the meaning too. You see several weeks ago, right here, within the sacred paragraphs of this very column Keara made her Trains, Buses & Automobiles debut. Who knew that such a fleeting cameo would cause such a stir. You see, we had been gone to see Hanson perform in Dublin. Throughout the course of the evening Keara and I, went outside to have a smoke and in the column as I recounted the nights events this brief moment was mentioned. Keara, eager to read what at that point had become nothing more than a gossip column, had asked her parents to be sure and buy the Nationalist post haste. This they did. They bought it and turned to page six, and began reading only to discover that their daughter, who had seemingly given up smoking the previous year was still lighting up. She had been rumbled. Royally. In print. The pier de résistance of this thrilling tale is when her parents cut out the column from the paper and highlighted the sentence revealing she, in fact, smoked. Then they left it on the table so that the following day as she got up for college she would see it in all its blatant horribleness. That morning the Lord’s name was taken in vain. I’m certain of it. So after seven hundred and thirty three words of back-story, here it is: Keara, I whole-heartedly apologise and can only offer you this week’s column entirely dedicated to you. And dinner if you’re up for it . . .

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:31 PM

NEW YORK: The 2nd Coming

New York in January is not unlike Ireland in January. Its cold. Not two pairs of socks cold but a mere scarf and gloves cold. (Measuring the cold by the layers of clothing you're wearing is a proven meterological means of testing the weather, I'm told.) Rich, I and $chmackey arrived (miraculously) on 34th street where our grand hotel stood 43 storeys high. The New Yorker Ramada. Now from our journeys starting point across the pond in Dublin airport we had expected something to go wrong. Just a gut feeling the three of us got. Yet nothing hindered us in Ireland. We checked in fine. Got through customs fine. We got the best seats on the plane. We didn't crash. We landed safely in JFK. Our lugguage didn't going missing. The taxi ride into the heart of New York passed without incident. So then we pushed through the doors of our hotel expecting some dive but instead of that we strolled into a fabulous reception area we chandeliers handing from the tall ceiling and various bell boys running about with lugguage. It was perfect. Of course then we suspected that something would be amiss with hotel room itself but boy were we wrong. After pulling back the curtains to our window in our room on the 32nd floor this is what we saw: Straight ahead, three blocks away - The Empire State Building. Beyond that to the south, the magnificent tip of the Chrysler building and far, far below us hundreds of busy people went about their business as yellow taxi cabs drove furiously down 34th street. It was amazing.

The next day took a stroll a view blocks up to 42nd St. and, of course, Times Square. Now Times Square is a lot like Main St. Newbridge only Newbridge has worst traffic. Every shop, business and buidling in the Square must, by law, contribute to the hundreds upon hundreds of neon signs, LCD displays , giant video screens and every other marvel that lights Times Square up at night. After spotting Samuel L. Jackson on the street and then realising he was a wax work, we entered into Madam Tussaud's where Rich struggled to get a hold of a guitar being held by Jimi Hendrix, $chmackey sat at a dinner table with George Clooney and yours truly shook hands with Jerry Springer.

At the beginning of the week we vowed not to eat in the same restaurant twice. Of course, we would go all the way to America to eat in McDonald's the first day. This rule however was broken daily as we grew to love the 24hr "Tick Tock" 50's diner attached to our hotel. I wasn't around in the 50's so I can't promise you that it was exact in every detial but this was beside the point. The Tick Tock Diner served ***the*** best breakfast ever. Ever. EVER. Rich went with an Omlette and a blueberry muffin every single day and not a crumb did he leave on his plate. Me and $chmack, however, could not master the art of estimating how much we could actually manage to eat and hence, every day would be a contest to see who could get it right. I tried every combination possible. Eggs and bacon. Fried potatoes and bacon. Pancakes and strawberries. A bowl of strawberries on there own. A bagel, etc. Yet every day I hadn't the stomach to finish the American size breakfast I kept ordering regardless. The loser of the breakfast eating contest would be adorned by a frown from whatever waiter picked up our plates at the end of the meal. Oh the suspence.

Another major part of our visit was Broadway. We had booked tickets online to see two Broadway shows during or stay. So when the Wednesday came around we made our way to the theatre where we be seeing "WICKED", a musical that gives the Wicked Witch of the West's side of the story. Originally, a wonderful book of the same name by Gregory Maguire, the plot reveals how the Wicked Witch became wicked in the first place. Eager to see our first musical, I walked up to the ticket collection point in the theatre and handed they guy my recipt for the online purchase of our tickets. He had a look at it and slid it back out to me. "Did you notice that date on it?" I looked down at the date which rather oddly looked like yesterdays date. Oh. My. God. We had arrived a whole day late to see a show we paid obscene amounts of money to see. And now I had to go back and tell the lads the slight error. This was the hickcup we were waiting for. Yet, a quick word with the manager of the theatre (I may have mentioned who I was . . .) and he gladly put extra seats out for us. Whew. The show itself was nothing short of breathtaking. A collossel set that could transfer in a an instant, some truly great songs and without a doubt some of the most fantastic performances I have ever seen. I'll never be able to go and see Grease again in a tiny school hall in Newbridge.

Probably the most nerve wracking night for us is when we sort of accidenttally stumbled upon the "HA!" Comedy Club just off Times Square. We were ushered into the club and put in seats too near the stage. And by too near the stage I mean within speaking distance of bad comedians. I'll tell you one think, I've never drank a whiskey so fast as I did that night. All three of us sat huddled round our table praying to God that none of the several comedians who performed that night would speak to us. It didn't help that there was only five other people in the room. But as the first comedian made his way to the stage, it was too late. There was no escape. So what does the first guy say? "I just got fired from my job working in an Irish Bar. Are they any Irish people in tonight?" There was nothing we could do but slowly raise our hands. "F**k you!" he then shouted in our direction in a most animated fashion. And as one later comdian would point out when his jokes all fell flat - "What'd ya expect? You came to a place named the "HA!" Comedy Club!" Couldn't have said it better myself.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:30 PM

Where exactly is the Riverbank headed?

(This version differs slightly from the original published version)

Well, well, well. What have we here? The March to May event guide for the Riverbank Arts Centre, Newbridge. You'd think they'd have more sense than to send it directly to my doorstep. I was just leaving the house to catch an early morning train when I came across it, in its dainty little white envelope and my name printed neatly on its back. After the last few bumpy months experienced in the Riverbank I was quite eager to see what exactly lay between the pages of this little book. As you'll know doubt remember, the previous manager Denis Clifford left several months ago. Since its opening the Riverbank, under Mr. Clifford's direction, had pulled in thousands of not especially "arty" people who came in throngs to see stand-ups like Tommy Tiernan and travelling theatre companys with spectacular plays and all manner of noted musicians and singers. The board who "looks after" the Riverbank had decided that commercial theatre, dance, gigs, etc was now not part of its remit. They had chosen to take a path of more "community orientated" projects. At the time I vigourously opposed this and still do. I thought that if this was the route to be chosen then it should be a cocktail of the two. Both commercial and community. Monday - Tommy Tiernan, Tuesday - Dance workshop, etc. Surely that way the Arts Centre for the people would be serving all the people and not just a percentage of them. So that was a couple of months ago. Since then a new "project" manager has hired and even given an assistant to help in taking the Riverbank into its new direction. The Arts Centre than began getting a new lick of paint to kick start this new era of community based projects. In fact, the Riverbank was even closed for close to two months while these renovations took place. But now she's back open for business and boy, how I was just dying to read the March to May event guide for the Riverbank Arts Centre. And, as stated above, low and behold they had sent me one. Its new design shows the siluoeete of a skateboarder in mid flight on the cover. Presumably this ties in with all the skaters who use the front of the centre as a skate park. I open the booklett up expecting nothing but community based projects only to find that the board don't seem to have kept to there word. What in heavens name is going on? Where are these preposed community based projects? Surely the handful of workshops thrown into the line up can't warrant a definition of a "change of direction" for the the Arts Centre. Sure we had workshops before! I digress. To my amusement, not only does the new event guide not deliver what the board promised but it actually delivers in abundance what they said they didn't want - outside productions. They come from every corner of Ireland. Kilkenny. Limerick. Belfast. Dublin. Now you may be thinking this has obviously satisfised my beliefs on what an Art Centre should do - provide outside productions as well as community based ones and a healthy measure of commercial gigs but no. Apart from the fact that the Riverbank has seen a great deal many better line ups in its time, this event guide just raises more questions like why didn't the board stick to their original plan and if the Riverbank isn't on the preposed new road, what road is it on exactly? The Riverbank is an excellent space. It should be used to its potential not to its delcine. Oh, and if you do happen to go down there to see a show, listen carefully to the pre-show annoucements as yours truly is the sexy new voice of the fire safety message.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:29 PM

The Fastest Columnist in all of Mexico

The Fastest Columnist in all of Mexico

Dear friends, in a tremendously unfortunate mix-up, this column comes to you from Mexico. Stripped of any choice whatsoever I have rather foolishly ended up here in a small town just south of Mexico City where I currently reside. I'm staying at 120 RUE DE LA GARE (in the French quarter) in a small, badly air conditioned apartment on the second floor. The humidity is, at times, stifling. It feels as though the air itself is trying to choke me on its heavy dulcet tones. What I would give for the icy air of New York at this time. It was there, JFK to be exact, where my troubles began at terminal number four. After a luxurious drive in an extremely attractive automobile from 34th street through Queens and Brooklyn and onto the airport, I was lucking forward to getting on my transatlantic flight back to Dublin. I intended to sleep, after all it was eight in the evening all ready and the day had been long and unforgiving. How was I to know that a transatlantic flight was not in my sights? The Atlantic would not be much in my sights from where I was going. It all began as I made my way to the check in desk yet managed only to bump into a man walking in relitively the same direction. Both the contents of ours hands fell to the floor. Two passports. Two airline tickets. We both apologised as we picked up our belongings and made our way to the check in desk. But in our haste, and in an incredible chance of fate, we both walked to the wrong check in points. Mexico was beside Ireland. Not only this but I later discovered that the Mexico airline had been down a member of check-in staff so a member of Air Lingus had been put forward to take their place.

Surely, you are now saying to yourself, that she would have seen that the ticket was for Dublin but how could she have spotted this grave error when I picked up the wrong ticket! The ticket for Mexico. And had then walked to the Mexican check-in point. It's quite unbelievable now that I think about it. So I proceeded along the normal route you go on to get on your plane. Showed my passport, showed my ticket and took the walk out onto the wrong plane where I proceeded to get into my seat, fastened my seat belt and fell softly asleep, thus missing the El captino's opening words mentioning the crucial fact - this plane was headed for Mexico. What an adventure. You can imagine my surprise stepping off the plane and wondering where the heat wave had suddenly come from and oh, doesn't Dublin Airport look different, and isn't there a terribly large amount of cactus growing outside and . . . that was when the penny dropped more or less. Both astounded and bewildered by the fascinating turn of events I followed the crowd who had just gotten off the plane and who we're getting aboard a public bus just outside the modest airport. It wasn't long before we came to a quiet town called Coyoacán where most people seemed to be getting off so I joined them. In the local watering hole, La Guadalupana. I managed to find a jolly gringo landlord who was willing to take my dollars as currency for a place to stay. So that place is here on 120 RUE DE LA GARE as I've said. I’m told Leon Trotski used take residence nearby on Río Churubusco Ave. From the window you can see the dusty cobblestone main street where all day long the towns children play yet something is amiss. The town appears to be haunted by the echoes of its sombre history. Just now a knock has come at the door so I must sent this via telegram straight away. El diablo sabe más por viejo que por diablo.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:28 PM

The One About God

The One About God

Standing at platform one in Heuston Station I find myself thinking about God. Not my usual train of thought while waiting for the 5.18pm Arrow. I'm thinking about how everyone I know (including myself) chooses not to go to Mass these days. This gives rise to a fascinating thought. If the majority of my generation doesn't go to Mass does this mean that the next generation, our children, will be brought up in an Ireland where from birth they are not swamped by religion? A somewhat reversal of fortunes. For my generation, it has reached a point where what stance you take on religion can be determined by one simple question: After death do you go six feet under or seven miles up? Sigh. If Irish Rail trains ran on time I wouldn't have time to put so much thought into this. When my train eventually does arrive, I discover I've forgotten to bring a book or my Walkman to speed up the journey so I'm left with again with too much time for my thoughts. I figure like I tried to discover "what is love?" on a train journey last year I shall attempt to find some sort of conclsuion to my cluttered religious thoughts. I forward a text message to every one in my phone book that simply asks: "Is there a God?" Certain that knowing my friends opinions, I'm probably not going to be any the wiser when I reach Newbridge but how and ever its worth a shot. Cherry Orchard. First station. First reply and its from scouser Paul Winters. Is there a God? "She is black," he says. Not such a good start. With lines like that I'll only be asking more questions.

Second reply and it comes from $chmackey. Is there a God? "There is. Or should I say are Gods. There is one ruling God with many different Gods too." Much like the first reply I'm only going to end up asking more questions than when I started. Hopefully the next text will enlighten me somewhat. Its from my Letterkenny amigo, Ally. Is there a God? "Is this for one of your articles? You always send the most bizarre texts, Liam." Sigh. At this rate I'll be an atheist by the end of my journey. Next up is Hank "lock up your daughters" Tree who replies to my question with "Why do you ask?" Whoever said ask and you shall receive was blantently lying. I text Hank saying "Thats not the question," only to have him reply, "Your not the question." Already at Sallins/Naas Station, I simply don't have time to argue. The next "revelation" comes in from Madeline. Is there a God? "Thats the 64 million dollar question," she says. And at this point I'd be willing to pay twice that just for a straight answer. Obviously deriving some amusment at my question I receive another text from the legend Paul Winters in which he says, "The last thing Jesus wants to see is a cross. A fish is much better." This is hopeless. Keara's up next. Is there a God? "Lets say that there is. I don't think any human description of God is fitting nor any concept." Interesting but ultimatly doesn't satisfy my thoughts. We're approaching Newbridge Station and my last hope of finding some sort of solice comes in the form of Steven Neville who has actually rang me instead of texting. "So, is there a God, Steven?" Silence and then, "This anwser is pretty profound, Liam," he says. I listen attentively. "I don't no," he says. More silence followed by "Or, there could be."

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:27 PM

The Big Apple

Saturday 7th August – Dublin Airport

“I leaving / on a jet plane / don’t know when I’ll be back again” is not the sort of song you want to here while your driving to the airport. Especially when John Denver’s singing it. I was anxious enough as it was flying over to another continent. Alone. True I was going to be staying with friends when I got there but the big commute itself would be taken only by me. Eager to check in my suitcase, I headed over to the check-in area and chose the smallest queue which turned out to have the longest waiting time as the people in front of me all had about a million bags with them. When I finally reached the desk, the girl gave me some forms I would have to fill in before I would be allowed through pass American customs. I had to answer questions like “Are you a Nazi?” or “Were you involved in the Spanish Inquisitation?” After scribbling in my answers I dashed off to look for my gate. Two floors later, I was sitting in the waiting area trying to spot any suspicious looking characters to keep my eye on. I figured the final random routine check before we boarded the plane would catch any oddballs. “Excuse me sir, can you just step over here please. Routine check.” I know. I was as horrified as you that I was about to be searched. “This is just a routine pat down, sir. Could you stand feet apart and arms out, please” Oh the embarrassment. Of all people to be frisked, it would have to be me. “Now could just put your bag on the table, please sir. Do you have any sharp objects in there?” “Ehhhhhh…” I said out loud trying to think would a pen be considered a sharp object. “Could you open your bag for me, sir?” Oh great. This just keeps getting better. “Now could you just sign here to say that I have searched your bag.” Then I realized he just wanted my autograph but was too afraid to ask so he did the elaborate way.

Aboard the plane, I thankfully got an aisle seat right beside the emergency door. As the plane took off I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t bought any sucky sweets to stop my ears from popping. In fact I had forgotten to buy a magazine to amuse myself during the flight so I was stuck with in flight TV. The question you should ask yourself when watching in flight TV is why am I watching ‘Keeping Up Appearances’? Of all the programes I could be watching whilst over the Atlantic, why the exploits of Hyacinth Bucket? It’s rhetoric. Don’t answer. A little while later the in-flight movie started. ‘Shrek 2’ which I’d all ready seen. During this I was wondering why they never played movies like “ALIVE” or “Air Force One” on planes.

Forward ahead around six hours when we came to a smooth landing in JFK. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity of waiting for my suitcase to come round on the conveyor belt, I headed for the exit so I could take my first steps on American soil. With that historic occasion out of the way, I needed a taxi. No sooner had I stepped out of the building I was approached by loads of people all offering cheap taxi fares for their various limos and mercs. Now while I’m partial to the odd limo journey I couldn’t see how a ride in a limo was going to work out cheaper than a ride in an ordinary taxi. Hence, I queued up for a Big Yellow Taxi to take me to Brooklyn. My driver was this crazy Jamaican dude who drove really, really fast. We sped through motorways and streets swerving in and out of different lanes. All the windows in the taxi were open letting the air rush through as if we were on a roller coaster. We then got lost in Brooklyn trying to find 11th Street on the corner of 3rd Avenue. My driver said he couldn’t read the signs which is just what you want to hear from your driver when you’ve just arrived in a different country and don’t know where you’re going. Eventually we did arrive. The fare was around 50euros. When I pulled out my immensely war-torn looking dollars, the cabbie said “Where you been hiding them, man?” “Bank of Ireland, my friend, Bank of Ireland” We bid adieu and I was left standing in front of my new home in Brooklyn. I pressed the buzzer and a voice crackled through asking “Who is it?” “It’s Liam,” I said. “I’ve arrived.”

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:25 PM

JACK L - Singer, Entertainer, Ventriloquist

“You’ll have to sit on my knee like a ventriloquist’s dummy,” is not something you expect someone to say to you. Especially when that person is Jack L. It was a chilly Thursday morning. I was on my way to Dublin to film a video reading of the Athy singer for the Riverbank Reading Series. I really had no option but to catch the 12.05pm Arrow from Newbridge in order to get to Dublin in time to shop, eat and find the bloody club where we were going to be filming. In the station I went up to the counter to get my ticket before getting onto the Arrow. Usually I’d almost always leave ticket buying until on the train but there was a theatrically big Iarnród Éireann poster outside Newbridge Station telling me to “Get a ticket, not a criminal record!” This big scary red poster campaign is supposedly a deterrent in ticket fare evasion. I wonder if it really works though. I mean commuters are some of the biggest chancers you’ll ever meet. Me included. Its part of the commuter mentality. It there’s a hole in the system it’s open for people like us to jump through it, right? It saves us a few euros. Of course then there’s the Prommuter – a commuter whose turned pro in evading fares. Oh they’re shameless in their ways. They’ll pretend they brought yesterdays ticket by accident. They’ll hide in the loo when they see the ticket inspector coming. They’ll even try and use their train ticket as a bus ticket and when the bus driver says, “Your ticket doesn’t include the bus pass,” the brazen prommuter will swear on Aunt Penelope’s arthritic jack Russell that they asked for the bus pass all the way back in Newbridge Station. Which they didn’t, the lying cads! This particular morning I wasn’t in the mood to give an Oscar winning performance so back in Newbridge Station I asked for the 90bus to be included on my ticket. Ahem. The guy behind the counter said that he thought the LUAS was now included on the ticket as well, meaning if you asked for a ticket to the city centre you’d get the train and your choice of either the 90 or the LUAS. Of course he wasn’t exactly sure but I was willing to take my chances so when we arrived in Hueston I got straight onto the LUAS. I could always blame the guy back in Newbridge Station. Ahem.

I’m getting quite used to the LUAS now. It does always seem to be jammers though. There’s never a chance of getting a seat although standing like James Dean against the door is slightly cooler anyway. The one thing about the LUAS though is that whenever you seem a photo of a tram that’s been in an accident, it always seems to look horribly mangled and terribly unsafe, no?

Either way I decided to take my chances. I got off outside the Jervis St. Shopping Centre. Inside it was lavishly decorated with Christmas lights, trees, snowman and three dancing robotic Santas’. Now I’m not going to launch into a rant of how it’s only November and Christmas should be kept locked away in a dark room until December 23rd because it shouldn’t! As far as I’m concerned if you don’t want to hear Wham! or Shakin’ Stevens songs that have bells in them until mid-December then you’re on a par with Scrooge who didn’t even like Wham! or Shakin’ Stevens songs that have bells in them even it even was mid-December. As the song says “I wish it could be Christmas every day.” Although if Christmas were every day Santa would have to work every single night for years and we all know he’s not getting any younger. Emmm…so where was I?

Ah, yes. Dublin city centre. I made for Grafton Street and boy was it busy! I hadn’t been there in quite some time as I Henry St. always seems closer and less crowded with the same shops. Also Grafton St. is always full of weird buskers that scare me. Take for instance the tribal guy banging a piece of wood and chanting. Most people probably thought it was some sort of native song but it looked more like the guy was putting a curse on all who dared not give him a coin or two. I hurried past trying to avoid eye contact. Another good example of nutters on Grafton St. were the countless people wearing gigantic “SAVE BEWLEY’S” stickers on their coats. What’s up with that? There’s no way I can endorse a campaign that’s aim is to save a café. Any Bewley nuts reading will probably be thinking “Ah, he’s too young to understand.” You’re wrong. I understand completely that you people are stark raving mad. I’ve had hot chocolate in Bewley’s – it was no big deal. And I’ve had hot chocolate everywhere from the Muse on O’Connell Street to Starbucks in Washington DC.

Now, so where was I? Ah yes, I had made my through Grafton Street and was then proceeding across St. Stephen’s Green and out onto Leeson St. There I found the Sugar Club where I met up with Jack L to film the video reading. His manager was about to take some PR photos when we discovered there was only once chair on the stage and it is then the singer said, “You’ll have to sit on my knee like a ventriloquist’s dummy.”

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:23 PM

A Hive of Scum and Villany

Ah Newbridge. What a city. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother going to Dublin at all. Then I remember. Don’t get me wrong. Its not that Newbridge isn’t pleasant, it just lacks a certain pizzazz you get the second you set foot in Hueston Station. The hurried walk down to the bus. The jostling to get onboard. The Spire. The buskers. The annoying charity people who only want “one minute” of your time but fail to mention half of your wallet. Although in the last few weeks I’ve noticed charity workers hovering outside Penney’s waiting to pounce. In Dublin you can just try and blend in with the crowd or simply cross the street while in Newbridge there’s rarely a “crowd” to blend in with and crossing the street isn’t as easy. Newbridge traffic is internationally acclaimed as being some of the finest traffic you’ll ever hope to get stuck in and that includes Rome. Some people grumble about the traffic lights causing the problem and there’s no denying that they frequently disrupt traffic flow by stopping it. Although that’s a good thing for Newbridge pedestrians. The traffic lights outside Eddie’s and the Riverbank always stop the traffic as soon as you press the button, which is disconcerting when you’re the only one who wants to cross the road. It means the whole line of cars is brought to a halt just so you can cross. And the drivers are all burning holes through you with their eyes. It would be much easier to cross if two or three people needed to go as well. That way bringing Newbridge to a halt wouldn’t seem so bad.

The other great thing about Newbridge is its design. Front street. Back street. Simple. No avenues or boulevards. Just straightforward parallel lines. Newbridge takes after New York in that respect. Unlike Dublin which on a street map looks like ravioli. I’d say Newbridge is akin to two sherbet lines for a sugar junkie. Then there’s the shops. Although I don’t feel our little town is blessed in that department. Sure we have all sorts of big named DIY warehouses and a giant yellow M but do they sell anything we really want? Take books for instance. Newbridge ain’t a town for buying books. We are a town, however for cafés. It would appear coffee culture is important for the citizens of Newbridge who define themselves by what coffee they drink. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, decaf, low-fat, non-fat, etc. God I hate coffee. Hot Chocolate or tea are the only ways to go. But some may say other towns have all these things and more. Naas has the Isohels. Kildare has Ray D’arcy. Athy has Jack L. But what of Newbridge? What’d we got? I’ll tell you what we got! We’ve got spunk.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:21 PM

Kicking Christmas Where It Hurts

I’m like the White Rabbit, eternally late. Destiny dictates this. If I were ever early for a train at Newbridge Station I would have to talk a walk up and down the extended platform to pass the time. If I were ever early for doing lunch I would have to sit idly ordering hot chocolates until my friend had arrived. But, as stated before, I am eternally late. Thus I always reach the Station just as the train is pulling in and at the café just as my friend is pushing off. And so it was that I was late down to the Riverbank Arts Centre where scouser Paul Winters was idly ordering cups of coffee as he waited for my arrival. The second in the Reading Series was due to kick off at 8pm and so I was due down there to assist Paul in the setting up of the twisted literary event. I managed to buy myself a little more time by sending texts reading “I’m on my way” and “Nearly there.” So I eventually meet Paul outside the Credit Union and we proceed to walk up town. The plan is to buy the most tragic looking Christmas tree in Newbridge so we scour the Pound Shops along the way. The tree we’re looking for manifests itself in the shape of some wire bent to look like a tree and wrapped with green tinsel. At €2 it was just about in our budget range. Just about. I’m stuck with carrying the unfortunate thing as we stroll over to the Riverbank and past the grand Christmas tree that Paul says appeared outside the Arts Centre over night.

As part of the Reading Series video introduction, it is hinted that I will be given a Christmas tree to grace the stage with only to find out that it’s the tragic looking one from the pound shop. But as Paul and myself rehearse the intro with the tree we can’t help wondering about another tree we had seen. A tree that not only lit up but that sang Christmas songs and danced and was highly irritable. It was one of those toys designed to give endless amusement to kids and endless harassment to adults. We had to have it. Originally, at €20, it was so outside our budget that we have been in debt for several years but something greater possessed us and we knew that a singing, dancing Christmas tree with a twangy American accent would prove ultimately a thousand times more tragic than the coat hanger wire tree. The coin was tossed and it was my lousy luck to go and pick up the tree from the shop where the woman behind the counter said “Are you sure you want to buy this? It’ll only drive you nuts!” Sufficed to say I asked for a bag to cover the eerie smile of the robotic tree as I carried it back to the Riverbank.

So forward on a few hours and the Reading Series was nearly ready to start. Me and Paul waited anxiously for an audience at the front entrance as we plotted the night’s madness. We greeted the night’s readers as they arrived – the wonderful Mae Leonard and Mary Duffin. Even Pippi and Roxy from the Naas band The Isohels turned up. Roxy gave me a copy of “Brain Juice” a fantastic new local magazine she’s an editor for that specialises in music and contempery topics that “hopes to offer an alternative piece of reading to fellow students and to the general public.” And this is one of the most remarkable things about it – its created by an all secondary school student team. I particularly relished the article by Orlagh Gill on leaving things like writing until the last minute as I am typing this now at 2.45am. Brain Juice is available in Mattimoes in Naas and Eddies in Newbridge.

Now where was I? Ah, yes. The Reading Series was juts about to start. I made my entrance on stage with the singing Christmas tree which proceeded to interrupt my introduction with . . . eh, singing. Mae Leonard read two of her marvoulous stories including my old favourite, Tarzan Clancy. Mary Duffin, one of Mae’s students read. And in one of the funniest things I’ve ever experienced, I introduced Paul Winters as he ran like the clappers all the way down from the lighting box. Every few seconds we’d here a door slamming and some footsteps until Paul reached the microphone wheezing for a few minutes before declaring “He promised me an audience! I’ve slept with more people than this!” To which a member of the audience rather vocally replied “Yeah, you wish!”

As the evening came to a close, yours truly was already off stage when the all singing, all dancing Christmas tree suddenly came alive and was coming out with the most appauling puns know to man. Eg. “I don’t just sing. I tell jokes too. I’m branching out!” Right. There was only one thing for it. I leapt back on stage and drop kicked the thing into next week as Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” blasted through the speakers. I’m led to believe the thing survived and has now taken up residence upon the Riverbank Recepetion counter. I urge you all to go down there, listen it singing live and then punch it in the face.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:20 PM

The Cut Out and Keep Guide To Commuting (Part 3)

This week marks the conclusion of our long-running series of “Cut Out and Keep Guides to Commuting.” When using a scissors always make sure you get an adult to do the cutting.

Ticket Inspectors: Quick! Hide in the toilet until he’s gone!

While on your daily commuting route you will encounter ticket inspectors. These people are they’re to enforce the Irish Rail slogan of “Get a ticket, not a criminal record.” If asked, opt for the ticket. Take caution whilst trying to bluff your way out of buying a ticket and take note that the following excuses do not work: “I lost it.” Yeah, sure you did. “I left it at home.” Along with your wallet? “On my way to the station I was stopped by a Japanese man collecting business cards and I accidentally gave him my ticket instead of my business card.” If that’s the case, let me see your business card. Be warned that ticket inspectors don’t take nonsense. Only cash. For tickets.

TAXI: I used to love that show

As a commuter one of the available modes of transport to you is the taxicab. Commonly thought of as expensive, cabs are far cheaper than when they used to be, eh . . .expensive. A taxi from O’Connell Bridge to Hueston Station costs, at a rough estimate, about €6. Depending on the traffic this figure can swell or decrease. While we don’t endorse that you get a taxi every single day (that would just be gratuitous) we do recommend that every once and a while you divulge. Our tests have shown that there’s nothing better than strolling across the road from the leaky bus shelter outside USIT, hoping into a comfy cab and staring out at the hundred other commuters standing out in the pouring rain as you pull off on your way to Hueston. Waving at them will increase your pleasure.

Seats: Where’s hot and where’s not to sit this season

For early morning commuters in Newbridge, consider yourself lucky if you can claim a seat. By that stage most of them are usually taken up by snoring Kildare and Portlaoise people. On the Arrow sitting at the table seats are most definitely in this Winter/Spring. Don’t ask us why. On evening trains seats are just as hard to get. As you stand on platform one along with two hundred other tired commuters, every little move you make could affect your changes of getting a seat. As the Arrow pulls in to the platform and begins to slow down just stand still. Even though it looks like its nearly stopped and there’s no door near you – keep still. Hardcore commuters know that if you start moving down to get closer to a door, that the Arrow always moves again no matter how slow and thus, your chances of getting a seat will have been diminished greatly. Also remember that if you have managed to land yourself a seat, putting your bag on the seat next to you is not advisable. Tired office workers with aching legs are not a force to be reckoned with.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:19 PM

The Cut Out and Keep Guide To Commuting (Part 2)

Due to the unprecented reaction to last weeks Cut Out and Keep Guide To Commuting (over one million commuters cutting out and keeping the guide to commuting) we present the second in the ever popular Cut Out and Keep Guide to Commuting Series. So what are you waiting for? Grab a scissors and cut it!

Weather: The Tempest Favours Newbridge

The Weather plays an important role in the life of an average commuter. It dictates whether you turn up for work/college looking like you fell into a swimming pool or not, as the case may be. When leaving for your early morning train be sure to bring an umbrella with you. There are several types of umbrellas. (a) “The Mini” This is a small umbrella that defeats its own purpose by its size. It keeps your head dry thus lulling you into a false sense of security as you unwittingly allow the rest of your body be drenched yet will only realise this when you’re aboard the train. (b) “The Man Size” Golfing umbrellas serve their purpose to a tee. They will keep at least 90% of you dry. The cons however include trying to walk down morning rush hour Grafton St. with an umbrella that the size of Cuba.

Heuston (we have a problem)

As a full-time commuter you will find yourself spending a lot of time in Heuston Station. Your train will continue to pull off seconds before you reach the platform and you will be stranded in commuter limbo. This, however, is not an entirely unpleasant place. There are a number of ways to pass the time. (A) Sit on one of the numerous benches cursing Irish Rail. (B) Sit in SuperMacs cursing Irish Rail while eating a burger. If options A and B aren’t to your taste you could try sitting on the high chairs beside the Jus Juice Bar while sipping a fruit juice and looking effortlessly cool. Also keep in mind that in Heuston a trip to the toilet will cost you 30 cent. Irish Rail will have the last laugh if you decide to refuse to pay the ridiculous charge and wait for the train to come so you can use one of the onboard toilets because they randomly lock these to add panic to your day of woe.

Dealing with Oddballs: “Please don’t let him sit beside me!”

If you are hardcore you’ll know by experience that Irish Rail is home to some of the screwiest people you’ll ever meet. Most of them are now famed for their notorious oddball activities. If you can recognise one walking down through the carriage your best option is to avoid eye contact. Failing to do this will instantly get the attention of Jay. H. Looney who will proceed with enthusiasm to sit beside you and initiate unwanted conversation. If this has happened then the situation is more or less hopeless. Burying your head in a book will only draw their attention to what the book is about whilst doing the extreme and actually talking with them will make them feel you are their new best friend and, as several reliable commuters have testified, offer their number to you. Refuse politely.

Doing Lunch: “Let me check my file-o-fax”

Travelling to Dublin everyday and mingling with the people from the big smoke you’ll notice yourself becoming a cosmopolitan commuter. This entails doing lunch with everyone, darling. First you’ll need to have a schedule or diary. You don’t have to use it but merely carry it about as a prop for your new exciting lifestyle. When arranging lunch be sure to choose somewhere suitable. The more refined commuter might like to do lunch in the newly refurbished Muse Café in Eason’s of Connell St. Students may favour the kids table on the second floor of SuperMacs also of O’Connell St.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:17 PM

The Cut Out and Keep Guide to Commuting

It’s January. 2005 is in full swing meaning the holidays are over. Everyone from the Students to the Civil Servants are back on the platform ready to board the train. To assist you in your terribly exciting everyday journey we present to you, A Cut Out and Keep Guide To Commuting. Cut it out and give it to the commuter in your life.

Timetables and Time Keeping (or alternatively “Get A Watch, Stupid!”)

A vital item for any discerning commuter is the Dublin/Kildare train timetable. Last years model is so out of date by now. Literally. Having this year’s pocket sized schedule means you know the train you wanted has just left and they’re won’t be another one for forty minutes. Regarding time keeping, don’t bother keeping any. Irish Rail clocks are on Tokyo time. If you are late however, do still run down to the platform as the train is most likely late too. If you see the Arrow in the station and begin to run furiously towards it be advised that running very fast and then suddenly stopping can cause you to faint.

Tickets: Can’t live with em’, can’t get on the train without em’

If you’re early for your train, always buy your ticket in the station. It ensures that later aboard the train the ticket master doesn’t give you that “trying to get away with out paying, were you?” look. Softcore commuters take note that asking for a return ticket to Dublin will only get you to Heuston Station. It doesn’t include the bus or the LUAS service. You must ask for a return ticket to the “City Centre” to have the bus and LUAS passes put on your ticket. This will save you the embarrassment of trying to use a non-bus ticket on the bus when there are fifty people shooting dirty looks from the queue behind you. A special mention most be given to the ticket machines. Stay clear of them. Technology is only here to make you look stupid. An extra special mention most be given to the LUAS ticket machines outside Heuston Station. Using them will activate an embarrassingly loud voice saying things like “Please insert your money now” and “Thank you for using LUAS”.

Student Cards: Like Birthday cards, only not

Students, your travel cards expired two weeks ago. It’s time to get a new one. Ask the man in the station for an application form. Renewing your card is going to set you back €12 so you can either (a) beg your parents for the money like the sponge that you are (b) pay for it out of your own wallet and feel all empowered and independent for all of two seconds or (c) feck the application form and head for the pub. €12 will get you two pints of Guinness comfortably. You’ll also be required to submit a passport photo to be laminated onto the card for the whole of the year. It’s crucial that you don’t screw it up. Treat the passport machine as an exclusive photo shoot. The example passport photo on the application form of “Ann Smyth”, the sultry saucy minx who goes to NUI Maynooth was done in a proper studio so you needn’t attempt a photo on that level. Just smile and look at the camera, damn it.

Killing Time: “It was an accident, I swear!

Spending hours on a train every week, you’ve got a lot of time to kill so don’t just stare out the window like a big freak. There are any number of things you could do. 1. Start a conversation with that girl beside you. She may be the one. 2. Read a book. You said life was too short ever to read a Cecelia Adhern novel so now here’s your chance to give the girl I try and bite your tongue, you begruder! 3. Listen to some music. That’s right, whether you’re a music geek with an iPod or an old fashioned Walkman user, there’s few better ways to spend 50 minutes on a miserable train journey than listening to track 9 of Declan O’Rourke’s album ‘Since Kyabram’. Also note that when your listening to Britney’s album secretly and you think you’re safe cause it’s a Walkman – think again, buddy. The intro to ‘Toxic’ is as recognizable as the Muppet Show theme tune, even when heard through muffled Walkman speakers - so don’t even try it, chump.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:14 PM

The Christmas Party

The walk will do me good. Hopping off the Arrow the air hits me with its winter bite as I throw one end of my red scarf over my shoulder and clumsily fumble with my gloves until my thumb is where my index finger should be and my little finger isn’t even in there at all. There’s not a cloud in sight in the sky above Newbridge Train Station. Its just as it was way back in February when I started out in this column. It was actually snowing! That’s what the very first column was about! Snow. In February. I hurry on, noticing I’m headed in the direction of the North Star. Bloody hell. Trust me to be late for the Trains, Buses & Automobiles Christmas Party that’s already started an hour ago in my own bloomin’ abode. I expect the merriment will be well under way. Thank heavens I’ve hidden a good vintage bottle of port under the stairs. No one will think to look there. Not that they’ll be looking. As far as the caterer said, the rum should be flowing like the Nile. Bloody hell. Eleven fifteen. I’m even later than I thought. I could blame the train for being late but I suppose it wasn’t really. Considering I missed the earlier Arrow and was forced to get a later train back from Dublin it was more a case of me being late than the train but how and ever its nice to be heading back home after a day of doing lunch in the city. Bloody hell. I nearly slip on the ice that’s covering most of the path. Probably shouldn’t have been trying to skate on it though. At last my cosy residence is in view.

Every light in the house is on. So far so good. At the door I can hear Shakin’ Stevens singing “Merry Christmas Everyone.” The door is opened by none other than Santa Claus himself or rather someone dressed as him. “Ho, ho, ho. Come in, come in.” Stepping into the house was the opposite of stepping off the Arrow. Instead of chill there was a cosy blanket of warmth. I hung my coat up and headed past the people chatting happily in the hallway. “Hey Liam, trademark lateness again?” said one of them. “You betcha!” I beamed. Inside the sitting room was crammed with people, most if not all who’d made cameo appearances in this column at some stage or another. I spotted Jeff and Zowie drifting towards the mistletoe through the crowd. That’s when I spotted $chmackey, lead vocalist of this columns’ house band $chmackey and the Salads over by the fireplace. I was exchanging wit with him when Rocking Around the Christmas Tree started playing. “I love this song!” I said. $chmackey frowned. “That makes one of us,” he grimaced. “Its dangerous for one thing.” “What’s dangerous?” I asked bewildered. “Rocking around the Christmas tree,” he said. “Especially with the lights.” Indeed. I ambled over to the food table where the Salads bassist Hank was surveying the delicacies. “Cake,” I offered. “That’s suggestive,” he answered. Undeniably. I made my way over to say hello to Jeff, weekend commuter. “So Jeff how were the trains, buses and automobiles for ya?” He grinned. “Don’t you mean trains, trams and automobiles?” Ah, touché. “Well,” he continued. “It had its good times and bad times. More so bad times then good times but what can you do when you got 35 year old carriages hauling a crowd of narky commuters at about 30 miles and hour?” Mmm. Rhetorical question. That’s when the doorbell rang.

I made my way back to the hall eager to greet at least one guest after being an hour late! It was none other than Franky Stein who plays keyboards for $chmackey and the Salads and is arguably the genius behind their songs. With Franky was Mary aka Princess Tomato. “C’mon in guys.” I took their coats. “Sure is cold outside,” Franky said. “Would you like a drink?” I say getting into the host role. Franky nods his head. “Yes, please. I’ll have a rum with Pepsi. It has a lower sodium content and it mixes better than coke.” And for Princess Tomato? “No thanks. I’m driving.” I do my very best to welcome Franky and Princess Tomato as only a few weeks ago they offered me flawless hospitality in the form of Swiss roll, biscuits and tea when I visited their abode. I point to the grand piano in the centre of the room. “I’d be honoured of you play us a few tunes.” Franky kindly obliged.

It was then I spotted the scouser legend Paul Winters sitting comfortably in an armchair on the other side of the room. “Would you like some port?” Paul nodded. “No I don’t like it.” An acquired taste perhaps. Me and Paul chatted away. “So are you enjoying the column?” I ask, fingers crossed. Paul pauses dramatically before he says, “I fear that the title may be somewhat misleading. For a train spotter you don’t seem to write about the great western flying Scotsman diesel engine very often. .” He’s got me there. “Did you ever notice,” he continues, “that Newbridge Station is exactly like the Fat Controllers station in Thomas the Tank Engine?” I can’t say that I have. Paul looks genuinely amazed by his revelation. “The resemblance is incredible actually.” So what do you think of our piano player, Franky? “I think he’s marvellous,” replies Paul. “I like his use of the elbow and his slumped demeanour.” What do you mean? “He reminds me of Animal from the Muppets,” Paul elaborates. “He just wants to play rock and roll. You can see the angst in his eyes as he plays White Christmas for the umpteenth time.” “Really?” I ask. “I’ll be back to talk to you later,” I say to Paul as I head for the piano. I hear Paul’s voice saying “I’ll talk you to later, that’s ok. I’ll just sit here under the mistletoe desperate for company.”

When I get to the piano Frankys eyes light up when I ask him to play his bands signature song – The Stars Wars Rap. He stands up and says “This toast is going out to Corey Feldman for admitting he’s America’s biggest Salads fan.” That’s when the unmistakable intro of the Star Wars Rap kicks in. I gaze around the room. Everyone’s dancing and singing and talking. This is ace. I headed back out into the kitchen to fix myself a JD and coke but while I’m putting the ice in the glass one of the guests comes in looking a tad bit concerned. “You’d better come in here Liam. The Christmas tree’s on fire.”

Merry Christmas to all my readers and especially to the people who make my column what it is by being in it. I love you guys!


Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6

Posted by LiamG at 10:13 PM

The Sales

Perhaps the word that best describes the habits of the typical commuter at this time of year is “sales.” Now that the bedlam of Christmas is over the chaos of January begins. Of course sensible people will have waited for the sales but I am anything but sensible so I bought all my Christmas junk at Christmas and will proceed to buy my January junk throughout this hectic month. In fact it wasn’t even 2005 when I started doing my sales shopping. Like a great deal of the commuter populace I jumped on the first Arrow to Dublin on December 28th. Mere days after the festive season made me buy a whole heap of stuff I had to have. You know the kind of stuff – more books than I’ll be able to read and more albums to add to the physical space collection. Down at Newbridge Station the platform was buzzing with non-regulars. Families out for the day. Eagle eyed women with Brown Thomas on their minds. The way I figured it, I had aqquired some money over Christmas from various generous Christmas card givers and it was supposed to be spent. Not saved. Spent. The sales were just an excuse to go to Dublin to do this. Why only the previous day a man who had camped out outside Arnotts walked away with the bargain of a century – a fridge for €10! I don’t even need a fridge but at €10 I’m sure I could have made some use for it. I could always buy a penguin.

On the train, the ticket master reminded me that I’ll have to renew my student ticket fairly soon. Which I told him I would but will no doubt forget to do. In Heuston everyone leaped off the train and frantically ran down platform number one or at least I did but to my credit I got to the LUAS before anyone else. And no they don’t hand out medals for that sort of thing. I asked. The LUAS arrived straight away once again proving itself to be a thousand times better than the bus. For example, the only reason you should now get the bus is (a) if you work in Dublin Castle (b) if you’re going shopping in Grafton St. and (c) if you’ve missed the LUAS. And (b) isn’t even a good excuse as everyone knows that Henry St. is the new Grafton St. The other great thing about the LUAS is its comfort. I mean when it arrives and its packed like a postman’s sack on Valentines Day, you’re thinking “aw crap!” You step onboard push your way through the squashed tram and find a spot to stand in but remarkably you’ll find that your journey is extremely comfortable. Unlike being squashed on the number 90 bus. That, as any hardcore commuter will tell you, is a living nightmare.

I hop off the LUAS right outside the Jervis St. Shopping Centre. I push the rival shoppers out of my way. The sales await me and I’ve crap to buy!


Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:12 PM

"You cultural degenerate you!"

It’s a wet and windy November morning. A lone Magpie flies through a menacingly dark sky as a low thunder growls between the clouds. The platform at Newbridge Station is soaking, drenched in heavy rainfall. Around a hundred miserable people have huddled beneath the overhead shelter. One or two souls are hovering beneath large black umbrellas, exposed to the shower. Woe is in the air. It smells of damp wood. Far in the distance a light can be seen. It offers no comfort though. It’s only the Arrow and it’s quite likely to be raining inside its carriages. Hardcore commuters will understand. Onboard and wet, I get a text message from my old pal, Leo in reference to the fact that I went to see Hanson and missed “Hmm Bop!” It reads “Ha ha. Serves you right for going to see the little blonde ***** in the first place – you cultural degenerate you. Poetic justice has been served.” You’ll have gathered Leo’s not a fan of Hanson. I continue reading “JOIN ME,” Danny Wallace’s book about how he started a cult by accident after placing a small ad in a local paper, saying simply ‘Join me’. Within months he was getting letters and e-mails from all over the world eager to sign up. I consider briefly about placing an ad in this very paper saying the same thing and wondering what sort of Kildare person would reply to such a thing. My thoughts are broken as another text message arrives. Its from Franky Stein of the band $chmackey & the Salads. It reads “Sorry I didn’t make it to the Reading Series, man. I’ll be at the December one, I swear. That’s a franky stein promise.” Well you read it here folks, Franky Stein made a solemn promise to come and I’ve put his promise in print for added security. In fact three other members of the band turned up to the Reading Series ( Rich, Hank and $chmackey ). We got a healthy audience of around thirty or so people of which I’m very grateful too. The next in the reading series takes place on Thursday 9th of December in the Riverbank Arts Centre at 8pm when Mae Leonard, Paul Winters and Jack L (by video) will all be reading for your listening pleasure. Admission is, of course, free. Back on the Arrow, we’re as pulling into Hueston Station the driver begins talking over the crackly intercom. “I’m happy to say we’re arriving on time.” Then he pauses for a moment before saying “God bless the driver!”

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:10 PM

The One About the Salads

Where did it all go wrong? This column’s house band, $chmackey & the Salads lost in last weeks much anticipated Battle of the Bands show down. Well, they didn’t lose as such. They just didn’t win. And if the resounding chants of “SALAD!” we’re anything to go by, they certainly came second place. Metaphorically speaking, as there wasn’t a second place as such. But if there was, the chants of “SALAD!” would have confirmed it. Their entrance was epic. All lights in the Riverbank went out and darkness enveloped the theatre. The 150 something crowd began shouting “$chmackey! $chamckey!” and as they did the infamous light blue words that are “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . .” appeared on the backdrop. A split second later the gigantic “SALAD WARS” logo blasted onto the screen at the crowd went into a frenzy. A frenzy for salad. Then, as the projected yellow text telling the story of the Salads latest space-age adventure rolled over the audience, the people everyone were here to see made there way to the stage to sing their original song – “The Star Wars Rap.” Then the euphoric “My Little Paradise” followed by an electric cover of Elton John’s “Crocodile Rock,” and finishing with a song that is probably now unintentionally the Salads signature song – “Getta Out of My Way (The Matt Dillon Song). “I’m Matt Dillon, get out of my way / Me and your sister gonna hit the hay” The crowd went crazier than a Maison de Santé.

One might think at this stage that I was giving biased coverage owing to the fact the Salads are this column’s house band. In thinking that, you would be absolutely correct. But, as I asked earlier, where did it all go wrong? Was Frank E. Stein off key on the keyboard? Did Hank Tree play like a tree? Was Hash Brown playing like Donkey Kong? And most importantly, was Rich Clifford playing at all? $chmackey himself had this to say on the matter, “It’s unexplainable. No one seems to know why we lost. Billions of people are wondering why?” Indeed.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:09 PM

Mystery Inc.

It was last Thursday. I was on the 12.05pm train to Heuston. A near empty train by any standards. Apart from me, there were only two other people in the carriage. One was a middle-aged man. Slightly on the plump side. He had a neatly trimmed greyish beard and was reading what appeared to be the dictionary. The second, closer to me, was a twenty-something girl. She wore a long tweed overcoat with a number of creases. White woollen gloves adorned her hands and on her head was a white woollen hat. A brown leather briefcase lay beside her on the seat. Not one of those harsh square businessman briefcases but a slender one fixed together by two metal buckles. She sat staring out the window as the scenery rolled by outside as if she were in an old black and white film.

Every once and a while she would turn her head ever so slightly away from the window and look in my direction. Not in an obvious way though. Her eyes were so subtle in movement. Like two turtles slowly moving. I pretended not to notice. I looked straight ahead, down at the man with the beard. I noticed now that every so often he would grab a pen and then circle a word, or at least that’s what it looked like. The train eventually came to a halt in Heuston Station. The girl was first to get up, followed by the man and then myself. One by one we stepped out onto platform number one. The man limped slightly on his left leg but he was still walking faster than me. The girl was walking just ahead of him, quite briskly as if she was trying to get away from someone. When we reached the main hall of Heuston, the girl went to the Jus Juice bar and ordered a drink. Seconds later the man took a seat on one of the Jus Juice stools and opened up his dictionary once more. What happened next though would inadvertently catapult me into a Dublin filled with espionage. As the girl took her drink, she looked at her watch and was obviously late for something as she broke into a sprint towards the exit. On the floor where she had been standing was a slim brown envelope. She obviously had dropped it so in I rushed over, picked it up and began running towards the exit in order to return it to her. Outside I could see her stepping onto the LUAS. I ran as fast as possible but just as I got to the tram, the doors closed and the LUAS pulled away. I turned around and jumped onto the number 90 bus, hoping that if this girl was on the LUAS there was quite a good chance she’d be getting off in Abbey Street. As the driver pulled off, through the window I could see that bearded man running towards us. He looked stern. As we pulled off onto the main road it seemed he gave up. I then turned my attention to the envelope. I began wondering whether or not to open it. After all it wasn’t sealed so know one would know I had looked. Perhaps it would just turn out to be a shopping list and then I could give up my chase. Just a quick peek I thought. Inside was a piece of paper with a couple of words scribbled on it. “Taxidermy. Mammal. Murmurs. Brahms. Feline.” This was no ordinary shopping list.

As the bus approached O’Connell Bridge in a moment of surprise, I seen the girl in her tweed overcoat rushing across the bridge, obviously still a quite a bit of a hurry. Slightly alarmed at the thought of not returning this unusual slip of paper back to its owner, I ran with haste down the bus stairs, off the bus, (dangerously) across the road, over the bridge and up towards Trinity. It felt like I was racing for eons. She just kept up her hurried pace through Grafton Street, dodging in and out of the crowd with me not so skilful and not so fit but doing my best to keep up. This continued for another good ten minutes until finally the girl turned into the gate at the National History Museum, ran up the path and into the building. Wheezing like a dog pulling at his leash, I stood at the gates and that’s when I made sense of it all. It had to be the National History Museum. The piece of paper was a code of some sort. “Taxidermy” would indicate the Museum with all its dead stuffed animals. I thought “mammal” and “feline” were also two words that could be associated with the Museum, as they would have dead mammals and cats. As for “murmurs” maybe that was code for a hushed meeting, like a whisper and as for “Brahms”? Well I couldn’t see how he fitted into the puzzle. Confident I was about to unravel something terribly, terribly secret I took a deep breath. But the moment I was about to walk in a taxi came to a screeching halt up on the kerb beside me. I heard the man inside say “that’s him all right!” as the back door to the taxi flung open and out stepped the bearded man. So astounded, I barely moved a muscle as he walked towards me, snatched the envelope from my hand, gave me a frightfully dirty look and got back into the taxi which I watched driving off into the distance.

At a complete and utter loss to what had just happened I ambled into the History Museum only to be greeted by the mysterious girl upon my entrance. “Hi! Welcome to the National History Museum. Would you like a tour?” she said. My mouth may have been hanging open at this stage but I just shook my head and wandered back outside where I collapsed myself onto a bench beside a gentlemen reading a newspaper. On the back page was the bearded man! I strained to read the headline. It read “Russian cross-word champion on national tour.” And then, turning my head to the front and staring out ahead I felt the strange sensation of the dawning realisation consume me. And then I passed out.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:06 PM

"It was dark now . . ."

It was Monday. I’d been in the city on some business that had taken a great deal longer than expected. It was dark now. And raining. The lights of Dublin City glowed a thousand shades of orange. As I hurried to the catch the last bus to Hueston, drops of rain on my glasses made each street lamp spiral and explode as if large orange stars had been scattered throughout town. The number 90 pulled off the minute I stepped on. There was an old lady sitting at the very back of the bus, eyes closed. Presumably sleeping. Upstairs was empty. For the whole journey, I listened to the sound of the rainwater that had seeped through the ceiling, rolling unruly up and down the floor of the bus.

Upstairs I was reading Darren Shan’s new book, “Sons of Destiny” which is all about vampires. Earlier, by chance, the author had arrived into Eason’s the same time as myself to sign copies of his new book. I got in line and (an hour later) I had a signed copy of “Sons of Destiny” that read “To Liam, Destiny wishes you lots of luck trying to track down Ayuanarca!! – Darren Shan”

The bus rattled and groaned and then sighed when we came to rest at Hueston Station. Downstairs on the bus, the old lady was still at the very back. Eyes shut. Presumably sleeping. I hurried into the station out of the screaming wind and pelting rain. Inside seemed bigger, if only for it was empty. Not a soul in sight. I tell a lie. There was a man lying on the bench in front of the miniature model of the station. He worn a tattered tweed jacked. Both elbows patched with an awful shade of brown. By his side sat a plastic bag that had the tall neck of a whiskey bottle leering out.

I turned my gaze toward the large LCD red timetable. It had but one train on it. The last train home. Stopping at each station. Last stop – Newbridge. I walked slowly along platform one. More rain water dripped randomly from the weather-drilled holes of Hueston’s palazzo roof. Up ahead awaited the Arrow menacingly. Its head lights beckoning. I walked up past all the empty carriages to the top carriage. Empty also, save me. Minutes later the doors closed automatically and the train pulled off into the night. Flying by outside the window was a blur of branches, trees and ditches. Rain spattered against the window. The only thin I could really see was my own reflection and even that appeared only as spectre. We stopped at each station along the way. Each bereft off life. At Hazel hatch the ticket man passed though the carriage, took a look at my ticket and disappeared again. This I thought would be my only human encounter along the journey. I was wrong of course. Even though later that night I wondered if that had been the case.

About twenty minutes away from Newbridge Station we came to a sudden halt. The Arrow sat motionless as I did I for around half an hour. Then we began moving again without any explanation. At this moment a man, possibly in his forties and with dark, dark circles under his eyes started walking up the carriage towards me. I hadn’t seen him previously at all. He asked if he could sit down and have some company for a while. “It won’t be long now,” is what I think he said. At the time I thought he meant it wouldn’t be long before we arrived in Newbridge. He just sat across from me. Staring out the window. Thinking. A few minutes away from Newbridge, he got up, nodded and walked into the next carriage. The train began slowing down and the ticket man re-appeared. “Sorry bout’ that delay earlier,” he said. “There was a fatality on the track.” Morbid curiosity played at my mind but I didn’t ask. I merely nodded and got up to stand by the door as the train pulled in at Newbridge. The doors opened and I stepped out into the rain once more. I looked up the platform to see if anyone else had got off but nobody had. I stared a bit longer. But this is Newbridge, I thought. It’s the last stop. It’s the last stop.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 10:05 PM

Hmm Bop!

Tuesday 9th November

Why can you never find your keys when your just about to leave the house and are in the mother of all hurries? You always think there sitting on the table or on top of the microwave but when the taxi pulls up, they’re gone. Its like fate is somehow trying to stop me from getting to the gig of one of music’s most legendary bands. So after waving at the taxi driver as if to say, “gimme a minute, I’ve lost my God Damn keys again!” I run around the house frantically searching until I realise my keys are in my pocket. Regaining my cool, I head out to the taxi and we’re on our way to the train station. But, as I rummaged through my wallet, I notice it’s missing any form of currency. What in the Hell is going on here? Strike two for fate to try and hinder my attempt to see three of the music industries living geniuses playing live in the Temple Bar Music Centre. Damn it! The taxi does a wild 360’ spin as we drive back into Newbridge to get to an ATM machine and back to the train station before my train leaves. So eventually, after withdrawing my life savings to supplement any further twists of fate, I’m finally on the train to Dublin. In my haste I’ve forgotten to bring any books or CD’s so I have to make do with staring out the window and trying to ignore the little brats who are running amuck in the carriage. I meet up with $chmackey and Paula outside Eason’s on O’Connell St. Now we’ve just got to kill some time while we wait for Rich Clifford to finish up college. We agree some retail therapy is in order so HMV on Henry St. it is.

While browsing through the store a song began playing. A really, really beautiful song about Galileo, love and the stars. It reminded me of Don McCleans “Vincent”. More frantic searching ensued to find out who sung the song so I could get the CD. Turned out to be the brand new album of Declan O’Rourke called “Since Kyabram”. When I got to the counter with my copy of the album, the guy at the till was like “This is such a great album! Have you heard it yet?” “I just heard the song about Galileo there a few minutes ago,” I replied. He was beaming. He continued to tell me how he loves the album and also love The Killers and did I like The Killers? And was I going to that big concert next week with such and such a band? This was it. Perfect time to announce where I was headed. Surely he would be mightily impressed at the epic band I was going to see that very night but, when I uttered the bands name he just stared at me, raised his arm and pointed towards the door. “Get out,” he said with disgust. So I left with $chmackey and Paula and we ambled down to Abrakebabra, got some fries and cola and sat at the kids table on the second floor. Eventually Rich turned up and now we needed to kill some more time as we waited for Hash Brown make his way from Heuston to O’Connell St. $chmackey suggested the big arcade up the street a bit so that’s where we went and weaved in and out the slot machines and arcade games.

After inserting far too many euros into one particular shooting game than one ought to, I began blasting various assailants jumping out from behind rocks and things. $chmackey was shouting words of encouragement. “See those guys there!” he said, “they read the rival newspaper!” Suddenly my aim became a lot more precise. After that we went to play pool to which I insisted I couldn’t play but which everyone else insisted I should play so who was I to disagree. Me and Rich were Team Ireland and $chmackey and Paula were Team Canada. Our team’s star player Mr. Rich Clifford played terrifically. $chmackey played good. Paula played well and me? Lets just say I played. Regardless Team Ireland were victorious in both games, a slight exaggeration that $chmackey will likely dispute. So anyway, we eventually met up with Hash Brown and headed across the Happenny Bridge and into Temple Bar towards the Music Centre where a snake-like queue was slithering its way around the corner and way down the street!

We joined the ever-growing queue and a crowd of fans from Newbridge arrived right behind us. As we inched closer and closer to the door a panic stricken fan without a ticket was offering any of us €100 for one our tickets. Ha! She’d be lucky. We weren’t about to give up or golden tickets to the band of the century, now were we? Don’t answer that $chmackey. Inside, Keara joined us and all six of us were ready hand over our souls to those Devils of music. The place was packed. In fact, it was actually sold out. Chants of “I love you Tyler!” and “We want Zac!” could be heard screaming from the crowd. Everyone was growing anxious and nervous. A thousand butterflies fluttered in a thousand tummies. And then they walked on stage. The room erupted with screams. Hanson had just walked on stage. Yet during the course of the night, while out smoking with Keara, we missed the pen ultimate song. The song of the decade. The song that had brought us all here. I missed it. I missed “Hmm Bop!” I went to see Hanson and missed “Hmm Bop!”

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:52 PM

Luas, Salad and Liam

Friday 1st October

Commuters, behold the LUAS Red Line. Instead of pushing and shoving your way onto the 90 bus outside Hueston Station you now have the option of, eh, pushing and shoving your way onto the LUAS. Much like the opening of the Green Line out to Sandyford, the LUAS stop outside Hueston was bustling with purple jacket wearing LUAS personnel handing out LUAS leaflets. I edged my way to the front of the platform eager to get a seat. Once the tram arrived I realised I wouldn’t be getting a seat. Nor in fact would any of us on the platform as the tram was jam-packed. Were talking Strawberry Jam here. Everyone and their relatives had crammed on in an effort to test it out without having to pay for it. Exactly what I was doing. I managed to squeeze on eventually and off we went. As I said before when I was testing out (for free again) the Sandyford LUAS line, the one thing that strikes me about the LUAS is its speed. It positively zips along. The Red Line thankfully stops off right outside the Jervis Street Shopping Centre where I was headed.

I was in search of a camera tripod for my documentary on $chmackey and the Salads, my ultra-cool house band (as if you didn’t know). They were playing later that day in the Battle of the Bands in the Riverbank Arts Centre. I headed straight for Argos. They sell everything. Tripods included. After getting my receipt with my product collection number on it I went over and stood with the rest of the shoppers waiting for their goods. There was only one woman working behind the counter and she looked, to say the least agitated. “Number 49,” she called out. No one moved. “Number 49,” she said again, though this time a little louder. “Number 49!” she repeated. “BINGO!” shouted a man at the back. She gave him a dirty look as the rest of the customers chuckled quietly.

As it turned out the tripod wasn’t as large as I had thought which was perfect. The last thing I needed was to carry a big box around with me. I made my way back to O’Connell Bridge, got impatient waiting for the 90 bus so got a taxi instead and eventually arrived in Hueston where I caught the 3.30pm Arrow back to tropical Newbridge. The Battle of the Bands was on at 8pm but since me and Jeff Keogh (camera man # 2) wanted to get some backstage footage for our documentary we headed down at 7pm. On our way, we bumped into the Salad band members outside Central Grill on Main Street and headed down to the Arts Centre. Being cult columnists and rock stars we went in the back way to check out the dressing rooms. As 8pm loomed I got up on the balcony where I would be doing my filming. Jeff was in the front row to get an up close and personal angle. The balcony seemed to be flooded with people but Peter Hussey, organiser of the event, was soon announcing that the balcony was only for band members and, upon seeing me, journalist. After the first four bands, $chmackey and the Salads made their way on stage. They kicked off with “Chicks Dig Salads” in which lead vocalist, $chmackey threw out a thong into the screaming audience. This was followed by “My Little Paradise” and the classic Salad song “I’m Mat Dillon (Get outta my way!)” They ended on the defining Salad song – “The Star Wars Rap” featuring the immortal lines “Rolled into the club saw this droid she was tight / I took her to my crib, made her say $chmackey all night” The audience gave a rapturous applause and (semi) standing ovation as the Salads stolled off, cool as cucumbers. (Geddit!?!) Need less to say they made it into the final taking place later this month. The only thing now is to wait for the Salads to come up with my columns theme tune. “Cruising in the Arrow, chillin’ on the bus / He’s waiting for the LUAS getting’ ready to cus / standing on the platform, the competition starts to flee / hold onto your hats cause its Liam Geraghty”

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:50 PM

Digging

Readers, I’ve been doing some digging. Not the kind of digging that results in potatoes and not the kind of digging you might do if someone asked you “Can ya dig it, brother?” I was digging into the long forgotten Trains, Buses and Automobiles archives. Deep beneath the Kildare Nationalist HQ is an underground basement lined with rows upon rows of shelves. Upon each row of shelves sit hundreds and hundreds of dusty brown boxes. Each box is labelled with a white sticker which has a file index printed on it. For instance, I came across a box that was labelled, “Hueston Anecdotes,” while I found another that said simply “Walking” in big bold print. Some labels were so old that their print had faded away. The light is dim in the Archives which didn’t make things easier for me to read either. I was looking for a box labelled “Encounters with the Salads” to find a witty yarn to fill this weeks column but it was no-where to be seen. Instead I came across a tattered old box labelled “Early Days.” I didn’t come across it so much as I tripped over it but since I was on the floor anyway I took the time to sort thought the worn manuscripts contained within the mysterious box. What I found was nothing short of trains or buses. It was the file containing my early columns. The ones I wrote when I first began college. The ones I wrote week after week even though I technically didn’t even have a column at that stage. I read through them carefully. They had everything. Characters. Commuting. Spelling mistakes. So here for the first time ever in print, feast your eyes upon this never before seen material:

“It was a quarter to three and I was still sitting on the top of the 90 bus to Heuston Station. My train was leaving at 3.05 and if I missed that I'd have to catch an arrow, much like you'd catch a cold. What was the hold up, I hear you cry! Was it the unforgiving Dublin traffic? Was it some sort of engine failure? No! It was none of those things. Downstairs I could hear someone arguing with the bus driver. I stressed to hear the heated conversation over the ever-annoying mumblings of someone’s Walkman but to no avail. The bus jolted to a start and I stared out the window at Dublin’s graceful seagulls swooping majestically over the Liffey. This beautiful moment was rudely interrupted by the out-stretched branch of a tree that slammed against the window scaring the be-jayzus out of myself and every one else sitting at the front of the bus. As we drew nearer to the station I slipped out of my seat that bit earlier to avoid the exit rush of sardines from the top of the bus. Works every time. Bid farewell to the driver, and made the dash inside. Quick look at the watch, three minutes until the train leaves. Now at this point you may think I went straight for the train yet the unrelenting urges of a sugar junkie never cease to conquer me. It's happened before that I missed my train due to a Milkybar craving but not this time. After stocking up, I quite literally sprinted towards platform six with the ticket master waving me to hurry up. Any faster and I'd get home quicker than the Arrow. I must have looked like Franka Potente in that German film Run Lola Run. “Not there yet,” I thought, “but getting there.”

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:49 PM

B-Sides

The Archives (Being a collection of never-before-published columns and B-sides)

Synchronised Commuters

Waiting for the train to arrive at Newbridge station is something of an oddity. For you see several weeks ago as I stood rebelliously over the yellow line, I began squinting down the track to see if the train, already late, was on its way and it was. The trees down the track began lighting up from the train’s blinding headlights. The train drew nearer and nearer. The commuters began walking up the platform to get a seat (and by seat I mean standing spot). Yet as we watched the train come closer and closer we noticed it didn’t seem to be stopping. Our heads followed it in unison as it drove right by the station. Then there was the unusual silence of fifty dumb-founded commuters all staring up the track where we could see the train had now stopped. It was scheduled to stop in Newbridge and the driver must have just realized this. Then, to our amazement, off in the distance we could see several people hoping out of the train and walking back towards us. After about ten minutes the train began slowly creeping back into the station but by this time the top of the platform was crowded with weary commuters eager to get into a carriage. Thus, begins the mighty elbow bashing battle to be the first in the door. I get in at the front carriage and stand beside the trademark Iarnod Eireánn window that doesn’t close.

Everybody loves the Arrow

It was a wet and windy morning as I stood at Newbridge train station waiting for the Arrow. Yes, I said the Arrow. That dreaded orange monster that devours as many people as possible. Today was no different. As the earlier 8.10 train had been cancelled there were double the usual amount of people waiting for the Arrow. When it arrived it was already packed full but how and ever, we, the Newbridge crowd squeezed into the carriage. How can I describe the scene? Think sardine tins. Think too many clothes crammed in a suitcase. Think the Japanese metro. You couldn’t move an inch, literally. We were so close that it seemed as if we were one giant commuting body. The doors closed and we began to cook. When your standing out in the freezing air, you’re dieing to get into the carriage but when you’re in the oven they call an Arrow, you’re dieing to get back out onto the platform. I figure that’s why the Arrow glows orange. Anyhow, when we stopped in Sallins there was a crowd of perished commuters eager to climb aboard. If only they knew. The doors opened and they pushed and shoved yet only about three succeeded in joining our merry band of commuters. The other Sallinites knew better and simply sat back down on the dismal green benches. 15 minutes later we were still in Sallins and it was then we discovered that there were so many people onboard that they couldn’t shut the doors! The logical thing would have been to ask the people nearest the door to (kindly) get off. But Iarnród Éireann drivers are something of a marvel so throwing all logic out the window; the driver hops off and tries to manually pull the doors close. Amazingly it worked. We continued on our way stopping at every station. Doors open. No one can fit on so doors close and we continue. And to crown the whole journey off, the driver’s assistant stood at the entrance to our carriage (as he couldn’t move any further) and shouted “Tickets!”

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:48 PM

While Sorting Through The Fan Mail . . .

Thought I’d take a break from Iarnród Éireann this week. They obviously had other ideas as around 2.30am on one dark, dark, night I was awoken by some very odd noise like a chainsaw in a blender. I stuck my sleepy head out the window and low and behold, if it wasn’t some maintenance train from Irish Rail making all the racket. Sigh. The next morning I was eating breakfast and going through the fan mail when I got a text from Newbridge man Leigh O’Gorman who says, “The announcement marking the start of the smoking ban is still being played in Hueston station…GGRRRR! I find it very annoying.” Keen listening. That announcement is indeed now out of date and agitating commuters daily. Especially commuters who smoke. After sorting through the Nurney fan mail bundle, I got a text from Anthony, my Dublin amigo. He’s texting with reference to the “LIAM: Live in Brooklyn” CD I gave him. He says, “I haven’t listened to it yet. The cover however is so cheesy that mozzarella blushed.” Dubs’, eh? Typical. After the cornflakes and the Naas fan mail bag, word reached me of epic consequences.

This column’s very own in-house band - $chmackey and the Salads are rumoured to be splitting not even months after their initial birth into the Newbridge band scene! I literally dropped my mug of tea, soaking the Kilcullen fan mail. The Salads are an iconic band, so as you can imagine their demise will cause major controversy. The five members of the eccentric group are $chmackey (Shane Mackey), Hank Tree (Craig O’Connor), Hash Brown (Brian Farrell), Dr. Frank E. Stein (Stuart Sheehy) and Rich Clifford (Niall Farrell). Some sources say that $chmackey has decided to go solo while others suggest the band may split as a result of Rich Clifford being deported to Mexico, but I won’t speculate. I’m not a gossip columnist . . . Ahem. The Salads will play (what potentially could be) their final ever gig in the Riverbank Arts Centre on Friday October 1st at 8pm in the Battle of the Bands.

And speaking of the Riverbank Arts Centre, later that day as I got a taxi down town, the taxi driver began to share his views on the Centre’s current situation. He told me that when the Riverbank was first opened he had gone to see quite a lot of different events in it. Plays, musicals, concerts and stand-up comedians. He was now concerned though that the program wasn’t as diverse as it used to be and he wondered why. This got me thinking. If my taxi driver didn’t know what was going on down in the Arts Centre then perhaps the greater public of Kildare don’t either. Some time ago, the Board who oversee things in the Riverbank decided to “refocus” the Arts Centre in a more “community driven” direction. This means that most of the stand-up comedians, outstanding touring play productions and semi-famous singers would effectively be given the boot. So what are we left with? Well that’s a good question. What we’re left with is a section of the Arts that likes to think it’s aiming to everybody but in reality is only serving a small number of the public. This is blatantly wrong.

The Riverbank Arts Centre was paid for by public money and is there for the public. Not just to serve a specific segment of the people but all the people. Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with a community-based remit but only as long as it’s healthily balanced with shows, etc from a wider diversity. Personally, I’m outraged at what’s been happening. This is a crucial time in the Riverbanks development. It is at a make or break stage. If you, like me, are a member of the public who enjoys the Arts I would urge you to contact the Board who oversee things in the Riverbank with your thoughts, comments and ideas. It is also worth mentioning that the current Arts Centre manager, Denis Clifford, is not a member of the Board and therefore is obliged to do his best with the remit he is given. I have always found Denis Clifford to be extremely helpful and encouraging with any projects I have been a part of. From the making of a short-film to the forthcoming Riverbank Reading Series, Denis has always been there with his advice and time. The Riverbank Arts Centre needs the public who paid for it now more than ever. Let your voice be heard.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:47 PM

Help me Obi Wan Kenobi !

Just exit the store, Liam. Turn around and run out into Henry Street and then run like the clappers for Heuston. It was too late. The shiny, shiny Star Wars DVD box had already put me in a frenzy. It wasn’t supposed to be out until Monday. But HMV had it early. Star Wars. DVD box set. Do you understand what I’m staying!? Ok, ok, walk calmly over to the stand. Try not to look like a Star Wars obsessive. Remember your just buying it for someone else. A quick glance left to right. No one’s looking. Pick it up. OhmyGod,ohmyGod,ohmyGod. Digitally re-mastered. Digitally restored. Re-remastered. Re-restored remastered edition. OhmyGod,ohmyGod,ohmyGod.

Check your wallet. Make sure you didn’t get all excited over nothing. Ten euro!?! That wouldn’t even get me the cheap cardboard box the DVD’s are in! Gotta think quick. They’ve only got around four hundred copies. I run out into Henry St. in a panic. “AHHHHHHHHH!” Ok, whew. Got that out of my system. Now to the nearest bank machine. Christ this queue is way too long. ARNOTTS! They’ve got an ATM machine. I run back down Henry St. Gorgeous girl approaching. “NO! I DON’T WANT TO BUY ANY OF YOUR GOD DAMN SCRATCH CARDS!” Right. Arnotts. Where do I begin? It’s the Macy’s of Dublin. Far too many stairs and escalators leading to far too many floors. The place is like Charles De Gaulle airport! “Where’s the ATM?” I ask an idle member of staff. “The basement.” The basement! Ok, that’s gotta be all down.

Thirteen floors later I’m skidding around stands of expensive looking glass ornaments that are placed in such a way that it would be a miracle if I didn’t slide right into one. The ATM’s got to be here somewhere. The manager on this floor is watching me as if I were a hyperactive child in a toyshop. Which isn’t entirely that far from the truth. AHA! There it is. Right, stuff the card in. Punch my pin - ****. Withdrawal? YES! Receipt? Yeah, sure why not. Amount? The price of the Star Wars DVD box set! Do you require any other services? Unless you’re squeezing Star Wars DVD box set’s out of that cash slot, just gimme my money!

Right. Back on track. Reverse that entire frenetic running through Arnotts, dashing through Henry St. “NO! I don’t want to buy a scratch card! Do you have short term memory loss or something!?” Ok, ok. I’m back in HMV. Wheezing, I swipe my Box Set and stagger over to the counter with a smug feeling of self-satisfaction. I feel like shouting “HA!” but decide against it. “Do you have any I.D.?” the girl behind the counter asks. “WHAT!?” “Do you have any I.D.?” she repeats. My mouth hangs open for a second. “I’m not trying to buy porn! It’s Star Wars! Its rated PG!” She glances down at the box set. “Oh your right. Sorry bout’ that” she replies while she scans the barcode.

Walking out of the shop I’m strutting with the “I’ve just bought Star Wars on DVD” kind of swagger. I pull the mobile out of my pocket and ring Paul Winters. “Paul, I’ve just bought Star Wars on DVD!” I hear a gasp down the phone line. “OhmyGod,ohmyGod,ohmyGod,” I hear Paul mutter. “I thought it wasn’t out until Monday! I’m going to see if Dunnes have it!” On the train home Paul rings me back. “Did you get it?” I enquire. “Oh I got it all right but . . .” he says. “But what?” I hear him sighing. “I bought a bloody faulty one. It’s got Return of the Jedi on all three discs!” I had to laugh. I could have pretended to be sympathetic but the situation was too hilarious. It called for an evil laugh. “MUHAHAhahahaha!” After much more of this, I suddenly realised what I had done. I had bought Star Wars. On DVD. I had vowed not too. I already own the video set. Not only that. Oh the shame. I own the Special Edition video set as well. And now I own the DVD set. I now have THREE sets of the same trilogy of films. This is what it is to be a Star Wars addict. Not a fan. An addict. Curse George Lucas. Curse him. (Liam has signed a contract never to mention Star Wars again in this column. Thank God.)

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:46 PM

Arriving Home

I’m finally back in Newbridge. That jewel of south Kildare. That town of quaint possibilities. That hive of scum and villainy. Ah, yes. I’m most definitely home. And what’s the first thing I do when I arrive here? Exactly. Catch the first train to Dublin! I’ve got a black belt in keepin’ it real, folks. The Arrow doesn’t seem to have changed much in that its still an awful shade of orange. Aboard the train I’m reading Athy author, Lissa Oliver’s latest novel – a racing thriller called Gala Day. Lissa very kindly sent me a special single print edition of the book while I was in Washington DC. It was accompanied by a note that read: “The book is cunningly devised to fall apart as you read it, in order to ensure you buy a real copy when it’s published.” Ho, ho, ho. She’s a crafty soul.

When we got nearer to Hueston Station a customary practise is carried out by the commuters of Iarnród Éireann. Even though we’re a good twenty minutes away from the station certain people begin to make their way to the doors. These commuters are beginners and totally inexperienced in the art of commuting. Hardcore commuters will realise that while it looks like we’re very near to Hueston that we are in fact quite a great deal away. Hence getting up at this point means you have to stand for a good twenty minutes. So what’s the problem? Let the beginners learn from their mistakes by standing for twenty minutes and leave the hardcore bunch to wallow in their superior knowledge from their seats. Ah, but therein lies the crunch. All it takes is for one commuter to get out of their seat and head for the door to set the domino effect off. One by one, more and more people will head for the door. They slowly begin to block the centre aisle and if the hardcore commuters don’t follow suit, they’ll be last off the train. There’s just no winning.

Hueston Station doesn’t to seem to have changed much. Not that it would I suppose. The LUAS station just outside the front entrance seems to be completed although all the trams that pass through it are Out of Service. After accidentally taking the number 91 bus, I make my way over to Henry Street. You see I’ve been informed that those charity scratch card sellers on Henry St. actually earn up to 40% of the money they take in! Which is insane! Call me naïve, but I always thought they did it out of the goodness of their hearts. Turns out their intent is nothing short of evil. Think about it. They earn their money by selling scratch cards for charity! So when you give them €3, they take 40% minus the production costs of the actual scratch card itself, leaving the charity with very little intake. Amazingly, there weren’t any card sellers stalking Henry St. that day but the next time one of those attractive girls who sell them jumps out at me, I’ll have a much better excuse to give her than “Leave me alone. I’m in a hurry.”

Onward to Eason’s on O’Connell Street where I’m scheduled to do lunch with a couple of college friends of mine. My old comrade Anthony is leaving for England in a couple of days so we’re all there to say our farewells. In my modesty I’ve brought him a copy of my “LIAM: Live in Brooklyn” CD which contains an audio recording of my New York reading. I know he’ll savour the pompousness of it, especially because I’ve signed it on the inside CD jacket! Just getting in some practise for when I hit the bestseller shelves . . .

Speaking of readings, I want you, my loyal readers to be the first to know about my very own reading series! It’s been cleverly titled The Riverbank Reading Series and yours truly will be the host. We’ll be kicking off on Thursday 18th November in the Riverbank Arts Centre, Newbridge with readings from Kildare novelist Martin Malone and Athy-based author, Lissa Oliver. Mary Beckerman (the writer I stayed with in Washington DC) will give a video reading from his latest book. Then on Thursday 9th December, Naas writer Mae Leonard will be reading from her work as well as a very special video reading by Ireland’s greatest singer, JACK L! And the good news is – it’s FREE! I wouldn’t have it any other way. You can get tickets in the Riverbank or by ringing the Box Office on 045-448333. Oh and I’ll be reading a little bit as well! Spread the Word!

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:44 PM

Leaving New York

“Aer Lingus! AER LINGUS!” My Mexican taxi driver, whose English was on a par with my Irish, wanted to know what airline I was flying with. You see JFK Airport is so big that it’s split into a whole load of terminals. Each terminal houses different airlines. So he wanted to know which airline I was with so he could drive me to the right terminal. “Aer Lingus! I’m going to Dublin! AER LINGUS!” He hadn’t a clue what I was on about. “London? You go to London?” he said. “No, no, no. Heaven forbid! Ireland. I’m flying to Ireland with Aer Lingus!” “Ok, ok. Look at signs,” he said pointing to several large signs in the distance. “You tell me which number is you.” It wasn’t until we actually got close to the signs that I knew what he meant. Each sign had a number of a terminal on it, along with a long list of airlines that were housed at that terminal. “Ok, Here we go,” he said. “Are you one?” I quickly scanned the first sign bereft of Aer Lingus. “No. No. I’m not one” The next sign loomed. “Ok, Ok. Are you two?” Things went on like this until we got to sign number four and I spotted Aer Lingus. “Number four! I’m FOUR!” I said with far too much enthusiasm for a sign. “Ah,” he said, “Aer Lingus.”

After checking in, I was left to wander through the shops and Duty Free stores. Duty Free for a twenty-year-old Irish guy is rendered pointless in terminal four of JFK as you have to be twenty-one to be able to buy alcohol. What is the world coming too? I had to settle for JD and coke without the actual JD. The thing I loved most about the shops in the airport though were that they all represented one of the major tourist attractions in New York. For example, there was the Official New York Subway store where you could buy mugs and t-shirts with a map of the subway printed on them. There was also a shop selling gifts from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The main reason I loved these shops is because you can buy gifts for family and friends who’ll think you’ll have actually bought them ***in*** New York whereas you’ve actually forgotten to buy anything for anyone so you’ve just bought a whole load of New York themed mugs and key rings at the airport on your way home. Not that I’d ever do that. Ahem.

Getting onto the actual plane involved more frisking, which I was getting used to at this stage. Aboard I was lucky enough to get a window seat. As we took off into the night sky, New York was a dazzling array of little lights. The city was awake constantly. Yellow taxis. Subway stations. Hot dog stands. Broadway. The Empire State Building. It is a fine city and I’ll miss it. Especially the girl I met on the subway. Now that I mention it, some readers have contacted me wishing to know what happened next. Well, as you know, I met a cute girl on the subway who said I should come out and visit her at the store where she worked. So, the next day, yours truly went off in search of “Yellow Rat Bastard”, the trendy Soho store that she worked in. Yours truly, then proceeded to get hopelessly lost. I went in search of the store again the following day (and crucially my last day) only to find it was her day off. So what should have been a romantic comedy starring me as Tom Hanks and the cute girl as Meg Ryan turned out to be more like a Shakespearean tragedy. I wanted to let this girl know that I had desperately tried to find her in the big city so I emailed the customer service guy ‘Derek’ at “Yellow Rat Bastard” who has begun a massive search for her throughout the store. And that, my friends, is the conclusion my heart breaking inter-continental love story.

The flight back to Dublin was a smooth one. The jet lag has really screwed me up but I’m looking forward to getting back on the Arrow. . .


Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:43 PM

Mr. Geraghty Goes to Washington

After my weeklong visit to New York was up, it was time to leave. Not back to Ireland you understand but to Washington DC. I was off to stay with an American friend of mine, a one Marty Beckerman. On the day in question, I had made my way to Penn Station near Madison Square Garden to catch my Amtrak train to the nations capital. Now, I had thought of comparing Penn Station to Hueston Station, but there’s simply no competition. Penn is rather big and, well, Hueston is rather small. The station itself is actually underground. In fact, I had to take an escalator down and with my unnecessary large suitcase, I did so with great difficulty.

The whole station felt more like an airport than a train station. When I actually got to the platform and saw the vessel that I would be travelling on, it was certainly a welcome sight. It seemed that I would be commuting in some sort of futuristic silver carriage. Inside was just as appealing. The inside of an Arrow pails in contrast. For most of my three-hour journey, my carriage was largely empty. This was mainly because it was the ‘reserved’ carriage for columnists who like their space. Ahem. I quite enjoyed the difference in driver announcements between America and Ireland. Whereas on the 5.20pm train to Newbridge you’re likely to hear the driver say “We’ll be held up here for a while. There’s a cow on the track,” on my Amtrak cruiser the driver announced, “We’re not going any further than DC. Hurricane Charlie’s on the track.”

Eventually I arrived at Union Station, my stop. There to greet me was Marty, the eye raising author of such books as “Death to All Cheerleaders” and the recently published “Generation S.L.U.T.” We headed for the Washington Metro. Now, the main thing that struck me about the subways in Washington were that they so clean. In every station, in every carriage, there was not a piece of rubbish in sight. Marty explained why when he told me it was actually illegal to drink or eat in the subway and that recently a young lady had been thrown into jail for offending! It was as if everyone in Washington realised that the law gave them a clean subway system and hence respected it. Unlike New York’s subway system, which is rather grubby to say the least. I can forgive the grubbiness of it, as every thing in New York is simply cool.

Another remarkable thing about the metro in Washington is its architecture. The stations were all built in the 70’s so they all have a ‘Logan’s Run’ vibe going on. A notable amount of painfully long escalators frequent the stations as well. Commuters who aren’t in a hurry keep to one side of the escalator so that the impatient ones can race up the other side.

When we got back to Marty’s apartment I was feeling a bit peckish so it was into the city for dinner. Marty’s roommate, Brad, drove us. We spent a while trying to choose where to go. Italian? Chinese? Mexican? Food was one of the major differences that I found in the States. Americans’ live on foreign food. As Marty said to me, “Genuine American cuisine is simply fast food.” Since most restaurants were offering a wait of twenty minutes we went with an American bar. While waiting for a table, I headed up to the bar to get a drink. Now I was fully aware that asking for alcohol while only twenty years of age would quite likely land me in trouble so I was merely going up to get a coke. Marty and Brad, not knowing this and quite concerned, became mildly panicky. For dinner I had buffalo. Not a whole one you understand.

Afterwards, Marty said we were headed for a Hookah bar, something I had never heard of before but was instantly intrigued. My only ever hearing of the word ‘Hookah’ was from Lewis Carroll’s book, ‘Alice in Wonderland’. To my recollection, the caterpillar that Alice met in the book smoked one. Marty said I was right. A hookah was indeed a large pipe to smoke with. You could easily mistake this hookah bar for a restaurant. There are tables and menus and waiters! Seated, a waiter brought us a wonderful menu that had all the different things you could smoke with the enormous hookah provided. Instead of the Asian looking selections I went for a more familiar choice – chocolate! So it was that as so frequently happens with me, I took a minute to reflect on my situation. Here I was in Washington DC, in the middle of the night, in a hookah bar with Marty and Brad, smoking, for all I know, what could have been illegal, smooth smoky chocolate tobacco. There is quite simply no end to the farcical situations I find myself in. Tune in next week for another one.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:40 PM

Subway Girl : A Love Story

Wandering through Barnes & Nobles in New York I came across a book that said would change my life. Now it wasn’t one of those weight loss books or even one of those self-help guides. It was simply a book that gave little words of wisdom for every day throughout the year. I picked the book up and opened it on a random page. The page read as follows: “Today look at every one passing you by on the street. Then imagine the possibility that each one may be the love of your life. Passing you by.” This struck me as what might just be the most important advice I’ve ever gotten. Little did I know I would be taking that advice very seriously later that day.

I took a stroll onward to Central Park. I had tried to find it yesterday but couldn’t. I know, I know, what kind of person can’t find an indefinitely gigantic woodland park in the middle of a city? Remember though that New York is big. Not just big but BIGGG. When I arrived in Central Park the thing that struck me first were the squirrels. Over years of sharing their home with people they had become tame. This, I was largely unaware of and so I watched them with cautiousness. There was a grey squirrel sitting on a log a few metres away. He was staring at me and I him. He jumped down from his log and edged closer to me. Without knowing that these intrepid little squirrels were friendly I took a few steps back as the squirrel took a few forward. At the time I was thinking, “this nutty little squirrel is going to attack me! Move slowly away. That’s it. Slowly.” But as I backed away the squirrel scampered over to a family having a picnic. They seemed unphased by its presence and started feeding it! And that my friends was the day I discovered that the squirrels in Central Park were friendly.

A little while later, as I was walking through Times Square I witnessed an unnerving sight. Out of nowhere dozens of fire trucks and NYPD vans pulled up and surrounded one of the skyscrapers. Moment’s later news crews for NBC and FOX arrived. In the sky there were hovering police helicopters. People like me began stopping and staring up at the skyscraper to see if anything was amiss. It didn’t appear to be. A man nearby who was unlocking his bike said “Your all looking up at that building when it could explode at any second! I don’t know about you folks but I’m getting my black ass outta’ here!” No truer words have ever been spoken and so I hurried on down to the subway to catch the F train back to Brooklyn.

After refilling my metro card I hoped onto one of the carriages. A few stops later a girl got on the train and sat beside me. To be honest at the time I hadn’t taken much notice. I was too busy looking at my subway map and trying to figure out that nearest stop to Third Avenue. It was then when I noticed this girl when she asked did I know where I was going? This wasn’t unusual. Over the past few days, numerous New Yorkers, upon seeing my map and my worried gaze into it, had offered their assistance. “Here,” she continued, “Show me.” I gave here the map and told her that even though I’d been here a week already that I still hadn’t really figured out where I was supposed to get of. After a moment she pointed at the station on 9th Street. “This is closet to where you want to go,” she said. “Thanks,” I replied. “Are you from Brooklyn?” I asked. “Yeah. Lived there all my life so far. You’re from Ireland, right?” I nodded. “I’ve always wanted to go to Europe. I’m thinking about going to Italy for my 21st this year,” she said. It was then when the lines of advice from the book I had read early that day popped into my head. “Today look at every one passing you by on the street. Then imagine the possibility that each one may be the love of your life. Passing you by. ” Here was a pretty girl, the same age as my self and interested in visiting Europe. If she wasn’t a candidate to be the love of my life, I don’t know who is. The book’s advice was so simple yet so true. At any moment this girl could be getting off at any of the numerous stations we were stopping at. In fact my own station was only three stops away! Time was short. I had to do something about the situation. But what? Ask her out for lunch tomorrow. This seemed to be my best option. Actually asking it was another matter. Two stops had passed already. I literally only had minutes left. This was it. I was going to do it. “Would…” But just as I went to ask, she began to talk. “Have you heard of a store called ‘Yellow Rat Bastard’?” she asked. I shook my head. “Well I work there. You should drop by tomorrow.” There is a God. Already it was my stop. “Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as I stepped off the train. As the train pulled by me on the platform, I was looking in at the girl as she was looking out at me. And she was smiling.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:39 PM

U.S.A.

Getting ready to commute across the Atlantic is no small challenge. It involves dexterity, competence and good organisational skills. Unfortunately I have none of those. Furthermore, according to my thesaurus, another word for ‘dexterity’ is ‘nimbleness’ and I can’t even begin to imagine where ‘nimbleness’ will come into play along my journey. I’m told that there are several important things to do, when going abroad. 1. Get travel insurance. This I can understand. Being an internationally renowned columnist, I’m at risk from all sorts of travel mishaps. I decided to get my travel insurance from USIT on Aston Quay, which took longer than expected due to the girl at the counter constantly referring to how cute I looked in my ID photos. The ones where I look around 10 years old.

2. Get dollars. The exchange rate at the moment is quite favourable. For example, you can get $130 for €100. The main difference in the currency though, is the colour. Or as American’s say “the color”. While ours is psychedelic, theirs is simply green. It’s like cartoon money. Although since most cartoons come from the States, I guess its actually pretty accurate. One American I know living in Newbridge, says he likes the smell of dollars rather them Euros. Indeed, but sniffing currency sounds suspiciously illegal. 3. Make sure your passport is in date. This may seem obvious but I’ll bet there are people out there who don’t. The thing that bugs me is that they usually don’t stamp your passport with the country’s seal like they used too. I’ve been from Rome to Frankfurt and from Paris to Wales and the only stamp I have in my passport is the one from Slovenia. Luggage is the same. Nobody has old-fashioned cases with worn and faded city stickers anymore.

Having got my travel insurance, smelled my dollars (O’er Missus!) and found my passport I nearly had everything in check. On my way home from Dublin, word came through, as it so often does in this column, that my good amigo Shane Mackey had got himself into more trouble than he was able for. He had inadvertently challenged the outstanding Newbridge athlete Karen Shinkins to a 100-metre sprint. The terms of the race were that if Karen lost the race (highly improbable) she would give her most prized medal to Shane. If Shane lost the race (highly likely) he would have to shave his hair off. A fair trade off if ever there was one. A date has yet to be set but rest assured it’s going to quite a spectacle. Shane confided in me that he’s going to have the two people who are holding the finishing point ribbon to run away from Karen if it starts to look like she’s going to win. And just as Shane inadvertently challenged Karen to the race, I have inadvertently become Shane’s fitness trainer.

When I finally got back, I made straight for the Riverbank Arts Centre for my final lunch in Newbridge before departing for the USA. Paul Winters and Steven Neville joined me. Paul began telling us of how his bike suddenly packed up while he was cycling it that morning, sending him crashing down on the footpath. An old lady walking her dog came up to him, as he lay injured, and said “Where’s your bloody helmet?” Only in Newbridge. Steven then told me how he had been thinking about throwing in the towel on occupations that wielded creativity, which would be the film industries loss. Never the less, I told he could become an astronaut or work as my assistant. Two very prestigious jobs. After several hot chocolates, we bid adieu. It was time for me to go home and prepare for the epic journey I was about to embark on. The Big Commute to the Big Apple.

Next week’s “Trains, Buses and Automobiles” comes direct from New York.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:38 PM

Put The Credit Card Down and Back Away From the Shop

This week I finally made it up to Dublin to go shopping for clothes. Amazingly I caught the 9.56am Arrow from Newbridge Station. It’s amazing because I usually aim to get that train, but in my heart I know that I won’t be there in time for it and thus, I have to settle for the 10.40am train. Eventually I was in the city centre and eager to get started. You see, for years I thought shopping for clothes was quite possibly the most unadventurous thing you could do in a day. Then one morning, after becoming sick of wearing the same ol’ gear all the time, I decided I’d go and buy a few new clothing items. Just a few mind you. A jumper and maybe a pair of socks. So it was during that day I was converted. I spent hours in the city; oblivious to the weight of each new bag I was carrying. I was in heaven. If I recall correctly, I withdrew every last penny from my bank account and then went over my credit card limit. I was indestructible.

So this week, as I was saying, I was eager to get started. The agenda was to get some light clothes that would adorn me on my voyage to America. Yes, the land of the free and what not. I’ve been invited to read from this very column at a hip reading series in New York. So as you can imagine, I needed to get some clothes that would suit the extremely agreeable climate of the Big Apple. Currently, my wardrobe consists of heavy jumpers, jackets, coats and gloves and they’re just for an Irish summer! My first port of call was Henry St.

Now the thing about Henry St. is it’s systematically guaranteed that while walking through it, a beautiful girl will ask you if you want to buy a scratch card for people who are addicted to alcohol. It’s a flawlessly proven fact. There is no possible way you can escape. Because unlike other charitity volunteers these girls don’t wear big t-shirts bearing a recognisable charity logo. They’re dressed in plain clothes. They’re the undercover cops of the charity world. How do I know all this? Because I’ve bought so many of their scratch cards that they now need to try and sell other people scratch cards in aid of helping my addiction to their scratch cards. With this in mind I turned the corner at the GPO and into Henry St. Just be calm, I told myself. Watch out for any gorgeous girls and then walk away from them, I kept saying to myself. No sooner then 39 steps into Henry St. a girl literally jumped in front of me. It was time to take a stand. “Sorry,” I said, “I’m in a hurry,” and kept walking but to my horror she replied with “It’s ok, I can walk with you.” Honest to God she actually started to walk along Henry St. with me. I was completely taken a back by her counter-attack. They must do rigorous training. The only way I could get rid of her and go shopping was to by a blasted scratch card, which I did.

Finally I got to start my shopping extravaganza. I headed straight for Roches Stores – probably the best place to buy journalist clothes. Their second floor is devoted to menswear and is made up of many different branded shops. In Springfield something bordering on the hallucinogenic happened. Everything else seemed to melt away and all I could see was this awe-inspiring cream linen suit. It was something that somebody in an Agatha Christie book would wear. But that’s not what I saw. What I saw was – Liam’s New Travelling Suit. I snapped it up immediately. What followed after that was nothing but pure indulgence in the Spanish shop – Zara. Strictly speaking I didn’t really buy that many light items of clothing. I always was more of a winter person.

Bags in hand and the Liam Geraghty Estate in debt, I made my way back to Heuston Station to catch the 3.05pm train home. Whilst aboard, word came through that the polictically minded Newbridge band, La Poderosa had paid homage to this very column at the gig out in Ryston. Before they began playing, their bass guitarist Dan Harrigan went up to the mic and said, “This is an original song dedicated to Liam Geraghty whose column ‘Trains, Buses & Automobiles’ has been a huge inspiration to our band and our music. I suggest you all go out and buy a Nationalist this very instant.” The song that Dan, Joe Byrne (guitarist, vocals) and Rob Conlon (drums) then played was called ‘Bahia de Cochinoes’. $chmackey & the Salads may be in danger of losing their coveted position of this column’s house band to La Poderosa. Perhaps they could battle it out over the title, but then again there might not be anyone left to play. I wonder what Garth Brooks is up to these days . . .

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:37 PM

Ireland's Answer to Tintin

Wednesday 21st July

What a day it’s been in the life of Newbridge’s answer to Tintin. The grand plan (or Le Grande Plan as the French would say) was to catch an early morning train to Dublin, catch a movie and then shop for summer journalist clothes. As you know, my wardrobe is fully kitted out with winter journalist clothes, i.e. long dark coat, scarf, pipe, snuff, etc. But this is the first summer that I’ve been a qualified journalist and to be quite honest, I’m not sure what to wear. Typically, while reporting in hot countries, reporters tend to wear lightly coloured shirts with a white t-shirt underneath combined with baize coloured slacks. This doesn’t apply here though as its not particularly hot. Hence, my usually stylish sense of fashion has been reduced to a quivering and confused pair of jeans and a jumper that’s to heavy to be worn in July. I’m a mess.

Eventually, after taking the 9.56am Arrow to Dublin I ambled out to the UGC cinemas on Parnell St. to see Spider Man 2, which is really, really cool by the way. Oddly, got a text from Shane Mackey who had seen the film previously that read, “Note to Liam: If Tobey doesn’t agree a deal for Spidey 3 then u should step in! Ur a dead ringer!” At this point my head was swelling like a hand after being hit with a hammer but was deflated instantly as I read further, “But don’t get me wrong u don’t have the grace that Mr Maguire does, but you could b his stunt double.”

Seconds after walking out of the cinema, I got a call inviting me to go and see a press screening of ‘King Arthur’ out in Fairview. My heart wanted me to refuse the offer and go shopping for summer journalist clothes but my mind said, “Go to the screening, you klutz! It’s free!” And with that it was decided. What followed was a mad dash to get out to Fairview in time for the film. Raced through Henry St. and while racing noticed a rather attractive young lady up ahead. The closer I got, the more it looked as if she was walking towards me. My mind began screaming at me to say I was a journo from some yuppie magazine and would she like to accompany me to a preview screening of ‘King Arthur’? When it was certain she was making eyes at me, I came to a sudden halt as she strutted over. “Hi,” she said while batting her eyelids, “Would you like to buy a scratch card for charity?”

So, unaccompanied, I hoped onto the number 28 bus out to Fairview and dashed inside the cramped theatre where all the film critics were waiting. Should have brought my Clark Kent glasses with me. The thick heavy black ones that Newbridge optician, Ger Canty sorted me out with a few weeks ago. Without them (and also without any convincing summer journalist clothes) the film critics view me with a facial expression that reads, “How did he get in here?” Regardless, I sat down and watched what turned out to be a 2-hour epic bore. Worth seeing once, perhaps, but never, ever again.

Back in Hueston Station for my return journey, I found myself with a quandary. On platform 7, stood the 6.05pm Arrow, which stopped at every station on its way to Newbridge and on platform 8 the 6.00pm train whose first stop was Newbridge, was still yet to arrive. The quandary was this: which train do I queue up for? If I stand in the queue for the 6.05pm Arrow, which is already in the station, I’m guaranteed to be leaving for Newbridge at 6.05pm even though we’ll be stopping at every station. If I stand in the queue for the 6.00pm train, whose first stop is Newbridge, I’m making a gamble as it still hasn’t arrived and they may decide to let the 6.05pm go on ahead if it doesn’t arrive. So what do I do? Obviously the rest of the commuters were also thinking about this quandary as well because every so often people would switch queues. Switching queues obviously meant that the commuter had thought they had solved the riddle of which train to catch. I thought long and hard before realising the answer: queue in the line for the 6.05pm. I did this and like a lot of commuters who had gotten the answer right made straight for the top carriage and took a seat while everyone else stood bleakly in the queue for the 6.00pm train. But then as the 6.00pm train pulled up on platform eight, all the devious commuters like myself, put their plan into action. We all leaped out of our seats on the 6.05pm Arrow to the bewilderment of other commuters and we hoped straight onto the 6.00pm train while the people in the queue for that train were having their tickets checked before being allowed on. I think I heard one commuter mutter “Those cute hoors!”

On my way back from Newbridge Train Station I was tuned in to Alan Curry on KFM. Several songs later, Alan says, “This text just came in. It says: ‘Newsflash! Godzilla is running amuck in down town Newbridge. The Mayor is trying to ring authorities in Tokyo to find out how to deal with the situation,’ and that,” he says, “Comes in from Newbridge’s answer to Tintin.”

If you’ve any suggestions for what clothes a journalist should wear in the summer, please e-mail them to me at liam@liamgeraghty.com or send to into Kildare Nationalist, Main St., Newbridge. Much obliged.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:35 PM

Morally Speaking

Tuesday 13th July – Newbridge Train Station

Today I met up with Shane Mackey, lead vocalist of cult Newbridge band $chmackey and the Salads in Newbridge station. He was already there when I arrived with my trademark lateness. Luckily the 10.40am Arrow arrived with its trademark lateness too. Onboard, we were joined by Vincent the ticket guy who told us all about the special offer day return ticket. Basically, for €8 you can travel to Dublin and back permitting you don’t use the train at peak times and most importantly, as Vincent stressed, you MUST be back before 4pm. It’s kind of like the Cinderella story only without the glass slippers. So, bamboozled by talk of low fares, I got me one of them there €8 tickets. After Vincent had gone around checking to see if everyone’s tickets were in order he came back to chat with Shane and yours truly. “So,” says Vincent, “What do ya think of the service on the train? Honestly. Go on, what do ya think of it?” Talk about putting me on the spot. However when I gave it a fleeting consideration, I came to the conclusion that the service was, in fact, quite good. Most of the ticket guys are friendly. Most. Vincent regaled us with tales from his adventures across Europe by train. On the whole, his engaging stories proved to be un-publishable but trust me, they’re good.

When we arrived in Hueston, the Peter Ustinov of train stations, myself and Shane mosied on down to the buses queuing up outside the front entrance. Aboard the near empty bus, we sat upstairs at the very back where, lead singers of cult bands usually sit and not at the front, where spectacled journalists of cult columns usually sit. For this injustice, I went about explaining to Shane how me and world famous reporter Tintin have so many things in common. Shane hates this speech with a vengeance. It’s the one where I point out how me and Tintin both have youthful visages, we both travel a lot and we’re both world famous. Not to mention his dog is called Snowy and mine’s called Lucky. Something’s just ain’t coincidence. I proceed to elaborate on how Tintin was the reporter I aspired to be like throughout my years in journalism college. Somehow though, as we pass the Four Courts, the fact that Tintin has an unusual name leads the conversation to confirmation names. Mine’s Phillip. Phillip. Yes, Phillip. It’s so cruel of the church to give you the opportunity to christen yourself with a really cool middle name when you’re only twelve. I mean when your twelve you don’t have the common sense to choose a really great name like Harper or Daniel. Instead you try and name yourself after Alf or Kermit or whoever it is you kids like these days. Then when you’re told a Saint has to have had the name you choose so you end choosing Phillip. And to think I could have been Liam Thomas Tintin Geraghty.

So eventually we arrive at O’Connell Bridge where we hop off the bus and race down to the UGC Cinema on Parnell St. We spend around six hours straight in the cinema watching Shrek 2 and then Fahrenheit 9/11. Afterwards it was like God rewinding our whole trip as we raced back to Hueston Station trying to catch a train before 4pm but hopelessly failing in that it was already 5pm. MORAL: Remember that special offers usually have a catch and that choosing a rubbish confirmation name can scar you for life.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:34 PM

Lost In Transit

(NOTE: The published version of 'Lost In Transit' was much shorter than the version presented here)

Friday 2nd July

Being stuck in Heuston Station for two hours isn’t so bad. There are worst things in life. Standing on a plug on the floor in your socks. Only realising you’re out of milk after you’ve boiled the kettle. In contrast, being stuck in Grand Old Hueston Station isn’t so bad at all. After getting off the near empty bus outside Hueston, I walked inside to a station buzzing with activity. People on platform one suddenly realising their train is on platform six, thirty seconds before departure. Commuters fumbling for thirty cents to get into the toilet before it’s too late. Old age pensioners being whizzed around on golf carts. Its Hueston Station at it’s finest. When it really comes alive. With this in mind, I took the middle seat on one of the remarkably comfortable benches in the station. The one right outside the entrance to Eason’s Newsagents, to be exact. I figured I’d watch all the people inside and try and guess what newspaper they’d go for. Before I could get really into the game, an American bag packer, very politely I must add, asked if I would move up one seat so that he and his companion could beside each other. Of course I was only too happy to oblige. It’s nice to be nice you know. So anyway, as I got up to move one place, another commuter entered the equation by sitting in the seat I was about to go for. The American’s couldn’t help smiling at the situation where I had become seat less and they offered my old seat back to me. I declined it and sat around the other side of the bench where I had a view of the whole station. I looked around and thought, “Wow. This has been here since 1846.” Heuston is actually based on the design of an Italian palazzo. It certainly is a fine building.

I begun to try and think of films that involved commuting. Coincidently the first one that sprung to mind was the 1979 movie “The Great Train Robbery” starring Sean Connery and Donald Sutherland. It was all about the first ever bullion robbery from a moving train, set in 1865 England. In fact, for a film that creates a vividly authentic recreation of Victorian England, most of it was filmed in Ireland! Some of its scenes were actually filmed in Heuston Station. During the shooting in Hueston, a diesel locomotive leaked a large quantity of fuel onto the tracks by the platform. When the production’s steam engine rolled onto the same tracks, embers spewing from the underside of the train ignited the fuel soaked track, creating quite a large fire within the station.

Another film I thought of while sitting happily in Hueston was “Trains, Planes and Automobiles”. That was an obvious one really. It was all about a disastrous journey across a snow-bound North America by two hopelessly mismatched travellers – Steve Martin and John Candy. There are some great lines in that movie. Candy: You’re in a pretty lousy mood, huh? Martin: To say the least.
Candy: You ever travel by bus before? [Martin shakes his head] Candy: Hmm. Your mood’s probably not going to improve much.

Then I started to think about whether Jen Coyle’s column “Girl Friday” was named after the classic 1940 Cary Grant movie “His Girl Friday”. I decided that it probably wasn’t but it was just a strange coincidence that the film happened to be about a young lady journalist.

Couldn’t think of any more commuting films so I turned back to looking in bewilderment at the stressed commuters zipping around the station like my hyperactive Cavalier King Charles dog, Lucky. They all seem so edgy. At this I notice that the guy sitting beside me is deeply engrossed in his book. Curious to see what he’s reading I try and inadvertently turn my head to steal a quick glance. No tomato. Time to bring in the infantry. Whipped out a copy of Murakami’s UNDERGROUND (which is about the Tokyo gas attack and the Japanese psyche, if you’re asking) and opened the book on a random page. This gave me an excuse to be looking more in the direction of my neighbour’s book. It took several minutes to uncover, but his book, rather disappointingly, turned out to be about the “Greatest” poker player cheats. In fact, what made it even more dismal was that the sticker on the back of his book indicated that it had been bought in a popular Dublin music store. The fact that books are being sold in music stores isn’t so much the problem, more so the incurably evil marketing people who select books to which a music store customer would supposedly be interested in. For example, “The Greatest Poker Player Cheats of all Time”. I’ve been in the music store in question and the lone bookshelf they have there radiates conformity. Its purpose is to provide young people of a liberal persuasion into buying a book that will undoubtly prove more popular with their fellow liberal and therefore, ahem, radical (cough, cough!) friends, than say a copy of Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s “Le Petit Prince” or God for bid, Tove Jansson’s “The Summer Book”.

After reciting that rant to myself, I noticed I had been sitting quite still. Statue like almost. A woman sitting on the bench across me from me noticed too. So for her benefit, I tried to remain frozen, with the exception of blinking, for as long as I could. The novelty wore off fairly quickly, as you can imagine. I was starting to get hungry. Not the country, you understand. Even when I do eventually take over the world, I’ll probably let the Hungarians keep their quaint little province of the Planet Liam: the centre of the universe. No, I meant hungry in the rumbling sense of the world. And not proper food either. Sweets. Ah, I’ve missed many a train after deciding I’d rather have a Milky Bar then race up to platform seven. Sugar Junkies will do anything for some glucose. But in a moment of madness, I chose not to but any sweets and instead I bought a banana and returned to my bench where I would sit and listen to the Tokyo Symphonic Orchestra playing the Super Mario Bros. theme tune on my walkman, for another hour. Lost in Transit.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:31 PM

The One About The LUAS . . .

Friday 2nd July - Newbridge Train Station

As I waited for the 8.40am train to arrive, a strange thing happened. The man beside me started to smoke. I wasn’t really quite sure what to do. Nobody else seemed to be bothered by it or perhaps that’s what we were all thinking and hence didn’t act on this blatant disregard for the law and more importantly a disregard for the health of this man’s fellow commuters. A few moments later a young lady walked down the platform and stood beside myself and the man smoking us all to slow deaths. In a bewildering twist of events she started smoking as well! What’s happening? Was the smoking ban merely a bad dream? Did I hallucinate so badly that my subconscious concocted a mirage of smoking ban signs and adverts? Does Michael Martin even exist?

Later that morning, after the train and bus journey, I was walking through Grafton St. making my way to the LUAS station at St. Stephen’s Green. Rather than brave the crowds at the launch of the LUAS, the latest addition to the bevy of public transport currently crawling across Dublin, I decided to let the excitement die down a little and wait a day or two before testing the ‘tram in a jam’. When I got to the top of Grafton St. I could see the last few people hoping onto one of the LUAS trams. I ran as fast as I could up to the carriage only to be told that the tram was full. Rats. The next one would be arriving in around 5 minutes I was told. It was only a minute or so when I turned my head around only to be bowled over by a queue the length of China. LUAS ‘helpers’ dressed in purple LUAS jackets and baseball caps were on hand to answer any questions on the new service. While we waited for the next tram, they gave out leaflets and lightly reminded us to bring money next time. Just as it started to pour out of the heavens, our LUAS tram appeared in the distance, all shiny and new. The massive queue swarmed forth, invading each and every carriage. Yours truly sat at the very front.

Inside the LUAS is quite comfortable. Its seats are lined with a cover not entirely different to that of the snazzy blue design on Dublin bus seats. There are plenty of yellow bars for standing commuters to hold on to and it can accommodate 276 commuters standing, 80 sitting and plenty of space for commuters using wheelchairs. The driver began ringing the tram bell and we were off! That was immediately something I loved. The fact that it’s been fifty odd years since Dublin last had trams and yet the latest ones are still using a bell instead of a horn. Charming.

The old lady sitting beside me was very excited at being on the LUAS, as we all were. “When I was talking to my neighbour on the phone and I told her I was trying out the LUAS in a few minutes she said why didn’t ya tell me, sure I would have gone with ya!” Such is the stir that LUAS is causing. Crammed to the brim of giddy adults who should know better, we sailed through Harcourt St. and around the Harcourt Building where I often passed by on the bus on my way to Rathmines. Next the LUAS slowly began climbing a man-made hill like a roller coaster before the sudden drop. Of course there was no sudden drop with the LUAS. Instead we cruised along the main LUAS line out to Sandymount. We were at the height of the rooftops whilst travelling through Raneleigh offering spectacular views of the Dublin Mountains. Onward, stopping briefly at each mini-station in Windy Arbour, Beech wood, Cowper and over the odd Dundrum Bridge. It was here I hoped off in order to inspect the little station. It boasted a handy touch-screen ticket machine and another LUAS purple clad ‘helper’. She explained to me that the timetable screens at every station operated in ‘real-time’ meaning that when the sign said ‘Next tram in 3 minutes’, a tram would, without fail, be there in three minutes time. And it was. The abundance of trams means speedier arrivals and departures at each little station which is a novelty commuters won’t be used to with the current standard of Irish Rail and Dublin Buses time keeping.

I hoped back onto the next tram that arrived heading back into the city. Again it was full of people testing out the LUAS for themselves. Another feature of the new transport is that when approaching each station an automated voice tells you what station you’re approaching in English and Irish. As we left the main LUAS line and joined the regular traffic flow back on Harcourt St. everyone was watching with baited breath to see if we’re going to scrape a car that we seemed to be dangerously close too. The previous day, a car had run into the LUAS in a minor accident in the same spot. We passed by without incident.

Back in St. Stephen’s Green another enormous queue had formed. Everyone left the LUAS quite impressed at its design, speed and pure shininess’. I know I certainly did. Of course we’ll have to give it another few weeks and wait until all LUAS lines have opened but with a handy stop right outside Heuston Station, the LUAS is going to ease commuters lives considerably. At that moment I receive a text from my amigo Leo. It reads, “Before Luas, the last tram seen in Dublin was in 1949. The Government spent millions turning the clock back 50 years. But the Catholic Church has been doing that for years. For free!” Hmph! Atheists, eh? What are they like? And as for the trams being christened the ‘Daniel Day LUAS’ or the ‘Jerry Lee LUAS’, I say nonsense! I’m going to campaign to have it called the ‘LUAS Carroll’.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:30 PM

Yes I Said Yes I Will Yes

June 16th BLOOMSDAY

It was with an open mind that I caught the 10.40am to Dublin to witness the Bloomsday festivities. True, in the past I have slain Joyce with the pen but today for the sake of the day that was in it, I withdrew my preconceptions. I would go up to Dublin and generally drink Guinness and eat liver and do the impossible – read Ulysses. Like most houses, mine bore a copy of the feared book. It’s more ornament that anything else. People buy it so that it makes their bookshelf more lit-hipster. In more households than one, I expect it sits uneasily between Lord of the Rings and PS I Love You. Aboard the Arrow, I pulled out my copy of Ulysses and began to read. I think it may have been somewhere in the second paragraph when I closed the book, put it back in my bag and swapped it for Haruki Murakami’s The Elephant Vanishes.

The thing about the train is, it encourages reading. By being late all the time and stopping every now and then for no apparent reason, oh and course covering the actual journey, Iarnród Éireann are inadvertently introducing commuters to the pleasure of reading a book. Hundreds upon hundreds of dreary eyed people can be seen crouching down between carriages and standing up squashed in Arrow’s reading. It is a vice made for commuters. If like me, when you’re near someone who’s engrossed in a book, you’ll all most undoubtedly try and take a peek at the cover to see what they’re reading. We all do it, I’m sure. The title gives us a glimpse into that commuter’s personality. If, let’s say, they’re reading ‘US’ by Kildare based author Martin Malone, I’ll know that they like a story set in Kildare, as I do on occasions. If they’re reading Ulysses, I’ll note that they like a challenge. Either that or they’re trying to look intellectual. Or if they’re reading The Joy of Sex I’ll know that they like to [CENSORED]. Iarnród Éireann make all this possible but as I said, they do provide this service inadvertently so there’s no need to send them a card or anything.

Upon arriving in Hueston Station, there are no signs that it’s Bloomsday as of yet. The number 90 bus is no different apart from yours truly, making a second attempt on re-entry to Ulysses. This attempt is aborted in favour of looking out the window at the city in which the infamous novel is based. The sun is pouring through the city. Today Dublin smiles.

Hoping off the bus at O’Connell Bridge I see the first Joyce nuts of the day. Two men, mid-30’s I say, definitely should know better as they’re both wearing straw Edwardian hats. Oh let them have their day, you say but no. I shan’t. Especially when they’re hats are also advertising a particular brand of sausages that Joyce mentioned in Ulysses. Product placement isn’t a new thing you know. I ambled down O’Connell St. admiring the Spire in the sunlight. Yes, it is a big pointy waste of money but doesn’t its symbolism and gracefulness seize your heart when you see it? Me, neither. Just beneath the Spire, at the pedestrian crossing, two Gardaí pull up on huge motorbikes. They block the traffic off to let a convoy of the most heinous of Joyce nuts to come through. On bikes. In costume. Advertising sausages. There’s probably about fifty or sixty of them peddling down O’Connell St. To my amusement, the pedestrians standing around me, obviously not keen Joyce fans are starting to get impatient. Now I see why the ordinary Joe on the street doesn’t want to read Ulysses. To them it means “weirdoes in fancy dress.”

In the Ilac Centre I consider reading Ulysses for a third time. A clap of thunder rang through the blue sky and some cellos played a sinister D Minor. Obviously a sign. With the book closed and unlikely to be open again I shamefully thought what people who think they’re lives are hectic think – why read the book when you can watch the movie. More gratuitous thunder claps. So close to the UGC Cinema on Parnell St. how could I not? Several minutes later I was buying my ticket to see ‘Bloom’, the latest film adaptation of Ulysses. It was another five minutes before the movie started so I thought I’d sit outside in the sun.

So there I was outside the cinema, sitting on the kerb when I noticed a scrawled message on the black wall beside me. Written in chalk, it read, “Bloom is a cod.” No word of lie. Back inside, with only minutes to spare, armed with the largest tub of popcorn and an extra extra large coke, I entered the screen number two. Inside was not your regular looking moviegoers. They were academics. Cursed Ulysses reading, Joyce worshipping, UCD lecturing academics. Bugger! Why didn’t I just go and see the adaptation of that other much-discussed novel? What’s it called again? Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Later that day, back aboard the humble train home, the ticket man asked would I be needing a ticket or not? Yes I said yes I will yes.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:28 PM

Fate Drinks Juice

Friday 11th June – 7.50am

This morning, for no good reason, I’ve decided to catch the 8.15am train to Heuston. The idea there is that I want to be in Dublin early but not too early and, as the 8.15pm only makes three stops on its journey, it’s the 100% perfect train for me. I leave my abode at around 7.40am, which gives me plenty of time to mosey on down to Newbridge Station. However I’ve inadvertently I’ve arrived a bit too early at the station. What’s wrong with this, you ask? Well now, just as I’m walking into the station car park, an earlier train (which is late) is just pulling up at the platform. Fate is toying with me. I’m now forced to run as fast as I can into the station, up the steps, over the walking-bridge, down the steps (naturally) and onto the early train that I didn’t want to catch. To add insult to injury, I now must walk the whole length of the train just so I can be in the top carriage. Again you question my motives. Why not take a seat in the carriage you hoped onto? You’re thinking right. My little quirks have seized all control over the things I must do. One of those being that I have to sit in the top carriage. Makes sense really. It means I’m first off the train and first to the bus. Or if I decide to buy a paper or whatever, it leaves me time to buy a paper (or whatever) and still be one of the first onto the bus.

So now I’m on the train (top carriage, obviously), speeding towards Heuston. The journey’s not long as, to further fates twisted sense of humour, this train isn’t stopping at ANY stations. It’s clear sailing. Well, driving. You know what I mean. When we pull in to Heuston Station, I’m second off the train (blast it!). I figure since I’ve arrived too early, I have time to spare. And I’ve also thirst to quench. With these two voids to fill, I draw only one conclusion – the Jus Juice bar. The Jus Juice bar, you’ll have undoubtedly noticed, sits neatly in the middle of Huestion Station. Adorned by all manner of fruit, they offer a variety of juices and smoothies. It was only last week that I discovered the existence of this trendy little place. Like you, I seen it, but never took the time to really look at it. When I did though, I ordered, what they call an “Aruba”. A smoothie that’s a blend of strawberries, apples and a subtle hint of banana. At €4.70 it was an expensive luxury but one I was now frightfully addicted to. So, for the next few days I bought nothing but Arubas’s. On any given day I could be spotted wandering around Heuston Station carrying some sort of pink beverage in a hip container that I’ve seen Carrie Bradshaw drinking out of. So now we have established the background detail necessary for the telling of what happened today. I had time (and cash) to spare and quench to thirst, remember?

The Jus Juice bar beckoned. A strange thing happened when I got there though. Somewhere deep inside me (probably a little bit left on my right lung) a voice said, “Liam, today I think we shall try something different. You’ve drank far too many Aruba’s than one ought to in the space of a week.” Concurring with my little friend, I looked up at the menus where each smoothie and juice had been given it’s own name, followed by a description of the fruits that combined to make it. There was something called a “Flu Avader”, presumably it evaded Flu, which was no good to me, in my current state of good health. There was something called an “Orgasmic” but I wasn’t going to ask the girl behind the counter for one of those. Not at this time of the morning anyway. Time was running out. The customer in front of me was just about to walk away with his juice so my choice had to be now. A top the counter behind some fruit, I spotted a petite chalkboard that I hadn’t noticed before. It had but one smoothie on it. The “Tango Mango”. Instantly I knew it was the one. Beneath it, the description said it contained orange, kiwi, mango and lemon. Zesty. So I placed my order and the girl proceeded to throw the various fruits into various blenders. But then an odd thing happened. She picked up a carrot. Now don’t ask me where she got it, as it happened all too quick. She placed the carrot into a blender. I eyed this proceeding with the naivety of youth. Yes, while I seen her blending the carrot and despite the fact that there weren’t any customers apart from myself, I still really didn’t think the carrot have anything to do with my “Tango Mango”. But (and there’s always a but) as my eyes wandered around the counter they found themselves back at the little chalkboard. With the slightest of head turnings I could see now, one ingredient to my smoothie that had previously been concealed by a pineapple. I’m not sure, but I may have heard that little voice mumble “You idiot.” Either way, the fact remained. There was a carrot in my “Tango Mango”. Good-natured fellow that I am, I bid the girl behind the counter adieu and, “Tango Mango” in hand I headed for the bus. Yes, I did drink it. Yes, it was zesty and yes, there was a subtle hint of carrot. I think I’ll stick to the Aruba’s in future.

Some minutes later, the number 90 arrived at O’Connell Bridge. I made my way over to Grafton St. to let my wallet be tempted by various products I don’t need but have to own. Why it was in HMV that I spotted a newly released DVD of ‘Fraggle Rock’. A lone tear rolled down from my nostalgic eye onto my cheek. Several minutes later (Fraggle Rock, Series 1, in hand) I was making my way out of Grafton St. Soon after that I was sitting in an internet café overlooking the ha’penny bridge. In fact, it is where I’m sitting right now as I write this. Outside people are opening umbrellas and are running for shelter as it has just started to pour with rain. And of course, I’ve just remembered that I’ve forgotten to bring an umbrella. Touché, fate. Touché.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:24 PM

12.51pm

Wednesday 2nd June - 12.51pm

It seems now that I’m finished college, I’m always catching irregularly timed trains. It used to be the 8.40am train every morning and failing that, the conveniently timed 8.45am Arrow. Plan B as I used to call it. But now, in these endless days of light, I’m always running to catch the 1.10pm or in today’s case, the 12.51pm. An odd time to be catching a train, don’t you think? Whereas an early morning train would probably point towards a day of college lectures or a maybe even a business briefing with the execs from the marketing department, and an evening train could suggest a date with that pretty girl you met in the contemporary fiction section of Hodges & Fidges last Tuesday, but it’s trains like the 12.51pm that are simply too odd a time to be catching to for you to have a legitimate reason for going to Dublin, like the ones mentioned thus far. A person aboard the 12.51pm train, which goes straight to Heuston Station without stopping, should be regarded with suspicion. They are going at a time when they couldn’t possibly be going up merely to do lunch. The train would have to break the speed of light to make it and I don’t know about you, but I don’t hold that much confidence in Iarnród Éireann.

So standing on the platform at Newbridge Station, for the very first time at 12.51pm, I was pondering with fierce concentration on what kind of people would be on the 12.51pm to Dublin. It couldn’t be students. They’d either have caught the morning train or, if they missed that, be still in bed. It certainly couldn’t be any of the Civil Servants that pollute the carriages of Irish Rail. They too get morning trains. By the time the 12.51pm came into sight, I had ruled out any possibility of business people, hobos, travel agents, politicians and secondary school students taking unauthorised field trips as it were. There was practically no other group of people that could possibly be on this train. By my obscure logic, the train ought to be empty. Only it wasn’t.

As I boarded the top carriage and searched for a seat, I was overwhelmed by the individuals to whose minority I had completely overlooked. This train was infested by old people! Napping men with plaid patterned hats. Chattering women with walking sticks and sucky sweets. They were everywhere. It was like sitting in a carriage headed for Hades. To add to this frail situation, the seat I parked myself in was beside two sprightly looking nuns who momentarily eyed my youth with suspicion. Along our journey, they talked of many things that you would expect nuns to talk about. How Sister Ann had got on in the Los Angelus Covent. Last Sunday’s morning sermon where apparently a Mrs. Kelly had taken “a turn” and most alarmingly, they talked about headstones. Now I have a partial fear of Death so you can imagine how more uncomfortable my journey just became.

As we sped by Hazelhatch station I had the bright idea of doing a column all about religion. Must like the time I texted all my comrades asking them “What is Love?” and then wrote a column about it, I decided that I would text them all and ask, “Do you believe in God?” By divine intervention I had ran out of credit. God probably sensed the atheist rantings I was going to get back. As we pulled into Heuston Station I took a good look around at every one else in the carriage and at once a line from Philip Larkin’s poem The Old Fools jumped into my head. “Why aren't they screaming?” Strange that I should suddenly remember that striking line just now. So, with that in mind, I set off into the city to do whatever it is that people who board the 12.51pm train tend to do.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:23 PM

One Fine Day

Tuesday 25th May – 8.20am

Summer is most definitely here. See exhibit A – the Sun. Gone are the blustery days of autumn. Forgotten are the chilly winter nights that always carried a subtle hint of snow. Delightful spring showers have recently departed. Summer is most definitely here. See exhibit B – Newbridge Train Station. The commuters I have just strolled past are adorned by lots of bright and colourful clothes. Not only that, but they’re smiling. It’s a scene not familiar to my weary eyes. The culprit? Summer. Without a shadow of a doubt. If I seem hostile then it’s because I am. This season has instantly rendered my long dark writers coat useless. It has stripped me of the one garment that most radiated my writer image. Hence, why I’m sitting on the Arrow in…in…bright and colourful clothes! Oh the humanity! Yet not all aboard the 8.20am are in their summer threads. Looking around my carriage there seems to be an epidemic of young businessmen in suits. They’re everywhere! I never really noticed it before but then again I don’t usually get the 8.20am. The only hint of their awareness of the season is shown in the shades their all wearing. Some are propped up above their foreheads in stylish unison while others are wearing them even though we’re on the train. I ponder momentarily of whether I need to get myself a pair before realising I’m pretentious enough as it is.

This brings us nicely to my arrival into Heuston Station. We pull in at Platform 1, which is odd because we haven’t pulled into Platform 1 in weeks. And now I see why. Large overhead shelters have been constructed all along the platform. Trust Iarnród Éireann to provide rain shelters just as summer hits us. Aboard the faithful number 90 bus I can see Dublin city bathed in a warm glow of sunrays. The Liffey is unusally low. So much so that I can make out a pram in the water. Staring into the water I recall with a smirk a story my Aunty Brid told me once of how, in trying to save the family’s dieing pet fish, she resorted to using Holy Water in the fish bowl. When I arrive at O’Connell Bridge I step out into a sea of human traffic in full flow. That’s the thing about pedestrians in Dublin. You’re only ever coming or going. East or West. Never North or South. I digress. Try this experiment for yourself. Try and walk across Grafton St. From one shop to another facing it on the other side. Try it. It’s Damn near impossible. You’ll upset the flow and quite likely several irate pedestrians.

Yet today I was not on Grafton St. I was on O’Connell St and boy does it look good. The footpaths and the roads have all been paved with the same snazzy design so it looks as if it’s all one. Which has its drawbacks when you don’t know whether you’re on the path or the road. The Spire is standing tall and…eh…spikey, basking in the glory of holding the title for “Most Expensive Piece of Useless Public Art”. Don’t even get me started on the ‘Race of the Black Pig’ on the Kildare Town By Pass.

I lazily stroll into Eason’s (where else?) to ponder over a large hot chocolate in the Muse Café and the arrival of my good scriptwriting comrade Leo Corrigan. And here he comes now, but unfortunately we’re running slightly late (like most trains) so we have to hurry over to the UGC Cinema on Parnell St. The film in question is “Shattered Glass” starring Hayden Christensen as real life journo – Stephen Glass. The film portrays Glasses fall to grace after he begun simply making up stories for the magazine he wrote for – The New Republic. We choose this film to get some inspiration…ahem.

Later on that evening, while surfing the Net as I so often do, I came across www.busrage.com On this website commuters get to moan about Dublin Bus as much as they like and as my luck would have it, an online moaning session (nothing seedy!) was taking place. The topic being “Text alerts for bus services are mere timetable duplication” Which is alarmingly true. To those unfamiliar to the service, you just text BUS followed by the bus route number eg. BUS10 to 53503 and send. You then receive a response containing times for the next 3 buses in each direction. Information you could have got from your timetable, only with this service you get the privilege of paying 30 Cent for the info. Amusingly enough, it wasn’t long before the online rants of the commuters lost all creditability when they all start talking with ze Russian accents. Viva la revolution!

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:21 PM

AHHHHRRRRrrrrhhhhhhhhh!

Wednesday 20th May

“AHHHHRRRRrrrrhhhhhhhhh!” was something like the roar heard on O’Connell Bridge last Wednesday. Until that point everything had been going swimmingly. I did some impulse shopping on Grafton St. Had lunch with two lovely Donegal girls and conversed with Alan Neary, sports reporter for The Star, on my most favourite of topics – literature. All was well with the world. That is until I checked my train timetable. “AHHHHRRRRrrrrhhhhhhhhh!” The yell radiated outward causing people down at the GPO to turn their heads in unison. To my obvious dismay, my timetable stated that the next train wasn’t until 1.40pm. That was nearly two hours away! My disbelief at such a glaring gap of trains headed to Newbridge was overwhelming. Some more retail therapy was in order to calm myself down.

Decided on Eason’s as the recipient of my wallet’s contents. Yet whilst in the travel books section my blasted phone began ringing like an amplified Big Ben, giving rise to many an eyebrow. “Hello,” I whispered. “Liam, you sound like you just got outta bed,” said the voice. “I’m in a bookstore,” I whispered back. “Eason’s? Great. I’ll meet you outside in a minute.” ‘CLICK’ I opened my mouth to reply but the mystery caller had already hung up. Drat. Without knowing who exactly was on the other end of the phone, I may have unwittingly set myself up to meet someone I was trying to avoid. They’re aren’t many people I try and avoid but the ones that I do, more than make up for that fact.

So, standing on the steps beneath the big green Eason’s clock I stared out in to the human traffic trying to spot whomever I had inadvertently arranged to meet. As the minutes passed by so did a menagerie of people. The face in the crowd stood out instantly – Shane Mackey, lead vocalist of Newbridge band $chmackey and the Salads. Certainly not someone I was trying to avoid, thank God. As it turned out, he too had been hindered by the incessant madness of Iarnród Éireann’s timetable. In fraternal solidarity we decided to get a bite to eat and since we were already at Eason’s I suggested the Muse Café on the 2nd floor. This came as a shock to Shane who didn’t even know there was a café in the building but with such an Artsy name as ‘the Muse’ he wasn’t to keen to visit it. As the café filled with various bohemians and book readers came into view, Shane quipped, “Do we have a reservation?”

After choosing the Tomato Soup special, I joined Shane at the table. “So how are you and the rest of the Salads getting on after your electric debut performance at the Bealtaine Youth Day?” I asked whilst dipping my bread into the soup. Shane told me all about the band’s new clothing line of Salad T-Shirts that have gone into production. At this I suddenly remembered a website I had created which was to sell Official Liam GeraghtyÔ Merchandise over the Net. Of it’s grand total of three products, my online shop sold a Liam Geraghty Mug, a Liam Geraghty Bag and, I kid you not, an official Liam Geraghty Thong. Yes, with my face adorning it. Don’t believe me? Take a look for yourself at www.cafeshops.com/liamonline They’ll be worth thousands in years to come.

Time passed quickly with tea and good conversation, myself and Shane made way for the number 90 bus. On the way down to Heuston Station, Shane asked if I wanted to play ‘Bollix’. Now for those of you mature enough to never have played ‘Bollix’ let me elaborate a little. It involves two people taking turns saying, you guessed it, ‘Bollix’ on the bus and each time the word must be said louder and louder until one person quits from the embarrassment. Sufficed to say, readers, I refused point blank to play such a game. At this, Shane bargained that we could change the word ‘Bollix’ to ‘Kildare Nationalist’ and get in some free publicity while we were at it. However tempted I was to partake, I kept my dignity (and more importantly my seat on the bus!)

After a pleasant Arrow journey home, we bid adieu and I headed back to my humble abode. But no sooner had I got home, there came a knock on the door. It was none other than Paddy Kennedy an Independent candidate in the local elections along with Con O’Hanlon. “Is anyone around?” said Paddy. Now this is the question I’ve been listening to various different candidates asking me over the last few days. They ask it because of my youthful visage. They’d never believe that I was in fact twenty. No really, I am. Normally, I would just say, “No, there’s no one home” and the candidate would usually just give me a leaflet to pass on. Little do they know they’re losing a voter in doing so. So where was I? Oh, yes. Paddy Kennedy and Con O’Hanlon had just arrived at the door and I admitted that I had a vote. This was my first mistake. I had unintentionally disarmed myself and thus, became vulnerable to “Here’s why you should vote for me…” banter. Paddy first said that he wasn’t a politician but that he was an independent. Which is a good start I guess. Then, drawing from my youthful visage, he asked “So are ya into the skateboarding?” Clever. Now he’s getting to the issues that I look like I should be interested in. But I tell him flat out “Skateboarding? Me? No.” During the course of our conversation it emerges that Paddy and Con both know my Dad, Bill. “Sure I know all the Geraghty’s,” says Con. Upon leaving, Con turns and asks, “Do you play football at all?” “No,” I reply “not really.” (A phrase that here means ‘Never. Non. Nein.’) Con is slightly taken a back. “A Geraghty that doesn’t play football? That’s a sin!” And with that, off he went.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6

Posted by LiamG at 09:16 PM

A COLUMN: In which Liam is early, late and moved

Monday 10th May – Sarsfield Clubhouse 9pm

Standing in a GAA car park as darkness is falling, I’m quite concerned. You see, out of curiosity I have decided to attend the first meeting of Cllr. Fiona O’Loughlin’s Rail Action Committee, only I’m twenty minutes early. This freak act of nature (me being early for anything) has been the sole result of that theatre mogul extraordinaire – Paddy Melia kindly offering me a lift to Sarsfield where the meeting is being held. After a hazardous car journey involving lot’s off swerving and shouting “Get outta the way!” Paddy dropped me off in the car park. For one horrific moment I thought I might have accidentally been dropped at Moorefield Clubhouse. They’re all the same to me, you see.

After hanging around the front entrance for a while I could make out a figure hobbling towards me. It was none other than Cllr. Fiona O’Loughlin accompanied by a crutch. “Good evening,” she said. “Good evening, indeed,” I replied. Inside the scene was this: Fiona, me and Colm Feeney sitting around a banquet size table. The plan was originally to sit inconspicuously in the background and observe but it was looking more and more likely that I was going to have to be an active participant in this commuting discussion with the Fianna Fáil duo. Sensing this, Fiona turned to me and asked “Are you here as a commuter or as a commuting columnist?” With the utmost of honesty I replied, “Ah, I think it’s a bit of both.”

One by one, more and more commuters turned up until there were around twenty people in total. The meeting itself, consisted of much joking at Iarnród Éireann’s expense. It was decided not to start demanding too much from Irish Rail as it “dilutes the whole process” as one commuter put it. Cllr. Seamie Finn said that “stopping all trains in Newbridge for two minutes would solve all train problems.” This is very much a valid point as to every commuter’s bafflement, an unreal amount of trains stop in Kildare Station as opposed to Newbridge even though Newbridge has a higher percentage of commuters using the service.

Everyone agreed that the Monday morning service was particularly bad. To my amusement, one commuter (who shall remain nameless) quipped that this was a direct result of train drivers going out for a drink on Sunday nights and arriving late in for work the following morning! It was announced to the people present at the meeting that Iarnród Éireann were currently investigating the possibility of introducing what are known as “crush trains”. These “crush trains” are basically carriages with very few seats, the point being to squash as many commuters onto the carriage as possible, Tokyo Metro style. Does Irish Rail really think commuters would be happy with such a ridiculous form of transport?

Wednesday 12th May

Every morning is always the same. I’m awaken by the noise of the alarm clock. I turn the infernal thing off and doze back to sleep for another half hour. When I regain consciousness I have to have toast, tea and cornflakes otherwise my whole ritual of eating breakfast is messed up. The 30 minutes extra I spent in bed have now effectively thrown my routine 30 minutes off course. This happens every morning. As a direct impact of this, every single day I am, without fail, late to the train station. On this particular day, I got to the entrance only to see a blasted member of Station staff standing there which means I’ve missed the Arrow. And, as per usual, when I got to the door he said “Sorry, bud. The 8.45am Arrow’s gone.” I frowned and then uttered [insert your own vile un-publishable swear word here]. “But,” he said upon hearing the unrepeatable, “the 8.20am is running late.” Fantastic news, to be sure. Not only was the 8.20am running late, it was running so late that the 8.45am had some how managed to pass it out! The Gods are smiling on me. And they’ve a sense of humour.

Later that day, got an invite from Peter Hussey to go and watch Kildare Youth Theatre’s final running of ‘Boat Memory’ before they bring it down to Cork for the Shell Festival. As always, the KYT cast delivered a great performance, in particular Aoife Whelan as ‘Hannah Bridges’, Vincent O’Reilly as the eminent phrenologist ‘Professor Donovan’ and Gillian Lynch, Neil Connolly and Des Phillips as the three Tierra del Fuegian aboriginal Indians. And believe me that ain’t easy to say. Tierra del Fuegian aboriginal Indians and phrenologist in the same sentence, I mean. Whew.

Thursday 13th May

Today was my last day in college. It’s a strange feeling to finally finish something that has been my daily routine for the past two years. Early morning train. Then two buses out to Rathmines. Classes in radio, politics and writing. Lunch in TOAST where I had a chicken baguette so often, the waitress always asked did I want ‘the usual’. But sitting on the train home on this infinitely sunny day, I’m thinking about all the people I’ve met at college. My friends – the writers and journalists to be. And how we’ve all been thrust out into the world. How it seems so odd to think we should all simply become an occupation. This is, of course, what I imagine we’ll fight against in the effort to Be Not Nobody. These people represent the last two years of my life in a way that no diploma or degree could ever capture. And as I sit staring out into the beautiful landscapes flashing by, it’s sad to think the Arrow is headed away from them. As if it were headed in a totally new direction which is both exhilarating and distressing at the same time. Ultimately though, change is inevitable. To which end, this week’s column is dedicated to my friends, for providing me with the College Years chapter of my Autobiography. I thank you.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:11 PM

MAY DAY! MAY DAY!

Saturday 1st May 2004 - MAY DAY

May 1st, much like September 23rd (my birthday) is a day that should be celebrated across Europe. Neigh - the world. 10 new countries joined the EU. Millions of people will slowly but surely reap the benefits that have assisted our own novel country. Ireland was the venue. Dublin, the Bridget Bardot of cities, was the star. Scarf wearing, whiskey drinkers like me took our seats in the front row. The show was just about to begin when, uninvited, in walks Anarchy. How the bloody Hell did he get in? Thus, my friends, MAY DAY begun.

Like most people, I succumbed to the media prophesies of the very likelihood of riots in Dublin on May 1st. Unlike most people, instead of refusing to set foot anywhere near the capital, I ambled on down to an eerily empty Newbridge Train Station with a ticket straight to Hell. I was going to get into the thick of it. Report from behind enemy lines. This was going to be the Big One. Hurray For Capitalism: A First Hand Report Of How May Day Protestors Got What They Had Coming, by Liam Geraghty.

The journey aboard the Arrow was a solemn one, until the mobile starting jiving. “Hello?” It was my good friend Anthony complaining about how he couldn’t afford a train ticket as he had drunk his millions away the previous weekend. “Ah yes. I know the feeling, Anthony. I’m currently wading through some sever debt myself,” I said sadly. Anthony sighed. “I have absolutely no sympathy for you,” he said. “It’s entirely your own fault, Liam. You’re always buying…” At this point Anthony took a brief second to think of what I did waste my money on and, since he couldn’t really pinpoint any exact vice, he continued without thinking. “You’re always buying Glass Monkeys and flashy cameras and crap.” Sigh. If only I could afford a Glass Monkey.

On arrival in Hueston Station everything was working as usual. (Except the trains! Har, Har.) It was only when I boarded the number 90 into town that things started to look different. From my seat on the top of the bus, I could spot an irregular amount of Gardaí nearby to Hueston. I tried to take a photo on the sly of them, without the rest of the bus passengers knowing. A quick SNAP and it was done. That one’s headed for Reuters. Further along the quays, it began to become more and more apparent that trouble was expected as groups of Guards hung around each and every street corner. Above O’Connell Bridge a police helicopter was hovering menacingly in the blue sky. This is fantastic, I thought. When all Hell breaks loose I’ll be on the scene to cover it LIVE. Now all I have to do is find some Anti-Capitalism Nuts and ‘provoke’ them shall we say by means of some heated debate. This in mind, I headed over to Merrion Square where the EU festivities were in full swing. Tents representing each new country member were full of food, facts and wine. Native dances and songs were showcased on stages dotted around the Square, and peoples from every nation were laughing together in merry spirits. All was well. Not a fight in sight! Word quickly came through to me that the protestors I was seeking, had gathered just inside the gates to St. Stephen’s Green. Off I went. When I got there though I was somewhat disheartened by a rather timid looking bunch of hippies/Earth Dwellers/Wombles? They were all sitting down on the green. Singing songs and then to my horror – dancing! Outrageous. And not in the American meaning of the word.

I travelled all this way for nothing. Spirits were high, riots were low. In the voyage back to Heuston Station there was an air of defeatism aboard the 90 bus. But just as I had ruled out any chance of looting a new DVD player, I spotted a feck load of Gardaí down at the bridge beside Hueston. Rejoice! They obviously had gathered there in an effort to thwart any attempt the protestors might make to visit Farmleigh. Not only that, but it seemed like a mini-concert was in session outside Heuston itself, where the Luas tracks were. Upon closer inspection, it seemed all the acid junkie, college flunky folk had gathered to sing protests and the like. The lead singer remarked, “Now isn’t this form of protesting far better than violence?” A tumbleweed bounced by as not one single protestor answered. Fearing for his protestor status, he hastily quipped “Well what’ do I know anyway?” After around an hour of peace songs I was verging on the suicidal. Hippies were conversing happily with the Gardaí. Had I somehow stumbled into a Hellish twilight zone where everybody gets along!? Apparently so.

My plans utterly defeated, I walked soberly to the entrance to Hueston only to discover it was all locked up. The only way I could get in was through the side entrance and at that I had to show my ticket to a tight security operation. Inside all the shops were closed. Obviously Iarnród Éireann was expecting riots too. After the quaint Arrow journey back to Newbridge, I returned to my humble abode and switched on the TV only to see angry protestors, fleets of Gardai and two God Damn water canons! CURSE IT!

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:09 PM

The Vigilante Group Meeting

Welcome and bien venue to the Trains, Buses and Automobiles 10th Anniversary Spectacular! Originally for the occasion I had planned to present this column in 3D with free 3D-glasses in every Nationalist but for some reason it wasn’t feasible. Yes, commuters it’s been ten long weeks of theatrical high jinks aboard Arrow’s, taxis and the notorious number 15 out to Rathmines where many of our quaint scenes have been set. So gather round children, as we delve into this week’s madness!

Wednesday 28th April

A hazy mist is softly rising from the dew ridden grass. Far away a cow calls out. It’s all so primitive. Almost Jurassic. The air is brisk and the birds are still asleep. It seems I’m the only one in the whole world whose awake. Look at the beauty. Look at the sky. Look at the TIME! It’s 8.35am and my bloody train leaves in FIVE minutes! It’s times like these when I call in Liam’s personal chauffeur service or Newbridge Cabs as they prefer to be called. We pull up in Newbridge Station. I look at my watch to realise that I’m late but luckily so is the train. Just inside the door of the station I was greeted by Cllr. Fiona O’Loughlin. Drat, I thought! She’ll be wanting me to vote for Fianna Fáil at the next election! Just act casual, Liam. Tell her you’re loyalty is to Labour or better still just tell her you don’t vote. Sigh. That’s my conscience for you. I have to listen to him every friggin’ day and he’s no Jiminy Cricket.

Anyhoo, turns out that Fiona is handing out the results of a survey she conducted of commuters using the Newbridge-Hueston Rail service. The results revealed that the issue of train punctuality was the main concern of the respondents in the survey. Which is a perfectly good concern to be worried about but I propose we unite as commuters and demand other things from Iarnród Éireann. Like a blue Arrow instead of a dodgy looking orange one. Seriously though, wouldn’t that be cool? And it could be like a florescent blue colour so that at nighttime it glowed in the dark. Em…yeah, so anyway. Getting back to Fiona O’Loughlin. She’s starting some sort of vigilante group, Rail Action Committee I think its called. They’re holding their first meeting in Sarsfields Clubhouse on the 10th May at 9pm. I say fair play to her. She seems to be doing a lot of work and my spies inform me that she was at the station since 6.30am that morning handing out the results of her survey. And for those of you who are fuming over Dublin Bus and their services, I can recommend checking out www.busrage.ie where angry commuters gather online to verbally abuse Seamus Brennan. On the site you can add your name to a petition to have all the government transport bigwigs actually use public transport instead of their luxury cars. Here, here! Later in the day, after college, I boarded the eerily empty 4.20pm train to Newbridge. Yet no sooner had we pulled out of Hueston, the train came to an unscheduled halt along the track just before Cherry Orchard. The driver apologises for the delay and says we should be moving shortly. Easy going as I am, I simply sigh and continue reading my book. Several minutes later though, bothered by the fact that we were still not moving I turned my head to the window only to get the fright of my life. There, on the other side of the window was a big cow staring in at me. A few of his colleagues were sauntering on down the track. Turns out they made a break for it from a field a few yards up. I’ve been called into the investigation as a key witness, so keep on the look out for a big brown cow with a scar on his left cheek. He’s WANTED!

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:05 PM

Super-Party-Action Liam Geraghty : The KILL BILL 2 Premiere

Monday 20th April

First day back in the Big City after a luxurious two week Easter break. My return is marked by extra baggage that I have to carry all the way with me on the train and buses. This baggage I speak off comes in the form of a rather sharp-looking suit. Quite snazzy, if I do say so myself. But why is Liam, commuter-extraordinaire, bringing a snazzy looking suit to Dublin, I here you ask. Well, my enlightened readers, the suit shall be my attire for tonight’s bash. Yours truly is heading to the KILL BILL 2 Irish premiere in the Savoy Cinema and then onward to SoSuMe on George’s St. for the exclusive after show party. Ladies and Gentleman, may I present, Liam’s Big Night Out. Jen Coyle – eat your heart out! It all started as quite an ordinary day out in Dublin. As I walked briskly to Nassau St. I soon realised it was going to be anything but. My bus stop had disappeared. Just like that. In a time when I really needed it – it was gone. In fact the whole footpath on Nassau St. was gone. Or dug up to be more precise. I sighed and wandered forth, searching for the next bus stop, my snazzy suit in tow.

Forward on several hours, past my Chicken Baguette lunch and hectic day in college, to the moment of truth. The moment where I would don the snazzy looking suit. Once on, I turned from mild-mannered journalist Liam Geraghty to Super-Party-Action Liam Geraghty who comes with a retractable snazzy suit and says three witty catchphrases. And then for the pier de résistance – the Clark Kent style glasses. Newbridge optician, Ger Canty, sorted me out with them last week. My good screenwriter amigo Leo Corrigan joined me and we set off, brushes in hand, to paint the town red. But, in some sort of Cosmic Misfortune, the very second we set foot outside the door it started to rain. Nothing was going to stop us getting to the premiere though. Nothing. We spent a few angry minutes cursing the weather while trying to hail a taxi. We eventually got one. “Driver! The Savoy Cinema! And don’t spare on the Gas!” Speeding through the City we pulled up elegantly right outside the Savoy where a star-struck crowd had assembled. The front door beckoned. We flashed our tickets and were ushered down the red carpet where the press photographers were waiting. I strutted down, trying to look Sinatra-Cool. No camera flashes flashed. They must have not known who I was. The cream of Ireland’s pretentious glitterati had assembled in the foyer. I bought the biggest tub of popcorn that money could buy, which slightly diminished the effect of ‘refined media type in snazzy suit.’

Once seated in the mammoth theatre, we waited until people like HOTPRESS editor, Niall Stokes, and the fine looking one from The Big Bow Wow took their seats. Then to the film itself. KILL BILL Volume 2 was eminently enjoyable with lots of references to the old spaghetti westerns and kung fu movies of yore. After the immensely long end credits rolled, a very special guest was called down to say a few words. It was none other than David Carradine who plays ‘Bill’ in the film. We gave him a standing ovation that moved him to tears. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m not dead yet,” he said. After more rapturous applause, it was time to race over to SOSUME where the exclusive after show party was being held. When we got there, Mr. Carradine was just arriving in a very expensive looking car. The press photographers were waiting eagerly outside and Carradine kindly obliged them by posing for a few photos. We followed him inside, again flashing the tickets, and looked for a table upstairs. Very luckily theatre mogul Paddy Melia had saved us a few seats. For doing this I got him a few vodkas and orange juice. Admittedly, it was a free bar, but it’s the thought that counts.

Michael Roycroft, owner of the Oscar Cinema Newbridge, later joined us at our cosy little table. Rested in front of my good self, were several empty glasses of Jack Daniels. “Would you like another?” quipped Leo. “Don’t mind if I do. Another JD & Coke, my good sir.” All around us were familiar faces. Those two ladies who present ‘Off The Rails’ and singer David Kitt were there. In a pleasant surprise I bumped into Ireland’s greatest singer, Jack L, up at the bar! He told me about the craic he had at his gig in TIME in Naas a few nights previous and introduced me to one of his outstanding band members, Marc Aubele. Later on that night when Paddy and Michael had long since left, and me and Leo painfully discovered that the free bar wasn’t free anymore we decided it was best to move on. So we briefly liased in Flannery’s before eventually ending up in Copper Face Jacks. And to those of you who are aware of the dubious reputation of the infamous Copper Face Jacks, I say this: Don’t knock it until you’ve been there. And then knock it. Goodnight everybody.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:02 PM

Get Off The Tracks!

Liam’s Bedroom, Monday 14th April

Ah, bliss. The second week of my Easter break from that fine institution of education –Rathmines College. Instead of standing on the platform at Newbridge Station, I’m lying snugly in bed. No frantic dashes to the station. No paying of ridiculous amounts of money for a student ticket. No sitting in a stuffy carriage. No trouble trying to open the dodgy train door with everyone staring at me. No stampede through Heuston to get to the 91 bus. No sitting beside a noisy Walkman playing The Best Of Diana Ross all the way to O’Connell Bridge. No long waiting for the number 15 bus on Nassau St. No realisations that I’m 20 minutes late for my first class. No running up to the top of Leinster Road and then realising I’ve forgotten my Politics assignment. No nothing. Just pure, unadulterated bliss. The Arrow rumbles by near my abode, making my bed even cosier. I live near the tracks you see. The wrong side of them, of course. After a final yawn, I hop out of bed. It’s a magnificent day in Newbridge. Blue sky, epic white clouds and a sun that would put Florida to shame. After I collect the morning papers, it’s time for a good cup of tea and a read. The first text of the day comes through from Jeff informing me that there’s some sort of pirate porno radio station broadcasting from Kildare on the airwaves. Intrigued (and slightly baffled) at the idea, I flick through the radio frequencies. No such luck. Back to the papers.

The mobile beeps again with the arrival of another text. It’s Shane Mackey, lead vocalist of $chmackey & the Salads, who incidentally will be playing at the Bealtaine Youth Day on the 3rd May in the Arts Centre. Talk about a shameless plug, eh? Anyway, his text reads, “Trains, Buses and Automobiles? Nah! It should be called ‘Liam’s Weekly Love Chat’.” Somehow I’m going to stick with Trains, Buses and Automobiles. If my aspirations in Love happen to occur whilst commuting then what else can I do but write about them. I continue reading and eating toast until the phone beeps once again. This time it’s a text from Lorcan Garrett. And in a strange coincidence his text is also about the name of my column. “Your column should be renamed ‘Commuter’s Hell’. The amount of s**t that can go down on one journey is amazing.” Lorcan is something of a commuter-virgin and what us hardcore commuters experience every day, he has only just discovered. His text continues, “Like today on the train I had to stand at the window area and ended up getting into a conversation with a drunk holding a can of Guinness. With his slurred speech and the deafening noise of the train, I didn’t hear a word he said. He came back a while later smoking with countless No Smoking signs around us and the day is not even over!” Too true. The madness of public transport in Ireland is certainly a unique one. Every country has its own public transport quirks though. When I was on the underground Metro in Rome, I noted signs saying, “Please beware of pickpockets.” No sooner had I read the sign, I noticed someone’s hand in my pocket! The hand in question quickly retracted after it noticed I had spotted it. Over in Tokyo they actually have to employ people to push commuters onto the trains. An e-mail from my American comrade, Marty Beckerman, author of Generation S.L.U.T. and Death to All Cheerleaders, reveals how things are on the other side of the pond. He says, “The Subway in DC is surprisingly clean and efficient. New York’s subway is more of an experiment in anarchy, but it’ll get you places.” So you see were not alone in our daily torture. Millions of commuters across the globe are experiencing it too. The light at the end of the tunnel is an Arrow. Get off the tracks!

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:01 PM

Egotistical Reflection

Newbridge Train Station - Tuesday 6th April

Yes, I’m on my Easter holidays from college and yes, I’m still catching the train to Dublin. There’s no rest for the wicked as they say. Ahem. I’ve decided to spend the day with fat American tourists, taking in the more cultural side of the city. On the train journey up, I begin searching through my phonebook to see whom I’ll arrange to do lunch with. I text Margaret, who several minutes later informs me that she has to look after her little cousins all day. I duly reply with a suggestion of bringing them to St. Stephen’s Green and feeding them to the ducks. She responds with, “As much as I’d love to, I have a feeling it wouldn’t be that easy.” Little does she know, but let’s move on shall we.

When I arrive in grand old Hueston Station the place is, as always, bustling with angry commuters just waiting to have a go at Iarnród Éireann. Flashback: Several weeks ago I sat on a relatively crowded Arrow on it’s way to Hueston. Somewhere between Sallins & Naas and Hazelhatch Stations, the Arrow came to a halt in the middle of nowhere. Que the crackly intercom explanation. The driver said “I’m sorry about this delay but there’s been a fatality on the tracks.” The lady beside me tutted. “Typical of Irish Rail,” she said. Absentmindedly, I grinned at the black humour of it all. Priceless. Flashback Ends.

So anyway, as I was saying before I was interrupted by that nasty flashback, I had just arrived in Hueston to begin my cultural day out in the big city. I headed for the number 91 bus along with the rest of the commuting collective. After the pushing, shoving, elbowing and kicking I hoped onto the bus and made my way upstairs. Being one of the first commuters on the bus can be a mixed bag of kittens. (One being a tabby and the other dead, suspected homicide on the part of the tabby.) For when you get to the top, deciding where to sit can often determine who eventually sits beside you. Your seat partner, if you will. I look around. The decision has to be made within a few seconds. If I go to the very front, I’ll be landed with sitting beside someone’s kids pretending to be driving the bus all the way to Dublin Castle. Or I could sit at the other extreme, the very back. On any other bus, the back would usually be occupied by junkies or thick-accented Dubs but not on the 91. On the 91, the back of the bus is more often than not filled with 1st year college students who sit there to be cool, as such. Like they did in Secondary School. I can hear other commuters coming up the stairs behind me now. Gotta make a quick decision. I’ll compromise and sit in the middle. This has left me vulnerable to all sorts of weirdoes who frequent the buses of Dublin. I could end up sitting beside the dread of all commuters – the talker. An oddball who despite your obvious attempts to ignore them, will talk to you anyway.

Commuters start to join me upstairs. Some up the front and some to the very back and even more to the middle. I watch nervously as more and more people clamber upstairs. It’s come to the stage where every seat is now occupied by at least one person. All of the remaining commuters who come upstairs will have the luxury of choosing who they sit beside. I’ve had this perk myself on a few occasions. You get to sit beside who ever you choose. I usually choose the girl I’ve fallen in love with two seconds before hand. If there’s none of them, I’ll settle for a respectable business looking type or another student. Anyone else would be seat-partner-suicide. As oddball people pass me looking for a seat I try to look as serious and un-approving as possible. The wait is agony! I can’t take it anymore so I turn my head and stare out at where the Luas tracks are being built. A few moments later someone sits beside me. Whoever they are they smell like flowers and candy. I turn my head slowly away from the window to take a look and Damn! If it’s not a gorgeous model! I can tell by the legs. And also by the fact that on our journey into town she was talking on the phone to one of her beautiful friends, no doubt, about todays shoot. I sat in quiet egotistical reflection. She sat beside me. She could have sat beside anyone but no, she specifically choose me. It must be the writer image I got goin’ on. Chicks dig it.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 08:59 PM

Dodgy Flouncy Dress

What a week it’s been in the farcical escapades of yours truly. Monday 29th March I’m sitting at Newbridge Train Station with Paul Winters. He and I have just missed the 8.45am Arrow and are waiting patiently for the 9.55am Arrow. We’re the only commuters in the whole station. Every couple of minutes a rather sensual pre-recorded lady voice reminds us that “this is a non-smoking station” and every time she says it, Winters and me shout out “WE DON’T SMOKE!” Which may not be entirely true but shouting is always fun. As we sit and wait, several high speed trains thunder by us and each time we stick out our thumbs in order to hitch a ride but strangely, the drivers never stop. It’s now 9.55am and in the distance we can hear the rumble of the Arrow approaching.

Wednesday 31st March Got a taxi down to Newbridge Train Station this morning. My driver says I should do a column on why football referees always get their own way. And in an obscure sort of way, I have. Walking up the steps I meet the legendary impresario Paddy Melia whose also heading up to Dublin and with trouble in mind, I’ll bet! We take a leisurely stroll along the platform, weaving in and out of the students, the business-looking-types, the civil servants (I can spot them a mile away!) and the rest. We bump into none other than the irrepressible Shane Mackey, lead vocalist of the Newbridge band, $chmackey and the Salads. Go figure. The three of us hop onto the 9.55am Arrow when it arrives and gather around ye olde Arrow table. “Did you cycle down on your bike?” asks Melia. “I most certainly did not,” I reply. “I caught a taxi.” Melia looks across to Shane. “Did you here that? A taxi. Very fancy.” I cringe. While, yes, I did used to cycle Trusty Rusty down to the station in all manner of tempests last year, this year is an entirely different matter. This year I’m cosmopolitan. Sophisticated. I travel in taxis and jets and things. By the time we arrive in Hueston Station, I’ve made up my mind to go to a press screening of the zombie film, ‘Shaun of the Dead instead of going to college. My motto is ‘if your offered the perks, take em’!’ (Ed’s note: Stay in school kids.)

Friday 2nd April

Met civil servant, Murtagh Corrigan in Hueston. Referring to last week’s column (which incidentally resulted in several lawsuits) he says, “Your just like Carrie Bradshaw. Only instead of Sex in the City it’s Lust on the Arrow. If I ever see you in a dodgy flouncy dress and expensive dodgy shoes I’ll reassure your folks that your just getting into character.” Thank God for that. I’m sitting on the 5.20pm Arrow heading home to scenic Newbridge. I’m engrossed in the comic book I’m reading. It’s Tintin. I just can’t get enough of Tintin comic books. He’s a reporter (like me!) who travels (like me!) around Europe exposing various drug/money/UFO scandals (like me! Well…). Just as Tintin is about to whack some Russian communist over the head, the ticket collector arrives in my carriage. “Tickets please!” When he gets to me, he stares a little bit, looks at the comic and then says, “Are you the guy that writes about Irish Rail?” A little excited at being recognised, I reply, “I am he. Would you like a signed 4x4 glossy?” He looks serious. “You should be careful,” he whispers, “Iarnród Éireann are trying to have you assassinated.” Aw crap.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 08:54 PM

The Column All About Love

Friday 5.20pm Hueston Station

Standing in the remarkably long queue for the 5.20pm Arrow, it suddenly hits me. Not the Arrow you understand. Love. The extraordinarily complex feeling that is, without a doubt, the most wonderful thing in the world. Words find it hard to describe. Breathtaking. Astonishing. Magnificent. And then I think to myself what would it feel like to find true Love? How do you find it? Where do you find it? Is it possible I could fall in Love with someone on the train? On the bus even? Hell, I spend over 15 hours a week in transit; it’s possible isn’t it? I glance around at my fellow commuters and spot several young ladies I could quite easily find myself falling in Love with. The Arrow arrives. It’s late but at this stage everybody’s just happy it turned up at all. Walking down the platform to the first carriage I meet Murtaigh Corrigan, a civil servant. I can spot them a mile away. I make polite conversation. “Have you seen ‘The Passion of the Christ’ yet?” I ask. Murtaigh seems bemused. “Sure why would I bother? I already know the ending.” Touché.

As the Arrow pulls out of the station, my thoughts wander back into Love territory. I just can’t figure it out. It’s time to call in the experts. The experts being a motley bunch of my charming friends. I text a simple message to each one. It reads, “What is love?” With any luck one of them will have figured it out. As we pass through Cherry Orchard Station, I get my first reply. It’s from Newbridge scouser Paul Winters. It reads “Eh…..? What are you on about?” Off to a bad start. Nearing Hazelhatch Station, I receive another text. This one’s from Madeleine. She states “Love is subjective.” I sigh. Love being subjective is absolutely no help to me. A few minutes later my phone vibrates again, excited by another Love text no doubt. This time it’s from my bubbly Donegal friend, Allison. Her text reads, “What is Love? Let me think!!! Liam have you been drinking or have you been watching ‘Love, actually’ again?” She’s half right. I just bought ‘Love, actually’ on DVD and watch it obsessively. Damn, that girl knows me too well. BEEP, BEEP. BEEP, BEEP. The phone again. It’s Liz out in Narraghmore. “Well I could define it but only if you tell me the meaning of life,” she says. That’s a deal I can’t make. The meaning of life is a secret I’ve sworn to keep to myself. We’re approaching Sallins & Naas Station and I’m still no wiser on Love. If I don’t find out by Newbridge Station I’ll be hopelessly lost in the murky depths of Love forever.

Two texts come through at that moment. I’ve got half the country working on the matter! The first is from my cynical script writing buddy Leo. He says, “What is Love? That’s a very profound text Liam. I can’t describe it because it is an illusion. A mere combination of chemicals in the brain.” This really isn’t going well. I open the next text. It’s from my Snuff-sniffing friend John in Co. Clare. He’s quoted several lines from different Love songs that appeared in ‘Moulin Rouge’. “All you need is Love – The Beetles. Love lifts us up where we belong/to a mountain high/where the eagles fly. All the info you want to know is in that flick.” I make a mental note to rent out a copy of that film. Nearly at Newbridge Station when the phone rings. Caller I.D. says it’s the ‘Delectable Mr. Pyne’ in other words my fellow writer friend Anthony. He and I are part of the new hip urban literati. I pick up. “Hello?” “Liam, I have just one question to ask,” he says. “Ask away, my friend.” He takes a deep breath. “Will you marry me?” I smoothly turn down his offer. “I’m already engaged, my friend.” Which is sort of true. The lovely Laura McGann once said she’d marry me at the age of 30 if I hadn’t found true Love by then. I took her up on the offer and now find myself pondering whether to put off seeing anyone else just so I can marry her in 10 years time. Ah, decisions, decisions. The Arrow comes to a halt. We’ve arrived in Newbridge Station and in a strange way I feel that I somehow have gained an insight into Love. It’s all around.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 08:52 PM

Poetry in Motion

The number 15 bus arrives in front of me on Nassau St. I rustle through my pocket for change and then, to avoid stalling the queue behind me, simply throw €2 into the machine. The driver, who is reading a copy of Pride and Prejudice, prints me out my ticket and an 80c refund. Must be the Austin influence. Upstairs is, as usual, empty save two people. One, a man in a leather jacket. He’s unfamiliar with the city so he sits at the very front to look out for his stop. Two, a young lady wearing fashionable glasses. Her hands are rested upon an old-fashioned hatbox on her lap. I sit three seats from the very back of the bus on the right. And then the journey to Rathmines begins. We turn the corner at Harry B’s. A piano bar where I will one day play Jamie Cullen’s ‘All at sea’ to the urban literati. Around the corner, at the entrance to a large grey building, a crowd of morning coffee-drinkers have gathered. One of them looks up at me as the bus drives by. Then the Dail on my left. I strain to spot Pat Rabbitte or a TV3 news reporter. We stop at the Kildare St. bus stop where three people board. Two join us upstairs. The bus pulls off again. A Fed Ex van drives by. We turn left, at the Shelburne where I once interviewed the Easter Bunny for the college magazine. On our right is St. Stephens Green, where, on sunny mornings I will skip the bus, walk down Grafton St. and greet the ducks in the park. But not today. We drive onward down a straight piece of road. All along our left are magnificent Georgian houses with different coloured doors. Along our right is the south side of St. Stephens Green.

Each morning as we pass, one or two cyclist enthusiasts sit on the pavement. Oiled and black. Like their bikes. We stop at the traffic lights in front of the most marvellous building in Dublin. It is the ‘Bank of Scotland (Ireland)’ building. On top waves the red and white Maple leaf flag of Canada. Sometimes I try and take a picture of it with my camera. Onward again, past the UCD faculty of medicine. After that, we take the second right onto Adelaide Rd. with its beautiful big trees. In the autumn the path is awash with the colours of orange, yellow and red from their fallen leaves. This leads us up to St. James House for the obligatory ten-minute traffic delay due to the Luas track construction. Forward at last past the exotic Indian shops with names like the ‘Taj Mahal’. We stop again at the next bus stop beside the billboard advertisements to be joined on top by a schoolgirl. We proceed to the crowning moment of our journey. The climb up Portobello Bridge, where the red-bricked clock tower of Rathmines comes into view, triumphantly flanked by the Dublin Mountains. This day is going to be a good one.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 08:50 PM

Murder on the 9.45 to Dublin . . .

Monday 9.45am at Newbridge Train Station

It’s a beautiful morning in tropical Newbridge. As I hand a ridiculous amount of money over for my student weekly ticket I notice the Newbridge Train staff are smiling wryly at me. Oh crap. They must have read last week’s column where I was giving out about trains being late and them not announcing it. Just act casual Liam. The ticket guy pulls his jumper sleeve up to reveal his watch. He points to it. “The trains not late today is it?” he says. Well that wasn’t so bad. And for the record, by the time the train did arrive – it was late. Muhahaha!

Met the delightful Laura McGann on the Arrow. She’s the only person I know who can match her clothes to the colour of her eyes. Fabulous, darling! She told me a story that is always told to murderers by psychologists. The murderer then has to answer a question on the story. Laura recounted it to me. It goes like this: A young lady goes to the funeral of her aunty. At this funeral she meets the man of her dreams and gets his number. Later when she gets home she kills her own sister. The question given to murderers is why did she kill her own sister? Now think about it before you read on. Why? Got an answer? Good. Let us proceed. When Laura asked me the question, I thought perhaps that her sister had taken the number of the guy and had gone out with him. The young lady, in a tempest of rage, kills her own sister. Laura informs me that I am wrong. Turns out that 99% of all murderers say that she killed her own sister so that the charming young man would have to go to the funeral and they would meet again. Laura explained to me that a friend of hers had told her the story and asked what the answer was. Laura instantly gave the response that 99% of all murderers give. Shocking, eh? Thus Miss McGann revealed to me that she was totally freaked out by this and was concerned that she may have a bad side lurking deep within her soul. I reassured her that she simply wasn’t capable of such evil. (Although then I texted a college friend of mine saying that if I wasn’t in college by 11.15am call the cops. Just in case…) I bid Laura, the femme fatale, farewell at Heuston Station and board the faithful number 91 bus into town.

Upstairs is crowded with commuters. Each one with a story to tell. The two young ladies sitting in front of me are conversing in what I think is a Claire accent. Along our journey one of the young ladies excitedly points at the Four Courts. “There’s the GPO,” she says. Oh brother. We’ve got city-virgins on our hands. The other girl pipes up and says, “that’s not the GPO…” Well spotted. “…that’s the parliament buildings.” Touché.

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 08:48 PM

Hash on the Number 15 . . .

Met Jeff Keogh on his way home from school as I walked down to Newbridge train station this week. He takes a look at my trendy red writer’s tote bag. “Are you delivering leaflets?” he quips. Before I get a chance to be outraged he’s already eyeing my long coat that I bought to make me look more like a writer. “Is that your Grandad’s coat?” I decide the best thing to do is hurry along my way. In Dublin this wouldn’t have happened. In the big city there’s a sense of bohemian anonymity regarding fashion. And that’s exactly the look I’m going for.

Up in Hueston I meet Michael Roycroft, owner of the Oscar Cinema, on the top of the 91 bus. We discuss Mel Gibson’s new film The Passion Of The Christ and how the Film Censor’s Office probably dropped the cert from 18’s to 15’s in an attempt to get younger people interested in religion. Some how I think a two-hour long film in Arabic isn’t going to have kids flocking back to Mass on a Sunday. On our slow and arduous bus journey we pass the James Joyce house that seems like it’s been renovating for years. James effin’ Joyce. I despise him. He writes a book that no one can understand but that everyone has. I’m quite glad Roddy Doyle has set the ball rollin’ in terms of Joyce-Bashing. You can be sure I won’t be in Dublin for Bloomsday. I hate liver.

Michael bids adieu and I head off to what I have been calling Trinity Street for the past two years. Turns out its actually called Nassau Street. Insert your own Monopoly joke here. I wait patiently for a number 15 bus to Rathmines. It arrives and I pay the obscene €1.25 bus fare. Dublin Bus try and sneak it up 5cent every once and while and think nobody notices. It’s worst when you don’t have change for the bus so you throw €2 into the ticket machine. The driver then prints you out a refund of 75cent. You can redeem this at Dublin Bus HQ if your bothered and it would seem most people aren’t. Dublin Bus announced last week that over the past 5years commuters have left a colossal €9.5million in un-cashed refunds. Makes you think.

Aboard the number 15 bus to Rathmines I’m sitting in my usual place – third seat from the back on the top of the double-decker. Sitting at the very back of the bus are a tracksuit-clad couple. Dubs. I’ve christened them Ronnie and Charlene. I listen to their conversation intensely. “You’re bleedin’ Mother is rippin’ us off!” says Charlene. “It’s only €75 euros, right?” replies Ronnie. “Your effin’ brother is gettin’ it for way less.” At this point I’m thinking they must be talking about paying rent at home. “Leave me bleedin’ brother outta this, right?” says Ronnie. “It’s 75 effin’ euros! And it’s not even good Hash!” There’s a brief silence. “Fine, right. We won’t get it off me Mother anymore, right?” “Don’t you ‘right’ me, right? Ya can smoke it on your own from now on,” says Charlene. “Right!” says Ronnie, “I will!” Ah, what would love be without a few arguments, eh?

Trains, Buses & Automobiles by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (page 6)

Posted by LiamG at 08:43 PM

June 03, 2005

The Column That Started It All . . .

The Column That Started It All . . .

Thursday 27th February

10.55am

I’m standing solemnly on the platform at Newbridge Station. It’s snowing. My fellow commuters are huddled under the shelter further up the platform. Taking shelter from the snow. Honestly! Not me though. What harm can snow do? Soak you, evidently. Nuts. I take out my somewhat battle-worn umbrella. My youthful visage is now ‘protected’ from the snow but the rest of me might as well have jumped into a swimming pool for all the help my umbrella is doing. That’s the thing about umbrellas – they only ever really cover your head. And because your head is covered you don’t notice that the rest of you is being saturated. But it’s not much different for the various commuters huddled beneath the platform shelter today as that’s leaking too. Sigh.

11.10am

The Arrow was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. Fifteen minutes standing at Newbridge Station is always the longest fifteen minutes of your life because it inevitably turns out to be twenty minutes. The Arrow finally does arrive in all its glory, albeit without any explanation of why it was late. And if you want to piss off a commuter, giving no explanation to where the blasted train was, is a sure fire way to do it. (Iarnród Éireann take heed lest we start a revolution) Inside my discomfort is made worst due to the fact that it’s one of those Arrow’s where all seats are facing each other and don’t have ANY tables. God I hate those Arrows. In the other ones you can sit in private, as it were, with simply rows upon rows of seats and the odd table. On those Arrow’s I can quite happily read my Star Wars comic books without having to slip them into the centre of the Irish Independent. Oh the joys of being an outcast. Anyway, we eventually arrive in Heuston. Everyone hops off the train and the mad dash begins for the bus. It’s odd really because if, like me, you usually race down to the 91bus and are the first to board, you still have to wait for all the other people who’ve decided to saunter down the unimaginably long platform one. Although being first guarantees you the front seat on the top of the bus and as all children know, that’s the best seat to have.

Posted by LiamG at 01:31 AM

June 02, 2005

Trains, Buses & Automobiles

"A thoroughly enjoyable travelogue from an extremely readable journalist with a style all his own."
- Bob Freville, Editor of Vile Material, New York

TB&A appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist, pg.6

Posted by LiamG at 02:46 PM