Archive for September, 2005

Bantry Show


A few weekends ago I took a spin to Bantry to see the immensely exciting “Bantry Show”. I wouldn’t call it the photographic opportunity of a lifetime but I still managed to get a couple of keepers. That’s about the size of it…

More on ze Flickr.

Patrick Street Artist


One of the regular weekend street entertainers/artists to be seen on Cork’s Patrick Street.

People Skills for PhotoJournalists; A Guide


As a photojournalist, or someone that looks quite like a photojournalist from time to time, you’ll come across three main types of people. There’s the norms, the freaks and of course, the dickheads. In the last few years I’ve come across all three types frequently , with the first of the two categories coming up in first and second place respectively. Before we continue, lets define the particulars.

Norms: People that see you may work for a newspaper, see that you have an expensive camera but realise that although you may be able to put their face in the media, a human being just trying to do a job is actually what you are. In simple terms, they just don’t give a shit.

Freaks: Almost the same as above. These are people that have decided, long before they open their mouths, that you are a big, important photojournalist for some various newspaper and your sole mission is to get that picture of them to spread across the front page. They duck, dive, weave and block you at every possible chance in order to get their picture taken. If displeased or unsatisfied by your response to their demand, they can easily metamorphasise into type three.

Alas but in so many other walks of life; “there’s always one”. For the purposes of this rant, I’m going to refer to these “people” as type three. What follows is a 100% accurate series of events from earlier this evening.

I parked on the docks about 7.15pm and made my way speedily toward the train station to get a few (hopefully) half decent shots of the victorious Cork team making their way home. I made it past a couple of barriers by doing the ol’ famous ‘point at camera’ trick. “Press Pass?” . Erp. Not going to get past this last one. Ahh well, I made the best of it and took my position on the rail tunnel bridge just outside Kent station. 7.30 came and went. 8pm came around and as darkness fell the open top bus started rolling. Myself and the guy next to me made some idle chit-chat for a few minutes to break the monotony. Got a few shots off in the few minutes before the bus passed us and ran alongside to keep up, firing off the odd shot while dodging the running crowd.

Eventually made it down as far as the bus station, where the open top bus dissapeared from sight. The crowd made their way to Parnell Place, where a huge screen had been setup showing a stage which was presumably setup at the top of the South Mall. I waited a few moments by the triangular piece of ‘art’ in the middle of the road while the crowd got larger. Perfect for a quick picture of the overall event. When that time came, I turned to the two young girls standing on one corner of the construction and the following conversation took place.

Me: Sorry, would you mind if I just stood up there for 5 seconds to take a couple of pictures?

A not entirely unreasonable request and one that any type 1 or 2 person would gladly permit. Let’s define some variables. T3 is the girl nearest to me standing on the ledge. T3M is the girls mother. Yes, you can already see that this was a mighty interesting exchange.

T3: Eh, wha? You gotta be jokin’ like. No way like.
Me: Ah c’mon, I’m just asking for 5 seconds to take a few pictures, then I’ll get down and you can have your spot back.
T3: I been waitin’ for half an hour here like. No fuckin’ chance biy.

How stressed was I? How unreasonable was this festering she-male? Yes, I was stressed after running through crowds for ages. Yes, I deemed it to be quite unreasonable. The resistor in my head that controls anger management suddenly burned out in a flood of white hot rage and red vision.

Me (at top of voice): You’re some fucking langer. I’m only asking for five fucking seconds you scabby stella cunt.
T3 (looks at me as if she wanted to say): Ehh, where did that come from biy?

I turn to walk away, f’ing and blinding the crabfaced, disesase ridden, teenage mother of ten, pram pushing assfork of a so-called human being as loud as I could yet in a decidedly noticable mutter. Then, “the mammy” got involved. Woe unto anyone that crosses an Irish mammy. However, God himself wasn’t about to stop me now so it would have taken a whole fucking armada of Irish mammies to even slow me down.

T3M (in her poshest possible accent, despite the fact her daughter was as common as pig shit in a pig sty): Excuse me, that’s my daughter you’re talking to.
Me (thinking quickly): My deepest condolences.

Mammy looked shocked. I nearly crapped myself laughing as I brushed past her, imagining that at any minute either of the two outcomes would become reality.

1. Mammy would give me an almighty clip with her Dunnes Stores handbag, full to the brim with naggins of Scrumpy Jack.
2. More worryingly, Daddy (fresh from mountjoy) would turn up and turn his attention to smashing the fuck out of my camera, diverting his attention periodically to smashing the fuck out of my face. Given that there were police everywhere, I felt decidedly cocky and chose to chortle merrily away as I strode away. I didn’t get the picture but I did get a bloody good laugh. And a rant.

I’ll take 50 freaks for every 1 dickhead. I can take pictures and scribble down names all day and all night until you meet one absolute dickhead that knocks you out of your rythm temporarily. Photojournalism? Nah, I’d do studio photography instead. Or travel photography. It’s all good!

Cork Céilí Mór


I’m going to get myself in all kinds of organisational hot water here, posting today’s photos before I’ve even finished processing the last few weeks batches. Anywho; here are a few shots from the Cork Céilí Mór which took place a few hours ago in the city. The aim was to get 10,000 people all doing the siege of Ennis at once. The final tally was something in the region of 8,371. I’m not too sure how much that exceeds the world record by.

The city was buzzing with people, all of whom filled the Grand Parade and the South Mall. It was definately something to see. Hope you like the pictures and when you’re done looking at these, take a scoot over to view Donncha’s set.

Up close & personal with the lord of the dance himself; Micheal Flatley

As per usual, there are a few more on Flickr.



Getting back on track somewhat, here are some pictures from yet another absoultely bored weekend. Decided to take a quick drive down to Inniscarra Dam.

The dam itself

A few more on Flickr.

Fecking driving test!


After sexually abusing a feline in my last foray into coherant ranting on the subject of my less than kosher driving test, I reapplied and included a letter from work. Well the letter must have had some effect because here I am, only a month later, having sat my second driving test. I arrived at the Cork test center at around 8am this morning for a pre-test lesson, after which I spent several tense minutes in the waiting room being finally called around 9.20am. I felt somewhat better going into this test knowing that the rotund assfork of a so-called human being that tested me the last time (tested my driving, patience, etc) was on holidays (according to my driving instructor) and so I’d probably get a fighting chance.

A female tester stuck her head into the waiting room, populated solely by me and my loudly churning stomach. “Only one left, heh heh” or something. That’s what I said, she just informed me that someone would be right with me. Not a minute later, the door opened and just through the doorframe, like a great florescent eclipse, came that same rotund assfork that failed me the first time. The brain went fubar but the exterior remained calm. Something along the lines of “Oooooooohhhh those mother fuckers. I DONT BELIEEEEEVE IT! I tell ya I’m gonna kick some fucking ass if he fails me this time. Ohhhhh MOTHER FUCKERSSSS!” Something like that anyway…

I can only assume that he recognised me as soon as he saw me (given that I mildly verbally abused him the last time we met) and the fact that my name is of the instantly recognisable variety. Curses! He proceeded to phrase his theory questions like tongue twisters and ask me to identify every awkward roadsign under the sun. He asked me to point out the radiator cap in the engine of my van only to change his mind without mentioning it and instead decide he wanted to know where the coolant bottle was. I thought “if I drive a few miles away… I could string him up and nobody would be the wiser…”

Some 30 minutes of unrealistically obtuse driving later we returned to the test center. Mr. Monotone advised me to follow him inside the test center for my result. I walked behind him into the office, pulling the most frighteningly sickening faces all the way. My driving instructor, who was parked opposite the center, had a look of utter woe on his face when he saw who got out of the passenger seat of my van. As he said himself toward the end of the pre-test “You shouldn’t have any problem. Your driving is spot on. The only way you’ll fail now is if the tester is a bollocks or something completely unforseen happens”. Prophesy…

Not only is the tester a complete bollocks, but it was completely unforseen that I’d get this mother fucker twice in a row… EVEN AFTER I’D REQUESTED NOT TO GET HIM!

The tester squeezed himself back into his pained and dated office chair, placed the marking sheet in front of me and spent several minutes pointing out every single minute fault in my driving. I mean this shit was so inconsequential it could be entered for an award for the worlds biggest pedantic twat. “You never gave right of way to a hedgehog”, “there was two people sitting at a bus stop 10 metres from the edge and you never slowed down to a stop”. All I wanted to do was count up the faults on the page and see if I passed. Well, that and insert the large chromed name plate on his desk into his left nostril. Eventually what I got was “You need to improve your driving alot but however, you’ve passed”. I took the certificate of competency, put it into my back pocket, grabbed the fathead by the ears and slammed his face into the desk several times. I then skipped out of the office, leaving him face down on his desk in a pool of his own crushed bone, vomit & blood. When outside, I found his car, deficated on the bonnet and relieved myself into the petrol tank whilst whistling songs from “Chicago“.

…Ok, I didnt, but I would have fuckin’ loved to!

The War on Nature


The War on Terror has been a ridiculous bloodbath. The hidden agendas behind the operation are numerous and far reaching. Iraq and it’s people will never be the same again. Be that good, bad or indifferent remains to be seen. America and it’s people will never be the same again either. How many have died needlessly? Anyway…

The shocking events currently taking place in New Orleans may lead Bush onto another war. This time, mother nature is gonna get it! “The War on Nature” will no doubt aim to remove the current dictator (hereafter known as Katrina) and install a more pleasant yet even more unpredictable leader. I predict the existance of weapons of mass destruction are caught up in the 250+kph winds and *cough* large oil deposits are certain to be found along the way.

To fund this new Christian effort into the unknown, ‘big business’ will be called upon. The 600 year plan to install and abide by the Kyoto Protocol will have to be postponed indefinately. Mandatory conscriptions are to be in effect for anyone above the age of 12. Veitnamese children preferred. They eat less and are frighteningly accurate with small arms. Oil drilling experience not nessecary but preferred. Ability to target foreign journalists and allied troops at long distanes required. Apply in writing, enclose preferred undertakers name & address.

Mother Nature; what a bitch. We always knew she was hiding something, (other than WMD). She goes and floods the city, destroys countless homes and offices, maims and kills and for what? God is angry, we must be doing something wrong…

Get your own Muff


Recently came the news that a list of the most naughty place names in Britian had been compiled; among them a town named Muff. The huge problem I have with that is as follows…

Anyone that knows their geography will know that the town of Muff is in Co. Donegal, part of the Irish Republic. That is to say, not under the rule of the crown. The Republic of Ireland, not in the list of countries collectively referred to as Britian.

I could go on about 800 years and mention some less than subtle rebel songs but I won’t. Instead I’ll simply advise the creator of these utterly pointless, waste of space compilations that he or she invest in a book of maps. Political maps at that. We do not use sterling. We do not have proper fish & chips. We do however have Muff, Co. Donegal. I’m sure the residents of the town would agree with me in my sentiment and I’m very sure that anyone listening to the radio yesterday when this was announced feels the same.

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