About time

Time to get the public side of this blog back up and running.

Off on tour through North America starting March 21. Some comments and observations from the road are on the cards.

Your blog makes me smile and laugh.
Your music has the same effect.
Have an amazing day.


My pleasure sir. I hope it inspires many more budding thinkers out there to share their views and perspectives. That would be a dream.

All the best,


What St.Patrick’s day means to me

I posted most of this on my friend’s Facebook yesterday (St. Patrick’s day) and posted other parts, that I’ve included, in answer to other posts. I felt I should crosspost it to my blog, with some grammar corrections and a good bit of editorial cut and paste.

This is a dour post so, if you don’t fancy having your spirits dampened, stop now.

St. Patricks day is more important to foreigners as an excuse to drink than to the natives. We bred like rabbits once we’d reached dry land anywhere and it enables one to use the smirk inducing “everyone likes having a bit of irish in them” one-liner. I’ve used it and Jackson’s tried it too, on me once. It didn’t work. It shouldn’t work, no matter who uses it.

Most know St. Patrick’s day as a drinking fest where people wear green. For all the great poets, writers, playwrights, heroes and world changers my country has produced, looking like a disney leprechaun and indulging in heavy-drinking are what most of the world think of when it thinks of the Irish identity. To me, this is like saying that Italy, whose 150th birthday is shared with this year’s St. Patrick’s day, is nothing more than organised crime, amazing cooking, sitting around all day looking suave while drinking espresso and ogling women, etc. and ignoring the other 99.9999999% of what the country has produced that has little equal in the world, has indelibly shaped the western world and influenced too the rest of the world in profound ways. What a sad epitaph that is to find your culture trivialised as such. I had a conversation about this very same act of belittling national stereotyping after visiting Guanajuato in Mexico and seeing the statue on the hill over the town of the blacksmith who charged the spanish fort, thus allowing the uprising to take a first step towards the end of foreign rule.

The Irish are associated with drink because they drank to escape their lot as downtrodden penniless slaves in their own country for a good many hundreds of years. The habit becomes entrenched and is hard to break. The abject poverty and destitution that drove people to a culture of alcohol abuse is now celebrated as a lovable trait. Those people had it hard and then they had it worse. What they suffered is beyond my ability to imagine. Most of our folk ballads are about the injustices done and how we’re going to “show em”. We didn’t. We never did and we never will. My Granduncles know this because they were executed or killed in battle fighting in a failed revolution that hardly anyone joined. As soon as the British were gone, we fought ourselves. Our history reads like the diary of a 16 year old kid beaten up daily at school and abused at home since he was in the 2nd grade. The complexes run deep and are sewn into the national character. We look back and hold on to this trauma, forget the spirit of what people once wanted to accomplish and never question our use of what they achieved for us.

The Irish demonstrated their unity and cleverness when jumping to reap the benefit of great ideas sewn decades ago that they had then derided. Ideas that allowed Ireland to become one of the hottest economies in Europe. Bravo. The youth enjoy a high standard of education and are cheap workers so in came the assembly plants. Then came the foreign exchange houses and financial centers and who knows what else of companies enjoying the tax benefits. Then came the orgy of speculation and building. Every piece of land that could be grabbed was ripped up to build houses no one needed. Greed consumed so many who’d never had it so good before and this orgy of unprecedented, unregulated and unmanaged get-rich-quick and sell-your-granny-if-you-have-to madness ensued causing the economy to balloon out of all proportion and then dive faster than the Hindenburg when the crisis “happened”. Mismanaged and shortsighted are words that barely scratch the surface of an adequate summation.

When I go back to Dublin, it is not the city I left. I barely know it. No revolution has scarred it, no army occupies it, but the greed of bastards has levelled it, packed it up and sold it to line the coffers of foreigners. Bravo, again.

I will drink a shot or 2 tonight but I will drink to the memory of the great authors, playwrights and poets who became more resolute in who they were out of a feeling of detachment from the plebeians around them, who longed for the lightbulb to go on over a fair few people’s heads and who inspired me in my youth to remain true to who I am. I will think of the ancient myths and legends passed on to me by the elderly as a child that are my Country’s lore, of the cultures in prehistory who shaped the land and built remarkable structures before the Egyptians had begun planning the Pyramids, of the fact that she was once the light of the world and the land of saints and scholars in antiquity, of the astonishing beauty of her land, of the ghosts who haunt that troubled place and of the perpetually sweeping clouds that never abate in the unleashing of their rain. I will reflect upon 1000 years and more of tragedy caused by others and by the Irish themselves, upon the countless lives that were laid down in the distant past in the name of an idea of Irish Freedom and those who tragically became its victims on all sides. In all good conscience, I do not agree with many of the ideas and methods and actions of so many who stood under this banner of the cause of freedom. Violence only begot violence and no one wanted to stop when the fight had long been won. The damage had been too long compounded and the wounds and hurt ran too deep. Perhaps this lesson should be Ireland’s greatest legacy to the world. When the guns had been finally put down, we saw we were not so different after all from the ones we had been told to see as enemies. We were as flawed and fragmented as they were. Still, I wonder what the patriots, the revolutionaries, the tyrants, those forced to do their bidding and the unimaginable number of their victims would say now if they could see what has been done with this noble freedom. I will drink to this and so much more.

For me, and many others like me, St. Patrick’s Day is a day of reflection on  a unique country of which I will be forever proud, no matter her many faults, failings and trespasses. I will get lost in the memory and romance of a country that, for me, will only exist in my imagination and my memory.

Beannachtaí na lá Féile Pádraig agaibh.

Is mise le meas,

Rónáin ó hEarchaí.

Let the future tell the truth, and evaluate each one according to his work and accomplishments. The present is theirs; the future, for which I have really worked, is mine


Why “Thought Fabrik”?

Well, I’ll tell you, since you ask.

My native language is English, I live in Germany and I’m Irish and I see it as an attempt at all-inclusive, internationally-targeted pronunciation difficulty.

Most native English speakers will have no problem with the word “Thought” but will most likely pronounce “Fabrik” as the kind of thing you made clothing out of, i.e. Fabric.

Germans will know that “Fabrik” (pron. “Fabreek”) means “Factory” but most Germans will have severe difficulty pronouncing the word “Thought”, will try it for 2 seconds, only manage “Tsaawt” before giving up to avoid the shame, after which they will punch someone nearby.

Anyone with half an Irish accent will pronounce it as “taught fabric” (in the same way they say “Filum” instead of “Film”) thus conjuring up images that prompt them to engage in shameful acts of leg rubbing, the sporting of a foul and dirty grin, accompanied by groans of “hurr hurr” between repetitions of saying “taught fabric” over and over, while imagining ‘aul Mrs McKenna from the shop, who is a size 16 but insists on believing she’s a 12, getting that box from a shelf, while the ‘aul fellas in the shop hold their breath and very nearly have heart failure. Stop it. It’s wrong and a sin against all that is natural. You’ll get hairy eyes and your hands will go blind. Or something.



The same kind of place an Astronaut would head for on another planet. Somewhere where there’s intelligent life.

And then so clear

Now, before I get started, let me make one thing abundantly clear - I use British spelling. Now we’ve cleared that up, on with my first personal blog entry. Cue fanfare.

I’ve thought for a long time about starting a blog.

There have been days when I thought that whatever was on my mind at the time, be it some realisation or humorous philosophising or load of complete and utter tangent, could be shared with someone I know and not spend its existence bouncing around inside my head before it fizzles out when I get distracted about having dropped something or knocked something over or whatever else distracts me.

Since the early 80s, seeing my friend coding Space Invaders on his Sinclair ZX81, I’d known that my life would actively involve, and quite possibly revolve around, computers. I coded on my Atari ST, got a job in programming, ended up becoming some internet nut back at the start of the 90s. Though the internet then was very different to what it is now, in both the free-spirit mentality of it all, and the fact that it was navigated by text based menus of options that included email, hypertext documents and the wild and whacky perpetual flamewar that was usenet, I wanted to live in the world that had been described to me by writers like William Gibson. I wanted to be “jacked in” (an old term for being somewhat embedded in the internet, rather than just simply online). I wanted an Ono-sendai and I wanted it then.

Nevertheless, I came from a mindset and generation that valued maintaining some privacy. I had read enough sci-fi to have developed a cautious mistrust for what would happen to the information I chose to share. I never got the live diary fad, the subsequent trend of friendster and the many other social portals since then, or that are yet to come. But, blogging has been persistent, while remaining unsensational. It wasn’t so much the must do super-trend, though it started that way for some. It ended up becoming the daily bread for so many of us. It became the quiet discussion in the book shop or supermarket, the rant at the pub, the editorial, the expression of look-what-I-found and the tales of this is what happens when you put it in a blender.

So much of what I read and learn from exists in the form of blogs. From the most up-to-date cutting edge sewing machine research to the most banal and matter of fact local events from a village in the wilds of nowhere. It is my daily pursuit.

I have been urged, begged, pleaded with and very nearly coerced into writing a blog. In my own time, I would always say. I’d been reading some blogs on Tumblr for a while and decided that the plunge needed to be taken. I gave this first entry the name “and then so clear” in homage to a song by Brian Eno, that one of my favourite musicians Jon Hopkins worked on, because starting a blog seems to me to the one of the few times where something made complete sense.

I hope I can maintain some form of interesting narrative on here. I hope too that I can find the time. If anything, it will force me to remember and employ the rigours of grammar that I honestly love but let slide too often, in this world of text message abbreviations, quick emails and facebook posts. I will do my best to avoid “lol” and his friends. I hope my dead-pan, light-hearted sarcasm and love of irony will be clear. I may rant at times. I may wander all over the place as my focus and way of thinking are like molecular spaghetti. I may even write a book per post as the word concise and me don’t get along, though me and verbose are old drinking buddies.

In any case, off we go.