Ross from Friends: The canary in the mine of intellectualism or just another white middle-classed privileged know-it-all?

Read this (it's rather funny) before reading my blog, otherwise it might seem as though I've gone off piste.

“Rachel likes to shop.” It was upon this sentence that I tripped, skinning my elbows. Rachel likes to shop? It’s true. But if we remember that pilot episode when, adorned in the shackles (we later learn) that already imprison those in her circle, we meet Rachel in a moment of defiance.

She rejects the well worn path opting instead for the road less travelled. And when her need is greatest and she throws herself onto a pyre of scorn, rejection and judgement she is embraced by a group who have not known her for several years, knows her in passing or have never met her and whose decency and kindness are to be lauded. The burgeoning flames that so many of us would have allowed to ignite are doused.

Then later, as the trajectory of her life takes her into a directionless fog she decides to right herself and begin again from the bottom in order to live her life, in so far as is possible, on her terms.

Further, our writer,  whose article, I must declare, I thoroughly enjoyed states that with Rachel, Ross, “could’ve done better.”

Really? The elitist, middle class egotist whose arrogant view of the world brought him into conflict with his friends? The guy who married someone he hardly knew (arguably two women he didn’t really know) and then spoke another’s name whilst committing to the vows of holy matrimony? The guy who views women in narrow dimensions, the overbearing controlling jealous philanderer? The guy who cheated on his partner and attempted in vain to use his intellect to justify his behaviour in a battle of semantics? The guy whose rodomontading (thanks LB) behaviour led him to make a list of the physical attributes of his female “conquests”? The guy who ogles women at stag parties? Me Ross. You Jane Rachel.

“Any time Ross would say anything about his interests, his studies, his ideas, whenever he was mid-sentence, one of his “friends” was sure to groan and say how boring Ross was, how stupid it is to be smart, and that nobody cares.”

Perhaps they were merely countering Ross’ hyper-sensitivity, balancing his need to show how smart he is at every possible opportunity? Keeping his feet on the ground? Perhaps “joshing” is merely a prevalent dynamic of their group. For I recall, on many occasions in those early years, Ross bemoaning yet another trip to the theatre to watch his friend Joey, the shows cultural fulcrum, perform on stage. Philistine.

On this evidence it’s Rachel who could’ve done a lot better.   

Man of Steel Review. SPOILERS

Man of Steel arrived complete with an extensively retooled Superman mythos. And whether you love it or hate it, it’s basically the end-point of a process that started with the mounds of derision which were heaped at Bryan Singer’s door following Superman Returns. Superman Returns, lest we forget, was Singer’s beautifully contemplative film with one of the best action sequences ever seen in film, delivered by way of the fantastic airplane rescue scene. Some people just don’t know what’s good for them.

The first relationship we really see is that between Jor El and Zod, which is presented in an interesting way, representing a genuine ideological battle that will pervade the rest of the film. Michael Shannon brings us a tortured Zod whose tunnel-vision tenacity makes sense in light of the breeding programme of Krypton. This Krypton is no utopia. We see it instead imagined in a very different manner to previous iterations, with plodding dino-creatures and faintly ‘Land Before Time’ overtones.

Twenty-first century superhero films are focused on large-scale urban destruction, on the minutiae of steel skyscrapers bending and collapsing, on the sounds of city-wide decimation and metallic groaning.

It sometimes feel like too much, leaves one wondering how this fictional earth could withstand. Or maybe we have become so accustomed to seeing these cityscapes devastated that they all blur into one. To think we sat agog as Roland Emmerich destroyed the White House. This is perhaps the potency of images of urban destruction we absorbed following 9/11, a new world iconography, certainly the media have been touting Man of Steel as a film riven with this imagery. It leaves you wondering whether saturation point can be reached in such up-scaling of disaster. Will our future blockbusters show peril differently? Will they judge impact by a different scale?

Our twenty-first century penchant for origin stories is also evident in Man of Steel. What is this new preoccupation? The early Superman films offered us little in the way of past, or indeed the Tim Burton Batman films. Even Superman Returns dispensed with any seeming need to retool, or to tell a story of how and why. We were always assumed to intuit, through decades of exposure to the idea of superheroes, why these figures were donning capes. Why the current fascination with origins? Is it because in an age of hyper-realism we demand to know how these unbelievable characters became super, how Godlike figures could legitimately have evolved in our world?

Man of Steel is immediately obvious as a departure from the past. It is darker than early era Superman yes, but the soul remains, the key drive to do good, a Clark Kent still committed to this principle, remain. In this, Henry Cavill is a triumph as both Superman and Clark Kent. His accent suggestive of a farm boy authority and a calm and even fortitude, his portrayal of one of the best known characters in film is one of the highlights of Man of Steel.

For all those traditionalists out there, there may be some comfort in the fact that Man of Steel ends with the status quo. It did not begin with this. In this trick it resembles Skyfall’s modus operandi, leaving the movie with the character set-up and situations we knew all along, Kent working at the Daily Planet, using his cover as a journalist to keep his ear to the ground. Except of course in this telling of Superman, Lois Lane knows their identities are one and the same. This is interesting because it removes a couple of relationship dynamics. In the original plotting, Clark was a devotee of Lane, and she was dismissive and comically dismissive towards him. However, Superman was also the object of Lane’s affections. This provided scope for comedy, and for a complexity of relationship and power differentials, and it will be interesting to see how this new version plays out.

The relationship between Superman and Lois Lane is handled well, to a point. While the kiss comes much too early, sitting uncomfortably between two components of one action sequence in which kissing has little place, the interactions beyond this kiss are tonally spot-on. Call me a prude, but maybe leaving the first kiss for a second film might have been a plan with some merit, leaving the audience dangling for the romantic pay-off. The flirting between the characters is believable, and the final line Lois delivers is perfection in its punning, kitsch – something which may sound out of kilter with the rest of the film, but yet which manages to work perfectly. For those who argue that Man of Steel has no sense of humour, surely small lines like this suggest otherwise. The film is clearly not going for knock-about, physical humour, but then the word on the street post-Superman Returns was that no one wanted that anymore. If Man of Steel is humourless then The Dark Knight Trilogy is a black, burning hole of misery and despair.

There are two death scenes in Man of Steel which are particularly poignant and important for the realisation of Superman as a character. Zod’s death scene, which was incredibly moving, felt like a bona fide turning point for Superman in the destruction of a connection to his home, to his self as Kal-El and his father. Yet the immediate juxtaposition of this relic of Krypton versus the lives of humans on earth was fatally resolved, and in this resolution was evident the distress and choice which had to be made by Superman. The music for these sequences, leading up to the death of Zod, seemed almost reminiscent of Heat, in which two peers in ideological and occupational conflict with one another must finally face off against the other in a showdown in which there can only be one winner.

The death of Jonathan Kent also provides a poignant marker on the road to the making of Clark Kent/Superman. The teachings and ardent belief of Clark’s father also manifest as something of an obstacle to be overcome, when he elaborates his reasons for anonymity to Lois Lane by his father’s graveside. In the putting on of the Superman suit, he effectively goes against his father’s express and dying wishes, overcoming something within him, the reticence and conservatism of small-town, rural communities everywhere.

That this Superman is a Messianic figure is heavily apparent. The hefty imagery of the cross occurs as Superman exits Zod’s ship and hangs in space. He is also revealed to be 33, the age at which the figure of Christ took the long cross-walk in the Bible. Until then, Clark had lived among people, without anyone, beyond his parents, being aware of his identity. However, when Zod makes his presence felt, Superman decides to sacrifice himself, for a people he feels may not deserve it. The presence too of an earthly and a heavenly father is also something which provides two differing but almost complementary modes of instruction.

Just like Christ, the mythical figure with the most merchandise, Man of Steel will rise again, in the sequel which is racing towards production right now. Clearly the film isn’t perfect, but the depth of characterisation, and the attempt to build something new and unexpected are hugely to be applauded. It is brave, and engaging, and feels like an iteration which may just have staying power.

1954 - 2012

Christmas is like a dream.
The comings and goings and well wishes happen to someone that is me as in a dream.
The slumber, so deep, I have spent this last week rubbing my eyes.
But here I stand, awake, finally, to find that Dennis O'Driscoll passed away over the holidays.

If asked, "What is poetry?" I'm not sure what I would say. 
I'm not sure how I would say it. 
Transformative, yes, but more. 
More. More. 
For me, a struggle, a fight.

But when I read O'Driscoll I know what it is. 
I know what to say. 
Recite, recite, recite.


Weather Permitting by Dennis O'Driscoll
I

The August day you wake to takes you by surprise.
Its bitterness. Black sullen clouds. Brackish downpour.
A drift-net of wetness enmeshes the rented cottage,
towels and children’s swimwear sodden on the line.

Dry-gulleted drains gulp down neat rain.
Drops bounce from a leaking gutter with hard,
uncompromising slaps: and, like resignation
in the face of death, you contemplate winter

with something close to tenderness, the sprint
from fuel shed to back door, the leisurely
ascent of peat smoke, even the suburban haze
of boiler flues when thermostats are set.

You warm to those thoughts as you sit there,
brainstorming ways to keep the family amused,
plans abandoned for barefoot games on dry sand.
Handcraft shops? Slot-machine arcades? Hotel grills?

In truth - manipulating toast crumbs backwards,
forwards at the unsteady table’s edge - you’d prefer
to return to your bed as if with some mild
ailment, pampered by duvet, whiskey, cloves.

II

Let it rain.
Let the clouds discharge their contents like reserve tanks.
Let the worms burrow their way to the topsoil
from whatever dank Sargasso they were spawned in.
Let dampness rot the coffin-boards of the summer house.
Let the shrubs lose their foothold in the wind,
the nettles lose their edge, the drenched rat
with slicked-back hair scuttle to its sewage pipe.
Let the tropical expanses of the rhubarb leaves
serve as an artificial pond, a reservoir.
Let the downpour’s impact on the toolshed be akin
to the dull applause on an archive recording of a love duet.
Let the bricklayers at the building site wrap
pathetic sheets of polythene around doomed foundations.
Let the limb ripped from the tree’s socket
hover fleetingly in the air, an olive branch.
Let a rainbow’s fantail unfurl like a bird of paradise.
Let a covenant be sealed, its wording watertight.
Let the floods recede.
Let there be light.

III after Giacomo Leopardi

The storm runs out of wind; nature, which
abhors a silence, fills the vacancy with birdsong.
Deserting the airless, low-ceilinged coop,
the hen repeats herself ad infinitum. Replenished
like the rain-barrels, hearts grow sanguine.

Hammering resumes. Humming. Gossip. Croons.
Sun strides down lanes that grass has repossessed,
takes a shine to the brasses at the hotel where,
by the window she thrust open, the chambermaid
is marvelling at the cleansed freshness, calm.

Balm of mind and body. Will we ever feel
more reconciled to life than now, ever
know a moment more conducive to new hopes,
eager beginnings, auspicious starts?
How easily pleased we are. Rescind

the threat of torment for the briefest
second and we blot out dark nights of the soul
when lightning flashes fanned by wind
ignited fire and brimstone visions.
Sorrow is perennial; happiness, a rare

bloom, perfumes the air - so that we breathe
with the ease of a camphor-scented chest
from which congestion has just lifted.
Lack of woe equates with rapture then,
though not till death will pain take full leave

of our senses, grant us permanent relief.

Movember 1st*

Movember 1st is fast approaching. It's time to give something back, and by something, I mean cash. Like the penis of a dead Viagra addict: Cold and hard. That's right folks, it's show-us-your-testosterone-for-a-good-cause-month. (Remember when folk used to do something to raise money? Swim the Channel? Piff. It's the 21st Century, I can raise money by not doing something. And in the case of shaving it's something I don't even like doing. Mwah ha).

But prepare to be shunned by wider society should you forgo the moral imperative that requires you to give money because a post-pubescent can grow facial hair at will! And remember, if you choose to donate to another Movember participant then prepare to be shunned by me!

Ha, ha (laughs nervously).

Of course this year I'm part of a team. Yes, my CarTrawler colleagues have joined together in restoring the Patriarchy for Charity (which I believe should have been our team name) to raise money for what is a most worthy endeavour.

Most see this as an opportunity to have a bit of fun whilst doing something worthwhile. But allow me to sober the mood somewhat:

I will unfollow you on Twitter if you do not donate to me. 

"He's bluffing," I hear you say, but can you afford to take that chance? How much is it worth to maintain your Twitter follower figure, and what psychological damage will it do if you fall below 1,469 followers? Your self-esteem will thank you!

As will I! (Probably)

And to all you guys, don't let jealousy bar you from contributing. After all, it is for you we're raising this money. Personally, I don't understand the need to raise money for guys who can't grow a 'tache but then empathy was never my strong point.

"Ahem...Emmett..."

"Yes?"

"The money doesn't go to victims of upper-lip pattern baldness..."

"It doesn't..? Ohhhh"

P.S. By laughing at any of my comedic gems you tacitly agree to donate!

*If a feeling of Deja Vu should overcome you do not be alarmed. You merely read this post last year.

I couldn't watch. And yet I couldn't take my eyes off of it. That these statements seem contradictory is an illusion. Let me explain. You see, I dislike Sky's coverage of the Heineken Cup. Not because they lack in terms of stylish graphics or presentation, not even because their analysis bores me. I dislike it because I am xenophobic. Wait, wait, don't misunderstand me! I mean it merely within the context of rugby. It's like that feeling you get when you've been away from home for too long and yearn to be with others who ... understand you. I guess you could say it's that need to feel like you're not alone. 


Don't get me wrong, I'm not the type to hug every faded acquaintance I happen to meet. So when I say, from time to time, when watching Leinster in Europe, I seek out my kind, what I mean is that I turn on the radio. 

If you don't know, Sky have exclusive rights (I dislike the practice of anthropomorphising large corporations by using words such as rights) to broadcast Heineken Cup games for television in Ireland and Britain. 


Yes, there may be a pleasure derived from an outsider's unshackled pronouncements; that this Leinster team is the greatest we have seen in the European Cup, and yes, from it there may also be an unnatural feeling of confidence, not so much a swelling of assurance in one's bosom, more an indigestive bloating. But to a dwindling few, such thoughts ... such bravado is corrosive. Am I making myself clear? It's like Betty Draper in Mad Men, when she calls Don, who by now is her ex-husband, on receipt of bad news, and like a sapling whimpers, "Tell me its going to be all right." The reply, "It's going to be all right," is sweet, and perhaps for a moment comforting, but she doesn't really believe it. 

And neither does the Irish rugby fan, who cannot live with the false hope that such assurances bring. So we grip our anxiety like reluctant children clinging to our mothers on the first day of school. We are outcasts in our own rugby supporters' fraternity. Perhaps, we are the result of a slight genetic variance? A rogue protein, where in a trillion ons, it went off and no one notices, why would they? For this misfiring is minute, it is a droplet in a deluge. And though it is seemingly insignificant, for some, such as me, it is a underestimated torture, like the unceasing annoyance of an infinite stream of single raindrops running down your back. 


The anomaly... see it as a complex computer program which executes a simple one word command. In our case: agonise.

So, at half-time I turned on the radio for a more palatable perspective. I couldn't stand to hear any of that Leinster are a great second-half side hooey. I needed to wrap myself in the comfort of doubt. As the adds rolled on Sky, the second-half restarted on the radio. There's nothing unusual for a television broadcaster to be a few seconds behind the radio, what with satellite relays and all that.  So I kept the radio on, low, in the background, focussing on the t.v.


But as Clermont battered Leinster's try line, I couldn't watch. I couldn't just watch. I had to listen too. I needed to know what was happening now. There was only a forty-odd second lag but I muted the television and turned the volume up on the radio. Michael Corcoran's mangled voice undulated in intensity, painting a vivid picture of the battle and reaching its crescendo as Leinster, exhausted, win the match.  


Even then, as I turned to the t.v., and though what I was watching was already known to me, I waited for that second final whistle. It was as if I was hearing two languages, the first I only had a rudimentary knowledge of, enough to think I knew what was said, but not until I heard the second, the translation, as it were, that I fully understood. With certainty.

Will Anthony Foley be the next Munster coach?

Sometimes, you need to step back to appreciate the magnitude of a masterpiece. Even of a painting whose reputation towers in comparison to its size. Because sometimes, we miss things that are right under our noses. We need to see the whole picture. But there are those in the IRFU who have their noses pressed up against the canvas and can't see a damned thing. Ulster coach, Brian McLaughlin was right under their noses and they missed him. Now, it's too late. But even if the IRFU were to lift its head once in a while, and cast it's Cyclopean gaze across the Irish Sea, toward Britain, it may still go unnoticed that two young and innovative Irish coaches, in Bradley and O'Shea, reside there, imparting their expertise abroad, and as such, are underutilised natural resources. 


(Paradoxically, being net exporters of rugby coaches harms our domestic rugby economy. Lets bring this metaphor to a close, shall we?)


Our coaches are leaving, or being stood aside. But there is one young Irish coach who may overcome such ignorance, Munster forwards' coach, Anthony Foley. Since Tony McGahan announced his forthcoming departure in the summer, the hat has split its seams for all the names thrown into it. On Thursday night's Off the Ball road show in Cork, Ronan O'Gara said this, when asked of the imminent coaching vacancy in the province, "There's going to be, obviously, a few important change-overs and new staff [my italics] and new players", he then went on to say that, "I don't think sweeping changes are required," suggesting that he is putting his weight behind Foley, who has the advantage of not merely being a disciple, but a prophet of the Munster way , and is already integrated into the coaching set-up. An obvious inference. He then went onto clarify a quote put to him by the show's presenter Eoin McDevitt:

"I saw you were quoted this morning as saying, you [O'Gara] "hope they trawl the world  for the best possible coach," so it doesn't necessarily have to be somebody that we know at the moment?"

The out-half went on to clarify, albeit, not accusatorially, "I was only thinking afterwards, it's easy twisting my words there, or that some people might read into that, that he [O'Gara himself] doesn't rate Foley, or something like that. But that couldn't be further from the truth, I think he's exceptional." Even though O'Gara goes on to say that Foley will have a huge role to play in Munster's success, as either the head, or the assistant coach, I read this merely as a sign of his loyalty to Munster, as an idea and a brand, that is greater than he. Incidentally, O'Gara's perceived honesty in interviews (it is not my intention to suggest any disingenuousness on O'Gara's part, merely, to point out that this is how he is perceived, in general), leads many people to underestimate him as a media performer.


So will Foley be the coach? Who knows? If there is any truth to my inferences, and if O'Gara's view is representative of the senior players, than quite possibly. 


As Mark Anscombe readies to replace McLaughlin at Ulster, all we know with certainty is that come the start of next season, there will be only one Irish coach in charge among the four provinces. It is not my intention to sound like a xenophobic rugby nationalist. Importing coaches and ideas helped unearth and nurture the "golden generation." At Leinster, Joe Schmidt has developed a talented squad, brimming with youth, and their overall technical level is the envy of Europe. The point I'm trying to make, though obtusely, is brought into focus by Alan Quinlan, writing for the Irish Times*:

"When I heard McLaughlin was being moved aside from the head coach’s job, I was disappointed for him but I thought that if it meant that they were going to bring in a proven world-class coach then maybe it was fair enough.

"But Anscombe’s experience is with the All Blacks under-20s and some ITM teams in New Zealand.

"I’m sure he’s a fine coach.

"I’m not questioning his ability at all.

"What I am questioning is why we seem to think achievements at underage level and in provincial rugby in New Zealand are on a par with getting through the pool stages of the Heineken Cup. Whatever about what it says to McLaughlin, is that not a bit of an insult to Irish rugby in general? I think it sends a message to Irish coaches telling them that they better be very good because they won’t be judged by the same standards as a coach from the Southern Hemisphere."

I'm not saying lets slap a Q-Mark on "Axel's" backside and exclaim, "Try Irish!," but he is the best candidate. Ideally he would have more coaching experience, but his Munster pedigree is such that, his claim to the throne must not go unrecognised, or risk undermining his usurper. Regarding his lack of experience, one must remember that Schmidt's first season as Leinster head-coach was his first season as a head-coach. In the medium to long-term, Munster are bridging the gaps at academy level. At senior level, at least in the short-term, Foley can best negate the shortcomings of the panel.  

*I have selected the quotes from here.

Six Nations: England 12 Ireland 13 England 30 Ireland 9

It's a story my Father loves to tell. It was a bright, crisp February morning. A Saturday. I was twelve years old. There was no school, nor sport to play, so my mother, deciding that I was at a loose end, suggested to Dad that I accompany him to work. After all, it was only a half-day. Dad warned me, "you'll be bored, there's not a lot for you to do." I assured him that as a child who enjoyed reading, my imagination was all I needed to stave off any such mental lethargy. To make a long story short, lets jump forward two hours, where I am to be found witlessly bored. So much so, it became arduous. I began to poke and prod my father's patience. Everything I did became accentuated, as if I were a Royal Shakespearian actor and this was Stratford-Upon-Avon. I would sigh deeply, feel faint and throw the back of my hand to my forehead. Theatrically, I would check the time on my watch by flailing the appropriate limb skyward, as if I were the teacher's pet answering a tricky question, then yank it back as though my arm were a whip. All the world is a stage, after all.

Incidentally, though I have no recollection, I'm sure it came as a surprise to me when I first learned that patience are not tangible entities. Dad would say to me, "Emmett, my patience are running out!" Well, get new ones. Or buy rechargeables? Or worse still, I would hear, "Emmett, my patients are running out!" So that's what the butterfly nets are for. It's accurate to say, on that day I didn't just try my father's patience, I defeated them. Please, I cannot accept your  congratulations, for I have done nothing more than lob a couple of pebbles up into the air. Think of a parent's patience as a frozen lake. For most, the ice is think enough to walk across, but my father's were (notoriously) wafer thin.

So, it came knocking-off time and Dad, against my protestations, wanted a pint. It was about two o'clock when into the Red Cow we walked. Dad walked, I trudged. As I grumpily sipped my 7-Up, whilst looking at my watch and thinking what a clever guy Einstein was, Dad announced that "we're staying for the rugby." H'uh? Buh? Like a lot of people, I watched Gordon Hamilton score against Australia in World Cup quarter final of '91, only for Campese & Co. to snatch victory in the end. As we took our seats, most were resigned to an Irish defeat, daring not to hope for more than a spirited moral victory. Why watch something that Ireland are going to get battered at, I griped? Literally. But, like a good boy, I sat and watched and slowly my intransigence thawed, and when Simon Geoghegan roasted Rory Underwood to score for Ireland, I leapt from my seat and cheered. Ireland won the match by a point. I marvelled at the players' commitment and bravery, their dignity and humility. This was my formative oval ball experience and from it are engrained most of the characteristics I still associate with the current Ireland team. One characteristic that has changed in my perception, is Ireland as perennial underdog. 

Though that victory of '94 was Ireland's first in England since 1982, and though Ireland had won the previous year in Dublin, after 1994, Ireland didn't beat the old enemy again until 2001. Since then, Ireland have beaten England seven times. What I am saying is, that for me, and perhaps most people my age, half of my rugby memory is filled with positive remembrances of playing England. Be it at Twickenham or Lansdowne Road. But in the wider rugby context, the St. Patrick's Day's result is not exactly out of the ordinary. So what weight does one give to history? What does it take to change history? That is, the history we have yet to make?

My passion for rugby was ignited sitting in a pub watching Ireland pummel England and win aginst the odds. My most recent experience found me sitting in a pub, this time with Ireland on the receiving end of a severe beating. Thankfully, unlike the first time I was drunk by the end of this one.