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My Close Encounter with Ken Bruen

2/22/2012

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My week was made, nay my month was made, perhaps even my year. A mundane trip to Tesco for the usual same ole same ole saw me meet one of my favourite writers. And yes I did follow him into the fruit n veg and interrupt him choosing a watermelon. I am a fan, a massive fan of Ken Bruen for many years. I fly the flag for his books wherever I go and to whoever I meet. The Galway man, the godfather of Irish crime fiction, is highly revered, particularly in the US.  This white haired debonair prolific writer, who created the inveterate Jack Taylor character, writes pacy, gripping stories sprinkled with quotes from Yeats and Nietzsche. Well, they would be, Jack Taylor is a hard drinkin’, literature lovin’, throw-the-rule-book-out-the-window ex-Garda, with a nose for trouble. So, there I was, face on me like a chewed toffee pushin my wonky trolley, laden with washing powder and Cheerios, the three knockin lumps out of each other,  when Himself gasps ‘There’s Ken Bruen!’. Sure enough, there he was in a black coat, lap top bag on shoulder, white hair unmistakeable, heading into the shop.

                I didn’t want to approach him initially, thought it a bit naff but feck it, knew I’d regret it if I didn’t. Hesitantly I walked towards him, perhaps he would get all narky if I interrupted him doin his messages. I apologised for intruding on his shopping and said ‘It’s Ken Bruen...isn’t it?’. I think that’s what I said, to be honest, it sounded gobbledegook to me. I may have said ‘I’m your number one fan...you Dirty Bird’ but really hope I didn’t. I continued to tell him I had all his books, was looking forward to the new one (Headstone) and enquired as to when it was available in Ireland. He shook my hand, held my upper arm with his other hand and said ‘D’ya know, you’ve really made my day’. We chatted about the new book, said he wasn’t too sure about it but that it had got rave reviews in the US. I told him that I, like he, was also a lover of the metaphysical poets (which is true...ya I know, tis far I was reared and all that). I looked at his warm face and held his cold hand (it was freezing). He asked my name, I told him, and he said again, ‘You made my day, I’m delighted you came up to me’. I bet he says that to all the girls. He was most friendly and ever so charming. Off he went into the dairy section I think. I didn’t follow him around the aisles, my fake moustache kept coming unstuck.

                I could have asked for a lock of his hair, might have freaked him out a bit. I could have asked was he free for a pint and bribed Himself and the three to belt off away somewhere, anywhere.  I should have asked for his autograph but did not. I felt he had been more than generous with his time. I walked back to the crew and wondered what was on his laptop, what he was working on at the moment.

                Off then to Charlie Byrne’s with us, a spring in our step to seek out the latest book, but lo and behold Vinny informed us it was sold out. I recounted my tale to Vinny who said Ken had told him that Headstone, the ninth in the series, was to be the last Jack Taylor book. Shock. But given that he had not read it himself, he couldn’t say definitively if this was the case. So, I now await my order. If it is the last of Jack Taylor, am I going to have to entice him over and cajole him to write another, a la Cathy Bates Misery.  ‘How ya goin’ on Ken, luveen. See, God came to me last night Ken and told me the purpose of you being here. I’m going to help you write a new book...Mr. MAN!’ He’d have to make do with whatever paper SuperValu had but no, I couldn’t break his knees. That job would have to be outsourced. 


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Me, Denzel and the Bee Keeping Epileptics

2/15/2012

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This Valentine’s Day I was Billy-No-Mates. And it’s not the first time nor will it be the last, me thinks. Ya, ya, I know, that’s the sound of the smallest violin in the world. Such is life with an absentee other half. Ditto for Himself trasna an uisce or so he tells me. We never liked the overpriced restaurants with tables of couples forcing themselves to look all romantic as the waiting staff fire out the tiramisus. My amorous evening consisted of homework, three parent teacher meetings, dinner and counselling one of the many pre-teen meltdowns that are a regular occurrence at present (damn thee to hell hormones!). So any sniff of calmness and a dinner they all like, is a bonus really and if I get both on the same night, well, I’m made.

A trip earlier in the day to my folks saw Nana snipping the ends of a nice bunch of flowers followed by an attempt to squeeze them in to a vase far too small.

‘You got flowers I see. I’m still waiting on my bunch. I’d say the delivery man got lost, they always miss the turn’ , says I, tongue firmly in cheek.

‘They’re only Dunnes, ya know’ she retorts, as if it made a difference.

Meanwhile Grandad pipes up ‘Sure don’t they all come off that truck from Holland. I do see it parked up around the place’ as if all the cut flowers in Ireland come from the one lorry.

‘And chocolates?’ I gasp at the large box of Milk Tray on the table.

Now this lady doesn’t love Milk Tray (although I am partial to the orangey ones). My mind wanders, the imagination let loose. Maybe my man Denzel Washington will be waiting when I get home, looking all beardy and brave, a surprise Valentine visit, clutching a dozen red roses to his chest.

‘Are ya right? Get your gear. I’d like ya to come with me’ he’d say, or something to that effect. The words wouldn’t really matter that much.

‘Kids, I’m away off with Denzel. Don’t wait up and don’t forget to plug out the telly. Tell your father if he rings, I’m gone for a spin with Denzel. He’ll understand’.

I am shook from my surrealist day dream.

‘Do ya want white or black pudding with that?’, asks Grandad.

‘And you’re cooking her lunch too?’ I tease. He pulled out all the stops. Forever the romantic.

The bunch of daffodils, picked by The Middle, with a tender loving tug from the garden (and the neighbour’s garden), were my Valentine blossoms. The Youngest reckons it’s a crime against humanity that I did not get to celebrate Valentines, that I was hard done by. God help us when she gets older, she’ll be away off with the first spotty young fella who shows her any bit of interest.

With the blather of all things lovey dovey I pondered the origins of Valentine. Sources say he was one of the martyred saints of Rome. Valentinus wasn’t feeling the love of Emperor Claudius, when he attempted to convert him to Christianity and subsequently sent the heavies after him. Poor aul Saint Valentine was found marrying Christian couples on the sly, and worst of all gave the two fingers to the Emperor by refusing to give up his faith. Claudius ordered him to be clubbed, stoned and beheaded outside the Flaminian Gate in Rome around 269 AD. He was prolific, a busy man, and is now patron saint of love, lovers, plague, bee keepers, epilepsy, fainting, greetings, happy marriages (wonder could he banish negative equity?) and young people. He is represented by birds (of the plumage variety) and roses (not of the Cadburys kind). So, was his last meal not just an ordinary meal, but an M&S Valentines meal, with the squidgy chocolate dessert and sparkly quelque chose? Did he receive any anonymous cards adorned with requisite teddy and hearts? And guess where his alleged relics were placed following exhumation from the catacombs in Italy ? Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church in Dublin no less. Thus on any given 14th February all the bee keeping epileptic lovers can be found fainting from flagellation at the foot of his casket. At least they’re in the right spot. 

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