Angela’s Ashes – Review

Ok, so I wasn’t viewing “Angela’s Ashes” as an adjudicator, but to help promote what was a wonderful show, I’d like to recommend a visit to Bord Gáis energy theatre to everyone in Aimsland.

Frank McCourt’s dismal account of his childhood is given an up-lifting treatment that leaves none of the harsh realities aside, but balances them with some beautiful music and excellent comical moments.
The grey, skeletal set and the predominantly white lighting of the show was powerful in echoing the colourless life of the young McCourt, even if there were lighter moments that might have been enhanced by a bit more colour. The moving bridge and stairs were very well used on many occasions, but the bridge in particular seemed to be a bit needlessly over-used.

Those few criticisms aside, this was a wonderfully atmospheric production that revolved around a host of outstandingly good individual performances.

The remarkably talented Eoin Cannon, as Frank, skipped effortlessly from mature narrator to little boy Frank, and along the way, provided moments of sublime comedy in his delivery of lines. His love-making scene with Brigid Shine as Theresa Carmody was theatrical gold, as was his first Holy Communion. But it was his sincerity throughout that was captivating and really pulled at the heart-strings. His struggle with accepting that his Dad was a loser, his shame at striking his mother, and the depth of his love for Theresa, and his young brother. Excellent performance all round.

And then there was Jacinta Whyte as Angela, whose vocals were simply stunning, whose diction was perfection, whose emotions were raw and real and filled with passion. Her reaction to losing her daughter absolutely broke my heart, while her strength in the face of adversity was inspirational. Angela was the core of this story, the one who fought everyday of her life for her children, prepared to demean herself for their well-being, and with every moment of tragedy, we loved her more for her courage and durability. Jacinta’s success was to make her real and believable at every step along the way.

The strength of Marty Maguire in the role of Malachy was to realise the insipid, shallowness of the father figure, a man we can all so easily identify, full of drunk bravado, a dreamer of nationalist dreams who hasn’t the energy to achieve anything that requires an ounce of energy. He stumbled and sang his way through the tragedy of his family with little more than vacuous displays of sincere concern for their well-being. And yet, there was an occasional hint of pathetic, self-loathing that made us want him to come good at the end.

Emmet Byrne as Young Malachy gave a performance that echoed the childish comedy of the young brothers in Blood Brothers, expertly releasing his inner child, and rising to moments of great sadness and sincerity. With considerably less material than his older brother, he still managed to relate the horrors of his upbringing with superb emotion, and phenomenal physical presence. A wonderful performance.

Clare Barret’s Grandma was filled with caricature and comedy, but also a genuine concern for the circumstances of her daughter and her family. Her solo at the moment of her demise was beautifully emotional.

Elaine Hearty as Nora quite simply stunned with superb comic timing and delivery throughout the show. Hers was the role that epitomised Irish wit and social belligerence. Feisty, fiery and ferociously funny. In a story so filled with darkness, she provided light and levity, making the most of every opportunity to tickle the audience funny bone.

Karen Ardiff was a delightfully hateful old bitch as Mrs Finucane, blending the bitterness of her mean-spirited character with an astute sense of comedy, to give a performance of stature. Beautifully played.

If Malachy senior was the unintentional villain of the piece, then Mr Griffin, superbly played by Mark O’Regan, was the epitome of deliberate vileness. A man of pretentious piety, happy to pile insult upon injury in the most abhorrent manner, this was a disturbingly sinister character realisation.

David O’Meara was a sympathetic and sincere Uncle Pat, Bryan Burroughs gave character and comedy to Quasimodo, Shane McDaid gave all that was required to be a credible Billy Heffernan and the afore-mentioned Brigid Shine was radiant in the sad and sweetly sympathetic character of Theresa.

David Wray’s Musical Direction was spot on, eliciting both haunting strains and lively rhythms from a very capable band.

It was great to see a good smattering of AIMS heads at the show last night, and I’d encourage more to follow. How wonderful it was to see such a great local story, performed by such a talented local cast, and being appreciated by an enthusiastic local audience. Thanks to all concerned in the Production for an excellent night of truly Irish entertainment.  Book here now

School Exams – oh, the pressure!

For all of you poor school kids who are panicking about junior or leaving cert… just remember, failing does NOT mean that you are stupid. It does NOT mean that your future will be bleak. Evidence?

1…He had a late start in his schooling following an illness, and, as a result, his mind often wandered, prompting one of his teachers to call him “addled.” He dropped out after only three months of formal education.     (Thomas Edison)

2…He was the fifteenth child and youngest son in a family of 20. He spent two years at the Boston Latin School before dropping out at age ten and going to work for his father, and then his brother, as a printer.                      (Benjamin Franklin)

3…He dropped out of high school at age 15. Deciding to continue his education a year later, he took the entrance exam to an Institute of Technology, but failed. He returned to high school, got his diploma, and then passed the university’s entrance exam on his second attempt.   (Albert Einstein)

4…He dropped out of high school at age 16 to join the army, but because he was too young to enlist, he joined the Red Cross with a forged birth certificate instead.

(Walt Disney)

5… Suffering from dyslexia, he was a poor student, so he quit school at age 16.  (Richard Branston)

6… His father died when he was six years old, and since his mother worked, he was forced to work for his family. After dropping out of elementary school, he worked many jobs, including fire fighter, steamboat driver, and insurance salesman. He later earned a law degree from a correspondence school.                       (Col. Sanders. KFC)

7… He attended elementary school until his life took a twist when his father was imprisoned for debt. At age 12, he left school and began working ten-hour days in a boot-blacking factory.

(Charles Dickens)

8…  At age 16, she left school and briefly attended another school before dropping out from there as well. She went to work as a part-time assistant at a day care centre and nursery school. Contrary to claims, she was not a kindergarten teacher since she had no educational qualifications to teach.

(Princess Diana)

Remember this:  You can get from A – B very quickly on the Motorway, but you can get there comfortably via the scenic route too, and live and see and experience so much more beauty on the journey.  Good luck to you all.

Our Proud Irish Nation (May 23rd 2015)

Success meteoric.
A moment historic.
A nation euphoric.

A day when a majority,
supported a minority,
and made them a priority.

When love, kind and tender,
regardless of gender,
has poured out its splendour,
to end the frustration,
of discrimination,
and brings celebration
to our proud Irish nation.

The Voice of the Departed

For anyone who has lost someone dear to them.

I do not feel the cold.
I do not see the darkness.
I have no thoughts of loneliness.
I feel no pain, no anger, nor regret.
I ask no questions and look for no answers,
For what is done is done, and that is all.

But do not fear that I have left you.
Close your eyes, and you will still see my smiling face.
Listen with your heart and you will still hear my happy voice.
Hold someone’s hand, and know that you are also holding mine.
As it has always been, I am with you in every thought you think,
In every moment of your joys or sorrows.
When you smile, I shall smile.
When you sing, I shall sing.
For no darkness can extinguish the part of me
that has always been a part of you.

Fear not that you cannot hold me in your arms,
For I will feel no greater love than knowing
That you hold me in your thoughts and in your heart.
And In that warmth, I live forever now,
Just as I have always lived.

ADHD

ADHD

Activity is minimal.

Disinterested parents take no heed.

Helpless children respond,

Do what children do.

Alleviate the boredom.

Demonstrate the frustration of a mind,

Hindered in its psychological development.

Distressed by apathy.

Analysts over-analyse.

Determined to create a label.

Hazardously disregarding the obvious.

Developmental roadblock.

Alternative action?

Devotion, dedication, determination.

Harmonise the minds of parent and child.

Dismiss disability label.

Sex Ed? What’s that?

Sex Ed? What’s that? Oh, you mean where they showed us rabbits doing it? Followed up with a couple of pretty meaningless diagrams…. and believe me, we were curious to learn.
A couple of years later, our biology silences the class, then pulls down this life size poster of a naked man, points straight at his mickey, and asks the class “OK….what is this?”
Every guy in the room lowered his eyes, all too afraid to say the obvious, just in case it was wrong and they’d be laughed at by the girls.
“Oh for God’s sake” the teacher was getting impatient. “You all have them.”
“I’ve never had one!” I heard one of the girls giggle and whisper.
“What was that, Barbara?” the teacher had 20/20 hearing!
Beetroot faced, Barbara stood up.
“It’s a dick, sir.” She offered.
“I beg your pardon? It is not a dick, Barbara!” teacher bellowed, “It is a penis! A penis, boys. For God’s sake, are you all stupid?”
No, we weren’t all stupid, just highly embarrassed.
“Sorry sir.” Barbara was over her initial cautiousness. “But it does look a bit like a dick as well!”
We never found out the teachers reaction to that comment, because he lifed her by a pig-tail and led her out of the classroom.
I reckon Barbara could have taught us a lot more!

I am the Voice

I am an atheist, but not a church-hater. I respect everyones individual right to believe what they want to believe, and I have a healthy respect for my many religious friends, but I find it hard to stomach when any institution attempts to sway public opinion using shameless rhetoric and the most unimaginable hypocrisy. Breda O’Brien, the Iona Institute and the prehistoric Catholic Ethos that they represent, are treading on dangerous ground by using “what’s good for the children” in an attempt to win any argument. Actions speak louder than words, and history speaks louder that anything. My response is thus:

I am the Voice.
I am the voice from the grave.
The voice of the innocent.
The voice of the child.
The voice of a shameful history.
The voice of those who have no voice.

I am the child, plucked from the mother’s breast.
Fatherless, motherless, orphaned by the state,
Orphaned by the church.

I am the child who saw no light, no life, no love, no Jesus.
The mother church that preaches love, loved not me.
The God of infinite mercy showed none to me.
The Bishops and the Priests who pray, prayed not for me.

With shovels crafted of guilt and shame, they dug my grave,
And with mud still fresh on their boots,
They preached the love of little children.

They christened me “unknown”.

And now, from hallowed corridors, their voices rise again,
In condemnation.
Custodians of morality, brandishing Bibles,
And banishing love and compassion, and nature and life.

And from my unmarked grave, I scream
“Hypocrits! Who pitied not the un-named child,
Now name him Cupid,
And fire poisoned arrows from his bow,
Into the love-filled hearts of loving men and loving women.

We are children, not fodder,
To be shot from the muzzles of your canon law!
You are not our voice, you are not our parents,
nor our guardians.
Do not persecute others, as you persecuted us……..

If You be there,
Lord God, Be True.
Let not your ministers pour hate upon
souls that you filled with abundant love.
Let not your church be sullied once more
By hypocrisy!

Then, might all the children sing,
“All you need is love, indeed.”

Same Sex Marriage?

I’m not sure that I have any right whatsoever to vote either way in a referendum that has no bearing at all on my own life. It’s a bit like asking me to choose between Earl Grey or Darjeeling! I don’t drink tea, so it’s not a decision that has any relevance to my existence. But if everyone I knew preferred Earl Grey, I’d probably make that my choice, because why would I knowingly deprive my friends of something that obviously means a lot to them?
In the case of this referendum, however, there isn’t any choice…. there may be one in ten of my friends who prefer Darjeeling… but there’s not a single gay friend in my life who will want to vote “No” to same sex marriage…. indeed, I doubt if there’s a gay person in the country who wants a no vote. To the only people to whom this vote actually matters, there is unanimity. A “Yes” vote for same sex marriage will bring untold happiness to an entire section of the community who have been persecuted, through ignorance, for generations. While, if truth be told, a “Yes” vote will in fact have absolutely no bearing on any aspect of my life.
The fact that I do have so many gay friends means that I feel extremely privileged to be able to lend my support to their cause. Why would anyone with an ounce of human decency choose to vote negatively?
Now here’s something else to consider. If, like me, you’re a father, you’d better waken up to the very real possibility that some day, one of your children will come home and announce that they are homosexual. Yes, it does happen. Two “straight” parents, despite genetics, discover that their child is gay! Well before you go out to cast a negative vote, you had better know for sure that you will be able to live with the guilt of depriving your own child of happiness, by depriving them the right to a legally binding relationship based on love and mutual respect. That is what it comes down to. And on that day, what will you say to your child? Your life, your love and your happiness aren’t important, because you’re a deviation from the norm?
If you are a Christian, remember that your God is the only judge, and leave destiny to Him. Instead of condemning, follow His advice and love your neighbour, love your enemy, and don’t go throwing stones if you are less that innocent yourselves. A “No” vote will affect you in no way, but it will cause untold hurt to so many. Is that a Christian gesture?
If you truly believe you can’t find it in your heart to support the future happiness of such a considerable portion of our society, then at least recognise that by abstaining from the vote, you are affording that group the right to self-determination and future happiness, without sacrificing your own moral code. Just stay at home, pour yourselves a cup of Earl Grey, or Darjeeling, (you DO have a choice) and allow humanity to let love win the day.
This is NOT about all gay couples getting married. Many of them never will…… it’s about giving them that choice!
A “Yes” vote is the ONLY honest, decent, Christian, humanitarian result.
Please vote “YES”!

Please share this to spread the message. Thank you.

Jim’ll Fix It.

Dear Jimmy, can you fix it, my heart is broke in two,

I’ve just been raped by somebody and don’t know what to do.

You see, I’m just a juvenile, was innocent and pure,

But being raped has left me feeling filthy like a whore.

 

My innocence is shattered, my virginity is gone.

My mind is so tormented that it’s hard to struggle on.

But no one will believe me, they’ll say it’s all a lie,

Coz the bastard who debased me, will obviously deny.

 

And he’s a big celebrity, who everybody knows,

And people shower him with love, everywhere he goes.

The world will judge me harshly, that’s why I’m so un-nerved.

They’ll point and say, that little slut got just what she deserved.

 

And while my rapist lives his life, protected by his name,

I’ll be a silent victim and I’ll hide my face in shame.

For that’s how rapists function, they tell you that, for sure

If you report their actions, all the press will call you “Whore!”

 

In fear, the victims hide away, destroyed and so alone.

While like a king, the rapist sits upon his golden throne.

So Jimmy, will you fix it? Like you’ve fixed things in the past.

So Jimmy will you fix it, so my rape will be the last!

Confessions of a Cross-Dresser!

Early Outfits.

I was about 8 years old the first time I wore a skirt. To tell you the truth, it didn’t even cause me a dilemma. I did it voluntarily. There was an excitement about it that made it an easy step to take. There was no fear of ridicule from my peers. All the guys knew that it was going to happen, and they were extremely supportive. One or two close pals even helped me to pick out an appropriate outfit. It was a floral blouse, with a wollen cardigan on top of it, a woollen skirt with a small chequered pattern, a pair of thick nylon tights, courtesy of my Mothers wardrobe, and an ill-fitting pair of high-heels. Naturally, I had padded out the bodice of the blouse to give the effect of a rather large bosom, and applied a graying wig, to give the effect of maturity. Sadly (perhaps fortunately!) I didn’t have fine feminine features, like this one here, from “The Crying Game”, so glamour wasn’t really an option. No. Not for me, the tacky pinks and purples, the coloured wigs, and the glitzy attire of wannabe divas! Oh no. I was presenting myself as a Lady!

As I prepared to put myself on display for the first time as Petra Pendleton (a name of my own invention), I found myself wondering how my parents were going to react. I had been keeping it a secret from them for quite a while. My Mother had caught me once, browsing the pages of her “Kays” Catalogue, looking at the womens casual outfits. If I had been browsing the underwear section, she might have just put it down to boyhood curiosity, but the fact that I was looking at cardigans and skirts may have caused her some concern. As I applied my lipstick and blusher, I knew that she would at last have her curiosity satisfied.

My partner, Paul, arrived. He was more nervous than I. He looked me over and tried to smile. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.” was all he could muster, as he fumbled with the buttons of his tweed jacket. I tried to relax him.

“Don’t worry, Paul. Just say all the right things and we’ll be fine. The moment has finally arrived and there’s no going back. Be brave.”

“And now, ladies and gentlemen!” I could hear Mr McCabe giving the introduction. “The final comedy item of our 1966 Cub Scout Concert. Will you welcome on-stage, with their sketch entitled “The Golf Lesson”, Paul and Petra Pendleton!”

 

 Humble though I am, regarding my acting ability, it would be fair to say that our sketch brought the house down. I can’t remember now from where the golf sketch originated, but I had seen my father perform it with another actor at a Concert Party performance, and I do remember laughing hysterically at the outfits and the content. Dad had been the one in drag on that occasion, and I had modelled my performance on his. It was a sketch full of puns about “addressing the ball”, “time for tee”, “are you ready to drive off? Drive off? But we haven’t even started the lesson yet!” You know the kind of thing.

Paul, incidentally, was actually my brother, who turned to sport as his main vehicle of recreation not long after that theatrical venture, whereas I had been bitten by the show-biz bug. Needless to say (or maybe I do need to say it, lest there may be an impression that I had ulterior motives for dressing as a female!), my adventures as a cross dresser were strictly confined to the stage.

Life is a Pantomime.

I am, of course, writing this blog now because I’m still in the grips of Panto fever, donning the wigs and frocks on a nightly basis, to light up the stage of the Town Hall Theatre, Galway. It really is a wonderful way to spend the holiday season, made so worthwhile by the pleasure and amusement that it brings to so many children, at what is very often their first experience of live theatre.

Pantomime is essentially a British Theatrical tradition, performed around Christmas, and aimed mainly at children, which I always found a strange concept. Imagine trying to explain to children why the leading “boy” is usually played by an attractive “leggy” female, and why the funny Woman is played by a, usually highly unfeminine, man! Despite that dilemma, it remains one of the most popular types of musical theatre in Britain and Ireland.

 

 

My Mother made dresses for my Dad!

 It’s absolutely true. My Father was not the slimmest performer in the local Pantomime society, but he was probably the funniest, which is why he invariably played the Pantomime “Dame” on many occasions. Mum took great pride in creating outrageous outfits for his characters. Strange as it may sound, I intend to keep doing Panto until my little man, fourteen month old Dualta, is old enough to see his daddy on stage, as a lady. If he someday follows in my footsteps, as I did in my father’s footsteps, I’ll be a mighty proud daddy.

I suppose it was that first outing at the Cub Scout show that set me on the path to a theatrical career peppered with a plethora of padded bras and pantihose. I first played “Grizabella”, an Ugly Sister to Cinderella, when I was 23, and followed it up as “Widow Twankey” in “Aladdin”. But it wasn’t only Pantomime that afforded me the opportunity to make like a lady.

“Sugar” was released as a stage Musical, based on the hilariously funny Movie “Some Like It Hot”, which featured Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis dressed as members of an all-girls jazz band. Both performances were of the highest calibre, not even to be upstaged by the wonderful performance of Marilyn Munroe as Sugar. Several years ago, I had the great pleasure of recreating the Jack Lemmon role and, for the first and last time, appeared live on stage in a female swimsuit. A skirt kind of conveniently hides the most obvious difference between the male and female physique. Not so, with a swimsuit. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that the…erm… “tucking in” procedure was pleasant, but it was certainly memorable. 

 

Keep out of my drawers!

As a result of all of these cross-dressing escapades, I now have a drawer full of articles of clothing that one wouldn’t normally expect to find in the bedroom of a respectable married gentleman (which I most certainly am!). Padded bras, pantihose, assorted bloomers, wigs and junk-jewellery. There’s also a box full of suspiciously large sizes of high-heels, sling-backs and sandals. If a thief ever breaks into the house, I’m sure he’ll wonder at what sort of antics the owners get up to in their spare time!

 

You might think that at my age (50 something), the novelty would have worn off, but I won’t be hanging up my stilettos for a few years yet. Not until I’ve had the opportunity to play the one cross-dressing role that has so far eluded me. I’ll “put a little more mascara on”, take to the stage and let rip with “I Am What I Am”. No self respecting female impersonator can claim to have reached the pinnacle of their career until they have played “Albin” in the “La Cage Aux Folles”!