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Play the hits, right?
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The Author, Séamas O'Reilly
@shockproofbeats@mastodon.ie
mastodon 4.7.3Observer, Examiner columnist and Features Editor, The Fence Magazine. Fmr drinks-dispenser to Mary McAleese. Get Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? now at http://mammybook.com
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Joined November 05, 2022
In honour of Alan Moore's birthday, here's the full, unedited, 4,000 word interview I did with him back in September.
The Queen! Fantasy! Copaganda! British Magic's Lost Generation!
Hope you all enjoy.
https://seamas.medium.com/fantasy-must-be-sharper-an-interview-with-alan-moore-883d4b8196aa
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So at this point I'm thinking, wellll, I'm definitely fired but this will one day make a great story on a Nazi-riddled microblogging platform that's been driven to death by a mediocre, edegelord billionaire and his armies of weird, fawning nerds. I make my way to the staff area, wipe my sopping face and check my phone. I had only been in the room for 35 minutes.
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On way to work, starts kicking in. You know when the roof of your mouth starts politely folding your brain in half, and your chest flutters like a cathedral filled with bees? I was holding it together but knew if I stopped concentrating for one second, I would become time itself.
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Right, this was when I was eighteen so don't judge me too harshly. Or if you think drugs are cool and I'm a legend, fill your boots. Anyway, at the time I was working through college in Dublin with bar shifts at [redacted] music venue. One day I get a call on my day off.
HUGE love to everyone in the US who's read and supported my book, and to those outlets who've stuck it in their Best Of 2022 lists. I can only agree with their judgement and recommend you buy it yourself anywhere good books are sold, or else by clicking on mammybook.com
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Time passes on my own. Empires crumble and glaciers dissolve, stars die and oceans melt, out on the dusty planes of mother earth, hot bursts of young love gift the miracle of life; children are born, raised, stricken infirm and die of old age.
And then Mary McAleese walks in.
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"Yeeerrrsh" I say, with a goalkeeper's glove in my mouth. She starts talking about her experience coming down to study here, how it can be a real scenic change, but the making of you if you keep your eyes open to new experiences.
I can tell she definitely means green ketamine.
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By now, having been alone with my thoughts for the entire Cretaceous period, I am no longer mildly weird but deeply, extravagantly deranged. As the President of Ireland walks in, with my boss's boss's boss's boss, my first impulse is to greet them like I own the place.
I wrote this on Ireland missing out on a world cup it's probably fine to miss out on.
https://www.irishexaminer.com/lifestyle-columnists/arid-41008952.html
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(Ketamine wholesalers are often vets, and the stuff originally for cats. People always say horse tranquiliser, either to make it sound more sordid or more badass, but ketamine is used on many animals, and vets have more use for cat tranqs than horses. Not quite as sexy is it?)
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I was a fairly sheltered kid before college, and didn't even drink til I was well into my late teens, never smoked even. I was very green. So too, coincidentally, was the homebrew ketamine that said pal was making IN HIS OVEN when I arrived.
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Anyway, by the divine grace of the infant Christ, they somehow do not hear me say this, and begin their itinerary round the room. I clench my entire head and focus on not shouting across the room to let them know that they should always feel at home here in this room of ours.
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By the time I reach work (twenty mins later) I am sweating like microwaved bread, eyes on hinges, convinced my fingernails owe me money. I have an overwelming urge to yawn, just to get the memories out WHEN in comes Dympna with the rota for the evening.
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My pal had gotten it in liquid form and, for some reason, it had been dyed green - he has subsequently told me he thought it was a St Patrick's Day promotion, and I've always thought it a charming entrepreneurial flourish on the part of his enterprising ketamine wholesaler.
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She's a lovely woman, and very open and generous with her time, giving me ample space to answer her questions which I mostly do with sheepish, one-or-two-word answers. Finally, she asks me if Dublin is everything I thought it wou-
Me: YES I LIKE IT I THINK IT'S GOOD
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It would be rude, surely, to not acknowledge their presence? Out of order even. Best thing to do would obviously be to say "hello guys" like it's my home and I live there, in this big white room, where I stand in the corner, alone, holding a tray of drinks, like you do, at home.
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"Remember I said you could get all of Saturday off if you just worked 2 hours tonight?". And of course THEN, I did suddenly remember, she'd said it to me as I was leaving the building and my conscious work brain was doing somersaults to get out of the place.
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Guys. GUYS. Now, I'm moving far too slow. I started at this speed and I'm to embarassed to change and now it's gonna take me like 5 mins to cross the room. They are watching me, frowning and sweaty, traversing the 5 foot between us like it's a wooden plank on the Crystal Maze.
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She could have told me I was to have my foreskin tattooed with a harpoon and I would have given her a smile, thumbs up, and a flurry of yeps to get out of the place. I was eighteen. On minimum wage, and - bear in mind this is really saying something - my absolute minimum effort.
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I'd been paying such fierce attention, I'd mis-timed my reply AND badly modulated my volume. She actually recoiled a little. I think the head of the venue actually stepped back and said "jesus!".
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Right now I can hold it together when stimulated, when the adrenaline and fear is keeping me just ticking over - I'm weird but with it. Problem is, my job is now to stand silent and motionless in a room on my own until the President of Ireland arrives.
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At that very moment, I was in a mate's house on Dame St, relaxing with (I thought) nothing to do for the evening.
Now you have to remember that, before dabbing and fortnite, kids used "drugs" to get high and I was, occasionally, adjacent to them.
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Just some inane pleasantries, to which I reply with some off-the-hook pablum about work and college, at which point she says;
"Oh, is that a Northern accent I detect?"
Dawgs, you know I'm down for the Nordie solidarity vibe, but this is the last thing I need right now.
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D: Yes, Mary McAleese is in to see this season's programme of events.
Me: Hmmnggg
D: All you need to do is stand in the corner and offer them drinks every fifteen minutes.
Me: Ahhh yesssshnshh
D: Maybe have a wash beforehand
So can anyone point me to any good resources for making the most of Mastodon, and/or migrating my Twitter contacts on here? Debirdify seems to be having a bit of trouble.
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So, I'm bang to rights and I say "yeaaah, of course, sorry just got my days mixed up, I'll be there no problem" and she says, "this evening will be fine, just the head of the [redacted] and some VIPs, few hours then you can take off".
All good. Except for the one thing.
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Just when dropping everything seems to become less urgent, I realise it's time to go over and offer these motherfuckers some fucken drinks, let's get this party started wooooooo
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FLASHBACK ENDS, WE'RE BACK IN THE ROOM. So I'm definitely sweating after the call, not like instant come-up, more worried ABOUT the come-up. Never done this in my life, I've no idea how it's going to feel. But, absent any other idea, I get my stuff together and head to work.
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My role is pretty weird, I have to stand in the corner and then every 15 mins, INTERRUPT this live-wire pair to offer them drinks, which protocol dictates they must refuse. I have barely processed any of this before I'm grabbing a tray and heading upstairs.
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I become extremely aware of my hands, and how I haven't felt them in a very long time. They're detuned to static , which would be worrying even if they weren't holding a tray of drinks filled with noise and judgement. I hold no faith or creed other than "do not drop these plz".
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Anyway, for want of a better idea, I took him up on his offer of a line of this thick, vaguely slightly clumpy bright green powder, knowing I had nothing else to do for the evening. Felt nothing. Had a tiny further bump 10 mins later. It was at this point that my phone rang.
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D: Thanks again, know it's short- oh, you look a bit hot and bothered, did you run here ha?"
Me: Hmnnnnnyes, I did - the dids is"
D: OK, just you tonight and the top man, he's showing the President what's going on for the next while"
[one beat]
Me: Sorr din you sez de presddyen?"
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Way the gig worked, you'd either get Fri or Sat off. This week it was Fri, happy days. My manager, let's call her Dympna, pipes up on the phone: "So, when you come in this evening, just a few things to remember". I'm like, hold on Dympz, I'm off this eve, jog on. She corrects me.
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I begin walking over to them and I move so abruptly that the glasses clink and they turn to look at me. I did this too fast. Now I'm thinking wooooah slow down there martina hingis, so I self-correct to a much slower speed. Watching my breath, nice and casual, you got this buddy.
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So the gig is this: Mary McAleese (the *original* MMA) was to go round this room upstairs which had upcoming acts for the season illustrated with photographs and programme notes. The director of [redacted] would walk her around and say "fricken great, Madge innit?" or whatever.
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Mary McAleese flinched for what seemed like half a second, then flashed her best your-mum's-sound-mate smile and replaced her white wine on my tray. The boss man nodded at me, they walked out of the room and I waited a few seconds before making my way downstairs to the kitchen.
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I'm moving so slow my legs are cramping. I think they're wondering why it's taking me so long. It's way harder than walking at normal speed. I'm shaking so the drinks are making noise again. For what feels like minutes.
Anyway, I offer them the drinks and they say no.
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The tray, btw, contains a white wine, a red wine, a G&T, a whiskey, a rum and coke and some mineral waters. Always found that mix weird. Imagine the President of Ireland seeing the rum and coke and going "oooooh nice one, ta - now tell me about this Latvian choir again".
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At one point I clearly remember believing that my mind had escaped my body and was watching me hold the tray of drinks from the wallspace behind my head. Only out-of-body experience I've ever had.
At the very end, they do accept a drink. It was at this point she spoke to me.
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Dympna pads in all smiles, thanking me for my help at short notice. She sees that I'm a bit freaked and says, almost with a wink, "you could have told me you'd be like this, by the way"
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Do this another two times - how long was this presentation anyway, is this what the President does all day? Give her a brochure and a carryout ffs - and they say no. By the end, I've calmed down a bit in physical side (sweating, shaking) but I still feel completely batshit.